She’s right. Had Lucy told me all of this the day we reunited — Baptisms, Almas, Disciples, Demiguard marks — I would have been on the first plane back to San Diego.
Lucy’s phone vibrates again. She reaches over the edge of the bed to retrieve it from the pile of clothes. “Damn.”
“What?”
Lucy dials. “Manny, I’m sorry, but you can’t avoid the subject anymore. Tonight’s the New Moon, and you have to make a decision about Baptism. Anthony is driving Micah insane about an opening for Michelle. She’s ready to be Saved.”
Lucy clears her throat. “Hello, Micah… Yes, Micah, he’s just left…” She waves me away and continues the call in the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
So much for basking in the postcoital afterglow. I get dressed, reflecting on Lucy’s confession. I don’t know what’s more insane, my father expecting me to be sired or being right about the numbers on his wrist. How could my dreams be that spot-on? How could I have known about the secret study, the black henna, and the murder — before being told about them?
Well, my dreams aren’t completely spot-on. I did kill my father in the last one, which is impossible. But still, they’ve felt so real, from drowning in Lake Myrrh outside the study window to feeling my father’s claws digging into my skin as I was staking him…
My eyes settle on the henna stains under my fingernails. If my father used black henna to draw those numbers on his arm the day he died and had some under his fingernails when he was attacked — like I saw in my dream — the paste had to have gotten on his attacker. And if the struggle prompted my father to fight with his claws, which I’m certain it did, the black henna must have gotten into the murderer’s puncture wounds, branding him like a tattoo.
James’ arms. When Micah ripped James’ sleeve off during their fight on the dock, James had black sickle-shaped scars on his forearms — fingernail marks. That’s why he’s always wearing sweaters and jackets. He’s covering up the evidence.
I don’t know how and I don’t know why it’s been revealed to me, but I’m almost positive the dream of my father’s murder was one of Micah’s prophecies. And I think Micah’s been trying to tell me this whole time. “Dreams are the language of God,” he said, hoping to reach me with a quote from my favorite book. And when I didn’t catch on to his clue then, that must have prompted him to plant the Vulgata in my bag. Cain, Abel, the Prodigal Son, they’re all stories of brother fighting brother. The clues have been in front of my face this entire time: James killed my father.
Iburst through the front door of Stockton Estate, startling Micah. He’s dressed in a cream-colored suit, enjoying a glass of wine at the foot of the stairs.
“I know now,” I exclaim.
“You know what?”
“Where is he?”
“Where is whom?” he replies, confused.
“James.”
Micah flinches. “In the library.”
I phasm down the hall and throw open the library door, scattering the books shelved on the other side. James and Anthony stand by the round table — James in wool trousers and a light pastel shirt, Anthony in a long white robe cinched with a red sash.
“It was you.” Instinct surges through my body, and I phasm forward. The back of my hand meets James’ chin, and he flies across the room, crashing into Micah’s wall of Bibles.
Anthony knocks me to the ground and hurdles over my body to assist James, and together, they grim. Their pupils expand into large black orbs, engulfing their irises.
My skin tingles, hardening into armor, and I charge. Anthony tries to block me with a stiff arm to the chest, but it’s ineffective. My momentum continues, and his arm bends back — pop! He howls, dropping to his knees.
Micah enters the room. “Emmanuel.” He tries to detain me, and we collide in midair. Micah’s force prevails, and he drives me backwards, pinning my back to the wall. Books rain down on us from overhead.
“Get off me,” I snarl.
Micah grims. “Control yourself.” His transformation recharges my instinct, and I break loose of his hold, kicking him across the room.
Nicholas phasms into the library, stepping between James and me. “Move out of the way,” I demand.
“First, tell me what’s going on.”
“He killed my father.”
“James?” Nicholas says, surprised. “He would never.”
“Just get out of the way, Nicholas.”
“No, Emmanuel. I will not let you attempt Hemocide against your own Fellowship.”
“This doesn’t concern you.”
“As long as I live and breathe, everything in this Fellowship concerns me.”
“Fine” — I grab the leg of a wooden chair surrounding the glass table and break it off — “have it your way.”
My eyes home in on the distance to Nicholas’ chest, and I hurl the stake like a dagger, straight at his heart. He catches it — as I expected — but the distraction gives me ample time to phasm forward and proceed with my attack. I leap straight up, tucking my knees in, and once I’m above him… I extend my legs, clamp my ankles around his ears, push, then twist. His head spins like a top — click-click-clack! — and Nicholas drops like a sack of potatoes.
Anthony tackles me from behind and pins my wrists to the ground. “I warned Isidore,” he spits. “I told him you wouldn’t be ready for this afterlife, but he was blinded by pride. And now he’s dead.” He grims.
“Anthony,” Micah warns, “do not.”
Anthony leans in, eyeing me with his shark-like stare. “It should have been you.” He dives for my neck — Crack! Anthony’s head twists to the side, and he collapses on top of me.
James hovers over us with a mixture of disappointment and relief. He lifts Anthony up and passes him to Micah. “Leave us.”
Micah objects, but James cuts him off. “Don’t give me another reason to resent you. Leave us, Micah.”
