Page 16 of Vengefully Matched

“What,” she said, knowing she would probably regret asking, “is a Dirty Bertie?”

Lex waved his hand. “One of the British royalty some years ago, up to all sorts of dreadful things, but terribly creative in his furniture choices. They called him Bertie, and Dirty Bertie because of his siege d’amour, obviously.” He paused. “His love chair.”

“I speak French, thank you. And that’s more information than I need.” She scowled at him. Even if she had further questions. Those could be solved by an internet search later. Hells knew what this devil had gotten up to in his thousands of years and might recount to her if she asked him about it.

“Now, don’t be like that. Your parents had something quite like it, I believe, at one point.” Lex’s eyes glinted.

“I cleaned out the sex dungeon.” She’d remodeled it after they died. It wasn’t the sort of thing one kept of their parents. Best to disinfect, remodel, and move along with the blessing of Hart Manor, which clearly approved, growing full-length mirrors and extra ceiling fans without even being asked.

Lex’s mouth dropped open a bit. She shrugged. “It’s a lovely home gym now.”

“An affront to love chairs everywhere,” he admonished, as though she’d stuck a fist through the Mona Lisa or something.

“I didn’t throw all the furniture away.” She sighed. She’d thrown all of the toys away, for obvious reasons, and all upholstered pieces, for even more obvious reasons, but the frames, and chair, and such, well, she’d simply magicked those into storage. “They’re in the back attic room.” She rubbed between her eyebrows. “I tell you what,” she said, an idea forming. “I’ll let you have the chair, and anything else you want from that collection, if you tell me how to solve the Connie problem.”

“Really?” Lex sat up, eager. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to draw up a contract?”

She eyed him.

“Absolutely not.” She concentrated, closing her eyes and picturing the things she’d moved. She snapped her fingers, and it all landed with a soft thump on the forest floor, neatly inside the protective dome.

“Take as much as you want.” She gestured at the pile, which contained the impossible-to-figure-out chair, and several other bits of furniture she tried not to think too hard about in the context of Benedict and Persephone.

Lex grinned as though he were a cat let into a saucer of cream. “All of it,” he said, smiling wide, violet eyes sparkling. “I want all of it.”

Priscilla gestured toward it. “Help yourself.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, and he winked. The furniture dissolved into his signature purple smoke, gone to wherever it was that the devil made his den.

“Now,” he said, “that’s just splendid. I’ve always wanted one of those. I’m so chuffed, in fact, that I’ll give you a bit of information. Someone’s been sniffing around, looking for an immortality bargain.”

She balked. This was bad news. Uncle Larry had warned her, and it seemed her research focus had just been narrowed.

“Who?” Her voice came out sharper than intended, but he nodded, approving. Even careless Lex knew this was trouble.

“I’m not certain, but the rumor mill has been abuzz. I heard that someone from this coast made the trek out west, to Lucifer, but he’s been on his best behavior since the censure he’s faced from the Syndicate over all that bad business with Chet.”

Priscilla shivered. Not even witches knew very much about the Syndicate, that mysterious group that governed devils and demon business, and if they’d formally admonished the very king of devils for the human he’d imbued with powers last year, the one who’d caused such trouble for Vickie and Az—well, she had to imagine that wasn’t pleasant.

“Just pass it on to the Council, will you? To be on the lookout for any talk of immortality.”

She nodded. “Thank you. Now, you promised. Connie.”

“Indeed. What you need is for her to remove the magical blockage.”

“And how do you recommend she do that?”

“Excellent question. By using it, of course.”

“But we want to prevent her from using it too much.”

“Yes, and to do that, she has to have a handle on the thing. You’ve got to get her to siphon off the excess power. Fresh, new powers like that? She’s in a magical adolescence. As time goes on, she may be able to get by just fine without using it, but until then, she’s got to use the foresight, the premonitions. Palm reading, candles, tarot cards—anything that suits it; anything that can channel it. You might even try a crystal ball.”

“All right. How much should she use it? To prevent any sort of outbursts?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. Though if I were, I’d probably take a look.” He winked.

Priscilla rolled her eyes. “I’m not interested in your kind,” she reminded him.