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The search for Enid took entirely too long for a psychic who credited herself as a skilled detective. Granted, even one month would have been too long in Wednesday’s book, but three was just torturous. Three whole months of false starts, dead ends, chasing leads from locals across the northern US and into Canada, as well as leads sent by Agnes. Three months of functioning on the absolute bare minimum of sleep, every moment of rest feeling wasted because it was another moment Enid was out there, somewhere, being hunted.
Alone.
The very fate she had always feared.
Wednesday knew this. And knowing this was her fault, knowing Enid sacrificed her own freedom, her own humanity, just so she wouldn’t die...
How was she not supposed to return the favor?
The full moons were simultaneously the best day for leads and the most stressful for searching. Each one that passed increased the chances of Enid being found; by Wednesday, sure, but also by other werewolves. Increased the chances of her roommate being reduced to—
As much as the macabre fascinated and intrigued Wednesday, Enid being the target of such thoughts still brought her the same level of panic she had the first time she'd had that damned vision.
A panic that is swiftly replaced with determination when a howl breaks through her thoughts. She only takes a moment to look at the sky, confirming tonight is the third full moon since Enid’s disappearance, before taking off in the direction of the howl.
As another howl sounds off, Wednesday’s rational brain reminds her there are common wolves in these forests. Uncle Fester also remembered a small community of werewolves living around the area as recently as a decade ago. This could be yet another dead end, false lead, source of seemingly endless disappointment and frustration.
But the third howl cements her gut feeling: she’s heard that howl before.
She knows that howl.
Her legs can’t carry her fast enough to its source. But each howl is closer, closer; the source isn’t moving, just wailing into the moonlit night for something, maybe someone.
When the howls start piercing Wednesday’s eardrums, she slows, her eyes scanning everything around her. She isn’t wrong, she can’t be, but still. She takes precaution, stepping carefully on the cold earth, peeking around trees.
Finally, there. Just on the edge of a clearing. Wednesday’s eyes catch slow movement, from a beast far too large to be mundane. Far too bright to live in these dark woods.
Far too thin, ribs almost visible through the blonde fur.
Far too feral, ears turning about, eyes dark, hackles raised.
Far too beautiful.
“Enid.”
The name leaves her mouth as a whisper, unbidden, drawing the wolf’s attention.
It’s not often that Wednesday feels like prey. But Enid’s dark eyes fix her in place, all vibrancy and life and enthusiasm she’s used to seeing replaced by hunger and madness. A low growl parts the wolf’s lips, extended canines glistening with spittle in the starlight.
For a moment, Wednesday is utterly speechless. She grew up on stories of werewolves, had spent the better part of middle school voraciously researching every story, myth, and research paper ever written about them. Meeting Enid had temporarily stunted that enthusiasm; being forced to embrace the reality that no matter how fascinating the wolf or the were-ness, the human is still human, as diverse and utterly open-ended as any other outcast or normie.
What a fool she had been.
She swallows, dryly, and repeats with far more intention: “Enid.”
The most reliable myths and papers had all agreed that the safest and most consistent way to get a were stuck as a wolf to return to human from was to call them their true name. But the wolf before her shows no sign of turning. No sign of recognizing her “roomie.”
Hardly even a sign of humanity.
In fact, repeating her name only seems to agitate the wolf more. Her growl grows louder as she steps — nay, stalks — closer to Wednesday.
The psychic holds her ground.
“You’re not some feral beast, Enid Sinclair. There’s nowhere else to run; you are not leaving my sight again. Now stop this and turn back.”
Raising her voice was a mistake. The beast snarls, runs, tackles Wednesday to the ground and snaps her teeth dangerously close to her face. Wednesday fights the urge to shove her off, fights the urge to swing, fights the urge to do anything but look the wolf in the eyes and play her final card.
“Enid Violet Sinclair.”
The beast above her stops snarling. She blinks, rapidly, clarity growing in her eyes with each passing moment.
“I have hunted you down, as promised. Now come home.”
Her voice should not shake on the words. Her vision should not flood with tears. Those were emotions — weaknesses — reserved for family only; when Thing had been stabbed last school year, or when Morticia had laid almost certainly dead at her family’s feet just months ago. Those events had nearly broken her, had tilted the order of the world on its axis so thoroughly she thought for sure it would never be righted.
These are not emotions to be spent on a being made of more glitter than blood. But here she is, blinking away tears as a wolf whimpers a sound that almost sounds like her name, before a girl collapses on top of her, sobbing and clutching on for dear life.
Enid tries to speak, no doubt apologies, but the sounds that come out are more rasp and growl and whimper than anything coherent.
Wednesday understands, anyway, and holds Enid tighter.
