by Hope Anika
“Sons of bitches,” Ash hissed; Ruslan tossed aside the man who’d landed on top of him. He rolled to his feet, SIG Sauer in hand, but the men were scrambling up and running away, leaving only wild, terrified glances behind.
Ash scrambled to her feet beside him. “What the hell was that?”
Before he could respond, another body burst through the trees; Reginald Kline’s white-suited bodyguard screeched to a halt when he saw them, and his dark gaze slammed into Ruslan’s. He smiled, and a sharp, almost painful sensation rolled through Ruslan’s chest.
Recognition?
Ash trained both of her weapons on him instantly. “Asshole wasting my time.”
The man ignored her, staring at Ruslan. “It has been a long time, Бpat.”
His accent was thicker than Ruslan’s, but there was no mistaking its origin. The hair at Ruslan’s nape bristled. “Explain.”
That hard smile curving the man’s mouth widened, and the sense of knowing grew.
“Бpat?” Ash repeated, shooting Ruslan a narrow look.
“Brother,” he said shortly.
“Does that mean I can’t shoot him?”
He shook his head, in spite of the sudden, hollow hammer of his heart. “Questions first. Death second.”
The Russian laughed. “You are the same.”
An icy hand gripped Ruslan’s spine. He should know this man. He was certain. And yet...he did not.
“The same?” Ash demanded impatiently, when he was silent. “What does that mean?”
“The same as then,” the Russian said, smirking.
“I don’t have time for this bullshit,” she said. She looked at Ruslan. “I’m shooting him.”
“Your man does not remember,” the Russian said softly. “But he will.”
Ash went still, her head cocked, unmoving in spite of fierce storm waging around them. In spite of the panic and endorphins Ruslan knew were coursing through her, she held both of the guns as though they were simply an extension of herself, her hands relaxed, her stance balanced and alert.
Ready.
The savage thing inside of him bared its teeth in approval.
“Talk fast, asshole,” she said. “I’ve got shit to do.”
“She is lovely,” the Russian said in their native tongue. “Does she know what you are?”
*****
“Speak English,” Ash snarled.
She was tempted to shoot the big, smirky jerk. Just a flesh wound; he would live.
And she could go find Wylie and Wanda and Eva Pierce. Because they were out there right now, probably hurt, maybe bleeding, hopefully breathing.
But no, first there was this stupid Russian dickhead. Who knew Ruslan.
Even if Ruslan didn’t know him. This man who belonged to Reginald Kline...
What the hell was going on?
She was getting goddamned tired of that question.
“I asked if you know what he is,” the Russian said.
“Again,” she ground out. “Wasting my time. What the fuck do you want?”
He hadn’t expected that question; even Ruslan looked at her. Her hands tightened on the weapons she held. It felt good to hold them. Like coming home. But hysteria was brewing deep within her.
A freaking bomb. What if they were dead?
“If you hurt them,” she said softly. “You’re a dead man.”
The smirk disappeared. “I am not the one you should fear, MIlaya Moyna.”
Ruslan stirred then, stepping closer to her. “Do not—”
Clap!
A sudden, violent crack split the air, and brilliant white light flashed, blinding her; the ground shook beneath her feet, and she stumbled back. A wave of something that made her hair stand on end sliced through her, and her nerves sizzled, as if she’d touched a live wire.
She sucked in a sharp, searing breath; her skin tingled, bright pink spots flashed before her eyes. The rain stabbed into her skin like needles. She gripped her guns tighter, and when a hand wrapped her arm, only the instant realization that it was Ruslan stopped her from slamming one into his skull.
“Lightning strike,” he said.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, blinking in effort to see.
“You see?” the Russian demanded. “I am not what you should fear.”
He was just a big, white blur. Her skin felt hot, and her ears were ringing—
“They are not us,” he continued, looming over her, and Ruslan’s hand tightened on her arm. “You will see, and then you will understand. War is coming. Choose your side wisely.”
And then he was gone. Fast. Faster than he should have been.
