The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1)

by Fernando Rivera

  “Are there a lot of inter” — what do I even call that? — “faith couples like yours?”

  Gabriel shakes his head. “It’s why I had you bound. The Afterliving forbids them. It’s an offense punishable by excommunication. And in some cases, death.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the history between us is too complex and bloodstained to support such a union. Since the Resurrection, Shifters and Disciples have been battling one another for control of the Living, each side racing to increase their numbers. Millennia of wars have been fought over this, and they’ll continue to be fought until every soul on earth has been Saved or Claimed.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Disciples believe the end of the Living marks the return of the Sire, and when Christ comes, we who have served Him, along with our Saved, will be given our places in Paradise. The rest will be lost, swallowed by the Rapture… At least, that’s what the Vulgata says,” Gabriel adds with a notable hint of cynicism.

  “You believe otherwise?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe. The salvation of the Living depends upon the Afterliving, and every unsired human is a soul left behind.”

  His answer sounds rehearsed.

  “What about Wolfgang? What does he think?”

  Gabriel laughs. “Wolfgang, the Lycain, thinks all vampires and Disciples are damned, and Lycainship is the only way to protect the souls of the Living from eternal imprisonment on earth.”

  “He doesn’t hold back, does he?”

  “No, he doesn’t. But that’s what makes him such an effective Demiguard.”

  “How did the two of you get involved in the first place?”

  “Well… Wolf” — he takes a breath — “is my Alma.”

  “The Demiguard is your Alma? How is that even possible?”

  Gabriel chuckles. “Wolf’s only been a Lycain for the last fifteen years. Before then, he was human, and like all of the Living, he sensed his life’s purpose had yet to be fulfilled. Demiguard or Devangelist, Wolf was meant for great things, but as fate would have it, his offer to be Claimed arrived before his offer to be Saved, and he took it. It was years before we met, of course. There was nothing I could have done to stop it. But make no mistake, his devotion to Lycainship hasn’t dampened our connection, and as long as we don’t try to change or murder one another,” he jests, “I see no reason why our love shouldn’t be expressed.”

  “Wow.” Gabriel has more depth than I gave him credit for. “More power to you, I guess.”

  He smiles. “That’s what Mina said when I told her, as well. I feel blessed to have received her approval before she passed on.”

  “Gabriel, she hasn’t passed on. And I hate that everyone keeps referring to her like she’s dead. My mother isn’t dead.”

  “Manny, when Disciples leave the Afterliving and sever ties to their Saved, as Mina did, they do die. It’s like a metamorphosis of the mind. They create new lives for their new selves, and they cease to be the Disciples they once were. I don’t want to accept it any more than you do, but your mum — my Sire — she is gone.”

  “Well, I refuse to believe that, and if our separation was the cause of whatever change you say she’s going through, then our reunion will fix it. Whether I’m a Disciple or not.”

  “I can see why Wolfgang fancies you. You have the same stubborn determination he does. Isidore was the same.”

  Oh, hell. I’m just going to ask. “Did you kill him?”

  Gabriel freezes.

  “Wolfgang made a comment about how you should be celebrating my father’s death, and I know from James you were at the estate when it happened. I don’t have time to be tactful, so… did you kill him?”

  “No, Manny, I didn’t. But I am thankful he’s dead,” he confesses. “Because had Isidore not been killed, I would have murdered him myself.” Gabriel exhales a forceful breath and tightens his grip on the pier’s railing. The metal creaks between his hands, causing my defensive instinct to flicker. “Forgive me for saying, but your father was a selfish Devangelist with an incorrigible appetite for power, which he placated at the expense of everyone around him. Myself and Wolf included.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He blackmailed us. Wolf told you Isidore petitioned him for sanctuary to baptize outside of the Discarnate Treaty. What he failed to mention was Isidore threatened to ‘make an example of me’ if Wolf objected. Eleven years, Manny. I endured his blackmail for eleven years, living in fear that one day Wolf would be forced to stand up to your father, and Isidore would report me to the Hendecad.”

