Evolution

by Hope Anika

Wasting more time, fool.

  He started his truck. He would start with the hostel and then go from there.

  But first, he had a tail to lose.

  CHAPTER

  -4-

  “Wait—you can’t go in there!”

  Ruslan ignored the uniformed police officer and ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape that was strewn across Ash’s front door. Behind him, Butch followed suit, and they stepped into the apartment to see three body bags, a forensic unit, and a scowling, suited man Ruslan assumed was the detective in charge.

  “Shit,” Butch muttered.

  Ruslan inventoried the small crowd, and when he saw Ash—bloody, bruised, her mouth and nose swollen—something alien flooded through him, a startling, heady rush that made him pause.

  For a moment, he just stood there, trying to define it. Relief?

  “Thank God,” Butch said. “She’s still breathing.”

  Indeed.

  Ruslan had doubted they would find her alive. The men who’d taken them were well armed and exceptionally violent. They’d been trained—at least minimally—and wholly dedicated to their goal; Ruslan had the blood-spattered pants to prove it. Ash was only one small, fine-boned woman. It simply stood to reason that she would not survive the encounter.

  An unpleasant realization, and one that had made the dark, feral thing within him howl in savage, impotent fury. Which had both surprised and disturbed him. But the carnage he’d envisioned had not materialized. Instead, three body bags littered the floor, and Ash was the one left standing.

  Blood pooled on the floor in several spots. The print that hung above the couch was marred by a thick spray of crimson. A broken chair, a shattered lamp; holes in the paneling of the narrow bar that separated the studio space. A shattered oven door, a table on end, a fractured laptop on its side, and—oddly enough—a large, stainless steel pot lid lying next to one of the bagged bodies.

  He took it all in, his brain working to recreate the sequence of events.

  “Ruslan!” Ash’s voice sliced through his contemplation, and he turned to see her striding toward him.

  She still wore the thin tank, but now her sleek, strong legs were covered by a pair of faded jeans, and her boot heels cracked like miniature whips as she crossed the room toward them. A dark streak of burgundy lined one of her cheekbones, and Ruslan realized she’d been cut. Her hair was still streaked with blood, and her eyes—those brilliant, startling turquoise eyes—were dark.

  She reached out a hand to touch him, but seeing his expression, let it drop. “You okay?”

  He only nodded shortly. The casual intimacy of human contact was foreign and intrusive, and it made him deeply uncomfortable. His rejection was automatic, ingrained, built upon a lifetime of solitude. That she would take it personally—trusting him even less—was unfortunate, and not something Ruslan knew how to counter. Worse was the immediate protest of the savage thing within him. As if he was supposed to allow her to touch him, when he never allowed anyone.

  “Fine,” he said, and Butch interrupted with, “He creamed those sons a bitches.”

  Ash arched a brow. “Creamed as in cremated?”

  There was blood on her chin, and her bottom lip had been split open like a ripe peach. A handprint darkened the side of her face, her right eye was swollen, and bruises were beginning to form an ugly, mottled line from the top of her left shoulder down to her elbow.

  Menace stirred within Ruslan. The dark entity that pulsed beneath his breastbone and whispered in his ears, a force that had existed since his earliest memory, seemed to have somehow attached itself to her, something that had never before happened. Not at any time; not with anyone.

  An unsettling realization. Because it could mean nothing good.

  “Potassium cyanide,” he told her.

  “Cyanide,” she repeated and pinched her nose. “Why the hell do I not know about cyanide?”

  “Why would you know?” asked the older woman who’d walked up to stand beside her. “I doubt espionage was part of your childhood, dear.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Ash muttered.

  The woman only smiled, and in her faded green eyes Ruslan saw knowledge and a sharp, piercing intelligence. Beneath the overdone make-up and striking couture, there was someone fully aware and intently focused at home. His gaze narrowed on her.

  “Butch Masters,” Butch announced and thrust his hand at her. His cheeks filled with color; his bloodshot brown eyes sparkled. He seemed blissfully unaware of the aroma of day-old alcohol that emanated from him in a sour cloud.

