Page 9 of Vengefully Matched

Dear Priscilla,

I’m out of town this week, and I’m afraid I’ll miss you. In my absence you will rifle through my things and find this. Psychic privileges and all. I’ll be at an off-the-grid family cabin in the woods nearby, just for a break from the hullabaloo. I supposed if you absolutely had to, you could find my location. However, I do hope you’ll leave me be.

I’ll see you next check-in. Until then, I have the strongest sensation you should pay attention to the other orders of business at the Council meetings you attend. Call it a hunch.

Cheers,

C. Witherspoon

Priscilla scowled. There was no way that she wanted to admit to the Council that she was about to miss yet another check-in.

She looked down at her watch. There was nothing to be done but slip out of the shop and make her way to the hearse she’d detailed earlier for the express purpose of humoring Uncle Larry when she picked him up.

Now that his funeral home was long closed, there was no need for the behemoth, but Larry insisted, and so she and Azrael kept it in the depths of the garage, bringing it out only when one of them had the Packard and the other needed to go somewhere with a distance too far to travel by bicycle or on foot.

At least this way, people tended to give her a wide berth while driving. So long as it didn’t break down, she could pick Larry up with a few minutes to spare, park the hearse in the extra spot behind Hopelessly Teavoted, and walk with him over to the bar.

If the night went as such nights usually did, she’d call him a cab home and make her own way back to Hart Manor through the woods on foot after.

She’d let Connie Witherspoon have her peace and quiet tonight, Council be damned.

“I don’t think you can ever have too much Rick Astley, if I’m honest.” Uncle Larry drummed his fingers on the top of his cocktail glass. “It’s perfectly torturous to subject people to. I love it.”

It was one thing to prank someone else with endless synth pop on loop; it was another to listen to it in a bar. Which is why she was grateful that Kessel Run favored the kind of upbeat, slightly weird jazz one might expect in a space cantina in a galaxy far, far away.

She’d tried to convince Larry to join her at Free Spirits for their monthly bust-Larry-out-of-Sunnyhallow-Senior-Living day, but he had grumbled about how it was too hoity-toity for an old dodger like him until she’d finally caved and agreed on the Star Wars–themed bar she’d reluctantly come to love. Besides, it was impossible to take him anyplace with tapas unless she wanted a lecture on how in his day, food came in full-sized servings.

The Less Than Twelve Parsecs Nachos here, on the other hand, were extravagant in size and worth it, even if the waiter, Daniel, was her nemesis for trying to persuade her to say the names of the Star Wars–themed drinks and food out loud.

Nemesis was too strong a word, and one she ought to save for Agatha, even if Daniel’s T-shirt featured a disappointed Porg with the text “Only you can prevent Galactic Empires.”

“Another G—” Daniel swallowed. “I mean, just plain old mojito?”

Uncle Larry howled with laughter. “Don’t let her scare you. You can call it a Greedo Mojito.”

Daniel smiled. “Another Imperial IPA for you?”

“Make it two, kid.” He winked as Daniel moved to the other side of the bar to talk to a group of college kids cosplaying droids in capes. “Look at that dedication,” said Larry, pointing. “The fellow has even got a little embroidered rebel logo on his jeans.”

“Uncle Larry, that’s a decorative pocket button in the shape of a shovel. I think it’s got the brand on it. This is why Dr. Finkelstein is always getting on you to wear those glasses.”

“They ruin my aesthetic,” said Larry, shaking his head and then running a hand over the smooth, bald expanse of it. She had never once in her life, not even in childhood, seen a single hair on his head.

“I’ll drink to an aesthetic.” Priscilla brushed a crumb of chip off the lapel of her blazer, and raised her not-a-Greedo Mojito to clink against her uncle’s glass.

“So tell me about the Council meeting. Was it just the work stuff, or do you think your dream girl was mad at you for something else?” Larry peered at her from over his IPA.

Priscilla groaned. “I knew I would regret telling you she’s frustratingly attractive when I piss her off.” She shook her head. “Uncle Larry, we’ve been over this. You’re getting senile. She’s not my dream girl; she’s also deeply heterosexual.”

Larry waggled his nonexistent eyebrows. “You and I both know I’m as sharp as I ever was.”

“That’s not saying much,” she said, but she could feel a smile tugging at her cheeks. Uncle Larry had always been her favorite, and Priscilla much suspected she was his.

“Don’t worry, Priss, I have a sense for these things. Straight is boring. Most of us aren’t.”

“Statistically, that’s just not true.”

“You would dare question an old man who feels something in his bones? Your elder? Your favorite uncle, with impeccable gaydar, and a sartorial sense for the ages?” He flourished his dark wool coat, which was not exactly the paragon of fashion. Not for this century, anyway.