by Hope Anika
Ellery.
Ash turned and followed, sticking close to the wall of the tent. There was no one around, but that could change at any moment, and probably would. Members of Kline’s congregation; his white-suited bodyguard. And no doubt Kline had someone patrolling the grounds—the man had openly declared war. He wouldn’t be leaving his borders open.
And he wouldn’t take kindly to anyone wandering willy-nilly all over his territory. But then, he’d set up his encampment on public land, which gave him no rights over the land—or those who traversed it.
Not that he would see it that way.
The figure ahead of her rounded the end of the long tent and disappeared.
“Goddamn it,” she muttered and broke into a light jog.
Almost there. Just a few more steps, and she could lay hands on her missing person and find out what in God’s name the girl was doing here, and what—
Three men in flat black suits and wrap-around sunglasses suddenly rounded the corner toward her. Ash stumbled to a halt, but before she could turn and flee, a tall, broad, white-suited form emerged from a part in the wall of the tent beside her.
Bridger.
He slid an arm around her waist and turned her away from the men, bending his golden head low over hers.
“Lost?” he asked pleasantly, his caramel eyes glinting.
“I thought I saw someone I knew,” she retorted, her breath tight in her chest as the men swept past them. “A girl, fifteen, burgundy hair, red glasses. You know her?”
Bridger said nothing, just turned her back the way she’d come and urged her forward.
“You know her,” she said, digging in her heels.
A sigh escaped him. “Darlin’, he won’t let you just take her.”
“He’s welcome to try and stop me.”
Another sigh. “While you may be the infamous Dead Shot—and are, no doubt, armed even now—I can assure you the Reverend will not simply let you walk out of here with his latest prize.”
Ash stiffened. She took a step back, tugging from his hold. “Dead Shot?”
That small, genuine smile curved his mouth. “I’m a fan.”
She stared at him.
“I was nine,” he continued softly. He took a step closer—a little too close—but another handful of men in black had materialized around the corner of the long tent, and she really didn’t care to catch their eye, so she only stood quietly in the boy’s shadow and listened. “I’d just had a birthday, and I was out ridin’ my new bike when I saw the big red tent on the edge of town. I snuck in and sat way up high. Most of it disappointed me; animals in captivity, men in red noses and big shoes runnin’ in circles. And then you appeared. Dead Shot. Not the one I knew—the one from the comic book. Even though you were tryin’ to look like him. But, no, you were somethin’ different. Female—that red suit left no doubt of that—and so fast, you were just a blur. I couldn’t hardly believe it. And you never missed. Not once, no matter the weapon or the target. And the way you moved...you just flowed, from one shot to the next. I was captivated.”
Dead Shot.
Ash pasted a cold smile on her face. “That was a long time ago.”
“You couldn’t have been more than fourteen, but you held that entire crowd in your palm. And when you took off that mask, your beauty was like the sun. The smile you wore, those ocean-bright eyes, that pale hair...I fell in love. Everyone in the tent fell in love. By comparison, your daddy was nothin’. A tired, worn-out old man.” Bridger’s smile faded. “I could tell it made him angry, how much we loved you.” Without warning, the boy touched his index finger gently to the long cut that marred her cheekbone, and Ash froze, because she remembered that day, too. “I could tell he wanted to punish you.”
Yes. She’d disobeyed him. Spectacularly, unrepentantly defied him, not just privately, but before a crowd. When he’d ordered her to—essentially—throw the fight, she’d delivered a stunning knock out instead.
Dead Shot. A moniker her father had despised. The identity had been the idea of the show owner—a man who saw her skills and recognized the money to be made by utilizing a play on the comic book character, made all the more titillating by Ash’s gender and youth—but the Blade had no intention of allowing anyone else to overshadow him in the ring, money or no. She was only his accessory; his target, his mark. His. To be used as he saw fit.
No matter what anyone else said.
