Archive of Our Own

If I don’t come back, you’ll find me, right?

Those had been Enid’s words. She’d been smiling, head tilted like a curious puppy while she packed her hideous iridescent bags for the upcoming trip.

Of course, she wasn’t being serious. She rarely was. Wednesday didn’t care for unfunny jokes, so she’d declined to comment on it, or the situation as a whole, and blocked Enid’s number on her new phone to boot. Then she’d turned around to work on her novel, tuning out each and every one of Enid’s many, many complaints about her “utterly rude behavior,” thinking only about how peaceful her life would become once Enid was out of the state.

The end. That was it.

Or so Wednesday had thought. Now, as she packed her own bags, she admitted it would have been preferable to pay more attention to Enid’s words. Had there been a trace of anticipation there, or fear? Had she known what would befall her, somewhere in the deepest pit of her mind? Wednesday would have even willingly listened to the heaps of maddening complaints thrown at her if she could’ve gone back.

And she was sure of it because she’d spent the better part of the morning trying to do just that. Go back. But although she’d gotten better at controlling her psychic powers, she hadn’t found a strong enough connection in this scenario.

It was partly her own fault. She’d made absolutely sure Enid had emptied out every inch of the awful rainbow pandemonium that made up her side of the room, to which Enid had replied, Bleh, like I’d leave any of my precious things behind with you anyway, Edward Scissorhands!

That had only vindicated Wednesday’s actions.

However, whenever she glanced at the empty half of the room in the present, she was hit with a strong urge to gouge something or someone’s eyeball out. That had been evidence. That had been a link. Wednesday would burn all of Enid’s precious things gladly on any other day. Any day besides today.

It was too late now.

She lowered her typewriter into her suitcase, light streaming through the web patterned window and glinting off of the line indicator. Thing was supposed to be helping her, but he’d gotten trapped in the leg of one of her pants thirty minutes ago, and she preferred him in distress, so she’d kept him there.

Besides, she was doing fine without him. She’d gone through most of her closet already, and sorted out her array of deadly weapons three times over. Cello, socks, uniform, rat poison. Hair ties, hacksaw, eyeliner. Karambit, katana. All neatly tucked away, ready to come home with her.

Later, she thought.

Her parents were likely almost at the school to pick her up; she hadn’t had a chance to tell them to turn around. For the past week, kids had been steadily trickling out of Nevermore for summer vacation, allowed to go on their own terms with any necessary accommodations due to the “traumatic” events of the past year.

Enid had left two days ago. Wednesday knew many things that could happen to a body over two days.

That was why she couldn’t go home. Not yet.

She brushed her fingers against the cool blade of her katana.

Not before finding Enid.

###

Naturally, Wednesday had known it was a kidnapping from the start. She was quite well versed in the topic, and the signs were all there.

Firstly, it had all been on the man’s terms—the location, the time, the set up for the meeting. According to Enid, he was some sort of lycanthropy specialist. After her first transformation, she’d softened to the idea of going to wolf camp, finding a pack of her own, holding hands and howling at the moon and all those mawkish absurdities.

Therefore, when her parents were approached by this “Doctor” Bolt, who claimed he would get her all caught up on camp’s workings and watch her development, she had been rather (excessively) excited.

He’d journeyed to Nevermore to see what she could do, and was impressed. Wednesday remembered that day: Enid gleefully lifting a car with her intense natural strength while a thin, crumpled body bag of a man scribbled notes on a pad. Wednesday hadn’t gotten a good look at him—she’d promised Enid she’d watch for three minutes, and left properly after—but in retrospect, she was sure there was an insatiable glint in his eyes.

Another red flag. Such devotion to his subject, him the scientist and her the specimen. He begged to set up a meeting that very day. I think he really liked me, Enid had said.

That’s because he doesn’t know you, Wednesday replied.

So it went. He set up the meeting. Esther Sinclair had nearly fainted with joy, blind to all motives besides her own to form her family into perfect little obedient dolls.

Wednesday had found the whole thing gruesome, and not in the good way. She’d told Enid as much, and Enid said not to worry, that she’d text as soon as she got there, etc., etc.

She never texted. That was the loudest alarm bell of all, and it would take a fool to attribute it to Wednesday telling her Don’t message me or blocking her number. Enid would never let that stop her.

Something had happened.

The question is not what, it’s where, Wednesday considered as she dragged her bags outside to meet her parents. With every step, her weapons made a clank sound, which rewarded her with several nervous glances from passing students.

It didn’t matter whether Dr. Bolt planned on eating Enid for dinner or ripping out her teeth for display or turning her into a wolf-fur coat—all that mattered was how Wednesday could get there. As soon as Enid failed to text, Wednesday had been searching for leads, knowing she couldn’t chase an invisible trail, but this Bolt was no amateur. She’d have to dig deeper and harder if she wished to dig his grave. She needed a plan.

It was much too bright outside—a rarity for the ever-cloudy Nevermore—and Wednesday’s family looked like three jarring dark stains against the sky, stationed in front of the gate with the car close behind.

She walked up to them and dumped her heaviest bag in Pugsley’s arms, who made a strangled noise and buckled under the weight. “Hello mother, father.”

“Oh, Wednesday,” Morticia cooed, holding her arms out. Her black hair spilled over her shoulders, black dress brushing against the ground. “Come here; I missed you more than death itself.”

“Enough,” Wednesday said.

Gomez wiped a tear from his face. “My little viper. How glad I am to see you, even beneath this terrible weather.”

Wednesday tolerated a side hug from him, then stepped back and held up her hand before any more could be said. They stared at her expectantly.

“I’m not coming home,” she said. All three immediately gasped.

“What do you mean?” Morticia asked.

“Not coming home?!” Gomez cried.

“Then who will torture me?” Pugsley said earnestly.

Wednesday put her hand up once more. Silence. “Only for a few days. I’m taking a detour. Don’t try to dissuade me; my mind is made up.”

Morticia stepped in closer, hands clasped. “But a detour for what, my storm cloud?”

“Killing,” Wednesday said. “Vengeance.”

“Ah, the usual,” Gomez said with a nostalgic tone. “But must it be now? Can you not spare a few precious days for your family beforehand? We can help you plan. It’s going to have to be meticulous, you know, the police around here are—”

“I know,” Wednesday cut in. “I won’t get caught. It’s urgent.”

She stood, tense, waiting for more of a fight, but her parents only sighed and gave each other a knowing look. “We knew sending you to Nevermore would feed into your independence,” Morticia began, “I suppose I just didn’t foresee you trying to leave the nest so soon.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “We’ll support you either way.”

Gomez was already crying again. He attempted to echo his wife’s words, and it came out in a jumbled mess. Pugsley held on to Wednesday’s bag like a lifeline. A dramatic display overall.

“If I’m not back in a week, you can plan my funeral,” Wednesday said as she threw the rest of her bags, besides her duffel, at her cowering brother. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”

“We already have,” Gomez choked out. “And we did.”

They spent a while longer babbling about how terrible it would be driving back without her and telling her to be careful, to not get blood on her new jacket, to wear gloves, and so on. She instructed Pugsley to take care of her stuff and put it away properly or she’d stab him. Then, finally, they parted ways, and Wednesday’s plan was back in motion.

One thing was certain: she wouldn’t need a week.

###

She meant to go to the library, but halfway there, as she crossed the dining area, an intriguing scene caught her attention: Enid’s friends—Yoko and Divina—sitting at a table, and Enid’s parents of all people across from them. They appeared to be having a strained discussion.

Esther and Murray came back? Wednesday thought. Have their puny brains actually figured out what happened to their daughter?

She slid into the shadows of a nearby bush and leaned in to eavesdrop, setting her duffle down. There was a physical sensation of being watched as Yoko’s keen eyes latched onto her from behind her glasses, but Yoko didn’t say anything, just leaned her elbow on the table and turned back to Enid’s father.

He was holding up his phone, pointing at the screen. “—sound like her?” he was saying. “Has she ever used those emojis when texting you guys?”

Divina squinted, then shrugged. “Hard to say.” She played with the cuff of her shirt. “Enid’s, well, a bit easy to influence. If she sees something she likes, she’ll adopt it pretty quickly.”

“Though, the period on the third message is a bit peculiar,” Yoko countered. “Enid doesn’t believe in proper grammar.”

“Right?” Murray exclaimed, as if he had been waiting for someone to validate his claims all day. “Something’s off, I know it.”

Esther pulled at a gray strand of her hair from beside him, frowning. “Murray's just being paranoid. Enid has been speaking excitedly about this meeting and this camp all week—if she’s texting less often, or she sounds strange, it’s probably just because she’s busy. Don’t you think?” Wednesday knew she was being accurate about Enid’s response to the meeting, but her blatant fishing for her own validation betrayed her unease.

“Still, leaving without a goodbye hug?” Murray said, before Divina or Yoko could answer his wife. “She practically left for the meeting and—poof, disappeared." He made an exploding gesture.

Not practically. She did exactly that.

“Come on, now. She was bouncing off the walls waiting for him to pick her up,” Esther reiterated. “She’s just getting acclimated to her new life.”

“But, seriously, no hug?”

Wednesday rolled her eyes at their idiotic argument. How two people could be so out of tune with their own child was beyond her.

She refocused on Enid’s friends. The point about the hug seemed to worry Yoko, who met Wednesday’s gaze across the grass again. Wednesday didn't make any active response, yet Yoko slumped in relief regardless, seeing something that comforted her. It wasn’t a reaction Wednesday was accustomed to eliciting.

Then there was Divina. She fidgeted with her hands beneath the table, and Wednesday naturally followed the movement, and…

She went still. There.

Across from Divina’s hands were Murray’s legs, and a rainbow bracelet was spilling out of the top of his pants pocket. Enid’s bracelet. Wednesday knew the exact one, because Enid always complained about it being itchy. When asked why she wore it at all, she always replied, fashion is pain!

She must have gotten tired of itching and given it to her father to hold.

It was a link.

Wednesday spent the next ten minutes half-listening to Murray and Esther’s useless debate over their kidnapped daughter, and more importantly looking for an opportunity to snatch the bracelet. Eventually, Yoko and Divina promised to watch their texts carefully and note anything weird, and the Sinclairs stood up to leave. The bracelet dangled precariously, ready to fall at any moment.

Wednesday darted out of the bush and pilfered the bracelet faster than Murray could process her presence. She shoved it in one of the many pockets sewn into her jacket, next to a cimeter. When Murray whipped around to give her a bewildered look, she stared blankly back.

He opened his mouth to say something, but she didn’t get to hear it, because all of her training slipped away at that moment, and the feel of the yarn beneath her fingers hurled her into a psychic vision.

Her head jerked back and the world flashed white. A room formed around her, dark blue, and it took her a moment to realize that she was looking at a ceiling. Dome shaped, with miniatures of the planets and stars slowly drifting across. When the sun rose, the whole room lightened to turquoise, then yellow.

