The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1)

by Fernando Rivera

  “You can’t expect me to have divulged our entire history over the course of twenty-four hours, Edie,” James argues.

  “But April fifth,” she huffs, taking an angry sip of her chamomile. “Of all the things to overlook… Where was I? Oh, yes, Isidore was as ambitious as they come, and…now, I don’t want you getting the wrong idea about your father, but rumor has it Isidore frequently violated the treaty. That he conducted extra Baptisms, without the permission of the New Moon, and would also sire more than twelve candidates per ceremony.”

  “Which is frowned upon on both fronts,” James adds.

  “But it was done for the greater good,” Edith declares, “for the good of the Afterliving. And if you ask me, that’s why he was murdered, because his determination was too strong for his enemies to handle. I’d swear it on the Vulgata.” Edith sighs. “If only Micah’s prophecy had provided us with better details.”

  “Micah’s prophecy?” I reply. “What prophecy?”

  “What prophecy?” Edith repeats. She scowls at James.

  James shrugs. “Explaining the talents was Lucy’s department.”

  “Regardless, that’s no excuse,” she snaps. “Emmanuel, your grandfather is a Divineer, and Divineers have the Talent of Prophecy. They can see things happen along their sirelines, before they occur, which is how Micah prophesied Isidore’s death.”

  “My father’s death was prophesied? And nobody thought it was useful to tell me?”

  “What difference would it have made whether or not you knew? We were informed of Isidore’s death weeks in advance and still powerless to stop it,” James says.

  “But if Micah saw my father’s death, he obviously saw who killed him.”

  “Not necessarily. The prophecies come in pieces, some bigger than others. According to Micah, he only witnessed the crime, not the criminal. And you must take into account Divineers’ visions are fragile predictions. They’re not set in stone. If any variable of the prophecy changes, so does the outcome. So the mere fact Micah revealed his vision to us should have been enough of an interference to keep Isidore safe.”

  “But if what you’re saying is true and everybody was warned, how was the prophecy fulfilled? How did my father’s killer still succeed?”

  “We don’t know, dearie. We just don’t know.”

  “Actually, there is one possibility,” James admits. “It’s the only one I can think of.”

  “What is it?”

  “More than one person was planning to slay him. And Isidore’s real killer is different from the murderer Micah prophesied.”

  On the drive back to Devil’s Dyke, James’ multiple-assassin theory leads me to remember a comment he made yesterday. “Last night, when we were in the study, you mentioned something about his killer. You said it would have to have been somebody my father knew well, who had access to the estate, and that if it was a Disciple, the number of suspects is small. Which Disciples were you referring to?”

  “The ones granted Invitation,” he responds. “Disciples and vampires cannot enter a blessed dwelling unless invited in by the Blesser, usually the owner of the home. In this case, that’s Micah. Since the last blessing, the Disciples who possessed Invitation at the time of your father’s death included myself, Anthony, Nicholas, Gabriel, your mum, and Maggie.”

  “Miss Maggie?”

  James nods. “She hasn’t been in Stockton Estate since before you and your mum left, but to my knowledge, her Invitation was still valid.”

  “What do you mean it was still valid?”

  “When a Disciple feels entry to his residence has been compromised, he re-blesses the home and wipes the slate of Invitation clean. Micah did that immediately following Isidore’s death, for our protection, which is why Mina had to be re-invited upon your arrival.”

  That’s right. I recall how hesitant Mom was to join me in the foyer that first night, before Micah called her inside. She was waiting for her Invitation. That also explains why Edith couldn’t pass the front door when she came home with me after my father’s funeral.

  “But I don’t remember being invited. I walked right in.”

  “Because Invitation doesn’t apply to mortal beings, like Daemons.”

  “But if the same Disciples were re-granted Invitation, and Maggie hasn’t been back for years, what’s the point in blessing the house again?”

  “My only guess is Micah’s given Invitation to Disciples we haven’t been made aware of.”

  “Have you asked him?”

  “Yes. And he’s denied it.”

  The suspicious circumstances surrounding my father’s death seem to revolve around Micah: the “incomplete” prophecy, the unknown Invitation, and the fact he’s the one who discovered Isidore’s body.

  “Do you think Micah’s hiding something?”

  “He’s always hiding something,” James answers, “but as suspicious as his behavior seems, I know Micah valued my brother too much to allow him to be slain.”

  “What about a human? Could a human have entered the estate and killed him?”

  “It would take a very skilled and highly trained slayer to take on someone like Isidore.”

  Or someone my father trusted. The only human I’ve seen inside Stockton Estate is Lucy, and if there’s one human most worthy of my father’s trust, it’s her. Could she be capable of such a thing?

  “What about a Lycain?”

  James considers it. “Lycains are mortal, thus, unfettered by Invitation, so it is probable. But they’re not mad enough to enter a Disciple’s home on their own, and we would know if more than one Wolf had been inside the estate.”

  It doesn’t add up. If my father was well protected, even warned about his death, how could someone still get close enough to harm him? “What if he’s not really dead?”

  “Not really dead?”

