Sergei brought them aboard a plane, the Umbrella logo painted on its fuselage. The plane, Grayson decided, looked like a stealth prototype, something that belonged in a secret military hangar where they reverse-engineered Area 51 tech. It was painted matte black, and did not make much noise. The engines were a slow purr. There were guys around the plane, waiting for them, and they were dressed like Sergei in bulky military fatigues and thermal gear.

Inside, the plane was pretty roomy, the sort of plane used in military parachute exercises. There were long benches on the walls, and nylon harnesses, and several Umbrella guys in balaclavas. When one of the guys saw Alexia, he tugged down his balaclava, and he was grinning with dull old man teeth.

Sergei directed them to sit on one of the benches, and they did. He helped them with their harnesses, then sat down opposite them, lighting a cigarette as the ramp-hatch swung shut, and the last guys had boarded the plane.

"Thought I'd never see you again, Director Ashford," said the man with old man teeth. "You don't know me, but I worked for you back in the 1980s. Always liked you as a boss, despite the common opinion."

That common opinion, Grayson knew, had been that very few people had actually liked her. He understood why; Alexia had been known to regularly deny vacation and transfer requests, and she had run the facility like a tyrant with two iron fists. And for most people, she had been very difficult to get along with because of her age, and because of her ego. But for people, like the old man in the balaclava, who had done their work, had kept their heads down and had never asked too many questions, Alexia had actually been a pretty amicable boss, or so Grayson had been told.

"I'm afraid I don't remember you," said Alexia. She wore a black thermal jacket, which had been supplied by Sergei's men, the Umbrella logo stitched above the breast-pocket.

"It was a long time ago, Director. Just know there are folks who are glad to have you back," said the old man in the balaclava, who bummed a cigarette from Sergei and went quiet. The package had been some sort of Russian brand; Grayson did not recognize it.

"You were very popular among some of the scientists, Alexia," said Sergei, grinning around his cigarette. He folded his enormous arms over his chest, watching them with his good eye. "Birkin was too short-tempered. They think, 'This man, he does not know what it means to lead.' But you? Yes, you made quite the impression. That is why Spencer gave you the Antarctica facility. I am sorry it is gone. Your life had been there."

"There will be more laboratories," said Alexia, and shook her head. "This had always been the plan."

The old man in the balaclava nodded and blew smoke, but did not contribute to the conversation.

"So tell me, Alexia," said Sergei, shifting in his seat, the leather upholstery squeaking underneath him. "Why is Mr. Harman with you?" He jerked his head at Grayson: him. His large body bobbed and swayed as the plane hit a bit of turbulence. "And where is Alfred? I thought Alfred was supposed to wake you."

"Alfred's dead," said Grayson, frowning. "I came with him to the facility."

Sergei looked disappointed, though it was hard to tell because of the craggy-roughness of his face. Then he said, putting the cigarette out on his glove, "I am sorry he is dead." He looked at Grayson with his foggy blue eye, blowing a cloud of smoke. "You are infected?" he asked, shifting the subject.

Grayson had almost forgotten about his eyes. He nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Bingham's prototype."

Sergei nodded. "Well, you seem to have adapted it, Mr. Harman. Congratulations."

"It only took me getting shot in the head," said Grayson, and smiled, because the memory was a lot funnier in hindsight.

"Death is the catalyst for such viruses," said Sergei, with all the airs of some worldly scholar. "Albert Wesker was impaled by one of our tyrants, and he died. But now he is back." He looked between them, his mouth a crooked line, as if it had been cut with a dull knife. There was a certain tangible sobriety that radiated from Sergei, similar in feeling to the force exerted by two magnets as they repelled one another, and that force was pushing against Grayson. Sergei said, seriously, "Our intel says he was at the Antarctica base."

"He was," said Alexia, glancing at Grayson. "Albert was trying to bargain with me. He wanted the T-Veronica. That was how Grayson wound up getting shot." She reached over and touched the back of his hand, and Grayson smiled. "A girl named Claire Redfield shot him, a survivor who had commandeered one of the planes from Rockfort Prison." She looked back at Sergei, adding, "He was working for a group called the Hive/Host Capture Force, a mercenary group hired by Martin Bingham."

Sergei looked interested. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, fingers knotted together. "Martin Bingham, you say? He is still alive?" He made a gruff noise that might have been a laugh, might have been him trying to choke down a cough. "You must tell Lord Spencer this."

"I had already planned to," said Alexia.

Grayson slept for the rest of the flight. When he woke, they'd already landed, and Sergei was telling him to get up. It was kind of warm when they got off the plane, so Grayson took off his arctic gear, after he'd helped Alexia out of hers.

They were in the woods, on a strip of tarmac. A castle on a rocky hill not far from them; beyond that hill, the deep twilight-blue expanse of a lake, and the purple ghosts of mountains on the far shore. The sky was a purplish velvet, studded with silver pinholes.

Grayson did not recognize this place. He followed Sergei's lumbering form up a long cobbled walkway, to the broad doors of the castle. A tired-looking butler answered the door and waved them inside.