  “What’s the Hendecad?”

  “Christ’s Apostles. They’re the oldest, strongest of our kind, with powers well beyond those of any common Disciple. They’re also the most inflexible of the Afterliving’s enforcers, and if they ever caught wind of my behavior, I’d be locked up for centuries. Or worse, eliminated.”

  My jaw drops in awe — partly out of sympathy for Gabriel but mostly from learning about the Hendecad. “That’s terrible.”

  “Your father didn’t think so, as long as my reprimand reinforced the Afterliving’s teachings.”

  “So Wolfgang helped my father in order to protect you?”

  Gabriel nods.

  The version of my father Gabriel has revealed isn’t much of a stretch from the man James has described. Both greedy. Both selfish. Both blinded by ambition. It’s no wonder Micah had more than one prophecy resulting in his death — who wouldn’t want to kill a man like that? — and if I’m being honest with myself, had the tables been turned and I were in Gabriel’s shoes, I would have wanted to kill Isidore, too.

  “Wolf didn’t murder your father, in case you were wondering. I made sure of that,” he says, pointing to his eyes.

  “You bound him?”

  “Yes. Out of respect for you and your mum. Although, Wolf could have torn your father to shreds if he so desired.”

  “Wolfgang’s powerful, isn’t he?”

  “The most powerful of his kind. Wolfgang, like all Demiguards before him, is prime successor to the Alpha Supreme, making him the leader of every Lycain in existence.”

  “What’s the Alpha Supreme?”

  “The Father of Lycainship. An Apostle. At least, he was. I presume you know who Judas Iscariot is?”

  Before I can answer, a numbing pain penetrates the back of my thigh. Then it spreads to the rest of my body, dulling my senses.

  Gabriel’s pupils expand, and he grims. He grabs my shoulders and spins me around. As he does, two silver darts pierce the back of his left arm, and his fangs instantly retract.

  Moon Silver. I pull the dart out of my leg, unlocking my instinct like a floodgate, but before I can act, a wooden spike bursts through Gabriel’s chest, spraying my face with his blood. Gabriel groans and falls forward, clutching the tip of the stake as more blood trickles from the spaces between his fingers.

  “Gabriel!”

  “Time, Manny — ”

  The stake begins to shine, illuminated by the same neon-blue vapor that crawled out of my father’s wound in my dream a few nights ago.

  I pull Gabriel closer. “What?”

  “Your time…”

  The light climbs up the wooden rod like liquid fire, evaporating with a sizzle into the salty ocean air. When the last wisp of blue dissolves into the night, so does Gabriel. His body implodes beneath his clothes, crumbling into a mass of dry, clumpy ashes.

  The deafening howl of an animal erupts somewhere in the distance. Wolfgang?

  Instinct explodes from my heart, and using my night vision, I search the pier for Gabriel’s assassin. A hooded figure ducks behind a seafood stand, so I follow. When I round the corner, there’s no one there — just an old couple on a late-night stroll. The woman screams when she sees the blood on my face and shirt. Then they turn and ru
n the other way.

  Something squeaks overhead, and I look up to see an unoccupied seat of the Ferris wheel swaying in the windless night. Within seconds, I’m ascending the structure, swinging from beam to beam with the skill of an acrobat, ignoring the shouts of the ride operator below.

  The shape emerges from the rocking seat and leaps. He’s met by the gasps of witnesses on the pier as he descends to the wooden deck. I follow, and when I’m halfway to the ground, the figure pulls a gun from his jacket and fires two more darts into my stomach. My instinct disappears as I tumble to the ground, and I land with a thud and a crack on the deck. I wail in agony as a sharp pain shoots from my ankle to my knee, and I see the outline of a bone protruding from underneath my trousers.

  “Are you mad?” the ride operator shouts, rushing to my aid. He gags when he sees the extent of my injury. “Bloody hell.”

