Evolution

by Hope Anika

  That summer had been the best of her life, due solely to that boy—a boy most on the show had considered damaged. But Ash had never forgotten him, or the freedom he’d afforded her to simply be.

  She wasn’t certain if it was a good thing or a bad one that Ruslan reminded her of that boy. Because the adult version wasn’t any better. While Ruslan was slightly more communicative, he still didn’t use any more words than necessary. He didn’t like to be touched—a trait he shared with that boy, and something she took personally, even knowing she shouldn’t—and he was painfully to the point. He didn’t tease, or joke; there was zero sarcasm in him. And he never, ever smiled.

  Not even when she poked him. Which she did. A lot.

  More than she should, considering they were, for all intents and purposes, strangers. That she felt an odd connection to him because of that kid and that long-ago summer was inconsequential. And stupid. Probably even dangerous.

  Because regardless of his claim that he’d been Charlie’s friend—not a stretch to believe, because Charlie had a lot of friends, but it wasn’t like she could frigging fact check him—and his insistence that he’d come to help—the why of which she was still trying to work out—Ruslan was an unknown. Something she never forgot, not for a minute. And she knew better than to trust the unknown.

  The man had approached her in a cemetery, for crying out loud.

  Who did that?

  Right after Charlie’s service, no less, when she’d wanted nothing more than a stiff drink and good cry. But, no. Instead there was Ruslan, staring at her with those cold, pale eyes, his demeanor the same as the granite slabs that surrounded them, unmoving and final. He’d come, he said, to help. Charlie was his friend. More, he owed Charlie, and until that debt was paid, he wasn’t leaving.

  The fact that Charlie was dead didn’t seem to phase or deter him. You can’t pay back a corpse, she’d pointed out, unnerved and annoyed by his sudden presence, but he’d merely blinked at her, silent, and refused to budge.

  I will see you tomorrow had been his only response. And when she’d told him not to bother, he’d simply turned and walked away.

  He’d shown up bright and early at the Firm the next morning, and she’d spent the next two days trying to battle his cold intransigence. She was even honest with him. I don’t know what to do with you; I have no idea how to run this damn place. We can’t pay you because the Firm is broke. With Charlie dead, we no longer have a PI license—we can’t even legally work.

  But Ruslan had an answer for everything. I can entertain myself. You can learn. I am willing to work pro bono. And—I am licensed.

  Which—seriously—how did a Russian end up with a license to practice private investigation in the state of Nevada? But he’d produced it, and it was legit. And since without a license the Firm couldn’t take on any cases, not even missing pets, Ash had been firmly in the category of “beggar,” which meant she couldn’t afford to push him out the door. At least not until she could take the PI test herself, but that required studying and documenting the five years she’d spent working under Charlie, and meanwhile mouths to feed.

  Judging by his tailor-made clothing and the quality of both his watch and his weapon, money wasn’t an issue for Ruslan.

  Must be nice.

  Still, she hadn’t wanted him. She had enough on her plate, thank you very much, and Ruslan was trouble she didn’t need. The visceral jolt of awareness that shot through her every time she caught a glimpse of him was unnerving and unwelcome. Her hindbrain continued to scream Uncle! in his presence. But worst of all was his otherness, which intrigued her, tempting her to dig out the man who lay buried beneath that thick, cold, opaque surface.

  Solve the puzzle.

  But that wouldn’t be happening. She didn’t even know what he felt he owed Charlie or why; he simply refused to tell her.

  Which was complete and utter horseshit.

  In the end, however, she’d had to cave. The Firm needed that damn license. For now, anyway. And while she hadn’t worked with him, Ruslan and Wylie had chased down a couple of bail jumpers, and even though her cousin hadn’t been particularly happy about that fact, he had grudgingly reported that Ruslan was more than capable of locating and apprehending fleeing criminals.

  He’s good, but he’s fucking dangerous. And weird, like Spock or some shit. I don’t like him, and I don’t trust him. I hope you know what you’re doing, cuz.

  She didn’t. Nothing new there.

  “I hope Wylie finds them,” she muttered and climbed into the Impala.

