Chapter 13: Crimson Masquerade. Pt. 2
Somehow, the large wisteria-covered mansion perfectly fit Claire's idea of France, with sweeping front steps and an enormous rose garden that would have put Wesker's botanical lab to shame. Copious beds of fading summer growth would have given everything a somber appearance but for the golden light spilling out of the mansion's huge windows. As the helicopter swept overhead, Claire noticed an assembly of pricy vehicles – the kind owned by people with more money than brains – parked in the driveway.
They landed on the mansion's large, reinforced roof and disembarked. Claire said nothing when Wesker's arm slid around her waist again. If he kept her from breaking her neck in these heels, she could tolerate his attentions. Together, they descended into the mansion and shed their coats in the entrance hall. Claire's felt Wesker's gaze sweeping her up and down, and she was sure he wasn't eyeballing the gown. It was almost as if his dangerous, animalistic eyes were slowly undressing her where she stood.
She threw him a dirty look. "Keep looking and you'll be wearing your ass for a hat," she threatened. Why, oh, why had she agreed to this insanity?
Wesker smirked, chuckling to himself as he hung up his coat. "Shall we?"
Claire eyed him for a minute, then nervously placed her hand on his proffered forearm. Numbly, as if she was a bystander in her own body, she allowed Wesker to steer her into the glow of the next room. The dull roar of conversation that had filled the chamber immediately dropped to a murmur. Claire felt hundreds of eyes swivel in their direction. There had to be at least fifty people in here, all of them dressed in Armani suits or expensive gowns.
By the looks Wesker was receiving, most people knew who he was. Claire guessed the crowd was comprised entirely of billionaires and company chairmen looking to dance their way into Wesker's spotlight. Her guess was proved right, for just then a tall, well-dressed man approached them. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, and steely grey eyes gleamed coldly above his prominent Roman nose.
"It's nice to see you again, Mr. Wesker," he said, his voice rich and cultured with an indeterminate accent, though something told Claire it was probably Spanish or Italian. "The night just wouldn't be complete without you."
Wesker politely shook the man's hand. "Gionne," he acknowledge coolly.
The man's gaze fell on Claire next. "And who's the lovely lady?"
Claire opened her mouth to fumble an answer, but Wesker spared her the trouble. When her name was mentioned, Gionne's eyes narrowed, glittering under his heavy black lashes. Claire was shocked when he took hold of her hand. "It's an honor, Miss Redfield," he said, kissing her knuckles. Something glittered on the lapel of his suit. It was an angular bronze pin that reminded Claire of a stick bug, or some other multi-legged creature.
"Same here," she stammered, remembering her manners.
Gionne straightened, making a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Please, may I introduce my daughter, Excella?"
Gionne indicated a tall woman standing off to his right, a champagne flute held delicately in one flawlessly manicured hand. She was older than Claire, late twenties perhaps, and her tight silk dress ended several inches above the knee, showing off her smooth bronze legs. Not that this was only flesh she was putting on display, since the plunging neckline of her dress left very little to the imagination.
"Pleased to meet you," said Excella, inclining her head at Wesker. Claire watched the woman's dark eyes sweep him up and down, lingering on his crotch, and Claire had to flush. Excella had the same rich, haughty accent as her father and it was clear by the way she dressed she was used to flaunting her assets, money notwithstanding. Claire straightened self-consciously as Excella switched her attention to her. No doubt she had something in her teeth.
"Well, this is the first time I've heard of you," Excella sniffed, sizing her up.
"I haven't been with Wesker long," Claire said.
"Hmpf. You must be quite a valuable asset, especially if you're here instead of in the footnotes," said Excella, her eyes glittering like hard stones. "Let's see, the company you transferred from would be…?"
"I didn't transfer from any company," said Claire, a note of panic rising in her chest. Too late, she realized how her earlier statement must have sounded. No wonder Excella was looking at her like a jealous rival. While she could only wonder at Wesker's magnificence, the woman clearly believed Claire had already experienced it. God in Heaven, why did everybody assume she was sleeping with the man? Claire determinedly kept Excella's gaze, ignoring the increasing warmth in her cheeks.
