Genesis. Volume 2

October 13, 1986. Chicago. The Fairfax mansion. Evening. Lisa didn't want to go back. She stood before the wrought-iron gates for the second time that day, and every instinct told her: "Don't go in." The cold wind tugged at her jacket collar, sneaking up her sleeves. But the butler had already opened the door—the same stooped man with empty eyes, reeking of mothballs—and this time he wasn't just letting them in. He was waiting. As if he'd known they would come. As if it were all part of a play that had begun long before their arrival. "Cecilia changed her mind," Jenny had said an hour earlier, when they were sitting in Claire's apartment, drinking cold coffee and trying to come up with a plan. The coffee was bitter, dark grounds at the bottom of the cups. "She sent a note. Inviting us to dinner." "It's a trap," Max said. "Of course it's a trap. But we're going anyway." "Why?" "Because she wants to humiliate us. And when people are busy humiliating others, they talk too much." Now they walked up the gravel driveway, and Lisa studied the mansion's windows. Light burned inside—but not warm, yellow light; it was cold, almost white, like an operating room. In the drawing room, where they'd been that morning, a table was now set. Lisa could see it through the tall window: white tablecloth, silver, crystal. Like for a wedding. Or a funeral. The butler led them to the dining room. It was smaller than the drawing room but still enormous—a long table seating twelve, chairs with high carved backs, walls upholstered in dark red silk that seemed to drink the light. In the corner, by the kitchen door, stood Julian Fairfax. Lisa didn't immediately realize he was alive. He sat in a wheelchair, frozen like a wax figure. An expensive three-piece suit, hands folded on his knees, clean-shaven skin. His face was handsome, refined, with regular features—but utterly empty. Like a canvas from which the painting had been erased. His eyes were open, staring at the opposite wall, but there was nothing in them—no thought, no feeling, not even pain. Only silence, deep as a well. He smelled of cologne and that faint sweetish scent Lisa already knew. "My husband," Cecilia said, entering the dining room. She'd changed from her day dress into an evening gown, black, bare-shouldered, wearing a diamond necklace that glittered in the chandelier light so sharply it hurt the eyes. "He won't be participating in the conversation. He doesn't participate at all. But I thought you might find it... instructive." Lisa stared at Julian and felt nausea rise in her throat. This wasn't just a body without a soul—it was a demonstration. Cecilia was showing them what happened to those who paid the Maestro's price. "Please, sit," Cecilia said, taking her place at the head of the table. Vivienne and Christian were already seated on either side of her. Vivienne wore a silver dress and looked at the guests as if they'd tracked dirt inside on their shoes. Christian, in a black jacket with a bow tie too tight for his thin neck, was smiling—and that smile made Lisa want to move as far away as possible. Isabelle sat at the far end of the table, curled in on herself like a bird trying to go unnoticed. Her plate was untouched. Arthur sat across from Christian. Lisa next to Arthur. Max and Jenny across from them. Sasha stood by the door, refusing a seat. "A guard?" Cecilia smirked. "Don't you trust my hospitality?" "I trust no one," Sasha said. "Wise." The first course was served—asparagus cream soup, pale green, with a dollop of cream in the center. Lisa picked up her spoon and tasted it. The flavor was nothing—not good, not bad, simply absent. As if the food, too, was part of the set design, a prop that had forgotten to be filled with meaning. "Tell me about yourselves," Cecilia said, turning to Max. "You, young man. Who are you? Where are you from?" Max set down his spoon. The metal clinked against porcelain. "Brookfield." "Brookfield." Cecilia pronounced it as if it were a disease. "And what do you do in Brookfield?" "Survive." "How witty." She turned to Lisa. "And you, girl with the sketchbook? Are you an artist?" Lisa gripped her sketchbook under the table. "I draw." "What, exactly?" "Things." "Show me." "No." Cecilia raised an eyebrow. "You refuse the lady of the house?" "I refuse anyone who gives orders," Lisa said. "It's my principle." Under the table, Arthur touched her knee—whether in support or warning, Lisa wasn't sure. Christian laughed—short, barking. "You have bold friends, Jennifer. Far more interesting than you. You've always been boring. Even as a child, when you came here with your mother." Jenny didn't answer. She sat straight, hands on the table, looking at Christian with an expression Lisa had never seen on her before. It wasn't contempt. Not anger. It was almost pity. As if Jenny saw before her not an enemy, but a victim who didn't yet know she was a victim. "You don't remember me," Christian continued, leaning forward. "Little Jenny, who was always crying. Who was afraid of the dark. Who hid behind her mother's skirt. And now you come here with a knife and threats. What a change." "I don't threaten," Jenny said. "I state." "Oh, God," Vivienne drawled, rolling her eyes. "You're all so serious. Like revolutionaries. You think you can change anything? Here? In Chicago? You're a bunch of provincial kids who've read too many horror stories." "And you're a bunch of rich heirs who sold your souls for diamonds," Max said. "Seems like an even trade to me." Vivienne fell silent. Her face turned cold as porcelain. "I'd advise you to watch your tongue," she said. "You're in our house. And don't forget who's in charge here." "In charge?" Max smirked. "I thought the Maestro was in charge." Silence. Vivienne crushed