“The Anti-Christ,” Magdalena rebukes.
“Only to those who’d oppose you,” Judas states. “The Afterliving had Jesus, Emmanuel, and we have you, our own Holy Messiah. Like Christ, you were also born of a Trinity: from the womb of the Living, on the Blood Moon of the Beast, with the seed of a Disciple. If you could only see what you will do…” His eyes bleed into turquoise, matching Magdalena’s.
“You can’t prophesy my future,” I reply. “I’m not in your sireline.”
Judas laughs. “You don’t have to be in my sireline. I’m an Apostle. My talents reach well beyond those of any Disciple’s. I can prophesy along the whole of my bloodline, throughout entire family trees — Micah’s relatives, Isidore’s relatives, even Mina’s — and I’ve known of your greatness since the day you were conceived. September nineteenth, 1915.”
September nineteenth, 1915 — my parents’ real wedding anniversary?
“Ask Magdalena,” he continues. “She’s since seen the same. That’s why she so desperately wants you on her side.”
I glance down at my watch: 9 MIN.
“What exactly have you seen? What would I be able to do?”
Magdalena gasps. “Emmanuel, you cannot seriously be entertaining his offer.”
I raise my hand to silence her.
Judas’ eyes light up. “If you were to become the next Demiguard, our Redeemer, your bite would not only spread the gifts of Lycainship but it would rescind Discipleship.”
“Rescind?”
“Cure. You would cure vampirism, Emmanuel. Right the wrong of Jesus and unbind the Spirit of the Christ from its material confines — free our souls.”
“That’s possible?”
“Yes. That’s why you’re so special. Every bite you inflict on a vampire or Disciple would undo their divinity and allow the Light of the Spirit to return to the Christ, without destroying their Living soul. It’s the perfect plan.”
“It’s the ultimate corruption,” Magdalena asserts.
Judas presses on. “You’d have the power to restore things to how they should have been — before the perversion of Jesus — and every one of your Claimed would possess that same gift. You’d command an army of Redeemers, one that would change the world.”
“You’d undo everything the Sire stood for,” Magdalena shouts. Her eyes return to red. “The millennia of wars and crusades fought by our people — all in the name of Jesus — would amount to nothing more than rubbish.”
“Humans were never meant to live forever, Emmanuel. You know this,” Judas combats. “The Afterliving is a complete abomination to His plan — a pollution of Living souls — but you can change that. You can put an end to vampires, Disciples, and Apostles. You can set us free.”
“By turning us into werewolves?” she rebuts.
“By giving us back our mortality and allowing the Spirit to return to the Christ, the way God intended.”
“Things are the way God intended, Judas,” Magdalena scolds.
A nerve in my lower back spasms, sending a cramp up my spine to the nape of my neck. I groan, hunching over, and blood trickles from my nose.
James phasms to my side. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” The aching returns, more excruciating than before. “Ahh!”
7 MIN.
Magdalena turns to the large window. “No!”
The sun has begun its descent below the horizon of Devil’s Dyke, shedding rays of pink and orange light across the gray sky.
It’s starting. My age is catching up with me. I brace myself against the wall, but every movement magnifies the pain. Even standing is beginning to hurt.
The joints in my hands and feet tighten, locking my fingers and toes in place. Then my skin starts to feel like a rubber blanket, pushing me down to the ground.
“There’s still time, Emmanuel,” Judas exclaims, “still time for greatness.”
He whistles, and there’s a crash from downstairs. The air grows thick with the scent of Lycain, and three pairs of metallic eyes materialize in the West Wing corridor: gold, silver, and bronze.
The itch on my wrist intensifies.
“You must trust me,” Judas continues.
Magdalena steps between the Wolves and me and grims. Razor-sharp fangs protrude from her soft, tender lips, and her manicured fingernails extend into deadly white claws. Then the color in her eyes implodes, leaving nothing but white.
6 MIN.
My knees buckle, but James catches me before I collapse to the floor. He cradles my neck and lays me onto the hardwood. “It’s not too late,” he whispers, “if you still believe. Do you, my son?”
I’m startled by my reflection in James’ eyes. I’m older — twenty-five, maybe thirty years — and aging by the second.
“Do you still…?” His voice trails off.
My head is overcome by silence. Then, darkness.
Amazing grace
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch
Like me…
The notes float up through the darkness as I descend the spiral staircase. Isidore is right where he always is, facing the large glass window. “Hello, Emmanuel.”
I don’t respond.
“You’re finally learning. You’re opening your eyes. You’re seeing your choices, son.”
My left forearm continues to itch. I rub my wrist against the seam of my trousers.
Isidore’s smile reflects in the glass, but it isn’t warm like before. It’s unsettling. He pushes his chair back and stands, all the while staring at me through the blackness of Lake Myrrh. “Breathe. Just breathe,” he instructs, sensing my apprehension.
I open my mouth to inhale, but air never passes my lips. That doesn’t bother me, though, because things like breathing, blinking, even swallowing, are unnecessary.
“I’m not really in this room. I’m upstairs, dying. Aging. This isn’t real. It’s just a dream.”
