Genesis. Volume 2

October 4, 1986. Detroit. The Motel. Evening. They stumbled into the room in silence, an hour before sunset. The gray gloom outside the window had already swelled with darkness, but no one bothered to turn on the lights. Arthur slid the bolt home from the threshold—the metal clanked dully, cellar-deep. Immediately, the room filled with the smell of cheap shampoo from the wall dispenser, damp sheets, and stale cigarette smoke that had soaked into the synthetic curtains so deeply it would never wash out. Max collapsed onto the edge of the sagging bed and dropped his head into his hands. The springs groaned under him in a long, drawn-out moan. He didn't say a word—just sat there, running his fingers through his tangled hair. Emma pressed her back against the cold wall, closed her eyes, and began mechanically twisting an empty cigarette pack. The cardboard crunched under her fingers, and that sound was the only thing anchoring her to reality. Jenny squatted down by the radiator—it barely breathed warmth. She kept staring at her palms: clench and unclench, clench and unclench, as if checking whether something inside, beneath the skin, had disappeared. Arthur, still in his jacket, leaned against the windowsill and laid the factory key on the chipped paint. The iron was ice-cold, like a piece of river ice—even after an hour, it hadn't absorbed the warmth of his hand. Lisa silently spread three sheets of paper across the floor, held together with scraps of tape: the workshop plan, the Void's movement path, and the circle she'd drawn in chalk on the concrete rubble. The corners of the sheets curled; she pressed them down with her knee and froze. "What was that?" Max finally managed, his voice muffled from behind his palms. "What we came for." Arthur pulled at his sweater collar. "The Void. The memory eater." "It doesn't just take memories." Jenny raised her head; in the dim light, her eyes seemed almost black. "It takes a piece of you. I don't remember his face at all. Like he never existed." "Maybe he didn't," Max muttered. Jenny straightened sharply, and catching her look, he quickly looked away. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that." "Taste," Emma said quietly, without opening her eyes. "Marcus said the taste goes away. It doesn't just take faces. It takes feelings. Everything that makes a person human." "Not everything." Lisa pressed the sheets tighter with her knee. "We're here. We remember why we came." "For now," Arthur said. He turned to the window. Beyond the dirty glass, Detroit was lighting up rare yellow squares. The streetlights weren't on, only the windows—and it made the city look sick, lying in a fever. "It didn't attack. It could have, but it didn't." "We were standing in the circle," Lisa reminded him. "Not just that." Jenny shook her head and slowly rose; her knees cracked after the long stillness. "It was waiting. It's full. Marcus said: the Void feeds on memories, but it's not always hungry. It's patient. Like a spider—weaves its web and waits for the prey to twitch." "We're not prey," Max cut in, finally raising his head; his face was gray, shadows deep under his eyes. "It doesn't think so." Emma pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack, twirled it in her fingers, but didn't light it—just clamped the filter between her teeth to have something to occupy her mouth. "What did we actually learn? Besides the fact that drawings hold it back." "It doesn't go beyond the factory grounds," Arthur tapped his finger on the windowsill; the sound came out hollow, like a burial. "The entrance door is the boundary. It won't cross the threshold." "Like Crowley in the mansion. He didn't leave either—he only invited." "So each Feaster has its own territory. The mansion, the factory, the theater. They're tied to a place." "Or the place is tied to them," Jenny added quietly. She walked over to the table, picked up the drawing of the circle, and traced the chalk line with her finger. White powder crumbled onto the paper in the thinnest layer, like flour. "Lisa, your circle held it. But chalk wears off. It's not permanent." "What is?" Max asked. Jenny turned her hands palms up. The cut from yesterday's knife still hadn't healed—a thin red line that pulsed faintly in time with her heartbeat. "My blood." The room fell completely silent. Even the water in the pipes stopped humming. Emma froze with the cigarette at her lips. Max stared at Jenny, mouth slightly open. Lisa stopped fidgeting with the edge of her sheet. Arthur slowly turned on his chair; the wood creaked in protest. "What did you say?" "My blood." Jenny