Chapter Text
The Westview Gazette newsroom was almost silent, most of the staff already gone for the night. The only sounds that filled the space were the hum of the struggling AC and the clacking of keys somewhere behind her. Rio Vidal scribbled the last line of her notes with a flourish, and tucked her Waterman Carène fountain pen into her pocket, followed by her notebook, then rose, her chair squeaking.
“Done downsizing the dowser?” Jen asked from two desks over, not looking up from her laptop where chemical analyses of "all-natural" supplements filled the screen.
“Our newest water wizard was using geological survey maps from the county records office," Rio confirmed, patting her notebook through her pocket. "Got him to admit it after I showed him I knew exactly where he'd 'find' water next."
“He was dumb enough to let you interview him? Don’t they ever learn?” Jen snorted, sorting through bottles of herbs, before picking one up and copying something off the label.
Rio wandered over to her desk. “You staying late tonight?”
Jen grimaced. “This latest batch has nightshade in it. Actual nightshade. I’m going to nail the bastards to the wall.”
“Text me if you’re running low on nails. Tonight I'm taking on Westview's newest medium.” Rio rolled her eyes.
“Oh, the Harkness lady?"
“That’s her. Charges two hundred dollars for group séances, per person. She’s been doing them invite only, and mine finally came through.” Rio slung her bag over her shoulder. "Lilia's driving me."
“Oh, good. Bringing backup. I hear this Harkness lady has a reputation. Last week, Mayor Weisenthal apparently wet himself at one of her séances. Maybe she's the real deal.”
“Strobe lights and a man with a weak bladder do not a witch make, Jen.”
Jen laughed. “Hey, your funeral. Try not to get turned into a frog.”
Rio shook her head, amused. Jen could be oddly superstitious for someone who spent as much time debunking the plague of charlatans that had descended on Westview as she did.
Outside, the sunset painted the city’s main street in burnt orange and deep purple. Rio zipped her jacket against the October chill, taking in the transformed downtown. Just three years ago, this had been an ordinary small town. Then local writer Wanda Maximoff published her first supernatural thriller set in a fictionalized Westview, and everything changed.
Three consecutive number one bestsellers had turned their quiet town into a tourist trap for the supernaturally curious. Now crystal shops and tarot readers outnumbered coffee shops, and weekend ghost tours clogged the sidewalks, telling stories of Westview’s fabricated haunted past. For Rio, whose journalistic integrity was practically a religion, it was an invasion of the worst kind, and she was fighting it tooth and nail.
Lilia's old Volvo was idling at the curb, engine grumbling as mildly as its occupant often did. The silver-haired woman visible through the window, absolutely festooned in bangles. Rio slid into the passenger seat, immediately enveloped in the familiar scent of Lilia's patchouli perfume and the warmth of the car's ancient but effective heater.
"There's my favorite skeptic,” Lilia said, reaching over to pat Rio's cheek affectionately. She wore layers of flowing fabrics in autumn colors, her silver hair loose around her shoulders. "Did you finish your article about the water finder?"
"Just wrapped it up. Thanks for picking me up." Rio buckled her seatbelt. "We should have enough time to make the séance, though I still don't understand why you wanted to come."
"Because you need someone to watch your back," Lilia said matter-of-factly, pulling away from the curb. "And because I've heard things about this Agatha woman."
"Bad things?" Rio perked up, journalist instincts tingling.
"Powerful things," Lilia corrected. "Not everyone who claims the gift is faking, Rio."
Rio smiled, though she ducked her head as she did it. She'd known Lilia since she was eight years old, when the woman moved in next door after Rio's parents bought their first house. Lilia's tarot readings and deep voice had seemed magical to a child. Now, Rio knew better—but she also knew Lilia had never charged for a reading or claimed to speak with the dead. She just genuinely believed.
"Before we go any further," Lilia announced, pulling into an empty church parking lot, “I want to check the cards. I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole night.”
"Lilia, we're going to be late.”
Lilia was already pulling her well-worn tarot deck from her purse, undoing its silk wrapping. "Humor me, dear."
Rio sighed but nodded. This was their dance, familiar after so many years. Lilia had read for Rio before every final exam, first date, and job interview. At this point, it was a comforting ritual. “Fine. But three cards, that's it.”
"Three cards. Shuffle three times and draw."
"I know, Lilia." Rio took the familiar cards, their edges worn by time and touch. Three quick shuffles, a cut, and then she drew three cards from the top, laying them on the dashboard.