But the idea of being someone—after having been no one—had awoken something within her. Something willful and rebellious and angry. Deeply, unforgivably angry. And that anger—added to the cruel slaps; the cutting and hateful words; the neglect, the abuse, the constant minefield of life with a man who was crazy—had thrust her from merely existing into living deliberately.
Offense not defense.
“You remember. Don’t you, darlin’?”
Vividly. Battle Creek, Texas, a small town in the panhandle, a spot filled with farmers and ranchers and tumbleweed.
She remembered everything: the scent of the cats, whose performance they'd followed, fresh popcorn, hot floss, the hard packed dirt of the center ring. It was hot and dry, baking beneath the big top. A Sunday, late afternoon, the last show of the day; the crowd was large, excited, noisy. Anxiety and desperation and a kind of dangerous, wild exhilaration that threatened to choke her.
Standing in Bridger's shadow, Ash suddenly felt that exhilaration all over again. Her chest tightened until her ribs ached; pressure welled in her throat. The crowd's expectation pressed against her skin; the weight of her father’s threat was lead in her belly. Fear. So much fear. Her entire life a study in silent, endless terror, crushing her heart, her spine, her soul until nothing but jagged, irreparable pieces remained.
Emotion stabbed through her, cutting and pitiless, as if she was still that girl, still frozen in that life, still only his creation. His. Dark, inescapable knowledge, like a wave washing over her, thrusting her far from the hard, solid ground upon which she stood and back—back—into that strong, deadly undertow where the current contorted all that she knew—all that she was—and wrenched her brutally from side to side, shredding her until she was just bits and pieces, and there was nothing to do but survive—
"Did he punish you, Ash?" Bridger's voice was low, hypnotic, and part of her—the part that had grown up with insanity—understood that this memory—its intensity and veracity— was him. Somehow. But what she felt was overwhelming, as if it was then instead of now—
"He did, didn't he?" Another lingering caress, the pad of his thumb calloused and rough against her cheek. "What did he do?"
She didn't want to remember. Nothing good came of remembering. And she hurt: her chest, her throat, even her head was throbbing. And her eyes were burning.
Why did he want to know? What—
"Ashling." Ruslan's voice cut between them like glass shattering. Ash started violently, and her head snapped around to find him standing beside them, his pale eyes locked on her. "Are you alright?"
She opened her mouth, but nothing escaped; tears suddenly blurred her vision, turning him into a tall, dark, smudge. She blinked, and they fell.
Ruslan pushed his way between them, forcing Bridger back with the sheer force of his presence, and stared down at her, his face cold, his eyes glittering like the brightest of diamonds in the sunlight, and she remembered the look he’d given her earlier—like a burning whip lashing against her—and she wanted to weep like a heartbroken child. So stupid.
What the hell was wrong with her?
His eyes narrowed. "What did he do?"
A prickling wave of icy awareness washed over her. Menace laced his words, all the more chilling because of the utter lack of expression on his face. The dark, feral thing she’d glimpsed earlier looked out at her from his pale eyes and froze her in place.
"Nothing," she whispered—even though it had damn sure been something, but not something she wanted to discuss right here, right now—and shook her head.
&
nbsp; Ruslan only stared at her, and the sight of his wildness, his humanity, made her heart hurt—dummy—and she almost lifted a hand to touch him—because she was an idiot—but she knew he wouldn’t like it and didn’t want him to look at her like he had earlier—not again—and as her hand clenched at her side, another stupid tear escaped.
"After the late sermon, there's a meal,” Bridger said. “You should come back then.” He stepped around Ruslan and peered at Ash with solemn eyes. "I didn't mean to hurt you, darlin’."
"You did," Ruslan said, his voice dangerously soft.
Bridger ignored him. "Come back later. I'll help you get your girl."
"Why?" Ash scrubbed at her tears, annoyed and embarrassed and painfully aware of the emotional carnage that was a hot mess in her chest. She took a step back from Ruslan’s harsh, cold intensity.
"She’s weak." Bridger shrugged. "The Reverend will break her, and she'll turn. Then she’ll have to die. Better to send her home."