Ash shook her head. She felt...fried. As if a shock wave of electricity had slammed through her.
“Ashling.” Ruslan stared down at her. “Are you hurt?”
He looked completely unaffected.
“I’m freaking fantastic.” She tried unsuccessfully to shake off his hold. “Let’s go.”
He frowned. “You are not—”
A scream tore through the air, sharp and terrified, and Ash tried to lunge around him.
“Move,” she snarled.
Ruslan wrenched her back. He gripped her hand and strode around the junipers, his hold inescapable as they emerged in the small field that lay beyond the junipers, where he halted so abruptly, Ash crashed into him. She swore, stumbled back, and then, when her gaze fell to the odd, misshapen lumps dotting the ground, she realized what she was seeing—
“Holy shit,” she breathed, staring in disbelief.
A circle of dead men, at least a dozen. Thick, black raised veins marred their skin, and a dark, viscous liquid dripped from their eyes. They lay oddly flat, their large forms flattened and husk-like, as if everything within them had been squeezed out.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered. “What did this?”
“Not what,” Ruslan replied in glacial tones. “Who.”
Who. No. That was crazy—
“Wanda,” he said, and Ash’s head snapped up.
Wanda? That was ludicrous—
But then she followed his gaze and realized what he meant. Wanda. There, just beyond the dead men, leaning over someone—
“Wylie,” Ash cried and again tried to lunge past Ruslan, and again Ruslan yanked her back. So she kicked him, a sharp boot to his left shin, and when he turned to look at her with his cold, colorless gaze, she bared her teeth at him.
“Not a dog,” she growled. “Don’t need a leash.”
She wrenched her arm from his grip. Before he could argue, she was running toward Wanda.
Adrenaline flooded through her; the dread that had stalked her since she’d begun to understand what they were up against slammed into her like a freight train. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be—
Dear God. What would she do if—
“No,” she muttered. “No, no, no.”
Ruslan caught up just as she fell her to knees beside Wylie. Wanda reared back and raised the small personal Taser she held.
“Easy,” Ruslan said sharply, and Wanda flinched, her eyes jerking to him. Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Wylie lay unmoving on the ground before her. His shirt was torn and streaked by blood. Black soot painted his face. His hair stood on end, and he was...smoking.
“No,” Ash said desperately. The scent of burnt something assailed her, and bile rose in a thick wave in her throat. She grabbed his arm and shook it. “No!”
Ruslan crouched across from her and checked Wylie’s pulse. “He is alive.”
Relief tore through her. “What the hell happened?”
“Lightning,” Wanda muttered. “Lightning happened.”
Christ. Lightning messed people up—seriously messed them up. And—
“I couldn’t stop them,” she continued, blinking, as if swimming to consciousness. Soot marred her shirt and streaked her cheeks, and her hair was a tangled, sodden mess. “They took her.”
“It’s okay,” Ash told her. “It’s okay, Wanda.”
“No,” she replied, her tone so serious and solemn that Ash’s fear turned sharp and sour. “They hurt him and they took her, and it’s not okay.”
Ash shook Wylie again; his skin was burning hot. “Wylie,” she whispered, shaking him. “C’mon, Wylie, wake up, please wake up, goddamn it.”
But he didn’t. Ash looked up at Ruslan and felt tears slide down her cheeks.
“His pulse is strong,” Ruslan said, and for the first time, his cold, unflinching tone soothed her. “But we must get him back to the Impala. Now.”
He slid his arms beneath Wylie and lifted him gingerly—easily—as though her six-foot-plus, hundred and eighty-pound cousin was nothing more than a child. He stood and carefully maneuvered Wylie over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold.
Ash stared up at them and fought the wail of pain and fear and rage that welled in her chest. She wanted to—
Thump-thump, thump-thump.
Wanda looked up as a wide beam of light suddenly swept the ground around them, and Ash surged to her feet.
“We need to move.” Ruslan turned and strode back the way they’d come, past the ring of dead men, the junipers, through the charred remains of the cabin, his speed unhindered by Wylie’s weight. Ash hurried to follow, her arm wound tightly through Wanda’s, her heart a jackhammer in her chest.
