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Logrono, Spain – 1609

She was born with the dawn on a Thursday – her first breath the herald of her mother’s last. She did not cry, but her abuela more than made up for the silence with an outpouring of her grief.

The blood was everywhere – staining skin, sheets, and floor – and yet with nothing more to be done for Catalina, there were far more important matters to attend to. Housekeeping could wait.

As Abuela swaddled the babe in the moth-eaten shawl that had belonged to it’s mother, she tried not to stare at the corpse. There had been no time to cut linens for diapers. No time even to fetch the midwife from the village – not that Abuela was certain she could have helped much, anyway. Such things were often predestined, and, in Abuela’s experience, Death was not one to make exceptions.

Now, there was another mouth to feed, and without the proper means to do so, all that was left was for Abuela to make the child comfortable as she waited for it to slip away. Shame, Abuela thought, as she crested her fingers through the baby’s damp hair, stiffening it into determined peaks. She would have been a beauty, no doubt, just like her poor mother, and the world could use every drop of beauty it could get.

The harvest had been meagre that year, and illness had ravaged the livestock in the village. It was as if nature herself had turned against the townsfolk, stealing away their livelihoods and sustenance as an act of revenge in the names of the witches – the women - who had burned. There was no goat to be milked to feed the newborn, and no new mother who could be persuaded to take the child to her breast. Magic alone could not sustain her, since even Abuela was too afraid to awaken her now-latent powers what with the witch hunters still seeking out her kind. The treacherous hags who aided them honed in immediately on any magical activity, so to use her powers would be akin to suicide, and there were five other grandchildren who depended on her.

Thus, the unfortunate child’s fate had been determined the second her mother’s life had slipped away, and so as Abuela cradled her tiny body, her prayers to the goddess were for a swift and painless departure.

She hummed and rocked the child as if lulling her to sleep, but the spark of life within the baby refused to be extinguished so easily. Her dark eyes were defiantly bright, and her balled fists swatted at the air as if to demonstrate her determination to remain on the earth. Abuela met her granddaughter’s gaze, her fingers tenderly stroking the shock of hair matted with blood, and for just a split second she felt it: Power. Surging through the witchling’s veins in tandem with the rhythmic pounding of her heart.

Surely there was a better way. Another way.

Abuela could think of only one, though whether or not it could be determined ‘better’ would remain to be seen.

She gathered first the babe and then her skirts before she slipped from her home into the cooler early morning air. The crossroads was a short distance from the front door – barely thirty paces, in fact – and Abuela’s feet were swift as she covered the distance, certain that the other children would soon wake. They would clamour first for their meagre breakfast and then to see their dead mother, and Abuela knew that she must make it back to the house before either of those things were to come to pass. For a child to find their mother in the state in which Catalina had been left was unthinkable, and Abuela would die herself before she willingly allowed the innocent eyes of her grandchildren to look upon the devastation that the night had wrought.

The baby screwed up her face and strained against Abuela’s grip as they approached the road. Perhaps, as small and new as she was, she sensed what was to come and attempted to rail against it; however, nothing short of intervention from the goddess herself would stay the old woman’s hand. The decision was all but made, and Abuela ratified it by crouching to scratch the sigil in the dirt beside the track with her index finger. It was here that they hung the thieves, and the murderers, and the men who took from the townswomen like their bodies were forfeit to whim. It was a dangerous place, to be sure, and although every hair on Abuela’s body stood erect as a consequence of the dark energy that swarmed her, she refused to turn back. To do so would be to condemn the child, and Catalina’s last daughter – the baby for which she had traded her life – deserved more.

In the end, all it took was the sigil. Abuela had scarcely straightened her spine before the ground started to tremble, disturbing the baby, who let loose her very first cry upon the world. It was almost a cackle, and Abuela allowed herself a small smile as she expertly shushed the infant whilst the cloud of black smog rising from the new fissure in the ground began to take shape in front of them.

He appeared to her in human form: A handsome man with piercing, almond shaped eyes and thick hair as black as any raven’s wing. He took in the woman’s pitiful demeanour with a sneer, ready to dismiss her as another desperate crone who sought to trade her own flesh for power or riches. The souls of infants were generally a worthless commodity, though perhaps unbaptised, bastard children were of slightly more value to him. From the pathetic whispers of power emanating from the old woman, he assumed this latest offering was also a witchling, and this was the all that kept him from dissipating at once.

