The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1)

by Fernando Rivera

  “I trusted you.”

  “And you still can, my love.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Emmanuel…”

  “I asked you. I asked you if you were a Disciple, and you said no.”

  “Because I’m not. I’m not a Disciple.”

  “Then what the hell are you?”

  “I’m an Apostle.”

  “An Apostle?” The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “That’s impossible. Apostles are — ”

  “Men?” She shakes her head. “Oh, Emmanuel, don’t be so naive.”

  “Then prove it. Prove to me you’re an Apostle.”

  “I already have.” Lucy places her hand over the area where Wolfgang pierced her heart.

  “Apostles can’t be killed?”

  “They can. Just not with a stake.”

  “So Wolfgang didn’t know?”

  She shakes her head. “Apostles take great lengths to keep our distances from Demiguards. But tonight, I had no choice.” Lucy pulls a crumpled ball of tissue from her pocket and tosses it to me. I peel back the thin folds of paper to find the crucifix she’s worn every day I’ve known her. “As powerful as I am, Moon Silver mutes my abilities, as well. That’s how I was able to appear dead at the church.”

  “Does the rest of the Fellowship know what you are?”

  “Yes. And they’ve all been impelled to secrecy. Except for James. He needs no persuasion.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m his Sire, and an Apostle’s Saved is inherently bound to confidentiality.”

  “Is that why he couldn’t tell me who his Sire was?”

  “Yes. It’s also why he wanted you to leave my body at the church, so I could tend to his Wolf bite. My blood should have him healed within the hour.”

  I glance down at the timer: 59 MIN.

  “What if Wolfgang had bitten you?”

  “His bite doesn’t concern me. The blood of an Apostle supersedes that of a Lycain, even the Demiguard’s.”

  I stare into her familiar eyes, searching for a connection between Lucy and the nanny I once knew. Even now, decades later, I remember the despair I felt the day Miss Maggie left me. It was like a part of my spirit had been taken away, and despite my parents’ attempts to cheer me up or keep me occupied, they could never fill the void left by her departure. But Lucy did. She was my salvation, the answer to my loneliness — my first real friend — and it was all a lie.

  “So, Miss Maggie and Lucy, none of it was real?”

  “Of course it was, my love. Just because I altered my age and went by a different name, it doesn’t mean our experiences together were any less authentic. Whether I was Miss Maggie, the nanny, or Lucy-Goosey, your friend, I was still me.”

  “But who is that?”

  “My Living name was Mary — Mary of Magdala — but to the Sire, I was Magdalena.”

  “Magdalena? As in, Mary Magdalene?”

  “Yes.”

  “The prostitute?”

  “I was not a prostitute, I’ll have you know. That lie was sown into your Living Bible to erase my credibility.” Lucy smoothes her hair. “And contrary to history’s inaccuracies, I was the first Apostle baptized by Jesus. Days before the other twelve were sired at his supper.”

  My mind is blown. “Why haven’t you told me any of this before?”

  “Because I didn’t want my Apostleship to influence your decision to be Saved. I wanted you to be sired because you were sure that’s what was best for you.”

  “But you’ve been lying to me from the beginning. How could you have known for my entire life your Apostleship would have an influence on my Baptism?”

  “Because, my love, you’re my Alma.”

  “What?”

  “You’re my destiny. As James saw Mina, I have seen you. Only, I’ve been waiting two millennia for you to appear. And you finally have.” She inches closer. “Deep down inside, you know this is true. You know we’re meant to be together. How else would you have been able to dream about me these last twenty years?”

  “My shadow dreams?” — the visions that come on my birthday and hers.

  She nods. “You’ve seen me just as I’ve seen you. We’ve been watching over each other, Emmanuel. Waiting. Aging together in preparation for the union of our spirits. And the time has come, my love. Don’t you see?”

  Lucy takes my hand and places it over her heart, allowing me to feel the life-force flowing beneath her skin. She isn’t hollow like she was after Wolfgang stabbed her. Lucy is solid, vibrating with life in a way that’s almost electric. This is the same way she felt when we were making love — the one time she wasn’t wearing her crucifix. How did I not realize it then?

