Chapter 1
Some might say the life of a man like Father Jim DeFroque is a lonely one. The long hours away from home, spreading God's love. The endless duties of counsel, guidance and, yes, fundraising, can't forget that. The weight of all the souls of his congregation, weighing heavily upon his shoulders. Yes, it is certainly a burden, a cross he must bear. Though it does admittedly come with a few… perks.
And, in truth, Jim DeFroque rarely feels lonely. Mostly because he's rarely alone.
It's a humid evening, and Jim's office windows are starting to fog up. When he tilts his head back he catches a glimpse of the church's roadside sign through the haze, its massive black letters declaring JESUS IS COMING.
Well, he thinks distractedly, his breath hitching, that makes two of us.
The office's ancient phone warbles suddenly, shattering the quiet, and there's a sharp thunk from beneath his desk, followed by a muffled 'ow, fucking shit!'
"Language," Jim says automatically.
His personal assistant, Grace, emerges, rubbing her head. She straightens up, adjusting her blouse, and says pointedly, "Are you going to get that?"
Sighing, Jim picks up the receiver. "Father Jim DeFroque, Prosperity Ministry. You plant the seed and I make it rai-"
"Father! Oh, father, It's Esther! I'm so glad I caught you!" It takes Jim a moment to place the name, until his gaze happens to fall on the framed list of 'most generous givers' hanging on the wall. Oh, right. That Esther.
"Well, you know me," he says smoothly. "Always hard at work." Out of the corner of his eye he sees Grace pause in reapplying her lipstick to roll her eyes.
"Have you seen it?" Esther demands.
"I've seen a lot of things in my line of work, sister. You'll have to narrow it down for me."
"Oh, it's horrible! I posted it into the church Facebook group. People need to be aware of these things!" There's no mistaking the touch of reproach that has crept into her tone. Jim bites his tongue and makes appropriately soothing noises into the phone. It wouldn't do to upset such a valued member of the congregation.
Grace, as amazing as her namesake suggests, already has his laptop open, and spins it around to show him. Ignoring the bulk of Esther's post, with its surplus of capital letters, ellipses and angry face emojis, he clicks straight through to the news story she's linked, and… huh.
It's the photo that catches his attention first. A skull-faced man in flamboyant costume sashays across a red-tinted stage, flanked by unnatural-looking figures wielding guitars. Probably some kind of homosexual, he thinks, eyeing the man's tight pants. GHOST EMBARK ON NEW USA TOUR, screams the headline.
"Ah," says Jim. "I see it."
"Read the story," Esther insists, fizzing with righteous indignation. Jim drags his gaze from the picture - they really are very tight pants - and scrolls downward.
"Ghost records and performs pop hymns that glorify and glamourise the disgusting and sacrilegious," he reads aloud. "The Swedish band - well, that explains a lot - fronted by the enigmatic Papa Emeritus IV, is set to tickle the taints of the unfaithful masses next month in a series of… rituals?"
"They're coming to Houston!" Esther says, distraught. "Father, you have to do something! They'll be stirring up all kinds of weirdos and freaks, practically right next to our doorsteps! Encouraging people to worship the Devil! Next we'll be seeing our children kidnapped for sacrifices! Oh, what am I going to do? My Jake just bought tickets! My sweet baby!"
"More to the point," Grace chimes in with a smirk, hitching herself up onto the desk, "what are you going to do?"
"Oh, is that Grace? Can you ask her if she's coming to the pot luck-"
"No, no-" Jim interrupts quickly, "I, uh, left the radio on. Sorry to cut you off, but something's just, ah, come up."
"But what about-"
"Rest assured, I will look into this… Satanic cult personally. Keep planting those seeds of prosperity, sister. God bless." Whatever Esther says in reply is lost as Jim practically slams down the phone, and lets out a slow breath. Yet another close call.
Grace gives him a sly look from her perch, using a stockinged foot to swivel his chair this way and that. "Did I hear you correctly? These guys are going to get the personal DeFroque treatment?"
"'Course not," Jim scoffs. "They're just some nobodies from the ass-end of Europe. Where are they even playing? A couple of dive bars here and there?" With one lazy hand he scrolls a little further down the article, and freezes. "Wait, they're selling out arenas?"
"Looks like they're doing pretty well for themselves. Haven't you heard? Satan sells."
"Well, I guess there's no accounting for…"
There are times in Jim DeFroque's life when inspiration strikes him in a way that can only be described as divine.
This is one of those times. Goosebumps rise on his skin, and a shiver runs down his spine as if the hand of God himself has reached out and touched him.
"Grace," he says slowly, tapping the screen. "How many folks fit in an arena this size?"
"Ugh, like… a lot?"
Yes. Yes. This is the way. It's too perfect; Jim DeFroque, defender of the faithful, fighting for the good folk of Texas, keeping their souls - and wallets - on the righteous path. He'll be a hero. He can already picture the headlines: FATHER JIM DEFROQUE THWARTS SATANIC CABAL. Or, even better: COURAGEOUS PASTOR BRINGS EVIL TO ITS KNEES.
"Oh yeah, that's the one," he murmurs.
Grace wrinkles her nose. "Sorry, what?'
"Clear my calendar for tomorrow," says Jim, ignoring her. "And get some sleep, because I need you here first thing, ready to make some calls."
"Uh, about that. I was kinda hoping you'd drive me home. My car's still at the- you're not listening, are you."
