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  “I will not test the Father,” she replied. Immanuel turned from the world’s venial and deadly sins, facing him squarely. “You are a petty deity, Satan,” she began, “You were created to worship and serve the Father. It is your ruin not to accept this truth.”

  The Diabolous stared daggers at her. He shook his clenched fists at the heavens. Enraged he shouted: “Take care your tone, Savior, for I am Lucifer,” he exclaimed, “The most exalted one, loved above all others. I am Morning Star,” the devil insisted, “I am Lucifer!”

  Immanuel shook her head at the devil’s outburst.

  “You were,” she agreed, “There was a time when you were cherished by God above all He created,” she told him, “Then you sat upon His throne. You procured His scepter, named yourself Lord.” The devil fumed, but didn’t interrupt. “The only fixation you were warned against and you did it anyway. You were no more able to resist temptation than the humans you despise.”

  The devil’s face became a mask of purple tension: a violently rattling lid on a boiling pot. “Vanity is your downfall, my brother,” she continued, “Now your beauty destroys mortals with disease. Our Father no longer seeks your council. You have nothing left but the damned.”

  The Diabolous stared bitter cold at the Christ. His hatred made him puff up, swell. His naked torso cut from granite. Striations of hard muscle came and went; tightened, released.

  He stamped a foot, a quake erupted. The ground split open. Demonic underworld poured forth as an army. They grouped behind the devil, hissing and fighting. He glanced slightly over his shoulder, they became still. He looked back to the Christ.

  “I shall crush you, Savior,” he spat.

  Christ stood her ground, stared down the devil and his army. Nothing could be heard but the ugly thoughts of Satan’s minions.

  “Not then, not now,” she assured him, “and not ever.”

  The Christ stepped back, held hands aloft. The Diabolous saw Immanuel grow skyward and stretch beyond mortal boundaries. She looked down upon the master of this earthly plane.

  “Get ye behind me, Satan,” Immanuel commanded, “and trouble me no more. Know that I am begotten and blessed of the Father. His power and His glory are within me,” she told him. “I shall roar as a Lion over your bleached bones, Fallen One. Know that I am He,” she stated. “I knoweth both the time and the place of my reckoning. Ye are powerless to stop me.”

  The Diabolous threw back his head. The pot lid blew off, he laughed aloud. Lucifer stomped about the Earth, made it tremble. He pointed at pristine valleys, made them burn. His army took wing, flew and dove and swooped all around. His power ballooned frigidly. Needle-sharp slivers of ice fell from the sky. The ice rained upon the land. Cries of the impaled mixed with shrieks of the demonic horde.

  “We shall see,” he told her. Belches of cold mist expelled from the devil’s mouth. He winked out and was gone.

  The sky now empty, it was clear and still on the snowy mountaintop. With the devil and his hordes gone, all El Cristo could hear was her own heart pounding away.

  She sat a boulder and closed her eyes.

  Angels came to minister unto her. They were surprised to see Immanuel’s hands trembling. Michael appeared, stood beside her. He placed his hand on her shoulder. She reached up, grabbed it. Immanuel, eyes still closed, pressed Michael’s hand to her cheek.

  “The things I do,” she told him with a sigh, “for my children.”

  Serpent slid counter, pulled off her. It was vomiting itself off Immanuel. The snake slid off narrow shoulders, up to her neck.

  Immanuel suddenly came to, grasped the snake below gaping jaws. She removed the lank bulk off her head, let heavy reptile drop and crumble. It disintegrated into the earth with a sizzle and an odor of unchecked sickening sweet infection.

  She stood, took in a great cleansing breath. Her eyes rolled down from her skull. She breathed deeply a moment, took notice of Pedro. He was sitting on the floor of the tent, arms encircling his head, a defensive posture. She came and sat beside him on the ground. Michael the angel was gone.

  “What’s troubling you, child?” she asked him. Pedro did not answer. She reached over to him. She touched him and he awoke.

  Pedro came to with a start. He sat straight up, pawed at his waistband. The gun was missing. He searched all over the floor around him, under shit. He explored on hands and knees, still it eluded him. He stood, became frantic.

