Chapter Text
Maybe Wednesday would never realize everything she had lost that night, but in truth, it didn’t matter. Because that night, something inside her had died.
Enid would have wanted to cry, if only she could have. If only she hadn’t been so terrified that all she could do was run.
Those eyes… Wednesday’s beautiful eyes, wide, round, and deeply black like solemn wells. The gaze of a raven, Enid thought. That was how she wished to remember her.
She looked at her the way one looks at a memory too precious to be tainted, with the devotion of eyes that had never loved anyone else. If she could have spoken one last time, she would have told her how much she loved her, how much joy her sharp tongue had given her— that sweet poison she had learned to crave. But Enid knew none of that would happen.
She counted each eyelash, each tiny freckle. With a tender jolt, she discovered that Wednesday had a small mole beneath the corner of her right eye.
And she thought that, if she could, she would tear off her own skin and wrap Wednesday in it, so she would carry her forever like a dress.
But Enid knew there was no such thing as “if only”…
The last sound she would remember —if the gods were merciful— would be her name on the lips of the most sublime woman on earth.
Her Wednesday.
She ran as far as her muscles would carry her. From a distance, she could sense the delicate steps of Agnes’s small feet. Even cloaked in invisibility, she could smell her: a perfume of cherries cut with sandalwood leaves. She agreed that this would be one of the last vestiges of humanity she would carry when her wolf mind finally blurred, when the fur grew thick and her body became something else.
She regretted, with piercing pain, everything she would never be able to do… and even more, everything she had done: seeking the approval of a pack that had never wanted her. Choosing masculine lips when all she had ever desired were Wednesday’s. But time —like decisions— does not move backward. And some paths cannot be retraced.
She only stopped when she heard Agnes stumbling among pine branches. The sound was loud enough to shatter the illusion of invisibility.
Enid reached the cascade’s stream. There, Agnes looked her straight in the eyes. Her green eyes, wide and brimming with contained tears, were themselves a plea.
“Don’t do this, Enid!” she cried, her voice breaking. Her hooves barely touched the clear water of the clearing.
“We’ll think of something with Wednesday, let’s go back…” she begged, but Enid only shook her head.
Her face was no longer a face: it was rough, furred, too tall to be hidden even in Nevermore’s shadows. Seeing Agnes so small before the enormity she now represented was a cruel blow. She wanted to howl in pain, but her throat was dry. She thought of how incredibly unjust the world had been with them.
They had laughed together, danced together… and now, she would never see her again. She would never be Enid again.
She did the best she could with each step as she crossed the current of a life that would slowly degrade, a life she had loved but that no longer belonged to her. Agnes tried to cross, but the current and her small stature made it impossible. Enid was tempted to go back; the possibility of her drowning was too great. But then she saw her, dragging herself inch by inch to the shore. Returning. And that was the last thing she admired of her.
The forest was a mass of shadows and strange sounds. Enid wondered how many times she had begged her parents in the past to let her explore alone. Now she would be alone forever. This was not what she wanted, but it was the only thing that existed.
When the full moon reached its peak, she felt her organs churning, compacting. Her figure, once that of a young she-wolf, took on a sharper, more monstrous form: no longer resembling a woman, but the brutality of the werewolves from ancient legends. In her reflection she saw the monstrosity of an unheard-of being: elongated teeth, hair growing like wild weeds, eyes… a blue tainted with the blackness of a curse.
Why did such things have to happen to her?
Enid, who only hours ago had considered herself fortunate within a lineage that had excluded her for so many years, understood for the first time what her teachers in the wolf commune had once warned her: “Some of us remain wolves forever.”
At the time she had laughed. And she forgot it. But the truth is too heavy to ignore. Now she understood: she was condemned. Not only was she an alpha. She was a cursed alpha.
She remembered the only two cases recorded in centuries. The first, in Romania: the son of a count, who wolfed out prematurely after his mother’s death. His own father locked him in the clocktower of Bosnia, trying in vain to restore his humanity. A decade later, when he was discovered, a rain of silver-tipped arrows ended him.
The second case, even crueller, came from Czechoslovakia. A young noblewoman who wolfed out late beneath a rose moon. Her village, already tormented by hunger and poverty, blamed their woes on the howling of the wolves. And wolves, they said, were the friends of witches.
The young woman was engaged to the village blacksmith, a chivalrous and honorable man. Three months earlier, he had asked for her hand. But her father’s refusal triggered tragedy. One night, she wolfed out. The villagers, enraged, turned against both witches and wolves.
