Genesis. Volume 2

October 31, 1986. London. Kane's hideout, the ritual hall. Emma screamed. She knew she was screaming—she could hear her own voice from the outside, strained, hoarse, foreign. But she couldn't stop. Liam was dying again in front of her. The fourth time. Or fifth. She'd lost count, and that was the worst part—not the vision itself, but the fact that she no longer remembered how many times he'd been killed. This time—a knife. Someone—she couldn't see a face, only a hand in a black sleeve—drove it into his stomach. Long, narrow, with a black handle protruding from his body at an unnatural angle. Liam fell to his knees, grabbed the blade, tried to pull it out—his fingers slipped on the steel, couldn't get a grip. Blood flowed between them, thick, dark, almost black in that gray light. He looked at his hands—surprised, as if he hadn't expected there to be so much red inside. "No, no, no..." Emma lunged toward him—and couldn't move. Her feet were rooted to the floor, as if someone had driven nails through her soles. Her body froze. Invisible palms pressed down on her shoulders, pushing her into the stone, and she couldn't even move her fingers. "Don't touch him!" No one answered. Only the echo bounced under the dome and faded. Liam fell onto his side. His head hit the stone slab with a wet, heavy thud. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. Was he breathing? No. He wasn't breathing. His chest was still, and his hand, still gripping the knife handle, slowly unclenched. Emma knew it was an illusion. She knew it with her mind—the way you know the earth is round and the sky won't fall. But knowing didn't help. Because fear isn't logic. Fear is the body, which believes before the mind can object. The body has its own evidence: the blood, the smell, Liam not breathing. The body doesn't argue. The dog tag in her pocket grew hot. First barely perceptibly—as if someone breathed warm air on the metal. Then stronger. Then a burn. Sharp, real, not ritual. Of a different quality. Emma didn't realize at first—it was pain from outside, not from inside. Real pain. One that didn't obey Kane, because its source lay in her pocket, not in her head. She shoved her hand into her pocket. Her fingers found the tag—hot, almost scorching, its edges digging into her palm. She clenched it. The metal burned her skin; the smell of charred fabric rose—her own flesh. She didn't let go. "A-ah..." she exhaled through her teeth. Not a scream—a groan, low, animal. The illusion jerked. Like a picture on a screen when the signal flickers. Liam vanished—simply stopped existing. The blood vanished. The knife vanished. Only the gray light, the stone floor, and Arthur beside her—frozen, his face white as plaster. "Emma!" someone shouted. Max? Jenny? She couldn't tell. Voices blurred together. The tag burned her palm. She clenched it harder—until it cracked, until sparks flashed before her eyes. The burn was real. A burn couldn't be faked. It was the only thing keeping her here, in the real hall, not where Liam died over and over. At that same moment, the hall's door—heavy, armored, which they hadn't noticed when they entered because it blended with the wall—flew inward. Not opened. Flew. Off its hinges, with a crash, a cloud of dust and brick chips. The impact was directed, short, without buildup—like an explosion compressed into a point and pressed against the lock. The air shuddered, struck their ears. In the smoke—a figure. Liam. He held a tracker in his hand—military, green, with a cracked casing and a shattered screen. A thin, piercing squeal came from the speaker—the signal that had led him here, through alleys, through underground passages, through all of London. The compass he'd given Emma four months ago had been in her jacket all this time. In the breast pocket, on the left, over her heart. She'd worn it every day, even when she forgot why. "Liam..." she whispered. He didn't hear. He was looking at Kane. His gaze was calm, almost lazy—like a man who'd crossed the threshold and already knew how it would end. Kane didn't shout. Didn't move. He only turned his head—smoothly, like an owl—and looked at Liam. His eyes narrowed. "You," he said. Not surprised. More tired. As if he'd calculated this outcome but had hoped it wouldn't come to pass. "Me," Liam replied. He dropped the tracker on the floor. The device cracked against the stone, the squeal cut off, and silence fell—only the dust settling, rustling like sand. "The compass," Kane said. "I knew you had it. I knew it would lead you here. But I thought you were smarter." "I'm not smart. I'm persistent." Kane smirked. The corner of his mouth twitched. "It's the same thing." He made a motion—quick, almost invisible. His hand shot to the side, fingers spreading. From the void—from a fold in the air that hadn't been there a second ago—a blade flew out. Not metal. Black, oily, pulsing like a clot of living darkness. Condensed shadow in the shape of a blade, its edges trembling, as if eager to sink into flesh. It flew straight at Arthur. At his head. His face. At the place where there was already emptiness—between his eyes, just above the bridge of his nose. Emma didn't think. Didn't have time. She just jumped—her body moved before her brain could command it. She didn't even feel the push from the floor; she just found herself between the blade and Arthur. The blade struck her left shoulder. Just below the collarbone, diagonally, through her jacket, through skin, through muscle. The sound was soft—wet, tearing, like ripping a damp sheet. Emma didn't feel pain at first. Only the impact—strong, knocking the breath out of her, like a punch. And then the ground, which came too close, too fast. She crashed onto her side. Her left shoulder hit the floor, and then the pain came. All at once, without warning. Stunning, sticky, hot. As if someone had shoved a red-hot rod under her skin and was slowly twisting it. "Emma!" Liam's voice. Somewhere far away. Or close? She couldn't tell. The sound kept fading in and out, like through water. She opened her eyes—she didn't remember closing them. Through a