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Agatha has always hated cities, just a little.
She can admit that there is something delicious about the way you can just slip through, be one of the bodies lost in the flow, with hardly anyone focusing on what you are, or what you’re doing for too long.
But—
She never quite feels at home in them, as she does among the trees. A product of growing up in another time, maybe.
(A product of being tethered to a green witch, more likely).
She’s ignoring that thought for now, as she wanders down Sixth Avenue in The Village. It’s loud as hell, but she was sick of Nashville and wanted to go back to the East Coast. She thought about heading back to Boston, and then dismissed it—for now. There were enough rumors floating around Nashville about girls calling themselves witches, dancing in queer clubs in The Village, that Agatha figured it couldn’t hurt to check it out. She’s exhausted, has been for a few years now, and is itching for something new. Some new power.
It’s still a little too early for the clubs to be open just yet, but Agatha heads that way regardless. It’s always good to scope out the scene.
She ignores the eyes of two construction workers. Zaps one in the ass with her magic who makes a more lewd comment, and grins to herself at his aghast yelp of pain. It’s a hell of a lot of restraint she’s showing—Agatha has been itching for a fight for a while.
Cities, though. There’s always someone watching.
…
…
The club is loud.
Agatha lets the music encase her body, the liquor make her loose and flowy as she dances among the throng of bodies on the floor. She’s sweaty, red-faced, and having more fun than she has in ages.
She found them. A pack of girls huddled in the corner, only stopping to dance every few songs or so, otherwise hunkered down in a booth that’s clearly been claimed for a while. Tarot cards and crystals are splayed out among their drinks and bags. She’s been watching them, in between dances and drinks. There’s a punk girl who seems to be the leader, two butches who have been all over each other the whole night, a drag queen, who jumps into their group after doing two numbers—fabulously—dragging a stuck up looking femme, and a pretty transexual along with her. A modern little coven. Thankfully, the real deal; Agatha can feel the threads of their power emanating from the dance floor.
She can’t wait to kill them.
Face flushed, she bounces her way over after catching the punk girl’s eye. “Hey,” she drawls, a half-flirt, letting the booze take most of the job of making her seem non-threatening. The girl gives her a once over—so do the butches and the bored femme—Agatha leans down more, showing the tops of her breasts. “I heard yall can read tarot,” she says, putting a little more Nashville into her voice.
“Who did you hear that from?” asks the femme, glaring at Agatha in her little business skirt suit—a ridiculous thing to wear to a queer club.
Agatha rolls her eyes, waves towards the bar and then at the cards, literally on the table in front of them. “Um, basically everyone?”
One of the butches, a blonde in a leather jacket she must be dying of heat in, kicks at the femme’s chair. “Lor, cut it out,” she admonishes. “Don’t scare away all our customers.” She turns a seductive smile onto Agatha, trying to cover for Lor and Agatha hates to admit it, but it’s working just a little. She’s charming, in a very butch James Dean type of way. “I’m Suze.”
“Nice to meet you, Suze,” Agatha flirts back. “So,” she looks around the table. “Can yall really read cards?”
“Yes,” the punk leader says, sincere. “Have a seat…” she waits, giving Agatha a moment to offer her name.
“Angie,” Agatha lies easily. New city. New decade. New name.
“I’m Zephyr,” the punk says. Agatha covers up her snort. Hippie parents, or picked that herself, for sure. “This is Maria,” she points to the other butch, who waves. “Lori,” business femme, who glares, again. “Christine,” the shy looking transexual who just nods at Agatha. “And that’s Vivian Luxe,” she says proudly to the drag queen, who manages an elegant curtsy of just her upper body while sitting down.
“You were fab,” Agatha tells Vivian, genuinely. “I caught your number.”
“Thanks, doll,” Vivian preens.
“So, how’s it work?” Agatha asks Zephyr, nodding towards the cards.
“We charge for it,” Lori interrupts before Zephyr can answer. She grunts, and Agatha catches her wince, the glare directed away from her and onto Maria, who clearly kicked her shin.
“Well, sure,” Agatha says, an easy shrug. “But I was more curious if you can actually read them, or if it’s more like a parlor trick.”
She knows it’s not. Up close, she can feel their power doubled from when she was on the dance floor. They’re the real deal. She catches the quick looks between them, and knows they’re about to downplay their talents.
“I only ask, cause I was living in Nashville a bit ago,” she says, quick-like, playing up the drunk giggly girl. “And I got my fortune told by this old lady who I thought was a total crook at first, but I was just having a laugh, so I didn’t really mind.” She watches Zephyr and Lori carefully as she says ‘crook’ watching both their postures go defensive. “Then, she told me this old story about The Witches Road, and it seemed like a legit folktale, but I went and looked it up, after, cause I was curious, and there are actually a few mentions in it in some old library almanacs.” She looks around the booth, waiting for the reactions.
Bingo. Christine and Maria both zero in the second that she names The Road. The others hold their surprise back, just a bit, but not by enough; Agatha shot the liquor out of her the minute that she walked over, she’s sharp, now. Paying attention.
