Genesis. Volume 2

October 18, 1986. Chicago. The Palace Theater, main hall and stage. Past midnight. Arthur was still on his feet—and he didn't understand how. Everything around him had become a whirlwind of screams, stampeding feet, and overturned chairs. The audience that had applauded him moments ago now fled toward the exits, trampling each other, tearing evening gowns on seat backs. A man in a tuxedo vaulted over a velvet rope and crashed face-first into the aisle. A woman in diamonds lost a shoe and ran barefoot, smearing blood across the marble steps—not her own, someone else's, the blood that had sprayed into the orchestra when Jenny cut her palm. The chandelier swayed overhead, its light careening across the hall like a maddened spotlight. The shadows released by the Maestro coiled around columns, crawled over seats, grabbed fleeing guests by the legs, and they fell with screams Arthur had never heard before. Not screams of fear—screams of hopelessness. Jenny stood ten paces from him, in the center of the stage. Her right arm was raised above her head, and blood still flowed from her palm—but now it didn't just flow. It glowed. A dense crimson radiance spread from her in concentric circles, like ripples from a stone thrown into water. And wherever those ripples touched the shadows, the shadows recoiled. Hissed. Shrank. She was holding a shield. Made of her own blood, her own will, what remained of her strength after yesterday's cut, after today's attack, after everything. Arthur could see her hand trembling. Could see her face growing pale—not just pale, but gray as ash. But she was still standing. "Jenny!" he shouted. She didn't turn. She couldn't turn. Every drop of her being was focused on the shield. And then, in the side aisle, behind an overturned row of seats, Rachel appeared. She emerged from smoke and shadows like an actress who'd been waiting for her cue backstage. Her dark suit was torn—the same one she'd worn when she came to Claire's apartment with her fake wound. A stain of pig's blood still darkened her shoulder, smeared on the bandage. In her hands, she held a shotgun—short-barreled, glinting dully in the chandelier's shifting light. Arthur saw her first. Their eyes met. And Rachel smiled. "Thank you, Walker!" she shouted. Her voice cut through the hall's noise, and every word hit Arthur like a bullet in a target. "Without your list, I'd never have known about Brooks's fear! Without your trust, I'd never have gotten this close!" He didn't have time to answer. Didn't even have time to fully register it. Rachel raised the shotgun and fired. Not at him. Not at Jenny. At the mirrors. They hung on either side of the stage—tall, in gilded frames, decorative panels the Maestro used for his illusions. The shotgun roared once, twice, three times. The mirrors exploded into fragments. A silver rain poured onto the stage, the orchestra, Jenny. Thousands of shards danced in the chandelier light, and each was a tiny window into another dimension. And each reflected her. Jenny saw herself. Her face, drenched in blood. Her eyes, wide with terror. Her hand, raised in a desperate attempt to hold the shield. The reflections multiplied, fractured, cross-repeated in other shards, creating an endless corridor of mirrors in which it wasn't her walking—it was her fear. The same childhood fear she'd hidden for years. The one she'd spoken of yesterday, not knowing her enemy was listening. Arthur watched her face change. Not pain. Not exhaustion. Pure, primal terror—the kind that can't be controlled, that floods the mind like a tsunami. Her hand faltered. The shield flickered. The shadows, sensing weakness, surged forward, and one of them—the fastest—lashed through the air a millimeter from her shoulder. "No," Jenny whispered. "No, no, no, no..." She stumbled back, tripped, fell to her knees. The shield died. The glow that had held the hall collapsed with a soft, almost gentle sound—like a soap bubble bursting. The shadows roared—silently, but Arthur felt that roar in his skin. They flooded the hall, filling the space, and the air turned cold as a grave. Jenny sat on the stage boards, her hands pressed to her head, rocking back and forth like a child. Shards of mirror surrounded her in a glittering carpet, and in each one she saw only one thing: her own face, twisted in fear. The face she'd been afraid