The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1)

by Fernando Rivera

  When the seventh Sire takes her place at the water’s edge, something disturbs the order within the nave, causing all the Disciples behind the glass to grim.

  Michelle grabs my arm. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Then the overwhelming stench of wet dog penetrates the large red doors of the narthex. Lycains.

  The narthex doors burst open, and six men invade our tiny space, each targeting a candidate. My aggressor is tall and muscular with a shaved head and narrow-set brown eyes — the most intimidating man of the bunch. He reaches for my arm… Instinct ignites, and I deflect his advance with my left hand. Then I thrust the butt of my right palm into his sternum, sending him crashing into the brick wall.

  One of the other Lycains releases his captive — a female in her late sixties — and he spins me around, taking a swing at my eye. I dodge the punch and pull on his extended wrist, using his momentum to flip him forward. This gives the woman a chance to get away, and she exits the red doors as fast as her frail legs can carry her.

  Gunfire erupts from across the glass partition. Dozens of Lycains in human and mid-Wolf form are penetrating the nave’s south entrance, armed with stakes, crossbows, and other dangerous weapons.

  ‘If you are Sire-less, you must retreat,’ Micah echoes in a low frequency. ‘Do not fight foolishly, my Brothers. Retreat!’

  The Disciples scatter — some to fight and others to flee — but the majority of them regroup to form a barrier around the six coffins of the Saved who have just entered conversion. At the heart of their protective circle is Lucy, the source of the gunfire. She has a pistol clenched between her dainty hands, emptying rounds of ammunition into the nearest fully turned Wolves.

  The bullets stun the Beasts at first, but then they start to spasm, shaking until they return to their vulnerable human form. Then Disciples leave the coffin barricade and attack, preying upon the wounded Lycains with their fangs and claws, biting and swiping at their major arteries. After the victims are no longer a threat, they rejoin the barricade and await the next target to be selected.

  To my surprise, Edith is the most lethal of the Afterliving’s warriors — and she hasn’t even bothered to grim. She phasms from corner to corner, surprising mid-turned Lycains with her talent. I watch in frightened amazement as she simultaneously tortures several opponents with her Dolorouge gift. They kick and scream as they endure the agonizing convulsions brought about by Edith’s stare, and the redder her eyes turn, the louder they beg for mercy. She holds their gaze as blood oozes from every orifice in their fragile human bodies, until these captives are nothing more than pale shells of skin and bone.

  Before attacking another onslaught of mid-turning Wolves, Edith looks in my direction and points to her eyes. ‘You must attack them before they turn.’ Then she reenters the fight, determined to exterminate her enemies at all costs.

  I take note of the casualties throughout the nave. The once-white decorations of St. Nicholas are coated in equal amounts of blood and ash, and each puff of blue light in the distance prompts the electric current in my veins to flow stronger.

  “I’d reconsider my allegiance, Emmanuel,” my Lycain says.

  I don’t respond. Instead, I concentrate on his brown eyes. “Let us go.”

  He deflects my command with a pulse of his irises, then laughs at my weak attempt at Influence. “Is that all you’ve got, Yank? Pity. Thought you’d be stronger.”

  Come on, Manny.

  He turns to the Lycain next to him. “Oy, Vince. Bloke looks like he’s gonna shit himself.”

  “Someone better call his mum,” Vince replies. “Wait a tick. He ain’t got one,” he laughs.

  The mention of my mother sets my gut on fire. The heat funnels higher… “Let” — and higher — “us” — and higher, until Impulsion sears from the backs of my eyes — “go.”

  My Lycain’s face softens, and he steps aside, granting me a clear path to the door. Vince glowers. “Braddock? Braddock? Are you joking?”

  Braddock shakes his head. “No jokes, mate. I’m letting them go.”

  I turn to the Lycain closest to me and repeat the words with similar intensity. “Let us — ”

  Vince’s fist collides with my jaw, and I lose focus. Then he slaps Braddock across the face. “Snap out of it.”

  Braddock remains passive, still under my command. Vince sighs. “Didn’t wanna have to do this, mate.” He resorts to more violent measures against his friend, punching him, taunting him, beating Braddock senseless until his hardened expression returns.

