Day One
She was crying. She was crying earlier, a second ago (a month, a year, a moment) she was positively absolutely nearly certainly crying, so then where had this calmness come from? This warmth? These hands? Lilia was wet, sopping wet, like a drowned cat. Her eyes were closed. She felt the water dripping off of bare skin, and the towel that was -mercifully- still wrapped around her. Someone's hands were running through her hair, their nails gently scratching at her scalp. Her back was pressed against the front of another’s warm body. Their spare arm held snugly to her waist. Violets. Agatha. Lilia’s eyes snapped open but she stayed still.
She was being held (tenderly, believe it or not) by Agatha Harkness. The Salem witch’s legs were on either side of Lilia, gently holding her still. Her head fell against Agatha’s breast. She shifted, not to leave, but to lay her head backwards on Agatha’s shoulder. “Back with us?”
Lilia said nothing. Stubbornly, she pulled her towel up with her. But she did not move. Not this time. “I figured you were sometime close to us when the screaming stopped,” Agatha muttered. Her hand still ran through Lilia’s sick wet hair.
The bathroom was soaked. Water had puddled on the floor and the curtain had been yanked down. Lilia felt bruises forming on her side from where she had fallen. This one had hurt. Her visions hadn’t been this violent in decades. This was new.
“No one’s home,” Agatha added gently, anticipating her next thought, “I told Billy he had a day off.”
Lilia wanted to protest. “I-”
“Shut up.”
Lilia huffed indignantly, “Agatha-”
“No,” her voice was clipped, “just sit.”
So she did. She let the witch killer hold her after her vision of killing witches. The faces were blurred in blood, the gasps were wet with the liquid of their veins, Lilia’s own heart pounded. Agatha squeezed tighter. Massaged her scalp. Held her. “Breathe.”
Lilia moved her hand to hold Agatha’s arm on her waist. “Agatha,
“It hurt,” Lilia choked out. Agatha’s wrist was held by the older witch. She quickly snatched it away, regarding Lilia carefully. They were alone in the kitchen. The teapot was boiling. The sun was streaming in.
Neither had spoken anything more than muttered acknowledgements before Lilia, as the others had started saying, went away. Lilia cleared her throat, pulling her hands back to herself. She did not apologize for her outburst. Agatha didn't ask. The tea pot boiled; they moved on.
--
“Morning Harkness,” Lilia muttered, filling the pot with enough water for two but only laid out one mug.
Agatha rolled her eyes and grabbed her own cup. “Calderu.”
Agatha was dressed in purple polka dot pajama pants and a knit sweater. Her hair was up in a similar bun to what she had worn when the coven had entered the road, only more practical and less stylized.
Agatha and Lilia had been living together for a month or so, never really settling in. While Alice and Jen took up their residence fairly quickly, these two didn't. Lilia, because she was still living off of independence and the fear of being chased out of town, and Agatha for similar reasons. Plus the trust issues, naturally. Not to mention, she’d been shaken after the last time she saw Rio.
Jen was out trying to rebuild her brand and settle some legal disputes- much easier to do with magic, by the way- and would be gone for at least a week on business. Alice had gone with her. A conversation with Lilia had sparked her curiosity in the path of security, or investigation, rather than the police force. So the two oldest witches were home alone for the week. Together. Lovely, Agatha had thought to herself. Lilia was reaching past Agatha to grab a mug when the vision hit.
The mug would have shattered if Agatha hadn’t caught it. Her face scrunched in worry, as for a second, maybe two, Lilia stared forward with glassy eyes. It’s ok, Agatha told herself, she’s ok.
Suddenly, the Sicilian witch lurched forward and grabbed Agatha's wrist. “It hurt…” Lilia choked out. Reflexively, Agatha pulled her arm back to herself. She did not want to be touched. She did not want to be spoken to, she did not, for the first time in a long while, want to be perceived. Not after what happened at the end of the road. But she did regret the snap reaction. “I’m sorry” was just on the tip of her tongue, but it would stay in the back of her throat like it had for years. The apology died with her usual flirty comeback. Lilia cleared her throat, looking at Agatha with an unfamiliar expression. Agatha nodded at her, and left the room. It reminded her of the first trial of the road, knowing something was wrong, but doing nothing except for watching.
