“I got it from context clues, thanks,” Jonathan said. Tucker had been a pedantic jerk before he’d been sired—always correcting the Trio’s Klingon pronunciation and second-guessing their academic decathlon team. Jonathan didn’t know why he’d thought that death could have made Tucker less egotistical. “And the Church of the Eternal Night burned down today. Just a few hours ago. Andrew and I were there. So was the slayer. She killed the Master—”

“She what?” Tucker snarled. “No, no way. If something had happened to my sire, I’d know. I’d feel it! You’re lying to me, you shit heel.” Two hands shot out, gripping Jonathan by the shoulders and lifting him off the ground. Terrified, Jonathan couldn’t even flail. His legs went slack. He thought about Ethan Rayne at the Metaphysical Boutique. The resignation in his face when Angelus’s fangs had struck him. How no one could even think to help him as Angelus drained him in three quick gulps. The way his body had crumpled to the ground, a bloodless husk.

“You were always jealous of me,” Tucker hissed, blowing cold air in Jonathan’s face. One of his fangs loomed dangerously close to Jonathan’s eye. “You and my brother were always looking for ways to outdo me, to scrub the records I’d set and make me look like a fool. But now I am stronger than you could ever dream of. I have found a freedom that you will never know.”

Jonathan’s fingers scrabbled for the flap of the messenger bag still hanging at his hip. He knew at any second, Tucker could strike him dead and no one would ever question it. He’d be cremated along with all the other poor human schmucks who overstayed their welcome under the sunshade. His parents, blending in among the conservatives of Orange County, would never know what had happened to him.

“And once I’m through with you, I’ll take care of Andrew myself,” Tucker continued, a ghoulish Joker smile elongating his mouth. “If he’s too chickenshit to die, then I’ll have to kill him myself. If someone hasn’t already beaten me to it. That’ll teach him not to listen to me.”

Jonathan’s hand found the plastic hilt at his side. Tucker’s mouth swung down. Fangs fought to bite through turtleneck. Jonathan could feel the tips of Tucker’s teeth scraping against his neck, caught behind the cotton dam of his collar. The moment of faltering was all the time Jonathan needed. Shaking the shrink ray out of the messenger bag, he pressed the barrel of the gun into Tucker’s ribs.

“Stay the hell away from Andrew,” he breathed.

And pulled the trigger.