Genesis. Volume 2

October 13, 1986. Chicago. The Fairfax mansion. Day. Jenny had never seen a house like this. The Fairfax mansion rose from the earth in the northern part of Chicago, where trees stood in straight avenues and sidewalks gleamed clean as hospital floors. Three stories of gray stone with white columns, tall windows reflecting the low October sky, and wrought-iron gates adorned with a crest—two interlocking letter "F"s. The gravel driveway crunched underfoot, and that crunch seemed the only living sound in the entire block. The air was cold and still, like a tomb. "Impressive," Max said quietly, craning his neck. His breath steamed. "'Impressive' is not the word." Lisa already had her sketchbook in hand, but she wasn't drawing—just holding it to her chest like a shield. "It's like a museum." "Like a mausoleum," Jenny corrected. She walked first. The others stayed behind—Arthur on the right, Lisa on the left, Max and Sasha bringing up the rear. Claire had remained in the car, saying she didn't want to cross Cecilia's path. "She hates me," Claire had explained. "I know too much." And she'd stayed, staring through the windshield at the gray facade. The door was opened by a butler. Tall, stooped, in an old-fashioned frock coat that hung on him like a hanger. His face was expressionless, his eyes empty as a doll's. He wasn't a Feaster, but Jenny felt it: this man had long since stopped being himself. Maybe the servants here paid their own price too. He smelled of mothballs and old paper. "Miss Brooks," he said without inflection. "You are expected." They entered the foyer. The floor was black-and-white marble tile in a checkerboard pattern, and Jenny's heels clicked sharply against it. The walls were draped in dark burgundy velvet that seemed to drink the light. The ceiling was high, vaulted, with a crystal chandelier hanging on a long chain, tinkling faintly in the draft. It smelled of wax, old roses, and something else—barely perceptible, sweet. The same smell Jenny already knew. The smell of a Feaster. Here it was thicker, coating the tongue. They were led to the drawing room. It was enormous—larger than the entire first floor of the Walkers' house. A fireplace at the far end was lit, but the heat died before reaching the middle of the room. Above the fireplace hung a full-length portrait of a man in a silk cloak, a conductor's baton in his hand—Jenny recognized the Maestro immediately, though she'd never seen his face. He was painted life-size, and his eyes followed the newcomers with cold, assessing interest. The hair on the back of Jenny's neck stood up. In the center of the room, on a sofa with gilded armrests, sat Cecilia Fairfax. She was older than Jenny had expected, but age hadn't robbed her of her beauty—rather, it had frozen it, turning it into something hard and sharp. Her platinum hair was swept into an elaborate updo, a strand of black pearls around her neck, dark-stoned rings on her fingers. She wore a navy dress with long sleeves, and her posture was so straight it seemed she had rebar inside her. Not a single unnecessary crease. Beside her stood two young people. A girl of about nineteen—tall, haughty, with the same platinum hair and cold eyes as her mother—and a boy of about seventeen, thin, with a nervous face and a smile that looked more like a grimace. A faint scent of cologne and something strained emanated from him. "Vivienne and Christian," Isabelle said softly, emerging from the shadows behind the sofa. She was the youngest—about sixteen, short, with dark hair and eyes that watched warily but not unkindly. "My brother and sister." "Jennifer Brooks," Cecilia said, her voice like a whip crack. "Daughter of my late cousin. You've come." Jenny stepped forward. Arthur tried to move up beside her, but she stopped him with a gesture, barely raising her palm. "I came to talk," Jenny said. "About what, exactly?" Cecilia leaned back on the sofa, not offering her guests a seat. "About how your mother disgraced our family by marrying a pauper? About how you grew up in the backwoods, with no manners and no station?" "About the Palace Theater," Jenny said. "And about what you're hiding there." Christian's smile widened. Vivienne snorted. Isabelle lowered her head. "The Palace Theater," Cecilia repeated, tasting the words. "And what, pray tell, are we hiding there?" "The Maestro." The drawing room went silent. So silent that Jenny heard the crackle of the fire and the creak of a floorboard under someone's foot. "You're bold," Cecilia said after a long pause. "Or foolish. My cousin was bold too. And where is she now? Dead. Because she couldn't keep her mouth shut and didn't know her place." "My mother died trying to close the theater," Jenny said. Her voice was steady, but inside she was boiling, and she could feel the thread on her wrist growing warm. "She knew what you were doing. She knew about the deal. About the audiences. About the collection. And you killed her." "I?" Cecilia raised an