It started to rain, the wipers slooshing heavily across the windshield.

"What were you doing with Redfield and all of that beer?"

Grayson looked at Alexia, decided to only tell her a half-truth. "We were on our way to meet Jill at this BYOB place on Alder Street. I was bringing the booze as an ice-breaker."

Alexia pursed her lips, her hands tightening on the wheel. She'd taken the backroads to Rhodes Hill; there had been too many traffic accidents on I-88, and neither of them wanted to run into traffic and stay out longer than they needed to, especially in a downpour. "Why?" she asked, finally. "Why were you meeting that woman?"

"To find out why Claire and her were poking around The Kill," he said.

The tension eased from Alexia's hands, her shoulders. She relaxed. "Why not simply beat it out of Redfield?"

"People like to talk to people who are nice to them," said Grayson. "If I beat her, sure, she might tell me." He shrugged, the words flowing from him as easily as the lyrics to his favorite Dio song. "She also might lie," he continued. "She also would never give me any additional information, if I ever needed it. It's something I learned when I was a cop. You show some respect to the guys doing time, they tell you things."

"I suppose you've got a point," she conceded.

On the radio, Ozzy Osbourne warbled Paranoid . Alexia turned it up, but never too loud. She never blared music like he did. "Black Sabbath," he said, and grinned approvingly.

"I blame your influence," she said, smiling.

"You should be thanking me. All that weird Kraftwerk-sounding electronic shit you listen to? That's all you, Lex. I improved your tastes." He mimed an Emeril bam, and said, " Bam. I sprinkled some flavor on that shit."

She snorted an undignified laugh. "Don't ever do that again."

"Please," he said, smiling and rolling his eyes, "you love it."

"Being of bland English persuasion, I suppose I decided I needed a little Mediterranean flavor in my life." She grinned at him.

"I'm only like a quarter Italian," he said, chuckling. "Quarter German. Half Romanian, I think."

"A quarter more than me," said Alexia, giggling. Then, as if the revelation surprised her, she said, "I never knew you had Romanian in your family."

"Yeah," he said, and nodded. "From my mom."

"Scott doesn't talk about her much."

"I guess he never really got over the fact she left."

"You never wonder about her?"

Grayson peered at her. "Do you ever wonder about yours?"

"That's different," said Alexia. "Mine was a highly paid surrogate."

"And maybe mine was some Romanian hooker." Grayson looked out the windshield, watching the road, the headlights illuminating trees and wet asphalt. "Not really much different, if you think about it," he said.

"I suppose you've got a point," said Alexia, after a moment.

"In any case," said Grayson, looking at her, "why should I care about someone I never met? I have my dad. I have you. I have Veronica and Sherry." He smiled, then said, "I got all the family I need."

Alexia smiled. "You're such a bloody soft-touch."

"I'll show you just how soft my touch can be when we get home," he said, grinning.

She gave him a playful swat, then said, "You better. I've had quite a day."

They drove in silence, the radio tuned to some local rock station, pumping his childhood soundtracks into the car, Deep Purple belting out Highway Star . Tapping his foot to the music, he asked, "So you've never heard of the Church of the Mother?"

"I don't fuck with religious shit, darling. You know that." She looked at him. "Why? Is there a reason I should know about them?" Alexia studied him for a moment before focusing on the road again, then said, "Don't tell me you've found Jesus, and this is you proselytizing. Is Scott on another Catholic kick?"

"No," he said, and shook his head, "they're a cult, Lex."

"Like the Manson Family, or more Branch Davidian or Jonestown?"

"Jonestown," he said, decidedly. "They've been dealing out drugs synthesized from the mutamycete. But you already knew that."

"One of the reasons I sent HUNK to The Kill, yes," said Alexia, nodding. "Nip it in the bud before it becomes a problem."

"Then spin it for good PR," he said.

"How do you think politicians stay in power, Grayson? They create problems, then offer solutions to fix them. Corporations do the same thing, and it bloody works. People are stupid."

"Never waste a crisis," he said.

"Exactly," replied Alexia. "But I didn't know anything about a cult being involved." She went quiet for a moment to steer around a dead deer, then asked, "Do you know anything at all about them?"

Grayson shook his head. "Just that they were running a clinic in The Kill."

