by Eve Langlais
“Isobel, I have to say, you’re looking more beautiful than I recall.”
A line if Chris had ever heard one.
“Oh, Charlie. You’re such a flirt,” purred his wife.
What the fuck? She usually only uses that voice on me. He frowned and kept going down the stairs, unable to see anything until he turned the corner.
“It’s not flirting if it’s the truth.”
Gag.
“I’m so glad you could come for dinner,” Isobel said.
“As if I’d say no. And judging by the delicious smell, I made the right choice.”
“Oh, it’s just something I threw together.” A modest reply in a sexy tone that Chris knew all too well.
He pressed his lips together tightly and paused on the last step. Is it me, or is my wife flirting with the dude?
“When I said I smelled something delicious, I didn’t mean the roast.”
Fucker was definitely flirting. Not in my house.
Chris turned the corner and saw a guy about his height—six feet plus—his short, sandy-blond hair standing atop his head in a thick ruff, and day-old scruff on his face. Casual yet calculated disarray. The dude wore a designer shirt that possessed artful grunge marks and gouges done for maximum effect yet still managed to look expensive.
The jeans the fellow wore low on his hips were even more comfortable-looking than his own. And he’d kicked off unlaced, brown suede, construction-style boots.
The fucker wasn’t ugly, and he had a physique to rival Chris’s. This couldn’t be…
Isobel cast him a glance. “Chris, there you are. I’d like you to meet an old friend and your cousin—”
“You are not Jesus.” The words just spilled out of Chris. The fellow looked too disreputable. Shouldn’t God’s son look more…dorky? Ugly? Less handsome so his wife wouldn’t notice?
It didn’t help his attitude to see Goshen leaning against the guy, giving him puppy eyes instead of the bloodshot, Cujo version he leveled at Chris.
“I am Jesus, in the flesh, brother.” The man held out his hand. “Pleasure to finally meet you.”
Chris kept his hands tucked by his sides. “I am not your brother.”
“Cousin, brother, doesn’t matter. We’re family.”
“I don’t need family.”
“We all need someone to lean on.” Jesus smiled as he grabbed his hand and shook it. Firmly. “You ever need a helping hand, you call me.”
Chris didn’t believe it for a minute. “I don’t think your dad would like that.”
“No, he probably wouldn’t, just like Uncle Luc would probably have a fit if I helped you move a couch or bailed you out of jail.” Jesus shrugged. “I’m kind of over what they might think.”
The words could have been his. “What makes you think I’m the one who’d need bail money?”
Jesus smiled. “Because I’ve never been caught.”
The implication almost brought a smile, but then Chris caught himself. This was Jesus fucking Christ. Not some hoodlum on the wrong side of the church. His idea of delinquency was probably drinking the wine before service or ogling a set of tits.
Clap. Isobel caught their attention. “How about we leave your fathers outside for the night? You’re both grown men who can decide for yourselves who you associate with.”
“She has a point. But I think we should post pics on Hellagram about what good, clean, wholesome fun we’re having. Lucifer would hate it,” Chris mused aloud.
“My father would hate it more,” Jesus added. “He warned me to stay away from you because you’d likely be a bad influence.”
Chris liked to think he was a bad influence, too. “Isn’t disobeying your father like breaking one of those commandment things you have?” There were ten of them if Chris recalled correctly.
He made a note to start his own fucking Bible. The Antichrist’s Bible for Common Sense and Minion Worship. The title might suck, but the knowledge he’d impart would be epic.
“You mean those impossible rules?” Jesus rolled his eyes and managed to look cool doing it, the fucker. “If you obey them all, you’ll want to kill yourself. Except, that’s a sin so you’re screwed.”
“A tough religion.”
“It’s a cult for the masochists, and it’s all a joke. Those rules, the ones that first emerged on stone tablets and then became the cornerstones of a few religions…they were my idea.”
At that, Chris exclaimed, “Bullshit. Everyone knows God told Moses—or was that Peter? Some dude at any rate—about them.”
