Chapter Text
The world shifts, blurring together like snow and white noise. It’s the worst parody of a vision that Wednesday has ever had the displeasure of experiencing. Wednesday blinks in confusion as light and sound and touch come back to her, and she realises she’s looking up at Tyler, cradled in his arms. Nobody else had ever caught her during a vision, not once.
He’s younger now, hair still cut short at the sides, and his curls are free of the grit and grime that built up during his time at Willow Hill. The thin misting rain that has been failing to turn into a downpour diffuses the harsh light of fairground rides in the background, haloing his head in the mockery of an angel fallen from grace.
“Wednesday?” He repeats, eyes wide and earnest. His arms a solid warmth around her back, “Are you alright? What happened?”
This is a nightmare. It’s the only rational conclusion.
Wednesday doesn’t answer, her brain fizzling like cotton candy in the rain when he has the audacity to lift her up off of the ground, sweeping her up in a princess carry as though he thought himself a knight in a fairy tale, or a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. Both thoughts curdle deep in her belly. The time for that is long past after all. She blinks again and tries to force her brain into some semblance of functioning.
“I’m fine,” she forces out through gritted teeth, “Put me down.”
Tyler stares blankly at her, blinks once, twice, and then seems to shake himself out of a fog — but he doesn’t set her down. If anything, his grip tightens as he pivots, turning them away from the forest where some illusion of Rowan no doubt lurks, lying in wait.
To her everlasting mortification, Nightmare Tyler carries her through the crowds, shouldering people out of the way and even ignoring a shouted comment from his father until they arrive at a designated Medical Tent. In the crowd, Wednesday can see a flash of blonde with pink and blue. Oh no.
“What happened?” An older woman wearing a professional, non-nonsense expression and faded scrubs looks up from checking off inventory as Tyler ducks through the entrance.
“She fainted,” Tyler says, and Wednesday seethes. How dare he —
“Put her on the bed dearie.” The nurse says, gesturing to a pristine white cot just inside the tent.
Tyler does as he’s told, bending to lower her down to it. His nose brushes her cheek and Wednesday almost bites her tongue in surprise. When was the last time they were this close that didn’t involve violence, or an attempt at murder? She ruthlessly squashes the thought, refocusing on her surroundings.
“I’m fine.” Wednesday protests once again, pushing up off of the frustratingly soft medical bed. A firm hand on her shoulder shoves her back down, and she finds herself wishing she had a knife or three to make herself heard.
“Of course you are my love,” the Nurse tuts condescendingly, “but let’s check your blood pressure, just to be sure.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“Wednesday!”
The nightmare worsens when Enid comes skidding into view, leaving a stoic Yoko and half a dozen other girls from their dormitory in her wake. A flash of red curls at the back of the group warns her that Agnes is here to see Wednesday’s absolute mortification. She resolves to murder Tyler the first chance she gets — Nightmare or not, it will be therapeutic. This is not ideal, false reality or not.
“What happened?” Her roommate warbles, spinning like a top as she oscillates between looking at Tyler, who is slouching in a chair next to the cot; Wednesday, would rather be anywhere but here; and the nurse, who has Wednesday’s arm in a firm grip, fastening the Velcro of the blood pressure monitor. The machine whines as it turns on, rapidly cutting off any sense of feeling in her left arm and she resists the urge to bite somebody.
“Wednesday fainted,” Tyler repeats, much to her chagrin. She grinds her back teeth, swallowing a growl. Torture is too good for him.
“OH. EM. GEE,” Enid yowls, flouncing down onto the cot next to her, “are you okay?”
“I did not faint,” Wednesday refutes for a third time, “I merely lost my balance for a moment. Tyler is over-reacting.”
“Hmm,” Enid eyes the teenage boy up, gaze sliding across broad shoulders covered with brown leather and a dimpled smile. It’s disgusting how innocent and wholesome he can appear… Wednesday would almost approve if it weren’t currently working against her.
“I’m Enid,” Enid says, thrusting her hand at Tyler, having clearly come to some sort of decision. Gone is the doubt that haunted her before the Carnival. Apparently rescuing an alleged damsel in distress says more about his character than defacing a mural the year before in the werewolf’s eyes.
“Tyler,” he says, shaking Enid’s hand without missing a beat, “but I think you already knew that.”
“What?” Enid yelps, eyes wide and clearly panicking at the idea he might have overheard her warning Wednesday off of him earlier in the evening.
