I'll FedEx them from the hotel, and I'll slap a spell of Extreme Expedition on them too, just to make sure. She'll get them yesterday. Man, I hope Sam hasn't called her yet or anything. If she thinks I'm neglecting her, that's another point for Peez. He frowned. No, wait, it wouldn't be. Mom would understand. I'm not neglecting her, I'm paying attention to the business. Hell, that's what she always did. She can't complain. In fact, she'll probably be proud that I'm following in her footsteps! Game, set, and match to me.

Pleased with himself, Dov stuck the charms back in his pocket and headed for the exit.

"Dov! Whooo, Doooviiieeee!"

Dov stood stock-still, clutching his suitcase with fingers that had gone suddenly ice cold. There, just under the sign directing deplaned passengers to all ground transportation, was Brytanni. She was holding a sign shaped like an old-fashioned sunburst, wavy yellow rays emanating from a disc painted with the bizarrely benevolent cartoon visage of Ol' Sol himself. The curlicued calligraphy of the words brother dov godz made an outrageous moustache across the anthropomorphic sun's rosy upper lip.

"Wow, is this karma or what?" she squealed, linking her arm through his. "I mean, when the Reverend Everything told me that I had to go pick up a very important visitor at the airport, I was all, like, Euw. Traffic. Exhaust fumes. Smelly people. Not enough moisturizer in the world to save my skin from that little slice of Hades, and boorrriiinng! But then he was all, Thou are the Chosen One, the only one among us who hast achievedeth third degree fengsama, and besides, the church Porsche is in the shop. So of course after that I just had to go. Plus he said if I didn't he was going to send Brooke, and we're both up for the same facetime op to be a seat filler at the Emmys, and if you think I'm giving that fat-assed little bitch the chance to beef up her Elysians doing a good deed like this, then you don't know your li'l Brytanni at all." She gave his arm a python's squeeze and twinkled at him.

"Fengsama? Face-time op? Elysians? Where the blazes are we and why don't the natives speak English?" Ammi squawked from inside Dov's shirt.

"Baby, why is your pacemaker talking?" Brytanni asked, pooching out her lips in the way her drama coach had taught her to indicate Sincerest Sympathy.

"That's not a pacemaker, that's—" Dov cudgeled his brains for the right excuse to explain away the chatty amulet. "That's my portable aura monitor," he said. "It issues me periodic verbal bulletins about, uh, which cosmic subsections of my spirit need an emergency fluffing."

"Oooooh! Can I see?" Brytanni didn't wait for permission; she thrust her hand into Dov's bosom, pulling out Ammi and a pinch of chest hair for good measure. "Eeeee! This is, like, sooo cute! Where'd you get it? Tibet? Khatmandu? Sharper Image?"

"I could tell you, but that would mean I'd have to spend an additional fifty thousand life-cycles in the Seventh Hell of the Demon Pimlico," Dov replied gravely, disengaging Brytanni's greedy fingers from the amulet. (He let her keep the wisp of chest hair, though.) "Of course I'd be happy to tell you anyway, with no thought for my own spiritual health whatsoever, but then the Powers of Ultimate Judgment might hold you accountable as an accessory to my downfall. No telling what penalty you'd have to pay for that in the afterlife. But if you do insist on an answer—"

Brytanni made haste to aver that she cared too much about Dov's soul to pursue the matter. Dov's cavalier mention of the chance for a less-than-blissful afterlife had a radically sobering effect on her, and she withdrew into an unbreakable silence that a Trappist monk might admire. Not a word did she speak as she conducted him to her Masserati and drove away from the airport. Dov did his eager best to keep up the social amenities, though his only topic of conversation was his abiding fear of the Ever- Vengeful-and-Vigilant Demon Pimlico and his hellish consort the Demon Queen Belgravia.

He was elaborating on the keystone doctrine of his supposed faith ("Damned if you do, damned if you don't") when she pulled into the parking lot of a towering multi-spired building bright with chrome, glass, and neon lotus flowers. A two-story-high sign out front proclaimed it to be the Serene Temple of Unfailing Lifescores. She hit the brakes, leaped out of the car, and dashed into the building without a backward glance. Dov thought he heard her utter a strangled sob.

"DING!" Ammi announced. "Fifteen minute aura-fluffing penalty for unprovoked chain-yanking. Why did you have to make that poor kid believe you worship demons? Couldn't you have just told her you were a Republican? It'd sound like the same thing, to her."

"I never said I worshipped demons; I just told her I was scared witless of them," Dov said. "If you'd been paying attention instead of just hanging around, you might have noticed that I never told her what I did worship."

"Besides yourself?" Ammi said with a lift of one silver eyebrow.

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing." Dov straightened his shoulders. "There's nothing wrong with being the number one parishioner in the First Church of Me."

"I'm not going to fault you for having a healthy self-image—" Ammi began.

"Gah! Watch your mouth. Talking about how healthy my self-image is, is like the gateway drug to pure psychobabble. It can only lead to gratuitous aura-fluffing."

"Fine." The amulet was miffed. "I was trying to be nice, but forget about it. You're a conceited, smug, self-centered twit and if you don't wrench your shoulder from constantly patting yourself on the back, you'll snap your spine from trying to kiss your own a—"

"Brother Dov!" A warm, rich, resonant voice poured down the steps of the Serene Temple and crashed over Dov like a deluge of heated oil. "We've been waiting for you. Approach and be welcome, if that is your life goal of the moment."

Dov looked up a flight of cyclopean white marble stairs that had apparently been lifted wholesale from the set of Intolerance. At the top of the steps, wearing a blue silk tunic, a wreath of fresh gardenias, and a cape of hummingbird feathers, stood the Reverend Everything. He was a hale and hearty man in his fifties, with the honest face of an infomercial spokesperson and a body that spoke of intense, regular workouts with the best personal trainers money could buy. His black hair, artfully kissed with gray just at the temples, had the look that only came from being cut and tinted by one of L.A.'s premier stylists, for a sum (without tip) that could feed a family of four for a week as long as they didn't go to Spago's.

"Reverend Everything, it's good to be here," Dov said, putting on Smile #496, a superstrength experimental prototype he'd been holding in reserve for an occasion like this. The Reverend Everything had been in business at the same location, under the same management, for years longer than E. Godz, Inc. had been in business. The electronic records that Dov had studied en route from Arizona told him that it would take something more than his normal line of business-speak and charisma to make a man like this throw his congregation's considerable support behind Edwina's baby boy.

Watch your step, Dov, he told himself as he ascended the snow-white steps to shake Reverend Everything's beautifully manicured hand. This guy's got the smarts to recognize a line of bullshit from ten miles away, in the dark. No pretty promises, no claims you can't substantiate on the spot, no IOUs, financial or spiritual. He'll see you and call you on them in a flash. When you're dealing with the truly successful phonies, the only way to win is to keep it real.

"Ah, Brother Dov, so good of you to visit us," Reverend Everything said, shepherding Dov through the towering doors of the sanctuary. "What a pity that it has to be under these grievous circumstances. I still recall the day that your dear mother approached me about affiliating the United Mithraic Order with E. Godz, Inc. Why, it seems as if it were only yester—"