  “Nobody saw my father being killed in real life. What if the prophecy scared him into hiding, and my father planted the ashes for Micah to find? Or what if he and Micah are conspiring together, and Micah lied about having a prophecy to make my father’s death more believable?”

  “Manny, that’s wild. My brother served the Afterliving too long to forfeit his reputation. Nothing could scare Isidore into hiding, much less faking his own death.”

  “But you heard Edith. He’s made a lot of enemies over the years. And he wouldn’t have to hide, really. He could drink human blood and turn up as some kid in a new city — a new country, even — get a fresh start. That’s not impossible.”

  “No, but it’s highly improbable.”

  We arrive at Stockton Estate, and I quickly exit the Phantom, my mind alive with conspiracies as to my father’s whereabouts.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To my father’s study. There’s a map, and it’s covered in notes, maybe clues. On the chance my father is alive, the stuff in that room could tell me where he is.”

  “Where he is? That’s insane.”

  “It won’t hurt to look.”

  “Yes, it will. You’re supposed to be learning about Discipleship, not proving some hopeless theory.”

  “It’s not hopeless.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  I keep walking.

  “Manny, stop.” James phasms in front of me, blocking my path. “Take a breath and realize what you’re saying. Your father would have never abandoned us like that.”

  The word abandoned triggers something inside me, and I feel the heat collect around my heart. “He already did it once, James. To me and my mom, twenty years ago. Who’s to say he couldn’t do it again?”

  “Exactly. He did it once before, and he’s wanted nothing more than to correct that foolish mistake. He’s dead, and you need to accept it.”

  “I’ll accept it when his killer is found, if his killer even exists.”

  I mo
ve to the side, but James gets in front of me once more. “No.” This time, his tone is more authoritative. “I will not let denial interfere with your Afterliving training. Rid your mind of this idiotic conspiracy and read my lips: Isidore is dead.”

  Suspicion causes my skin to harden like armor. “You say that with an awful lot of conviction.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Where were you when my father was being murdered? What’s your alibi?”

  “My alibi? What are you implying?”

  “You know what I’m implying.”

  The green in James’ eyes overpowers the brown, and he grabs me with both hands. Before I can shrug him off, he phasms, taking us to the far side of the allotment, just beyond the BHSA border.

  “How dare you accuse me of Hemocide. My brother was a part of me, Emmanuel. He was a piece of my soul I couldn’t bear to live without. The reason I know he’s dead is because the moment it happened, I felt it. I felt it right here.” He beats his chest, and tears begin to fall down his face. “It was an agony no Disciple should ever have to endure.”

  James’ pain is too impactful to ignore — which means he’s telling the truth — but he still hasn’t answered my question. “Tell me where you were.”

  His Cereflex eyes grow heavy with frustration. “I was here,” he confesses. “At the estate. We all were. Is that the answer you wanted to hear?”

  “Who’s out there?” someone calls from the other side of the fence. “Hello?”

  James wipes his face and phasms away as Reginald Starkly emerges from behind a greenhouse. He carries a stack of flyers and a canvas bag.

  “Hello, Mr. Starkly.”

  “Good evening, Emmanuel. Would you like a button?” He removes the giant Stark without Starkly pendant from his breast pocket. “Good heavens, man. Your jumper is caked in blood. What happened?”

  “Oh. Uhh” — I forgot about that — “it’s nothing. I just…got into a little fight.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. What are you still doing out here?”

  “Campaigning. But it seems everyone has left for the day. This is the end of Sector A,” he says, indicating the wooden fence. “Are you on your way to the estate? I’m about to catch the last shuttle. Come along.”

  As we maneuver through the dark maze of plots and sheds, I notice a difference in Starkly’s demeanor. He’s not the frazzled, distracted man from before. He seems more poised and level-headed — more deliberate.

  “I’m not daft, you know,” Starkly proclaims, as if reading my thoughts.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Crazy. I’m not crazy like Miss Weston said I was. And I didn’t suffer a nervous breakdown, either. It was all an act. A facade,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone. “And I’ve never been obsessed with politics.”

  “You haven’t?”

  “No.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I’m obsessed with vampires.”

  A chill runs up my spine. “What?”

  “Don’t play ignorant, boy. It’s an insult to your father, and we both know the Daemon son of the late Devangelist Jacob Isidore Stockton is anything but ignorant,” he snickers.

  My skin hardens once more, and I back away. “You know about all that?”

  “Of course I do. Isidore and I spoke about it in depth. He was very eager for you to see this place before your next birthday — the sixteenth of June, is it? — which ironically coincides with this month’s New Moon. Night after tomorrow.” Starkly acknowledges the distance I’ve created between us and smiles. “You shouldn’t fear me, Emmanuel. I’m not your enemy. But you’re most likely wondering how I know what I know, aren’t you? And that explanation is simple. I was the one sent to kill him.”

  I take another step back.

  “But I didn’t, rest assured,” he adds. “You see, when I volunteered my services for this assignment, I was under the impression I’d be ridding the world of a greedy vampire. I had no knowledge of Disciples,” he confesses. “I trust you know the difference?”

