Snared (Elemental Assassin #16)(8)
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.
The cottage was hidden back in the trees and covered with thick strands of dead kudzu, camouflaging it almost entirely. I studied the structure, wondering if some homeless person might have set up camp inside, but no lights or lanterns flickered in the windows, and no smoke drifted up out of the kudzu-covered chimney.
Despite the fact that the cottage was obviously abandoned and had been for quite some time, the stones still muttered with notes of blood, violence, pain, and death. Odd. I wouldn’t think that enough people would be around way out here to leave any emotional vibrations behind in the rocks. But I supposed that more than one unwary hiker had slipped off the cliffs and fallen to their death on the rocky riverbank below. Perhaps those sounds had drifted over to the cottage and slowly permeated the stones over the years.