Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

We find ourselves gazing down at a collection of witches testing their mettle against the Witches’ road. Their first test overcome, they pile through an unlikely exit- an open oven- and find themselves flailing in the murky trenches of the road. Wet, bedraggled, and tired, the witches collect themselves to move ever onward. In most realities, Sharon Davis dies here- unceremoniously killed by the road, left to be forgotten as just one more casualty. But this Sharon Davis is special. By some great miracle, she survives. Let’s watch…

“Stop, we’re alive. We made it through the first test. Everyone is safe,” Lilia pointedly shut the conversation down.

“Not everyone,” Teen choked out. “Sharon’s dead.”

The suburban woman’s body lay wet and disheveled in the trench. Her hair matted against her face like moss on a tree. She was quiet as death itself. But, just as Teen moved to close the corpse’s eyes, the body came to life gasping for air.

“Oh my god,” Jen said, taken aback.

“See, Mrs. Hart is fine. Now let’s go,” Agatha commanded, as she theatrically whipped her sopping cloak and began striding off. The group ignored her.

“It’s Sharon,” the not-so corpse groaned. “And what was in that wine?” Teen helped brace the woman as she attempted to prop herself up. Clearly, she wasn’t going anywhere fast.

“Alewife’s revenge,” Jen began, as she dropped down to her knees to help the woman and Teen. “It was a poison, but we’re alive. How are you feeling?”

“Like I just came from a raging shindig. My head feels like people have been dancing on it for days, does anybody have an advil?”

Alice and Lilia patted their pockets, both coming up empty.

“Sorry,” Alice said meekly.

“What’s the hold up!” Agatha stormed back into the group. “There’s four more trials people, we’ve got a prize to get. Chop, chop!”

“Someone almost died, Agatha.” Jen snapped back while helping Teen pull Sharon to her feet. “I know that doesn’t mean much to a witch killer like you, but the rest of us have a heart.” Her words were caustic, the term witch killer dripping with extra venom.

“Oh, I’m wounded, Jen.” Agatha’s face twisted down giving the impression of pain. “I haven’t even killed anyone yet.”

“Yet?” Teen yelped.

“Okay, enough,” Lilia said, putting her foot down. “We’re all alive. No one is killing anyone. Agatha’s right, we have four more trials to get through. We won’t come out alive if we continue fighting.” Her countenance softened, gazing towards Sharon, “Are you alright, dear? Do you need a moment to rest?”

“No, no, these old bones are tougher than that,” Sharon said, pulling herself away from the crutch that Jen and Teen had been. “But, at the next store, I’ll pick up some advil. Wait,” Sharon felt around herself. “Where’s my purse?” Her eye’s went wild, “No, no! It came from Talbots!”

“Sharon, calm down, it’s just a purse,” Jen said, trying to placate an almost hysterical Sharon.

“No! You can’t have it!” Sharon stormed, as she fell to her knees. She beat the ground, “It’s the last present I got from my husband!” Her fury was increasing. Jen tried to reach for her, but was batted away.

“Give it back!” Sharon screamed as she continued to punch the ground, her hands crackling with flickering green sparks.

“Sharon!” Teen went to grab the witch’s crackling fury, but found Agatha holding him back. “Agatha?”

“Let’s see what she does with this,” Agatha said cautiously. The rest of the group stood in rapt attention.

“Give!” Sharon punched. “It!” Her fury bubbling over. “Back!” And with a burst of green energy, Sharon’s hand plowed through the auburn leaves and dark black road. The ground around her hand had turned into mud allowing her to delve into the unknown. After a few quick pulls, Sharon’s muddied hand came out clutching an equally muddied black bag.

“Strength…” Lilia said as if talking to herself.

“Did she just…” Jen trailed off.

Agatha rushed forward helping Sharon to her feet, the bag still clutched as a hard won prize to her chest. “Well, Ms. Hart-”

“Sharon,” the witch corrected.

“Welcome to the coven,” Agatha announced. Looking to the rest of the group, “And you doubted Ms. Hart-”

“Sharon,” Teen corrected this time.

“A bonafide green witch, just like Lilia predicted,” Agatha continued through the correction.

“I never-” But Lilia was cut off by Agatha again.

“And now that we’re all safe, and that we have our bags packed,” Agatha side-eyed Sharon, who was diligently wiping off her Talbots black bag special, “We can continue on.”

Once again Agatha flippantly twirled her still sopping wet cloak and strode down the red leafed road, the tails of which kicked up a small plume of leaves behind her. Alice, Teen, and Sharon took the hint and slowly followed behind.

“Did we really just see that?” Jen remarked.

Lilia patted Jen on the arm, “It’s best not to think of these things, Jen.” And with a sly smile, “We’re out of advil.”

The two witches then followed forth to join the others, their shock being left behind with the small muddy hole that now bubbled on the road behind them.

Chapter Text

The trail drew forward, the auburn leaves obscured the sound of the coven’s movements. The wane light of the moon peeked through the trees leaving the ghosts of shadows to play through the coven’s legs. It was quiet. The only living things that existed here were the witches meandering down the lonesome path.

“So, where’s the next gas station? They’d certainly have some advil,” Sharon chimed.

“It’s not that kind of road,” Alice answered.

“What kind of road doesn’t have a pit stop for travelers!” Sharon countered.

Agatha whipped around to face the coven, “The kind that gives you power!” Her hands seemed to manifest the prize out of thin air, clutching an almost invisible force that played through her fingers. “Now, if we’re done-”

“But, I don’t want power. My home has enough of it. Now, sure, the price has gone up the last few-” But, Sharon found her protest cut short by the cold and darting finger of Agatha.

“Not that sort of power.” She moved her finger from shushing Sharon, “The kind of power that got you your bag.” She gestured at the still muddied purse. Although the zipper had kept the contents safe, the bag itself was still worse for the wear. “Now, back to the-”

“I already have my purse.”

Agatha’s hands splayed in anger, her frustration boiling over into her face. Lilia cut in before the situation worsened.

“Dear, the road is for desperate people. People who need something the regular world can’t resolve. For each of us it’s a different resolution. Agatha here wants power.” Lilia pointed the last word like a dagger, prompting Agatha to spin around and stomp off. “But for you it may be something different. What do you want?” The elderly witch held the confused woman’s hands.

“I don’t know. I have my garden and my house. Oh, but I do miss my husband. Without him the world feels less…” Sharon trailed off.

“I don’t think the road can bring back people from the dead,” Alice mourned.

“The road can do anything,” Agatha interjected, coming back into the group. “Anything you want. It simply bends reality to its will,” her gaze trailed over Teen before falling back onto Sharon. “So if you want Mr. Hart back-”

“Mr. Davis,” Sharon stressed.

“Whomever back,” Agatha continued, “You just simply have to finish the road.” Agatha twirled her cloak like a matador’s cape, revealing the open road behind her.

Jen rested a hand on Sharon’s shoulder, “She’s right. The road will know what you want most, it’s best to just continue on.”

“Exactly, so off we go!” And with a theatrical twirl, Agatha was back to marching onward followed by Jen in toe.

The rest of the coven continued on behind them, Sharon’s face resting in a sort of confused grimace as she trailed behind.

The road continued on, its twisting and turning becoming almost hypnotic under the night sky. Light chatter happened between the members from moment to moment; Teen asking about Sharon’s life in Westview, what the Scarlet Witch was like; Jen commenting on Alice’s fashion, Alice describing how she used to be a police officer. Idle chatter flitted in and out of the group just as the shadows from the surrounding forest played on them. The hectic moments of the last trial faded away to the monotony of the trek. Fear was replaced with calm, anticipation with an undercurrent of gaiety.

“Hey,” Teen broke the spell of tranquility. “Are those lights?”

“Why that must be the next trial!” Agatha clapped her hands. “That only took-”

“No,” Alice cut in. “I’m not going in there. I’ll just-” and Alice turned to back away, but only found herself staring at the same lights mirrored behind her.

“It seems that the road doesn’t agree, Alice.” Agatha observed.

Alice’s normal brave visage crumpled into fear, the dark highlights of memory wrinkling across her face like aftershocks from some precipitously dangerous earthquake.

“I can’t,” Alice continued.

“Oh, but you will,” came Agatha, her hands resting on Alice’s shoulders. “You’re our protection witch. So, continue on, protect us since you know what this is.”

“I can’t see a thing without my glasses,” Sharon broke through. “What are we even looking at?”

“It seems to be some sort of cabin?” Jen said.

“Something warm and inviting?” Teen countered, giving a quizzical look over to Alice.

“Like an old crash pad I had during the seventies,” Lilia flatly reported.

“Well, I’m going to see if this place has any advil,” Sharon announced as she began toward the distant lights.

“See, Alice, the only one scared is you,” Agatha goaded, pushing on Alice’s shoulder to get her moving.

“You don’t understand-” Alice started

“Oh, no, I do,” Agatha insisted, increasing the pressure on Alice’s shoulders. “It’s a trial and-”

“It’s my trial.” Agatha’s attempt to move Alice stopped.

“Ahh, so we get to see if Mommy survived the road,” Agatha goaded, removing her grip from Alice.

“Can you be a sympathetic person for one instant, Agatha?” Jen countered as she sidled up to Alice. “Look, if your mom’s in there, we’ll face her together, alright?”

“My mother’s dead,” Alice said flatly. “She died on the road. On tour,” she corrected herself in response to a confused look from Jen. “That,” Alice pointed, “was her old recording studio.”

“We get to see where Lorna Wu recorded The Ballad!?” Teen’s surprise lept out. Alice’s face crumpled further into itself. “Sorry,” Teen said, realizing what he’d done.

“So she died, so what?” Agatha strode on, her hands firmly gripping onto a power she no longer commanded. “We’re alive, and we can defeat whatever that trial has conjured.”

Alice’s face continued to shift inward.

“Anyway, Mrs. Hart is already at the door,” Agatha sneakily continued. “I doubt she can handle the trial by herself.”

A sneer jumped to Jen’s lips, “That’s cruel, Agatha.”

“But true,” came Alice’s response. “This is my trial,” Alice paused, pulling herself up by invisible strings, “And I need to make sure you all survive this.”

“That’s my protection witch!” Agatha clapped, sending a ripple of disdain through the coven. “But, ugh, yes,” Agatha’s response cowed to the resentment, “We’ll be with you as sisters in the craft.” The words fell flat on the group.

Silently, Alice strode forward. The rest of the coven followed suit.

The building loomed into view. Sweeping pyramidal overhangs swung out from the building giving the impression that it could fly away at any moment, while golden light poured out as if a sunset hung gently beneath its wings. Rough hewn stone kept the building grounded though, its walls rising in stark contrast to the more angular designs above. In the center of all of this sat a double door. Clothed in shades of amber glass, the door nestled neatly into the stone. A large glass depiction of a waxing moon took center stage in the door, while tiny satellite moons depicted the rest of the phases around it. All of this was clad in the same shades of amber that flanked the door itself.

As the coven made their way up to the door they could see Sharon gently rapping to try and garner any occupant’s attention. The light made her seem younger, more energetic, as if the light of the building itself turned back the sands of time.

“Hello, hello?” Sharon continued her suburban assault on the door.

“I don’t think anyone’s home.” Agatha said as she strode up to the door.

“Well, we don’t know that. And just like at the last house, it’s rude to barge in without trying,” Sharon countered.

By this point the entire coven had gathered around the door. Soft fingertips glided along the lunar impressions, the light erasing time and hesitancy where it lingered.

“A waxing moon,” Lilia let out as her fingers traveled the outer crescent.

“The fire phase,” Teen added.

“Well, protection witch?” Agatha pointed.

The fear and anxiety of the last few minutes melted from Alice as she jostled her way through the coven to brandish the dark door handles aside. Warm air and the cloying scent of patchouli wafted out of the crack. Before she knew it she was inside along with the rest of the coven.

“Don’t drink anything. Don’t eat anything. Don’t. Touch. Anything!” Alice’s voice solidly commanded.

With the door closed behind them, the coven could finally see the lay of the land. The building opened into a round room divided into concentric areas. The center circle contained all the amenities the seventies could provide: a semicircle couch in a shade of ochre that hadn’t been seen since the previous century, a turntable complete with a set of vinyls, a dry bar with what looked like an attached hookah, and a rough assemblage of lamps giving off the warm glow that could be seen from outside. This room sunk into the floor, as was the style of the time, while the outer circle surrounding it seemed to preside over the area.

The walls of the outer circle contained all the pictures of the past: a signed copy of Lorna Wu’s tour poster, a platinum album of Fleetwood Mac’s Bare Trees, various tribal masks from the hedonist movement of the 1970’s, and strikingly long tapestries depicting various methods by which witches were tortured centuries ago. These tapestries stood in stark contrast to the rest of the room’s decor, their woven shapes appearing as if on fire due to the warm spotlights backlighting them. A long arc of delicately designed glass acted as a partition between the various artists’ paraphernalia and the sitting area. The warm lights in the center caused the partitioning glass to cast dazzling red shadows along the outer walls. This did not soften the allusion to burning the tapestries created.

Opposite the entrance sat a collection of instruments: a simple black piano, an arrangement of guitars both acoustic and electric, a microphone stand, a set of drums, and a small cluttering of percussion instruments. Beyond that was a double sided mirror through which an intimate studio could be seen, the entrance to which flanked either side of the instruments. Altogether, the room was rather small. Enough for the coven to walk around in, but small enough to have an eye on everyone at all times. It was, in essence, a small recording studio where a band could lounge in between takes.

“Check me out,” Agatha proclaimed. She had wandered over to a nearby floor length mirror. Her entire outfit had changed to suit the room- the entire coven’s had.

“Oh my, I look like the Dark Lady herself!” Sharon exclaimed, while flipping her now long dark hair to the side.

“I don’t think you’re tall enough to be Cher,” Agatha sniped.

“Oh, and you are?” Jen fired back.

“Well, it’s really not about how tall you are, but how wicked.” Wicked came out like a hiss, deliberate and dark, making Agatha seem snake-like with her popped collar.

Lilia poked Teen with her elbow. “We could be Donnie and Marie,” she chided.

“Who?” Teen asked.

“Oh, you’re so young,” came an almost wistful response from Lilia.

“And who am I supposed to be?” Jen said, as she slid into the mirror’s welcoming frame.

“Stevie Nicks before I taught her,” Agatha seductively paused, “my ways.”

“You and Stevie Nicks?” Teen gasped.

“Please, she’s just pulling your leg.” Jen shot Agatha a look of annoyance.

“Well, how else do you think she became so witchy.” Agatha punctuated the words with a lick of her lips and a twirl of her hands. “Anyway, we all look- wait, where’s Alice.”

“Here,” Alice said meekly. She hadn’t moved from where she entered.

“You look like that woman who broke up the Beatles!” Teen exclaimed.

“That’s Yoko Ono,” Agatha corrected while striding toward Alice. “And I’m the one that broke them up.”

Jen rolled her eyes. “Is there any culturally historic event you haven’t been a part of?”

Agatha paused. “None that I’m willing to admit to,” she concluded before reaching Alice. She dropped her voice low enough to not be heard by the rest of the coven, “You can’t hide from this.”

“I know,” said Alice.

“The only way out is through. And this is your trial.” Agatha continued as the rest of the coven started making their way around the room.

“Sure…” Alice’s voice turned defensive, as if she was a teenager caught smoking.

“Look,” Agatha gestured to the coven meandering about the room, “They are in danger here. Only you know what that danger is. What is it we’re facing?” Agatha’s eyes bored into Alice, but found no purchase. Alice’s defiant expression didn’t move.

“Fine,” Agatha growled. “But if you get me killed-”

The lights of the room dulled as an ear splitting screech filled the room. The normally rosy tone of the lamps turned dingy, their normally vibrant orange washed down to an ochre similar to that of the couch- a couch that Teen was kneeling against.

“What’s going on!” Agatha screamed over the din.

“I don’t know!” Countered an indistinguishable coven member’s voice.

The sound continued on both droning and sharply incessant. A dark voice spread out from the sound, something ruinous and twisted. The sound slithered over the cacophony like smoke, twirling around every ear until it had crossed the entire room.

“It’s coming from the turntable!” Alice shouted.

And in that instance, Agatha acted. Striding forward like an angered bear, she ripped the turntable from its anchors and smashed it onto the hardwood floor. Pieces of plastic and vinyl exploded from the force spraying the nearby area with tragedy and remorse. Agatha’s anger continued on, kicking the broken machine into a mess of wires and barely recognizable wood paneling. The ear splitting noise the machine had created died within itself leaving only the sound of Agatha’s enraged breath as she stood over the carnage she had wrought.

The frail sound of Lilia’s voice floated over the hush, “We’re cursed.”

“Cursed?” Agatha let out, “Teen what did you do!” Her glare wilted Teen against the ochre couch.

“The disc,” he began.

“Vinyl,” Sharon corrected as she picked up the discarded sleeve.

“It said-” he was cut off.

“Play me,” Sharon read off the sleeve before lifting it to show the rest of the coven. “Play Me” was written across the vinyl’s protective paper sleeve in enticing typeface.

Agatha’s glare turned back towards Alice; the woman hadn’t moved from the entrance.

“Alice. I’m asking you. What rabbit did we just chase!” Agatha roared.

“A Jefferson Airplane reference at this time, Agatha?” Jen pointed back. “It’s not her fault, don’t hound her with questions she doesn’t have answers to.”

Agatha wheeled back on Jen, “Don’t you start, Kale.”

“Oh, I’ll start,” Jen swung back. “You’ve been on that girl’s case since this trial started. And-” But, she was cut off.

Lilia screamed, a tortured sharp exhale of pain. Smoke rose from her sequined collar as she fell to the floor holding herself together in rictus pain.

“What’s happen-” Sharon began.

“I need something to draw with, quick!” Alice said as she lept toward the convulsing Lilia.

“I have an eyebrow pencil in my bag,” Sharon said as she started on the zipper.

“Quick!” Alice held out her hand to Sharon into which was deposited a slightly used dark brown eyebrow pencil. Alice dove for Lilia, grinding the pencil into the wooden floor creating a dark black gouge.

“Expelle hoc malum!” Alice chanted as she crawled her way around Lilia continuing the gouge. “Expelle hoc malum!” She continued as she finished a crudely drawn circle around Lilia. The moment the gouge connected into a circle Lilia sighed. The smoke rising from her dissipated away.

