Chapter 900: The GodMan Returns

She’d been waiting for me.

Not casually. Not the way a normal child waits for a guest—No. Rory had established a forward operating position at my front entrance with the tactical commitment of a Navy SEAL staking out a high-value target, except instead of night-vision goggles she had light-up sneakers and a yellow sundress that screamed

I am five and I will destroy you with cuteness

.

Dark curls in a ponytail that had surrendered to entropy about three hours ago.

Vibrating at a frequency that suggested her tiny body was converting pure excitement into nuclear energy, probably enough to power a small city or at least keep the neighborhood dogs barking for days.

I’d barely put the car in park.

"GODMAN!"

Jesus Christ.

The small yellow missile launched off the front steps at full five-year-old sprint—which, for the

uninitiated,

is basically a controlled face-plant happening at velocity... curls bouncing with the aerodynamic profile of a golden retriever in a wind tunnel after too much espresso.

I’d just reached for the door—but there was a decorative stone border between the driveway and the path that this child was approaching with the spatial awareness of a

drunk butterfly on roller skates.

Sneaker caught the edge. Body pitched forward. Arms windmilled.

On the porch, Vanessa made a sound that could only be described as her soul leaving her body through her mouth in a single, strangled

"RORY—"

My women—went rigid. That collective millisecond where everyone’s brain says

oh fuck

but their legs haven’t received the memo yet, so they just stand there like very attractive statues experiencing existential dread.

I moved.

Rory was in my arms. One knee on the ground, her body against my chest, fall cancelled. Fifteen feet from the car. Nobody saw the in-between.

That’s fine

.

The in-between wasn’t for them.

My women didn’t blink.

Tuesday energy.

Vanessa, however, was doing that thing where a human being’s operating system encounters an error it can’t resolve and just—freezes. Hands over mouth. Eyes buffering.

Rory?

Rory was laughing.

Because of course she was.

This child had the

self-preservation

instincts of a lemming and the fear response of a golden retriever being told it’s a good boy while someone throws a tennis ball off a cliff.

Almost

eating pavement

at full speed was apparently a thrill ride, five-star review, would recommend.

"

GodMan SAVED me

!" she announced, at a volume that suggested she believed God Himself needed the update, possibly via emergency broadcast system. "I was falling and then WHOOSH and now I’m HERE!"

"I saw. What did

mommy

say about running fast toward hard things?"

She scrunched her face. Doing the math. Tiny brow furrowed like she was solving quantum field theory with crayons. "That my legs shouldn’t get ahead of my brain."

"And what did your legs just do?"

"...Got ahead of my brain."

Half a second of shame. Then it evaporated like water on a skillet in hell. "But you

CAUGHT

me! So it’s

FINE!"

"Slower next time. Your mom’s heart can’t afford the medical bills. Or the therapy."

I glanced at the porch. Vanessa still hadn’t rebooted. Hands still over mouth. Loading bar at about 40%.

Rory followed my gaze. "Mama’s doing the frozen thing."

"She’ll do that a lot around me often."

"She did it yesterday too. When we talked about you...she got all red and said things and then went

’oh my GOD Vanessa’

to herself and put her face in a pillow."

I filed that under

information I will absolutely be using later

and changed the subject before my brain could start composing

thank-you notes

to Vanessa’s subconscious.

"Let’s go say hi to everyone." I adjusted her on my hip. She settled in like she’d been custom-fitted for the position—one arm around my neck, other hand reaching up to grab my jaw and turn my face toward her with the entitlement of a five-year-old who believed she owned me.

She did, honestly. Little terrorist.

Then:

"Where’s the angel?"

And there it was. The question that had been loading since ARIA had winked at this kid through a restaurant window while flying through the goddamn sky with fifteen-foot divine wings. Rory had been holding this question in her tiny body like a grenade with the pin out, and the second she saw me it was getting thrown.

"Angels are busy, Rory. God’s orders. Very classified."

Her face collapsed. The pout deployed—lower lip out, eyes the size of planets, chin wobbling with a precision that would make professional actors weep. This child had weaponized

disappointment

the way I’d weaponized charm.

We were the same species.

"She’s not

COMING?"

"Not today. But—" finger up, pre-emptive strike against the incoming tears—"she told me to tell you she’s visiting soon. Personally. And she hasn’t forgotten about you."

