Chapter Text
Getting onto the train was, all things considered, pretty easy. The poor, now probably jobless, clerk had even written her name on the ticket.
Well, a made-up name, but it was hers for the time being. All that had been needed was a kind smile, a convoluted sob story and a well-placed electric pulse to his prefrontal cortex, and voilà! Agatha was climbing the last few steps into America’s Pure-Sang, without a dollar spent.
A luxury train with the most technologically advanced engine the free world could engineer. It was set to zoom across the country in just under five days. A sight to behold truly, this brand-new train, with its shining chrome locomotive patiently waiting to unleash its full power.
The advert had gone on and on about its amenities, dining halls, cocktail lounges, a concert salon, a fully stocked kitchen and a viewing carriage, offering breathtaking views of the American wilderness. “More than a transportation method: a hotel on wheels!” blared the man’s voice over the radio. “Once their destination’s reached, passengers are finding it hard to leave!” –blah blah
Agatha didn’t care about any of this. Sure, the amenities would be nice, but what mattered to her the most was its speed. Or potential speed. Speed is energy, energy is fuel. Fuel for power.
That same unfortunate ticket clerk had said the train would average around 90mph.
“Can it go faster?” She had whispered, conspiratorially, through the desk’s window.
He eagerly nodded, “150 miles per hour, but I heard it can go even faster than that.”
“You don’t say!” She had sealed the deal with a wink and the clerk had attached a voucher for a complementary drink to her ticket.
That drink is now sitting just before her, on a delicate paper napkin, the olive swaying gently in the clear liquid to the train’s vibrations. They’re still pushing past the urban projects of the outer boroughs. All of New York’s most wretched corners are suddenly put on display, rolling by her window. All the damp alleys and condemned buildings rot away before her eyes.
It’s a sight the company hasn’t yet managed to sanitise, and Agatha can’t help but find some wicked joy at all those refined passengers having to witness this ugliness.
Agatha had been busy in New York. The end of the war had brought all kinds of people to the city. Traumatised young men who had been the perfect subject for her experimentations, thousands of immigrants with their suitcases full of ancient European artifacts and head full of stories. And if Agatha loves one thing, it's stories.
She’d listen to countless myths, legends, old family tales and more rarely, odd personal accounts. Most of them were useless, strings of words meant to scare children, or already well known. But sometimes someone would unknowingly share something old and true.
Something that could be used.
“I simply cannot wait for us to reach the lakes!” A shrill voice tears her away from her contemplation of the grey landscapes.
She has the audacity to sit just opposite Agatha with a blinding smile. She extends her hand as if her presence could be considered a blessing. “Mrs. Richardson” She offers, “But please, call me Susan .”
She won’t, Agatha immediately decides.
She is middle aged, if she had to guess. Because Agatha decided, centuries ago, to let the roundness of her cheek melt away and allow fine wrinkles in her skin to settle, she is often associated with being middle aged. If that decision allows her maximum freedom to do as she pleases – hard to argue with a grieving widow, she often forgets that it has the unfortunate side effect of attracting the sympathies of other grieving widows. Evidently, this pastel wearing, Chanel smelling broad assumed that her and Agatha would make fast friends.
“We’re sharing a cabin,” she so cheerfully announces and Agatha feels like she just dropped from a five-story building.
“No.”
“You’re staying–” why does she say "staying”; this isn’t a hotel, “in 3901, are you not?”
Agatha blinks at her a couple of times before summoning her most syrupy smile. “There’s obviously been some sort of mistake–”
There isn’t.
After checking in with a steward at first and then the train conductor, Agatha has to admit that that dim witted ticket clerk at the station played her. That, or she wasn’t paying attention to whatever he was saying, which is beside the point.
Now sitting opposite each other in the plush armchairs of her their compartment, Agatha is contemplating murder. Unfortunately, if reading those dreadful crime novels that the world has now been craving since the late 19th century have taught her anything, it’s that it is unreasonably difficult to get away with murder in a closed space. Especially on a train. That and it would attract someone Agatha very much does not want to see.
She’s had her fun before boarding the train, dressing up as if she belongs there. Every department store in the city certainly now has a file on her. The dress she’s wearing right now was snatched off a wooden mannequin while the store’s employees were putting out a fire in a neighboring aisle.
It’s bottle green with a cinched waist and an expertly folded skirt, the fabric is structured, expensive. She could almost believe it herself that her banker of a husband is paying for her solo trip to see the Golden Gate Bridge.
