The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1)

by Fernando Rivera

  But it wouldn’t be real.

  I remove The Alchemist from my bag and thumb through its pages, amazed at how the binding’s endured through years of wear and tear. It’s been a reliable read for more than a decade, a comfortable, familiar story I could turn to when my mind needed a break from “reality.”

  Then there’s the Vulgata, a book that has successfully ruined my life. But looking back, what kind of life was it to begin with? Tolerable? Yes. Enjoyable? Sometimes. Meaningful? Hardly. On the other hand, my life now: Tolerable? No. Enjoyable? Potentially. Meaningful? Definitely. Whether or not I believe in the Vulgata’s contents, reading it has lead me to uncover truths about my family that would have otherwise remained hidden.

  I return the Vulgata to the JanSport and place The Alchemist on one of the library shelves reserved for my personal readings. It’s served its purpose. Then I retrieve the set of Phantom keys from my pocket and head for the door.

  If I’m going to make any progress finding my father’s killer, I have to start examining all possible suspects and their motives. A case against James is obvious: sibling jealousy resulting in a crime of passion.

  It wouldn’t make sense for Micah to be the killer, not if my father’s Devangelism contributed to Micah’s power.

  Anthony seems plenty capable of killing, even if Isidore was his Sire, and Micah did say they had an argument about me before my father was killed. About the will, perhaps? He’s definitely on my list.

  Then there’s Nicholas, the black sheep of the Fellowship. My father had to have trusted him if he manages allotment security, but Lucy did say Nicholas’ talent as a Memoreaper was something to be wary of.

  Starkly was a threat, but if he expected my father to Sire him, it’s safe to assume I can exclude him from the pool of assassins.

  Edith comes across as more of a headache than a danger, and if Henry fell apart from James’ reprimand like Lucy claims, I doubt he has the mental fortitude to plot a murder.

  What about a non-Disciple, like Wolfgang? He admitted at the King’s Crescent to not being a fan of my father, and if he is the Demiguard, he must loathe the Afterliving. The only problem is James said everyone would know if a Lycain had snuck into the estate. There’s no way he could have committed the crime unnoticed, not with everybody present at the time.

  My last option is Lucy. But what would she have to gain from it? She believes in the Afterliving and my father’s vision. She’s also in love with me — according to Micah, that is. Still need to confirm that for myself. Lucy also has no motive.

  I rest my head on the steering wheel of the Phantom, exhausted by my amateur attempt at detective work. It’s one thing to draw up a list of suspects; it’s another to know what to do with it. Where do I even begin?

  My eyes fall on the slip of paper still wedged between my seat and the center console, the one scribbled on with my father’s cursive. It’s a start. I enter the address into the Phantom’s GPS: 4 Sydney Street, North Laine, Brighton. The place isn’t far.

  The North Laine shopping district is crawling with tourists from all over the world, and its pubs and cafes provide a hodgepodge of stimuli too enticing to ignore — especially now that my senses have gotten sharper. The bottle of Southdown Blend I had at the estate may have a lot to do with that. James did say sheep’s blood nurtures instinct.

  But not all of the stimulation is good. Conversations down the street are just as loud as the ones being had right beside me, and if I didn’t have my father’s mirrored shades, I’d be blinded by the sun’s glare reflected by the massive shop windows. Street food has also never smelled this potent — nor has the odor of the people eating it — and it doesn’t take long for the amplified scents of sweat, fish, and cheap perfume to nauseate my stomach. Taking my last liquid meal into account, the last thing I want to do is vomit mouthfuls of blood in the center of town. So I shield my nose beneath my polo and weave through the maze of tourists and vendors, taking a right at the next intersection.

  Sydney Street. It’s less populated here, and my next breath is crisp, clean, and surprisingly sweet. Camphire. It’s in the air. The aroma lures me farther down the road to a boutique wedged between a magic shop and an organic cafe: Number four. Above the door is a vibrant blue sign that reads Penny For Your Thoughts in fun, pink letters — just below that, CCTV monitored. Damn.