Wednesday doesn’t care to keep track of how long it takes Enid to stop crying. When she does, she helps her get dressed in one of the outfits she had taken from Nevermore. She should have expected Enid to have gotten taller — in their letters between semesters, Enid had oft written about finally wolfing out having unlocked some second puberty, and as a result outgrowing many of her favorite clothes — but the clothes look almost comically small on the now nearly-six foot lycan. She whimpers when she looks down at herself, trying to yank down the shirt to cover her midriff, to no avail.
Wednesday, unswayed, shrugs off her own jacket and wraps it around Enid’s shoulders. Though she is far shorter, the oversized jacket is almost right for Enid; it would at least help against the worst of the wind.
It takes a few attempts to get Enid standing, however wobbly on two legs after so long on four. The walk to Uncle Fester’s motorcycle is similarly slow, with Enid attempting apologies every few steps, but the word never comes out right, never fully human.
“Enid,” Wednesday eventually says as Uncle Fester comes into view. “You need not apologize. Rest your voice for now; it will come back soon.”
She whimpers.
“It will.”
Uncle Fester must have noticed them approaching, for he and his motorcycle are suddenly upon them, his grin blinding.
“Enid! It’s good to see you again!”
Three months ago, the lycan would have matched the grin, outdone it, even. But now she just nods, half-growls something that resembles, “You too.”
“See?” Wednesday guides Enid into the side car, a two-seater they had exchanged for during their first week of searching. “You’re making great progress already.” Once settled, she hands her the obnoxiously bright pink helmet they had also picked up.
For a long, long moment, Enid just looks at it blankly. Wednesday’s mind races, wondering if she had forgotten how to put on a helmet, until she hesitantly reaches out for it. She’s alarmed when tears start rolling down her cheeks.
“Enid, what’s wrong?”
She lets out a few whimpers before managing, “Pink.”
“Would you have preferred another color? We’ll exchange it—”
Enid shakes her head, holds the helmet closer. “Pink.”
It takes a moment for Wednesday to realize that this is the first time in months she’s actually been able to see the color. Sure, the outfit she had given her is nearly the same shade, but so soon after transforming back, she might not have been able to tell. Regardless, the fact that her tone is one of relief and not disgust puts Wednesday at ease.
“Yes, it’s pink. Now put it on so we can get going.”
She makes a questioning sound, her head slightly tilted.
“Home.”
It takes three days to get back to the Addams manor. Wednesday would have preferred driving straight through the night, cut it down to just the 40 hours of travel it actually requires, but Uncle Fester’s countless lobotomies and shock therapies have yet to eliminate his need for sleep, so unfortunately for safety they must stop for proper rest. Wednesday tries to insist on hotels, or at least hostels — if they’re stopping for safety reasons they may as well be as safe as they can get — but Enid tenses any time they get too close to even sparsely populated areas, so they continue camping in the woods.
Although it’s just the three of them and the open road, little is said as they travel. Well, little is audibly said; Wednesday can’t hear over the wind, but based on how visibly frustrated Enid often grows, she’s attempting to speak quite frequently. Part of her wishes to tell her to just rest, but the rest of her is secretly relieved that her stubbornness hadn’t gone anywhere.
They finally reach New Jersey at nightfall of the third day. Having discussed plans the night before, Uncle Fester drops the girls off a few miles away from the manor, then speeds off to let the rest of the family know to prepare dinner and then make themselves scarce.
Once the sound of his motorcycle fades, it’s almost deathly silent. Normally, Wednesday is a fan of silence, but this one is heavy. Weighted. Uncomfortable, and not in a good way. It lasts for at least two-thirds of the trek, growing more and more stifling with each awkward make and subsequent break of eye contact.
Finally, Enid breaks it with a scratchy and hoarse, but far more audible and comprehensible, “I’m sorry.”
Wednesday knows she should be surprised by the progress she had made the past few days, but refuses to show it, or even hint to it. What she does do is say, “You have nothing to apologize for.”
Enid opens her mouth — to argue otherwise, no doubt — but only manages a sigh before closing it again. The walk falls back into silence.
(Wednesday tells herself that the apology must have genuinely hurt to speak. Because that's far more tolerable, far less painful, than Enid just giving up. Even if she'd been fighting everything for months now, fighting her own vocal cords constantly the last three days, crumbling is not something Wednesday ever wants to see Enid do.)
When the manor finally appears in the distance, what feels like an hour later, Wednesday watches Enid carefully. Truthfully, she had been doing as much since they found her, but now it’s with the expectation of awe or giddiness. Something akin to the excited, insufferable giggle she would make any time she learned something about the Addams.
But it’s not there. The only thing that joins the exhaustion that had been etched into her face for the last three days is a bit of relief. Wednesday picks up her pace, muttering for Enid to keep up.
The lycan doesn’t even look around as they enter the manor, her eyes trained on the floor. Wednesday asks if she still wants dinner, getting a small nod in response. She leads her to the dining room, gently poking her with the very tip of her nail to course correct when needed.