Lilia turned over the first card. "Page of Swords."
"Let me guess, it's me, seeking truth, again? Lilia, I’m really going to start accusing you of stacking the deck one of these days.” The Page of Swords showed up so often in her readings from Lilia that it had become a running joke.
“It’s you, running heedless into danger and asking too many questions for your own good.”
The second card turned: Death.
Lilia frowned, and Rio put a hand on hers. “You’re the one who told me that it’s not Death, literally. It’s just change," Lilia flipped the third card.
The Devil.
Lilia's hand flew to her throat. "Absolutely not. We're not going."
"What? Why?" Something prickled at the back of Rio’s neck. The chained figures at the bottom of the card were undeniably unsettling.
"Death and the Devil together, with you as the Page?" Lilia shook her head vehemently. "This is danger, Rio. Clear as day. We’re not going, at least not tonight.”
Rio glanced at her watch. The séance started in twenty minutes. "Look, let me draw one more card. If it's bad, we'll skip this and go get dinner instead. My treat."
Lilia hesitated, her weathered hands hovering protectively over the cards already drawn. "One more. But focus when you choose."
Rio drew a fourth card and placed it alongside the others. The Nine of Cups—a figure seated before a display of golden chalices, looking satisfied.
"The wish card," Lilia whispered, her tension visibly easing, shoulders relaxing.
“See? A good card! The universe is saying that I should go.” Rio squeezed Lilia's hand.
“I’m not sure that’s what the universe is saying. Wishes have a way of biting people in the ass.”
Rio laughed. “The only thing I’ve ever wished for is the truth.”
Lilia didn't look entirely convinced but put the car back in drive. "There's such a thing as too much truth, honey. I still don't like those first three cards. Promise me you'll be careful."
"Always am," Rio assured her, though Lilia knew better than to believe it.
As they drove toward the northern hills, Rio gazed out at her changing hometown. Westview had always been home, even after college, even after opportunities in bigger cities. She'd stayed to care for her mother during her illness, then simply never left. Now she defended it the only way she knew how—with facts, with truth.
"You're frowning," Lilia observed.
"Just thinking about how many people are getting fleeced because of Wanda's books."
“Places change,” Lilia said simply. "Not always for the better."
They turned onto Hillcrest Road, the houses growing larger and more spaced apart. Agatha's Victorian appeared around a curve, a stately silhouette against the darkening sky. Lights glowed in most windows, and several cars already lined the circular driveway.
"Looks like a full house," Rio commented as they parked. She patted her pocket, feeling the reassuring outline of her pen and notebook. Ready for battle.
Lilia turned off the engine but didn't immediately move to get out. "Rio, listen to me. Whatever happens in there... don't antagonize this woman. Something about those cards troubles me deeply."
Rio smiled and leaned over to kiss Lilia's cheek. “If she’s the real deal, she has nothing to fear from me. I only hunt down charlatans. And if she’s not…” Rio shrugged. ‘Then I don’t have anything to fear from her. And I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Like a very well behaved bull in a china shop,” Lilia muttered, but she opened her door anyway.
They made their way up the stone path to the front porch, steps illuminated by small lanterns placed at regular intervals. The Victorian house rose before them, imposing yet somehow inviting, with its wrap-around porch and gingerbread trim. A wreath of dried herbs hung on the front door. It was quite the establishment for a conwoman, but then, set dressing was the heart of every con.
The heavy oak door swung open before Rio could lift the brass knocker. A young man with a shock of curly black hair and intense eyes stood in the doorway, dressed in a tailored purple waistcoat over a black shirt.
"Ms. Vidal and Ms. Calderu," he said, not phrasing it as a question. "I'm Billy. Ms. Harkness is expecting you. Please, follow me."
Rio exchanged a glance with Lilia. Rio had been invited by name, but Lilia was a last minute plus one. "How did you know her name?”
Billy's smile was unfailingly earnest. " I didn’t. Ms. Harkness tells me who to expect at the door.”
The interior of the Victorian was a study in calculated mystique—darkwood floors gleamed beneath the soft glow of sconces designed to resemble gas lamps. The air carried the faint scent of herbs and beeswax. Unlike the garish psychic parlors downtown, there wasn't a neon sign or crystal ball in sight. Everything spoke of old money.
Billy led them through a high-ceilinged foyer and down a hallway lined with oil paintings. Rio noted that several depicted scenes of witchcraft trials—not exactly subtle, but effective for setting the mood.
