The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1)

by Fernando Rivera

  Shortly after resurrection, but centuries before my mother was born, James started to see visions of her — her hair, her eyes, her smile. He then began to hear my mother’s voice and smell my mother’s skin, becoming haunted by the essence of a woman he had yet to meet. The years of visions turned into decades, and decades into centuries. Through all this time, James struggled to convince himself this woman was real — that she wasn’t a figment of his imagination — and did, or would, exist.

  The moment of truth arrived when the pieces of James’ visions came together to reveal his Alma’s location — Hughes College at Cambridge, where my mother attended grad school — but when he set out to find her, he didn’t do it alone. Thinking a break from Micah would be good for my father, James convinced Isidore to tag along.

  “When we found her, my life was instantly changed,” James declares. “And so was my talent.”

  “Your talent?”

  “Your mum is the reason my eyes are hazel, Manny, why I’m a Cereflex and no longer a Voloccult. Isidore said it happened to me the moment I saw her.”

  “Micah told me your eyes changed because you weren’t fit for Impulsion.”

  James scoffs. “He only said that to discredit me. They changed because my love for your mum was Almagimation in its purest form,” he professes. “Though, ironically, my eyes are the reason your father won her heart instead of me. All the while I was dreaming of your mum, I had no idea she had been dreaming of me, and when she saw your father and me — ”

  “She thought he was you,” I remark.

  James nods. “The man of your mum’s dreams had brown eyes, not hazel.”

  “But you said something, right?”

  He shakes his head. “It was too late. I lost Mina’s affection the instant she laid eyes on him, the instant she thought her soul mate had come, and there was nothing I could do or say to change her mind without exposing what Isidore and I were.”

  “But what about after, after she knew you were Disciples? You could have told her then. Both of you could have explained to her what happened.”

  “I couldn’t do that to her. Nor to my brother.”

  “What do you mean? Of course you could’ve.”

  “You don’t understand. She changed him, too, Manny. Your mum brought the old Jacob back to life. Mina reawakened Isidore’s humanity — his humility — better than any attempt I had ever made. With your mum around, Micah’s influence over your father became nonexistent. Her love kept Isidore grounded, and tearing them apart would be like losing my brother all over again.”

  “So you used her?”

  James grows defensive. “Of course not.”

  “Yes, you did. You used her. Say what you want about Micah, but you’re no better than he is. Did my mom even know she was part of your game?”

  “There was no game. Your father loved her, and she loved him.”

  “She thought she loved him.” The electric tingle of instinct starts to flutter within my chest.

  “They made each other happy.”

  “But she was your Alma, James — not his — and being happy isn’t the same as being in love. Because if they were in love, they would have stayed together.” My hands start to shake. “They would have stayed together, and my mother wouldn’t have taken me halfway across the world to get away from him. And all of this — all of this secrecy and all of this lying — all of this never would have happened. Did you ever think about that?”

  “Of course I’ve thought about that! I think about that every single day. Did you think it was easy for me to sacrifice my life — my eternity — for them? To see them happy? Witness their love grow? Witness you grow? No, I couldn’t be the Sire Jacob needed, but the least I could do was share God’s love.”

  “My mother wasn’t some thing to be shared.”

  “Of course she wasn’t. That’s not — That’s not what I meant.”

  Heat begins to radiate from between my fingers, and the tips of my nails grow an extra inch, digging into the butts of my palms. How good it would feel to claw him to shreds…

  James continues. “What I meant was — ”

  “Just stop!” I sync, alleviating my instinct. “Please, just stop.”

  I begin to walk away, but James phasms in front of me. “I will make things right, Emmanuel. You have my word. But you must forgive me.”

  The warmth in my fingers returns. “Forgive you?”

  He gets down on his knees. “For everything. For your father, your mum, for last night” — he grabs my wrists — “and I will be indebted to you for all eternity.”

  I stare down into his hazel eyes and divert the heat from my hands to my skin, allowing James to feel my resistance in my hardened flesh. “No.”

