Genesis. Volume 2

October 15, 1986. Chicago. The Palace Theater, main hall. Past midnight. Arthur had thought the main hall would be empty. That's what Isabelle had said: after midnight, the theater fell silent, even the shadow-servants retreated to the basement, even the mirrors stopped their contortions. "You'll have an hour," she'd whispered, pressing the key to the side door into Jenny's palm. "No more. Find the altar, find the locket, do what you have to do. I'll hold off Mother if she wakes up." The key had been cold and sticky from her sweaty palm. The hall was indeed empty. But not quiet. The silence here wasn't the absence of sound—it was something else. Dense, viscous, like water at depth. Arthur felt it with his skin. It pressed on his ears, his chest, the back of his neck. Every step on the carpeted aisle echoed dully in his temples, and it felt as if he were walking not down the aisle between seats but along the bottom of a vast aquarium, where the water was darkness. His own breathing sounded too loud, and he tried to breathe sparingly. The rows of seats rose in an amphitheater, fading into shadows. The velvet upholstery was dark red, almost black in the dim glow of the emergency lights. The boxes on either side of the stage gaped like empty eye sockets. Above them, just beneath the ceiling, hung a giant chandelier—crystal, many-armed—but it wasn't lit. Only a few bulbs at the edges of the stage smoldered at half-power, like embers in a cooling fire. Their light was barely enough to make out the first few rows. It smelled of dust, old velvet, and that same sweetish scent that had followed them since arriving in Chicago. The scent of the Maestro. Here it was thickest—coating the tongue, clinging to the palate. "Where's the altar?" Max whispered. His voice sounded too loud, and the echo caught the word, multiplied it, carried it up under the ceiling: altar... altar... altar... "I don't know," Isabelle said. She stood by the side door through which they'd entered, her face pale as paper. "I thought it was on the stage. But the stage is empty." The stage was indeed empty. Vast, with tall velvet curtains, with a painted backdrop—some pastoral landscape, trees, a lake—it looked abandoned. As if no one had performed here in a hundred years. But Arthur knew that was an illusion. Like everything else in this theater. "Spread out," Sasha said quietly. She'd drawn her pistol, though everyone knew bullets were useless against the Maestro. The metal clicked, the sound grating on their nerves. "Look for the altar, the locket, anything. We have an hour." Jenny stepped toward the stage. Arthur moved after her. He held an old baseball bat in his hand—wrapped with electrical tape on the handle, which he'd taken from Brookfield and carried as a talisman. Now it felt like a child's toy. But he had nothing else. The wood under his fingers was rough and warm from his palm. "Jenny," he called. "Wait." She didn't stop. Her back was straight, shoulders squared, and from the outside she looked like she was out for a stroll. But Arthur knew her well enough to see: the fingers of her right hand were clenched into a fist, her knuckles white. She was in a rage. That cold, lethal rage that makes people charge into the breach without thinking of consequences. "Jenny!" "I can feel him," she said without turning. "He's here. He's watching." Arthur stopped. He felt it too. Not a gaze—a presence. As if they were being watched from every dark corner, every fold of the curtain, every empty seat. The hall was full of invisible eyes. And then the light went out. Not a flicker, not a dimming—it simply vanished, as if someone had switched off the entire world. Arthur froze, gripping the bat. In the darkness, he could hear breathing—his own, rapid, and others': Max cursing somewhere to the right, Lisa gasping and falling silent, Sasha clicking off the safety. Isabelle was crying quietly, almost soundlessly. "Don't move," Sasha commanded. "Stay together." But staying together was impossible. The darkness pulled them apart, scattered them like water scattering wreckage. Arthur could no longer feel the floor beneath him—only the cold rising from somewhere below, and the smell, suddenly unbearably strong. Sweet, cloying, like rotting lilies. And then the light came back on. A single lamp above the stage. It didn't illuminate the hall—it merely carved a circle of light out of the darkness on the wooden floor. And in that circle stood a man. At first, Arthur thought it was a man. Tall, thin, in a long silk cloak that flowed to the floor though there was no wind. In his right hand, he held a conductor's baton—thin, black, with a silver tip. His hair was dark and slicked back, and his face—his face was beautiful. Too beautiful. Like a statue carved by a sculptor who had never seen a living person but had read about them extensively. Regular features, but immobile. Skin white as porcelain. Eyes—black, without whites, without pupils, two drops of oil on a white face. And he was smiling. Not threateningly. Not cruelly. Rather—the way a collector smiles when he spots a rare