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.