He obliges.
Nicholas rises from the floor, massaging the bones of his neck back into place. “James, maybe I should speak with Emmanuel. Offer him an unbiased ear?”
“I said go,” James syncs.
Nicholas nods and follows Micah into the hall. He shuts the door behind him.
“Are you pleased with your behavior?” James chides.
I survey the room, taking note of the destruction I’ve caused. “Whatever it takes.”
James laughs as tears fill his hazel eyes. “How dare you. How dare you, Emmanuel. After all I’ve done for you.”
“All you’ve done is lie. About my mother. About my father — ”
“I may have withheld the truth from you, but I never lied.”
“Then why have you been hiding the scars on your arms? Why didn’t you tell me about the fight you had with my father the day he was killed?”
“Because I wanted to spare you the horror of knowing your father was emulating the Demiguard’s pride,” he shouts, pointing to his wrist, “selling his soul to the Beast.”
“He wasn’t selling his soul. Nine one nine is my parents’ anniversary. September nineteenth. That’s what was written on his arm. Not six one six.”
James scoffs and shakes his head. “You’re a fool if you believe that rubbish. Isidore didn’t care about his anniversary. Nor about Mina. He couldn’t. Nostalgia was impossible for a Disciple as power hungry as he.”
“You’re wrong. My father — ”
“What? Loved her? Loved you?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you believed their love was a lie. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“Yes, but — ”
“But what?” James sneers. “Please, go on. I’m dying to hear your defense of a Disciple so repulsive that he willingly robbed an Alma of her happiness, only to then turn his back on the greatest gift she could afford him?” he s
ays, gesturing to me.
His taunting strikes a nerve, causing my heart to flood with the pangs of loss and abandonment I endured in the years following my departure from Devil’s Dyke. I fight to hold back tears.
James de-grims, softening his tone. “But you were loved, Emmanuel, immensely. By me. I have loved you and your mum from the beginning, and I would have never let you be harmed by my brother’s destruction. You may have been Isidore’s son by blood, but I am the one who has protected you with every ounce of my being, the way a proper father should.”
“Stop trying to take his place. You are not my father.”
James’ pupils shrink, pronouncing his Cereflex eyes, and he projects his aggravation onto me. “I don’t have to take his place,” he hisses. “Are you curious as to why you remember Isidore yet have no recollection of me? Because it was me, Emmanuel. It was always me.”
“What are you talking about?”
He takes a slow step toward me, and my instinct sparks, prompting my armored skin to reemerge. “Isidore may have been a loyal Disciple, but he was never ready to be a father, which is why I adopted the task of raising you. I’m the person you remember all those years ago. Not my brother.”
I take a step back. “You’re lying.”
“Mina begged him to refrain from Devangelism, but Isidore couldn’t resist. He was too hungry. Always hungry.” The green in his eyes intensifies, magnifying the ferocity of his emotions. “Constantly on to the next farm, in search of the next additions to the Fellowship, paying no mind to the rules that have helped us survive. My brother was addicted to saving,” he raves. “That’s what caused your mum to turn away.
“The Afterliving called my brother heroic, but I knew what he really was. Selfish.” James continues to advance in my direction. “All Mina ever asked of him was to be the father you deserved. If not for Isidore’s bloody stubbornness — ”
My back hits the wall. I’m cornered.
“ — a stubbornness you have inherited, Emmanuel, despite all I’ve done to correct it.”
“Is that why you’re going to kill me, too?”
James leans in, resting his hand on the shelf behind me. Heat radiates from his skin. “How ironic would that be? Spending the better part of your life protecting you, only to be the reason for your destruction.” He snickers. “It’s no matter. With Mina gone” — James grims again and addresses me from behind cold, black eyes — “there isn’t much stopping me now, is there?”
“I guess there isn’t.”
Instinct explodes, and I reach behind me for one of the Bibles. I smash the book against the side of James’ head, and he stumbles backwards, allowing me to phasm across the room and retrieve a stake from one of the broken chairs.
I turn to find James inches from my face. “Do it,” he begs. He retracts his fangs and grabs my wrist, positioning the point of the stake over his heart. “Don’t you understand? I’ve lost Jacob. Mina. If I lost you, too, the rest of eternity would be pointless. Like a night without stars.”
A night without stars?
James leans into the stake and cups my cheek, resting his forehead against mine. “This is how it has to be, Emmanuel. Do it.” He holds his breath and waits for the final push.
It can’t be… Only my father would reference something as sentimental as the stars and hold me the way James is holding me. Only the man I left behind at Gatwick Airport twenty years ago would know how much those words and this gesture means to me.
I search James’ eyes for a hint of deception… but I find none. I see only love — unconditional love. Could it be?
My hand goes numb, and the stake falls to the floor. The sound echoes against the bare shelves of the ransacked library. Then my instinct is replaced by emotion, and I begin to cry. “Dad?”
James nods and pulls me closer. He pats my back and rocks me side to side, the way a proper father would. “It’s okay, son. It’s okay.”
“So it was you? All my memories of my father have been of you?”
