Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Agatha Harkness does love making an entrance.

If murder’s the occasion? All the better.

Midnight drapes the New Westview Botanical Gardens greenhouse in mist and shadows as she strolls up the cobblestone path, the sharp click of her heels cutting through the stillness.

She pulls out her lipstick—deep classic red for the occasion—and reapplies it without missing a step, gaze flicking over her reflection in a dark windowpane.

“Stay close, but not clingy.” she tells her black-suited ghoul encourage, not sparing them a glance. “Mommy’s working.”

The four of them—each discreetly armed, each convinced they were her favorite—fan out like obedient little ducklings. Useful things, blood servants, if a bit dull after their first century.

The humidity wraps around her, heavy and thick, rich with the scent of nectar, loam... and something else. Something dry, stale, coppery. But focused in the way scattered ash isn't. No spilled blood or vitae.

Dead, but wrong-dead.

Even fifty yards out, Agatha knows this isn't an ordinary death. Not your garden-variety murder.

Up ahead, a ghoul—uniformed, over-muscled, and with the hollow-eyed look of someone who'd been drinking vitae for far too long—looms by the yellow barricade tape, right in her path.

“Badge?” he grunts, like he has a death wish.

Agatha halts her little parade with a single lift of her hand, her gaze settling on him—sharp, cold, and utterly unimpressed. She leans in with a razor-thin smile.

"I'm wearing three thousand dollars of couture," she says sweetly, "At a plant nursery. In heels. I’m either important or insane. Care to find out which?"

The ghoul blinks, swallows visibly, and steps aside.

Inside, the scene is its own grim little opera. Harsh floodlights cast long, clinical shadows. Sheriff's deputies—ghoul and Kindred alike—poke at evidence and posture at each other, trying very hard to look more competent than they feel.

And there, center stage, under the flash of cameras: the body. Or what’s left of it.

A withered husk, crumpled against a marble bench, skin drawn tight like old parchment, mouth frozen mid-silent scream. Not a drop of vitae spilled, not a speck of ash. No signs of a messy end.

Just the quiet, deliberate siphoning of unlife itself. Eerie and unsettling in its neatness.

Agatha slows, the first real tendril of interest curling through her. And with it—that familiar, dangerous thrill.

Interesting. Deeply inconvenient, sure. But interesting.

A voice cuts through the murmur: smooth, polished, and laced with just enough disdain to make it a challenge.

"The Head of House Harkness graces us with her presence."

Agatha doesn’t have to look to know who it is. She turns anyway, a smirk already on her lips.

Jennifer Kale stands just at the periphery of the lights, commanding authority as easily as she wears her designer suit: immaculate and ivory, tailored to perfectly contrast against flawless dark skin. No crown's needed. No throne or insignia. In New Westview, this is royalty.

Prince of the city. Ruler of its Kindred with the Camarilla’s brittle blessing. A vision you could hang in a Toreador’s gallery or find presiding over a Ventrue boardroom—except for the fire simmering just beneath.

Agatha knows the performance for what it is—she even respects it. Jen's stylish poise and polish, the careful curation of rage into charisma and influence. The Brujah Prince hasn't forgotten what it means to bleed for a cause. She just figured out how to do it in Prada.

It's own kind of rebellion, dressed as an institution. Agatha can relate.

Tonight however, something twists beneath that polished veneer. Jen's jaw is a little too tight. Her smile a little too too sharp at the corners.

It's a rare thing to see the Prince rattled. Agatha’s fingers twitch with curiosity.

She saunters forward, flashing her most disarming smile—the one that's gotten her out of (and into) trouble since her Salem days.

“You called, I answered,” she says, sketching a mock-curtsy before sweeping an arm toward the scene, like a game show hostess unveiling a particularly depressing prize.

“So, is it murder-as-metaphor now? Life blooms, someone dies, the great circle of un-life?”

Jens lips twitch, but before she can reply, another figure steps forward—compact, hard-edged, and about as subtle as a switchblade.

Sheriff Alice Wu-Gulliver, the Prince's enforcer and right hand.

Also New Westview’s answer to ‘what if a Toreador stopped giving a shit about pageantry and started punching people instead.’

Hands jammed into the pockets of a leather jacket that probably still smells like a bar fight, hair streaked with neon-red highlights, Alice moves with the restless energy of someone aching for this to be someone else's mess.

Agatha gives her a slow once-over, purely to amuse herself. In the grand masquerade of Kindred society, where every move is choreographed and every word a dagger sheathed in silk, Alice's modern punk aesthetic is a delightful slap in the face.

“This isn’t a social call, Harkness,” Alice says, flat.

"No?" Agatha sighs—long, theatrical, as if Alice just personally ruined her night. "And here I was, looking forward to our little soirée."

She drifts closer to the corpse, every step casual, almost bored. Inside, though? She’s ravenous. Hungry for answers. Curiosity has always been her oldest vice. Older than blood. Perhaps older than love.

She glances sideways at Alice, one brow arched high. “May I?”

The Sheriff shrugs, about as welcoming as a locked door. "Be my guest. Not like you're going to contaminate our crime scene more than it already is."

Agatha tosses her a wink on her way past. "Charming as ever, dear."

She turns her full attention to the corpse. Up close, it's even more of a conversation starter. A grotesque caricature of what once passed for a vampire.

Tissue paper-thin skin clinging over brittle bone, the entire thing probably a breath away from collapse. No obvious wounds. No blood. No ritual markings. Just a body completely empty of what gives Kindred unlife.

And yet, its final death wasn't kind. The lips are peeled back, fangs bared in a silent, rictus scream.

And oh, she knows that face. Or at least, she knew it when it was less... crinkly.

Tyler Hayward. Ventrue elder, bureaucratic pit viper, professional thorn in everyone's side, especially hers.

Well, she thinks dryly, even vipers get stepped on eventually.

"Third one in two months," Alice mutters, stepping up beside her with the world-weary sigh of someone who knows exactly how much paperwork this is going to generate.

Agatha crouches, the skirts of her coat pooling around her like shadow. "The others?"

"Brujah neonate. Then a Gangrel ancilla," Jen answers, heels clicking crisply as she approaches. "Same story. No marks. No blood."

Agatha extends a hand, fingers suspended just above the desiccated skin, and closes her eyes. No touch is needed.

Instead, she calls.

The blood answers.

Not Hayward’s—what remains of him is dust and regret—but her own. Her vitae—thick with centuries of power and stolen secrets—alive in ways her flesh hasn't been for centuries. It stirs at her command, a slumbering serpent awakened by her will.

She reaches through it, through herself, sending her senses lapping outward like ripples in a blackened pool.

The world bends, the greenhouse groaning around her senses as her magic reaches into the lingering stain of death.

Faint echoes claw their way free—ritual marks spiderwebbed across the corpse’s skin beyond sight. Not physical. Scars burned deep into its metaphysical memory.

She senses it: the imprints of another sorcerer's will—a smear of intent, faint and unraveling but still here.

And underneath that—something bitter and old, coiling at the edges of her senses. An echo with teeth. Familiar, in the way a wound knows the shape of its knife.

Agatha’s eyes snap open—blood red, glowing within like live coals. For a heartbeat, she sees nothing but the layered stains of magic, violence, and something worse.

Something that knows her name.

Ah. That's not good.

Agatha inhales sharply, the sensation hitting her chest like the first bitter drag of a cigarette. Slowly, deliberately, the red drains from her irises, returning to their usual disarming blue.

Voices murmur at the edge of her senses—Alice, Jen, the weight of Kindred eyes. Watching. Waiting.

She straightens with practiced ease, dusting non-existent dirt from her hands, slipping on a knowing smile—like she'd seen exactly what she expected.

"Hayward was what... four hundred?" she muses, voice breezy.

"Three hundred and ninety-three," Jen corrects, her tone crisp. "And a prominent voice on the Ventrue Board."