  Half of the display window is cluttered with tiered tray stands carrying a variety of vintage ink bottles, each one a unique color and marked with a hand drawn pyt label. The other side of the display is a zigzagging twine clothesline extending from the ceiling to the ground, decorated with different types of parchment fastened by red fountain pens.

  The address from the car is a stationery store?

  I enter the shop, triggering a wind chime. A woman calls out from the back. “With you in a tick.”

  “That’s okay,” I reply. “Just browsing.”

  A channel mounted on the wall behind the register catches my attention. I stare into its black lens, expecting it to erupt in turquoise, but it remains blank — for now.

  I’m not much of a stationery enthusiast, but it’s impossible not to appreciate the store’s presentation: ornate displays of feather pens, wooden stamps, color-coded parchment, stacks of empty leather journals aged to perfection.

  The shopkeeper emerges from the far corner of the boutique. She’s tall and slim, with unkempt hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a frilly blue gingham apron reminiscent of a picnic tablecloth. She doesn’t look old, but something about her is tired and worn. “Welcome to Penny for Your Thoughts. I’m” — the woman blinks and shakes her head as if trying to rid herself of a hallucination — “Penny. I’m Penny. Feel free to take a gander, and give me a holler if you have any questions.”

  “Thank you.” I continue perusing, and my eyes land on a wall labeled Cards for Every Occasion. I smile.

  Mom has a thing for accumulating discounted greeting cards. “You never know when you’ll need them, Manuel,” she likes to argue. I wonder if her vampire self shares that same appreciation.

  Toward the end of the display are several columns of slots filled with blank cards. The first one is white — then light pink, red, vermillion — and they travel through the color spectrum until ending on black. Where have I seen this before?

  I retrieve one of the black cards and run my fingers over its textured surface. “Oh, dear. My sincere condolences,” Penny exclaims.

  “Huh?”

  “For your loss. Truly. Were they close?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes soften. “Customers only purchase that color for one occasion, and it always breaks my heart to sell it. But supply and demand, you understand. Will you be needing flowers, as well?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  Penny studies my face a little longer. “Blimey. As I live and breathe. You’re Isidore’s brother, aren’t you? Emmanuel, is it?”

  “Yes.” His brother?

  She smacks her hands together, delighted. “He often mentions how much you two look alike. I had no idea the resemblance was this close. Goodness gracious me. You two could be twins were it not for a few years.” Penny removes her apron and primps her hair, tucking the wild strands behind her ears. She looks past the display window onto the sidewalk. “Is he far behind?”

  “Who?”

  “Isidore.” She blushes. “Seeing your brother is always the highlight of my week. Such a wonderful, respectful boy, he is.”

  She doesn’t know he’s dead. And I haven’t the heart to tell her. “Sorry. Isidore can’t make it today. He had some things to take care of.”

  She frowns. “Oh, bugger. Of course, of course. Always busy, you Stockton gents. He must have sent you to pick up his package. Rang me last week to make sure it was ready for your visit. And it’s your birthday, too. Tomorrow, isn’t it? The sixteenth?”

 
“Yes.”

  “Happy birthday, Emmanuel. And many happy returns.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And how is Wilhelmina? Oh, it warmed his heart that she’d be returning, as well.”

  That name still needs some getting used to. “Mom’s great. Really great. Do you know her, too?”

  “Heavens, no. But Isidore speaks of you two every chance he gets. I feel like I’ve known you for years.” Penny removes her smudged glasses and extends her hand. “Penny Greenwich.”

  An odd sensation accompanies the touch of her skin. She feels hollow, like a mannequin. “Are you okay?” I blurt.

  Penny huffs. “Has Isidore been telling you about my pancreas? I keep telling him not to bother people about my condition, but does that boy ever listen? No, sir,” she laughs.