The parlor was already occupied by six others seated around a large circular table draped in deep purple velvet. Candles provided most of the illumination, casting everyone in a flattering, golden glow. Name cards marked each place, including both hers and Lilia’s. And when had Ms. Harkness had time to print those?
"Your seats are there and there," Billy said, pointing to two spots on opposite sides of the table. Neither was adjacent to the ornate chair at the head, clearly reserved for their host.
"How convenient," Rio murmured, but moved to her assigned seat. A businessman checked his watch impatiently. Next to him was a young busiensswoman, perhaps a few years older than Rio, looking very prim. A teenage boy sat alone, nervously fidgeting with his hoodie strings, an elegant older woman dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief besides him. Then, Lilia, and last, a paunchy, balding man in a somewhat drab flannel shirt.
The parlor doors opened with a theatrical creak, and conversation immediately ceased. Agatha Harkness entered with the fluid grace of a dancer, her dark hair swept up in an elaborate style that framed her sharp features. She wore a flowing dress in deep purple that caught the candlelight as she moved. Her gaze swept the room before landing on Rio with unmistakable delight.
"Welcome, everyone," she said, her voice melodious yet commanding. "I'm so pleased you could all join me tonight." She took her seat at the head of the table, smoothing her skirts. "Especially you, Ms. Vidal. I've been hoping you'd accept my invitation."
Rio met her eyes. She would make this woman regret that confident smirk.
"I see we have quite the gathering tonight," Agatha continued, addressing the table at large. “We even have a second witch.” Her eyes lingered on Lilia for a moment too long. "Tonight, we'll be exploring psychometry—the reading of objects and the impressions left upon them."
She folded her hands on the table. "Each of you was directed to bring an item that previously belonged to someone else. Something with emotional significance. This will work whether or not the person you’re trying to reach is dead, but really, if they’re alive, phone calls are cheaper than I am.”
The others began bringing out their selected objects. Rio touched the silver bracelet in her pocket, a sixteenth birthday gift from Lilia. Not what Agatha had requested: it had been new when she’d gotten it.
Agatha began with the businessman on her right, who somewhat reluctantly handed over a silver pocket watch. She turned it over in her palm, her eyes half-closed. "This belonged to your grandfather, Charles. He carried it through two wars." Her fingers traced the worn initials on the back. "He wants you to know he's proud of you for taking over the family business, even though you nearly bankrupted it that first year." The businessman's face paled. "Oh, and he says you should stop trying to hide those pornographic magazines in his old hunting cabinet. The ones with the men. He doesn't mind them, he just thinks it's disrespectful to his shotguns."
The man recoiled as if slapped, his eyes darting around the table. No one was looking at him, though. All eyes were on Agatha.
It was a neat trick, Rio had to admit. The two wars was an easy guess, or from previous research. But the porn mags? That was one hell of a cold read.
Next, the prim woman passed Agatha an antique hairpin. The medium's fingers twined around it, peering at the enamel butterfly. "Your grandmother's," she said. "She wore it on her wedding day. And when she buried her first child." Agatha's voice softened. "She's showing me how she used to brush your hair when you were little. How she taught you to bake her secret recipes." A gentle smile grew on Agatha's face. "She says you've perfected her apple pie. She's proud." Agatha paused, her expression changing. "She also wants you to know that she sees what happens in that kitchen of yours now. The things you let your husband do to you! And on the same counter where you roll dough, you little minx. She says to tell you good girls clean up after themselves properly. Bleach, darling. Use bleach."
The woman made a strangled sound, her cheeks flaming red. Rio stared at her, eyes wide. Unless this woman, who looked like the poster child for an MBA, happened to also be producing amateur pornography Agatha had tracked down, that didn’t seem like something background research and a cold read could divine.
At Agatha’s gesture, the teenage boy hesitantly slid a pair of gold earrings across the table. “Gold earrings.” Agatha weighed them in her palm. Well. Plated gold." The boy shifted uncomfortably. "Your sister was wearing them when they found her." Shocked murmurs rippled around the table. "She wants you to know that when her suicide note blamed family, she never meant you. She's so sorry for what you've let that note do to you." Agatha looked penetratingly at the boy. "She's seen you hold the barrel of your dad's gun in your mouth, and she's begging you not to follow her."
The teenager sat absolutely froze. Rio watched tears roll down his cheeks, mind reeling. Unless he was a plant, that was simply unbelievable. What was happening here? If these were cold reads, Sherlock Holmes would have been jealous. She couldn't help but notice they were spectacularly cruel.
