The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1) Read online

  “It’s okay, Mom. I got it.”

  Gabriel acquiesces, opening the door for my mother. I load our bags and shut the trunk, walking to the opposite side of the car to let myself in.

  The interior of the Phantom is as plush as the exterior, with its sleek black paneling and ultra-soft leather seating. It’s quiet, too. Not a hint of airport traffic can be heard from inside. But it smells a little funny — like incense.

  Gabriel begins the long drive to Devil’s Dyke, listening to my mother reminisce about her graduate school days at Cambridge. That’s how she met Isidore, during a study abroad program at Hughes College. She was Minerva Rios back then. But after graduation, she stayed in London and became Minerva Rios-Stockton, much to her parents’ dismay. Mom said they didn’t approve of their only daughter uprooting her life for some man they had never met, and they also wouldn’t communicate with her until she came to her senses and returned home to San Diego. Mom refused, and they didn’t speak to each other for months. They finally patched things up when Mom told them she was pregnant, which was right before they died — a freak case of viral pneumonia. I never got to meet those grandparents, sadly. I think that’s why Mom’s never wanted me to move away after college. I’m the only blood relative she has left.

  The Phantom turns off Devil’s Dyke Road onto an extensive cobblestone driveway. Stockton Estate towers in the distance, as large and grandiose as I remember it.

  Gabriel parks, and we exit the car as the front door of the house swings open. A familiar face emerges. “Bloody hell. The prodigal son returns!” he shouts, toasting the night with a goblet of red wine.

  “Grandpa Micah?”

  “In the flesh, dear boy. My, how you’ve grown.”

  “Thanks.” I force a smile. “And you’ve…stayed exactly the same?” He looks exceptionally well for a man in his seventies.

  “Thank you. I get plenty of sleep and drink plenty of wine.” He flashes a bright, toothy smile — dentures, perhaps? — and takes a loud sip from his goblet. “Now come give your grandpapa a hug.”

  Micah receives me with a powerful embrace, and from the smell of his breath, I’m guessing this isn’t his first glass of wine.

  “Micah, you’re looking spry as ever,” Mom remarks.

  “I like to be on my toes when family visits. And speaking of toes, I hope you packed more than thongs,” he tells me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Thongs,” he repeats, looking down at my feet. “Sandals, my boy. Our summer nights can be nippy.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Right. I brought other shoes.”

  “Excellent.” He pats my back. “Gabriel, be a gentleman and take their bags to the second-floor quarters of the West Wing.”

  Gabriel unloads our suitcases and heads inside.

  Micah’s turquoise eyes sparkle as he leads me into the house. “We’re so happy you’re finally here. Aren’t we, Gabriel?”

  “Terribly,” Gabriel mutters.

  Upon entering the house, my nostrils are accosted by the familiar scent of childhood. It’s a distinct smell — sweet — and it floods my mind with memories of the years I spent in Devil’s Dyke. My eyes absorb the estate like a sponge: the second-floor landing, where Lucy and I would spend hours coloring; the staircase, where Miss Maggie, our live-in nanny for a period, would race me up to bed; the entrance to the kitchen, where Mom would bake homemade goodies, filling the estate with their mouthwatering aromas; the passageway to the library, where I often found my father working late into the night. It’s all coming back to me.

  “Emmanuel? Can you hear me?” Micah asks, waving his hand.

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve been asking you if you had a restful flight. And you’ve been staring into space like a zombie,” he laughs.

  “Oh, sorry. The flight was fine. And thank you for the tickets.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Yes, Micah, thank you,” Mom says from the porch. She’s about to enter the house but stops short of the door. She smiles, nervous. “May I?”

  “Where are my manners? Minerva, please come in,” he insists.

  That’s weird.