A planetarium?

Wednesday was unable to change her perspective away from the ceiling, though she could hear something happening down below. A sort of scuffing sound, then the clanking of chains against one another. A door creaked open, and a man’s voice followed, deep and hoarse: “Are you ready?”

The clanking was back, harsher. Then Enid’s voice, raw and begging, “No, don’t. Don’t.” She shrieked, “Stop!” The sound drew out for several moments; Wednesday tried everything she could to look down. It didn’t work.

Enid’s screams followed her back into the real world when she returned, a ringing in her ears. Her vision was vision swimming, grass tickling her face.

She was laying down, Murray hovering above her with a concerned expression on his face. Wednesday had a sudden, intense desire to grab him by the collar and tell him everything: Your daughter is gone, taken, likely being tortured. How does that make you feel? She could imagine how he would clutch at his chest, haunted, saying no, no, no. Even better would be Esther, shocked, sputtering. They both deserved the pain for their ignorance.

“Are you okay?” Murray said.

Wednesday controlled herself. Telling them would only hinder her. They would interfere with her investigation.

“Fine,” she gritted out, standing and brushing off her braids. Yoko and Divina were gaping at her from the side. She marched past them, leaving them and Enid’s parents to stew in their confusion.

She would never admit this to anyone except herself: her heart was beating slightly too fast.

###

Wednesday sat in front of a library computer. Her duffle was by her shoes—she’d retrieved it from the bush—and Thing was resting on top of it. When exactly he had decided to tag along, she couldn’t say. He, and everyone else in the library, were mercifully quiet. She was glad to be left to her homicidal thoughts.

She navigated through the search engine and a pop-up ad for vegan dog food reminded her why modern technology had ruined humanity. The screen stung her retinas as well. Perhaps she could use it as a novel torture method.

Finally, her search loaded, though for no good reason. Because there was nothing. The name Dr. Bolt brought up not a single useful result; it was all people from other countries who looked completely different, or pictureless profiles of those who had died years prior. Of course, none of that meant anything about his actual status. His name could be fake, he could have scrubbed his picture from the internet, he could have erased himself using any one of a dozen techniques.

But why? What Wednesday was really curious about were his so-called services that he had boasted about to Enid. All of the other lycanthropy camp workers had some sort of profile for marketing purposes, yet “Dr. Bolt” wasn’t connected to the organization at all. She clicked through the site of every camp in Vermont, as well as the ones near Enid’s hometown of San Francisco, and there wasn’t one mention.

It appeared he hadn’t even bothered to put in fake information for his coverup job. Dr. Bolt, the lycanthropy specialist, did not exist.

The one person Enid chooses not to look up…

Wednesday shook her head and moved on to the planetarium. In all honesty, she hadn’t expected to find anything on Bolt anyway. She was here for the where.

Her thoughts jumped again to San Francisco, but a second location across the entire country wasn’t a lucrative endeavor for a kidnapper. No, Enid would be somewhere closer, within one or two states away.

While the searching was tedious, there weren’t an extreme amount of planetariums in any given state. Wednesday began with Vermont, then New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New York, even the edge of Canada. She tapped through the pictures, but none seemed to match her vision.

She closed her eyes and thought hard about what she had seen. Was there any clue, anything she’d dismissed…

Her eyes snapped back open. There had been a label, like in a museum, under one of the lesser known stars.

A museum.

It was possible that she’d been searching under the wrong keyword all this time. She restarted her journey, clicking away until morning had turned to midday. Thing became restless; Wednesday kicked at him with her boot.

And then there it was: The Planetary Museum of Thrills in Monterey, Massachusetts. Closed since March due to “frequent animal attacks” in the surrounding woods. It didn’t take a genius to figure out whose fault that was.

Wednesday scrolled through the pictures, pausing for several minutes when she reached the room from her vision. It was a perfect match. She could see the door now, and a metal railing around the perimeter. Perhaps that had been where Enid was tied to.

“No, don’t, don’t, stop!” The screams echoed in Wednesday’s mind.

It was precisely because she knew so much about kidnapping that she knew there was no time to spare. Not a single moment.

“Come on, Thing,” she said, grabbing her bag. The weight of it was comforting, or rather the weight of the many weapons making it sag. “I’m late for my doctor’s appointment.”

###

The plan was simple: paint the walls with Bolt’s blood and grab Enid on the way back.

It was doable. Wednesday had deduced that a pretty large part of the doctor’s operation relied on nobody finding where he hid out; it wasn’t often that kidnappers accounted for preternatural psychic visions.

But if he’d gotten away with it until now, it also meant that his victims never escaped, or at least none of their bodies had yet been identified.

Wednesday dug her gloved fingers into the leather seat beneath her. “You’re slow,” she informed her Uber driver, who was sitting diagonally from her spot in the back. She had declined sitting next to him, and glared when he insisted.

“I-If I go any faster, the police might…” the man sputtered. His large hands were trembling on the wheel. Pathetic was an apt way to describe it, and him as a whole. He was at least two hundred pounds of muscle, and yet a severed hand was where he drew the line? Thing was harmless.

“...you know,” he went on, “they m-might…”

Or maybe, Wednesday considered as she pulled a blade across its sharpener with a satisfying shink, it was the knives that made him shake. That was equally ridiculous. She hadn’t paid him extra to ignore it for no reason.

Either way, he unfortunately had a point. The police getting involved would severely slow her down. Routine traffic stops became complicated ordeals when an Addams was in the backseat. There were obituaries to prove it.

She put her blade away and leaned back. Her driver let out a quivering sigh of relief. The Massachusetts Welcomes You sign had blurred past them around twenty minutes ago, and Wednesday had hardly done anything since except eye the setting sun with increasing impatience. Occasionally, she felt a loathsome urge to check her texts from Enid, which was completely illogical. There would be nothing there.

…Most likely.

Unless Bolt had faked texts to her, like he’d done to Enid’s parents.

The thought bugged Wednesday for a few minutes. She pressed her hand against the metal of her seatbelt to feel the heat through the fabric, reminding herself that emotion had no use, until ultimately giving in and opening her phone.

There were no new notifications. Of course—why would Bolt waste time on a contact that clearly wasn’t family, and who rarely responded?

Still, she scrolled to Enid’s name. Some of her most recent messages before she’d been taken said:

i found a sweater that’s TOTALLY your style omggg

saw a dead crow today :((( kinda reminded me of you

i mean bc u would like it not bc it loojs like u lol

looks*

where are you????!??!!

i’m gonna miss you over summer break ughh

The only one that had elicited a response from Wednesday was the last, to which she had replied: You’ll survive.

Useless, useless, useless. She threw her phone at Thing. Modern technology: dreadful. (Not in the good way.)

About another half hour later, the number of trees streaking by increased, the view outside the window becoming a large green muddle. Her Uber driver grew irritatingly anxious, sending her odd glances instead of watching the road. “Could you give me a more clear destination? Besides ‘I’ll tell you when’?” he said after several minutes of building up the courage.

“Stop speaking,” she said. Despite the extra pay, it was possible that this man would still question her wanting to go to a closed museum with a bag of deadly weapons. If he knew exactly where she was, it could cause trouble.

That was why, a little while later, when she saw the barest hint of the top of a dome peeking over the trees, she chose then to say, “Stop.”

Her driver didn’t immediately listen. “Really?” he asked. “There’s nothing here but woods.”

“Did I pay you to question me or to drive me?” she returned, making sure he could hear her knives knocking against each other when she grabbed her duffle.

Suddenly, he wasn’t so curious. He pulled over and sped off the second she closed her door behind her. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be seeing him again.

“Coward,” she muttered to Thing, who did a pseudo shrug with two fingers.

Still, the man, again, had a bit of a point. The woods leading to the museum were dense and appeared to have not been traversed for a long time. Tall, looming trees cast intersecting shadows all along the ground. Overgrown shrubs and moss made for unstable footing. She had to make a trail by hand, slashing at stray branches and roots.

Bolt had managed to keep civilization away for longer than she expected. What would a prison, cultivated by him in his solitude, look like?

Neglected, apparently. After what felt like miles of walking, she came upon the entrance of the museum, and it was equally as untended as everything around it. A big wooden sign was stuck next to the door. It was meant to say PLANETARY MUSEUM OF THRILLS, but vines had obscured many of the letters, so it looked more like P L ET M E F R. Behind it were a few rectangular portions of the building that connected to the main dome that Wednesday had seen into. There was another large section behind that too.

She kept her eyes peeled for cameras, but marred siding in the corners of walls suggested Bolt had torn them out. She took a few steps forward.

Then her pace increased. There had been a sound, distant yet not far enough, the snap of a branch under a foot. She thought back to the reason for the museum’s shut down, frequent animal attacks, and that was enough incentive to approach the door.

What might have been scratch marks tore through the topmost layer of the material. A smashed alarm was dangling next to a heavy metal lock, the kind that was made more to look intimidating than keep anyone out—no problem for Wednesday. She extracted her lockpicking tools from her duffle and made quick work of it.

Thing shuffled nervously on her shoulder. She shot him a glare. The last thing she did before pushing the door open was run her gloves down the inside of her coat, then her shirt beneath; everything was where it should be.

They entered.

Dim was the first word that came to mind. Wednesday had to blink several times before her vision adjusted to the lack of light. She heard the door fall shut behind her.

The inside of the building was at least in better shape than the outside. The initial hall was curved, with recesses in the walls where models of planets and placards with their descriptions stood. Suspended from the ceiling were replicas of the more famous planets: Venus, Neptune, half of Saturn with its massive rings. Occasionally, there would be a glass box with a telescope in it or a virtual game for learning constellations’ names scattered about. Though, none of the screens were working.

Wednesday’s every step echoed no matter how lightly she trod. She caught the faint scent of rot drifting through the air.

She decided to send Thing ahead to scope out Dr. Bolt’s weaponry, bringing him to a vent and removing the grate. He squirmed under the weight of the task, but she whispered harshly: “Get in,” and he complied. She screwed the grate back on.

The hall opened up to more specific areas. There was one dedicated to the moon, the space station, comets, galaxies, etc. Wednesday did her best to memorize all of it, so she would know the best and easiest escape route. There was no telling what state Enid would be in, if she could run well.

At that thought, Wednesday wanted to rush ahead to the dome. But she resigned herself to wait for Thing to come back. Being reckless wouldn’t save Enid.

She touched the base of a telescope taller than her as she passed it, then lingered there.

Hm. Save. It wasn’t like her to use the word save. She was here for vengeance, because something of hers had been stolen. Someone. When, exactly, Enid had come under her protection, she couldn’t place. Why, either.

Would Wednesday go to such lengths for another person? Did she wish to kill Bolt because he deserved to be killed, or because he’d hurt Enid?

