Qaphsiel set down the box. “It’s my own fault for looking on Craigslist. But that’s where Gabriel found the Holy Grail, so it seemed worth a try.”

“Hey, pal, I asked you a question. Who are you?” said Frank. He put his hand in his jacket pocket. Qaphsiel hadn’t noticed the suspicious bulge of a pistol there before.

He sighed deeply. “You’re the thirteenth mortal who’s tried to sell me a false box.”

Frank stood and backed away. “Okay, buddy. You wanted a box. I brought you a box. Now I’m taking my gold and leaving.”

“You’re half right,” Qaphsiel said. “You know, I used to have great powers, but most were taken away by the archangels after my . . . indiscretion.”

“Archangels, right,” Frank said, moving slowly away.

Qaphsiel pushed the box off the table onto the floor, where its cheap hinges snapped off. “In the old days, I would have just turned you into a worm and let you live out your final days contemplating your sin.”

Frank angled his way around the room, heading for the door. “A worm? Sure thing, nut log. I’m going now.”

“I don’t have that kind of power anymore, but I can still do this.” Qaphsiel pointed a finger at him like a gun and said, “Bang.”

Frank exploded like a piñata full of beef stew.

Qaphsiel went to the Ganesha altar and found a roach clip next to an old bong serving double duty as a flower vase. Stepping carefully around fresh Frank chunks, he sifted through the man’s possessions trying to find out who he really was.

The first thing he found was a medallion on a chain. Qaphsiel picked it up with the clip, expecting to find a yin-yang symbol or maybe an ankh. When he held the medallion up to the light he gasped and dropped it on the floor. It was the sigil of Abaddon, the Destroyer.

A folded piece of paper lay nearby. He picked it up with the clip and shook it open. It was a flyer for a bake sale. Someone had drawn rather obscene sketches on all the pastries. A glazed donut seemed to be sodomizing a carrot cake. Qaphsiel was about to toss the flyer aside when something in the bottom corner caught his eye. It was small. Almost hidden.

The symbol for Caleximus, the Ravager.

This is it, Qaphsiel thought. Abaddon and Caleximus worshippers? Those Doomsday nitwits. He understood now that it was a race for the end of the world. He had to find the box. And soon.

He picked up his map from the table. Lines of force drifted north and west toward a spot in Hollywood. Fountain Avenue.

Fountain Avenue?

Qaphsiel dropped the roach clip and the flyer and tiptoed carefully out of the room, whispering what had now become his eternal Earthly mantra:

“Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Oh, crap . . .”

FIFTEEN