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.”
Renton ploughed through the rest of the marshy area in a straight line, making no attempt to avoid the puddles, his feet squelching and sinking into the mud with every step. It did not appear to bother him, though it was hell on the suit she’d had tailored.
“You think this was all a setup?”
“Yes. Only gross incompetence or deliberate planning could have put us in this mess, and I am not inclined to think that Central is incompetent.”
Anastasia frowned.
“At least, not this incompetent.”
“Then, who do you think…”
Anastasia cut him off with a look.
“Shush, Renton,” she scolded. “This isn’t the time or the place.”
She looked around them significantly.
“And you can put me down, now. It is much drier, here.”
Renton grinned, and set her down delicately on her feet. The ground was indeed much drier, and the brush had started to open up to pine trees surrounded by patches of brown grass.
“There is going to be a fight,” she said moodily, walking beside Renton. “Central would not bring us this whole way, so Mitsuru could sneak us out the back door. The Weir will find us first.”
Renton looked over at her, his eyes sharp and worried.
“Who is their target? All of us? You? The new kid?”
“I’m not sure,” Anastasia said, shrugging. “But, I think we will find out soon. Don’t worry so much, Renton — that is my job. You focus on getting us back to Central, safely.”
“Milady,” he said, nodding.
“And try not to be so forward in the future. Even when we are alone.”