Chapter 1
It had been happening for several weeks now before Agatha decided to take matters into her own hands. Security had already been doubled; she had even allowed them to stand at the doors of her bedchambers all night despite her usual policy of distance. The truth is that there wasn’t usually much for a witch of her calibre to fear from a break in. No thief, or otherwise ill-intentioned intruder, would get the better of Agatha Harkness, but it would seem improper for there to be no guard at a building of this size. The castle was not immodest, nor was it the largest or most grand, but it was enough for her. In fact, she often rattled around the cold, stone walls with no purpose or motivation, busying herself with some task or another just to pass the hours.
Agatha had been settled here for many years now, and found that the position brought many benefits. A castle was a majestic draw to many an eager young witch who travelled for miles to hear Agatha Harkness talk of the Witch’s Road, and perhaps even get a chance to summon it themselves. They all met the same fate, of course, but this was a fact Agatha had spared no sleep over. It was a simple way to draw power, letting them come to her was much easier than the hunt, but she was growing bored of the pretense and isolation. Agatha was not a social creature by nature, and the idea of a coven brought only disgust and resentment, but castle life alone was bleak and dull with only the occassional theatrical thrill of a power grab to pass the time. Before this had all begun, she had almost found herself wishing for better companionship.
It was nearly a month ago now that it had started. First came the dreams, flooding her subconscious mind and waking her with a gasp and a chill. They were heavy, as if her mind was sinking deep into molasses or drowning in a hopeless mist, and they were dark. A hooded figure watching her, a black cat larger than any Agatha had ever seen following her, and blood. So much blood. In most of her dreams she was bleeding, choking on it, the taste of it, the smell. She would wake and the sensation would linger in the room, and a sense of melancholy had pierced her completely and never seemed to fade away. When it started, it did cross her mind that this could be the first sign of an emerging guilty conscience. Maybe she was developing a moral code later on in life. But that didn’t feel right. Agatha had never experienced more than the briefest twinges of regret about what she had done to survive.
And then the flowers started coming. She would awaken from her nightmare, drenched in sweat, and there upon her nightstand would be a single blossom, just waiting for her to wake up and discover. An azalea, then a bluebell, three fresh daffodils, a single daisy. A different flower each night. Where this intruder was finding such fresh, beautiful flowers in the icy winter lands outside Agatha could not decipher, but the strangest thing about these offensive florals was that they did not die. Not a twinge of brown had discoloured a single petal. Even that first azalea blossom had remained as full and luscious as if it had just been plucked in the two weeks it had sat upon her mantel. For some reason, that she chose not to dwell upon, Agatha could not bring herself to dispose of these gifts.
Last night had been the final straw. She had awoken from her terror, the taste of blood still there in the back of her throat, and shot up in her bed. There was a draft whistling in across the room, bringing with it a terrible chill, but Agatha knew she had locked every window and door before bed. Bewildered, she had gazed desperately around the dark room, startling at the sight of a figure backlit by the moonlight crouched on her windowsill. Her panic was choking. She should have called for her guards, or blasted the stranger back down to the ground below. How had they climbed this high? Her hysteria was such that she didn’t dwell on these questions for long. The hooded intruder did not bolt, nor did they seem particularly surprised that Agatha was awake. Agatha reached to her bedside, desperately scrounging about for a candle and matches, nearly burning her fingertips in the process as her hands shook.
“Stay still.”
It was a woman’s voice, low and sweet. The shock had nearly made Agatha drop her candlestick, but she caught the open flame neatly in a twist of purple magic and let it float by her side.
Illuminated by the dim firelight, the woman, who was carefully crouched just beyond the open window as though she may be afraid to enter, shook back her hood. Her eyes had blazed as she took in the sight of Agatha in her nightgown, and the gentle light of her magic beside her. There was no fear there, only curiosity and perhaps some kind of vindication, Agatha thought.
“Invite me in.” The voice was warm and coaxing, and remarkably calm for one who had been caught creeping at a woman’s bedroom window.
“No,” Agatha managed to stammer out. Her voice was barely above a whisper. If she spoke loudly the guards outside her door may have heard her and come running and interrupted this exchange. Isn’t that the point of having them, she chided herself, to protect you from harm?
“Please.” With that, the woman’s eyes seemed to sparkle and her mouth twisted into a predatory grin.
She has me under some kind of spell, Agatha realised. That was the only logical explanation for the way her body responded to the woman’s plea. She wanted to give in, to walk over to the window and help her climb in. She wanted to wipe that smug smile off her features, wanted to pull her closer. No, Agatha stopped herself. This was not who she was.
“You have no idea who you are dealing with.” Forcing a smile of her own, Agatha summoned up enough of her characteristic ferocity to speak without her voice shaking.