“Huh,” Zephyr says, trying just a bit too hard to be casual about it. Agatha almost applauds her effort. “That’s interesting.”
“Yep,” Agatha says, popping her ‘p’ and reaching over to take the last of Lori’s drink, downing it while she holds eye contact. “That’s what I thought. It all sounded a lot like a story my mama used to tell me, but I never thought it was real. Just old country ladies playing about with herbs.”
And, there it is—everyone’s attention zeros in on Agatha. They’re sizing her up, looking at her differently, trying to see if she’s one of them.
“What was the story?” Zephyr asks.
Agatha meets her eye, holds it, and spins the familiar tale. Zephyr is locked in. This is going to be easy.
Lori, however, still looks skeptical by the end. She’s going to be the holdout. Agatha is definitely going to kill her, first.
…
…
The length of her cons always varies.
Sometimes, Agatha can get a coven to trust her and kill them all in one day, but that hasn’t worked in decades. Witches are too spooked, these days. Modern times don’t mix as well, and there was a real backlash for a while, but, despite all the Satanic Panic nonsense going around in the midwest, here in the cities, it’s still cool. In the right crowds.
This is the right crowd. And queer kids accept newcomers easily, but they’re also a little more wary. Vigilant. Agatha is being patient. The dancing and drinking and crowds are good for her.
The sex has been fun, too. Christine, it turns out, is only shy some of the time. A little praise in the bedroom, and she’s confident as all hell and really knows how to put her tongue to good use. Agatha is loose and happier than she’s been in ages. There’s a small part of her that is almost loath to kill them. In another world, a coven like this might have done wonders for her.
Not worth dwelling on, though.
She lets the days, then the weeks drawl by, increasingly getting the girls to warm up to her in increments. She has it down to a routine, by now. Single one out; figure out the hook; give it to them; earn their trust; use that to further it with the next girl. And on, and on.
A month in, Lori’s the only holdout, as predicted.
A month in, Rio shows up.
Nothing that Agatha could have predicted in a million goddamn years.
…
…
She’s sitting in Suze’s lap, her feet draped over Viv’s, drunk and laughing at a story that Christine is telling when she blinks up and there is Rio.
Rio.
For fuck’s sake.
Agatha thinks she might be hallucinating, for a beat. She and Lori both took some drugs in the bathroom, earlier—it’s their only bond, so far. Lori works in finance, is deeply closeted everywhere but inside this club, and she does coke.
(She also absolutely wants to fuck Agatha, but she’s furious about it).
Rio, though.
Rio is actually standing there in front of their booth, looking down at Agatha, barely concealing the way that she’s pissed at the sight of her draped over two women.
“Move,” Lori says, coming back with her arms full of drinks and elbowing Rio out of the way. And that’s when Agatha sees it, who Lori has reminded her of—fucking Rio. Same dark hair, similar enough features, same scowl—they even look alike when they give rare smiles.
Fuck’s sake. Put Rio in one of Lori’s suits, and they could almost pass for twins, especially in this dark nightclub with a bunch of drunk people. How the fuck Agatha didn’t realize that until this moment is embarrassing. She’s still blinking up at Rio in surprise when Lori shoves her over and hands her a drink.
“Can we help you?” Lori asks, glaring up at Rio.
“No,” Rio says. Final. Eyes never leaving Agatha.
Lori looks between them. “Angie?” she asks, “you know her?” Rio’s eyebrow raises at the moniker, but—as Agatha knew she wouldn’t—she doesn’t give her away or correct it.
Agatha turns from Rio, to Lori, back to Rio. “We dated for a while,” she says. “A long time ago.”
Rio twitches—just barely, probably only Agatha can tell.
“Huh,” Lori says, looking Rio up and down. Rio’s eyes finally snap away from Agatha, bounce between the coven, lingering, for a beat, on Christine—how the fuck Rio could know, Agatha has no idea—before settling on Lori. “You a witch, too?” Lori asks, only because the coke is really working its way through her system. The rest of them look at her a little nervously. Maria glares at Agatha, blaming her for Lori doing too much. Agatha just rolls her eyes. Lori is a grown fucking woman.
Rio meets Lori’s eye. Says nothing, but half a beat later, rotting black vines coil up around Lori’s hands and she yells. The whole table does. Glasses spill, and the tarot cards get sticky with liquor, and Agatha glares at Rio, who merely smirks at her in response.
“Cut it out, Rio,” she says, sounding bored and irritated. She hasn’t seen Rio in decades. There are plenty of benefits to having the Darkhold in her possession, and being hidden from Rio is one of them. She’s curious to know how Rio found her, now. Usually, Agatha has to be the one to seek her out.
Which, she doesn’t.
(Mostly).
“Come and dance with me, then,” Rio challenges.
“What? No,” Zephyr says, looking between them. “How’d you do that? Ang, why didn’t you tell us about this before? Can you do that?”
Rio scoffs and the entire table ignores her. Everyone is focused in on Agatha, now. “Sure, kinda,” Agatha answers.
