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  The king made his way back to shore and the sacred rock. His breathing intensified.

  The vampire was a boy king, one whom was served by others. Never once in his entire life had he to fend for himself. The king never hunted. He was always, simply, presented with prey.

  The king grew fat with the blood of his island. No outsiders ever came until long after all was gone, their civilization perished. He never saw any, save islanders similar to him. He did not know of the outside world. The king didn’t think the world any greater or deeper in meaning than what he saw and felt. When he became king, following his father’s death, he did what he always did; he fed.

  The last one, his very last subject, gave herself to him. He drank her like she was the season’s first fruit instead of the last. He never realized there wasn’t any more. He only knew he was hungry right now and had been for a long time. The overstretched skin of the king hung now in folds. Like a tick leeched of its blood.

  He lay back as the sun rose over him. He was so cold. He was tired. He suckled on his wrist until it numbed. He no longer had the strength to raise his other wrist to hungry lips. Wouldn’t have mattered anyway; he had nothing left. The king was dying.

  He began to cry, this king, knowing what it meant to be absolutely alone. He understood he was dying. It was painful and there was none left to feed or comfort him.

  The smell rose with the sun. Heat renewed its baking of bodies throughout this idyllic garden. It was more than the king could count. More than the island predators and scavengers could readily consume. More than the jungle could reclaim.

  The sun reached apex and split the starved vampire’s skin. The blackened husk separated itself from the wet fascia beneath. The pain would have brought stark madness, but the vampire had died. His people, their civilization, and the king all shared the same final hitching gasp.

  Then there was nothing left. Not even memories.

  * * * The park was buzzing. A huge crowd gathered to hear Immanuel. The morning sun up and burned away the coolness of night. El Cristo scheduled to appear at ten am. The park crowded way before then.

  A stage was constructed from pre-fabricated sections, off-loaded from rental trucks nearby. Disciples and believers volunteered to build the stage. Goodwill permeated the park.

  Immanuel was in a tent, resting in contemplation. Pedro and Marcus stood before the entrance to the tent, watched intently the growing crowd. Pedro’s 9mm housed a fully loaded clip, one round chambered.

  Something out there was brewing. He could feel it. There’s an endgame coming this way. Somewhere around the bend it was and Pedro could feel anticipation twisting his guts. He knew Immanuel felt it too, but nothing gets to her. She still acted as if everything was going exactly the way it’s supposed to. The vision he had told him different. The endgame was coming and it was coming hard.

  Immanuel sat quietly, studied pale little toes. She pressed into grassy coolness and grounded herself. She pulled power up from Earth; this bit of cosmic mud. It crawled up legs and into spine. She stood, clapped her hands three times, creating her circle. She pulled up energy from Earth’s core until she filled.

  Immanuel let her head drop. One could see the whites of her eyes. The Christ recalled being born. She remembered when the comet came:

  * * * Twenty-four years before, Haley’s comet streaked across southern skies. Her mother became pregnant when she was thirteen years old.

  Immanuel’s mother, Mary, lived with foster parents in Clarkston, a small, old and fiercely independent area within The Harbor. It was here that she was raised.

  Mother Mary knew it to be a girl from the moment of conception. She named the child growing in her womb Immanuel. She was a gift from God to the people.

  Elderly foster parents loved and cared for Mary. They did everything within their power to provide for and protect their young charge. They never let her out of their sight. Mary was home-schooled and house-bound; an indoor kid. But yet, the young Maria Providencia somehow went and got herself pregnant.

  No one could figure out how this happened. The finger pointed to her foster father, but only for a moment. He could not have impregnated his daughter. He was seventy years old, been impotent for decades.

  When asked who the father of her unborn child was, Mary would only clutch the golden cross hung from her neck and smile wistfully. That was all anyone could find out, all they could extract from her.

  Friends and neighbors began to secretly think the conception immaculate. Mother Mary simply accepted this as fact.

  Immanuel was born premature on Christmas day. She was small but not in any way sick, not weak. The hospital where she was born had life support equipment and personnel ready for the four pound girl, but none was needed. The hospital discharged both mother and baby three days later. She grew stronger every day since.