Jim has already turned away, on his feet and pacing the length of his office; a man taken by the Holy Spirit. "What folks need is a firm, guiding hand to point the way to salvation. I think it's time we put on a tour of our own. By the time we're done, every little nook and cranny of Texas is gonna be filled with The Lord's love." He chuckles to himself, rubbing his palms together. "When those Devil-loving weirdos get here, they won't know what hit 'em."
"I'm just gonna call an Uber," Grace mutters.
Jim reaches for his laptop and scrolls back to the top of the page, where the skull-faced singer - Papa Emmy-something - is frozen midstep, half-turned toward the camera with an enigmatic half-smile. A tiny glint snags Jim's attention - the man's eye, he realizes, leaning closer - shining with an otherworldly light. A warm flush creeps across the back of his neck, and swells to fill the hollow of his chest. He feels suddenly stripped bare, as if this strange man in tight pants is looking through the screen at him , and him alone, as if he might reach out at any moment…
Jim doesn't hear Grace putting her shoes on, nor the click of the door closing behind her. "Well, Papa," he says into the silence that follows, "looks like me and you have a date."
•◊•
(One Month Later)
Jake suppresses a yawn, counting down the hours to the end of his night shift. He's bored as hell, but at least he can listen to whatever he wants without his weird fundie boss barking at him to 'switch off that Devil music'. As if his mom wasn't bad enough; he's twenty-three, for fuck's sake.
He doesn't notice the sleek black bus rolling up until it's right outside. It's a great big beast of a thing, double-decked, weirdly out of place in the empty parking lot out in front of the store. Jake squints at it through the storefront window, wondering how the hell he didn't hear it drive up. Its tinted windows give nothing away, at least until the doors glide open and a harried-looking guy with an impressive beard hops out, dressed all in black.
His shift partner leans over his shoulder. "Reckon it's a cult?"
"Shut up, Dumbass," Jake answers, entirely on autopilot. Dumbass - he can't remember the kid's real name - just makes a face and resumes scrolling through Twitter.
Cult or not, the guy from the bus looks stressed out. He sweeps through the sliding doors and up to the counter, all long hair and beard and sweaty panic. "Hey man, can I get eight Red Bulls, a cherry coke, a bag of raspberry liquorice, two twinkies, a banana, the closest thing you have to a pastrami sandwich, and a pack of Camel 27s?" He takes a breath and swallows hard, as if he's about to burst into tears. "...Better make that two packs."
This is a 7-Eleven, not a goddamn restaurant, but Jake takes pity on the guy and waves Dumbass away into the aisles to track down the stuff he asked for. "Rough night?' he enquires, which is met with a slightly hysterical laugh.
"You have no idea." There's a laminated name badge clipped to his shirt pocket, Jake notices. Whatever name had originally been printed on it has been scrawled over in thick black Sharpie - "JESUS".
When Dumbass finally returns and piles the stuff up by the register, Jesus presses his hands together in a silent thank you before slapping a thick wad of cash onto the counter.
"Keep the change," he says weakly, oblivious to the pair of cashiers goggling at him. He gathers everything into his arms and starts on his weary way back to the bus.
"What," Dumbass says eloquently, in the pause that follows, "the fuck?"
Whatever reply Jake might have made dies in his throat as his eyes fall upon the two packs of cigarettes still sitting on the counter.
"Hey!" he calls out, but the doors are already shut. Jesus is too far away to hear him. He hesitates; following a maybe-cult-member outside at three in the morning is a monumentally stupid idea. Then again, the guy is already having a shitty night. And really, how bad can a guy named Jesus be?
Outside, the bus is idling on the asphalt, the engine unnaturally quiet for a vehicle of its size. The door is open, and Jesus is standing on the step, his back to Jake, his voice raised in exasperation. "And for the last time, guys, keep the windows shut when you're hailing Satan! We're in Texas! Do you want Christians? Because that's how you get Christians." He ducks and beats a hasty retreat under a chorus of hissing and a hail of guitar picks. He stops short in the doorway when he catches sight of Jake, awkwardly standing there with his smokes in hand.
"Uh, hey. You forgot these." Jake holds them out, feeling a lot like he's overheard something he shouldn't have. Jesus sags with relief, and takes them from him with the air of a man clutching a lifeline.
"Thanks, man." He looks as if he wants to say something else, then thinks better of it, and then Jake can't think of anything to say either, so they both end up standing there awkwardly, listening to the plastic rustling and muffled nyomf nyomf nyomf sounds coming from inside the bus.
"So…" Jesus says eventually, "...see ya?"
"Yeah," echoes Jake. "See ya."
The doors glide closed, leaving Jake staring blankly at his own reflection. For a split second he catches a glint of silver in an upper deck window, and his head feels suddenly lighter, as a curious weight tugs at his limbs. A weight that feels all at once familiar, yet unknowable. Then the bus pulls away, and he blinks to clear the bright spots peppering his vision, wondering what the hell was that?
It's not until much later, when he's trudging to his car in the early morning light, fumbling sleepily for his keys, that he discovers the guitar pick nestled in his pocket. Fuck knows how it got there; he certainly doesn't remember picking it up.
Then he turns it over in his hand and sees the all-too-familiar logo printed on it.
An awestruck grin spreads slowly across his face.
"Holy shit," he says, with feeling.