"Where did you come from, then? A private firm? You must have a lengthy resume', considering the work you've already done for the Umbrella Corporation," said Excella.
What the hell is she talking about? How could she know about the rose?
"Excella, darling, must you badger our hosts?" Gionne said, laughing. "Please excuse my daughter. She's just like her mother, wanting to know everything about everyone." He clicked his fingers, summoning a waiter with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. "Would you like something, Mr. Wesker? Miss Redfield?"
"No, thank you," said Wesker, waving the caviar away.
Claire numbly shook her head.
"Well, do make sure to try some later, then," said Gionne and after few words of parting, he drifted away into the party.
Glaring suspiciously at Claire, Excella sauntered after her father, stiletto heels clicking. Claire let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding as Wesker moved away in the opposite direction. "Am I supposed to know who that man was?" she demanded in a whisper.
"His name's Donovan Gionne," said Wesker softly. "He's the current head of Tricell, another member of the Global Pharmaceutical Consolidate. His wife's grandfather was in Umbrella's inner circle, but the family fell out with Spencer a long time ago. Does that answer your question?"
Now he's giving me a lesson in politics. What did I get myself into?
Several other notable celebrities pressed in to take Gionne's place. All of their questions and comments seemed innocuous enough, but it was obvious that all them wanted to know what Wesker's agenda was. And although Wesker was polite to all of them, it was clear where the power lay. In a flash, Claire suddenly realized she was on the arm of one of the most influential men in the world. The idea was both horrifying and, in some dark way, intensely satisfying. The realization took her by surprise, as she'd never put any stock in the glitzy, scheming world of corporations. Claire forced the thought from her mind as she politely shook hands with an old man whose fingers were cluttered with rings.
"Congratulations on your new breakthrough, Mr. Wesker." This came from a severe woman in a purple gown. She wore so much makeup Claire wondered what she really looked like under it. "We'd love to know how you do it."
"I'm sure you would," said Wesker placidly, but the woman's eyes narrowed.
Claire abruptly felt swamped by the undercurrent of political tension in the room and she determinedly turned her attention to the décor. The dark wooden floor had been polished to a mirror-like sheen, glowing in the soft light of a huge frosted glass chandelier. There was a buffet table against the far wall, set with gleaming silver dishes and iridescent glass. No doubt the menu consisted entirely of shrimp and caviar, and all manners of ridiculously expensive nibbles. Large vases of roses that would not have looked out of place on the funeral bier of a dead empress were scattered around the parlor, their heavy fragrance mingling with the aroma of expensive silk and leather. Claire noticed that all the roses were either red or white, and the symbolism was not lost on her.
Eventually, however, Claire realized that the woman in the purple dress had moved on and an attractive man in a light oatmeal-colored suit had taken her place. Claire didn't catch his name, but he spoke with a smooth British accent, his silver hair shimmering in the light. "Are you enjoying yourself tonight?" he asked, shifting his interest to Claire.
Claire hesitated. "I'm not sure yet," she said with brutal honesty.
The man laughed, and Claire noticed Wesker smirk out of the corner of her eye. "Beauty, intelligence, and a little bit of modesty? Positively brilliant," he observed, making a subtle, all-encompassing gesture with his champagne glass. The way his eyes sparkled behind his glasses reminded Claire of ice, though not in a cold or aloof sort of way. And while first impressions were risky, especially here, she was pretty sure she liked him. There was a certain charm about him that was decidedly absent from most of the room. Except for Wesker, of course. The blond had a very dangerous kind of charisma, and it was strong enough to enchant cobras into licking his fingers, Claire reflected dryly.
They talked for a while, but the British man excused himself in due course. The night wore on and Claire was just getting comfortable in her own skin when Wesker plucked a crystal flute from a nearby table and held it out to her. "Champagne, dear heart?"