“Now that was almost $10 at Ulta, missy!” Accused Sharon, as Alice got up to return the now defaced pencil.

“Sorry, I’ll get you a new one when we get out of here,” apologized Alice, dropping the pencil into her hand.

“Alice,” Agatha sweetly mewed, “I’m asking you, what rabbit have we chased down here?”

“Again with the reference?” Jen exclaimed, as she knelt down to check on Lilia.

“If the name fits,” barked Agatha. “Now what are we dealing with?”

“I don’t-” Alice began, but was cut short by a gasp.

In the process of checking on Lilia, Jen had peeled the lapels of her sequined coat back. Long fervent burns coursed across Lilia’s shoulder, her flesh red and blistered. The gasp was Jen’s.

“What even is this,” Jen said, her eyes wild.

“Alice,” said Agatha. The single word brought the entire coven’s eyes to bear down on the protection witch.

“I’m sorry! I thought it was me! I thought it was just my shitty luck!” Alice’s face broke, tears fell freely. In the dim light they looked like rubies, drops of blood. “I thought it was me, it’s why I couldn’t hold a job or why everything I touched just broke!”

“Alice!” Agatha said, her voice commanding an explanation. And with that Alice composed herself enough to give one.

With a slow and deliberate movement, Alice shifted her shirt to one side showing a scar eerily similar to the one that had appeared on Lilia. Although the flesh had healed over, the shape was the same.

“I’ve had it with me since I was a child. I thought it was just a birthmark,” Alice paused. “My mother had the same one.”

“A generational curse,” Lilia cooed.

“A what?” Sharon said, as she gently tiptoed into the protection circle with Jen and Lilia.

“A string of bad luck that carries on down a line of witches,” Lilia explained.

The sound of air moving brought everyone’s attention up. The fabric that hung neatly in the ceiling to prevent sound from echoing swirled and twisted as if buffeted by hurricane force winds. Then everything stopped. Just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The fabric came to a halt as if no breeze had ever been.

“That was weird,” Teen commented, but a worried expression crossed Agatha’s face. “Agatha?” Teen started, but was drowned out by a ravenous howl. The fabric that lined the ceiling exploded in fire as the sound shot down towards them.

Agatha’s eyes went cold and calculating as if they could see what was about to happen.

“Don’t stab him!” Lilia screamed, her hands trying to push Jen away.

“What?” Teen said, turning back towards the encircled women.

She jumped. Head first, Agatha tossed her bedazzled jumpsuited body in front of Teen. Fire erupted across her midsection. From his view, Teen could only see a wall of fire- a wall of fire and then chaos. In a split second Agatha’s body had been there and then it lay crumpled across the dry bar, the hookah shattered in a million pieces across the floor. Scorch marks covered the faux-wood paneling. A dry layer of carbon lay dormant over the glass partition behind it.

The last words she heard were, “Oh my god, is she dead!”

Chapter Text

“After all these years, sweetheart.” The words were cutting, yet sultry. They danced upon the air like razorblades, each one ready to open old wounds with surgical precision.

Agatha found herself standing in the same room she had just been minutes ago. The same ochre couch, the same lamps, the same smashed turntable, but now everything had a pale green tint to it. The couch seemed less ochre in the light and more chartreuse, while the lamps produced no light at all. And then there was the body. Slumped neatly against the dry bar lay Agatha Harkness. One could say she looked asleep if they excused the large cauterized gash that ran along her stomach.

“I’m-” Agatha began.

“Dead. Yes.” The sound came from the only other out of place object, a single woman leaning against the piano on the far side of the room. In her right hand she held a dagger that she was absentmindedly digging into the piano’s finish, while her left held a small lantern that was giving off the green glow that tinted the room.

“He was never yours, you know,” the figure continued on. “To sacrifice yourself for him of all people, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

I have learned the lesson…

“Shut your mouth,” Agatha growled at the figure, her eyes still trained on her lifeless body.

“Such harsh words.” The figure slammed the knife into the piano. The blade stuck with a thunk, but left the piano singing an off chord filling the air with a chill. “Is that the thanks I get for giving you such special treatment?”

Of all that’s foul and fair…

“Special treatment?” Agatha finally turned her head to look at the figure. “You took him! You took everything!” Her hands balled into fists, her eyes misted over. “That’s all you can ever do is take!”

“I gave you time!” The figure screamed back at Agatha, pulling out the knife as the piano protested again.

Our love was forged in fire…

“You gave me pain!” Agatha spun towards the encroaching figure.

“That’s what life is, sweetheart! You think I enjoyed this!” The figure pointed her knife accusingly at Agatha. “I love you,” the words were soft, unlike the knife. They hung in the air like lyrics to a song waiting for the next note to catch up.

Water, Earth, and Air…

“I hate you,” Agatha spat back.

“If only you meant that,” came the figure’s reply.

Stubbornly Agatha dropped her eyes. “I need more time.”

The spell is cast…

“Well, I need a favor,” the figure said now inches from Agatha, her knife settling languidly against Agatha’s chin.

Agatha glanced up. The dark pools of the figure’s eyes caught her, trapped her, pulled her down into memories of nights long ago- nights where pain and pleasure came together like old lovers, twinned together in the throes of carnality.

How long it lasts…

“So?” the figure prompted.

I cannot divine…

“You want him dead.”

“You catch on quick,” the figure leaned in, the knife long since falling to her side. Her breath was hot, smelling faintly of jasmine and fresh iron.

The road is there…

Agatha leaned closer, tasting the mix of life and death hanging in the air.

“How,” Agatha murmured.

And so I dare…

There was no answer, just a graze of flesh against flesh and a familiar sharp weight falling into Agatha’s pocket.

“Sweetheart.” The words flowed against her skin like live electricity.

“Rio,” the word was like a spell, and with it the world came back into focus.

To risk this heart of mine!

Chapter Text

Down, down, down the road!

Down the Witches’ Road!

The world spiraled into view. Sounds, shapes, smells came back in a fit of gasping and flailing. The corpse of Agatha Harkness drew breath once again.

“You’re alive!” Billy dropped his guitar and rushed over along with most of the coven; Jen continued to stand in the previously made protection circle clutching her guitar.

Agatha coughed and sputtered before finding hands to pull her up.

“We saw her die!” Jen yelled over to the group.

“A house didn’t fall on me, did it?” Agatha retorted while dusting away the wound. The damage she had taken simply wiped away leaving little trace of the attack.

“I couldn’t-” Alice began, tears rounding the lashes of her eyes.

“Doesn’t matter,” Agatha said dismissing the witch’s concerns. “Your playing was so bad it could have brought anyone back from the dead.”

“Excuse me?” Lilia interjected.

“You heard me, Calderu. If you weren’t so pitchy,” Agatha added.

“Told you,” Jen piled on.

“Oh, don’t think whatever you were doing was any better, Kale.” Agatha flippantly strode toward the microphone stand. “I’ll take vocals, Calderu you’re on percussion.”

“Well, I was trained on the zils,” Lilia said, taking up a pair of finger cymbals.

Agatha glanced over at the drums where Sharon took her seat.

“You play the drums?” Agatha pointed the question at Sharon.

“Oh yes, that’s how I met my husband. In high school I was part of a band called the-”

“Okay, enough.” Agatha shut the response down. “I’ve been alive for less than a minute and already I’m regretting,” she paused, her eyes trailing over Billy while fingering something in her pocket, “... It.”

“It?” Billy’s question hung in the air.

Instead of answering, Agatha instead turned toward Alice. “Play like a witch this time, I’m not dying here again.”

“This might not even work,” Alice worried.

“It will. Now play.” Agatha’s word was final.

Alice’s hand danced over the keys, light, but precise, taps formed the starting chords of the song. Sharon followed, the dull melodic backdrop of a steady rhythm gave the song pace. Jen and Billy strummed their guitars, the delicate notes winding in with the graceful tunes of the piano creating harmonies. And with a ring of zils, Agatha’s voice rang out raw and unabashed.

I have known the power,

Of midnights in the wood,

I’ve danced inside the circle…

A tapestry depicting witches boiling in oil burst into flames off to the side of the band. The sound and heat distracted Alice, Jen, and Billy from their playing long enough for Agatha to scream-

“Keep playing!”

Of all that’s bad and good!

The danger’s great, the trials wait,

For those that seek the prize!

Tame your fears,

A door appears,

To love that never dies!

Agatha’s voice filled the space. Even over the din of the now burning tapestries as well as the fabrics in the ceiling still smoldering away, her voice was clear and resolute. The piano playing, on the other hand, dipped in and out- the notes quavering, pitching sometimes wildly hard, while others drowning under the intense situation barely to be heard.

Agatha looked over at Alice, “You’re not playing like a witch!”

“Sorry, I just-” But Alice was cut off. The double sided recording mirror behind them cracked morosely; Alice winced.

“Billy, take the chorus!” Agatha yelled, stalking over to Alice.

“Who?” Jen’s face twisted up in absolute confusion.

“The magician…” Lilia breathed, dropping her zils. Coming out of her trance, she quickly recovered by grabbing a triangle to join the chorus.

Billy stopped for a moment, his breath catching. He felt a weight in his pocket shift, before realizing that Agatha was already at Alice’s side with no one taking the chorus. Taking a firm step, he was at the mic-

“Down, down, down the road,” his voice was horse and unwieldy. Agatha glared at him over the conversation she was having with Alice, bringing him back to the reality at hand.

Down the Witches’ road!

Down, down, down the road,

Down the Witches’ road!

“Microphone!” Agatha yelled to Billy, a command followed by a quick toss of the microphone. The cable draped sullenly over the piano as Agatha caught the attached mic.

Follow me, my friend-

Agatha’s gaze softened along with her voice as she took a seat on the piano lid. Never lifting her eyes from Alice, she continued on.

To glory at the end!

The room was quickly filling with smoke and heat. The tapestries each raged like a mini-inferno, the fire’s light filtering through the glass partitions giving the illusion that the band itself was on fire. The fabrics above had reignited casting showers of embers around. A rogue ember hit the ochre couch setting it ablaze.

“We don’t have much time,” Billy yelled!

“Then to the bridge!” Agatha yelled, shoving the microphone into Alice’s face.

“Me?” Alice said, confused at the black beast hovering in front of her.

“It’s your trial!” Agatha bleated, as a piece of flaming paraphernalia fell from a nearby wall.

Alice visibly gulped, her fingers becoming more steady on the keys.

If I can’t reach you,

Let my song teach you!

Her voice strengthened over every word, becoming more powerful with each note. The fires seemed to do the same as if trying to drown her in heat.

All you need to keep our love alive!

If I can’t hold you,

Remember what I told you!

It’s the only way we survive!

We survive!

“What is that!” Sharon screamed, her drumsticks pointing upward. A bat-like abomination sat wreathed in flames along one of the glass partitions. It’s skin red and charred like burned flesh. Its face both a contortion of pain and hate all brought together over a beak-like mouth- a mouth that opened into a retching scream.

“Kill it with fire!” Billy screamed.

“It’s already on fire!” Jen pointed out, much to Billy’s chagrin.

“I can kill it!” Alice yelled out, diving into the piano keys like a woman possessed. Her notes became weapons, each chord a blow against the beast. “Keep singing!”

Agatha took back the mic, her eyes fiercely on the creature now charging into the burning rafters as a means to escape the noise.

The road is wild and wicked,

Winding out of time.

Still we face our fortune,

Chasing the sublime!

What’s lost is found, what’s fierce is bound,

We’re broken and we’re burned.

But take a breath,

And dance with death,

My love cannot be turned!

Alice’s playing continued on, her charge on the piano becoming an anthem bolstering everyone. The chorus wound up into the rafters, pushing away the protective fire the creature attempted to hide in. It was as if the song itself billowed upward, a spell seeking its intended target. The creature screamed, now left wide open and defenseless. The fires that hugged it fizzled out leaving its skin bare and glowing. It lunged.

Agatha rolled off the piano lid, landing on the floor in a pile of microphone wire and charred spandex. But, Agatha was not the intended target. The beast landed squarely on the shoulders of Alice, its beating wings punctuated with bleating screeches.

“Alice! Agatha!” Billy yelped.

“Keep playing!” Came a tandem battlecry from Agatha and Alice, their voices cascading over the battlefield like hardened generals.

Down, down, down the road!

Down the Witches Road!

“Down the Witches Road!” Sharon added as a round.

Down, down, down the road!

Down the Witches Road!

“Down the Witches Road!” Jen added her lilting soprano.

Down, down, down the road!

Down the Witches Road!

“Down the Witches Road!” Billy finished the round taking a stab at the baritone harmony.

Wherever it may bend,

I’ll see you at the end!

With the final note Alice stood up from the piano. “I’ll see you at the end!” She screamed. And with that the creature burst into flames. Fire poured over Alice and for a brief moment it appeared as if she wore a cape of pure immolation. Her eyes glimmered in the dim reflections, two flames resolved to burn for eternity.

And then it was dark. The various fires around the room snuffed in an instant leaving everyone in darkness.

Billy turned to no one in particular, “She killed it with fire.”

“Shut up,” Jen came back at him.

“I can’t see a thing, somebody turn on a light,” came the frantic ministrations of Sharon as she knocked aside the drum kit.

“I think I can do that now,” Alice said. From her palm a small flame rose casting a wane light across the now open piano. In the darkness the piano’s lid had opened revealing a path down, further into the trials.

Agatha untangled herself from the wires, standing up just to look down the path the piano had opened up.

“I died just for the path to be there the whole time,” Agatha joked. “Typical.”

“Well, I’m getting out of here before the roof caves in,” Sharon cried. “Help me up, dear,” the elderly woman requested of the newly freed witch. Alice gave her a small boost with her less dangerous hand before joining her down the path.

Lilia sauntered up, now carrying a set of maracas. “You know, I always liked these things,” she said before tossing them to the side and heading down the path. Jen followed shortly after, mumbling something about killing flaming things with fire under her breath. All that was left in the now cold dark room were Agatha and Billy.

“Well, off we-” Agatha began, hitching a foot over the piano’s case.

“You called me Billy.”

“So I did.” The response was matter of fact. “Would you prefer I use your full name, teenager?” Teenager took on a mocking tone, like you would call a servant that had stepped out of line.

“When did you know?”

“Death has a way of being very enlightening,” she came back, removing her leg from the piano case.

“So you did die.” Billy’s tone, like his face, remained guarded, decidedly neutral.

“I prefer to think of it as a preview of what’s to come,” she paused. “But for whom, now that’s the question.”

“What is that supposed to mean.” It wasn’t a question, more a demand. Billy’s hands clenched in and out of fists, small crackles of blue power wove through the gaps in his fingers.

“Someone wants you dead,” Agatha casually remarked, her hands coming to form a sign of contemplation across her chin.

“Like you.” His eyes turned down, angry.

“Me?” Agatha laughed before her voice chilled, “I’m still undecided.” Her hands came back to rest on her hips, her right traveling lower to massage a lump in her pocket.

“Why did you save me if you only came back to kill me?”

“Again, undecided,” Agatha corrected, but then her face changed. A crack formed across her normally mocking visage. Something soft came through, something vulnerable. “You might have reminded me of,” a slight pause, “a boy I once knew.”

“Did you end up killing him?”

Agatha’s face reformed, her dark demeanor taking shape as she lunged- the dark lump in her pocket taking form in her hand. A knife. In a flash she was there at Billy’s throat, or would have been. Blue static propelled the burned remains of the ochre couch between the two preventing Agatha from gaining the reach she needed to finish the job. The knife cut delicately in the air just inches from the crowned youth.

“You’re just like your mother, crown and all.”

“She’s not my mother,” he spat back.

“Oh?” She retracted the knife to gesture around the room, “And all this is just, what, a convenient way to start a band? A piss-poor way to live out a Dungeons and Dragons campaign?”

“This is the road, Agatha.” He stressed the word road with reverence.

“Right, yeah, of course.” Agatha turned away making her way toward the exit, pocketing the knife as she walked. “Well, we’ve got three more trials to go,” she paused at the piano’s case with a grand flourish. “And you have an entrance to make, my queen.” Agatha bowed on the word queen, taunting the crowned youth.

Refusing to rise to the bait, Billy walked forward, took Agatha’s hand, and descended down the road, his eyes glued to the sharp lump in Agatha’s pants.

Chapter Text

“What are they doing up there,” Jen commented, as the witches milled about the exit. The lavender colored leaves whirled around their feet from an invisible gust, while a full luminous moon bobbed in the sky above. The color palette gave the coven a mostly morose semblance, even though the dust and ash from the last trial had magically whisked itself away once completed.

“I’m fine with them taking their time,” Sharon offhandly commented. “I could use a good sit.”

“Agreed,” Lilia said, spying a fallen log on the road and gesturing toward it. The two elderly women sat down making idle chit chat about life and the pains of being of a certain age.

“I’m just glad that’s over,” Alice added to no one in particular. “Hey,” she perked up, “How about a fire!” She still carried the flickering torch in her palm from the trial.

“Oh, that would be lovely, Alice,” Lilia cooed.

“A bonfire!” Sharon squealed, “And we can tell scary stories!”

“I’ll pass, today has been scary enough,” Jen moaned.

“Oh, come on, grab some sticks and help out.” Alice gestured to Jen with a stick she had picked up, a few temperamental leaves hung along the length.

“The Ace of Wands…” Lilia’s voice came through as if from a far away place.

“What?” Alice queried, putting her stick down to start the pyre.

“Are we doing tarot now,” Jen said, casually tossing a few sticks over to Alice.

“That’s just old age, dear,” Sharon said with a comforting pat on Lilia’s leg. “My mother had dementia and sometimes she would get like this,” she concluded in an almost conspiratorial tone to the other witches.

“I don’t have dementia,” Lilia indignantly shot back.

“Then where do you go?” Jen said, her face a mixture of curiosity, teasing, and concern. “This is what the,” Jen mentally counted back, “The third time you’ve said something random?”

“It’s not random,” Lilia countered.

By now the bonfire was stoked enough to shed warmth across the women gathered round- Lilia and Sharon on a fallen log, Jen on a small rocky outcrop, and Alice leaning on a longer stick she had recovered to tend the fire. Alice absently poked at the embers smoldering on the rim of the bonfire.