Lilia wasn't sure when she had been when she disappeared on Agatha. They hadn’t said anything more about it before retreating to their own sides of the house. Agatha took up space in the basement, a downright disturbing room no one wanted much part of. It was dank, dusty, and had a distinct “oh so i’m getting murdered tonight” vibe. Lilia took the attic.
She’d decorated her spacious nook to look a lot like her old place. Dull, warm lights hung off the beams, carpets and pillows were spread on a couch that had been assembled with magic. Books were stacked on one another based on time period, on the floor of course, surrounded by different boxes of charms and trinkets.
It was a large, relatively tall space, with one large window looking out into the woods. The sun came through it gorgeously in the evening. Old photos had been tacked onto the walls. Protection candles had quickly been lit, and ward spells drawn up. Lilia wasn’t totally detached from the living space, she supposed, but the boxes in her bedroom would remain packed.
The blood seemed to be raining down, dead bodies creeped closer, the sky was dark like dirt. A skeleton woman, Rio Vidal, walked through the scene hastily. She looked at Lilia; she looked away. Then Lilia lost her footing, falling into the tub, falling into Agatha’s arms, falling on top of a wet warm body and becoming sticky with blood-
She was in the kitchen at a different time. Before the blood, she thinks. She stood in front of Agatha, who’s laughing. Genuinely laughing. Her head is thrown back, her brown hair rolling down her shoulders. Her eyes and nose crinkle as she sidesteps a broken plate on the floor. Agatha reaches out and takes Lilia’s hands in hers-
Lilia came back to herself. She found herself running her nails along the veins of her arms. She anticipated future grief, like she always had. Dark scarlet stains played at the edges of her vision for a moment longer.
--
Downstairs, Agatha was organizing. The floor was dusted, the bookshelves cleaned, and the candles were lit, all with her freshly restored magic. The basement was full of everything she’d needed from her old house, and a fraction of what she’d collected over the years. The rest was stored in a pocket dimension Rio had shown her years ago. Señor scratchy had his own little corner by her desk, but mostly his time was spent on the crook of Agatha’s arm, cuddling up to her neck.
“Good bunny,” she’d say to him every once and a while. When witches heard about Agatha Harkness, they thought snakes, cats, spiders. Like with many things, Agatha did not correct them. Besides, Señor could do much more damage than any snake.
“It hurt,” Lilia had said. It hurt. Agatha was, for the most part, detached. After her showdown with Rio, she’d really, really tried to keep it that way. She didn't say goodbye to Jen and Alice. She woke up early most mornings, disappearing into the woods. She had her basement for books and a bunny. Agatha, the not quite covenless witch, did not need anybody getting close to her, save for Billy on occasion. And she’d tell others that with a proud sneer on her face. She was Agatha fucking Harkness, a literal serial killer!
Agatha held Scratchy closer and leaned herself back against the bookshelf. She remembered Jen’s trial. Lilia had seen something, and divine mother, she’d been so scared. She hugged Scratchy against her face. In another life, another universe, Agatha had probably died at the hands of Rio. Agatha fantasized about it sometimes; if her duel with Rio had ended differently. If Agatha had kissed Rio, like she planned to, and siphoned Death into her. Maybe it would have brought her peace. Instead, her lips had brushed Rio’s for barely a second. She’d felt Rio’s hands on her face, followed by a snap of darkness. Agatha had woken up, laying on her (well, Ralph’s) lawn. Everything had been intact. Billy, Jen, Alice, and Lilia had stood over her.
She had no idea what had happened.
Instead, she found herself with a family who refused to leave her to herself.
--
“Is that lunch,” Lilia smiled, looking teasingly at the rabbit. He had followed his mistress into the kitchen.
Agatha gasped, placing her free hand to her chest. “Don't worry Señor,” she said to Scratchy, “don’t listen to the mean lady. I’ll skin her alive first.” She played it like a joke, but Lilia felt the air dry out quickly.
