#jazzdent

(WE EVEN MADE MATCHING BRACELETS WITH JAZZMATAZZ AND HOWIE ON THEM.)

PS: I loved this series since I was 15, a whole decade, and I will continue to love it. It’s the only series I’ve ever attached to and the only one I’ve re-read more than twice. It’s a staple in my life. Jazz is everything.

Two months ago, I posted an excerpt from BRIDEKILLER, the first book in a new Jasper Dent series. Here’s the next scene for ya… “Take the next left and get on the highway,” he told her. She had introduced herself as Special Agent Maxine de la Croix. He hadn’t bothered introducing himself. In de la Croix’s inoffensive rental, he directed her off the two-laner that contracted to one lane while bisecting the heart of town. The town of Lobo’s Nod had a way of making most things smaller when it absorbed them. Roadways were no exception. “There’s a place closer,” de la Croix said. “In town. I saw it on my way. Local joint. Coff-E-Shop or something. Looked nice.” “I don’t go there. There’s a Starbucks one exit up.” She hesitated only a moment, then signaled and switched lanes. Lobo’s Nod, his hometown, his home base, disappeared behind them. “Do people still call you Jazz?” she asked, glancing over at him. He favored her with the most withering look in his collection and very deliberately said nothing. She returned her attention to the road. “OK, look, I’m here because—” “Because the Bureau sends someone like you every few months. Congratulations — you have the length of the trip to Starbucks and back to talk to me. That’s better than anyone else they’ve sent. They might give you a raise.” “All we want—” “You guys think that just because my parents were serial killers, I’ve got some kind of gift for hunting them down.” “You did a fair job of nailing your parents a few years back. And a few of their buddies, too.” He grunted. “I was a teenager. I thought I was invincible. And a lot of people got hurt.” “You’re too young to pull off the grizzled veteran routine,” she said, her tone tired and snappish. Her face crumpled in self-reproach as soon as she said it. He grinned. By now they’d pulled into the drive-through lane at the closest Starbucks. De la Croix ordered for them both, handed his coffee to him, and — after a moment’s hesitation — headed back to the Dent house. Jasper took a sip of his coffee, even though it was scalding hot. “Sorry about that before,” she muttered. “Don’t be. You finally said something not in the FBI script. Good for you.” He saluted her with his coffee. With a rueful chuckle, she tapped her cup against his. They both drank in silence for a moment as she drove. “It’s not that I want to be difficult,” he said, staring out the windshield. “I just don’t want to be involved in—” “We think it’s a Crow.” He stopped. He did everything in his power to resist turning back to her, but all his power was not enough. Face-to-face with her, he set his jaw and, with as much testosterone as he could muster said, “Do not screw with me. Not about this.” “I’m not. I swear.” The Crows. A secret nationwide collective of serial killers. So well concealed that no one who wasn’t a member even knew they existed until Jasper, as a teenager, had gone up against the Crow King, Janice. His mother. And her right-hand man, Jasper’s father, Billy. Together, they had a serial killing career that spanned decades and bodies in the triple digits, but that was only the veneer of their depravity. The Crows were massing power and influence, placing their more agreeable members in positions of social influence and power, all in pursuit of an insane agenda that seemed to revolve around the idea of turning the country into a hunting preserve for serial killers. The notion was so mad as to be risible, but the fact that the Crows had operated for so long without being discovered smothered any amusement he may have considered. “Are you sure?” he heard himself ask. Despite his best, most cherished intentions, his temples began to pulse. His breathing had quickened ever so slightly. They’d pulled into his driveway. De la Croix cut the engine and sighed, turning in her seat to regard him. “This is the end of our trip. I guess you’ll never know.” Her lips curled the bare minimum to qualify for a self-satisfied smile. She truly looked nothing at all like Connie, but in that moment he desperately wanted her to. It would make his capitulation a tiny bit easier. “Let’s go inside,” he said. Read the full article

Erza Miller as Jazz Dent

Once I was allowed to go back to school and it was horrible. There were whispers, glares, and rumors. I had been fairly popular before, but now I was cast out; I was as serial killers son for Christ’s sake. I had knowingly let my father slaughter countless people; no one wanted to talk to me, hell no one was ALLOWED to talk to me.