Agatha’s Story
“No. With a ball happening there and no advanced preparation, there is too much that could go wrong. It’s not my problem your usual mystic got himself caught today. Chances are someone is going to get killed, and I don’t do murder.” Agatha adjusted the fresh flowers in her hair, each bloom plump and fragrant against her wheat-blond hair.
“Even if the mark is Ricard Westbrooke? Wasn’t he the head of the Gearhaven Mining Consortium when your family lived near one of their mines? Seems you might get some answers in addition to a fat paycheck.”
Agatha stared at Matthew’s reflection in the mirror, considering. He fiddled with his pocket watch, seeming nonchalant. She snapped her jewelry case closed.
“Fine,” she said, moving to grab her things.
They walked over to the rich section of town, talking details. Luckily, a lightning storm brewed, perfect for Agatha, and likely the reason Matthew had come to her. They met the other two agents a block from Westbrooke’s manor. Music and laughter spilled out even from behind closed windows. They neared the garden wall and Agatha reached out with her mind to set a nearby street lamp sparking. With the guards distracted by the flares, their group hopped the wall.
Matthew climbed up to Westbrooke’s bedroom, the room closest to the office. He used acid paste to dissolve a window pane and soon had the window open and a rope thrown down for Agatha and Joseph to climb. As soon as Agatha entered the room, she searched out all the lights in the house. Ah, the first floor hallway next to the ballroom was perfect. She pulled a bit of energy from them—enough to send them flickering and warrant attention from any nearby servants, but not enough for anyone to panic about a fire and raise the alarm. They would probably assume the lightning storm was affecting the notoriously fussy city electricity. Matthew and Joseph efficiently cracked the safe while Agatha rummaged through old papers, trying to find any documents on the explosion that had killed her family.
Nothing, again. She hadn’t really expected to find anything. The most likely source of information had been their headquarters, which, unfortunately, had burned down before she could break into their files. True, she’d been the one to set the fire, but she hadn’t expected it to spread so fast.
The vault cleared of thousands of goldens’ worth of bank notes, jewels, and silver, Matthew signaled for them to head back toward the window. Agatha would be the last out, maintaining the flickering lights. Just as Matthew climbed out the window, Ricard Westbrooke opened the door. Light flooded in and hit Agatha in the face. On instinct, she sent a lightning bolt at Westbrooke, and he collapsed to the floor. Agatha rushed to check the hallway—all clear—and Matthew came to help drag Westbrooke into the room, closing the door.
“What in the Undershade did you do, Agatha?” hissed Matthew.
“Calm yourself, I just stunned him. It wouldn’t do to have him alert everyone, now would it?”
Westbrooke stirred as they finished tying him up—Agatha whisked a knife to his neck.
“Quiet now,” she murmured.
“We just wanted to throw our own ball, mate, and figured you had the extra cash,” teased Matthew as he cut more bedding for a makeshift gag. “No need for anyone to get hurt, you won’t say anything, and we’ll be on our merry way.”
“I’ll find you and kill you all,” Westbrooke hissed.
“Not a good way to keep the ‘no one gets hurt’ thing going, Richie. Stun him again and let’s go,” Matthew said as he tossed the gag to Agatha and walked to the window.
Agatha looked at Westbrooke, the burning need to know overcoming her patience. She pressed the knife closer to his skin, the blade begging to kiss his throat. “The explosion under Woodspring. It was no accident, was it?”
Westbrooke looked at Agatha, shocked, before his expression turned to a sneer. “You’re one of those dirt-worshipers, aren’t you? Seems like now that you’re a conspirator, you see conspiracies everywhere. Believe it or not, your worthless, incense-burning village was going to get pushed out anyway, no need to destroy it.”
“Liar,” Agatha hissed, allowing the knife to lap up a few drops of blood.
“Agatha, this is not why we’re here,” Matthew warned. “Shock him and let’s get out of here.”
“Not until he tells me the truth.” Agatha replied, never taking her eyes from Westbrooke.
Westbrooke glared right back. “Just because it was a convenient accident doesn’t mean it wasn’t still an accident.”
“Liar!” Agatha shouted. Lightning boomed over the house, funneling from Agatha into Westbrooke. In nanoseconds, his smoking body, burned in spots and reeking of scorched flesh, lay dead.
Matthew rushed over to the body. “You idiot, Agatha! The police will have fits over a dead man, where they’d barely sniff at a simple safe-cracking.”
“And they’ll have no witnesses, unlike when he was alive,” Agatha replied.
Matthew looked over at Agatha, eyes hooded. “So much for ‘no murders,’ eh?”
Agatha snapped her eyes to Matthew’s, lightning dancing in her fingers. “He has already taken hundreds of lives. I merely prevented him from murdering more.”
Unphased, Matthew looked from Agatha’s hands to her eyes. “Yeah, that’s what we all say at first.”
He turned from Agatha and climbed out the window.
Agatha took a few calming breaths and moved to follow him. Lightning flashed as she moved past a gilded mirror. She paused, summoning a ball of light in her palm to look again. The flowers in her hair had wilted again. Thorns and thistles! They always seemed to do that after she conjured a major lightning strike.
No matter, she thought as her magic breathed new life into them. The flowers will all bloom once again… I just need to pull all the weeds first.
