Page 9 of Hopelessly Teavoted

“Goddess, you really do,” sighed Priscilla, looking a bit wistful.

“Are you ready to order?” A man in a Wookiee T-shirt and an apron approached their table with tremendous caution, giving Prissy a wide berth, as though she might bite.

“I’ll have a Greedo Mojito.” Vickie scanned the menu. “And a Burger Fett.”

“And you?” He didn’t quite make eye contact with Priscilla.

“I’ll have another whiskey lemonade,” she said.

“Do you mean a Ha—”

“I most certainly do not, Daniel .” She glared at him, cat eyes sharp enough to kill.

“Sure, sure thing,” he said, half running back to the computer at the bar.

Vickie laughed. “What did you do to him?”

“I was perfectly nice; I just told him that I would not be calling my drink a Han Solo What a Man Solo all night. I have dignity, you know.” As if to emphasize it, she checked her lipstick in the camera of her phone, nodding satisfactorily when she saw that the dark red had not smudged.

“Never could get Mom’s lipstick spell right,” she said, and the undertone of it made Vickie reach for her hand.

“Hey. I’m so sorry.”

Prissy shrugged, her face dropping for a moment. “It’s not as bad anymore. I mean, it’s still bad, but it’s tolerable. The grief. The lipstick, on the other hand, even if it’s not exactly the way she did it, is damn near perfect.”

“I miss them too.” Vickie’s heart ached for the loss of Benedict and Persephone. The parents she’d never had and the pain over the parents she did have swam together, and for a moment, she was lost in thought. The scent of mint reminded her of the conservatory.

“Greedo Mojito and Less Than Twelve Parsecs Nachos,” Daniel said brightly. He turned to Prissy and added apologetically, “It just means twelve toppings.”

“It’s okay. I won’t bite.”

He looked unconvinced but somewhat relieved, and returned with Prissy’s drink before heading back to the increasingly busy bar.

Prissy leaned into Victoria. “I do actually bite, just not him.”

Vickie giggled into her mojito. She had missed this. Hallowcross. Prissy. All the Harts.

“You know,” said Priscilla, “don’t think I don’t remember that my brother also loves space shit. I saw him digging out his old posters to decorate his classroom.”

The thought made her chest twinge, remembering how earnest Azrael was with his love of, well, everything.

“I don’t pretend to know what happened between you two, but you should talk to him. He was so excited to see you.”

“He said that?”

Prissy winked. “He didn’t have to; it was all over his face.”

Vickie shut her eyes. She’d forgotten how much of a meddler Priscilla Hart could be. “I need to talk to him about something a ghost said, anyway.”

Priscilla sat up straighter, setting her drink down. “What did a ghost say?”

“My parents were up to their usual shit. I meant to mention it, but I’ve been swamped. I think Amelie and Maximillian made another mess luring that megachurch into town, and then walked away from it.” She sipped at her drink. “They’re good at walking away.”

The table jiggled ever so slightly, and Vickie remembered that Priscilla, like her brother, was also prone to the weight of anxiety. She was just a lot better at hiding it.

“Hey,” Vickie said softly. “At least we know what to expect from them.”

Her friend sighed, and for a moment, Vickie recognized the same little girl who had cried when her favorite toad died.

From the moment she’d stepped foot in Hallowcross again and met with her old friend to arrange for the shop, she’d noted the marble exterior occasionally encasing that tenderness, shielding the world from it, or her from the world.

Vickie wasn’t sure which one, but the mask was back up on Priscilla’s face. The one that had won her reputation on the Council as no-nonsense.

“I’d be lying if I said we weren’t trying to keep tabs on them,” Priscilla admitted, and though her breezy tone said she didn’t care, her careful stare suggested otherwise.

“You’d be a fool not to,” Vickie said dryly. Her friend’s face relaxed ever so slightly, and it was small enough that a stranger might never know, but they hadn’t grown up together for nothing. “Did you know they were responsible for bringing the church here?”

Prissy shook her head. “No. The church was on our watch list, but your parents only went once or twice, so while it had initially crossed my mind that they might be cutting more deals”—she paused, waving a hand toward Vickie—“ultimately, they became a low priority in the rush of the pandemic and all. And then…”

Her voice trailed off, and Vickie knew what she didn’t want to say.

And then Benedict and Persephone died, and Prissy’s world turned upside down, and Azrael couldn’t make it back in time for any of it, not for sitting shiva, not for the funeral service, handling the estate, and figuring out that they couldn’t afford to float both property taxes on Hart Manor and the cost of running the shop.