The blacksmith, ignorant of his beloved’s condition, thrust the spear that pierced her heart. Believing he had slain a beast, he carried the body away to skin it and fashion a shawl to gift his fiancée.
When morning came, he found upon the straw the naked, cold, solemn body of the woman he had loved most. A rose embedded in her chest, right where his fury had struck.
Enid howled.
Their curses had never been broken, because no one ever knew how. Because ignorance blinded the world. And because, perhaps, no one loved them enough to truly search for them.
The curse of eternal forgetting, as it was called, was terrifying in its simplicity. The wolf community across the world knew that any young alpha who transformed without mastering their power would be condemned: to live eternity as a wolf, forgetting little by little every trace of humanity.
When the first rays of sun pierced the mantle of trees, Enid curled beneath a cedar, one untouched by light. What once would have been reason for joy —the perfect place for a picnic, to laugh, to swim in a pool after— now clawed at her insides with insoluble sorrow.
She thought of Wednesday. Of her obstinate refusal to go into town and buy souvenirs. Of her murderous glare when she leapt on her shoulders. Of the rare moments she could hug her and drown in her scent.
Wednesday. Hard as steel… but soft inside like her perfume: peaches in syrup.
She wondered, What would Wednesday be doing now?
Was she still chasing Tyler? Or maybe with her family on their way to the Addams mansion?
Against all her judgment, Enid wished she was searching for her. Because Wednesday herself had once said it: “An Addams never breaks a promise.” And she had promised her, in front of that lupine cage, that if anything happened… she would HUNT her.
But dreams no longer belonged to her.
The truth was that Wednesday had repeated the same conversation with Agnes over and over again, but the answer was always the same.
She didn’t want to come back with me, Wednesday.
That reality was unacceptable to Wednesday, because she wasn’t afraid of Enid’s presence —not even in her animal form.
Enid didn’t know it, but that very morning Wednesday had asked Agnes if she knew anything about her. She had spoken with the coldest voice she could summon, but her clenched fingers against the table betrayed her. Agnes didn’t answer immediately: she only searched inside her jacket pocket and handed her a crumpled photograph.
—She’s been seen near the border… Canada.
Wednesday held it firmly. She didn’t blink, she didn’t breathe. There was Enid. Or what was left of her: a wolf’s bulky body, eyes glowing with the reddish shine of a predator’s pupil though she knew they were truly a deep blue, fur matted and tangled like a winter scourge. Anyone else would have said she was just another beast of the forest. But Wednesday didn’t.
She didn’t see the wolf. She saw Enid.
And in a second, everything she had struggled to keep inside shattered. The images assaulted her with the violence of a stab: Enid’s awkward smile, the way she laughed when she called her roomie, that absurdly sweet milkshake Wednesday had always deemed unacceptable for being potentially lethal —and yet Enid adored it, with ridiculous enthusiasm.
When Agnes left the room, Wednesday allowed herself to cry. Silent, contained, as if every tear was a secret no one else should ever know.
She cried into Enid’s pillow, that plush thing with pink and red borders on which she had so often seen her sleep. Her cheek sank into a softness anyone else would have found comforting, but to Wednesday it stung —not only because of her allergy to color, but something deeper: the belief that perhaps she had lost something that could never be recovered.
When she had composed herself, when her eyes no longer betrayed the grief corroding her soul, she walked to the funeral-like cabin her mother so carefully kept, even as a temporary loan from Nevermore. One thing was clear as she walked that stony path:
She would not return. Not while Enid was still out there.
Morticia hesitated. The instinct of an Addams was sharp, but the instinct of a mother was like death itself —unequivocal. And something told Morticia that if Wednesday walked out that door, she would never return the same. For the first time, she felt fear.
But Wednesday did not yield. On the contrary, the grand trivialities that once would have exploded from her in arrogant, biting phrases were replaced by a single dry truth.
—You don’t understand, Mother. You don’t understand, Father, —she said that very day, standing before Morticia and Gómez, her voice unyielding—. I will not go with you.
—My dear, the family’s safety… —Morticia began, a shadow of worry and premonition dulling even her elegance.
—Safety is a cage, Wednesday replied, her eyes darkening further—. And I will not abandon Enid to the wilderness.
Gómez looked at her for a long time, with no judgment in his features, only a spark of recognition. It was the same obstinacy that had once led him to risk everything for Morticia.