Enid, Enid, Enid. Why have you become such a distraction? How could I have let you take up so much of my life? What is it about you? You better be alive, or I’m restarting your heart just to kill you again…

Lost in thought as she was, Wednesday almost missed the quick rush of footsteps behind her back.

Almost.

She whipped around, quick as a viper, striking her attempted attacker in the gut with her duffle. The person—young boy?—stumbled back and held his gut.

He had dark hair, partly smashed beneath a bandage that covered half his face. He wore an extremely oversized jacket and an oversized glove to match, but only on his right hand. His left, uncovered, gripped a syringe.

When he lunged for another try at a strike, Wednesday found his technique sloppy. He moved as if hurt, and closer up she could see how gaunt he was.

She easily dodged his move and grabbed a hunting knife from her bag. He grimaced and slid out of range.

“Where is Bolt?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“I’d suggest you change that answer.” She stepped in closer. “Quickly.”

He refused again.

Wednesday did not give third chances. She had her knife at his throat in an instant. She twisted him around and yanked the syringe from his grip, tossing it across the room. He cried out and thrashed against her, only stopping when she pressed the knife harder into his skin. Despite his bony frame, he was strong. Probably a werewolf.

Wednesday untangled some rope from her bag with her free hand and guided the boy against a model of the moon that was bolted securely to the floor. She tethered him to it, making sure he couldn’t move his hands. He struggled some more, and spoke for the first time: “Fuck you!”

“So you do talk.” She tightened the rope with more force than needed. “Good.”

He went on struggling. At this rate, he would dislocate his own joints before she got the chance to.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

She ignored him. “Bolt is keeping a girl here, is that right?”

“I’m not answering you.”

“You will.” She crouched, staring him in his uncovered eye. Her knife came up to the edge of his bandage; he flinched back. “They always do.”

Kid (as Wednesday thought of him for convenience) growled in frustration—definitely a werewolf—and tried to shove his bound shoulder up to block his face. “It doesn’t matter. It’s too late.”

Wednesday went still. A sudden lack of breath, a tightness, gripped her almost overwhelmingly. She had to force herself to be rational, to breathe. No. He doesn’t mean that.

She shoved her knife under his bandage, wedging it open. There were a series of jagged scars leading to a closed eye. “Stop!” he yelled.

“She’s dead?” Wednesday asked. When he didn’t immediately speak, she grabbed his jacket’s collar.

“No,” he hissed. “I don’t know.”

“That makes no sense. Answer me.” She was one word away from slitting his throat, and perhaps he sensed it, because his replies became longer and more desperate. His flailing, which had decreased marginally, was back in full force.

“I don’t know! I just…watch sometimes, that’s it. I don’t know how it works. And they always go limp after, but that doesn’t mean they’re gone. Sometimes it does. But others…”

Click.

It was the faintest noise. Just like that: click.

Wednesday pulled back; Kid stared up at her. Then something in his eye shifted. He wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was looking behind her.

Suddenly, Wednesday understood. Kid’s twisting and turning hadn’t been all panicked squirming. When she reevaluated the position he’d forced himself into, she could see it now: a watch peeking from under his left sleeve, now situated against a taut stretch of rope. There was a button on the side, that he’d managed to press against it. Click.

He’d alerted Bolt.

Wednesday followed his gaze to a door across the room, and thought several murderous thoughts.

She dropped to her knees and rummaged through her bag. Against her desire to draw out her deadliest, most torturous instrument, she instead went for her taser, the kind that could be shot from a distance. It was much easier to carve someone up when they were a writhing mess heaped upon the floor. Moreover, as a relatively common self-defense tool, it didn’t immediately show her hand.

“You’re done for,” Kid muttered. Wednesday made a mental note to make sure he watched Bolt’s defeat in its full bloody glory.

The doctor did not announce himself with any sort of poise. He arrived in a deafening disarray of jangling, rattling, and clunking. His shoe appeared first, wedged between the door and the wall to keep it open. Then leg, and torso. Then, he was all in front of her, all except for one arm that he kept behind the door.

A crumpled body bag. That was how Wednesday had described him the first time. She now revised her illustration to account for the numerous ways he’d decayed into something more repulsive in shockingly little time.

Bolt was the corpse inside of the bag. The skin stretched over his bony cheeks was thin enough to be translucent, and it bunched up in a grotesque manner whenever he made the slightest expression. His hair was a third black, a third gray, and a third missing. He stood tall and lanky, in a stained lab coat with rusted scalpels sticking out of every pocket. Wednesday was sure parts of his wrists and ankles were quite literally rotting off.

Wide, bloodshot eyes trailed down to Kid’s predicament, and Dr. Bolt pouted. “My failure, what have you let happen?” Every word sounded painful, like his vocal chords had been laid out under the scorching sun and dried up.

Before Kid could respond, Bolt’s obscured arm became visible. He was holding a gun. He beckoned to someone beyond the crack in the door and said, “Come, now, dear.”

The source of all the noise revealed herself.

It would be impossible to properly relay all the ways in which Wednesday’s cruel, dark heart malfunctioned at the sight of her incapacitated roommate. She’d visited a relative in maximum security prison once, and even he had been afforded more freedom of movement.

Enid’s every limb was weighed down by a metal shackle. Chains of all sorts trailed behind her, noisy against the hard floor. Her pink sweater, filthy, was torn at the sleeves, and one arm had a bandage around her bicep. There was a blindfold over her eyes, flattening a few strands of her dirtied multicolored hair at the sides.

Wednesday almost dropped her taser. “Enid,” she breathed without thinking.

The word sent Enid into a frenzy. She appeared to only barely restrain herself from lurching forward. “Wednesday?” she called, voice scratchy. “Wednesday—is—is that really you? I—”

“Quiet.” Bolt put his gun up to her head. Wednesday’s vision flashed red. “So it’s true. You’re a friend of my little experiment here.”

Friend. The word sounded too small, too unremarkable, compared to the feelings roiling in Wednesday’s chest.

“No,” she answered honestly.

“Oh, ho, ho. I see.” Bolt cackled. “So that means you don’t care what I do to her, huh? You’re visiting just for fun?” He dug the muzzle of the gun deeper into Enid’s hair, who whimpered.

Wednesday’s hand twitched toward her bag. Bolt noticed.

“You liar,” he said. “Drop the taser.”

Wednesday held his gaze for a long moment, then let her taser clatter to the floor. It skidded toward the fallen syringe, bumping it toward Enid’s foot. Enid’s head tilted slightly, listening, and her eyebrows scrunched.

“And,” Bolt added, “don’t forget your phone. Can’t have you calling for help, now can we?”

Wednesday complied with this request more easily. She dropped her phone from her pants pocket and crushed it beneath the heel of her shoe. It smashed into a million shards. She only wished Xavier would have seen it.

“Good.” Bolt appraised her. “Now you may go on. Show me, intruder, what do you intend to do?” He looked genuinely intrigued, that sinister spark in his expression.

Wednesday slowly withdrew a long, curved blade from her bag, the length of a forearm. It was hooked around Kid’s neck in a second.

“Hey!” he protested. “Hey.”

“Oh?” Bolt raised a brow. “Going for the innocent? I like that, I do.”

“There are no innocents here,” Wednesday said. She sensed something unconvinced in Bolt’s body language, so she poked the tip of the blade through Kid’s jacket until he screamed; the fabric stained red.

Bolt laughed again, on the edge of maniacal. “Yes,” then louder, “yes!” He took a moment to ponder something, and his gun hand sagged down a little. Enid exhaled. “I think I like you,” he decided.

“I’m flattered,” Wednesday deadpanned.

“Would you say you have a creative mind, intruder?”

In fact, I can come up with a thousand new and inventive ways to disembowel you and leave your entrails for the crows. I already have.

She glared at him. “I would say you are a slovenly, ineloquent, deficient excuse for an abductor that represents an abhorrent 21st century lack of artistry in the craft.” She glanced at his gun. “If you had a modicum of experience in killing, you would have known to shift your aim away from the frontal lobe and toward the brainstem.”

“Wednesday,” Enid warned.

Bolt peered curiously at his own hand. “Ah.” His face broke into a wicked grin. “Ah! Correct. Perfect score. I’ll admit, I’m new to this. I was a ‘normal’ doctor until a few months ago, you know. But you just don’t get the same thrill. You really don’t.”

“Enough.” Wednesday was growing rather tired of his babbling. She put the ultimatum in plain terms: “Let her go, or the boy dies.” She twirled the bloody blade for emphasis.

Bolt pouted again, whole body sagging like a limp napkin. “Oh, but that’s so boring. Then it becomes a test of speed. Who can kill their hostage first? Yadda, yadda. So overdone.”

“It’s only dull because you flaunt a firearm,” Wednesday said. “A weapon requiring zero dexterity that kills in an instant, a weapon for petty thieves. If you want a show, make one.”

“Make one?” Bolt echoed. After a moment, his eyes narrowed in on Wednesday’s bag.

Catching the cue, Wednesday pulled out a heavy, shining mace. The handle was intricately carved, spikes the length of a hand. It was flashy and made for a brutal end, and she knew Bolt would like it.

His mouth practically started watering. “Ohhhh,” he groaned. “Ohhhh. You would lend that beauty to me?”

Wednesday spun it so the handle was facing him. “Toss the gun and it’s yours.”

Bolt grinned.

“Do not,” Kid spoke up.

“Shut up,” Bolt snapped. “What have I told you about experimentation? It’s about following your highest excitement, and I’m all the way up in the clouds right now. When have your ideas ever made me feel that way, huh?” He gave his gun one more look, before sending it flying across the room. It bounced against a Pluto statue and crashed to the ground.

“Well?” Bolt made a grabbing motion with his hands. “How ‘bout it?”

Wednesday unhooked her blade from Kid’s neck and approached holding the mace. She was slow with her walk, both to build anticipation and to watch Enid. I’m here, she wanted to say. I came for you. But she would never, especially not here.

Once they were close enough to feel each other’s breath, when Bolt had just reached for the handle, Wednesday whispered, “Now.”

Perhaps her meaning was obvious, or perhaps months of living together had allowed them to read each other better than she’d thought.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Enid understood. She dropped to the floor—a struggle, swimming in chains as she was—and grabbed Kid’s fallen syringe. Meanwhile, Wednesday spun the mace back around and drove it into Bolt’s middle. He made a strangled noise and flew backward, stumbling over his own feet.

“Stop!” Kid yelled. Wednesday ignored him.

While Bolt was down, Enid pierced him with the syringe—assumedly, a sedative—eliciting another yelp. Wednesday stopped by to rip her blindfold off. Seeing the clear blue of Enid’s eyes unraveled a tightness deep in her chest, and, admittedly, she paused for a second to take it in.

It was a mistake.

