Page 19 of Vengefully Matched

Fucking Agatha. She hadn’t expected retribution to come so soon.

Standing with her phone up, holding Priscilla’s favorite blazer carefully, was her brother’s girlfriend. The smile on Vickie Starnberger’s face told her everything she needed to know as her old friend jogged over to her.

“Hoisted by your own pranking petard there, Prissy?” Vickie’s grin was far too satisfied.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, so you willingly joined a flash mob?” Her friend crossed her arms, cocking her head to the side.

Priscilla scowled, reaching for her blazer and then snapping a few times so it wouldn’t wrinkle from all the dastardly flinging and swinging it had endured.

“Fine. I may or may not be engaged in a prank war with my colleague.”

“This wouldn’t happen to be the cheery, lovely president of the North American Council of Witchery, would it? A little shorter than you? Blond? Curvy? Loves a honeycomb latte with an extra shot?” Vickie’s tone was downright gleeful now.

Her scowl deepened, and her friend tucked her phone in her pocket and turned, gesturing for Priscilla to follow.

“Come on. I’ll get you a donut of the day and you can tell me all about how you don’t have a type. Hot for presidential power, and all.”

“I don’t have a type! Agatha beat me for president; I should be president, and besides, we are hex-level enemies.” It wasn’t a sign of anything other than knowing her enemy that she noticed everything about the woman.

Prissy lowered her voice as they walked into Hopelessly Teavoted, the shop’s little skull bells jangling cheerily behind her on the door.

At the counter, she recognized the teenager who was undoubtedly one of her brother’s brood of students now. The girl had grown at least an inch, and she was wearing her hair differently from the way she had last year, in micro-braids piled on top of her head, but it was still the same signature pink. Priscilla checked her name tag to make sure she remembered correctly; she wasn’t in the business of knowing children’s names off the top of her head.

“Hazel!” Priscilla’s cheery dancing hex was over, but she smiled, a real thing.

“Ms. Hart! Hi! I have your brother again this year! I just saw him last period.”

She was glad to see schools were still being flexible about students leaving early for college courses and work. She remembered Az mentioning Hazel taking an advanced-level literature class on top of his senior lit class at Hallowcross High at the local university twice a week. This must be one of her off days.

“Az says you’re doing a university class?” she offered.

Her face brightened. “He remembered! I knew it. I knew I was a favorite. Ooooh, Celeste is going to be jealous to hear this.”

“Whatever she has on the house, Hazel,” said Vickie, pushing through the double doors to the back, presumably to wash her hands and find an apron.

“I’m absolutely paying. Doing my duty to keep this place afloat.” If Vickie hadn’t bought Priscilla’s late mother’s tea shop and café, then devil only knew what sort of terrible chain would have replaced it. She certainly didn’t have the time or interest to run it, and it took serious commitment to make a small business profitable.

Hazel nodded, grinning. “What will it be? We have two donut specials today, Summer Bites, which is a honey-glazed dark chocolate donut hole, and You’re the Bun That I Want, which is strawberry jelly filled.” Priscilla’s eyes narrowed. Had Agatha checked the menu schedule to magic a flash mob? That sort of organization was exactly the devious shit that woman would get up to.

“An iced honeycomb latte and the second donut.”

“You have to say it. There was a whole themed flash mob and all.” Hazel’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Which I take it you knew about. Surely you are aware that this store is named for that cover of a Grease song from Pushing Daisies. So technically this mob is for us, specifically.”

Dammit. If the teens knew, everyone would know. Priscilla was going to get a bad reputation. People might think of her as mirthful. Lighthearted, even.

Her stomach recoiled at that.

“Fine,” she gritted out. She was dour, but she wasn’t a monster about to be cruel to a child over it. “A You’re the Bun That I Want, and one of those little yogurt parfaits, if you have any left.”

“Coming right up.”

She smiled at Hazel again—genuine, as this little mortal had nothing to do with the hate of her life hexing her to dance in public like a plebeian—and scoped out the seats. Her favorite corner table, a round, mahogany thing that reminded her of the dinner table at home in Hart Manor, was free, and she slid into the red velvet high-back chair behind it, letting herself sink into the relaxation of planning her next attempt on Agatha’s peace of mind.

She should be thinking about the Constance Witherspoon situation. And she would.

She’d just get her revenge first, that was all.