spoke quietly, but each word rang like a taut string. "When I cut my palm last night, I felt warmth. Not pain—warmth. Like something inside woke up. And today, when the Void came close, the thread heated up, and the blood... it boiled. I felt I could call it. Or drive it away. Do you understand?" "You want to use yourself as bait." Arthur wasn't asking. Jenny nodded. Her Adam's apple twitched, but her voice remained steady. "I'll go to the center of the workshop. Alone or with you, but in the center. I'll cut my palm. The Void will smell it. While it's distracted by me, you surround it with drawings. Lisa's circles. Or..." she paused for a moment, swallowed. "Or I'll try to negotiate." "Negotiate?" Max jumped up from the bed so sharply the springs squealed. "With that thing that eats memory?!" "Marcus negotiated. He didn't pick a fight—he offered a deal. It didn't work out, but at least he tried." "Marcus lost three days of his life! He still doesn't remember what happened." "But he's alive." Jenny raised her voice; it was rare for her, and in the silence of the room it sounded almost like a shout. "He's alive, he remembers his mother, he walks, talks, breathes. If he'd gone in there with a knife, he wouldn't be here anymore." "We have the dagger," Max muttered stubbornly, but already quieter. "The dagger is in New York. We're not going for it until we're done here. Or are you suggesting we abandon Marcus and his mother?" Max sat back down. The bed creaked plaintively, almost humanly. He dropped his shoulders, clenched his teeth. Arthur stood up, walked to the window, and pressed his forehead to the icy glass. The cold seeped under his skin, helping him think. "If you go first, the Void might take more from you than just a kiss." "I know." "You could forget us. Or yourself." "I've already forgotten that guy's face. And his name. And his voice." Jenny smiled, but the smile was crooked, bitter. "You know what the worst part is? I wasn't upset. I thought: oh well. It was just a kiss. Not love. Not a friend. Not a brother. But if it takes something important—I will be upset. And that means I'm still alive. Being upset means I remember what I lost. And if I don't remember..." she shrugged, her hands clenched into fists, "then there was nothing worth losing." "Bad logic," Emma said, finally lighting her cigarette. The lighter sparked on the third try, throwing out a trembling tongue of flame. "There's no other." Lisa raised her head. Her eyes glistened—not with tears, but with focus. "I can draw circles around you. Not just one layer—several. If the chalk wears off, there'll be another underneath. And another. I'll draw as many as the chalk lasts." "And if it's not enough?" Max looked up from under his brow. "It will be. I'll take two pieces. And my sketchbook. And pencils. If the chalk runs out, I'll draw with pencil." "Pencil wears off faster." "But not right away." Lisa lifted her chin almost defiantly. "Not right away." Arthur pulled his forehead away from the glass and turned to Jenny. His gaze was heavy. "Are you sure?" "No." She shook her head, and her hair brushed her shoulders. "But I don't want to sit in the motel while you take the risks. My blood isn't for nothing. Grandma said the Brookses were Keepers. Crowley said: 'Take care of Jenny.' Elias said it again. There's meaning in it. I have to find it." Arthur was silent for a long time—so long that Emma blew out a stream of smoke and opened her mouth, but he spoke first. "Alright. Tomorrow we go again. Lisa, prepare the circles. Max, Emma—cover Jenny from the flanks. I'll be in the center, next to her. If anything goes wrong—we all leave. Immediately." "And if we can't get out?" Max asked; his fingers found the cold knife handle in his pocket. "We will." Arthur picked up the key from the windowsill and clenched it in his fist so hard his knuckles went white. "We don't have a choice." He shoved the key into his jacket pocket and was the first to move toward the door. They split into their rooms. Lisa carried the drawings away, pressing them to her chest like something alive. Chalk and pencils stuck out of her jeans pockets. Jenny sat on the bed, pulled the thread from her wrist, twirled it in her fingers, then tied it back—tighter. The cut on her palm smarted, but the pain was almost pleasant, like a reminder that she was still here. "Do you really want to do this?" Emma closed the door to their room and leaned against the jamb. "I don't want to. But I have to." "Stupid." Emma took a deep drag, blew smoke at the ceiling, and added, barely parting her teeth: "But I'd do the same." She lay down on the