“These are Domo slippers,” she said menacingly. “Don’t you dare mock Domo.”
“Of course,” Renton said, holding his hands up in faux surrender. “Whatever you say.”
“Speaking of whatever I say, what are you doing here? What did I tell you about coming to my room? Or using telepathy to keep my dogs from eating you?”
“Something encouraging, I hope.”
Anastasia shook her head and then sighed.
“Enough. Renton, I am about to get upset,” she said quietly, but with feeling. “Therefore, I suggest that you find somewhere else to be. Maybe you could find a girl who actually appreciates you showing up unannounced in her room.”
Renton took a couple of steps back. Donner was suddenly between them, with his heavy black body wedged them apart, almost standing on her slippers, snarling in response to his mistress’s mood, his instincts overriding whatever suggestion Renton had implanted in him.
“Okay, I got it, Ana, message received,” Renton said, backing away with a smile. “I’m already gone.”
She watched him walk all the way to the door, Blitzen tracking his every step, a consistent, low snarl coming from the Weir’s throat that sounded like the revving of a small, rusted engine.
“Since you’re feeling so curious,” Anastasia called out after him, “go see what’s happening at the infirmary. It will probably be interesting. You can tell me about it in the morning.”
“Right,” Renton said, flashing her a weak smile before he closed the door on the snarling Weir.
Anastasia sighed heavily, and then spent a minute petting Donner and Blitzen, calming them down. She had given that final order to Renton not because she needed his perspective, but more as face-saving measure. He probably would have done it anyway, even if she hadn't ordered him to. It was probably time, Anastasia thought regretfully, to do something about Renton, in case he got to feeling even cleverer than he already was. Anastasia went back to the bathroom to brush her hair again. She was too agitated for bed.
“Okay, things got a little heated. It’s the first time we’ve all met, so it’s not surprising that there was some miscommunication. Now, why don’t we just, you know, put down the scalpels and stuff and start over?”
He looked over at Katya hopefully. She was standing in front of him, one hand clutching a couple of nasty looking surgical tools she had pillaged from one of the drawers in the infirmary. Their companion pieces, two quivering scalpels, were imbedded in the wall, one on either side of Grigori’s head. Katya turned to look back at him in confusion, her face flushed and shoulders heaving. She stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then shrugged and set the tools down on the counter in front of her, conspicuously within reach.
“That’s good,” Alex said encouragingly, turning next to Grigori. “Now, you stop whatever that glowing-hand thing it is you’re doing.”
“I don’t work for you,” Grigori objected, still attempting to burn a hole in Katya with his eyes. “And this is hardly the first time I’ve met Katya Zharova.”
“Alright, that’s great,” Alex agreed. “On the other hand, I only just met you, and yet I prevented her from stabbing you in eyes. So, maybe you could consider doing me a favor, huh?”
Grigori looked over at Alex in stunned silence, but his right hand, which had been emitting a crackling, vivid blue energy, gradually returned to normal. Alex figured he could put that one in his ‘win’ column.
“Okay,” Alex said, sitting back down on the examination table with a sigh of relief. “This is all very civilized. Now, Mr. Threatening-Russian guy, what is so important that it merits scaring away the doctor, whose help I desperately need?”
“You are a fool, Alexander Warner,” Grigori sneered, his face flushed and ruddy.
“You probably could have waited to tell me that.”
“Are you insane?” Grigori demanded. “You have an assassin next to you, right now!”
“What?” Alex said, glancing around. “Oh, you mean her? This is Katya. She’s not an assassin.”
“I’m his bodyguard,” she offered gleefully. “Anastasia Martynova's orders, courtesy of the Black Sun. Alex needs protecting.”
“She’s not my bodyguard,” Alex sighed. “Look, do you both think this could wait? I’m supposed to be getting an injection.”
“You cannot possibly be this stupid,” Grigori insisted. “Anastasia Martynova installs one of her agents in your life, an assassin no less, and you simply accept it? Are you already their creature, Warner? Do you already belong to the Black Sun?”
“You’re the excitable type, aren’t you?” Alex asked, lying down on the examination table. “Look, not like it’s any of your business, but you’ve got everything wrong. Anastasia is my classmate, not my boss. I don’t work for her. I'm not a member of any cartel, not even the delightful one you are a part of, whichever that is. And I haven’t accepted help from anyone, much less a volunteer bodyguard; which, by the way, you are doing a stellar job of convincing me that I might actually need. Anyway, Katya’s totally not an assassin, right?”
“Totally,” Katya agreed, deadpan.
“See?”
“I haven’t completed the training yet,” Katya continued blithely.
“That is not helpful,” Alex complained. “I am trying to make the angry guy go away.”
“Sorry about that,” Katya said, still watching Grigori, her body tense and her hand hovering near the shining instruments. “Bad habit of mine.”
“What is wrong with you, Warner?” Grigori demanded, clearly dumbfounded. “I came to warn you about a threat to your life, based on the positive reports on your character I received from Emily Muir, and instead I find you cracking jokes with the threat? This is simply too much.”
“Wait, Emily gave positive reports about my character? What did she say?”
Katya moved on the balls of her feet, like a cat, walking circles around Grigori.
“I have never liked you, and your accent makes you sound like my grandmother,” Katya said deliberately, just out of his reach. “I spent a lot of time in Mr. Cole’s class thinking about what I would do to you, if you didn’t have a cartel to stand behind you. Well, I have a job now. You get close to him,” Katya said, pointing at Alex, “and then I’ll do what I have to do. It will be my obligation.”
“Ahem.” Rebecca cleared her throat, fingering the scalpels embedded in the wall with obvious trepidation. Behind her, a doctor and handful of nurses peered out in suspicion and hostility. “I’m just going to say it. Everyone in this room is in a whole lot of trouble.”
6
“Am I,” Eerie said slowly, searching for words, “in trouble?”
“That would be the gist of it, yes,” Gaul said patiently. “Quite a bit.”
He gave her a minute to let the news sink in. Eerie said nothing, a vacant smile on her face, her head cocked to the side and her eyes focused on nothing that he could see. The silence stretched out longer than he thought that he could stand.
“I don’t want to be,” Eerie concluded.
“Ah. Yes,” Gaul agreed slowly. “Yes, I would imagine so.”
Again, the silence stretched out until Gaul felt practically compelled to cough.
“Uh, I’m — I’m sorry?” Eerie said hopefully, her hands clasped between her knees. “For whatever?”
“You can’t rectify this situation simply by apologizing, Eerie. In this particular case, it might be more appropriate to…” Gaul trailed off when he realized that Eerie had her hand held up politely above her head, waiting to be called on as if she were in a classroom. “Yes, Eerie?”
“I am very sorry,” Eerie said firmly. “A lot sorrier than before.”
“Yes,” Gaul said, coughing. “I do understand. However, I think that…”
“Eerie,” Rebecca cut in, leaning over Gaul’s shoulder, from where she perched on top of one of his filing cabinets. “Why San Francisco?”
Gaul had to combat the urge to bury his head in his hands, to shout at either of the infuriating women who had occupied his office and turned this conversation into a farce, but he did not. Not the least because he was not entirely sure what he wanted to do about Eerie in the first place. If Rebecca had any kind of solution, it was worth tolerating her interruptions.