  The woman only arched her drawn brows, sending them nearly into her hairline. “Hello, Mr. Masters.”

  “My neighbor,” Ash said. “Glory Von Gustaf-Wilson.”

  “And you must be the enigmatic Mr. Ruslan.” Glory turned her gaze to Ruslan and inventoried him, head to toe. “How exciting.”

  His skin tightened beneath her perusal. He didn’t respond. Instead, he looked at Ash. “These men also died of cyanide poisoning?”

  She gave him a dark look. “What do you think?”

  “Did you question them first?”

  “I did.” Her mouth tightened. “I didn’t get any answers.”

  She looked away, and Ruslan got the distinct impression that she was lying. Which displeased him. But this was not the time or place to press her. “And Eva Pierce?”

  “With Wanda,” she replied shortly. “Wylie’s on it. He—”

  Her words broke off when the suited detective he’d noted earlier suddenly appeared. African-American, tall and broad and big boned; a man Charlie’s age, his suit expensive, his face wreathed in a scowl.

  “He’s mine,” Ash said before the man could speak, and Ruslan looked at her. “Leave him be, Haggerty.”

  Mine.

  The word gave him pause. No one had ever claimed him before. And while part of him bucked violently at the declaration—he’d never belonged to anyone but himself, a fact that had shaped his world from his first breath and something he had killed to protect—the dark heart of him was strangely captivated by the thought of being openly claimed by someone.

  Not someone. Her.

  “They need to leave,” the detective said, his tone hard. “Right goddamn now.”

  “This is my apartment,” she replied calmly, unbending. “They’re staying.”

  She stared at the glowering detective, but said nothing more. Nothing about Ruslan and Butch being on the other end of that shattered laptop; nothing about the three additional men who’d died of self-inflicted cyanide poisoning, men whose bodies Ruslan had left in the back end of an SUV parked in the industrial part of the city.

  But Ruslan didn’t object. He had no desire to complete a police report or to be rigorously questioned as to why the men in the SUV were piles of broken bones in bags of skin.

  In addition, until they knew who was after Eva Pierce—and why—silence was only prudent.

  “They’re contaminating my scene,” the detective—Haggerty—insisted. “They need to go. Now.”

  Ruslan looked around. “The bodies are bagged, the forensic team has gone, the Medical Examiner is packing his equipment, and your photographer is walking out the door.”

  The man turned to glare at Ruslan. “No one asked you, Ruskie.”

  Ruslan only stared at him. The Medical Examiner chose that moment to approach and said, “I’m done here, Detective. I’ll have a preliminary report for you by morning.”

  He nodded at them and walked away, and the detective flushed. Ash arched a mocking brow.

  “This isn’t over,” Haggerty warned softly. He shot Ruslan a dark look before stalking away.

  Ruslan turned back to Ash. “Wylie?”

  “His text said the Vault was blown, but secure, so Eva and Wanda must have gotten out. He’s looking for them.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know,” she snarled, her eyes flashing. “I need to get to the office and check in with him. We can’t use our phones.
”

  “They found the Vault,” he pointed out needlessly.

  “Obviously,” she retorted.

  “How?”

  The fury in her gaze burned like flame. “I don’t know. They shouldn’t have.”

  “But they did.”

  She growled at him, and the lash of her anger sent a startling glint of something that felt like electricity arcing down his spine. The sensation was not unlike the flare he’d felt while watching her fight. Or when he’d walked into her apartment and discovered she still lived. But this...this was different somehow, sharper, more, and he could find no measure for comparison.

  Ashling Kyndal, he’d come to realize, was not what she appeared. Delicate, benign; straightforward and simple. No. What existed below the surface was the antithesis of those traits. Strength and power, a hidden complexity he found incongruent with the person she chose to show the world. Within her existed a second self, one made of grim darkness and white-hot ignition. One not so different from his own.

  Which should have repelled him. Yet did not.

  The wall that separated him from the rest of humanity had been built long ago. Hate and greed drenched the world in blood, both illogical and cruel, and if not for the wall, the relentless hunger within him would have gorged without end. So he chose to protect himself from the world, and in doing so, protect the world from him.

