the way. He filled her in on his idea about the Lugers, which she thought they should definitely pursue although she also pointed out that with the Ashford family running the island, Umbrella's cute little puzzles didn't necessarily need to be logical. They stopped at the front door to do what they could about their clothes, which turned out to be not much. Both of them were drenched, though they did their best to squeeze out the excess. Fortunately for both of them, their feet had stayed dry; wet clothes were a pain in the ass, but trying to get around in squelching boots seriously sucked the root. Weapons up, Steve pushed the door open. Shivering, they stepped inside… … and heard a door close, upstairs and to the right. 'Alfred,' Steve said, keeping his voice low, 'betcha money. What say we put a few holes in his sorry ass?'
He started for the stairs, the question rhetorical. That loony craphound needed to be dead, for more reasons than Steve could count. Claire caught up to him, put a hand on his shoulder.
'Listen, some of the stuff I found back at the prison … he's not just crazy, he's seriously deranged. Like serial killer deranged.' 'Yeah, I got that,' Steve said. 'All the more reason to take him out ASAP.' 'Just … let's just be careful, okay?'
Claire seemed worried, and Steve felt protective all of a sudden, big time. Oh, yeah, he's going down, he thought grimly, but nodded for Claire's sake. 'You got it.' They moved quickly up the stairs, stopping outside the door they'd heard close. Steve stepped ahead of Claire, who cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. 'On three,' he whispered, turning the knob very slowly, relieved that it was unlocked. 'One-two-three!' He shouldered the door, hard, bursting into the room and sweeping with the machine pistol, ready to shoot the first thing that moved, but nothing did. The room, a softly lit office lined with bookshelves, was empty. Claire had gone in and turned left, past a couch and coffee table on the north wall. Disappointed, Steve stepped after her, expecting another door to another hall, so sick of the stupid mazes all over the place that he could just shit… He stopped and stared, exactly what Claire was doing. Perhaps ten feet away was a wall, a dead end with two empty spaces set in a plaque at about chest level, indentations shaped like Lugers.
Steve felt a flush of adrenaline, of victory. He had no rational reason to believe that they'd just found the way to the Ashford's private residence, but he believed they had, anyway. So, it seemed, had Claire. 'I think we've got it,' she said softly, 'betcha money.'
EIGHT
Oh, wow. this is … wow, Claire thought. 'Wow,' Steve whispered, and she nodded, feeling entirely out of her depth as she took in their new environment. Had she said serial killer crazy? More like a serial killer convention.
There'd been another puzzle after the Lugers had opened the wall, having to do with numbers and a blocked passage, but they'd ignored it completely with both of them pushing, the passage wasn't blocked for long. Outside once again, they could see the private house, perched on a low hill like some brooding vulture in the pouring rain. It was a mansion, really, but nothing like the one they'd just left it was much, much older, darker, surrounded by the decrepit ruins of what had once been some kind of a sculpture garden. Stone cherubs with blind eyes and broken fingers watched them wend their way toward the house, gargoyles with eroding wings, shattered pieces of marble underfoot.
Creepy, definitely … but this is so far beyond creepy, it's not even in the same category.
They stood in the foyer, unlit but for a few strategically placed candles. There was a smell of must in the air, an old smell like dust and crumbling parchment. The floor was plushly carpeted, what they could see of it, but so ancient that it had been worn threadbare in many places; it was hard to make out any color beyond 'dark.' What had once been a grand staircase was directly in front of them, sweeping up to second and third floor balconies; there was still a kind of shabby elegance to its time-blackened banisters and sagging steps, as there was in the dusty library to their right, in the faded, ornately framed oil paintings hanging from flocked walls. The word haunted would have described it perfectly … except for the dolls. Tiny faces stared out at them from every comer. China dolls of fragile porcelain, many of them chipped or discolored, dressed for high tea in water-stained taffeta. Plastic children with roll-open plastic eyes and pursed pink mouths. Rag dolls with strange button faces, bits of stuffing poking out of withered limbs. There were jumbled piles of them, stacks of them, even a few featureless cloth babies impaled on sticks. There was no sane order to their placement that Claire could see.