  The green of his irises expands. “But — ”

  “But what? You think breaking down and telling me all the ways you screwed up is supposed to make me feel sorry for you? To let you off the hook? Because it doesn’t. No amount of confession can undo what you’ve done. Or bring my parents back.”

  “Then let me honor them by protecting you.”

  “I already told you I don’t want any more of your help.”

  “Please. There must be something I can do.”

  “Find my father’s murderer. Do that, and maybe — just maybe — I won’t be completely disgusted by you. Until then, I don’t want to see you, and I don’t want to hear you or your echoes. Unless you’re coming to tell me who’s responsible for my father’s death — you don’t exist to me.”

  My mother was in love with James? Not only is it absurd but, given their apparent age difference, it’s also disturbing. I wonder if she ever discovered the truth. If she had, she couldn’t have found out until after I was born and after my father sired her. My heart sinks at the idea of Mom having been tricked into living a life with a man she was never in love with. But how much better off would she have been with James, a man who used her? By that logic, however, if James used my mother to keep my father under control, couldn’t I say my mother used me to keep her Bloodlust in check?

  I near Stockton Estate, glancing up at the West Wing window overlooking Lake Myrrh. Last night, Micah asked what was really holding me back, and to be honest, Lucy does play a factor. My issue isn’t whether or not she’ll be baptized, too — I know she wants to be — but rather, my problem is what Lucy would think of me for being sired without believing.

  At this moment, I do want to be sired — but not to serve the Afterliving. I want to be sired so I can use my abilities to hunt down my father’s killer and salvage some sense of justice for the way the Afterliving has wronged me and my family. But is revenge worth eternity?

  Several murderers. That’s what Micah said: several prophecies featuring several murderers. I wonder who they were. Starkly? Wolfgang? Nicholas? James?

  Grrr… A snarling noise interrupts my train of thought, and my skin hardens in defense. What was that? It happens again, this time louder… I laugh. It’s my stomach. I’m hungry.

  I know there’s food in the estate kitchen, but after last night, I’d like to avoid the residents of Stockton Estate. There must be another way in besides the front door. I walk around the house’s perimeter. My bedroom window? It’s still open from yesterday. Could I reach it from down here?

  I align myself with the window frame and crouch down, digging my fingers into the grass. I channel my electric spark and try to gauge how much charge I’ll need to make the jump. When enough power accumulates in my limbs, I push off the ground, soaring high into the air. I overshoot the window by several yards and land on the slick tile of the mansard roof. My feet slip from under me, and I slide toward the edge, commencing a terrifying descent from the top of Stockton Estate — again. As before, instinct kicks in, and time slows, allowing me an opportunity to rearrange my body for a safe and graceful landing.

  Okay,
a little too much power… I readjust the angle of my body and prepare for another go. I spring up, accelerating faster than expected toward the stone wall several feet below my window. I shield my face, bracing for the blow, but the crash doesn’t come. My momentum decreases a meter from impact, and I kick my right leg out, somersaulting into another soft landing — whoa!

  “Come on, Manny. Third time’s a charm.” I shake off the missed attempts and zero in on the dormer window so my pupils can recalibrate the distance. Splitting the difference of my two jumps, I launch into the air for a third time…and the balls of my feet connect with the window frame. Light applause follows.

  “Third time is a charm,” Micah says from the doorway. “Your parents would be proud of your agility. You know, I was skeptical as to whether or not you would be returning after last night’s incident. However…” He indicates a set of clean clothes laid out on the bed — a navy polo, white jacket, and gray trousers — along with brown leather shoes and a brand-new watch. It looks like something I would wear to a USD pep rally. “Consider these gifts an apology for placing you in the middle of yesterday’s feud. As you witnessed, James and I have quite the history.”

  “I know. He told me.”

  “Oh? What exactly did he say?”

  “That you were a greedy Sire. And your selfish need for power was the reason my father was obsessed with Devangelism.”