"A voice often raised against House Harkness, if I recall correctly," Agatha says, smile widening with lazy malice. "Not that I keep track of our detractors. There are just so many."

The Prince doesn't smile back.

Instead, she waves her people out, clearing the scene until it's just the three of them standing around the dead Ventrue centerpiece.

Agatha turns to her remaining audience, hands clasped, affecting her best look of wide-eyed innocence. "So about that soirée…?"

"Cut the shit, Agatha," Jen snaps, her voice low but edged with an undercurrent of Presence that makes the air vibrate with command.

Agatha flicks invisible lint from her sleeve, looking unbothered.

"The first two deaths, we could keep quiet," Jen says, stepping in closer, her calm slipping at the edges. "Hayward had connections in Europe older than this country. Ventrue representations are already booking flights."

“Ugh. Politics,” Agatha sniffs, all theatrical disdain. “Forever ruining a perfectly good murder mystery.”

Jen’s gaze sharpens, almost predatory in its intensity. "Everyone knows Hayward opposed your house. He made his views about 'blood witches' running free in his city clear."

There it is. The big juicy accusation Agatha's been waiting for since she'd caught wind of the second murder.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just lifts a brow, unimpressed.

"Really, Jen? I thought we were past the 'blame Agatha first' phase of our relationship."

For a heartbeat, the Prince hesitates—just long enough for Agatha to see it: the fraying edges. The pressure folding in on her, her visibly reining herself back.

Then Jen exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose like Agatha is a particularly stubborn migraine. Which, fair.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” she says finally. “We have three Kindred dead in my city. Intact, but completely drained."

Agatha flashes a wicked smile. "Please. If I were behind this, we wouldn't have these charming husks to gossip over."

“Maybe not.” Alice’s gaze prickles at the edges of her senses. Watching. Weighing.

“But your... unique talents," the Sheriff continues, "make you a suspect. Not many can pull vitae without leaving a mark. Even fewer can take down an elder."

"Rumors and spectulation," Agatha scoffs, flicking her wrist dismissively. "Though I am charmed half the city thinks I can snap my fingers and make hearts explode."

The word "unique" still makes her skin crawl. After three centuries, unique in Kindred society tended to contain other meanings: Dangerous. Unnatural. Something to destroy or put to use.

Jen presses on. “The other Primogen are concerned. The Ventrue are demanding action. The Nosferatu are running wild with conspiracy theories—"

"When aren't they?"

"The Council wants you detained," Jen says, voice flat.

Agatha feels the first hairline crack in her carefully curated nonchalance. She masks it beneath a glacial smile.

"On what grounds?" she says, words laced with venom. "Gossip? Urban legends? Circumstantial evidence? My, how the mighty Camarilla has fallen under your reign."

It's a low blow, and they both know it.

For over a decade, they've had an understanding. House Harkness bought Jen and her rule support, Jen bought the splinter cell of Clan Tremere freedom to operate. Allies against traditionalist enemies. Pillars in the power structure of New Westview.

But alliances in Kindred politics are just as fragile as the paper legal contracts are written on—even ones underlying fourteen years of mutual benefit—and tonight, it appears the ink's started to run on this one.

For a second, something flashes through Jen’s expression—hurt, anger, something old and bitter—but it hardens quickly into cold iron.

“You know I can’t be seen giving you special treatment,” the Prince says, each word heavier than the last. “There are too many eyes on this. On me.”

Translation: You’re on your own, witch.

Of course. Agatha always has been.

She keeps her tone light, as if they're discussing weekend brunch plans instead of her potential final death. “And where exactly do I fit into this little crisis management plan of yours?”

"I can give you three nights," Jen says.

"Pardon?" Agatha hears herself ask, though she knows exactly what's coming.

“Three nights,” Jen repeats. “Find the real culprit. Clear your name. Bring me something.”

Across the room, Alice shoots Jen a look—sharp, questioning. A unilateral decision. Interesting. Trouble in paradise?

Agatha files that detail away for later.

"Three nights isn't much time." Agatha muses aloud, affecting a languid stretch.

“It’s all I can give you.” Jen’s voice is tight, final—as if every word costs her something.

Agatha studies her more carefully now. The tightness around her eyes. A slight tremor in one hand. Not just stress. Not just pressure. Fear. And maybe... something uglier, crouched just out of sight.

Whatever it is, it’s not her problem. Not yet anyway.

"Fine." Agatha huffs, flipping her hair back over one shoulder. "Three nights. Though I must say, being framed for murder feels so passé. I expected better from my enemies."

Alice’s eyes flick her way, sharp. "You’re saying you have enemies capable of this?"

Agatha rolls her eyes. "I'm an elder vampire witch practicing forbidden magic who told the Tremere patriarchy exactly where to shove their Pyramid. I have enemies who haven't even met me yet."

For half a second, she catches it— That tiny twitch at the corner of the Prince's mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.

Then it's gone, smothered under the weight of authority.

"Whoever it is," Jen says, voice cool and cutting, "find them."

Agatha taps her chin, lips pursed like she’s pretending to think deeply about it. "Hmm. I’ll need full access to the previous victims' scenes. The reports. Evidence. Whatever you haven’t decided to misfile."

"You want the keys to the city while you're at it?" Alice deadpans.

"You'll have what you need," Jen says, giving Alice a look. The Sheriff sighs like she's being asked to donate a kidney, pulls out a tablet, and starts tapping.

"Don't make me regret this." Jen adds, already turning to leave.

Agatha watches her go, noting the rigid set of her shoulders, the way tension coils through her like cracks in otherwise polished marble.

Alice lingers, arms folded, her expression unreadable.

"For what it's worth," she says, "I don't think you did this."

Agatha lifts a brow, amused. "Don't go soft on me, Sheriff. I might start thinking you like me."

Alice doesn’t rise to it. She just shrugs, like she's got bigger problems to deal with. "Jen’s putting her ass on the line for you. Don’t screw it up."

A beat. The Sheriff glances around—sharp, cautious—before leaning in, dropping her voice.

"And watch your back. Whoever's doing this isn't trying to kill you. They're trying to bury you."

"Thank you for that dazzlingly obvious piece of wisdom," Agatha drawls. The sarcasm's automatic but it lacks her usual bite. By her standards, it's almost… grateful.

She fidgets under the unfamiliar sensation. "Any other stunning insights you'd like to share?"

Alice’s expression softens—just barely. "If I were you, I’d call in some backup."

And with that, she turns and follows after Jen, barking orders at her team like nothing at all just passed between them.

Agatha stays where she is, standing alone beside the desiccated corpse, arms folded, weight shifting lazily onto one hip.

Three nights.

Three nights before Jen sacrifices her on the altar of political necessity. Three nights to find a killer who knew enough to frame her, and knew exactly how fast the city would turn.

Three nights to save not just her unlife, but her House and everything she's built.

As much as she hates to admit it, this is a problem even she can't charm, bully, or dazzle her way out of.

Chapter Text

Agatha stalks away from the greenhouse, not in haste but with the purpose of a controlled burn, coat billowing like smoke in her wake. The irritation rolling off her is palpable enough that her ghouls keep a prudent distance.

Being accused of murder was hardly novel. It comes with the territory, the reputation, her extended lifetime. But sloppy murder?

Now that's just insulting.

"Get the car," she says to no one in particular, the command a verbal flick of the wrist. One of them will obey. They always do. Sure enough—Blake? Brett? Some square-jawed ‘B’—lifts his radio with the eagerness of a man grateful not to be the target of her ire.

Her little entourage falls into formation around her, vaguely menacing in that corporate merc way. Military-grade blood-bound muscle in suits. Stylish but disposable. Like well-armed designer handbags.

“To-do,” she says to the tall blonde on her left—Mila? No. Maria? Whatever. “Review House security top to bottom. Especially the south wing wards. They've been twitchy, like they know something I don't.”

