The Everything Box (14 page)

THE DARK HIGH MAGISTER OF THE CLADIS ABADDONIS
Lodge sat on his golden throne, though if you were being picky, it wasn't really gold. Also, for those still insisting on pickiness, it wasn't really a throne. It was a gilt Barcalounger, because of the Dark High Magister of the Cladis Abaddonis Lodge's back, which today hurt like “two bitches fighting on the bitch float in a bitch parade.” (The Dark High Magister had been married once and it hadn't worked out.)

“Come forward, Adept Six, and tell me, have you collected this month's tithes from the other Lodge members?”

Adept Six stepped up to the Dark High Magister's throne and placed a purple velvet bag on the silver TV tray next to the holy Barcalounger. “Yes, Dark High One. It's in here.”

The Magister reached out a hand and winced as a shooting pain went up his spine. He picked up the bag and bounced it in his hand a couple of times. “It feels light.”

Adept Six hung his head and said, “It is, Dark High One. We've lost a few members recently.”

“Why is that?”

Acolyte Three, the only other member of the Lodge who'd bothered to stop by that day, said, “The head of Cladis Abaddonis in San Diego has a Volvo dealership. He's offering very good financing terms to any members of the other Lodges who leave theirs and join his.”

The Magister thought for a minute and nodded gravely. “What kind of terms?”

“A forty-eight-month lease. Full warranty for three years. No money down.”

The Magister settled back deeper into his throne. “Those are nice cars. And good terms.”

“Yes, Dark High One,” said Adept Six. “Plus, he's throwing in a Bluetooth radio for free.”

“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.

Adept Six and Acolyte Three flinched at the mention of a Lodge member's real name. It was Frank's own fault. Both knew that everyone else had passed the initiation rites and earned a Lodge degree. There was only one Magister, but plenty of Adepts and Acolytes. However, Frank could never quite get his shit together enough to get higher than, well, Frank. It was the Lodge's secret shame.

The Magister sighed. “Now that Frank is dead, I guess we can talk about the elephant in the room.”

“What elephant is that?” said Adept Six.

“Are you being cute?” said the Magister.

Adept Six shook his head.

“How about you, Acolyte?”

Acolyte Three shook his head, too.

“Christ,” said the Magister and dropped his head into his hand. After a moment he said, “Frank was ripping us off.”

“Ripping us off how?” said the Acolyte.

“Ripping us off! What part of ripping us off don't you get? He was stealing sacred objects and selling them on eBay. Sometimes to hippie-bead, holy-roller, spiritual nut jobs.”

Acolyte Three's eyes narrowed. “Does this have something to do with room 8?”

The Magister nodded gravely. “It has everything to do with room 8.”

The Acolyte made a face. “Is that the one that's starting to smell?”

“Yes. So, you haven't actually been inside?”

“No, Dark High One. Should I?”

“Only if you want to lose your breakfast,” said Adept Six. “And I mean all the breakfasts you ever ate.”

“I don't understand.”

“Frank blew up. Or, more likely, was blown up,” said the Magister. “Did you ever see that video where they dynamited a whale on a beach in Oregon?”

Acolyte Three nodded excitedly. “Yes, sir. It's pretty awesome, Dark High One.”

“Well, imagine if that happened inside. In this building. To Frank. In room 8.”

“He exploded?”

“Like a poodle in a microwave,” said Adept Six. “It's like someone painted the room with beef chili.”

“I thought it was more like a hundred pounds of head cheese,” said the Magister.

“That too, Dark High One.”

Acolyte Three swayed. “Do you mind if I sit, sir? I'm not feeling so good.”

“Of course. Get him a chair, Adept,” said the Magister.

Adept Six went to the back of the room and came back with a folding chair. He set it down and Acolyte Three dropped into it heavily.

“Put your head between your knees,” said the Magister.

The acolyte leaned over and said, “Yes, Dark High One,” his voice muffled by his legs.

“I swear, if you puke here in the sacred chamber . . .”

“I won't.”

“I mean, this place smells bad enough, what with the grease from the fryers downstairs and the fumes from room 8.”

“It'll be okay. I promise,” said Acolyte Three.

“Good boy,” said the Magister. “So, Adept Six, what are we doing about the room?”

“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.”

“I'm sure you're right, Dark High One.”

The Magister pushed his ass back farther on the golden Barcalounger to straighten his back. “Do you have anything else in your toy chest?”

Adept Six set down the box and started going through the other bags inside. “Mostly it's bits and pieces, so to speak. A class ring. Frank's Lodge medallion. A few teeth, some with gold fillings. We thought maybe his family might want some of the stuff.”

“Is that all?”

“A couple of things, but this is the most interesting.” Adept Six handed the Magister a folded piece of paper, which, though dry, was stained a rusty red with Frank sauce.

The Magister opened the paper with his fingertips, spreading it out on his lap. He peered at it. “What am I looking at? It's a flyer for a bake sale.”

“That's not all, sir. Look at the bottom.”

The Magister's eyes weren't what they used to be. He had to squint just to make out the pornographic pastries. “What's that oatmeal raisin cookie doing to the Bundt cake?”

Adept Six reached over the flyer and pointed to the bottom corner. “Look here.”

The old man's eyes grew wide.

The Dark High Magister of the Cladis Abaddonis Lodge was one of a long line of priests that stretched back many centuries. The Lodge had been in continuous existence almost since people could scribble on paper. Naturally, as soon as they could scribble shapes, some people didn't want to let other people see them. Only a special few of their choosing. The right kind of people. And they kicked the ass of anyone who peeked. That's basically how secret societies were born. The Cladis Abaddonis Lodge had been one of the first and most secretive of these.

Of course, their existence did come to light during the unpleasantness with the Inquisition and they had to disband for a while. The members were just as devout as ever, but they worshipped privately, having seen what the Inquisition did to anyone it considered a heretic—which, at the time, was pretty much everybody. For a variety of reasons, none of them wanted any hot implements shoved up, in, or around any part of their body. They were quiet for almost four hundred years, popping up again in 1835, after the last Inquisitor put
his pointy hood in its pointy hood case and tucked it away with the thumbscrews, iron maidens, and other knickknacks of ecclesiastical persuasion.

On one of the few written tests he'd passed, even Frank had been able to guess who had ratted them out to the Inquisition and forced them underground.

Now those bastards were having a bake sale.

“Is this what I think it is?” said the Magister, squinting harder than ever.

“Yes, Dark High One. It's the seal of the Caleximus cult,” said Adept Six.

“Who?” called Acolyte Three, still staring at the floor.

“The Caleximus cult, nefarious ball bags who've made our lives a misery since Lord Abaddon was knee-high to a jellyfish. This will be the bunch who blew up Frank.”

Adept Six shrugged. “That makes sense, sir. It was the only mystically related thing we found in there that didn't come from our closet.”

The Magister crumpled the paper in his hand. “Then that settles it. They want the box to set off their false Apocalypse before we can set off our true one,” he said. “I tell you what, Acolyte Three, we're going cookie shopping, and when we do, we will bring the wrath of Abaddon down on their heads like a shit-ton of bricks.”

“Yes, Dark High One!”

“Yay,” said Acolyte Three weakly, head still down.

“Anything else in there?” said the Magister. He held up a bag on which someone had scrawled
DRY ICE
with a marker. “What's in this?”