Genesis. Volume 2

October 22, 1986. Brookfield. The Walkers' house. Morning. Max woke to the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. Not sharp—muffled, careful, as if someone was trying not to make noise. He opened his eyes and lay still for a few seconds, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling—white, with a crack running from the chandelier to the corner—trying to remember where he was. Pale green floral wallpaper. Sofia and Mark's wedding photo on the wall: young, happy, without gray hair or wrinkles. The Walkers' living room. He'd crashed on the couch last night without even undressing, and now the blanket was bunched at his feet, the pillow wedged between the seat and the backrest. His hand ached—the one Christian had burned at the Fairfax dinner. The bandage smelled of ointment and menthol, with a faint medicinal sweetness beneath. Max sat up, rubbed his face. Stubble was growing in uneven patches on his chin, and when he ran his palm over it, he felt the prickliness. He was sixteen, and he hated that stubble—it reminded him he wasn't an adult yet. Not a soldier. Just a boy. Something sizzled in a pan on the stove. The smell of bacon and coffee drifted in—black, bitter, with two spoonfuls of sugar, the way Mark drank it. Max didn't like coffee. He drank tea, like Lisa. Lisa. He remembered her face the moment the beam fell on the stage. The scream—not the one everyone heard, but the one inside her, when she crawled to Arthur and drew the line with her left hand. Crooked, trembling, alive. He got up, pulled on his jeans and t-shirt. Found his sneakers under the chair—one, then the other. Laced them without looking, by habit. The hallway was quiet. Lisa's door was closed—Jenny was sleeping in there, having given the bed to Isabelle. Arthur was probably still upstairs. And Emma... Max glanced into the living room. The couch was empty. The blanket was neatly folded, the pillow set in place. On the edge of the table lay a dog tag—silver, scratched, engraved with "CROSS. CIRCLE." The one Emma had clutched all night. She'd forgotten it. Or left it on purpose. He picked it up. The metal was cold, but deep inside, it still held her warmth. Max tucked it into his pocket—to give back later. In the kitchen, Sofia stood at the stove, flipping pancakes. Seeing Max, she smiled—tiredly, but warmly. "Good morning. Sleep well?" "Not really," he admitted. "Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready." He sat at the table. Plates, forks, mugs were already set out, and in the center stood a small jar of homemade strawberry jam. Max remembered that taste. Last summer, when he and Arthur had stayed overnight in the shed, Sofia had given them a jar, and they'd eaten it straight from the neck with spoons. "Is Arthur asleep?" he asked. "I don't know. He hasn't come down since last night." She flipped the last pancake and turned off the stove. "I wanted to go up, but I was afraid." "I'll go." "Thank you, Max." He nodded and stepped into the hallway. The stairs met him with their familiar creak—the third step groaned like a wounded animal. Max knew that groan. It was part of the house, like the ticking of the clock, the creak of the front door, the smell of soup on Saturdays. Arthur's door was closed. Max knocked twice, softly. "Arthur?" No answer. He pushed the door open—it wasn't locked. Arthur sat on the bed, his back against the wall, staring out the window. Outside, the sky was gray, heavy clouds crawling low, almost grazing the rooftops. He wore the same jeans and t-shirt as yesterday. He hadn't slept. "Hey," Max said. "Hey." "Sofia made breakfast." "Not hungry." "I know. But you need to eat." Arthur slowly turned his head. His eyes were green, as always, but empty—not angry, not sad, just empty, as if someone had turned off the light inside. "I tried to remember his face," he said. "All night. I closed my eyes, looked at photos, listened to his voice on tape. He had a voice, Max. Low, a little raspy. When he laughed, his shoulders shook. I remember that. But not his face." "It'll come back," Max said. "No." Arthur shook his head. "The dagger took it forever. I can feel it. This isn't forgetfulness. It's amputation." Max couldn't find the words. He just sat down beside him, put his hand on his friend's shoulder, and squeezed—hard, until his fingers ached. "Then we'll make new memories," he said. "The kind no one can steal." Arthur looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Thanks." "Don't mention it." They went downstairs. Sofia set plates of pancakes in front of them, poured tea. Mark sat in his armchair with a newspaper, but Max could see he wasn't reading. Just staring at the lines, not understanding a word. "Where's Emma?" Arthur asked, sitting down. "Gone," Jenny said, coming in from the hallway. She was already dressed, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her arm in its sling. "Said she needed some air." "Alone?" "With Liam." Arthur nodded, picked up his mug. The tea was hot, steam rising to fog his face. "He's leaving today," Max said. "I know." "You don't mind?" "I'm not the one who decides." Arthur took a sip. "It's her life. Her choice." There was a knock at the door. Sofia went to open it. A mailman stood on the porch—a young guy in a blue uniform, a heavy bag slung over his shoulder. He handed over a stack of envelopes. "For you. And one more, urgent. Marked 'personal delivery.'" Sofia took them, thanked him, closed the door. "Max, this one's for you," she said, sorting through the envelopes. Max walked over. The envelope was thick, made of heavy, expensive paper, with no return address. On the front, his name was written in calligraphic handwriting. The letters were even, flawless, without a single smudge, with flourishes at the ends. "Who's it from?" Jenny came closer. "I don't know." He opened the envelope. Inside lay a sheet of the same heavy paper, watermarked. And an airline ticket—London–New York–Chicago. Open-ended, no return date. Max unfolded the letter and began reading aloud: "Dear Max, Forgive me for writing so late. Circumstances prevented