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  “Still,” Jonah told Her, “I am truly sorry.”

  “You are forgiven, Jonah. Of course you are. I know you needed to hear it aloud,” She said, “But when you arise…”

  “I will go see the Herod, first chance,” he promised Her.

  “Even if something bad happens to you, Jonah,” She asked. “Will you still serve Me?”

  “Yes,” Jonah promised, “I am through running, from You, or anyone else. I’m tired of being so ashamed. I’m done with trying to kill myself slowly because I’m too much of a coward to put a bullet through my mushy brain.”

  “That’s good, Jonah, real good,” Immanuel said, “But I must tell you, in all honesty, most of my prophets throughout the ages don’t live long. In fact, Jonah, it’s sad to say, but most of the time my prophets die. When the do so, they do so badly. I sincerely wish I could tell you different, but I cannot. It is likely that you will perish by violence and at the hands of those that hate Me.”

  “I understand,” Jonah replied, “I still want to go to Herod’s.”

  Immanuel looked at Jonah. He’s still going to need help, this one, Immanuel thought. Instead of relaying to Jonah Her thoughts, She told him, “That’s good enough for me, sweetheart.” And then She lifted Her tiny, glorified self up to Her tippy-toes to kiss Jonah. He bowed a little at the waist to receive Her touch. The heat and power bored tremendous through him like a beam of hot, pure radiance. Jonah began to shiver and shake with more tears and snot wrung out of him. He felt nearly finished, nearly empty.

  Immanuel held onto him and hugged him fiercely to make the shaking slow and finally to cease altogether. It felt so spinney blissful. Through the blear of Jonah’s sheet of tears, he could see him. She let Jonah go with a great big grin.

  “One more to go,” She said to Jonah as his son walked out of the mist and up to him.

  He was a young man. Good God, Almighty, was he beautiful! He was so achingly perfect. Jonah was sure his smile was of the cheesiest variety. The kind that you see at graduations and such, he had a lifetime of pride in one sudden jolt. The young man looked like the exact right combination of Rebecca and Jonah.

  Seeing him caused Jonah to lose any remaining restraint. Jonah ran to him. When Jonah got to him he fell to his knees. Jonah hugged him about his middle and cried some more. He did not say a word, Jonah’s boy. He simply hugged his neck and head, while he soaked his tummy with his father’s shameful, prideful tears. Jonah cried so hard and so long that it could have very well lasted for days. He doesn’t know. Jonah cried until no sound issued forth.

  “Hey, Dad,” he said finally. Jonah couldn’t look at him. That’s okay, though. His full grown face Jonah for always committed to memory. It is a lovely and cherished scar, scratched permanent on his brain pan. He is so beautiful. “Dad,” he tried again.

  “I was going to name you after me,” Jonah told his child’s soggy middle. “I am so sorry I ran away. I’m so sorry I left you, son,” Jonah tried to explain to him.

  “I forgive you, Pop-Pop,” he told his father. “That’s what I was going to call you.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes,” he said, “And I will again.”

  “What do you mean?” Jonah wondered, hugging all the fiercer more.

  “You’ll see,” he said. “It’s a surprise.” Then he lowered himself beside Jonah. He still could not look at the perfect young man. But, Jonah could feel him, his son. You bet your ass Jonah could squeeze him tight. “Just do me one favor, will ya, Pop-Pop?” which had got Jonah crying again. All he could do was nod, so the boy whispered in his father’s ear: “This time,” he said, “Don’t name me after you. Name me after Her.”

  And then he was gone. Only Immanuel remained. Jonah sat back on his haunches, trying to breathe. She sat cross-legged in front of him and considered. Jonah felt peace coming for him. He had almost forgotten what that felt like. It was delicious tasting.

  “None of you hate me?” Jonah asked.

  “No one hates you, sweetheart.”

  “I am truly forgiven?”

  “By all that matter to you, Jonah, yes.”

  He stayed put for what seemed to him like a long time. When Jonah caught his breath and settled down, the water works finally ceased. Jonah was empty and he felt completely at ease for the first time in years and years. And tired. He felt, oh so very tired.

