– he'd stepped close to the railing before apologetically offering the demitasse cup to Francois. Both twins had watched in secret delight as the guard swilled it down, and in seconds, he was gasping for air, leaning heavily against the bridge rail. To anyone watching, it appeared only that the man and boy were looking out across the chasm … except for Alexia, of course, who later told him that she'd applauded his performance of innocence. I looked up at him, at the frozen expression of fear on his unrefined features, and explained what we had done. And what we were going to do.
Francois had actually managed a soft squealing noise through his clenched jaw when he'd finally understood, that he was helpless to defend himself against a child. For almost five minutes, Alfred had cheerfully cursed Francois as the spawn of pigs, as a mannerless peasant, and had jabbed him in the meat of his thigh with a sewing needle too many times to count. Paralyzed, Francois Celaux could only endure the pain and humiliation, surely regretting his beastly conduct toward Alexia as he suffered in silence. And when Alfred had tired of their game, he'd kicked the guard's dirty bootheels a few times, describing his every sensation to Alexia as Francois slid helplessly beneath the rail and plummeted to his death.
And then I screamed, and pretended to cry as others came rushing across the bridge, trying desperately to console their young master as they asked one another how such a terrible thing could happen. And later, much later, Alexia came into my room and kissed my cheek, her lips warm and soft, her silken tresses tickling my throat…
The monitors tore his attention away from his sweet memories, Claire now standing at the same spot where Burnside had hesitated. Quite put out with himself for his lack of care, Alfred spent an uncertain moment searching for the young hoodlum, switching between cameras, finally spotting him on the very steps of the receiving mansion. Quickly, Alfred checked his console's control panels to be sure that all of the mansion's doors were unlocked, suspecting that the boy would probably hang himself easily enough… … and crowed with delight when he saw that Claire
was following, having chosen the same path as her young friend.
How much more exquisite her terror will be, when she pleads for her life kneeling in Mr. Burnside's cooling blood…
If he meant to greet them properly, he needed to leave right away. Alfred stood and opened the wall once more, his excitement rising as he closed it behind him and stepped out into the great hall. He very much wanted to tell Alexia his plans before leaving, to share a few of his ideas, but was concerned that time was a factor. 'I'll be watching, my dear,' she said. Startled, Alfred looked up to see her at the top of the stairs, not far from the life-size child doll that hung from the uppermost balcony, one of Alexia's favorite toys. He started to ask her how she knew, but realized how silly a question it was. Of course she knew, because she knew his heart; it was the same that beat within her own snowy white breast. 'Go now, Alfred,' she said, gracing him with her smile. 'Enjoy them for both of us.' 'I will, sister,' he said, smiling in turn, thankful anew that he was brother to such a miracle of creation, lucky that she so understood his needs and desires.
It was like some bizarre reality twist, Claire decided, closing the mansion doors behind her. From the ramshackle, death-filled cold of the dark prison yards to where she stood now … it was hard to believe, and yet so like Umbrella that she had no choice.
But goddamn. I mean, seriously.
The grand, beautifully designed sunken lobby spread out in front of her was marred only by a few sets of muddy footprints across the hand-tiled floor, a few splotches of blood painted across the delicate eggshell walls. There were also a number of large cracks near the ceiling, and a single maroon handprint drying on one of the thick decorative columns that lined the west wall, thin rivulets of red streaking down from the base of the palm.
