Page 8 of Vengefully Matched

“I thought monthly was more appropriate.” She hated the whiny undertone in her words.

“Councilwoman Hart!” It was Xiomara Cohen who reacted this time, and next to her, Gemma Hexley frowned too. “That wasn’t your call.”

“I move to censure the councilwoman for failing to remember she is not the president,” said Albert Thistleworth, narrowing his eyes and adjusting the actual monocle tucked into his breast pocket. She’d always hated him.

“I remember that perfectly,” Priscilla bit out. If anything, she remembered it too well.

“I second that,” added Mathilda Alvarez, and that was a bit shocking; she and Mathilda were friends. She shot the woman a withering stare, but Mathilda shrugged. “I’m sorry, Councilwoman,” she said, spreading her hands before her, and nibbling her lip, “but it really is inappropriate to forgo part of your assigned duties. In addition to being elected, we get paid to be here.”

Priscilla sighed. She and Azrael split property tax and other household costs, and it wouldn’t do to put it all on him with a teacher’s salary. She was willing to play jokes on her brother, but not to actually put him in harm’s way, economically or physically.

“I don’t suppose anyone is willing to object?”

Priscilla looked around the table. Hester Grimsby shook her head, Florian Akinde gave her a rather apologetic smile, and on the other side of Xiomara, Eleanor Willoughby looked scandalized. That left only Devin Cumberbund, who obviously wasn’t going to help. He was more beauty than brains, and while friendly, he was not going to stick his neck out for her. Ben Smith shook his head. And Mei Nakayama hadn’t got to her sixty-fifth year in the council by breaking rules.

“Motion accepted,” said Agatha, smiling wickedly. “Councilwoman Hart, consider yourself on probation. Any further violation of Council directive will result in a full investigation as to your ability to do your duties as prescribed.”

“This is unfair prejudice because I ran against you,” Priscilla snapped, regretting the words almost as soon as they were out.

“It most certainty is not,” said Agatha, her face a thunderstorm. “You were given specific guidelines for supervision of a volatile mortal with no grasp of magic and no clear limit to how much she now possesses, and you deliberately disregarded those guidelines, putting the secrecy of our existence and the entire Council at risk.” The plant behind her grew wider, entire new fronds popping out.

Priscilla’s jaw dropped, just a little. She’d never seen Agatha this angry, this untethered.

Unfortunately, it was extremely hot.

“Fine,” she said. She didn’t have to like it, and she had ways of making the other woman pay for this. Agatha could have slapped Priscilla on the wrist with a warning instead of jumping right to a full probation.

But as she looked around the room at the other members, Priscilla remembered that even the ones who were, in theory, on her side, also still blamed her for Evelyn’s departure.

Which was fair, she supposed.

It was fine. She would get Agatha back. Censure or not, that woman had it coming. And Priscilla knew exactly what to do to leave an impression.

CHAPTER 4 Priscilla

Priscilla stood on her toes, as though inching closer to five-foot-seven would help her discern more about the empty fortune-telling shop. She cursed herself for choosing combat boots over heels today.

Crystal Balls to the Wall was closed, the interior dim, and Constance Witherspoon was nowhere to be found. Priscilla reached into her pocket for the shadow-craft carving she kept for emergencies, and pressed the wood into her palm, snapping gently and closing her eyes. The shadows roiled and then calmed.

Wherever Connie was, she was definitely not here.

Priscilla could see the outline of a curtain, and behind it the dim shadow of the partition that separated the shop window from the small area in the back where Madam Cleopatra kept her crystal ball and tarot cards.

Biting her lip, Prissy looked around. There wasn’t much foot traffic here, especially not at dinnertime, when vacationers and locals alike would either be eating at home or on their way to somewhere with more culinary choices.

Priscilla snapped her fingers, and the bottom lock slid, then the middle, then the top.

She slipped inside, the aroma of sandalwood overwhelming. She left the lights off as she made her way through the shop and ducked behind the curtains. Priscilla crept around the room, past the giant ball in the center of a low oval table, something mysterious swirling inside it. She ran her fingers across the deck resting on the altar behind the chair, and then rummaged through the drawers, finding nothing other than the intricacies of a charlatan who had traded in bells and whistles until being stricken with the psychic abilities she had spent so long pretending to have.

Ah. There it was. Her hand landed on something paper, something that felt right.

She opened the drawer. Across a folded page, in curling, careful script, was her name.

Dammit. Connie knew they were supposed to check in today. Prissy sighed, pressing the heel of her palm into her eye for a moment and taking a deep breath.

She slid the letter open, careful to avoid paper cuts. Who knew what kind of magic mixing that might lead to.

The note was brief and to the point.