Enid does look up at the smell of food, hunger written on every inch of her face. Wednesday pulls out a chair, barely in time for the blonde to launch herself into it, piling a plate high with the certifiable buffet her family had prepared. Wednesday can’t even sit down herself before Enid starts eating, forgoing utensils once everything is on her own plate.
“Pace yourself, Enid.”
Her response is a full growl, which she hardly seems to notice. Wednesday decides to keep her mouth shut and just make sure she’s ready to act if she chokes on anything.
Thankfully, she doesn’t. She does eat far more than Wednesday would have expected, having anticipated a much smaller stomach capacity after three months of subsisting off of who knows what. And yet, that is the one thing she can take comfort in as she leads her up the stairs and down the long, winding hallway to her own room; Enid is back to looking at the floor, even if occasionally looking up at paintings on the walls, eyes slightly glazed.
Her eyes only truly clear when they reach Wednesday’s room, where she hands her a pair of pajamas and a spare toothbrush before ushering her into the bathroom, pointing out the towels and the shower.
Wednesday does not anticipate it to be a quick shower, so takes her time making the bed: fluffing the pillows, carefully aligning plushies, laying out a blanket just colorful enough to satisfy Enid but still mild enough to not send herself into debilitating hives. The water is still running by the time she finishes, so she settles herself at her desk, resting her hands on her typewriter.
Truthfully, she believes the odds of getting out anything comprehensible are low. But her hands start going, traitorous emotions she had attempted to keep locked down for the entire journey finally having a small, safe outlet.
She only stops typing when she hears the fan in the bathroom shut off. Hurriedly, Wednesday tucks away her writing and pushes her chair in, managing to do so before the door opens and Enid steps out, still toweling off her hair.
“Who...” It’s the first word Enid has spoken since reaching the manor, and, while even clearer than the apology had been on the walk, her voice gives out on the word. She looks frustrated at herself for it, but clears her throat and tries again, “Whose room?”
“Mine. And yours, now.”
The blonde gives her a startled look. “Wednesday—”
“Enid. I told you when we found you: I am not letting you out of my sight again.” The passion in her voice takes them both by surprise, and she reels it in as much as she can when she adds, “We have already shared a room for two semesters. If it truly bothers you so much, we can bring another bed in tomorrow, but for tonight it will have to suffice.”
The lycan’s face is the picture of worry when she asks, voice small, “What if... I hurt you?”
Wednesday could scoff, but settles for just barely raising an eyebrow. “Do you truly believe I let my guard down, even in sleep?”
The question visibly takes Enid off guard. Wednesday very intentionally holds eye contact.
“Enid. You have only ever hurt out of necessity, be it hunger or danger. That must have been the most filling meal you’ve had in months, and I am of no danger to you. Only those idiotic enough to think about harming you.”
A hint — a mere shadow — of a smile tugs at Enid’s lips. It’s still a far cry from what she’s used to seeing in the halls of Nevermore, but it’s the closest she’s seen since the girl had returned to human form. “Promise?”
Wednesday exhales roughly through her nose and, regrettably, raises her pinky finger in a motion that Enid had made an eternity ago. “If I should ever raise a hand against you, you are more than welcome to amputate this appendage.”
There are tears in the blonde’s eyes as she wraps her own pink around Wednesday’s. She opens her mouth, but is too choked up for words. Wednesday shakes her head.
“It’s late, and it was a long drive home. Get rest, Enid.”
She nods, gently squeezing their pinkies before letting her hand fall. Wednesday curses the part of her that immediately misses the contact.
They both take sides of the bed, Enid curling up as small as she can while Wednesday lays in her usual corpse-like form. She would never admit it, not even in writing, but seeing the once-bright, demands-all-eyes werewolf try to take up as little space as possible rather than sprawling over the entire bed hurts. How much of this could have been avoided had she gotten to Enid faster? Or if she had just killed Tyler while he was stuck at Willow Hill?
She sighs to herself. There’s no point in thinking about things to change in the past. They can only deal with the present.
Wednesday was not kidding about never letting her guard down. When Enid begins tossing and turning, she immediately wakes, hand already reaching for the knife under her pillow. Thankfully (and unsurprisingly), there’s no physical threat; it seems like Enid is just having a nightmare. But her claws are extended, and her canines are sharp enough to peek out from between her lips.
Wednesday watches, unsure of what to do. Enid’s face suddenly scrunches, and she starts blindly feeling around the bed. Hesitantly, Wednesday extends one of her own hands to meet Enid’s.
Instantly, the werewolf settles, claws and canines retreating as she turns to curl around Wednesday’s arm.
She mutters a string of swears, for reasons too numerous to count. But Enid’s breathing evens out and deepens, even as she nuzzles deeper into Wednesday’s arm. With a roll of her eyes, she adjusts to find the most comfortable position for a night with probably no sleep.
But to her surprise, she finds herself drifting off in only moments.