Her cabin mate is already rambling about dinner plans under her breath all while loudly flipping through some kind of magazine. She is impossibly loud and a little bit offended that Agatha so thoroughly tried to have her kicked out of their shared cabin.
Agatha closes her eyes with a sigh. There’s a fine line not to toe here. She needs the cabin to herself and she has plenty of tools at her disposal to make Susan run away (She thinks about conjuring a wicked smell or incessantly muttering in Latin but those would most likely get her thrown out at the next station. And Agatha cannot end up in Cleveland, Ohio of all places.)
No, a witch has plans, you see. Plans that carefully dictate how she will lay the base of an intricate ritual.
This one ritual she has created herself, the particularities of it she has concealed on the pages of a notebook she keeps on herself at all times. As it has never been achieved before, she’ll need her privacy to practice and prepare for the different steps.
“For five dollars, would you disembark in Chicago?” She cuts the rambling woman off.
She seems taken aback and dumbly blinks a few times, “I just told you– I’m visiting my daughter, she’s going to give birth in less than a week.” Oh so, Agatha didn’t listen, her bad.
“Ten.”
“No–”
She groans, “Fifteen.” Damn, she isn’t cheap.
“You can’t buy me,” She scoffs, “this is more important than whatever you can offer me.”
Agatha groans, “it’s not that big of a deal, get off in Chicago and take the next train, you’ll still see your cousin.”
“Daughter.” Susan scolds, “and no, the next one is in ten days.”
“Fine, what do you want?”
Susan throws her hands in the air, “To travel in peace! Why don’t you take the next train if you want a solo carriage so much?! Your husband couldn’t pay for the first class so you have to bother me in second?”
Agatha grits her teeth. There are about a dozen spells that could deal with her situation here, but each of them have the potential of creating a new situation. She takes a deep breath, holding on to her temper with every bit of patience she has, which isn’t much.
Maybe she could get away with tearing a hole on the side of the train and hurling Susan out. Maybe one of the doors could mysteriously malfunction just as Susan is leaning against it. Maybe Susan could get locked in a bathroom. Indefinitely.
“You know what, I think that you're just trying to take advantage of me.” The woman begins, “my daughter warned me against people such as yourself."
Agatha can’t help but let out a cackle, “Such as myself?”
“You have a polished exterior but your manners are lacking.”
Agatha nods mockingly, “Oh but do say more, I would trust the opinions of a withering broad.”
“You hide behind all of this projected strength but underneath you’re just a poor, lonely girl.” Susan finishes without even raising her voice. The comment should have slid by, Agatha should have bitten something back. But it stings, more than expected. The witch remains speechless for a few seconds before getting her mask back up.
“Alright,” she growls, “this is getting ridiculous.” She wakes her magic from a place buried deep within herself. Its incomparable warmth spreads beneath her skin. Oh, how she loves to use it, to feel it stir in her veins. It’s always there, even when dormant she feels its weight, knows its power. It’s like another limb, incorporeal but always present.
With a controlled flex of her hand, her magic springs free, an extension of her will, deliberate and eager. The purple glow dances at the tip of her fingers, ready to strike.
Susan’s eyes widen at the sight but she doesn’t have time to open her mouth when a small burst of light hits her forehead. She immediately freezes, shock tensing her features.
“You’re going to move to third class, this is what your ticket says, this is what you booked. This is my cabin, and you will not address me again.” Agatha states, her voice clear, low and dangerous. She waits for Susan to obediently nod along, or at least begin to move her luggage away but the woman just stays there, motionless.
“Hello?” Agatha calls. She waves an impatient hand in front of the other woman’s face.
Susan sways a bit and then, slowly, blood begins to drip from her nose. It lands on the woman’s perfect blazer and splatters like petals on the yellow fabric.
“Shit.” Agatha grasps her by the shoulders as tremors run through the other woman’s frail body, “Oh, no, no, no, no.” Agatha pats her cheek with a firm hand. Now Susan is full on convulsing on the couch, head lolling around and eyes rolling back in their sockets. More blood pours from her nose, staining her skirt and the seat.
Agatha stands. This is bad, this is terrible, this is exactly what she wanted to avoid. Her mind flickers through all her knowledge, all the possible spells that could help. But healing magic never cooperated with her purple and the damage she’s caused seems rather serious.
Susan spasms harder, back arching off the couch, limbs twisting violently. The train goes on, unbothered by the woman’s seizure, the sunset flashing by the window. It feels like an eternity, watching this woman convulse before her.
