Rivera waved his hand again, as if he were going to keep talking about the mysterious Mason, but Tucker stared the other man down. The vampire didn’t look at me, but his lips pressed into a hard, unhappy line. He realized how sloppy Rivera had just been, saying his boss’s name out loud in front of me.
“Get out,” Tucker snapped. “Now.”
Rivera opened his mouth to protest, but Porter laid a warning hand on his shoulder, and the two men left the cottage, shutting the door behind them. Tucker tilted his head to the side, listening to the sounds of their footsteps on the porch. I thought back to the memory I’d had of him in the woods the night Mab killed my mother, how he’d been able to see and hear me even in the dark. He seemed to have more finely tuned senses than any other vampire I’d ever met. I wondered if it was a natural ability or if it came from all the blood he drank. Or maybe it was even a combination of the two.
Rivera and Porter must have stepped away from the cottage, because the sound of their muffled conversation faded away altogether. Only then did Tucker look over at me. I stared right back at him.
I thought that he would make some dismissive, cutting remark, but instead, he carefully studied me, as if comparing me with some other image in his mind. The prolonged silent scrutiny made me uncomfortable, although it didn’t creep me out nearly as much as Porter’s examination had. Then again, Tucker just killed people. I could understand that. But Porter’s sadistic ritual? That was as strange to me as little green aliens falling from the sky.
After several seconds, Tucker shook his head, as if trying to clear away a bad, bad memory—or a ghost that haunted him still. But I knew from personal experience that ghosts didn’t disappear that easily, and he couldn’t help himself from staring at my dyed blond hair again.
“I never really noticed before now, but you look just like Eira. Even more than Bria does, in a way.” He tried to make his voice low and emotionless, but he didn’t quite succeed.
I thought back to what I’d overheard, how Damian had mocked the vampire about his feelings for my mother. I decided to twist that knife in even deeper.
“Well,” I drawled. “You would know, since you were apparently in love with her.”
Once again, Tucker’s lips pressed into that thin, unhappy line at my exposing one of his deep, dark secrets, but he didn’t ask me how I’d found out about his feelings for my mother. I didn’t mind his silence, though. It was just more confirmation about what was really going on here.
And I realized something else. Damian Rivera had been right. No matter what had happened between them, no matter that she’d been murdered years ago, Tucker still carried a torch for my mother. I wanted to know why and exactly what there had been between them. But more than that, right now, I wanted to hurt him the same way that he’d hurt me by not saving her.
I glanced at the mirror again, my gaze fixed on my unnaturally blond hair. “You’re right. I do look like her.” I turned back to him. “Although I don’t remember my mother looking like this. Do you know what I remember about how she looked? The one thing that sticks out in my mind above all others?”
“What’s that?” Tucker asked, genuinely curious.
I stared him straight in the eyes. “Her dead, charred, ashy body the night Mab burned her to death. That’s what I remember about how my mother looked, you son of a bitch.”
Tucker flinched and actually swayed on his feet the slightest bit, as though I’d slapped him across the face and then punched him in the gut for good measure. I itched to do both of those things and more. So much more, including ramming one of my knives straight through his pitch-black heart over and over again, until there was nothing left of it and him but tiny bloody ribbons.
“My mother was a beautiful woman,” I said. “Long blond hair, blue eyes, pretty features. So you can imagine how horrible it was to see all of that reduced to ash in an instant. Her hair, eyes, face, all gone and replaced by blackened skin and charred bits of bone. But do you know what the worst thing was? The one thing that still haunts me to this day? The one thing that still appears in my nightmares over and over again?”
For a moment, I thought that Tucker wouldn’t ask me the inevitable question, but he slowly wet his lips, and I got the feeling that he just couldn’t help himself. “What?”
“The charred stench of her burned, blistered skin. The ashy aroma that replaced her sweet perfume. The choking clouds of smoke that slithered down my throat and coated my lungs. You can’t even fucking imagine it. Like a slaughterhouse that had caught fire and burned to the ground with all the animals trapped inside.”
My voice was matter-of-fact and emotionless, but Tucker actually shuddered and turned away, as if he suddenly couldn’t stand to see me looking so much like my mother. That cold rage in my heart thrummed with satisfaction. For the first time, I’d actually put a crack in Tucker’s cool, detached armor.
I glanced at the mirror, which was angled so that I could still see his face. He dropped his head and closed his eyes, as if trying to banish the horrible images that my words called up in his mind. But he’d been there that night. He might not have seen my mother’s body, but he’d witnessed the aftermath of Mab’s Fire scorching through the mansion.
I wanted him to remember. I wanted him to think about it. I wanted the memories to haunt the bastard the same way they haunted me.
A long silence followed. Neither one of us spoke. If only I’d had one of my knives, I would have cut through my ropes, risen from the chair, and stabbed him in the back.
But if wishes were horses, I’d have a yard full of prancing ponies by now.
Finally, Tucker opened his eyes, cleared his throat, and faced me again. “I tried to save your mother. Truly, I did. I gave her every opportunity.”
“To do what? Fall in line with the rest of your Circle cronies? Do all the horrible things that they ordered her to? To be their little lapdog, just like you are?” I barked out a harsh, humorless laugh. “Doesn’t seem like much of an opportunity to me. More like a prison. But then, you would know, wouldn’t you, Tuck?”