  My mother crosses the threshold. “Thank you.” She looks up and smiles when she sees the large iron cross above the doorframe. “Oh, Micah, you still have it,” she exclaims. “Manny, this was a birthday gift your father gave me after we were married. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Yup. Big, too.” I almost forgot how Catholic life in Devil’s Dyke was. Every Sunday morning, without fail, the household would attend Mass at St. Nicholas Parish in Brighton. That included me, my parents, Micah, and Miss Maggie — before she left us. Mom tried to continue the habit with me after we moved to the States, but it didn’t take. Church reminded me too much of everyone we had left behind, and I cried at more Masses than I can remember. She eventually stopped taking me.

  “Would anyone like a glass of wine?” Micah asks, raising his half-empty chalice.

  “No, thank you.” I pull out my phone. “You have Internet, right? Wireless?”

  His turquoise eyes light up. “Of course I do. I have the best wireless Internet this side of Devil’s Dyke. The passcode is camphire. C-A-M-P-H-I-R-E.”

  “Thanks.”

  Stockton Farms appears in my list of wireless networks. Once I’m online, my phone chimes with the notifications I’ve missed since leaving the Gatwick portal. There are several emails from the university, a few texts from Andrew — wondering if I’ve seen Lucy, no doubt — and one message from Dr. Kris: All good?

  I respond: All good.

  She immediately writes: Great! Let me know if you need anything.

  I lucked out with Dr. Kris. I admit our relationship is more personal than professional, but it’s hard to think of her as just a therapist. She played a vital role in helping me adjust to a new life in the States, and I’m not just talking about the medication. She was a friend when I had none, a fairy godmother of sorts.

  Though I sometimes think our connection has a lot to do with her own unfortunate past. Dr. Kris lost two children in a fire several years ago — teen boys — and once or twice, she’s mentioned how much I remind her of them. I’m no psychologist, but I think we fill a void for one another: I, as the sons she couldn’t raise, and she, as the grandmothers I’ve never met. Isidore’s mother also died before I was born.

  “So is it just you now, Micah?” Mom asks.

  “I’m the only permanent resident. But this house belongs to family, and they are welcome to stay as long as they wish. You and Emmanuel included.”

  “Thank you. We appreciate the hospitality.”

  “Although, I must warn you. My business partners tend to drop in from time to time unannounced. I’ve since become accustomed to these visits, but every now and then, they’ll give me quite the scare. Which is no joking matter for a man of my age, I assure you,” he chuckles, guzzling his red wine. “Do you scare easily, Emmanuel?”

  “Not really.”

  “Will that be all?” Gabriel says from behind.

  “Whoa,” I exclaim, startled. “A little warning next time?”

  “My apologies,” Gabriel replies.

  Micah’s childish grin reappears. “That will be all until tomorrow, Gabriel. Thank you.”

  “Very well. Good night, Micah. Manny. Minerva.”

  “Minnie,” my mother persists.

  “Of course. Minnie.”

  Mom hugs Gabriel good-bye, and he gives me a courteous nod before shutting the door behind him.

  “Shall I give you a tour?”

  “Not tonight, but thank you. We’re exhausted from the flight. If you could show us to our rooms.”

  “Of course. You must be exhausted. This way.” Micah takes a hurried gulp and guides us up the main stairwell, turning left at the top.

  The corridor opens up into
the West Wing’s lobby. It’s just like I remember it. A Venetian chandelier dangles from the center rafter of a vaulted ceiling, suspended in the air like a cloud of diamonds. Plump leather armchairs and a matching ottoman face a blazing fireplace at the far end of the room, perfect for a night of cozy reading. And above the mantel is a large Victorian mirror reflecting the other half of the lobby, where a tall red curtain drapes from floor to ceiling. Behind it is a window that looks out onto the rest of Devil’s Dyke.

  Micah gestures to a golden cord hanging inches from my hand. “Would you like to do the honors, for old time’s sake?”

  The corners of my lips tingle with nostalgia, and I pull.

  The red drapes part to reveal a breathtaking view of the stars above the South Downs — as well as below. Their reflection is below, I mean to say. Stockton Estate was built on the edge of a lake — Lake Myrrh — and on clear nights like this, the surface of the water reflects the sky like a giant mirror. It’s a wonderful optical illusion.