They hurt him and they took her, and it’s not okay.
No, it sure as hell wasn’t.
Thump-thump, thump-thump.
Was Eva in that helicopter? Was the Russian? What the hell had happened here?
Eva taken, Wylie unconscious, and—lightning.
Thump-thump, thump-thump.
The light swept across them, and Ash ducked, pulling Wanda down beside her, but then it swept farther away, until it disappeared entirely. Please keep going. No matter her fury, they were in no condition to fight.
But they would be. Because someone was going to pay.
“They took her,” Wanda said again, her tone dull. She stumbled against Ash. “She’s just a baby. And I let them take her.”
“Knock it off,” Ash ordered in a hard voice. “This isn’t your fault. The only people responsible are the ones who took her.” And me, goddamn it. “Not you, not Wylie.” She squeezed Wanda’s arm fiercely as they began to descend the slippery switchbacks. “We’re down, not out. We’ll get her back. And then...then they’re going to fucking pay.”
CHAPTER
-21-
Pizza, debriefing and strategy at 5; BYOB
Wylie slid his phone into his back pocket and tossed the blackjack dealer a chip. He collected his winnings, shoved them into his coat pocket and vacated the table he’d sat down at less than twenty minutes earlier.
Strangely, he was relieved at the interruption. He’d stopped by The Golden Fan on impulse, a fruitless attempt to regain control in a world that suddenly bore no resemblance to the one he knew. But the control he sought was not to be had. If anything, sitting in the darkened casino surrounded by the endless clamor of slot machines and coin payouts, he’d felt even more removed, as if he’d woken to an alternative universe. Only it wasn’t the world that had changed, it was him.
He was...altered. Inexplicably, irrevocably. And it wasn’t just the 300 kilovolts of lightening that had shot through his body two days ago that made him so.
No, that had just been the catalyst.
Not that there weren’t repercussions from being a human lighting rod. His nerve endings now hummed like hyperactive children, always on, and boosted somehow, ultra-sensitive in ways he was still trying to ascertain. His eyesight seemed sharper, his hearing more acute. He was hot all the time, and the lights in his apartment had flickered on and off the entire time he was home, as if a mischievous ghost had suddenly moved in. Both physically and mentally he felt...enhanced, somehow. On. His brain had abruptly sprung to life, spinning through philosophy, mathematics, history—things he had no memory of learning, let alone knowing. Solving equations, asking existential questions, contemplating time and space and origin.
Christ, he’d become a thinking man.
What the fuck?
The doctors were baffled—by his near instant recovery, by the profound lack of symptoms concurrent with a lightning strike, by the results of every test they’d run. They called him an anomaly, and they hadn’t wanted to kick him loose, but less than twenty-four hours after he’d been admitted, Wylie had pulled out their wires, disconnected their needles, pulled on his charred clothing and walked out of the Las Vegas Memorial Hospital under his own steam.
The docs insisted it wasn’t safe, but Wylie wasn’t worried. He knew exactly why he’d survived a lightning strike relatively unscathed: Eva Pierce. If she’d never laid hands on him, he’d have been a dead man.
Guaranteed.
Instead, he felt...fine. With the exception of the dark purple scars that slid from the base of his skull, down his spine and forked out across the broad plane of his back—lightning flowers, an eerie, permanent reminder of the current that had blasted through him—Wylie felt perfectly fine.
Better than fine.
Which should not have been.
Electricity was vital to human physiology. No one truly understood how or why, only that it was a necessity—a delicate, careful balance that, once disrupted, profoundly damaged everything: the nervous system, the brain. Muscle control, memory, hearing, speech, thought processes. So the fact that he’d had a bolt travel from the top of this head to the tip of his toes, and he felt—if a little rattled and...sparky—not just fine, but good... Well.
He could hardly complain.