Placing the screaming infant down onto the ground, Abuela took a step back. The demon regarded her grandchild with little interest, watching the baby flail against the confines of the dirty shawl wrapped around her. Her cheeks reddened with the effort of her tears and perhaps even with rage at her abandoner.

“The child is an orphan,” Abuela stated, noting the flash of crimson within the narrowed eyes that suddenly snapped back to her face. She shuddered, repulsed by her actions, yet determined that the baby should have the chance to live, whether in this realm or the other. “I cannot keep her…” Her hands twisted in the fabric of the apron around her waist; stained with her own child’s blood. “My daughter lays dead in her bed, and I…”

Abuela paused as the demon’s mocking smile became stilted, and he bent to lift the baby into his arms. Blackened fingers curled around her wriggling form, and the infant stilled as he lifted her up for closer examination. It took a moment for him to sense it; the promise of the immense power that this orphaned witchling held within her. It took only a moment more for him to contemplate the child’s potential.

“Swear to me that she will live,” Abuela begged, sensing that the ancient entity had already made his decision on the matter. One which she would have to live with for the rest of her days.

“You dare to issue me with orders, witch?” The tone was almost silky, yet the devil regarded Abuela with a simmering sort of ire that chilled her blood in her veins. Resisting the urge to snatch up the child, turn tail, and flee, Abuela stood straighter and shook her head.

“No, my Lord,” she croaked, dipping into a curtsey that made her old bones creak and crackle. “Forgive me for my insolence. The night has been long. I fear that the day ahead may be yet longer.”

When the stranger grinned, exhibiting teeth, Abuela was transfixed by the way his forked tongue glided over the tips of his canines. On pain of death, she suppressed a shudder, pushing the urge down to the pit of her gut along with the feelings of remorse and grief that simultaneously roared for her attention.

Mephisto returned his gaze to the babe, who peered back at him through eyes wide with wonder. A pretty little thing. She would doubtlessly serve him well in the role he intended her to fill within his kingdom. Another soldier to add to the ranks, and this one with such promise as he had scarcely seen before. That fact alone persuaded him to show the old witch a little mercy, for she had gifted him quite the prize, whether unknowingly or simply out of sheer desperation.

“Has the child a name?” As he spoke, he curled the edge of the shawl over the baby’s face, shielding her from what was yet to come. The smoke gathered speed at his heels, picking up specks of dirt and tiny stones as it swirled tornado-like around his ankles then his legs. In seconds, they would be enveloped by it and then gone, leaving Abuela alone and hopeless at the edge of the crossroads.

“That she does. Her mother wished it so,” Abuela said, her voice rising as the dark wind picked up with an otherworldly howl.

Casting one final look over the granddaughter she would never see again in this realm, Abuela lifted her voice higher above the elements she knew the child would one day master.

“Her name is Rio Vidal.”

They had vanished before the last syllable had reached the ether.

***

Hell – 1630

Twenty-one years passed in the mortal sphere, but in the kingdom of the underworld, it was merely the blink of an eye. Every child needs a mother, as every soldier needs a general, and Mephisto had been sure to place his charge in the care of his most trusted consort.

For over five hundred years, Aldith Ward had carried the moniker of Death. As a former green witch who had succumbed to one of the many plagues to decimate Europe, she had found herself presented with an unusual decision as her soul teetered on the precipice of life and death. A favourite of Mephisto, Aldith had been given the opportunity to live for all eternity as a cosmic entity. It wasn’t often that Death chose another guise or vessel, and Aldith had never been quite sure if her predecessor had left her role of her own accord or as a result of some ‘gentle persuasion’ from the dark lord. Either way, at merely seven and twenty years at the moment of her passing, Aldith could be nothing but grateful for the reprieve she had been offered.

The keeper of the natural order of things, Aldith’s purpose was simply to ferry souls, which was a task that had often weighed heavy on the heart of the once-gentle witch. Whilst Death was not strictly under Mephisto’s control, Aldith operated within the courts of both Heaven and Hell, thus there was little hope for her of evading the demon who had become quickly infatuated with her. Realising the futility and potential dangers of resisting the devil’s unique charms, Aldith had given into them, lest she find herself with bigger problems than simply the niggling of her long-redundant conscience.