  “Here’s your penis, Pedro,” she said. The gun materialized in her hand. He didn’t seem to notice. She handed it to him.

  “Thank you, Jefe,” he mouthed, popped out the clip. Two of the shells was missing. He looked at her. “What’s going on, Teacher?” he asked, confused, “Please explain.”

  El Cristo opened another metal folding chair, bid him sit. She said: “I’ve sent word to secure a room and have a meal prepared for us this night. It’s important for all to attend.”

  “No,” a frustrated Pedro interrupted, “What’s going on here? Why was there a snake on your head and why did the angel keep me from helping you?”

  “What’s going on, as you say, has been written,” she told him. “We all have our part to play.” She came closer, enough to touch. “My dear one, my Rock,” she continued, “You have a part to play as well. Perhaps the most important one there is.”

  “Yes,” Pedro replied, chest puffed out, 9mm held aloft, “I know my part.”

  “What might that be, Pedro?”

  “To protect you,” he replied, “with my life.”

  El Cristo gazed upon Pedro until he was shamed into lowering the gun.

  “You can be such a macho ass, Pedro,” she told him. “That’s what you want. It is not the part chosen by my Father.” Immanuel watched him. Pedro could be so frustrating. He placed scales over his heart and could not hear the truth. “It’s La Raza,” she continued, “They will need you when I am gone.”

  “Need me?” he asked, “Need me for what? I am here for you, El Cristo,” he added, putting the 9mm inside the waistband at the small of his back. He stood tall before her, a good soldier. Since she rescued him, that’s all he wanted to be: a good soldier, God’s soldier. “What will you have me do?” he asked.

  “You are my Rock, Pedro,” she told him, “The Rock upon which my new Church will stand.” She looked at him and added softly, “You are no bodyguard.”

  Pedro stared at her in disbelief. “I don’t make you feel safe anymore?” he asked.

  Immanuel said nothing. Pedro’s big hands shook hard enough to dopplegang her own.

  “I would die for you, Master,” he promised, “I swear I would!”

  “No, you would not, Pedro,” she countered, taking off the gloves. It was time to stop pulling punches. She said: “In fact, big man, you will not even get the chance.” Immanuel looked at Pedro, saw his face fall. “I truly tell you Pedro, and this is for real,” she began, “Before the sun rises in the morn, you will claim, three times, to not even know my name.”

  Pedro was shattered, dropped his head. Every image of himself shred to pieces by the one person in the world he loved. The Christ gave him a vote of no confidence.

  “That’s the kind of bodyguard you are,” Immanuel told him. “As a protector, you are left wanting.”

  Pedro despaired. He failed his Savior. He had left her alone, unprotected. He could say nothing in defense. It shamed him terrible. His veins starved and he wanted to run.

  Immanuel gently placed her arm around Pedro, tried to comfort the man. She knew she cut him to the quick, hurt him deep. Immanuel felt bad being so blunt, but time’s running out, no longer a luxury. Sand trickling faster now and the hourglass was getting bottom heavy.

  Pedro was hurt, deeply wounded by the words of one he admired so. He knocked Christ’s arm off him. He stood, pulled the 9mm. He replaced the spent shells. He worked the slide, chambered a round. Pedro placed gun and spare clip on the table between them.

  Immanuel rose, refusing to look at the hardware. She ga
zed intently at him, instead.

  Softly, he advised: “Sight your target and gently squeeze the trigger.” He stood straight and tall before Immanuel with the very last remaining shred of dignity. It didn’t matter. After tonight it won’t be needed. “I know you hate guns,” he continued, running out of steam, “but keep the nine on you at all times until I’m replaced.” He thought a moment, added: “I’ve told the disciples, now I’m telling you: something’s coming, might even be already here.”

  ‘You don’t have to go,” Immanuel told him, ignored the warning. “You are my Rock, Pedro.”

  “No, I’m not,” he stated.

  Pedro tore Mother Mary’s gold cross and chain from his neck. He held it before El Cristo’s face, dropped it to the ground.

  “Fuck you,” Pedro told the Christ, “I quit.”