“Yes. Your mum never meant to deceive you, but when Isidore showed no interest in parenthood, Mina panicked. And she turned to me for help. It was never supposed to be a permanent switch, just a way to buy time until Isidore realized how fulfilling fatherhood could be. Then he could assume my place, and you would have never been the wiser.” James sighs. “But that day never came. Isidore didn’t come around, which is why you and your mum left Devil’s Dyke.
“You were a joy to raise, Emmanuel, and as much as I wanted my brother to share in that, there isn’t one part of me that would take back our years together.”
“What about my mom?”
“She struggled with the idea, at first, but in the end, she was happy because you were happy. You were happy, right?” he asks.
“I was.” Until we moved away, I was.
James beams with satisfaction. “Good. I’ve waited twenty years to hear you say that.” He presses his forehead against mine once more and kisses my brow.
“Can I ask what happened between you and my — between you and Isidore?”
James raises the sleeve of his dress shirt, exposing the sickle-shaped marks on his skin. They’re lighter than before. “We had an argument, yes. But I didn’t kill him.” He guides my fingers along his arm until they line up with the charcoal-gray scratches my father left. “It wasn’t just about the numbers. I was angry at my brother because he was letting his fear of losing you to the Lycains poison his motivation for baptizing you.”
“Why was he afraid of losing me to the Lycains?”
“Because it’s part of your destiny. You were born on the night of a Blood Moon, and since the dawn of Lycainship, these lunar occurrences have been deemed the birth moons of Demiguards.”
“My father thought I could be the next Demiguard?”
“Yes. Which is why his determination to sire you had become toxic, and I told Isidore the more he pressured you, the more likely you were to rebel.”
“But I’m sure there are thousands of other people who were born on that day. Why would the Blood Moon pertain to me?”
“Because on that June sixteenth, there wasn’t supposed to be a Blood Moon. And seeing as you were the only Daemon birth on record with the Hendecad, born into one of the Afterliving’s most powerful Fellowships, the anomaly was attributed to you.”
“People thought I caused it?”
“Not just people, Manny, the most powerful Disciples of the Afterliving, as well as Wolfgang’s predecessor. And now that you’re of a proper age, Wolfgang’s become keen on passing his torch on to you.”
“To take his place?”
“Yes.”
“But how, if I’m already a Daemon?”
“Being a Daemon doesn’t make you immune to Lycainship. You can still choose. Mina took you away so you could live as normal of a life as possible — before she was to bring you back, to choose your fate.”
“To be a Disciple or the next Demiguard?”
“Or to stay as you are,” James adds, much to his dismay.
So all this time, my life has been leading up to this: Daemon, Disciple, or Demiguard? Mortal versus immortal? Werewolf versus vampire versus human-hybrid?
“Do I have to choose now?”
James nods. “I know this seems sudden, but I’d be lying if I told you I could guarantee your protection until the next New Moon. The last three days have been enough of a struggle.”
My brain starts to race: Not choosing Discipleship would still leave me susceptible to being Claimed. I’ve gotten pretty good at being a Daemon, but if I stayed like this, I wouldn’t be immortal. What if Baptism is the only chance I have of being reconnected with my mother? Then there’s Lucy. After last night, I can’t imagine anything better than spending the rest of eternity with her. But do I want be alive for an eternity?
“I need more time.�
�
“Time is not the answer. Faith is.” James’ eyes flicker, and he absorbs my apprehension, replacing it with a wave of tranquility. “Believe, Manny. Believe in yourself. Believe in the Sire. Believe that once you submit to God, the Afterliving will provide you with more than the Living ever could. And you’ve already had a taste of the glory Discipleship can offer. Now, imagine that times infinity.”
“But I don’t know if I believe in the Sire like you do. What if I choose to be Saved for the wrong reason?”
He smiles. “I don’t want you to believe like I do.”
“You don’t?”
“No. And if there’s true love in your heart, there’s no wrong reason to be Saved. Isidore, your mum, Micah, myself, none of us are the same kind of Disciple. The Sire made us unique so our talents and passions could be used to serve Him in different ways, and amongst different peoples. As long as you believe in the good the Afterliving can do, you believe in the greatness of God. It’s as simple as that.”
I do believe in the good the Afterliving can do. The hundreds of grateful Disciples who attended Isidore’s funeral are proof of that. James and my mother are proof of that. But is that me? Am I the devangelizing type? I’ve never been the kind of person who stands on a soapbox and “preaches.” I’m the kind of person who smiles, nods, and keeps my head down. But maybe that’s because I’ve never felt passionately enough about something to want to be heard — not unless it was something I was getting paid for, like my job at the university. Have I really lived this long without passion? Am I as shallow as Anthony accused me of being?
“Do I have to be a Devangelist after I’m Saved, like Isidore?”
“You don’t have to do any of that. You’ll want to,” he assures me. “It’ll become second nature to want to share the Sire’s grace with those you love. Trust me.”
James has a point. If my mother hadn’t already been sired, I’d waste no time saving her as soon as I was confirmed. Then I’d move on to Lucy. And Andrew, of course — although I’d have to fight one or both of his parents for that honor. I wonder if I’m allowed to sire more than one Saved at a time?
The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1) Page 27