  “He will.” Ruslan slid in beside her. “He is very competent, despite his reluctance to appear so.”

  True enough. Still. “I know they grabbed Butch at Otto’s, but how’d they get you?”

  He started the car. “I was visiting Charlie’s grave. They ambushed me.”

  She started. “You were visiting Charlie’s grave?”

  He didn’t reply—because he’d already said as much. Ash reminded herself whom she was talking to. “Why were you visiting Charlie’s grave?”

  “I visit his grave once a week.”

  “Why?”

  Ruslan only turned and gave her an opaque look. “He was my friend.”

  Chastised, she looked away. No matter his idiosyncrasies, Ruslan was human. Even if his manner—and his unearthly beauty—occasionally made her forget that.

  A tall man, broad of shoulder but lean, his muscle wiry and compact, Ruslan was a showstopper. His posture would put a four-star general to shame, and when he moved, he made no sound, so graceful and fluid it reminded her of the big cats she’d grown up watching perform. Captivating but eerie, just like the man.

  His features were perfectly symmetrical and classically carved, with sharp, high cheekbones, a blade of a nose, a hard jaw line, and a surprisingly lush mouth, his upper lip slightly fuller than the bottom. And those pale gray eyes, almost colorless but for the shattered shards of silver and storm gray that wove through his iris, cold eyes, alien and impartial, unsoftened by the thick web of black lashes that surrounded them. Coal black, like his hair, which he kept cut in a short, conservative style.

  He was a man who drew attention, even though she suspected that was the last thing he wanted, or cared about. Men watched him with the same awareness that flared through her—danger, danger—and women, while not untouched by that same knowledge, watched him with something far different.

  Curiosity. Speculation. Lust.

  Ash often wondered if he even saw it, but she knew he must. Ruslan saw everything.

  “They transported me in the Impala,” he continued. “Butch was taken in the SUV we left the bodies in.”

  “Did you get anything out of them?” she asked.

  “No.” He paused. “Unlike you.”

  “Moi?”

  “You learned something.”

  That was the trouble with Ruslan. He could read her like an open book, and she couldn’t read him at all.

  “I don’t know what it means,” she told him.

  He said nothing, waiting.

  She sighed. “When I asked what they wanted with Eva, one of them said, ‘You protect her, you kill us all.’ He called her an abomination. When I demanded to know what he was talking about he said, ‘When it’s too late, then you’ll see.’”

  “See what?”

  “The future.” The same chill that had gripped her with those words returned. “I don’t know what it meant, but whatever it was, he believed it.”

  “This is not about the repayment of an illegal street loan.”

  “No. They wanted Eva Pierce dead.”

  “Yet you did not disclose that to Detective Haggerty.”

  “No,” she repeated. “And until I understand what’s going on, and who those assholes were, I’m not about to.”

  Ruslan drove on, silent. He drove the same way he did everything else: with silent, unwavering competence. There was no swearing, no angry hand signals, no impatience or annoyance.


  Unlike her, who was forced to exercise anger management anytime she drove anywhere.

  “You do not trust law enforcement,” he observed as they pulled into the narrow alley behind the Firm.

  “I don’t trust anyone,” she told him.

  Which wasn’t strictly true. She trusted Wylie; he was family. Glory, who was like family. And Wanda and Shirley and Butch, because they were part of her team, and she had no damn choice in the matter.

  The aging VW van sat parked crookedly before the loading bay door; Butch had made it back in one piece.

  One never knew. Because while Butch had once been one of the best cops on the Vegas police force, now he was little more than a paperweight in the form of a man. Charlie had kept him on because they were old friends; Ash had no such compunction. She liked Butch, but she couldn’t afford to carry dead weight, and if he didn’t get his shit together, he was going to have to go. Which she’d explained to him, quite succinctly, several weeks ago. And which hadn’t made a damn bit of difference.

  Another thing she was going to have to deal with.

  Ruslan parked beside the VW. The night was warm as they climbed from the Impala and headed toward the Firm’s back entrance, a large, heavy steel door Charlie had installed last year.

