Page 70 of Vengefully Matched

Agatha blinked. She wasn’t entirely sure if she was imagining it, but had the devil magically scooted closer to the two of them? He winked at her, and suddenly he was right back next to the Loculus.

“Pity, you two could have had it all,” said Lex to the distracted couple behind him. “Aha! There it is.” He thumped at the coffin once again, and then reached into his incredibly tight pockets and pulled out a thin wire–framed pair of glasses, which absolutely should have been crushed by the force of leather against those thighs. Azrael Hart made a choked noise and muttered something about slutty little glasses, but if Lex heard it, he didn’t respond. Spectacles on, he examined it again, rummaged in the other pocket, and pulled out an iron nail and a small hammer.

“That’s remarkable magic,” Agatha couldn’t help but tell him. It was the fucking glasses. “What else are you hiding in there?”

He smiled, a crooked half thing that heated her blood.

“I can fit quite a lot in these pants. You’d be surprised.”

“Maybe focus on the breakout,” Priscilla said, glaring at him.

Lex shrugged. “If I must.” He pressed the nail to the spot he’d been tapping, and hit out a pattern that sounded oddly familiar, like a tune she could almost remember, but not quite.

The glass shattered completely, and then crumbled to dust. Lex flicked a wrist, and the dust, and her cuffs, were gone.

“That is truly impressive,” she said, making a mental note to research devils more thoroughly.

“Well, you get to be more than three thousand years old, and you learn a few tricks. Everything, everyone, has a button you can push hard enough to break.” He winked at Agatha, and though she no longer had to, Priscilla pushed closer.

Azrael cleared his throat.

“I have good news, which is that Evie is, at this very moment, clearing your name with the Council. It seems the illegitimate magical threat—a nasty explosion that would have demolished Agatha’s apartment—was not traced entirely, but they were able to identify a time stamp, and she was able to provide an alibi along with phone records and GPS that pinpointed that at the time someone attempted to kill President Vanderbilt Voisin, you were in the middle of the forest on the phone with your ex-fiancée.”

Agatha did not want to admit, even to herself, how glad she was that Priscilla had been on the phone during the attempted murder, and not at the precise moment she’d been training herself not to moan Priscilla’s name in her bedroom.

“Well, when you put it that way, I sound like a bit of a nutjob,” Priscilla griped, bringing Agatha back to reality.

“Better than a murderer,” said Agatha. She shivered. “I hate that they did this at my home.”

Priscilla grabbed her hand. “Come stay with us. We can set up wards around your place to try to catch the perp, and the house will keep you safe.”

Agatha hesitated, and her uncertainty must have been visible, because Priscilla added, “We have a guest bedroom, and I have zero expectations. Though there is Emily, and Hart Manor is, well, eccentric.”

“Who,” she bit out, hoping the jealousy in her voice wasn’t evident, “is Emily?”

Prissy’s eyebrows raised. “You met her. Emily Lickinson? Azrael’s cat?”

“Oh,” she said, blushing. “I’d love to.” The words slipped out before she could overthink them, and damn if a big part of her didn’t want to offer to stay in Priscilla’s bedroom.

It didn’t seem like the thing to do in front of family and a literal devil, though. So instead she rubbed her hands and looked around.

“This place doesn’t have a bathroom.”

“Well, it’s no cup,” Prissy said, smile snaking up her face, “but there’s a porta potty out back.”

“When I said it was my dream to go glamping, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” said Agatha.

Priscilla smiled, a soft, secret thing, full of meaning. “One day, honey. One day.”

CHAPTER 23 Priscilla

Council investigations took a long time, and Priscilla was certain her responsibilities as a Council member included looking out for the president.

It just so happened that looking out for Agatha Vanderbilt Voisin, in this instance, meant making sure she stayed out of her apartment until the Council could be absolutely sure that she was safe. In the absence of a clear villain, the hunt for the murderous prankster had slowed as the Council turned to more pressing matters. Nothing had tripped the wards around Agatha’s apartment, but Priscilla insisted that it was better to be safe than sorry.

And if that safety meant hosting her at Hart Manor, well, there was nothing Priscilla could do about that. They had the space, and Hart Manor had the sentience to keep Agatha safer than any place else could.

For instance, the Council president was exceedingly safe sitting at the dining room table, a grand mahogany thing set for two. Priscilla finished a cup of coffee, and as Agatha spread cream cheese on a fresh bagel, the French press floated at her elbow, waiting to top off her mug.