Agatha glances up at the night sky, one hand absently smoothing the creases of her coat. Above New Westview the stars barely register—just faint, half-hearted pinpricks drowning in the city's haze of neon and ambition.

How fitting. The sky tonight reflects her outlook—something that should be vast and infinite, now instead leaden and smothered over, hiding more than it reveals. Unseen threats and possibilities tangled in the dark.

She tucks her hands into her pockets. Not because she’s cold. Her body hasn’t registered inconsequential dips in temperature for centuries now. She could rouse the blood, summon warmth, a heartbeat, even a blush—but what’s the point? She’s done performing for people who can’t see past the skin.

Their Cadillac Escalade rolls up to the curb. Deep violent paint, almost black, catches the light like blood in water—opulent but not flashy. Agatha doesn't wait. She opens the door herself and slips into the backseat. Power moves are for the insecure.

The ghouls pile in. The doors shut. The SUV pulls away from the gardens, leaving behind yellow tape, unanswered questions, and a ticking clock.

Three nights.

“Home,” she instructs the driver—whose name she definitely doesn't remember or care to. “A scenic route. I need to think.”

The city slides past the tinted windows in streaks of gold and red. Agatha leans back, eyes half-lidded, the plush leather cradling her like a throne. Her mind is already darting ahead, thoughts firing like sparks on dry kindling—quick, bright, and hungry.

Three bodies. Two months. One very obvious frame job.

Someone wants her gone—well, nothing new there—but the method… now that's interesting. Not the usual blunt instruments: no dramatic immolation, no sunrise special. What marked that corpse was subtler, finer—ritual scars invisible to the physical eye.

Blood sorcery. High-level, almost arrogant in its precision. The clean pull of vitae without a scar—not just efficiency, showmanship. It reeked of a mind not unlike her own: brilliant, dangerous, theatrical.

Her fingers tap against the armrest in an uneven, staccato rhythm. She doesn’t even notice.

This is innovation. New ritual work. Years in the making. Whoever crafted this had patience. Knowledge. Intent.

But what’s the game? And what prize am I?

The SUV glides onto the freeway, streetlights washing over her in flickering intervals—light, shadow, light again. In the seat beside her, Melanie-maybe is saying something about lockdown protocols, but Agatha isn’t listening.

What do blood sorcerers always need?

Power. Fuel. Vitae.

The most precious, volatile component of their working. To that end, Hayward had been a treasure trove—almost four hundred years of potency in his veins, generation eight, if not closer. That kind of vitae doesn't just disappear.

Whoever did this didn’t just want the victims dead. They wanted their blood. Their essence. Their generational potential.

This wasn’t just killing, this was harvesting…

Agatha feels it then—humming under her skin: the familiar awful, magnetic pull of discovery. Half dread, half anticipation.

Vitae is currency, but it’s also clay. Shaped right, it builds things. Shaped wrong, it breaks them.

You don’t collect that kind of vitae to show off. You use it. You burn it into something new. Something greater.

She knows of course because she’s done it.

Burned trust. Burned bridges. Burned the only dead heart that ever beat for her.

All for power. For freedom.

And look where that got her.

Her throat tightens. The memory of their last night together always finds her—never invited, never gone. A phantom ache she can’t rouse the blood to fix.

Enough.

She draws in a sharp breath. It doesn’t really help, but it fills the space. Then—

A prickle at the edge of her senses, a whisper through her blood. Something's wrong.

She looks up.

The ghoul across from her—tall, prominent scar across his jaw, good bone structure—has drawn a machine pistol from his jacket. Grip steady. Face eerily calm. No tension in the jaw. No hesitation.

Dominate.

His finger tightens on the trigger just as the thought finishes. She twists—

Gunfire explodes inside the confined space, bullets tearing through the leather seat where her head had just been. The windshield spiderwebs with bullet holes. The driver's head jerks back, arterial red spraying across the upholstery.

Several rounds punch into her—three, maybe four. Oh she knows that sting. Devastator rounds. Special ammo. The kind that excels at stopping Kindred in their tracks.

Great. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Agony blooms as the devastator rounds detonate under her skin—brutal, instant, incendiary. Like shrapnel and fireworks. Her vision whites out for half a second.

She feels the SUV swerve hard, tires screeching as the driverless vehicle spins out. Then a hard impact, metal shrieking. A second, heavier hit.

The world tilts—up becomes left—

Glass erupts inward. Her body lifts, weightless, suspended in that brief, nauseating pause before the world slams to a stop.

Smoke. Gunpowder. Gasoline. The sweeter, richer note of spilled blood.

Not her own of course. Her vitae knows better than to leave her without permission.

Agatha blinks. She's hanging upside down, pain pulsing in a dozen places.

Okay, her ribs are at least bruised. And there’s a bullet still lodged just under her collarbone—lovely. Soft tissue damage from the Devastators’ nasty little explosive dance. Nothing critical. Nothing unfixable.

The driver’s most certainly dead. But her remaining ghouls are groaning, shifting. Still alive, salvageable. She’ll take it.

She unclips her belt and drops onto what used to be the SUV’s ceiling. Glass crunches under her palms as she crawls out through shattered window and hauls herself out.

The SUV lies on its side, windshield a spiderweb of cracks and bloodstains. Its engine is still ticking, smoke curling from the hood like a dying beast.

No sirens yet. Not a soul in sight. This part of New Westview—the ramp that veers off the Old Harbor Connector and into forgotten warehouse lots—is dead quiet at this hour. A place between destinations, neither here nor there.

A small blessing this clusterfuck of a night.

Movement catches her eye—

The dominated ghoul. Scar-Jaw. Bleeding from at least three places. Left arm bent wrong. Damage that should have killed a normal human twice over.

Her vitae is a hell of a drug.

He stumbles from the wreckage, eyes wide but vacant. Still moving. His arm rises, shaky but focused, machine pistol in his hand.

Hmm. Interesting. Whoever's controlling him has an iron grip. Even grievously wounded, the Dominate effect hasn't broken.

Agatha raises a hand and her blood obeys.

A red mist forms mid-air, drawn like breath into suspended form. It coalesces in front of her, hardening into a shimmering shield, slick as glass.

The pistol fires. Rounds slap against the shimmering crimson barrier with wet thuds, embedding in the rippling surface. None break through.

Agatha holds steady, watching her attacker intently.

She could end this now. Rip the compulsion out or boil his blood. She should, probably.

But… if this is the same bastard harvesting vitae, she might be able to get a read on them. Not a trace exactly, but a signature or an aura. Perhaps she can—

Click-click—gun's empty. Scar-Jaw doesn’t hesitate. He drops the pistol and lunges, yanking a knife from a holster.

Steel catches the streetlight. A snarl. For all his wounds, he’s fast—too fast.

But something faster falls from above.

The faint flutter of leathery wings, a rush of air as something unfurls at the last second—

Blood sprays in a perfect arc across the pavement, warm droplets landing on Agatha’s already-ruined coat. The body takes a step before collapsing, knife clattering uselessly away.

“You think too much," says a voice Agatha hasn't heard in fifteen years.

The blood shield shudders before with dissipating with a hiss, droplets and bullets hitting the asphalt, scattering like rain.

Rio Vidal stands there, hand still half-shifted, claws—long, curved, black as volcanic glass—dripping red down her wrist. She’s holding the ghoul’s head, casual as plucking an apple.

Rio looks, of course, exactly as Agatha remembers. Same hair, wild and wind-tangled. Same battered leather coat that’s seen more nights than most mortals. Same practical, comfortable trappings she knows Rio only bothers with because it makes people are less likely to scream. And probably because pockets are useful.

And Rio’s eyes—still that same molten red, pupils slit vertical like a cat. A Beast Mark that never faded. And why should it? It was one of the truest things about Rio. The mark of a very, very old Gangrel who chose the wild and never quite came back.