"We'll need to look into this group," she said, in a tone that suggested she'd already planned to do that anyway, and she was just doing Grayson the courtesy of informing him. Alexia glanced at him, and said, "That man in the alleyway."

"What about him?"

"Did he say anything?"

"Something about giving his flesh to the Mother, or some shit," said Grayson. "That wreath, it's some kind of shrine."

"So that wreath we found on our property…"

"Someone was making an offering. Or maybe a promise," said Grayson.

"Great," said Alexia, "I'm on some cult's list."

"I mean," he said, "at least we haven't had any other incidents."

Grayson would eat those words upon arriving at the house, however. Sherry came running outside, a bawling Veronica bundled in her arms. "Scott's hurt himself," she said, breathless.

"What?" he and Alexia exclaimed, stepping out of the vehicle. They started running.

"It just happened," said Sherry, jogging after them.

They found his dad in the kitchen, one of his fingers gone. He was slumped over the island, his pinky lying on the cutting board, paper-towels wadded around the wound to stymie the bleeding.

Alexia, after taking a moment to absorb the whole scene, rushed over to the sink, digging around bottles of cleaner and plastic buckets before finding the medical kit at the back. She dragged it out, set it on the island. "How the fuck did this happen?" she asked, unlatching the kit and retrieving the gauze, sterile saline, and medical tape from inside.

"My hand slipped while I was cutting the potato," said Scott, jerking his chin toward the bloody knife lying on the island.

"We need to get you to a bloody hospital so they can re-attach the damn thing," said Alexia.

"I don't need a hospital."

"Dad," said Grayson, evenly, "your fucking finger is on the cutting board."

Sherry peeked into the kitchen. "Is Scott gonna be okay?"

"Sherry, go wait in the parlor," instructed Alexia.

"I've seen worse," said Sherry. "I was in Raccoon City."

"Just wait in the parlor," repeated Alexia.

Sherry opened her mouth to argue, saw the look on Alexia's face and decided against it, and did as she was told.

"I'll drive Scott to the hospital," said Alexia. "I need you to stay with the girls, Grayson."

Before Grayson could say okay, his father harrumphed, and they turned to see him pushing his pinky against the stump as if he meant to epoxy it into place. And it stuck. His dad wiggled his pinky, now fully restored, and said, "I'm fine." He looked at the blood on the cutting-board, and said, "I'll clean this up."

Alexia looked as if she wanted to slap him, and it was taking everything in her not to. Then she said, "You're going to turn me gray, Scott."

His dad picked up the bloody knife and cutting board, deposited them into the sink. Then, "I think we'll be getting take-out tonight."

"I think there's a pizza place in Rhodes Hill," said Grayson, checking his watch. "Should still be open, though we'll be cutting it close."

"There's also a Chinese takeaway," said Alexia. "Don't bloody know if they're still open, however. Only passed it once on my way to work, when my usual route was detoured."

"I'll go check it out," said Grayson.

Sherry poked her head into the kitchen, Veronica cooing in her arms. "Can I come?" she asked.

Alexia sighed, took Veronica, who cozied herself in the crook of Alexia's arm, and asked, "How long have you been standing outside the door?"

"The whole time," said Sherry.

Another sigh, this one the sigh of someone who'd lost all their desire to fight, and Alexia said, "You're not very good at listening."

"Nope," said Sherry, shrugging. She looked over at Scott, concerned. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, honey," said his dad. "Don't worry about me."

Alexia smoothed Veronica's hair, adjusted the sleeve of her onesie. Then, "Fine, go with Grayson. But make an attempt to listen to him at least, will you?" She looked at Veronica, and said, "Let's get you fed and changed, my little darling." Veronica babbled at her, and Alexia chuckled. "Protest all you want, little dear. You're not sitting in your mess." She carried the baby off, shouldering through the kitchen door.

Grayson looked at his dad. "You sure you're gonna be fine?"

"I'll be fine," said his dad. "Now hurry up and get us some grub, before the damn place closes."

He went out to his car, Sherry trotting after him. When they got into the car, she asked him about the milkshake in the cupholder. "Shit," said Grayson, "I forgot about that."

Sherry uncapped the cup and peered into it. "Strawberry. My favorite," she said, grinning.