  Braddock snarls, turning on Vince, and his muscles start to twitch, magnifying the stench of wet dog within the narthex. Braddock’s skin becomes tighter, and his nose widens and elongates, morphing into a slender snout. The hair on his body thickens into a cream-colored fleece, and his white fingernails grow to complement a dangerous set of canine teeth. His eyes are the last to change. The centers of his pupils erupt in light, and the glow fans outward until his brown irises are coated in a reflective layer of bronze.

  Braddock-Wolf shakes his head, awakening from a daze, and he squares off to face me. Vince snickers in celebration.

  “Let us go,” I say again. But the Beast is unresponsive — dead behind his reflective eyes.

  The rest of Braddock-Wolf’s companions follow suit and turn, shielding their eyes with the same impenetrable metallic sheen.

  A loud boom draws our attention back to the nave. The south entrance’s double doors have been torn from their hinges, replaced by the head of a large white Wolf. It’s the same one from the pier. It eases into the nave, scanning the room with its piercing silver eyes. Wide, solid torso, powerful legs, long, thick tail, there’s no mystery as to who or what this Lycain is.

  The Demiguard stalks toward the center aisle, leaving massive paw prints in the muddy layer of ash and blood underfoot. Fearful Disciples back away as he sniffs the air, slinking his head left and right like a snake.

  Lucy lowers her weapon and disappears behind James’ and Micah’s shoulders, while the nearby Disciples create a more compact fortress around the dormant Saved. The Demiguard growls in response, though he has no interest in the occupied coffins.

  The Beast turns his pink nose toward the ceiling and sniffs the air around him. Then he whimpers and proceeds to zigzag between broken chairs and mangled bodies, inspecting the fallen members of his pack. After the last Lycain is accounted for, the Demiguard raises his snout and releases a painful howl, identical to the one I heard after Gabriel was slain.

  The Lycains in the nave and the Wolves holding us captive join in his mourning, creating a deafening vacuum of sound under the domed ceiling of St. Nicholas Parish. Then the Wolves in the nave return, exposing their naked human forms, and their howls evolve into silent prayers.

  The Demiguard approaches the cross-shaped font and sniffs the pool of bloody water, scoffing between breaths. Then his metallic gaze rises, piercing the glass partition. It settles on me.

  Braddock-Wolf growls, flicking his snout toward the entrance of the nave. I obey.

  The smell of blood and dirt enters my nostrils as I make my way to the Disciple font, and nobody — not even James — tries to stop me. When I’m halfway to the water, the Demiguard stands on its hind legs, towering several feet above me. Then the white Wolf begins to shrink. Smaller… and smaller… and smaller.

  His teeth dull. Claws retract. Nose and ears shorten. Ivory fleece thins. But the sheen in his metallic eyes never lifts.

  Wolfgang Schmitt stands naked before me. “Hello, Emmanuel.”

  Micah steps forth from the barricade of Sires. “Have you gone mad, Wolfgang? Are you trying to expose us all?” He points to the open doorway.

  Wolfgang smirks. “Don’t worry, Micah. My Conduits have ensured us we have unlimited privacy.”

  “Your Conduits?”

 
“Allies,” Wolfgang declares. “Nobody beyond these grounds can hear or see anything within these walls.”

  I look past the exits. A handful of people are scattered about the church lawn with their hands outstretched in our direction — Wolfgang’s Conduits, his “witch” allies. They must be using the population of Disciples within the nave to fuel some sort of cloaking spell. At the Conduits’ feet lie the suited Voloccults who were regulating access to the church grounds at the start of the ceremony — unconscious. Beyond the Conduits’ magical barrier, the city of Brighton carries on oblivious to the happenings within the parish.

  Micah fumes. “Explain to me what the meaning of this horrific intrusion is? You are in direct violation of the treaty.”

  Wolfgang’s silver eyes gleam. “Oh? I was not aware we still played by the rules.”

  “We have always abided by the rules.”

  “I think Isidore would beg to differ.”

  Several Disciples hiss in response.