“It certainly sounds random,” Jen said, as she delicately inspected her nails.

“It sounds like dementia,” Sharon whispered lowly over to Jen.

“It’s divination, isn’t it?” Alice cut in, calming a storm before it began. “That’s your speciality, right Lilila?”

“Yes, thank you dear.” Lilia gave a sidelong glance that swept over an oblivious Sharon and a far too aware Jen. “It’s my gift,” she continued, her hands unfolding toward the fire as if displaying a deck of cards. “I’ve had it since I was a child.”

“And this causes you to say random tarot cards?” Jen criticized, expecting an equally annoyed response from Lilia. Except, all she got was a sigh in return.

“The flow of time is an illusion, Jen,” Lilia explained, her face softening as she looked squarely into the campfire before her. “I’ve lived my entire life out of order. One moment I’m here before this campfire, the next I’m two trials down the road saving you from a falling sword.”

“A falling sword?!” Jen cried out.

“You survive,” Lilia remarked blandly. “The cards help give form and substance to an otherwise incomprehensible mess.” She shook her hands to emphasize. “But it’s always the same. I can’t stop it.” Stop it came out as a crack, a break in an otherwise composed, yet tired, woman.

“Stop what exactly?” Alice gently probed.

“Death.” The silence that Lilia brought with a single word was enough to drown out the cracks and sputters of the campfire.

“Witches and coven members!” The sound of Agatha’s boisterous announcement rolled across the makeshift camp. She stood at the trial’s exit, a dark hole roughly the size of a person seemingly carved out of rock; her cloak held up like a mock theatrical display, “I give to you-”

“Knock it off,” Billy unceremoniously shoved the cloak aside. His crown caught the light of the fire as he strode forward; it was blue, as opposed to the Scarlet Witch’s red, with delicate inlays resembling leaves as if the road had influence over this as well.

“Oh, come on,” Agatha pouted, her cloak falling dejectedly back behind her. Billy continued to ignore her.

“I’m sorry,” Billy said, fishing into his pocket. He brought out the broken remnants of the sigil. “It broke,” he said, showing it to Lilia before depositing it into the fire.

“You put the sigil on him?” Alice cried out.

“Well that solves one mystery.” Jen rolled her eyes, “About a million more to go.”

Lilia’s eyes went wide for a moment, before resigning back into a neutral stance. They followed the frail bits of wood into the fire as they traveled from pocket, to palm, to ashes. Her contemplation lasted long enough for Agatha to walk up and interject.

“An explanation, Lilia?”

“I was protecting him,” Lilia flatly returned, her eyes still lost in the fire’s glow.

“Agatha is certainly a danger to witches,” Jen offhandedly jabbed.

“Hey, none of you are dead!” Agatha swung back.

“I was kidnapped,” Sharon poked in, gaining a fiery glare from the cloaked woman.

“That doesn’t count,” Agatha brushed the comment away before turning back to Billy. “Anyway. Someone,” she let the word hang while cracking a devilish smile, “Has an announcement. Don’t you, pet.”

Billy gave a sideways glance at the cloaked devil beside him, her grin looking particularly vicious in the crackling glow of the fire. His gaze swung around the coven to see that everyone had their eyes on him save Lilia, who still gazed deeply into the inferno.

“My name is Billy Maximoff-” He started. but Sharon was already on her feet, her bag held before her like a talisman to ward away evil.

“Maximoff! Like,” she gasped, her countenance breaking into absolute terror. “No, no!” She screamed before fleeing in horror, kicking up a flurry of lavender colored leaves in the process.

“Wait! Sharon!” Alice screamed before turning to the coven. “I’ll keep her safe,” she said mid-stride. In a moment they were both out of view, two witches down the road.

“On their way to the next trial,” Agatha said mockingly, “Guess I’ll meet you girls there.” Before anyone could respond, Agatha was already sauntering down the road.

“I’m sorry,” Jen stammered. “Let’s roll this back. Are we talking Wanda Maximoff? The Scarlet Witch Maximoff? That Maximoff!” But the questions weren’t directed at Billy. Jen bore the full force of her shock at Lilia. “And you hid that from us!” The last bit was practically a scream.

“No, dear, I hid that from her,” Lilia said, finally breaking eye contact with the fire. Her bony finger rose like a zombie from the grave, cold and unfeeling. Jen and Billy’s eyes followed the trail of the finger instinctually- just to the left of the last trial’s exit stood a figure, a figure that cackled into the night sky.

“So you do remember me,” the figure said, sauntering closer.

“You took everyone!” Lilia shivered, her hands crumpling into fists.

“Lilia, you know this-” Jen started, but stopped mid sentence. The figure existed just at the rim of the campfire’s light. The crackling light danced upon her face giving the clear impression of bone, not flesh. And then Jen was gone, two bony legs carrying her as fast as possible down the trail of lavender colored leaves.

“Seems your friend figured it out,” the figure said, gently toying at the outer edge of the wane light.

“Who is she?” Billy turned to Lilia.

“The original green witch-” But, she found herself cutoff.

“Death,” the figure said, her smile curving the word to sound far more sensual than it had any right to be.

Billy slowly turned his head to see her, the figure, Death, as she took a decidedly forceful step into the full light of the campfire. She was cloaked, a dark cowl of fabric framing her face, while hair spilled unevenly from the edges giving her the appearance of someone just back from the grave. Her eyes were alive, but everything else was dead. Stark bone stood in contrast along her face- bleached white her skull had long since lost the guise of flesh and blood. A wildflower sat pinned delicately below her collar bone, a spot of life among the macabre.

“Boo!” Death breathed, her arms coming up in a stereotypical haunting position.

Billy fell backward, tumbling into Lilia on the log. But, Lilia moved as if she hadn’t been through this all before. She twisted his form as he fell to straddle the log along with her. She put her arm around his chest and breathed into his ear-

“Fly.” Her breath was firm and commanding, just like her grip. And as if by puppetry, blue charges of static energy crackled from beneath the log lifting them both a few feet into the air.

“How?!” Billy’s voice came high and fearful.

“Now GO!” Lilia yelled, her free hand pointing forward down the road.

And with that the log was off! Blue sparks cascaded behind them as they exploded off down the road, the resulting whip of wind extinguished the campfire and tossed up a screen of lavender colored leaves in their wake. The ring of Death’s cackle followed shortly after.

The log was unwieldy in Billy’s hands, but Lilia kept a firm grip. As if mentoring a new witch, she adjusted his course with light pushes and pulls using the arm wrapped around him.

“I haven’t done this in ages!” Lilia cooed into the cool night air.

“I haven’t done this ever!” Billy screamed as the terror of tree branches whipping mere inches from his face closed in.

“It’s fine! You’re doing great!” Lilia said over the whip of the wind. “Look, there’s Jen! Fly down and pick her up!”

“How!” Billy yelled into the wind.

“Magic!” And Lilia laughed, pushing her form against his, causing the entire log to pitch downward.

“We’re going to crash!” Billy screeched, but Lilia’s firm guidance was still at the wheel. With one quick motion Lila scooted back and twisted. Billy’s body followed suit causing the makeshift broom’s tail to slam into the ground and the entire thing to spin.

“What-” But Jen’s surprise was cut off. Before she knew it a rogue log had caught her by the back of the knee causing her to fall in the space right between Billy and Lilia. The log continued its arc returning forwards at which point Lilia kicked off from the ground righting the flying log and setting the party back on course.

“Is she alright?” Billy called from the front.

“She’s squished!” Jen roared, trying to make space.

“Stop squirming!” Lilia howled, “You’ll throw us off the log!”

“How are we even-”

“Magic!” Billy gleefully said, cutting Jen off.

“Why are we-”

“Death!” Lilia answered, again cutting Jen off.

“Where are we-” Again Jen was cut off.

“The trial!” Billy blared.

Just ahead were Sharon, Alice, and Agatha. They stood near what looked to be a treehouse, but without the tree. The wood of the building seemed to be the random mish-mash of pallets and scraps that teenagers used to build no-adult hideaways in the woods. But, where teenagers rarely cared about the long term viability of a structure, the trial certainly did. The structure looked stable and strangely ornate. Glass windows perforated the structure in random directions from which a low violet glow emanated. The front door sat unadorned, but closed.

“The door!” Lilia screamed from the back, her grip tight on both Billy and Jen.

With one fluid motion Alice kicked the door open and then dove to the side, grabbing Sharon and Alice in the fall shielding them as three witches, a log, and a small whirlwind of lavender leaves shot by. The sound of calamity followed shortly after, punctuated by groans and sharp expletives.

“Get off me!” Agatha punctuated as she shoved Alice aside.

“I saved your life,” Alice shot back.

“Yeah, yeah,” Agatha idly responded, getting up and dusting herself off.

“I do appreciate the trouble, dear,” Sharon said from under Alice, “But, if you could…”

“Oh, sorry,” Alice apologized as she removed herself from on top of Sharon, helping the old woman to her feet in the process.

“Hey,” Agatha called into the house. “Anyone alive in there?”

“No!” Came the exasperated cry of a beauty guru on the verge of murderous rage.

“Oh, good,” Agatha responded, before turning her attention to Alice and Sharon. “Well ladies, after you.”

“Thanks,” Alice dismissed as she led Sharon inside.

Agatha hesitated at the door. She could feel eyes on her, but all she saw along the receding path was a menagerie of twisted overgrowth and lavender leaves. She went inside, closing the door quietly behind her.

Chapter Text

The ramshackle house looked as if it had flown in from the eighties. From the outside it appeared as nothing more than a tree house, sans the tree, but inside it was far more. In the center was an actual tree, or at least the trunk of one, around which wove a makeshift spiral staircase that deposited to a loft at the top. Under the loft was a small kitchen complete with efficiency stove and fridge, a sink, and a set of cabinets. The main room was cramped, but homey. A small cathode ray TV sat to the far side of the room with bean bag chairs dotted around it. Although the ceilings were high, no lights protruded into them. Instead the room seemed entirely lit by string lights that cascaded around the walls and across the open spaces. Rustic wood encircled everything from floor to walls to ceiling giving the space a warm and inviting vibe.

A small alcove protruded from the side of the main room. A large glass bubble loomed over the space, one might call it a bay window, although this seemed so much larger. The window stretched high and wide giving a clear view of the moon- a moon that now sat bloated and red along the tree line. Small cubbies full of party games lined the cupboards underneath the window. A table sat menacingly under the gaze of the moon above.

The witches themselves had flown straight ahead landing haphazardly strewn across what seemed to be an exploded bean bag chair. Tiny white polystyrene beads fluffed about in the chaos as Alice and Sharon helped pick up the pieces of the witches that had just blown in.

“Oh, look, it must be Christmas,” Agatha said, scoping up a palmful of beads and blowing on them.

“We almost died, Agatha!” Jen’s retort was fiery, but the white puffs of polystyrene clinging to her seemed to take much of her ire away.

“It’s not my fault you-” she paused, a look of confusion passing over her face. “What were you witches doing anyway?”

“Getting away from Death,” Billy said. His voice seemed distant, his focus was on Lilia who seemed to be unconscious.

“Lilia, Lilia! Come back to us!” Alice pleaded, gently massaging the witch’s temples.

“Oh, she’s fine. Look, she’s still breathing,” Agatha pointed out. “And what’s this about Death?”

“She comes for us all!” Lilia sat bolt upright almost headbutting Alice, her eyes wild.

“Lilia you’re-” Alice began.

“We need to run, we need to get out of here.” Lilia tried getting up, but found the beads covering her and the floor were proving to be a challenge.

“Here,” Alice said, proffering a hand.

“These are the trials,” Agatha’s hands fluttered upwards. “Death is ever present.” Her hands fluttered back down into spirit fingers across where she had been struck in the last trial.

“Not that sort of death, you psycho,” Jen’s ire finally swiping the last of the beads off her pink knee length sleeping shirt. “The Death.” She stressed the giving the resulting phrase a grave tone.

“That’s not-” Agatha’s face fell, but her phrase cut off as Sharon came out of the kitchen brandishing a white bottle that rattled as she shook it.

“Look who found the advil!” Sharon gleefully said, already popping off the cap and removing a few pills. “Who needs some?”

“Me, thank you,” Lilia moaned. “My head’s still ringing from the landing.”

“Ugh, me too,” Jen said heading towards the kitchen with the other ladies.

“Hey what happened to getting out of here?!” Agatha called after the ladies, to which a lone finger came raised in response. “Fine, two minute break and then we’re back to the trial.” Laugher dribbled out from the kitchen.

“The trial hasn’t even started yet,” Billy commented.

“What if the advil is poisoned like the wine from the first trial?” Alice breathed.

“Doubtful.” Agatha waved the thought away. “Jen’s already been tested and the trials wouldn’t double up.”

“Then whose is it?” Billy asked.

A light cough and a gulp came from the kitchen threshold. Lilia stood there downing a glass of water while waving her other hand in Agatha’s vague direction.

“I hope you’re not meaning it’s my trial, Calderu.” Agatha stamped.

Lilia lowered the glass, a light sigh escaping her lips. “Of course it is, don’t you see the moon out there.”

“The moon?” Alice questioned.

“The moon,” Billy breathed. “A blood moon, a time when the veil between the living and the dead is weakest. But, wouldn’t that be your trial, Lilia?”

“Common misconception,” Lilia corrected, placing her nigh-empty water glass down before sliding into the room. “I can speak to the living, I can see through time, but I cannot speak to the dead.” Again, Lilia gestured to Agatha. “You’ve killed enough, I’m sure you’ve managed to cultivate some form of communication with them by this point.”

“I would never-” Agatha’s faux indignation cut off.

“Deign talk to the people you’ve killed?” Jen goaded from the kitchen doorway. “They do seem beneath you- literally.”

“Like I would ever take the time to bury them,” Agatha scoffed back.

“Now, now,” the reassuring voice of Sharon floated from the kitchen before her body followed carrying a bowl of popcorn. “I found some popcorn, so let’s just sit down, watch a movie, and relax.”

“During a trial?” Alice exclaimed.

“Well, it hasn’t started yet,” Billy corrected.

“Wait, weren’t you just running in fear of him?” Jen said, gesturing over towards the now crownless teen. The trial had once again changed everyone’s outfits. Billy was covered head to toe in rustic flannel pajamas.

“Water under the bridge,” Sharon said, placing the bowl of popcorn into Jen’s hands before kneeling down in front of the TV.

“I told her it was a different Maximoff,” Agatha whispered over to Jen, “Just play along.”

“And she believed that…” Jen whispered back, just as a high pitched whine of the cathode ray TV set warmed up.

“So, let’s see what’s on.” The TV screen rolled through static as Sharon gently clicked through the channels, the knobs turning effortlessly under her wizened fingers. Channel 3, Channel 4, Channel 5, the stations clicked by each with the telltale static of disinterest.

“Seems there’s nothing on,” Agatha glibly commented as she turned to walk away.

One more click, the green channel overlay progressed one channel further to what should have been Channel 6-

“Is that The Exorcist?” Jen said, getting down on her knees to get a view of the distorted screen.

“It does say ‘Channel 666’,” commented Lilia.

“Wait a moment, I think I can get the picture to come through,” Sharon said, reaching behind the TV to fiddle with the various wires. Soon the picture brightened, the static dissipating to show a clear view of a scene unfolding.

“It is The Exorcist,” Alice said, as Sharon undid herself from the back of the set.

“I’ve never seen it,” Billy said.

“I don’t think teens are allowed,” Agatha commented as she walked away from the group to peruse the rest of the space.

“Shut up,” Billy spat over his shoulder before turning to Jen, “Pass the popcorn?”

“In the face of the enemy,” a priest commanded from the TV set.

“It’s getting to the good part,” Alice shushed over the coven.

“Let the enemy have no power over her,” the priest continued praying. The figure he prayed over, an elderly lady with long flowing white hair, spat in his direction, bile foaming at her lips.

“I thought it was supposed to be a young girl,” Billy said, stuffing popcorn into his mouth.

“It’s supposed to be…” Jen and Alice trailed off together.

“My daughter sucks cocks in hell!” The older woman on the TV screamed as she leapt from the set. Popcorn scattered as the coven was knocked aside, the ghostly apparition flying straight out to her target. A scream pierced the air heralding darkness as the warm string lights went out. Unnatural silence followed after.

“What happened!” Billy screamed.

“I don’t know!” Jen answered.

Alice lifted her hand, a light flame flowed out of it casting an eerie hue across the surrounding, “Does anyone see anything?”

“Jen’s underwear,” Lilia said from the comfort of the bean bag chair she had fallen into.

“Hey, I didn’t choose this outfit!” Jen declared, pulling her sleeping shirt further down.

“Hello Kitty suits you,” Lilia snickered back.

“Alright children,” Sharon said, getting up from the floor. “Let’s just find the breaker, it probably tripped when the TV exploded.”

“The TV didn’t explode, Sharon,” Alice calmly explained. “It was a-”

“Thunderstorm,” Jen cut in, glancing over to Alice. “Probably just knocked out the power.”

“What, but the sky-” Billy started.

“Probably down the road, Billy,” Jen explained through gritted teeth, before leaning over and whispering, “Do you want to explain to her what we just saw?”

“Yeah, thunderstorm. Down the road,” Billy parroted out. “Better find that breaker.”

Slowly the coven unburdened themselves from the floor, dusting themselves of popcorn and the remnants of the bean bag that had exploded earlier. Even with the living candle that Alice was, the room was still forebodingly dark. Shadows seemed to claw across the room as the lone fire’s light wriggled in its captor’s hand. Blood red light pooled from the bay window creating the illusion that a murder had just been committed, the rough hewn floor a massacre of dark red.

“Where’s Agatha?” Alice’s luminous hand wavered searchingly.

“I thought she went to the kitchen,” Billy said, taking a hesitant step in that direction.

“Stop messing around, Agatha. Get your bony old crone of a butt out here,” Jen shot out into the dark. Silence returned.

“Agatha?” Billy’s footsteps continued. The rest of the coven spread behind him, save Sharon who was feeling across a nearby wall.

The kitchen sat quiet and dark. A single window over the sink let in enough light to cast the room in a grim pallor. Nothing seemed to move or be out of place.