“Get out,” Tucker snapped. “Now.”
Rivera opened his mouth to protest, but Porter laid a warning hand on his shoulder, and the two men left the cottage, shutting the door behind them. Tucker tilted his head to the side, listening to the sounds of their footsteps on the porch. I thought back to the memory I’d had of him in the woods the night Mab killed my mother, how he’d been able to see and hear me even in the dark. He seemed to have more finely tuned senses than any other vampire I’d ever met. I wondered if it was a natural ability or if it came from all the blood he drank. Or maybe it was even a combination of the two.
Rivera and Porter must have stepped away from the cottage, because the sound of their muffled conversation faded away altogether. Only then did Tucker look over at me. I stared right back at him.
I thought that he would make some dismissive, cutting remark, but instead, he carefully studied me, as if comparing me with some other image in his mind. The prolonged silent scrutiny made me uncomfortable, although it didn’t creep me out nearly as much as Porter’s examination had. Then again, Tucker just killed people. I could understand that. But Porter’s sadistic ritual? That was as strange to me as little green aliens falling from the sky.
After several seconds, Tucker shook his head, as if trying to clear away a bad, bad memory—or a ghost that haunted him still. But I knew from personal experience that ghosts didn’t disappear that easily, and he couldn’t help himself from staring at my dyed blond hair again.
“I never really noticed before now, but you look just like Eira. Even more than Bria does, in a way.” He tried to make his voice low and emotionless, but he didn’t quite succeed.
I thought back to what I’d overheard, how Damian had mocked the vampire about his feelings for my mother. I decided to twist that knife in even deeper.
“Well,” I drawled. “You would know, since you were apparently in love with her.”
Once again, Tucker’s lips pressed into that thin, unhappy line at my exposing one of his deep, dark secrets, but he didn’t ask me how I’d found out about his feelings for my mother. I didn’t mind his silence, though. It was just more confirmation about what was really going on here.
And I realized something else. Damian Rivera had been right. No matter what had happened between them, no matter that she’d been murdered years ago, Tucker still carried a torch for my mother. I wanted to know why and exactly what there had been between them. But more than that, right now, I wanted to hurt him the same way that he’d hurt me by not saving her.
I glanced at the mirror again, my gaze fixed on my unnaturally blond hair. “You’re right. I do look like her.” I turned back to him. “Although I don’t remember my mother looking like this. Do you know what I remember about how she looked? The one thing that sticks out in my mind above all others?”
“What’s that?” Tucker asked, genuinely curious.
I stared him straight in the eyes. “Her dead, charred, ashy body the night Mab burned her to death. That’s what I remember about how my mother looked, you son of a bitch.”
Tucker flinched and actually swayed on his feet the slightest bit, as though I’d slapped him across the face and then punched him in the gut for good measure. I itched to do both of those things and more. So much more, including ramming one of my knives straight through his pitch-black heart over and over again, until there was nothing left of it and him but tiny bloody ribbons.
“My mother was a beautiful woman,” I said. “Long blond hair, blue eyes, pretty features. So you can imagine how horrible it was to see all of that reduced to ash in an instant. Her hair, eyes, face, all gone and replaced by blackened skin and charred bits of bone. But do you know what the worst thing was? The one thing that still haunts me to this day? The one thing that still appears in my nightmares over and over again?”
For a moment, I thought that Tucker wouldn’t ask me the inevitable question, but he slowly wet his lips, and I got the feeling that he just couldn’t help himself. “What?”
“The charred stench of her burned, blistered skin. The ashy aroma that replaced her sweet perfume. The choking clouds of smoke that slithered down my throat and coated my lungs. You can’t even fucking imagine it. Like a slaughterhouse that had caught fire and burned to the ground with all the animals trapped inside.”
My voice was matter-of-fact and emotionless, but Tucker actually shuddered and turned away, as if he suddenly couldn’t stand to see me looking so much like my mother. That cold rage in my heart thrummed with satisfaction. For the first time, I’d actually put a crack in Tucker’s cool, detached armor.
I glanced at the mirror, which was angled so that I could still see his face. He dropped his head and closed his eyes, as if trying to banish the horrible images that my words called up in his mind. But he’d been there that night. He might not have seen my mother’s body, but he’d witnessed the aftermath of Mab’s Fire scorching through the mansion.
I wanted him to remember. I wanted him to think about it. I wanted the memories to haunt the bastard the same way they haunted me.
A long silence followed. Neither one of us spoke. If only I’d had one of my knives, I would have cut through my ropes, risen from the chair, and stabbed him in the back.
But if wishes were horses, I’d have a yard full of prancing ponies by now.
Finally, Tucker opened his eyes, cleared his throat, and faced me again. “I tried to save your mother. Truly, I did. I gave her every opportunity.”
“To do what? Fall in line with the rest of your Circle cronies? Do all the horrible things that they ordered her to? To be their little lapdog, just like you are?” I barked out a harsh, humorless laugh. “Doesn’t seem like much of an opportunity to me. More like a prison. But then, you would know, wouldn’t you, Tuck?”
