Genesis. Volume 2

October 14, 1986. Chicago. The Palace Theater, main entrance. Evening. Arthur had expected the theater to look different. He didn't know exactly what he'd anticipated—perhaps a Gothic castle with gargoyles and cracks in the facade, perhaps an ominous glow from the windows. But the Palace Theater looked exactly like what it was: an old, wealthy, well-restored theater. Marble columns at the entrance gleamed in the streetlight, wet asphalt shining beneath them, reflecting the yellow glow. Above the doors, a neon sign spelled "PALACE," and every letter except the "A" worked perfectly. The "A" flickered, as if winking: once, twice, three times—then died, then lit up again. "It looks... ordinary," Max said. "The Genesis mansion looked ordinary too," Lisa said. "Until we went inside." Arthur adjusted his backpack. The dagger lay in the inner pocket of his jacket, and he could feel it with every cell. Since Rachel had touched the blade, the metal hadn't cooled—it was warm, almost hot, and sometimes, when Arthur stood still, he thought he could feel it pulsing. Like a heartbeat. Like a second heart, beating out of sync with his own. They stood across the street from the theater, in the shadow of an old maple. The branches were nearly bare, yellow leaves rustling underfoot, sticking to the wet asphalt. The wind blew off Lake Michigan—cold, damp, bone-chilling. It smelled of water, gasoline, and something else—sweetish, like decaying flowers. That smell came from the theater. It seeped out from under the doors like invisible smoke. "I thought we'd be met," Jenny said. And at that moment, the theater doors opened. Christian stepped out onto the marble porch. Behind him loomed two men—burly, in black suits, with square jaws and empty eyes. Guards. Or perhaps exhibits too—Arthur couldn't tell for sure. They stood motionless, like statues, and that was worse than if they'd moved. Christian wore a long black coat that billowed in the wind, and he looked as if he'd stepped onto a stage. His smile—the same one Arthur remembered from dinner—was firmly in place. Wide, toothy, utterly devoid of warmth. "Jennifer!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms like a host welcoming honored guests. "And her brave friends. You actually came. Mother said you wouldn't dare, but I told her—they will. They're heroes, after all." "We're not heroes," Arthur said. "Of course not. Heroes don't exist. There are only people too stupid to be afraid." He descended the steps, the guards moving with him—in sync, like wind-up toys. Arthur felt Max tense beside him. Max's hand slid toward his pocket, where the knife lay. "Don't," Arthur said quietly. "I wasn't going to." "You twitched." "I didn't twitch." "You twitched." Christian stopped three paces from them. He was tall, a head taller than Arthur, and looked down at them with an expression of mild, condescending curiosity. "I'm here to escort you," he said. "Mother's orders. She wants you to see the theater from the inside. To understand what you're dealing with." "Or so the Maestro can play with us," Jenny said. "Perhaps." Christian shrugged. "I don't ask Mother about her plans. I just follow orders." "You just follow orders," Jenny repeated. "Like a servant." Christian's smile flickered—for a fraction of a second. Arthur saw the muscles in his jaw tighten. But he quickly regained his composure. "You always were mouthy, Jennifer. Even as a child. Remember when you broke my toy horse?" "You pushed me off the swing." "You started it." "I was five." "And I was seven. Children are cruel." He smiled again, colder this time. "But we're adults now. And I'm inviting you inside. Not as enemies. As spectators." "We're not spectators," Lisa said. "Everyone's a spectator. Some just don't know it yet." He turned and strode toward the theater doors. The guards parted, letting the group pass. Arthur exchanged a glance with Jenny. She gave a barely perceptible nod. They entered. The theater lobby was enormous. The floor was black marble with gold veining, the walls draped in dark red velvet, the ceiling painted with scenes from operas and ballets—gods, heroes, dancing nymphs. A crystal chandelier hung from the central dome, its light refracting through a thousand pendants, scattering rainbow reflections across the walls. It smelled of gilt, old wood, and that same sweetish scent Arthur had detected outside. Here it was thicker—coating his tongue like syrup. "Impressive?" Christian asked, stopping by the staircase. "Like a stage set," Lisa said. "All of life is a stage set, girl with the sketchbook. Just some scenes are shorter than others." He led them down a corridor. The walls here were covered in posters—old ones, framed, with faded lettering. La Traviata, 1923. Carmen, 1931. Faust, 1947. And further on, no titles, only dates. "1952." "1961." "1973." As if the theater had stopped performing operas and started performing something else. "What kind of performances are those?" Jenny asked. "Private shows," Christian replied without turning. "For a select audience." "And what do they show?" "Not what. Whom." Arthur felt a chill run down his spine. Not from the words—from the way Christian said them. With pride. As if he were a co-creator. A shadow slipped out of a side corridor. Arthur flinched but immediately realized: it was Isabelle. She wore a dark dress, her face pale, eyes red from lack of sleep. She positioned herself behind Christian, and he didn't notice her—or rather, didn't acknowledge her. "Brother," she said quietly. Christian turned. His smile narrowed slightly. "Isabelle. Mother was looking for you." "I was at the library." She looked at Jenny, something flickering in her gaze—a warning. "I'll escort them the rest of the way. Mother's orders." "Mother told me to." "She changed her mind." Christian squinted. Arthur saw