"REALLY?!"

Nuclear detonation of joy. "When?! Tomorrow?! Can she come to my HOUSE?! Will she have her WINGS?! Can I TOUCH them?! Are they soft?! Do they SPARKLE?! Does she eat food?! DOES SHE KNOW MY NAME?!"

Eleven questions in one breath. Genuinely impressive lung capacity. Future auctioneer or rapper, hard to tell.

Or possibly

hostage negotiator

, given how quickly she could make grown adults panic.

"She knows your name. And yes, they’re soft.

Angel confidentiality

on the rest."

She gripped my shirt like she was trying to fuse with the fabric. Bouncing on my hip hard enough to register on seismographs.

We reached the porch. Linda had made her way up from the car—careful, slow, the pace of a woman whose body was quietly building a human and wanted her to remember that at all times.

She looked up at the small chaos machine attached to my torso and something in her face did that thing.

That Linda thing.

The maternal radar locking on. Heat-seeking missile acquiring a new target and immediately deciding to love it.

She crouched down. Got on Rory’s level. Because Linda Carter had never spoken down to a child in her life and wasn’t about to start now, even if the child in question was currently using her adopted son as a jungle gym.

"Well. And who is this

beautiful soul

?"

Rory assessed her. Quick scan.

Threat level

:

zero.

Warmth level

:

maximum.

Cookie probability

:

high.

Safe.

"Aurora Maria Porter. But everyone calls me Rory." Dropped her voice to a whisper. "Only my mama calls me the whole name when—"

Linda smiled. Finished the sentence: "When you’re in big

trouble.

Right?"

Rory’s head whipped to me so fast she almost gave herself whiplash. Eyes narrowed. The look of a child who had

identified a snitch

and was considering violence, possibly involving light-up sneakers to the shins.

I raised both hands. "Hey. Not me. That’s a mom thing—all moms do it. It’s in the manual they get at the hospital."

"There’s a

MANUAL?"

"Massive. Chapter one:

Full Names and When to Deploy Them

. Chapter two:

The Disappointed Sigh.

Chapter three:

’I’m Not Mad, I’m Just Disappointed,’ and Why That’s Worse.

Chapter four:

How to Make a Child Feel Guilt Through Eye Contact Alone."

Linda was biting her cheek. "He’s not wrong. I do the same to him." Head tilt in my direction. "That’s what he gets when he’s been bad."

Rory stared at me. The GodMan. The being who caught falling children from impossible distances and knew real angels. And THIS guy also got in trouble with his mom?

"You get in trouble TOO?!"

"Constantly," Linda and I said at the same time.

Rory lost it. Full-body giggles.

"We’re the SAME! We both have the full-name thing!"

"Exactly the same. Except nobody

catches ME

when I fall."

"I’LL catch you!"

"Rory. I’m six-two. You’re

three-foot-nothing."

"So? I’m

FAST."

"You’re fast in the wrong direction. I literally just saved you from the driveway."

"DETAILS."

I liked this kid. I liked this kid more than most adults I knew. She had the conversational instincts of a seasoned trial lawyer and the physical self-preservation of a moth near a bonfire. Incredible combination. Terrifying future.

Linda took Rory’s hand. The little girl let her — because Linda’s superpower wasn’t supernatural. It was simpler and rarer.

She made children feel safe by existing near them.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go inside. Cookies."

"COOKIES?"

"Angel’s recipe."

"THE ANGEL MAKES COOKIES?!"

I scooped Rory up. She patted my cheek — one firm pat, affectionate and proprietary, the gesture of a tiny human who had decided I belonged to her and was not accepting counterarguments. Then she surveyed the estate with the dawning wonder of a child realizing the GodMan lived in a fucking CASTLE.

We moved toward the house. Linda beside me. Rory on my hip. My women parting to let us through.

But crossing the threshold — Rory’s chatter echoing off the walls — my eyes caught what my heart had missed.

Margaret.

Back of the foyer. Not smiling. Eyes urgent.

Patricia

beside her. Arms crossed. Jaw set. Resolve built over days.

Margaret’s urgency. Patricia’s resolve.

Not what you want to see when you walk through your front door carrying a five-year-old.

My smile held. Had to — Rory on my hip, twenty-plus women reading my face.

But behind it, a different engine turned over.

Uh-huh.

Trouble in paradise.