Like the rest of the building, the elevator seemed to be of the same specifications and make as those found in non-magical ones. Metallic, stale-smelling with jazzy tunes wheezing out of decades-old speakers.

Anderson, who had followed them into the lobby, stopped just short of entering. He bowed. "I'm afraid I can go no further. I must return. My directive was to get you here and I have. What must be done next, is up to you all."

Peneloper eyed the group. Chant shrugged. "No fur off my butt."

She slapped his forearm. He yelped and while he chattered away about her having more strength than ought to be allowed for someone of her size and physique, she turned to Anderson. "Thank you for getting us here. It was a most enjoyable journey."

Anderson beamed. "Best to relish in the enjoyable ones so as to better endure when they unexpectedly turn."

He whirled and sauntered away, frowning as he tugged at an unruly strand of hair that refused to lie flat against his scalp.

Chant wrestled with a lock of his own hair, struggling to get it to stay put behind his ear. "Weirdo."

"You're one to talk," Crispen said, waving them into the elevator. They shuffled in like a parade of soldiers back from the front lines, exhausted, antsy, edges sagging - the universal sign for giving up. Chant's weary expression gave way to confusion at Crispen's words. Crispen ignored Chant, as he'd been inclined to do involving anything Chant-related, and punched the only button on the elevator panel, marked 'destination.' As the doors closed, he turned, locked eyes with Chant, and spelled out orgasm, each letter cruelly and agonizingly drawn out.

The rest of the ride was had in silence, though it lasted only minutes. Before Peneloper could wrap her head around how such machines could work so efficiently, while surrounded by inefficient everything else, the elevator doors whooshed open.

A room of warm taupe, with high, vaulted ceilings, track fluorescents, and a table at the opposite end stretched out before them. Peneloper half-expected murals from art history's most celebrated masters to decorate the ceilings.

"You could have stadium seating in here," Chant remarked, his eyes wide as he took in the vastness.

For this to be the place of an all-powerful collective of magical elite, Peneloper was underwhelmed. Where were the bubbling cauldrons? The witchy hats, dark robes, flickering candelabras, and pools of swirling water where one could watch past, present, and future collide?

"In storage," Crispen whispered.

She arched her eyebrows. "Are you—"

"Joking," he said, stepping further into the chasm of mundane office space.

Peneloper followed while Chantham seemed to be envisioning all the basketball games that could be held here, where the hoop would go, the concession stands, where he'd be, dunking and dribbling and drunk off the accolades of the crowd.

The further they walked, the more Peneloper wished there'd been one of those flat escalators like at most airports to ferry her to the opposite side. Her feet burned so hotly they might ignite.

"Only a little further," Crispen said, doing what could only be described as dawdling as Genesis stood on his outstretched arm, eyes narrowed.

When the table came more into view, it became all too clear this was office space and not the ornate chamber of magical deities. Behind the table, four high-backed office chairs sat with backs turned away from them. Scattered overhead and hung askew, were several motivational posters, some of which read: "There is no I in TEAM"; "None of Us are as Smart as All of Us"; "If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together" and "Layers need Leaders, not eaters," printed in rainbow font beneath a picture of a parceled birthday cake.

"It seems they have all the office essentials." She nodded at boxes of coffee filters, coffee makers, and bags of 100% Columbian Dark Roast, looming in precarious piles at an alcove on her right. A placard dangling off one of the cupboards read, "Boyle, Bane and Derndach Ad Agency Sponsored breakroom."

"They sure do a lot of business with those in the know," she remarked.

"You make quite a name for yourself when you've existed for millennia, pandering to the whims of magical idiots." Crispen rolled his eyes and nodded at the desk.

No matter the clientele, Peneloper couldn't fault a solid business plan nor the acumen needed to make it successful, not when the results presented themselves in literally every corner of a building. As she admired Boyle, Bane, and Derdach, a projector situated on a folding table, clicked on. Behind it, a white screen lowered from the ceiling. Neither object existed mere seconds ago. Three chairs, also not initial inhabitants of the room, slid over to the trio and scooped each of them up, settling them at desks, where pen and paper had been provided.

The frightful sensation of being on the precipice of learning something skittered up Peneloper's spine. She tensed as the lights lowered and before she became draped in darkness, she made a mental note of where the elevator was in case Mr. Howell appeared and this turned out to be one giant long-con to get her to take his class.

"Welcome," flashed on the projector screen and a man sporting a black turtleneck, creased slacks, and more salt-than-pepper hair appeared before them, a spotlight illuminating his every step. Peneloper relaxed. No hideous maroon tie. No mustard stained lapel or gelatinous gut. Definitely not Mr. Howell. Thank goodness.

