Chapter Text
Dry, dead leaves crunch under her combat boots. An icy wind ruffles the foliage overhead, pulling at the stems and, following a powerful gust, pulling loose an array of orange and red. They swirl around Wednesday like embers.
The funeral left her with no clues at all.
Wednesday always visits the funerals. If not for the comforting rituals surrounding death, then to watch the deceased’s close friends and family for any reaction that is out of place and betrays feelings other than grief. Based on data compiled by the FBI, 54.3% of murder victims are killed by someone they knew, and at least 24.8% by a member of their family.
It would hardly have been the first time Wednesday had found her main suspect at the victim’s funeral.
What had started as an honest fascination with cold cases, as well a way for Wednesday to unwind from the stress of her day job as a private investigator, had over the past two years developed into a career as a respected consultant for the Jericho police department.
Sheriff Galpin and the rest of them had dismissed her outright, the first time she stepped foot in their offices. Still, Wednesday’s information had spoken for itself; the cold case in question was reopened and subsequently solved.
This is something only she can do, which is why Wednesday bears being out here in the woods, in the late autumn chill.
She’s following a trail, walking it backwards to the place where the victim was found for any traces of the perpetrator. It had been a brutal scene: his throat had been slashed so deep that the white vertebrae of his spine had been visible, his clothes colored indiscriminately red, his right arm twisted back unnaturally and his left leg fully torn off from the knee. His camping supplies, mangled and strewn around like confetti.
The sheriff told her she ought to count herself lucky that she wasn’t there when they secured the crime scene, not knowing that then, like now, Wednesday can see it all as clearly as if she herself had breathed the iron air and zipped up the black body bag.
A brief touch to the manilla casefile on his desk had been enough.
This is her curse, her talent, however you want to call it. This is the universe, handing Wednesday her calling on a silver platter. Wednesday crouches down next to a tree, where the bark is ripped and thick, sticky sap runs down the exposed wood like blood. With a frown, she touches the amber fluid.
The body she’d seen in the body bag is whole again, with red cheeks instead of pale, blueish ones. The man is sitting in this very clearing, his tent pitched, his backpack leaning against a tree as he sets up his small stovetop. He has just finished putting the kettle on the fire when a branch snaps somewhere behind him.
Wednesday flinches in spite of herself—she, like the man, turns to the direction of the sound. The camper sees nothing and thinks nothing of it, turning back to his kettle, but Wednesday’s eyes are trained on the shadows, that creep too quickly to be cast by the setting sun.
Another crack and this time he doesn’t hear it, as he rummages through his pack in search of a tea bag. Wednesday watches as the scene unfolds before her, transfixed.
It’s faster than she’d anticipated. The murderer manifests as not much more than a grey blur, ripping the man’s throat with a giant, clawed paw, tearing through his larynx before he can even think to scream. Within seconds, the last daylight has disappeared and the monster—for lack of a more detailed descriptor—has ravaged the campsite and is now tearing into the body with the sickening crunch of its jaw.
Wednesday’s gaze has gotten stuck on the steaming blood as it trickles down the man’s neck, his eyes glassy as the beast eats his entrails. She’d thought—she had expected a gruesome murder. She hadn’t expected this.
The truth of the matter is this: since she was a child, Wednesday has known she’s different, in nearly every way that matters. She knows that supernatural abilities like hers are rare. The perpetrator of this murder is decidedly inhuman, just like she is—the perfect adversary, then.
It shouldn’t excite her, but the thought is positively exhilarating. Wednesday exhales and closes her eyes. When they open, it is midday, and she is back in the present.
Her eyes track over the remnants of the crime scene. “Well. I suppose that rules out the family,” Wednesday states to the quiet autumn air. Unless, of course, the monster could shift its shape.
The girl hums, contemplating. This case is looking like a greater mystery than she’d initially anticipated. With several theories as to the murderer’s identity swirling through her mind, Wednesday makes her way back to town.
She’s not out of the woods yet when the weather turns. A thick drizzle starts beating down, adding a nasty bite to the freezing wind as it cuts into the unprotected skin of her face. Wednesday revels in the feeling of pins and needles pricking her skin, appreciating the ruthlessness of nature.
For a second, she gets caught up in it—she doesn’t notice the heavy footfall coming up behind her, not until something big exhales and Wednesday’s eyes shoot open, her body momentarily frozen under the warm breath hitting her neck.
She turns around slowly.
The creature before her looks like nothing Wednesday has ever seen. It’s wolf-like, but twice as big, and its fur shows off-colored patches of pink and blue in between the grey. Its long limbs make it look lanky, but the fur must hide rippling muscles, because it carries itself with all the swagger of an apex predator. Most notable are its canines, reminiscent of those illustrations of sabretooth tigers in the animal books Pugsley used to keep in his room.
Wednesday has faced killers before and she’s found that fear is not in her nature, as she instead seems to thrive on the rush of adrenaline that comes with experiencing mortal danger. Even now, face to face with a creature that could kill her in an instant, Wednesday feels a rush of intrigue that keeps her rooted to her spot, calmly taking in the creature in all its threatening magnificence.
It hasn’t attacked her, which Wednesday considers as good a start as any. It’s just staring at her with wide eyes, breathing harshly, drool dripping down its fangs to the forest floor. Wednesday’s eyes follow the drops down to its paws: the long, hooked claws dig into the mud under her scrutiny.
Finally, Wednesday thinks to herself. A worthy suspect. She catches the wolf’s eyes again.
