Alfred's gun-room contained several backlit showcases and display racks of mostly antique guns, although there were a few more modern pieces sprinkled throughout the collection; but Alfred trended more toward WW1 and WW2-era guns than anything else—particularly anything German. It looked like a museum display. Among the guns were some military uniforms Alfred had purchased from private collections, and antique MREs still sealed in their boxes and tins. A cushy Chesterfield, which smelled strongly of cognac and cigars, stood in the middle of the room, a permanent dent in its cushion.
"Can't you just consider for a moment that, perhaps, you did tap into the mutamycete?"
Grayson replaced the rifle on its display rack, glancing at Alexia. "I didn't," he said, adamantly.
"You don't entirely believe that," said Alexia, pursing her lips. "I can hear it in your voice."
"Or maybe you just want to believe you hear it," he said.
"Don't you remember what happened on Rockfort? When we were children."
"Yeah," he said, "I almost died. From touching those roses in your dad's lab."
"And do you know why ?"
"Nobody ever really told me," he said, with a shrug, "but I suspect it had something to do with the fact they were infected with the Progenitor."
"Because of Auntie Marigold's blood," said Alexia.
He blinked. "What?"
"Our staff tried encouraging her to develop a hobby whilst she was… infected, and confined to the house. Gardening seemed like a safe choice. But she got a bit clumsy whilst planting them, and—well, she hurt herself and infected the roses with her blood."
"Okay," said Grayson, squinting, "but what's that gotta do with me?"
"Her blood acts like an antifungal," said Alexia. She paused for a long time, as if holding her breath. Then, easing the words out, she said, "You're infected with the mutamycete, Grayson. And your proximity to the mycorrhiza hasn't helped. If anything, it's strengthened your connection to… well, you know who your mother is." Alexia made a face, and almost sounded frustrated, as if it was taking everything in her power not to slap some sense into him. "Really, this shouldn't be so surprising to you."
He didn't like talking about his mother. His father had told him about her shortly after the incident with the roses, and he'd told his dad it sounded like bullshit. But after everything Grayson had seen since Raccoon City, the crazy shit his dad had told him about his mom no longer felt like something far outside the realm of possibility. Still, he wasn't entirely ready to concede that it was the truth— not yet . "Lex," he said, "forget it. I don't wanna talk about her, okay?"
Alexia frowned. "You can't keep running away from her, Grayson."
"Why not?" he said, shrugging and making his way to the door. "She ran away from me."
She sighed, grabbed his hand. "Grayson, I want to—Grayson? Grayson, are you all right?"
Time seemed to slow, like sediment suspended in turbid water, and the edges of his vision darkened as if bracketed by sun-tint. The moment Alexia had touched his hand, he'd felt something reach out for him: an invisible hand seizing him by the throat. He gasped. Albert Wesker stood in Alexia's place, a black-gloved hand wrapped around Grayson's neck, squeezing, threatening to snap his vertebrae like a twig. Wesker wore black fatigues and a thick Kevlar vest. His dark sunglasses gave the impression of the orbital sockets in a skull; Grayson thought he saw something red flicker in the dark lenses, like restless laser lights.
Calm down, Grayson heard something with his own voice say, he's not choking you. The pressure around his neck slackened, and now Grayson was standing to the side of Albert, watching him rip a hypha from the wall and hurl it to the ground, smashing it under a heavy boot. Dark ichor spurted from the tendril, oozing onto the concrete. Wesker scraped his boot against the wall to wipe the gunk off the treads of his sole.
"Fucking thing," growled Albert, kicking aside what was left of the hypha before turning away and vanishing like a ghost.
Now Albert was gone, and Alexia stared at him in surprise. "It happened again," she said. "Your eyes."
Grayson stepped away from her, confused. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, then peered at his reflection in one of the showcases; his eyes looked normal—the pale gray of fog and rain-clouds. He looked at Alexia, then said, "Albert Wesker's here."
"I know," she replied, watching him with an expression that managed to look both startled and intrigued. "He touched—destroyed one of my hyphae."
"Why is he here?"
"Why else? He wants something," said Alexia, and they left the gun-room.
They walked down the hallway in awkward silence. Then Grayson asked, "What happened back there?"
Alexia answered him with surprising frankness: "Your eyes turned black, and you used me to interface with the mutamycete's network." She looked at him, her expression unreadable. "Like a client connecting you to a server."
"So it's like a computer?"
"Yes," said Alexia, "the mutamycete is a network."
"Like the internet?"
Her brow furrowed. "Internet?"
"Oh, right," he said, "you dunno about that yet."
Back in the drawing room, they found Alfred with a woman. Grayson knew her. She looked like Alexia, but permeated a certain world-weariness that only came with the erosion of age. Her hair was cut into a pale, shoulder-length shag, and she wore ill-fitting H.C.F fatigues that looked a bit too large for her, and a nylon holster. A long knife, which Alexia had once told him was called a messer (the blade had hung on the wall in Alexander's office), was slung through her belt-loop.
"You look like bloody Ellen Ripley, Auntie Marigold," said Alexia.
"I know," replied Marigold, with a hint of amusement. "You already told me that, dear." She looked at Alfred, then said, "The antibiotics aren't going to help. But I gave him something that will."
"You're supposed to be dead," said Grayson, without thinking.