  Her head hurt, and her nose was throbbing. The line of bruises from her shoulder to her elbow ached, her lip was raw, and she could still taste blood, even though she’d brushed her teeth twice.

  But the rage helped. I’m fucking furious. The anger simmering within her had yet to ebb. At the men in black, who’d threatened her, who’d hurt her. Who’d called her twelve-year-old client an abomination. At their brutal fists and illogical hate. It didn’t matter that they were dead; she still wanted carnage.

  Revenge.

  But she wanted Wiley and Wanda and Eva to be safe more. So it would have to wait.

  Ruslan suddenly stopped; Ash nearly barreled into him.

  “Wait,” he said and went still.

  The hair at her nape prickled. “What?”

  He didn’t reply. Didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to breathe.

  Which was just annoying. And unnerving.

  Ash looked around, but there was nothing to see: an empty alleyway, wreathed in shadow. Dumpsters and garbage cans and errant cigarette butts.

  “What?” she repeated.

  But he said nothing. Ruslan was frozen, his head faintly tilted, his pale eyes narrow as they swept the alley. Watching him, icy fingers traced Ash’s spine; a chill washed her skin in goose bumps.

  He’s fucking dangerous.

  Yes, yes, he was.

  “Ruslan,” she said quietly.

  But he didn’t respond. Of course he didn’t.

  Instead, he was suddenly moving, surging past her in a rush of blinding speed. Before she could take a step, a thud sounded, followed by a high-pitched, “What the fuck, man?” and then the skull of Tyrone “TJ” Jones—one of Charlie’s more colorful confidential informants—hit the steel door with enough force to make the metal ring.

  “Ruslan,” she said again.

  Unfortunately, TJ wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. He surged toward Ruslan with a snarl, and steel flashed in his hand, a long, thin, serrated blade. Ash took a step to intervene, mildly alarmed, but Ruslan only sidestepped the attack and slapped TJ hard across the face, stealing the blade from him at the same time.

  He made it look simple, like disarming an angry child. Ash was impressed, and even more unnerved.

  TJ was surprised.

  “You fucker,” he said and shook his head, as if shaking away the sting. He blinked at his knife, which sat in Ruslan’s loose, easy hold.

  A familiar hold. Which did not reassure her. At all.

  “Hit me like I’m your bitch,” TJ muttered. “I’m going to kick your fucking ass.”

  He lunged for the knife, but Ruslan only knocked his hand aside and slapped him again. Harder.

  The look on TJ’s face was comical; the abrupt, brutal violence was not. Ruslan didn’t even blink while delivering it. He simply reacted. Took control and obliterated the threat.

  “You motherfucker!” TJ yelled, and Ash decided it was time to put her foot down.

  But then TJ swung, a furious, wild haymaker Ruslan easily avoided. Another vicious slap and TJ hit the door with his head again.

  Clang.

  This time, Ruslan held him there with one hand wrapped around TJ’s thick, tattoo-covered neck.

  TJ squirmed like a panicked kitten; he tore futilely at Ruslan’s hold. He let loose another wild, useless haymaker; aimed an impotent kick at Ruslan’s shins. He swore and strained and slammed his fists into the unwavering length of muscle and bone that held him, all to no avail.

  And then he stilled, the realization that he had no hope of escape finally beginning to penetrate. “What the fuck, Ash? What the fuck?”

  Ruslan tilted his head. “A friend of yours?”

  “And if he was?” she asked, exasperated.

  Ruslan only arched a brow. He looked at TJ, whose inked face bore a remarkable resemblance to a graffiti-filled school desk. “I would say you need better friends.”

  “Indeed,” she told him darkly. “TJ, meet Ruslan. Ruslan, meet TJ—one of Charlie’s informants.”

  “Let me go,” TJ wheezed. Fear had finally dawned in his dark gaze. “I’m one of you, man.”

  But Ruslan didn’t move. He just held TJ there, like an unruly child. Easily, without effort. Almost without interest.

  “Ruslan,” Ash murmured. “Put him down.”