  “How dare you insult my son in the House of God,” Micah shouts, his fangs dripping with saliva.

  “The house of your God, Micah, not mine,” Wolfgang fires back. “Trust me when I say your blessed ceremony is the least of our concerns. We did not come here to harm your precious Saved.”

  “Then why did you come, Beast?” Edith exclaims.

  “To right a wrong. You see, my companion was taken from me last night. One of your own, in fact.”

  Members of the Afterliving gasp in disgust.

  Wolfgang scoffs. “Spare me your judgment. The Disciple responsible for his death was fortunate enough to escape my punishment. I am simply here to request you surrender him to me for proper penance.”

  “Is that what this is all about? Henry’s dead. There’s no punishment to be had,” Micah states.

  “Did his Sire not heal my bite in time? What a pity.”

  “Pity, indeed,” Edith shrieks.

  “Very well. Who will you give me in his place?”

  Micah’s eyes widen. “In his place?”

  “Of course. Eye for an eye.”

  Edith’s Dolorouge talent boils beneath the shade of violet. “Are you deaf, Beast? We already told you Henry is dead.”

  “Yet none of you are in mourning,” Wolfgang syncs, making everyone jump. “Unless I see you feel the loss I have felt and grieve in the way my pack has grieved, Henry’s death means nothing to me.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Micah shouts. “Gabriel knew very well of the dangers involved in choosing to associate with your kind. Both of you did.”

  “Are you trying to justify his murder?” Wolfgang replies. “Guilt through association?”

  “Not guilt, accountability, a trait Gabriel understood very well.”

  “Yes. Accountability,” he repeats. “Did you know, Micah, it was Gabriel’s Accountability that protected you and your blackmailing son for so many years? Gabriel’s Accountability that kept every member of your Godforsaken Fellowship safe, including your precious Daemon?”

  Wolfgang turns to me. “You’d have been Claimed years ago, Emmanuel, had it not been for my partner’s protection. Gabriel defended you and your family with every ounce of his existence, and your Fellowship is crudely dismissing his passing as a casualty of accountability,” he states, incredulous. “Tell me, Emmanuel, these are not the hypocrites you have entrusted to teach you about the glory of God.”

  I remain silent.

  “Very well. If you are that certain of your decision…” Wolfgang turns to the Wolves in the narthex and shrugs his shoulders.

  Braddock-Wolf shakes his snout, cuing Vince-Wolf to swipe a female captive with his paw — the dramatic girl who’s been shushing us since the start of the Baptism.

  She collapses to the floor. “No!” Tears drip from her face as blood oozes from four deep cuts on the back of her forearm.

  “Hannah,” one of the female Sires cries. She’s young, not much older than her candidate. She phasms from the coffin barricade to the narthex, her path of movement indicated by a blur of white fabric.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I shout, finding my voice.

  The Wolves permit Hannah’s Sire to enter. She attempts to console the girl, but no amount of words or Disciple blood can undo what the Wolves have done. Hannah’s been Marked, and unless her Lycain is slain or she becomes Claimed, she’ll be dead by the next Full Moon.

  “She had nothing to do with your loss, Wolfgang. None of those humans do.”

  “I realize this, Micah, but as you said, she must be held accountable by association. So must he,” Wolfgang adds, flicking his wrist toward the glass partition. Braddock-Wolf marks a second, and another Sire breaks away from the group to tend to his injured candidate.

  My instinct bubbles. “Stop!”

  Wolfgang ignores my sync. “And him.”

  A third candidate becomes Marked, leaving one more: Michelle.

  Wolfgang is about to give the final signal when Anthony steps forward. “Take me! Take me instead. I’ll settle the debt.”

  “No,” Michelle screams from behind the glass.

  Wolfgang grins, sensing the deeper-than-normal connection between the two. “How interesting. You must be Anthony. Gabriel spoke of you quite often.” He waves to the partition. “Bring her to me.”

  Anthony phasms to attack Wolfgang from behind, but the Demiguard is quick to react. He knocks him back into one of the empty caskets.

  Braddock-Wolf draws in a large breath and exhales, triggering his return. After his body regresses to human form, he grabs Michelle and drags her into the nave.