Claire eyed the glass suspiciously as she took it. I'll just take a sip. I can't afford to get drunk. The beverage was ice cold, dry, and bubbly enough to make Claire's nose tickle. She took another sip, this one a little deeper than the first, then lowered the pricy drink. "So," she began, gesturing at the aristocratic party crowd. "What is this new magic drug, anyway?"
Wesker smiled in slow, perilous sort of way. "You'll know soon enough," he said, putting his hand in the small of her back. Feeling the heat of his hand against her bare skin, Claire gasped slightly, but she knew better than to try to pull away. Wesker's hand remained there for the next ten minutes or so as he guided them back through the party, working the crowd. Claire discovered that if she just told people she was glad to meet them – and if she occasionally made a favorable comment on their diamond jewelry – they would smile, nod, and immediately appear much more relaxed towards her. Thankfully, Wesker's presence kept most of the spotlight directed away from her, for which Claire was grateful.
Then, just as the false pleasantries were starting to grate on her nerves, a soft chime echoed through the parlor. A man's voice rose above the murmur of conversation. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could just direct your attention, the conference is about to begin…"
Wesker's touch on her back grew firm, steering her through the crowd. Through the mass of people, Claire suddenly noticed that a table and podium had been erected against the back wall of the room, for which heavy, artfully draped curtains provided a backdrop. A glossy plaque bearing the Umbrella archetype adorned the front of the podium. Claire smirked wryly. "Ready for your speech?" she asked, never missing an opportunity to taunt Wesker.
Wesker smirked at her. "Just remember to smile, dear heart," he said, leaving her in the crowd. Up at the podium, he seated himself at the table directly to its right. As the crowd gathered, Gionne and the silver-haired gentleman Claire had spoken to earlier took their seats as well. She noticed little bronze plaques had been set in front of them, each one bearing the name of the company they were representing. Umbrella… Tricell… WilPharma…
A tall, stately man stepped up the podium. The microphone gave a soft whine. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said, flashing a winning smile. "We have come together tonight to celebrate an important event, possibly the greatest medical breakthrough in recorded history."
A few people exchanged dubious murmurs, but everybody was looking forward expectantly. The man at the podium continued, "In the years since Sir Spencer's passing, the Umbrella Corporation has labored to struggle out from beneath the infamous shadow of its former chairman, an effort bravely spearheaded by Mr. Wesker since his appointment in the winter of 1999, and there can be no doubt that his Business truly is Life Itself."
Claire suppressed a snort, but joined the crowd in obligatory applause. Up at the table, Gionne looked bored and impatient, furtively tapping his finger on the table. "Therefore," the speaker continued, "it is only proper that I allow him to begin tonight's conference. Please…" he stepped the side, graciously inviting Wesker to the podium.
Wesker stood smoothly, a sleek black viper rising from its coils, and took the speaker's place, lightly curling his fingers around the edges of the podium. Looking at him, Claire couldn't help but feel that while such open talks were not Wesker's favorite method of demonstrating his power, he was most certainly good at it. He was once a police captain – the best of the best, she thought ruefully – so talking about corporate affairs couldn't possibly be more difficult than talking about a hostage situation or a murder.
"It's been said that superior intelligence breeds superior ambition," said Wesker, opening his statement with his typical self-righteous arrogance, though Claire wondered if anyone else even noticed. "The Umbrella Corporation has always been the world leader in health care, protecting and sustaining millions of people around the world. With global hospitals and a response team ready to deploy anywhere in the world, my staff and I have strived to overcome the worst diseases known to humanity. Tonight, I believe that goal may now be within reach."
Caught by Wesker's dangerously hypnotic voice, like a flock of birds being charmed by a snake, nobody moved or spoke. A faint draft caused the overhead chandelier to tinkle quietly. "A short time ago, a new species of rose was created within the walls of Mont St. Michel, the Umbrella Corporation's main headquarters," said Wesker, the beginnings of dangerous smile curving the corners of his mouth. Claire's world narrowed, going dark around the edges, until the only thing she was aware of was Wesker and the sound her own heartbeat thumping in her ears.