“No, she can’t,” Rio says easily. Agatha glares up at her and Rio only blows her a kiss in response.
“Can you teach me?” Zephyr asks Rio, far too eager.
“Fuck off,” Lori says, still scratching at her arms.
“Lor—”
Agatha can’t deal with Rio’s gaze on her. It’s a physical thing, too heavy for how Agatha wants to feel right now. She was buzzing and having a great time, just five minutes ago. She grabs Lori’s hand, drags her up, and pushes past Rio. “Come on, Lor, I wanna dance,” she says, and hauls her into the middle of the pack of bodies.
“So that’s—” Lori starts, but Agatha clamps her palm over Lori’s mouth.
“I do not want to talk about Rio,” she tells her.
Lori studies her in that intense way she has, maybe more sober than Agatha originally thought. That, or, the coke is starting to wear off. “You want to make her jealous?” Lori asks, like it doesn’t really matter to her either way.
Agatha grins. “Very much so,” she snakes her arms around Lori’s neck in an instant. “Plus, I’ve been trying to get you to fuck me for weeks, Lor.”
Lori, hilariously, blushes. Her arms purposefully slip around Agatha’s waist, though, tugging her hips flush against Lori’s own. Agatha can feel Rio’s fury from across the dance floor. She grins, and grinds her body against Lori’s to the beat.
Surprisingly, Rio waits the entire length of the song. Agatha can feel her watching the entire time, catches only a glimpse of her glare and then presses herself closer and closer to Lori. It’s an upbeat song, and she’s sweaty and thrilled, the tension ratcheting up and also loosening as the song goes on. Lori is a good dancer when she’s not being a judgmental tight-ass. Agatha would be having fun even if Rio weren’t watching.
But, she is, so Agatha is having a goddamn blast.
The song is winding down, and Agatha feels Lori lean in, she lifts up to meet her—the kiss is a little sloppy—they are both still pretty high—but a beat later, Rio is there, tugging her sharply away from Lori.
“Outside,” is all she says, draging Agatha by the arm.
Rio slams her up against the alley wall and Agatha grunts. “Ow,” she snaps. “What was that for?”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
“I was having fun, Rio,” Agatha snaps back, pushing off the wall. Rio just shoves her right back, stepping closer now, using her body to block Agatha in.
“I saw,” Rio drawls, low and furious.
“And, so what are you doing here, ruining that for?” Agatha asks, falsely sweet.
“I was in the area,” Rio says. “And then I felt you.”
Agatha looks around and sees the body, strung out in the alley a bit before them. Shit. She doesn’t know the drag queen’s name—Vivian would—but she’s clearly overdosed. Agatha snaps her gaze back to Rio. “Since when can you feel me?” she demands.
“Since now,” Rio says with a shrug. “Probably I was just close enough.”
Agatha glares at her, tries—and fails, Rio was always physically stronger than her—to shove herself away again. “Well… goodbye,” she says pointedly. “As you can see, I’m busy.”
“Fucking your way through nightclubs?” Rio asks with a sneer.
“Oh?” Agatha smirks. “Jealous, are you?”
Rio presses her hard against the wall, her leg coming up between Agatha’s own. Her lips millimeters away from Agatha’s. “Not on your life,” she whispers, directly into Agatha’s mouth.
It’s deeply irritating, the way that Agatha’s whole body responds, like a cat curling towards the sunlight. Rio smirks and bites Agatha’s lip.
She allows it, just for a moment. She allows her body and her brain to have this, to remember why she missed Rio so much. Her tongue brushes against Rio’s, just once, before she shoves her away—hard.
“I’m working,” she says, all business now; devoid of any lust or love. She knows how to empty herself out. Centuries of practice.
Agatha turns on her heel, and stalks back into the club. She’s been drawing this one out too long. Time to kill them. She needs to store up on power and get the fuck out of this city. Maybe she’ll go abroad again for a bit. Somewhere warm. Countryside.
“Agatha—” Rio calls, but Agatha ignores her and Rio doesn’t follow.
Agatha ignores the way her body aches with each step that she takes away from Rio and further into the club, as well. Centuries of practice with that, too.
…
…
She kills them on a Tuesday.
Zephyr looks surprised, and then she crumbles. Vivian is furious, scared, then nothing. Maria goes limp immediately, a surprising amount of power flows from her into Agatha. Suze is the only one who truly looks betrayed, who has a true glimmer of understanding before she’s gone. Christine is the only one Agatha allows any guilt to linger, after. There’s nothing there but shock, and that face sticks with her for years after, in the way that only some of them do.
Lori manages to get a hit in, before she goes down. Agatha respects her for it.
She plants a perfect bright red lipstick kiss onto all of their foreheads, and arranges them together in a way she almost never does. She places a kiss to Lori’s lips, and her cheeks, too.
Rio will get the message.
Agatha doesn’t stick around to find out, though. She takes Suze’s leather jacket, shrugs it on over her own shoulders, and heads for the airport.
Fuck this city.