So I sit.
“Now,” James says, clapping his hands together, “where do I begin?”
Isidore Stockton was born Jacob Carpenter in Ludgate, England, 1646, just outside the city walls of London. His father, Sebastiano, emigrated from Italy in 1643, following London’s booming urban expansion. He adopted the surname Carpenter to promote his trade, and shortly after his arrival, Sebastiano became involved in the construction of several up-and-coming business sectors throughout the city.
Thomas Farriner was one of Sebastiano’s most renowned clients — personal baker of King Charles II and owner of the most popular market on Pudding Lane. He hired Sebastiano to conduct repairs on his shop one day and became an instant fan of his professionalism and robust work ethic. So when the baker noticed a blossoming relationship between Sebastiano and his daughter, Sara, he was eager to present them with his blessing of courtship. The two fell in love, and Sebastiano’s association with the Farriner name gained him a place in England’s wealthiest inner circles.
Talent, intellect, and wealth meant Sebastiano never fell short of admirers, and his command of rhetoric and poetry was a skill unparalleled by even the best of scholars. Some even called him the New Shakespeare. So it came as no shock to Sebastiano when he was propositioned to work exclusively for the royal household. But Sebastiano didn’t like the idea of forfeiting his professional freedom, and he declined the offer — on multiple occasions.
In the fall of 1645, Sebastiano Carpenter and Sara Farriner were married at St. Paul’s Cathedral. That following summer in 1646, my father, “Jacob Carpenter,” was born.
“Sixteen forty-six? That’s impossible,” I remark, interrupting James.
“Allow me to finish.”
“And my father’s name is Isidore, not Jacob.”
“Let him finish,” Lucy snaps.
Until Jacob was old enough to follow in Sebastiano’s footsteps, he assisted his grandfather, Thomas, behind the butcher’s counter. Jacob was a quick learner and acquired the skills of a seasoned butcher at a young age. This drew much attention to the family shop. Repeat customers and first-time clients would line up around the block to be serviced by Jacob Carpenter, the youngest butcher on Pudding Lane. But the novelty wore off as time went on.
In 1662, Jacob joined Sebastiano to labor in construction. Three years after that, on September 2, 1665, Sebastiano died, falling victim to the plague. Jacob pushed himself to continue Sebastiano’s legacy, spending the months following his father’s death in pursuit of perfecting the craft of carpentry. He became obsessive, erecting shops and tenements throughout London without rest, proving he was just as smart and talented as his predecessor. But as hard as Jacob tried, his skill never reached the quality of Sebastiano’s.
On the night of September 2, 1666, exactly one year after Sebastiano’s passing, a mysterious fire caught in the first level of Thomas’ shop. He and Jacob managed to escape, but Sara got trapped in the apartment above. Within minutes, she became the first of six recorded deaths in the Great Fire of London. The city burned for four days, engulfing hundreds of houses, parishes, and businesses. By September sixth, the majority of the Old City was destroyed, along with every building of the Carpenters’ legacy.
The cause of the fire was never discovered, but blame was cast upon Thomas, the shop’s owner. To save his reputation, Thomas blamed Jacob, claiming his grandson was self-destructive and unable to cope with the anniversary of Sebastiano’s death. He then went on to say Jacob planned the fire as a means to create more need for construction, in order to perfect his craft.
“And the lie worked,” James says.
“Why?”
“Because Jacob ran away, which Thomas attributed to guilt. I begged him to stay, but my brother was too broken. What the fire had taken — our mother, our father’s legacy — could never be replaced.”
“So you were there, too?”
“Yes. Jacob — Isidore was my full brother, not my half. But we’re not here to talk about me.”
“Okay, fine, but wait a minute. If Sebastiano was your and Isidore’s father, who the hell is Micah?”
Micah Stockton was a pioneer of his day. In the 1650s, when the majority of Brighton’s economy revolved around the fishing and boating industry, Micah sought his fortune inland as a sheep farmer. With the aid of his wife and sons, Margaret, Oliver, and Timothy, the Stockton Sheep brand dominated the shelves of fabric stores and butchers’ shops from East Sussex to London.
It was chance that brought the wandering Jacob Carpenter to Stockton Farm in 1666, but it was business that made him stay. Micah had lost his wife and children years prior to the same plague that claimed Sebastiano, and without the help of his family, Micah’s humble empire was deteriorating. As luck would have it, Jacob had had frequent encounters with Micah’s sons during his early days in the butcher’s shop, as Thomas Farriner was one of Micah’s most frequent buyers of lamb.
The timing could not have been more perfect. Jacob needed work, and Micah needed help, so Jacob stayed at Stockton Farm as a hired hand. The business thrived under their partnership, which allowed for the establishment of local subsidiary farms.
“Micah and Jacob’s success became too well known for my brother to remain in hiding, and I tracked him here.”
“You’re telling me that you, Micah, and my father were born more than three hundred years ago, and the man I’ve been calling Grandpa isn’t even related to me?”
“Yes.”
“None of that is even remotely possible.”
“Not for a human, no.”
“Then you are a vampire.”