Marigold snorted. "I hear that a lot these days. Seems like death is like the bloody flu in this family. It comes and goes." She patted Alfred's arm, then said, "Here," and handed Alexia a worn leather-bound journal.
"This is Alexander's," said Alexia, opening the book and leafing through the pages.
"It has details about the safe-room," said Marigold. Then, "'Where the bodies are buried'."
"Teig O'Kane," said Alexia, snapping the book shut. She smiled.
Marigold smiled back. "You've got it." Before she could say anything else, Grayson hugged her, and she tensed for a moment, then awkwardly patted him on the back. Then, "You've had quite the growth spurt, Grayson."
"Yeah," he said, drawing back, "I guess so, Ma."
"Auntie, do you know why Wesker's here?"
"For you. For me," said Marigold. "I might have accidentally brought him here. Sorry about that, love." She paused, looked at Alfred, and added, "Alfred can attest that I tried to make sure he couldn't follow."
"She did," agreed Alfred, shifting slightly in his chair with a grimace.
"What did you give him?" asked Grayson.
"Something Alexander was working on," replied Marigold. "A chelator, essentially, to bind the toxins in Alfred's body so that it can flush them out. He's been exposed, for quite some time, to the roses. Chronic toxic neuropathy."
"That… actually explains quite a bit," said Alexia.
Marigold nodded. "I'm still looking for Alexander's research cache."
"The botanical garden, Aunt Callie," said Alfred.
Marigold looked at him, raising an eyebrow.
"I can show you," continued Alfred, "when I'm feeling a bit more up to it."
"That… would be appreciated, Crow."
Alfred smiled, which took Grayson by surprise; he couldn't really remember the last time he'd seen Alfred smile in a way that seemed genuine, not sardonic. "Think nothing of it, Aunt Callie."
"So Alfred's whole… psychosis thing?" Grayson stopped, hunting for the right words. Then he stabbed a finger in the air as if to pin those words down, and said, "It was because of those roses." He regarded Alfred for a moment as if seeing him for the first time, and said, "So there's a reason for your crazy after all. Shit."
"The chelator will also bind the spores he's accumulated from the fungus," said Marigold. "He'll be fine, given time."
"Would it work for me?" he asked.
Marigold and Alexia traded hesitant looks, and then Marigold said, "No. Your condition is… genetic, I suppose."
Grayson sighed. "No surprise," he said, because things, it seemed, were never that easy, and he was doomed to forever grapple with the impossible. Defeated, he looked at her, then asked, "What happened to Nosferatu?"
"You mean Alexander," she corrected him, directing a scowl toward Alexia. Marigold held her gaze on Alexia for a long, uncomfortable moment, and then the scowl slowly dissipated. With a resigned look, she heaved a sigh and said, "He wandered off after I'd injured him. Probably to lick his wounds."
"Thanks for the save, by the way."
"You're welcome, Grayson," replied Marigold. Her eyes darted between Alexia and him, as if she were quietly working something out in her head. Then she said, "It's nice to see you've both become an item. But take care she doesn't do to you what she did to Alexander, hm?" She frowned at Alexia.
"Auntie, enough. We already had the conversation," said Alexia, defensively.
"Well, pardon me for not taking too kindly to you turning my brother into a monster."
"Alfred helped," said Alexia, folding her arms.
"You're still such a child, Alexia." Marigold stared at her, then added, "You and Alfred are the only family I have left. That's you're only saving grace, right now." She paused, tapping her foot against the floorboards. "You're damned lucky I figured things out months ago, and had time to come to terms," she told her, planting her hands on her hips. "Alfred did what he did because you told him to do it. You egged him on. Don't conflate his eagerness to please you with approbation."
Alfred said nothing, tracking the conversation with his eyes. Alexia was quiet. Grayson put his hands out in a peaceable gesture, and said, "Let's save this for later, okay?" He looked at Marigold. "Alexia wouldn't do that to me, Ma. I trust her."
Marigold sniffed, wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "So did I."
Alexia said, "I don't want to retread this conversation, Auntie."
Marigold watched her, her eyes catching the light from the fireplace. "I don't either," she said, finally. "It won't bring Alexander back." She started toward the door, halted. Marigold turned to them. "By the way," she said, her voice flat, tired, "someone has been skulking around the mansion. Keep your eyes peeled. I'll be in my room. I need… rest."
Grayson slid his gaze to the twins once Marigold had left the room. "You think it's Wesker skulking around?"
"Doubtful," said Alexia, rubbing her eyes with the pads of her thumb and finger. "Wesker isn't the skulking type. He likes to make himself known. It's probably Jill."
"I should talk to Aunt Callie," Alfred suddenly announced, rising from his chair.
"I think you should leave her alone for now, Alfred," said Grayson. "Think she needs some space."
Alfred nodded. There was a stretch of silence, and then he said, "I'm sorry, Grayson. For how hard I've been on you."
Grayson blinked in surprise. He'd never expected an apology from Alfred, and the thing that surprised him even more was that he seemed to mean it. "Sure," he said, "it's nothing, Alfred."
Alfred shook his hand, then drew him down into a hug. Alexia raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. "I never hated you," Alfred told him, leaning back to look him in the eyes. "I just hated being second." He clapped Grayson on the shoulders, then stepped out into the foyer.