  “I’ve been waiting more than two thousand years for my Alma to come, Emmanuel. Please don’t make me wait any longer.” She places both of her hands over mine, clutching her heart.

  48 MIN.

  “Poor little Magdalena,” a man proclaims from the dark rafters above. “I would feel remorse for you,” he continues, his voice now emanating from a different corner of the room, “if I believed you.” Nicholas drops down from the ceiling, landing in front of the fireplace. His silhouette casts a large, ominous shadow upon us.

  Lucy hyper-phasms in front of me, and the corner of Nicholas’ mouth rises into that devious half smile. “Come now, Magdalena. We both know I have no interest in harming the boy.”

  “Really? Then what was your purpose in orchestrating the vampire attack in Hove, a lesson in self-defense?”

  “You think I did that?” he replies.

  Lucy responds with a knowing look.

  Nicholas snickers, shaking his finger. “I should know better than to underestimate you. Yes, the attack was my planning. I was hoping to level the playing field a bit. The Stocktons have only exposed Emmanuel to the glamorous, orderly aspects of Discipleship, and you and I are both aware that not all members of the Afterliving can sustain their pious natures. Mina should be a perfect example of that,” he adds. “I simply wanted Emmanuel to have an educational experience with former Disciples. To help him decide if he’s willing to risk joining the Fallen, should the Afterliving not be to his liking.”

  “You wanted to scare him,” she comments.

  “Scare, educate — does it really matter at this point? I’m sure he got the message. Besides, I slayed the devils before they could bleed him dry. And Emmanuel is perfectly fine. However, I am curious as to how you discovered I was behind the incident in the first place. I was very careful.”

  “The memory,” Lucy replies.

  “The memory. I should have known.”

  “The second James told me about that and how you were the first to rescue him from the vampires, I knew the accost in the twittens had something to do with you. There’s no way you could have had time to exercise Recollections on Emmanuel after you disposed of the creatures, before Edith arrived. You had to have done it while they were feeding on him, while you were allowing them to feed on him.”

  “You’re too clever for your own good,” Nicholas laughs.

  “And you’re as cocky as you are deceitful.”

  “What memory are you talking about?” I ask, trying to keep up.

  “The one you recovered about using your abilities as a child,” Lucy replies.

  She must be referring to the vision I had during my attack, what I thought was a dream: echoing to Miss Maggie and phasming toward my mother.

  “That really was a memory?”

  “Yes. Before Mina took you from us, she made sure any memories alluding to your Daemon nature were tucked away in your subconscious, so you would grow up in America believing you were human. And only a Memoreaper” — she points to Nicholas — “could have unlocked them.”

  So that’s the real reason I don’t remember my
Daemon abilities while living at Devil’s Dyke — Mom had my mind wiped. She rewrote my childhood, changed my memories to help me fit in among the Living when I got to the States. “Who helped her do it? My mother couldn’t have altered my memories using her talent. She isn’t a Memoreaper.”

  “True,” Nicholas says. “But Magdalena is.”

  “No, she isn’t. Her eyes are brown.”

  Lucy sighs, and the honey brown of her irises fades into a radiant shade of gold.

  “You have other talents?”

  “Apostles have all the talents. Don’t we?” Nicholas’ eyes transition from golden to bright turquoise, identical to Micah’s.

  “You’re both Apostles?”

  “I was,” he admits.

  “I wanted to tell you with every fiber of my being,” Lucy confesses. “But I couldn’t.”

  “Anonymity is a very frustrating rule of Apostleship, one of Jesus’ fail-safes,” Nicholas explains. “No matter how badly we want to, Apostles cannot disclose each other’s identities to outsiders, much like Saved cannot reveal their Sires.”

  “One could say it’s almost as if Christ sensed a traitor in his midst,” Lucy implies.

  “How dare you? I never betrayed the Christ,” Nicholas growls. “It is Jesus who betrayed me.”

  “Judas?” I exclaim. “You’re Judas.”