The inside was all marble and stone, polished to a mirror-like shine. An enormous crystal chandelier lit the place up in soft incandescence, made the foyer glitter. There were decorative suits of armor, and old pictures hanging on the walls that depicted haunted landscapes, or bored-looking noblemen in cravats and dark tailcoats. The butler led them upstairs, then through a door.

The room was large and empty, and drafty like a cellar. There was an inert marble fireplace, a coat-of-arms bolted above it; some decorative china vases; displays of medieval weapons on arterial red ultrasuede. The room, Grayson decided, looked like a museum's storage-room, where all the forgotten or discontinued exhibits sat collecting dust.

There was a very old man in the room. Face deeply wrinkled, like the topographic lines of a map. He was wheelchair-bound, and sat crooked, like a dead wind-bent desert tree. His legs were scrawny things, the skin the exact color and texture of old parchment. He was connected to an oxygen tank; when he breathed, it was like dry dust blown through a tube.

"Alexia, is that you?" said the old man, the corners of his mouth wet and red. He beckoned for Alexia with long, arthritic hands. "Let me look at you, my dear." The old man's lips peeled back, showing a dull lopsided smile. "It's been so long," he wheezed, and his oxygen-tank gave a loud poosh. "Come, come, my dear. I can't see very well anymore."

Alexia stepped closer. The old man watched her with cloudy hazel eyes. "Lord Spencer," she said, taking the old man's hands. She had to kneel to look him in the eyes, which were nested in deep pockets of wrinkled parchment-flesh. "It's good to see you again."

"You're so beautiful now, Alexia," said Spencer, touching her face with his long yellow-gray fingers. He kissed her once, on each cheek. "Edward, rest my old friend's soul, would be so proud to see the woman you've grown into." He looked past Alexia, and said to Sergei, "Thank you, Sergei. You have done splendidly. You may go now, however. The Caucasus Laboratory requires your oversight, old friend."

"Of course, Lord Spencer," said Sergei, and bowed. He lumbered away.

"My cryostasis experiment was a success, Lord Spencer," said Alexia, smiling. "I assimilated the virus."

"I'm glad to hear it, child. You haven't forgotten your end of the bargain, I hope."

"I haven't, Lord Spencer."

"Good," said Spencer, stroking her blonde hair in a grandfatherly way. "My prognosis is not good. And these idiot doctors have done nothing but find ways to prolong my suffering." Spencer stopped, then started coughing; and it was a wet, violent cough that lasted for several minutes. Then, once the sputtering and the hacking had stopped, he said, "But you, child? You'll certainly fix things, I'm sure. You were always one of my best, Alexia. One of my favorites."

"It's why you kept me alive, is it not, Lord Spencer?" said Alexia, and stood. "We already have a viable subject for Project Wesker."

Spencer shook his head and said, "No, no. Albert and I do not see eye-to-eye anymore, child."

"Not Albert, Lord Spencer," said Alexia, and she came over and pulled him, half-stumbling, to Spencer. "You might recall my butler, Grayson Harman?" She grinned, and Grayson could not decide if the grin was malicious, or if it was a perfectly harmless grin. "He's been infected with Bingham's prototype," she added, helpfully.

"You're going to experiment on me?"

"Not experiment, dear. I simply need a blood sample," said Alexia, and kissed him.

Spencer laughed wetly, then exploded into another violent, chest-rumbling early-in-the-morning cough. He hacked for several moments, clawing at the sparse grizzled hairs on his chest. Then said, "It seems dear little Alexia already has you back on the leash, my dear boy."

"Worse places to be, Lord Spencer."

"There's something else I wanted to tell you, Lord Spencer," said Alexia. "Martin Bingham. He's still alive."

Their expressions told him to leave; so he did.

Grayson waited in the hallway. When Spencer and Alexia's conversation finally finished, Alexia emerged from the room, looking serious. One of Spencer's servants entered the room after her, carrying a tray of prescription bottles, and syrettes wrapped in sterile plastic. "Spencer had no idea Bingham was still in operation," she said, and they walked down the corridor, past medieval tapestries and austere portraits. "So we're dead on leads, and can only hope something crops up."

"Something always crops up," said Grayson, and sighed, pushing his hands inside his pockets. "What now?" he asked, once they had descended the stairs, and stood under the chandelier in the foyer. "There somewhere specific we're headed to?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," said Alexia, looking at him. "Spencer has graciously given us his mansion in the Arklays."

"That place blew up, Alexia."

She shook her head. "Not that mansion," said Alexia. "There was an older property Spencer's family had built, though the laboratory there is brand new." She grinned excitedly.

"How many mansions does Spencer have?"

"I've also been appointed as the new director of NEST 2, in Arklay City. I start in two weeks, once the current director clears out."

"Two weeks? Knowing you, I thought you'd start tomorrow."

"We're getting married, aren't we? Though, if I'm going to be honest, I'd prefer Italy, rather than St. Croix. The Amalfi Coast, specifically."

Grayson grinned. "I'd be okay with that. But you're paying for it."

"Of course I'd pay for it. You don't have two dollars to your bloody name."

He laughed. "That's why I'm marrying up." Grayson held up five fingers, adding, "And I got five dollars to my name, thanks."

"I'll let you buy me a key-chain then, darling."