"Didn't think I'd forget, did you?" he said, smiling. "We'll get you another one. Maybe the pizza place sells them."

"It's fine," said Sherry, pushing it back into the cup-holder. "I'll just freeze it. It doesn't smell funny."

"Go do that real quick," he told her, and Sherry did. When she came back, she buckled herself in and they drove off toward Rhodes Hill.

They were halfway down Old Furnace Road when Sherry said, "Scott cut off his finger on purpose, didn't he?"

Grayson hesitated. Then, "Yeah. I don't know why."

"He seemed really agitated," said Sherry. "He was muttering to himself. I couldn't really hear him, though. Something about a woman, I think?" She frowned. "Maybe he asked a lady out, and she said no."

He doubted that, but it also wasn't entirely impossible. His dad did go out to Rhodes Hill or Arklay City on occasion, and it was entirely possible he'd met a woman his age that he'd wanted to take to dinner. But something about that just rang hollow, didn't seem like his dad. His dad hadn't dated anyone for as long as Grayson had been alive. "If that were the case," said Grayson, "then why the hell would he deliberately cut off his finger? That's not my dad. He doesn't sweat the trivial shit."

"I saw it on his hand," said Sherry, looking at him. "He put it back on."

"You don't sound surprised," he said.

"No," she said, and shook her head, "nothing really surprises me anymore."

"I guess after what happened with Bill—" Grayson stopped himself, gave her an apologetic look. "Sorry."

Sherry nodded, looking a bit morose. "It's okay," she said, even if her face said otherwise. "Besides," she added, "it's not just that. I live in a house full of mutants."

The word mutant knifed him in the gut, twisted. "Yeah," he said, "I guess you're right. But Veronica—"

"Veronica's not normal," said Sherry. "Her drool, it burns sometimes."

Grayson opened his mouth, closed it. He had no idea Veronica had inherited anything mutagenic from Alexia, and that worried him. How much of his wife's mutations had seeped into their daughter's DNA?

"It doesn't hurt really bad," said Sherry, as if trying to cheer him up, allay his concerns. "Just stings, sometimes itches. Like a mosquito bite."

"Shit," he said, wanting to kick himself. "How have I never noticed?"

"Maybe because you're a mutant too," said Sherry.

Again, her words stabbed him, and Grayson winced. "Yeah, maybe."

"If Alexia could cure you," said Sherry, "would you want her to?"

He glanced at her, something like hope welling up in him. "Did she tell you something?"

"No, it's just a question."

Grayson frowned, the hope fizzing. He considered the question, then said, "Yeah, I think I'd want her to."

"You don't like being super strong and super fast?"

"I don't like being abnormal," he said. "I just want to be a normal guy again. I never asked for this. None of it."

Sherry nodded, looking a bit sheepish. She bit her lip, then said, "Sorry."

"It's fine," he said, and smiled. "I told you I'd always be honest with you, didn't I?"

"If it helps," said Sherry, looking at him with Annette's big blue eyes, "I love you, even if you are a mutant." She grinned.

Grayson felt a tight coil of emotion in his chest, his smile widening. "It helps a lot, Sherry," he said, and meant it. He messed her hair, put her red Alice band slightly askew. "Thanks, Marilyn."

"Marilyn?"

"You know, The Munsters. How Marilyn was the only normal one in a house full of monsters."

"Oh," said Sherry, her expression telling him that she had no idea what he was talking about.

Grayson sighed, shaking his head. "Jesus, I'm getting old."

"I don't think you're a monster, Grayson," said Sherry. "You're just different."

He wished he could agree.

The Chinese place was closed, but the pizzeria was open. It was a dingy hole-in-the-wall wedged between a laundromat and an empty shop-front, a dusty FOR LEASE sign sitting forgotten in the window, in a strip-mall that, to Grayson, looked as if it hadn't seen a single renovation since the 1960s. They ordered two pies, a pepperoni and a sausage and pepper, and bought a 2-liter of Coke from the place's aged cooler. Then they got into the car and drove home, passing only a truck and black sedan on the county road.

They were halfway to the house when Grayson slammed on the brakes to avoid plowing into a throng of people in the road, the car hydroplaning for a moment before righting itself and skidding to a stop. He checked on Sherry—she was fine—then got out of the car to confront the assholes, slamming the door shut.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he demanded. "My kid's in the car, assholes."