  Is that a Disciple trick I don’t know about? Can I sense illness? “Sorry, Penny. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Nonsense. I’m sure his heart is in the right place. But it’s no bother, Emmanuel. I consider you family.”

  “Please, call me Manny.”

  “Manny?” She smiles. “How delightful.” Penny cleans her glasses on her apron. “Oh, dear. Your package.” She shuffles to the far corner of the room and disappears behind a curtain, all the while continuing to talk. “I’m the only woman daft enough to deal in black henna, which is why Isidore fancies my shop. He says the regular henna paste won’t stick to his skin. The boy must have the flesh of a rhinoceros.” She reemerges and hands me a dark bottle of ink.

  I’ve seen this bottle before, in my dreams. It’s the one my father uses to draw the numbers on his wrist.

  “Whatever you do, don’t go using that without his supervision. I would never forgive myself if it left a permanent scar on that precious skin of yours.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “And tell him I’ll have a fresh order of camphire next week. I usually give him the leftovers” — she indicates the bottle — “but I scarcely had enough.”

  “There’s camphire in this?”

  She snorts. “It’s the main ingredient. Lawsonia inermis. Your brother just adores the smell.”

  “Me, too.” Must be a family thing. “I’ll let him know. And thanks again. It was nice meeting you, Penny.”

  “Likewise. And give Maggie my condolences, would you, dear?”

  “Maggie?”

  “Your father’s friend. She purchased heaps of those black cards last week for a funeral service. Said her nephew had passed, the poor girl. Jacob was his name. Such a tragedy when they’re young.”

  “I’ll be sure to let her know. Thanks again.” I leave the shop, now with more questions than answers.

  Penny thinks my father and I are brothers — just a few years apart? If that’s true, he’d have to have ingested human blood. Did my father sire somebody recently? A new suspect, perhaps?

  Penny also corroborates Micah’s story about my earlier scheduled visit — she even knew about my birthday — and she said Maggie bought the black cards for her “nephew’s” funeral. She must have been referring to my father, which would make Maggie my great aunt. Is Miss Maggie back? Maybe she never left? James said she hadn’t been to Stockton Estate since before Mom and I left Devil’s Dyke, but that her Invitation remained valid until Micah re-blessed the house following my father’s death. Should I count Maggie as a suspect?

  A gnawing hunger returns to my stomach, stronger than before. Per James’ instruction, I should grab some food to supplement the sheep blood I had earlier. But none of the pubs or cafes in the area look appetizing.

  Micah mentioned snacks. I search the JanSport and discover three stainless steel flasks. My mouth begins to water at the prospect of additional servings of Southdown Blend.

  I continue down Church Street in search of a secluded area to enjoy my beverages. The road dead-ends at the arched entrance of St. Nicholas Rest Garden, the cemetery lot adjacent to the church where Isidore’s funeral was held. This’ll do. I find a quiet bench under a tree in one of the garden’s far corners and unscrew the first flask.

  The clouds swell as the afternoon progresses, diminishing what’s left of the spotty morning sunlight. By one o’clock, the wind picks up, and it starts to drizzle. I remain seated in the rest garden, shielded by a thick web of tree branches. I like the rain. We don’t get enough of it in San Diego.

  I uncork the bottle of henna paste from Penny’s shop. Its aroma is potent and citrusy, with a hint of camphire. I pour a tiny amount onto my hand, rubbing the black ink between my thumb and index finger. It does burn the skin a little, as warned, but it’s nothing I can’t handle — kind of like hot wax. It washes off my flesh with the rain water, but some of the residue stays trapped under my fingernails.

  By two o’clock, the light shower turns into a heavy downpour, so I unscrew the second flask of Blend. If it weren’t for an umbrella Micah packed for me, I’d be soaked to the bone. As always, he’s thought of everything.

  Random drops of water penetrate the foliage above, beating down on the nylon canopy of my umbrella. I allow my consciousness to drift about the garden as the sound echoes in my ears, hypnotizing me with its soothing tap, tap, tap-tap-tap…

  Tap, tap, tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap, tap, tap.

