What the fuck is that?”
At the sound of V’s voice, John turned with the rest of them . . . and when he saw what was up at the head of the grand staircase, he blinked once. Twice. Twelve times.
Lassiter was standing at the top of the carpeted steps, his blond-and-black hair styled in a pompadour, a heavy Bible under his armpit, piercings catching the light . . . But none of that was the real shocker.
The fallen angel was dressed in a sparkling white Elvis costume. Complete with bell-bottoms, balloon sleeves, and lapels big enough to tent up the backyard. Oh, and rainbow wings that revealed themselves as he held his arms out, preacher style.
“Time to get the party started,” he said as he jogged down, sequins winking and flashing. “And where the hell’s my pulpit?”
V coughed out the smoke he’d just inhaled. “She’s having you do the service?”
The angel popped his already mile-high collar. “She said she wanted the holiest thing in the house to do it.”
“She got holey, all right,” somebody muttered.
“Is that Butch’s Bible?” V asked.
The angel flashed the goods. “Yup. And his BoC, he called it? I also got a sermon I did myself.”
“Saints preserve us,” came from the opposite side of the crowd.
“Wait, wait, wait.” V waved his hand-rolled around. “I’m the son of a deity and she picked you?”
“You can call me Pastor—and before Mr. Sox Fan gets his panties in a wad, I want everyone to know I’m legit. I went online, took a minister’s course in under an hour, and I’m ordained, baby.”
Rhage raised his hand. “Pastor Ass-hat, I have a question.”
“Yes, my son, you are going to hell.” Lassiter made the sign of the cross and then looked around. “So where’s our bride? The groom? I’m ready to marry somebody.”
“I didn’t bring enough tobacco for this,” V bitched.
Rhage sighed. “There’s Goose in the bar, my brother—oh, wait. We don’t have a bar anymore.”
“I think I’ll just run an IV of morphine.”
“Can I put it in?” Lassiter asked.
“That’s what she said,” somebody shot back
J.R. Ward (The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood, #12))