“She’s not in here,” Billy said, turning in the doorway to face the coven.

“I found it!” Sharon yelled from across the room. With a loud click the lights flickered on, their warmth illuminating a room that was covered in a disaster of polystyrene beads and popcorn. Although the rest of the shack lit up, the single light bulb in the kitchen trembled, its fluttering light blinking in and out of existence with faint pops and crackles. A dark shadow loomed from behind Billy.

“Watch out!” But Alice’s warning was too late, a pallid figure of irregular shapes and hands unfurled from the dark recesses of the kitchen. Within an instant it collapsed onto Billy, its demented mouth slavering over the teenager’s hair and skin. Lilia and Jen fell back in terror as Billy was left to defend himself from whatever the attacker was, its hands now firmly ripping at his body.

Alice moved without thought, her body becoming instinct itself. With one fluid motion she unleashed all of her police training into a firm kick to the creature’s side sending it flying into the alcove beyond. Board games exploded from the wreck, various cards, game pieces, and a rogue planchette added havoc to the scene. Time seemed to freeze as Agatha’s face bloomed from the resulting pile before shooting upward as her body scaled the walls of the shack into the dark abyss. A loud thunk clamored from the above loft as silence came back to fall over the coven.

“Are you okay?” Alice rushed to Billy’s side.

“I’m fine, just,” he felt around himself, wiping off discarded spittle, “Disgusted.”

“And I didn’t think Agatha could get any uglier,” Jen let out.

“Thanks, Kale.” Agatha’s body slumped over the banister of the loft, her face showing clear lines of exhaustion and pain.

“You’re-” Sharon started.

“Not possessed anymore, are you?” Alice finished.

“I was going to say still ugly,” Jen offhandedly commented.

“I’m-” But Agatha’s response was cut off.

A cold wind blew down the staircase from the loft, a mist forming just at its base. Slowly a figure took shape. An old woman clothed in rags stood before the coven, her figure gauzy and ethereal in the bare light.

“I am Evanora Harkness. And you are the stupid witches that have formed a coven with my daughter.” The spirit’s voice was raspy, moth eaten, as if coming through from a closet down the hall.

“To be fair-” Lilia started.

“Silence!” A sharp cold wind blew from the apparition.

“Mother, not in front of my friends,” Agatha moaned from the top of the stairs.

“Friends?” Jen coughed.

“Silence, succubus!” Evanora twisted to face her daughter. “I should have killed you the moment you left my womb.”

“Oh, mom, you’re so sweet,” Agatha continued as she mangled her way down the stairs.

“You were nothing but a spawn of the devil, a creature of pure desire, an ever gnawing bit of insatiable hunger!”

Agatha collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, her normal visage of haughty disinterest broken by lines of pain and sorrow.

“Why did you hate me? I could have been good?” Agatha’s face turned upwards towards the ghost, sincerity rolling across her eyes like a cloud.

“You were born evil,” Evanora spat, before turning to the coven. “She will suffer here for every one of her sins. Now leave!”

“Please, don’t leave me,” Agatha’s voice cracked, “I can be good!” Her hand rallied against the weight of her body and reached out.

The moment passed like grains of sand, each one tumbling over each other in drawn out breaths. An almost infinite space spanned the distance between Agatha Harkness and the coven she had forced to exist. Yet, not a hand came. No solace came to the witch as her eyes slowly closed on the realization that her actions had finally caught up to her, that goodness was always beyond her reach.

“Good, now-” But Evanora’s celebration was cut short by a single footstep and the slap of flesh grasping flesh.

Agatha’s eyes opened and she found herself being pulled upwards into the arms of a young boy. For a brief moment she felt lighter as if floating through a sun dappled field, a memory of the past whispering through her. A boy, no more than ten, stood there humming a familiar tune.

“I’ll be there at the end…”

But then the image was gone. Agatha found herself in Billy’s arms.

“You saved my life. I’ve saved yours. We’re even,” Billy’s voice echoed down her ear.

“Thank you,” was all she could muster.

“So you’ve chosen Death!” Evanora slid forward, her misty presence flowing into Agatha and the resulting pressure shoving Billy away. Agatha’s skin blanched, the dark outlines of veins coming to rest on her skin’s surface. The possession was complete.

“No, I didn’t want to see this the first time,” murmured Lilia, her eyes glazing over for a brief instant. The coven paid her no mind.

A smirk played across Agatha’s face before erupting into a full bodied shriek. The possessed body lurched, arms outstretched, mouth wide.

“You can’t have her!” Alice rushed forward, pushing past Billy and the other coven members. Her arm braced, instinct once against taking over. Fire formed along her finger tips, the tiny flames winding themselves up into claws.

“Now stop this!” Sharon yelled as she strode forward.

“Wait, no-” Alice found her arms pushed aside by the determined woman, the fire fizzling away into puffs of smoke.

The possessed Agatha glared down at the fledgling coven member, her mouth dripping saliva and hatred. The lights flickered. Agatha lunged.

Alice’s hands burst with flaming hot energy. Lilia’s mouth opened to scream. Billy’s eyes went wide. And Jen’s normally angry demeanor broke into something close to fear.

Smack!

The sharp rasp of flesh hitting flesh rang out in the room. A deathly stillness took over. Sharon’s hand was outstretched. It hung in the air just off to the left of Agatha’s face, a sharp red imprint glowing on the possessed witch’s check.

“Now you listen here, missy!” Sharon dropped her hand into an accusatory finger. “Now your daughter may have kidnapped me down to this road. And she may have almost gotten me killed- I don’t know how many times since then.”

“Three times,” Jen chimed in, gaining a vicious side eye from Lilia and Billy.

“But she is not this evil succubus demon you’re making her out to be!” Sharon continued. “Did you know that she saved that poor boy’s life? That she dove in front of a demon to protect him!” Her mannerisms were becoming more animated the further she went on. “She is not evil! She may be selfish and have terrible manners, but you’re her mother! Where do you think she learned any of this! Maybe you should have taken some time to look at yourself before casting the blame at the children you’ve raised! Why I’m so angry I could just!”

And Sharon swung again, her hand whipping through the air.

Smack!

A tired, but firm hand caught her by the wrist.

“Thank you. I think she’s gone now,” Agatha said, holding the woman’s violence at bay. The color had returned to Agatha’s face, her veins receding back into her skin’s normal pallor- save for the distinct impression of a well manicured hand.

“Oh,” gasped Sharon, “Sorry, dear, I got a bit caught up.”

“It’s fine. Thank you for the wake up call, Sharon.” Agatha released the woman’s hand before soothing the handprint on her face.

“You remembered my name!” Sharon said gleefully. “If I would have known a good slap would have brought your memory back, I would have done it a long time ago!”

Agatha glared at her.

“Or not,” Sharon sheepishly ended.

“Okay, well, that was drama,” Jen said, breaking the tension.

“Family drama is always the worst,” Alice added.

“But was that the trial?” Billy questioned.

The coven looked around quizzically. No door had opened, nor any direction given.

“Have we even started the trial!” Agatha screamed in exhausted anger.

“Oh, my ignorant daughter.” A mist slowly pooled against the nearby alcove, slowly forming into the late Evanora Harkness. The blood moon’s light behind her filtered through the ethereal apparition casting her in a silhouette of violent red. “It’s only just begun!”

Chapter Text

With her ringing declaration, the banshee screamed. The piercing sound rattled the house forcing the coven to shield their ears. Cracks ran along the bay windows behind the apparition. The floorboards groaned as if holding a great tide underneath them. Individual lights in a sea of cascading string lights exploded while others dimmed and brightened. The once silent TV crackled to life in a picture of static terror. And the banshee continued to scream!

“How do we make it stop!” Billy yelled over the din, but found himself yelling into silence. The banshee had disappeared. The only noise left was the ringing of ears and the monotonous tone of static droning from the TV.

Agatha glared at him.

“Now, aren’t we glad I found that advil?” Sharon said, unplugging her ears.

“Yes, you’re a savior,” Agatha grunted. “Now-”

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here…” Lilia cut in, her face going blank.

“So, I take it you have a plan, Lilia?” Agatha said, shooting a raised eyebrow at the old woman.

“Sorry?” Lilia said, her face pulling itself back into her normal visage.

“‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here’” Agatha’s tone was mocking, her fingers curling into quotations.

“Shakespeare? Really? At a time like this?” Lilia shot back.

“Hey, you said it!” Agatha’s agitation on full display.

“Shh,” Alice cut in, pointing towards the TV. The static had cleared and the showing of The Exorcist had returned.

The scene played out in horrific detail. A cross, blood, a door slamming, a bureau skittering across the room, a scream, and then silence. The camera panned to the upright body of an old woman, her back to the camera. Slowly, the head turned. With rictus pops and snaps, the head rotated to face the camera directly behind her. A twisted grin crossed the old woman’s face.

“Do you know what she did? My cunting daughter!” The TV shut off. The silence of the room returned, weighted with unease.

“Agatha,” Jen said as if to scold a child, “What did you do.”

“Me?” Her hand came up to her chest in faux-innocence.

“Yes, you.” Jen’s finger led her to the offending witch, accusations at the point of a nail.

Agatha’s face moved with ease as the innocence faded away to indignation, her arms folding across her chest.

“Nothing,” she spat. “You heard her. My mother’s always hated me.”

You lie…

The sound was like a whisper upon the windows, an intake of breath in a cold dark night.

“What was that?” Alice’s eyes darted around the room for whatever danger the TV had summoned.

“Probably just the wind.” Agatha’s arms came up in a shrug, but her face said otherwise.

You lied to us.

You killed us.

The sound seemed to slither through the cabin rolling popcorn and polystyrene around as it traveled. It was everywhere and nowhere, a sound without beginning or end, a chilling echo from the past.

“Who did you kill, Agatha?” Billy rounded on Agatha.

“Who didn’t she kill.” Jen’s side eyed the boy.

We were witches.

We were desperate.

She took our power.

“Hey, now, that was the past.” Agatha’s face cracked into worry, her hands coming up in a posture of innocence.

“This thing of darkness, I acknowledge mine.…” Lilia’s tone seemed to join with the voices, her soft voice coming out as though pulled by thread- slow and deliberate.

“More Shakespeare!” Agatha wailed. And then, as if her voice broke an invisible dam, they came.

Like a great beast, a howl rose from the world around them. Winds collected from each corner of the room, gathering every bit of popcorn, polystyrene bead, game piece, and knick-knack to form a maelstrom of destruction moving inward toward the coven. The sound of clutter violently heaving in the breath of the wind was almost deafening.

“There’s nowhere to hide!” Alice tried to yell as a random playing card assaulted her.

“Agatha! This is your trial!” Billy said, batting away a planchette that came dangerously close to impaling him.

“And what do you want me to do about that!” Agatha growled back, dodging a nigh-empty glass of water.

“Confess! Repent! Die again! We don’t care!” Jen dove for the floor, a copy of Shakespeare's The Tempest barely missing her.

“Fine!” Agatha strode into the center of the tornado, the small circle of safe space the coven had collected in. “Spirits, hear my words!” The cyclone seemed to die down as if listening. “I’m sorry you were stupid enough to blast me!”

“Agatha!” Jen rebuked, but her anger was drowned out. The cyclone’s momentary lapse evaporated away. The sharp sound of electricity exploded from where the TV once stood.

“DUCK!” Lilia yelled, her body becoming one with the floor.

In a sickening flash, the TV set disgorged itself. Metal, wires, leaded glass all jettisoned themselves at the now only standing member of the coven.

Agatha fell to her knees. A piece of glass sat upright in her arm, while thousands of tiny cuts twisted themselves up around her flesh. A piece of wire had wrapped itself around her neck, embedding itself just deep enough to draw a thin line of red.

“Agatha!” Alice called out, but the battered witch raised a hand in silence.

“How do we stop this?” Agatha’s voice was hoarse, the jarring notes of exhaustion and defeat rippling around the edges.

“You stop being a-” Jen’s anger began.

“The Exorcist!” Alice exclaimed, inching closer.

“A movie I’d prefer to be watching than living!” Sharon squeaked, using her black bag to bat away a tangle of string lights.

“No, these are spirits. We can-” Alice continued.

“Exercise them!” Billy finished, his eyes lighting up.

“Great! Get me a treadmill!” Agatha croaked, undoing the wire from her throat.

“No, I think I have a spell for this!” A small black book emerged from Billy’s pocket.

“Fine, hand it over.” Agatha’s hand reached out.

“Here,” Billy said, passing the open book to her. His finger trailed over a page as Agatha snatched it away.

“To banish…” Agatha began reading, before her anger shot back out. “This requires a flame wreathed protection circle!”

“And we have a fire witch,” Billy shot back.

“Alice!” Agatha yelled, “Fire! Now!”

“Hope this works.” Alice’s words were low and unheard as she pressed her hands onto the floor. Thin lines of fire crawled from her palms across the floor. The fire spread around the coven encircling them in a barely noticeable ring. Once complete, Agatha began to read.

“Vade ad lucem. Relinque terram. Noli esse phantasma!” Agatha looked up into the cyclone, but nothing had changed. “Your book’s defective, teen!”

“It’s not the book!” Jen cried.

“You need to acknowledge what you’ve done!” Lilia announced.

“Acknowledge what! That I killed these witches! I did! There, happy!” But the whirling mass of spirits was not. The wind whipped ever closer, the fiery ring ripped from existence. The coven now existed as a single person, each of them scrunched up in a ball to retreat from the whirling nightmare now inches from them.

“But why!” Billy yelled, getting showered with polystyrene beads.

“Because…”

“Because why, you miserable witch killer!” Jen screamed into the din.

“Because I loved him!” Agatha disgorged herself from the coven. She stood facing them, her back battered by the storm. “I didn’t want to lose him! I sacrificed them all for time! And when time ran out I sacrificed them for vengeance! For the coven that called me a demon, for the witches who saw a single mother and spat in disgust, for the son she took!”

For a moment the storm raged on, Agatha’s clothing mere tatters against the weight of the storm, her body just blood, and tears, and bone.

“Mama…” The storm opened, a small shaft of light shone down through the large bay window. The moon now luminous and clear poured down over a small child. No older than ten, the child stood in perfect calm, the storm falling away from him. Bottles, playing cards, books, all came down in rapid succession leaving only the sound of contemplation in its wake.

“Nicky…” Agatha’s feet moved without thought, stepping through the coven to fall down at her knees before the child.

“You don’t have to kill witches anymore.” His face seemed to glow with an inner peace as he looked down at the wounded woman.

“I- I’m sorry.” She hugged him.

Thunk.

The hollow sound followed a portion of the wall crumbling into the floor. A path forward. Quietly, the coven collected themselves, each one giving a sorrowful glance to the weeping woman before heading down the path.

“Let us not burthen our remembrance with a heaviness that's gone,” Lilia said, picking up a ravaged copy of The Tempest before leaving the woman to grieve.

Chapter Text

The room was a disaster. No spot was left untouched by the gale that had just died down. The popcorn and polystyrene had all but blown away leaving broken glass, wires, remnants of now unplayable board games, tangles of string lights, bottles, books, anything you could name scattered in haphazard piles and plumes across the room. Although the string lights had long since ripped from their sockets, the room was not dark. A forgiving moon peered dolefully from the bay window above. Its luminous sanctuary granting succor to the single mother openly weeping below, her arms cradling herself.

A gentle arm came down from the shadows to plaintively caress the woman’s maimed back. Where the hand lingered wounds knit together, the flesh turning from red welts to taught pink before finally settling on the familiar dawn-kissed peach. Another hand joined the ritual. Flowing kindly around the shoulders, down the arm, it finally rested on an offending piece of glass. As gentle as a flower blooming, the glass came free leaving naught but an after thought of its passing. A delicate finger brushed along her neck, the red line of trauma returning to flesh where it passed. A body slowly animated from the shadows coming to rest on the woman, her check gently finding the hollow of the other’s nape.

Slowly, the heaving motions of grief abated. Sobs turned to gasps, light intakes of shaking breath coddled against a familiar form. The room once again dulled down to a comforting silence. In this stillness an arm moved and the muted sound of a clasp being undone came. Like silk draped over skin, the arm fell around the woman extending a single wildflower hardened over years of preservation.

“You kept that?” The words came out, choked by a mixture of surprise and sorrow.

“Always,” the living shadow responded.

The woman cradled the hand holding the flower, the scene looking almost ethereal under the moon’s spell.

“Why…”

“It is our love. And it will endure.”

“You took him from me…” Fresh tears fell, landing precariously on a leaf.

“And that is my scar.”

“I didn’t get to-”

“You just did. He’s at peace now.”

Slowly the arms slid away, leaving only the memory of heat and comfort. Shivering, the woman sat as a lone silhouette under the moonlight.

“We both have jobs to do.”

Agatha sobbed one last time as she felt the sharp weight in her pocket get heavier.

Chapter Text

“Should we check on her?” Billy asked, milling about the exit.

“She’ll come down when she’s ready,” Lilia said, absentmindedly paging through The Tempest. A fire curled near her feet, dozing calmly in a bed of yellow leaves.

“But, she…” Billy trailed off, his gaze returning to the stone staircase. Just beyond the campfire’s splintered light came a hesitant foot.

“Look, teen,” Jen started, gaining a glowerful stare from the boy. “Billy, whatever your name is. That is Agatha Harkness, noted witch killer who traded her own son for the book of the damned. Whatever it is she’s dealing with up there I want no part in.”

“She still has a heart,” Billy admonished.

“Does she?” Jen said. “Because, the hurricane of dead witches up those stairs would probably beg to differ.”

“You don’t know the full story!” Billy said, stepping away from the exit.

“And you do?” Jen countered.

“She saved us from, you know.” Sharon’s voice went quiet, her eyes darting before finishing, “Wanda.”

“Yeah, the one time she bit off more than she could chew.” Jen rolled her eyes. “She wasn’t saving you, she was trying to drain another witch’s power. That’s what she does. That’s probably what she’s going to do once we all have ours back.”

“She hasn’t tried to take mine yet,” Alice noted.

“Or mine.” Billy added.

“And has she had the opportunity?” Jen’s comment brought silence. “She’s said it herself, she’s just here for power. That’s all we are to her, just batteries to be drained when the time comes.”

