THE DARK HIGH MAGISTER OF CLADIS ABADDONIS SAT in his holy Barcalounger, eating fish and chips from his silver TV tray. He’d spent a good deal of the previous day getting bent, cracked, and stretched by the chiropractor downstairs in room 4. Today, his back felt a little better, but the smell of bleach from the cleanup in room 8 was spoiling his lunch. It was always some damned thing around here. No wonder so much of his flock had run off with those San Diego bastards. What could he offer them, other than discounted cod and fries? It was a sad state for the Lodge, but that might all be changing soon. It better, he thought, or, to his secret shame, he might have to—if not quite defect—at least strike an alliance with his enemies down south. His old Datsun was on its last legs and the no-money-down deal from those San Diego Volvo shits was sorely tempting. But no, he wasn’t ready to throw in the towel for a Bluetooth radio. Not quite yet, he thought. The Magister still had some tricks up his stained and fraying sleeve. But they depended on other people, some of whom were late.

He poured more balsamic vinegar onto his fish, then checked his watch. A moment later, Adept Three and Acolyte Six came panting into the sacred chamber.

Adept Six said, “Sorry, Dark High One. There’s construction down the block and we had to park clear over on Seventh Street.”

“We ran all the way,” said Acolyte Three.

The Dark High Magister waved for them to calm down. “It’s fine. I’ve been listening to those jerks banging away for days now. What are they building?”

“A Red Lobster, sir.”

“A fish restaurant. Well, that’s just great. Why doesn’t City Hall come down here and shove a big ole corkscrew up my ass? Right up it.”

“We could always sabotage it,” said Acolyte Three. “Superglue the locks shut. Sugar in the gas tanks of the bulldozers.”

“They have video surveillance these days, dumbo,” said the Magister. “They’ll see you and that’s two more members of the Lodge gone. No. This is a sign that we have to move faster bringing Lord Abaddon back to this wretched world. Let Red Lobster see how it feels to be skull-fucked when a thousand-foot bottom-feeding sea bastard comes a-calling.”

“But, Dark High One. We run a seafood restaurant, too.”

The Magister draped his napkin over his unfinished cod. “Everything has its reasons, especially Lord Abaddon. Besides, the restaurant will be gone soon. The moment we retrieve the Convocation Vessel. Speaking of which,” he clapped his hands together, “how did the raid on the Caleximus pricks go?”

“It was awesome,” said Acolyte Three.

“Yeah. Really well,” said Adept Six.