James’ fangs descend, and his pupils expand. “I told you not to use that word.”
I cower back. “Well, what word do I use? I mean, your whole fangs-and-crazy-eyes-thing is pretty convincing.”
“Grimming,” Lucy interjects. “What he does” — she motions to her face — “it’s called grimming.”
“Fine. Grimming. Whatever.”
James de-grims. “A vampire is a selfish abomination of the Sire’s virtue, and to be labeled as such is an insult to my kind. The proper term for what I am is Disciple. I’m a Disciple of the Afterliving.”
“The Afterliving? And that is…?”
“The Afterliving is the community of True Believers, those devoted to baptizing the nations in the name of the Savior, the Supreme Sire. We are the Followers entrusted to prepare the world for the Second Coming of Christ.”
“Hold up. Christ? Your Savior and Supreme Sire is Jesus Christ?”
“Yes.”
“You’re Christian?”
“In the purest of forms.”
“That’s crazy.”
“The drivel you and the rest of the Living have been led to believe the last two millennia is what’s crazy.”
“He’s referring to humans,” Lucy clarifies. “The Living.”
“Don’t tell me you believe him.”
“Of course I do. And it makes perfect sense, once you think about it. How else could a being like James have become what he’s become?”
“Lucy, come on. To say Jesus was a — like him is completely sacrilegious.”
“Says the atheist,” James remarks.
“Forget the assumptions you’ve been told about religion and God, Manny, and accept the proof staring you in the face. Vampires, werewolves, God, the Devil, they’re not what you think, and they’re most definitely not make-believe.”
“Werewolves?” I laugh. “Now there are werewolves involved?”
“The proper term is Lycain,” James states.
“So is that what Lucy is?”
“Me? A Lycain? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m being ridiculous?”
“Lucy was referring to Wolfgang Schmitt,” James explains.
“Wolfgang Schmitt is a wer
ewolf?”
“Lycain,” he stresses. “Werewolf makes you sound ignorant.”
“Oh, Lycain. Excuse me for slacking in my monster vocabulary.”
“They’re not monsters,” Lucy rebukes. “James, your father, even Wolfgang, they are forces created from something more beautiful and powerful than you could ever imagine, and if Isidore heard you speaking this way, he would be ashamed.”
“Then why didn’t he tell me all of this himself, huh?”
“You can thank your mum for that,” James says. “The secrecy was her decision.”
That must be why Mom never accepted my father’s invitations to visit. She was guarding a secret. “Why would she keep something this big from me?”
“You’ll have to ask her yourself.”
“I’m asking you.”
“The Afterliving is governed by rules, Manny. Even if James wanted to, there are many things he is prohibited from sharing without the consent of those involved.”
“And how do you know so much about this stuff? Are you a Disciple, too?”
“No.”
“Well, why not if you’re such a believer?”
Lucy fiddles with her crucifix. It’s clear her response is more personal than she’s prepared to admit.
James swoops in. “Lucy’s participation in the Afterliving is none of your concern.”
“It is if you expect me to play along with everything you’re telling me.”
“Then go. Leave. Renounce your place in this family and continue living life with your head in the sand like the rest of humanity.”
“I’m not leaving here until I know what happened to my father.”
“Then believe what Lucy and I are telling you, or nothing about your father will make any sense.”
“I can’t just believe because you tell me to.”
“Then keep an open mind,” Lucy pleads. “Please, Manny, that’s all we ask. For the next three days, keep an open mind. After that, if things still don’t make sense, you can go back to believing in…whatever it is you believe.”
“Lucy, I — ”
“Three days, Manny,” she says again. “Please. Three.”
“Fine. But don’t expect me to join some supernatural cult or to ‘find Jesus.’ I’m here to observe, not participate.”
“We’ll see about that,” James replies. “How’s your thumb, by the way?”
“It’s fine.” I look down at my hand and notice the wound and stitches are gone. All that remains is a thin layer of dried blood. “It’s healed? How is it healed? Am I a Disciple?”
“No, Manny,” he laughs, “but you’re close. You’re a Daemon, the offspring of a human mother and a Disciple father, a being conceived of man and God. You, along with your abilities, straddle the worlds of the Living and the Afterliving. You’re special, which is the reason you need protection.”
“It’s also the reason you shouldn’t drink moonshine or associate with Lycains,” Lucy adds.
“Which are werewolves?”
“Correct.”
“Okay. And what’s bad about drinking moonshine with Lycains, hypothetically?”
“Moonshine suppresses our capabilities, for both Disciples and Daemons” — James motions to my hand — “rapid healing being one of them, hypothetically.”
“Are you saying I’ve always been able to do that, heal fast?”
“Yes. However, these have kept your abilities in check.” James reaches into his jacket and tosses me an orange pill vial.
“My meds? You’ve had them this whole time?”
He nods. “Since our run-in at the airport.”
“You were the guy who bumped into me? James, I’ve needed these.”
“Rubbish. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Yes, there is. I have severe ADHD.”
“No, you don’t. It’s an excuse you’ve been given to keep you on those pills, and now that you’ve stopped taking them, your instincts — your abilities — are reemerging. That disturbance is what’s causing your echoes.”
