Page 28 of Vengefully Matched

And what the fuck was that instinct about? This woman had insulted her good name in the campaign and then, even after she’d won fair and square, proceeded to prank her mercilessly. Now here she was, being sensitive to her losing opponent? Madness, surely.

“Anyway, my dad always insisted that it was a bad idea. The original Fountain of Youth was destroyed for a reason, and the Council had a contingency plan in the event of disaster, but we never had to use it.” She narrowed her eyes. “My Uncle Larry has an amateur magical history hobby, and he’s really taken things up a notch in his retirement. He was helping me with research on forbidden magic. Constance mentioned I should pay more attention to Council business.”

Agatha snorted. “She’s not wrong about that.”

She wasn’t sure that Priscilla wasn’t trying to kill her. But the thing was, if she was trying to kill her, and if she was behind the attempted theft, well, then she would already know, but telling her would make it seem as though Agatha trusted her.

And if she wasn’t, well then they were both screwed, in the crosshairs of some unknown entity resolved to take at least one of them out.

It was this or nothing, really.

She sighed.

“Hildebrand von Auden died last year. In his collection, the Council unearthed a six-hundred-sixty-six-year-old bottle believed to contain water from the Fountain of Youth. We have just finished testing it—obviously, to do so without disturbing its contents was laborious, to say the least.”

Priscilla frowned, a shadow passing over her face. “Definitely what Uncle Larry was alluding to, then.” Her frown deepened, and she went on. “Wait, would that have taken a team of European witch scientists?”

“Yes.” Agatha wasn’t sure where she was going with this line of questioning, but Hart’s brows furrowed, and the corners of her mouth pulled down. “Why?” she asked, almost certain that she would regret probing.

“Nothing,” said Prissy, voice tight. “Just you’re not the first Council president to withhold the details of that particular work project from me.” Agatha wanted to remind her that she was unearthing deep Council secrets here, but years of political training had her swallowing her words.

“Always the councilwoman, never the president,” Hart muttered, and Agatha’s eyebrows shot up at the edge of bitterness in her voice, especially given the origin of that expression. It was a reminder that she was right to hold Priscilla Hart at a distance. This woman could wreck her, like she had her predecessor.

“Fine,” said Agatha, voice silky and more vicious than she meant. “The point is, it’s missing.”

“It’s missing?” Hart blinked rapidly. “You mean to tell me that you discovered an immortality potion and then lost it?”

“I didn’t lose it. Someone stole it.” Agatha leaned against the wall, which attempted to nudge her back toward the other woman.

“Are you sure it didn’t blow up in the explosion?” Hart’s face was unreadable, and she rapped absentmindedly against the wall until it stopped. “There are factions of people who believe firmly that any objects that can contribute to or grant immortality must be destroyed immediately. If anyone got wind of that—”

“They’d be likely to try to blow it up. That was my first thought, too, but there’s no trace of the thing, and the bottle was hexed with a permaspell to leave traces if destroyed. If it had been blown up, the stain would have been palpable.”

“We all would have felt that,” Hart mused.

“Exactly.”

“So someone stole what is probably the last of the Fountain of Youth, the only immortality potion left in existence, and then tried to blow you up for funsies and to cover it?”

“Maybe,” said Agatha darkly. “Or maybe someone didn’t care if I knew it was stolen.” Her stomach twisted. Did someone out there hate her so much as to wish not only that her projects would fail, but also that she actually died?

And, more importantly, was that someone the distractingly beautiful, raven-haired woman sitting in front of her?

“If the thief was at all involved in the magical community, which they would have to be, they’d know that the bottle would be rigged. They would know you knew it was gone.”

“Which means the bombing was for me, personally.”

“Well, fuck me, Agatha. Who would want to kill a stand-up gal like you?”

Agatha glared daggers at her, her stomach twisting rebelliously at the turn of phrase. She shouldn’t want to. She didn’t want to. Not really. Not that much, anyway.

“I mean, the International Council suggested I start with the person who tried to beat me for office.”

Hart frowned. “No fair. When a man has political aspirations, it’s admirable, but goddess forbid a woman does, and now suddenly she’s a conniving murderess?”

“I know,” said Agatha. “However, it is slightly less feminist of you seeing as how the former Council president is also a woman.” At the look on her face, she added, “I know you didn’t actually discard her easily. I’m just saying it looks bad.”

Hart’s face was white as chalk, and something flashed across it. For just a few seconds, Agatha thought perhaps she had gone too far, and that the other woman was going to cry.