  “Thank you,” Jonah told Immanuel the Christ. He meant it sincerely. She smiled and nodded Her acceptance.

  “You are healed and forgiven, Jonah. Now, go forth,” She said with a huge Cheshire grin, “And sin no more.”

  “Thank you,” Jonah repeated.

  “Rest and heal,” She commanded. “And forgive yourself, Jonah. That’s an order.”

  He did just that. All of it, Jonah did.

  Chapter Thirty

  How the toothless lioness spends her days:

  After some time had passed, Salome finally got used to the shrieks. The cavernous room was as dark as pitch, invisible at the ceiling. Salome, when she thought about it, reckoned the ghosts and demons and whatnot came from near the inky top. They swooshed around her a bit, but most of the cold and creaky groans floated up top.

  The pale blue vampire baby latched onto Salome’s milk-leaking breast. The baby simultaneously suckled blood and breast milk. Salome cooed a sweet lullaby, drooling out of her toothless mouth. Daily Plata was provided for her, always.

  She sat a plush divan, the lights in the nursery were purposely turned down low for baby Saul’s sensitive undead eyes. The pain Salome should have felt from the baby’s boring fangs piercing her breasts were numbed with her prodigious Plata use.

  She sang to her young charge, beautiful melodic nonsense. The vampire clutched at her and purred.

  Salome had no clue as to how long she’d been trapped in the nursery. She never saw Tacitus, the man who dethroned her and took her teeth and crown. Salome only saw short glimpses of her nurses and handlers. Salome was expertly shot up before she even needed it. She was sky high all the time. The Plata high and this little vampire baby had narrowed her life down to a very thin focus. It surprised her with its comfort, almost from the beginning it did.

  Salome had simply come to with the vampire baby latched onto her, looking up in trust at her with his yellow eyes.

  Salome called him Saul and wanted to give him her last name of Sinister. She chuckled. Saul Sinister was a great name for a vampire and she hoped she would live long enough to see the baby grow.

  She knew it was Tacitus’ child, but she didn’t care that the baby came from the back-stabbing fuck. She didn’t care. She was too smart to think she could swim beyond the shores of her Plata cove. Salome was trapped and damn well knew it. She was being monitored two four seven.

  Salome had thought briefly about strangling the son of Tacitus. After all, it wasn’t hers. You know, pay shit head back in spades, but she never did. She found that she couldn’t. Salome fell too hard. She thought she’d been in love before, but she was wrong. Not until now.

  Salome resumed her lullaby as the baby fed on her milk and blood. His tiny talons were scratching at her, making her bleed, silent and unfeeling. As Salome smiled and fell head over heels. She knew she would now fight to the death anyone whomsoever that would try and take baby Saul away from her. Just let them try.

  The demons swooped and danced with the ghostly damned as she found out how much in love one can truly be.

  But where in the hell is my shot? Salome wondered.

  It was the almost complete lack of sound that reached Salome’s consciousness. Saul was feeding, like usual, at her breast. The Plata and whatever else she was being given was beginning to wear off. Salome got up off her duff and did a good Ozzy pain-killer shuffle over to cross the room. She tried the door, not surprised that it was thoroughly locked and secured. Salome realized with a growing sense of alarm that it was definitely past time for her dose.

  What the fuck?! Salome thought. This is not good.
r />   Ever since the former Herod was locked up in this demon-shrieking bitch of a gloomy nursery, Salome always got her shot before needing it, really while she was still wonderfully stoned. This was unusual. This was worrisome. She tried not to panic, but she could feel it building.

  “Come on,” she said, staring at the locked door and biting her bottom lip. The tiny vampire began crying drops of salt-bloody tears. He could feel Mother’s distress and he did not like it one bit. “You see,” Salome tried, louder this time, “You’re upsetting the baby!”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Finally, some help around here:

  Man, Jonah was ready to rumble. He left his Big City co-op, bound for Herod’s penthouse. It was only a few short blocks away. It was a pleasant enough walk in the chilled air of the late afternoon. However, Jonah wasn’t so sure of how he should proceed.