“How can my abilities be reemerging when they were never there to begin with?”
“They’ve always been there. Since you were born.”
“Then why don’t I remember?”
“Because it was normal for you. You weren’t forced to hide them, at least not until you moved away. Why else do you think you were homeschooled here? Your parents couldn’t run the risk of you being exposed.”
“But Lucy and I were homeschooled together. Wouldn’t she have noticed if I was…weird?”
Lucy shrugs. “I just remember we were kids. With wild imaginations.”
“And the reason you never heard from Lucy after you left was because Mina didn’t want to run the risk of you remembering any of the things you could do. You don’t realize it now, but your senses, your strength, your speed, all of these things are heaps more powerful than any human’s. And I’m willing to help you master these things once we get your mind to stop broadcasting every little thought that pops into your head when you’re flustered.”
“When I’m flustered?”
“Yes. For inexperienced Daemons like yourself, echoing’s like a pressure valve for your instincts. Because you don’t know how to handle the power inside you, it needs an outlet, an escape.”
“Like popping your ears in an aircraft,” Lucy suggests.
“Well put,” James says. “You’re not ill, Manny. You don’t have this ADHD nonsense. You have instincts and gifts that are fighting their way back to the surface, and they can’t do that if you insist on taking those bloody tablets. This ‘Dexolfor,’ it’s nothing more than cleverly disguised Silver Salt, a mild sedative to our kind.”
“But I’ve been on this medication for years. It’s prescribed.”
“Then what should that tell you about your physician?”
Dr. Kris knows I’m a Daemon? That would mean she’s been lying to me for the last twenty years, that she’s in on this whole Afterliving thing. Is she a Disciple, too?
Something else occurs to me. Andrew’s been on Dexolfor just as long as I have. Does that mean he’s also a Daemon? And does he even know?
“Tell me what this is.” I show James the Ovisang pills.
He grins. “Sheep blood. Those pills are meant to nurture your instinct, not stifle it. This physician of yours most likely decided you were in a safe enough environment to embrace your capabilities.”
She sent me the Ovisang on purpose. That would explain why my “echoes” were so loud on the plane. It was right after I had taken two of those red capsules. Could James be right? Have I been on sedatives for the last twenty years? How could Mom have allowed it?
“My mom is one of you, isn’t she?”
“What makes you think that?” James replies.
“She echoed to me on the plane. She told me how to get away from security and helped me control the officer on my flight.”
“Impulsion,” he remarks. “That’s good. You’ll need to work on that for the next time you come up against a Lycain.”
“I already told you I’m not here to get involved in this.”
“You don’t have a choice,” he exclaims. “The Demiguard is already trying to recruit you.”
“What’s the Demiguard?”
“The Alpha. The head Lycain. Wolfgang Schmitt.”
“Wolfgang Schmitt is the head Lycain?”
“Currently, yes. And since the Crucifixion, the Demiguard has convinced Lycains they are the Chosen Ones appointed to protect the humans, the Living race. They’ve been taught to despise everything the Afterliving stands for, especially Daemons.”
“Why?”
“You’re a reminder of everything Lycains are trying to prevent,” Lucy replies, “the human acceptance of Disciples.”
“
Disciples can’t procreate with each other,” James explains. “There must be a human component, much like how Jesus was conceived.”
“Which makes Daemons symbolic of Christ, a child bestowed upon the Living by the grace of God,” Lucy adds.
“So Jesus was a Daemon, too?”
James nods. “But unlike you, Christ was his own Sire. Although, His purpose and yours are the same, to serve and lead the Living into the Afterliving. Which the Demiguard cannot allow.”
“So you see, Manny,” Lucy continues, “when a Daemon and Lycain cross paths, the Daemon has one of two choices, either join the Demiguard or refuse and be eliminated.”
“I thought I couldn’t die.”
“Of course you can die. Daemons are only immortal if they become Disciples. Until then, you’re very much human in that respect.”
“But Wolfgang didn’t try to eliminate me when we met.”
“Because he still has time to win you over,” James says, “and as long as he believes the son of Isidore Stockton can be recruited to Lycainship, he’s undoubtedly instructed his Lycains to refrain from harming you.”
“Why does everything go back to my father?”
“Because Isidore was the reason the Afterliving thrived when many thought it was impossible. For centuries, he risked his life protecting Disciples from zealous humans and Lycains alike, and while our kind was being hunted and forced into hiding under the guise of crusades, inquisitions, and world wars, Isidore remained steadfast, creating an underground network of animal bloodstocks from here to Germany. Now that he’s gone, his adversaries are planning to take action in a way they couldn’t while he was alive — through you — by getting you to join the Demiguard’s side. It’s the perfect insult to my brother’s legacy.”
There it is again: legacy. “So I’m just a prize?”
“To them, yes,” Lucy admits.
“But if everything you’re saying is true and he was that powerful, how did my father, an immortal being, die of a heart attack?”
“It wasn’t a mortal heart attack,” James says. “Isidore was slain, killed by a wooden stake through the heart.”
The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1) Page 12