to see since she was five years old. "Jenny!" Arthur lunged toward her, but a shadow caught him—wrapped around his legs, yanked, and he fell, his chin slamming against the boards. The dagger slipped from his hand and clattered across the floor. And then Max screamed. It wasn't a scream of fear. It was a scream of rage—pure, undiluted, hot as lava. Arthur, lying on the boards, turned his head and saw Max charging forward. Not toward Jenny. Toward Rachel. He ran across the stage, leaping over fragments, his face twisted with a hatred Arthur had never seen on him before. The knife glinted in his hand—the same one he'd sharpened at night, the one he always carried, the one that had become part of him. Rachel turned to face him. She was still smiling—but now the smile was different. Cruel. Anticipatory. She raised the shotgun. Max was faster. He struck from below, not aiming—simply pouring all his pain, all his rage, everything that had built up in him since Brookfield, since the mansion, since the circus, since the moment he first realized the world was full of monsters in human form into that blow. The knife sank into Rachel's thigh—deep, to the hilt. She screamed. The shotgun fell from her hands and clattered across the boards. Blood—real blood, not pig's blood—poured down her trousers, and Rachel, swaying, grabbed the curtain to stay upright. She didn't fall. She stared at Max with shock and pain—and was still smiling, crookedly, through clenched teeth. "Puppy," she breathed. Max stood over her. His hand, gripping the knife, was bloody to the elbow. He was breathing hard, and his eyes—always wary, always assessing—were now empty. Not from horror. From realization. He looked at his hands. At the blood dripping from his fingers. At the knife that had entered living flesh. At Rachel's face, contorted in pain. And his own face went white. "I..." he started, and stopped. Arthur saw his shoulders sag. Saw the knife lower. Saw Max step back, unable to tear his gaze from his bloodied hands. "I did that," he said quietly. "I... I didn't..." He didn't finish. His voice broke. Arthur wanted to shout to him—anything, a word, his name—but he didn't have time. Rachel, still standing by the curtain, raised her head. Her smile widened, despite the pain. "Too late, puppy," she whispered. And the shadows that had been waiting attacked. Arthur saw Max vanish into the black whirlwind—not fall, but vanish, swallowed by the oily darkness. Saw Sasha, who had burst out from somewhere beneath the overturned seats, rush toward him with her pistol—she'd retrieved it when the shadows were distracted. Saw Jenny, still on her knees, lift her head and try to stand, but couldn't—her strength had gone with the shield. Saw the Maestro, in the center of the stage, slowly turn toward Arthur, his black eyes blazing with triumph. "You see, Walker?" he said. His voice was soft, almost intimate. "You see what happens to those who trust the wrong people? You gave me your friend when you told her about the fear of mirrors. You gave me your team when you let her into our lair. You loaded the gun she fired." Arthur lay on the boards, staring into the Maestro's black eyes. The dagger was a meter from his hand—but he couldn't reach it. And even if he could—what would it change? Jenny's shield had fallen. Max was gone in the shadows. Sasha was somewhere out there, in the chaos of the hall. Lisa—he didn't know where Lisa was. "You've lost," the Maestro said. "But I'll give you a chance. Get up. Pick up your pathetic knife. And perhaps I'll leave you something. Some small memory." Arthur stared at him. His head rang with emptiness—the emptiness left by his father's face. He no longer remembered how his father smiled. He no longer remembered his father reading Treasure Island to him. He remembered almost nothing. But he remembered one thing: he was a Walker. And the Walkers didn't give up. He moved his fingers. The dagger was close. Very close. A little more—and he could reach it. Somewhere behind the Maestro, on the balcony, he saw movement. A shadow flickered behind Cecilia—and Arthur recognized the silhouette. Isabelle. She'd made it into the hall after all. Something glinted in her hand. Arthur gritted his teeth. He reached for the dagger. And the Maestro, noticing the movement, smiled—wide, anticipatory. "Go ahead, Walker. Try." And Arthur tried.