“Yes, why didn’t I think of that? Maybe because I don’t know where he is because those Caleximus boobs don’t know where he is. But they’re looking for him. That’s the important thing.”

“Should we be looking for him, too?” said Adept Six.

“Why should we? We have our mole. He’ll tell us when they’re closing in. We’ll wait for them to find him and then swoop in and take him right out from under them.” He looked at the adept. “There are still twelve of us, right?”

Adept Six nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank goodness. Yes. This will be a breeze.”

“What about Lord Abaddon?” said Acolyte Three. “He’s been waiting for us to call him back since the new moon.”

“Well, he’s just going to have to hold his britches a little longer just like the rest of us, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Magister took his now greasy napkin off the remains of his fish and chips. “Okay, boys. That’s the new business. Is there any old business we need to get to?”

“Room 8, sir?” said Adept Six.

“Of course. I almost forgot,” the Magister. “First off, please tell everyone who helped that even though I never got any change back from the cleaning-supplies money, I and the entire Lodge appreciate their efforts.”

Adept Six shuffled his feet nervously. “There wasn’t any change, Dark High One.”

“You lost it, didn’t you? Just admit it and all will be forgiven.”

Adept Six nodded. “I swear, I put it right on my nightstand . . .”

“I knew it. For like ten seconds I thought you’d stolen it, but after your exciting tale of the Apocalyptic Pie Fight, I realized you had the imagination of a damp sweat sock.” The Magister turned and pointed at Acolyte Three. “From now on, you’re in charge of the money. Got it?”

The acolyte beamed at him. “Yes, Dark High One. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Slippy McClumsy over there.”

Acolyte Three started to thank the adept, but when he saw the look on the man’s face he knew he was no more than an inch from being beaten to death with the coins from the bake sale. He just gave him a quick nod and turned back to the Magister.

“Is there any more business?” said the old man.

“Weren’t you saying you wanted to rent out room 8, sir?”

“Oh, yes,” said the Magister. He took some three-by-five cards from his pocket and gave each of the men a pile.

“Go around to some of the universities and put those up on the bulletin boards. The last time we put an ad on Craigslist, all we got were weirdos and Frank, and we know how that turned out.”

“Yes, sir,” said the acolyte.

The Magister said, “Anything else?”