His expression twists in confusion, and I don’t give him time to respond before I keep moving.
More signs blur past, messages about obedience and salvation and belonging stacking on top of each other until they all start to sound the same, until they stop meaning anything at all, and then one phrase hits differently, something about lost lambs returning whether they want to or not, and something cold slides down my spine because I know exactly who that message is meant for.
Fucking hell…all these people…all this hate…seems miserable.
The stage comes into view as the crowd thickens, security tightening.
I scan without turning my head.
Oh my Lord, is that Logan fucking Dale… in costume no less.
He’s giving college dropout vibes—hemp, blonde hair piece, fake goatee. He looks like he should stink of weed and patchouli.
Sam is off to the side with fake hair. He actually looks good, which is odd to say considering I’ve only ever known him as a fucking cue ball. The man shaves his head twice a week; I imagine if he ever let it grow out for a month he’d look like a goddamn spider plant.
Which means Chace is nearby… right? But I don’t see him. He’s a freaking ghost haunting the place.
According to Chace and his rapidly assembled plan of infiltration, with a little help from my dad, the program that fuckstick Gideon has in motion will call a specially selected few members of the audience up on stage to receive blessings and some backstage bullshit to bask in his presence…probably while he gives himself a holy, deeply unholy handy.
Unless, of course, this is all some elaborate setup by my dad for me kicking the shit out of him for being a big old piece of shit…
I reach the barrier and grip it, ignoring the protests behind me as I take the space I need, because there is no turning back now, not that I would anyway, since I’ve never exactly been known for making smart decisions and this one is no different, except this time the stakes are higher than anything I’ve ever walked into before.
But it’s fine, because I am not Trey Baker. I am secret agent Bond—Theodore Bond—with a license to wear shitty polo tops, cardigans, and fucking chinos.
“Sorry, please make way, chosen one coming through,” I say, nasally. Sam and Logan are a few spaces back, or as they look in my head right now, Johnny Bravo and Shaggy. They clock me causing a scene and roll their eyes.
The shift in the crowd happens all at once.
If you can’t find joy in the most tense situations, then why even dress up?
Except the more honest thought follows right behind it.Maybe because they don’t want to stand out. Don’t want to be recognized. Don’t want to be seen.
You fucking idiot.
Oh… yeah. Fair.
But fuck it. Theodore doesn’t care about that. He cares about looking preppy and getting on his knees for Jesus.
Gideon Cross steps onto the stage with his arms raised, and the reaction is immediate and overwhelming as the people around me erupt, hands reaching toward him like he’s something divine instead of just another snake oil salesman, selling promises of salvation for a nominal fee.
It’s strange standing on this side of it, because I’m used to being the one up there, the one feeding the energy and shaping it, and I can see exactly what he’s doing, the way he moves. He’s working the crowd, but that’s because he is saying what they want to hear, playing to their prejudices.
It would almost be impressive if it wasn’t so fucking dangerous.
He’s dressed in black. You might think he looks more like a demon than a brother of the cloth, with a half-smiling presence that suggests he is completely getting off on being the head of this herd of haters.
His hair is greasy, slicked back, and the distance in his eyes is what really unsettles me. It gives me the heebie-jeebies in a way I can’t shake, like I’ve seen it before somewhere I wish I hadn’t.
A documentary. Charles Manson. Another vicious liar warping people’s views, whipping them into a frenzy.
Another culty-cunt motherfucker.
My gaze flicks to the side where a man in a sharp suit stands near the barrier, I don’t need confirmation to know Galina’s people are here.
Of course they are.
Gideon’s voice carries across the crowd, smooth and controlled.
