Revelations

Back Cover

M/M Mainstream Alternate Historical Romance by Julie Lynn Hayes Judas has never been very popular, not in any incarnation that he and Jesus and the others have lived through. But he doesn’t care about that. All he cares about is following the instructions of God as set forth in the script that they follow. And Jesus. For Judas has secretly loved the son of God for over two thousand years.

But now he decides that enough is enough, and he’s tired of watching Jesus die far too early, and for what? This time Judas is determined to see that Jesus lives a long and happy life, no matter what price he has to pay to accomplish it...no matter if he has to make a deal with the devil himself.

Revelations is a story of what could be, told by those who play it out, time after time after time, unbeknownst to the rest of mankind. They've come back again, for yet another round. But this time is going to be different.

Revelations © 2013 by Julie Lynn Hayes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

MuseItUp Publishing

14878 James, Pierrefonds, Quebec, Canada, H9H 1P5

Cover Art © 2012 by Marion Sipe

Edited by Christine I. Speakman

Copyedited by Greta Gunselman

Layout and Book Production by Lea Schizas

First eBook Edition *February 2013

Production by MuseItUp Publishing

My own lovely Sarah, who cheered me every step of the way, even though she
insisted on calling Judas a douchecanoe, and still does
To Sue, who beta’d for me and gave me invaluable advice, while cheering me
on

To Mags for her words of wisdom

To Vastine for her generosity

To Kitty – my biggest cheerleader, who even found nice things to say about
Lucifer

To Amy and Troy for their encouragement

To Aly, Carrie, Anne, and Jeia for their continued support and friendship
To Alexx, Brit, Kelley, and Megan – my con daughters – and Christian, my
con-husband

To Andrew Lloyd Weber and Tim Rice, whose beautiful music and words,
especially that of Jesus Christ Superstar, live on in my heart
To Mr. Mister for their beautiful Kyrie – I can’t begin to tell you how many
times I’ve put that song on loop and listened to it
To Judas, whose story I’ve wanted to tell for over forty years
And finally, to everyone who reads this book and comes away from it with a
smile on their face and a place in their hearts for the power of love
Acknowledgements

To my editors, Chris and Greta, and to my publisher, Lea, for believing in me and my story, and for daring to let me tell it

Revelations

Julie Lynn Hayes

MuseItUp Publishing

www.museituppublishing.com

Prologue: God

It’s not always easy to sit on the sidelines and watch what is happening, to resist the urge to intervene in his best interest. My son’s that is. Jesus. But I do so, because I know it’s for his own good. As well as for the good of mankind. I can’t let my concerns as his father override my vested interest in the fate of man. But sometimes that is easier said than done.

This morning I am not alone. Someone else is with me, someone with his own agenda, although we are not as diametrically opposed as some would imagine us to be. Good and evil aren’t the simplistic concepts some would portray them as being

—there are more grey areas there than you might think. And rightly so.

He smirks. Too much for my taste, I have to admit, but sometimes he does have his moments, and he, too, has a part to play in what is happening in the world of men. Someone needs to fill the role of the villain, after all.

The stage is being set for the third act, the scripts have been handed round, and the actors are taking their places. Will this time end any differently than the others?

That depends on my son, on Jesus. I’m thinking this will be the time when he’ll make the change.

“He’ll change nothing,” Lucifer interjects, although I’ve asked him nothing, certainly not inquired as to his opinion.

I glance at him. He’s dressed to within an inch of his life, and wears the most ridiculous sunglasses I’ve ever seen. I decide not to comment on his fashion sense.

“I think he might, this time. I think he’s ready for change.” Lucifer snorts. “It’s been two thousand years, and neither one has exactly caught on yet. Why should this time be any different?”

“Care to put your money where your mouth is?”

He eyes me carefully. “I would, but you see you have this whole mystic omnipotent God thing going on. Personally, I don’t care for those odds.” I arch an eyebrow. “I may be omnipotent, but Jesus does have free will and he does possess the ability to make his own decisions. You think I’d stack the deck in my son’s favor? Just to win a bet with you?”

“Let’s say I’m taking no chances.” He smiles. “Tell you what, though—give me free rein. Let me do what I want, and you not say anything or do anything to interfere with me? As far as they’re concerned, that is.” I open my mouth to object, he hastily interjects. “No killing, I swear to it.” That’s better. I still have some measure of control over the serpent.

“So be it.” I agree, turning my attention back to where it had been, to my son.

I’m smirking now. Openly.

O ye of little faith, watch and learn.

