Snared
Page 7
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.”
Rivera staggered out the open door without a backward glance.
Porter moved around the office, putting away the glass, grabbing Rivera’s discarded wing tips, and tidying up. The only mildly interesting thing he did was go over to the fireplace, walk down the row of photos on the mantel, and nudge each one a few centimeters to the left and right, even though they were already as straight as could be. Someone was a little obsessive about having everything perfectly in place. Or perhaps Porter knew that Damian would take his wrath out on him if anything in the office was the slightest bit askew.
Porter frowned when he came to the family photo of the Riveras, the one that Tucker had nudged out of place, and he spent the better part of a minute fussing with it, sliding the frame back and forth until it was just where he wanted it.
Finally satisfied, Porter nodded to himself and glanced around the office, as if checking to make sure that there was nothing else he needed to do in here tonight. His gaze slid past the window, and he did a double take and looked back at the frame, as if he’d finally noticed that the window was cracked open.
Time to go.
Even as Porter walked toward the window, I moved away from it, slid my knife back up my sleeve, and darted across the roof. I lowered myself onto the trellis and quickly climbed down to the ground.
The guard patrolling the back side of the mansion was still engrossed in his video game, making it easy for me to sneak across the lawn and back into the woods, where Finn was waiting. Judging from the faint path he’d worn in the leaves, it looked as though he’d spent the last several minutes pacing back and forth.
“What took you so long?” Finn groused, holstering his gun. “I was getting worried.”
I arched my eyebrows. “You? Worried about me? Aw, I’m touched.”
“Well, you should be,” he groused again, pushing his black toboggan out of the way so he could reach up and massage his forehead. “You just gave me a whole new set of wrinkles.”
“Poor baby,” I crooned. “Then again, you aren’t getting any younger. Maybe you should let Jo-Jo give you some Air elemental facials. Before all those wrinkles and nasty crow’s-feet get any worse than they already are.”
“Crow’s-feet!” Finn hissed in an indignant tone, slapping his hands on his hips. “I do not have crow’s-feet!”
I just smiled and walked away, knowing that this time I’d gotten the last word in.
• • •
Finn and I left Damian Rivera’s mansion and hiked through the woods, our breath steaming out around us in eerie white vapor trails. When the lights of the mansion faded away, we pulled small flashlights out of our pockets and clicked them on. We were the only things moving in the night, besides the sluggish water. The back side of the Rivera estate butted up against the Aneirin River, and the woods ended in a series of high, rocky cliffs that overlooked the water far, far below.
Finn stopped, shone his flashlight over the side of the cliffs, and let out a low whistle. “Wouldn’t want to fall off here.”
I had started to snipe that if he didn’t want to fall, then he should probably get away from the edge when a series of low, harsh mutters drifted over to my ears. For a moment, I thought that someone was at the bottom of the steep cliffs, moaning for help, but then I noticed a glint of glass out of the corner of my eye. I turned in its direction, shining my flashlight into the darkness, and spotted the faint outlines of a small, crumbling stone cottage off in the distance.
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.”
Rivera staggered out the open door without a backward glance.
Porter moved around the office, putting away the glass, grabbing Rivera’s discarded wing tips, and tidying up. The only mildly interesting thing he did was go over to the fireplace, walk down the row of photos on the mantel, and nudge each one a few centimeters to the left and right, even though they were already as straight as could be. Someone was a little obsessive about having everything perfectly in place. Or perhaps Porter knew that Damian would take his wrath out on him if anything in the office was the slightest bit askew.
Porter frowned when he came to the family photo of the Riveras, the one that Tucker had nudged out of place, and he spent the better part of a minute fussing with it, sliding the frame back and forth until it was just where he wanted it.
Finally satisfied, Porter nodded to himself and glanced around the office, as if checking to make sure that there was nothing else he needed to do in here tonight. His gaze slid past the window, and he did a double take and looked back at the frame, as if he’d finally noticed that the window was cracked open.
Time to go.
Even as Porter walked toward the window, I moved away from it, slid my knife back up my sleeve, and darted across the roof. I lowered myself onto the trellis and quickly climbed down to the ground.
The guard patrolling the back side of the mansion was still engrossed in his video game, making it easy for me to sneak across the lawn and back into the woods, where Finn was waiting. Judging from the faint path he’d worn in the leaves, it looked as though he’d spent the last several minutes pacing back and forth.
“What took you so long?” Finn groused, holstering his gun. “I was getting worried.”
I arched my eyebrows. “You? Worried about me? Aw, I’m touched.”
“Well, you should be,” he groused again, pushing his black toboggan out of the way so he could reach up and massage his forehead. “You just gave me a whole new set of wrinkles.”
“Poor baby,” I crooned. “Then again, you aren’t getting any younger. Maybe you should let Jo-Jo give you some Air elemental facials. Before all those wrinkles and nasty crow’s-feet get any worse than they already are.”
“Crow’s-feet!” Finn hissed in an indignant tone, slapping his hands on his hips. “I do not have crow’s-feet!”
I just smiled and walked away, knowing that this time I’d gotten the last word in.
• • •
Finn and I left Damian Rivera’s mansion and hiked through the woods, our breath steaming out around us in eerie white vapor trails. When the lights of the mansion faded away, we pulled small flashlights out of our pockets and clicked them on. We were the only things moving in the night, besides the sluggish water. The back side of the Rivera estate butted up against the Aneirin River, and the woods ended in a series of high, rocky cliffs that overlooked the water far, far below.
Finn stopped, shone his flashlight over the side of the cliffs, and let out a low whistle. “Wouldn’t want to fall off here.”
I had started to snipe that if he didn’t want to fall, then he should probably get away from the edge when a series of low, harsh mutters drifted over to my ears. For a moment, I thought that someone was at the bottom of the steep cliffs, moaning for help, but then I noticed a glint of glass out of the corner of my eye. I turned in its direction, shining my flashlight into the darkness, and spotted the faint outlines of a small, crumbling stone cottage off in the distance.
