Genesis. Volume 2

October 12, 1986. Chicago. Union Station. Morning. Chicago greeted them with wind. Arthur was the last off the train, lingering in the vestibule for an extra minute. He needed to gather his thoughts, but they scattered like cockroaches from light. The dagger lay in the inner pocket of his jacket, and he could feel it with every cell of his skin—not its weight, not its temperature, but something else. A presence. As if the metal were no longer just metal. As if it were breathing. The platform was packed with passengers. People jostled, hauled suitcases, embraced those meeting them. Porters pushed carts piled high with luggage. Somewhere a harmonica played—a street musician sat on an upturned crate by a column, playing a blues that sounded like a funeral soundtrack. It smelled of machine oil, coffee, and cold—that particular cold of big cities that seeps under your clothes and stays there all day. Somewhere in the distance, a train rumbled, the sound echoing through the station's concrete walls in a low tremor. Lisa stopped beside Arthur, wrapped in her scarf. Max and Jenny stood a little apart, scanning their surroundings. Sasha stepped off the train last, her face like stone. She'd spent the whole morning searching for Rachel, but she'd vanished. Dissolved like a drop of ink in water. She was nowhere—not in the dining car, not in the baggage car, not in any other compartment. "She got off during the night," Sasha said, approaching Arthur. "At some station. I didn't notice." "You couldn't have," Arthur replied. "It's my fault." "Yes." Sasha didn't soften it. "But that doesn't matter now. What matters is what she did to the dagger." "I don't know what she did." "Exactly." Sasha looked him in the eye. "And until you find out, it's better not to use the dagger." Arthur gripped his backpack strap. Every word hit the same spot—the very spot where a gnawing guilt had already taken root. He'd handed over the dagger. He'd trusted the list. He'd let the enemy in. And now everyone would pay the price. "Arthur!" A voice called from somewhere in the crowd. Arthur turned and saw Claire. She stood by a newsstand, clutching a battered bag to her chest, and she looked worse than last time. In the month since their phone call, she'd lost even more weight. Her cheekbones were sharp, deep shadows under her eyes, and her hair, which had once been neat in a ponytail, now hung in dull strands. But when she saw them, something alive flickered in her gaze. "You made it," she said, stepping closer. Her voice was hoarse, as if she hadn't spoken in days. "We made it," Arthur confirmed. "Claire, this is Sasha. Sasha, this is Claire." Sasha nodded, short and dry. Claire nodded back. "Where's Emma?" she asked. "In Brookfield. Checking on the mansion and the parents." "Right." Claire took a breath. "I found something new. But not here. Let's go to my place." October 12, 1986. Chicago. Claire's apartment. Day. Claire's apartment was small, a one-room place on the fourth floor of an old brick building with no elevator. The stairs smelled of damp plaster and cat urine. Inside, it smelled of cheap coffee, dust, and old newspapers stacked in piles in the corners. On the walls hung clippings from the Chicago Tribune—articles about missing people, strange incidents in the theater district, stage accidents. Claire had been collecting them for years. She sat the group at the table, poured coffee from an old percolator that hissed and spat steam. The coffee was bitter and scalding hot. Claire spread a folder of documents in front of them. "The Palace Theater," she began, "was built in 1910. The architect was Henry Fairfax. Does that name mean anything to you?" Jenny, sitting by the window, tensed. Her fingers gripped her mug so hard her knuckles went white. "Fairfax is my great-aunt's maiden name. She married some Chicago millionaire." "Exactly." Claire pulled an old photograph from the folder. It showed a grand theater with columns and a neon sign. "The Palace Theater has belonged to the Brooks-Fairfax family for three generations. It's currently run by Cecilia Fairfax, née Brooks. She's your relative, Jenny." Jenny took the photograph. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her face remained calm. "She's my grandmother's cousin?" "Your grandmother married a poor man and stayed in Brookfield. Cecilia married a rich man and moved to Chicago. They haven't spoken since." Claire paused, took a sip of coffee, burned her tongue, and swore softly. "But this isn't just a family drama. The Fairfaxes don't just own the theater. They... feed it." "What do you mean, 'feed it'?" Max asked. "Once a year, they host a private show. They invite Chicago's elite—bankers, politicians, industrialists. And after that show, some of the guests... disappear. Or come back empty. Like Julian Fairfax." "Cecilia's husband?" Lisa asked. "Yes. He used to be a normal person. Cheerful, they say, even charming. Then something happened. He stopped talking. Stopped reacting. Now he just sits in his chair, staring at the wall. Like a doll." Jenny set the photograph down. Her hand clenched into a fist. "It's the Maestro." "Yes." Claire nodded. "I think they made a deal with him. They give him audiences, and he gives them wealth and influence. But the price is their souls. Julian paid first. Now the children are paying." "Christian," Arthur whispered. "And Isabelle." "Christian is almost dead already." Claire turned over another clipping, the paper crackling. "I heard he wants to give himself to the Maestro willingly. Wants to become an exhibit in his gallery. And Isabelle... she's the younger one. Quiet. They say she hates the family but is afraid of her mother." Jenny stood and walked to the window. Gray light fell on her face, making her look older, harder. "They're my blood," she said. "And they serve a monster." "They're not your family," Lisa said quietly. "Family is the people who choose you. Not blood." "Blood isn't just a word, Lisa. You know that." Jenny turned to her. "My blood can seal Feasters. Their blood can feed them. We're connected." "Then you can break that connection," Arthur said. "We can." Jenny looked at him, and he saw something in her eyes he'd never seen before. Not fear. Not anger. Resolve. Cold as steel, resolve that left no room for doubt. "Yes," she said. "We can." Claire poured the last of the coffee into their mugs. "I don't know how you plan to do it. But I know you don't have much time. The next private show is in a few days. October seventeenth. If you want to stop the Maestro, you have to get there before it happens." "We will," Sasha said. She'd been silent, standing in the corner, but now she spoke. "But first, we need to deal with the dagger." Arthur pulled the dagger from his pocket and set it on the table. In the dim light of the apartment, the blade looked sick. The engraving had blurred even more than that morning, and a faint but distinct smell rose from the metal—sweet, like decaying flowers. "What did she do to it?" Lisa asked. "I don't know," Sasha said. "But she took Arthur's blood. When he handed it over, she touched the blade—I saw it. And now the dagger is connected to him. Or to something else." "To what?" "Maybe to the Maestro. Maybe to Kane. Maybe to someone we don't even know about." Sasha picked up the dagger, held it to the light. "It still works. But every use will cost more. And I don't know if it can survive another seal." "We don't have a choice," Arthur said. "If we don't use the dagger, we can't stop the Maestro." "And if it cracks, we release everything trapped inside it." Sasha set the dagger back on the table. "Think, Walker. This is your artifact. Your responsibility." Arthur stared at the blade. It lay on the table, dull and wounded, a thin vapor rising from it. He remembered the blacksmith from the vision. Remembered his words: "You're not a smith. You're raw stock." Maybe the blacksmith was right. Maybe he really didn't know how to forge. But he knew how to fight. And he would fight—even if his weapon was poisoned. "I'll figure it out," he said. "But first—the Fairfaxes." Jenny picked up the photograph of the theater that Claire had left on the table. She looked at it for a long time. "Then let's go," she said. "My family is waiting."