And now, those eyes are on her.

“Well, someone has to,” Agatha scoffs before she can stop herself—old habits apparently dying harder than she is.

“Considering the alternative is—” she flicks a hand at the mess, “—this. Now it’s useless for—”

The words are out before her brain catches up. Before those self-preservation instincts that have kept her going for three centuries kick in, realization slamming home.

Rio is here. Now. In this city. Her city.

That’s… problematic.

Because when you’re already the prime suspect in a string of artistic little murders, being seen with someone who regards most Kindred as Happy Meals on legs is… well. Like standing to someone juggling torches after you’ve been accused of arson.

Nevermind that the murders had been clean, careful, almost refined—while Rio’s idea of restraint involves not eating the furniture.

If Jen—or worse, the Camarilla realises what just waltzed into New Westview, paranoia alone could ignite a blood hunt. If anyone connects them together, that’ll be all the excuse they need to burn her down to the foundation. They’d come for House Harkness, for everything she's built here.

But beneath the weight of it all—the dread, the risk, the mental arithmetic of how fast she can spin this, hide this, survive this—

It's Rio. Looking at her with those eyes.

Not angry. Not murderous. If Rio wanted her dead, Agatha would already be decorating the pavement in far more pieces than her former ghoul.

No, Rio’s looking at her like she always has—like Agatha’s the most impossible person she’s ever met.

She hates how much she’s missed that look.

Mustering the composure of someone not currently contemplating if staking herself would be less painful, Agatha adjusts her coat, brushing off shards of glass like lint.

“You should know I had it handled,” she says, now inspecting a sleeve for damage she can pretend not to care about.

Rio’s gaze slides meaningfully to the overturned smoking SUV, then to the mangled corpse on the ground.

Then, ever casual, she lifts the severed head that’s still dripping blood in her hands, moving its jaw like a particularly morbid puppet.

“Sure you did, boss,” she says, voice pitched low and stupidly macho.

Agatha rolls her eyes. Hard.

Why bother worrying? With luck, everyone will just assume Rio’s some freshly Embraced idiot with bad manners and worse judgment.

Agatha gestures broadly toward the dripping prop. “Really? The puppet thing?”

Rio shrugs, unbothered. “Adds texture.”

She tosses the head aside. It hits the pavement with a wet, unceremonious thud-squelch.

Agatha doesn’t look away. She can’t, not with that infuriating little smirk spreading across Rio’s face—self-satisfied, arrogant, honest in a way no one else dares be with her.

Something traitorous in her chest stirs.

For a beat too long, both of them just stand there. Not speaking. Not moving. A decade and a half of absence hanging in the air between them, tension curling like smoke—chemical, combustible, carefully ignored, as if recognition it might make it detonate.

Then, behind them, the wreck groans.

Her ghouls have managed to finally extract themselves and stumble free—battered, bloodied, limping but alive. They catch sight of Rio and stop short, instinctively wary. Like dogs noticing a wolf that’s wandered into their yard.

Which is generous. This one doesn’t just eat sheep.

Agatha sighs. She and Rio were having a moment. Now she has to manage the help.

“You,” she says, gesturing at the female ghoul—Megan, she’s ninety percent sure. “Secure the perimeter. You—” a motion towards the one with the buzzcut, “—call our people. Keep the cops away. And you—” she eyes the third one clutching his side, a little too pale. “Do not die.”

The ghouls hesitate, hovering, uncertain. Their eyes dart between her and Rio.

Agatha exhales, low and exasperated.

Pathetic but tragically understandable. They’re injured, rattled, and their bone-deep instincts are screaming at them to protect, to stay close, to not turn their backs on that woman.

She steps forward. A flick of her nail draws blood from her palm. “Come, pet.”

They obey, drawn like moths to flame. Eyes wide. Starving. Devoted. One by one, she lets them drink—just a taste, just enough. Their wounds begin to knit, pain giving way to slack-faced bliss, their loyalty resetting like a switch flipped in their blood.

“Now,” she says, voice dipped in velvet command. “lock this down. Quietly. Just our people. And...” she glances at the separated head and body, “gather what's left of him. See if you can keep the parts... together-ish. I might still salvage something.”

The trio scatter to their tasks, moving with renewed purpose despite their injuries.

When she looks back, Rio’s leaning against a lamp post. Arms crossed, stance loose, utterly still in the particular way only older Kindred get—when they completely forget all the unnecessary mortal tics that pass for living.

The Gangrel’s gaze stays on her, of course.

Or rather, on the single neat slice across Agatha’s palm—still red, glistening faintly. It’s already closing, but Rio’s eyes follow it with the kind of unblinking intensity once made lesser Kindred flee.

Hunger. Old and familiar. The kind that has nothing to do with feeding.

Well. Not just feeding at least.

The awareness of it hums through her—that edge of fear tempered with something more complicated, electric. It sparks under her skin, warm where it shouldn’t be. Every rational thought tells her to hide it, to close the wound.

Instead, she lets it linger. Lets Rio look.

Then, slowly, deliberately, holding that unblinking gaze, Agatha raises her hand and drags her tongue across the wound. It tastes of ritual and history, of sweetness and regret.

Rio’s jaw shifts—just slightly—as her tongue presses against the inside of her mouth. Her claws flex once, still not entirely sheathed.

Agatha almost smiles. The satisfaction that curls through her is wicked, shameful and sweet. It feels like victory but also something dangerously like relief.

At least there’s still this, she thinks. Whatever it is. Whatever’s left.

Rio finally peels herself off the lamp post, finding her voice again—low, a touch too rough, and not fooling anyone.

“Playing nursemaid now?” She nods toward the ghouls, who are trying hard to look busy and interested in anything that isn’t her.

Agatha smiles, all poise and practiced ease. “Oh, you know me. I've always been partial to a devoted entourage.”

She runs a hand through her hair, catching on bits of glass. The wince she hides with a scoff. “Unlike some people, I can't solve my problems by turning into something with bigger teeth.”

“No,” Rio agrees, with a faint exhale that might be a laugh. “You make new ones and call them opportunities.”

The quiet that follows stretches under the weight of everything not said—awkward in the way only shared history makes possible, but somehow comfortable too. Her ghouls continue about in their periphery, securing the scene, radioing cleanup, doing what they’re trained to do.

Agatha barely registers any of it. Rio's presence presses against her senses like atmospheric pressure before a storm. Not threatening, exactly, but impossible to ignore.

“Power looks good on you.” Rio tips her chin toward the House Harkness sigil pinned—slightly bloodied—to Agatha’s coat lapel.

Agatha doesn't miss a beat. “Honey," she says, arching a brow like a challenge, "everything looks good on me.”

Rio huffs out a laugh—soft, genuine, charmed. “Still so modest.”

“Modesty is for mortals and mediocrity.” Agatha tosses her hair, the motion making her shoulder flare with residual pain she refuses to show. Her blood has already been roused to fix what damage it can, but the burns linger.

She surveys the scene around them, her ghouls reestablishing control.

“Not that I don’t appreciate you swooping in,” she adds, glancing towards Rio. “why are you here? Last I heard, you were in South America chasing cryptids.”

Rio shrugs, casually reaching into her coat. “I was in the neighborhood.”

She pulls out a pair of scratched aviators and slips them on, the red glow of her eyes vanishing behind matte black lenses.

“The New Westview neighbourhood?” Agatha arches a brow. “The city you once described as, and I quote, 'a cesspool of political ass-kissing with piss-poor weather'?”

“The weather's improved,” Rio deadpans.

Liar. And a terrible one, at that. But then, Rio never cared much for the art of deception. She’s never had to.

Still—Rio doesn’t show up without a reason. And her arrival tonight feels too perfectly timed, too convenient. It wasn't chance. Someone had sent her. Or warned her. Or she’d been watching.