“And dreams are the language of God,” he says, turning.
This isn’t the Isidore I’ve been dreaming about. This man look more like a boy — closer to James’ age than mine — and though he resembles his twin brother, I can see the difference in his brown eyes. This is the real Isidore.
He folds his right sleeve so both of his forearms are exposed. On his left wrist are the numbers I’ve seen in visions past: 919, my parents’ anniversary. But on the right: 616, the mark of the Beast.
James wasn’t lying.
The itch on my wrist intensifies, and I scratch, this time with my nails.
Isidore studies me with his Voloccult eyes. “I keep these numbers as a reminder.” He indicates the freshly drawn 919. “September nineteenth is the beginning, the day of your conception.” He points to the 616. “And June sixteenth marks the end. But the question is, the end for whom?”
He takes a step forward, and I flinch. “Manny, Manny, Manny. Do you honestly believe me capable of hurting you, my own son — the blood of my blood — after waiting so long to see you? That would be…unfatherly,” he says with a suspicious half smile.
“Today is a monumental day for both of us. Could it be the day I baptize you in the name of the Sire, Son, and Spirit, and allow you to surpass me as the most powerful Devangelist the Afterliving has ever known? Or” — Isidore takes another step in my direction — “is it the day you decide your final hours are better spent as a human, living in blind ignorance of the glory of God?”
I resume picking at the skin on my wrist, until the warm sensation of blood collects between my fingers. Isidore notices and shakes his head in disapproval. He continues advancing. “Or is today the day you choose to reject my legacy, disgrace your family, and destroy everything these hands have built?”
I stare into his cold, power-hungry eyes. “I — ”
“Shh… There’s no
need to answer. Because the most remarkable thing about today” — he leans in and whispers — “is we will never know.” Isidore’s pupils expand, and he grims, revealing the monster my real father always was. He tilts his head back, preparing to drive his teeth into my neck.
But I’m too fast. I reach behind me for the stake concealed in my belt, and I plunge the wood into his chest.
The rush of adrenaline from my dream jumpstarts my instinct, and I grim. “I believe.” I pull James closer and sink my teeth into his flesh.
He bites into my skin, as well, completing our exchange.
“No!” Judas flies across the room and knocks James out of my grasp, but it’s too late. I’ve consumed enough of my uncle’s blood to counteract the pain of aging, enough blood to know the instant I die, my body will enter conversion.
“Do you realize what you’ve done?” Judas raves.
“I choose the Afterliving. I choose to believe in the Afterliving.”
After all this time, I now realize the dreams I’ve had about Isidore’s death have been visions of what today could have been. Whatever my choice, Isidore was planning to eliminate me, and I would have been ready to retaliate.
Magdalena knew this, too. It’s why she said killing my father was the most merciful thing she could have done — for him and for me. Because either way, I would have killed him for taking away my choices. She destroyed Isidore so I wouldn’t have to. But I never would have believed it until I saw it for myself.
Dreams are the language of God. That’s also why Micah wouldn’t reveal whom he prophesied murdering Isidore. It wasn’t because he didn’t care. It’s because in some alternate future, I was among those suspects — and I never would have forgiven myself.
But I do forgive. I forgive myself for being stubborn with the people I love, and for judging the sacrifices they made to give me my freedom. Most importantly, I forgive Isidore for letting his ambition overshadow his selflessness.
“You fool,” Judas continues. “Lycainship can make you greater.”
“Isidore was obsessed with being greater. And it destroyed him and everyone he loved. I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to choose your greatness over my family,” I say, pointing to James and Magdalena.
Magdalena looks into my eyes, and for a brief instant, she’s Lucy again — my Lucy-Goosey, the girl who never left my side, the woman of my dreams. Even when we were thousands of miles apart, she was there. Watching me. Believing in me. Waiting for the day I’d be ready to join her, my Alma. And for this brief instant, I also understand why she did what she did: to truly save me.
Judas scoffs. “You’re choosing the Afterliving because of them?”
“No. I’m choosing the Afterliving because I believe in what they stand for. I believe in their sacrifices and the sacrifices I can make for others.”
“You have no idea what the Afterliving stands for, Emmanuel. But I do. I know what the Afterliving represents. It’s not about love or grace or sacrifice. It’s about fear” — Judas grims, and his eyes turn brown — “the fear of not being loved. Not finding grace. Not being saved. The Afterliving fears exactly what Jesus feared: being forgotten. And it spreads this fear like a virus, teaching nonbelievers the only way to avoid being forgotten is to make sacrifices for others to remember you by, to believe.
“But you’re different, don’t you see? You’re not like your father or James or Magdalena. You don’t have to surrender to fear to be remembered — but knowledge. Surrender to the knowledge that when you’re Claimed, you’ll be the greatest Demiguard of all time. The most powerful being on this earth,” he raves, piercing me with his Voloccult eyes.
I know that look: the conviction, the perversion, the hunger. It’s the look Isidore had before he would’ve killed me. It’s the look I would have once I became the Demiguard.