“My dad was too busy sulking about sin in the world. He’d thought everyone would behave like a good flock of sheep after the Flood, but the same sins returned. He began to lose followers. Evil took over. Since he wouldn’t act, I did. The people needed guidance.”
Isobel cleared her throat. “Um, history says Moses was given the commandments, and he existed well before your birth.”
“My human birth. I existed before that as part of my father.”
Chris couldn’t help a whistle. “Holy shit, dude, you remember being a spermatozoon in your father’s nut sac? That’s gotta be traumatizing.”
Isobel snickered and quickly turned.
Jesus went slack-jawed for a moment before grinning widely. “Never thought of it like that. I can’t wait to use it on my father.”
“Who art in Heaven,” Chris sang.
“Chris!” Isobel hissed.
“What?” he asked, looking anything but innocent.
“Are you high?”
He didn’t lie. “A little.” Since Isobel freaked when he smoked in the house—it smells like a skunk died in here—he kept edible pot gummies inside for the times he needed a quick fix. But the mellow buzz wasn’t enough for him to process the fact that he was hanging with Jesus fucking Christ. A legend.
“Don’t give him heck, Isobel.” Jesus patted him on the shoulder. “Nothing wrong with imbibing what nature has given us. I, too, like the liberating relaxation of a good bud.”
Chris sat down, hard, blown away by the fact that Jesus was one of the kids behind the school smoking dope. He’s cool like me. Which seemed suspicious. He narrowed his gaze. “You are too cool to be Jesus.” The honesty he kept spilling must be driving his dad nuts in Hell.
“I try to keep things real.”
“Real? Or rebellious? Sounds to me like someone has Daddy issues. Selling weapons that are only good for killing. Hanging out with me.”
“Screw expectations. Look at you. Living on Earth, in a house, on consecrated ground, with a job instead of sitting on a throne in Hell.”
For a moment, he could picture it, seated on a massive throne perched on a dais, an orange glow around him. Atop his head, a metal crown, lopsided for the cool factor.
That could be me. King. King of everything.
Isobel touched his arm. “Chris?”
He shook off the reverie. “Yeah, I don’t know about being Hell’s King. I hear the Wi-Fi sucks in the Pit. How is it in Heaven?”
“It’s like a never-ending perfect, sunny day. Ideal temperature. Blue sky. Clean streets. Fresh air.”
“I was asking about the Wi-Fi.”
“Oh,” Jesus said, appearing startled. “It’s great, brother. Five bars everywhere you go.”
“Figures.”
“You could install more cell towers.”
“In Hell?” Chris stared at Jesus, wondering if the guy were fucking with him. Probably. “I am not living down there. Because I am not going to become its king.”
“If you say so, brother.”
“I think I need a beer.” Chris headed for the fridge.
“Make that two,” Jesus, of course, said.
“How old are you?” Chris asked, head in the fridge, looking for the brown bottles Isobel had stashed in the back.
“Old enough to drink.” Said with a chuckle.
“Seriously, though, how old? Counting sperm years.”
Chris turned and flicked the neck
of each bottle off the granite countertop, popping the lids and causing Isobel to shriek, “How many times have I told you not to do that?”
“Spank me later,” he said with a wink then set the bottles down on the table.
Jesus curled his hand around one and dragged it closer saying, “I’ve not kept track. Age is irrelevant when you’re a god.”
“Don’t you mean half-god?” Chris replied before taking a swig. “Your mother was human.” Whereas both his parents were not.
Jesus shook his head lightly. “Ah, dear Mary. A lovely woman. Sweet mother for the short time she cared for me, but that’s about it. I carry very little of her within me.”
“Is she in Heaven with you?” Must be nice to have one’s mother around.
“She used to be. Mary left after a century or two.”
“Left to go where? Hell?” He said it as a joke, only Jesus wasn’t laughing. “Wait, are you telling me she voluntarily chose to go to that cesspit?”
