Alex stared for a moment, until Eerie finally cracked a smile, and then started giggling. Alex had to laugh himself, partly out of relief, and partly out of shock that Eerie had made something resembling a joke.
“What’s so funny?” Anastasia demanded crossly, leading Mitsuru into the vacant office, Edward trailing a few feet behind them, smiling affably.
“Nothing,” Alex said, waving her off. “It’s good to see you, Miss Aoki.”
Mitsuru looked up from where she had dumped her bags on a vacant, dangerously listing desk, clearly a bit surprised.
“Right,” she said, shrugging and opening a bag that, to Alex’s eyes, appeared to be filled entirely with guns. “Let’s talk about how we get you kids home.”
Twenty Eight
“Where is this place, anyway? What’s up with all the trees? Are we even in the city?”
Anastasia shook her head, trying to ignore Alex’s complaints, trying to match Mitsuru’s relentless pace through the brush and hilly ground. She held the edges of her skirt primly, determined to avoid snagging it on the bushes, sprinklers and debris that littered their path. She was sympathetic to the boy’s point, at least to an extent. Her dress, after all, was an expensive, one-of-a-kind piece, custom-made at a little shop in the Shibuya neighborhood of Tokyo that specialized in such things, and therefore delicate and irreplaceable. Certainly, Mitsuru had said nothing about traipsing through the woods on their way back to Central.
But the endless stream of questions and complaints that he had produced over the last hour were beginning to strain Anastasia’s composure, something for which Alex seemed to have a particular gift.
“This is the Presidio. It used to be an army base, I think, years ago. Now it’s a park,' Margot said, from somewhere behind her. She didn’t sound thrilled at the situation, either, but then again, Margot never did. “Now would you please shut up?”
“I don’t think so,” Alex responded, a touch out of breath. “I want someone to tell me what the hell is going on! I’m tired of going along with whatever I’m told without knowing why. This is all a bunch of crap, as far as I’m concerned.”
Anastasia ignored the commotion behind her. Margot had seemed more than usually edgy with Alex all day, and from the sounds, had resorted to violence to get him to shut up. Not that Anastasia had any problem with the vampire slapping Alex around a bit. Still, Anastasia was surprised to see Margot so worked up, and couldn’t help but wonder how much Eerie’s obvious fascination with the boy played into it.
She stepped gingerly over a half-rotten log, and then threaded her way carefully through a series of muddy puddles, wincing when one of her patent leather shoes sunk into the marshy soil. Anastasia was so distraught by her ruined shoe that she didn’t notice Renton behind her, not until he had swept her up in one effortless gesture, one arm hooked underneath her bunched skirts, the other behind her shoulders.
“Renton!” she hissed, trying to keep her voice down. “What are you doing?”
Renton smiled and shook his head, plodding through the mud indifferently.
“Your dress will get ruined,” he said lightly. “I would not have the Mistress of the Black Sun embarrassed or discomfited by such a small thing.”
He smiled at her, in a way that was both indiscrete and completely inappropriate.
“Particularly when she is so easy to carry.”
Anastasia grimaced, but relaxed in his arms. She knew from experience that there was no point in arguing — he would agree, of course, and do whatever she told him to, but she would have to make a scene in order to make that happen. And he was right — appearances were part of her responsibility, after all, even if Renton’s motivations were a bit less than proper.
“At least make sure they don’t see us,” Anastasia grumbled.
Renton had done this for her often, growing up, but that was when she was a child. He hadn’t changed much at all, she thought, her head leaning against his chest, overcome by a wave of memories going back almost as far as she could remember.
Joseph Martynova, her father, had called her into his office, the first time she’d ever been there without her mother, or a nanny, to look after her. It was a vast, book-lined room with deep red carpet, an imposing walnut desk placed in front of a giant bay window facing east, oriented so that the sun rose directly behind it much of the year. Her father was a man who appreciated the value of symbolism, something that was not lost on his daughter.
He’d barely looked at her, speaking in his low voice while writing something with a beautiful antique pen, sounding tired and distracted. He’d explained to the four-year old that she lived in a dangerous world, and even though she was not the heir to the Black Sun, she was expected to hold a position of prominence one day. This would, he explained indifferently, make her the target of all sorts of potential violence, blackmail, intimidation, and kidnapping attempts, something her father could attest to, since he was an expert at using those very same techniques to subdue rivals. Anastasia hadn’t fully known what to make of it, at the time, but she was already smart enough to know when not to speak.
Then he’d called Renton into his office. Renton walked in and stood nervously in front of her, obviously uncomfortable in his formal attire, his posture stiff, and his bow deep and clumsy. Renton Vidor, her father explained, would be her bodyguard for the next few years. The second-eldest son of one of the minor cartels in the Black Sun’s orbit, he had been pledged into their service as a sign of his cartel’s loyalty, and therefore Anastasia’s father was obligated to find a function for him. If she was satisfied with his performance, he said, she could elect to continue his employment in this capacity when she left for the Academy. Then her father had motioned for them to leave, and Renton had offered her his hand, his smiling face then exactly the same as the one that she saw now.
It was like that, sometimes, after activation. The nanites affected the aging process in inconsistent and unpredictable ways — some Operators appeared to age normally, while others aged only until a certain point, and then simply stopped, seemingly not aging a day until they died. Some Operators had lived for more than a hundred years, according to the Black Sun’s archives, while others had died in their teens of what appeared to be old age. Renton had been a young-looking twenty when he had been assigned to guard her, and only his hairstyle had changed since then.
The subject worried Anastasia more than she would have cared to admit. As far as she could tell, she hadn’t grown at all since she was thirteen, more than three years ago. She knew that happened to girls, sometimes, and that it didn’t necessarily mean anything — she could have been a late bloomer, after all. But Anastasia didn’t find the thought of going through life appearing to be a flat-chested teenager to be an attractive one. It was a horrible thought, actually, the only one that ever kept her up at night. And though nothing was certain yet, she knew that it was a very real possibility. Alice Gallow appeared to be in her late twenties, after all, but the archives said that she was much, much older. Maybe even the oldest Operator on record, having first come to the Black Sun’s notice during the Spanish Civil War.
Then again, there was a big difference, Anastasia thought grimly, between being young forever, and being in puberty forever.
“Ana, what’s our next move?”
Renton looked worried, but his question broke the cycle of her own worries. He was good for that, at least. He might have been insolent and disrespectful, perverted and low minded, but Renton knew her better than anybody else did, and he when it mattered, he always seemed to do the right thing, without even thinking about it.
It was that quality, above all others, even loyalty, that had made Renton rise in rank, to become her lieutenant. It was his effectiveness, however, that kept him there.
“Wait and see,” Anastasia said, leaning back to look at the starless sky. “I have some ideas, but the picture as a whole is still unclear. Something about this situation is very wrong, and I will not make any dramatic moves, not until I know for certain who is responsible.”
“Are you sure? We have resources in this area. I can call O’Brien at the Marin compound, and arrange an exit. For all of us, if necessary. Even Alex.”
“Not yet. Not until the trap is sprung.”