“I’ve seen you at the Weathervane enough times,” he smiles, and Wednesday scowls, “Frap with strawberry and chocolate syrup, topped with whipped cream, chocolate sauce, extra marshmallows, extra sprinkles, right?”
“Ohmigosh yes, of course,” Enid turns pink, hands shooting up to cover her mouth in mortification, “I’m so sorry.”
Tyler has the audacity to laugh good naturedly, throwing his head back in a way that tugs his shirt up just enough to reveal tanned skin and the hint of curling dark hair on his lower abdomen. “It’s fine,” he waves Enid off with another dimpled smile, “seriously, don’t worry about it. You’ve always tipped well anyway.”
Wednesday actually thinks she might vomit at all the niceties and has to resist the temptation to do so anyway when the Nurse grabs at her chin, shining a penlight into her eyes. This demented pervasion of her personal history is a new kind of hell, one that even she would rather not experience. In true nightmare fashion, things only get worse when Weems of all people saunters into the tent, peering down at her.
“Oh dear, whatever happened here?” There’s an undertone of gleeful amusement in the statuesque woman’s voice at seeing Wednesday’s escape plans being so neatly scuppered by a teenage boy and an underpaid health worker brandishing an infrared thermometer at her forehead. Wednesday grits her teeth and bites back yet another scream.
Tyler opens his mouth, a dangerous twinkle in his eyes, but she cuts him off with a dangerous tone that promises multiple knives — and quite possibly arson too, “Nothing happened.”
The nurse frowns at her, removing the cuff from her upper arm, clearly unimpressed by her lack of manners. “Her core temperature is unusually cool, and her heartbeat is lower than I would like, but otherwise everything else seems to be fine.”
“It runs in the family,” Wednesday explains drily, and Weems, to her credit, does nod in agreement.
“Yes, her mother was much the same I’m afraid,” Wednesday rankles at yet another comparison to Morticia, glowering up at the stately blonde. Weems has the temerity to smile at her, showing off perfect white teeth.
“Come along then Miss Addams, I’ll take you back to school and you can get an early night. I suspect all the excitement of the day simply became too much.”
Enid hurls herself down next to her, “Oooh!” she coos, “I’ll come with. We can make it a girl’s night.”
Wednesday feels all her anger drain away to be replaced by sheer horror. Girl’s Night, no doubt, means Enid will be pressing into her space with strangely coloured facemasks and nail polish that reeks of chemicals.
Something twists inside her, longing for the real Enid — an Enid who had learnt where the boundary line lay between them, Enid who had fought against her own insecure nature and clawed for every inch and scrap of patience that Wednesday could produce, Enid who had… Enid who was gone, and in her place Wednesday was left with a figment of her own imagination, with softly curled hair framing her face and a sense of innocence that had died on the night of the blood moon.
For once, Wednesday allows the two of them to chivvy her out of the tent and into Weems’ minivan without a protest. She doesn’t even bother thanking the nurse or saying goodbye to Tyler. She hadn’t realised it was possible to be tired inside of a dream. Enid climbs into the backseat, phone in hand as she rapidly texts with one hand and motions with the other, chattering the whole way back to their shared room at the top of Ophelia Hall.
“Oh wow,” Enid observes, tilting her head to the side as Wednesday lowers herself onto dark sheets, not even bothering to undress or change into pyjamas, “you’re way more tired than I thought. That’s okay, we can do girl’s night another time.”
Wednesday allows herself to slump backwards, crossing her arms over her chest in a comfortingly familiar way, a habit from childhood. Maybe the trick to waking up is to fall asleep here. Slowly, with the sound of Enid padding about and going through the motions of her nightly routine, Wednesday slips into unconsciousness.
***
The universe is uncooperative, and instead of waking in her borrowed bed in a vacant log cabin she’d found in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, surrounded by dozens of books with a werewolf chained up in the cellar; Wednesday opens her eyes to the frustratingly familiar wood board ceiling of her Nevermore dormitory.
There is an annoyingly peppy song playing softly on the other side of the room, and she can hear Enid humming along to the Korean words as she goes about her morning routine. It’s unbearable. It’s infuriating. It’s… The problem, Wednesday has discovered, with allowing yourself to care about people in your life is that you learn to accept their idiosyncrasies as a part of your daily life, and that when they are gone the previously so well-loved silence makes you feel empty.