"Ms. Vidal," Agatha's voice cut through her thoughts. "Your contribution?"
Rio took the silver bracelet from her pocket, sliding it across the table. "It was a gift from my mother.”
Agatha glanced at the bracelet, and snorted. “No, it isn’t, it’s from her.” She jerked a thumb at Lilia. “Nasty little work of protection magic. You’d be smart to actually wear it.” Her face turned thoughtful. “No, that won’t do at all, but you are carrying something that has a story to tell.” She made a flourish with her hand… and suddenly she was holding a sleek fountain pen with a distinctive blue-black finish. Rio's hand shot to her jacket pocket. The pen was gone. Had the curly hair teen picked her pocket? How had he gotten the pen to Agatha?
"That's mine," Rio said. “Give it back.”
"Is it?" Agatha asked, her eyebrow arching. "I believe this is the property of the late Professor Eleanor Blackwell. English professor at the University of Pennsylvania, and faculty advisor to the university newspaper." She turned the pen slowly, examining its gleaming surface. "You stole it off her desk, while she was washing her hands in the bathroom.”
Rio felt as if the floor had dropped out from beneath her chair. "That's—"
"The night of May 15th, eight years ago," Agatha continued, her voice dropping to a hypnotic cadence. "After hours. The building was nearly empty. Just you and Professor Blackwell, discussing your final paper on journalistic ethics." A smile played at her lips. "How ironic."
Rio's mouth went dry. Nobody knew about that night. Nobody.
"Eleanor remembers how nervous you were," Agatha said, her voice taking on a mocking quality, the pen rolling around her fingers. "The way you kept stealing glances at her lips when you thought she wasn't looking. How your breath caught when she shut the door."
Around the table, the other participants shifted uncomfortably, sensing they were witnessing something intensely private. Rio couldn't move, couldn't speak.
"She asked you to kneel," Agatha continued relentlessly. "And you did, so eagerly. Your first taste of submission. Your first understanding of what you truly craved." She leaned forward, her eyes boring into Rio's. “This pen was in her hand when she pulled your face under her skirt, and Eleanor's hand squeezed it when she felt your cheeks against her thighs. Eleanor says she remembers the way you moaned when she guided your mouth where she wanted it."
The room spun around Rio. How could Agatha possibly know these details? It wasn't just the broad strokes of what happened—it was the minutiae, the specific sensations Rio had never shared with another soul. Had Professor Blackwell told her? That was impossible. The woman had died a year ago of pancreatic cancer. The idea that the encounter had been written down somewhere was almost too humiliating to consider, and yet, it was the only explanation.
"But what really made you come undone," Agatha said, her voice dropping even lower, "was when she pressed her foot between your legs. The fear that someone might walk in and find Editor in Chief Rio Vidal on her knees, grinding against her professor's shoe like a desperate slut—that was what pushed you over the edge. It was the only time you’ve ever orgasmed with a partner, wasn’t it?”
Around the table, the other attendees were looking anywhere but at her, but no one stirred, no one protested. The woman had them all spellbound. Lilia looked pale and shocked, a hand over her mouth. Rio's face burned, and she stared at Agatha in helpless shock.
"Eleanor has a message for you, Rio," Agatha said, tucking the pen into her pocket. "She says you've been running from that night ever since. You're so eager to touch yourself to the memory of her, but can't stand to face the truth of what it means. You hide it beneath righteous crusades and moral certainty. She says you'll never find peace until you embrace who you truly are—someone who craves surrender." A wicked smile spread across her face. "She also says that you should stop touching yourself until you admit it. It's disrespectful."
Agatha held her gaze for a moment longer. Then, without a second glance, she turned to the next participant. The woman had put away the handkerchief, and now clutched an old baseball in trembling hands. Having those blue eyes move off of her was like having a fist that had wrapped around her entire body unclench, and she dragged in a breath. Agatha acted like nothing particularly remarkable had happened, taking the baseball, moving on as if she hadn’t just exposed one of Rio’s most intensely private, shameful moments to the entire room. She tossed the baseball from hand to hand.
"Your son's most prized possession. Signed by his hero." Her expression grew distant. "He's with you, you know. At night when you sit in his room. He feels your grief." She met the woman's tearful gaze. "He wants you to know that the accident wasn't your fault. You never left your lane, the drunk driver was the one who crossed the median." She placed the ball down. "And he says it's okay if you and his father try for another child. He'd like to be a big brother, even from where he is now."