The baby had been placed in her arms as a gift from her self-proclaimed suitor, but the opportunity to nurture the girl had sated a maternal longing in Aldith that she’d feared might never be fulfilled. Mephisto observed them from afar always, refraining from involving himself in the trivial matters of raising the child, yet acutely vigilant of the development of her powers, which Aldith did her best to downplay whenever pressed. Her trust in the dark lord was as non-existent as her love for him, and Aldith would do everything she could to ensure that his endgame – whatever it might prove to be – would not be achieved at the expense of Rio Vidal’s happiness.

Watching Rio grow from infancy into a curious, beguiling toddler – whose brown eyes and head full of ebony curls reflected a near mirror image of her late mother – was Aldith’s greatest pleasure. However, before long, the witchling had blossomed into a wilful young woman with a gift for magic that far exceeded her mentor’s own capabilities, and it was then that Mephisto’s true intentions for Rio became apparent.

“How fair my ladies?” His voice rumbled against the shell of her ear, and Aldith shivered as his lips brushed her temple. The chamber was balmy, warmed by the fire that crackled in the hearth, and yet still – feeling exposed – the witch reached for the sheets, which she tugged up to her chin in order to cover her bare breasts. All those centuries ago, she had gone to his bed willingly, and tolerating the dark lord had not seemed so much of a chore. These days, Aldith found that her mindset had altered. Properly schooled in Mephisto’s depravity, the former witch instead longed for escape; the kind which made her regret the desperate deathbed decision that had condemned her to this eternal servitude.

“We are well,” Aldith replied, mindful to keep her tone smooth. “Rio is very attentive in her studies.”

“I had hoped to hear as much. Diligence and dedication will both serve her well for the tasks ahead of her.” He leaned down, nipping at her bottom lip with his top front teeth. A sting of pain, then Aldith felt the blood bead on her skin until Mephisto licked it away with the tip of his reptilian tongue.

Feeling suddenly brave, Aldith rolled over on the mattress, bringing the sheets with her as she manoeuvred to face her lover. He regarded her with a smile that conveyed nothing, and Aldith’s gut began to churn in dreadful anticipation.

“And when is it, m’lord, that you shall see fit to inform me of what such tasks might entail? For all intents and purposes, I am the child’s mother, after all.”

“The girl is an orphan,” he corrected, rising from the bed and reaching for the robe he had cast aside in the throes of his passion. From the outer corridor, the sound of approaching footfall became thunderous, and Aldith sat up in alarm, her expression becoming wary. “She is a child no more. It is time she assumed her place within this realm. We must ensure the natural order of things remains… uninterrupted… during this exchange of power.”

Aldith blanched, the colour leeching from her cheeks as she hurriedly fashioned the sheets she clutched into a makeshift gown and stumbled to her feet.

“I do not understand…” She hesitated, wishing for her scythe with every fibre of her being. However, as the rules of Hell commanded, she had relinquished it upon entry at the gates, just as she had done a thousand times before without incident.

In the blink of an eye, Mephisto was before her, his fist clenched around the front of the bedsheet she wore as he dragged her close; close enough that the glimmer of malice in his eyes could not possibly go undetected.

“Did you think that I would not find out?” he growled, his lip curling as he leaned into Aldith’s face. Hot spittle hit her cheek, and she battled the urge to swipe it away. “Did you believe that your dalliance with that potions bitch would escape my notice? Me, who sees all!”

Releasing his grip, Mephisto sighed in exasperation as he retreated several steps away from Aldith. Tired of the facade she had created, he could no longer stand the sight of her. For all of the vices and sins Mephisto personified, it was jealousy and wrath that he embraced in the highest measures.

“Please, my lord, I didn’t…” Aldith began, her heart stuttering in her chest as the door to the chamber swung open, striking the adjacent wall so hard that dust rained down from the stone ceiling. Mephisto’s men – shrouded in their charcoal coloured robes – stepped through the doorway, one after the other. Some carried swords and others spears forged from bleached bone, and Aldith tried not to exhibit her unease as they gathered in a semi-circle around the foot of the bed.

“Do not fear, lover,” Mephisto purred, his voice returning to the disarming baritone he favoured, “you shall be reunited. I could never stand in the way of ‘true love’, could I?”