Enid’s werewolf hearing must have noticed the subtle change in her breathing pattern because the over-eager teen actually bounces across the room, skidding to a stop next to the edge of Wednesday’s utilitarian bed and plonks herself down on the edge of her dark sheets.
“How are you feeling?” Enid demands, phone in hand as though she’s ready to issue a campus-wide update. Wednesday will not be held responsible for her actions if such a thing occurs. She glowers at her roommate.
“Thwarted,” Wednesday finally settles on. If she is still trapped in a false reality, then she has failed to reach the waking world, and if not… Something twists painfully inside her at the thought, a half-hearted wish for a chance to do things over, to correct her reckless mistakes of the first autumn in Jericho.
Enid frowns, tilting her head like a puppy. Wednesday half-expects a floppy ear to twitch along with her nose, “and to normal people, that would mean…? Only, it’s just that Tyler’s been asking how you are.”
Wednesday blinks, digesting the information. She blinks again.
“You and Tyler are communicating with one another?”
Enid nods eagerly, her hair flying all over the place, “We swapped numbers last night while you were being checked over — and don’t think I didn’t notice it was already in my call logs, by the way.” Enid winks conspiratorially at her, as though they’re sharing some sort of great secret.
Wednesday sighs, willing herself to have a greater patience. “You may tell him that I am perfectly fine, just as I was last night before he overreacted and caused such a scene.”
The speed at which Enid types is faintly nauseating, if only she could apply that talent to her schoolwork, she might be better than a B (with the occasional C) student.
“Done,” the werewolf chirps, a mischievous glint in her eye that suggests she did not actually transmit the message word-for-word and had instead substituted with her own translation. Truly, this Enid has no idea how grateful she should be that Wednesday is already accustomed to her slipshod reporting habits, or else repercussions would be looming in the distance.
Their door creaks open, interrupting whatever Enid was about to say and Thornhill — Gates — steps into the room, cheery smile upon her face. Fury rises inside Wednesday and she longs for a knife, a taser, anything that she could use as a weapon to violently remove the woman from existence. She curls her hand into the mattress, nails digging so deep that if she had been gripping skin, blood would have been drawn.
“Good morning girls,” Thornhill actually trills, a strange parody of one of the Disney movies she’d been forced to suffer through at Camp Chippewa when she was twelve.
“Hi Miss Thornhill,” Enid replies, smiling broadly. Wednesday swallows a battle-cry, biting down on her own tongue. This particular enemy has already proven to be the kind who carries concealed poison and she is not willing to risk Enid in such close quarters. Far better to utilise a long-distance weapon instead.
“Have you got anything nice planned for the day?” Thornhill asks Enid sweetly, and the werewolf all-but hurls herself upright, off of Wednesday’s bed.
“Oh, I have dance practice.” Enid exclaims, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, “I want to get my routine down perfectly before Outreach Day.”
“That’s wonderful Enid, I’m sure you’ll do Nevermore proud.” Thornhill praises her, playing the part of caring teacher to the hilt, before turning her attention to where Wednesday was slowly slipping off of her bed, so as to not be prone while an enemy was nearby. “Wednesday, Principal Weems would like to see you in her office if you’re feeling better.”
Not trusting herself with words, Wednesday allows herself to nod tightly in understanding but waits until the door has closed behind Thornhill to escape into the depths of her closet. School rules or not, it’s a Saturday, she refuses to wear that impractical uniform any longer than she has to when there is a palpable threat lurking nearby.
***
Weems’ office looks exactly as it used to before her death and Dort had redecorated to his own tastes, tacky as they were; but for once, instead of sitting behind her desk and expecting Wednesday to present herself like a naughty schoolgirl ready for a scolding, Weems shoos her into one of the wing-back chairs that sat by the yawning Medusa-inspired fireplace.
“How are you feeling Miss Addams?” Weems asks, sitting down in the opposing chair. Her eyes flicker over the plain clothes Wednesday has chosen rather than the expected uniform, and her mouth curls into a moue of disappointment. She does not comment on it though, allowing it to slide — perhaps in deference to the imagined ailment that has caused Wednesday so much frustration over the last twelve hours.
“This constant worry is unnecessary,” Wednesday replies, eyebrows drawing into a frown, “I was never unwell to begin with. I merely slipped on some mud, and it was blown out of proportion.”