Bolt was trying and failing to get up, limbs buckling beneath him each time he tried. It would have been satisfying if there wasn’t a massive grin returning to his face. Masochist? Wednesday wondered. She hit him over the head, and he went crashing again to the floor. Still, he grinned.

“Failure,” he rasped. “I want them alive.” He slumped over, falling into partial unconsciousness.

But it wasn’t he who Wednesday worried about any longer. She whipped around. Where Kid had been tied up, there was now a length of mutilated rope heaped under the moon.

“How?” she asked out loud. She had been confident in her bounds, even against a werewolf. Moreover, his escape was silent.

“Wednesday, the gun!” Enid yelled.

The gun.

Kid was racing toward the Pluto statue. Wednesday ran after him, and Enid tried to follow, but tripped over her shackles. Realizing she wouldn’t make it in time, Wednesday set to throwing knives at Kid. One dug into his right arm, but he simply shook it off.

What are you?

“He’s, like, screwed up!” Enid called from behind. “Go for the left side!”

Wednesday felt a terrible sensation of her plans slipping out of her control. She had accounted for several unexpected variables, but nothing so unexpected as a creature like this. Kid did not move like a human, nor a werewolf.

And when Wednesday managed to catch her curved blade around his jacket and tug it off, she found that he was not, in fact, a human or a werewolf.

He was both.

Impossible.

She knew every monster there was to know. But Kid was something else. His body was torn and distorted, skin stretched and broken and stitched back together around a muscled, fur-covered right arm. Sharp teeth had come in, as well as claws, and his face-bandage was peeled back to reveal a blood-red eye.

He had the gun pointed at her heart.

“I believe you were ordered to keep us alive,” she reminded him.

“Would you?” he growled.

Before she could answer, the electrodes of a taser came flying past him. Enid. She’d missed, but the split second where he had to dodge gave Wednesday an opportunity to wrestle with him for the gun.

She’d had to set aside her duffle as it was in the way, but she managed to slip out a dagger now, and she dug it into Kid’s left hand. He dropped the gun, and she flung it back toward Enid.

“You bastard!” he said.

Wednesday’s lip twitched up into the ghost of a rare smile. Then Kid lunged for his jacket of all things, and there was a blur of movement and—

Wednesday realized her second mistake too late.

Her smile dropped. There was a stabbing pain in her leg.

Fool. Why would he not have another sedative?

How long had Bolt lasted? Under a minute at best. Wednesday used her last moments of consciousness to throw her duffle and remaining weapons toward Enid, and yell at her to keep them and the gun out of Kid’s reach, who chased after the bag. She saw Enid nod, small but determined, determined even after several days of surviving Bolt’s lair.

Enid, who Wednesday had come to retrieve, and yet who was still protecting Wednesday as she’d done against the hyde.

Enid, who…

Enid…

Her name was the last clear thought Wednesday formed before darkness invaded her vision. Her body felt warm and tingly. Unlike the quick switch from standing to laying down that happened when she had a vision, this was a slower, more torturous descent. The worst part was the loss of power over her limbs. She would have found it fascinating if she’d had the time to ponder it.

Instead, everything went silent.

And she slipped away.

###

Blood. Wednesday was familiar with the scent. It filled her senses as she eased awake.

There was a deep blue above, speckled with twinkling stars. After a moment, she understood she was in the planetarium, and after another, she accepted that it was real and not another vision or a dream.

“Wednesday?” came Enid’s voice, fuzzy at first.

Wednesday blinked the haze out of her eyes and turned to find her roommate, shackled to the planetarium’s railing as Wednesday had assumed was the case earlier. After testing her own arms and legs, it was clear they were both in the same predicament. Captured.

“Wednesday!” Enid repeated, more of a shriek, and jolted forward to clumsily grab at the air between them, as her restraints wouldn’t let her go further. She had no blindfold on this time, and mercifully didn’t appear any more injured. “Oh. My. God. I thought you were totally done for. You were asleep for, like, half an hour. I was sure you had brain damage. You don't, right? How many fingers am I holding up?” She waved a hand.

Wednesday sighed, but there was an edge of relief to it. Enid being annoying meant Enid was being herself, which meant she was okay.

“I might have brain damage after that scream,” Wednesday muttered.

As if her voice were that of a siren luring a sailor with a melancholy song, Wednesday’s words brought immediate tears to Enid’s eyes. “I missed you!” she wailed. “I can’t believe you actually came. I thought I’d hallucinated you or something. Seriously. I thought I’d die out here, and then I wondered if you’d like me more as a ghost. It was so not fun.”

“I assure you, you’d be no more tolerable if you were incorporeal.” Wednesday swiped her gaze over the planetarium now that her vision had cleared up. It was brighter than out in the hall. There were a few suspicious stains on the dark carpet beneath them. The planets surrounding them were constantly moving, and it was dizzying to look at for too long.

“These images are completely illogical,” she commented. “The timing of the orbits are all off.”

When she turned back, she was mildly surprised to see the expression on Enid's face. Relief had turned to horror, as if Wednesday had snuck scorpions under her pillow (again).

“What?” Wednesday said.

Enid shook her head, tousled blonde hair bobbing along. “Nothing. It’s just…” She shuddered. “That weirdo has a thing for not letting me know the time. He tells me nonsense on purpose. I don’t even know how many days have passed since…y’know…” she trailed off, and witnessing her so subdued was even more jarring. Unnatural.

Wednesday quickly did the math. “Third day. Almost dinnertime.”

Enid slumped in relief. “Okay. Okay. Ugh, don’t mention dinner around me, I’m starving.” Now that Wednesday was studying her closer, she noticed just how pale and exhausted Enid looked. There were irritated, raw patches of skin around her wrists and ankles where the restraints had been chafing. She was likely not being fed or given much water, either. Wednesday should have been there sooner. She definitely shouldn’t have been caught.

But this was only a small setback. There was still time to give Bolt what he deserved.

“Enid,” she began as she felt along her shirt—her jacket and boots had been taken, along with the dozen knives hidden in them, but she was no amateur. There were more. “Tell me what happened after I lost consciousness. Precisely. Does Bolt have my tools?”

“Um, no.” Enid strained to scratch at her face. “I sorta broke down one of the doors and threw them far away. Gun too. But I don’t know if it’ll make much of a difference, ‘cuz he has a lot of his own stuff, being Dr. Torture and all.” She gave up and dropped her arm. “Luckily, that freaky science experiment boy became more obsessed with protecting the bossman than coming after me, or I would’ve lost. He just hovered over him and barked at me until he woke up, then they collected us and dragged us here.”

Wednesday’s fingers caught on the hidden lock picks and knife sewn into her shirt. She began trying to shuffle her bound hands enough to undo the thread. “Mm. Kid is an anomaly. We need to avoid him as much as possible.”

“Kid? Wow.”

“For convenience.”

“That’s smart. Dr. Bolt just calls him failure, so...”

“An equally apt descriptor.”

“Erm. Wens. What are you doing?”

Wednesday was failing to get the correct angle, and she remembered why being kidnapped was such a pain. Her uncle had warned her that the novelty wore off quickly; he was right. “Enid,” she said, “poke my shirt with your claw.”

“Didn’t exactly answer my question, but okay,” Enid replied. She winced when she forced her claws out. “Ow.”

Wednesday paused. “Based on your appearance, my assumption was that no torture had occured. Was I wrong?”

Enid stared down at her claws, the paint on them chipped. “Honestly, I don’t even know. He just does, like, random bullshit. There’s no other way to describe it. He’s all like”—Enid’s voice dropped into an exaggerated impression of Bolt—”’Little wolf, is a full moon a tangible truth or simply a mindset? Blah, blah.’ Then he’ll laugh and flip a bunch of switches until the moon appears up there.” She gestured toward the ceiling. “And he’ll chant, turn, turn, turn.”

Her lip quivered. “I can’t even control my abilities well when there’s a real full moon. That’s why I changed my mind about camp. I thought I actually had a shot to get better now that I’ve turned once, but…” She sniffed, defeated. “And then he takes my blood.” She showed her bandaged bicep to Wednesday, and for the first time Wednesday realized that her own blood had been taken as well.

Wednesday prodded her bandage for a few moments, and prompted Enid to go on. “Once he takes your blood?”

Enid shrugged. “Like I said, random bullshit. Sometimes, I don’t even know I’ve been knocked out, but then I’ll wake up. All dizzy. Or on an operating table. It’s totally messed up! Once I heard that creep muttering to himself something like, we need to separate the beast from the human. And my claws will be all sore afterwards.” Genuine panic flashed through her expression. “I don’t know what he’s done, and I don’t know if I want to know either.”

Wednesday thought back to Kid’s words. “...And they always go limp after, but that doesn’t mean they’re gone. Sometimes it does.”

She could not let Bolt get his hands on Enid again. No matter what.

“There’s no more need to fret,” Wednesday said, as Enid pierced the fabric of her shirt. “I’ll kill him for you. I have numerous methods of torment already chosen for his end.”

When Enid pulled back, she didn’t seem reassured. “Is that really why you came here? To execute some grisly revenge plot?”

“A well deserved one,” Wednesday said, squeezing out her lockpicks and miniature knife.

“I thought you came here for me.” Enid was frowning now.

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence. The fake sky darkened to dusk. “Obviously, I did,” Wednesday said, slowly. “You suppose I chased down a psychopathic kidnapper solely for my personal amusement?”

“That is absolutely something you would do!”

“Touché.” Wednesday began maneuvering her picks toward the back of her shackles. “But don’t be dense. You told me to find you, and I did. The violent revenge is simply a perk.”

Enid didn’t speak for a while. When she did, it was quiet and cracked. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Wednesday, once again, paused her escape measures to address Enid. “Another ridiculous sentiment. You have prevented my premature demise in the past. I would not abandon you if not on my own terms.”

Enid huffed. “Gee, I’m really feeling the love!”

Wednesday fought to get her next words out. “Fine. I would not abandon you…at all.”

“Thanks, but that's not what I mean. You should have gotten help, or at least called the police, that’s what I mean. But since you’re so goddamn independent, you didn’t even think—”

“When,” Wednesday cut in with a glare, “have the police ever been as effective as me—”

“Not my point!” Enid let out a frustrated noise. “What I’m trying to say is, you came here alone so you could stab the dude, and now we’re both in danger. If it were just me, maybe Bolt would have gotten bored or something, or you could have found a safer way to help from the outside. But! Look at this. Nobody is coming for us. We’re going to die together, and in a super lame way.”

“Calm down,” Wednesday ordered. “Apparently, you haven’t noticed, but I was not intending to dutifully await dismemberment.” She slotted her pick into the keyway, as if to prove her point. “I admit Kid was a factor I failed to account for earlier, but we do not need rescuing.”

“You don’t understand!”

Wednesday jiggled the pick until she felt the teeth loosen. “What is it that I don’t understand?”

“Wednesday, I… maybe haven’t told you everything,” Enid admitted, doing her best to fidget despite the chains.

