The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1)

by Fernando Rivera

  Everyone in the house had their own reserved area of shelf space, and the rule was you could only add a book to your collection once you had read it. That said, you would expect my section of shelves to be bare, but it’s not. I did a lot of reading as a kid.

  There’s that familiar smell again. What could it be?

  Micah appears in the doorway, nursing another goblet of red wine. Does he always drink this early? He examines my wardrobe. It’s the polar opposite to his dress shoes, slacks, and argyle sweater. “Are you going to the beach?” he asks.

  Are you going to church? I remove the Oakleys out of respect, squinting as I look him in the eyes. “No. This is how I dress. It’s pretty standard for Southern California.”

  “Fascinating.” He drinks. “Tell me, do you still like to read?”

  I nod.

  His bright eyes twinkle. “How wonderful. What’s your favorite book?”

  “The Alchemist.”

  “You should add it to your section. You have a lot of catching up to do.” Micah points to his reserved shelves. They’re bursting with books.

  “Have you really read all of those?”

  “Of course. That’s the rule.”

  I walk around the center table and carefully examine his wall of literature. Some of the titles are barely legible, while other books look like they were printed yesterday. I reach for one with a faded linen spine.

  Micah smiles ear to ear. “You have good taste. That one is my favorite.”

  I begin to read: …and because I love you, I will give blood in exchange for you and people in exchange for your everlasting life…

  “It’s a Bible?”

  “They all are.” He indicates the rest of his collection.

  “All of them? There are hundreds.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  I shrug. “I never thought there could be so many. You don’t get bored reading them?” I put my Oakleys back on and look up at the oculus.

  “On the contrary. They’re each quite unique. Some are in Hebrew, German, Spanish, English. King James, American Standard, Contemporary. You’d be surprised how many different ways there are to say the same thing.”

  “Yeah. Or how the same thing can be twisted into different meanings,” I blurt, still focused on the window above. I wonder how high the ceiling is?

  “Twisted?”

  My attention snaps back to Micah. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.” This is why I need my magic.

  He flashes his signature grin and takes a sip of wine. “Don’t be sorry. That’s a bold choice of word, considering the subject.”

  I attempt to put the book back, but he stops me. “Why don’t you give it a read? I assure you it’s not too twisted.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not sure I’ll have time to read it” — and Bibles are full of crap.

  “That book has always brought me comfort, especially in times like this.”

  Oh, no. He’s gonna talk about Isidore. Dammit.

  “Listen, Emmanuel — Manny — I know you must be going through a difficult ordeal, you and your mum, and you have a lot of questions about your father. Questions you think only Isidore could answer, but I assure you — ”

  “How did he die?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Mom never told me” — and I didn’t care to ask.

  “I see. It was a heart attack.”

  “A heart attack? But wasn’t he…mid-fifties?” How stressful can working for Stockton Farms be?

  “It came as a shock to us, as well. After all, Isidore has always been the most active of my children. You can imagine my astonishment when I found him.”

  “Children? You don’t have other children. Do you?”

  “Oh, heavens no,” Micah laughs. “Some employees of Stockton Farms have been here so long that I’ve taken to referring to them as my own. It’s a terrible habit when you’re as old as I am.”

  Mom appears in the open doorway. Her hands are wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. By the looks of it, she’s been crying again. “Manny, breakfast is ready.”

  We follow her to the kitchen, which is nothing like I remember. It’s been remodeled with stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, and a new black and white ceramic tile floor.

  Mom’s prepared her famous potato and egg breakfast tacos, packed with bacon and homemade salsa. “Is there a special occasion?” I ask.

  “Of course.” She forces a smile. “It’s your first morning here in twenty years. I want you to feel at home. Coffee?”

  “Decaf?”

  “Brewed a pot just for you.”

  “Perfect. Two sugars.” I take a seat at the large kitchen island, counting the number of black and white tiles along the way.

  When Mom serves me, I notice her hands are shaking. I gently squeeze her arm. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just tired.” She sighs. “How about you?”

  “Eh. My eyes are a little sensitive. I’m starving. And my mind is going a hundred miles an hour. But Dr. Kris said she’d have my meds delivered today. So other than that, peachy.”

  She cracks a smile. “Eat up. Before it gets cold.”

  You don’t have to tell me twice. Mom’s cooking has never tasted this good. I devour the first taco in three bites, washing the last mouthful down with a scorching swig of coffee. “Whoa.”

  “What’s wrong? Too hot?” she asks.

  “Yeah. And it tastes awful.”

  She sniffs her mug. “Sorry. I gave you mine by mistake. It’s caffeinated, with no sugar. Here.” She switches our drinks. “Better?”

  I take a sip. “Much better.” But the rancid flavor from her cup is seared into my taste buds. “Are you sure yours is good? It’s tastes old.”

  She takes a gulp. “It’s fine.”

  “British coffee is very different from American coffee. It’s better,” Micah declares, toasting the air with his wine.

  Pretty sure Micah’s an alcoholic.

  “I do miss it,” Mom adds.