"Defying the laws of convention botany, it lives as a perfect hybrid between a scarce mountain rose and an even scarcer orchid found only in Brazil," Wesker continued. To his left, the silver-haired man representing WilPharma leaned forward with interest. "I realize that this may not mean much to you at this point, but when carefully studied and combined with a drug known only to a few of Umbrella's top scientists, the unique traits of the this rare flower proved to be nothing less than extraordinary. When given as an injection, preliminary tests have shown that the serum has the ability to heal dead, damaged, or improperly functioning cells within the body."
Wesker smiled, relishing in the startled looks he was receiving. "In essence, we have discovered a way to diminish or even completely cure ailments such as Parkinson's disease, paralysis, and epilepsy," he finished, pausing to allow the crowd to murmur, exchanging glances of disbelief, euphoria, even jealously. Reeling from the implications of Wesker's words, Claire realized that her champagne glass was in danger of slipping from her sweaty, trembling hand and she hastily redoubled her grip on it.
"With the exception of my efforts, all of this is due primarily to the efforts of a single woman," Wesker purred, his eyes glittering so strongly even his glasses couldn't quite hide their reddish twinkle. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the creator of the Nightwish rose, Dr. Claire Redfield?"
Claire froze, her eyes wide, as Wesker gestured to her, that dangerous smile now completely evident. The people nearest to Claire gasped and stared at her, almost as if they'd just suddenly noticed she was there, while the rest of the crowd shifted to get a better look. Whispers filled the parlor like the hissing of a thousand snakes, as many as the emotions filling Claire's belly, twisting it and making it hurt. A sound rose above the murmur of conversation, sharp and dry, the crisp slap of skin meeting skin.
Claire turned her shocked gaze back to Wesker and realized he was clapping, his smug smile burning into her. The noise grew as other people joined in, until the entire room was alive with the sound. A few people even cheered softly. Wide-eyed and overwhelmed, Claire felt as though she'd been struck by lightening and melted to the spot. So this was why Wesker had invited her to come along. He'd been planning this! But why? Claire thought frantically, looking at the sea of people. I didn't do anything! I was an accident. I don't deserve this, and they're acting like I… like I…
Like you're more than just Claire Redfield, a small voice whispered. You're Dr. Redfield now, the woman who won the honor to be on Wesker's arm. If Ada never got to do that, do you honestly think anyone else has?
Embarrassment, anger, indignation, and dozen other negative emotions rose up within Claire, closing her throat and threatening to choke her right there in front of everybody. And yet, just as she wildly considered turning and hurling her champagne glass right into Wesker's face, she felt something else, too. Deep within her, a hot, glowing kernel was trying desperately to get her attention. A moment later, she realized what it was. It was pride. Accident or not, she'd created Nightwish. And if it could do all that…
The applause finally died down. Everybody was shaking her hand again, congratulating her on what she'd done, and Claire only barely remembered to play the part. She smiled and thanked every one of them, telling them she appreciated their praise, all while Wesker smiled down from his place on the podium. Claire was in a daze, but eventually she realized that most of the crowd was turning back towards the podium. A session of questions and answers had begun, and Claire took the chance to make her escape, draining the remainder of her warm champagne in one gulp.
Carefully edging her way through the party, she made her way to a large open balcony, the source of the draft she'd felt earlier. Clouds trailed lacy fingers across the upside-down sickle of the moon and there seemed to be a lot of stars in the sky, no doubt because they were deep in the French countryside and far from any light pollution. Feeling shaky, Claire leaned against the railing and looked out into the garden. The old rosebushes were draped in shadow, but with the light of the moon, the effect was more beautiful than eerie. A large juniper hedge thrust up below her. She could smell it's icy scent from here.
