Zachary Rawlins - The Anathema

Even if Alex was there.

It wasn't as if he disliked Alex — actually, he considered him something of a friend. He was weirdly appealing, in a sleepy, distracted way. He had bouts of depression and bad moods, and he was particularly clueless about what not to say aloud, but Alex’s tendency to instantly, loudly despair in the face of adversity was actually somewhat endearing.

Then, of course, there was the whole thing with Emily. The situation wasn't strictly Alex's fault, but it remained a point of subtle contention between them.

Vivik had chemistry in the early afternoon, but the lecture was based on work with acids and bases that he had already done, so he was able to devote the two hours to his private scheme, all the while diligently taking notes on automatic pilot, in case. He spent an hour in the library, running down references for his pet project, and then returned to the cafeteria for lunch, where he settled for pasta and salad with Renton, who was, as always, funny in a mean way.

Vivik had enough time left to go back to the dorms and take a nap before calculus, which was exactly what he did. He couldn’t always sleep during the day, but this afternoon he got a solid forty-five minutes and went to class feeling energized and cheerful. The lecture was new to him, and he liked the teacher, Mr. Chan, a squat Taiwanese patriot with a heavy accent who often interrupted his class to denounce the mainland, so the time flew by. After class, he stayed late with his study group, going over equations and cracking jokes about comic books and Star Wars and Internet parody videos related to comic books and Star Wars. He left the classroom around six, satisfied that he had made it through an entire day, the third in a row, in fact, without anyone asking him about his sullen new friend. He practically skipped all the way to the dorm, dropped off his books, washed his face and rewrapped his hair, and changed out of his uniform and into jeans and a polo shirt. Vivik whistled tunelessly to himself as he walked to the cafeteria, hoping for spinach ravioli.

Instead, three lurkers waylaid him the moment he stepped out into the quad.

They smiled as they called him over, and they were friendly enough for Hegemony kids, but he already knew what they wanted before they had a chance to ask. It was a minute or two before they politely worked their way around to the question, breaking the longest streak he had run since winter break, and souring his day.

Of course, they wanted to know about Alex.

Renton was out-of-breath, but he tried to deliver his news anyway. Svetlana flitted annoyingly around him; patting him on the back, cooing, looking concerned, and generally making a spectacle of herself. Anastasia waved her away tersely, and then waited for Renton to stop wheezing long enough to explain what had him so excited. She popped up out of her chair when she heard his news, and even with heels and her hair up, she barely made it to Renton’s chest. When she started pacing, the black Weir in the heavy silver collar that had been dozing beneath her chair whined, sat up, and then followed her at a discreet distance.

“When did they get back? How did I not know about this?”

“They were just hanging around the quad, talking to Vivik,” Renton said, still a bit red in the face. “I don’t know when they got back, or how the precognitives could have missed it. I came here as soon as I saw them.”

Anastasia huffed, and then turned on her heel, pacing away from him, lost in thought.

“All three of them, back at the Academy,” she mused, clearly talking to herself. “I suppose the Hegemony has finally lost faith in Emily, and now they’re bringing in the big guns. Grigori, Chandi, and Hope.”

“Chandi wasn’t with them,” Renton said, shaking his head. “It was Hope and Grigori, and some other guy I didn’t recognize.”

“She is at the Academy somewhere,” Anastasia said, pausing to glance at a mirror on the wall and make minor adjustments to her intricately styled hair. “Chandi is the only Hegemony precognitive powerful enough to block our own pool this way. She wouldn't delegate a situation like this to an underlying. She will handle this affair personally. The only question, then, is where she will start — Alex or Emily?”

“Well, they were asking Vivik questions…”

“Grigori or Hope will talk to Alex, then. That means Chandi is looking for Emily right now.”

Renton nodded, his face returning to its normal, ruddy color. His brown hair was hopelessly in disarray and swept up in a cowlick; Anastasia clucked her disapproval, sat him down in a chair in front of her, and then produced a comb from her tiny antique purse and ran it roughly through his unruly locks. Renton winced when she pulled at the tangles, but he did not look particularly unhappy at the attention.

“Has Emily said anything to you yet?”

“Since she asked about the cost? No, I believe that she is still torn. But, if they are here to light a fire underneath her, then I think that will change.”

“What if Chandi and Hope decide to replace Emily?” Renton asked, gritting his teeth while she tugged on a particularly stubborn knot.

“That would be a waste of the time and energy they have invested. Chandi will not give up on Emily immediately. First, she will give her an ultimatum, and then observe the results. I’m certain that the Hegemony has other options in reserve, in case Emily’s best effort does not succeed, but Chandi stands to lose nothing by offering her a final opportunity.”

Anastasia straightened his head so that she could examine it in the mirror, then she expertly parted his hair down the middle, in a perfectly straight line. After a brief inspection, she smiled in satisfaction and released him. Renton stood up, looking at himself at the mirror and patting his neatly combed hair fretfully.

“Okay. What do you want to do, Ana?”

Renton watched her reflection in the mirror as she wandered back to her desk with Blitzen, the black Weir, firmly in tow, the embroidered hem of her dress trailing along the tasseled edges of the carpet. Anastasia picked up one of the Swiss fountain pens that her father had bought her, and toyed idly with it, spinning it between her small fingers. She was wearing a simple, sheer black dress; it was Renton’s favorite, and not only because Anastasia never wore it outside of the small home the Academy had provided for her.

“I still have time,” Anastasia decided, setting the pen carefully back down in its matching gold-plated stand. “I will wait for Emily to come to me. Chandi will meet with her, and make all sorts of dramatic threats. Emily will be forced to compromise her virtue, or deal with me.”

“Emily won’t put out,” Renton said, adjusting the knot in his tie and wishing he could rearrange his hair, but not wanting to upset Anastasia. “She’s a prude.”

“Is that so?” Anastasia glanced over at him with laughter in her eyes. “You say that because she refused you?”

Renton blushed and turned his attention back to his reflection, too flustered to formulate a response.

“You may be correct,” Anastasia added thoughtfully. “I think she would prefer to get in bed with the Black Sun than with a boy who cannot decide if he likes her. This leaves only one concern outstanding — Alexander Warner.”

Anastasia reached out to pet the Weir that was practically sitting on her feet, begging for attention, while she considered.

“Grigori,” she concluded, nodding to herself. “Chandi will use Grigori. Renton, find out where Alex is now. If I know that boy, he is bound to upset Grigori sooner rather than later. Let’s arrange for sooner, shall we? Oh, and call Katya, would you? It is time to put her to work as well. It’s time for Alex to learn something useful.”