  I can’t believe she would pick today of all days to take a trip. It’s pouring with rain. “Where are you going?” I inquire.

  Miss Maggie adjusts her hat and gathers her suitcases in the main foyer. “Away, my love.”

  She can’t be serious. “But why?”

  “Because. You’re a strong boy now. And you haven’t any need for an old maid like me.”

  “That’s not true. Tell her, Mum. That’s not true.”

  Mom stands at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed. “Miss Maggie’s right. She has to go. Tell her good-bye.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Manuel,” she warns.

  “I don’t want her to go.” I run to Miss Maggie and jump into her arms, burying my face in her neck. How many times has my loneliness been cured by the sound of her voice? How many times have I called out for her instead of my mother when I was alone or frightened? Too many times to count, and now she was leaving me — forever.

  “Emmanuel, say good-bye to Miss Maggie,” my father says in his I’m-not-telling-you-twice tone.

  I wipe the tears from my eyes. “Am I ever going to see you again?”

  “Of course you will, my love. Of course you will. Someday.”

  “Promise?”

  “Sooner than you think,” she whispers.

  Miss Maggie sets me down and buttons her coat before stepping out onto the porch with her umbrella. Gabriel is close behind, carrying her suitcases in one hand and his own umbrella in the other. He leads the way through the rain, and they disappear behind a curtain of water.

  I run to the door for one last glimpse, but the water is too thick. I can’t see her anymore. She’s gone. Forever. My only friend is gone.

  The rain continues to fall: tap-tap, tap, tap, tap-tap-tap, tap, tap…

  The last drop lands on my umbrella with a thundering plop, stirring me from my daze. I sigh. It’s colder than before. The clouds are darker, too. What happened? Did I fall asleep? I don’t even remember closing my eyes, but the sharp pain in my lower back tells me it’s been several minutes since I last moved.

  My watch reads eight p.m. How have I been sitting here for eight hours? Was I meditating or something? I can’t even get through a ninety-minute movie without getting up to stretch my legs, much less spend an entire afternoon on a wooden bench.

  I leave the cemetery to discover a different side of Brighton. Retail shops have darkened their windows. Cafes have closed their doors. And the chatter of commuters has been replaced by the vulgar banter of pub crawlers. It’s not even dusk, and half the population reeks of sweat and alcoho
l.

  A familiar face rounds the corner three blocks down. It’s Gabriel. He’s in casual trousers and an untucked polo, a stark contradiction to his usual suit and tie. This must be his night off.

  There’s something suspicious about Gabriel’s behavior. He seems paranoid, looking over his shoulder every several steps. Instead of calling out to him, I decide to follow Gabriel, making sure to keep an ample number of drunken tourists between us. After several blocks, the thinning crowd forces me to fall back, and I turn left into a dark alley to avoid being discovered.

  Come on, Manny. Think like a Daemon. An idea strikes, and I channel my instinct, provoking the dormant spark in the center of my chest. Once it flickers, I sprint at the wall. When I’m less than five feet away, I leap into the brick and plant my right foot onto its hard surface. Then I kick off and turn, soaring in the opposite direction toward the adjacent complex. I push up off that wall with my left foot and continue my back-and-forth ascension — like I saw Anthony do with the trees in the maple forest — until landing on the roof with a light tap. Easier than I thought.

  I scan the sidewalk, but Gabriel is nowhere to be found. So I phasm to the edge of the building and leap for the next structure… But I overshoot my target, soaring toward the roof after that, and the balls of my feet just barely land on the tip of its ledge. My heels teeter above empty air, so I lean forward, trying to dig my feet into the lip of the building — but my hips sink back. Time slows as I look down to assess a landing on the cobblestone courtyard below…

  A heavy hand wraps around the collar of my jacket, pulling me forward. It’s Gabriel. He pulls my feet back onto solid ground. “Why are you following me?”