Page 17 of Vengefully Matched

“Devils?”

“Men.”

He smiled, catlike. “Very often one and the same.”

This made her laugh, despite herself. “You’re not wrong, and I’m still not interested. Do you think once a day should work? For the magic?”

He cocked his head, thinking.

“Do you know, I would treat it like recommended exercise? Aim each week for two and a half hours of moderate, an hour and a half of intense, yes? That would do the trick.”

Priscilla inhaled sharply, feeling, for the first time in ages, like she got it.

“She has to keep running the shop as she did before. To start telling fortunes like she used to, and sprinkle in just enough real magic to work the muscle of it, but not so much as to attract attention. Oh, Lex, that’s clever.”

“I know,” he said smugly. “I’m quite brilliant. You’re welcome.”

He blew a kiss, and with a puff of smoke, vanished into the dusk.

CHAPTER 7 Priscilla

Priscilla put the final touches on the outline of her planned work with Connie, and hit save. She snapped twice to back it up magically, for good measure. There was no pain like drafting something majestic and forgetting to save. A power outage had once caused her weeks of woe, and today was a good day.

She smiled, which felt weird, to be honest, but maybe this was the product of a successful write-up. She would earn her way back up to the top. She was Priscilla gosh-darned Hart, and she could do whatever she put her mind to.

Something nagged at the back of her mind that this sort of cheerful thinking was not the norm, but she pushed that aside. It was okay to feel good about, well, feeling good.

Goddess, the thought made her want to break out in song, and that did make her frown. Putting a palm to her forehead, she checked for fever; her effervescent joy felt like it should strike her as unsettling.

And yet, all she felt was calm and sunny, like the world was her oyster.

“You all right, there, Councilwoman Hart?” Otho’s assistant, Nancy, called over from his desk. Otho was rarely in the office in person these days, but his niece was a decent stand-in, and enthusiastically part of the intern program in the way that Priscilla once had been.

“I think I’m just hungry.” She smiled, and it ached a little, like a limb twisted slightly out of place, not enough to break but enough to bend at an odd, uncomfortable angle.

Nancy stared at Priscilla. “Maybe grab lunch. You were smiling so big that I was worried.”

It was odd for her to be bubbly; this morning she had actually giggled a little over a typo.

Giggled! Priscilla Hart. The mistress of darkness. She really did need lunch. This had to be low blood pressure or something.

She stood up, smoothing out her skirt, which fell to her ankles, a fact she was certain made up for the slit up the side and the slice of midriff below the matching top.

Before she could stop herself, she walked up to the president’s open door, poked her head in, and smiled.

“I’m headed to lunch—want anything?”

What was wrong with her? She had never in her life offered to get her nemesis food.

It was fucking disgusting is what it was.

Agatha smiled, eyes glinting. Even that didn’t bother her. Maybe she was wrong about Agatha. Maybe people that hot deserved to be happy.

“Do you think a crop top is appropriate for work?”

Maybe not, then.

Agatha wore a lavender three-piece suit with a well-tailored vest. It was egregiously pastel. Still, there was something about Agatha, and Priscilla Hart was determined not to notice, through the power of positive thinking.