  It was critical to his survival. So the shadows within Ash should not have spoken to him. Her sameness should not have drawn him. Inexplicably, not only did it draw him, it seemed to feed him.

  An intense and intoxicating experience. He’d never had such a visceral reaction to anyone; why her?

  A dangerous question.

  Undoubtedly. That the entity within him appeared to have cleaved to her was a disturbing turn of events. He had no idea what it meant. But it couldn’t be good.

  And yet...to feel. Something, anything. And with such vivid intensity...Ruslan hadn’t thought himself capable. The experience was wondrous, a rare, unexpected and precious gift he wasn’t certain he was capable of rejecting. Even knowing he should, that the cold, distant voice of warning in his head was likely correct.

  But Ashling was different than what he’d come to expect of the world and those who occupied it. His life, an endless study in black and white, had been touched by a vibrant, unexpected explosion of color.

  And he didn’t want to look away.

  “Goddamn it,” she said and pinched the bridge of her nose again. “At least Shirley is on vacation. My head would explode if I had to worry about her, too. We need to talk to Joe Pierce and figure out what the hell is going on.”

  “Professionals,” Ruslan pointed out, and she glared at him.

  “Once again, Captain Obvious. Thanks.”

  He only blinked at her. The scent of blood and jasmine and sweet, feminine sweat wafted from her skin. “This is not about the marker Joe Pierce claims to owe.”

  “No shit,” she snapped. Then she took a deep breath and stepped back. She looked at Butch. “Get to the office and get on Charlie’s CB. The van’s parked out front.” She dug a pair of keys from her front pocket, but then hesitated. “How drunk are you?”

  “I’m sober as a church mouse!” Butch protested, his eyes widening. His look of innocent affront was spoiled by his bloated features and ruddy flush.

  Not to mention he smelled like a still.

  “He took several blows,” Ruslan said. “I believe they helped to sober him.”

  Butch shot him a dark look. Ash only sighed and tossed him the keys. “Take the back way in, and be careful, because it’s a good bet those assholes are watching. Wylie has the other CB; try to get him.” She turned to Ruslan. “I’m going to clean up, and then we’re going to get some answers.”

  She turned and strode away. Butch left as well, and Ruslan found himself alone, trapped within the sharp gaze of Ash’s neighbor.

  “She said you were different,” Glory murmured, watching him. “But I daresay that was an understatement.”

  Ruslan only stared at her without response. Most people were uncomfortable beneath the cold weight of his pale eyes, but the woman across from him only studied him, like a hapless insect pinned to a board.

  “Ash is my friend,” she continued, her voice low and melodic, “and I may be an old woman, but if you harm her in any way, I will eviscerate you and feed your organs to the rats in the alley. Do you understand?”

  His head tilted at the unforeseen, colorful threat. “Ashling does not need you to protect her.” He glanced pointedly at the body bags still dotting the floor. “She is quite capable of defending herself.”

  “Perhaps,” Glory acknowledged quietly. “But I recognize a man familiar with death when I meet him. Ash has endured enough violence; I will not watch her endure more.”

  Ruslan said nothing. When he’d responded to Charlie’s request for assistance, he hadn’t expected to find a headstone, nor the unpredictable woman he’d found standing before it. One who was openly exasperated by the responsibilities she’d been handed, and yet took them on anyway. And who often seemed ill at ease with the carefully cultivated society in which she found herself.

  He knew from the Firm’s receptionist, Shirley, that Ash had grown up travelling and performing with her father, Blade Kyndal, Charlie’s younger brother and a man world-renowned for his sharp-shooting skills. But Ruslan knew nothing of what that life had entailed, and it was not something of which Ash spoke—at least, not to him. And he understood that while it may have been a fascinating childhood, somewhere along the line that dark volatility within her had been born, and it was not a product of happiness.

  She could fight; he’d witnessed that today. Viciously and without hesitation, something that came only from experience. And her calm in the aftermath—in spite of the violence she’d withstood, and the marks it had left—spoke volumes about the life she’d led.