Lilia closed her book. “You can come down now, Agatha.”

Jen’s face shattered as Agatha Harkness stepped out of the shadows, her cape gently following.

“You knew?” Jen wheeled on Lilia, but the only response she got was a cold smirk. Mouth agape, Jennifer Kale turned and took her walk of shame down the yellow leaved path.

“Thanks for the-” Agatha began.

“The nine of…”

—

1

—

“Swords,” Lilia finished. Before her stood a round stone dias on which a spread of tarot cards sat.

“Yes, swords, Lilia!” Agatha yelled. “And they’re about to impale us, so get on with it!”

She looked up. Her vision split between the card in her hand and the metal woman before her. The card depicted a woman surrounded by nine swords, each pointing toward the figure as if to impale her. Before her stood a similar, if metal, woman with an equal number of sharp objects dangling above.

“Are you dressed as the Tin Man?” Lilia said, forgetting the card she was still holding on to.

“I thought we already went through this,” Agatha exclaimed, turning away with her hands upturned as if in exasperation.

“Lilia, focus!” A green nose poked into Lilia’s view. The nose stretched back into a green face, surrounded by a green head, on top of which sat a conical black hat.

“Jen? Is that you! What are you wearing!” Lilia screeched.

“Look, Lilia, you can be culturally offended later. Right now you’re in the middle of fixing Agatha’s temper tantrum.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault she went unconscious in the middle of a trial!” Agatha yelled.

Jen ignored her. “You just picked up this card, and you were about to put it here,” Jen pointed out, bringing Lilia’s attention back to the dias.

Before Lilia sat a spread of tarot cards divided across six slots. In the center spot from her sat The Hermit reversed. The rest of the cards followed counter clockwise around the center card; the cards proceeded through The High Priestess, Strength, The Magician, The Ace of Wands, The Devil, and finally The Nine of Swords in her hand, all upright.

“The Nine of Swords, a woman lost to grief and lonesomeness, burdened by the pain of rejection,” Lilia said, as she placed the card down over The Devil where Jen had indicated.

“What, is that supposed to be me?” Agatha barked, her hands coming over her head to shield from the swords only inches above.

“Is it supposed to be you?” Lilia questioned. She looked down at the spread. The cards ran by her mind like stills, each one specific to one of her companions.

“The High Priestess, that’s from when I first met…”

—

2

—

“Jennifer,” Lilia said with slight awe.

“What,” came a flat response from the woman. “Come to laugh at my expense. Or did you want me to go back and apologize to that witch.”

“No, I…” Lilia looked around. The world around her had shifted. Yellow leaves pooled around her feet leading both backwards and forwards. Trees cloistered in from either side, hovering over the two women like curious onlookers.

“If you knew she was there, why did you let me go on like that!” Jen’s grimace obscured the hurt ringing in her voice.

“I…” Lilia’s mind ran back to the cards on the dias. “The Devil.”

“Yes, she’s a devil, glad we agree.”

“No, the card. The Devil. I think you have Agatha all wrong.”

“So, you did come to laugh at me.” Jen turned away.

“No, I think.” She paused, looking for a road forward. “I think Agatha is more complex than you give her credit for. I think you’re right that she did cause a lot of pain and suffering in her past, that she was, and maybe still is, addicted to power.”

Jen turned back to face the divination witch. “Exactly, so we shouldn’t trust her. What are you getting at, Lilia?”

“Jennifer, look at her actions,” Lilia pleaded. “She sacrificed herself for that child when she saw he was in danger. She gave Alice the strength she needed to face her curse. And right back there,” she gestured, “She stood up in front of all of us and broke down. She’s vulnerable.”

“Yeah, that’s why she wants our power!” Jen said, anger returning to her voice.

“No, Jennifer, that’s why she needs us.” Lilia stressed the word us, bringing her hands to her heart as she did. “She needs a coven. One that won’t reject her for what she is. One that will heal the wounds the world has left on her. She is a woman lost to loneliness and grief, burdened by rejection.” She paused, her mind turning back. “The Nine of Swords,” she said, the spark of realization crossing her eyes.

“I’ll-” Jen stopped.

“Lilia, you left your book behind.” Billy came sprinting up, a tattered copy of The Tempest in his hands.

“See you at the next trial,” Jen finished, before turning on her heels and striding off.

“No, Jen,” Lilia reached out, but the world shifted.

—

3

—

“Lilia, is everything okay?” Billy’s voice came over the dias.

“Sorry…” Lilia commented, still finding her footing. Her gaze had settled on her copy of The Tempest. Broken, the book lay dejected on the stone floor. Although the book had seen better days, now it looked as if its days were over. A large gash tore open the ragged shell of the tome leaving pages billowing into confusion. A sword lay a short distance away, a stack of pages skewered to the blade.

“What happened to him?” Lilia’s voice held softness, reverence, as she motioned toward the fallen story.

“I almost died from impalement and she’s worried about the book,” Jen said defensively.

“The key word is ‘almost,’ Jen,” Agatha mocked.

“You know, in my neck of the woods, if someone saves you from imminent death you say ‘thank you,’” Sharon chimed.

“Yes, alright, thank you Lilia for saving me from becoming a witch kebab through the masterful use of your raggedy-ass book- that you stole.” Jen turned to Sharon, “Happy?”

“Well, not the way I would have-” Sharon started, but Lilia cut in with a yell.

“And you’re still wearing- THAT!?”

Jen stood cloaked in an oppressing black floor length dress from which two slashed sleeves reminiscent of the late 1500’s exploded. A barely visible corset faded across the bodice to truss the mono-colored fabric into a more pleasing shape. A cape of the same color straddled the high neckline. The visibly perturbed green face of Jen sat above decorated with a wide brimmed stiff conical hat in the same oppressive black as the dress.

“You said you were over this!” The Wicked Witch exclaimed. “And it’s not like you have room to talk, Dorothy!”

Lilia looked down at herself. A cream colored blouse ruffled under a shockingly blue gingham pinafore, the straps of which came down to form a shape giving band before the rest of the garment trailed off to her knees. Two ruby slippers adorned her feet under which a pair of crisp white socks grew. Out of the side of her eyes Lilia could see the hints of loose curls bound together in ponytails.

Lilia could only gasp before two metal hands slammed down on the dias. These hands receded back into metal arms that coupled to metal shoulders that were further supported by a metal barrel of a body which balanced precariously on top two metal legs. The face was equally clad in metallic paint and adorned with a metal funnel for a hat.

“We really don’t have time for this, Lilia,” the metal Agatha whined.

“And you’re the Tin Man? What am I in The Wizard of Oz?” Lilia rolled her eyes.

“Why, yes, Dorthy! And have you met my little dog Teenager!” Agatha gesticulated over to the person sitting across from her.

“I hate you…” The ragged ball of fluff pronounced in Billy’s voice. The teen was covered head to toe in a coat of shaggy brown fur. Two perky brown ears sat perched on his head giving the impression that he was far happier than his face made him appear. Although his face had qualities of humanity to it, the protruding snout that ended in a dark black dog nose really hammered the point home. Billy was a dog. A human sized bipedal dog.

“Oh, jeez, all we need now are the Scarecrow and the Lion,” Lilia moaned.

“Well…” came the plaintive cry of Alice who leaned regally against the stone wall. Her tail in hand, Alice sauntered over to give Lilia a better view. Shaggy golden fur exploded from the witch. Her face was similar to Billy’s in that it also was very animalistic in its design. Large whiskers protruded from the woman’s accentuated cheeks and upper lip, while her nose broadened into a classic cat snoot. A rough tangle of curls framed the cat’s face and extended back to form a mane of flowing golden locks.

“I don’t understand why I’m the scarecrow.” A rough hewn sack of a character waddled up, its voice with the same mid-western suburban drawl that normally tumbled out of Sharon. Straw seemed to sprout from every crevice of the creature: from between its bulging green sweatshirt and its overly patched auburn pants, to the seams between its gloves, and even around the neck that seemed to be constructed out of some old burlap. Straw just seemed to tumble out wherever possible.

“Lack of brain?” Agatha scoffed.

“Says the person without a heart,” Jen returned.

“Like these costumes mean anything anyway,” Agatha said dismissing the insult. “I should have been the Wicked Witch anyway. She’s based after me, you know.”

“Yeah, and winged monkeys might fly out of my butt,” the dog barked.

“Okay, enough,” Lilia cut in. “Now that we’ve gone down the yellow brick road-”

“Again, might I add,” Agatha corrected.

“However many times. What was I doing?” Lilia asked, staring down at the dias before her. The table held space for six cards. In the center currently sat Death. This card seemed to be the center of the spread, as the rest of the spaces spread out around it in the shape of a pentacle.

“She says she knows what she’s doing-” Agatha began.

“You were giving me a reading. You told me to sit. You explained this is the-” the dog tried to explain.

“The Death spread. A spread used to untangle the changes in a person’s life,” Lilia finished.

“Yes, you had just put down-” Again Billy-dog was cut off.

“The Ten of Wands. You’ve just completed a struggle only to find that you have more responsibilities than you can handle.” Lilia’s tone was precise, exacting.

“Which could literally apply to any of us,” Agatha offhandedly waved.

“I’m sorry, is this your trial, you walking kettle.” The anger was unmistakable in Lilia’s voice.

“Well, it doesn’t seem to be your trial either since the last card you pulled caused that,” Agatha said pointing to the sword of book slaying.

“If you have a problem with my methods-” Lilia stood up, knocking away the chair she was sitting on.

“I think I do,” Agatha said, grabbing a card off the pile and smashing it down.

“The Moon…” And then the ringing declaration of a falling sword.

—

4

—

Thunk.

The hollow sound followed a portion of the wall crumbling into the floor. A path forward. Quietly, the coven collected themselves, each one giving a sorrowful glance to the weeping woman before heading down the path.

Lilia hung back. The moon hung solidly above the woman, her hands clinging to the spectral form of a boy in the wane light. The child seemed to take his eyes off Agatha for a moment, smiling towards Lilia as if to give her permission to leave the burden of grief in his hands.

Lilia smiled back before taking a step to leave. Her foot caught on something hard and out of place. A barely held together copy of The Tempest splayed itself out before the old woman. She reached down to pick it up. It was open to the last act. In the wane light of the moon a single passage seemed to leap out to her.

“Let us not burthen our remembrance with a heaviness that's gone,” Lilia said, before closing the book and walking down the dark stairway.

The stairway was short, but dark. Lilia’s feet crept slowly down the rough stone passage, her hands guiding her down the wall as she traveled. Soon she found herself deposited down upon a road of golden yellow leaves.

“Figures,” she said, stepping out from the opening. Alice and Billy were already gathering bits of wood for a fire, while Jen and Sharon seemed off in their own worlds.

“I don’t know what just happened up there, but I’m sure glad to be back on this road,” Sharon said as Lilia alighted onto the path.

“That was a trial, the next will be mine,” Lilia started. “Which means the final one will be yours, Sharon.”

“How do you know that?” Billy said, rounding up the sticks he had collected onto a pile. Alice was already setting the pyre ablaze.

“Woman’s intuition,” Lilia commented.

“Well, what if I don’t want a trial?” Sharon’s indignance rose. “Can’t I just leave?”

“How?” Jen scoffed. “There’s not exactly a train station around here.”

“Yeah, you remember what happened when you tried to walk off the path,” Alice added.

“Which is why I want out of this place!” Sharon’s anger was sharp, almost palpable in the night air.

“But you-” Billy’s protest was quickly cut off.

“Between the fires, and the demons, and ghosts-” she wheeled on Jen, “And yes I knew they were ghosts, you condescending snake oil salesman! I am sick and tired of all this witch nonsense!”

“But, you’re a witch, Sharon,” Lilia said calmly.

“No!” Sharon’s hands became fists, balls of rage crackling with green energy. “I’m not like her! I’m not like her at all!”

“Like who?” Alice said..

“Wanda!” Sharon turned and let her fury loose on the nearest tree. The bark shattered under her fist, pieces flying off in arcs of green electricity. The tree groaned in protest as it fell sloppily into the dark underbrush of the surrounding darkness. Collectively, the coven took a step away, except Lilia.

“Strength,” Lilia remarked. “The primal fury of nature burdened by one’s inner doubts and misconceptions.”

“What!” Sharon turned on the older witch, her fists still hissing with energy.

“Sharon, you’re a witch,” Lilia said, gesturing to the fallen tree. “But what kind of witch you become is your decision.”

“I would never do what she did!” Sharon cried, her fists losing some of their rage.

“And you won’t. You’re part of our coven,” Lilia said, gesturing to the surrounding witches. “We can teach you to harness your power to whatever end you desire.”

“But I don’t desire anything!” Sharon lashed back against Lilia’s assurances.

“I think you do, Sharon,” Lilia continued calmly. “I think you’ve been a woman made subservient- first to the world, then to your husband, and finally to a witch. You’re free now. And that freedom scares you. You hide amongst your bushes and flowers, afraid to learn who you really are.”

“I…” Sharon trailed off as her fist unclenched. She dropped her head and took a hard stare into the leaves below. Lilia stepped forward, putting an arm on her shoulder.

“Coincidences rarely happen when magic is concerned,” Lilia said in passing, her voice trailing off down the path.

—

5

—

“You almost got us killed, Agatha!” Jen said, ripping her dress from where a sword had pinned it to the hard stone floor.

“Again, the key word is ‘almost,’ Kale,” Agatha spat back from behind Billy’s weight.

Lilia looked up from the chair she found herself in. The scene in front of her was not entirely unfamiliar- the same cast of characters from The Wizard of Oz stood in front of her seemingly collected around the same stone dias from earlier. Tarot cards seemed to have been haphazardly placed along the spread, but from this distance she had trouble telling what they were. A dog held back an angry metal woman, while a lion did the same for the Wicked Witch. A scarecrow gazed worriedly at the sword filled ceiling above.

“As if I need to ask,” Lilia’s voice annoyed, but aware. “What has Agatha done now?”

“Oh, nice of you to join us again, Lilia,” Agatha said, pushing the dog away.

“Don’t you remember?” Alice’s voice expressed concern.

“Remind me,” Lilia demanded, as she moved the chair closer to the dias. She could make out the cards now. Where Death once sat peering over all, now The Hermit reversed was nestled into place. Going counterclockwise the cards followed The Eight of Swords, The Four of Cups, The Five of Pentacles, The Wheel of Fortune reversed, to finally settle on The Devil.

“You passed out just as Agatha took-” Jen began.

“The deck away. I was doing a reading for Billy, but a sword fell.” Lilia’s voice seemed hesitant over the dias, as if recalling events that had happened lifetimes ago. Her eyes looked down to the floor. The book was still there torn asunder by a sword, although more swords seemed to have fallen since then. “And then I saved you from getting impaled with my book.”

“If you remembered, why did you ask?” Jen groused. “Did you want me to thank you again?”

“You were rather insincere the first time, dear,” the scarecrow rustled, her eyes focused on the doom above.

Lilia waved the bickering away, “So then this is what Agatha did.”

“I can’t take all the credit-” Agatha started.

“Yes, you can,” Billy interjected.

“The Devil,” Lilia said, picking the tarot deck back up.

“She can be,” Jen commented.

“Says the one dressed as the Wicked Witch!” Agatha’s glare was intense, but ignored by the elderly divination witch.

“Coincidences rarely happen when magic is concerned,” Lilia said, gazing out over the dias. She pulled a card. “The High Priestess.”

A deep rumbling filled the room.

“Look!” The scarecrow motioned to the ceiling. Once a stationary fixture of the room, albeit one lined with razor sharp swords, it was now mobile. Slowly it began inching down, small rocks dislodging as it crawled its way down the stone walls.

“That can’t be good,” the dog whined.

“Lilia, play some damn cards!” The metal woman grated.

“I remember…” Lilia said, her eyes twirling into the mists of the past.

“You remember?” Jen interjected.

“Yes, Jennifer. It makes so much sense now. The Eight of Swords, a woman bound and victimized, powerless against a force unknown to her. Who’s path leads her to become,” Lilia played the card she had been holding, “The High Priestess, a woman of immense spiritual power able to forgive those who wronged her.”

“Forgive? After a century-” Jen erupted.

“Shh,” Lilia said, drawing another card. “The Four of Cups, a woman so caught up in the life she once led that she can’t see the paths ahead of her.” Lilia placed the card down- Strength. “But, through guidance she can realize her full potential, able to wield the gifts she’s been given to great effect. Sharon, you hold these gifts.”

“Me? Why, I really don’t think I can. Not if it means-” But, she found herself cut off by the rasp of another card being drawn.

“That brings us to the Five of Pentacles. Two boys bound into a fight for survival, ravaged against the hardship of a cruel and unkind world.”

“Two-” Billy began, edging over the dias.

Lilia placed the card she drew over The Five of Pentacles. “The Magician, the boy who can bend reality to his whim, but too naive to use it safely.”

“Safely being the key word here,” Agatha said, kicking aside a fallen sword.

“Which brings us to Alice, The Wheel of Fortune- reversed.” Lilia drew another card.

“Yeah, fortune reversed is putting it nicely,” the large golden lion said, her hand unconsciously rubbing her shoulder.

“The Ace of Wands,” Lilia placed the card down, hiding the misfortune of the past. “Freed from her curse, she can finally strike at the world with all the fire she holds to create the future she truly longs for.”

“Oh,” Alice blushed.

Lilia looked up. The swords hung precariously close to the coven, their sharp blades still inching ever downwards. The pennants and torches that hung about the walls had long since been chewed up in the ceiling’s progress.

“There’s not much time left, Lilia!” Agatha yelled, returning the witch’s attention back to the cards.

“Right,” Lilia said, returning her attention to the cards. “The Devil, a figure clothed in addiction and pain, becoming less human the further they travel down this path.”

“Wait, you told me about this earlier,” Jen said, turning her attention to the divination witch who’s hand was already drawing the last card.

“The Nine of…”

—

6

—

“Swords,” Lilia finished, but the dias was no longer in front of her. Instead, a door swam into her view. Large, wooden, and imposing, the door stood solid in what appeared to be the side of a castle.

“Yeah, all we’re missing is a few knights with swords to make this look authentic,” Billy chimed.

“Swords and witches don’t really mix well,” Agatha barked. “Let’s just get this over with.”