  Micah shows us to our quarters. “If you need anything, extra pillows, blankets, wine” — he gestures his empty glass to a liquor trolley outside the door to my old bedroom — “do not hesitate to ask.”

  “We should be fine for tonight. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Minerva. I think you and Emmanuel are going to feel quite at home here. Again.”

  “Manny,” I say.

  “Pardon?”

  “You can call me Manny.”

  “Oh. Very well. Until tomorrow, Manny.” Micah flashes his Cheshire grin once more and disappears into the dark corridor.

  “Is it nice to be home?” Mom asks.

  “Ask me in three days.”

  “Manny…”

  “Sorry. How about you? How are you feeling?”

  “I’ll be better. Nothing a good night’s sleep can’t fix. Thank you, again, for coming with me. I couldn’t have done this without you.” She hugs me and kisses my forehead. “Good night. See you in the morning.”

  I bid her good night and retire to my room. It’s plainer than I remember — more adult. The walls are now cream-white instead of baby blue, and the toys and model planes that used to hang from the wooden rafters have been taken down. My platform storage bed was upgraded to a four-poster king, and a Persian rug occupies the spot where my jungle animal carpet used to be. Aside from the wooden cross hanging above the window frame, everything is different.

  I take a quick shower and climb into bed, checking my phone before silencing it for the night. There’s a string of unanswered messages from Andrew: Dude, have you got your accent back? Did you inherit the family fortune? Have you seen Lucy yet? Is she hot like you imagined? WTF? Did you die? Talk to me!

  I laugh, responding: No. Kinda. No. Don’t know. Chill. No. Take your Dexolfor! Exhausted. Going to bed. More tomorrow.

  I leave my phone to charge and settle in between fresh linens and a hand-quilted comforter. After all of today’s traveling, there’s nothing more inviting than high thread counts and cold feather pillows. I could easily fall asleep for the next hundred years.

  Music drifts up the dark spiral staircase, beckoning me to follow. There’s a thin strip of light at the bottom of the landing, emanating from the base of a closed door. This space doesn’t look familiar, but I know it’s somewhere in the estate. I can tell by the smell.

  The melody becomes clearer with every step I descend. It’s “Amazing Grace.”

  I push the door open to find a warmly lit study. A giant map of the world occupies the opposite wall. It’s covered in pins and strings, creating a web that connects various parts of the world, the majority of which are centered in England and Western Europe.

  When I step into the room, I see…

  “Manny? Are you up, yet?” Mom calls from outside my door.

  “Now I am.” I pull back the covers, greeted by an intolerable amount of sunshine. This happens when my Dexolfor routine is disrupted — light sensitivity — which is why I’m not a fan of traveling when it involves time zone changes.

  “Breakfast will be ready in fifteen.”

  “Okay.” I reach into the JanSport but come up empty-handed. My magic is gone. “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you have my pills?”

  She enters the bedroom. “Your pills? No. Where did you last have them?”

  I begin searching my suitcase. “I don’t know. I had them on the plane. Then — ” Crap! “Some guy bumped into me at the airport, and my stuff flew everywhere. I think I dropped them.”

  “And you don’t have extra?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s only a couple of days. I’m sure you’ll be fine,” she says, trying to sound optimistic. “Get dressed. Breakfast.”

  I grab my phone and retreat to the dark shelter of my blanket, preparing a message for Dr. Kris: Lost my magic. Need refills ASAP. Help?

  Within seconds, she replies: Not a problem. Will take care of you. Stand by.

  My fingers fly over the screen as I wait for an update — work emails, junk mail, social media, texts — and I see Andrew’s addressed last night’s short answers with a myriad of hilarious follow-up questions.

  Dr. Kris responds: Expect a delivery by end of day.

  I type back: Don’t you need the address?

  She writes: Nope. I’m a magician. ;)

  I smile, texting: Yes, you are. Thanks!

  My stomach growls, but it’s not your typical morning hunger. It’s withdrawal hunger, another side effect of Dexolfor deprivation.