In a last tremor, something cracks in the woman’s body, her neck bends at an odd angle and the bone seems to protrude at its side, beneath the skin. Susan stops moving, her body frozen in an unnatural pose. Her face set in a grotesque grimace, eyes bulging and blood caking her cheeks and chin.
She has to get out of here. Agatha runs out of the cabin, setting as much distance with the body as she possibly can. She slams full force into a steward who holds her upright.
“Stop this train,” she pleads, voice breaking.
“Ma’am, what’s the matter?”
Already a few heads are popping out of neighboring cabins.
Agatha doesn’t wait around to witness their reactions to Susan’s dead broken body. She hears their panicked cries and the shuffle of passengers trying to understand what’s going on.
She pushes through the tight corridors. Squeezes past curious passengers. Traverses the still busy bar, where a velvet voiced singer fills the whole carriage with a jazzy tune. Through the restaurant car and the cigar lounge where a thick cloud of smoke parts on her way, Agatha finally arrives at the last car.
Trailing behind all others, the viewing carriage is thankfully empty. It’s an awfully plush lounge, with massive leather armchairs installed near the windows. At the furthest end of the carriage, a large built-in sofa wraps around the tail end of the train. The whole space is almost entirely made out of windows, offering panoramic views of the landscapes.
Well, in the daytime.
Everything outside of the train is now pitch black, apart from a sporadic lamp pole lighting a crossing or a far away road. They’re well underway now, blindly traversing the darkness. Always forward, in a rhythmic race.
She pinches the bridge of her nose, she just had to kill somebody in the first hours of her journey, didn’t she?
Agatha slumps into one of the seats, it is even plushier than it looks and she sinks deep into the leather, closing her eyes.
Damn that woman for not taking the earlier deal and disembarking in Chicago. Agatha must have been too frustrated, her magic too harsh and the poor woman’s feeble mind couldn’t take it.
She feels her purple pulse in her abdomen, frustrated to not have been used more. It’s electric, well charged by a dozen or more witches she siphoned in the last few weeks.
Agatha was low for a long time, surviving on the bare minimum and she forgot how glorious it all felt. How power dancing in her veins affected her moods. She has to learn to control it again. With that much power stored, she needs to be more careful if she doesn’t want to cause another catastrophe.
Her buzzing muscles melt against the plush armchair.
It’s been a while since she’s known this kind of luxury, the past few decades were spent in cramped apartments with ratty furniture. Agatha doesn’t chase after luxuries, she’s used to living uncomfortably. Too much plushy things and one gets soft. Agatha isn’t soft, never was, never will be.
The door to the carriage slams open and she almost jumps in surprise.
“Mrs. O’Connor? We’ve been looking for you.” The steward begins. He’s an older man, with increasing baldness and a graying moustache. He comes closer, all practiced politeness and old timey manners. She recognises him as the train conductor, an air of well earned importance sits on his shoulders.
She gestures for him to go on.
“Despite all our best efforts, we did not manage to resuscitate Mrs. Richardson. She sadly passed away.” He offers a polite pause, perfect in its weight and length. “As this tragedy happened in your shared compartment, it would be company policy to offer you an upgrade or at least another bed for tonight. Unfortunately–”
“The train is fully booked.” Agatha finishes.
“That is correct, ma’am.”
“It’s fine.” She says. She means it, maybe the method was less than perfect but at least she got what she wanted. She shoos him away with a wave of her hand.
He bows promptly and extends the company’s excuses of course.
Before leaving, he stops one last time, “I have to mention, Mrs. O’Connor, the police will be notified at our next stop tomorrow first thing.” Agatha doesn’t like his change of tone, the sudden coolness of it.
She gently nods and tries for a slightly quivering lip, “Of course, Mr…?”
“They will most likely want to interrogate you, I would advise for you to remain available at our next stop.”
Agatha has to fight the snarl threatening to spill on her lips, “I’ll be most happy to help with anything they need.” She offers watery eyes instead.
She should have tried a career in Hollywood, she muses. She’d have fun with it she’s sure. Only he doesn’t seem to entirely buy it. His own smile reads more like a platitude than the compassion she’d expect. Maybe her hasty departure from the cabin was a bit suspicious.
“Good night, ma’am.”
He bows one last time and finally leaves her be.
Agatha sighs, the crisis seems to have been averted. The body will be offloaded in the morning and everything will point to a natural death. She’ll be fine, hopefully.
A drink would be most welcome but she can’t be bothered to leave her plushy armchair for now, so she just sinks further into it and allows herself to enjoy the peaceful darkness of the outside. She settles for a cigarette, lights the stick with a match and lets the smoke fill her lungs.