  “Bravo,” he cheers, clapping his hands. He hyper-phasms closer to Lucy and me and bows. “Judas Iscariot, Apostle turned Alpha Supreme, and Sire of the Stockton Fellowship.”

  You started this Fellowship?”

  “All it took was siring one determined Saved,” Judas answers. “Micah deserves most of the credit.”

  “You’re Micah’s Sire?”

  He nods.

  Now I see whom Micah inherited his scheming nature from. That would also mean Judas is Isidore’s Grandsire and my Great-grandsire.

  “Would you like to sit?” he asks. “I’m sure you have many questions.”

  “Which you’ll only answer with lies,” Lucy interjects.

  Judas’ turquoise irises darken to a rich brown, and he locks eyes with hers. Lucy’s body freezes like a statue, and her pupils expand, leaving no trace of color.

  “What did you do to her?”

  “I made sure we’re not interrupted. Drink?” Judas uncorks a bottle of Southdown Blend from Micah’s reserves and offers me an empty goblet. He fills my glass and gestures to the leather armchairs facing the fireplace. We sit.

  “Does Micah know who you really are?”

  Judas shakes his head. “It’s common knowledge within the Afterliving community that Judas Iscariot is the Father of Lycainship. So it behooves me to keep my Saved unaware of my true identity.”

  “But if your loyalty is to the Lycains, then why create more Disciples?”

  “For power, of course. To grow my sireline. My strength doesn’t benefit from the spread of Lycainship, only that of the Demiguard. So siring is a necessary evil for me. But rest assured, I only sire the most dedicated of Disciples, those who show an unrelenting proclivity for Devangelism — Disciples like Micah, who will stop at nothing to see the Afterliving succeed. That’s why he was so committed to baptizing your father, and why Isidore, in turn, was such a remarkable Devangelist.”

  “Because they inherited that determination from you,” I reply.

  That’s why Micah couldn’t help himself from interfering with James and Isidore’s baptismal agreement. He was subconsciously mimicking Judas’ intentions.

  Judas smiles. “Sire smarter, not harder, I always say. Oh, Emmanuel, I’m so happy we’re having this discussion. If I had known you’d be this reasonable to speak with, I wouldn’t have impelled Starkly and Henry to try and capture you.”

  “You’re the reason they did that?”

  “Yes. I apologize for taking such measures to get you alone, but between your family’s presence and their barrage of allies, the prospect of a private sit-down with you has been virtually impossible. Why, even during our late-night encounter in the library, your mum was lurking just outside the door. Such a protective woman, that Mina.”

  “Gabriel died because of what you made Henry do,” I remind him.

  “I know, I know. And such an unnecessary tragedy for Wolfgang. But we’re getting off topic. If you’ll let me explain why I’ve gone through these extreme lengths to arrive at our current sit-down, I’m sure you’ll change your mind about my intentions. In fact, what I have to share with you is so influential I doubt you’ll ever trust another Disciple for as long as you live,” he says with his half smile.

  I can’t say I’m not curious. Then again, how much trust can I put in anything Judas Iscariot says?

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because lying to you wouldn’t do either of us any good. You have my word.”

  I check my watch. “You have forty-four minutes.”

  “That’s plenty of time.” Judas settles into his seat. “Magdalena omitted a very important fact while she was revealing her origins to you: Jesus was not the Christ. They shared the same soul, yes, but they were of different Spirit.”

  I hear Lucy’s faint echo in the back of my mind: ‘Don’t…listen…’

  “So they were two different people?” I ask.

  “Not people, spirits. It’s really much better if I show you. May I?”

  I nod, and Judas’ brown irises glow brighter, shifting back to golden. His eyes continue to radiate until they outshine the roaring fire, pulling me away from the West Wing and deep into his personal Recollections.

  I hold my breath as I wait for her to leave. Magdalena and the Nazarene spend more and more time together each passing night. They are plotting something.

  The wind picks up and the flaps of our tents flutter in the breeze. She takes this moment to sneak away, using the noise to cover her footsteps.