  “You see, Emmanuel, the Afterliving likes to demonize Lycainship because they fear its appeal to the Living. Not everyone wants to live forever or be forced to worship God within the confines of archaic rituals and senseless guilt. Let’s not forget the eternal need to consume the blood of living creatures. And because of this fear, the Afterliving forces its Disciples to perpetuate a hatred for my kind amongst the Living, telling humans Lycainship is an enemy of God. They try to rob the Living of their choices by filling their heads with lies about the Risen Lord, but if humans had knowledge of the truth I possess, the truth about Jesus, they would come in droves to join the ranks of my Wolves.” Wolfgang grabs Michelle by the wrist. “But it’s not the Living’s fault they’ve been deprived of this knowledge, it’s the Afterliving’s. The Afterliving knows how powerful knowledge can be. It can cause a human to doubt her choices, to question authority,” he says, eyeing Michelle. “Because it is power, Emmanuel. Knowledge is power.” The nail on Wolfgang’s thumb extends into a long white claw. “And if there was one thing your father and I could agree upon, it’s that there is nothing wrong with having power.” He presses his fingernail against Michelle’s flesh.

  “Wait,” Lucy cries. She emerges from the barricade of Sires. “Mark me instead.”

  James pulls her back. “What are you doing?”

  She shrugs him off. “I’ll make a better sacrifice than her.”

  “And why is that?” Wolfgang inquires.

  “Because the Disciple responsible for Gabriel’s death, Henry” — Lucy looks to me as if to say I’m sorry — “he would’ve been my Sire.”

  Her Sire? That can’t be right — unless that’s why Lucy forfeited her spot to Michelle.

  Wolfgang’s intrigued by this new information. “Really?”

  “Yes.” Lucy proceeds to the head of the font. “So it’s only right I pay his debt.”

  I step forward. “She’s lying. I did it. I killed Gabriel.”

  “Manny, don’t,” James warns. “Let her be Marked.”

  “No.” I phasm toward Wolfgang, but James and Micah intercept me. “Let me go,” I demand.

  ‘You can’t stop her,’ James echoes.

  Yes, I can. I attempt Impulsion from across the room �
� “Lucy, stop” — but she keeps walking, refusing to look in my direction. “Lucy, please.”

  ‘Let her go, my son,’ Micah says.

  Never. I struggle to break free from their grasp. “Wolfgang, you can’t. Don’t. Please don’t take her away from me.”

  “I’m sorry, Emmanuel, but a debt is a debt,” he declares.

  When Lucy reaches the water’s edge, Wolfgang releases Michelle. She runs into Anthony’s arms, and he phasms away with her, disappearing through the hole in the south entrance.

  A look of confusion overcomes Wolfgang’s face. He sniffs Lucy’s hair and neck, scrunching his nose. “You poor girl. Never have I encountered a human who reeked of vampire as much as you.”

  Lucy maintains a forward gaze.

  “If I didn’t know any better,” he continues, “I’d say you were already sired.”

  Click.

  Wolfgang flinches. Lucy’s eyes grow large with fear.

  Click. Click.

  She looks down, and the bravery vanishes from her face when she realizes there are no more bullets left in her gun. Wolfgang pries it from her trembling hands and tosses the pistol aside. He grabs Lucy by the neck and dangles her above the bloody water of the baptismal font. She holds on to his wrist for dear life, digging her fingernails into his skin. “Foolish vampire,” he whispers. Wolfgang holds out his free hand, and Braddock arms him with a wooden rod from the wreckage of broken chairs.

  “No,” I yell, still held back by James and Micah. “She’s not a vampire!”

  “No matter. Human or not, a stake should do the trick.”

  “Wolf, please,” I beg. “You can’t. I love her.”

  He pulls his armed hand back…

  “What would Gabriel say?” I remark, playing to the Demiguard’s humanity.

  Wolfgang’s expression softens, and the silver sheen around his eyes disappears, exposing the broken soul of the man behind the Demiguard. “What would Gabriel say?” he sighs. “I wish I knew.”

  Then, with one hard thrust, Wolfgang pierces Lucy’s heart.