When Eva had laid hands on him after the explosion, he’d healed, but he certainly hadn’t expected that healing to happen all over again. To take on a lightning bolt: the burns to his skin, his tissues, hell even his bones. The extensive damage to his lungs and heart and brain—which he’d felt before the healing had begun. The steady buzzing in his head, the metallic taste in his mouth, the blur of his vision due to the blow-out of the delicate veins in his eyes.... The pain had been excruciating, and he’d fallen unconscious almost instantly.
But when he’d awoken, he was whole and unhurt and changed. Long after Eva had touched him.
I’m sorry, she’d told Wanda. It was the only way.
Wylie was afraid that meant something neither he nor Wanda yet fully understood about what Eva had done to them—and that scared the hell out of him. Because the only person he could ask was gone.
Taken. Secreted away by those she’d feared most—not the men in black, but others, ones like her. People he’d been unable to protect her from; people so powerful they could call lightning down from the sky.
An impossibility, and one he’d not yet confessed to Ash. Only Wanda knew the truth of what had transpired, and he had no idea what—if anything—Wanda had shared with Ash, because he’d spent the last forty-eight hours first in a ten-hour coma in a hospital bed, and then—once he’d cut himself loose several hours later, in spite of both the doctor’s and Ash’s loud and angry protests—another nineteen passed out on his couch, not waking until nearly noon today.
As soon as he was upright, he’d checked his messages; no Wanda. Plenty of anxious, ornery words from his cousin—who, he understood, loved him and had had the shit scared out of her—but nothing from the one person he could have talked to about the extraordinary events of the last four days. He’d been worried that she’d done as she threatened and left the city, but he had no way to contact her, and when he’d checked in with Ash, she’d told him Wanda was at the Firm, working like a fiend to revamp their internal network in order to protect their database and communications.
So he’d relaxed. For the moment.
Because he and Wanda were long from done.
But first, there was Eva. Fragile, powerful, unearthly Eva, who he had to thank—more than once—for his life, and who had no one but him and Wanda and the Firm to give a shit a
bout her. To save her. And even though the thought of going up against people who could control the elements scared the bejesus out of him, it was going to happen.
Just a matter of time.
But before that could happen, he would have to tell Ash—and probably Spock and Butch, too—how he’d survived. Why. Even though he hardly understood it himself. And as far as the changes he was experiencing...well, time would tell.
First, they had to come together. Debrief and strategize.
Once they were all on the same page, they would figure out who had taken Eva.
And how the hell they were going to get her back.
*****
Ash stood in the conference room, staring at the photographs she’d pinned to the corkboard only a day earlier. She wore blue jeans and a black tee. Her weapon sat in its holster on her waist.
Ruslan stepped soundlessly into the room and pulled the door shut behind him.
“Wylie’s on his way,” she said, not turning around. “He seems...okay.”
Her bafflement was something Ruslan shared, although he said nothing. Wylie’s unexpected awakening from the coma he’d fallen into after being struck by lightning, followed by his astonishing and seemingly complete recovery—in less than twenty-four hours’ time—was nothing less than miraculous. But Ruslan did not believe in miracles.
Which left something else entirely at work.
“And Wanda?” he asked, striding into the room. “Has she said anything further?”
“Nothing more than what she said in the car.” Ash shook her head. “I want answers, but I don’t want to push. Not yet. She seems...brittle.”
Ruslan halted beside her, and the scent of jasmine and mint surrounded him, instantly easing the tension that lined his frame. A tension he’d been unaware of before meeting the woman he stood beside. “A delay is unwise. If we are to recover Eva, time is of the essence.”
She shot him an exasperated look. “Agreed. But after everything that’s happened, we need some down time—if only a day. We’re no good strung out and exhausted. We’ll debrief in an hour and go from there.”
“And you?” Ruslan asked her. “How are you?”
She had spent nearly fifteen hours at Wylie’s side, leaving only when he’d insisted on discharging himself, something Ruslan had discovered himself envying—an odd, unsettling emotion with which he had no experience. Ash was remarkably loyal. Steadfast and unflinching and far more stubborn than he’d initially understood, which just made her...more.