Wednesday held back a sigh. “Elaborate.”

“There are these…things.”

“Very descriptive.”

“Arrgh! I don’t know.” Enid flopped back against the railing. “They’re like Kid. As in, Bolt has seriously screwed them up. He calls them bloodhounds, but trust me, I’ve seen a bloodhound, and it did not look like that.”

“Creatures in the woods,” Wednesday said, thinking of the noise she heard earlier.

“Some,” Enid said, “but others he keeps in this giant cleared out room in the back. They’re massive—probably as big as me when I wolf out, and have like a hundred rows of teeth. They’re always panting, and they’ll try to eat anything. Bolt took me to see them once and I swear they thought I was dinner.” She made a gagging gesture. “So not cool! Big zombie dogs were not on my list of celebrities to meet.”

“You’re afraid he’ll sic them on us if we get out,” Wednesday said.

Enid shook her head. “Worse than that.” She displayed her bandage again. “I whittled down Kid’s resolve while we were alone, and he told me that if the hounds are brought someone’s blood, they’ll tear ‘em to shreds. I mean, will never give up on it, no matter where that person goes or what they do. If Bolt finds out we’re running…”

Wednesday let the graveness of their situation sink in. Both of them were weak, and far from civilization or shelter. Wednesday could retrieve her weapons, but they wouldn’t do much against any number of mutant dogs above four or five if they all attacked together.

Her wrist shackles came undone and fell to her lap. “It is possible he was bluffing to frighten you,” she suggested.

“Like how you did when you said you were gonna kill him?”

“I wasn’t bluffing.”

“Right.” Enid exhaled, heavy. “You know, when you’re the optimistic one, that means it’s definitely not looking good.”

“Optimism is a faulty practice for fools with no logical basis to their conclusions. My proposal is perfectly rational.” Wednesday leaned over to work on the chains around her ankles, braids swinging along.

“Well, I don’t think he was lying. You didn’t see his face. And he’s not like Bolt; I don’t think he’s getting any weird pleasure out of my suffering. I think he’s trapped too.”

“Which doesn’t prove anything about his credibility.”

“Ugh! Will you just listen to me?”

“I am listening”—she wouldn’t fail at that again—”and it doesn’t change the objective. Assuming the hounds are a real threat, that means they are a threat to their creator as well. If we can get his blood to them—”

The door creaked.

Wednesday had her undone shackles, picks, and knife behind her in a blink. Enid stiffened from beside her, and they both fell silent. Speak of the devil—it was Kid. He hesitated as he walked into the room, and Wednesday was glad to see a dressing over the hand she had stabbed, evidence of his pain. She wondered if he’d caught any of their conversation, and what she’d have to do to him if he did.

He fiddled with his jacket, which he’d replaced along with the glove, even though his secret was out in the open now. “You’re awake,” he said, looking at Wednesday. “Great. Bolt will have you watch his next experiment and give notes.”

Experiment? Wednesday thought. “Notes,” she echoed aloud.

Kid grimaced. He clearly had contested this idea. “Yes, he believes you might be…um, helpful to him. For giving ideas. A ‘kindred spirit,’ he says.” Kid’s expression darkened. “You will be untied, but I will be watching your every move. If I suspect even a hint of—”

“I understand,” Wednesday said. “I’ll behave.”

She could feel Enid’s bewildered stare burning into her, but refused to turn in case she gave something away. Shadowing Bolt was a laughably favorable opportunity to drive a knife into the back of his neck, one she would not give up.

She tucked her tools into the waistband of her pants and quietly slid the two halves of her shackles back together until they clicked. Then she sat obediently as Kid crouched, took out a key, and redid all of her progress for her.

All the while, Enid was growing more distressed. Since Kid was distracted, Wednesday spared her anxious roommate a trust me sort of look—but it didn’t work as well as it should have. Enid had no reason to believe Wednesday didn’t have a plan in mind. She knew about the knife. Anyone could connect the dots.

So, why the panic?

Wednesday’s restraints dropped in a pile around her. She stood, stretched, and nudged Enid with her sock to convey: Get it together.

Enid ignored her and said desperately from the floor: “Tell me it’s not the operating room again. Please. Tell me.”

Kid looked away. “The doctor does what he wants.”

“No.” The word tore out of Enid as if it were painful to speak.

Wednesday felt an almost primal anger stir deep in her gut. It shocked her—she prided herself on having a firm grasp on her emotions—and she had to force herself to be calm. Don’t be rash. Think.

As much as she wished to reassure Enid that she’d chop Bolt’s hands off before letting him get to her, all she could do was watch as Kid unlatched her chains from the railing and held onto her as if she were a pet.

Defenestration. Eye-gouging. Evisceration. Nothing is enough.

She settled for purposely bumping into Enid’s shoulder a few times as they walked, something she would never attempt for anyone else. Enid leaned into the touch.

Kid led them down a dark, narrow hall, and then they were blinded by a rectangle of bright fluorescent light as Bolt threw open a door. His silhouette was tall and relaxed against the light. The room reeked of rubbing alcohol and bleach.

There was a long operating table in the center of the space with crude imitations of vital monitoring devices surrounding it—Wednesday was quite sure one of them used to be a Name The Constellations! game. Besides that, there were dozens of stained cardboard boxes scattered about and a single intact pack of gloves stuffed on top of some loose tissues. Evidently, this was a place Bolt had thrown together on a whim.

“My dears!” he chirped. “Come in, come in.”

The stench was even more potent inside and stung Wednesday’s nose. Kid slid to the far end of the room, keeping his gaze focused on Wednesday to remind her that he was watching.

Bolt grabbed Enid’s chains and guided her to the table. There were metal hooks on either side of it, and once Enid sat, her restraints were attached to them. Ideally, Wednesday would strap him to his own equipment when she ended him. Oh, how he would scream.

“I’ve made a breakthrough,” he explained to Enid, who was stock-still and staring at the floor. “Mmm, yes, during my nap. Here it is: the wolf is located in the spine.” He paused to put his hands up in surrender while pulling his gloves on. “I know, I know. It’s a stretch. But out of every body part, it is the spine that endures the most pressure during a werewolf’s transformation, no?”

There was a beat of silence.

“No?” He repeated, firmer.

“Sure,” Enid muttered.

“Is it plausible, then, that a turned werewolf cannot turn back without their spine whole? That the whole structure collapses? That they become something else entirely?”

Enid swallowed. “I’m…I’m not sure if you could test that.”

“Oh, but I can.” He snapped his right glove tighter onto his skin.

An utterly idiotic idea, Wednesday thought. There was no reasoning behind his claims, no clear method of proving them. He was simply torturing for torturing’s sake, as a toddler would behead a doll, and he was willing to ruin his new test subject for it. A terrible, unprofitable approach.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be asleep for most of it,” he went on. “I find crying rather distracting.”

“But how would you get me to transform first?” Enid dared to ask.

Bolt smiled. “It’s a work in progress, dear. I made a decent attempt with my failure here”—he motioned to Kid—”and I have a new assistant to help me as well.” He motioned to Wednesday. “I’m sure we can do it, I’m truly very sure.”

Optimism, Wednesday thought. Disgusting.

“Do you have any ideas yet, assistant?” he asked.

“Many,” Wednesday said darkly.

“Alright, then. Let’s get started. Woohoo!” He leaned down to tighten Enid’s chains. Wednesday peered over at Kid, trying to predict what he would do if she gutted Bolt right here and now. The problem was that Enid was between them, and he would get to her faster.

Before she could come up with a solution for this issue, Bolt did it for her. “Oopsie!” he said, suddenly. “I forgot my trusty wrench. Assistant, go grab it!”

Wednesday blinked at him, surprised at his quick trust in her. “I don’t know where it is.”

Bolt snapped his fingers. “Failure, show her.”

Kid protested: “But–!”

“Shut up! Do it.”

Wednesday was hit with both intense relief and suspicion at once. Victims of violent crimes all across the world knew that luck was never truly in abundance for anyone—skill created results, not chance. Because of this, she did not immediately bask in her success, not this time. Kid, even isolated and unaware of her weapon, was unpredictable at best. He was a science experiment, an unaccounted factor.

There is still a chance for something to go wrong. Be prepared.

“Let’s go,” she said, following him to the doorway.

Then something went wrong, and she was not prepared.

Enid screamed. Not in any of the hundreds of ways Wednesday had heard her scream over the past few months. Not in excitement, or fear, or disgust, or anger. This scream was new, a sound of pure devastation.

Wednesday had resolved herself to not turn her back to Kid, but now her resolve shattered in an instant. She whipped around without even considering it.

Bolt had something pressed to Enid’s side—a rusty scalpel, silver? Try as she did, with all her supernatural werewolf strength, Enid was unable to get away from it.

“Quiet, quiet!” Bolt demanded.

“Wednesday, please!” Enid cried. “I tried, but I can’t! I can’t do this. Don’t leave me with him!”

Wednesday made her biggest mistake yet. The sound of her name upon Enid’s lips weakened her, and she couldn't help but gravitate toward the table, toward Enid, to make some effort to relieve the pain, or perhaps to kill Bolt with her bare hands. She leaned forward—

—and Kid noticed. He noticed her knife.

“Traitor!” he yelled, like he actually believed Wednesday was ever on his side. He lunged for her.

As the world itself slowed to accommodate the moment, Wednesday saw her path light up before her. Kid was going to get her—it was too late to prevent it now. But she refused to go down before feeling Bolt’s skin split beneath her blade. She couldn’t.

She rushed over to the operating table and, in one swift swipe, sunk her knife so deep into Bolt’s cheek that it knocked against a tooth. His body convulsed to cry out, but the blade in his mouth stopped him, so he let out a strange squeaking noise instead. She yanked her arm down, hoping to cut all the way to his neck, but couldn’t make it before Kid was tackling her to the floor.

There were several crashes at once. Bolt smacked against the wall somewhere above. Enid yelled, “Wednesday!”

Wednesday landed hard. The floor was cold and dusty. Kid’s weight pressed her into it, and she blindly felt for her knife, which she’d heard drop somewhere near. She found a fallen glove, a thumbtack, and a penny, but no knife.

Then came the poke in the back of her thigh.

By the second instance, it was simply irritating. Kid was a one trick wolf, and after Wednesday got rid of him, she’d get his supplier too for causing such a hassle.

As her vision began to darken once again, she made out the form of Bolt throwing a steady stream of blood-soaked tissues onto the floor. He made a few sounds that started like the beginning of a curse, then leveled out into a pained groaning. Enid was trying to say something as well, but no matter how hard Wednesday tried, she couldn’t understand it. This is worse, she thought, referring to their position, her below and Enid above, unable to see each other. Worse than last time.

At least then, there had been proof up to the very end that they had been together. Now, all Wednesday saw was the penny on the tile, growing fuzzier, fuzzier…

…Until finally, she fell into oblivion.

