Adept Six pointed a finger. “Yes, you might want to move—” He never finished the sentence. The change from the bake sale collapsed the golden TV tray. The rolls of change mostly survived the fall, but fish and chips were scattered all over the sacred chamber. The Magister wiped his hand on his napkin and tossed it onto the floor with the rest of the mess. “Get out the bleach, boys,” he said. “We have a room 8 situation in the making.”

The Magister started to get up, but a back spasm dropped him back onto his lounger. He sighed. The goddamn end of the world better happen goddamn soon, he thought. If it wasn’t exploding acolytes decorating his rooms with meat wallpaper, it was Red Lobster horning in on his damned fish business. He made a silent prayer to Abaddon that the Caleximus bunch weren’t quite the fuckups he’d always told his flock they were. Just let them find this Coop asshole. That’s all I ask. Then rise from the ocean and drown the world, Abaddon. Starting with San Diego.

The Magister watched the acolyte and the adept picking the food and money off the floor, counting the rolls of pennies and quarters in his head. There had to be twenty pounds at least. A nice haul, he thought. They’d go well in the seat cushions with the other Lodge funds, all of which he’d converted to coins. The Magister calculated that his chair weighed more than four hundred pounds these days. When Abaddon returned and the floods came, he wasn’t taking any chances on floating away. He, his throne, and his lousy back were going down when the first waves hit the land, and there was nothing those assholes in San Diego, Caleximus, Red Lobster, or any of his dumb-ass flock could do about it. The Magister closed his eyes and crossed his fingers.

Find Coop, you sons of bitches. Find Coop.

It was eight in the evening. The two women sat across from Mr. Babylon in his favorite booth in Týden Divu, the Jinx Town bar so recently and rapidly exited by Coop and Giselle. The women—Giselle and a somewhat nervous Bayliss—were sipping Manhattans. Babylon was drinking a Roy Rogers with obvious distaste.

“I hope you don’t mind me not joining you for real drinks, ladies,” said Babylon. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Not at all,” said Giselle. “We’re just happy you could meet us on such short notice.”

Babylon swirled his drink, giving it a look of curdled loathing. “My pleasure. I’m always open to business opportunities. Though this one will, I’m afraid, cost more than many.”

“The good ones always do,” said Bayliss.