Weems hums, leaning back in her chair and watching Wednesday with a speculative eye. “Well then,” she smiles winsomely, “you’ll be well enough to take a tour of the various clubs that we have here at Nevermore,”
“I have already made my choice,” Wednesday lies through her teeth, “Enid told me all about them last night. I much prefer the solitude and peace that will come from tending Nevermore’s apiary over joining a social club.”
“I see.”
They sit in awkward silence until Wednesday bores of the unspoken battle of wills and rises from her seat. Weems says nothing, watching her with careful eyes as she leaves the room. She manages to avoid most of the socialisation, skirts around the outside of the ineptly named Quad as to avoid yet another stand-off with a Bianca who has yet to mellow into a sensible ally and starts the slow walk down to the Hives.
The air is fresh, crisp, and clean — typical of a bright autumn day in a New England state, and Wednesday makes a mental note to bring sunglasses next time. Thing will do doubt be scurrying after her, still on his parent-given mission to keep her contained. She briefly entertains the amusing thought of trapping him with an empty honey-jar from the Hummers shed but dismisses it. The risk of a traumatised Eugene telling all and sundry about finding a sentient severed hand is too high, and she’s far better off keeping her cards close to her chest while she decides on what path to take.
There is still also the possibility that she’s in yet another coma, that Enid the Wolf has broken her containment and caused a head injury on the way out.
Too late, Wednesday realises the cost of spending too much time in her thoughts. Her feet have led her on the path of least resistance, which also happens to coincide with Xavier’s little archery range… She had forgotten how awfully pitiful the boy could be.
“Weems said you might be stopping by.”
Wednesday doesn’t bother to stop herself from rolling her eyes; handling Enid is one thing, trying to find some semblance of patience for Xavier is an entirely different task. “I’m not.” She tells him, “You just happened to be in my way.”
“You sure?” Xavier teases out his words, waving the bow in her direction as though it might taunt her into accepting it, “Archery is pretty cool.”
“I’m sure.”
“You don’t want to give it a try?” Xavier’s tone shifts into a slightly sulky cadence and she scowls.
“I have been proficient in using a bow since I was three.” Wednesday informs him, closing off her body language in a way she learned by watching Enid when she was faced with somebody she didn’t like; tucking her hands into her pockets so he couldn’t shove the bow into her empty palms.
“Huh.”
She turns on her heel, closing the lid on that conversation before Xavier gets any notions about continuing his campaign for her attention. An arrow thuds into the bale of hay next to her, right as she’s about to exit the range. Wednesday turns back to stare at Xavier, a brow raised in question. He looks mortified, mouth gaping open and hands raised in a defensive stance.
“That wasn’t — I swear, I didn’t—” She rolls her eyes, ignoring his protests and continues down to the treeline. Of course it hadn’t been Xavier, he wouldn’t have the guts. Rowan though, it seems, is still determined to be the death of her. It’s actually somewhat comforting, considering how Pugsley is once again stuck at home with their parents.
Perhaps she’d be better off skipping Eugene for now, avoid the risk of any lasting damage occurring so close to the hives. She can’t join a club for tending bees if there are no bees left to tend after all.
***
The woods are by far the most peace Wednesday has found since being trapped in this hellscape where nobody has any common sense. The late autumn sun streams down through the bared branches of the few deciduous trees that populate the mostly evergreen forest. It’s cool and quiet, barring the slight birdsong that suggests not every inhabitant has made their journey south just yet.
Wednesday allows her feet to take over and slips back into the comfort of her solitary thoughts in order to process the presumed last twenty-four hours.
Statement: Everybody is convinced that it is in fact autumn 2022.
Conflict: Wednesday has already lived through both 2022 and 2023.
Premise:
a. She is suffering a mental break, brought on by the stress of trying to help Enid, and has retreated inside of her own mind to a happier reality. Ridiculous. She is an Addams, they do not run from pain, they embrace it and make it their own.
b. Enid broke out of her confinements and caused a traumatic brain injury on the way out, leaving Wednesday prone and exposed in the Canadian wilderness until she dies; that this is all a simulation created by her brain to protect her. Previous experience with being in a coma suggests that this is not the case.
c. That she has somehow managed to travel back in time, but not by her own choice or doing.
Conclusion? Arthur Conan Doyle said it best. When one has eliminated the variables that you know to be impossible, then whatever is left, no matter how unlikely it is, can only be the truth. Time travel is not impossible after all, the most powerful of witches have been rolling back days for centuries, giving themselves the chance to fix truly catastrophic mistakes before they occur. Going back to a fixed point in time is easy, going forward is not — there is no landing pad to aim for. Which means that the only way out of this mess, is to go straight through it.