Each possibility carries its own implications Agatha doesn’t have time to unpack right now.

Then Alice’s parting advice drifts through her mind: I’d call in some backup if I were you.

Agatha smirks to herself. Somehow, she doubts this who Alice had in mind.

Having Rio here is a risk. A monumental one.

But calculated risks have always been her specialty. It’s how she’s survived this long—how she’s built all of this.

And Rio is… useful. Uniquely so. Dependable, in her own terrifying way—when she says she'll do something, she will. No mind games, no pretty betrayals dressed up as love. If Rio meant to kill her, Agatha knows she’d see it coming.

And really, that’s almost comforting.

Agatha draws in a breath, lifts her chin, and forces the words out like poison.

“I could use your help.”

Rio blinks once, as though to confirm she heard correctly, brow furrowing in genuine surprise. “You… what?”

Agatha resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Three Kindred drained dry without a mark. Set up to look like I did it. And now this.” She tilts her head towards the wreck. “The Prince’s given me three nights to clear my name. After that, it's open season.”

Rio steps closer, eyes narrowing. Her head tilts—predatory, assessing. “And you need me because…?”

Agatha hears it in her voice—curiousity wrapped around suspicion. Not hostility. Just that old instinct. Never trust a manipulator, especially one you once loved.

So her eyes meet Rio’s, steady. “Because whoever’s behind this isn’t any elder with a grudge. They’re using Blood Sorcery I haven’t seen before. Dominate strong enough to puppet my own people.”

The admission stings. She masks it with an impatient wave at the headless corpse. “Exhibit A.”

Rio doesn’t move, still as stone. “So?”

Agatha gives her a flat look. “So I can’t work out what I don’t understand while playing dodge-the-assassin. Not in three nights.”

This part’s true at least. That should count for something.

“Agatha Harkness asking for help.” Rio hums, non-committal. “Really warms the cold dead heart.”

She nudges at the broken glass with the toe of a boot, weighing her options. Or at least pretending to. Rio probably had made up her mind the moment she dropped from the sky.

“And what’s in it for me?”

Agatha gives a slow, knowing smile. “Besides the pleasure of my company?”

Rio arches an eyebrow, teasing. A silent try harder.

Ugh. Fine. Agatha steps closer. Leans in. Not close enough to touch, but enough for the air to charge between them.

“Whoever's doing this—they're powerful. Hidden. Arrogant enough to harvest elder vitae and come after me.” Her voice slides into something dark and intimate.

“When we find them? They’re yours. Them and anyone foolish enough to get in our way. I know how... hungry you must be these days.”

Rio chuckles—low, rich, and entirely too honest. The sound cuts through the chill like a warm blade.

“Mm. You always knew how to sweet-talk a girl,” she says, her gaze trailing to Agatha's neck.

And for a moment, it’s easy to forget.

So easy to fall back into the rhythm, the worn grooves of centuries spent side by side. Monsters, maybe. But together. Unstoppable and bound by something deeper than blood.

But the moment passes. And all that's left is ashes. Ashes, blood, and the ruin of what they once were.

Rio watches her for a long beat, expression unreadable with those dark lenses. Then—slowly, like she’s offering more than what it looks—she extends a hand.

“Okay Agatha,” she says, “You've got me. Three nights.”

Agatha stares at the offered hand.

Not because she’s surprised. But because it hurts. The memory of the last time they touched fifteen years ago.

“Not like old times,” Rio adds softly.

Agatha’s voice is quieter still. “No. But close enough.”

She takes the hand. Rio's skin is cool as marble. The contact holds just a beat too long, like neither wants to be the first to let go.

Agatha turns away first, directing her ghouls to salvage what they can from the wreckage.

Chapter Text

The SUV they’re in smells like new leather, polish, and Agatha's perfume—something dark and expensive that clings to the air like a secret. Not the same scent she used to wear. Fifteen years is apparently long enough for some preferences to change. 

Rio sprawls half-sideways in the passenger seat, one boot propped against the dash because she expects it’ll make Agatha’s eye twitch. 

“Feet,” Agatha says without looking over, restrained in the way people are right before homicide.

Rio smirks, not moving. Some things, thankfully, haven’t changed.

Agatha’s hands are steady on the wheel—she’s driving, of course. Smart, after one of her own guard tried to ventilate her skull not twenty minutes ago. For all her scholarly airs and theater, witch knows when to grab the wheel and get her hands bloody. Rio can’t help admiring it—Agatha’s a survivor. Clever. Ruthless. Beautiful. Pragmatic.

The most dangerous combination she knows.

Outside, the city smears by in a blur of color, neon bleeding through the tinted glass. Agatha’s driving at that particular speed—fast enough to feel in control, not enough to seem like she’s running. Thinking speed.

In the rearview mirror, Rio catches the second SUV shadowing close—Agatha's surviving ghouls, patched up and paranoid, checking their six like another one of them might suddenly sprout a gun. Fair enough, considering.

“Feet,” Agatha repeats, more pointed this time.

Rio tilts her head lazily, eyes gleaming dark and amused. “You used to like it when I left marks.”

Agatha snorts, flicking the turn signal like she might use it to throttle her instead. “And you used to clean up after yourself.”

She cuts Rio a sideways look, sharp and warm all at once. A look that doesn’t belong in a moving vehicle. “Scuff the dash and you’re polishing it with your tongue. You remember how.”

The words land like more like a promise than a threat. The smallest curve tugs at her mouth before she looks away again.

Rio swallows. Once. Quietly.

Agatha drives on, pretending not to notice.

She doesn’t tell Rio to move her feet again.

The two cars thread through New Westview’s financial heart—glass towers reflecting glass towers, the city devouring its own reflection. At a turn, Rio leans forward, curiosity rousing like an old predator catching a scent.

She knows where they’re headed.

She’s been by before—not that she’s mentioned that little detail. Stalked its perimeter more than once, silent and unseen. Circling overhead a bat, slinking across the street as a rat, even once drifting past as an unusually judgmental cloud of mist. Watching.

Not like this, though.

The venerable edifice of the Chantry rises from the street like a sermon carved from sandstone, far too ornate for its own good—rows of lancet windows framed by geometric tracery, pointed arches layered one after another like an incantation in stone. On the roof, an octagonal turret spears upward, its spire faintly haloed in the skyline’s electric glow.

Around it, the towers of glass and steel look cheap. Temporary. Uncommitted.

And while as it pretends to holiness, this is no consecrated ground. It was a bank once, a house of ledgers and debts. Now it’s something purer: a house of power.

It doesn’t fit in. It doesn’t care to. It stands there in its grandeur, daring the world to take a swing.

Perfect for Agatha Harkness.

“Homey,” Rio drawls, taking in the entirely ornamental rose window in the center of the building’s uppermost gable. “Really blends in. I'm sure if the kine ever figure out there are vampire witches in the city, they definitely won’t think to check the Gothic castle on the corner.”

Agatha doesn’t look her way. “It’s not a castle.”

Rio squints at her, then back at the building. “Does it have a tower?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s a castle.”

Agatha sighs, a sound that manages to sound both exasperated and self-satisfied. “Some traditions serve a purpose,” she says, glancing over with that knowing scholar’s calm, the one that hides a thousand knives.

“And you only get one chance to make a first impression.”

Rio leans back, brow arched. “Is yours ‘Come and get me, peasants’?”

“Mine,” Agatha says, voice velvet over steel, “is ‘I have nothing to hide and everything to offer.’” That half-smile, the one that always promises trouble. “Power displayed is power acknowledged.”

Rio’s gaze lingers on her face. Same mouth. Same arrogance. Same temptation. “You always did like putting yourself on display.”

Agatha’s smile turns knife-edged. “And you always liked watching.”

The air thickens for a beat, the car feeling smaller for it.

