"But your given name...."

"I used to go by Ophiel, but people seem to have an easier time with Mercury. My given name is nearly impossible to p.r.o.nounce," he said. "Cherubic doesn't transliterate well into English."

"Cherubic? Like the little angels with the rosy cheeks?"

"Exactly, Christine. Put that in your article. Maybe if you take a picture of me taking a leak in the garden you can get your article published in Better Homes and Gardens Better Homes and Gardens too." too."

"So... you're saying you you are a cherub?" are a cherub?"

"I am."

"And you were sent down from heaven for some divine purpose, I suppose."

"More or less."

"And that purpose is...?"

"I honestly couldn't tell you. I missed that meeting."

"But you're a.s.sembling a group of followers here..."

"Followers? Freeloaders, is more like it. I let them stay here in exchange for, you know, favors."

"What kind of favors?"

"Well, theoretically things like escorting Snap, Crackle and Pop home from the 7-11," said Mercury. "But I have yet to see how that particular project pans out."

"So this isn't a cult?"

"Oh, I suppose it is," Mercury said, waving his hand vaguely. "I haven't put that much thought into it."

"But you teach them things. Indoctrinate them in the faith, as it were."

"I tell them a few stories now and then. They like hearing about the football games between the Seraphim and the Cherubim. I mean real real football, by the way, not the pansy kind where you can't use your hands. Now there's a rivalry! I think the Cherubim have a real shot this year. Oh, and the end of the world stuff. They can't get enough of that. Although I have to say, I'm not sure they're really paying attention. This generation, you know, they don't know how to live for the moment." football, by the way, not the pansy kind where you can't use your hands. Now there's a rivalry! I think the Cherubim have a real shot this year. Oh, and the end of the world stuff. They can't get enough of that. Although I have to say, I'm not sure they're really paying attention. This generation, you know, they don't know how to live for the moment."

"Live for the moment?" asked Christine skeptically.

Mercury nodded, downing the last of his beer. He looked sadly at the empty bottle. "That's it," he said. "No more. Pity."

Here we go, thought Christine. Here comes the Doomsday spiel. She forced herself to ask the obligatory question, like someone peeling open a long-forgotten Tupperware container lurking in the back of the fridge. "So," she said. "The world is ending?"

"Of course," replied Mercury, without hesitation. "But you know that. Surely someone in your position has seen the signs. Wars and rumors of wars, famines, plagues, widespread use of steroids in Major League Baseball.... And you've heard about the Antichrist, of course."

"The Antichrist?"

"Yeah, you know, the Charlie Nyx thing." Mercury was now attempting to balance the beer bottle upside down on his palm, without much success.

Christine sighed, convinced that she had hit a new low in a career that was littered with some pretty impressive lows. Even that flaky cad Jonas Bitters had the good sense not to hinge his eschatological p.r.o.nouncements on a fictional adolescent warlock.

"I must be the only person on Earth who doesn't give a s.h.i.t about Charlie Nyx," Christine muttered. "Between the books and the movies and these ridiculous publicity stunts...."

"It is a strange way to pick the Antichrist," Mercury admitted.

Christine raised an eyebrow at him. "You do realize that it's just a stunt, right? They picked some guy at random and called him the Antichrist. It's just a stupid, sick joke."

"Sick, yes. Stupid? That remains to be seen. I'm betting Lucifer has something up his sleeve. Picking that d.i.c.kweed Karl Grissom to be "

"Karl?" said Christine dubiously. "The Antichrist's name is Karl?"

"Yeah, some dumb schmuck in Lodi. South of Sacramento, I think."

"Lodi? You mean like in the song?"

"What song?" asked Mercury.

"You know," said Christine. "The Credence Clearwater Revival song."

"'Proud Mary?'" offered Mercury.

"No, the other one."

"'Bad Moon Rising?'"

"No."

"'Born on the Bayou?'"

"'Lodi,'" said Christine coldly.

"Right," said Mercury. "South of Sacramento. There's a song about it." The beer bottle fell from Mercury's palm and rolled under Christine's chair. Mercury looked like he was trying to decide whether it was worth going after it, based on the limited entertainment value the bottle had provided him so far.

Christine pressed on. "So tell me, Mr. Mercury, what is your role in all of this?"

"I thought I covered that," Mercury said. "I missed the meeting. Maybe I'm supposed to...hold a sign or something? You've seen the greeting cards."

"Uh huh. So what are you doing here?"

"Well, right now I'm savoring a slight buzz and antic.i.p.ating another mark in the win column against Toby."

Christine gritted her teeth, regretting ever having listened to the magic talking briefcase.

"Well, Mr. Mercury," she said. "It's been a pleasure. I'd love to stick around, but I've got lunch with a Leprechaun. I understand he has some information regarding the whereabouts of a certain pot of gold."