  I wait a while longer, as I do every night. “Always wait until the moon is highest, my child,” He tells me. Then I make my way across the camp, careful not to wake the others.

  The Nazarene lies on his back with his arms across his stomach, and I am tempted to reach for my dagger. How easy it would be to end him now, to set the Christ inside of him free… But He has a plan, and He needs me to be strong; He needs me to be patient; He needs me to have faith.

  The Nazarene’s arms shoot out, and his body stiffens. Then his eyes open, filling with colors too many to count. They bleed together into the purest of white, signaling the Christ has taken over, and when He sees me, He smiles. “Favorite.”

  My heart beats faster, and I bend down to kiss His feet, as I do every night. “Teacher.”

  He lifts my chin, and I notice the sadness filling His eyes. “What is it?” I ask. “Is he growing stronger?”

  The Christ nods.

  “Let me do it.” I reveal my dagger. “Let me end him now.”

  “No, my child.” He steadies my arm with His soothing hand. “That is not the plan.”

  “Teacher, I cannot wait any longer. Every day, he defiles the Spirit. Every day, Jesus smothers your Light.”

  He strokes my cheek, and I begin to cry. “You cannot continue to share his soul,” I plead. “His desires will destroy you.”

  “I know, my child. I know… Was Magdalena here again?”

  I nod.

  “Do you know what they spoke of?”

  I shake my head. “They continue to meet in secret, she and Jesus.” I grip the handle of my blade. “If you would allow me — ”

  “No. Do not kill Magdalena. The deed will harm you more than her.”

  “But Teacher, I fear for you.”

  “Fear no more, my child. The time has come. But you must not tell the others.”

  “Of course not, my Lord.”

  “Good. Follow my words carefully” — His eyes f
ill with joy as He continues to stroke my cheek — “my beloved Favorite. My beloved Judas…”

  The reality of the West Wing returns, but the touch of Judas’ memory lingers on my skin — the “Teacher’s” touch. Did I really just see Jesus Christ? I can’t deny how real it felt.

  Judas stares into the fireplace. “The two were a clever pair, Magdalena and Jesus, the selfish Nazarene. ‘Eat of my flesh. Drink of my blood,’” he recites. “None of us knew what lay in store when he offered his cup, only her.” He shoots Lucy a look of hatred. “They tricked us, Emmanuel — all of us — anchoring our souls to our bodies with the severed Spirit of the Christ. Not even in death could we find peace.”

  Before I can respond, Judas’ golden eyes reconnect with mine, and he takes me back into his memories.

  I watch from a distance as the crowd surrounding the crucifixion hill grows larger. My gaze is focused on the cross in the middle, the Nazarene’s cross. He has yet to die. He refuses to permit the Christ to leave his body.

  A soldier steps forward from his post, wielding his spear of wood and Moon Silver — as the Teacher said he would — and in one thrust, he pierces the heart of the Nazarene.

  In an instant, night covers the land, and the masses cry out in fear. Then the Christ makes His escape from the wound in Jesus’ side, as bright and blue as the River Jordan, commencing a triumphant return to His home in the heavens.

  My work for the Christ is finished.

  I climb onto the rock beneath the tree and pass the noose over my head. When the last of the Christ’s Spirit has disappeared into the darkness, I jump.

  I make another abrupt return to the present and gasp, grabbing for my neck to tear the noose away. But it was never really there.

  “I didn’t die,” Judas growls. He pounds his fist against the leather armchair. “Time and time again, I attempted to join the Christ — hanging, fire, poison, drowning — but I was trapped. There was no release, Emmanuel. I was chained to this material world, and the Spirit confined within me, it longed to reunite with its rightful Owner. So it seduced my senses — plagued me with a hunger and a thirst not of this world — and aside from the peace of momentary death, relief came in but one other form: blood. Animals, beggars, nomads, even insects. The Spirit’s desire for its Master could only be quenched by consuming the life of others. I was trapped in an endless cycle of starvation and destruction” — Judas’ eyes shine in the firelight — “until a happy accident changed my misery to fortune…