  The child grew and amazed people she met. Immanuel began reading at two. By the time she was five, she was penning sermons. She practiced these on scary neighborhood dogs. Local gangsters used these animals for intimidation and protection. Most in Clarkston were deathly afraid. They were some mean-ass dogs.

  Immanuel summoned the dogs with a short, rapid burst of clapping. Her folks could not hear from inside, but dogs could. They came running from all directions. They came loudly pushing into the young Christ’s backyard. The dogs would sit themselves, sentry-like, in a row before her. They sat in rapt attention as she preached to them.

  An amazing sight to behold: a barefoot little girl, long hair in pigtails, preaching with authority to a straight as an arrow line of six Pit Bulls. Each dog weighed over one hundred pounds.

  And when she pointed, the dogs did but flinch. Immanuel was twelve when she went to a taping

  of a famous televangelist in Big City. The preacher was a charismatic leader of several churches, healer of the sick, saver of the damned.

  Immanuel queued with the wretched remnants of the faith. One by one, they turned, came to her instead. They embraced her and were truly healed. The televangelist, noting the break in the healing, hurried to see what caused the commotion. The preacher had the director build music up while he made his way off camera. Feigning like he was struggling with something mighty heavy from the Lord.

  He found Immanuel and quickly discovered this girl doing his work in God’s Holy Name. This angered him. He had two more tapings to complete before his midnight flight to Atlanta, and this barefoot and slight girl was slowing the flow. These tapings were about volume. He needed the invalids and housebound to see just how much the Lord moved him, used him to heal.

  “The Reverend Danny Delmont can heal the sick,” he wanted them to say. “The Reverend Danny Delmont has been touched by God,” as well. But most of all he wanted sick folks at home to see him working up a lather healing, a long line of believers waiting. He wanted them to reach for checkbooks and credit cards. Call the toll-free number at the bottom of their screen and say: “The Reverend Danny Delmont needs our prayers and financial support!”

  Tiny girl’s slowing the flow. She had to be stopped. “Little girl,” he tried as he closed on her. None of the faithful paid any mind. Immanuel ignored him entirely, “Little girl,” he tried again, less polite. He peeked at his watch, noted the time crunch. “Who is with this little girl?” he asked the crowd. No one answered. “Is your mother here?”

  Immanuel’s hand is on a believer’s twisted limb. The heat from her touch rippled outward, away from them. The arm slowly, but perceptively, straightened. The preacher could feel it. This frightened him. This one is different, he thought, she knew real magic. The preacher never experienced this before, made him jealous.

  The irritated televangelist panicked, lunged for the Christ. He intended to bodily carry her to the first security guard he could find. Instruct him to get her the hell out of his taping.

  He never made it.

  She could not have weighed more than seventy pounds. The beefy, red-faced, lathered up, bible thumper tore disc after disc w
ith his violent attempt to lift her. She was not to be moved or touched with ill intent, unless pre-ordained. This was not and the preacher dropped like a lead zeppelin to the floor. He writhed off camera in agony until he saw the celestial being. It made him stop. It made his hair turn instantly white and fear for his very life.

  The archangel Michael towered over all. He pulled a sword from scabbard, straddled the injured human. Immanuel merely looked at the heavenly warrior, the sword loosed and preacher spared. But there was no doubt by any there that the angel would have laid him waste.

  Immanuel showed mercy and knelt beside the preacher. She laid her hands upon his back and he was truly healed. Then she vanished.

  No one knew who she was or from whence she came.

  The revival was heavily edited, preacher’s snow white hair dyed. The incident was all but forgotten by the preacher and his staff. But there were those present that remembered it all. They believed what they saw. And they did but flinch.

  * * * Immanuel brought her head level. She bowed slightly to the four essential elements of air, earth, fire and water represented by the four corners of the compass. She closed her circle, thanked the Father.