The man, who looked to have stepped off the stage at some tech conference in Silicon Valley, fiddled with the mouthpiece of his headset before flashing them a grin of dazzling white teeth. While they weren't as sharp as Lucinda Three Triangles, they conveyed a sense of malice in just how starkly they contrasted with his russet skin tone. He clapped his hands together and then, after scanning the room's occupants, asked the question dreaded by everyone from board rooms to office halls, seated in guidance counselor chairs or laid down in chaise lounges, "How's everyone doing today?" his voice chipper, his smile riveting.

Peneloper was reminded of the horror movies Carmichelle loved where the seemingly nice, sensible man turned out to be a chainsaw-wielding maniac with a love of human-skin fashion staples.

The spotlight landed on them, blinding them with its brightness.

The presenter, fist-bumped the air, as he tapped his foot in anticipation.

Peneloper elbowed Chant in the ribs and hissed, "Say something before he makes a nice jacket out of me."

"O-okay..." Chant mumbled that he was fine.

Peneloper said, "Same," as images of slaughterhouses, screaming heroines, and masked villains sauntered through her thoughts.

Crispen said nothing as he seemed over it, well before it had even begun. His head rested on his desk, eyes closed, headphones over his ears.

"Oh no," the man pouted and flung his arms over his chest, "this won't do."

Peneloper braced. Usually, the psychopathic nature of the neighbor or love-interest wasn't revealed until Act III, but magical entities didn't seem bound to things like narrative structure.

The man stomped a polished loafer into the ground, his pout so distinguished he looked like a duck. "We need energy, folks. Some of you," he levied a wink at Peneloper and Chant, "are meeting the Council for the very first time! A monumental moment like that shouldn't go unrecognized." He sprung forward—Peneloper jerked back—grabbed Chant's hand—Peneloper relaxed—and drew him to his feet. Chant snarled. "Up you go now!" Looking straight at Peneloper, he motioned for her to rise. "You too, lovely girl."

Liking her head where it was - securely attached to both spine and neck - and not wishing to see it removed, she did as she was told.

The man beamed. "Alright! Let's get those bodies moving! Show me," he shimmied, "that excitement!"

A series of dance movements happened in quick succession. The presenter clapped, wriggled, writhed, wormed, grinded, twerked, cut a rug, visited Charleston, broke down into the robot, and became a fugitive, all while insisting Chant and Peneloper to do the same.

Still fearful of this all-too-chipper individual, Peneloper shook things she'd never shook, while Chant shuffled miserably across the floor, clapping intermittently. Crispen snored.

Their involvement placated the man as he lobbed at them yet another off-putting smile. "Alright." He motioned for them to sit. They scattered. "Now that we've broken a sweat," he ran a hand across his brow, frowned, and then placed it on his hip, "oh man, that's more than what came out of me with this morning's calisthenics." A derisive snort beckoned them to laugh.

Peneloper forced a chuckle.

"Now since we're all on the same page," he slapped his thighs, cheeks so rosy, Peneloper worried about his health, "let's say I get this show on the road!" Another clap. "Besides, don't you all have somewhere to be?"

"Yes," Chant grumbled.

"Have some big bad to defeat?" the man continued, "Oooohhh! Fighting a fiend!" He slapped both his cheeks, the blush turning a feverish shade of maroon. "I wonder what the outcome of that will be! Anyway—"

Chant leaned over. "Do you think this was what they were preparing? We waited so they could—" The man clicked on the next slide. It showed a clipart desk, four clipart chairs, and a dozen colorful clipart question marks. "—have this monstrosity of a presentation?"

"Without further ado—" the presenter chirped.

Crispen nodded. "Sure they did. This place is an absurd waste of time."

"—Kelpner Finn!" the man announced. The spotlight flew to the middle seat situated behind the large oak desk Peneloper had first spied. It spun around, showcasing a boy, eight or ten, his feet dangling inches above the floor. With a cherubic face and rounded, blue eyes, he raised a hand innocently and smiled.

A hiss squeezed through Crispen's teeth, his gaze alert, direct, angered.

The announcer's mouth tensed as he clapped harder, the spotlight raining down on Mr. Finn. "Clap," he growled through clenched teeth.

Chant and Peneloper did as instructed. Crispen scowled.

"Okay," he continued. "Next up...Witchy Welda!" The spotlight moved right, illuminating a woman of green skin and scarred complexion. She dripped, from head to toe, and wore a diverse collection of barnacles upon her skin. Double lids closed over reptilian eyes as a forked tongue escaped her mouth and wriggled in the air. "Though she's the newest addition to the four, don't underestimate her. She's not called the Bi-Centennial Araxci Sorceress Supreme for nothing."