Steve nudged her, pointing up. For just a second, Claire thought she was looking at Alexia, hanging from the eaves but of course it was another doll, life-size, this one dressed for her bizarre lynching in a simple party dress, flowered hem floating around her slender synthetic ankles. 'Maybe we should…' Claire started … and froze, listening. The sound of someone talking filtered down to them from upstairs, a woman's voice. She sounded irate, the cadence of her speech rapid and harsh.
Alexia.
The angry voice was followed by a kind of pleading, whining tone which Claire immediately recognized as Alfred's. 'Let's drop in for a chat,' Steve whispered, and without waiting for a response, he headed for the stairs. Claire hurried after him, not at all sure it was a good idea, but not wanting to let him go it alone, either. The dolls watched them ascend in silence, staring after them with lifeless eyes, keeping their vigil and their peace as they had for many years.
Alfred never felt closer to Alexia than when they were together in their private rooms, where they'd laughed and played as children. He felt close to her now, too, but was also deeply distraught by her anger, wanting desperately to make her happy again. It was his fault, after all, that she was upset.
'…and I simply don't understand why this Claire person and her friend are proving to be such a trial for you,' Alexia said, and in spite of his shame, he couldn't stop watching her with adoring eyes, as she gracefully swept across the room in her silken gown. His twin was breathtakingly refined in her displeasure.
'I won't fail you again, Alexia, I promise…' 'That's right, you won't,' she said sharply. 'Because I intend to take care of this matter myself.' Alfred was aghast. 'No! You mustn't risk yourself, darling, I … I won't allow it!'
Alexia glared at him for a moment then sighed, shaking her head. She stepped toward him, her gaze soft and loving once more. 'You worry too much, brother,' she said. 'You must remember yourself, remember to always embrace difficulty with pride and vigor. We are Ashfords, after all. We…'
Alexia's eyes widened, her face paling. She turned toward the window overlooking the corridor outside, slender fingers rising anxiously to the choker at her throat.
'There's someone in the hall.' No! Alexia had to be kept safe, no one must touch her, no
one! It was Claire Redfield, of course, finally here to fulfill her assignment, to assassinate his beloved. Frantic to protect her, Alfred spun around, searching there, the rifle was leaning against Alexia's dressing table, where he'd left it before opening the attic room passage. He strode toward it, feeling her fear as his own, their anxiety shared as if they were one. Alfred reached for the weapon and hesitated, confused. Alexia had insisted on handling the situation, she might be angry again if he interfered … but if something happened to her, if he lost her… The handle to the door rattled suddenly, just as Alexia stepped forward, snatching up the rifle herself. She barely had time to lift it before the door burst open with a crash. It was the first time in almost fifteen years that their inner sanctum had been breached, and Alexia was so shocked by the intrusion that she didn't fire right away, not wanting Alfred to be hurt, not wanting to die. The two prisoners had guns, had them pointed directly at her. Alexia collected herself, refusing to be terrorized by two children who were both staring at her strangely, their peasant faces expressing confusion and surprise. Apparently they weren't used to audiences with their betters.
Use it to your advantage. Keep them off their guard. 'Ms. Redfield, and Mr. Burnside,' Alexia said, her chin held high, her tone as dignified as the Ashford name required, 'we meet at last. My brother tells me that you've caused quite a lot of trouble.'
Claire stepped toward her, the barrel of her gun lowering slightly as she searched Alexia's face. Alexia stepped back involuntarily, repelled by her dripping clothes and forward manner, but kept her eye on Claire's weapon. The girl was too intent on her study, as was the young man, who had crowded in behind Claire. Alexia moved back another step. She was cornered, trapped between her dressing table and the foot of her bed, but again, it was to her advantage. When they've been lulled into thinking I'm not a danger… 'You're Alexia Ashford?' The boy asked, amazed or awed, his mouth open. 'I am.' She wouldn't be able to tolerate such rudeness for much longer,
