The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1)

by Fernando Rivera

  “Memoreaper. I know. Lucy told me.”

  “He’s an exceptionally talented one, at that.”

  “Uh-huh. Lucy also told me Nicholas is supposed to screen allotment members to prevent stuff like this from happening in the first place. I’d rethink referring to him as talented.”

  Micah grins. “Manny, we’ve known of Starkly’s motives for months, well before he joined the allotment. His affiliation with DEFRA and the RPA was the reason Isidore urged Nicholas to recruit him. ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,’ your father always said.”

  “But what about the prophecy?”

  Micah’s smile disappears. “So you know about my prophecy?”

  “Edith and James told me.”

  “Of course… Well, understand my prophecy of Isidore’s murder didn’t come until after Starkly had changed his mind about killing him, when the man was no longer a threat.”

  “The prophecy came after?”

  “Yes. So it has nothing to do with Reginald Starkly, of that you can be certain.”

  “But James said your prophecy didn’t show you who the murderer was.”

  “Correct.”

  “Then how can you rule Starkly out as a suspect?”

  Micah purses his lips in annoyance. “I guess you’re right. And I have to hand it to the man, he is rather clever.” He retrieves Starkly’s campaign button from his pocket. “Do you see this?” Micah bends the sharp pin back, the same one Starkly jabbed into my shoulder. “It’s made of Moon Silver. When a Disciple is exposed to Moon Silver — or a Daemon, in your case — it renders their abilities useless, which is why Starkly was able to overpower you. And this” — Micah produces a white handkerchief from his coat pocket — “was laced with Hemonox. It’s a nasty concoction of our Living enemies. Causes the blood to coagulate at an abnormally fast rate, inducing temporary paralysis. It’s lethal to humans and a terrible nuisance to us.” Micah examines the cloth, wafting the crude aroma toward his nose. He recoils in disgust and tosses the handkerchief into the flames. The material crackles as it catches fire.

  I attempt to lift my head from the chair, but a tightening pain in the nape of my neck forces me to stay reclined. “It still hurts.”

  “Of course it does. Your veins were nearly frozen.” Micah detaches the tube from the IV bag and pours some of the remaining sheep blood into a crystal rocks glass from the liquor trolley. “Some Disciples are partial to a warmer nightcap, but I prefer room temperature.” He hands the cup to me. “Drink. It’ll make you feel better.” Micah pulls a silver flask from his pant pocket, identical to the one my mother carried. We toast. “Cheers.”

  The sheep blood is robust and bursting with flavor, like candied lamb broth. My first sip becomes a mouthful — then, several gulps — and before I realize it, my tumbler is empty. A satisfying warmth coats my stomach. “It’s good. Really good. Sweet.”

  “I’m glad you appreciate it. It’s Stockton Farms Premium Southdown Blend: sheep blood aged in maple wood to the peak of perfection. Blood vinification is a hobby of mine.” Micah refills my cup with the last of the blood bag’s supply.

  “Thank you.”

  “So, Manny, two more days until the New Moon. What are your thoughts on Baptism?” he inquires in a businesslike manner.

  “To be honest, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “I can’t imagine why not. Based on James’ report, you’re mastering your abilities quite well. Faster than your father did after he was sired, I might add.”

  My pocket buzzes, followed by a familiar chime. My phone. I had almost forgotten. I dig the mobile out of my pant pocket. Between work and social media, dozens of now-meaningless notifications have accumulated since leaving the Gatwick Airport Wi-Fi. I dismiss the clutter and scroll to my messages. As predicted, Andrew’s added more than twenty responses to our text thread, and there are additional notices from members of the USD faculty. Nothing from Mom. That’s not like her, especially considering the circumstances. Does she think I’m upset with her?

  I test the waters by sending her a simple message: I’m ok. How are you?

  Micah senses my apprehension. “Is everything all right?”

  The text to my mother bounces back: Message not delivered.

  “You said you talked to my mother earlier today?”

  “Yes. She called from San Diego.”

  “San Diego? I thought she called you from New York.”

  “She did. I misspoke. Minerva called from New York, on her way to San Diego.”

  I text Mom again. It yields the same result: Message not delivered.

  “My messages aren’t getting through to her.”

  “It must be a faulty connection. I wouldn’t worry.”

  But I am worried. If the last few days have taught me anything, it’s to never let my guard down.

  I send a message to Andrew: Sorry for being MIA. Still abroad. Can you check on my mom?

  He answers immediately: Dude! WTF? I thought you died.

  The warmth in my stomach spreads to my fingers, and I reply to Andrew with phasm speed: I’ll answer all your questions later. Promise. For now, CHECK ON MY MOM, and tell her I’m ok. Then get back to me ASAP.

  Andrew responds: Ok. Will do after work. Don’t get fired.

  At this point, getting fired is the least of my worries. I set my phone down and stare into the fire.

  “Nicholas told me you fed on James tonight, to heal yourself after the attack. Is that right?” Micah probes.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re luckier than I thought. Had Starkly killed you, James would have been made your Sire, and that wouldn’t have been wise for a Saved in your position.”

  “My position?”