The woman collapsed into sobs. Rio was still struggling to reboot her brain. Her heart was pounding, her cheeks hot and flushed. The memory of that night with Professor Blackwell felt so real it was like she could still feel the rough carpet scraping her knees.
When Agatha's attention turned to Lilia, Lilia reached for the chain around her neck, but Agatha raised a hand to stop her.
“Don’t bother, I saw that bracelet, I’m not touching anything you’ve had the chance to magic. Really, Lilia. Blinding any witch that scries the wearer instead of blocking the scrying spell? That’s diabolical.”
“I protect my own.”
Agatha raised an amused eyebrow. “Sweetheart, you walked a lamb into a slaughterhouse and didn’t even double check whether she was wearing the ward you gave her. As protecting goes, that’s not knocking it out of the park.”
Rio watched Lilia go rigid, anger in every fiber of her being. “If you hurt her—“
Agatha put a hand over her heart, outraged. “Me? Hurt her? We're witches, aren't we? Above all, do no harm?” The smile she gave Lilia then was positively vulpine. “I won’t do anything that will trip a single one of your wards, don’t worry.”
She turned to the balding man, but her demeanor had shifted, growing almost bored. He handed Agatha a bottle opener with a worn wooden handle. She took it with barely a second glance, then handed it back. "Your dad gave it to you. He says good job on running his bar, but if you're gonna fuck that eighteen year old server, take your heart medication first, that's what got him in the end. Also, she paid for those nipple piercings you like so much with money she stole from your register."
The man's mouth opened and closed like a fish.
"And with that," Agatha said, rising gracefully from her chair, "our evening comes to a close. Billy will show you out. If you wish to schedule a private reading, he will provide you with my rates. I’m afraid they’re a bit steeper than these introductory sessions.”
The other guests filed out in various states of shellshock, Billy guiding them toward the foyer. Lilia hesitated beside Rio, who sat, unmoving in her chair.
“Come on. We should leave. Now.”
“I need to get my pen back.”
Lilia pursed her lips. “Rio, is it worth—“
Rio looked up at her. “I just need to ask some questions.”
Lilia looked like she wanted to argue. Her eyes went from Agatha to Rio and back several times. Then, she shook her head. “Put the damn bracelet on.” She left, carefully walking as far from the other witch as she could.
When the door closed behind them, Rio and Agatha were left alone in the candlelit room. Rio slipped on the bracelet, feeling ridiculous. The medium was extinguishing the candles one by one, humming softly to herself.
"You stayed," Agatha observed without turning around. "I knew you would."
Rio stood, fists clenched at her sides. "How did you do it?"
"Do what, exactly?" Agatha turned, the last candle casting dramatic shadows across her face.
"All of it. The readings. My pen." Rio swallowed hard. "What happened with Professor Blackwell."
"I told you. Psychometry. Objects hold memories, emotions." She patted the pocket she had put the pen in. "This one holds quite a lot."
"That's bullshit," Rio said through gritted teeth. “And you never even got close to me. How did you take it?”
Agatha's smile was maddeningly serene. “Didn’t I? Are you sure?"
"Positive." Rio stepped closer. “How did you get that story out of Professor Blackwell? How did you know you'd need it?”
"Oh, doll, is it really so hard for you to believe in magic that even in the face of this much evidence, you can’t budge?”
Rio ignored the baiting question. “I want my pen back.”
Agatha pulled it out of her pocket, and smiled. “Come and get it.”
Rio took a step forward to snatch the pen. Agatha moved faster, so that Rio’s step brought them into close contact. The sensation was indescribable, warm, electric, terrifying. Agatha’s hand ran through her hair, making Rio shiver. Then, she stepped back. Rio was holding the pen, and Agatha’s fingers held three long black hairs. Her hairs. Rio flinched, hand going to her head, then, without taking her eyes off the other woman, backed away. The moment was so surreal, she couldn’t even summon the outrage she knew she should have felt. Fear and confusion consumed every thought she had.
“It’s been lovely having you,” Agatha said with a wink. Had Rio only imagined those hairs in Agatha’s palms? Her hands were empty at a second glance. “Don’t be a stranger. Come back soon.”
"Don't count on it," Rio said. Having reached the doorway, she turned, and fled.
Rio strode from the parlor, her heart pounding against her ribs. Doubt and certainty warred within her mind. Whatever game Agatha Harkness was playing, Rio was determined to expose it— but in this moment, she just wanted as many feet between her and this house as she could put.