He chortled then began clapping, which prompted Chant and Peneloper to join in.

"Thirdly," the announcer continued his spiel, "Quinceton Effington-Thurston-Amos-Howell the Seven-hundred and seventy-seventh! Triple sevens! How remarkable!" The light swooped across the table, landing on the other side of Kelpner.

A dapper-looking man in a three-piece suit, bowtie, bowler cap, monocle jammed in his eye, hand resting over the top of a cane, took to the spotlight. He smiled and raised his hand, curling the end of a rather impressive mustache that spanned one ear to the other.

Perfunctory clapping ensued. Peneloper didn't need told these were the infamous Council, powerful, dangerous, possibly psychotic. Best not to anger them.

"And last but certainly not least," the announcer hunched over, slipping his chin inside his turtleneck, "we have, as a special treat, the Fourth, who rarely ever makes an appearance. Hold on to your seat folks, this one's going to be bittersweet." He exploded forward and thrust his arms wide. "Ladies and Gents. Dogs" – Chant growled – "and fat birds, the fourth member of the Council—" The spotlight tore to Quinceton's right and fell upon an empty chair. The announcer's face fell immediately. "Where'd he go?"

The lights thrust on. The revealed three members of the Council sat behind their big, important Council desk. The announcer sauntered over, inspected the empty chair, frowned, then tossed up his arms in defeat. "He ruined it. Couldn't go along with it for one damned minute."

He stalked back to the projector and flipped it off. "Thinks the introduction's too silly. Well," he whirled, hands on his hips, head shaking profusely, "I'm important too." He jabbed his chest. "I haven't been employed at Boyle, Bane and Derndach Ad Agency for two and half centuries for shits and giggles. 'Better the Council's image, Edwardo,' you said." Snatching up the projector, he shoved it under his arm. "You practically begged me. Then what do you," he stormed past Peneloper and Chant, footfalls reverberating like thunderclaps, "you don't listen." He tsked and threw open the doors, "You ruined the opening. Ruined everything!" The doors slammed close.

Kelpner frowned. "Do forgive the outburst. We were trying something new and thought now would be an opportune time to test it out."

Quinceton sniffed. "So, what say you? Do you look upon us favorably?"

"I look upon you confused," Chant said, " as I would with any loon I came in contact with."

Peneloper found it in herself to be less harsh, though that meant repaying an earnest question with an exaggerated answer. "It certainly got the blood pumping."

Quinceton nodded.

Then Witchy Welda, Gordita Supreme or whatever, pointed to the fourth chair. "We haven't been introduced in full, Kelp. You think it's time?"

The boy nodded. "If not now, when?" He turned toward a door in the corner marked Exit. If you dare. "I can sense you, you know. Either you reveal yourself, or I do it for you." His tone was hard, leaden, forged steel.

"Now there's the Council I remember," Crispen growled.

As though pulled from Peneloper's dreams, the voice that answered from the shadows, prickled her skin, raised the hairs on the back of her head.

It couldn't be.

"You'll do no such thing, Kelp."

Warm, low, raspy. The sound conjured scents of chocolate, peanut butter, aftershave, and tobacco. Rarely angered, always loving, even when reprimanding.

It was impossible.

The speaker took a step out of the shadows. Distressed jeans, hiking boots. Moth-eaten grey jumper stuffed inside a green windbreaker. A face with more stubble than she remembered but still a face she remembered. The squareness of jaw, prominent chin. Lips that'd supplied her with endless smiles though now they were drawn, pulled into a harsh line.

Eyes like the sky reflected in Lake Calhoun's placid surface, where they'd gone on summer vacations, where he'd tried and failed to fish successfully. Bangs too long. Had he still been around that length would've earned him a reprimand from Mother Auttsley followed by an emergency visit to Ned's Barbershop on Main.

But corpses didn't need haircuts because their hair didn't grow. Their eyes murky, glass orbs incapable of reflecting anything. Their lips unable to quiver, smile, form words.

A flurry of emotions fought for dominance on Peneloper's face -anger, elation, anger again, resentment, puzzlement, sadness, more anger. As she stood there, frozen and disbelieving, she couldn't tell which was worse, seeing him now, or lowering his casket into the ground all those years ago, saying her final goodbyes and understanding now how it was all a lie.

He stared at them all, her the last and the longest. Hands in his pockets, he smiled and addressed her as he always had, speaking a name that until now, had stayed buried alongside his memory. "Hey, Nep. Been a while."