  “I mean no offense to James, but the boy is unstable. And a Daemon with your potential deserves a Sire who’s competent under pressure, someone whose intellect is not obscured by his emotions. James’ good intentions notwithstanding, of course.”

  “Do you mean a Sire more like you?”

  “Perhaps,” Micah suggests. “Influence is a powerful talent, Manny, and it shouldn’t be trusted in the hands of a former Voloccult like James.”

  “James used to be a Voloccult?”

  “I don’t see why this surprises you. He and Isidore were twins, after all.”

  “Twins? James and my father were twins?”

  “Has James not told you? How peculiar,” he remarks.

  Of all the things James has been eager to teach me, I’d have thought this would be at the top of his list. Why would he keep this from me?

  “I wouldn’t take it to heart. James has always been embarrassed for not living up to his brother’s potential. As the Vulgata says, ‘The Lord grants us gifts according to our faith,’ and unlike Isidore, James’ faith has failed him all too frequently. That’s why he was downgraded to a Cereflex. It’s also why I don’t think he’d make a suitable Sire for you. But had you been around to ask me a hundred years ago, I might have told you a different story.”

  Edith mentioned something about James having brown eyes in the past, but if I remember correctly, she said he “grew out of them.” That’s a more positive spin than saying he was “downgraded.”

  “I’m sure it was for the best,” Micah continues. “Synchopathy and compulsion are much more James’ speed,” he says, referring to James’ mixed Cereflex abilities. “He wasn’t built for the responsibility of something as great as Impulsion. Not like Isidore. Or you, for that matter. You’re aware of the difference between compulsion and Impulsion, I assume?”

  “I think I know the basics. Compulsion works on weak-minded victims, but Impulsion works on everyone. Foolproof manipulation,” I respond, remembering Lucy’s words.

  “Foolproof manipulation against other non-Voloccults, correct. And Impulsion is a horrendous wea
pon, the most blasphemous of the Immortal Sins — if used against the Afterliving. Are you privy as to how it works?”

  I shake my head, continuing to sip on my Southdown Blend.

  “I assumed not. As you know, it’s in everybody’s nature to sin, and it’s our free will that acts as the barricade between the desire to sin and the act of doing so. A Voloccult like yourself can target a sin and remove the barrier confining it.”

  “You mean I can take away free will?”

  “For the sin you command your victim to commit, yes. But keep in mind you cannot implant the sin into the sinner’s subconscious. You can only bring it to the forefront. Voloccults can only impel their targets to execute something they’ve already considered doing but have never carried out. This is important for you to understand, because if you ever do use Impulsion for selfish gain, you should never feel entirely at fault for your victim’s actions, despite how other Disciples may view you. It takes two to tango,” he says with a smile. “And Influence is your God-given talent. You should never be ashamed of using its power to the full extent. Like I’ve never been ashamed of using Prophecy. Or Edith, of wielding Submission.”

  “I know I’m not as knowledgeable about the Afterliving or Christianity as you are, but… isn’t free will supposed to be God’s greatest gift? Doesn’t Impulsion go against that?”

  “Nonsense. God’s greatest gift is the Afterliving,” Micah declares, “and as His Disciples, we are called to preserve and grow our cause by whatever means necessary, regardless of what the opposition may say. And if you’re going to be as great of a Devangelist as your father was, this is something you must accept.”

  Noted. I divert my attention away from his stare to the empty cup in my lap. “Do you miss him?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Infinitely. I’m surprised you’d even question that.”

  “Sorry. You just seem to be taking his death better than everybody else. And you’re always so put together when you talk about him, even at his funeral.”

  “I’ve witnessed my fair share of loss over the last four centuries, those of my wife and sons included. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s with every death, there is new life. Isidore’s passing may have been a tragedy, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s also the reason you’re here. I can’t help but feel grateful.”

  I kind of understand where Micah’s coming from. When my father first showed up at Stockton Farm, he had just lost Sebastiano. Micah, in turn, had recently lost his sons. So his and Jacob’s relationship was most likely forged from of a complementary sense of grief — life from death.

  Even so, Micah’s explanation is still disturbing. By not stopping Isidore’s killer, could Micah have indirectly manipulated my homecoming to Stockton Estate? Maybe his prophecy is more complete than he’s been letting on, and Micah saw my father’s murderer, along with my return to Devil’s Dyke. God knows Isidore’s death has been the catalyst for everything that’s transpired the last five days. But if so, why would Micah sacrifice my father for me? What makes me so special?

  I run my finger along the inside of the glass, collecting the leftover blood. “What were you doing when he was killed?”

  “I was out with Nicholas.”

  “But James said everybody was here.”

  “We were, just not at the estate. Nicholas and I were in the allotment.”

  “So you weren’t around when he was slain?”

  “As I said, we were in the allotment.”

  “Right.”

  “I have the oddest suspicion I’m on trial,” he comments.

  The glass slips from my greasy hands, and Micah phasms to retrieve it before it crashes to the floor. He places it back on the liquor trolley and smiles, reclining against the plush leather backing of his armchair. “Why don’t we play a game?”

  “A game?”