It's not that far down, she realized. She would never have been able to escape Mont St. Michel, but this mansion was a different story. I could easily jump without getting hurt.
Claire eagerly ran the scenario over in her mind. Occupied with the party, Wesker wouldn't notice she was missing for a while and by then she could be over a mile away. She could find a payphone in a nearby town and call Chris, and he'd come and rescue her from his bizarre nightmare. Claire squeezed her handbag, feeling the syringes inside. There was enough there for two or three weeks at least, so there was no immediate danger of dropping dead. Leon was smart and he had government connections. Surely they could find a way to synthesize them before she ran out.
Claire reached down to pull off her heels, but in that moment she hesitated. Why did doing this feel so much like betrayal? Claire frowned and angrily yanked the shoes off, letting them clatter to the ground. Why should she care about betraying Wesker? It wasn't as if he really trusted her beyond sniffing things at the end of his leash. After all, he himself had betrayed people before. The experience wouldn't be a novel one for him, and it was no less than he probably deserved. And yet something was compelling her to stay, something intangible and beyond her ability to comprehend. Was it her time down in the labs, all the praise she received for her work? Or was it Wesker himself?
She teetered towards the edge of the balcony, her arms braced against the rail in preparation to jump, but she couldn't muster the will to actually do it. And as this realization swept through her, she realized she never be able to. The spark of defiance that had originally given her the idea was just that: a spark, not a fire. Sighing heavily, Claire stooped and picked her shoes up, setting them on the rail with a faint clack. The early autumn chill seeped into her bare feet, easing some of the discomfort that had built up during the night. Just then, strong hands suddenly gripped her arms from behind and Claire gasped.
"Weren't you enjoying the party, dear heart?"
"Damn it, Wesker!" Claire exclaimed, turning to face him. "Ninjas make more noise than you!"
Wesker chuckled, amused. Claire felt his gaze move to the red heels sitting on the railing, then back to her face. "They were starting to hurt," she said defensively.
"Of course."
Silence fell between them, broken only by the low sound of laughter floating out of the parlor. Claire bit her lip, peering at Wesker. "Does this mean you're not mad at me anymore?" she hazarded, not knowing what else to say to him.
Wesker heaved a sigh. "In a manner of speaking, no. You are a virus, dear heart, and you've infected me," he growled, taking her hand and slipping his arm around her waist. "You're going to pay for that one way or another."
Claire inhaled sharply as Wesker began to revolve slowly on the spot, dancing with her. She stumbled nearer to him, her chest flush against his, and put her free hand on his shoulder. It was either that or be manhandled like a life-sized ragdoll, however gently he intended to do it. What did Wesker mean by "pay for it one way or another"? Was that why he'd brought her here to feel nervous and uncomfortable? Because he was punishing her? Claire summoned up her best impersonation of the Medusa, but it fell flat. As much as she wanted to be angry with Wesker, she couldn't do it. He'd used her creation, yes, but he hadn't used her. He'd given her the credit in front of an entire room of people.
"What are you thinking about, dear heart?" Behind his glasses, Wesker's eyes seemed to glitter. The party was wearing down now, so nobody was paying attention to them.
Claire warily met his gaze. "Tonight."
"Ah." It wasn't just an affirmation. It was a subtle prompt to continue.
"Does it really do all that? My— the rose, I mean?" Claire asked in a murmur, feeling the rough stone rasping under her feet. Wesker was effortlessly leading them in a slow waltz, while Claire struggled to remember everything her mom had tried to teach her about dancing. Still, she wasn't doing badly. She hadn't stepped on his toes yet, anyway.
"Are you accusing me of deception or just outright lying?" asked Wesker mockingly. "The serum I mentioned is still in its test phase and will not be released for some time, but that's beside the point. Everything I said about it is true."
Claire felt a cool chill creep across her skin that had nothing to do with the night air. "…There's T-Virus in it, isn't there?" she whispered, filled with understanding.