And an Addams never breaks their word. A promise is a death contract.
Gómez did not stop her, but he admired her the way one admires things both fleeting and eternal. He glimpsed the shine of Wednesday’s rebellious hair framing her face in braids, the awareness that he was before a being who had not only known misfortune but was now prey to love.
The road stretched out like a dark wound beneath the leaden sky as Wednesday left with Uncle Fester. He hummed macabre tunes at the wheel, cracking jokes every now and then.
—That girl could really tear us apart. I can already imagine her claws, eh? —he laughed, nudging her lightly, though his eyes darkened for an instant. He too sensed the truth: that his niece was not merely chasing a friend. She was chasing someone she loved.
Above the motorcycle, a crow with a tar-black, fleshy eye followed them, wings beating like an ancient sentinel. Wednesday watched it through the rearview mirror, saying nothing.
She didn’t yet know that this vigilant eye belonged to someone else: her aunt Ophelia, a fragmented crow. A woman whose visions did not only foretell death, but also sorrow —and, sometimes, joy.
And as the wind whipped the road, Wednesday Addams clung to a single certainty:
She wasn’t searching for the beast. She wasn’t going to save her. She was going to hunt her, drag her back if she had to, returned to her side.
When Wednesday reached the borderlands, she felt it: a land of death and desolation.
And never had she liked something so much.
Meanwhile, for Enid the forest had never seemed so vast, so impossible to grasp. Among the upright pines and firs stabbing the sky like knives, the gloom reigned even when the sun tried to assert itself. Mist slid over the ground like a white river, hiding roots, stones, and forgotten animal bones.
She moved through it with a body that no longer fully belonged to her. Every muscle burned, every step was a reminder that the border between the human and the bestial had already been broken —and that there was no turning back. The cold air entered her lungs like frozen fire, and yet her nose distinguished every particle: the resin of trees, the damp earth, the fear of rabbits hidden under the underbrush.
And above it all, one echo: the memory of Wednesday’s perfume. Peaches in syrup. That was the invisible thread still binding her to what she had been, the only trace of tenderness in a body hardening like stone.
The teachers at the wolf commune had always been right. Forgetting wasn’t immediate: it seeped in slowly, like poison. First the words vanished; then the faces; at last, the names. And Enid feared the day when, upon closing her eyes, she would no longer recall the dark curve of Wednesday’s braids, nor the sharpness of her voice made of thorns.
She stopped before a clearing and breathed deeply. The wind carried a metallic scent. Blood.
Instinct pulled her before she could resist. She moved through the bushes with the agility of a predator, body crouched low, eyes glowing with a blue tainted in black. And then she saw it: a young deer, barely an adolescent of the forest, bending over the water of a brook. Its long, fragile neck moved innocently as it drank, unaware that death was watching from just meters away.
Enid wanted to look away. For a fleeting moment, she wanted to be the girl who cried at night under full moons because her transformations came late. She wanted to remember laughter with Yoko, walks with Ajax, the times she painted her nails pastel to contrast with Wednesday’s black. She wanted to be anything but what she was now.
But hunger was a chain, and that chain bound tighter than any will.
She leapt.
The deer barely had time to lift its head before claws crushed it to the earth. The cry was brief, torn, interrupted by the snap of bones. Enid felt the hot blood pour between her fangs, the metallic taste fused with an instinct that consumed her. Bestiality struck her like lightning. The entire world narrowed to that bite, to that heartbeat.
The worst part was the feeling of relief.
The soft flesh, the muscle fibers bleeding out, and that sangria-like taste that lit her veins on fire.
She enjoyed it.
As she tore flesh with her teeth, an invisible tear escaped somewhere in the corner of what little remained of her human mind. And in that very instant, without knowing it, someone else was watching.
Wednesday Addams had learned to track since she was a child. Her father had taught her in the swamps, her mother among mausoleums, and practice had been perfected at Nevermore. No murderer could erase the traces of their crime before her eyes, no animal could fully hide its path in the forest. And yet, pursuing Enid Sinclair was different.
She wasn’t following footprints. She was following scars in the earth. Branches broken with violence, claw marks gouged into trunks, pools of water disturbed as if some monster had drunk there.
Wednesday gripped the reins of her horse with feigned calm. Inside, her heart beat with a disorder unworthy of her. She had tried to convince herself she was only looking for her friend, that her mission was to bring her back, that this was just another expedition. But she knew she was lying.
