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Wednesday can feel the blood down her temple drying up, hardening into three distinct streaks. Her wrists are chafed raw from the manacles earlier, bones bruised tender. The wound through her stomach has healed, but her body remembers Crackstone twisting the knife, the coldness eroding her senses. She remembers dying. To the south behind her, a resurrected rotting corpse marches to drown Nevermore in its own blood. She’s stared at the torn and re-patched drawing of a prophecy so many times it’s burnt into the back of her eyelids, so she blinks and sees the world melting down to the ruined school quad, Crackstone and herself standing in a grotesque halo of licking flames. She cares nothing for being the hero, but she hates incompetency even more — only she can stop Crackstone. Besides, racism is an amateur motive for mass genocide. All her investigations have led to this point: alive and ready to take her enemy by surprise, emerging as the victor. And she does enjoy winning very much.
But Enid isn’t moving.
Wednesday shouldn’t have stayed this long anyway, but the sheer primal violence of the fight was like a hook through her guts, immobilising her. A whirlwind of skin and flesh tearing the night apart, claws and fangs catching silver moonlight and reflecting it back red. Nothing was left unstained. Until Enid flung the hyde off into the depths of the forest and it did not return, and in the silence of the devastated night, Wednesday heard every brush of fur, crack of joints, as Enid toppled over onto her side. Wednesday has counted eighty heartbeats since, so approximately one minute.
The silhouette of Enid’s large, unmoving form makes Wednesday think of a sacked Rome’s solitary columns holding the empty sky, or Constantinople’s double-lined walls crumbling down to bring with it the end of an age. Something magnificent and beautiful, driven to its knees by human madness. She thinks of Nevermore and its brooding walls, the unearthly chill emitting from every stone. She thinks, again, of the world curving tight around her aching shoulders, of her destiny to stop Crackstone.
Wednesday walks towards Enid and sits down. Enid’s chest rises slowly, shallowly, her blood-matted fur a copper-brown colour. Three distinct slashes rake across her muzzle, still oozing wet. Wednesday watches the blood trace a shaky path down Enid’s muzzle, splattering onto her elongated canine. Wednesday realises Enid is trembling silently, her body trying to come to terms with the concept of innate violence. Closest to Wednesday lies Enid’s upturned paw, claws still unsheathed.
This is weakness, Wednesday tells herself. Soft and weak; disgusting. She reaches out and touches Enid’s claws. The razor edges are slightly marred by bits of skin and fur, flecks of red. Ridiculously, Enid’s manicure has stayed on, so Wednesday narrows her eyes at the mini-colour explosion. But she runs her fingers lower, grazing past blood-stiff fur, until her hand rests on the center of Enid’s paw, completely dwarfed in size.
Beneath Enid’s fur, her blood hums sluggishly to the laboured beats of her heart. Her skin is cold. Her body cannot sustain this form any longer, or recovery will be fatally delayed. Wednesday runs through her lycanthropy knowledge and finds it humiliatingly lacking in how to force a reverse wolf out. Exhaling harshly, she looks back up. Enid’s eyes are still squeezed shut, muzzle bared in a grimace.
Wednesday remembers Enid turning her back on the hyde to try and recognise her. The clumsy way Enid fought, all adrenaline and no finesse, without care for herself. Wednesday tries and fails to discern a single characteristic she possesses that would make Enid willing to die for her.
The shock of pink fur on Enid’s head remains still. There’s no wind. Everything feels so still, like the prelude to a funeral. But Wednesday has never not enjoyed funerals before. She takes in a rattling breath and realises she’s trembling too, down to her opened palm smearing her blood over Enid’s. When did she press her palm against Enid’s?
Wednesday blinks again but only sees pink. Her tongue wrestles with the words, then surrenders. She parts her dry mouth and says quietly, hesitantly. “Come back, Enid.” (Her tongue keeps ‘to me’ to itself.)
Nothing happens. Then the clearing darkens like a black veil pulled down, a casket closing. Wednesday feels Crackstone’s knife twisting again, her fingers burnt cold. And then beneath her palm, she feels fur retracting into smooth skin, paw shrinking, until the hand pressed against hers is only a little bigger. Wednesday glances up to clouds covering the full moon, and almost curses her stupidity.
She looks down and quickly averts her gaze, shrugging off her black coat to lay it over Enid. She takes Enid’s hand again, but only to feel her pulse, she tells herself. The beat is steadier now, revving back to life. Warmth returns to Enid, and Wednesday feels the chill within herself dissipating along. It’s time to go.
Then Enid’s eyes open, and in the dimness they’re almost entirely black. Their gazes meet and Enid yelps, hand clenching tight around Wednesday’s, then gapes at their joined hands. Wednesday tries to snatch her hand away but Enid’s grip tightens, almost too forcefully for someone on the brink of death moments ago. Wednesday tries to glare but sees three crimson streaks: two on Enid’s forehead, one on her left cheek. Those are going to scar. Her hand stiffens, and Enid seizes the chance to hook their fingers together.
Lips turning up, eyes crinkling, Enid smiles. “Thank you.”
Wednesday pulls her face into its usual set. “I did nothing, I assure you. You were just entirely too stubborn to die.”
“Oh wow. Not even a thank you for saving your ass?”
“I had it handled.” She relents at Enid’s scoff. “But your help was very much appreciated.”
Enid beams now, twirling their intertwined fingers in a most distracting manner. Blinking rapidly, Wednesday attempts to free herself, then Enid lets go suddenly. “Okay, now go kick some ass. Save the world.”
Before Wednesday can retort that she has no such altruistic motives, Enid adds in a quieter voice. “Then come back to me, okay? Safely.”
And Wednesday shuts up. She stares at Enid, at the two of them, more skin covered with blood than not. Enid isn’t Rome or Constantinople — Enid is the careless, unthinking invader, and Wednesday the crumbled ruins, lungs clogged with dust and debris. No monuments are left standing. Nothing is left untouched by the undercurrent of fear in Enid’s voice, fear in a way Wednesday has never felt before — fear for another.
Wednesday feels like coughing. She wants to swallow and rewet her crumbled throat. Instead, she fixes her eyes on Enid and lifts an eyebrow slightly. “I don’t think you’re in any position to comment on ‘safely’, but I’ll endeavour to return in a state no worse than yours.”
Enid rolls her eyes and makes a shooing gesture. Wednesday stands and brushes down her uniform, nods once at Enid, then heads south. A wind whips through her hair as her shoulders fall into a relaxed set, footsteps quickening into a familiar hunting gait. But even as Wednesday prepares for war, stalking towards a battlefield where a trial by fire and sorcery will either kill her or immortalise her as a hero, both outcomes equally unpleasant, she finds she’s only thinking of a single thing:
Enid Sinclair looks best in black.