With a strong shove, Agatha popped the door open. The dank smell of stale air poured out at the coven. Golden leaves swirled around their feet as they tracked their way inside.

“What am I wearing!” Agatha shouted.

“What you’re wearing,” Billy yelped. “Look at me! I’m covered in fur!”

“You’re a dog. Quite fitting, actually.” Jen’s usual sarcastic tone even more biting.

“Well, you’re a witch!” Billy came back, to which he only received a mocking expression from Jen.

“Oh, but what am I? I’m so itchy!” Sharon swished.

“A scarecrow,” Lilia said flatly. “Congratulations. We traveled down the yellow leaved road and now we’re in Oz.”

“And I’m the Cowardly Lion?” Alice screeched.

“Wait, then I’m…” Jen began.

“Literally The Wicked Witch,” Agatha’s tone held a smile that her metallic lips couldn’t quite make.

“Yes, and I’ve got the ruby slippers. So, let’s get down this road, I’m over this costume party,” Lilia said. “Teenager, chair.” Her finger was firm, her gait was firmer.

Lilia strode across the short round room to the single point of interest- a waist high stone dias surrounded by two high back wooden chairs. The walls of the room climbed high into the rafters, from which swords hung precariously. Pennants of errant knights and sputtering torches hung meekly on the stone walls giving the room a very barren and utilitarian design.

“Are those swords!” The scarecrow cawed, her head pushing so far back that straw fell from her neck.

“Yes, and they’re going to come down, so keep your eyes wide.” Lilia sat down, grabbing the deck of cards. Billy followed shortly after on the opposing chair.

“I’m sorry, how do you know this, Lilia?” Jen questioned, as she marched up to the dias.

“Because I’m already at the end of the trial.” Lilia turned to face Jen, “The flow of time is an illusion, remember?”

“Well, enlighten us, grand oracle.” The kettle of a woman sauntered up to the dias. “Read the bones and tell us our fortunes.”

Lilia glared at the metal figure, her face barely visible in the distorted casing of the costume, before focusing back on the dias. Before her spread the six spots she had become accustomed to seeing, although most were devoid of cards. In the center sat Death, already chosen by the trial.

“This is the Death spread, a collection of points to give insight into the changes the subject has gone through,” Lilia began.

“And I’m the subject?” The dog barked from across the cards.

“Yes,” Lilia began.

“Mmm, Death, not a good card,” Agatha mocked.

“Death in tarot is not literal death, Agatha,” Lilia corrected. “The Death card is a card indicative of change, of the beginnings that come from endings. In this spread we use Death as an anchor point from which we can see the changes that may come about. This spread can be used for any number of changes a person wishes to focus on- here we have five. Coincidentally the number of people in this coven,” Lilia finished matter of factly.

“But there’s six of us,” Billy said.

“Familiars, and dogs, don’t count,” Agatha amended. Billy growled.

“Alright, let’s start,” Lilia said, placing the book she had been carrying precisely within reach along the rim of the dias. She drew a card.

“Hey, this table says, ‘With Coven True,’” Alice commented, as Lilia placed down The Ten of Wands.

Lilia’s eyes glazed over as she reached for her book and tossed it.

—

7

—

A sword bobbed into Lilia’s view.

“Lilia!” Agatha’s metal hand weaved between two swords to grab her hand and slam it down. The Nine of Swords fell into place, but the swords kept dropping.

“With Coven True,” Lilia said, her eyes breaking through the forest of swords to stare down at the dias.

“With coven impaled!” came the scream of Agatha as she dived for the ground with the rest of the coven.

“I was wrong. This whole spread- it’s been about our coven,” Lilia’s voice was calm in the chaos of the moment. Agatha had taken up a sword and positioned it as a weapon against the ceiling’s onslaught, while Sharon lay stock flat on the ground trying to make herself as flat as possible. Billy hid under his chair, while Jen hid behind Lilia’s. Alice’s flames rocketed from her hands to try and push the ceiling back, but for all her effort only a spot of black soot rewarded her.

“Lilia!” Alice screamed!

“I was The Hermit reversed,” Lilia’s voice came out pouring with self discovery and pride.

“Yes! Lilia! You’re a shmendrik!” Agatha’s temper pouring over as she fenced with an oncoming blade.

“But, I have all of you now that I need to help guide,” Lilia continued, her hand stretched across the dias snaking between the swords.

“Guide us out of this trial then!” Jen’s words were sharp, as were the blades just inches from her.

“I am…” Lilia’s hand reached The Hermit reversed. With a slight flourish she lifted the card straight into the coming blade impaling it and leaving the card underneath in full view.

“I am the Queen of Pentacles,” Lilia proclaimed. “And I love being a witch.”

A wave of golden yellow light bloomed from the unearthed card, spreading outward across the dias. In its wake formed a pentacle, each point connected across the coven- The High Priestess, Strength, The Magician, The Ace of Wands, and finally the Nine of Swords.

“The Queen of Pentacles, a solace to those that need it, a love to heal wounds, and a witch to guide her coven safely forward,” Lilia said, bringing her fingers together.

Snap!

“Then guide-” But Agatha was already falling.

Chapter Text

The coven found themselves falling deeper and deeper away from the light above, a light that dwindled into nothingness. The castle above, the trial they had just been through, disappeared into the void that surrounded them. The dias, the cards, the swords all forgotten to the ever encasing emptiness.

Laughter peeled downward into the abyss.

“Lilia! What did you do!” Agatha screamed, her hair fighting her at every turn.

“Saving us!” Lilia’s voice came, still pleasantly singing her glee.

“I don’t feel very saved!” Alice yelled back.

“Neither do I!” Jen concurred.

“Would you prefer the swords?” Lilia countered.

“I would prefer not falling to my death!” Agatha raged in protest.

“I can’t see anything!” Billy howled.

“It’s probably better that way,” Lilia called out. “This is Sharon’s trial!”

“Please let it be something garden related!” Sharon prayed, her eyes closed against the possibility of what might come next. And then silence. The sounds of wind rushing past her ears evaporated into absolute calm. The feeling of cloth surrounded her where only moments ago was the absent embrace of emptiness. She opened her eyes.

Before Sharon sat a castelet, a large stage from which puppets would normally perform. Large red curtains fringed with golden tassels hung along the boundaries of the proscenium arch, while a dark black curtain hung behind. Sharon found herself safe in a lavishly upholstered scarlet wingback chair embellished with gold accents, just like the curtains that hung before her. Although the room had no visible light source, Sharon had no trouble seeing. To her side sat a small table on which a single unadorned script sat. Her coven was nowhere to be seen.

“Where am I?” she said to the emptiness of the stage. No response. She looked down to see the cover of the script.

“The Ballad of the Witches’ Road?” she read off the cover. Gingerly she picked up the packet, thumbing to the first page. “Enter stage right Agatha Harkness and her son Nicholas.”

And with her words came Agatha Harkness, strings puppeteered her along in jerky movements making her appear as if walking. A scowl peppered her face as she gazed out into the audience. A small puppet seemingly made of wood followed closely after the witch. It appeared as a boy, no older than ten, with a mop of brown hair and simple clothes.

“Mother,” the puppet boy said, “Why do you kill witches?”

“To survive,” Agatha said, her body jerking to imitate walking as her form stayed framed in center stage.

“But couldn’t we live with them?” The boy seemed confused.

“No,” Agatha’s response was quick and sharp.

“Why?”

“Because,” Agatha’s face screwed itself inward as if trying to say something else, “They. Will. Kill. Us.” Each word came out as guttural bleats in between teeth forced shut.

Sharon tore her eyes away from the play. Each word, each action the puppets played out appeared written in the text before her.

“Walk, Walk…” Sharon read, hearing a voice mimicking the exact words in time.

“Walk, walk, walk the road, I walk the windy road,” the boy puppet hummed.

“Oh, you walk this road alone, do you?” Agatha said, her eyes staring at Sharon intently.

“Agatha?” Sharon called.

“Walk, walk, walk the road-” the boy began.

“We walk the windy road,” Agatha added, her eyes still solely on Sharon.

“Agatha, what’s going on!” Sharon called out, tossing the script back on the table.

“Wherever it may bend!” The boy continued singing.

“I’ll be there at the end!” Agatha finished, eyes never leaving Sharon.

“Agatha!” Sharon yelled, running up to the stage. But, it was too late. The puppets exited stage left as the strings guided them through walking pantomime into the darkness of the wings.

“Agatha! Agatha!” Sharon howled from the floor unable to even reach the lip of the stage. “Alice! Lilia! Anyone!” The darkness of the stage responded with echoes, memories of fear and sadness.

“I’m not a witch, I can’t do this!” Sharon fell to her knees in tears. The stage remained impassive and empty.

The woman’s tears slowly tumbled away, disappearing into the scarlet and gold carpet of the floor. Her sadness gave way to fear as she composed herself. She looked down to the floor where her tears darkened a small patch. A pattern of golden pentacles wove themselves throughout the scarlet expanse, the wetness of her tears seemed to single one out causing it to briefly shimmer.

You’re part of our coven…

The words whispered from the past.

“Is someone there?” Sharon brayed.

You’re a witch, Sharon…

“I’m just an old lady!”

Strength…

“I’m not a witch!” Sharon cried, clutching her black Talbots purse to her chest. Even through all the ordeals, tiny droplets of mud still clung to the faux-leather body. The mud seemed to beg the question, ‘Then how did you get your purse back?’

“The road was muddy, I just reached in and got it,” Sharon argued. She looked over her hand holding the purse. Tiny scratches ran along her knuckles. The scrapes asked, ‘Then how did you knock over that tree, old lady?’

“It must have already been loose!” Sharon’s voice pitched higher in the self-imposed conflict. Her gaze arced upwards towards the stage. The dark recess loomed over her as if to demand, ‘Then why are you here?’

Sharon fell backwards, her bag slipping from her grip upending the contents across the floor. Advil, an unresponsive cellphone, a few bobby pins, a loose scattering of change, a ground down stub of an eyebrow pencil, and a single card skittered out. Tentatively she picked up the card.

“Strength…” she read. The card depicted a woman, not much different than the one holding the card, wearing a straw hat and oversized pink gardening gloves. A topiary lion prowled along the woman’s side, its mane a mass of thorny roses; its front paws seemed to trample down an eerily similar black bag, while its back seemed to sprout directly from the ground. The woman rested a single gloved hand along the head of the lion, while her other held a stack of white pages aloft as if pointing.

Sharon looked backwards. Sitting precariously on the table was the script.

“Is that what I’m supposed to do?” she said, crawling over to the loosely bound text. “Is the answer in this?”

The script felt heavy in her hands, oddly heavy given how thin the script seemed to be. She flipped back to the first page reading over what had just transpired. The characters, their words, even stage directions were written out in simple detail. Sharon turned to the next page.

The rusty sound of pulleys working pulled Sharon’s attention from the text. Before her a large backdrop unfurled onto the stage depicting a medieval tavern. Bottles of wine, mead, and other finery dotted the shelves of the backdrop, while a rustic bar top painted itself along waist height. Metal tankards and plates full of crusty bread sat welcomingly along the image. A flat rendering of a bartender polished a tankard behind the counter. Altogether the painting looked distinctly alive along the back of the stage, giving the scene a homey atmosphere.

The light chirp of indistinct conversations came across the stage as cardboard cutouts of the bar’s patrons milled in from the wings. The patrons were dressed rather informally in heavy wools and ruffled linens. Their movements were stiff, given the material they were made off, but gave the impression of joviality as they cluttered around the scene.

Sharon looked back down at the text. Under the description of the scene she read, “Enter stage right Agatha and Nicholas; Nicholas takes center stage to stand on prop barrel as it rises from the trap.”

And as she read, the actors took their places. Agatha still propelled by strings guided the puppet onto the scene; her arms pantomimed pushing the child onto the stage. The puppet’s tiny limbs gaily bounced as it bounded to center stage, where it slowly rose to prominence on a wooden barrel. The stage hushed as the cardboard patrons angled toward the boy as if listening.

The puppet started to sing.

“There’s a road that’s wild and wicked winding through the wood!” The cadence was simple, uncomplicated. Staccato notes combined with half-notes to make a melody that the crowd could easily join in with. The creaking tunes of an accordion joined in the merriment shortly followed by the sounds of rhythmic clapping.

“Where all that’s wrong is right and all that’s bad is good!” The puppet continued singing, now marching in place along the barrel’s lid in time with the clapping.

“Through many miles of tricks and trials, we wander high and low!” A band of four young women broke from the crowd, gathering along the right of the stage. Although Agatha’s body seemed to inch closer to them, her eyes didn’t stray from the lone witch in the audience.

“Tame your fears, a door appears, the time has come to go!” The puppet brought his hands together, clapping in time with his marching.

“Down, down, down the road, down the Witches’ Road!” The puppet finished with a raising of his arms and a final stomp. The audience joined in, applause filling the scene as Agatha rushed to join him center stage.

“Bravo child! Here, take your fee!” Agatha said, her strings pulling her hands to exaggerate the deposit of a sack of coins before the puppet. The cardboard patrons gathered round, the sounds of coins jostled against each other as Agatha returned to the darkened stage right corner. As the coins piled higher, the tavern’s patrons thinned out, disappearing into the wings of the theater. Before long the only patrons left were the puppet left to scramble down to the floor, Agatha nestled into the dark corner of the bar, and the group of four young ladies that had broken off from the herd. The puppet busied himself gathering the pile of coins into the pouch his mother had conveniently left behind.

“Child, are you alone? Are you hungry?” The four cardboard women stood hesitantly near the boy.

“I-” The puppet paused looking conspicuously over to his mother hiding in the corner. “No, my mother needs me, sorry,” the puppet said, racing to exit stage left.

“Wait, Nicky!” Agatha burst from the corner, her form propelled by strings in haphazard and jerky movements. The lights dimmed as her body crossed the boundary of stage left, allowing the four cardboard women to disappear into the darkness of the wings unnoticed.

“That was the song the witches sang to get here,” Sharon mused as she turned another page.

Again, the sound of pulleys working brought Sharon’s attention back to the stage. A new backdrop fell out from the darkness of the stage’s fly to cover the tavern’s motif. This landscape was decidedly green. Trees of various sizes and colors littered the canvas creating a pastoral environment. Warm gel lights radiated over the scene making it appear as if afternoon had just passed by. Time continued on, but nothing more happened. The scene sat waiting for the actors to be called.

“Enter stage right to center stage, Nicholas followed shortly by Agatha,” Sharon read, as she held the papers up to keep an eye on the stage.

Bursting from the darkness, the little boy puppet popped into the afternoon sun. His face took on the hue of disease as he bounded forward, a paleness not alleviated by the lights flooding the stage.

“Nicky!” A familiar voice yelled from off stage. The puppet stopped midstage. Agatha came rustling in from stage right.

“I’m sorry,” the puppet coughed.

“No, Nicky, it’s fine,” Agatha said as she was strung up to the puppet’s side.

“I didn’t want those witches to die.”

“I understand,” Agatha said, her arms comforting the puppet. “We can try again next week. Let’s make camp for the night.”

The stage darkened on the characters leaving the sounds of woodland creatures to fill the absence. Then slowly a wane orange light emanated from the floor. From the trap grew a cardboard cutout of a fire, orange light flickering around it to illuminate the scene. Agatha and the boy sat nestled together under a worn blanket gazing into the faux-fire.

The puppet coughed, its visage having become remarkably more grave over the scene transition. Agatha hugged him closer.

“Stay close, Nicky,” Agatha said, her eyes firmly shut. A cough was the puppet’s only reply as the blanket tightened around him. The two figures, huddled together, went still.

Sharon looked back at the text, “Enter stage left…”

The flickering orange of the campfire dulled to a deep red indicating that some time had passed before going out completely. A cool mist drifted in from stage left, covering the wooden flooring in a blanket of fog. The campfire descended back into the trap as the mist rolled over it leaving the stage bare and dark save the two figures huddled against the cold. They didn’t move.

A green spotlight slowly dawned on stage left highlighting the barest of steps. A woman clad in dark robes entered carrying a cardboard torch. The spotlight gave the illusion that the torch was the source of the illumination and not the hidden rigging behind the valences. She stopped just short of the stage itself, a figure hidden in the trappings of the wings. But even so, Sharon could see her face. A cowl of fabric framed the young woman’s somber appearance, while hair spilled unevenly from the edges giving her the semblance of a mourner just awoken. Her eyes were calm, caring, as she lifted her hand in a beckoning motion. In the grave light, the strings puppeting the woman glinted.

Snap, snap, snap…

Strings broke one by one, jarring twangs in the silence of the scene. The puppet collapsed under the blanket. Sharon could see tiny green hints of light cross Agatha’s checks, emeralds of sadness, but the woman did not move. Bound by the strings, the actors continued the play. The mist swirled as the cowled woman receded back into the darkness of the wings leaving only sadness in her wake.

The scene went dark again. Slowly the lights came back up, the cheery yellow of dawn showing Agatha mournfully sobbing over a pile of rocks that seemed to have been deposited by the trap door below.

Agatha sang, her rough sobs shattering a familiar tune into a fit of melancholy.

I have always known,

this road is cruel and wild,

I bury my own heart,

here with you my child.

If one be gone,

We carry on,

But every mile I go,

With every bend,

Beyond the end,

Your mother loves you so.

“Excuse me?” One of the cardboard cutouts from the tavern, a young woman, daintily entered from stage right.

“What!” Agatha’s voice was a harsh echo across the stage.

“I just- you know the ballad. And it’s said the road leads witches who are brave and true to a prize worth the peril,” the cardboard cutout stammered.

“I have heard of such a road,” Agatha said, her form straightening, turning to face the facsimile.

“I am in great need. Might you show us the way?” Three other cardboard cutouts came forth from behind the speaker, the same ones that had been at the tavern.

Agatha’s form paused as if in consideration, her hand coming to the familiar posture of thought along her chin. She spoke plainly, “It seems you have thyself a coven.”

“We do,” it responded.

“Then the first step is complete. Gather you your sisters and follow me, for I have been down this road. I will guide you down your chosen path.” Agatha turned, exiting stage left with the cutouts in tow.

“Enter stage right to center stage, Agatha and Coven A,” Sharon read as the group reentered the stage. “Coven A?” Sharon questioned, as the group joined in a half circle facing the audience, Agatha at the center. A bell tolled. They sang.

