“For free?” said the Magister. “That bunch has always been a thorn in my side.”

“Yes, sir. They’re a disgrace to Lord Abaddon,” said Acolyte Three.

“But clever.”

“Yes,” said Adept Six and Acolyte Three together.

“San Diego dicks,” said the Magister, and cleared his throat to cover it up. He felt bone weary and fragile. He hated being old. He had enough stents in his heart that the staff called him Iron Man when they thought he couldn’t hear. He’d been sent to a hospice twice and was once pronounced clinically dead for six minutes. He had finally been revived by a combination of mystical herbs and pure hate. Hate for the other Lodges, and hate for those Caleximus bastards who had cursed him with a second-rate heart, a bad back, and old age. He wasn’t supposed to age. He was a Dark High Magister. There was no doubt in the Magister that this was anything but a curse. It never occurred to him that running a fish-and-chips place on Skid Row and a lifetime of fried food might have more to do with his blood pressure and cholesterol than hexes.

“How many are left?” he said.

“Adepts and Acolytes?” said Adept Six.

“No. Tea cozies and shoe trees. Of course, Adepts and Acolytes.”

“At least a dozen, Dark High One.”

“What does ‘at least’ mean? More than a dozen?”

Adept Six pursed his lips, shook his head. “No. Just the twelve.”

The Magister sighed. “A sad state for a once-great Lodge,” he said.

“Yes. Sad,” said Acolyte Three.

“We were feared once. Los Angeles was the biggest Lodge in the country.”

“Yes, great. And feared.”

“Then it all went wrong.”

“Yes, Dark High One,” said Adept Six.

“Why do you think?” said the Magister. Adept Six didn’t say anything. He turned to the Acolyte.

Acolyte Three cleared his throat. “Well, sir, it might have been the d’s.”

“Sadly, you might be right,” mumbled the Magister.

Some of the most vicious fights between the Cladis Abaddonis Lodges were over spelling. Over the centuries, quite a few knives had ended up in quite a few backs over whether their god’s name was Abaddon or Abbadon. Besides that, there was also the tension over the phrase Cladis Abaddonis itself. It was the particular kind of problem faced by almost all secret societies at some point. Basically, no one in the Lodge really knew how Latin worked. They all liked the name Cladis Abaddonis because it had an official and mysterious ring to it, but no one knew if it made any sense. And they couldn’t ask for help because it would mean revealing sacred Lodge secrets. In the end, the Lodges all crossed their fingers and hoped for the best. And counted themselves lucky for being so enigmatic that few outside the group knew their name.

“I suppose we should discuss the Frank situation,” said the Magister.