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.”

She 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's a mirror tonight—something that should be infinite and eternal, instead stretched thin, veiled, and 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.

The 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—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. Fantastic. Wonderful.

Agony blooms as the 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 opportunity makes her hesitate.

If this is the same bastard harvesting vitae…

She might be able to get a read on them. A signature or an aura. Maybe she can—

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

Steel catches the streetlight. A snarl. For all his injuries, he’s surprisingly fast.

But something faster falls from above.

A small dark blur, followed by a rush of air as something unfurls at the last second—followed quickly by the sharp muffled snap of bone.

Scar-Jaw's head wrenches sideways, neck broken clean. His body collapses, knife skittering harmlessly across the pavement.

For a long beat, there’s only the sound of distant traffic and her own blood thrumming in her veins.

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

The blood shield shudders, then collapses in on itself, droplets and bullets falling and hitting the asphalt, scattering like rain.

Rio Vidal stands over the crumpled ghoul like she never left, framed by moonlight, all casual menace.

She looks—of course—exactly as Agatha remembers. Same olive henley, same beat-up leather coat that looks like it’s been dragged through a warzone. That dark hair still wild and unapologetic. And her eyes—

Still burning red, still carved through with vertical slits like a predator's. The Beast Mark that never faded. Not a flaw. A signature by now. The look of a very old Gangrel who chose the wild and never quite came back.

And right now, those eyes are fixed on Agatha.

There’s exasperation there. And something a lot more complicated.

Agatha straightens, brushing glass shards from her shoulder like lint. She smooths her ruined coat with slow, deliberate dignity. She will not look disheveled in front of Rio Vidal. She would rather catch fire. Again.

“I had it handled,” she says coolly.

Rio's eyes travel pointedly to the overturned smoking SUV, then to the blood-soaked corpse at her feet, then back to Agatha. She quirks a brow in dry amusement.

“Sure,” she says, deadpan. “Handled.”

Agatha fights the urge to roll her eyes. She very nearly wins.

That smirk. That stupid sardonic edge—like she’s already won some argument Agatha hasn’t even started. It's infuriating. Worse. It's familiar.

Something inconvenient flutters in Agatha’s chest. She crushes it flat. Clears her throat.

"Nice of you to drop in," she says with deliberate lightness, lifting her chin. “Still doing the bat thing?”

Rio tilts her head, half-amused at something. Agatha tries not to think about what it might be.

“It gets me where I need to be.”

Agatha hums, noncommittal.

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

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 who's wandered into their yard.

Well, they’re not entirely wrong.

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

“You,” she says, pointing at the female ghoul—Megan, yes, that's definitely it. "Secure the perimeter. You—" a nod at the one with the buzzcut, "—call our people. Keep the cops away. And you—" a glance at the third, clutching his side. “Don't die.”

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

Agatha exhales, low and exasperated.

Pathetic but tragically understandable. They’re injured, rattled, and their instincts are screaming at them to protect their mistress, 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 bring the body." She nods at the dead ghoul’s twisted remains. "I want to study it later."

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

When she looks back, Rio has that infuriating smirk again, arms crossed, stance loose, like this is all deeply entertaining.

“Playing nursemaid now?”

Agatha snorts. "Good help is so expensive these days." She runs a hand through her hair, wincing as her fingers snag on more bits of glass. "Unlike some people, I can’t just live in a cave and live off raccoons.”

Rio's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "They are gamey."

The silence that follows stretches under the weight of everything unsaid, awkward and oddly intimate. Her ghouls move about in her periphery, securing the scene, radioing cleanup, doing what they’re trained to do.

Agatha barely registers them. Rio's presence feels like a splinter—sharp and present just under her skin. Needling at her. Impossible to ignore.

Rio breaks the silence first.

“Power looks good on you.” She tips her chin toward the House Harkness sigil pinned—slightly bloodied—to Agatha’s 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. “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. A terrible one. She always was so bad at it.

The tone's flippant, but Rio never shows up without a reason. And her arrival tonight feels too fast, too ready, too convenient. It wasn't chance.

Someone sent her. Or warned her. Or she’d been watching.

Still—Agatha hears Alice’s parting advice echoing in the back of her mind: I’d call in some backup if I were you.

She hates asking for help. Hates needing anything she can’t control. But not as much as she hates being outplayed.

And Rio is—unfortunately—one of the few people she’d trust to watch her back without sticking a knife in it. Not unless she had a damn good reason. And even then she’d still be more likely to stab her in the front.

Agatha inhales through her nose, steadies her voice, and forces the words out like poison.

“I could use your help.”

Rio’s eyebrows lift. Genuine surprise, for once. “Excuse me?”

Agatha clenches her jaw. “Three Kindred drained dry without a mark. Set up to look like I did it. And now this." She gestures lazily toward the mangled corpse at her feet. "The Prince’s given me three nights to clear my name. After that, it's open season.”

Rio leans in a fraction. “And you need me because…?”

Agatha exhales like this pains her—which, frankly, it does.

"You can go places others can’t, hit things harder than I can, and—" she pauses, fighting the shape of the words. “—when it comes to magical mind games, you I don't feel the need to babysit.”

Rio’s mouth twitches, a half-smile threatening to form. "Agatha Harkness asking for help. 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.

“So... what’s in it for me?”

Agatha gives a slow, deliberate smile. "Besides the pleasure of my company?"

Rio arches an eyebrow. A silent try harder.

Fine. Agatha steps closer. Leans in. Not close enough to touch, but enough for tension to spark.

“Whoever's doing this—they're powerful. Hidden. Arrogant enough to come after me. And I know…" her voice slides into something dark and intimate, "how you so love a good hunt."

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 something she thinks might be regret.

Rio watches her for a long beat, expression unreadable behind her 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 faintly warm. Recently fed. Strong as ever. 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.