  She motioned to Pedro and he and Marcus took her from the tent. They made their way to the stage. The crowd, thousands strong, rose to greet their Savior. Much respect given to her, mad respect.

  Immanuel accepted their honors and stepped right up to the microphone. It was set for an average-sized male, thus above the crown of her head. She smiled at it a moment, slowly shook her head. She brought it down to where she could use it. The crowed smiled with her, chuckled. She put up a tiny hand and the crowed hushed.

  “God is good,” she began.

  “And God is Love,” the crowd finished. “Behold, this is the day the Lord made,” she

  told them, “Let us give thanks and be grateful for it.” The crowd lowered heads in reverence. They closed eyes as one and Immanuel led them in the Lord’s Prayer. “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

  With head bowed, Pedro muttered the prayer in time with the believers. He felt the weight of being armed. He felt the words of the Lord’s Prayer, but could not feel comforted by either.

  When prayer ended, Pedro scanned the crowd, searching for something fleeting, without form. It was dangerous. He didn’t know what, but dangerous and coming.

  Pedro wished Sermon in the Park was over. She belonged to the people, of whom Pedro enjoyed special status, but he still wished it over.

  Pedro swore to protect Immanuel with his very life, but against what? Evil was trying to thread in, but he didn’t know in what form. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do about it.

  He looked around. Pedro’s hands were shaking, heart pounding in his temples. He was anxious and troubled. Of what, he knew not, but it’s big and dangerous and it made him sorely afraid.

  It started with the disturbing vision. It made him secretly give up his vows, frightened him so. It made him feel a failure and a coward. It made him want to leave the Christ alone to fend for herself.

  It made him want to get high. In Pedro’s vision, the Lamb was snow-white and spotless. It was without blemish, perfect in every way; an innocent. The Lamb was faultless and pure.

  It lazily cropped grass, chewing softly, gently. It stood alone and unprotected. The rest of the sheep had glaring imperfections. They greedily cut grass with their teeth, eating more than was needed without thinking. Getting all they could was what mattered most to these sheep.

  The flock had all manner of distractions. They were club-footed and stupid. They were ugly, they smelled. Dull eyes leaked knots of pus. Bleated, bleated, bleated, until you couldn’t stand it and then they bleated some more. It made you want to turn your back and let them all perish.

  Pedro witnessed from the vantage of being a bleating, ugly, wretch himself. He was the first to see the snake. It was a big one, big enough to swallow sheep without issue.

  It stared maliciously at them as it sunned on a flat rock. Pedro noticed the snake stare at the mismanaged mess of sheep, oblivious to danger in their midst. It was studying the menu, to see who looked yummy.

  The snake slowly cruised the flock with his eyes, tasting the air with his flickering tongue. He found Pedro, smelling so good. The snake scurried off the rock with quickness, darted for Pedro.

  Pedro the sheep tried to run; tripped over his own hooves. He called out for help and was ignored by the flock. It didn’t concern them. Pedro attempted to get up. The snake was on him. He hit the ground again and hit it hard. The wind knocked out of him. Pedro saw huge predator jaws coming down, when the snake stopped of a sudden.

  The lamb, perfect and spotless, stood beside Pedro. The snake interested, Pedro’s flawed and tainted self forgotten. The lamb did not move. It saw the snake, knew what it would do, but remained still. Fear seemed not to be present. The lamb allowed the snake to slither up to it. The snake circled, tasted lamb with its eyes, tongue, wanted to attack. The pureness disgusted the slithering creature. It wanted to attack the lamb, make it violate.

  Pedro could feel the snake’s hatred. It was undiluted and intense. It boiled off the snake, full of violent rage. The lamb offended the snake, had no right to exist. It stood in stark contrast with the malevolent spirit of the serpent. It wanted to hurt and hurt, then crush all goodness and mercy from the lamb. And yet the lamb remained still and silent.

  The snake moved slowly, seeming to tease itself by slithering around it. Touching the lamb’s legs, flicked her snout with his over-long tongue. The snake showed off the great muscular length of its body. He wanted her to feel the cold, dark power the snake held within.