me from doing so sooner. You have done what no one has managed in the last fifty years. The Maestro is sealed. The Fairfaxes are defeated. I have been watching you from a distance. Your... enthusiasm is impressive. I invite you to London. I have information that may help. Not only about the Sleeper, but also about how to reclaim what you have lost. Yes, Arthur. I am speaking of his father's face. Think about it. The ticket is enclosed. I await you. But not too long. Kane. P.S. Your handwriting is terrible, Max. You write like a chicken with a claw. If you reply, try to be more legible." Silence fell over the room. Max finished reading and lowered the letter. His fingers trembled—not with fear, but with anger. Cold, heavy, settling somewhere in his gut. "It's a trap," Arthur said. "Of course it's a trap," Max replied. "And we're not going." "Of course we're not." They looked at each other. And they both knew that was a lie. "He mentioned your father's face," Jenny said quietly. "He knows what to offer you." "That's exactly why we're not going." Arthur's voice was steady, but Max noticed his fingers tighten on the mug. "I won't lead the team into a trap." "And if there's a chance?" Max asked. "If he really knows a way?" "He's lying." "And if he's not?" Arthur was silent. The room was quiet—only the clock ticking on the wall, and a car splashing through puddles outside. "You can't refuse," Max said. "Not after everything. Not after what you've lost." "I can. Because I'm not alone. My decisions affect everyone." "Then let everyone decide." Jenny took the letter from Max's hands, read it over. Her face was pale, but calm. "He says he's been watching us. That means he knows who we are. Knows where we are. Knows we're weak." She set the letter down. "If we don't go, he'll find another way to reach us. Whether we go on our own or get dragged—the difference is small." "She's right," came a voice from the doorway. Emma stood there, leaning against the frame. The same jacket as yesterday, her hair wind-tousled, dark circles under her eyes. But something burned in her gaze—not fear, but defiance. "Eavesdropping?" Max asked. "The front door was open, and you were shouting like it's a rally." She walked into the kitchen, sat down, took a mug of cold tea. "What does Kane say?" "Inviting us to London," Arthur said. "Says he can give me back my father's face." Emma smirked—bitterly, without humor. "Of course he can. He can also give us a unicorn and a goldfish. The question is the price." "You think it's a trap?" "I think we need him. Or his information. Elias is in London, but we don't know where to find him. Kane came to us himself. That's a chance." "That's a risk." "Our whole life is a risk." Emma set down the mug. "Liam's leaving today. For London. We could fly with him." "All of us?" Max asked. "Everyone who's ready." Silence. Sofia stood by the stove, pressing a towel to her lips. Mark lowered his newspaper and looked at them—these strange, grown-up, armed children, talking about monsters and conspiracies like it was a job. "You're not going," Mark said. His voice was firm, but his eyes held a plea. "You're children. You should be studying, going out, falling in love. Not flying to London to meet... that." "We're not children anymore, Dad," Arthur said. "You're my son. You'll always be my child." "Then let me go. Because I'm going anyway." Mark gripped the armrests so hard his knuckles went white. He wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. He stood and left, slamming the door behind him. Sofia covered her face with her hands. "I can't let you go," she whispered. "I can't lose you again." "Mom." Lisa was in the hospital, but Arthur spoke as if she were right there. "We don't get lost. We come back. Always." "Except Jack." The words hung in the air like a knife thrown into a wall. Arthur paled but didn't look away. "Jack chose to stay. We didn't lose him—he stayed on his own." "And you're ready to lose someone else?" "No. That's why I'm going. So no one else stays behind." Sofia lowered her hands. Her face was wet with tears, but she wasn't crying—the tears just flowed, soundlessly, without sobs. "Then come back," she said. "All of you. Hear me? All of you." "We hear you, Mom." Arthur stood, walked over to her, and hugged her. She pressed into him, and he could feel her body trembling. Her heart beating—fast, frightened. "I'll come back," he thought. "I promised." He didn't know if he could keep that promise. But he knew he had to try. Emma picked up the dog tag from the dresser—the one she'd left on the table. She clenched it in her fist. The metal had warmed from her palm. "Liam's leaving tonight," she thought. "We'll fly together." She didn't know what awaited them in London. But she knew she didn't want to say goodbye. Not now. Not forever. Max folded the letter, tucked it back into the envelope, and hid it in his jacket's inner pocket. The paper was smooth, expensive—Kane's handwriting, flawless, calligraphic, like a penmanship teacher's. "Your handwriting is terrible, Max. You write like a chicken with a claw." He smirked. Even in a trap, Kane couldn't resist a jab. "See you in London," Max thought. "Let's see who has better handwriting." He stepped out onto the porch, breathed in the cold air. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still gray, heavy. On the hill, the Genesis mansion stood black and silent. Jack was waiting. Jack was always waiting. Max looked at his hands. Clean. Without blood. But he could still feel it. "It'll pass," Sasha had said. He hoped she was right. In the living room, on the table, lay the airline ticket to London. Open-ended, no return date. Like a one-way ticket. And no one knew if they'd come back. But they were going anyway. Because the war wouldn't wait. Because the Sleeper was calling. Because London was close. And Brookfield was behind them. With its wet rooftops, the smell of soup, the father who didn't know how to hold onto his son. The mother crying into a kitchen towel. The house that had become strange. They would come back. Or they wouldn't. But they were going.