Down, down, down the road,

Down the Witches’ Road.

Down, down, down the road,

Down the Witches’ Road.

Circle sewn with fate,

Unlock thy hidden gate!

“Where’s the door?” Agatha said, her hands coming up in indignation. “There should be a door!”

“Did we fail-” One of the cardboard witches moaned.

“You’re all failures,” Agatha lashed out. “A bunch of pathetic weak willed witches who can’t even conjure the road. I shouldn’t have bothered trying to help the helpless.”

“How dare you!”

“We tried!”

“I won’t stand for this!”

“Then do something about it,” Agatha goaded. “If you can’t conjure the road, what chance do you have of harming me?”

In a rudimentary form of stagecraft, paper ribbons shot from the witches hands covering Agatha in a tumult of white tape. A spotlight glared down on Agatha, slowly narrowing in scope until it carved out her head as the single point of interest. Wires pulled at her face opening her mouth as the spotlight dimmed. And then a laugh, high and wide, filled the stage with sound and fury. Agatha’s face howled, but with no joy or substance, just wires animating an actor.

The spotlight blinked out for a moment only to be replaced by a violet disc. The color swamped Agatha’s face giving her a glowing purple gloriole that slowly expanded out from her. It moved slowly, deliberately outward shading everything it came across. The white ribbons that connected the witches to Agatha become lavender, the witches slowly sinking into the stage as the color creeped nearer.

And then they were gone. The stage became a sea of purple with only one witch left standing. Agatha brushed the rogue bits of ribbon off her coat before exiting stage left.

“Did she just steal their power?” Sharon’s face gasped, before returning to the text. “Enter stage right to center stage, Agatha and Coven B. Coven B!”

Again, Agatha entered from stage right along with four more cardboard women. A costume change had happened in the moment between the scenes; Agatha and the cardboard cutouts were dressed as if they had just walked out of Jane Eyre, all dramatic sleeves and empire waists the colors of which seemed to melt in with the wooded backdrop. They took the same positions as the last coven and sang.

Down, down, down the road,

Down the Witches’ Road.

Down, down, down the road,

Down the Witches’ road.

Blood and Tears and Bone,

Maiden, Mother, Crown.

And again the scene played out.

“Just as I feared,” Agatha proclaimed after the final verse. “A few hysterical women no more witches than the crows that land on my roof, unable to conjure the road. Maybe go find men to give your life purpose.”

And again, ribbons of power shot from the affronted witches. And again, violet light eradicated any opposition. The lone witch glided off stage leaving Sharon alone in the room.

“I don’t understand!” Sharon yelled at the empty stage. “What do you want me to do, why are you showing me this!” But, as before, the stage sat silent waiting for direction. She put the script down.

“I’ve spent my whole life being told what to do.” Sharon’s voice was quiet, a weak and tired thing. “I was a good daughter, a good wife, and now…” She trailed off. “What am I now?”

As if in response, a great wind blew from the stage pushing her back against the wingback chair. Bobby pins skittered across the floor, remnants of her bag’s contents. The script’s pages bloomed, spinning in the gust. A new backdrop unfurled along the back of the stage- a very familiar basement. And just as the gale started, it ended leaving the woman dazed but otherwise intact. Somewhere a bell chimed.

Down, down, down the road…

“Agatha?” Sharon said.

Down the Witches’ Road.

Slowly Agatha entered from stage right, her long navy blue cloak heralding a procession of witches.

“Alice! Lilia! Jen! Billy!” Sharon yelled, as each one of their forms emerged from the darkened wing. Strings pulled each one slowly and deliberately across the stage.

Down, down, down the road…

The coven gathered center stage, just like the previous covens. Agatha took center, while the rest gathered round her in a half moon circle facing the singular witch in the audience.

Down the Witches’ Road!

“I don’t know what to do!” Sharon yelled at the coven of witches before her. Each one had their eyes directed at the lone audience member, the singular unbound witch.

Follow me my friend,

To glory at the end!

The last note hung on the air, vibrating out from the stage like a death knell.

“Are there any real witches in the house?” Agatha provoked. “Because all I see are has-beens and could’ve beens.”

“Agatha!” Sharon yelled, “Tell me what to do!”

“You’re the one that recruited us!” Lilia countered.

“And I was a fool. You can forget the Witches’ Road.” Agatha spat. “I’d die before letting you befoul it with your mediocrity.” Fire began to form on Alice’s fingertips.

“What a team of rejects,” Agatha continued. “Coward,” she pointed at Lilia. “Fraud,” she turned her nose to Jen. “Disappointment,” came the disparagement aimed at Alice. “And finally, you,” she turned on Billy. “A walking corpse that should have died when his mother did.”

“Shut up!” Billy’s hands crackled with blue lightning.

“These- these aren’t special effects! She’s going to kill them!” Sharon screamed.

“I’d say you should all burn, but that would be a waste of kindling,” Agatha’s scorn continued.

“I need to do something!” Sharon’s hysterical voice matched her movements as she whipped the script up off the table and began looking ahead.

“You need to shut up!” Jen joined in the fray on stage, tiny sparks of pink dancing along the edges of her clenched fists.

“Go to hell…” Sharon read.

“Go to hell!” Alice yelled, fire now racing along her arms.

“Make me!” Agatha proclaimed.

“NO!” But, Sharon’s yell was drowned out as power poured from the witches into Agatha. Pink, Blue, Yellow, and Red beams of targeted fury sailed into the succubus, the connected witches tied into an inevitable outcome.

“I have to stop this!” Sharon said, tossing the script at the stage. The papers exploded outward in a shower of crisp white havoc, their cries drowned out by the turmoil on stage.

“I think she’s-” Billy started, his blue power rippling.

“Draining our power…” Lilia finished, falling to her knees. Her bolt of yellow turbulence gaining the thinnest edge of violet.

“I…” Sharon started. “Don’t know what to do…” Her voice edged with defeat, standing to watch the death of the only coven she had ever known.

Sharon, you’re a witch…

Lilia’s words came to her. A memory of the past, an admission in a different time when things were safe and calm.

“I’m not like her…” But her words trailed off. She could feel herself just at the edges of her garden, a place of calm and quiet. The roses were blooming. The afternoon sun touched their checks releasing a fragrance that perfumed the place with tranquility. The grass knotted under foot, the long strings of greenery coming together to fill the space with comfort. Far below she could feel the roots, the tangled mess of an oak’s life spread wide and far; constantly digging, constantly exploring, the roots thrummed with a vitality among the decomposition.

What kind of witch you become is your decision…

Sharon looked up. Five pairs of eyes were on her, four of them being slowly drained of life. Violet fire creeped down from the fifth.

“Then I will be a good witch!” And it came to her. The roots, she could feel them. They were everywhere. In the floor, in the walls, just a constant beat of life with the desire to find, to search, to spread- she only need give them a path forward. And she did.

She showed them where the power was and how to get there. She showed them all the space that they could spread. She showed them the hidden aquifers of water and dying bodies that had nutrients. Then she told them-

“Grow.”

The floor split into shreds, the scarlet carpet becoming a memory under the tangle of root and leaf. The groan of wood filled the air as writhing barked serpents slithered across the walls and ceilings. And then they struck. Thousands of wooded fangs ganged the scene, their mass eradicating the curtains, the set, the stage in an uproar of verdant rage, all crawling towards a single target- Agatha. In an instant the violet witch was surrounded in a shell of wood, the rest of the coven falling to the floor- the connection broken.

“I’m a good witch,” Sharon whispered, her voice disappearing into the foliage as she slumped unconscious into her garden.

Chapter Text

She could feel them all around her, tiny probing needles looking for any opening they could exploit. They were drawn to her power, a power that surrounded her in a protective violet shell. To drop her defenses would mean certain death, a long laborious death as she was sucked bone dry by the ravaging mass of fibrous roots around her. The force of a green witch was not one to be taken lightly.

“Didn’t think you had it in you, Sharon,” Agatha said to the writhing mass encasing her.

“She doesn’t,” came a hauntingly familiar tone. Slowly the roots gave way to a face. The deathly pallor the visage exuded could only be held by one person in this universe.

“Rio, nice of you to join in the fun,” Agatha glared from behind her violet shell.

“Oh, you know, I was just passing by. Heard the commotion. Thought I might play a bit part.” The face gave way to a neck, to a body, to legs, all slowly pouring themselves in between the wriggling mass of living forest to join Agatha in her shelter.

“Well, you’ve always liked being tied up,” Agatha sneered.

“And you the tying,” Rio said, her fingers tracing over the perimeter of Agatha’s bubble. “Now, why don’t you let me in. We could have a lot of fun in here, just like we used to.”

Agatha sighed, a regretful sigh that emptied the space of all mirth or humor.

“That’s over.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Rio was now drawing on the violet glow leaving trace lines of green. The colors swirled together in rogue iridescent shapes that slowly faded back to a neutral violet.

“No, it is. You got your bodies.”

“Did I?” Rio smirked.

Agatha’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, you thought you killed them?” Rio said, still toying at the edges of Agatha’s defenses.

“I have my power back,” Agatha responded, flatly.

“For the moment.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means that you still have a job to do.”

Agatha could feel the dagger she’d been given oh so long ago get heavier. The weight tugged at her, pulled her, ground her down against the floor of the wooden shrine. Rio moved with her, the violet glow of Agatha’s defenses lifting the personification of death into a lascivious pose against the ceiling. The roots twisted around the form giving hints of desire in between lurid drapes of cloth and bone. Death smiled and Agatha fell.

Chapter Text

Agatha crashed onto the stage, or what had once been a stage- now the scene was more akin to a jungle. Dark rough roots trailed over every inch of the theater. Along the walls, along the floor, even hanging right above her like a cage, Agatha could see the devastation of the trial. The room was quiet, save her labored breathing. The purple glow that had surrounded her a moment ago petered out leaving the room in dull shades of brown and forest green. Wane light poured from the ceiling, presumably where the lighting rig had once been, highlighting the small motes of shredded carpet that danced languidly in the air. Agatha’s eyes skittered around the room.

Beyond the theater’s precipice lay cradled among a patch of azaleas was Sharon. The comforting greenery around her wafted in an invisible breeze, a breeze that seemed to come and go with the rising and falling of the witch’s chest.

“Not dead,” Agatha mentally counted off before her eyes returned to the stage.

Fanning out before her laid the bodies of her companions. Jen, a normally vibrant force, was quiet- her angular face made even more so by the etchings of dark ashen lines that splintered up from her chest. And yet, she breathed, her chest rising and falling as subtle flutters of pain pulsed across her disposition.

“Sadly, also not dead,” Agatha mentally continued.

Alice was next, her shirt ripped wide open to show the remnants of past trauma running over her shoulder. Dark lines of decay rippled from the old wound to wind their way up her neck highlighting the blood vessels underneath. Even from this distance, Agatha could see the wild pulse under those lines- a beat of anger, of desperation, a sign of indomitable might against the death that crept along her skin.

“Fighting, as always.” Agatha’s eye continued onward.

A hollow bedraggled woman lay just beyond. Covered in a collage of patchwork fabric, the eldest and most fragile of the coven draped unmoving over the thrall of vines. The woman’s face was turned away giving Agatha the impression of a well worn broom peeking out of a coat rack- and, just like a coat rack, the mass of clothes didn’t move.

“One down,” Agatha checked with clinical coldness, her eyes moving on.

Just at the end of the stage laid the boy. A thin ray of light escaped from the canopy of twisting appendages above to fall delicately on the periodic movement of his chest, a calm and placid rising and falling that stirred the motes of carpet giving an almost glittering appearance to the scene. In the fray his shirt had ripped open exposing his bare chest- a target in the darkness.

Slowly Agatha crept forward. One hand on a root for balance, her feet coming up to meet her chest, a lurch forward catching herself with her other hand, and then again to repeat the process. Slowly she moved over the uneven terrain- the quiet methodical approach of a predator. As she moved, quick glances confirmed that the other witches were still down and out. And then she was upon him. The pale beam of light that had illuminated the boy’s chest eclipsed as the daunting figure of Agatha Harkness, noted witch killer, loomed.

“Now, Sleeping Beauty, I’ve come to give you your kiss,” the figure said as a sharp and mighty weight disgorged itself from the shadows of her clothing. “Just stay very still and you might not feel a thing.” The figure’s voice was gleeless, cold, as the sound slithered its way down from her mouth to hover delicately at the end of her knife- a knife that now hung mirthlessly above the teenager’s chest. A rattling intake of breath filled the room.

“You’re still with us, Lilia?” Agatha said without turning to look; her full attention centered on the space between blade and boy.

“Lie at my mercy all mine enemies,” came a threadbare voice.

“That stupid book again!” Agatha turned toward the annoyance, the knife still fixed in time and space.

A face that once belonged to Lilia looked back at her. The once wizened wrinkles of the divination specialist had cratered toward the witch’s skull giving the appearance of a long forgotten mummy, just a breath away from collapsing into dust. But, the eyes were alive. Dark wet pupils bore through the desert of the woman’s face finding purchase on the scene before her.

“You’ve seen-” But, Agatha found herself cut off by the rattling of bones. A fine angular appendage slipped from beneath the patchwork of fabric, an arm extending to the point of a bejeweled finger. It pointed.

“Ace of Swords,” the rasp of the near dead breathed before the accusatory finger fell. The wet eyes of the corpse turned slowly milky, the inevitable creep of desert surrounding them finally claiming what was left.

“What?” But, Agatha’s attention followed the finger’s final insistence. Her gaze swept back to the knife. The blade seemed to draw her focus down to a point, a razor sharp moment that pulled at her, tugged at her, dragged at her with every beat of her heart. She could feel it, reality slipping away as her vision filled with the sharp void of the dagger- a dagger that seemed to be coming right for her.

—

*

—

Agatha tried to jump back, but a chair caught her fear and held her upright. Her hands splayed back grabbing the arms and steadying herself against a new world before her- a world that seemed to center around a singular tarot card: The Ace of Swords. The card was nothing special at first glance, just a well worn card, but, as she studied it, details started unraveling. The card was old or, at least, appeared to be a style of an earlier time. Filigree rolled along the border of the card helping to disguise the slightly uneven edges, while the design played inside the bounds. The design was simple, a hand holding a sword the point of which was directed at Agatha herself. Underneath “Ace of Swords” swirled in a bout of calligraphy.

“You are surprised?” A voice creaked from beyond the card.

Agatha pulled her gaze from the card. Her eyes traveled upward, past the card, across the wooden planks that formed a ceremonial table, to land on the unknown speaker. At first all Agatha could see was burgundy, just a sea of luxurious velvet burgundy that fit comfortably over a small frame. Cream colored linen seemed to erupt from the velvet leading up to a high neckline from which spilled a collection of tarnished gold necklaces and pendants. A face came soon after. Unlike the smooth velvet of the gown, the face had wrinkled with time. A sly smile played across the face as Agatha finally met the woman’s eyes. A self-assured knowingness seemed to flit across the dark wet pupils before being swallowed up into a questioning demeanor.

“Was that rhetorical,” Agatha said, responding more to the look than to the question. The figure responded with a shrug as she brought her hands to rest on the table. Agatha mentally noted that the woman’s hands were empty.

“Wanna tell me what I’m doing here,” Agatha continued.

The figure tilted her head almost imperceptibly to one side before gesturing at the lone card on the table. Agatha laughed, a sound of absurdity breaking the otherwise calm surroundings.

“Sorry, I don’t do readings.”

“And yet you are here,” the figure responded flatly.

“Yeah, and if you could send me back, that would be great. I’ve got an important deadline to meet- emphasis on the dead.” Agatha curled her hands back into herself, crossing her arms as she adjusted her body into a more defensive position. The woman responded with a quiet, yet insisting, stare.

“Well?”

“Did I bring you here?” The elderly woman’s agitation spilled over into gesticulation, her hands bobbing above the table like angered bees.

“You’re the only one here!” Agatha dropped her defensive posture, her palms slamming down on the table in front of her. The figure responded with a slow tilt of the head as if to indicate an obvious answer.

“Oh, you think I came here myself?” Agatha brought her hands to her chest in indignation, which slowly softened as realization grew. “Lilia.”

“Ahh, she can learn,” the figure said to no one in particular before turning her attention back to Agatha. “We can begin the lesson, yes?”

“No, we cannot begin the lesson,” Agatha mocked. “I’m not that sort of witch.”

“Aren’t you? You take the power of others?”

“Take is a strong word, I prefer to say that I accept what others give me.” A scowl crossed the figure’s lips. “Fine, fine, take, whatever.”

“Then you can use them,” the figure continued gesturing back to the card on the table.

Agatha flourished her right hand, a small gout of purple flame misted out before she curled it into extinction with her fist. “Clearly you don’t understand my powers.”

“And you do?”

Agatha reflexively moved to respond, but found herself at a loss for words. Her mind whirled back through the past, skipping over the more traumatic sections to land at the beginning. She could see herself clearly, paging through old grimoires her mother had locked away. Of course, her purple made quick work of the lock and even quicker work of gathering the tomes into the ruffles of her cloak. And then she ran into the dense brush of the surrounding wood. She stored the tomes in the crook of a tree, after, of course, shooing the squirrels that had taken up residence there.

Over the next month she secreted away to that tree, breaking open the tomes with her intense curiosity and scouring them for any information about herself- about the power that made everyone fear her. She read of the creatures that existed at the fringes of the human mind, the demons that stalked at the boundaries ready to invade. She read of the spells forbidden, the bindings, the hexes, the blood curses levied only upon the most ardent enemies of a coven. She read of the prophecies both benevolent and deadly, of the chaos promised to return and the book that it created- a book she would later hunt down and use to her own misfortune. But, nowhere in her readings did she find anything about herself- her own unique power. And, when she went to return the books, she was caught. How she was- her mind flashed back to the present, her face growing in anger.

“And you do?” Agatha shot the question back, but was only met with the placid neutral countenance she had come to expect from the elderly figure. “Fine,” Agatha’s annoyance came out, “I take power, raw power, and make it mine.”

“Then refine it, use what you’ve taken.” The figure once again gestured to the lone card on the table.