She could accept that.
What Wednesday could not accept, however, was being grabbed from behind and yanked around the trunk of a wide, old pine tree. Instinct kicks in, and Wednesday reaches for the sheath strapped to the small of her back with her left hand, every grateful that she had trained herself to be ambidextrous. She reaches up and takes hold of her attacker’s wrist with her right, twisting the palm that had covered her mouth away and uses the momentum to spin them both in a full circle until they slam into a tree.
It takes her a few seconds to realise that she has a knife to Tyler Galpin’s throat. She’d forgotten that he’d done this before, that once upon a time, he’d pulled her back out of the path of the Sheriff and his bloodhound. He smells like coffee and pine sap, with the slightest tinge of iron that she now understands is probably because he missed a few spots of blood behind his left ear. The faint light glints off his curls, turning them into a soft halo once again. Wednesday makes the mistake of looking up into his eyes, and that’s when everything slips sideways.
“Hello to you too,” Tyler says, dimples on full display as his lips twist up into a crooked smile. He’s attempting to play the part of sweet barista boy, but his eyes are wrong. The way he looks at her isn’t the same. It’s harder, cooler, and far too amused to belong to a boy who has never had his life balanced on the edge of an Addams knife.
Wednesday feels her grip on the blade falter as her world tilts even further because he’s looking at her the same way he had when she had first stepped into his cell at Willow Hill. The difference here though, is that this time he doesn’t have chains holding him back from her. There is absolutely nothing stopping him from turning the tables and pinning her to the tree instead.
Against her will, a fissure of want sparks down her spine and Wednesday freezes as she watches his nose flare as he inhales, his pupils dilating in response. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t give ground. Wednesday focuses her willpower on keeping her heartbeat steady in the face of an apex predator who has scented his prey.
“What are you doing out here?” She asks, forcing herself to lower the knife and play along, act as though nothing has really changed.
“Um,” Tyler blinks rapidly, clearly trying to shake off the affect her scent has on him, “Exercise?”
Wednesday stares at him, not believing his pathetic single-brain-cell powered excuse and sighs heavily, “You’d hardly be the first teenager stalking their parents.”
Tyler immediately drops the act, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. “Who… said I was stalking my dad?”
Wednesday stalls, like a clock with malfunctioning cog, “If you weren’t out here stalking your father, why did you grab me?” Tyler doesn’t answer, his body language shifting into something that betrays his growing panic.
The two of them stare at each other like deer in the headlights of an oncoming SUV, realising in the exact same moment that they had both made the same mistake in coming here. The determination to pretend that nothing was amiss, to carry on with following the chain of events they had already lived, assuming that Donovan Galpin was at this very moment searching the woods for proof of Rowan’s death… which hadn’t happened yet.
Game, check, and mate. For both of them. There was nothing to do but wait to see who would break first, who would demand the very truth that they both already know.
“What’s the last thing you remember before you fainted last night?” Tyler asks, watching her with a carefully neutral expression. Wednesday schools her own face into something similar before replying.
“I chained Enid up in the basement.”
“I— What?”
“Never mind, what’s the last thing you remember?” She pushes past his immediate loss of composure. He frowns, clearly trying to think back.
“I was… it’s hazy, but I know that I was with the Pack.”
“The Pack?”
“Capri’s Pack.” Tyler explains, “It’s sort of like a home for wayward Hydes and the odd Werewolf who can’t stay with their own kind for some odd reason.”
“Do you have any idea why we’re back here again?” Wednesday can’t help but allow her mind to drift, to wonder. That sounds suspiciously like a gathering of Alphas. Is that what Capri had originally planned for Enid before everything went so catastrophically wrong? To tempt her away from her family, from Nevermore, from Wednesday, to this other Pack of Outcasts that live on the edge of society.
“Not a one.” Tyler shrugs, managing to be entirely unhelpful. She resists the urge to smack him.
“I see.” Wednesday lies, frowning as she considers the situation. Too deep in her thoughts, she doesn’t notice Tyler’s face as he battles with his own questions.
“You don’t miss,” The sudden change in topic catches her entirely off guard, and she stumbles on the uneven ground when Tyler’s arms shoot up to catch her, hauling her body close to him. “You never miss. So why did you?”