  As the shooter approaches to finish me off, I hear a growl at the entrance of the pier. Two menacing silver eyes permeate the darkness, accompanied by the screams of surrounding patrons. “Wolf! There’s a wolf!” the onlookers shout.

  The wolf barks, and the hooded figure backs away from me. Then he jumps into the water to make an escape. The animal howls and follows after him, leaping off the pier in a flash of white. Shortly after, several other creatures answer its call, baying and screeching in unison.

  I need to get out of here. I remove the Moon Silver darts from my stomach, and though it causes my instinct to return, it does nothing for my broken leg. With much difficulty, I hobble to the exit of the pier and search the surrounding neighborhood for a place to hide. An old Victorian building at the end of the block catches my attention — the only place with the lights still on. The banner above the entrance says, Saint Mary’s Church, Church of England, and just below that, attached to the door, is another sign: CCTV free.

  I can’t help but think of my mother. She’s always appreciated the aesthetics of a traditional church. When I was a child, she used to narrate the messages on the stained-glass windows and explain the pictures carved into the marble walls. Then, as I grew older, she would ask me to repeat those stories back to her, checking to see how much of her lessons I had retained over the years.

  It’s funny. I hadn’t noticed until now how much my mother and father were similar in that way, testing my knowledge about trivial things.

  She’d like St. Mary’s: majestic stone pillars, soaring arches, handcrafted stained-glass windows lining the back wall. I’ll have to show it to her someday.

  Normally, I’d never sit beyond the middle pew. In my head, those seats are reserved for two kinds of people: those who frequently attend church and those who want to be seen attending church — and I’ve never fallen into either of those categories. Today is different, however.

  I limp toward the main altar and stop just short of the first pew. I take a seat on the second bench and prop one of the embroidered kneeling cushions under my injured leg.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in God,” Anthony says from the once-empty front row.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Dodging a herd of Shifters. And you?”

  “Same.”

  “You’re bleeding. Have you been Marked?”

  “No. Just a broken bone. I’ll heal… Right?”

  Anthony nods, maintaining his forward gaze.

  “Gabriel’s dead.”

  “I’m not surprised. It’s about time his habits caught up with him.”

  “You knew about him and Wolfgang?”

  “We all did. A Disciple can only reek of Lycain dander for so long before his Fellowship gets suspicious.”

  “Did you also know my father was blackmailing him?”

  “Yes, I knew our father had been blackmailing him.”

  “You don’t seem that concerned.”

  Anthony smirks. “As if my opinion would have mattered. Isidore served the Afterliving’s growth at whatever cost, regardless of what anyone thought. That’s what made him such an extraordinary Devangelist. The way I see it, if one insubordinate Disciple like Gabriel had to suffer so hundreds of loyal Disciples could be Saved, it was a wise trade.”

  I’m beginning to notice a pattern in the ruthless way the Stockton sireline thinks — Anthony, my father, Micah… I wonder whom Micah got it from?

  “So is that the trick to being a Stockton, serve the Afterliving with total disregard for those who get screwed in the process? Gabriel, my mother” — and I can’t believe I’m defending him — “James?”

  “You’re one to talk” — Anthony phasms to my side — “hoping to grow your inheritance by pretending to care about this Fellowship.”

  “Get it through your thick skull. I don’t need the Afterliving or this stupid inheritance. I had my own money and my own life long before I came here.”

  Anthony scoffs. “What life? The hollow existence you’ve spent rotting away at some vapid occupation in an equally vapid city?”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “I know everything about you. Your favorite foods, your favorite colors, the books you like, the subjects you hated in primary, your best mate, your university mascot, your current job. I’ve been hearing every little detail about you for the last two bloody decades, Emmanuel.”

  “How?”

  “From Isidore. Not one day passed where he didn’t tune Mina, pressing her to share every particular of your menial life outside of Devil’s Dyke. You were his pride and joy. He worshipped the ground you walked on. You, the prodigal son, destined to return and take his place as head of our Fellowship, for no qualification other than the blood that flows through your veins.”