So the prisoners weren't the only ones to suffer a shitty afternoon. It was classist and petty of her, she knew, but it made her feel a little better to know that the Umbrella higher-ups had taken an ass-kicking along with everybody else. She stood where she was for a moment, relieved to be out of the cold and still mildly shocked by the different faces of the Rockfort facility as she took hi the layout. Behind one of the columns to her left was a blue door, a second door in the northwest corner of the spacious room. Straight ahead was a polished mahogany recep-
tion desk, abutting an open flight of stairs along the right wall that led up to a second floor balcony, richly hung with a strangely damaged portrait. The face of the portrait's subject had been scratched out for some reason. Claire stepped down into the lobby, crouched and ran a finger through one of the muddy footprints; still wet, and more tracks leading to the corner door. She couldn't be certain they were Steve's, but thought the odds were pretty good. He'd left a trail, from the open prison gate to a couple of dropped shell casings just outside the mansion, along with two more dead dogs. For such an obviously troubled young man, he was a surprisingly accurate shot… … so why am I going through so much trouble to help him out? She thought sourly, standing. He doesn't want my assistance, doesn't seem to need it, and it's not like 1 don't have anything better to do.
When he'd taken off running, she hadn't followed immediately, wanting to get a message to Leon ASAP; she'd also felt obliged to run a quick search of the office for medical supplies, something to help Rodrigo, but she hadn't found anything useful… 'Help! Help meee!' A muffled shout, from somewhere in the building.
Steve? 'Let me out! Hey, somebody, help!'
Claire was already running for the comer door, weapon up. She slammed into the heavy wood, the door crashing open into a long hallway. Steve shouted again, from the far end of the corridor. Claire hesitated just long enough to see that the three bodies sprawled on the tiled floor weren't going to get up and then ran, fixing the door straight ahead as the one.
'Help!' Jesus, what's happening to him? He sounded panicstricken, his voice breaking with it. Reaching the end of the hall, Claire shoved at the door, ran in sweeping with the handgun and saw nothing, a room with display cases and stuffed chairs. An alarm was buzzing somewhere, but she didn't see its source. Movement to the left. Claire spun, desperate for a target and saw that a piece of film was being projected on a small wall screen, silent and flickering. Two attractive blond children, a boy and girl, staring intently into each other's eyes. The boy was holding something, something wriggling –
– a dragonfly, and he's –
Claire looked away involuntarily, disgusted. The boy was pulling the wings off of the struggling insect, smiling, both of them smiling. 'Steve!' Why wasn't he shouting anymore, where
was he? She had the wrong room, must be…
'Claire? Claire, in here! Open the door!'
His voice was coming from behind the projection screen. Claire dashed across the room, searching the wall, absently aware that the towheaded children had dropped the tortured dragonfly into a container full of ants, were watching the crippled bug being stung to death. 'What door, where?' Claire shouted, running anxious hands over the wall, pushing at a glass display case, pulling at the screen –
-and the screen raised up, disappearing into a slot. Behind it was a console, a keyboard, and six picture boxes in two rows of three, a switch beneath each one. 'Claire, do something, I'm burning up!' 'What do I do, how did you get in there? Steve!'
No answer, and she could hear the rising desperation in her voice, could feel it eating into her brain –
-concentrate. Do it, now. Claire clamped down on her near panic, the clear voice in her mind the voice of intellect. If she panicked, Steve would die.
There's no door. There's a console with boxes.
Yes, that was it, that was the key. Steve yelled out another terrified plea, but Claire only looked at the boxes, focusing, each is different, a boat, an ant, a gun, a knife, a gun, an airplane… They weren't all different, there were two guns, a semiautomatic handgun and a revolver, the switches labeled 'C' and 'E.' Nothing else matched, and her first thought was that it was like one of those grade-school tests, which two are alike. Without questioning her reasoning, Claire reached out and flipped the two switches, the two boxes lighting up –
– and to her right, a display case slid out from the wall. The buzzing alarm stopped, and a blast of dry, baking heat expelled from the opening, washing over her. A half second later, Steve stumbled out and dropped to his knees, his arms and face beet red. He was holding a pair of matching handguns, what looked like gilded Lugers. Guess I picked the right boxes.
She leaned over him, trying to remember what the signs of heatstroke were dizziness and nausea, she thought. 'Are you okay?' Steve gazed up at her. With his flushed cheeks and vaguely embarrassed expression, he resembled nothing so much as a little boy who'd had too much sun. Then he grinned, and the illusion was lost.
