The Magister nodded, grim wheels turning grimly in his head. “That’s fine. Forty-eight hours will give us plenty of time to get ready. You did a good job, Carol.”

Tommy sighed. “My name’s not . . . Forget it. And we still have a deal when the end comes. You’re taking me with you, right?”

The Magister used his silkiest voice. “Lord Abaddon will reward you with riches beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Cool.”

“Cool indeed. Call me as soon as you hear anything.”

“I will. Bye.”

The Magister coughed. “Is that how we say good-bye?”

“Sorry. Good-bye, Dark High Magister.”

“Good girl, Carol.”

The Magister hung up and dialed another number. Adept Six answered.

“Yes, Magister?”

“Do we have a trusted crew in the restaurant?”

“Not now, I’m afraid. There are a few unbelievers. We’ll have a full crew in the morning.”

The Magister scratched his ear, pondering the situation. “Good. When they come in, tell them to thaw out Fluffy.”

The Magister heard a satisfying gasp on the other end of the line. “Fluffy? Are you sure, Dark High One?”

“Very sure. And don’t tell anyone about him. I want it to be a surprise.”

“Oh, it will be, Magister. It will be.”

“Let me know as soon as he’s ready for company. I want to be in my nicest robes. Maybe the red ones, with the blue trim.”

“A very flattering combination.”

“All right. Get on that. Oh, and have them send me up some fries. That dopey girl Carol left me with fries on the brain.”

“Do you want some balsamic with them?”

“Now, what do you think?”

“Silly question. Sorry, Lord.”

The Magister hung up and looked at the TV. The credits were rolling on The Price Is Right. He’d missed the whole damned showcase. Abaddon save me from my own people, he thought as he reburied the TV under the rugs.

Salzman sat in a top-floor suite in the Mondrian Hotel, on a very comfortable leather chair across from a man in an identical comfy-looking chair. There was a chilled bottle of champagne between them. The man across the table was large, roughly the size of a walking refrigerator and just as graceful. Arrayed around him were several even larger men in glistening, strangely angled body armor. Salzman thought they looked less like bodyguards than like cubist waiters.

“I am Zavulon,” said the large man. They shook hands.

“I thought I was meeting Olga,” said Salzman.

“She took sick. They call me,” said Zavulon. “I usually transpire in South America—Argentina, Brazil—so my English is not so good as hers.”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to muddle through,” said Salzman. “Nice guards, by the way. That’s anti-thaumaturgic armor they’re wearing, isn’t it?”

Zavulon turned around, then looked back at Salzman. “Anti-what?”

Salzman wiggled his fingers mysteriously. “Hocus-pocus. It protects from magic.”

Zavulon laughed and pointed. “Yes. Hocus-pocus armor.”