haze, she saw the stone floor, the slabs covered in ash. And spots of blood. Her blood. It spread across the gray stone, bright, almost orange in that unnatural light. There was a lot of it. Too much for such a small movement. Liam dropped to his knees beside her. His hands—bare, hot, covered in brick dust—pressed down on the wound. The pressure was strong, almost unbearable, and Emma hissed, sucked in air through her teeth. But she didn't scream. "Hold on," he said. "Hold on, hold on..." He looked at her. In the eyes. Not at the wound—though there was plenty to see there—but straight into her pupils. That was scarier than the pain. "I'm not..." she began. "Quiet. Don't waste air." "...dying." "I said quiet." He pressed harder. Emma felt the blood pulsing under his palms, trying to escape—warm, in spurts, in time with her heart. But he held it, wouldn't let it go. "Are you a doctor?" she asked. Her voice cracked, sounding like a scrape. "I took first aid," Liam replied. "In the army." "And?" "Not complaining so far." She wanted to smirk. Instead she coughed. Blood trickled over her lips—not from her lungs, just from her neck, warm and salty. Liam tore off his shirt—one-handed, without releasing the wound with the other—wadded it up, pressed it over his hands. The fabric soaked through quickly, turning dark, heavy, hot. "Someone get a medical kit!" he shouted over his shoulder. Emma heard footsteps. Someone was running. Sasha? Max? She couldn't see—couldn't turn her head. Only the ceiling. Gray, stone, with cracks that formed a map of a nonexistent country. If you stared long enough, you could make out mountains, rivers, roads leading nowhere. "Interesting," she thought. "When you fall, you always look at the ceiling. Why not the floor?" "Emma, don't close your eyes." "I'm not..." "Don't close them." She opened them wider. Liam leaned over her—his face pale, his eyes dark, a deep furrow between his brows she'd never noticed before. His hands were bloody to the elbows. He was handsome. She'd never told him that. Now she probably never would. "You came," she whispered. "Of course." "I thought you wouldn't make it." "I always make it. I'm lying." She laughed weakly. Coughed again. The taste of iron filled her mouth. "You look like..." "Like who?" "Like someone who annoys me." "That's me." Someone rushed over. Jenny. She dropped a medical kit beside them—old, battered, with a faded red cross on the side. Liam tore open a bandage package with one hand, using his teeth—the fabric ripped, and he spat out the piece. He began wrapping it over the shirt. Fast, rough, but correct—each layer was tight, even. "Keep the pressure on," Jenny said. "I am." "Harder." "How much harder? I'll break her collarbone." "The collarbone's already broken." Emma couldn't feel her collarbone. She could barely feel anything except the pressure on her shoulder and the throbbing in her head—dull, rhythmic, like a drum at the base of her skull. Was the blood still flowing? Probably. Liam didn't let go of his hands, and his palms were hot, almost burning against her cooling skin. Somewhere behind him—far away, in another part of the hall—Arthur stood over Jack. Max beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Sasha at the wall—scouting the shadows. Kane had vanished. Or was hiding. Emma didn't know. Couldn't turn her head, and didn't have the strength to ask. "Liam." "Yeah?" "The compass... the one I..." "Quiet." "...lost in the square. The one I gave to the mother with the children." "I know." "Is that how you found me?" He stopped pressing for a second. Just a second—to look her in the face. Then he pressed again. "That's how I found you." He wasn't looking at her anymore. He was looking at the wound, at the bandages soaking through too fast. But Emma could see—out of the corner of her eye, through the pulsing pain—how his lips trembled. Fine, almost invisible. "Are you crying?" she asked. "No." "You're lying." "Everyone lies." "You're bad at lying." "I learned. In the last minute." He pressed harder. Emma gasped—short, through her teeth, the sound almost a sob. "Sorry," he said. "Don't apologize." "Sorry I didn't come sooner." "You came. That's what matters." The blood was slowing. Or maybe it only seemed that way. Liam stopped changing the bandages—just held them, pressed, didn't let go, and his hands had stopped trembling. Grown used to it. Or gone numb. "Can you hear me?" he asked. "I hear you." "Don't pass out." "I'll try." She closed her eyes. Just for a second. To rest from the ceiling, the gray stone, the cracks still forming a map. Behind her eyelids, it was dark and warm, and the pain receded a little—not gone, but no longer the only thing that existed. "Emma." "M-m?" "I love you. Not tomorrow. Not someday. Right now." She opened her eyes. Looked up at him—from the stone floor, through a haze. Liam's face was blurry, but his eyes were clear. Dark, almost black in that light. "I know," she said. "Me too. I mean... I love you too." "What—too?" "Love." The word came out hoarse, awkward, as if she'd never said it before. Maybe she hadn't. It scraped her throat. "Don't make me repeat it." He smiled. Through the blood on his face, through the exhaustion, through the fear still in his eyes—he smiled, and the smile was crooked, boyish. "I won't." "Good." She closed her eyes again. This time, for a long while. "Emma." "M-m." "Thank you." "For what?" "For being alive." She wanted to say that wasn't certain yet. Wanted to say the wound was deep, she'd lost a lot of blood, and she didn't know how this would end. But she didn't get the chance. The words got stuck somewhere between thought and tongue. The ceiling swam, the cracks blurred, the map of the nonexistent country vanished. And Emma sank into darkness—soft, warm, dreamless. Without Liam dying on the stone floor. Without Kane. Without fear. Somewhere far away—as if through cotton, through thick water—she heard his voice. "Emma. Emma, don't. Emma!" Then silence. And the beat of her own heart. Faint, weak, but alive. It echoed in her temples, in her fingertips, in the burn on her palm. Alive. Still alive.