Page 13 of Vengefully Matched

Agatha frowned. “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.”

“I wanted to get you back. So I snuck into your office, clearly too drunk to notice this”—she gestured at the nail polish—“and I set up the outfit hex, but I swear I did not rig any weapons. Damaging priceless heirloom swords is not my style.” She gestured to the offending items.

“How would I know that for sure?”

“Ask my Uncle Larry? Or my brother? Either will provide a character reference. I do mischief, pranks to discomfort and shock. But not to hurt. Nothing that would do serious, deadly harm. It’s not my brand.” Hart crossed her arms, and Agatha stared at her.

She didn’t look like a killer. Or rather, she looked too much like a killer. It would be a step too far for Priscilla Hart—all black, high-fashion, bloodred goth beauty—to actually commit murder. But to be safe, Agatha would keep a close eye on her from here on out.

“Fine.” Agatha narrowed her eyes. “I believe you.”

Maybe she looked unconvinced, because Hart went on.

“I’m not proud of having slept here. I prefer my own bed, but I passed out.”

There was, in fact, a little damp spot on the paperwork on her desk that suggested it had been recently drooled on.

“You drool in your sleep?” This made Agatha irrationally smug, because of both the silliness of it and the intimate knowledge of her coworker’s sleeping habits.

Councilwoman Hart sat up straight, eyebrows furrowing.

“I’m a highly powerful Witchery Council member.” She gestured down to her suit. “This is Givenchy. Do I look like I drool?”

The spot on the TPS reports didn’t lie, but Agatha let it go.

“So you are suggesting that you somehow slept through a separate, unknown intruder sneaking in here, managing to avoid my hex and your hex—that’s the magic of two of the most powerful, talented witches on the Eastern Seaboard—and add their own?”

“Yes,” said Hart coolly. “If you’d met my uncle, you’d understand. He can drink anyone under a table. There was tequila involved.”

She had seen Larry Hart at the would-be wedding, sporting an extremely obvious flask that he hadn’t bothered to hide, not even before the whole day went up in flames. Agatha pointed at the take-out cup, considering.

“You managed to wake up for breakfast and then came back here?”

“Of course not. As soon as I woke up and realized how hungover I was, I DaemonDashed it. When the dasher looked at me funny, I assumed it was my smudged mascara, not the abomination on my face and nails.” Hart splayed her fingers out in front of her, scowling.

“OPI’s Strawberry Margarita is hardly an abomination,” Agatha snapped.

“I don’t understand any of those words.” Priscilla turned her chin upward.

“You absolutely do.” She was a lot of things, but Priscilla Hart certainly wasn’t one to not understand the naming of nail polish. Agatha was not going to let Hart pretend she was a witch who hadn’t probably spent years perfecting her manicure spell.

The councilwoman shrugged. “Fine. If you’d like to be snobby and name-drop nail polish colors, I prefer Hermès Rouge H.”

“Of course you do.” That was a sixty-dollar bottle of nail polish, which was an absurd spend on a councilwoman’s salary. Agatha gritted her teeth and tried to remember that she hadn’t always chosen reasonably in her twenties either. There was a whole slew of ex-boyfriends who could attest to that. Agatha pointedly avoided looking at the orchid. The errant sword next to it had only narrowly missed it. She rubbed her thumb across her fingers, and the sword disappeared into the evidence chamber, along with the others.

“You were the one who started it. I can’t be held accountable for my disdain at this tacky monstrosity.” Hart waved her hands, and that was a bit too much for Agatha.

“You can’t even hold off on name-dropping a three-thousand-dollar suit when you’re supposed to be convincing me you’re not a murderer! You think, what, your Givenchy shoes preclude any sort of homicidal instincts?” It was actually exactly what Agatha had thought earlier: that Hart looked the part too well, but it would be a 110-degree day in Vermont before she’d admit that out loud.

“Good eye,” Hart said silkily. “And you’re not dead. So it would be attempted murderess, but I am not one. I told you. I didn’t do it. Give me gravedirt to make me tell the truth and nothing but the truth if your panties are in such a twist about it.” She smiled, a vicious, beautiful thing, even in the wrong color. “I bet I have some truths you couldn’t even handle, little Agatha. But I’m not unwilling to share.”

The thought of any undergarments made Agatha blush with a heat that felt like they could be Strawberry Margarita. Or whatever Hart’s high-end version of that would be.

“Fine,” Agatha said, crossing her arms. “You know Council members are expected not to administer any sort of altering potions, drugs, or concoctions to one another without Council approval or recommendation, per the code. I’ll take your word for it for now, but I will be keeping an eye on you.”

She stood up and walked away, not sagging to the side, even though her left knee ached in a way she’d half expected after the impact of the blast.

“Clean this up,” Agatha said. “I’m going home, and once I’ve changed, we’re going to pay the mundane mayor a visit about Connie Witherspoon.”