  “Yes. A simple one, to ease your nerves. You obviously have many questions on your mind, and I hate to think I’m depriving you of answers. I’ll give you three opportunities to ask me anything you desire, and in turn, I’ll answer truthfully.”

  “How’s that a game?”

  “For every question you ask me, I’m allowed to ask you one in exchange. And you, in turn, must answer truthfully.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. I guarantee it will be fun. Shall we?”

  What do I have to lose? “Okay.”

  “Splendid.” Micah motions to me with an upraised palm. “You first.”

  “Okay.” I look him square in the eyes. “Did you see the person who killed my father in your prophecy?”

  Micah’s signature grin reappears. “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Uh-uh-uh. My turn.” He leans in closer. “Do you like it?”

  “Like what?”

  “What you’ve tasted of Discipleship. What it’s doing to your mind, to your body. How it’s changed you. How it can change you. Do you like it?”

  The answer comes all too easily: “I love it. I’ve never felt this alive.”

  Micah beams with satisfaction, pressing his steepled fingers against his lips. “Your turn. And choose your second question wisely.”

  “Who did you see kill my father?”

  “That depends. Which prophecy are you referring to?”

  “There’s more than one?”

  Micah chuckles. “There are several. Why else do you think I’ve kept the suspects a secret? I’ve been trying to avoid a witch hunt.”

  “But you do know who actually killed him?”

  “Is that your question?”

  “No,” I quickly say. “My question is: Who actually killed my father?”

  “I did.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. At Saint Nicholas Parish, more than three hundred years ago, in 1668. I’m afraid death is an essential part of the Afterliving’s Sacrament of Baptism.”

  “Wait. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Tsk-tsk-tsk, Emmanuel…”

  I hold my tongue. Something tells me no matter what I ask, Micah’s going to find a clever way to dance around the answer I’m looking for.

  He interlocks his fingers and lays them on his lap. He sits up a little straighter. “Are you in love with Ms. Weston?”

  “With Lucy? Of course I love her. She’s my oldest friend.”

  “I didn’t ask you if you loved her, Manny. That goes without saying. I asked if you’re in love with her. And remember, you must answer truthfully.” Micah’s pupils expand, pushing the turquoise to the far edges of his irises.

  If I lied, I’m almost certain he’d read it in my expression. “Yes. I’m in love with her. I always have been.”

  “As I suspected. Now, would you like to know whom she’s in love with?”

  “You could tell me that?”

  “I could never speak for her, of course, but considering Miss Weston’s had an intimate connection to our family these last several years, I do have an accurate grasp of her romantic sentiments, especially where you’re concerned.”

  “You mean she’s talked about me?”

  “There may have been a few exchanges between her and Isidore regarding you and a hopeful return to Devil’s Dyke.” He winks. “Or you can ask me another question about your father. Whichever subject is of most importance to you,” Micah adds. “But remember, you’ve only one question remaining.” He takes another swig of his flask.

  I’m starting to wonder if Micah’s talent really is Prophecy or if it’s playing mind games.

  Should I waste my final question on Lucy? I know she loves me. It would be crazy if she didn’t. But is she in love with me? She’s never said it, and God knows she’s had the chance. Maybe she isn’t?

  “Manny?”

  “I’m thinking.” But if she isn’t, then why did she give me th
at speech in the allotment about being held back from the Afterliving because she feared an eternity without non-believers? Unless she’s been dating another atheist behind my back, but what are the odds of that? Virtually zero.

  “What’s your last question?” Micah presses.

  I’m being crazy. Of course she’s in love with me. “Who — ” But if she’s in love with me, why did she comfort Henry when I was the one who was almost killed? Maybe there really is something going on between them? “Who” — just ask him! — “is Lucy in love with?”

  Micah’s turquoise eyes twinkle. “Come now, Manny. Isn’t it obvious? She’s in love with you.”

  “Really?”

  “For as long as I can remember.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “This brings me to my last question. If Miss Weston were to become a Disciple, would you be more inclined to do the same?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Honesty, Manny.”

  “I wouldn’t. There are lots of other factors I’m considering.”

  “Then please, enlighten me. What is holding you back?”

  Knock-knock-knock. Our heads turn to the West Wing corridor.

  “Are you expecting anybody?” Micah asks.

  “No.”

  The knocking persists. We rise from our seats and proceed down the stairs to the main entrance. The banging becomes louder and more urgent.

  “What on earth…?” Micah pulls the front door open.

  It’s Lucy. Her eyes are red and puffy, like she’s been crying. She forces a smile. “Good evening. I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

  “Not at all, my dear. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m perfectly fine.” She wipes her eyes. “But Henry isn’t. And he’s gone.”

  “Gone?” I reply.

  “He left.”

  “Please, come in.” Micah steps back and allows her to pass. “Can I get you a cup of tea? Some wine, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Why did Henry leave?” I inquire.

  “He told me he was ashamed, disappointed in himself for letting his hunger get in the way of our protection. I tried to tell him it was an honest mistake, but he wouldn’t hear it. He said he was unworthy of my forgiveness, and that he needed to make peace with what he let happen. So he left, and I don’t know when he’s coming back. I tried to stop him.”