“Oh, I know exactly who you are, Agatha Harkness,” The stranger appeared unaffected by Agatha’s little display of control, and instead cast a lazy glance around her chambers with open curiosity. “A lot of witches enter this home and do not return.”
“Then why do you want to come in?”
“I’m not like them.” It was stated as a fact, and perhaps it was. Agatha had certainly never experienced anyone like this before.
“Are you a witch?” Agatha wanted to swallow down her curiosity and replace it with the indignation that burned in her belly but she couldn’t help herself. She stared at the stranger with as much interest as the woman seemed to show towards Agatha’s bedroom. What is she?
“I was,” She mused. The woman had not budged from her position on the ledge, but she continued her silent appraisal of Agatha’s living arrangements as though this conversation was of no interest to her.
Agatha noticed her see them before she could do anything to distract her, and felt her stomach flip a little. The stranger was staring directly at her now, clearly delighted at her discovery. The fireplace mantel that had become home to each of the flowers she had left for Agatha. She snuffed out the candle floating at her side instantly, as though her hurried attempt at throwing them into darkness could take back what this woman had seen.
“You kept them all.” Her teasing felt warm, and self-indulgent, and Agatha bristled at the sound of it.
“They don’t die. Why don’t they die?”
“Not everything has to die.” The woman answered cryptically. Almost in demonstration, she pointed one slender finger towards Agatha’s bare dresser to direct her to watch, careful for her body to never pass the threshold of entry to the room. With a flourish of her hand, and a swirl of black magic tendrils upon the surface, a deep red rose materialised on the dresser.
Agatha remained in her bed, staring in poorly concealed wonder at the stranger who was now watching her reactions carefully. The fierce curiosity in the woman’s eyes made Agatha flush, and she pulled up the sheet and held it in fists by her throat, suddenly aware of how close to naked she felt in only a thin nightdress. The intruder noticed that too, of course, with her sharp wandering eyes, and a satisfied smile curled onto her features. Agatha found herself begrudgingly noting how otherworldly the stranger looked in the moonlight. Jet black hair, and wide dark eyes. Her skin had an almost unnatural glow and pallor, but she was undeniably beautiful. Agatha watched as the woman looked down at the ground beneath her, then up at the night sky, which was beginning to lighten into early dawn, and thought she saw concern register in her eyes. She didn’t like the woman looking away. She wanted her to look back at her.
“What are you?”
“Hmm,” The dark haired woman hummed absentmindedly, as though weighing her options before she spoke.
“Oh, so now you’re shy?”
“I don’t want to scare you off.” She flashed Agatha a smile that was all teeth. Sharp, pearl-white teeth. And Agatha scoffed in response, sitting up to toss her long dark hair over her shoulder as she stared the other woman down.
“Who are you?”
“A loaded question.”
“What is your name?” Agatha was exasperated. It was fascinating really how quickly her apprehension gave way to annoyance.
“I have had a lot of those,” The stranger’s eyes sparkled as she registered the irritation growing in Agatha’s. “But you can call me Rio. Now, sleep. You need to rest.”
“Sleep?” Agatha’s mouth had dropped open in shock. Was she really just leaving?
“Yes. You clearly said you were not going to invite me in tonight, so sleep on it. I will be back.”
She spoke the words like a promise, and a shiver ran down Agatha’s spine that she tried to convince herself was fear. Before she could open her mouth to respond, the woman stood up and stepped back, dropping down those many feet towards the ground as though it were nothing. On instinct, Agatha flew from her bed and leant out into the cold night air, but there was no sign of Rio anywhere. Slamming the windows shut, and locking them firmly, she returned to bed with a racing mind. With a thrill of frustration alive in her veins, she tossed and turned for a few hours before the heaviness of the night caught up with her and dragged her back to sleep.
That was the first night Agatha had slept with no nightmares in weeks. She awoke so refreshed from that brief window of rest she had after Rio’s departure that she almost didn’t remember the events of the night. That was before until her eyes landed on the dresser. And the single rose that sat there, as deep red as blood. Irritation surged in her again, and a wounded ego she was beginning to nurse at how little she had fought back and regained her control during their conversation. Next time, Agatha promised herself as she got dressed for the day, next time she would fight back.
She gathered up each of the hateful floral gifts, frustrating as they refused to wilt or tarnish even as she squeezed them tight in her fists, and flung them from her window. She watched them land like flowers atop a grave with a smug satisfaction. If the strange woman did return, although of course, Agatha reminded herself, she hoped she would not, the first thing she would see would be Agatha’s rejection.
Tonight would be different. She had seen Rio’s face, learned her name, and if she came back for her again she would be prepared. She stuffed down deep the rising feelings of intrigue and fascination, and focused only on the anger at this violation of her sanctuary. Agatha had a good thing going here, and Rio was not going to ruin it, whatever and whoever she was.