Genesis. Volume 2

October 14, 1986. Chicago. Claire's apartment. Day. Isabelle stood on the threshold, and she looked as if she hadn't slept in a week, surviving on nothing but fear. Jenny opened the door herself—Claire had stepped back, understanding this was a family conversation. Isabelle crossed the threshold uncertainly, like a small animal emerging from its burrow for the first time, unsure whether a hawk would snatch it. Her dark hair, neatly pinned yesterday, now hung in tangled strands. Shadows lay deep beneath her eyes, her lips were bitten raw. She huddled in a gray coat, too thin for the October wind, clutching a worn canvas bag to her chest. The coat smelled of damp and old dust—the scent of the mansion she carried with her. Jenny noticed her hands. Her fingers were scratched—nails had left deep furrows in her skin, and blood had dried in places. It didn't look like an injury. It looked like what people do when they need to feel pain so they don't feel anything else. "Come in," Jenny said quietly. Isabelle entered. Her eyes swept the room—the couch, the mattress, the maps on the table, Sasha's disassembled pistol—and lingered on Lisa. She sat against the wall with her sketchbook on her lap, a paper towel pressed to her ear already soaked with blood. "What happened to her?" Isabelle asked. Her voice was hoarse, as if she too hadn't spoken in days. "The Maestro," Lisa said. "Reached out." "He can. He..." Isabelle faltered. "Can I have some water?" Max silently poured a glass from the pitcher in the kitchen and handed it to her. She took it with both hands, and Jenny saw her fingers trembling. Water sloshed over the rim, but Isabelle didn't notice. She took a sip, then another, then sank onto the chair Arthur had pulled out for her and closed her eyes. "I can't stay long," she said. "Mother thinks I'm at the library. I have an hour, maybe an hour and a half." "You came," Jenny said. "That's already a lot." Isabelle opened her eyes and looked at her. There was something in that gaze Jenny hadn't expected to see: not just fear, not just despair, but a strange, almost weightless hope. As if Isabelle had waited years for someone to walk into her house and say, "It's over"—and now that it had happened, she couldn't quite believe it. "You don't look like her," Isabelle said. "Like who?" "Like your mother. I remember her. She used to visit us when I was little. She was... quiet. But there was a core to her. She wasn't afraid to look Mother in the eye. You do that too." Isabelle paused. "I always wanted to be like that. But I couldn't." "You're here now. That's what matters." Isabelle shook her head. Her fingers tightened on the glass. "You don't understand. My father... he was good." She said the word as if it were in a foreign language she'd learned as a child and forgotten. "He used to take me to the park. Tell me stories. He had a laugh—loud, like... like a bell. Mother wasn't like that back then. Or maybe I just didn't notice." She fell silent, staring into the glass. The water was clear, but she seemed to see something else in it. "When they bought the theater, everything changed. Mother became different. Cold. She said it was an 'opportunity.' That the Maestro wasn't a monster but a partner. That power required sacrifice. Father didn't want it. He argued with her. Shouted. And then... he stopped." "When did that happen?" Jenny asked. "Three years ago. After one of the shows. He went to the theater to stop her, and he came back..." Isabelle pressed the glass to her forehead, as if the cold could ease the pain. "He came back empty. At first he just sat there. Then he stopped eating on his own. Then he stopped blinking. Now he doesn't even look at me. He doesn't see me. He doesn't see anyone." Jenny crouched in front of her. She didn't touch her—just lowered herself to the same level so their eyes could meet. "Your father is still in there. Somewhere inside. I know how that works. Jack—our friend—he looks like an empty shell too. But sometimes he speaks. Sometimes he remembers. He's trapped, but he hasn't vanished. Neither has your father." Isabelle choked back a sob. A tear rolled down her cheek and fell into the glass of water—a small circle spread across the surface. "I can't save him," she whispered. "We'll try. But first we have to stop the Maestro." Isabelle took a deep breath, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and straightened. Something in her had changed—as if she'd finally made a decision she'd been putting off for years. "Here," she said, pulling folded sheets of paper from her bag. "It's the theater's floor plan. I copied it from my father's study. He knew every corner. I think he was preparing... before he broke." Arthur took the sheets, spread them on the table. Sasha moved closer, studying the lines. The plan was detailed—corridors, halls, dressing rooms, the machine room. And separately, a thin red line drawn from the basement level to the rear entrance of the orchestra. "An underground passage," Isabelle said, pointing to the line. "It was built during Prohibition to smuggle alcohol. Mother thinks no one knows about it, but Father recorded it in his diary. It leads from an old coal cellar on the neighboring street right under the stage. If you take that route, the Maestro won't notice you until the last moment." "What about the locket?" Jenny asked. "You mentioned it in the courtyard." Isabelle reached into her bag again and pulled out a small leather pouch. She didn't open it, just held it in her palm. "It's not just a locket. It contains the Maestro's ashes. Or rather, a fragment of him. When the theater was first built, the Maestro gave the first Fairfax that locket as a token of their deal. As long as the locket is intact, Cecilia can... not control him, but