  “Is that why you fought with him the day he was killed? Because you were jealous of me?”

  He laughs. “I fought with our father because he let his fantasy of saving you cloud his better judgment. And I was right. Not only are you not ready, you don’t even care. You’ve been handed full control of a Fellowship built during centuries of disease, famine, and persecution, and you regard the honor as some job you can abandon if it doesn’t suit your convenience.”

  “You think all of this is easy for me to accept? I hadn’t seen our father in over twenty years, and I didn’t even know there was an Afterliving until two days ago. Yet everyone expects me to just jump in and take his place? Forgive me for being cautious.”

  “This isn’t about being cautious. It’s about being stubborn. Despite all you have seen, despite everything you’ve witnessed with your own two eyes, you, Emmanuel, continue to live without faith. You’re an insult to everything the Afterliving stands for, and until you open your eyes to the glory of our Supreme Sire” — he motions to the stained-glass window of Jesus at The Resurrection — “you will never be worthy of the power you were born into, a power you take so much for granted.”

  Anthony grabs my left leg with both hands, pulls, and twists, setting the protruding bone into place. I cry out in pain, beating my fist against the wooden pew. “Consider that an early birthday gift,” he says. “Have a restful night.” Anthony makes the sign of the cross and leaves the pew, exiting the church as quietly as he entered.

  I clutch my backpack and bite down on the strap, waiting for the pain to pass. When it becomes more tolerable, I dig into the JanSport for the third and final flask of Blend. The sheep blood doesn’t disappoint, nourishing my aching body with its flavorful maple-wood finish, and the more I drink, the more it soothes my injured leg. So I breathe a sigh of relief and recline into the pew.

  My gaze falls upon the stained-glass window. I pull the Vulgata from my bag and peruse its weathered pages for the word Resurrection.

  1 Corinthians 15: The Resurrection Body - 35 But the Unbelievers will ask, “How can the dead pass into life? With what kind of body will they rise?” 36 How blind! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies. 37 When you sow, you
do not plant the body that will be. 38 The body that will be is determined by God, and to each kind of seed he gives its own body. 39 Not all flesh is the same: Brothers in Blood have one kind of flesh, the Damned have another, Unbelievers have another, and Animals another. 40 There are the Lamb and the Sheep, the Wolf and the Lion; but the splendour of the Living is one kind, and the splendour of The Afterliving is another. 41 The Son has one kind of glory, The Sire another, and the Saved another; and Saved differs from Saved in majesty. 42 So will it be with the resurrection of the dead. The body that is sown is limited, it is raised Infinite; 43 it is sown in doubt, it is raised in faith; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in strength; 44 it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body…

  Sown in doubt, raised in faith… Wouldn’t this mean I’m allowed to be skeptical — even though I’m a Daemon? Seems like it. Everyone’s been treating me like some sort of spiritual pariah, but the Vulgata clearly states I’m supposed to have reservations about my faith. So what’s everybody’s deal?

  50 I proclaim in truth, Brothers in Blood, that the finite cannot inherit the Infinity of God, nor does the perishable inherit the Imperishable. 51 Listen, for I make known the unknown: We will not all sleep, but we will all be converted — 52 in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will echo, the dead will be raised Imperishable, and we will be converted. 53 For the flesh must save itself with the Blood, and the mortal with Immortality. 54 When the flesh has been saved by the Blood, and the mortal with Immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: “Death has been swallowed up in Victory.” 55 “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?”’

  Where have I heard that before…? The black card! That’s what the inscription on the black card said, the one attached to the arrangement of camphire I found in the foyer: Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting? It’s the same card from the store, the one Penny said was purchased in bulk by Miss Maggie.

  58 Therefore, my dear Brothers in Blood, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Remove yourself of limits in your labour of the Supreme Sire, because you know that your work for the Living will be acknowledged in The Afterliving. 59 Stand firm, I say, and conquer death!’