###

Wednesday’s parents were always behaving in ways that made her feel nauseated (in the worst way). It was no surprise anymore.

But there was one particular day, back at the manor, that stuck in her memory. It was the dead of winter—miserable, just how they liked it. The three of them were wading through two feet of snow, trying to find Pugsley, who Wednesday had buried an hour earlier for interrupting her sleep with his obnoxious cold-induced sniffling.

“Wednesday,” Morticia had scolded, “If you’re going to freeze your brother, you must remember the coordinates!”

While she was up ahead, poking at a patch of ice with her shovel, Wednesday and her father had come across a dead rabbit. Its blood and entrails had stained the snow in a long streak. Its lifeless eyes were turned to the sky.

“What,” Wednesday had asked with morbid delight, “must a cold death feel like?”

“It happened to me once,” Gomez replied. “I woke up without your mother beside me. She had left to relight a candle.”

The insufferably sentimental wording was typical, but against the endless white backdrop, Wednesday saw his expression clearer than she ever had before, and it was that which caught her off guard.

Because each time Morticia was obscured by a flurry of snow, even for just a second, Wednesday could physically see her father’s heart squeeze in his chest. As if his wife being out of view was truly death for him. As if each blink away from her pained him. As if they shared a soul.

Wednesday had found it acutely disturbing, and it seared itself into her mind for years to come. She didn’t understand why a person would wish to be intertwined with another. She couldn’t imagine feeling so deeply.

She never wanted to imagine.

If only her mind followed her wishes.

If only her heart did.

###

Wednesday did not ease into wakefulness this time around. She rather jolted into it, bolting up into a sitting position. The world spun around her for several seconds, settling back into the too-familiar gradients of the planetarium. The false sun was bright and high in its false sky.

Why dream of that now? Why?

Metal engulfed her. Moving was on the edge of impossible. Her body ached, head throbbed. As she tested her newly secured bindings, the results of Bolt’s attempted experiment flowed back into her mind.

I was weak, she thought. There was no other way to describe the defeat. She’d been distracted, tricked, overpowered: all of the things she swore were reserved for other, lesser investigators. Now she had lost her picks, her knife, and escaping was going to take a great deal more effort.

She turned to her left. Enid was slumped against the railing, asleep. Wednesday hadn’t realized how concerned she was until she felt a physical pressure leave her at the sight. She’s okay. She’s still here.

What exactly Bolt had done to her while Wednesday was out was impossible to say. But at least she wasn’t a werewolf, or part of one, or missing a spine.

Wednesday strained against her chains and nudged Enid with her sock. “Enid.”

Enid stirred but didn’t wake. Wednesday nudged her again. “Enid.”

Enid’s eyes flew open. She bucked against her shackles. “I have claws and I know how to use ‘em!” she yelled, seemingly on instinct.

“Quiet!” Wednesday hissed. “It’s me.”

Enid turned and blinked a few times. The fight drained out of her. She leaned back against the railing and groaned. “Oh, Wens. Thank god, thank god. It’s you.” Her tooth dug into her bottom lip. “Oh, Wens, you don’t know what it’s like watching you pass out like that. I was so worried. I almost had a heart attack. Oh my god.”

You did? Wednesday wanted to say. I watched you get strapped to a table and scream bloody murder.

“What did Bolt do?” she asked instead.

“Gosh, he freaked out,” Enid said. “Like, bleeding all over the place, falling over, giving Kid nonsensical orders and stuff. I thought I was having some sorta fever dream. He stumbled out into the hall and didn’t come back. Kid untied me and brought us here, and he was all stressed too.” She frowned. “Then I guess I fell asleep? I dunno, it’s all so jumbled.”

Bolt was hurt pretty bad, then, and his experiment was a complete collapse. If only Wednesday had made it to his jugular. She would have loved to rub that in the face of his corpse.

“Sorry for screaming my head off and all that,” Enid said, sheepish. “Geez, I really ruined your plan, didn’t I?”

“The plan was insufficient from the start,” Wednesday said. They hadn’t been able to predict any of their captor’s moves, plus they lacked knowledge of how the building was structured and what tools Bolt owned. It was a bad set up. Luck didn’t exist, and if it did, it was not on their side.

She considered trying to have another psychic vision, but the planetarium was a bit of a weak link. Besides, even if they knew where to go, their shackles were a problem. She’d have to sort through the countless memories of her uncle’s escape lessons to twist her way out. It would be a long, grueling process.

Her frustration must have shown, because Enid became hopeless. “What are we going to do?” she lamented. “Is this seriously the end? I have so many Insta messages to reply to. This is literally the worst day ever. At least give me a last meal!”

Very dramatic. Wednesday understood where she was coming from, though. There were no assurances to offer. Wednesday did not plan to give up, but she could not lie and say their chances were good.

“I guess I couldn’t reply anyway,” Enid continued. “He took my phone.” She paused, head tilted to watch the lowering sun. “This sounds weird, but at first I didn’t even want it back. ‘Cuz I was thinking my parents probably haven’t written to me. Ha. How sad is that?”

“Bolt fabricated messages,” Wednesday told her. “Your father noticed.”

Enid perked up. “Really? Huh.”

“It is not enough,” Wednesday said. “If you wish for them to pay for their ignorance, I can make it happen.”

Enid hesitated, then shrugged. “We can’t all be an Addams, with a family willing to die—or I guess more likely kill—for us. I’ve accepted it, mostly.” Her expression went wistful. Perhaps she was thinking back to her childhood.

Wednesday thought again of her own. Her dream. A cold death.

What would she have felt, if she’d turned and Enid wasn’t there, still on the table or worse? What would she do in the future if they never escaped and Enid died first?

A dark pit of despair threatened to overtake her. She did not wish to ponder these possibilities any longer, yet they refused to stop pestering her. I do not know. I do not want to know.

What she did know was that she should resume her escape measures. Bolt was hurt, Kid had run out of surpises—they weren’t entirely doomed, so long as they could avoid the hounds. But instead she just sat there with Enid, staring at the sky, for a long, long while. Perhaps an hour. The stars and planets drifted overhead in an endless journey, sky going from light to dark and back again. Wednesday understood why it had messed with Enid’s head. Anyone could get lost in it, forget what was real and what was fake.

She thought: it would not be the worst death conceivable. Us, here.

She thought about Morticia and Gomez and Pugsley at her funeral; she thought about how she would have told them to go to Enid’s as well, because Enid deserved more than the presence of her subpar family. She thought about their graves side by side, and wondered if Enid had considered it as well.

She thought about a rabbit resting over a red puddle, lifeless eyes facing up.

“Well, I always figured we’d die together, anyway,” Enid muttered.

“Likewise,” Wednesday conceded.

Something nameless passed between them. Enid opened her mouth to say something else. Her hand twitched toward Wednesday’s, despite never being able to reach, and Wednesday allowed it. They could feel each other’s warmth like this. The sky had become a deep indigo, stars fading into view…

Then, abruptly, it fell.

The sky fell.

Not all of it. Just one piece. A rectangle, to be precise. It clattered to the floor near the center of the room, and only then did Wednesday realize what it was, what was happening.

It was a vent grate.

Thing.

Wednesday had assumed he’d gotten lost, or captured, or was unable to aid in their escape for any other of the limitless reasons that a hand could find. She’d been so caught up in her struggle against Bolt that she hardly thought of him at all. But here he was, in the rotten flesh, ready to rescue them. He brushed off his pointer with his thumb, all smug like.

Oh, he would never, ever, let her forget this save. She was sure of it.

“Thing!” Enid screeched, pointing. “OMG! OMG! Thing!”

“Shh,” Wednesday warned.

“Shit! Sorry!” Enid lowered her voice. “Why didn’t you tell me you brought him? He was here the whole time? Wednesday!”

“He served no purpose until now.” Even as she spoke ill of him, the realization that vengeance was still in her reach hit Wednesday hard, and arrived along with a hidden gratitude toward him. She exhaled from somewhere deep within.

If Kid was Bolt’s surprise, Thing was theirs. There would be no slow, methodical escape. They were getting out tonight.

I suppose Enid and I can fit a third grave next to ours…

Thing scurried over, holding one of Wednesday’s fallen lock picks, and indicated that he’d used it to get the grate off.

“This is perfect, Thing!” Enid praised. “Now you can set us free.”

“Not us, me,” Wednesday said, and at Enid’s expression, explained, “Abscondence only requires the release of my hand, and afterward, I can unlock you as well. Thing should prioritize collecting Bolt’s blood from the operating room. It is more efficient this way.”

“Ahh,” Enid said.

Blood? Thing gestured.

Wednesday sighed. He had missed entirely too much exposition, and they didn’t have time to explain everything all over. “The room where you got the picks. Bloody tissues.”

“Bring one to the giant warehouse looking place behind the dome,” Enid added. “Let the evil dogs sniff it, and then run! For your life!”

Please explain, Thing tried.

“No,” Wednesday said. “Hurry.”

Thing swiftly unlocked her wrists and then scampered away, appearing rather dejected at getting sent away so soon.

“You should be nicer to him,” Enid chided.

“I’ll pay for his manicure when we get out,” Wednesday said. She finished her ankle chains, then moved on to Enid. The only sound was of their breathing as she crouched to find the correct angle. Somehow, Enid’s vexatious bergamot, rose, and pink peppercorn body wash had persevered through several days of being abducted. There was a bruise on her shoulder. The thin line of scars from her fight with Tyler peeked out from her tangled hair, reaching almost to her lips.

“Uh,” Enid said with a raised brow. “My chains are down here.”

Wednesday quickly averted her gaze from Enid’s face and went on with her work, feeling a strange burning sensation beneath her skin. Must have been a side effect from the sedative.

Once freed, Enid rubbed at her wrists and smiled, perhaps for the first time since she’d been found. “Freedom!” she exclaimed. “Finally, those things were damn heavy.”

“Celebrations will have to be postponed," Wednesday said. “If Thing makes haste, he should be reaching the hounds right about—”

The planetarium shook with the loudest, most anguished series of howls Wednesday had ever heard.

“—now.”

“Sheesh!” Enid said. They both scrambled to stand up, and in tandem, rushed to the door. Wednesday threw it open just in time to catch a frantic Bolt and Kid rushing past the comet exhibit. A stray Mars model was rolling around behind them. Bolt slowed to whip around and scream: “What have you done!?” but because his face was wrapped in so much gauze, it was more of a muffled Whaf haf hew hone?

“We’re innocent!” Enid yelled.

“Please enunciate,” Wednesday said flatly.

“Arrgh!’”

Bolt ran on to go try and calm his bloodthirsty hounds. But Kid stayed behind, eyes flashing with rage. “You ruined everything,” he spat. His glove had fallen to reveal a fisted, fur-covered paw. He was trembling all over, teeth bared and knees crouched, ready to attack.