  CHAPTER 19

  H erod was sound asleep on his throne when the call came in. Tacitus hated to wake the psycho, but Matthias was on the phone for the Pharisees and he insisted. Tacitus wasn’t about to do it himself, so he had Ovid tap the vampire on the shoulder. The Mayor woke. Herod had Ovid by the throat before his eyes even opened.

  “Herod!” Tacitus yelled. The Mayor looked at

  him, “The phone. It’s the Pharisees, it’s urgent.” “Oh,” said Herod, released a sputtering Ovid.

  “Here,” he ordered. Tacitus handed him the phone. Ovid sat beside Herod and tried to breathe.

  Herod graced him with affectionate pats on the

  head. Ovid had his uses, thought Tacitus; he’s

  mostly a good boy.

  Herod listened, acknowledged the message and smiled. He hung up, tossed the phone to Tacitus. Herod stepped down from the throne. He went to Tacitus, folded his hands. Herod made a tent with index fingers. The talons, enclosed within finger

  tips from sleep, returned. He received good news. “We’re going to have company,” Herod said.

  “Matthias tells me the Pharisees have imposed a

  truce between us and Pilate.”

  “Why?” Tacitus asked, “I thought we’d been

  cleared to make him dead.”

  “Looks like a change in plans,” Herod answered, “Pilate is bringing us a VIP the Pharisees

  want showered with special attention.”

  “Who’s he bringing?” asked Tacitus. He was

  ignored. Herod was thinking, his smile carnivorous

  and chilling.

  Herod walked about the Throne Room. He was

  looking at everything, sniffing the air.

  “Tacitus,” he started, “I need you to get this

  place cleaned up. Use everyone you need. This

  place is offensive.” Herod stopped, faced him,

  pointing a taloned finger. He said: “Spotless.”

  Herod then gestured to the bodies rotting. “Feed

  them to the Brood.”

  Tacitus was tempted to ask Herod why he finally wanted this filth dealt with. It never bothered

  him before, not even the smell. But Tacitus knew

  better than to interrupt Herod’s musings. Tacitus

  still bore whip marks on his back. He would wait.

  The vampire would tell him soon enough.

  Herod’s smile spread widely wicked across his

  face. The joy visibly staining him favored a punk

  kid fixing to pull wings from a trapped housefly, before feeding it to a spider. Herod enjoyed fucking

  with the weak and helpless. Everyone’s good at

  something.

  “This whole area must be thoroughly cleaned,”

  Herod reiterated, spanning the room’s length and

  width. The vampire turned back, “After all,” he

  happily stated, “we are being presented with a rare

  opportunity.” Herod clapped hands with giddy

  glee, “It’s not everyday,” he noted, “one gets to crucify a Savior.”

  1350, anno Domini The smell was the worst.

  It assaulted like a living, breathing thing. The smell hung on clothing and hair. If you stepped out of the hospital, down to the shores of Mighty Thames, the cloud would stay with you. Not even the cold and bitter wind washed it away.

  The vampire didn’t care about the stench. The dying came to the London hospital in droves. He cared for them as best he could. He was a physician honor bound to treat the victims of this vicious plague. And then he would eat them.

  The physician’s rotund. He was of normal girth before the scourge came. The floodgates opened. Black Plague brought an endless stream of bloodfilled vessels. Very few survived. The Plague was deadly like that.

  The vampire bled as many as he could. Sometimes twenty a day died in this manner, all but dried husks. They were cremated in great funeral pyres. Flames licked the sky and the heavens turned a blind eye to the suffering below.

  The physician plump, flushed pink, growing more so by the day. The more blood he drank, the more he wanted. After a time, he could no longer fit into his clothes. He had to have another suit made. He grew out of that one too. And still they came.

  He finished her off with one last gulp. The physician dropped her to the rags-covered pallet. Her cooling body settled with ankles crossed, arms slung out either side. He looked at her a moment. She reminded him of – something.

  The vampire settled back on the stool, studied his hands. They’re burning now. They were bright pink, almost red. The fingers were as plump overstuffed sausages, hard and rigid. The hands felt on fire, fingers coarse to move. Each subsequent attempt became more difficult. He sweated all the time. The bloody sweat stained his latest suit of clothes, already ripping at the seams.