With a single flick of Mephisto’s wrist, a soldier stepped forward from the midst of the ranks. His cloak swished as he slipped the scythe dagger from his sleeve, and Aldith cringed away unconsciously from the flash of steel. Accepting the dagger that bound Aldith to her sacred role, Mephisto held the weapon aloft, and for a brief moment, the witch closed her eyes, anticipating the bite of metal upon her skin. When pain failed to materialise, her eyelids flickered open just as the demon knelt to plunge the tip of her blade into the floor. He spoke aloud an incantation - one as ancient as the earth itself - and as his chanting grew more urgent, the floor beneath them began to rumble. Before Aldith could hope to act, several of Mephisto’s men unleashed arcs of energy towards the hilt of the dagger, and Death felt an all too familiar pull deep within her as her soul became unmoored from her body for the second time in over half a millennia.

Mephisto remained indifferent to the green witch’s tortured screams, and as her lifeless body dropped back upon the bed, he watched with a measure of satisfaction that indicated nothing of the affection he once harboured towards the witch.

The scythe exploded into a cloud of ash, and yet before the dust had even had chance to rest on the ground, the blade had somehow reformed. With the bond to its former owner eternally broken, the scythe awaited its next mistress, and Death itself assumed a new face.

***

Westview, New Jersey – 2026

Coward. The word stung. Tore apart her flesh and left it bleeding, in fact. Worse than daggers or teeth or knitting needles, and far more painful to boot.

Agatha screamed in a combination of distress and fury as her body skidded across the now-ruined lawn, her clothing collecting several more layers of mud that would hamper her movements even more so. She was getting too old for these games, but oh how Rio relished playing them, and Agatha would be damned if she didn’t meet her blow for blow on the field. Love was a contact sport, and neither Agatha Harkness nor Rio Vidal had ever shied away from the challenge.

She’d been grateful for Lilia’s warning - ‘When she calls you a coward, hit the deck’ - but as Rio’s temper flared, and over two hundred years of anguish exploded like a hand grenade above the two women, Agatha realised the futility of the fight.

There could be no winner. They’d both lost too much over the centuries for either one to ever be declared the victor. Agatha would never surrender, and likewise, Rio would not allow the laws of the universe to be flouted when she was charged with their balance. She’d made an exception for Nicky of course, but in the end, Death’s defiance against nature had only bought them bittersweet time with their son. There was no way now that she’d risk it all again to bend the rules for the Scarlett Witch’s child, regardless of how many hang-dog looks he sent her way. Rio just wasn’t wired that way. Sacrifice was for those you loved most, and even then, it wasn’t always enough.

For just a moment, Rio had thought that Agatha might have seen sense; that she might concede to reason – though she’d never seemed to favour it much before. At least Billy had been amiable to turning himself in at first, until suddenly he wasn't, and Agatha’s lips were warm on hers, and the purple had begun to tendril around them both like vines, and it was so very hard to think with the arms of the only woman she’d ever loved around her waist. She realised too late that it was killing Agatha, just as the witch’s tongue forced its way past her lips and slipped into her mouth. Rio moaned, knees weak and fingers clinching at the top of her ex-lover’s skirt, but she was locked in the gravity of Agatha’s power and she wasn’t much good at resisting that.

Billy watched them from several paces away, the colour draining from his features as the life seeped out of Agatha just as easily. Beginning to panic, Rio slid her hands to Agatha’s shoulders, gripping tight and burrowing into skin with her nails as she worked to force their bodies apart. Not like this. This wasn’t the way that Agatha Harkness was meant to go, yet Rio seemed ill-equipped to prevent it.

She moaned into the witch’s mouth, and Agatha’s lips pressed more fervently to hers, seeking comfort in the final stretch. If I’m going to die then I’m going to die happy, Agatha’s body language promised, and as she hitched one leg up around Rio’s waist, Death almost started to wonder why she had been so intent on ending the clinch at all.

“No! Stop! You’ll kill her!” The frenzied cry came from Billy, who had balled both hands into fists at his side but was much too fearful to attempt to use them.

No shit, Rio wanted to bite back, but with her hands and her mouth full of her ex-wife, all she could manage was another high keen that dissolved into an embarrassingly lustful groan. It carried on the night air, adding to the cacophony of thunder, lightning, and unearthly energy that beat the sky like a bass drum. Billy grimaced and looked half-disgusted, although to his credit, refused to turn away. Not when the safety of his adopted-mentor-come-pseudo-third-mother depended on it.