“That’s not how this works.” Agatha’s exasperation was spilling into her hands, her fingers digging into the wood of the table.

“How would you know? Have you tried?”

“I…” Agatha trailed off. She found herself angry at the accusation, but her mind couldn’t deny that she had not, in fact, ever tried. Time had moved so quickly after her mother had caught her trying to return the books. The accusations, the fighting, the trial, the deaths, and then the long and winding road to here, survival had been paramount after that point. Even when the Darkhold was within her grasp, she only heard the whispers of what she could be rather than what she actually was. To survive one needed power, and she took it; knowledge at that point became a tool to be used to get more power, not a method of self reflection.

Agatha looked down at the table. The card was still there, but she felt something beyond it. Her vision panned out. The wood of the table expanded into view, the card becoming scenery in the boundless thicket of wood around it. Intricate lines started filling in the wood, the grain of life running the course of the table, a remembrance of the beings sacrificed to create such an ornate piece. Instinctively she ran her hand over the wood. Invisible to the naked eye, she could feel the slight imperfections. Her mind fought against that idea, that these lines were not unintentional. Her hand stretched to follow a specific groove; and when her arm had reached the limits of her range, her other hand shot out to follow a similar line in a different direction. She soon found herself arms outstretched over the table, her face delicately near the card in the center- a card that once again seemed to consume her world.

Her vision once again narrowed down to the point of the knife, a knife that now seemed to exist in two different worlds. The image of it sharpened, solidified before her into two separate images superimposed over the card. They dangled hauntingly in her vision like two possible paths. She focused on the left.

—

*

—

“Ace of Swords,” the rasp of the near dead breathed before the accusatory finger fell. The wet eyes of the corpse turned slowly milky, the inevitable creep of desert surrounding them finally claiming what was left.

“What?” But, Agatha’s attention followed the finger’s final insistence. Her gaze swept back to the knife. The blade seemed to draw her focus down to a point, a razor sharp moment that pulled at her, tugged at her, dragged at her with every beat of her heart. She could feel it, reality slipping away as her vision filled with the sharp void of the dagger- a dagger that plunged straight down. The flesh was soft and gave little resistance, the bone gave way offering only slightly more, and then came the blood. Life poured from the wound, dark and black and sickly.

“Agatha?” came a guttural cry from the body. The hands instinctively came up to the source of pain, wrapping around the hilt of the dagger, around the hands of his murderer. Blue fire ran along the mass of hands, a fire that rapidly diminished into a purple mist before fully extinguishing.

Agatha’s world clung to the hilt of the dagger. She could feel every bump, every curve as the rigid surface dug into her skin. Her knuckles whitened as the heat of the corpse's hands slowly evaporated into a clammy cage. Tension pinned her down, freezing her in time and space. As time passed, feeling disappeared from her hands, from her feet, from her body; the only thing Agatha felt were two sharp burning lines traveling down her face.

“Agatha, dear, what-” Agatha snapped back to the world around her.

“I can-”

“Murderer! You murdered him!” Sharon’s screech filled the theater.

“I can explain, you see-” Agatha finally let go of the dagger, the pain of feeling tearing through her body as she pulled herself to standing.

“No! Jen was right, you kill witches! You’re just as bad as Wanda!” Sharon stepped back only to trip over the uneven root flooring. She landed hard, her arms coming across her body to protect herself.

“Oh, no, I’m worse,” Agatha proclaimed as dark purple fire spread over her body reshaping the tattered clothes that had followed her down into a long flowing blue robe. The fire around her neck fanned out into a purple shawl, highlighting her darkening face now free from any offending dirt or wound. She smirked down at the last living soul.

“Witch killer!” Sharon seemed to recover herself and in an act of defiance pointed an accusatory finger at Agatha Harkness. Green tendrils spread from the newly found witch’s outstretched finger, tendrils that found their way to certain doom. Like roots to new earth, the tendrils latched onto and around the noted witch killer.

“And you, my dear, are a witch!” Agatha cackled as tinges of purple fire crept down toward the fledgling witch. It was over just as quickly as it began. Green roots turned to purple as the corpse of Sharon Davis was left to join the rest of her dead coven on The Witches’ Road.

Chapter Text

“And what did you see?” The voice sailed in like fresh air after being submerged for too long.

Agatha fell back into her chair, her arms slumping over herself cradling onto her body in the here and now. She breathed heavily and slowly went through her mental checklist. She could feel the chair beneath her, the arms of it holding her together. She could feel her clothing against her skin, the weight of it grounding her into the present. She could feel her power just at the edges of her fingers, a trace of violet energy reminding her of who she was. But, her mind balked at this.

Witch Killer.

The thought was hers, but came unbidden like an animal that paced at the edges of a cage. Something waiting for the chance to pounce, to escape, to run free and wild across the expanse of her mind. She mentally added another lock to the cage.

“Nothing. Just that stupid card.” Agatha crouched into herself as if trying to escape the question.

“Then why are you-”

“Shut it! Okay! It’s a knife, I have trauma! I don’t need to explain it to you, now let me leave,” Agatha exploded at the older woman. But, still, in return all Agatha received was a placid indifference and silence. And in the silence her mind continued to screech.

Witch killer.

“Just shut up!” Agatha screamed.

“I said nothing.”

“You’ve said nothing this entire time, you just sit there and judge. What are you, my mother?” Agatha stood up knocking the chair over, her palms slamming down on the table causing the card to jump slightly.

“Eh,” the older woman shrugged.

“What do you mean, ‘eh’?”

“Of a kind, you have her power.”

“So you’re just daft,” Agatha bit back, but, again, the old woman just shrugged indifferent to the insult before running her hands across the table as if moving away a covering. Agatha looked down. Nothing had changed, the table was still the same, but from this angle something started taking shape. The grooves that her hands had been following earlier connected and intertwined with other lines. Slowly her mind put the pieces together into the shape of a pentacle, a pentacle embossed with tiny golden threads weaving together the intricacies of the pattern. A single pentacle covered the table- and in the center laid the card.

In the afternoon sun the gold threads seemed to glow, a warm amber hue that whispered, “The Queen of Pentacles, a solace to those that need it, a love to heal wounds, and a witch to guide her coven safely forward.”

“Lilia,” Agatha’s voice choked out.

“How is she?”

“Huh?” Agatha came back to herself, “She’s dead.”

“Ahh,” the older woman breathed.

“You knew her?” Agatha said as she uprighted the chair and sat back down.

“Like I said, of a kind.”

Agatha’s mind raced back to her comments before. Realization dawned on her as she blurted out, “You’re her mother!”

“Maestra, council, matriarch of the Calderu family,” the old woman listed off as if reading a grocery list while Agatha’s mouth continued to gape at the situation. Here Agatha was, sitting across from the mother of a woman she had just inadvertently murdered, all while using her own daughter’s powers. After what felt like minutes, Agatha closed her mouth and regained her composure. She dusted off the invisible embarrassment before speaking.

“So, ugh, you’re not surprised she’s dead?”

The old woman shrugged, “Death comes for us all.”

“Well, some more than others.” The old woman didn’t laugh. “I mean, don’t you want to know how she died?”

“You killed her.” The silence was deafening. Agatha’s eyes went over the woman again, mentally ticking off that the woman still bore no weapons nor crackled with some magical power.

“What, me?” Agatha feigned innocence, her hands flying to her face in faux surprise. “I could never kill a-”

“Agatha Harkness.” The words brought a chill to Agatha’s bones. Never in her life had her name elicited such a feeling. It was as if the cold spirit of Death had just come over the air, and not in the way Agatha was used to seeing.

“Well, yes, that’s a name I go-”

“Witch killer.” Again Agatha was stopped dead, mentally a lock gave way.

“So, my reputation precedes me. Are you going to try and avenge your daughter now? Kill me? That’s why you brought me here?” Agatha toyed with her power under the table, feeling the weight of it in her hands. Agatha prepared for a fight.

“She does not listen. Did I bring you here?” The old woman’s agitation flowed across the table extinguishing the purple flames that were building in Agatha’s hands.

“Right,” Agatha acknowledged, bringing her hands back up to the table. She absentmindedly traced a line of the pentacle, “Lilia did that.”

“Good, now back to the lesson. What did you see?”

“Let’s just skip over that, shall we?” Agatha evaded. “I have a better question, how do I get out of here?”

The elderly matriarch gestured to the card still upright on the table.

“What, am I supposed to click my heels together three times and will the card to become a doorway? Because I’ve already been through that trial. Impalement didn’t suit me the first time.”

“A trial? What trial? I teach. It is you who try yourself.” The elderly matriarch’s hand flourished about, gesticulating the pretense of the witch’s distractions away.

“Teach? All you’ve done is question? If you want to teach, tell me what the card means, oh so grand matriarch of the Calderu line.”

“I cannot answer a question I didn’t ask. You drew the card. You answer your own question.”

“I did no such thing,” Agatha spat back. “It was sitting there when I got here.”

“Abbastanza!” The matriarch’s hands pounded the table bringing the argument to a close. “A card is just a symbol. You have asked the question with your choices. The cards have answered. Now, what did you see.”

Agatha was silent for a moment before slipping a single word onto the table, “Death.”

“And is that what you wanted to see?”

“I don’t see how that-” But Agatha found herself neatly cutoff.

“What did you want to see?”

“Not that,” Agatha cowed defeatedly.

“Ahh, so now we get somewhere. Here,” the matriarch said as she reached out. With nimble grace the old woman flipped the card over. “Your answer,” she continued as her hand returned to a placidly neutral position in front of her.

Agatha looked down. If she hadn’t seen the old woman flip the card over she wouldn’t have said anything happened. The card appeared the same. The same hand, the same dagger, the same words scrawled over it letting her know that, yes, she was not going insane- it was still the Ace of Swords.

“Oh, yes, of course!” Agatha’s voice pitched high, a plaintive tone of acknowledgement. “Yes, that card, of course! How could I not understand? Yes, the Ace of Swords. It’s all very clear now.” Agatha mimed grabbing her nonexistent bag while standing up. “Yes, I understand everything. Thank you for your time, now if you just point me to the exit.”

“Sit,” commanded the matriarch, and surprisingly Agatha sat. “Look.” And Agatha did. The all too familiar card ballooned into her view. The sharp relief of the blade once again called to her, solidifying its existence as a spectacle before her eyes. And once again the knife split into two distinct images that seemed to float delicately above the card, two choices suspended on the point of a knife. This time Agatha went to the right.

—

*

—

“And what did you see this time?” The voice felt like a balm on a soul wounded by despair.

“Death,” sobbed the witch, her eyes red and weary.

“It comes for us all,” the matriarch soothed.

“You say it like it’s a comfort,” Agatha mourned, as she blotted her eyes with the fringes of her dress.

“To some it is.”

“But for me?” Agatha’s eyes now clear, she wistfully gazed at the matriarch before her.

“You already have that answer.”

And for Agatha the world turned back to the point of a knife.

Chapter Text

“Ace of Swords,” the rasp of the near dead breathed before the accusatory finger fell. The wet eyes of the corpse turned slowly milky, the inevitable creep of desert surrounding them finally claiming what was left.

“What?” But, Agatha’s attention followed the finger’s final insistence. Her gaze swept back to the knife. The blade seemed to draw her focus down to a point, a razor sharp moment that pulled at her, tugged at her, dragged at her with every beat of her heart. And then it was gone. The force that called to her, that compelled her, petered away into the sparkling air. The world seemed to expand outward from the knife growing the reality around it. A boy delicately breathed below the instrument, while roots cascading around gently cradled the other dozing bodies. Silence ruled over the arboreal kingdom.

“I,” Agatha began, looking down at the defenseless teen, the knife still dangerously close to his beating chest. “I’ve made my choice.”

With a quick motion, Agatha tossed the knife into the abyss of the surrounding darkness. The hollow sound of metal on wood bounced across the stage before silence returned to the auditorium. Agatha raised her hand, the warm light above casting it in a halo as the darker counterpart obscured the child below.

Slap

The sharp percussion rang out followed swiftly by a sputtering cough.

“Agatha, why-” But the teen’s rasp was immediately cut off.

“Shut up,” Agatha commanded, as the teen reached up to the now reddened cheek. “Look.” Agatha took both her hands and forcibly turned the boy’s head giving him a wide view of his barely breathing sisterhood. Billy’s vision slowly focused through the moment of twisting vertigo to see a finger swim into view. The flesh of it was gnarled, wrinkled, and bejeweled giving the appearance of a mummy. It stretched back following equally desiccated flesh into a pile of patchwork fabric above which a face sunken down to bone rested.

“Lilia!” Billy tried to reach out to her, but his head was forcibly spun back to the witch currently on top of him. Deep wet orbs peered down at him, orbs that sat in a face lined with anxiety and fear. The face spoke.

“They’re dying. Take my power and give it to them. Now!”

“I don’t-”

“You do!” screamed Agatha as she pulled the boy up to a sitting position eliciting a cough from the boy.

“I really-” But, the boy’s protests were immediately cut off by a scream of pain. The sound seemed to bubble up from him, a scorching fire that radiated through him, around him, inside him. His body pulled him toward the pain and as it did his eyes followed. Down his shoulder, through a violet fire, was his arm. Hot sharp talons of flame gouged into his skin, fire that came from the witch that was now locked through a death grip on him.

“Agatha! Stop!” He tried to scream, but the fire kept coming. He could feel it on his tongue, a sharp acrid taste that clung like thick molasses. He tried to cough, but the cloying heat came back down into his lungs. It was everywhere, it was inescapable.

“Save them!” A voice screeched through the inferno, but the fire kept coming. Billy could feel it across his eyes now, a burning pain that twisted his world into a swirling purple void. Everything was fire. Everything was violet. Everything was magic. Billy could feel it dancing through his nerves now. An electric current that beat through him like a storm. He tried to breathe, but only fire. His heart reacted in kind to the lack of air, jolting against his chest trying to break free. He tried to will his body to move, but the fire beat back any semblance of control he once had. All he could do was cry.

“I’m dying.”

“You’ve died before,” came a thought to join his. “It’s not so bad.”

“I’m afraid.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“I can’t do anything.”

“Magic can do anything.”

“It’s killing me.”

“Then give it away.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Then everyone will die.”

The thought brought Billy back to reality. Surrounded by death, he looked outward. Underneath the fire that ate at him, he could feel the roots that ran along the floor. Like threads of green, he saw them through the purple haze that had become his vision; a tapestry of verdancy thrumming around him. He glanced along them, following their twisting maze to a pocket of green fire.

“Sharon,” he wheezed through the conflagration. He glanced back up the stage to where the others should have been only to find dark pools, voids in the world. Even through his violet colored world, they were like shadows. He could see the green lines of the roots underneath them bleed into these voids and disappear, consumed by the gnawing darkness.

“They’re witches. They’re trying to survive. They’re taking whatever magic they can find.” His thoughts raced. “But, it’s not enough. They’re dying.” He felt his heart shudder in his chest, he was dying too but from the completely opposite problem. “If I could just reach…” His mind braced through the pain looking for solutions. He tested his limbs, which refused to move. He tested his magic, which blanched under the weight of the violet storm. And then he felt them, the roots that cradled him, that surrounded him, reaching up into the fire along his legs gasping for power; the same roots that cradled all the other witches.

“Save them.” Billy wasn’t sure who said it, whether Agatha’s scream had reverberated back to him or he had managed to bleat something out against the flames, either way the roots listened. They bore through Billy’s clothes and attached themselves to his skin, instantly catching the same purple flames that were killing him. The fire spread. Like a match to tinder, the fire swept outward catching across the stage in an instant.

And Billy breathed. The fire swept down from him and poured across his chest finding a new outlet to delve through. He took another breath, this time wincing from the pain that still seemed to envelope him, before looking out at the raging inferno. The fire had burned across the roots on the stage and now seemed to be collecting on the rest of the coven. Purple bonfires formed around the witches stoked by the engulfed roots leading from him.

A slight lurch beside him brought his attention down. The once gnarled and desiccated hand of Lilia Calderu shifted. The fire that coursed over the skin melded down like a lotion restoring the once mummified hand into something alive. More shifts and groans moved his attention further out. Jen leaned up, the fire misting away as she did. The ashen lines that had ruined the woman’s perfect complexion gone as the woman reached up to massage her temples. Alice just beyond rolled over, her hand instinctively massaging her scar, a scar that no longer raced with fire nor haunting lines of death.

“Agatha we-” But Billy’s jubilation was cut short. He turned from the other witches to look down at where Agatha once was, but she was not there. In her place knelt a statue of decay. White tangled hair cascaded above a face lined with dark wrinkles and eyes that existed only as memories. Clad in rags, the figure’s arms outstretched along Billy’s left arm, the fingers of which shriveled back into dark black stumps.

“Agatha!” Billy reached toward the figure, but it was gone. The brief shifting of winds caused the statue to crumble into itself. The form disintegrated into dust, the fine rags folding down through the shimmering air to lay as a pile at Billy’s feet. What felt like hours happened in seconds. As the dust settled, all that was left of Agatha Harkness was a pile of rags and a singular wildflower nestled in between them. In the silence a single voice croaked out:

“And my ending is despair. Thank you, Agatha.”

Chapter Text

“It’s time to go.” The voice was soft and plaintive.

“Are they okay?” The woman breathed, pulling her hands back into herself.

“They’re alive.”

“And your job is done?” A tinge of fear rounded out the words.

“My job is done.”

“Do I get to see him now?”

“You still have a job to do.”

“Do I now? You didn’t sign me up with the Avengers did you? Just because I did one nice thing, doesn’t mean I want to go around helping everyone.”

“He still needs a teacher.”

“I have my own kid to worry about.”

“He’ll be alright, he’s got a friend to keep him company.”

“Oh? Have you been running around cheating on me?”

“You’d kill me if I did.”

“You bet your ass. So, who’s his friend? He’s not teaching him how to hold doors open for people is he? I won’t tolerate that sort of behavior in my house.”

“I think his name’s Tommy- or was it Timmy.”

“Great, my life is just Maximoffs all the way down isn’t it?”

“Behind every great witch-”

“There’s the literal personification of Death.”

“I was going to say ‘a past.’”

“Eh, same difference.”

“So.”

“I still have a job to do, apparently.”

“And after?”

“There’s an entire afterlife to find out,” Agatha smirked.