  Endured.

  Ruslan had questions, but he wouldn’t ask them of the woman who stood before him. Instead, he only continued to stare down at her, unspeaking.

  “So, that’s the way of it then.” Glory nodded and took a step toward him. Close, too close, and everything within Ruslan violently rejected the intrusion. But he didn’t move.

  Snapping her neck would be simple, like crushing a bird.

  Imprudent, though, considering the men armed with badges and guns who surrounded them, and the fact that this woman was Ash’s friend, and who was—in her way—expressing concern for Ash’s well-being, something Ruslan could not find fault with.

  “You will protect her,” Glory said, her voice cold.

  Ruslan only inclined his head. He had no intention of allowing any harm to come to Ash, but he would make no promises.

  Not to anyone.

  “Say it,” Glory ordered.

  He only blinked at her, and when her eyes narrowed, he wondered if they were going to have an altercation. But then the sharp echo of Ash’s boot heels sounded, and he turned to see her striding toward him.

  Several of the uniformed officers eyed her covertly as she approached, some with curiosity, others with far more lascivious speculation, and the savage darkness within Ruslan bared its teeth and snarled. It should have been silent and content with the blood and bones of the men it had devoured earlier; instead, it focused intently on the officers whose eyes shined with avarice, and it took him a long, unsettling moment to thrust it back where it belonged, into the cold, dark place where he kept it chained.

  Far too dangerous.

  There was, he thought, a thread of panic in that voice, and part of him agreed, because he knew it was born of self-preservation. But another part—a new part, or perhaps one that had simply slumbered most of his life—was utterly enthralled by the odd awakening Ash Kyndal had sparked within him and ruthlessly determined to experience that awakening to its fullest.

  No matter the cost.

  “Ready?” he asked as she halted before him, her hair damp, the scent
of jasmine stronger, mixed with soap and mint, clad in jeans, her boots, a Supernatural t-shirt and a cropped black denim jacket.

  She nodded shortly. “Let’s bounce.”

  *****

  The Desert Bloom Hostel was a grade-A dive.

  When Wanda fled her family, she hadn’t set out for Las Vegas. Her goal had been California—and the opportunity of silicon valley—but she’d been robbed along the way by a blue-haired old man she’d been stupid enough to fall asleep next to on the bus, and she’d only gotten as far as this shimmering desert city before her funds had dried up. The Desert Bloom was where she’d landed, a rundown brick building on the south side of the city, where communal housing was provided to those who could afford the cost.

  It was the place Charlie had rescued her from, and not one Wanda particularly cared to return to, but it was only a short bus ride away from where they’d exited the tunnel, and it was not a place anyone would think to look for Eva Pierce.

  Eva had moved quietly and intently beside her as they’d boarded one of the city buses and disembarked in front of the Hostel, her demeanor that of someone who was not unfamiliar with running, something that did not escape Wanda’s notice. The girl was quiet and self-contained, and unlike most of her brethren, she had no electronic device in hand. The only thing she carried was a small yellow backpack and her book.

  They’d checked into the Hostel at the front desk. The man Wanda had dealt with when she’d arrived after leaving Chicago—and the one Charlie had tossed into a wall on her behalf—was absent, a fact which relieved her greatly, and she could only hope it wasn’t a temporary vacancy. She had no desire to see him again.

  Not that she was without resources. Ash had taught her several simple, if brutal, self-defense moves, and in her bag was the small personal Taser Charlie had gifted to her—affectionately known as “Mr. Sparky.” Wanda had yet to introduce anyone to Mr. Sparky, and she hoped it would never be necessary, but his presence was of some comfort.

  Especially considering the circumstances.

  They sat in the small room she’d rented with the last of her cash, Eva a quiet shadow beside her as the sun disappeared and night set in. People walked past the open doorway—the Hostel had no truly separate rooms—and Wanda put herself between that open doorway and Eva as best she could. Her laptop hummed on the bed beside her, but she could come up with no way to utilize the machine in their current situation.