This wasn’t what Rio wanted, however. They’d spent decades hurting each other, acting out on the feelings of heartbreak and betrayal that had consumed them since Nicky’s death, yet they’d done so with the knowledge that they couldn’t really take the other’s life and that the wounds they inflicted were merely superficial manifestations of their pain. All along, all Rio had truly wanted was Agatha’s forgiveness and for her ex-wife to agree to at least tentatively reconcile with her. The prospect of Agatha Harkness no longer existing in the world was just too much for Rio to contemplate because, even in their darkest moments together, there had been hope that one day there would be a new beginning for them. If Agatha was alive, there was still a chance for Rio to earn her forgiveness. Without that much, Rio would rather be dead herself.

Feeling the witch’s life force begin to wane, Rio twisted her nails into Agatha’s shoulder, pushing her back with enough force to break the kiss and send the other witch tumbling from their embrace. Her body landed in the dry mud with an audible thump, and a fork of lightning split the sky in half as Rio’s horror got the better of her control.

“No!” she yelled, enraged at once by the notion that Agatha would sentence her to live with the pain of having been the one to take her life. Crouching down to kneel at the side of her love, Rio placed her hand against the witch’s forehead, concentrating hard as she drained all trace of her power from the woman’s body. The furls of energy drifted dutifully back to their mistress’ fingers, and as colour returned to her cheeks and Agatha gasped a breath, Rio felt the staccato rhythm of her own blackened heart begin to regulate.

Billy raced towards them, concern etched across his features as he watched Agatha fight to fill her lungs with air. “Is she okay? Is she gonna be okay? Should I call 911?”

“She’s fine,” Rio spat, her hand tracing Agatha’s cheek and down to her neck, where a pulse thrummed beneath the pads of her fingers. Satisfied that Agatha would indeed recover, Rio climbed to her feet, her eyes glassy with tears. “How could you, Agatha?!” She watched the witch rise and dust off her dress as if moments earlier she hadn’t tried to end her own life. “Does your cruelty know no bounds? Do you really hate me enough to make me the instrument of your death?!”

“Oh, can it, Rio,” Agatha retorted, though her voice wavered in a telltale fashion: She was undoubtedly rattled by her decision to forfeit her life for Billy’s, and even more so by Rio’s refusal to allow it. “Not every little thing is about you, okay? This one was for the kid.”

“The kid you barely know!” Rio roared, and she took a step forward towards the boy as another lightning flash illuminated her face. The true face of Death.

Billy recoiled, but Agatha held her ground, discreetly ushering the teenager behind her with a flick of her wrist. For all the power and Maximoff pomp he had managed to harness, Billy went quickly and willingly to stand behind his mentor, though he kept his hands up, ready to aid her at the slightest signal. Rio almost admired him for that. “He’s gotta come with me, Agatha. You know it. The balance must be restored.”

“Screw the balance,” hissed Agatha, her nose wrinkling as she flexed her fingertips and sparks of purple danced across her skin. “I’ve never really been one for the rules. You know that better than most, my love.”

Rio chuckled and shook her head, allowing her dagger to slide down from her sleeve where it had been concealed and into her waiting hand. She raised it slowly, pressing the tip of the blade to the index finger of her other hand as she kept her eyes locked with Agatha’s.

“You can’t take him if he’s not willing, Rio,” Agatha called across the yard. “Say, Billy, you’re not in a hurry to go anywhere, right?”

Billy swallowed thickly. “Me? No. I… No. I am very definitely not in a hurry to uh… to… go. Anywhere.” He looked over at Rio, his eyes watering as he watched her toy with the blade in her hand.

“See? The boy doesn’t want to go with you, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. You want a soul? Take mine!” Agatha held her arms out in surrender, as if that was Rio’s only option; one Agatha was now certain that she would not take.

“That boy’s existence is an abomination, and you know it!” Rio stalked towards them, dismissing the slight pang of guilt she felt as she saw the fear flash in the child’s eyes. She tried not to think of Nicky, swallowing down any residual maternal instinct that loving her son had left behind.

Agatha was silent for a moment before she regarded her former lover with a mournful smile. “I guess when you think about it, so was Nicky. A child sired by two witches. A life born from Death? Our son was an abomination to the natural order of things.”

Rio lifted her head defiantly, staring Agatha down as she gestured at Billy, who seemed to shrink back further behind his current protector. Lifting the blade of the dagger in his direction, she shouted, “That boy is nothing like our son!” Her voice cracked with emotion. “Nicky was born from love; the very deepest love… and this… this is nothing but a rogue spell. He’s chaos magic with a face! Don’t you dare compare him to Nicky!”