  Cold, pale eyes met hers, and beyond their opaque, glittering surface, she glimpsed something. Something awake and alive and hungry. She stared at it, in spite of the urge to look away.

  To run away.

  A shiver moved through her. She didn’t move. “Now.”

  Thick black lashes swept down, then up, and the ice returned. “As you wish.”

  He stepped back and freed TJ, who bent over and gasped for breath. Then he tossed the blade into the darkened alley

  “If you ever point another weapon at me,” he said. “I will use it. On you.”

  He wasn’t boasting; it didn’t even sound like a warning. It was merely...fact.

  Jesus.

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” Ash stepped past them, yanked open the steel door and stepped through.

  “He is not the only one,” Ruslan said from behind her. “We are being surveilled.”

  Something she’d already figured out for herself. He wasn’t the only one with a sixth sense; her nape had been bristling since they’d left her apartment.

  “Continued surveillance indicates they are still looking for Eva Pierce,” he added. “Which means they have not yet located her.”

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious.” She turned to look at him. “I shouldn’t have left them.”

  “They should have been safe,” he replied. “There was nothing to indicate this turn of events.”

  No, there wasn’t. This crazy, inexplicable turn of events.

  “Left who?” TJ wanted to know.

  He stood in the open door, watching them. In typical TJ fashion, he wore studded, red leather chaps, a pair of tattered jeans, a fitted, black suede vest stretched over his conspicuously bare chest, and a pair of scarred, ugly combat boots. He looked like a bad actor.

  A B movie extra. Par for the course.

  “What’s going on?” He eyed Ruslan with distrust. “You need some help?”

  Ruslan arched a brow.

  And her headache grew worse. “Why are you here?”

  “I came to give my condolences.”

  Only a month late. “How much did he owe you?”

  A flush touched TJ’s dark, golden skin. He was a mixture of Latino, black and, somewhere along the line, Asian, and beneath the ink, not a bad looking guy. Charismatic, charming when he chose. Dialed into the city and its miscreants.

  But he wasn’t particularly smart, and he made his living spying and
cheating and ratting people out. Which pretty much diminished any attraction he might have otherwise held.

  “A couple hundred.” He shrugged. “But that ain’t why I’m here.”

  Sure it wasn’t.

  “What type of intelligence did you provide to Charlie?” Ruslan asked.

  TJ stuck out his chest and pointed his thumb at it. “I’m the pulse of this city, man. I know everything that happens, who, what, when, where and how.”

  “Information you then sell to the highest bidder.”

  There was no disdain, no judgment, and yet Ash got the feeling Ruslan did not approve. But TJ just smiled, a slick, cocky curve that always made her palm itch.

  “Everyone wants what TJ’s got.” He winked. “I’m the Siri of Sin City.”

  For the love of God.

  “You’re going to have to wait,” Ash told him. “I’ll have it tomorrow.”

  “No worries, sweetness. I can come back. You and me, we got business to discuss anyhow.”

  Ruslan stirred. He slid a hand into his suit and Ash tensed. When he pulled out a wad of cash instead of his SIG Sauer, she was no less annoyed.

  “No,” she said, her voice hard.

  Which he only ignored. He peeled off several Ben Franklins and held them out. “Paid in full. You need not return.”

  TJ scowled, but didn’t hesitate to take the cash. “That ain’t your call, Moscow.”

  “The Firm no longer requires your services.” Ruslan’s pale eyes gleamed in the light; his voice was flat and cold. “You may go.”

  Goddamn it.

  “I’ll call you,” Ash contradicted, supremely annoyed.

  Because who the Firm did business with was not Ruslan’s call, and TJ might be a cretin, but he was a valuable cretin. Credible intel was important, and even though she had no idea what kind of info he’d been supplying to Charlie, she had no intention of kicking him to the curb.

  No matter Ruslan’s opinion.

  “You do that,” TJ murmured, smirking.

  Ruslan turned to look at her.

  “Suck it up, buttercup,” she told him, even more annoyed.

  Then she slid the door shut in TJ’s laughing face.

  “You do not need him,” Ruslan said.