Ash wanted to know what the hell that meant and why—really—he was suddenly willing to help, but another small contingent of men in black were abruptly striding toward them, and Ruslan took a step, herding her back with his body, away from Bridger and toward the front tent.
"We are leaving," he said.
She wanted to protest—there were more answers to be found here—from Kline, from the young man who stood next to them. But it was Kline who was after Eva—and Wylie and Wanda—and in spite of their civil little chat, that would not change. No, Kline was at war, and you were either with him or you were against him, and he would do whatever was necessary to eradicate the threat he saw in Eva; he’d made no bones about that. He would not hesitate to send his men after them again.
Ruslan was right. It was time to go.
She glanced over her shoulder, to where Bridger stood watching them walk away. Eyes dark, his face serious, as if he really hadn’t meant to hurt her; as if he regretted it.
Big fat hairy chance of that.
“We have to come back," she said. "Ellery St. Clair is here."
Ruslan kept moving forward, forcing her around the front of the first tent, toward the makeshift parking area where the Impala waited. A handful of people lingered in the lot, chatting. They cast curious glances, but no one moved to stop them.
“Did you hear me?” she demanded.
“I heard you,” he said.
“You’re not surprised she’s here?”
“At this point, I am not surprised by anything.” His voice was icy, that inhuman chill enveloping him. “What did he do to you?”
That dark wildness again flickered over his features, and she couldn’t look away. It was as tantalizing as it was terrifying; a hint of what lay beneath the thick, hard layer of ice and stone. That it was not good was not nearly as frightening as it should have been.
You are a dumbass. “I’m fine.”
Those pale eyes glinted like broken glass. “He touched you.”
For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. She didn’t like what had happened; she didn’t understand it. She’d felt...enthralled. And the residue was heavy and thick and nauseating, like a hangover. “He made me remember.”
“Explain.”
But she couldn’t, not without bursting into stupid, pointless, painful tears—which she was not about to do. Not again. “We have to come back for Ellery,” she repeated.
Ruslan said nothing.
“Does that mean I have to come alone?” she demanded.
“No.” He unlocked the Impala. “I will accompany you.”
“Good,” she said, more relieved than she should have been. Goddamn it. “Thank you.”
“We will retrieve Ellery St. Clair,” Ruslan said, “and we will get answers from Bridger.”
He climbed into the Impala, and Ash slid in beside him, alarmed. “That’s not necessary.”
Ruslan turned and stared at her. “He hurt you.”
Cold, grated words that made her tremble deep inside. And she couldn’t deny them, so she said nothing. She was mad, too. But worse was the memory, so fresh and new and painful, she couldn’t look away. Like yesterday.
“He didn’t mean to,” she muttered, even though she was certain that wasn’t true. Bridger had known exactly what he was doing, which some part of her had recognized, even while it was happening.
“He did.” Ruslan started the Impala. His foot hit the gas, and the engine roared like a wounded animal. “We are going to ask him why. Then we are going to make him pay.”
CHAPTER
-14-
“Here.” A lemon-scented wet-nap was thrust beneath his nose. “You have blood on your face.”
Wylie took the wipe from Eva and scrubbed it over his cheeks. It came away dark pink, and he grimaced. His blood was still pumping furiously through his veins, adrenaline leaking from his pores like gritty sweat. He hadn’t killed anyone since Iraq.
Like riding a fucking bike.
The rush didn’t want to fade: his heart beat too hard, his mouth was dry. The site of Wanda ashen and hollow-eyed in the back seat slammed into him like a hard fist. Blood stained her shirt and turned her khakis bright red; the hand that pressed against her wound glistened wetly. Still bleeding. That she’d regained consciousness was the only reason he hadn’t pulled over to dress her wound.
“We have to stop,” Eva said, watching him with her glittering amber gaze. She was bloody too, but it was Wanda’s blood, and while Wylie felt ready to explode, the kid appeared calm, cool and collected. Too calm, cool and collected; any other twelve-year-old would be freaking the fuck out.