They stood there, silent and motionless, like robots awaiting orders, their bodies mutilated, as if they'd scrabbled at their skin until they'd torn it open. Something black and grainy pebbled their skin. Their skin, upon closer inspection, looked halfway decomposed, and their clothes were muddy and tattered, and wet from the rain. They watched him with vacant white eyes.

"Shit," he said.

The group charged, some wielding axes or pipes, others knives and rocks.

Grayson launched himself at them, weaving around the bodies, his movements quick and methodical: grab the neck, twist, kick the other guy so hard his skull shatters, wrench the axe from some fat guy's hand and swing at the lanky motherfucker in overalls, the dull, chipped blade thudding into his neck until it hit bone.

They toppled, and only four remained; but they remained undeterred by the deaths of their compatriots, and they pressed their attack, swinging their improvised weapons with the fervor of a lynch mob. Grayson ducked, side-stepped, disarmed, kicking and punching so hard that their bodies fractured under the blows and crumpled to the slick asphalt like sacks full of lead. On one of the bodies, Grayson found a periapt, worked in silver: feathers arranged around a shape that looked, to him, almost like a fetus.

Before he could ponder the charm, however, the high-beams of a pick-up flashed, and if he hadn't been wearing his sunglasses, it would have blinded him. The truck, an ancient Ford that might have once been red but time had turned shit-brown, nearly plowed into him, but he managed to catch the hood and vault himself on top of it, fists smashing through the windshield to grab the infected men inside and pull them out, hurling them to the ground. The truck bucked on its creaking axles as the thick all-terrain tires crushed the guys into meat paste, smearing them across the asphalt.

Reaching into the truck, Grayson jerked the wheel to the right so it didn't smash into his car, into Sherry. It turned sharply, practically pirouetting on its bad shocks, and Grayson jumped before it rolled onto its side and skidded across the road in a screech of metal. Once it came to a stop, there was a pause, and then something shifted and settled in the mangled wreck, and it went up in a cloud of fire and black smoke, the acrid stink of burnt gasoline filling the air.

He returned to his car, where Sherry still sat, stunned and uncertain, and the pizzas still steamed in the backseat. "Sorry," he said, because he felt like he owed her an apology for having to see him like that. Grayson tried to be as unmutant-like as possible whenever he was around Sherry, and on the occasions he became too mutant-like, he always felt guilty about it, unclean.

Sherry nodded. "Who were they?" she asked.

"Cultists, I think," he said matter-of-factly.

When they got back to the house, Grayson found his dad in the parlor, staring at an empty pill bottle in his hand. He grunted, "Perfect," and tossed it across the parlor. Upon seeing him, however, his dad put on a salesman smile and said, "Welcome back, kiddo. Got the pizza?"

Sherry showed him the boxes. "Right here," she said.

"Here, let me help you bring those into the kitchen," his dad said, grabbing one of the boxes from Sherry. They went, leaving Grayson alone in the parlor.

He picked up the bottle; it was unlabeled, and a cursory sniff of it revealed a faint mushroom smell.

Alexia appeared, startling him, and said, "Why are you sniffing a bloody bottle?"

"It smells funny," he said, and then he told her what had happened.

"Are you sure they were cultists?"

Grayson nodded, dug the periapt out of his pocket and showed it to her. "Looks a bit like the wreaths," he stated. "Found it on one of the guys."

Alexia took it, turning it over in her hands. She frowned. "Perhaps a local historian could tell us more?" she suggested, scrunching her nose and handing it back to him as if he'd dropped the thing in shit.

"Makes you think a historian can help us?"

She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, sometimes you can be so bloody thick," she muttered. Then, "Clearly that symbol has some sort of significance to the Church of the Mother, and you found it on some bloody local. It has some sort of history that's unique to this area, of that I'm very sure."

Grayson nodded.

"I've also been poking around on the internet," said Alexia. "Apparently, Arklay County saw a massive influx of immigrants from Eastern Europe in the 1930s to work in the logging and mining industries, and that was when strange things started happening in the area. Whatever this Church of the Mother is, it has roots in that particular region of the world."