Rio looks away first, jaw flexing. Yeah. Maybe being in a moving box with Agatha was a mistake. The kind that feels good right until it burns. Agatha brings out that very specific kind of stupid in her—the kind that knows better and does it anyway.

Her Beast presses closer to the surface, claws flexing behind her ribs. It doesn’t know the difference between desire and violence. And when it comes to Agatha, Rio isn’t so sure herself.

The SUV rolls to a stop before the Chantry’s main entrance, engine idling in the heavy night.

Rio's hand finds the door handle, then pauses.

“How do you want to play this?" she asks, tone deliberately light. "Front door or servants' entrance?”

Still, there’s a weight to the question, the ghosts of a hundred other nights trailing behind it. The times she slipped in through back doors for Agatha's schemes, for convenience, for necessity. It was fun, for the most part. The game of it. The thrill of fooling everyone, the shared glances no one else was meant to see.

But sometimes—just sometimes—she got tired of being Agatha's dirty little secret.

The witch turns to look at her fully for the first time since they got in the car. Those blue eyes—still so impossibly bright for something so long dead—gleam with that familiar mix of curiosity and calculation, like Rio’s another puzzle to solve.

"Front door," she says. "Let them talk. It’ll distract from the murders. Or at least make it look like I’m handling things.”

“Your funeral.” Rio shrugs, slipping her aviators back on. “Maybe literally.”

They exit together, Agatha’s ghouls fanning out in a loose perimeter—alert, jumpy, and pretending they’re not terrified of disappointing her again.

By the entrance, a discreet brass plaque gleams under the streetlight:: The Westview Society. Beneath, in neat serif script: Private Members Club & Museum of Esoteric Arts. Est. 1897. Next to it, another plaque declares the building a heritage landmark, stamped with the city’s seal. Official. Respectable.

Rio can’t help the low chuckle that slips out. Irony and vanity—Agatha’s favorite blend.

Mortals passing by probably think it’s some overpriced refuge for the rich and the spiritually confused—old people in tweed arguing over who first “discovered” mysticism while their drinks get watered down.

They wouldn’t be entirely wrong. Some of the relics in there just argue back.

Agatha follows Rio’s gaze, smiling like a woman being complimented. “Oh, that? The city council was so accommodating when we offered to preserve the site,” she says, voice bright with feigned humility.

“You’d be amazed what a few donations and a few words in the right ear can accomplish.” She winks, ever so sly.

The Chantry’s entrance looms under an ornate stone arch: heavy oak doors ribbed with elaborate iron filigree spiraling across like ivy. Agatha strides up, placing a pale hand against the wood.

Rio feels it—the wards stirring to life, tasting, testing. Magic recognizing magic. Blood calling to blood.

The doors swing open with a groan that sounds suspiciously pleased with itself.

Two ghouls flank the entrance, both in tailored suits that don’t quite hide the shoulder holsters underneath. They straighten at once as Agatha enters, posture snapping to attention.

"Regent," one greets, inclining his head. His eyes flick to Rio, uncertain.

“She’s with me,” Agatha says, already moving past him. “Make sure we’re not disturbed.”

The ghoul nods, but Rio doesn’t miss the hesitation—the way his gaze lingers, wary and distrustful. Protective. Maybe even territorial.

She meets it with a faint smirk. Cute, in a suicidal way.

Further in, the fine illusion of civility—the true Masquerade continues.

The grand lobby could almost belong to an old-world gentleman’s club: dark wood paneling, the glow of amber lamplight, leather furnishings that look too good to actually sit on.

And of course, books. Books crowding the shelves up to the vaulted ceiling. The air carries the faint sweet scent of old paper and binding glue layered with furniture polish, candle wax, smoke and dust.

But beneath all that, under all that pretense lingers something truer: Blood. Faint but ever-present. Old blood. New blood. The promise of blood.

At the far end of the hall, twin staircases curve upward, meeting at a landing before leading to a mezzanine gallery that rings the space. There, curtained thresholds and shadowed hallways hint at research chambers, sanctums, places where the real work happens.

Agatha moves through it all like she was born to it, coat billowing behind her in a way that has to be intentional. Her little ghoul entourage disperses without being told, disappearing into side doors like well-trained shadows.

Rio follows after her at a distance that feels both safe and unbearable. She’s taking in the details—the art, the quiet, the exits—but really she’s watching Agatha. The way she sweeps through her own domain, alive in all the ways that word still means something to them.

It’s a bad idea, letting herself notice. Worse, letting herself want.

She’s about to ask about the torture dungeons or maybe the gift shop—something flippant to scrape the ache out of her chest—when she hears footsteps coming from above. Quick. Purposeful.

Too steady to be human. Too heavy to be flesh.

She looks up as a shadow detaches from the mezzanine and drops. Wings unfurl mid-air—wide, jagged, and red as fresh clay.

Rio’s hand twitches toward claws before her brain intervenes.

The thing lands hard enough to rattle fixtures, dust shaking loose from somewhere. As it straightens, wings folding against its back, there’s a practised poise to it—surprising for something that looks carved from red stone brick.

Of course House Harkness has a gargoyle.

And not just any gargoyle: this one looks halfway between angel and demon, with talons and sculpted symmetrical features. A small yellow gem gleams at its forehead like a third eye.

It’s also wearing—Rio blinks to confirm—an actual cardigan over a button-down. With flannel pants.

“Lady Harkness,” the creature says, voice crisp and British enough to make tea steep itself. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for the security breach. I've already commenced a thorough internal—”

“Vision,” Agatha interrupts, waving a hand like she’s dismissing a nervous intern. “Breathe. Or pretend to. You'll give yourself a crack.”

Rio stares. A gargoyle named Vision who dresses like a suburban dad, sounds like a butler, and has job performance anxiety. Agatha really does collect the weirdest pets.

"Viz has been freaking out since he heard," calls out a new voice—fast, young, just a little too loud. The speaker rounds the corner in a hurry—neonate, if Rio had to guess. Dark hair, thick-rimmed glasses, the kind of energy Rio associates with newer vampires who haven't figured out they're supposed to be creatures of hunger and shadow.

“See, I told you she'd be fine—” The woman skids to a stop, taking in Agatha's blood-stained outfit. "Okay, so maybe 'fine' is relative—”

Then she notices Rio—who’s standing there, thumbs hooked in her pockets, looking every bit the world’s chillest apex predator.

The newcomer freezes, blinking. “Oh. Uh. Hi. You're very... here.”

Rio tips her chin up in a lazy half-salute. “'Sup. I'm Rio.”

The silence that follows is polite, deeply uncomfortable, and delicious.

Rio’s proud of herself, honestly—she’s worked hard on her modern lingo. It drives Agatha insane, which is, frankly, the entire reward system.

Vision is tilting his head like he’s cataloguing everything about her for later analysis. The neonate, glancing between them, looks like she's trying to solve a particularly interesting math equation.

“Right,” Agatha says at last, clapping her hands with the brittle brightness of someone deciding everything’s fine. “Vision, House Castellan. Darcy, House Liaison. And Rio—” she smiles without warmth, “—a freelancer I’ve brought in to help with our little mystery.”

“Freelancer," Rio echoes, as if testing how filthy she can make the word sound. She rocks back on her heels, hands sliding into her pockets. “That's what we're calling it? Technically true, I guess. You are paying me. In bodies—”

She glances at Agatha, watching her jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. “—to investigate. Obviously.”

Darcy looks like she's trying to decide if she should laugh or start running. Vision’s stony brow furrows in polite confusion.

“Rio’s expertise is… field-based,” Agatha says through her teeth, tone sugarcoated venom. “She’ll be handling the more direct aspects of the investigation.”

"I prefer hands-on," Rio says cheerfully. "Sometimes claws-on. Depends how generous my employer is.”

She's rewarding herself with the way Agatha's fingers flex—that tiny tell that means she's considering violence but can't commit it right here and now.