“Not quite Hell, but nothing as perfect as Heaven either. She went to another plane, somewhere primitive and rarely open to man. I am tempted to visit now that the doors of Limbo have opened again. Once more, the way station is a passageway to other worlds.”
What the fuck is Jesus talking about? Other planes? Passageways elsewhere? Chris had so many questions and too much male pride to ask them. It would probably end up being his downfall. His tomb would read: Here is buried a dumbass. He’d rather die of starvation and dehydration than ask for directions.
He really needed to change that mindset because he was woefully undereducated when it came to the world his father, sisters, and cousin lived in.
How had he ever thought he could conquer the world, let alone Hell? They were much more vast and complex than his foster mother, Clarice, had ever led him to believe.
“Your mom ditched you, too, eh?” Chris drained his beer, set it down, and then hit the fridge for a fresh pair. He cracked the tops by hand this time since Isobel still grumbled and currently held a large knife to test the potatoes. Never a good idea to tempt the woman who beat him soundly at darts every time they played.
“Mary didn’t leave me as young as your mother left you,” Jesus noted, taking the beer.
“Mine didn’t have much of a choice, given they banished her psychotic ass to an alternate dimension. Pretty sure she’s stuck there, which is probably a good thing. She’s a little crazy.” Chris circled a finger beside his temple in the universal sign.
“Aren’t they all, brother?” Jesus inclined the brown bottle, and Chris snickered then outright laughed when Isobel cuffed him.
“Not funny, you two. We are not all crazy.”
“Your sister is,” Chris reminded.
Jesus sat up and smiled. “Ah, yes, dear Evangeline. She could make a grown man cry.”
The mention made Chris frown. Just how well did Jesus know his wife and her family?
Isobel, for her part, bustled around. “Eva is still the wickedest witch around. And if you don’t make yourselves useful, I’m going to give her a shout and tell her you were mean to me.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” The last time Isobel had sicced her sister on him, Chris had gotten stung on the ass. Both cheeks. Couldn’t sit comfortably for days.
“Set the table and uncork the wine, and I won’t resort to drastic measures.”
“See what I mean?” Chris said in a mock whisper to Jesus. “All fucking nuts.”
There was much laughter at the remark. Even Isobel snickered as she mock held up the knife. It set the tone for the evening.
The dinner passed better than Chris would have ever expected. He’d come into this soiree wanting to hate Jesus. But the fellow turned out to be pretty damned likeable. His sense of humor sharp. His ability to drink beer matching Chris’s own. And he provided some sweet bud to smoke after dessert.
The mellowness had them both sitting in the backyard, splayed on lawn chairs, the erratic line of solar-powered lights dotting only sparse sections of the short, white picket fence. It wasn’t a very good or practical fence. Not even waist-high. It wouldn’t stop anyone but a small dog, yet it served as a visual marker to the mourners that their yard wasn’t part of the graveyard. Although he was pretty sure more than one body was buried in the yard itself, especially under those flourishing rose bushes. At times like these, the booze and herb relaxing him, it almost felt as if he could reach down and snare the threads that would animate their decaying bodies.
Jesus took a swig of beer. “I have to say, you’re the first person I’ve met who lives in a graveyard.” Noted in a whispery voice as Jesus held in some smoke before he handed back the joint.
“I like it out here. Property prices are low. The neighbors are quiet.” Which sucked, actually. He missed fighting the dead.
“Who says you’ve stopped?”
The voice in his head made him blink. His vision blurred, and his cousin turned into a pair.
“You’re not what I expected.” Jesus crossed his arms over his chest as he stared up at the sky.
“I know, better looking than you thought.”
A snort escaped Jesus. “You are funny, too. It’s a shame we’re supposed to be enemies.”
“Don’t have to be,” Chris slurred, taking another swig of his beer. “I, for one, don’t intend to do anything my dad wants.”
“Mine doesn’t pay attention to anything I do. He’s a tad self-absorbed.”
“Mine meddles.”
“At least he pays attention.”
