"Out, out, out of my store!"

Bridget appeared less than thrilled to see us again. Kasmira-dressed in a black-full length peasant dress-watched silently from behind the cash register.

Plywood boards still covered the broken windows of Trismegistos. Wide strips of masking tape held gray chipboard in place over holes in the glass counters.

"Things have been rough, haven't they?" Ann said.

A pile of damaged merchandise lay on a card table. A sign hung from it, reading,

THE"WE DIDN'T EXPECT THE SPANISH INQUISITION"SALE-ALL RED TAGGED ITEMS HALF PRICE!

Bridget looked at me with poorly veiled unease. "I gave you your damned message," she said. "What more do you want?"

"Your help."

"Help in what? Your wild-gander chase? That insane advertising of yours?"

I bit the inside of my cheek, glancing over at Ann. She merely rolled her icy blues. Yeah, I thought-I know.

"We need a spell," she said. "A powerful spell. You have the knowledge. You have the power. Please help us." She reached out to touch the old woman's arm. Her frigid eyes warmed to pools of imploring dewiness. The angel really knew how to lay it on.

Bridget sighed miserably. "It's useless to fight. He has the whole world in His grip. Our influence is dying, crumbling." She shook her aged head. "Those few of us who have held on for so long have seen the light grow dimmer year by year, age by age. Perhaps this millennium is the Equinox of the Gods."

"No," Ann said, "I refuse to let that happen." Ann clasped the crone's arm tightly, her eyes narrowing with fierce intensity. "There comes a time to strike back with all the force we can raise. Six thousand years is enough time to spend enduring the whip and the rope and the flame. It's enough time spent hiding in the shadows, afraid to speak our truths. It's too much time lost in forgetting that our love is greater than his hate."

Ann released her grip. Bridget turned away.

"It is the Equinox of the Gods," Ann said. "His solstice is long past. Do you want to see him enthroned again for another twenty centuries?"

"I'm too old," she said as softly as a vanquished warrior.

"That is he speaking. He and his hatred of change through time." Ann touched the old woman again. "Your age is your wisdom. You lifetime is your strength."

"Words," Bridget said, leaning weakly against the counter behind her.

"Words of truth. Words of magic. Your words."

Bridget merely lowered her head, shaking it.

Ann looked helplessly in my direction.

I let out an impatient sigh. "Bridget," I said, "can't you see that the lady is asking you to help us?"

She nodded, avoiding either of our gazes. Something stiffened in her spine.

"That a man should ask…" She looked up at me. Color returned to her face. "That a man should even think to reject his patriarchal God." She straightened.

In the corner of my vision, I saw Kasmira smiling, holding back tears.

"Mighty Isis, I'll do it! I won't refuse a request when it comes in such a manner." The fire of life seemed to flow back into her veins as she looked heavenward. "I've got nothing to fear from the likes of Him! My karma's safe. I love this life, and I'm ready for the next." She looked me in the eye.

"All right, God-killer-just tell me when and where and what restaurant we'll go to afterward."

"Blessed be," I muttered, lighting up a cigarette and tossing the match into a cracked incense burner. I took a long drag and let it out. "How do you like space flight?"

On December fifteenth, we threw the ad campaign into high gear. Kathleen had produced a slick, tight ten-second TV spot-short and to the point: blank screen for a couple of silent seconds, just to get everyone's attention. Then the familiar Crosshairs Over Jehovah would swell up on the screen, accompanied by an ominous drum roll and the announcer's voice-over.

"On the first day of the year two-thousand, God will die."

We had it translated into scores of languages for worldwide transmission over the VideoSat network. That cost a bundle.

Hallelujah House, of course, was paying for everything. I was seriously beginning to think that the bank account was bottomless. Also, due to a stroke of genius on Kathleen's part, money was also pouring back into our coffers.

She showed up at my office one day with a paper bag (from some exclusive Rodeo Drive joint) filled with goodies.

"These," she said, "are selling like crazy."

Every one of them had either our symbol or slogan or both on them. There were GodKiller baseball caps, pen sets, totebags, buttons. Bookcovers, backpacks, headbands, armbands, and decoder rings. She unrolled a length of adhesive logo stickers.

"They're Scratch-and-Sniff," she said. "Smells like rosemary."

"Rosemary?"

"Well, I thought about blood, but we're trying to keep this upbeat, right?"

"Right," I agreed.

She'd paid an up-and-coming band called TransUranic Metal to compose a tune called "Nearer My God to Death." Our symbol was depicted on the album sleeve and on the laserdisc itself. She played the cut for me. It sounded like hogs being vivisected during a nuclear war.

"The kids love it," she shouted over the noise. "It hit Billboard at seven with a bullet."

They should have used the bullet on the band.

In the jarring silence that followed, she exhibited the remainder of the bag. Key chains, roach clips, rubber stamps, holograms, bubblegum, coffee mugs, posters. Pendants, embroidered patches, postcards.

"They're the hottest things on the market. Especially in the twelveto-twenty-four bracket. Having your parents impound your cache of GodKiller Candy is a real status symbol."

"So it's popular. What about backlash?"

Kathleen shrugged, her long chestnut hair flowing around the shoulders of her rust-hued tunic. "Nothing to worry about. Evangelists such as Emil Zacharias and the like rail against the ads and hint at Armageddon. But they've been doing that for years. They just use it to get money."

I smiled. Zacharias must be burning mad if the money coming in to fight us went straight out again to help us.

"Maybe we can turn that to our favor," I mused.

I congratulated Kathleen on the campaign as she left. Everything was going marvelously well.

That same day, unfortunately, The Cardinal and his boys came to town.

Ann, Isadora, and I sat at a table in The Prisoner of Zelda eating a very late breakfast. The Great Gatsby atmosphere of the place grated on my nerves, but the kid seemed to enjoy it. She acted surprised when she discovered that the decor came from a period even before my time.

"Gee, this stuff must really be old."

Ann was outfitted in a breathtaking violet dress that was cut in a style that revealed everything yet displayed nothing. By rights, our table should have been surrounded by wolves.

No one even glanced at her.

Isadora wore a scarlet body shirt that displayed everything and revealed nothing. The color of her nail polish and eye shadow matched, making her look like a stunted neon sign. Her black picoskirt ended where her thighs began. I couldn't even look at her black fishnet stockings. I was still eating breakfast.

Her only nod to good taste was a GodKiller button pinned to her shirt.

The waitress returned, looking like a flapper who'd spent one night too many taxi-dancing.

"There's a gentleman who'd like to speak with you," she said, highlighting her speech with snappings of her GodKiller bubblegum.

I started to rise, then cautiously sat. "Send him to our table." I was still smarting from what had happened the last time.