“Yes,” Wednesday agreed. “I’m sure life without having your precious owner’s boots to lick will be a real slog.”

Kid pounced, shoving her up against the wall, but the movement was sloppy and imprudent. She had her hand in his jacket pocket in a second, and a syringe at his neck in the next.

“Or perhaps you’d prefer your life to simply end,” she said, low and dangerous. “I know what I’d prefer.”

Before he could sit with her threat, before that satisfying haze of fear could overtake him, Enid was tugging him away and tossing him to the side like a ragdoll. “Get away from her,” she demanded of him, and then told Wednesday, “You can’t kill him!”

Wednesday imagined strangling Kid, using the needle to gouge out his eyes, throwing him under a stampede of hounds, and watching them tramble over his crumpled body. She imagined his cries.

She said, “I’m quite sure I can.”

“I mean you shouldn’t,” Enid said. “He’s just a kid. Literally.”

Wednesday glared. “He is not just anything. He is an accomplice in your kidnapping and torture.”

“He’s Bolt’s victim.”

“He hurt you.”

“I know!” Enid gestured to him as if he was a prop instead of an active participant in the fight. “That’s why I should get to decide what’s done to him, right? Let him go. It’s Bolt you want gone, not him.”

Wednesday bit back the words, don’t tell me who I do or don’t want six feet under and forced herself to really consider Kid. He seemed rattled now, no longer on the offensive and instead taking wary steps backwards. There was little chance he would be able to dig them into deeper trouble without exposing himself. No chance he went to the police in this state. Most likely, he wouldn’t even make it through the night.

To the side, Enid was making big, shiny puppy eyes.

Wednesday debased her entire bloodline by gritting out, “Fine. Go.”

She wanted to regret it as soon as he scurried away, but Enid’s grin despite the way the museum was beginning to tremble around them made it difficult. The lights in a distant room flickered.

“How did it feel doing the right thing?” Enid said.

“Miserable,” Wednesday muttered.

A basketball-sized replica of Venus shook loose from the ceiling and crashed to the floor. On its way down, it took out the glass casing of three neighboring displays, sending shards flying all throughout the hall. A tall telescope tipped against the wall behind, and a blank screen fell from its stand.

“I think that’s our sign to go,” Enid said.

As they ran down the hall, the museum crumbled around them like every screw and nail had rusted through years ago. Wednesday couldn't have kept track of all the noises if she tried. One did stand out, though—Bolt screaming somewhere off in the distance.

Oh, how Wednesday wished she could see him suffer. Despite all her failures of the day, she knew her biggest regret would be letting the dogs get to him instead of killing him herself. The only thing that kept her from taking a detour to catch the scene was not wanting to let Enid out of her sight. Enid would never go with her.

The things I sacrifice for her, Wednesday thought with a frown.

They didn’t actually witness their first hound until the curved hall where Wednesday had entered came into view. There was a rush of heavy footsteps, and they skidded to a halt. Suddenly, a beast large enough to touch the ceiling if it stood upright shot past them in a flurry of patchy, blood-soaked fur, paws as big as plates, and rows upon rows of curved teeth. Everything that it bumped against shattered or toppled over. It was panting, slobber dripping to the floor.

Enid hadn’t been exaggerating.

Luckily, it had no interest in them. It flew down the direction where they had come from, assumedly to go help clean Bolt’s bones. Wednesday felt a little better about not getting to see his demise in person, then. She could easily fantasize about it now that she’d seen the size of that thing’s teeth. He would be mutilated beyond what any person besides his own victims had experienced. There was beauty in that.

They took the time to stop by a few rooms to look for their missing belongings, as well as Thing. Wednesday particularly wanted her boots back. They had been custom-made, and stepping on glass was not one of her favorite forms of torture.

She found them, along with her jacket, in a dusty storage room next to a pile of Bolt’s dirty clothes. She put on the boots, but elected to carry her jacket, as she deemed it contaminated and would have to bleach it as well as her skin before wanting to wear it again.

Enid’s phone remained a mystery. “I can’t let my blog die,” she despaired. Wednesday graciously didn’t voice her opinion on that subject.

But no matter either of their feelings, they couldn’t spend much longer rummaging around for it, that was clear. They were mere minutes away from the whole place caving in. Broken lights littered the floor. Stray hounds scratched at the walls. At one point, the massive Saturn that Wednesday had noticed earlier almost crushed her—how had that even been displaced?—but Enid caught it and shoved it aside. “We need to find Thing!” she yelled over the chaos.

Unlike a device, Thing was irreplaceable. Trust her, Wednesday had tried.

“There’s a vent near the entrance,” Wednesday said. “Where I originally dropped him off. If he has any sense, he’ll return there.”

“Right, let's go!”

They ran through the final stretch of the museum, dodging obstacles at every turn. Wednesday took a second to appreciate the absurdity of it all. Enid would probably say something like, “Almost dying ten feet from an Earth with googly eyes was so not on my 2023 bingo card.” Whatever that meant.

Finally, they reached the vent. Wednesday pried off the cover. The two of them stared down the darkness for several unblinking moments.

“C’mon, Thing,” Enid urged.

As if her voice had truly summoned him, Thing emerged from the shadows a few seconds later, holding her phone to boot. Wednesday conceded that perhaps a tiny, miniscule amount of luck did exist, and it belonged to Enid at this moment.

Found this, Thing gestured.

Wednesday managed to cover her ears just before Enid let out what was undoubtedly an ear-bleeding shriek of excitement. When she uncovered them, she caught the tail end of Enid’s ramble: “—for ever and ever and ever and ever and you’ll be the best man at my wedding and the flower girl too if you want and I’ll bake you a cake and—”

Wednesday cleared her throat to interrupt. “That’s nice and all, but I’ll have to cut the reunion short,” she said, glancing behind her. “Unless you prefer to get trampled by hounds, in which case that can be arranged.”

Enid shrieked again, this time out of fear, as she noticed what Wednesday had. Apparently, the hounds had finished licking up Bolt’s remains. Now they were beginning to wander into the main halls, searching for a new target.

“Ew, ew, ew!” Enid scooped up Thing, and the three of them hurried down the final stretch, bursting through the heavy doors of the front entrance, hearing the howls and growls overlap behind them in an unending cacophony of rage and hunger.

The doors fell close, and there was a momentary quiet. “Phew,” Enid breathed out.

But they weren’t safe yet. The woods looked more untamed than ever against the night. Silhouettes of vines suffocated the looming trees like nooses, the foliage melted together into one black blotch, and shadowy creatures sent fallen leaves scattering. Cicadas harmonized shrill songs somewhere in the depths. Only the pale light of the moon provided any sort of illumination.

“Animal attacks,” Wednesday said after a pause.

“Huh?” Enid said.

“That’s why the museum ceased business. Animal attacks in the woods. Primarily, between the building and the road.”

“Shit,” Enid said slowly. “Shit! We can’t see crap out here. My hearing is good, but…” She paused. “No, my hearing is too good. Wednesday, they’re coming!”

The two of them shared a look. Running farther was what came to mind, but to where? The woods would be too difficult to navigate, and going back inside wasn’t any better.

Wednesday turned and hurriedly studied the museum’s outside, having to squint through the dark. After a moment, part of the dome caught her eye. There were notches on the side, big enough for a person’s foot

“Can you climb?” she asked.

Enid shook out her arms, then legs. “Yeah, I should be able to. What are you…” She followed Wednesday’s gaze. “Oh. I see.”

“A lackluster response coming from you,” Wednesday commented, jogging over to the dome.

Enid shrugged as she joined. “Well, not a fan, but it beats getting mauled.” The first notch was a bit high up, and she instructed, “Beam me up, Scotty.”

Wednesday scoffed at the misused reference but boosted her up, and then followed. Climbing up the dome was a strange experience. It was crumbled and slippery at parts, and the overall shape did not at all aid in their endeavor. Thing gripped onto Enid’s clothes until his knuckles went white. Enid and Wednesday breathed heavily, concentrated in the way one could only be knowing there were ravenous hounds waiting below.

The dome leveled off at the top, a good few feet of flat platform to support them. Enid groaned as she pulled herself onto it, rolling onto her back.

Wednesday nudged her. “Move.”

Enid complied and they sat shoulder to shoulder, with Thing in Enid’s lap. From up here, they could see over the tops of most trees. The dark shapes of hounds prowled between the gaps in the leaves. Wednesday wondered if Kid had chosen to brave them or to cower under the falling planets inside, then decided she didn’t care. She turned back to the others.

Enid’s hair lifted in the breeze. The moon airbrushed soft light down the curve of her nose, over her lips and cheekbones. A single tear rolled down her face, but she didn’t turn her gaze from the sky.

“You’re crying,” Wednesday said.

Enid wiped her face. “Eh, it’s just nice to see the real moon, I guess, and the stars. I was losing it down there.” She sniffed. “Never knowing the hour, being yelled at to wolf out when I knew it was the wrong time.”

She leaned back, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s nothing new, though. I hope Dr. Bolt didn’t mess anything up permanently with those experiments. I was already beginning to think my first transformation was a fluke. Now if I can’t do it again…”

“To think a second-rate child abductor could alter any part of you would be asinine,” Wednesday said.

“I know. But look what he did to Kid, and those hounds.”

“They don't matter. You’re stronger than them.”

Enid’s lips curved into a half smile, and she glanced at Wednesday. “You better calm down with the praise. I might begin to think you actually like me.”

“Another asinine thought.”

The wind picked up, nearly lifting Wednesday’s braids. It wasn’t quite chilly out, but the hour and breeze combined could take the air somewhere near. Enid was visibly shivering in her tattered clothes. In an act unlike herself, Wednesday untied her jacket from her waist and held it out toward Enid.

Enid gasped, disbelieving. “Are you serious? That’s so sweet. You’ve definitely gone soft.”

“It’s contaminated,” Wednesday informed her, unable to meet her gaze.

Enid snuggled the jacket tight, grinning. “No way. You’re just saying that.”

“I’m saying it because it is factual. Enjoy your skin peeling off two days hence if you wish to mistrust me.”

“Nahhh!” Enid slipped the jacket over her bare arms, letting out a content sigh. Slowly, her smile melted into something a little softer, more genuine.

“Hey,” she said. “Thanks for like…coming to save me from being kidnapped, and stuff. That was pretty cool of you. I’m sorry we lost all your tools, too. Maybe we can look for them in the morning.”

Wednesday traced the constellations with her eyes, the real ones. She did not need a game to memorize them; it had been a part of her childhood curriculum. Orion, Taurus, Gemini.

“I assure you my parents have sufficient funds to provide new weaponry,” she said. “I’ve been needing a new set anyway.”

Enid hummed. “I’m glad. But you did ignore the entire first sentence I spoke, just letting you know.”