Because every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was Enid’s face transforming that night under the full moon. The pain on her features. The terror in her eyes before they turned feral. The silent sacrifice she had made to save her.
She hated herself for not having foreseen it. For not knowing what it would mean. And above all, for feeling now that losing Enid hurt more than any physical wound.
The horse grew restless as the smell of blood reached its nostrils. Wednesday soothed it with a gentle tug of the reins. She advanced slowly, like a hunter approaching the final snare.
And then she saw her.
Enid was crouched over the body of a deer, tearing the flesh with a brutality no human could imitate. Blood stained her muzzle, her chest, her claws. Her silhouette was imposing, an impossible blend of beauty and terror.
Wednesday froze. Not because she feared the creature, but because, deep down, she felt she was witnessing something sacred.
The contrast cut through her like a blade: that was Enid, her Enid, the girl who baked cookies and painted her nails pink. And at the same time it wasn’t. She was a wild goddess, a fierce creature that needed no one, that could shatter the world with a roar.
The air was so tense even the crows fell silent.
Wednesday dismounted in silence. She took a step, and then the creature raised its head.
Enid’s eyes glowed in the shadows. A growl escaped her throat. Wednesday sensed the sound wasn’t aimed at her, but at the memory of what she had been.
For an instant, she thought she recognized a human flicker. A spark that looked at her with tenderness, with pain. But it vanished immediately, replaced by the cold gleam of the predator.
Enid stepped back, her body tense as a drawn bow. Wednesday raised one hand, slowly, as if trying to calm a wounded animal.
—Enid, she whispered, barely audible.
The wolf roared. The sound rumbled through the forest and the birds took flight.
Wednesday didn’t retreat. Her dark eyes locked onto Enid’s with that obstinacy that had always defined her. She knew she shouldn’t, that it could cost her life. But she said it anyway:
—I will find you. Even if you hate me. Even if you forget me, Enid.
The silence broke with a snap. Enid leapt back, vanishing among the trees. The deer’s blood still dripped onto the grass, hot, fresh.
Wednesday followed, but she couldn’t catch her. Only the emptiness remained, the echo of the roar and the metallic stench in the air.
The horse waited, nervous, when she returned. Wednesday stroked its neck to calm it, but then she noticed: a detail she hadn’t seen before. The marks in the grass weren’t from a single wolf.
There were more.
And if Enid was hunting with them —other outcasts, perhaps, other cursed beasts— the possibility of bringing her back was even more uncertain.
Wednesday closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She remembered Enid’s gaze and told herself nothing was lost yet. Or perhaps it was only a trick of her memory, a desperate wish to cling to what was left of her friend.
The blood on the grass was the only certainty.
And the forest, with its endless shadows, became her only stage.
Wednesday knew that next time she would not only be a witness. She would be part of the hunt.
She couldn’t renounce her, couldn’t turn her back. She kept coming back, day after day, night after night.
The forest had changed. Or perhaps it was Wednesday who saw it differently now, as if each day of searching made it stranger, further from any notion of civilization. The air had thickened, heavy with humidity and echoes. Even the sun seemed hostage to the branches, filtering only tatters of light that never touched the ground. Every shadow was suspicious, every sound a reminder she wasn’t alone.
Days had passed since she had seen her with the deer. Days in which the traces had multiplied, as if the creature had decided to claim the entire forest as her own. Claw marks on trunks, deep prints in the mud, remains of animals scattered like bloody offerings. Wednesday had followed every thread with surgical patience, clinging to the certainty that her friend, her… Enid, was still there somehow.
But hope grew frailer with each discovery.
That afternoon, the stench was unbearable. Wednesday knew what she was about to find even before she arrived: fresh blood, mangled flesh, broken bones. The air was saturated with a savage, metallic odor unbearable to any sensitive nose. For her, it was the evidence she needed.
The horse resisted moving forward. It pulled at the reins, neighing with wide eyes. Wednesday forced it closer, though she already knew this would not end well. And then, there it was.
Enid’s back, crouched over what had been a grizzly bear. What remained of it was barely a heap of skin and twisted bones, flesh ripped away with brutality, the head bent at an impossible angle. Enid’s blond fur, matted and filthy, was smeared with blood. Her claws glistened wet under the meager light.
