Chapter Text
The air in the quadrangle of Nevermore Academy still smelled of ozone and monster. A fine layer of stone dust coated everything, the gray residue of a battle that felt both a lifetime and a heartbeat ago. Most students had been sent home, their parents grateful to pull them from the epicenter of what the Jericho news was calling a "tragic geological event." The remaining few moved like ghosts across the grounds, their hushed tones a funereal counterpoint to the screech of crows circling the shattered rooftops.
Wednesday Addams stood in the center of it all, unmoved. Her gaze was fixed on the gaping wound in the earth where the Skull Tree had been violently uprooted. It was a grave. An empty one, now, but a grave nonetheless. She had found it enjoyable, she would told Enid. A lie. A necessary deflection from the cold, clawing terror that had gripped her when she heard the frantic scrabbling from above. It was the most unpleasant emotion she had ever been forced to endure.
Her fists, hidden within the pockets of her black coat, were clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She was cataloging, analyzing, processing. The enemy: defeated. The conspiracy: unraveled. The school: saved. By all logical metrics, this was a victory. Yet, the feeling coiling in her gut was not triumph. It was a cold, quiet fury, an emotion so pure and potent it felt like a living thing.
It was the price of that victory that she found unacceptable.
"Wednesday."
The voice was soft, laced with the familiar, somber elegance of her mother. Morticia Addams glided towards her, a silhouette of grace against the backdrop of destruction. She held a leather-bound book in her hands, its cover worn and unmarked by title or time.
Wednesday did not turn. Her eyes remained locked on the disturbed earth. "Mother. I trust your journey was sufficiently grim."
"The roads were littered with the usual miseries of mortal travel," Morticia replied, her voice a low murmur. She stopped beside her daughter, her gaze following Wednesday's. "Your father sends his love. And his bewilderment. He is still trying to understand the physics of a zombie reattaching its own hand."
A muscle in Wednesday's jaw twitched. "A simple matter of reanimated nerve endings and a rudimentary understanding of biomechanics. Pugsley could have managed it."
A knowing sadness touched Morticia's lips. "This is not about Isaac Night, is it?"
Silence. The crows cawed their reply. Wednesday's stillness was absolute, the kind that preceded a storm or a dissection. She had spent the last two days deflecting. She had answered the sheriff’s questions with monosyllabic truths. She had endured the tearful goodbyes of her classmates with stony indifference. She had ignored the frantic, tear-filled voicemails from a woman named Esther Sinclair. But she could not deflect her mother. Morticia did not pry; she simply saw.
"She is gone," Wednesday stated, the words clipped and precise, like shards of glass. It was not a question. It was the conclusion of a damning theorem.
"The woods are vast," Morticia offered gently. "And she is changed."
"Permanently," Wednesday bit out. The word tasted like poison. "An irreversible alteration of her cellular and magical structure. All to rectify a situation of my own making."
"She chose to save you, my dear," Morticia said, placing a cool hand on Wednesday's shoulder. "Love is often a series of such choices. Illogical, impractical, and yet essential."
Wednesday flinched, not from the touch, but from the word. Love. Anathema. A biological fallacy, a chemical imbalance she had prided herself on being immune to. Yet the fury inside her, this all-consuming need to rectify the cosmic injustice done to Enid Sinclair, felt dangerously close to the sentiment her mother described. It was a flaw in her own design she could not ignore.
"Here," Morticia said, extending the leather-bound book. "This belonged to your Aunt Ophelia. Your father and I thought it might hold an answer. Or at least, a path."
Wednesday finally turned, her dark eyes falling on the diary. The leather was smooth, cool to the touch. It felt ancient, heavy with secrets. As her fingers brushed against the cover, a jolt, faint as a moth's wing, went through her. A flicker of an image: a pale face behind iron bars, eyes like her own. It vanished as quickly as it came.
She took the book, her expression unreadable. She had a path. She had had it since the moment she watched the massive, beautiful wolf—its fur still hinting at streaks of pink and blue—turn from her and disappear into the darkness of the woods, a heartbroken howl echoing behind it.
She was going to find Enid. She was going to fix her. And may whatever deity held sway over this miserable world have mercy on anyone who dared to stand in her way.
"I will require Uncle Fester," Wednesday said, her voice dropping to a low, determined register. "And his vehicle. Conventional travel will be inefficient."
Morticia’s smile was faint, but it held a universe of understanding. She saw the cold fire in her daughter’s eyes, a reflection of the same passion that had driven Gomez to her side decades ago. It was not the wide-eyed idealism of a first crush. It was the grim, unwavering resolve of an Addams who had found the one thing in the world they refused to lose.
"He is already on his way," Morticia confirmed. "He mentioned something about a 'werewolf-detecting dirigible.' I advised him against it."
Wednesday gave a single, sharp nod, clutching the diary to her chest. She turned her back on the ruins of Nevermore and began walking toward the gate, her stride purposeful. She did not look back.
"Wednesday," Morticia called out one last time.
Wednesday paused, but did not turn.
"Be careful."
"I will not be the one in danger," Wednesday replied, and then she was gone, a specter of vengeance swallowed by the gloom of the approaching evening.