“Goddammit, Jesus…”

“Please don't take the name of my father in vain…”

His words are serious, but his eyes twinkle. How many times is he going to say that to me, how many times has he already said it, knowing how very much I hate it? And yet I gaze into those soulful dark eyes—so inky, inkier than the darkest night sky I’ve ever seen, which is saying something as I’ve seen quite a few in my time…times…whatever—and I drown in their liquid depths once again. That voice

—a silken purr that wraps me around his fingers in the most complicated geometric progressions; like a human cat’s cradle he manipulates my soul with consummate skill. As well as my fluttering emotions.

“Gah! You’re impossible!” I quickly retreat, taking refuge within myself, fearful lest he attempt to follow me, pierce the vulnerability of this protective shell I’ve built about myself. Not that taking flight will help—and well I know it—for he is all-seeing, all-knowing, everlastingly immortal and all of that. Not to mention he possesses the only key to my heart, thereby making any attempts on my part to lock the door behind me futile. So why do I even try?

Because my heart tells me if I don’t, I shall be eternally damned.

He ruffles my hair lightly. What a contrast we make, he and I. For at least the millionth time I ponder what genetic quirk has filled him with the darkest of shadows, while I possess the airy lightness generally attributed to the heavenly beings that wait upon his father; when everyone from the most innocent of babes to the oldest of senior citizens knows he is goodness incarnate, he is the salvation of our world, while I’m the evil one, the liar, the betrayer—the Judas.

“Lighten up,” he admonishes me. He reaches down and lays a soft kiss upon my lips, and then turns his profile to the rising sun. What does he see, as he watches that distant ball of fire begin its daily ascent into the heavens, what does he think? This too shall all be mine someday? Or does he even think in those terms? Knowing Jesus, he’s thinking how marvelous the growing sun feels upon his bare skin—not pale and washed out like mine, but a beautiful brown, evenly distributed over his lithe young body, a result of his fondness for bathing in the caress of Sol’s rays. Whereas no matter how often I lay beside him beneath that same blazing star, the most I can hope for is a temporary tan once the sunburn fades, followed by an inevitable return to pallid winter white. Not even a creamy white, which would be somewhat acceptable, even if a bit girly, but a corpselike hue that makes me look like I just escaped from the morgue.

“You’re evading the issue. As usual.” I attempt to bring the conversation back to where it began. He has such an ability to throw me into a tizzy, to derail my very thoughts. Does he do it on purpose; is this something conscious within him? And is it just me he does this to? Do I
want
it to be just me? Am I so very possessive and jealous-minded that I’m hoping he saves this convoluted irrational form of love for me and me alone? Yes, I think I am—and the idea he belongs solely to me, even though an unrealistic, idealistic one, pleases me most mightily, and warms the very cockles of my heart—my Lord, did I really just say that? Apparently so.

“Am I, Jude?” he asks absentmindedly, disregarding my tone, and ignoring my frown as I glower at his profile. He knows I hate the nickname he’s fastened upon me—and yet he continues to use it. If I dare to object, he simply gives me one of his warm, fulfilling glances, and says, “But everyone loves the Beatles! Lennon was where it was at, dude!” And if I retaliate by calling him Jesu, Jeez, or even Su on rare occasions, he only laughs, ’cause nothing bothers him, he is a veritable Buddha—serene, spiritual, and unflappable.

“Yes, you are, and if you keep staring like that, you’ll burn your retinas out.” I’m simply being irrational now. I know that no matter how long he fastens his gaze upon yon distant heavenly body, his eyesight shall remain happily and gloriously intact—for he is His son, after all, and Perfect—with a capital P and that rhymes with B, and that stands for beautiful. “And don’t call me Jude…”

“Oh but Jude, it suits you so well,” he parries, “I’ve always said you look like a Jude, and you
are
a Jude—my Jude, aren’t you? My pretty, sweet Jude, even though the others call you vain, pompous, arrogant, and traitorous. They don’t see the real you. They don’t see the Jude I see, do they? You save that side of yourself for me, I think, for me and me alone…” His radiant smile takes whatever sting might lie within his words away—not to mention he’s totally correct. That
is
what the others think of me, have long felt about me, for having infallibly played out the part that is mine, down to the very letter of the script set before us. He and he alone understands, and forgives me for it.

“Dammit!” I snarl, heeding his admonition and leaving his father’s name out of my curse—this time. “Why must you twist everything around so prettily, why do you seek to confuse me with your sweet asides which have no bearing whatsoever on the topic at hand? Why will you not address this issue—for once in your life?”

“Which life?” he teases, but he casts his eyes down, and I watch as a sigh passes through his frame, a soft shudder that runs from head to toe, and I restrain myself from simply putting my arms around him and telling him everything will be all right. I can’t do that, can’t put voice to the lie, when he and I both know it won’t be, we’re simply going through the cycle again, and the end is ordained and inevitable. But just this once I’d like to change the journey just a little bit, which is what I’m attempting to do, in my own inimitable way.