  Jonah was in his own co-op earlier. It looked the same, you know, he did recognize the place and everything in it, but it felt like someone else’s home. It seemed more like the familiar home of a close friend, not his own. Jonah decided right there it was going on the market. Jonah was through with the fucking ghosts. He needed a fresh start. The second he was done delivering the Christ’s mandate to the Harbor Herod he is going to sell it and move on to some place cleaner and warmer. Jonah was thinking of someplace that’s rural, maybe. Blue skies and peaceful sleep was what Jonah craved. He decided he would seek out the desert. Jonah would clear out and never look back.

  Beyond that Jonah had no firm concrete plans. Which desert? Where? Jonah would know it when he got there. Jonah was just going to deliver the message, go home and prepare to vacate and split the whole scene. All the way over to Herod’s penthouse, he thought about it. Leaving was what Jonah wanted to do, but he’ll have to take care of his responsibility. Jonah had no choice in the matter. And that was fine with him. Once that is accomplished, if he’s still alive, he can go without impunity. His debt will be cleared. And if the prophet does die badly, planning any sort of future will no longer be Jonah’s concern.

  He felt good. Jonah walked with a spring in his step, feeling physically fantabulous. It was almost as if he’d had a giant soul-shattering enema. Jonah felt that good. He’s been forgiven by all whom really matter to him, Jonah’s father notwithstanding, and all else was just icing details.

  Jonah woke up in his own clean house in his own clean bed. It was marvelous. The whole co-op had been aired out, dusted, vacuumed and thoroughly cleaned. It must have been fairies, because Jonah sure as shit didn’t do it, but clean it was. Maybe Pedro did it, hell he don’t know, but it sure was nice.

  He’d also been bathed, shaved and even his hair was cut. It was nice and short, like back before he lost them all. When Jonah noticed it in the mirror, he decided he liked it just fine.

  No shit, I really do clean up well, he thought.

  Speaking of being cleaned up, Jonah’s deep craving for Plata, inexplicably, was gone. It’s a truly wondrous thing. Besides being an unheard of miracle, his vanquished Plata addiction made it easy to accept the fact that for the first time in years he had no idea where he could even get any.

  I’ve no clue, thank God.

  Beyond The Harbor (fuck that place), with Jonah’s main guy gone, he would have been lost trying to score. Jonah had no cravings or desire for Plata. That’s a happy fact. He still don’t know what happened, maybe it’s simply part of the forgiving process. Maybe it was the faeries that cleaned Jonah and his house up.

  Jonah could see his destination up ahead. It was an immense and beautiful brownstone building, very fancy and well-maintained by folks with money to burn. It was gorgeous, but as Jonah got closer to the building, the air of menace became palpable. The joint was thick and vile with it. A deadly scorpion hiding deep within a blossoming rose.

  Well, so what. Easy is out, but so what. I still gotta do it and do it I shall.

  “Although I sure hope the Herod’s in a receptive mood,” Jonah muttered, very much to himself.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Suffer the children to come unto Me,

  And forbid them not.

  For such is the kingdom of God:

  Kim, one of Job’s baby-mommas had a basket of clean clothes she was taking to fold in the living room of their sprawling Harbor house. Her man very recently told her that he’s making initial arrangements for them all to move to Big City where he said he’s got an unbelievable place for them; a penthouse!

  Kim walked day-dreaming (a penthouse!) past the vast playroom where most of the children were gathered together, playing separately. She passed the doorway, her mother’s tingle-sense biting her. There were two extra people in the playroom and they weren’t children. Kim backtracked and saw Her and Michael, the Christ’s archangel guardian and protector. Michael stood ethereal and majestic beside the Christ. The children were all streaming viral toward Immanuel, from all points. Kim reached out to stop the child nearest Immanuel.

  “Suffer the children to come unto me,” The Christ said, “and forbid them not.” One of the toddlers climbed with enthusiasm up onto Her knee. “For such is the Kingdom of God.”