A gasp escaped Billy, understanding dawning upon him as he watched the two women glower at each other across the ruined lawn. “Oh. Oh! Nicky was your son. Like, both of you!”

Rio’s growl was audible, and her head whipped round so that she could pin Billy with a glower that would have stopped a lesser witch’s heart. Unabashed, Billy lowered his hands, tucking them into his pockets and shrugging as he peered down at the ground where he scuffed the dirt with the toe of his boot.

“That’s kind of beautiful, is all,” he muttered, feeling the tips of his ears flush pink as they always did when he’d embarrassed himself. Taken aback, Rio faltered, her dagger dipping an inch or so as her arm drooped.

“If I don’t do this,” said Rio, swallowing the lump in her throat, “then you know He’ll be pissed.”

Agatha blew out a noisy breath and waved a dismissive hand at Rio, who cocked her head as though affronted.

“He’s always pissed. You know that better than most.”

“Yes, I do,” Rio agreed with a nod, her brown eyes widening for emphasis as she added slowly, as if talking to an exasperating child, “which is why we both know that I have no choice here. If I don’t even out the balance, he’s gonna find out… and I’ve seen what happens to witches who cross him. The souls Wanda stole belonged to him. It’s only a matter of time before he does inventory and figures it out!”

Billy blinked, stupefied by yet more unsavoury information about the terms of his existence. Things had been so much simpler when he’d just been Billy Kaplan. For her part, Agatha knew Wanda had used chaos magic to create her children, but she hadn’t realised the extent of the witch’s carelessness. Stealing souls from Mephisto was tantamount to suicide in the magical world, and Agatha suddenly understood Rio’s urgency a little more.

“Alright, alright.” Agatha held up her hand, beseeching, and desperate to bring an end to the war that was gaining none of them any ground. As far as she could see, there was only one possible solution if she wanted to ensure the survival of the remainder of her unconventional coven. “What if we just… disappear?” She wiggled her fingers, miming a spell. “Get out of dodge? Hit the road? Go on the lam.”

Rio bellowed a laugh, although there was no humour in it. Her gaze turned down to the ground as the familiar sting of abandonment set in. “I see. So you and Wanda Jnr. go into magical witness protection, and I get to what? Wait around for him to figure it out and obliterate me? Gee, Agatha, I don’t know. Sure sounds tempting!”

“Come with us,” Agatha blurted out, clasping her hands at her chest. The tiny smile she directed at Rio was almost imploring. “We could do it. You know we could. Between the three of us, we have the power to hide out until…”

“Until we slip up? Until Mephisto locates someone even more powerful who can track us down?” Rio scoffed, but Agatha didn’t fail to note that she had sheathed her dagger. Overhead, the clouds rolled by, clearing the air, and the thunder receded into the distance.

“Until we find a more permanent way to solve the problem.” Agatha closed the space between them, taking a risk that she dearly hoped would pay off. Rio was stiff as Agatha grasped both her hands and attempted to gather the other witch into her arms. The resistance lasted no longer than seconds, then the two women were pressed together and Agatha was leaning down slightly to brush the tip of her nose against Rio’s. The gesture almost elicited a smirk from the brunette.

“Come on,” Agatha whispered, smoothing her palm down Rio’s cheek before allowing it to linger at the base of her neck, “you might even enjoy it. Witch’s honour.”

This time Rio did manage a smile, though cautious. Almost doubtful. “I thought you never wanted to see this face again? I thought you wanted me gone for good?!”

Agatha closed her eyes, ashamed of the words she’d spoken whilst they were on the Witches’ Road. She’d wanted to lash out – to wound Rio - but even as the barbs had spewed from her lips, Agatha had regretted them: The distress that had crossed the green witch’s face hadn’t been worth the momentary thrill of inflicting such pain on her.

Agatha Harkness had loved only two people in her lifetime. Throughout childhood, she’d fought desperately for her mother’s acceptance, until ultimately, Evanora’s rejection had been final, and she had come to accept it. At first, the prospect of romance had seemed like a fleeting fancy that would only distract her from her studies. But then she’d met Rio, and her heart had warmed to the idea of being loved and loving another in return. Rio was right; their son wasn’t the product of magic or of an ill-advised liaison, like so many mortal children. He was the result of real love, and as it turned out, it was a love that had endured time, loss, and separation.