bed, turning her face to the wall. A minute later, her uneven breathing could be heard—not sleep, but exhaustion stronger than fear. Jenny lay awake. She listened to Lisa's even, childlike breathing. The ceiling was stained with rusty streaks—the roof was leaking, or maybe someone's bathtub on the floor above. She thought about the ring with the letter "B" she'd drawn automatically in the library. About Martha Brooks, who stood at the lathe and perhaps, just like her now, gripped her cut palm. She couldn't stop the Void. But she left a diary. A ring. And the blood that now ran through Jenny's veins—across generations. "I'm not like you," she whispered into the darkness, her lips barely moving. "I won't give up." The thread on her wrist responded with quiet, soft warmth, as if someone had taken her hand in theirs—invisible, but steady. In the next room, Arthur wasn't sleeping. He sat on the bed, clutching that same icy key in his fist. Max snored—steadily, deeply; his young body was claiming its due. Arthur envied that snoring. The shadow of the Void still swam before his eyes, and inside it—faces. And Jenny, frozen for a moment when her memory was yanked out like a tooth without anesthetic. "What if she loses more? What if she forgets why we're here?" He lay down, turned on his side, pulled the blanket up to his chin. Woolen, scratchy, smelling of someone else's age. Sleep wouldn't come. Emma wasn't sleeping either. She lay on her back, crumpling the empty pack in her fist. Crush—smooth, crush—smooth. The cardboard was already cracking. One thought pounded in her head: "We're just kids. We should be doing homework, not hunting monsters. Why can't I stop this?" She turned on her side, looked at Lisa. "At least you sleep peacefully." But Lisa wasn't sleeping. She just lay with her eyes closed, counting circles. Twelve. On the twelfth, the chalk would run out. Then pencils—graphite would crumble on the concrete. Then fingers. If it came to that. Behind the wall, in the next room, someone turned on an ancient radio. The crackling speaker spat out the first chords of an old jazz ballad. Arthur ground his teeth, thought about pounding on the wall with his fist, but changed his mind. Let it blare. At least some living sound in this dead silence. In the last hour before dawn, he finally drifted into sleep. The factory in his dream was different—not the daytime one. The machines burned with a steady orange flame, smokeless. Between them glided faceless, armless figures—mere silhouettes. In the center of the workshop stood Jenny, clutching her bloodied palm. Drops fell on the concrete, and where they touched the floor, blue sparks flared. She was smiling—but not at him. At the Void itself, which hung before her in a dense gray haze. Arthur woke in a cold sweat. His T-shirt clung to his back. The alarm clock showed six in the morning. He got up, avoiding Max's gaze, shuffled to the sink, and turned on the icy water. He washed for a long time, until the skin on his face went numb. He put on the same jacket, smelling of yesterday's soot and street dampness. Max was already standing in the hallway—silent, leaning his shoulder against the chipped door frame. "Let's go." They knocked on the girls' door. Emma opened it right away—eyes red, but her gaze sober, focused. "Jenny's ready." Behind her appeared Jenny, her palm already bandaged—white gauze, wrap after wrap. Lisa emerged next, clutching her sketchbook and two pieces of chalk to her chest: white and yellow. She smelled of pastel and, oddly, damp earth. "Breakfast?" Max asked without much hope. "Later." Arthur pulled up his hood and stepped toward the stairs first. "Factory first." Outside, a gray, heavy morning met them. The air was damp and viscous, with a metallic tang—as if enormous mechanisms were rusting somewhere nearby. Detroit woke reluctantly, with a scraping sound, like a patient who knows the day will bring more pain. Jenny walked ahead, clenching and unclenching her fist—the bandage on her palm was already showing a tiny red spot. The thread on her wrist pulsed with warmth. The kind of warmth you feel when someone takes your hand in complete darkness. "Today," she said without turning around. "Today we'll find out which of us is stronger." Arthur followed, gripping the cold key in his pocket. And he thought only one thing: "Please, let her not lose herself." The factory was waiting. Its windows gaped in empty blackness, and even from a distance it seemed that a freezing draft emanated from the gray walls—that particular cold that comes not from the street, but from inside the building, from its concrete core.