  She’s always had a special relationship with coffee, claims the aroma helps her think. “The hotter the pot, the bigger the problem,” she often says. Judging by the temperature of today’s pot, her current stress levels must be through the roof.

  “Manny,” Micah inquires, “what exactly is it that you do?”

  “I’m a college recruiter. For the University of San Diego. I work for the business school.”

  His eyes widen. “You don’t say. Tell me more.”

  “Well, I travel to other universities in California and encourage students to apply to our graduate program. And…that’s pretty much it.”

  “How interesting. And is there a lot of competition in your field?”

  “Yeah. You could say that.”

  “So you’re required to provide a convincing argument in favor of your curriculum?”

  “Sometimes. But the program speaks for itself.”

  “Then you also must firmly believe in what you preach, I would assume?”

  “I kind of have to if I want to get paid” — and what’s with all the questions?

  Micah laughs and slaps his hand on the counter, turning to my mother. “Like two peas in a pod, Minerva.”

  “Who?” I ask, halfway through my second taco.

  “You and Isidore. Your father oversaw all of Stockton Farms’ mergers and acquisitions. He was responsible for growing our company and expanding our market share, like you do for your university. Isidore had remarkable negotiation skills and an uncanny ability to win over our affiliates.” Micah refills his glass of wine. “Two peas in a pod.”

  Yup, an alcoholic. I return a polite smile and continue eating, using this silent time to search for a new topic of conversation.

  A small silver cross above the patio door
catches my attention. “What’s with all the crosses? One not enough?”

  “You can never be too prepared, Manny,” he replies in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “For what?” — a visit from the Pope?

  “For evil, of course.”

  “Evil?” Oh, boy. Bring on the crazy.

  “Yes. Don’t you have crosses in your flat?”

  “Yeah. Mom put one up in my apartment when I first moved in. But my place was broken into last Christmas, so I’m not sold on its effectiveness. And I really don’t believe in evil, anyway” — because it’s childish.

  “Ah. Well, there’s a difference between evil and misfortune,” he insists. “But mark my words, belief in evil does not dictate its existence.”

  “No?”

  “No. Belief in evil dictates the degree to which we are prepared to handle it, and there are many powerful forces beyond our understanding that that little cross can handle, I assure you.”

  “If that’s what you believe, Grandpa, then more power to you,” I reply, hoping to end the conversation.

  Micah sips from his glass and chuckles.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. It’s just… You don’t believe in evil, but you do believe in magic. Seems counterintuitive, in my opinion.”

  What did he just say? Dr. Kris is the only person I use the term magic with in reference to my pills. Mom doesn’t even know. Has Micah been reading my text messages? “Who told you I believed in magic?”

  “No one. I just assumed, considering that’s what The Alchemist is all about — sorcery, omens, premonitions. It can’t be your favorite book unless you believe in its content to some degree, correct?” He grins, sipping from his glass.

  We have someone like Micah in my department at work: COP. It’s short for Crafty Old Peterson. Whenever you disagree with him, he’ll talk you in circles until you forget your position on the matter and give in to his opinion. Over the years, I’ve found the best way to handle COP is to cut the conversation short.

  “Well, I’m full. Thanks for breakfast, Mom,” I exclaim, rising from my stool. “I’m gonna walk around a bit.”

  “Excellent idea,” Micah replies. “Have a wander. Your mum and I have much to discuss.”

  Works every time.

  I spend the rest of the morning exploring the estate, my restless mind resurrecting forgotten childhood memories. Luckily, my phone keeps my sanity in check, weakening my nostalgia with the occasional pings of emails, texts, and social media notifications.

  When I circle back into the main foyer, the scent I’ve been trying to identify hits me like a wave. My nose guides me to a new arrangement of flowers next to the front door. It has roses, lilies, and a third cluster of blossoms I don’t know the name of. On closer inspection, I discover the mysterious petals are the source of the familiar smell. So it’s a flower?

  There’s a black card attached to the vase and a message written in elegant silver handwriting: Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting?

  No name.

  I break off a stem of the unknown plant and slip it into my pocket.

  “It’s crude to steal flowers from an arrangement,” someone says from behind. A young guy, about my age, watches me from down the hall. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed, wearing jeans, a leather jacket, and mirrored sunglasses.

  “I wasn’t stealing.”

  He smiles and walks toward me. When he removes his shades, I remove mine. We look so much alike. He has the same curly hair, oval face, and slightly crooked round nose. Even our eyes have similar almond shapes. Except mine are dark brown, and his are hazel. He could easily pass for my brother — or a younger version of Isidore.

  “I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I was merely stating a fact. You must be Manny, Isidore’s son.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Just an observation. Unkempt wardrobe. Pungent eau de toilette. The fact I find you roaming our family’s estate as if it were your own personal playground. That can only mean the prodigal son has returned,” he declares, bowing in a mocking gesture.

  I strum my fingers against the side of my thigh. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

  He smiles, and his hazel eyes gleam. “Of course. Where are my manners? I’m James, your — ”

  “Cousin,” Micah interjects from around the corner. “James, I didn’t hear you come in last night.”