  I nod.

  “Good. Then you’re already ages ahead of DEFRA.”

  “DEFRA?”

  “The Department for Environment, Food, and Rural Affairs, of course. That’s who sent me to destroy your father. Telling your family I worked for Parliament was a red herring, something to throw Nicholas off my scent. I’m afraid the boy isn’t very good at his job.”

  So much for the reliability of the ongoing background checks Lucy mentioned… “Then your employers, DEFRA, they know about the Afterliving?”

  “Not the Afterliving, unfortunately, just vampires. The existence of vampires is less of a secret than you think, but the British government prides itself on withholding this knowledge from the public.”

  “Why?”

  “Secrecy is key. It maintains a collective peace between our race and theirs. Why, imagine the panic it would cause if vampires were outed. The paranoia alone would drive the human race insane. As you Americans say, ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell,’” he laughs.

  Starkly does have a point.

  He sighs. “But sometimes confidentiality isn’t enough, and our side must take aggressive action to avoid catastrophic outcomes, especially when people like your father challenge our peace by refusing to comply with economically sound business practices.” Starkly continues walking. “Chop-chop.”

  I follow, still on high alert. “What are you talking about?”

  “Commerce, Emmanuel. Commerce. I’m residing change director for the Rural Payments Agency, and my superiors have been displeased with the success of your family’s properties for quite some time, especially those as grandiose as the BHSA. We’ve made countless efforts to correct this issue, but your father insisted on turning a deaf ear.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “I’m referring to the subsidies — money. Large landowners like your family are awarded payments from the RPA per hectare, and the more Stockton Farms expands, the more of a financial strain it’s placing on the British government. And seeing as the owners of these properties — how can I put this bluntly? — seeing as they’ll never die unless slain, their ongoing businesses are bad for the economy, which is also bad for the country.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “So the British government sent you here to kill my father because his allotment is too expensive for them to subsidize?”

  “Not just this one. There are dozens of Stockton-owned allotments and farms throughout Britain, and those hectares add up to a hefty sum for my associates.” Starkly pauses and looks up at the rising moon. “Regardless, I abandoned my instructions to kill your father once I was taught the nature of Disciples and the beauty of the Afterliving. How could I, in good conscience, bring myself to destroy an ambassador of the Lord? That would have been ludicrous, sacrilege in its purest form. Needless to say, when I came clean with my plan to murder your father, Isidore was more than grateful to hear I’d had a change of heart. He said it was a true testament to the Afterliving’s saving power.”

  This would explain why my father didn’t pay attention to Micah’s prophecy. Because his killer, Starkly, had been stopped. But if James is right and there was more than one assassin, Starkly’s confession could have also lured my father into a false sense of security, making it easier for the real murderer to strike.

  “What did your employers have to say about all this?”

  “DEFRA? Oh, I haven’t told them,” he chuckles. “As far as they’re concerned, I’ve put an end to Isidore Stockton. I’ve done my civic duty.”

  “So you’re taking credit for my father’s death?”

  “Of course. There would be repercussions for me if I didn’t, and as I told you before, I’m not crazy.” He fiddles with the clasp of his campaign button. “I’m a national hero.”

  I don’t know if I s
hould be relieved or disgusted by Starkly’s confession, but if what James said about more than one person wanting to kill my father is true, it begs the question: “Then do you know who killed my father?”

  “Sadly, no. And his death puts me at a sore disadvantage. I was hoping Isidore would be the one to baptize me. Now I’ll have to settle for a different Sire. Whom would you recommend?”

  “Me? I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Well, whom have you chosen?”

  “I haven’t chosen anybody. I’m not fully convinced the Afterliving is what I want.”

  “How fortunate. Then you shouldn’t mind this.” Starkly swings his arm forward and stabs me with the pin of his button. The prick unleashes a numbing surge that suppresses my instinct to phasm. I attempt to pull the metal out of my shoulder.

  Starkly covers my mouth with a damp cloth from his back pocket, and a paralyzing cold seizes my brain. Soon, my muscles lock into place, and I fall to the ground, stiff as a board.

  “How is he?” I hear Anthony say.

  “His condition is manageable,” Micah replies. “And Starkly?”

  “He’s been sedated for the time being. Nicholas will examine his memories in the morning.”

  “Good. Very good. Thank you, Anthony, for coming to his aid. Isidore would be proud.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “You’ve done more than enough. That will be all.”

  I open my eyes to the roaring fireplace of the West Wing lobby. There’s an IV attached to my left arm, feeding blood into my body.

  “It’s sheep blood,” Micah says, smiling. He unhooks the blood bag and removes the IV from my skin. “You know, this scenario feels awfully familiar.”

  “What happened?”

  “Anthony discovered a suspicious car parked in close proximity of the allotment. He waited for its owner to return and was met by Starkly, trying to abscond with a rather large package,” he jokes, referring to me. “Judging by how casually Starkly has confessed his crime, my guess is he was acting under a Voloccult’s Influence. Impulsion. We’ll know for sure once Nicholas has taken a look into his memories. Nicholas is a — ”