his fingers clench into a fist, but he didn't argue—not here, not now. "As you wish." He stepped aside, letting Isabelle pass. "Just don't complain later that I didn't warn you." "About what?" Isabelle asked. "About guests turning out not to be as nice as they seem." He turned and walked back toward the lobby. The guards followed—in sync, silent, like ghosts. Isabelle exhaled. Arthur only now noticed that she'd been holding her breath. "Come on," she whispered. "Quickly. Mother doesn't know you're here this early. Christian will call her in five minutes. We have time to show you something." "What?" Jenny asked. "The gallery." Isabelle led them up a side staircase—narrow and dark, not for the public but for the staff. The steps creaked underfoot. It smelled of dust and old wood. On the second floor, she pushed open an unassuming door, and they entered a long corridor. The walls here were lined with portraits. It didn't look like an art gallery. It looked like a museum of wax figures, except instead of figures—canvases. Dozens of portraits, in heavy gold frames, with plaques beneath each. Names. Dates. And strange, unnatural expressions. "These are them," Jenny whispered. "The Maestro's victims." Arthur walked along the wall, studying the faces. A man with a frozen scream. A woman whose eyes were filled with tears while her mouth stretched into a smile. A child who laughed, but the laugh was silent, like in a silent film. Each portrait was a window into a final moment—the moment the Maestro took something from them and locked it here. A chill emanated from the canvases, like from an open grave. "They're alive," Lisa whispered. She stood before a portrait of a young man in military uniform, her fingers trembling, not touching the canvas. "Not alive in the sense of... but they breathe. Look." Arthur stepped closer. Beneath the paint, something moved. A muscle in the soldier's cheek twitched—barely noticeable but distinct. The eyelashes of the woman in the neighboring portrait fluttered. The child's lips parted slightly, as if he were trying to speak but couldn't. "These aren't portraits," Isabelle said. "They're prisons. The Maestro takes a moment—the strongest, the brightest—and locks it in the canvas. Then he... feeds on it." "Feeds on what exactly?" Max asked. "The emotion. Pain. Shame. Whatever the person feels in that moment. The stronger the feeling, the longer it... keeps." Jenny stopped before a large portrait in the center of the wall. Arthur came up beside her and froze. It was Julian Fairfax. He was depicted sitting in the same chair they'd seen him in yesterday. But in the portrait, his face wasn't empty. A tear ran down his cheek—a single tear, frozen mid-course. And his eyes... they were alive. They looked out from the canvas with such longing that Arthur's breath caught. "This is what he lost," Isabelle said. "Everything he felt. Love, fear, hope. The Maestro drank him dry, and locked the rest here. Father... he's still there. Somewhere inside." Jenny reached out and touched the canvas. Her fingers rested on the painted tear, and for a second Arthur thought the portrait had come to life—the colors grew brighter, the facial muscles twitched, and the tear seemed to slide down another millimeter. Warmth radiated from the canvas—faint, like breath. "I'll bring you back," Jenny whispered. "I'll bring all of you back." Isabelle touched her shoulder. "We need to go. Christian has surely called Mother by now." They moved down the corridor. Arthur noticed an empty frame at the end of the wall—no canvas, only a plaque. He stepped closer. The inscription read: "Christian Fairfax. Space reserved." "It's for him," Isabelle said. "The Maestro is preparing a place. Christian wants to occupy it voluntarily." "Why?" "Because he thinks it will make him immortal. That he'll become part of something great. Mother instilled that in him." Isabelle pressed her lips together. "He doesn't understand he'll just become food." Arthur looked at the empty frame. It was exactly the same size as the others. Gold, with ornate patterns along the edges. Waiting. "He won't," Arthur said. "You can't convince him otherwise." "I know. But I can stop the Maestro before the frame fills." Isabelle looked at him. Tears stood in her eyes, but she didn't cry. She just nodded. "I'll help you. With everything I have." She led them back to the staircase, and they descended into the lobby. Christian was waiting there, leaning against a column. His smile was in place, but something new burned in his eyes. Suspicion. "Took you long enough," he said. "I hope my sister didn't bore you with tales of family secrets?" "We were just admiring the architecture," Jenny said. "Of course." He pushed off from the column. "Now it's time for you to go. Mother is expecting you at the show. In three days. Don't be late." "We won't be," Arthur said. They stepped outside. The cold wind hit their faces, and Arthur breathed in deeply—the air here was clean, without that sweetish aftertaste. The theater doors closed behind them with a dull thud. "Three days," Max said once they were a safe distance away. "We have three days." "We have a plan," Jenny said. "Underground passage. The locket. The dagger. Lisa's circles. We'll manage." "And if we don't?" Jenny looked back at the theater. The neon sign still flickered—"P"-"L"-"A"-"C"-"E." Palace. Place. "Then at least we'll have tried," she said. "That's more than anyone before us did." They walked down the empty street, their footsteps echoing on the wet asphalt. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. Chicago lived its nocturnal life—noisy, indifferent, unaware of what hid behind the marble columns of the Palace Theater. But Arthur knew. And in three days, he would return. With the dagger. With his friends. With a resolve that burned in his chest like cold fire.