  “I see. And would you believe me if I said James’ assumption is false? Because keep in mind, there are two sides to every story.”

  “What’s your side, then?”

  “I baptized Isidore because I loved him. And because he trusted I was a Sire better suited for the responsibility. There’s nothing more to it than that. Although, I applaud you for being selective with your trust.” Micah smiles and sits at the edge of the bed, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knee. “I’ve been trying to place myself in your shoes these last several days, and I’ve come to the conclusion we haven’t done our part to make you feel safe. And it was wrong of us to withhold so much of the truth about Isidore.” His turquoise eyes light up, and he laughs. “We are a terribly suspicious bunch, aren’t we? James, Anthony, Nicholas. Why, even Miss Weston is hiding a thing or two.”

  “Lucy?”

  He flashes his signature grin. “Don’t be naive. Of course she is. She’s a woman.”

  Micah removes a speck of lint from his sweater and rises. “The Phantom has a full tank of petrol, and” — he motions to the JanSport at the foot of the bed — “I took the liberty of providing you with money and snacks if you decide to go into town. I wouldn’t blame you for wanting some space from everyone, in light of recent events.”

  “Great.”

  “Your book’s in there, as well.”

  “My book?”

  “The Alchemist. I found it under your bed. Did you know you had left it behind?”

  I nod. “And I somehow ended up with your Vulgata by mistake. Imagine that.”

  Micah smiles. “Maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe it was an omen,” he chuckles, knowing very well omens are a running theme in The Alchemist.

  “I don’t believe in omens.”

  “Like you don’t believe in evil?” he replies, winking. “Keep the Vulgata as long as you like. It’s yours now. An early birthday present.”

  I almost forgot. Tomorrow’s my birthday. “Thank you, Micah,” I reply, omitting his familial title.

  There’s a twitch of acknowledgment in his forced smile. “You’re welcome, Grandson. And if it’s possible, please don’t mention my gift to Anthony. I’ve yet to buy him anything. He’s so hard to shop for.”

  “It’s his birthday, too?”

  “Yes. His Resurrection Day. Isidore hoped sharing a special date would give the two of you a common thread, but I think it’s done the opposite.” He hesitates. “May I tell you something in strict confidence?”

  “Sure.”

  “Anthony’s been envious of you for some time now.”

  “Why? We just met.”

  “True. Though he’s been hearing about you for years. You’ve always been Isidore’s pride and joy, even in your absence. I’m afraid it’s caused Anthony to become slightly — ”

  “Dangerous?”

  “ — insecure. The boy has a temper, but I’ve never known him to be dangerous. At least, not until last week.”

  “What happened last week?”

  “He and Isidore had a terrible argument in the study, Sunday, just before Isidore was killed. James was forced to intervene.”

  Just before he was killed? “What did they fight about?”

  “You, I believe. Anthony was anxious for your arrival.”

  “My arrival?”

  “Yes. Before Isidore’s death, you were originally scheduled to arrive in Devil’s Dyke two days ago, this past Saturday. I know because I bought the tickets myself several weeks prior.”

  “Mom never said anything to me about that.” Did she expect me to just pick up and leave?

  “It was supposed to be a surprise, which makes the timing of your father’s passing all the more ironic.”

  Ironic is the last word I would use to describe his death — more like predetermined. “And you don’t find it suspicious they fought the same day my father was killed?”

  Micah shrugs. “I find it to be more like unfortunate timing.”

  “Where is Anthony now?”

  “I haven’t seen him since last night, and I doubt he’ll be returning any time soon. Since Isidore passed, he’s been increasingly preoccupied with that girl, Michelle. She lives in Brighton.”

  “Any idea where?”

  “No. But if you plan on looking for him, please be careful. We wouldn’t want a repeat of yesterday’s visit to Hove.” Micah turns to leave.

  “Wait. Say you do know who killed my father, hypothetically speaking. Would you ever tell me?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that crime is between the sinner and God, and telling you, or anyone else for that matter, would only invite your judgment. And judgment has no place in the Afterliving.”