That she wasn’t freaking the fuck out was starting to really freak him the fuck out.
“Seven miles,” he said, his voice rough. “There’s a rest area with a truck stop.”
“We should keep going,” Wanda muttered from the backseat, and he shot her a dark, furious look.
You left us.
Her words stabbed into him. Terror and regret filled his throat, bitter and thick, and a harrowing sense of loss cut him to the bone.
He’d fucked up. Irrevocably and beyond repair.
There is no safe.
Jesus Christ. Not only had he left them to the men in black, he hadn’t even considered the asshole Ambassador, who Ana had confirmed was still lying in wait outside. A man who was hunting Wanda; one she feared so greatly she was ready to flee her entire life in order to escape.
You stupid son of a bitch.
Selfish and single-minded. Ana might have deliberately tempted him with the poker game, but Wylie had damned sure known better than to cave. Even as he’d decided fuck it, he’d known he was running. Running from the promise he’d made Wanda, that somehow he—the one who only ever saved himself—was going to save her. Running from the immense responsibility and reality of keeping both Wanda and Eva safe in the face of a small army of men who had no problem treating the city streets like a battlefield.
That he would’ve never left them if he hadn’t been confident of their safety mattered not at all. That he’d been so reckless as to trust anyone else with their lives was a betrayal he couldn’t possibly rectify; it had been his job to keep them safe.
And he’d failed spectacularly.
Jesus Christ.
He wished the men he’d killed at the Butterfly had gotten in a few licks before he’d ended them: he wanted to bleed. To hurt; to pay.
Stupid, selfish fucker.
Yes. And if he’d always worn that mantle with a fatalistic shrug and cocky smile, it now wrapped his neck like a tight, rough noose from which he deserved to hang.
Someday you’re going to bleed for something, Wylie. Something that will never be yours. Then you’ll understand why I do what I do. Then you’ll be my son.
The memory made him flinch. Charlie had never understood his reckless, imprudent son. Charlie was not a man who acted on impulse, who abandoned those around him. He made no promises that were not kept. That his child wandered aimlessly, selfishly s
eeking his own pleasures and shedding responsibility like an unwanted skin baffled Charlie.
Even after Wylie had returned from the war, from being a part of something so much larger than himself, from a place where he’d had no choice but to sacrifice in another’s stead, he continued to be the wild and careless boy Charlie lamented.
A fact which left Charlie both disappointed and bewildered.
When it shouldn’t have. Because if Wylie didn’t remember much of his mother, who’d died in a car accident when he was five, he remembered enough. The screaming fights, the slamming doors, her wild, uneven laugh. Dancing around the kitchen to The Beatles; sitting in the backseat of her car as they drove in endless circles around the city while she smoked and drank red wine from a Styrofoam cup.
Wylie remembered two very distinct emotions when it came to his mother: joy and terror. There was nothing in between. The highest high or the blackest nightmare.
Like a pendulum, she would swing. And while Wylie hadn’t inherited her erratic behavior or mercurial moods, he had inherited her self-indulgence and ennui.
His mother’s son. A thought he’d clung to rebelliously, righteous in his willful rejection of everything his father had been: steadfast, reliable, honest.
Honorable and strong. A damned fine man, and one Wylie had realized too late he would give anything to match.
“There’s the sign for the rest area,” Eva said, breaking into his thoughts. “One mile.”
“We should keep going,” Wanda said again, her voice tight. “We need to get further out of the city.”
She was right, but Wylie didn’t give a shit. He couldn’t watch her bleed out any longer. So when the exit for the rest area appeared, he took it, steering the SUV into the back area of the lot, where a long line of semis was parked, their chrome gleaming brightly in the noonday sun. He parked the SUV between two large trailers and climbed out.
When he pulled open the door to the backseat, Wanda watched him with hard, cold eyes, distant in a way that burned like the hottest brand. He motioned toward her, wanting to shatter that brittle shield, knowing he deserved far worse. “Come here.”