specimen. With interest. With anticipation. "Good evening," the Maestro said. His voice was soft, but the echo carried it through the entire hall, and every seat, every wall, every fold of the curtain repeated the words—in whispers, in moans, in sighs. "Good evening... good evening... good evening..." "I've been waiting for you," he continued, his black eyes settling on Jenny. "Especially you. Heir of the Brooks. The last of a line that once swore to destroy my kind. The irony of fate, is it not? Your great-grandfather served Crowley. Your mother tried to destroy this theater. And now you stand here. Such persistence. Such... tasty blood." Jenny stepped forward. Arthur tried to grab her arm, but she pulled free—sharply, almost roughly. "You killed my mother," she said. Her voice was steady as a taut string. "I?" The Maestro tilted his head, feigning surprise. "Your mother killed herself. She came to my theater with a knife and a belief that her blood was stronger than I. She was mistaken. Her blood was strong. But not enough." He paused, his smile widening. "Yours, I think, is stronger." "Try me." Jenny raised her hand. Arthur saw something dark glint in her palm—she was gripping a shard of glass she'd picked up that afternoon at Claire's apartment. She slashed across her palm—deep, without hesitation—and blood sprayed onto the floor. The Maestro stopped smiling. Jenny's blood didn't just flow—it glowed. A faint, crimson radiance emanated from every drop, and where the blood touched the wooden boards, the wood began to smoke, hiss, burn black. Jenny clenched her bloodied fist, and the blood grew thicker, denser, coalescing into an uneven, pulsing mass. She raised it above her head like a torch. "You want my blood?" she shouted. "Take it!" She hurled the mass forward. The blood-ball flew across the stage, leaving a glowing trail—and struck the Maestro in the chest. An explosion. Not deafening—muffled, like a blow to a massive drum. The fabric of the Maestro's cloak flared crimson, and for a second, Arthur thought he could see through it—not a body, but something else, a swirling, oily-black mass, like a swarm of insects compressed into human form. The smell of burnt silk and something acrid filled the air. But the cloak closed, and the crimson glow died. The Maestro stood in the same spot, not even swaying. His smile had returned—this time cold as a blade. "Delicious," he said. "Very delicious. But not enough." He flicked the conductor's baton—casually, as if swatting a fly. And a shadow shot forward. Arthur didn't see it happen. One moment Jenny stood on the stage, clutching her bloodied fist—the next she was flying across the hall like a rag doll, slamming back-first into the orchestra seats. A crack echoed—splintering wood, tearing upholstery. Jenny fell between the rows and lay still, not moving. One arm flung to the side, blood dripping onto the carpet. "Jenny!" Lisa rushed toward her, but Sasha caught her by the shoulder, squeezing so hard her fingers went white. "Don't move!" "She's hurt!" "If you run, you'll be hurt too. Or worse." Arthur stood, gripping the bat. His fingers were numb. He stared at Jenny, at her motionless body, at the dark stain spreading across the seat upholstery—and felt something black and cold rise inside him. Not fear. Helplessness. He wanted to scream, but his throat had closed. The Maestro slowly turned his head toward him. Those black eyes glinted like polished obsidian. "You," he said. "The one who carries the dagger. I can feel it. It smells of blood and old steel. Give it to me, and perhaps I'll leave you something. A small memory. For instance, the first time you saw your father. You've already started to forget him, haven't you? His face is fading, isn't it? Only an outline remains..." Arthur swallowed. His throat was dry as sand. "No," he said. "No?" The Maestro raised an eyebrow. "You refuse me? Here? Now? When your friend is bleeding out in the third row, and you're standing there with a wooden stick?" "Not a stick. A bat." He didn't know why he'd said that. Probably because there was nothing else to say. Behind him, Max let out a short, nervous laugh—a barking sound. The Maestro sighed—theatrically, like an actor disappointed by the audience's reaction. "Very well. I offered. You refused. Now it will be less entertaining." He flicked the baton again—this time more slowly, like a conductor beginning a symphony. And the shadows in the hall began to stir. They crawled from the corners, from under the seats, from the folds of the curtains—long, writhing, like tentacles. Arthur raised the bat in front of him. The wood trembled in his hands. He knew it was useless. Knew the Maestro couldn't be stopped with a bat, a knife, a pistol, even the dagger—not until Jenny stood up, not until the locket was destroyed, not until a miracle occurred. But he stood his ground. Because there was nothing else left to do. "Jenny," he whispered, not taking his eyes off the Maestro. "Please. Get up." She didn't move. Only the blood still dripped from her fingers onto the carpet, the drops glowing faintly in the darkness.