  I crawl out of bed with my eyes half-closed. Once my face is washed and teeth are brushed, I slap on my Columbian blue University of San Diego Toreros cap, slip into some flip-flops, and grab my Oakley sunglasses.

  Tacos. I smell tacos…

  The rumbling in my stomach grows louder, echoing against the bare walls of my room. It triggers an overwhelming sense of nostalgia within me, and I turn toward the bed. I sigh, thinking of her.

  Lucille Weston was my best friend growing up in Devil’s Dyke, and the only companion I had who wasn’t a Stockton Estate employee. Her family moved into the property next to ours when I was four, and from that time until the day we moved away, Lucy and I were inseparable — three solid years of friendship. Though I have enough memories of her to fill a lifetime.

  Five hectares of land separated her house and mine, which in those parts made us next-door neighbors. Because our estates were so far from town, our parents agreed it would be most convenient for Lucy and me to attend homeschool together. So Grandpa Micah arranged for a tutor to visit the estate four days a week.

  Despite all the time Lucy and I spent together, it was never enough, and I remember throwing tantrums when we had to say good-bye for the evening. I would beg my parents to let her stay the night, but they always said no, except on our birthdays. So two nights a year, until we moved away, Lucy was allowed to sleep at Stockton Estate.

  The most memorable thing about Lucy was her appetite. She would often wake with a restless hunger and insist we sneak out of my bedroom for a midnight snack. If ever I refused, she would whine, nag, and poke at my side with her bony little finger until I gave in. “Listen,” she would say, rubbing her tiny stomach, “my tummy’s about to eat itself” — and so began our epic biannual quest for food.

  Maybe it was the lack of supervision, or maybe it’s because we were out past our bedtimes, but Stockton Estate always felt different in the nighttime — more freeing. The servants had their own staff residences out back, and my parents’ and grandfather’s quarters were in a secluded section of the house, far from my bedroom in the West Wing. So the estate became my and Lucy’s playground.

  The smell of breakfast refills my nostrils, beckoning me back to reality. But it’s not enough. As I enter the West Wing, my memories take a stronger hold, luring me deeper into the pas
t. Then the light pouring in from the lobby window starts to dim, and day becomes night again…

  After years of practice, Lucy and I transformed our midnight trek to the kitchen into an efficient series of games. The first was called “Hoppers,” which started at my bedroom door. Lucy always went first. She’d take a giant leap into the dark corridor, and I would follow, landing a few inches farther than she. We’d continue taking turns until reaching the top of the stairs, adding up the number of jumps it took to reach the first step. The one with the least hops won, which was usually me, on account of my longer legs.

  The next game, “Crawlers,” was a race that started at the main staircase and ended at the kitchen door. We would get down on all fours and pretend to be wild animals on a hunt, relying on our night vision to locate the prey. This is where Lucy’s tiny frame had the advantage, and in the rare instances I did win, it was never by more than two seconds.

  The last game, “Stuffers,” was undoubtedly the most fun: Who could eat more? By this point in our adventure, we had worked up a hearty appetite. Our techniques were predictable. Lucy started light with the bread rolls, delighting in their smell before every bite, and I’d start heavy with the meats. Then we’d meet in the middle. In the end, however, Lucy’s hunger almost always surpassed mine. I could never understand it, considering her petite size.

  The sound of my mother shuffling dishes awakens me from my sentiments. I clear my throat and wipe my watery eyes. Come on, Manny. Keep it together.

  Before heading for the kitchen, I take a detour to visit my favorite room in all of Stockton Estate: the library. It’s where I would fall asleep watching my father engaged in Stockton Farms paperwork, where Miss Maggie would read to me by candlelight before bed, where Mom would look for me first whenever I wandered off, and where Lucy and I spent the majority of our homeschool sessions with the tutor, seated at the round table in the middle of the room.

  I open the door with caution, so as not to disturb the novels shelved on the other side. That’s what makes the library the most unique room in all of the estate: It’s constructed in the shape of a perfect circle, lined with three hundred and sixty degrees of books, equipped with a domed ceiling and oculus.