  James’ eyes narrow. “Well, Grandpapa, you were so busy welcoming your new guests I decided to let myself in. I hope it’s no intrusion.”

  “None of the sort. Manny, why don’t you take a stroll outside and grab some fresh air,” Micah suggests. “That should help you adjust to the heavy traveling. I’ll tell your mum you’re out.”

  “Sure.”

  As I pass James on the way to the door, he leans in. “The flower in your pocket, it’s called camphire.” Then he returns his mirrored sunglasses to his eyes and follows Micah into the hall.

  Micah had to have been using the term “fresh air” as an expression, because the second I walk outside, I’m surrounded by the foul stench of manure. I almost forgot Stockton Farms’ specialty is sheep husbandry. How didn’t I notice the odor last night?

  If memory serves me, the grazing pasture is supposed to be on the south side of the property, but instead of hundreds of sheep, I see several dozen sheds and tents. Are people living there?

  “Excuse me, sir. Are you lost?” The sound of Lucy’s voice causes my heart to flutter, and goose bumps spread over the backs of my arms. I turn, and my jaw drops.

  I can’t believe it. She’s…the same. But how? One of the most bizarre things about my shadow dream is Lucy’s appearance. Every year, she turns slightly older than our last encounter. It’s almost like she and I have been growing alongside each other — in my head, at least — as if my mind somehow knows how to fill the gap in her ripening appearance. It took several years and loads of therapy for this strange occurrence to stop bothering me, after Dr. Kris and I concluded an “aging Lucy” was my brain’s way of justifying any latent romantic feelings I could be harboring.

  But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t startled by the accuracy of my imagination. Though my shadow dream Lucy isn’t half as gorgeous or sophisticated as the real thing: silk blouse, dress pants, black pumps, auburn hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. This is far from the grass-stained dresses and tangled pigtails of our youth.

  Why did I wear flip-flops and shorts today? “I — No. I’m not lost,” I stammer, feeling my stomach tighten. “I’m visiting.”

  “I’m aware of that, silly. I was only joking,” she laughs.

  I laugh, too — more out of nerves than humor — and I keep laughing until the knot in my gut rises like a balloon. It fills my chest, then funnels into my throat. What’s going on? The pressure continues to float upward, expanding into the back of my head, until it feels like my eyes are going to burst. Then the balloon pops, blowing an imaginary hole in my head.

  Lucy looks concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m great,” I lie. “You look good. Taller.”

  Taller? Stupid, Manny. Stupid, stupid, stupid! — my voice booms. I cringe and cover my mouth out of embarrassment. I can’t believe I chastised myself in the third person in front of her.

  Lucy pays no mind to my outburst. “Yes, that tends to happen with two decades and a two-inch heel. It’s good to see you, Emmanuel,” she replies, smiling.

  Wait. I didn’t call myself stupid out loud? I heard my thought so clearly. I could have sworn I verbalized it. “It’s Manny. I go by Manny, now. And it’s good to see you, too, Lucille.”

  “Lucille? Come now. I know we’re adults, but in what world would I ever let you call me Lucille?”

  “Right. Sorry.” I extend my arm to shake her hand.

 
“Would it be inappropriate to ask for a hug?”

  “Yeah. Of course — I mean, no. It wouldn’t. Be inappropriate. So, yes. We can hug.” I step forward.

  The tip of my flip-flop catches on the ground, causing me to stumble. Lucy makes an unsuccessful attempt to catch me, and we fall to the grass. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she squeals, erupting in laughter. “Good God, Manny. You’re bloody heavy.”

  “Yeah. American portions are bloody bigger,” I joke, helping Lucy to her feet.

  “I wager I can still eat more than you,” she fires back.

  Memories of birthdays past flash across my mind, accompanied by the resentment of forgotten friendship. Before I left England, Lucy and I promised to maintain our relationship by becoming pen pals. So when I first arrived to the States, I wrote letters to her every day for a month. Lucy never responded.

  “So, what’s going on over there?” I inquire, pointing to the occupied pasture.

  Lucy clears her throat and adjusts her ponytail. “Right. That’s the Brighton & Hove Stockton Allotment.”

  “Allotment? Is that like a homeless shelter?”

  “No,” she snorts. “You don’t have allotments in the States?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “They’re like…rentable gardens.”

  “Rentable gardens? Since when has Stockton Farms rented out gardens?”

  “Oh, Manny, a lot’s changed since you’ve been away.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Listen, my schedule is clear for the day. What do you say we…go for a walk, maybe?”

  “Sure. I could do a walk.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “So what’s all that again?” I ask, pointing at the allotment.

  “Where do I begin? Well, sheep husbandry was on the decline in Sussex long before you and your mum left,” Lucy explains in a business-like manner, “except for here, in Devil’s Dyke. And around the time you were born, Stockton Farms was the primary source of Southdown sheep this side of London. It was a very busy time for your family and a prime opportunity for expansion, which is why your father travelled so much. In fact, Stockton Farms was so successful — and I don’t know whether or not you recall — that the whole reason my family purchased the neighboring property was to help manage the overflow of sheep.”