“You won’t choose wrong, my child, because you’ve seen what I have seen.” His irises transition to gold. “You’ve seen the real Jesus and the true Christ — the truth,” Judas adds. “You would choose faith over truth?”
James and Magdalena hold their breaths as they await my response, but there’s nothing more Judas can say or show me to influence my decision. I’ve made up my mind. “I’ve seen your truth, Judas. Not mine.”
The Wolves growl.
Judas snatches my left arm and raises my hand. “You can’t refuse your destiny.”
The skin on my wrist has been rubbed raw from my scratching, and the numbers 616 appear carved into my skin — the mark of the Beast. I gave it to myself?
I pull my hand away. “I still believe in the Afterliving. I still choose fear,” I proclaim, mocking him.
The light in Judas’ eyes fades, along with his dreams of release, mortality, and a New Order of Redeemers. I was his only hope. Now, his soul will never know what it’s like to be separated from the Spirit of the Christ. He’ll always be an Apostle. He’ll always be a vampire.
Judas’ face hardens. “So be it.”
Two of the Beasts descend upon Magdalena. The Golden clamps his jaws around her left ankle, and the Demiguard goes for her right. They drag her into the darkness of the West Wing corridor. She screams and digs her claws into the floor, leaving a trail of fingernails across the hardwood.
“Sire!” James attempts to intervene, but the Bronze corners him on the other side of the room. He tries to phasm away from the Beast, but the blood I’ve consumed has lessened his speed.
The creature attacks first. James retaliates, striking him with the back of his hand, but the blow is weak and all too telling of my uncle’s diminished strength. So the Wolf edges closer. James reaches into the fireplace and grabs a burning log, using the flames to keep the animal at bay. I search for something to strike the Beast with, but Judas grabs me by the throat and forces me to my knees.
2 MIN.
“Do it. Kill me.”
“I will,” he says. “But you forget. Your choice to be Saved means nothing if you die after the moon and sun have set” — he indicates the fading light from the window — “which should be any minute now.” Judas’ half smile reappears.
He’s right. I kick my feet and thrash my arms to break free, but Judas has a firm hold. So I dig my nails into his forearm and conjure my instinct, but nothing happens. The spark in my chest is gone.
My hands shake and shrivel, and my body deflates for a second time. I’m aging again.
Judas stares down into my beady eyes. “There it is. There’s the fear you choose to believe in. Where’s your Jesus now?” he laughs.
He’s here. He’s here. I know He’s here.
“Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” he taunts. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Oh, the irony.”
The same cramp in my lower back shoots to my elbows, causing me to pull my hands down to my sides. The butt of my right palm brushes against a bulge on my thigh, and suddenly, my fear turns into hope.
It has to work. I dig my bony hand into my pant pocket and remove the crumpled ball of tissue. I pinch the wad of paper between my knuckles and shake it back and forth until its contents spill onto the floor — clink. I hook my finger around the necklace and swing it toward Judas’ outstretched arm. The Moon Silver crucifix flashes as it circles his wrist and loops through the chain, locking around his armored skin. Judas de-grims and lets me go, grabbing at his arm to unlink the necklace.
I don’t have much time. I need to die. With the Bronze on one end of the room and the other Wolves blocking the stairwell, my only chance is… the window!
I rise from the floor, moving as fast as I can. When I’m just a few feet from the window, I turn my shoulder in and throw my weight into the glass.
But I bounce back.
“Clever” — Judas tosses the crucifix into the darkness — “as well as pathetic.”
The last sliver of sun disappears below the horizon. I res
t my wrinkled forehead against the windowpane. So this is it?
James calls to me from across the wing. He’s still armed with the burning log, but its fire has dwindled down to nothing more than glowing embers. The Bronze edges closer to him and crouches, ready to strike.
My voice is weak and raspy. “I’m sorry, James. I tried.” And using my final breath, I say the words he’s been longing to hear: “I love you.”
James is stunned. “I…I love you, too.”
Then an idea flickers behind his hazel eyes, and he smiles. James hurls the chunk of firewood in my direction. It collides with the window behind me, breaking the glass.
I lean back…
My body enters Lake Myrrh with a splash, and I begin to sink.
Dum-dum, dah-duh-dah. Dah-dah, dah-dum. Dum-dum, dah-duh-dah. Dah-dahhh…
As the water grows darker, the notes become clearer.
Dum-dum, dah-duh-dah. Dah-dah, dah-dum…
Until I’m able to hear the words.
Was blind, but now I see…
The pain of aging starts to float away.
’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear. And grace my fear relieved…
And I open my eyes to something glistening in the distance.
How precious did that grace appear…
It inches closer — glows brighter — and chases away the darkness, bathing me in its radiant light.
The hour I first believed…
The Beginning.
Fernando Rivera is a Mexican-American actor and writer living in Los Angeles, CA.
He was born and raised in McAllen, Texas, and graduated magna cum laude with a BBA in Marketing from Texas A&M University, College Station. He has deep connections to his faith, family, and culture — which often serve as underlying themes in his writing — and he is never afraid to push the limits of convention, interweaving fact and fiction for a story that is sure to surprise any reader.
The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1) Page 33