His hands were shaking from cold and adrenaline. He inserted the lock pick into the keyhole, turned it, and listened. There was a soft click.
"Almost…" Flash whispered.
Ethan stood beside him, back pressed against the wall. He was staring at his left hand.
The sleeve of his jacket was soaked and stuck to his skin. The black lines were now visible even through the fabric. They had climbed past his elbow and were crawling toward his shoulder, twisting like living veins.
Ethan watched as one of the lines stretched a couple of centimeters right before his eyes. His heart dropped.
Panic crashed over him like a wave.
"This is the end…" flashed through his mind.
"They're just toying with me. I'm going to become the new Roy."
He sharply yanked up his sleeve with a trembling hand to look closer. The skin around the lines looked gray, almost dead. The fingers of his left hand were completely numb.
"Flash…" Ethan's voice cracked into a hoarse whisper.
"Look… they're all over my arm. Even on my forearm. I can see them moving."
Flash glanced away from the lock for a second and looked at Ethan's arm. His face hardened for a moment.
"It's an illusion, Ethan," he said, with a note of worry in his voice.
"Your mind is feeding you panic. I don't see anything. It's the fear playing tricks on you."
"You're looking at your arm and seeing what the curse wants you to see."
"We're almost inside."
Another soft click and the lock gave way. The door opened a couple of centimeters, releasing the scent of wine and women's perfume.
Flash blinked several times, then carefully pulled the door toward himself.
"Ready?" he whispered, looking at Ethan.
Ethan nodded, even though everything inside him was trembling. He adjusted his grip on the stake, feeling the wood respond with a faint vibration.
"Ready," he answered.
"Let's go."
They stepped across the threshold of the back door. Behind them remained the pouring rain; ahead lay the warm, lit corridor of Laurent's mansion.
Ethan quietly closed the back door behind them.
Inside the mansion it was warm, a stark contrast to the cold downpour outside.
Somewhere deep in the house, music was playing softly jazz. A saxophone lazily drew out notes, as if inviting everyone to relax and forget everything.
And there were voices.
Female voices, many of them and one male. Laughter, muffled exclamations, the clink of glasses. Someone laughed languidly, and the sound rolled down the corridor.
Laurent was not alone.
Flash raised his hand, demanding complete silence. He listened for a moment, then nodded toward a narrow service staircase at the end of the corridor.
"That way," he whispered almost soundlessly.
"Try not to make any noise…"
Ethan nodded. They began to climb.
The stairs were old and creaked slightly under their weight. Every step had to be taken slowly, shifting their body weight gradually so the wood wouldn't betray them.
Flash went first, holding the suppressed pistol ready. Ethan followed, pressing his back to the wall. His left arm still barely obeyed him, so he kept switching the stake to his right hand whenever his fingers started shaking.
Halfway up, the music grew louder. The saxophone was now joined by female laughter. One of the women whispered something, and Laurent replied. His voice was instantly recognizable even through the walls.
"…and then I told him that for that kind of money even angels sell themselves," his voice drifted to them. The laughter grew louder.
The voices inside the stake began whispering again, no longer in chorus but one by one, soft and insistent:
"He's up there… he doesn't know anything… take him… take everything…"
Ethan clenched his teeth and kept climbing. His heart was pounding so hard he was afraid the whole house could hear it.
At the top of the stairs, Flash stopped and carefully peered into the second-floor corridor. It was long, lit by dim wall sconces, with heavy dark wallpaper and an expensive carpet on the floor.
At the far end stood a pair of double doors, slightly ajar. That was where the music and the women's voices were coming from.
Flash turned to Ethan. His face was tense, raindrops still sliding from his hair.
"They're in the main living room," he said almost without sound.
"Laurent and, looks like, four or five women. The door is open. We can get closer."
"As soon as we go in, we take him immediately. No long conversations."
"You ready?"
Ethan looked at his hands. He could feel it slowly, relentlessly crawling higher, toward his shoulder.
"I… don't know," he answered honestly in a whisper.
He looked Flash straight in the eyes. His gaze was a mix of desperation and stubbornness.
"But I have to go in. I need to hear the truth from his own mouth."
"Even if after that… I stop being myself."
Flash placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
"You will stay yourself," he said quietly.
"We go in together. If you feel like you're losing control, tell me."
"I'll drag you out of there, even if I have to carry you on my back. Understood?"
Ethan nodded. His throat tightened, but he forced himself to answer:
"Understood."
He took a deep breath, though the air felt too thick.
"Then let's go."
Flash looked at him one more time, as if trying to read how much of the old Ethan was still left. Then he gave a short nod.
They stepped out of the service staircase into the main second-floor corridor. The carpet muffled their footsteps. The music grew louder. The women's laughter now sounded very close.
The double doors to the living room were open by about the width of a hand. Through the gap spilled warm golden light, the smell of wine, and heavy perfume.
Ethan and Flash moved closer, pressing themselves against the wall.
From behind the door came Laurent's voice.
"…and then she said she had never seen anything more beautiful than my collection."