“Always with the dramatics,” Lilia scoffed. Agatha waved her off.
Lilia had already been making a sandwich. She’d left out bread, cheese, lunch meat (turkey not rabbit) and was starting another teapot. They worked around each other, silently making sandwiches, never coming in too close of contact with the other.
“What are you doing in that basement of yours?” Lilia finally asked.
Agatha smirked, giving her a sideways glance. “Want a tour?” Agatha raised her eyebrows, somehow making it suggestive.
The older witch ignored her. “Forget I asked.”
On the floor, Señor was biting at her skirts. She nudged him off, but in the end she let him be. “Your pet is a pest,” Lilia deadpanned, “much like his mother.”
“He didn't appreciate being referred to as dinner,” Agatha said casually.
Lilia leaned back against the counter and groaned, “Divine mother, I'd kill for a good rabbit.” Agatha looked appalled. “Have you ever eaten a good rabbit? Come on Harkness, really?” She leaned down and cradled the bunny in her arms. She gestured to the meatiest part. “I can work wonders with these things.”
Agatha had eaten rabbit, actually. She’d eaten anything ready to be caught and skinned when she lived alone in Salem. “You’ve really gotta stop threatening my bunny, baby,” Agatha snatched Señor back into her arms. She pointed her knife at Lilia, giving her an extra glare.
Lilia, wisely, took a step back. “What are you gonna do about it, Harkness? Drain me? I wasn't born yesterday.”
Agatha scoffed, “Clearly.”
Blood, blood, blood, pouring out of her mouth. Lilia shook the idea away.
Lilia snatched Agatha’s sandwich (terribly barebones, by the way, not worth even a rabbit’s time) and tossed it into the trash. Wordlessly, she shoved half of her sandwich at Agatha before huffing out of the kitchen.
Agatha watched her go, dumbfounded. “Asshole?” She muttered. But still, he took a bite of Lilia’s sandwich and moaned. Loudly if she was being honest; she had always been very vocal.
“Is that avocado?” Agatha said with a full mouth.
Scratchy looked at her, twitching his nose. She imitated a childish voice, and as Scratchy, mocked Lilia; “That's perfection, doll.” She looked at Scratchy. He looked back. Agatha rolled her eyes at herself.
--
Agatha spent the day reading. She needed a project now that the darkhold was gone. Now that Rio was gone. An uneasy sense bubbled in her heart, a strange sense of impending doom wrapping itself around her. Distantly, she was reminded of what it felt like to believe she was dying. Upstairs, Lilia feels it too. To her though, it’s almost imperceivable as some level of foreboding had always resided close to her soul.
--
As the day went on, a strange foreboding feeling settled over the house. Agatha was restless. Lilia was tired. But what could be done? The feeling that was all too familiar to Lilia wasn’t as comfortable with Agatha, and so nothing productive would be done.
--
They didn't talk again until the sun was setting. When they both met in the living room, neither felt the need to speak.
Agatha, who Lilia had thought was comfortable taking up as much space as she liked, had hardly spent time in the common areas with the other witches around. While Lilia, Alice, and Jen grew closer, she seemed set on isolating herself. Perfectly fine by Lilia, honestly. Agatha hardly ever caused anything but problems. Forget catty, she was straight up mean.
“What’s for dinner, chef?” Agatha asked, not looking up from her book. She was reading up on divination. Lilia came over and sat on the armchair beside the sofa. Agatha had put herself in the position farthest away from any other seats. Lilia didn't care, because Agatha hadnt sat in Lilia’s chair. “And if you say rabbit, I'm reopening the road and locking you in it.
Lilia chuckled. She didn't outwardly laugh, so what she did was low and soft. Agatha couldn't help wondering what it would feel like for Lilia to make that sound with Agatha’s hand around her throat. Those years spent with Rio had given Agatha ideas. And just like that, the curiosity was gone as soon as Agatha was wrapped in that remembering type of cold. “Left overs,” Lilia said finally, “Jen- stop with that face - left us dinner for at least two nights.”
