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 en- tirely out of her depth as she took in their new environ-
ment. 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 strategi-
cally 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 bal-
conies; 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, or-
nately framed oil paintings hanging from flocked walls.
The word haunted would have described it per-
fectly ... except for the dolls.
Tiny faces stared out at them from every comer. China
dolls of fragile porcelain, many of them chipped or dis-
colored, 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 jum-
bled 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, lis- tening. 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 with- out 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, want-
ing 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 re- member 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 to-
ward the window overlooking the corridor outside, slen-
der 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 anxi-
ety shared as if they were one.
Alfred reached for the weapon - and hesitated, con-
fused. Alexia had insisted on handling the situation, she
might be angry again if he interfered ... but if some-
thing 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 low-
ering 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 rude- ness for much longer, not from one so far beneath her.
Claire nodded slowly, still looking into her eyes boldly,
impertinently. "Alexia ... where's your brother?" Alexia turned to look at Alfred - and startled, because
he was nowhere in the room. He'd left her to confront
these people by herself.
No, it can't be, he'd never desert me like this... Movement to her right, but she realized as she turned to look that it was only the mirror, and...
and...
Alfred was looking back at her. It was her face, lips
painted and lashes curled, but his hair, his jacket. She
raised her right hand to her mouth, shocked, and Al-
fred did the same, watching her. Feeling her astonish-
ment.
As if they were one.
Alexia screamed, dropping the rifle, forgetting all
about the two trespassers as she pushed past them, not
caring if they shot her or not. She ran for the door that
connected her room to Alfred's, screaming again as she
spotted the long, blond wig on the floor, the beautiful
gown crumpled next to it.
Weeping, she pushed through the door, a revolving
panel, fleeing across Alfred's room -
- my room -
- not sure where she was going as she stumbled
through the corridor, running for the stairs. It was over,
it was all over, everything ruined, everything a lie.
Alexia had gone away and never come back, and he
had ... she was...
The twins suddenly knew what had to be done, the
answer shining through the spinning blackness of their
mind, showing them the way. They reached the stairs
and headed down with plans forming, understanding
that it was time, that they truly would be together now
because it was finally time.
But first, they'd destroy it all.
"Holy shit," Steve said, and when he couldn't think of anything else to say, he repeated it.
"So Alexia was never here," Claire said, wearing the same dumbfounded expression that he suspected was on
his own face. She walked over and picked up the wig,
shaking her head. "Do you think she ever existed at all?"
"Maybe as a kid," Steve said. "There was this older guard at the prison who said he'd seen her once, like
twenty years ago. Back when Alexander Ashford ran
things."
For a few seconds, they just stared around the room,
Steve thinking about how Alfred had looked when he'd
seen himself in the mirror. It had been so pathetic, he'd
almost felt bad for the guy.
Thinking all this time that his sister lived here - proba-
bly the only person in the world who didn't think he was a
total prick - and it turns out he doesn 't even have that...
Claire shook herself like she'd had a sudden chill and
got them back on track. "We'd better look for those keys before one of the twins comes back."
She nodded toward the narrow ladder at the head of
the bed. It led up to an open square in the ceiling. "I'm going to look up there, you check around here."
Steve nodded, and as Claire disappeared through the
opening in the ceiling, he started to open drawers and
rifle through them.
"You wouldn't believe what's up here," Claire called down, just as Steve discovered a drawer full of silky lin-
gerie, panties and bras and a bunch of other stuff he
couldn't begin to guess at.
"Ditto," he called back, wondering what lengths Al- fred had gone to in order to play Alexia. He decided he
didn't really want to know.
He heard Claire thumping around overhead as he
went to the dressing table and started to dig. A lot of
makeup and perfume and jewelry, but no proofs or em-
blems, not even a house key.
"Nothing yet, but ... hey, there's another ladder!"
Claire shouted.
Good thing, Steve thought, finding a box of stationery with little white flowers on the paper. He was getting more
nervous about Alfred coming back, and wanted to get out
of his freaky room of sister psychosis as soon as possible.
There was a tiny white card on top of the stationery
envelopes. Steve picked it up, noting the strong, femi-
nine hand.
Dearest Alfred - you are the brave, brilliant soldier,
ever fighting to reinstate the Ashford name to its former
glory. My thoughts are with you always, beloved. Alexia.
Ick. Steve dropped the card, making a face. Was it just
him, or had Alfred created a seriously unnatural rela-
tionship with his imagined sister?
Yeah, but it wasn't real, it wasn't like they could do
anything ... physical. Double ick. Again, Steve decided he'd rather not know...
"Steve! Steve, I think I found them! I'm coming
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