  My face grows hot. “So you would let his killer walk free?”

  “I would let his killer be forgiven, as it is my duty. As it is all of our duties: ‘Judge not lest ye be judged.’”

  Bullsh — My echo stops short as I refocus my attention on Micah, on the present moment and not on my own frustration.

  His pupils expand. “You don’t agree?”

  “Nope. Not one damn bit.”

  He sighs. “And that, Grandson, is why you’re not ready for me to tell you, hypothetically speaking.” He shuts the door behind him.

  I exhale the remaining tension from my body. I can’t believe him. I’ll judge whomever the hell I want to, especially if that person is a cold-blooded killer. My duty to forgive? What a load of crap. It’s my duty to “do unto others” and plunge a stake through their goddamn heart. That’s my duty.

  I toss my soiled clothes into the bathroom waste bin, along with my cell phone. It’s useless now that it’s been to the bottom of Lake Myrrh — not that I care about emails, social media, or texting at this point. I hop into the shower and proceed to wash away the algae, sweat, and grime I’ve accumulated over the last twenty-four hours.

  The new shoes and clothes fit like a glove. Is there a trunk of garments labeled For Emmanuel somewhere in the house? At first, I thought it was pure luck my random gifts had been fitting me so well, but now I know it’s because the Stocktons have been expecting my arrival. Mom probably told them my sizes.

  The only present of Micah’s I’m not a fan of is the watch — titanium with gold accents — but I take it anyway for the sake of having a clock. It’s too extravagant for my taste, and bulky, but I’m sure Micah would cringe if I asked him to exch
ange it for something with a Velcro strap and a glow-in-the-dark display. The timer’s been set, too: 36 HRS, 05 MIN. Hmm. I wonder why. I’m tempted to reset it, but it would take me all day to make sense of the buttons and settings.

  I can’t get over what Micah said about my visit being planned weeks in advance. Maybe my father died because I was coming, and whomever did it, did it because they wanted to keep us from being reunited. Keep him from siring me? That’s assuming I’d have wanted to be sired — the current impetus of revenge notwithstanding.

  I continue exercising my abilities, phasming from the West Wing lobby to the corridor, and to my satisfaction, I’m barely winded when I stop at the top of the stairs. What else can I try? I grab hold of the wooden banister, lean back — here we go — and jump down to the first floor. As I descend, time doesn’t slow like before, but it doesn’t have to for me to make a seamless landing. Jumping must be easier than falling.

  I phasm from there into the kitchen and resume my search for food, but the refrigerator is empty. So are the cupboards. There’s only wine: Micah’s Premium Southdown Blend. Bottoms up. After several maple-wood-infused gulps, my hunger subsides, and I begin to feel more like myself again — my Dexolfor-free self, that is.

  Once I’ve had my fill, I go to the library and unlatch the hidden door to the entrance of the secret study. Luckily, the water from Lake Myrrh stopped several feet shy of the top landing. How could I have been so careless?

  I close the passage and find the empty slot on Micah’s shelf where the Vulgata once lay. Where would I be if I’d never pulled it from its place four days ago, found it in my bag, and read it on the plane? Probably back in San Diego with my mother, wondering if I should continue my job at the university or turn in my two weeks’ notice and see the world with my inheritance. Mom would either object to my travels or insist on coming with me, and I’d think it was because she’d miss me, not because she’d go on a Bloodlust binge in my absence.

  I’d still be taking my magic, along with making the occasional visits to Dr. Kris — Disciple in disguise — and James, Micah, Gabriel, and Edith would all be characters in some crazy account I’d tell Andrew about my obligatory trip to Devil’s Dyke. In that same story, my father would go from “that guy who forgot about me” to “that guy who left me millions of dollars,” and Lucy would be “the bullet I dodged” instead of “the one that got away.” Then maybe my haunting dreams about her would finally stop. Life would be good.