Zachary Rawlins - The Academy

Not that he wouldn’t run, though, if things looked bad. He’d worry about feeling guilty over it later.

Alex turned his attention back to the window. He knew that Renton was on the roof with some sort of scoped rifle. Edward had gone up with him initially, probably to help with the bags, and then had come down a bit later, alone and empty handed. He wasn’t sure where Edward had gone after that, but it couldn’t have been far. Alex got the impression that it was rare for Anastasia to not be under the watchful eye of at least one of her guards. There was no way, he knew, that they were letting her walk out alone and unprotected, no matter how it looked to him.

Alex had to admit, however, that was exactly how it appeared, at the moment.

Anastasia seemed a bit tentative when she stepped outside, before squaring her shoulders and crossing the street, marching firmly through the throng on the sidewalk at the edge of the park, ignoring comments from a group of teenagers clustered near a fire hydrant. Alex couldn’t decide whether she was actually worried, or whether it was an act, for the benefit of their unseen observers.

“Anastasia looks jumpy,” Eerie observed, causing Alex to start and glare at her resentfully. She was standing next to him with her fingers pressed up against the glass, staring down below them. “She’s not into being out in public.”

“Go figure. I thought you weren’t talking to me?”

Eerie looked surprised, and then a bit sad.

“Not talking to Alex? No,” she said, shaking her head emphatically, “I talked to you this morning at breakfast.”

Alex turned to her and stared in frustration.

“You asked me for the salt,” Alex objected. “That doesn’t count as talking to me, damn it!”

Eerie glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Picky. Alex is so sensitive.”

Alex winced without meaning too. He wanted to yell, but he bit his tongue, and forced himself to calm down. He’d been getting angry too easily lately, and he had the feeling that he was being played every time he did. At a certain point, it became difficult to say who was doing the manipulating, but Alex couldn’t discount the notion that there was someone who preferred him angry and impulsive.

“Whatever,” he said, shaking his head irritably. “What did Anastasia say to you last night, anyway?”

Eerie pointed at something outside the window.

“Anastasia and Mitsuru are coming back this way,” she said, nodding at the window. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching this?”

Alex shrugged.

“My only job was to run away with you, assuming everything went south,” Alex said wryly, sitting back down on the desk, his back to the window. “Given the lack of screaming and dying, I think it’s safe to say it won’t come to that.”

Eerie stared at him, her expression unreadable. After a moment, Alex looked away, feeling unaccountably embarrassed.

“Run away with me?” Eerie said, wonderingly. “Alex gets all the good jobs.”

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.”

“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.