  Pedro got his four legs under him and stood. He stared with a low hum of angered injustice seeping from his coward’s heart. He wanted to intervene, but bold change withered. He thought, my God, that’s a snake!

  Pedro had enough, no longer brave. His ears pressed against skull from fear. He tried to make himself small and gave the impression he was imploding, shrinking into himself. Pedro’s not brave. He desired to turn and run, but if he did, he would abandon the spotless lamb to a fate not deserved. The lamb is perfect and should not be food for the wicked.

  The lamb knew different. She gazed at Pedro, amused at his ignorance. What did he think would happen? It had been pre-ordained, written. The spotless lamb must die. The snake’s fury must be quenched. A sacrifice must be given to save the weak and the stained, sinners all. If not the lamb, then who shall there be to save them? The lamb was chosen, she was born to die.

  Pedro quit. He turned, ran from lamb and snake as fast as he could. He turned to look, saw the snake coiled utterly about the lamb. It’s perfect, perfect little face and head being devoured. The lamb swallowed whole by the big snake. His popped-out jaws sliding perceptively down the spotless lamb’s wooly neck. The sight made Pedro run even faster. He didn’t dismiss the thought of going back, right this wrong. It had not occurred to him.

  It did later, when danger passed. Pedro realized what he had done. He ran away from danger and toward safety. A coward he was, truly.

  In his vision, Pedro let the lamb sacrifice her perfect self for the flock of sinners. Pedro simply lit out, saved his own bacon. The remorse he felt seemed a warning, like he was being given a headsup.

  Immanuel preached on to her adoring crowd, still rapt with her message. Pedro re-checked the 9mm for the umpteenth time, still loaded.

  He felt blood, dread and dismay clobbering the deep insides of his skull. Something’s coming and he’s sorely afraid.

  Pedro pondered life outside the ministry. Pedro began thinking about getting high. He was never afraid when fucked up on the lovely and vivacious Plata. His mistress had not been able to get Pedro’s attention for three whole years. You never leave your beautiful lover alone and aching for that long. Hell hath no fury… and all like that.

  Pedro tingled all over with the thought. He began to crave for her again. And when he did, he could almost forget
the crater of fear burrowing his psyche. It made Pedro want to get muy alto, high as a kite. And once he got there, nigga wanted to stay that way.

  “Worry not the splinter in the eye of your friend. Instead, pluck the branch from your own,” she told them. “Judge not, loved ones, lest you be judged. Mind your own business, believers. Standing tall the narrow fence of righteousness will prove all your time and energy. So never, beloved, think of yourselves less a sinner than your neighbor: for all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.”

  El Cristo spoke with authority to the crowd. They listened with captivated hearts and minds.

  She stopped for the merest of moments, looked with affection upon the crowd. Immanuel loved them so very much.

  J udas, with manager in tow, inspected the private, upstairs portion of the restaurant. It was on the second floor, a completely private room. Long solid tables were set in a square, big enough for thirteen.

  “Satisfactory?” the restaurant manager asked. “Will this room meet your needs?”

  Judas marched about, probing, envisioning. He closed his eyes and listened to the patrons eating and mingling below. Scant noise drifted up to him. It will do.

  “I need your servers to respect our isolation,” Judas told the manager. “Deference and privacy will earn them a fat tip, understand?”

  “Yes,” he replied with greasy smile, “I understand and will be here to see to it,” fist to chest, “personally.”

  “In that case it’ll do,” Judas replied. He brought out some cash, handed it over.

  The manager accepted and re-assured Judas all would be ready for him and his guests.

  Judas descended the stairs, pushed open the door and alighted on the sidewalk. He donned dark shades, beamed happily at the brightly lit day. Dollar sign sugar plums danced in his head.

  A few moments of courage tonight, thought Judas, and I shall be the Christ of my own destiny.

  Judas unlocked the car door. He slid in, ignited the motor. He turned air-conditioning high to keep evil midday sun from melting his shit. Judas fanned pinkish sweat on his shiny pate, opened his phone.