Genesis. Volume 2

October 15, 1986. Chicago. Claire's apartment. Night. Max didn't sleep for the second night in a row. He sat on the windowsill in Claire's apartment, his forehead pressed to the cold glass, staring at the gray street outside. A fine, nasty October drizzle was falling. Raindrops streamed down the glass, distorting the outlines of the buildings opposite, and the world outside looked blurry, not quite real. His hand still ached from the burn, and from time to time he mechanically patted the bandage, checking if blood had seeped through. It hadn't. But the pain reminded him of last night's dinner, of Christian's smirk, of the gravy boat tipping over onto his wrist. He was thinking about something else. He was thinking about plunging his knife into Rachel's thigh. It hadn't happened yet—but it would. He knew this, though he didn't understand how. Maybe from the way his hand burned. Maybe from the way his fingers trembled when he touched the handle. He dreamed of striking a person—a living, warm person—and feeling the blade enter flesh. In the dream, it felt... right. And that made it even more terrifying. He pushed the thought away and turned back to the room. Jenny lay on the couch. Claire was re-bandaging her palm—the same one she'd cut on the glass at the theater. The wound was deep but clean; she'd lost a lot of blood, but the veins were intact. Jenny was pale, but her eyes remained clear. She didn't complain. She rarely complained. "You could have bled out," Claire said, tightening the bandage. The white fabric immediately turned pink. "I could have. I didn't." "Next time, warn me before you cut yourself." "Next time, I'll cut deeper." Claire shook her head but said nothing. Arthur stood at the table, studying the theater map Isabelle had given them. His face was gray with exhaustion, but he stubbornly traced the corridor lines with his finger, memorizing the route. Lisa sat in the corner, drawing circles—one after another, practicing with her left hand. The pencil scratched against the paper. Sasha was cleaning her pistol, though everyone knew bullets were useless against the Maestro—but the ritual calmed her. A pounding came at the door. Not a knock—a pounding, loud and desperate, making the chain rattle. Sasha raised her pistol. Max jumped off the windowsill, gripping his knife handle. Arthur stepped to the door and peered through the peephole. "Isabelle." He opened the door, and Isabelle practically fell inside. Her face was white as chalk, hair disheveled, eyes wild and red from crying. She gasped for breath, as if she'd run all the way from the mansion. She smelled of rain and sweat. "He... he..." She couldn't speak, only clutched her throat. "Who?" Jenny asked, sitting up on the couch. "Christian! He took a knife... he said he wouldn't wait for the show. That the Maestro was calling him now. He went to the theater. He wants to give himself today. Now!" "Where is he?" Arthur was already pulling on his jacket. "Backstage. I tried to stop him, but he... he hit me." Isabelle touched her cheek, and only then did Max notice the red mark from a slap. "He said I was a traitor. That I deserved the same as Father." Max was already on his feet. The knife slid into his palm—familiar, comfortable. "Let's go," he said. "Quickly." October 15, 1986. Chicago. The Palace Theater, backstage. Day. They reached the theater in fifteen minutes. In daylight, the building looked different—less ominous, but no less alien. The marble columns gleamed in the rain. Posters on the walls hung limp and wet, their paint running. The main entrance was locked, but Isabelle led them through the service entrance—the same side door as yesterday. Inside, it smelled of dampness and old wood. Backstage was dark. A theater labyrinth of dressing rooms, prop storage, stacks of scenery. Dusty velvet curtains hung from the ceiling like dead birds. Broken chairs, old stage lights, papier-mâché columns lay piled in corners. Sawdust and broken glass crunched underfoot. Max walked first—he'd volunteered because he knew: if Christian was here, Max was the only one who wouldn't hesitate to strike. They found him by the back wall of the stage, near the exit to the altar platform—the same one where the Maestro had stood yesterday. Christian was alone. He knelt before a roughly assembled stone dais, on which lay wilted flowers and a melted candle stub. In his hand, he clutched a knife—long, narrow, with a silver handle. His face was wet with tears, but he was smiling—that same mad smile Max had seen at dinner. "Christian!" Isabelle shouted. "Stop!" He turned his head. The smile widened. "Sister. You've come to say goodbye?" "You can't do this. It's not an honor. It's death." "Death?" Christian laughed—short, barking. "You don't understand anything. The Maestro grants immortality. I'll become part of his collection. My portrait will hang in the gallery forever. People will admire me. People will remember me." "They'll remember you as a fool," Max said. Christian