“Right,” Darcy says slowly, clearly still processing this new development. “The investigation into the uh, weird murders.”

“Yep,” Rio nods, mock-earnest. “Don’t worry. I’m highly motivated. She’s got me on the corpse bonus plan.”

Before Agatha can respond, new footsteps echo from the end of the hall—these ones slow but certain, and accompanied by the faint jingle of layered jewelry and beads.

A woman descends the grand staircase, silver-shot hair piled elegantly, moving with the unhurried grace of someone who's learned that rushing rarely improves outcomes.

She looks older by mortal standards, although she wears the lines of her face well—a look that’s wise, not weary. The wide lapels of her dark velvet jacket are lavishly embroidered—Sicilian motifs, Rio notes—gold, crimson, and green threads in floral swirls and curling vines. The kind of craftsmanship that whispers old country.

“Agatha,” Lilia says, voice rich and brassy, carrying the kind of relief that comes from expecting the worst. “I heard about the attack.”

“Lilia!” Agatha pivots toward her with the flourish of a woman welcoming her own rescue. “Perfect timing. I was just about to summon you. I need a reading. Right now, in fact.”

Rio can practically feel the relief rolling off her. Finally, something that isn’t Rio to focus on.

But then Lilia’s attention lands on her, eyes narrowing as if seeing something just out of focus—and whatever relief that arrived with her drains away in an instant. She takes a small, instinctive step back, shoulders stiff.

Ah. Auspex. Rio knows the look—the kind people get when they see too much and want absolutely nothing to do with it. She wonders what her aura looks like tonight. Probably like nothing anyone civilised would want to keep in their house.

“This is Rio,” Agatha says, perfectly pleasant. “She’s just here to consult on our little murder problem. Rio, this is Lilia Calderu, our Magister of Rites. Lilia handles our more advanced ritual work.”

The confidence in Agatha’s voice is for the Tremere elder whose fingers have unconsciously drifted towards the talismans around her neck. Her subtle glare, unmistakably, is for Rio.

“I see,” Lilia says after a pause. Her manner remains polite, hospitable even, but her eyes remain sharply fixed on the unsettling Gangrel in their midst.

“If it helps,” Rio says, flashing a grin that absolutely doesn’t, “I'm house-trained. Mostly.”

Vision coughs delicately into his fist. Which is impressive, all thing considered.

“Well,” Agatha cuts in brightly, sweeping forward in front of Rio. “This sure has been fun. But these murders aren’t going to solve themselves.” She gestures up the stairs with both hands, turning on her heel. “Shall we?”

Lilia’s focus shifts back to her, concern softening her expression. “Very well,” she sighs. “My chamber, then.”

Her gaze briefly cuts back to Rio, measuring her like one might a live grenade. “Your… associate may join us for the reading, since you're apparently a package deal tonight.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Rio says lightly. She really doesn’t mean to sound threatening. It just happens.

“Regent,” Vision interjects, clearing his throat. “Should I inform the rest of the House that we have engaged a... consultant?”

“By all means.” Agatha flicks a hand like she’s shooing away paperwork and consequence alike. “Let them know we're handling the situation.”

She’s already striding ahead, coat flaring dramatically behind her. Rio trails after her, hands still in her pockets, whistling something slow and dirge-like.

Behind them, Darcy whispers to Vision, “Do we actually know which situation they’re handling?”

“Unclear,” the gargoyle murmurs back, his tone the verbal equivalent of a frown.

Lilia leads them deeper into the Chantry. She doesn't look back, but Rio can feel her attention like heat from a flame—constantly tracking where Rio is, how close she is to Agatha.

It’s… entertaining. Watching someone trying so hard not to look afraid.

Lilia's chamber, when she opens the door, is pretty much what Rio expects from someone who commits the witchy fortune-teller aesthetic with zero irony.

Crimson curtains with gold tassels. Shelves crammed with grimoires, jars, bones, and arcane-looking curios. Crystal balls that actually seem functional rather than decorative. And then there are the candles—real ones, of every shape, size, and height imaginable. A bold choice, considering vampires and open flames are not historically friends.

The air hangs thick with incense and herb-smoke, rose and sandalwood, and something else. Power, maybe. The real kind.

A round table takes center stage, swathed in dark velvet and etched with gold: a sequence of glyphs framing another ring of moon phases within like a cosmic clock.

“Sit,” Lilia says, moving to light yet another candle. Because why stop at thirty?

Rio drops into the chair like she's settling in for a show. One arm slung over the back, legs stretched under the table. The posture of someone with nowhere else to be and all the time in the world.

Agatha, though, sits with the poise of someone being watched. Back straight, shoulders squared, one arm folded neatly while the other hand flexes—fingers curling, uncurling, betraying what the rest of her refuses to.

Rio catches it instantly—the tension running under the witch’s skin beneath the control, the faint forward lean.

Twitchy. Impatient. Wanting.

This is new. Agatha Harkness turning to fortune-telling. Once upon a time, she’d have called it theater—amusing, unreliable, a tool to manipulate the gullible.

"So," Rio drawls, watching Agatha try to arrange her features into something resembling patience, "fortune telling. How mysterious.”

She glances at Lilia, who's now pulling out an ornate wooden box, its carvings matching the sigils on the table.

“We don’t get a crystal ball?” Rio asks, feigning hurt. “I was promised something shiny.”

“Lilia's Premonition works through the cards,” Agatha explains in her brightest, most theatrical tone—one notch shy of an infomercial. “Her readings are incredibly revealing. Practically transcendent, really. Just don’t ask for a refund.”

The enthusiasm rings hollow, like she's selling something she doesn't quite believe in. Or mocking it. Maybe both.

Agatha always overperforms when she’s unsettled. It’s her oldest trick. If you’re distracting enough, no one notices you’re afraid. Sell the lie hard enough and maybe you’ll start to believe it too.

Rio tilts her head, studying her through the dark lenses. “If they’re so great, why didn’t you use them to avoid get shot? Or prevent the murders?”

Lilia sets the carved box down with a gentle but emphatic thud.

“The cards reveal what needs to be seen,” she says, with the long-suffering patience of one who's explained this many times before. “Often more than what is asked, and not always what is desired.”

Her eyes flick briefly to Agatha, a look heavy with implication. “Including truths the querent may not wish to face.”

Agatha sighs, all dramatic, hand pressed to her chest. “Yes, well. Look at me now, growing emotionally.”

Rio grins. The witch really can’t help herself.

Lilia opens the box to reveal a deck that’s probably older than the House itself, worn from time and use. Their gilt backs shimmer faintly, intricate patterns shifting in the flickering candlelight.

As the cards emerge, Rio senses it—a whisper in the air, the faint pulse of blood being roused. Lilia’s eyes unfocus for a moment, her pupils brightening with a red gleam that quickly fades as she sets the cards down, lending them weight they shouldn’t have.

"You know what to do,” Lilia looks to Agatha, voice quiet but threaded with that same energy. “Shuffle and cut, then ask.”

Agatha takes the deck without comment, her usual bravado dimmed to something cooler, focused. She shuffles once, twice, three times—movements crisp and efficient. For once, she’s isn’t performing.

"These murders," she says at last, eyes still on the deck as she sets it down. “What does the one behind them want?”

Lilia nods, fanning the deck into a perfect arc with one clean, practiced motion. The candlelight bends as she does, shadows thickening along the walls like they’re leaning in to listen.

“Choose, one at a time,” Lilia instructs. “Trust what you feel.”

Agatha’s hand hovers above the spread. Rio watches closely—the way her fingers drift, pause, pull back, before she finally settles on a card with sudden clarity, as if something called to her.

She hands it over without looking.

“The Traveler,” Lilia notes, placing the card in the center of the spread. “You are…” She turns it over. “The Chariot.”