“It’s going to be salad,” Agatha smirked. She snapped the book closed and looked at Lilia with a wicked grin. In a childish voice she mocked, “I’m Jen, look at me! My skin is clear and never knew the loving touch of another person! Or bread!” Agatha smiled, what could she say? She cracked herself up.
Lilia, exasperated, headed to the kitchen.
--
“I’m going to kill her,” Agatha said in the same way one would comment on the weather. Jen had left them salad.
“That isn't funny Agatha,” Lilia deadpanned. She still remembered how it looked watching Alice’s life drain. She, unlike her Billy apparently, had not forgotten how many lives had been lost to Agatha’s whims. “You have killed some of us before.” She crossed her arms sternly. Agatha pursed her lips and glared.
“Not you though hun,” she mused lowly, “what a shame.” Lilia felt a chill run up her spine.
--
They sat in the living room with the tv off. Each of their loud, silent thoughts filled the space. Agatha sat with her book again. Lilia just sat, thinking. She didn't want to think about Agatha Harkness. She wanted to think about her fabulous flow of power. The tower reversed, the freedom of the fall. But Agatha sat right there. Lilia had died for the coven, the coven Agatha put together. But of course, Agatha hadn't changed. Why would she? She was only ever acting. There was no real Agatha Harkness, only a killer who came out of something wicked. But no, Lilia thought, looking at Agatha, that’s not right.
That’s Jen talking, she told herself. Because Agatha is a witch, and a complex one. Being a psycho killing bitch is just the dominant personality trait. Lilia didn't think agatha was only wicked, but that didn't mean she needed to get to know the rest of her; that's how people die.
Agatha threw her head back in laughter before reaching over for Lilia. “No shit!” She cackled. She sidestepped the broken glass to get to Lilia. “Come on hun, let's get out of the mess.”
Lilia shook her head. She was torn. She couldn't fall back into the routine of ignoring her visions. Not again. She stared at Agatha for a bit longer.
“I can feel your eyes,” Agatha finally snapped.
“I thought you thrived on attention,” Lilia muttered, “my bad.” She did tilt her head away though, slightly embarrassed at being called out.
They both huffed at the other until Agatha snapped her book shut and retreated into the basement. The air was noticeably cooler once Agatha left the room, and weirdly, Lilia found it unpleasant. She leaned back in her chair and groaned. Lilia couldn't tell how she felt. On the one hand, she was used to being alone. This time, she was along with a heartbroken, moping wildcard in the basement. Absolutely wonderful, she thought to herself.
On the other hand, Agatha was alive. She was a witch. She was part of the coven Lilia had died for. For at least a little while, when they had been gathered around the fire, they were more. Lilia would die to go back.
Sometime close to midnight, a shiver went through her body. A flash of yellow light curled over her knuckles. She felt as she did when she would rest her head in Italy. That feeling encompassed rest, but also the deep rooted feeling of impending doom. Something wicked was coming.
--
Agatha, as always, refused to sit still. When her anxious feeling didnt fade she threw herself into studying. Divination had never been her passion. To be honest, it sort of gave her the creeps. She couldn't master it, couldn't fully understand it, and had never been around others long enough to get a grasp of its purpose. But hell, she respected anyone who could live with it. So perhaps she was especially on edge around Lilia. From their first meeting she had been. What on earth had compelled her to tell Lilia about the slight stipulation to her siphoning power? Divine mother knows, but she refused to let that happen again. Despite what Billy said, she was not softening.
That's why Agatha’s sole purpose in the basement for the next twenty four hours would be researching divination. To understand. To control. Maybe, if she felt generous, to help. She pulled the tomes from her shelf and dimension and spread them out. Agatha had always been scholarly. In another life, she was a historian. She had developed a spell that allowed her to comprehend two to three texts at once, so she went over her well worn books again.
Eventually, she found something new. A dark, deteriorating book with golden edges. The pages were beginning to separate from the spine, and the cover had been so battered that whatever title had once been on the front was completely gone. It was written entirely in old Italian. Agatha held it carefully in her hands, more gentle with it than she would ever be with most people. By the time she found it, it was much closer to midnight. Agatha’s Italian was rusty, but she could get by. She’d stopped using translation spells if she could avoid it, after Rio proved to her that the English to Spanish textbook translation was slightly skewed. To avoid this again, she’d asked Rio to teach her Spanish. Just for magic, no other reason.
