Page 6 of Vengefully Matched

“Do we have an up-to-date report from the witch handling the case?”

She knew perfectly well who that witch was, but she didn’t have to say it.

Kevin smiled sympathetically. “No. I will call Councilwoman Hart and tell her that the report is overdue and that you’ll have to note it as such on the Council meeting agenda if she doesn’t have it over in the next hour.” He frowned. “There’s a reason people didn’t buy her family history shtick for the election. You were the better candidate by far.”

She smiled, but maybe it wasn’t convincing enough, because he continued.

“Imagine her nerve, driving the old president out and then coming for her job.” This was not the first time Kevin had fixated on that. His loyalty was inspiring.

Agatha sighed. “You’re a devilsend, Kevin, you know that?”

He winked and nodded. “Anything else? The rest of the agenda is standard, a reprisal of the last meeting’s items. I listed the mundane mayoral project. I don’t think we have time for anything on the high-speed rail concept.”

She sighed. “It will have to wait until next season, which is a shame. That’s all for now. Send in the report as soon as it comes.”

“You want me to include a little figure of Priscilla to burn in effigy? Nothing serious, just a light prank—maybe dye her hair, or set her washer to turn all of her clothing pink?”

“Tempting, but no. Just the report.”

“You got it,” he said, sweeping out of the room with surprising grace for a man of his stature.

Kevin’s offer wasn’t a terrible one. Maybe she did need to take matters into magical methods to get the most opprobrious thorn in her side under control.

The idea of pranking impenetrable prankster Priscilla Hart made her smile. She didn’t have time today, but she could think of something after the Council meeting.

Plotting took the sting out of the imposing memory of Priscilla—no, it was better to think of her more formally, as Hart—standing there, smirking while abandoning her bride at an altar in that way that made something funny happen in Agatha’s stomach. Dark eyeliner had caged her gold-rimmed eyes, as always, and in Agatha’s memory, it was both shockingly hot and inappropriate for a wedding. She’d dreamed of those deep brown eyes, their shimmering gold rim and specks, more than she wanted to admit. And then there was that debacle with Jonathan, his drunken blurting, and Hart running out on Evelyn, who stormed out in pursuit, leaving a stunned crowd, frozen and poised, waiting for someone to do something.

It was that very same captive audience that set Jonathan up to make someone else’s botched wedding the most humiliating moment of her life. But if she thought about it, really, the fault lay with Hart. She frowned and turned back to her notes from the mayor. She really needed to review these now. Revenge would have to wait a few hours.

Fucking Priscilla Hart.

CHAPTER 3 Priscilla

Across from Priscilla, Agatha Vanderbilt Voisin crossed her arms, staring daggers for every Council member present to see.

“The mundane mayor is not happy,” she said. “And you are supposed to be monitoring Constance Witherspoon.” Priscilla rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb, trying not to squirm in her seat. The Connie situation was not necessarily her fault, but it most definitely was her responsibility.

“Outrageous!” Otho Ashbrooke pounded his hand on the beechwood table, his voice just past polite volume. “I gave Mayor Khalil my word that there wouldn’t be a repeat of the Shaw’s incident.”

“Well,” Priscilla drawled, forcing her face to remain impassive, “in my defense, it wasn’t a Shaw’s. And the Ben & Jerry’s factory tour participants just assumed it was part of the experience. Ice cream sampling and fortune-telling.”

Prissy turned at the sound of a throat clearing from the head of the table. “Councilwoman Hart.” The president’s voice was dripping with disappointment, as though Prissy had just been caught graffitiing “fuck the patriarchy” in shiny pink spray paint all over the boys’ bathroom walls at Hallowcross High.

Not that she would ever admit to having done such a thing, obviously. The principal hadn’t proven it was her then, and Agatha Vanderbilt Voisin, who was not even a native of Hallowcross, absolutely couldn’t pin it on her more than ten years later. Her uncanny knack for wiggling out of trouble using her powers of rhetoric and distraction had only been further honed since then.

The trick was to remain unflappable. Casual, but not in the fun, knee-deep-in-the-passenger-seat way. Pretend she hadn’t sort of dozed off when Agatha had been blathering on about the Hildebrand von Auden estate and the proper procedure for storing dangerous magical artifacts.

“There weren’t even any prophesized deaths this time!” Priscilla held a hand in front of her, inspecting her pristine black nail polish, spelled to remain perfectly matte. She studied each nail as though making sure they were intact, refusing to make eye contact with Agatha. “And in Connie’s defense, predicting the demise of Wyatt Vance in a drunk-driving accident wasn’t exactly stating anything a normie at that Shaw’s couldn’t figure out. Knowing that a man banned from just about every bar in Hallowcross was cruising for a reckless end would be as easy as guessing where Wyatt was on January sixth. And besides, he didn’t actually die. I heard he was so spooked that he checked right into rehab.”

Otho Ashbrooke muttered something under his breath and settled back in his chair. Otho had been a friend of Priscilla’s father, and though he was a stickler for the rules, he was also a stickler for the swift and effective shutdown of fascists. Most of Hallowcross, Vermont, was willing to drive a jackass right out of town, but every now and then someone clung to cruelty.

“Councilwoman Hart,” said the president, again, this time laced with just an edge of irritation. Pricilla resisted the urge to smirk. She loved getting this particular rise out of this particular woman. It’s why she had so enjoyed a campaign full of calling her as empty-headed and high-pitched as a pink, fluffy rendition of witch stereotypes. “Regardless of Wyatt’s upsetting politics, we cannot have a legitimate psychic walking around town with uncontrollable precognitive outbursts.” She cleared her throat. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Priscilla had planned to remain cool and unperturbed—which clearly ground Agatha’s gears the most—but the Council president got to her with her need for rules and order. Prissy had tried to help Connie get it under control, but it had not gone well. “What exactly are you asking, President Vanderbilt Voisin?” Agatha was dressed so colorfully today, in a blue striped peplum top and a snug, coral-colored pencil skirt that matched her blazer and her lipstick. Priscilla couldn’t imagine wearing that much pastel.

But soft hues notwithstanding, the president gave her a steely look, not unsimilar to the one she had worn when the election results were announced six months ago.

“I am asking, Councilwoman Hart, for a report on your progress with the Madam Cleopatra fiasco. I’m asking if you’re up to the task of helping Connie Witherspoon master her new powers. I am asking if you’re too busy gallivanting about to be bothered to do your job.”