her napkin in her fist. Christian stopped smiling. Even Cecilia seemed to freeze for a second—but she quickly regained her composure. "You're bold," she said to Max. "Or stupid. The bold don't live long. The stupid even less." "I've heard that many times. Still here." Christian suddenly lunged forward. His hand shot out, and the gravy boat—heavy, silver, full of hot mushroom sauce—tipped over. Right onto Max's hand. Max gasped. Not a scream—a short gasp, from shock and pain, and then he fell silent, clenching his teeth so hard they ground. Hot liquid spread over his wrist, the skin reddening before their eyes. Lisa jumped up, grabbed a napkin, pressed it to the burn. "Oh," Christian said without a trace of regret. "How clumsy of me." "You did that on purpose," Lisa said. "Prove it." Arthur was already on his feet. His chair scraped back with a loud screech. "Sit down," Cecilia said calmly. "It was an accident." "It was an assault." "It was an unfortunate incident at my table. If you make a scene, I'll call the police. And trust me—they'll be on my side." Arthur stood, gripping the edge of the table. Lisa could see his fingers going white. But Jenny touched his arm. "Sit down," she said quietly. "Not now." Arthur sat. Max sat, pressing the napkin to his hand, his face pale with pain, but he made no sound. "Good," Cecilia said. "Let's continue dinner." But Lisa couldn't eat anymore. She looked at the table, at the silver, the crystal, at Christian's smug face—and felt rage building inside her. Not fear—rage. Cold, sharp as a blade. She looked at these people and saw not enemies. She saw scavengers. Creatures that fed on others' fear and humiliation because they themselves were empty. The second course was served. Something meaty, with a side of vegetables cut so evenly they seemed measured with a ruler. None of the group touched the food. Max kept his hand under the table, the napkin on his wrist growing damp. A maid—a young woman in a white apron—approached Julian. She held a plate of pureed food, something formless, like baby food. She scooped up a spoonful and brought it to his lips. Julian didn't open his mouth. She waited patiently, and after a few seconds, his jaw mechanically lowered. The spoon went in. The maid wiped his lips with a lace napkin, and in that gesture was so much routine, habitual care that Lisa shuddered. This wasn't violence. It was worse. It was servicing emptiness. As if Julian's body were just furniture that needed dusting. And Cecilia watched the scene with a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Like a hostess proud of her home. "Why do you keep him here?" Lisa asked, her voice louder than she'd intended. Cecilia turned to her. "He's my husband." "He's empty. You could put him in a hospital. Or..." "Or what?" Cecilia tilted her head. "Put him down like a dog? Are you suggesting I kill my husband, girl?" "I'm suggesting you don't display him like a trophy." Cecilia set down her fork. Her eyes narrowed. "You don't understand anything. Julian is a reminder. For me. For my children. For anyone who thinks they can gain power without paying the price. He paid. And now he's here. Alive. Eternal. Isn't that wonderful?" "It's monstrous." "It's honest." Cecilia raised her wine glass, held it to the light. "We Fairfaxes don't hide our mistakes. We display them. So we remember." Lisa looked at her and understood: she was telling the truth. Not the whole truth, but the part she believed herself. And that made it even scarier. Because Cecilia wasn't insane. She was absolutely, icily rational. And her rationality was more terrifying than any madness. Dinner drew to a close. Dessert was served—something light, with cream and berries—but no one ate. Max kept his hand under the table, pressing the damp napkin to it. Lisa still held her sketchbook, though she hadn't drawn a single line. Arthur sat with a face of stone. Jenny stared at Cecilia without looking away, as if trying to memorize every feature of her face. "Well," Cecilia said, rising. "Dinner is over. I hope you enjoyed it." "It was... instructive," Jenny said, echoing Cecilia's own word. "I'm glad." Cecilia smiled—thin, poisonous. "Tomorrow, I presume, you'll want to visit the theater. I won't stop you. In fact—I invite you. Come. See. Perhaps then you'll understand what you're dealing with." "We'll come," Jenny said. "I'm counting on it." The butler saw them to the door. When they stepped out into the cold October night, Lisa finally exhaled. The air burned her lungs, but it was clean—not saturated with the sweetish smell that hung in the Fairfax house like invisible smoke. "Your hand," she said to Max. "It'll heal." He unwrapped the napkin. The skin was red, blistered, but the burn wasn't deep. "Bastard. He did it on purpose." "Of course he did." Arthur squeezed Max's shoulder. "You held it together. I would have lost it." "You almost did." "Almost doesn't count." Jenny stood at the gate, staring at the mansion. Cold white light still burned in the windows. "Tomorrow, the theater," she said. "Isabelle will come to us in the morning. I'm sure of it." "How do you know?" "Because tonight, she didn't say a single word. Not one. Even when Christian burned Max. She just sat there, staring at her plate." Jenny turned to the group. "She's on our side. She just doesn't know how to show it yet." They walked down the driveway toward the exit. Gravel crunched underfoot, and that sound seemed the only living thing in the entire block. Lisa looked back at the mansion only once. In one of the windows, she saw a silhouette. Thin, with dark hair. Isabelle. She stood with her palm pressed to the glass, watching them leave. Lisa didn't wave. But she remembered that silhouette. And when they returned—she would be ready.