Nicholas had been a happy, caring, intelligent boy, and Agatha had slowly come to acknowledge that he wouldn’t have wanted his mothers to be torn apart by his death, or for them to spend lifetimes in mourning.

“I guess I was a little… hasty.” Agatha gulped, her eyes flitting to the ground then back to Rio’s unreadable face. “This could be the solution, Rio. Our solution.”

Pursing her lips, Rio contemplated the idea, her tongue poked into the pocket of her cheek as her mind worked overtime to examine the finer details of the plan. It had potential, she could admit, but it wasn’t without its considerable drawbacks.

“You understand I’ll have to give up my job, right? All of this formidable sexiness just… poof… gone!”

“Not all of it,” Agatha quipped, a mildly suggestive smirk breaking through her frown.

“You know what I mean,” Rio retorted, though she snagged her bottom lip with her front teeth to thwart a smile of her own. “I won’t be at full strength without my knife. I won’t be able to protect us from Him.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Agatha whispered, touching her forehead to Rio’s and letting out a sigh that rattled her entire body. Rio froze, both unable and unwilling to withdraw.

Out of the corner of her eye, she detected movement, and she craned her neck – breaking their connection – to watch as Señor Scratchy loped from the ruined steps of the porch to begin the trek across the garden to his mistress. In an instant, memories of Nicky’s hands caressing the rabbit’s soft, snowy fur filled her mind, along with the brilliant grin he’d worn every time Agatha had helped him to steady her familiar in his lap. He had had a way with animals. Agatha had called it an affinity. From the smallest bug crawling along a tree branch to the loudest, most boisterous bull rampaging in the field, Nicky had adored them all and treated them with a kindness that had eluded his mothers for most of their lives. Except for where he was concerned. Their boy.

Determinedly, Rio pushed back on her heels, creating distance between herself and Agatha, who backed away in order to scoop Señor Scratchy up into her arms before his paws found the shards of glass that had exploded from her windows.

The dagger pierced the wet mud with ease, and Rio stepped away from it with uncharacteristic haste before she could change her mind.

“Do it,” she murmured, turning to Billy and jerking her head at the scythe. “Come on, we don’t got all day.”

The grin that lit Agatha’s face was instantaneous, and as she cradled her familiar in one arm, she lifted her other hand to conjure a ball of energy, which she rolled around her palm with evident glee. “Hold on tight, Señor!” she directed, drawing the rabbit closer to her chest. Encouraged, Rio raised her hand, and with a pointed glance exchanged between the two witches, they unleashed punishing bolts of power upon the scythe.

“What are you waiting for? A written invitation?” Agatha cried out to her awestruck student, even as she noted with satisfaction how the blade had begun to hum and shudder with the force of their combined power. Whilst they’d likely be able to destroy the scythe themselves, Billy’s assistance would speed the process up, and Agatha was in a hurry to vacate Westview – preferably before Mephisto realised that his precious Rio had gone AWOL.

“You mean, I should… You want me to...” Billy hesitated, earning himself an eye roll from both witches.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake! Just blast it!” Agatha ordered. “We need to blow this popsicle stand before ‘you know who’ shows up.”

Billy blinked rapidly, his confusion apparent as he ventured, “We’re gonna blow up a popsicle stand too?”

Huffing a sigh, Rio caught Agatha’s gaze and arched a dark eyebrow in exasperation. “Seriously? Are you sure we wanna take him with us?” The green witch startled as a bolt of vivid blue energy abruptly hit the hilt of the scythe, and within seconds, the earth underfoot had begun to quake. “You know what?! Never mind.”

Agatha offered her ex-lover a brief shrug, her grin unwavering and somewhat proud. With the right mentor, Billy Maximoff would become quite the skilled witch, and Agatha had every intention of being that mentor. She recalled all too well the sense of isolation and of being overwhelmed by the immense power she had harboured as a child, and whilst nobody had been there to nurture and develop her gift, she intended to be that witch for him. Rio would just have to find a way to tolerate Billy’s presence, if only he didn’t manage to push too many of her buttons first.

“Hit the deck!” Rio shrieked, as the ancient dagger at last imploded, sending clouds of black dust up into the atmosphere around them. Their bodies dropped in unison, seeking cover, and Rio reached out a hand for Agatha unconsciously as the soil rolled beneath them like a tumultuous sea.

