Page 11 of Vengefully Matched

“Your focus really does determine your reality, doesn’t it?” Daniel waggled his eyebrows and looked at her expectantly, like she was missing an inside joke that he wanted her to get. A joke Azrael certainly would have understood, but Priscilla had never followed her brother into his galactic fandom.

“Shut up and pour, Daniel.” He looked a little hurt. She sighed. “Please?”

CHAPTER 5 Agatha

Agatha slept like the dead after effectively chastising her Council nemesis in front of everyone. This morning, strolling in early, a honeycomb latte in hand, she felt good.

It was the deep sleep of satisfaction after besting one’s enemies, second only, maybe, to extremely good sex. The last time she’d felt like this, she’d woken up as the president of the North American Council of Witchery. As for the sated, exhausted rest of the thoroughly fucked, well, she couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

Certainly not with Jonathan. The idea of letting her mom set her up with Adam Bumper was looking better every day. She shook her head briefly, biting the inside of her cheek and pausing in front of the door to the Council offices to finish her drink and recycle the cup.

This was a serious low point. She was not at the level of desperate where she could consider being set up with her neighbor, who used to be known as little Adam Booger for, well, obvious and deeply unsexy reasons. She shut her eyes and forced herself to do mental math.

People brushed their teeth for two minutes, twice a day, 365 days a year. That meant that the average person who made it to eighty spent about eighty-one days of their life brushing their teeth.

She breathed a relaxed sigh and opened her eyes. Calculating random shit always made her feel better.

And victory was better than getting laid.

She pushed open the door, ready to gloat—with class, obviously, nothing indecorous—all day about how it had felt to take Hart down a peg.

“Good morning, Councilwoman Hart,” she cooed in her most professional voice.

The other woman’s head was bowed over her keyboard, a large take-out cup from Hopelessly Teavoted precariously close to the edge of the filing cabinet next to her desk.

Hart groaned. “There’s nothing good about it.” She picked her head up, and it was unfair, really, how hot she was, even with smudged eyeliner and hair sticking up a bit on the left. Her eyes opened wider, as though she realized she was talking to, technically, her boss.

“Agatha. President Vanderbilt Voisin. It’s, um, nice to see you.” She managed a smile, and Agatha swallowed the gloating she had been ready to pencil into her agenda. The suppressed emotion made the orchids on Otho’s desk sway, but only a little bit.

Hart’s lips and nails were stained a bright Barbie pink that she had never seen the resident queen of goth wear. Agatha’s gloating had just been promoted to pure smugness. She rocked back on her heels, smirking. The orchids bloomed.

“Well, well, well,” she said, smoothing her hot pink pantsuit and looking around. It was early, too early for anyone else to be here or arrive soon, except for her loyal assistant.

And Kevin had emailed that he would be unexpectedly out today—something about a backfiring spell and a stomach bug, which she sincerely hoped wasn’t literal—so she’d have to brag about the success of her newest security measure later.

“It’s so cute of you to match my suit today, Councilwoman.”

Hart looked up, puzzled, and, if the scent of tequila told the truth, which it almost always did, maybe a little too hungover to put it together right away.

A flicker of emotion darted across her face—surprise, and then confusion.

She didn’t know she’d been busted yet. Oh, this was too good. Her enemy, caught hungover after a public shaming. It was almost enough to make her feel bad for the woman.

Almost.

Agatha flexed her fingers, inspecting her perfect pink manicure. Waiting.

Finally, Priscilla Hart looked down at her own nails, jumping so hard that the rolling chair rocked backward.

“What the fuck?” She steadied herself, looking worse for wear and a bit green from the almost tumble.

“Nice lipstick too,” said Agatha coolly. “You know, I set my private office lock to alter the appearance of anyone messing around where they shouldn’t to match my outfit. Think of it as being caught with your hand in a cookie jar. A hot-pink cookie jar.”

Hart said nothing, her fingers snapping a compact into her hand.

“No, no, no,” she whined, rubbing her lips with the back of her hand.

“It’s permanent. Unless you want to tell me what you were looking for, in exchange for a reprieve from the shades of Barbie?”