“Well, Dark High One, a few of the other Adepts and Acolytes have taken turns cleaning it, but they can only work so long. I mean, you’ve seen it.”

“Yes. Yes. I understand. Still, we need to get on it.”

“I understand. We’re making good headway. We need to get some bleach and a few of those paint respirators.”

The Magister narrowed his eyes. “And I suppose you want to use Lodge money for the cleaning supplies.”

Adept Six shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Well, it is sort of Lodge business, sir.”

“How much?”

“I have a list of what we need in my jacket. If you’ll wait a minute . . .”

The Magister waved a hand at him. “Down, boy. I trust you. Here, take this,” he said and handed the tithe bag back to the adept. “Take it out of there, but I want change. And receipts.”

“Yes, Dark High One,” he said. “Thank you.”

The Magister shook his head. “Ever since we lost the meeting space in Burbank, it’s been one thing after another. We need to get room 8 back in service. The restaurant downstairs isn’t bringing in enough to even pay the taxes on this building. We need tenants and we need them yesterday.”

“We’re on it,” said Adept Six.

The Magister leaned forward to get a better look at Acolyte Three and immediately regretted it as pain shot up his back. “How are you doing down there, Acolyte? Still seasick?”

“I’m doing better, thank you, Dark High One. If I can just stay down here a little longer.”

“Of course, of course. Take all the time you need. We don’t want two rooms that have to be bleached.”

“No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The Magister turned his attention back to Adept Six. “What did you find in there? Anything that might point to who did it?”

Adept Six went to the closet and pulled out a cardboard box with FROZEN COD printed on the side. He brought it to the Magister.

“Show me,” said the old man.

Adept Six removed a plastic take-out bag he’d snagged from the restaurant and handed it to the Magister. The old man reached in and pulled out a broken box.

“Ah. I’ve been looking for that. At least now we know what he was trying to sell.”

“An old box?”

“Not just any old box,” said the Magister testily. “Well, yes, this happens to be any old box, but I suspect that Frank had convinced whoever turned him into a meat bottle rocket that this was the Convocation Vessel.”

“To call back Lord Abaddon? I’ve never seen it before.”

The Magister dropped his hands to his sides. “You’re not looking at it now, you ninny. This is just something we have around for paper clips.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“What a little shit he was, trying to run off with one of our holiest relics. He almost deserved what he got.”