“Where were you last Saturday night, between five and ten?”
The wolf creature tilts its head questioningly, letting out a soft whine, that bottoms out into a growl.
“Right,” Wednesday sighs. “I don’t suppose you have the capacity for speech. I’ll just do this the old fashioned way.” She reaches out and places her hand on the soft fur of its chest. The fur is thick, which must be why it doesn’t work—annoyed, Wednesday huffs and stands on her tippy toes, so she can reach its nose. The wolf growls again and pulls up its upper lip, exposing more of those sharp teeth, but Wednesday pays it no mind. Her palm touches the cold, wet nose, and instantly she is transported.
The sun temporary blinds her. Wednesday blinks a few times to adjust her eyes to the light, before looking at her surroundings. She’s in a bus terminal, where a Greyhound bus is just pulling in. It’s probably significant—her visions have never shown her something that wasn’t—so Wednesday carefully observes everyone that gets off.
No one looks particularly out of place. There is a man in a suit, carrying a newspaper under his arm—the Sunday Times, Wednesday notices. There is a mother, fussing over her son and zipping up his backpack. There is the bus driver, of course. There is a group of teenagers, shouting obscenities at each other as they exit the bus. After them walks a girl in a yellow hoodie. At first, Wednesday thinks she’s part of the group, but they hang around the bus while the girl can’t seem to get her bag from the baggage compartment quickly enough.
The wolf creature is nowhere to be found. Just as Wednesday gets a weird, sinking feeling in her stomach—her powers have never failed her like this before—the girl turns her head and steps away from the bus, pink suitcase in hand, into the sun. That’s when Wednesday sees the flashes of pink and blue in her wavy hair.
“Oh,” she breathes. “So that’s who you are. But are you the killer?”
Given the size of her wolf form, there’s a good chance the claw marks match. It would be enough for sheriff Galpin to think she did it. Most people would. Fortunately, Wednesday is unlike most people.
The clock in the hall reads noon. The date on the paper had already told her this was last Sunday, about 20 hours after the camper was murdered.
“You’re not,” Wednesday concludes, only a little disappointed. Murder cases are scarcely straightforward—Wednesday prefers them like that.
The girl, of course, can’t hear her. Wednesday is content to stand there and keep watching her, the worrying frown marring her features making her wonder what exactly had prompted the girl to take a bus across state lines. To Jericho, of all places.
The girl walks by her. Just as Wednesday turns to follow, she feels a drop on her face. Then another one, and another. She blinks—and opens her eyes to the wolf creature standing over her, its fur dripping rainwater on Wednesday.
She must have fallen over under the intensity of the vision. The physical toll her visions take on her is nothing to be concerned about, except for the distress it, oddly enough, often causes in the people witness to them.
Wednesday stares at the wolf sniffing at her face. “I’m still alive,” she deadpans, pushing the sharp-toothed snout away and sitting up on the wet leaves. “No need to snack on me.”
The wolf huffs and watches as she stands and wipes the mud from her coat, as well as she can. Wednesday gives the creature a look.
“You’re not the monster I’m looking for,” she tells her. “It’s still out there, so be careful hanging around these woods. Although you can probably take care of yourself.”
Wednesday gets her wallet from her sleek, black backpack and looks through her business cards, finding the nice laminated one she had made when she first opened Addams Private Investigations. It’s black, of course, and it has the company name along with the address and phone number on it in gothic lettering.
She holds it up to the wolf’s mouth, prompting her to hold it. “Please do contact me if you see it lurking around here.”
The wolf tilts it head again, giving her a confused look before she gently closes her lips around the business card.
With that, Wednesday turns on her heel and continues her trek back to town.
Addams Private Investigations is located two streets off from Main Street, close enough to still get customers but not so close that all of Wednesday’s profits have to go to rent. It sits in-between a toyshop and a liquor store, in a row of old, mixed use buildings. The apartment above the office where she sees her clients is adequate. It houses all of her abandoned manuscripts, her typewriter, her camera, her rapier, and most importantly, her cat Thing.
Wednesday had found him by chance, sunbathing on the steps up to her office. She’d shooed him away, but when she opened the door the sneaky little kitten had shot between her feet, into her office and into her life, hiding under her mahogany desk.
As sneakily as during their first meeting does Thing show up now, jumping onto Wednesday’s shoulders from where he hid on the coat rack. Wednesday scratches his tiny head as she kicks off her boots and makes her way to the large corkboard she keeps in her living room—by necessity, as the sheriff told her it would scare off her clients if she kept it downstairs.
It has all the information the police had given her about the case. She regards the crime scene pictures next to the coroner’s report, as clear and vivid as the mental image her vision provided. Torn clothes, torn limbs, all of it coated in red.
“This whole case is a mess, isn’t it?” Wednesday asks Thing, as she runs her fingers over his patchwork-like fur. Thing meows in agreement, arching his back against her fingertips.
She had hoped an excursion to the scene of the crime would provide her with some clarity, but the encounter with the wolf has only raised more questions. The girl seems unconnected to the murder, her alibi airtight thanks to the bus ticket that took her to Jericho and all the other passengers that saw her there. Still, Wednesday can’t help but think that the timing doesn’t make sense.
A werewolf, showing up the day after a monster clawed open a man’s throat in the woods? It’s strange, to say the least. Wednesday decides she’ll have to keep an eye on the girl from now on, watchful for anything incriminating.
She will catch this murderer. It is only a question of time.