Wednesday swallows, having asked herself this question over and over again in the dark of the night, when she should have been sleeping, should have been conserving the energy she would so desperately need to track Enid down and return the wolf to her human form.
“I don’t know,” she finally admits, refusing to look him in the eyes.
“So what now?” Tyler asks, slumping back against the bark of the tree trunk behind him, arms still locked around her in a tight embrace, dragging her along with him. It’s only sheer dumb luck that prevents her from accidentally skewering him with the bone knife she had yet to put away.
“Your master still needs my blood for her spell,” Wednesday reminds him, focusing on trying to slip free from his suddenly heated grasp, but he only tightens his hold.
Tyler’s laugh is dark and broken, something of the Hyde bleeding through, “I have no master,” he whispers in her ear, softly, like a lovers’ secret — and that changes everything, doesn’t it. “Not anymore.”
“So you wouldn’t be opposed to my removing her from the playing field?” Wednesday asks warily, testing for a reaction.
“Oh, be my guest,” He croons, hot breath spilling down the curve of her neck. Wednesday bites down on her tongue, trying not to shiver in response.
“And everything else?” She presses, sharp eyes combing his facial expression for any hint of deception, “The murders? Eugene?”
“We may as well pretend to play along for now,” Tyler hums, tilting his head to the side in thought, “let her think that she’s winning. Changing too much would be a risk, but it’d be interesting to see what would happen if a pig’s heart made its way into the mix, don’t you think?”
“And Eugene?” Wednesday reiterates, remembering the months of physical therapy the younger boy had endured as a consequence of meeting the end of a Hyde’s claws.
“Has nothing to fear from me.” Tyler promises, “Although you’d best have to come up with a way to keep him out of the forest and off of Her radar, or else the game will be over then and there.”
Keeping the beekeeper out of trouble shouldn’t be hard, Wednesday decides, considering how this go around she has no need to actually perform an investigation — and therefore no need to involve Eugene in the dangerous game they are about to play.
“So we’re agreed? Nobody gets hurt — aside from her.” Wednesday asks, rather hoping to be freed sometime in the next decade. It’s entirely unfair to be stuck in such a position, plotting the downfall of a hated enemy with a blade between their chests. Much longer and she risks making a fool out of herself, risks slipping sideways into her father’s brand of madness.
“Not quite.” Tyler rolls his shoulders, which pulls her even tighter against him.
“Oh?”
“We still need a cover. We’ve already screwed this up enough: Rowan’s still alive, which means you never saw that big ugly monster in the woods, so you don’t have a reason to be hanging about in Jericho —”
“The Hyde isn’t ugly,” Wednesday interrupts him with a roll of her eyes, ignoring his smug smirk at her commentary.
“Which means,” Tyler pauses, putting emphasis on the word, “that we need to find a new reason for you to be hanging about, and I for one would like a do-over.”
“A do-over?” She repeats, confused by what specifically he’s referring to.
“A second chance at us.” Tyler clarifies, teeth showing in his smile, “After all, nobody pays much attention to a pair of lovesick teenagers.”
Wednesday grits her teeth, frustrated by the fact that he’s not wrong. It’s certainly better to let Laurel think her a silly teenage girl, choosing to stay at Nevermore for the sake of a boy with soft curls and a dimpled smile. ‘Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly,’ went the old poem. Still, she can’t just admit this; he’ll never let it go.
“There never was an ‘us’.” Wednesday argues, refusing to look him in the eye and redoubling her efforts to squirm free of the iron hold he has on her.
“Are you sure about that?” Tyler teases, nosing along her jawline. Indignant, she puffs up ready to deliver a scathing rebuttal, perhaps including a refresher of their little tête-à-tête during her first visit to Willow Hill.
“Of course, I’m su—” Whatever well-planned argument she had been about to make is cut off by Tyler reenacting their night in the Weathervane, and Wednesday hates how much it affects it, simply on principle. It isn’t fair that he still gets to have this power over her, after all that has happened between them over such a brief period of time. Perhaps, she wonders, in a moment of madness, if this is what could have been; back when she visited him in Willow Hill. If she had been less stoic, if he hadn’t been so desperate to keep her attention the only way he knew how, if they’d both been closer to the bars and nobody had been there to reel back his chains.
“Still think that’s ‘nothing’?” Tyler asks, finally pulling away. Oxygen returns to Wednesday’s brain as she focuses on holding herself perfectly still and upright, physically unimpacted by the kiss. But by the look in his eyes, his nose knows different. Damn the enhanced senses of a Hyde to the ninth circle of hell and back.