Irritated by the smothering grip Agatha held him in, Señor Scratchy thumped his back leg upon the ground he was braced against, tossing his head and flattening his ears to his spine to demonstrate the full extent of his anger.

“Sorry, little mister,” soothed Agatha as she drew the bunny up to eye level then brushed a kiss against the top of his head, which seemed to assuage him enough that he burrowed back into the warmth of her arms without further protest.

“We don’t have long.” Rio clambered to her feet, sweeping dirt from her robes with both hands as she shot a last, lingering look at the crater they’d blown in the yard and the shards of her dagger scattered around it. “We need to get out of here.”

“Billy!” Agatha snapped, commanding and imperious once more. “You still got the keys to that car?”

Billy’s head whipped up, and he patted down the pockets of his pants with both hands for a few moments. The search was fruitless, however, and he swallowed thickly before he replied. “Sorry. They’re in my other pants!”

Agatha had already started off towards the general direction of the car with Rio matching her stride step for step, but she paused long enough to roll her eyes in dramatic fashion at Billy’s lack of magical awareness. “So? Summon them!”

“Summon them? How?”

“Ugh!” Agatha threw her free hand up in frustration, and quickly – yet carefully – passed her beloved familiar over to Rio. The rabbit snuggled into the arms of the other woman without preamble, and Billy came to the realisation that the lop-eared creature was likely something more than just a simple purchase from the local pet store. However, that was a topic to be explored once they were safe from… well, he wasn’t entirely sure what, but given Agatha’s impatience to leave, he figured it was someone he too should be afraid of.

“Hold out your hand, and think about what you want to summon, and make sure you think hard and fast, sweet cheeks, because we need to get the ‘H’, ‘E’, double hockey sticks out of here!”

Billy closed his eyes and stuck out his right hand, turning his palm towards the increasingly violent sky. The clouds that Rio had conjured had since blown over, but in their absence, the horizon pulsed with a strange, amber glow that assured witches and farmers alike that a storm was soon to blow in.

Rio stared expectantly at the boy’s outstretched hand as he stood stock-still, eyes scrunched shut and his features tight with concentration. “Anytime today, Maximoff!”

The keys materialised in Billy’s palm within seconds, and his relief was as palpable as Agatha’s delight as she snatched the fob from him.

“Hey, you are not driving!” Billy protested, wiggling his fingers in a demand for the keys to be returned. “My kind-of-Dad paid for that car. He’ll unalive me if you total it.”

Looking only somewhat affronted by the implication, Agatha flung her hair over her shoulder then tossed the keyring back to the expectant teenager.

“Fine. I call shotgun, then,” she sniffed, before adding with venom, “and this isn’t TikTok. Nobody actually says ‘unalive’. First lesson of being a witch; words are important, they have meaning.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s, like, lesson twenty-six at least.”

“Then I guess lesson twenty-seven is ‘don’t sass your elders’,” Agatha retorted as she grabbed for the passenger side door of the Subaru ahead of Rio, who groaned when she realised that she was to indeed be relegated to the confines of the backseat.

“Are you two going to do this the whole way to… wherever it is we’re going?” Rio asked wearily, placing Señor Scratchy down onto the seat beside her before reaching for her seatbelt.

Billy jammed the keys into the ignition then paused. There was one vital part of their plan that the two witches were yet to share. “Where are we going?”

Agatha cast a glance in the rear-view mirror, eyeing the unearthly cast to the sky with a shiver of unease that ricocheted right down to the pit of her stomach. Shaking off her anxiety, she scanned the surface of the mirror until Rio’s face came into view, and a sense of renewed purpose overcame her. This was it; the chance for a fresh start for both of them. An opportunity to try to heal the hearts that had been broken for two centuries. And for Agatha, the possibility of becoming someone that Nicky would be proud of. One day, many, many, many years in the future, when it was Agatha’s time to join her son in the afterlife, she wanted to be able to face him with her head held high. No regrets. No guilt.

Rio felt the burden of her stare, and as their eyes connected in the glass, the two women smiled at each other in quiet understanding. They would be alright. Maybe not today, but soon.

Agatha turned her attention to her student. “Head north. I’ll tell you when we get there.”

Kicking her bare feet up onto the headrest of the driver’s seat, Rio couldn’t resist poking Billy in the back of his head with her big toe just as the car engine rumbled to life.

“Time for lesson twenty-eight, Maximoff: How to blend in as a witch.”

Billy could hardly wait.