"Leprechaun," considered Mercury. "Nice. Mythical creature. You do believe in angels, of course?"

"Mr. Mercury...."

"Just Mercury."

"I seem to have made a mistake. I just got back from an a.s.signment in Israel, and someone mentioned the name 'Mercury.' For some reason, I a.s.sumed they meant you, but clearly I was mistaken."

Mercury nodded. "Wow," he said. "There's simply no reason for your face to be as attractive as it is. It's like six different faces that have been welded together."

Christine sighed again, regretting ever having listened to Pierre Gabrielle and the magic briefcase. What the h.e.l.l was she thinking? There was no way General Isaakson had meant this this Mercury. Mercury.

"Hey," said Mercury. "Would you like to see a card trick?"

"I'm sorry?"

"A card trick. Here."

Mercury produced a deck of cards from his pocket. The backs of the cards were adorned by pairs of cherubim riding bicycles.

"Examine the deck."

"Mercury, please. I don't have time for card tricks."

"Trust me, card tricks are about all you have time for at this point. Examine the deck."

"Okay, one fast trick and I'm leaving."

"I bet you say that to all the cult leaders."

"Funny. The deck looks fine."

"Pick a card. Don't show me."

Christine rolled her eyes. She picked a card. Seven of hearts.

"Okay, now put the card back and shuffle the deck." He handed her the deck and closed his eyes while she shuffled.

"Hand me the deck," he said.

She did.

"Now look in your back pocket," he said with a wry smile.

Christine was dubious. "There's no way..." she began, as she reached into the back pocket of her slacks. Her fingers touched the smooth edge of something that felt suspiciously like a playing card. She pulled it out and looked down.

"Is that your card?" Mercury said, knowingly.

"No," Christine said flatly.

It was the ace of spades.

"No?" Mercury asked. He seemed genuinely surprised.

Christine said, "That was fun. Maybe you should stick with ping-pong."

Mercury turned the card over, examining every detail. When the card continued to stubbornly refuse to admit to being the seven of hearts, he proceeded to examine the rest of the deck. The look on his face reminded her of General Isaakson just before the rocket struck. After a moment of brow-furrowing, he fanned the cards, turning them so she could see.

Every card was the ace of spades.

"Ah," Christine said. "Toby must have gone to a lot of 7-11s to get you fifty-two of those."

Mercury dropped the cards. Black aces scattered everywhere.

"This isn't good," he said. "We need to go."

"'We?'" Christine asked.

"Go!" he said more firmly, pointing to the exit. "Now!"

She followed dumbly as he raced out the front door and into the street. He crossed at an angle, darting through the traffic. Car horns blared. Christine followed tentatively, dimly wondering why she was leaving a perfectly amicable Victorian mansion to follow its clearly insane occupant into a busy street.

"What?" she growled as she caught up to him on the sidewalk on the far side of Telegraph. Mercury had stopped and turned to face the direction he had come. At first she thought he was waiting for her, but his eyes were fixed on the house.

"What the h.e.l.l are we...?"

"Not h.e.l.l," said Mercury. "Heaven. Watch."

Christine tried to follow Mercury's gaze. "I don't...."

There was a blinding flash of light. Before her eyes clamped shut, she thought she saw something like a pillar of fire, some twenty feet in diameter, shooting straight down out of the clouds. When she opened her eyes a second later, the entire house was engulfed in flames. Anyone inside must have been incinerated instantly.

"Those people...." She started.

Mercury sighed, shaking his head. "Friggin' cultists," he said. "They never learn."

NINE.

The Antichrist, meanwhile, was having a bad day. He had only this morning been dethroned as the reigning BattleCraft BattleCraft champion of Server 7, and now his mother was getting on his case again. champion of Server 7, and now his mother was getting on his case again.

"Karl?" she said in that particularly annoying tone that she used when she spoke. Thankfully his mother lacked both the motivation and the stamina to climb the steep carpeted steps to his dusty brown room in the dusty brown attic of her dusty brown house in a dusty brown neighborhood in the middle of the dusty brown part of Northern California. Unfortunately that hadn't stopped her from screeching incessantly upstairs at Karl for most of the past 37 years.

Ninety-six percent of the people who had met Karl's mother had, at one time or other, described her as "unpleasant." The remaining four percent, who were somewhat more perceptive, tended to describe her as "unpleasant and a little off off." In fact, Karl's mother was unbeknownst to anyone a medical curiosity: She had been born without an appendix, in place of which was a second gall bladder.

"Karl!"

"What?" he howled back. "Jeez, Ma. I'm getting dressed!"

"You've been getting dressed for twenty minutes. You're going to be late!"