She watches silently as he saunters off into the woods, having the audacity to whistle as he goes and buttons down on the urge to scream. A slight rustle in the underbrush betrays their silent audience, and Wednesday curses again.
“Not. One. Word.” She intones through gritted teeth, only looking down at the scuttling appendage when Tyler has disappeared from view. “I’ll explain everything later, but if any of this gets back to Mother and Father, I will start by personally flaying each of your digits.”
She leaves the rest up to Thing’s imagination, turning on her heel and strolling back up towards the school — this time skirting Xavier’s Archery Range.
***
The need to compete, to push Bianca face down in the mud was long-gone, lost to time and experience and knowing that the Siren was willing to get down and dirty, willing to do what was needed when things got hard. Wednesday understood now, how there had once been a frightened little girl who clawed her way up to freedom, and then who had not only managed to not only escape a cult, but with a little help, turn back and shatter the very foundation upon which it stood.
So while Bianca Barclay was certainly not her enemy, Wednesday still offered up her services as a replacement when Yoko went down with garlic poisoning. She didn’t particularly feel inclined to suffering Enid’s hysterics any more than necessary, nor did she want to pass up the opportunity for the enjoyment of sabotaging an opposing team.
Wednesday zipped herself into the wetsuit once again, slipping the cat ears over her head and defiantly ducked around an over-excitable Enid who was wielding an eyeliner pen as though it were a sword.
“But what about your whiskers!” Enid whines in protest, and Wednesday levels her roommate with a blank stare, refusing to cave to the pouting werewolf’s emotional manipulation.
“Get in the canoe Enid,” Wednesday says holding open the tent flap so that the others can file out. Enid flounces after them, dramatics in every bounce of her step. Wednesday resists the urge to strangle the girl, reminding herself that Enid would eventually calm down once the insecurity faded. Stars and stones, today’s victory was sorely needed.
Everything went according to plan. Ducking underneath the axes that the boys of Thisbe Hall had jerry-rigged to their canoe, trapping Kent in a net — more heavily weighted this time, just for the fun of it — and racing off to the crypt. Wednesday carefully avoids making physical contact with the aged stone, unwilling to risk being trapped in one of Goody’s warnings once again, and makes it back to the canoe just in time to see Enid claw the bottom out of Caliban Hall’s ride home.
“Are you planning on using CPR as an excuse to touch mouths with that Gorgon you keep fluttering over?” The words slip out before Wednesday can help it, and Enid squeaks, turning pink as she all but hurls herself into their Canoe. The blonde werewolf refuses to look back at her as they race to regain more of a lead on the Gold Bugs, Bianca and Divina having taken full advantage of Enid’s spluttering in order to catch up.
Everything was going according to plan, Thing jumping overboard when Kent managed to escape the improved net, and then, just as Wednesday bent down to pull the lever that would unleash their weaponised blades, the canoe shuddered.
For a split second, Wednesday wondered if maybe Thing had missed, if maybe Kent was back for round three. The canoe shook a second time, more violently, and then began to crack down the wooden seams, coming apart and dropping the teenage girls into the freezing lake water. Furiously, Wednesday spat out a mouthful of water, watching Bianca cackle in delight as the Gold Bugs sail passed on their way to victory.
Treading water, she tries to turn to Enid, but something wrapped around her ankle and yanked her beneath the surface. Bubbles stream upwards, past her face and towards the light, and Wednesday finds herself choking as she tries not to breathe in the lake water. Frantically, she gropes for one of the blades strapped to her thighs, disorientated by the sudden gloom as she sinks even lower. Addams or no, a lack of oxygen will kill her just the same if she can’t get free. Finally, her fingers close around one of the knives, and she struggles to bend, to reach the length of overgrown eelgrass.
The water ripples violently as Enid plunges past her, claws extended to slash at the vegetation. Together they hack at the murky tendrils until Wednesday is free, her lungs burning and vision blurring from the lack of air. They break the surface and Wednesday coughs for breath, going limp and allowing her roommate to tow her back to shore like a dog with an oversized stick, burning with the humiliation at needing to be saved again. Suddenly, she’s struck by the memory of staring up out of a grave once again, brushing dirt from her skin in the cool moonlight, watching her friend shrink backwards from her as the Alpha-mind takes hold.
Points to Rowan, Wednesday thinks absently, this might be his most successful attempt at murder yet.