ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Gotta thank the hubby and kids, you know? Not because they’ll give me the silent treatment if I don’t (they’re talkers, the lot of them), but because they are the coolest people on earth. I can say that. I know them best.
Deep appreciation to Christina Tanuadji of Temptation the Romance bookstore in Perth, Western Australia, and April Barton, also of Australia. Both ladies helped me immensely with details of scenery and language that, I think, helped make Bite Marks a much better story. Bethan David, ranger at Tidbinbilla Nature Reserve, and Jean-Pierre Issaverdis, manager, Marketing and Business, at Tidbinbilla, also provided vital information regarding the behavior of kangaroos and the lay of the land for part of the book’s climactic scene. Thank you both so much for your help!
My groovy agent, Laurie McLean, deserves a round of applause (wahoo!) as do my editor, Devi Pillai, and the rest of my übercool Orbit team: Alex Lencicki, Katherine Molina, Jennifer Flax, and Penina Lopez. (I’d thank Tim Holman too, but since he’s technically my boss it seems a little too much like kissing up. Can I just say that he may seem like a mild-mannered Brit by day, but I’ve heard that by night he transforms into a crime-fighting superhero? Rumor also has it that he can fly. I’m just saying.) Special thanks, as well, to Orbit’s genius art department for cranking out the go-jus covers! If you liked this one, just wait until you see what’s coming next! And thanks also to my manuscript readers, Katie Rardin and Hope Dennis—you ladies rock!
Canberra Deep Space Communication Complex does exist, and to the sci-types who work there… I hope you’re not offended that I suggested you don’t have a marvelously intricate alarm system set up to counter an attack by fanatical gnomes. That would just be silly.
And no, I haven’t forgotten you, my reader. Of course I’m glad you’re here! So, yeah, thanks for hanging out with me and Jaz.
JAZ PARK NOVELS
Once Bitten, Twice Shy
Another One Bites the Dust
Biting the Bullet
Bitten to Death
One More Bite
Bite Marks
Bitten in Two
extras
introducing
If you enjoyedBITE MARKS, look out for
BITTEN IN TWO
Book 7 of the Jaz Parks series
by Jennifer Rardin
Holy crap, do you smell that?” I asked. I leaned away from the square, sun-bleached building and spat, but the creeping stench of death and rot had already made it down my throat.
Cole didn’t answer, just nodded and pulled the collar of his new gray T-shirt up over his nose. Vayl and I had presented it to him as we’d waited to board the endless flight from Australia to Morocco. He’d worn it over a fresh white tee every day since, making this the third night in a row I’d read the sharp red letters on the front that said, the other guy got the girl. On the back, a black widow perched on her web with her mate’s leg dangling out of her mouth while her rejected lover observed it all from under a striped beach umbrella as he sipped a fly-tai. The caption read: damn, that was close!
“Promise me you’ll wash that tomorrow,” I whispered as I peered down the narrow cobblestone street.
Nothing moved to stir the layer of grime on the windowsills of the red ochre buildings that lined it, their adjoining walls melding like coffin lids. Every door remained shut, locking poverty and misery inside, but each displayed its own unique inlaid design that shoved even this neglected neighborhood into the category of Ancient Beauty. I had bigger distractions than the work of long-dead artisans, however.
Where’d you sneak off to, asshole?
“Washing seems like a waste of time,” Cole mumbled, his voice muffled by one hundred percent cotton.
“I’m just going to wear it again because, you know, it’s only the best shirt ever. I’m not saying you look like a spider, but if you were to cannibalize Vayl, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly the picture the tabloids would end up printing.”
“Holy crap, Cole, just throw some suds on the thing!” To soften the blow I added, “Make it my birthday present.”
“Tomorrow’s your birthday?”
“Nope.”
“Tonight?”
I nodded. And here I stand under the rickety metal awning of a building so old I can practically hear the ghosts screaming from behind these stucco walls. I should be lolling on some beach with my half-naked lover—make him all naked; I don’t have time to waste on foreplay. But no. I’m stalking a vampire through the back alleys of freaking Marrakesh, sniffing what has to be the city’s cesspool, with a guy who has apparently invested in a company that only sells red high-tops.
Moving quicker than I’d have given him credit for, Cole pulled me in for a hug that made me glad I’d left Grief back at the riad. Otherwise I’d have spent the rest of the night running around with the imprint of my modified Walther PPK outlined on my left boob.
“Happy birthday!” he said. “You’re twenty-six on May twenty-sixth. How cool is that? Especially since I didn’t miss it. I thought it was earlier this month.”
“Why?”
“That’s what your file—uh, I mean—”
“You read my file?” I balled his shirt into my fist, forcing his collar past his nose to reveal his gaping mouth. The scent of cherry-flavored bubble gum wafted past, giving my churning stomach a break. Then it was gone and my nose hairs recurled.
“Vayclass="underline" read it too,” Cole reminded me.
“That doesn’t make it okay!”
Cole plucked his shirt out of my hand and repositioned it as he asked, “Why don’t you want anyone to know the real date you were born?”
“Because I hate surprise parties. And I’m not interested in sharing my best secrets with snoops like you.” I tapped the thin plastic receiver sitting inside my ear, just above the lobe, activating my connection to: “Bergman? He’s slipped our tail. Have you got a read on him?”
“Gimme a sec, someone’s at the door.”
Our technical consultant’s clear reply confirmed my suspicion that we were still within two miles of him and the Riad Almoravid, where we’d set up temporary headquarters. We’d only left the town square, which locals called the Djemaa el Fna, twenty minutes before. And since the fountain in our riad’s courtyard could probably shoot a few sprinkles onto the square’s crowds of merchants, performers, and shoppers on a windy day, I’d figured we were within the limits of Bergman’s communications gizmo, which Cole had named the party line. Nice to be right about that, at least.
Now, instead of using his own transmitter, Cole leaned forward and spoke into the glamorous brown mole I’d stuck just to the left of my upper lip. “Bergman, today is Jaz’s birthday. We need cake!”
“Ignore him, Miles. Just find—” I stopped when the swearing began.
Cole nodded wisely. “See what happens when people hang around you? Poor Miles probably didn’t even know what those words meant before you lived with him.”
“Nobody should be blamed for the language they teach their roommates in college.”
“Your potty-mouth is gonna get you in trouble someday.” Cole turned his head, like Bergman was skulking in the shadows next to us. “Right dude?”
Bergman growled, “Goddammit, that girl’s back! I thought maids only worked in the morning!” We heard the door open. “I have plenty of towels—”
“Hello, Mr. Bergman, sir.” It was the chirpy voice of the riad’s go-to gal, who’d barely conquered her teens, but oozed the confidence of a woman twice her age. Though Riad Almoravid belonged to a Frenchman named Franck Landry, our girl did it all, from laundry to breakfast. She said, “I finished the book you loaned me. May I borrow another?”