"Smart girl," said Wesker, smiling. "We've been trying to develop it safely for years, but the inherent qualities of the virus made that impossible until just a month ago. That's what Nightwish does, dear heart. When processed, the rose exudes a chemical that suppresses the T-Virus on a cellular level and renders it stable. When taken under proper medical supervision, using the serum presents no danger."
"You sure about that?" Claire shot back, thinking about Raccoon City. How long before the serum started being recalled when people mysteriously turned into zombies after using it? The thought gave her chills.
"I would not have done this if I wasn't," said Wesker, as if he were merely having a philosophical discussion instead of an argument on the merits of using T-Virus. "I realize that the virus has caused tragedy in the past, to say nothing of the fact that you yourself were forced to survive it, but power is neither good nor evil. And if," Wesker put special emphasis on the word, "If that power could be harnessed to save lives, wouldn't you want that?"
Claire's mouth worked soundlessly, her heart racing so fast she was sure Wesker could hear it. She didn't want to accept that he could be right… but had she ever know Wesker to be wrong about anything? Unable to tear her eyes from his face, some dazed part of her realized how handsome Wesker actually was. He was attractive in the way the statue of a Greek god was attractive: chiseled, proud, and too perfect to be merely human. Claire suppressed a shiver as Wesker wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and bent her head forward with irresistible strength.
"That's what I thought," he purred, his deep voice resonating through her, and then his lips was upon hers. Claire gasped, her mouth flying open, but her words were conquered and stolen away. Wesker's thin lips were surprisingly soft and she could taste the sweet tang of amaretto liquor on his breath. A heat rose within her, so hot she wondered if she would burst into flame. It felt like making a deal with the devil, and for good reason, but Wesker was so handsome and powerful, and he smelled so wonderful. It would be incredible to just—
NO!
Claire flattened her hands on Wesker's chest and pulled back sharply, hating the feeling of disappointment that it created within her. The kiss broken, she could only stare at Wesker, her breath coming much faster than normal. This was the man who'd betrayed and murdered STARS, and while Claire knew that there was more to the story, she just couldn't bring herself to accept it like she'd begun to accept everything else.
"I… I'm sorry," she gasped.
Wesker casually adjusted his glasses. "Good," he rumbled. His hand still gripped the back of her neck, but he made no move to pull her back. "Sooner or later, dear heart, you won't be able to resist." His smirk burned through her, stoking the traitorous fire deep inside her belly. "And I can be a very patient man," he added, his eyes flashing like coals.
Claire gulped, frozen in place as Wesker's hand slid down to the curve of her lower back. "In any case, it's time we said our goodbyes and went back to the facility," he said, gesturing at the party. Claire drew in a breath, gathering strength, and put her heels back on. Wesker's kiss had been far from tender. It had been gentle, yes, but only barely, as if an even deeper well of passion lurked just below the surface. Claire had felt it only briefly, but it was enough to make her head spin. She'd never been touched like that, knowing her education would carry her a lot further than some boy.
As Wesker guided her back into the parlor, however, Claire swept her tongue across her lips, remembering the taste of him, how'd he'd smelled and felt up close. She trembled faintly, trying to shake it off, but she realized that she was never going to be able to. Even worse, something deep inside her wanted more. Right now she had no doubt that Wesker desired her – he'd all but warned her last time she'd spoken to him in the greenhouse – but if she'd known then that his kiss would feel like that, she probably would have run away screaming.
I've never getting away from him now, she realized as they made their way back up to where their helicopter pilot sat buried in a magazine. And the worse part is, I don't even want to try.
A/N: Ah, but Claire, you forget the game has rules. You're ignoring them. You protest, and Wesker comes back. After all, he could have any number of women *cough* Excella *cough**cough* lying at his feet if he so desired. Among other things, you make it a challenge for him, and every hunter loves a good challenge. I think this is my favorite chapter to date! It's too late for both of them now. As they say, you can't help who you fall in love with.
Thank you so much for your wonderful comments! And that goes for all you anonymous reviewers, too! ^_^