Page 14 of Vengefully Matched

Hart nodded. “That’s fair.” She paused, sucking her lower lip in for a moment. Something in Agatha twisted. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“Yes,” Agatha said, ignoring the ache in her knee and her lower back. She rubbed her fingers together, thumb across all four pads, the way her magic worked best, and a magical anti-inflammatory took immediate effect. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

She didn’t turn around, not to see if Hart watched her, not to see if she was still standing, that black suit hugging every curve of her body, as comfortable on precipitously high heels as Agatha was in her favorite sneakers.

Turning would mean answering for the part of her that pulled, low in her stomach, at something quite different from hate for the younger Hart sibling. And she was almost completely certain that the office orchid, at the least, was threatening to give her most buried desires away.

But she was Agatha Vanderbilt Voisin, and she would not succumb to needs as basic as lust.

She could, instead, calculate how many bottles of Strawberry Margarita OPI a person could buy for the price of Councilwoman Hart’s fancy shoes.

Ninety-nine. By her count, it was ninety-nine.

So she’d stick with hate. Hate was good. Hate was enough to carry her through this.

She hoped.

CHAPTER 6 Priscilla

Hot bitches got things done, even dressed as Weird Barbie, it turned out, and wasn’t that just a kick in the ass. Agatha still looked upsettingly fine, even hexed. Priscilla tried not to think too deeply about exactly what it was about Agatha Vanderbilt Voisin in a ridiculous, pattern-splattered, pink floofy doll dress that did it for her. Could it be the Birkenstocks? Surely if she ignored this feeling, it would go away.

They had been sitting across from Mayor Khalil for almost an hour now, each in one of two worn but comfortable chairs in front of his desk. His thick brown eyebrows were peppered with gray now, as was his curly hair, and his face lined in well-earned wrinkles, but he was still very much the man she’d shadowed her father visiting back in his Council days.

“I understand, Madam President, and I have no wish to supersede the protocol of your Council. But you must understand that working as the only mundane human aware of the magical community here in Hallowcross poses logistical problems that really do require the finesse of someone who has also lived here their entire life. Otho Ashbrooke is such a wonderful option, too, but the Hart family has been working side by side with my office for generations now.”

Agatha’s expression did not change; she held his gaze for an awkward minute, and then she cleared her throat.

“Certainly. I can keep Ms. Hart on as an adviser, and bring her with me to our meetings, but I do insist, given the unusual nature of a mundane mayor requesting such a thing, that I take over for Otho and remain the official liaison to the human government and your office.” Her gaze sharpened. “It is my responsibility as the duly elected Council president, something I’m sure you can appreciate yourself, as an elected official.”

Mayor Khalil sat back, nodding.

“Democracy is very important to witches and humans alike.” He nodded. “Very well. You remain the liaison, but Ms. Hart accompanies you. Now, tell me you two have control of this Madam Cleopatra problem.”

“We have the situation in hand,” Priscilla cut in smoothly, refusing to look at Agatha, though if a Weird Barbie hex didn’t break her composure, a slight exaggeration certainly wouldn’t. “Constance Witherspoon is dealing with a difficult transition from being a normal, albeit charming, grifter, to an actual practicing oracle, with reading skills and premonitions.”

“An oracle?” The mayor looked horrified. “Like in a Greek tragedy?”

“Of course not,” said Agatha, glaring at her. “Oracle is an antiquated title, and specific to magical people; humans would use psychic or clairvoyant interchangeably there. Fortune teller, even.”

He looked relieved.

“Like a Zoltar machine at the beach.” His furrowed brow said that he needed to believe Connie to be closer to a beach novelty than an ancient harbinger of doom.

Priscilla bit her lip. For all their seeming harmlessness, in the early twentieth century, those machines had been the playthings of devils, well-known as conduits for precipitating bargains. Bringing that up would only cause Mayor Khalil more worry.

“Yes,” she lied, telling herself it was in his best interest. What mundanes didn’t know couldn’t hurt them. “Very much like that. Now, the thing is, it will take some time to find balance with her new powers.” Prissy was making it up as she went, but even Agatha was nodding, and she realized it actually sounded so confident that her boss believed her fib as much as the mundane mayor did. And it wasn’t a terrible idea.

“Naturally,” said the mayor. “But could we help her keep things under wraps until she gets to that, ah, proper equilibrium?”

“Absolutely,” said Agatha, soothing. She caught Prissy’s eye, and her gaze was sharp. She probably didn’t love the lying, but surely she knew it was the best course of action. “Priscilla is in charge of it entirely.”

The mayor sat back, checking his watch. “Perfect. Thank you both so much for coming. I appreciate your time, and I’m sure we can iron out the details on the phone before our next scheduled meeting.”

It was the universal politically correct way to ask them to leave. Agatha stood up, and Priscilla swallowed a laugh at her dress in full view. It really did look like a bright pink potato sack with crinoline layered underneath, and the topsy-turvy spiky hair was so absurd that she was impressed Mayor Khalil didn’t laugh either.

And here Priscilla was, thirsting over the woman, absurd attire and all.

“Thank you, Mayor Khalil,” said Agatha primly, as though she weren’t dressed like a doodle-laden children’s plaything.