Genesis. Volume 2

October 10, 1986. New York. The streets of Manhattan. Day. Emma didn't want to go anywhere. She stood at the base's exit, hands shoved in her jacket pockets, staring at the gray October sky. Somewhere up there, behind the clouds, the sun was hiding—dim but stubborn, just like her. After Arthur's morning training, after the talk with Liam on the stairs, after a sleepless night, all she wanted was to lie down and close her eyes. But Liam had said, "You haven't seen New York. And New York hasn't seen you. That's not right." And now she stood at the door while he waited for her on the sidewalk—in the same gray t-shirt and army pants, with that unchanging smile that somehow didn't annoy her. "I look like a scarecrow," Emma said. "A scarecrow in New York is normal. Everyone here's a scarecrow." She snorted and stepped outside. The wind hit her face—cold, with a taste of river and exhaust fumes. Without asking, Liam took off his light windbreaker and draped it over her shoulders. The fabric was cool on the outside, but inside it still held the warmth of his body. "You'll freeze," Emma said. "I'm from Boston. Winter there lasts from October to April. I won't freeze." They walked to the subway, and Emma caught herself not objecting. Not arguing. Not trying to leave. The smell of the windbreaker—faint, powdery, like cheap soap—somehow soothed her. She adjusted the collar and silently stepped onto the escalator. Manhattan met them with noise. This noise was different from Brooklyn's or Queens's—louder, bolder, as if the city were deliberately shouting into the ears of anyone who dared enter. Taxis honked, street vendors shouted prices for hot dogs, music drifted from open bar doors—jazzy, lazy, but still loud. Liam took Emma by the elbow and guided her through the flow of people—confidently, like someone who knew this city, even if he hadn't grown up in it. "You navigate better than I expected," she noted. "It's just a grid. Avenues go up and down, streets go across. Can't get lost." "You'd be surprised what I'm capable of." He laughed, and she almost smiled again. They came out at Central Park. The trees stood half-bare—yellow and red leaves still clinging to the branches, but the wind was already tearing them off, tossing rustling handfuls underfoot. It smelled of rotting leaves and damp earth. There were plenty of people: runners with sweat-damp temples, mothers with strollers, old men feeding pigeons. Ordinary life. The life Emma had nearly forgotten while chasing shadows. "It's peaceful here," she said. "Yeah. This is my favorite route. When I first joined the Circle, after operations I'd come here. Sit on a bench and watch the trees. It helped me remember that the world still existed." "Did you forget?" "Sometimes. After bad missions." He paused. "After the one where my sister died, I didn't leave the base for two weeks. Tucker dragged me out by force. Brought me here, sat me on this very bench, and said, 'Look. Leaves fall every year. And every year, new ones grow. If they can do it, so can you.' Corny, but it helped." Emma listened and felt something thaw inside her. She wasn't used to conversations like this—in their group, everyone kept their pain to themselves. Arthur because he had to lead. Jenny because she carried a legacy. Max because he hid behind his knife. Lisa because she drew it instead of talking about it. And herself? She hid behind cigarettes, barbs, the phrase "I'm fine." She never talked about what she felt, because she was afraid that if she started, she wouldn't be able to stop. But with Liam, it was different. Maybe because he didn't push. He just walked beside her, occasionally pointing something out—a squirrel in a tree, a funny sign, an old carousel—and there was no pity in his voice, no attempt to "save" her. They reached a bench by the pond and sat down. The water was gray like the sky, and fallen leaves floated on it—red, yellow, brown. "Tell me about Brookfield," Liam asked. "Why?" "I want to understand where you come from." Emma sighed. She didn't like talking about Brookfield. But something in his tone—simple, without subtext—made her start. "It's a small town. Everyone knows everyone. If you sneeze at one end, someone at the other will say 'bless you.' There's a school, a library, Rose's Diner, and a mansion where ancient evil lives. Standard set." "And Jack?" She was silent. Jack's name still sent a dull ache under her ribs. "Jack was one of us. I mean—he's still alive, but... he doesn't remember. Not himself, not us, not anything. We sealed the Feaster in the mansion, and Jack stayed inside as an anchor. He sacrificed himself so that thing wouldn't get out. Now he sits in the basement, forgetting one day at a time." "Do you miss him?" "I miss who he was. The Jack in that mansion now—it's not him. It's... a puppet. Alive, breathing, but empty." She clenched her fist, feeling the thread on her wrist grow warm. "Sometimes I think we lost him for nothing. That we didn't win—we just delayed the inevitable. And then I look at Arthur, at Lisa, at Jenny—and I see they're still fighting. And I can't give up." "You're not giving up," Liam said quietly. "You're still here." "For now." They fell silent. The wind ruffled the water, driving ripples from shore to shore. Somewhere in the distance, a violin played—a street musician, probably—and the melody was sad, but not hopeless. "My sister's name was Kate," Liam said suddenly. "She was two years younger than me. She had red hair and freckles—the kind that don't fade even in winter. She wanted to be a doctor. A pediatrician. She used to say, 'I want kids not to be afraid of doctors.'" "What happened?" "We were in Boston. I didn't know about Feasters yet. We were walking back from the movies, and suddenly she froze. Just stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Then she started screaming. She screamed and screamed, and I couldn't stop her." His voice faltered. "They took her. Not her body—her mind. When they found her two days later, she was empty. Like your Jack. Only she wasn't a Keeper. She just... went out." Emma didn't know what to say. She could have said "I'm sorry," but it would have sounded hollow. Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the medallion—the one engraved with "Cross. Circle"—and held it out to Liam. "You gave this to me for luck. But I think you need it just as much." Liam looked at the medallion, then at her. "I didn't give it to you for luck, Emma. I gave it so you'd remember: there's someone waiting for you." "I don't know how to wait." "Neither do I. That's why I'm going to Brookfield with you." She wanted to object, but again couldn't. Her fingers closed around the medallion. The metal had warmed from her palm, and she felt a pulse—someone else's, steady, like a heartbeat. Or maybe she just imagined it. "You're too kind," she finally said. "People like you don't live long." "I know. But I'm still alive." He stood and offered her his hand. Emma looked at his palm—the one with the white scar crossing his life line. Then she took it and stood up. Liam's hand was warm, rough, solid. She didn't want to let go—and she didn't. They walked further along the path, now holding hands. Leaves fell underfoot, and Emma thought that if she could stop time, she'd stop it here—in this park, with this person who somehow wasn't afraid of her curse. At the corner of the park, they noticed an old theater. The building was shabby, with peeling moldings and dark windows. A faded sign hung above the entrance: "Majestic." Scaffolding surrounded the theater—it was apparently being renovated, but no one was working that day. At the entrance, a torn piece of a poster fluttered in the wind, stuck to a board. Emma stopped. Something was wrong. Not with the theater—with her. The air suddenly grew thicker, heavier, filled with a smell. Not the street's smell—another. Dust. Perfume. Old fabric. It smelled like her mother's closet when she was little. Lily of the valley and something sweet, almost cloying. "What is it?" she whispered. "What?" Liam looked back in confusion. "The smell. Can you feel it?" "Nothing special. Gasoline, maybe, or..." "No." Emma let go of his hand and stepped closer to the poster. The torn piece swayed in the wind, revealing a fragment of the image: a man in a silk cloak, a conductor's baton in his hand. The face was blurred, but the cloak—the cloak she saw clearly. Exactly as she'd pictured it when thinking about the Maestro. And from the poster came that same smell. Perfume. Dust. Lily of the valley. Her head spun. Emma swayed, and Liam caught her by the shoulders—firm, steady. "Emma! What's wrong?" "I don't know." Her voice sounded hollow, as if from underwater. "That cloak... it reminds me of..." "What?" "Mom." The word escaped before she could stop it. "She used that perfume. And the cloak... she loved the theater. We used to go to the theater in Brookfield when I was little. The only thing we did together. And then she died." Liam looked at her, and there was concern in his eyes—not for himself, but for her. Emma forced herself to straighten. The smell was gone. Only the wind and gasoline remained. "It's not just a poster," she said, still staring at the torn piece. "It's him. The Maestro. I can feel him." "But Chicago is far. How can he..." "I don't know. Maybe it's an echo. Maybe he's reaching for us the way we reach for him." She remembered Sasha's words: "You're glowing on the Feaster map like a beacon." "We're a beacon. And he sees us. Already sees us." She stepped back from the poster, as if it might come to life. Liam didn't take his eyes off her. "We can leave, if you want." "No." Emma shook her head. "If he wants to scare me, he'll have to try harder. I'm not afraid of a smell. I'm afraid of forgetting the smell." She touched the medallion at her neck. "Now I know what he's capable of. It's just information." "You're amazing," Liam said quietly. "I'm a scarecrow from Brookfield." "Then I'm a scarecrow from Boston. A pair of freaks." She suddenly let out a short, nervous laugh. It came out hoarse, as if she hadn't used that muscle in a long time, but it was real. Liam smiled. They walked on, leaving the theater behind. Emma didn't look back, but a cold residue remained inside her—like the memory of a touch that hadn't happened yet but had already left a mark. The Maestro knew about her. Or was beginning to suspect. That meant Chicago wouldn't just be a fight—it would be a personal meeting. And she needed to be ready. The rest of the day they spent in a small diner at the intersection of two streets. Inside, it smelled of grilled meat and coffee; the windows were fogged from the heat. They ate burgers, drank Coke, talked about nothing. Liam told her about his first training with Tucker—how he'd been flat on his back in three seconds—and Emma almost laughed. Then they sat by the window, watching passersby hurry about their business, unaware that creatures feeding on fear and memory existed in the world. "When we get back from Brookfield," Liam said, "maybe we could go somewhere else? To the movies, for example." "Are you asking me on a date?" "What does it look like?" Emma was silent, twirling a straw in her fingers. It bent and squeaked. "It looks stupid. A war, Feasters, the Sleeper under London—and you're asking me to the movies." "Exactly why. Because if we don't go to the movies, they win. Not by magic—by boredom. They want us to forget what we're living for. And I don't want to forget." She looked into his eyes—brown, with flecks of gold—and suddenly realized she didn't want to forget either. Maybe for the first time in a year. "Okay," she said. "But only if it's a good movie. No horror. I get enough horror at work." Liam smiled, and that smile made her chest feel warm. She didn't say "yes." But she didn't say "no" either. When they returned to the base, the sun was already leaning toward the horizon. In the hallway, they were met by Max. He sat on the floor, wiping his knife with an oily rag, but when he saw Emma and Liam together, he said nothing—only nodded and looked away. Emma knew that look. It meant: "I get it, but I won't pry." That was what she appreciated about Max. Liam lingered at her door. "I'm glad we went," he said. "Me too." She hesitated. "Didn't think I'd say that." "I know." He touched her shoulder, lightly as a feather, and walked to his room. Emma stood alone in the hallway. She reached into her pocket for the cigarette pack—and found it empty. Only tobacco crumbs at the bottom. She crumpled the pack and tossed it in the trash. Then she squeezed the medallion on her chest and thought: "Tomorrow, Brookfield. The mansion. Jack. My parents." And after that—Chicago. But tonight she wouldn't think about it. Tonight she'd just go to sleep and maybe, just maybe, actually sleep. That night, she dreamed of a man in a silk cloak. He stood on a stage, conducting an orchestra that wasn't there. And he smelled of lily of the valley and old dust.