The denial rose up in me again, along with that bile in my throat, but I forced myself to swallow it all down. Now was not the time to let my emotions get the best of me.
Tucker’s face twisted at Rivera’s mocking tone, and his black eyes practically glowed with murderous rage. Whatever had happened between him and my mother, whatever feelings he might have had for her, it was a chink in his armor, and Rivera had scored another bull’s-eye.
Once again, I thought that Tucker might give in to his rage, whirl around, and attack the other man, but instead he tilted his head to the side, studying the open window again, as though it held some great secret. A second later, his face smoothed out, and his lips lifted into a faint smile, as though he was pleased by something. I stayed anchored in place, scarcely daring to breathe, thinking that the vampire had spotted me after all and expecting him to yell out that there was an intruder on the roof.
But Tucker left the window open, turned around, and strode out of my line of sight. “I didn’t come here tonight to talk about the past. Only your future, Damian. Which will be decidedly short and unpleasant if you don’t take care of things the way that he wants you to.”
Rivera scoffed, and the ice tinkle-tinkled in his glass again as he downed the rest of his Scotch.
I waited several seconds, giving Tucker plenty of time to move away from the window, then sidled forward and peered through the glass again. The vampire was back standing beside the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at Rivera, who had set aside his empty glass and was now yanking off his tie, completely unconcerned by Tucker’s threats.
Tap-tap-tap.
A soft knock sounded on the door, and a third man stepped into the office: Bruce Porter, Rivera’s head of security.
Porter was a dwarf, five feet tall with a compact, muscled body that looked even harder than the stones that made up the fireplace. He too wore a suit, although it wasn’t nearly as expensive as his boss’s. His eyes were a pale blue, while his gunmetal-gray hair had been buzz-cut so short that it was barely more than bristle covering his head. His fifty-something face bore the deep lines and perpetual ruddy skin of someone who’d spent years standing in the sun waiting for other people to tell him what to do.
Porter moved with stiff, military precision as he strode over and snapped to attention at Rivera’s elbow. “Sir,” he said in a deep, soft voice. “As requested, I escorted your lady friend to the estate. She’s waiting in your bedroom.”
Rivera bared his teeth in a predatory grin. “Good man, Porter.”
The dwarf nodded at Rivera, then politely tipped his head to Tucker too. For a moment, the vampire’s gaze flitted from Porter over to the photos on the mantel. Then Tucker looked at the dwarf and returned his nod before focusing on Rivera again.
“You have exactly one week to take care of your problem,” Tucker said. “And not a second longer.”
Rivera chuckled, squirmed even deeper into the couch cushions, and laced his fingers behind his head. “I might actually be frightened if it were anyone but you threatening me. Face it, Hugh. We both know that you’re just a barking dog on a chain. There’s no real bite to you at all.”
Once again, that thin, pleased smile played across -Tucker’s lips, as if the other man’s sneering dismissal was exactly what he wanted to hear. “Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”
His final threat delivered, Tucker strode out of the office.
3
For a mad, mad moment, I thought about chasing after Tucker.
Leaping off the roof, running around to the front of the mansion, and attacking the vampire before he got into his car and drove away. Or at least following him back to his lair so that I could decide what to do next. Maybe even capture, question, and kill him, if the circumstances were right.
Damian Rivera wasn’t going anywhere, but I still had no clue where Tucker hung his hat when he wasn’t skulking around Ashland threatening people. Plus, if I got my hands on the vampire, I could make him tell me what was going on with Rivera and who the leader of the Circle was.
And what, if any, relationship he’d had with my mother.
Hugh Tucker and my mother. Together. A couple.
The thought had never occurred to me before tonight. Never. But Rivera’s mocking words had made it sound like the two of them had been involved in some sort of romantic relationship. So had Tucker’s reactions to Rivera’s taunts. There had to be some other explanation—please, please, let there be some other explanation—but try as I might, I couldn’t come up with one. Neither man had had any reason to lie about something like that.
Hugh Tucker and my mother.
The words kept running through my head like a really bad song lyric that I couldn’t forget no matter how hard I tried. The mere idea of them together boggled my mind. No, it was worse than that. It was like an elemental Fire bomb had exploded in my heart, obliterating -everything that I thought I knew, burning away all of the clues, puzzle pieces, and broken threads that I’d spent so much time, energy, and effort uncovering, arranging, and stringing into some kind of order. Every time I got some answers about the Circle, they only raised more questions about the shadowy group members, their twisted motives, and why they had killed my mother.
But as much as I wanted answers, as much as I needed them for my own sanity, I couldn’t go after Tucker. More guards were stationed at the front of the mansion, and attacking him here would tell the Circle that I’d identified Rivera as one of the group’s members. It would destroy my slim advantage.
So I had to let Tucker go.
Unfortunately.
Dammit.
“What was that about?” Porter asked, still standing by his boss’s elbow.
Rivera eyed the dwarf, a bit of annoyance flashing in his dark gaze, and waved his hand. “Nothing. Just Hugh trying to exert what little power he thinks he has. I’ve already forgotten all about him.”
He got to his feet, grabbed his empty glass, and shoved it at Porter, like a child asking his father to put away his favorite toy. The dwarf stepped forward and whisked the glass away from Rivera with a smooth, practiced motion, as though he’d done the same thing a hundred times before. No doubt he had.
“Send the usual bottles of champagne to my bedroom,” Rivera commanded, heading toward the door, his body listing from side to side like a ship bobbing along on the waves.
I couldn’t see how he was still standing, given all the Scotch he’d drunk in the office, in addition to whatever other liquor he must have downed earlier. But I supposed that he’d built up a considerable tolerance. Damian Rivera could probably drink ten men under the table and still be thirsty for more.
Porter nodded. “Of course.”