influence him. Contain him. If the locket is destroyed, the bond is broken. The Maestro will be free, but Cecilia will lose her power over him. And then he'll be vulnerable." "Why hasn't she destroyed it herself?" Sasha asked. "Because without the locket, the Maestro could turn his rage on her. She's afraid of that. She wears it constantly. Even sleeps with it." "So we have to take it off her." "Or break it on her." Isabelle clenched the pouch. "I tried. Once, at night. I crept into her bedroom. But she woke up. She said if I tried again, I'd end up like my father." Jenny took the pouch from her hands. It was light, but something shifted inside—like a grain of sand, only heavier. "You won't end up like your father," she said. "We won't let that happen." Isabelle looked at her. Tears stood in her eyes, but she didn't look away. "Christian," she said. "My brother. He wants to give himself to the Maestro. Voluntarily. Mother encourages it. She says it's a great honor to become part of the collection. But I know what that is. I've seen the gallery. It's not an honor. It's a cage." "When?" Arthur asked. "At the show. In three days. He's going to walk onto the stage and offer himself. And Mother will let him." "We won't allow it." "He won't listen. He hates me. He hates you. He thinks the Maestro's power will make him special. He doesn't understand that he'll just become another portrait." Jenny remembered Christian's face at dinner—the smile that was more like a grimace, the fingers that had knocked the gravy boat onto Max's hand. He wasn't a victim. He was a collaborator. But he was doomed too. Like everyone who entered that theater. "We'll try to save him," Jenny said. "But I can't promise." "I know." Isabelle wiped her nose. "I just wanted someone to know the truth. About the theater. About the locket. About what happened to my father. If something happens to me, I don't want it to disappear." "Nothing will happen to you." "You can't know that." "I can," Jenny said. "Because you're with us now." Isabelle looked at her for a long moment. Then her face crumpled, and she began to cry silently—not the way people cry for show, but the way people cry who've held everything in too long and finally given themselves permission to let go. Jenny moved closer and hugged her. Awkwardly, tightly, the way you hug a younger sister you haven't seen in a hundred years. Isabelle buried her face in Jenny's shoulder and sobbed. Her back shook, her fingers clutched Jenny's jacket, and she no longer tried to hold back. Her hair smelled of lavender shampoo—the same as in the mansion—and Jenny felt the other girl's pain flowing into her. Lisa, sitting against the wall, set down her sketchbook. Max turned to the window, not wanting to intrude. Arthur and Sasha remained silent. The room was quiet—only sobs and breathing. "I was afraid you wouldn't come," Isabelle whispered, not lifting her face. "I came." "I thought I was alone. That I was the last one." "You're not alone." Jenny stroked her head, strands of hair sticking to her wet cheeks. "And you're not the last. The Brookses don't give up." Isabelle pulled back, wiping her face with her palms. Her cheeks were red, but her eyes were clearer—as if the tears had washed away a film. "Here," she said, untying the pouch and pulling out the locket. It was a small medallion of dark metal, engraved with the letter "F." "I stole it. Switched it out. Mother wears a fake. I didn't know why I did it. I just... felt like I had to." Jenny took the medallion. It was cold, and from it came a faint, barely perceptible smell—that same sweetish scent. The smell of the Maestro. The metal felt sticky to the touch, though her fingers remained dry. "You're very brave," she said. "I'm not brave. I'm just tired of being afraid." "That's the same thing." Isabelle smiled weakly—for the first time. "I have to go. If Mother notices the loss too soon..." "Go. We'll handle it." Isabelle stood, picked up her bag. At the door, she turned. "Jenny. If you see my father... if you can... tell him I remember him. Even if he doesn't remember me." "I will." Isabelle nodded and left. The door closed with a soft click. Silence settled over the room. Jenny sat on the floor, clutching the cold medallion with the letter "F." Inside it was a fragment of the Maestro's ashes—a piece of the monster that had held her family in fear for three generations. And now it was hers. "This is our chance," Sasha said, breaking the silence. "If we destroy the locket before the show, the Maestro will be disoriented." "But he'll still be powerful," Arthur said. "The locket is a restraining factor. Without it, he could become even more dangerous." "Then we have to strike fast. Right after the locket is destroyed." "Will the dagger hold?" Max asked. Arthur pulled the dagger from his backpack. The blade was still smudged, a faint vapor rising from it. But the engraving seemed slightly clearer—as if the metal was slowly healing its wound. "It will hold," he said. "It has to." Jenny rose from the floor, placed the medallion on the table. "We have the theater plan, the underground passage, and the locket. In two days—the show. We need to be ready." "We will be," Lisa said. She was already drawing again—this time a diagram of the theater, with the red line of the underground passage transferred from Isabelle's plan to her own map. "I'll draw the circles. Everywhere I can." Max adjusted the bandage on his hand. "And I'll make sure Christian doesn't burn anyone else." Jenny looked at them—her strange, patchwork family—and felt warmth spread through her. Not hot, not scorching. Steady. Calm. Like a fire in a hearth that had finally caught. "We'll do this," she said. "All of us together." And for the first time that day, she almost believed it.