  Kim came rapid toward them, dropping her forgotten laundry along the way. “Who in the fuck are you?” she asked.

  “I am the Risen One,” Immanuel stated, smiling at the cute chubby cherub on Her lap.

  “Good on you,” Kim replied, “Now give me back my baby,” she demanded and lunged for the Christ.

  Michael stepped in front of the frightened mother in an instant. He had her face-first down in the Elmo rug. An angelic sandal pressed down hard on her neck. His flaming sword burned a match tip cherry, pressing against her temple. The smell of flesh curled thinly like faint incense. One of Kim’s hands were pulled and twisted at the end of her arm. The pressure was uncomfortable. Only by remaining completely still could she keep the pain in her shoulder joint from becoming unbearable.

  “Please don’t hurt them,” Kim managed, “You’re not going to hurt them.”

  “That depends,” replied Immanuel.

  “Depends on what,” asked Kim.

  “On what your man does to my prophet,” offered the Christ.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Our hapless prophet delivers

  The ultimatum from Immanuel:

  Jonah stood on the corner and waited for the street light signal to change. When it did he crossed the street and walked up to the door. There was an intercom and a camera’s eye. Jonah intended to depress said intercom button, but as he approached the door just up and opened on its own.

  Jonah stepped in and looked around. A private, locked elevator was immediately ahead at the end of the entrance hall. Around the corner, he peeked and saw a grand high-domed room the size of God’s great fore head. Jonah looked down and there on the ground was a man, dead as shit, gripping with clutched death claws, his own intestines. It was wrapped around his neck and led up, way up, to a blood splattered chandelier. A shirtless Albino with orange corn rows and layers of tattoos was cutting the dead man up into six pieces.

  A youngish man came into the room. He saw Jonah staring. He stopped in front of him.

  “Herod?” Jonah asked.

  “Job, yes,” he replied, putting out his hand to shake. “I am the Herod. What do you mean coming here uninvited?”

  “I’m sorry,” Jonah explained, “But the door opened up all on its own as I approached.”

  “Ah, I see,” Job said. “You must then be Jonah, the prophet. I’d almost forgotten about you.”

  “Why yes, but how – “

  “Never mind that,” he replied. “What is it that you need?” Job signaled the circus-geek looking motherfucker, “Ovid,” Job told him, “drop what you’re doing and go get the Judge.” Ovid left without a word. Job gazed expectantly at Jonah.

  “I have a message for you from Immanuel,” Jonah began.

  “Immanuel, Immanuel, hmm. The only Immanuel I know of is the one from The Harbor, the little pre
acher girl. If that’s the same one then you are out of luck. She got herself tortured and crucified more than three years ago, so,” stated Job, “Immanuel ain’t saying shit to me, son, or anyone else.” Job was eyeballing Jonah hard. He asked, “Have you been hearing voices in your head, or something?”

  “No voices. This is the real thing, Herod. You are right, She was killed,” Jonah told him, “but She has risen.”

  “Well, bully for her,” Job replied with mounting irritation, “I could care less. What’s your fucking message?”

  “She commands you to dismantle the Plata business,” Jonah began. “All of it, from top to bottom, she wants liquidated. She wants you to leave none of it remaining.”

  Job just stood there, staring at Jonah for what seemed a long time.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It is unwise to fuck with Momma Bear:

  The other two young moms and Job’s mother, the matriarch of the family, entered the children’s playroom.

  “We heard noise,” the matriarch stated. She entered the room and saw one of her daughters-in-law on the ground, Michael’s fiery sword lighting up her tear-pained face. A second baby toddled over to where Immanuel sat impassive on one of the plush rocking recliners. “Who are you?” she said to Immanuel, ignoring the celestial warrior. She knew who ran the roost here now. As someone who used to, she did. “What do you want?”

  “I am Immanuel,” She stated through a smile directed at the little girl, who squealed with delight. “I am here to help convince your son, Job, to put a stop to it. It is atrocious and I will not allow it to stand one moment longer.”