shifted his gaze to him. The smile faltered. "A country bumpkin with a knife. You think you can tell me what to do? You're nothing. Your family is nothing. Your life is dust. But I am a Fairfax. My blood is legacy." "Your blood is feed," Jenny said, stepping forward. She was still pale but stood straight. "You're not a Keeper, Christian. You're not a Brooks. You're just a pawn your mother is feeding to the Maestro." "Liar!" "Look at your father. Look what the Maestro did to him. Do you want the same fate?" Christian froze. For a second, Max thought he was hesitating. But then his face twisted with rage. "Father was weak!" he screamed. "I'm not! I'll prove it! I'll prove it to everyone!" He leaped to his feet and lunged forward—not at the altar, but at Isabelle. The knife flashed in his hand. Max reacted before he could think. He intercepted, ducked, and kicked Christian's legs out from under him—hard, the way Tucker had taught him. Christian cried out, lost his balance, and crashed to the floor. The knife flew from his hand and clattered across the wooden boards. Max kicked it away, under the scenery. "Don't touch her," he said. His voice didn't sound like his own—low, cold. Christian lay on the floor, breathing heavily. He wasn't trying to get up. He stared up at Max, pure, undiluted hatred burning in his eyes. "You... you..." He couldn't find the words. "I warned you." But Christian wasn't listening anymore. He turned onto his hands and knees and crawled—not toward the knife, but toward the altar. His fingers scraped the boards, his knees slid across the dusty floor. He crawled like a crushed insect, and with every movement, a sound escaped his throat—half laugh, half sob. "Maestro!" he screamed. "Take me! I'm ready! I give myself!" The air thickened. The sweetish smell became unbearable. And at the far end of the hall, by the stage exit, a shadow appeared. The Maestro stepped out of the darkness as silently as always. His cloak flowed across the floor, his conductor's baton swaying in time to unheard music. His black eyes gleamed. He looked at Christian with mild, almost dismissive interest—like a gourmand served a dish ordered by someone else. "You called me," he said. Not a question—a statement. "Yes!" Christian crawled closer, reaching out his hands. "I want to be with you. I want to be part of you. Take me. Take me!" The Maestro tilted his head. "Your mother said you'd be ready by the show. But since you insist..." "Please!" The Maestro sighed—almost humanly. Then he reached out and touched Christian's face. Max expected a scream. Expected blood, smoke, a flash. But there was nothing. Only silence. Christian froze. Color began draining from his hair—it turned gray as ash, then white as snow. His skin lost its hue, going pale, then gray, then the color of wet cement. His eyes, still open, went glassy, their pupils fading. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out. The Maestro withdrew his hand. Christian remained kneeling like a statue. His face was frozen in an expression of ecstatic rapture—lips stretched in a smile, eyebrows raised, eyes wide. But there was nothing left in those eyes. No thought. No feeling. No soul. "Finished," the Maestro said. His tone was matter-of-fact, like a craftsman completing a piece. "One more exhibit." From above, from the balcony, a sound came. One single clap. Max looked up. Cecilia stood on the balcony, leaning on the railing. She looked at her frozen son, her face cold as marble. Not a single tear. Not a tremor of her lips. Only a slight, almost imperceptible disappointment—like a customer receiving a defective product. "He rushed," she said quietly. "I told him to wait for the show." She turned and disappeared into the balcony's shadows without another word. Isabelle stood with her hands pressed to her mouth. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she made no sound. Jenny put an arm around her shoulders, pulled her close. Max stared at the gray statue of Christian and felt something inside him snap. Not pity. Not anger. Something else—realization. This is how it works. This is what the Maestro does. He doesn't kill—he takes. And no one, not even a mother, sheds a tear. "Let's go," Arthur said quietly. "Now." They backed toward the exit. The Maestro didn't follow. He stood over his new statue, his black eyes watching them leave with an expression of sated satisfaction. When they stepped outside, the rain was still falling. Max tilted his face up to the cold drops and, for the first time that day, took a deep breath. The air was clean. But in his head, Christian's voice still echoed: "I'll prove it." And the silence that followed. "He chose this," Arthur said, as if answering an unasked question. "He was a fool," Max said. "But he didn't deserve that." "No one does. But that doesn't mean we can save them." Max didn't answer. He shoved his hand into his pocket, where the knife lay, and gripped the handle. The metal was cold. Real. The only thing he could control.