  He stood slowly up, legs cramping. His knees were sketchy from the improbable weight. Crimson sweat popped out on his forehead. It made him look like he just swatted away a swarm of biting insects.

  His eyes began to tear. The tears slow at first, then fast. The great drops poured forth from bulging eyes. His swollen face cascaded salt-bloody tears. He slapped tears away and both his ears spurt. Ejaculates of blood shot out ruptured eardrums.

  Pain dropped the physician to his knees, leaving splatters of fluid on the floor. He clawed the ears and shrieked. Clots of blood exploded from his mouth. It sprayed out pond ripples, splattering the floor ten feet in front of him. Because of ruptured eardrums, the vampire/physician couldn’t hear drops hit the swept-dirt floor.

  The chest pain was next. Shortness of breath from a dirge of blood cells damming up arteries and veins. Skin split from excessive internal pressure.

  The seams of his pants parted. Solidified blood pushed out the vampire’s rectum in a long, solid, bracken cylinder. A bloodsnake seeking sunlight, it was followed rapidly by fresher blood from the torn stomach.

  The physician threw up more blood. He could no longer see because both eyes lay dangling astride his nose, suspended by optic nerves.

  His heart burst. One could see from the way busted ribcage pushed outward he had a strong one. The vampire/physician lay still in the everspreading pool of his own blood. His patients’ blood. His victims’ blood.

  A small crowd gathered to gawk and they were disgusted by the scene. But what they saw was not the worst.

  It was the smell. That was the worst.

  * * * Pilate’s in the parking lot of the main hospital building watching it. He’d been in his car who knows how long, wrapped in another vision. They were rapid-fire now. Strange lives lived. They were going backward and felt like spinning back to the beginning.

  Pilate wondered how many lives he’s had. How long has he been around? And just what was the fuck in him knowing this, in remembering.

  Dark sunglasses and air-conditioning set on high. He was parked in the shade and eyed the entrance. As soon as it gets dark, Pilate’s going in.

  Pilate was on assignment. The Pharisees made him an offer hard to refuse. Even though the vampire wasn’t hungry, he needed fuel. Pilate needed high octane. He was going
into Clarkston next and then he must do the Pharisees bidding.

  Pilate plaited himself two fat braids. He lifted sunglasses, checked muted reflection in the rearview mirror. Stony face staring back as hard as his insides felt. He was ready to kill; looking forward to it.

  Pilate wanted to cut, slice and pull skin off the Mayor’s body in one immense sheet like removing window tint. He longed to stroll about Herod’s compound, flayed skin wrapped around Pilate’s shoulders. He’d sport it as a cape.

  Pilate was going to yank free every single one of Herod’s motherfucking teeth while the bitchnigga was still alive. Then string them on a chain, wear them around his neck. All the while Herod’ll be screaming and begging for his miserable life.

  Pilate will sit upon the throne of Herod, claiming it.

  The reflection staring back sprouted teeth deadly. Pilate never wanted to kill anyone so badly. The thought made him ache.

  Pilate turned off engine, exited the car. He walked quietly and unassuming toward the employee entrance. Pilate dashed in through sliding doors.

  The hospital staff, patients and visitors felt a cold breeze pass and that was it. An unexplained sense of dread made them frown. No one saw a thing.

  Outside, the sun fell.

  CHAPTER 20

  T

  he night before, Pilate waited for the Pharisees in their penthouse. He was summoned and, like a good boy, waited patiently for them to arrive. He stood in the same room Judas had. The wall slid behind him.

  “Caiaphas,” Pilate greeted without turning. He smelled the old man. “You’ve changed.”

  “Yes,” he replied, “So I have.”

  Pilate turned. The flesh of the old human’s face quivered, moved about. Caiaphas seemed to be actually decomposing and smelled like a swamp fart. It was as if the old man hadn’t realized he was dead.

  Pilate smelled oxygen coursing the Pharisee’s veins. He was definitely alive. Caiaphas Pharisee merely appeared to be dead: his body a rotting shell. Pilate concluded something powerful kept rotting shell and soul together. He didn’t know what sort of entity could keep the Pharisee intact, or why it would even want to.