The timing had been awful, but disease knew nothing of death and mourning rituals.

The world spun on, blissfully oblivious to human folly.

Vickie swallowed, shaking off the dark thought. She had an image, too, and hers was made of sunshine. And, like Priscilla, she could use a facade to make it through.

“Well, they definitely invited the megachurch here, thought about cutting a deal, but decided that kind of bullshit was too much even for them.” She paused. “Which, honestly, is bad news, if it’s too much for people who would bargain with their own child.”

Priscilla scowled. “That is bad news. I’ll run it by Evelyn, see if she’s heard anything.

” She gestured to the bar. “I was actually glad to see things busy here tonight. I’ve heard rumbling about pressure on churchgoers to stop drinking.

And apparently, they tried to organize a review of the romance section of the bookstore.

Got shot down by the local librarian group, but still. It’s scary that they tried.”

“What. The. Fuck.”

“Exactly. Hallowcross is wonderful because people are open-minded here, with the exception of the occasional asshat. We should be able to have a good time without the puritanical bullshit that plagues some other places.”

“That megachurch has bad vibes,” said Vickie. She’d be damned if she let some ultraconservative religious movement run anything or anyone out of town. She’d gone away, but she was back now, and that had to count for something.

Her friend was giving her that look, the one that said she had something to say and she was going to say it whether Vickie liked it or not.

Goddess, she remembered that look. It had gotten the three of them into no small amount of trouble in childhood.

“Whatever it is you have to say, just say it.”

“You said they bargained with you.” Priscilla’s eyes narrowed, and her mouth turned down. She was going to make Vickie say it.

“Yes.”

The look on her face was too close to the one her father had given them the time they’d used his most rare shadow craft materials to make a magical dollhouse.

It had taken ages to get rid of the creepy little wooden doll that kept popping up, but how were they to know how potent Hawthorne wood was?

Just as she had to her father decades ago, Vickie caved to Priscilla Hart.

“Fine, the consequence for my gift is that they owed souls, to be collected for a lesser devil. When they legally disowned me, that debt transferred automatically. I have to collect three souls for him.”

To her credit, Priscilla only nodded. She didn’t bother with any reassurance; they had both been around such magic long enough to know it simply was what it was. But when a wicked smile crept up her friend’s face, Vickie knew she was in trouble.

“I’ve got a good idea,” Priscilla announced. “I’ll talk to Evelyn if you talk to Azrael.”

Her eyebrows waggled, and this? The matchmaking tendency? She came by that honestly, too, and it was all Persephone.

“Priscilla, you live with your brother. Can’t you just talk to him?”

“He’s been so different since our parents died. He needs a friend who isn’t a relative, Vickie,” Prissy wheedled. “Besides, the consequences of that kind of debt could be serious. He’d want to know. As your childhood best friend. Who has fewer and fewer people in his life.”

The dead parents card was too much to ignore, and Priscilla knew it.

“I’ll think about it,” Vickie said.

Shaking her head, Priscilla reached for the nachos and took a large, sour-cream-laden bite.

“Damn. I was wrong about these. I want to hate this kind of gimmick, but I love them.” She stared at the chip as though the remaining shredded chicken and guacamole on top of it might hold the secrets to the universe.

“I will always need these terrible nachos with my glass of alcohol from now on. It’s awful.

Awful, I tell you.” She shoveled another into her mouth, managing to look glamorous even when dabbing shredded cheese and salsa off her cheek.

That kind of composure had to be an art form of some sort.

“About Azrael,” Vickie reminded her. So what if a part of her wanted more details? They had been friends for ages, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the incident.

“Sorry,” said Priscilla, “those are the terms of the deal. Hey, I just remembered.” She sat up straight, lifting her glass. “Isn’t it your birthday soon? We could have a little catch-up the day of. You. Me. Evelyn. Azrael.”

Vickie swallowed, shaking her head.

“I, uh, have plans.”

The plans were inventory-related work tasks, but Priscilla didn’t have to know that.

Prissy shrugged. “Some other time, then. I bet Az would want to wish you a happy birthday too.” She waggled her eyebrows, and Vickie shot her a look.

“It’s a busy month,” she deflected. It wasn’t untrue.

Priscilla gave her a hard look, but let it go. She shoved another bite of nachos into her mouth, and that was that.

Vickie sighed. It looked like she had no choice but to let Priscilla think she could insist her way into Vickie and Azrael being something again.

They could be friends, she decided, watching the server make his way over with her burger. Friends were nice.