eyebrow, not a muscle twitching on her face. "Your mother chose her own fate. She came to the theater, threatened us, tried to destroy what generations had built. The Maestro simply... protected the family." "The Maestro is a monster." "The Maestro is our partner." Cecilia stood. She was half a head taller than Jenny and looked down at her as if at an insect. She smelled of heavy perfume and cold. "You don't understand what you're dealing with, girl. You grew up in poverty, wearing that ring on your finger like a trinket. But that ring is a legacy. Brooks blood. Blood that can serve or feed. Your mother chose to serve. And she died. We chose to feed. And we thrive." "You feed a monster." "We feed power. Power is neither good nor evil. Power simply is." Jenny clenched her fists. Her nails dug into her palms, and the pain helped her keep her voice steady, though her heart pounded in her throat. "I'm not my mother. And I'm not you." "Oh, that's obvious." Cecilia's gaze swept over her clothes—jeans, an old jacket, a backpack—and lingered for a moment on the red thread on her wrist. "You're a poor relation who came begging for a handout. But I won't give you a cent. You can go back to your Brookfield and live your miserable life." "I didn't come for money." "Then why?" Jenny held her gaze. The silence between them became physical, like a taut string. "I came to tell you it's over. Your deal, your theater, your Maestro—all of it is ending. Not because I want it to. Because it will." Cecilia laughed. The laugh was cold as breaking glass, with not a trace of amusement. "How delightful. You're threatening me? In my own home?" "I'm not threatening. I'm warning." Christian stepped forward, but Cecilia stopped him with a wave of her hand. "Enough," she said. "You've said what you came to say. Now leave. And take your... friends with you." She swept her gaze over the group, a contemptuous smirk on her lips. "What a motley crew. Teenagers with knives and notebooks. You think you can stand against something older than this city?" "We already have," Arthur said. "Crowley. The Void. We stopped them." "Crowley?" Cecilia paused for a second. "You? Stopped Crowley?" "Sealed him. In the Genesis mansion." For the first time in the conversation, something like interest—or concern—flickered across Cecilia's face. Her fingers tightened on the armrest. "So the rumors were true," she murmured. "Well. That's worse for you." She turned to the butler: "See them out." "I'm not finished," Jenny said. "I am." Cecilia didn't even turn around. "Leave. And if I see you near my house or near the theater again, I won't be so civil." The butler moved toward the group, but Jenny didn't budge. She stared at Cecilia, at her straight back, at her platinum hair, at her ring-laden fingers. And at one ring—with a dark stone, on the index finger of her left hand. The stone was black, and something flickered deep within it, like a dim spark. "You don't have the ring with the letter 'B,'" Jenny said quietly. Cecilia froze. Her back stiffened. "What?" "The ring the Keepers wear. The one Martha Brooks wore. You don't have it, and neither do your children. You're not Keepers. You're just feed." Cecilia slowly turned around. Her face was white as marble, but her eyes burned with icy fire. Out. Of my house. Now." Jenny smiled—not with joy, but bitterly, the way people smile when they've understood something important and terrible at the same time. She turned and walked toward the exit. The group followed. At the door, she paused for a second. Isabelle stood by the stairs, and their eyes met. In the younger daughter's gaze, Jenny saw not contempt or fear, but something else. Hope. Desperate, barely alive, but still there. Isabelle gave a barely perceptible nod. The door closed. Gravel crunched underfoot. Cold wind hit their faces, bringing the smell of dry leaves and distant smoke. "Well," Max said when they'd walked far enough, "that went well." "It went exactly as I expected," Jenny said. "She won't give up the theater. Won't acknowledge the Maestro. She's in too deep." "What did you notice?" Lisa asked. "You mentioned the ring, and she went pale." "She knows. That she's not a real Keeper. That her power isn't her own—it's borrowed. She's afraid of that. And she envies me." "Envies you?" "I have the ring. The blood. The legacy. She only has a deal with a monster who'll one day demand payment." Arthur adjusted his backpack. The dagger inside it was warm—not hot, but noticeably warm, with a faint pulse. "We'll be back," he said. "But first we need to figure out how to get into the theater." "Isabelle," Jenny said. "She knows. She'll help." "Are you sure?" "No. But when she looked at me, I saw it. She hates that house as much as I do." They walked out through the gates. The Fairfax mansion loomed behind them—cold, majestic, steeped in the smell of old roses and decay. Jenny didn't look back. She knew she'd return. And next time, she wouldn't come to ask. She'd come to take.