Used to pay attention. Since Chris’s wedding, they’d not talked much. After his dad had gotten married and declared Gaia pregnant? Not at all.
That lack of communication meant being on the outside looking in. Or, in this case, hearing secondhand about the battle at sea in Hell and his sister’s epic arrival to then save the day. In a chariot drawn by fighting dolphins.
By then, she’d also had a harem of four men.
Overachiever.
Chris wasn’t the type to try and ass-kiss his way into his father’s good graces. He hated the man. Had no interest in a relationship, especially since he needed to kill his father to take over Hell.
Exactly how did one kill the Devil?
And should it matter if the Devil was his father?
The question required more thought.
The joint, tightly rolled with a cardboard filter to avoid a mouthful of bud, was passed back and forth, the acrid yet aromatic smoke filling his lungs, spreading bone-melting euphoria.
It was that mellow feeling that probably had him misunderstanding Jesus’s next words.
“What did you say?”
“I said, I’m glad you managed to see past the fact Isobel and I hooked up as teens. Very mature of you, bro.” Jesus offered him a fist to bump.
Chris looked at it. Then the handsome guy.
Who used to date his wife.
He didn’t remember jumping out of his chair, but he did enjoy the meaty sound of his fist hitting Jesus in the face.
5
“Stop it,” Isobel yelled, which was about all she could do.
The men grappled on the terrace—the word giving it more grandeur than it deserved since it was comprised of two-by-two concrete squares with moss growing in the crevices. Fists flew, bloodying lips, bruising flesh, and all because Chris had a jealous fit.
“Stop that right now!” She stamped her foot, which did nothing. No surprise. So she did what any responsible pet owner would. She grabbed the hose, turned on the cold water, and doused them both.
The men split apart, snarling.
“Enough.” She held the nozzle, aimed and ready to spray. “I am not afraid to use this again.”
“He started it,” Charlie said, pointing his finger.
“Fucking right, I did.” Chris flashed a middle finger.
Isobel glared. “Actually, you started this spat, Charlie, by intentionally spilling the beans about the fact we dated as kids.” No point in hiding it now
. “Leave.”
“Yeah, get the fuck off my property before I demolish that pretty face of yours,” Chris snapped before stalking into the house.
“Christopher.” She tried to plead with him, but he didn’t turn around.
“Yeah, Christopher, come back. Don’t go off and pout,” Charlie exclaimed in a high-pitched voice.
It didn’t help, and her husband slammed the back door shut.
Given the reason for her husband’s ire stood there smirking, she slugged Charlie in the arm. “Why would you do that?”
“Do what? Tell the truth?”
“You didn’t have to antagonize him. You could see he was upset.”
“So am I. He’s got a hard left hook.” Charlie rubbed his jaw.
She showed him no sympathy. “Which you deserved. You should go. I need to talk to Chris.”
“You expect me to leave with him so angry?”
Jealous angry. A tiny part of her reveled in the fact that he went a little crazy when it came to her.
“Chris won’t hurt me.” But she couldn’t guarantee Charlie’s safety.
“I assumed you’d told your husband about us. Sorry.”
Somehow, she doubted that. “My fault. I should have told Chris we used to date, but I knew if I did, he’d never agree to meet you.” Or he’d kill Charlie. He was cutely possessive like that.
“Despite the fact he’s got Neanderthal jealousy issues, he’s an interesting guy. I can see why you married him.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know how long that’s going to last. Something is going on with him.” She worried about her husband. He’d been behaving oddly the last few weeks.
“You said he’s been sneaking out.” Charlie suddenly got the crux of the real reason she’d invited him to dinner.
“Only when he gets drunk and high.” Which seemed to be the catalyst for setting him off.
“That would be when his usual mental defenses are at their lowest.”
Isobel didn’t like the implication. “He’s not being possessed.”
“Would you prefer I say mentally guided by someone else?”
Her lips pursed. “I asked Chris, and he said he hasn’t heard his mother since the wedding.” Which was a good thing. The woman—freaky monster from another dimension—liked possessing the dead.