That same burning sensation from before returned to Wednesday, beginning at her ears and spreading down. It felt as if this was the tenth time they’d had the same conversation. “What is there to address?” she forced out. “I already told you. I merely returned a favor.”

Enid snorted, a hint of shyness in it. “A pretty big favor. Thanks again.”

Wednesday couldn’t think of anything else to say, not even her usual remarks about how she’d really come for vengeance or bloodshed, and a strange silence fell between them. It wasn’t quite uncomfortable, but it had a certain implacable weight to it, as if reminding them that this night was not one they’d soon forget. The hounds below began to plod deeper into the woods.

Enid’s phone buzzed. “Aw, shoot,” she said. She rubbed her thumb over the corner of the screen, where a tiny crack had formed from the day’s events. Not bad, considering the circumstances. “We match now.”

Wednesday read Yoko’s name at the top of the notification. “Your friends may be displeased with your current situation.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Enid laughed. “‘Hey, Yoko, just got kidnapped. No biggie. In Massachusetts RN. See you soon!’” She shook her head. “I’m going to deal with that later, I think.”

“A shrewd decision.”

“So true…Wait. Wait. Whoa. I do not sound like that!” Enid gaped at her screen. Clearly, she’d found the fake texts. “This is awful. I’ve never used the sideways laughing emoji in my life. He didn’t even try! Here, let me send them to…” Enid’s eyebrows scrunched as realization dawned on her. Again.

“I wonder how many epiphanies one person can have in succession,” Wednesday muttered.

“Your phone,” Enid said sadly. “And it was brand new…”

“An insubstantial loss,” Wednesday said, and meant it. She’d never wanted one in the first place. It was merely a waste of pocket space.

“But how will we talk over break now?” Enid said. She actually looked like she may start crying again.

Wednesday had seen those big blue eyes shine similarly so many times the year prior, because of useless boys or murderous hydes or their own fights. To think that merely being unable to communicate for two and a half months would cause the same reaction stirred an uneasy feeling in Wednesday’s gut. So did having a feeling at all. Since when was she afflicted with such a disease? Surely, it was Enid’s doing—her arrival had started it all.

Enid, with her obnoxious “Kpop” blasting in the dorms, bits of her fuzzy rainbow sweater spread all over the floor, her incessant chattering and texting and giggling. Taking up so much space in Wednesday’s life.

It had been suffocating at first. Wednesday appreciated suffocation, but not the kind that left glitter in her hair hours after a “roomie celebration” that she had not agreed to or that constantly interrupted her novel-writing.

She remembered peering across the room at night with acute disgust at the dozen stuffed animals spilling off of Enid’s bed. She remembered fantasizing about all of the happy accidents she might be able to cause that would require her to switch roommates—or better yet, be alone. She remembered it all; she always would.

And yet.

Then Enid had left her, and she’d gone mad over it. She’d dropped everything to find her. She’d declined going home to her knife collection, suffered through a mind-numbing Uber ride, lost her weapons, been tackled and beaten up and chained to a railing to stare at a fake solar system.

Worst of all, she would do it again. In a heartbeat. The cost hardly even registered in her mind. All she could think about was Enid’s safety, wellbeing, saving her. The truth of it slammed into her like a locomotive, sending her spiraling out of the carefully contained box of her life. She did not like losing control. She did not like having weaknesses.

Enid was a weakness. A big one.

But despite that, Wednesday was unable to remove this weakness from her life. In fact, she could not imagine a life without it anymore. That should have repulsed her, and it didn’t. She could not deny it any longer. Not with Enid still looking at her like that. Expectant, waiting for Wednesday to magically fix their communication issue with all the faith in the world.

Something inside of Wednesday had shattered, never to be reformed.

And, well. She was nothing if not dedicated to solving problems.

“I know a way we can remain in contact,” she said. There it was, out in the night, unable to be retracted.

Enid tilted her head. Like a curious puppy. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

Wednesday sighed as she sealed her fate. Her ears and eyes preemptively stung with the knowledge of the torment they would soon be made to endure.

“My worst nightmare,” she said, quietly. “Prolonged coresidence.”

###

They arrived back at Nevermore just past nine, in a police car.

They’d at first tried to come back the simpler way. But their Uber driver, an old woman named Shelly, had freaked out when she came to pick them up. It probably didn’t help that they had to urge her to hurry “before ‘the beasts’ catch up,” were covered in blood, and hadn’t hidden Thing. When Shelly called the police, she said, verbatim, “I think the goth one’s hand fell off! She’s just carryin’ it around.”

Wednesday had been displeased. Per Enid’s request (demand) she had refrained from threatening any officers verbally (though she did mentally calculate how many of their fingers would fit in her meat grinder). Instead, they used the situation to their advantage. The kidnapping story wasn’t difficult to sell, with the raw skin around their wrists and ankles and general distance from any civilization. Enid could cry on cue, which helped.

Of course, the police only tried to question them further and take them to the nearest station. So as soon as they got there, they both cleaned up in the bathroom, and then Wednesday snatched an officer’s keys. Five minutes later, they were flying down the highway on the road back to school.

Despite lacking a license, Enid insisted on driving. It was much like being driven by Lurch, if Lurch took turns at forty mph, blasted awful pop, and spilled Dunkin’ coffee on the seats every time he took a sip. Wednesday, meanwhile, worked on dismantling the GPS unit so they would be more difficult to track. It reminded her of childhood.

They’d had to stop several times, for food and drinks and also to steal back Enid’s luggage from her and Bolt’s meeting spot. The amount of confused glances they garnered neared the hundreds, but even Enid, who cared what others thought of her, was not affected.

Ever since Wednesday had invited her over for break, she’d been elated, mood unbreakable.

Sleepovers, movies, doing each other’s hair, playing boardgames. Those were only a fraction of the heinous propositions she’d devised for their shared time together.

Regardless of Wednesday’s steady stream of rejections—touch my hair and I remove yours—she’d not stopped grinning. Not since their talk on top of the planetarium. Not when they watched the sun rise and illuminate a path out of the woods. Not as they wandered down the road, trying to get cell service. Not at all.

“Seriously, thank you soooo much!” she exclaimed when they had recently reentered Vermont. “My brothers are literally the worst, and if I have to be trapped with them and my parents for another year, I’ll die.”

“Quiet down. Don’t make me rescind my offer,” Wednesday replied, yet it sounded empty even to her.

Enid’s words,“You’ve definitely gone soft,” had been rattling in her head for a good portion of the past few hours, and she despised it, and she despised more that she hadn’t refuted it.

Why hadn’t she refuted it?

Because—

Enid had slammed on the brakes to point at a group of horses and yell “horses!” and Wednesday never got to finish her thought. In a way, it was merciful. Because no matter if she’d already accepted that Enid was a permanent fixture in her life or had agreed to let her stay at the Addams manor or had watched the sunrise through the reflection in her eyes, there were still many things she was unwilling to unpack. So many thoughts tangled in her head, only able to be unwound with months of careful patience and keen fingers.

Or a chainsaw, Wednesday considered.

They ditched the police car, took a taxi, and then walked the rest of the way to Nevermore. Clouds had descended by then, sucking the light and color from the sky. Just as Wednesday liked it.

They agreed to rest in their dorm for a day before resuming any travel toward Wednesday’s home. Both of them, especially Enid, were exhausted and bruised in ways that had become much more apparent now that the rush of adrenaline had dissipated.

It was odd, laying in their respective beds but with no decorations—multicolored or seeped in darkness—on either side. The room was simply blank. An outsider wouldn’t have been able to tell where the halfway mark lay at all.

“Are you sure it’ll be okay with your family?” Enid asked, after a long stretch of silence. Wednesday had thought she was asleep.

Wednesday turned to face her. “Perhaps. I do not ask permission.”

“Wednesday!” Enid complained.

Wednesday dismissed her concerns. “They’ll be fine. It’s you who should be worried. One hundred and one relatives have died in the guest room, and counting. They’re very loud at night.”

Enid smiled, tired but genuine, as if Wednesday was joking—which was absurd, because Wednesday never joked.

She, Enid, did a lot of sleeping and texting over the next few hours. Her and her parents seemed to have gotten into a sizable fight over the kidnapping. Wednesday fantasized about kidnapping the elder Sinclairs whenever she dozed off. Unlike Bolt, she would never let her victims get away, especially not if she had hounds like those at her disposal, prepared to deliver bloody retribution at her beck and call.

Enid’s naps were apparently not filled with a similar satisfaction. Mostly, she tossed and turned, and a few times, she woke up, dripping in sweat, from a nightmare. When she asked in a shaky voice for Wednesday to come sit with her, Wednesday could not refuse. When she confessed more details of Bolt’s harm against her, the anxiety of being blindfolded, the scalpels, Kid’s distant cries of pain, Wednesday could not do anything to help.

“I might be messed up for a little while,” she said, sniffling.

“Good,” Wednesday replied, “The Addams manor would not welcome you any other way.”

Wednesday would never allow this information to be waterboarded out of her, but she had to borrow a few of Enid’s items of clothing that night, as most of hers were with Pugsley. The color made her itch, and when Enid attempted to sneak a photo, her phone nearly gained another new crack.

Then the stars finally emerged, and they sat outside together without having discussed it, as if that was their routine now, as if it was their newly appointed responsibility to check that the sky was real and not a projection. Time did not move slow or fast then; it moved correctly, in line with the laws of the universe, and it was a relief.

At one point, Enid whispered into the dark, “I can’t believe you actually remembered. That I told you to find me.”

Wednesday looked at her, and it was almost difficult to conceive of a world where those words would have slipped her mind. They were an invisible guideline, an undeniable truth.

“Your request was irrelevant,” Wednesday replied. “I was always going to find you.”

As the sun rose and fell each day, and could not stray from that path, Wednesday was bound to a path that always ended with Enid. There was a distant memory, locked deep in the tombs of her mind, where she’d dreamt of having a psychic vision after brushing against Enid’s hand. In the vision, Enid ran toward her, asked for a hug, and for some reason Wednesday said yes, and when Enid sunk into her, the universe remade itself to accommodate them. Black roses bloomed all around, brushing against their shins.

Vision-Enid leaned so that her lips were pressed against the shell of Wednesday’s ear and whispered, “Not being able to see you is my death. Each blink away from you pains me. I think we share a soul.”

Vision-Wednesday plucked a rose from the ground and tucked it into Enid’s hair, who smiled brilliantly.

Now, as Wednesday slid Enid’s long-forgotten, itchy bracelet from her pocket and over to Enid, their hands, their real ones, brushed against each other. Instead of being afraid of what vision may come, Wednesday leaned into it. She accepted it. She may have hoped for it, if it were possible for Wednesday Addams to hope.

She sunk into the endless color, endless warmth, the antithesis of her being who completed it all the same.

And she thought: Because for you, my weakness, I have gone soft.

And she thought: Here you are.

Right where you belong.