Over the years, Agatha, who already spoke English and Latin, learned Spanish, Greek, Tagalog (incredibly long story) and Italian. She hadn’t kept up with it though, so instead of running magic background reading, she sat cross legged on the stone floor giving it her full attention. What she read, only partially comprehending it, gave her a kick like an old addiction. She was once again learning, seeking knowledge beyond her station.
--
Somewhere close and far and long and short, Rio was resting. In a secluded version of sleep, she curled into herself. Only she would ever be able to tell Agatha what had happened, but she would not. She could not. She could not ever see Agatha again; she was to treat her as a ghost. She floated through the dark. Her duties were not abandoned, simply slowed. A flash of yellow light cut through the darkness, waking Lady Death from her fit of sorrow. A book had been opened. An old book. An unnatural book from old Sicily, that should never have been written before. A book holding the premonitions of the most wicked fates. Never before had it been wrong or avoidable
But this one would not darken the hands of her beloved. The book itself would not kill her. Not anytime soon, anyway. It would only serve to warm her. So Rio let her tears dampen her skeleton frame as she tucked herself back away. Three more days, she told herself, I will allow myself six more days to mourn.
--
That night, Lilia heard a large crash from the basement. Then silence. Dark silence, evil silents, as nothing could be heard from below. No footsteps, no pages turning. The house cooled by a few more degrees.
As fear struck Lilia she ran down the stairs to see Agatha crushed by the bookshelf that had fallen onto her. “Agatha!” She shouted. With a flick of magic she raised the bookshelf and knelt down beside Agatha. She was limp. Lilia pulled Agatha’s head into her lap. The veins of Agatha’s face were glowing. Her eyes were open and gold. Soon she was no longer still, but convulsing.
Lilia shook her head, muttering, “You fool.” The old book was clutched in Agatha’s hands, illuminating the room. Agatha’s fist clenched as her body shook. Slowly, she began to cry. Lilia did her best to keep her comfortable, remembering when her Maestra had peaked at the same book.
--
Lilia was crying. She was wet, sopping wet, like a drowned cat. Agatha’s shirt was soaked through, for sure, but she could dry it in a pinch. She focused on keeping Lilia close, squeezing her in what she hoped was a grounding way. Her hands combed through Lilia’s curls, remembering how that had soothed Rio. She felt Lilia stir.
Lilia’s head fell against Agatha’s breast. She shifted, not to leave, but to lay her head backwards on Agatha’s shoulder. “Back with us?” Agatha hummed. She hid the lump in her throat. Distantly, she was aware this had not yet happened. Distantly, she felt herself becoming less and less aware of when and why and how she was.
Lilia pulled her towel up with her. “I figured you were sometime close to us when the screaming stopped,” Agatha muttered. Her hand still ran through Lilia’s sick wet hair. Agatha herself felt as if she was held hostage, speaking and feeling and acting under an influence, and yet she knew she was her own person. The book. The glow. The crash. Oh.
“No one’s home,” Agatha added gently, certain that she was in a vision now, “I told Billy he had a day off.”
Lilia wanted to protest. “I-”
“Shut up.” Let me think lady, Agatha thought.
Lilia huffed indignantly, “Agatha-”
“No,” her voice was clipped, “just sit.”
So she did, and thank the divine mother for that. Agatha didn't want to be there. She did not want Lilia this close, she did not want to be comforting. She wanted to understand. The soaked bathroom and shaking witch were distractions, Agatha told herself, none of this is going to happen.
Agatha went to say something to Lilia, but suddenly, they were sitting in the yard. Agatha’s hands were covered in blood. It made her sick. Her kills were not meant to be messy. The sky was red. The ground bubbled, as if it were a water mattress. “Lilia!” She heard herself scream, “Lilia!” She stumbled forward, tripping over the body of-