“Don’t be shy. Details, boys. Details. I barely get off the throne these days except to crap and get bent like a pretzel by that jerk in room four. I want to see our moment of triumph in my mind’s eye.”

Adept Six and Acolyte Three looked at each other. The acolyte, the junior member of the Lodge, smiled shyly at the adept, like he was doing him a big favor by letting him go first. “You know, sir, I’m not really much of a public speaker.”

“Don’t be nervous,” said the Magister. “What did you do first?”

“Um. Adept Four pretended to buy a peach cobbler.”

“And?”

“He didn’t.”

“Then what?”

“He threw the cobbler on the ground. The van came around with the rest of us and we got out.”

“What happened then? Come on. I want to feel the mayhem,” said the Magister.

“We knocked over a table and stuff went everywhere,” said Acolyte Three. “I stepped on some cakes.”

“Good for you. That almost makes up for you puking in the sacred chamber.”

“Thank you, Dark High One.”

“I slipped on some butter cream and hurt my knee,” said Adept Six.

The Magister looked at him hard. “Not exactly Purple Heart–worthy, eh?” he said. “But tell me, did you put the fear of Cladis Abaddonis in them?”

“Oh, yeah. Right in them. And on them. Like a whole bunch of muffins.”

“And scones,” Acolyte Three added.

“Right. We covered them in misery and scones.”

“Excellent. Then what?”

“Then we ran away.”

“You ran?”

“There were security guards coming.”

“We didn’t really run,” said Acolyte Three. “We just got in the van and expeditiously fled.”

“Yes. That,” said Adept Six.

The Magister leaned back in his lounger. His back pinched him hard. When Abaddon came back, that fraud in room 4 was right up there on the annihilation list with Red Lobster. “You weren’t kidding when you said you weren’t a public speaker.”

“Sorry, Dark High One,” Adept Six said.

“What about you, Acolyte? Did you suffer any crippling cupcake injuries? Lose a leg to a fritter? An ear to some sprinkles?”

Acolyte Three leaned forward a little, showing a tiny bruise. “I get a lemon bar in the eye. It really stung. But it was good, too. I think she used real lemons, not like the plastic ones you get from the store.”

“That’s the kind my mom used,” said Adept Six.

“Mine, too.”

“My goodness,” said the Magister. “How did either of you survive the slaughter? I have to admit, I’m disappointed in the level of carnage in your story. Did anyone at least draw blood?”

“Adept One ran into the van and broke his nose,” said the acolyte.

“Not our blood, you idiot. Them. Did you leave them bloody and bruised?”

“No, sir,” said the adept. “But we did get this.” He handed the Magister a brown paper bag.