“I’m used to your carnage but that was just clumsy.”
Agatha tenses with an embarrassing shriek. “What the fuck–!” She coughs.
Death leans forward on their elbows. Comfortably seated opposite her, they study her with a smirk. “You’re usually more careful than that.” Darkness seems to flow around their form in a dramatic cloak, a familiar spiked crown sits on their head. They look gratingly regal.
The witch promptly crushes her cigarette on the table top and rises, anger already coloring her cheek. “Like a fly on shit.”
Death tilts their head unbothered, “You of all people know how this works.”
“Your job is done here. Get out.” She snaps, cold.
“What are you doing here, Agatha?” They ask, voice unnervingly flat. There is something different about them. Something darker, more detached, almost… hollow. Agatha would have liked to not notice that. She would prefer not to notice how Death, of all things, seems tired.
The witch huffs instead, “I’m not entertaining you with whatever you want.” She makes her way to the car door. “Bye.”
“You killed that woman with an unusual bit of magic there.” Death calls, and Agatha can’t help but stop in her tracks. “She wasn’t even a witch.” They remark.
“Why would you care? Nothing matters to you, we’re all the same in the end. Maggot food.” She snarls, “and you’re not even a maggot.”
Death doesn’t give her the satisfaction of reacting. “I’m just trying to put the pieces together.”
“There are no pieces.”
“What was that spell?”
Agatha walks into the corridor, hoping to leave Death behind her. With everything being so silent beside the rattling train, Agatha almost lets herself believe she’s won. She turns around to find the corridor thankfully empty.
“You loved telling me about those new spells you’d come up with.”
She, embarrassingly, jumps again. Death is standing in front of her, blocking her way.
“You’re relentless.” she hisses between gritted teeth. She pushes forward.
Death smirks and presses themselves against the wall to make way for Agatha. “Flies and maggots are not known to give up easily.”
The witch moves past them, trying very hard - failing - not to breathe them in. That goddamned smell of petrichor and ozone hits her hard. And suddenly she’s in their cottage again, deep in the forest.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” She walks faster, confident and determined to reach her cabin.
She can sense Death shrugging, “I’m everywhere and nowhere. Now I’m here.”
She sure as hell didn’t miss the being’s nonsense, Agatha bites back her comment. She has to restrain herself from spiraling into old habits. She finally reaches her cabin, opens up her door and slides inside before slamming it shut.
“You never did murder non-magical folks. Is this a new era for you or was it just a blip?”
Agatha clenches her jaw, and turns to Death, peacefully sitting on the cabin’s sofa, the shadows shifting around them, wrapping around their form. It shouldn’t be so enticing.
“What are you doing here?” She asks again, more final.
With them being this close, Agatha can feel the very particular magical buzz coming from them. It’s faint but oh so recognizable, humming at a different frequency than other witches’. Like muscle memory, her own magic stirs, pushes against it, a cautious shove. But Death’s magic doesn’t budge, it feels heavy, incredibly dense, like a feather brushing against a marble wall.
Death doesn’t show any reaction to their non-physical contact and leans back with a sigh, “There is something in the air.”
“Okay.”
“Something here,” they point at the center of their chest, right where their stomach would be. But Agatha knows, beneath the shadows, beneath the skin, there is only an endless void.
“So you ate something foul, why bother me with it?”
Death ignores her. “Something strange and violent happens, odds are you’re involved.” They lean forward, studying her with those intense eyes of theirs, “And here you are.”
Agatha raises an eyebrow. “I’m just travelling.”
“You do know there are more practical options than land travel now?”
“And I would miss all these plushy amenities?” She pouts.
“Okay, Agatha.”
It’s the flatness of their tone that bugs her. Agatha knew Death before the being learned about human emotions, and even then they never sounded this hollow.
“I don’t want you here.”
“Fair enough,” and Death simply rises. Agatha wordlessly watches them exit the cabin, shadows trailing behind them.
She tries to ignore the faint disappointment at how easily Death conceded. There was more fight in her, more biting arguments and mean comments, she tells herself. She certainly isn’t shaken by the sudden absence of Death’s magic. It feels like a cold draft and Agatha curses the goosebumps that erupt on her skin.
It’s finally quiet in there, as Agatha sets up her bed. There’s a tiny speck of blood from where Mrs. Richardson died just a couple of hours ago. Agatha adjusts her fitted sheet and fluffs her pillows.
Her bunk’s mattress is more comfortable than the last few beds she’s been in and with the rhythmic roll of the train, Agatha is soon lulled to sleep.