On the card, a regal figure stands tall atop a chariot pulled by two sphinxes—one black, one white—looking in opposite directions, like they’d rather go their own way.

“You have the strength of will to move ever forward,” Lilia says, voice dropping into that portentous register fortune-tellers must practice. “To command chaos and thrive in contradiction.”

Agatha’s mouth twitches. “Well,” she says, smoothing her coat sleeves, “At least we’re off to a promising start.”

It’s meant to sound unaffected, lightly amused. But Rio catches the subtle shift—the way her shoulders square, chin lifting just a fraction. Pride, probably. Or defiance. Hard to tell, sometimes.

Before Rio can make a quip about Agatha’s inability to let others drive, she’s already drawing the next card—refusing to be still, the charioteer herself.

“The Quest. What’s missing,” Lilia intones, placing the second card below the first. “Three of Pentacles.”

The illustration shows three figures conferring beneath an archway, construction plans and tools in hand. A picture of cooperation. Teamwork.

Agatha’s lips purse, expression caught somewhere between indignation and disbelief. Rio has to bite back a laugh. If tarot had a sense of humor, it was a mean one. Telling Agatha to play nice with others.

“Collaboration,” Lilia says, meaning every syllable. “The path ahead cannot be walked alone, no matter how capable you believe yourself.”

Agatha scoffs. “Yes, well.” She waves a hand vaguely in Rio’s direction, “I’ve already sought help. From the willing and insufferable alike.”

She still doesn’t look at Rio. Which somehow makes it funnier.

“The Path Behind,” Lilia continues as Agatha selects the third card. “Wounds suffered and lessons learned."

She turns it over. “Five of Swords.”

The image staring back stirs something sharp and unpleasant in Rio’s chest—a single figure standing on the battlefield holding the spoils of victory, the defeated walking away, the ground between them littered with blades. The sky looking like it’s about to break open.

Agatha’s fingers flex on the tabletop, and for just a moment, her eyes meet Rio’s. Just a second of contact before she looks away—but that’s all it takes. Fifteen years, and the reminder still burns like sunlight.

Lilia’s voice softens. “A hollow victory. One that leaves the victor alone in their triumph.”

Agatha reaches for the fourth card, because if there’s one thing that Agatha Harkness knows, it’s how to keep pushing forward.

"The Path Ahead.” Lilia flips the card. "The Tower."

Lightning splits the sky, stone crumbles, and two figures plummet from the shattered spire. A crown tumbles through smoke and fire.

Agatha makes a face. “Well, that’s subtle.” She waves a hand with exaggerated disgust. “I prefer my metaphors less… on fire.”

The tone’s flippant, but her voice wavers just slightly at the edges.

"Sudden upheaval," Lilia interprets, careful. “Destruction of what once stood. But also…” she pauses, eyes narrowing, “freedom from old prisons. A chance to rebuild.”

Rio looks at the card again, gaze lingering on the falling figures. For just a moment, she feels it—the flash, the fall, the heat.

Agatha doesn’t wait, reaching forward. “Obstacles,” she says briskly. “Let’s get this over with.”

Lilia flips the next card. “The Emperor, reversed.”

The painted figure sits on a throne but inverted, crown and symbols of power all pointing downward.

Agatha goes very, very still.

Lilia frowns. “A power struggle,” she reads, staring at the card. “Oppressive control. Domination. Authority refusing to release its grip.”

Rio watches as Agatha’s jaw tightens, her fingers curling against the table’s edge. Recognition sliding in, unwanted and inevitable. Anger following close behind.

And under that—just a flicker of it, fear.

Agatha pulls the next card like she’s tearing off a bandage.

“The Windfall,” Lilia announces, turning it over. “The Hanged Man.”

The figure on the card hangs inverted yet serene, eyes wide and halo bright, like he’s decided enlightenment’s worth the blood rush.

"A new perspective through surrender," Lilia says slowly, brow furrowed as if deciphering an unseen language. “Or perhaps a sacrifice that may yet serve a new purpose.”

Agatha shoots her a look, flat and deeply unimpressed. “Ah, yes—my favorite go-to move, besides not surrendering.”

She exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Tell me, Lilia, do the cards ever just say ‘punch the problem until it goes away’?”

Lilia meets her gaze dryly. “Not as often as I’d like. But one lives in hope.”

Now, the final card.

Agatha reaches for it with all the grace of a condemned aristocrat approaching the guillotine—equal parts resignation, dignity, and performance.

“The Destination,” Lilia intones, solemn as a church bell. “Where the path leads.”

She turns it over.

Death stares back—a skeletal figure in armor astride a pale horse, black banner raised high, the sun setting (or rising?) beyond.

Rio can't help it. A chuckle escapes her, dry and genuinely amused.

Agatha's boot connects with her shin under the table. Hard.

"Ow," Rio deadpans, not bothering to sound like it hurt. Or move her leg. “Violence. In a house of learning.”

“Do not,” Agatha hisses through clenched teeth—but her mouth twitches at the corners, fighting something that looks dangerously close to a smile.

Which just makes Rio grin wider behind her sunglasses.

“Is something amusing?” Lilia demands, hand on her hip, looking between them with the expression of someone who's just delivered a dramatic revelation only to have the audience laugh at the wrong moment.

"Noo, no. Of course not. That is deeply unsettling," Agatha says, far too solemn to be sincere. "Absolutely dreadful. Rio, stop laughing."

“I’m not laughing,” Rio lies, still grinning.

Of all the cards to pull. The universe really does have a sense of humor—twisted, sure, but Rio can appreciate that.

They used to call her Lady Death. She hadn’t chosen the name; it had been offered in terror, whispered in temples and alleys alike. Mortals once left offerings. Vampires told stories. Now, centuries later, the myth sits here wearing sunglasses and a smirk.

Lilia’s glare sharpens, but she soldiers on.

"The Death card," she says with the patience of someone explaining arithmetic to particularly dim children, "rarely signifies literal death. It speaks of transformation. Endings that birth beginnings.”

“Yes, metaphorical death. My favorite kind. So much easier to clean up after.” Agatha’s already leaning back, arms crossed, looking anywhere but at the card, her gaze sliding over it like water off glass.

Because if she looked—really looked—she'd have to acknowledge what it might mean. That her destination, her future, might be sitting next to her.

"And besides,” Agatha adds with a little shrug, “transformation could mean anything. A new hairstyle. A career change. I hear bangs are transformative."

The deflection is so transparent Rio almost feels bad for her. Almost.

"Right then," Agatha murmurs, eyeing the rest of the spread. That little furrow appears between her brows—the one that means she’s connecting dots Rio can't see yet.

Rio’s eyes narrow. "You know who it is.”

Agatha's hand rises to her chin, fingers curling in that contemplative gesture Rio remembers from centuries of schemes.

“I have a theory,” she admits. "But I need more. I need—”

An electronic trill cuts through the candlelit atmosphere. Not a modern ringtone, something more tinny and obnoxious.

Rio stares at the vibrantly purple flip phone Agatha fishes out of her coat pocket.

With a put-upon sigh, Agatha flips it open like it’s 2006 and she’s about to fire a henchman. “Finally," she mutters, squinting at the tiny screen. “The Sheriff's office cleared our access to the previous scenes.”

She snaps the phone shut with unnecessary flourish, and stands, energy shifting from contemplative to kinetic in an instant. “Lilia, insightful as always.”

"Wait," Lilia starts, but Agatha's already moving, coat swishing dramatically as she heads for the door.

Rio stays seated for a beat longer, looking at the Death card still grinning up from the table. Her fingers drum once on the velvet cloth.

“Good show,” she tells Lilia dryly—who blinks, clearly unsure if it’s a compliment or an insult.

Then she's up, following Agatha up into the night, where the past and present are starting to bleed together in ways that feel less like coincidence and more like fate.

Or, Rio thinks as she catches up to Agatha, like someone's carefully laid trap.