meet the author
Jennifer Rardin began writing at the age of 12, mostly poems to amuse her classmates and short stories featuring her best friends as the heroines. She lives in an old farmhouse in Illinois with her husband and two children. Find out more about Jennifer Rardin at www.JenniferRardin.com.
interview
We sat in my sunroom, though dark had fallen hours before. I thought Jaz had chosen the spot for Vayl's sake. So he could watch. I knew she'd brought him, as she had many times before, but we had yet to meet. I wasn't sure why.
The tape recorder sat on the coffee table between us, mutely turning, as if constantly shaking its head at the story she'd been documenting for the last few weeks. I could hardly believe it myself.
Jen: "You've told me things I'm sure some people would keep from their priests. But that's still left me with some pretty big questions." Jaz sat forward in her white wicker chair, her red curls framing her pale face so perfectly I felt I should take a picture. She could be any lovely co-ed on any Big Ten campus, except for the shock of white hair spiraling from her forehead around her right cheek to her chin.
Jaz: "What do you want to know?"
Jen: "Are you haunted by the people you've killed?" Her eyebrows shot up. I could see her thinking it was none of my damn business. But she wasn't ready to shut me off. Not yet.
Jaz: "That would presuppose that I felt guilty about killing them, wouldn't it?" She thought a second. "The ones that bother me are the ones that didn't go down as quick or painless as I would've liked. But I'm not haunted. My job is to take out bad guys. If you think that makes me a bad guy…" she shrugged, "that's your problem."
Jen: "Actually, I don't. But I do think it makes you unique. How did you get into this line of work?"
Jaz: "After the big blowout with my dad, I'll tell you about that later, the military was just out for me as a career path. But I still wanted to serve my country." She paused. "What, no smartass remark?"
Jen: "No."
Jaz: "Sorry. Even now I get a little defensive. You can love a man or a kid or a piece of damn pie and nobody has a problem with you. But love your country and in some places you get booed right out of the joint."
Jen: "Go on."
Jaz: "Anyway, the C.I.A. recruited me straight out of college. After the Helsinger tragedy…" a pause here while Jaz looked out the window, and then down at the lovely gold and ruby ring on her left hand, "I was a wreck. But I kept it all buttoned up good and tight. So after a couple months at a desk, I got an interview with Pete, and he hired me." Her laugh managed to completely lack humor. "The job killed me, and then it saved me. Ironic, huh?"
Jen: "Why are you telling me all this?" She answered quickly. Too quickly.
Jaz: "I guess I want to leave something behind me when I'm gone. A legacy."
Jen: "You could just as easily have said you wanted the historians to get their stories straight once this is all declassified."
Jaz: "Meaning?"
Jen: "Either way, your story's bullshit." She smiled, then. She appreciated honesty, I think because she so rarely saw it in her world.
Jaz: "All you hear any time you turn on the TV is, the world is ending. Some scientist with too little data and too much funding is in the microphone of some anchor who's only interested in scaring the hell out of her audience because that's how you get ratings, man. Nobody seems to recall that people have been screaming about the world ending for the last two thousand years. They're scared out of their minds. They live in fear. Every move, every decision is based somewhat on how terrified they are at any given moment. People need to know there's hope. That people like me are out there fighting for them, making sure the world keeps turning, so they can occasionally let go of that fear and find a moment or two of happiness." She sat back. Grimaced, like she'd eaten something sour. "And if you ever tell anybody I said that I'm going to kick your ass."
I liked her. God help me, I felt a real affection for this dangerous woman sitting in my old farmhouse while her vampire lover hovered somewhere among my gardens or my fields. Even though I knew the only reason she'd picked me was that she'd read one of my stories in a magazine and liked it, and she knew I'd keep her secrets until she told me it was time to tell. What a weird old world.
Jaz: "Things are stirring. I won't be able to stick around much longer. After I'm gone you'll have plenty of time to write up the Tor-al-Degan story. In the meantime, let me tell you what happened next."
Jen: "You mean after you got out of the hospital?"
Jaz: "Of course. God, they had me on the strongest drugs. Couldn't remember a thing that happened that first week. Took me awhile to heal, of course, but I want to tell you about the mission. It involved this Chinese vampire named Chien-Lung. Dragon fanatic. If he'd been a teenaged guy he'd have had dragon posters plastered all over his bedroom walls, tattoos, t-shirts, the works! Anyway, let me start at the beginning…"
introducing Jennifer's next novel
turn this page for an excerpt from
ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST
available in paperback December 2007
Holy crap, I've had another blackout! But as soon as the suspicion hit me I knew otherwise. I hadn't experienced the usual warning signs, and I'd never before left my mind in a daydream while the rest of me got busy. This was something new. Something scary. Because after the knock-down-drag-out with the Tor-al-Degan, I thought I'd kicked those nutty little habits that made me seem, well, nuts. Okay, the card shuffling kept up without much of a break. And sometimes words still ran loops around my brain until I forced them back on the road. But those moments were rarer now. And the blackouts really had stopped, along with the dread that someone I knew would find reason to recommend an asylum and a heavy dose of Zoloft.
Familiar laughter caught my attention. The couple from the beach, they were here, just entering an elevator. Without conscious thought I'd followed them to their hotel and booked a room. I checked the receipt. At least I'd used my personal credit card. If I'd had to explain this to Pete, well, maybe I could've come up with something. But I probably would've just resigned.
I shoved the stuff the desk clerk had handed me into my back pocket and strode outside. I needed to do something concrete. Something to bring me back to myself. So I phoned my sister.
"Evie?"
"Oh, Jaz, I'm so glad you called."
"You sound tired."
"I am. E.J. has hardly stopped crying all day. This doesn't seem right, does it?"
Hell no! But then I'm the least qualified to say. "Did you call the pediatrician?"
"No. I know he'll just say it's that colic." Her voice started to shake. "I just feel like such a terrible mother that I can't make her stop crying!"
Now here was something I could deal with. "Evie, you are an awesome mother. This I can tell you from experience. I've seen you in action. Plus I have had a crappy mother. So I know whereof I speak. You rock. I know it's tough on you guys having a baby who cries all the time. The lack of sleep alone is probably making you a little crazy. I know I'm still kinda grouchy and I've only been gone, what, a couple of days? But listen, you will figure this out, okay?"