Wednesday fought a contradictory impulse: revulsion and reverence. She couldn’t look without feeling she was intruding on something forbidden, an ancient rite no human should ever approach. This wasn’t Enid, the girl who decorated her room with neon lights and cheerful playlists. She was a predator, an alpha cursed by the malediction, a wild queen devouring her throne of bones.
The horse reared in panic, and the sudden motion made Wednesday lose control. She barely managed to grab the saddle before the animal bucked and she fell hard onto her back. The earth slammed against her, air rushing from her lungs. When she finally opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was Enid.
She had turned toward the noise. Blood still dripped from her fangs, her blue eyes shone with an unnatural glow. Enid growled, and the sound was no reminder of friendship—it was a threat.
Wednesday barely had time to get to her feet before the creature lunged at the horse. It wasn’t a calculated attack, but an instinctive reflex, as if anything that moved in that territory was food or rival. The horse’s torn neigh filled the forest as the animal tried to flee. Wednesday stepped back a few paces, fully aware she could not stop her. And yet, something inside her screamed: that was not the Enid she knew—yet it was.
Before she could react, someone appeared behind her. A strong arm lifted her from the ground with the ease of picking up a forgotten coat. Wednesday twisted violently, ready to drive her dagger into whoever dared touch her, but froze when she recognized the silhouette.
“Easy there, niece.” The nasal, mocking voice was unmistakable. Uncle Fester smiled with that gesture halfway between adorable and macabre that had always defined him. “Looks like your friend’s hungry… and in a foul mood. If we don’t get out of here, we’ll be two more horses.”
Wednesday frowned but said nothing. Enid had torn the horse apart in seconds. Nothing recognizable remained except the head and the Spanish leather saddle, scattered through the grass. The silence that followed was worse.
“That girl can bite, huh?” Fester added with a nervous chuckle. His eyes gleamed, as if he had just pieced together something no one had told him. “And you… ah, my dear Wednesday. You don’t need to say a word. I saw it on your face.”
Wednesday’s glare could have killed.
“If you utter one more word, I’ll stitch your tongue to the soles of your shoes.”
Fester raised his hands in mock innocence, but the smile remained. That smile that said: I understood it all, even if you won’t admit it.
“Don’t worry. Falling in love with madness runs in the Addams blood.” It was the last thing he said, and it was unbearable.
Wednesday looked away. Her heart pounded with an uncharacteristic fury. Fester didn’t know how right he was. Or he did, and that was exactly why he said it.
When she returned to the site hours later, she found what was left of the Danish horse. But what froze her wasn’t the carcass—it was the sadism with which it had been consumed: tracks. The forest bore witness—it wasn’t just Enid. There were more. Many more, perhaps cursed too, perhaps cast out of the main pack. And among all those prints, the deepest was Enid’s. She was taking the place that belonged to her: the alpha, the one who hunted first.
Wednesday drew a long breath. The forest seemed to bow toward that conclusion. Enid wasn’t just a victim of the curse. She was the leader of her own savage circle.
She followed the trail with a determination that only broke when the ground vanished beneath her feet.
The ravine appeared suddenly, hidden by undergrowth. Wednesday barely managed to grab a root before falling. The void roared below, a drop high enough to smash her skull and extinguish her life. The earth crumbled slowly under her fingers. She realized she wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer.
And then it happened.
A white-and-golden shadow emerged from the trees. The leap was instinctive, precise. Strong claws seized her arm, a crushing weight pulling her back from the edge just before it gave way. Wednesday was dragged violently onto the leaf-strewn ground. She gasped, more from surprise than fear.
Enid was on top of her.
Her breath was hot, mingled with the scent of blood and earth. Her eyes burned with painful intensity—not human, not conscious, but not fully animal either. Wednesday understood in a piercing flash: Enid didn’t know who she was. She didn’t even associate her with a name. But she did with a scent.
Peaches.
Enid’s nose brushed against her neck, sniffing insistently. Wednesday felt her tongue where her pulse beat the hardest. A low growl rumbled from Enid’s throat, not of threat, but of recognition. Wednesday froze, feeling that deep breath etching itself into her skin. She was the imprint. The anchor.
And yet Enid didn’t know it.
Wednesday closed her eyes for a second. The weight of Enid’s body, the claw still gripping her arm, the heat radiating from her… it all pierced her with unbearable intensity. She wanted to speak, to tell her she was there, that she wouldn’t abandon her. But she knew words would be useless.
Enid didn’t understand names. Only scents. Only instincts.
The wolf pulled away suddenly, as if the very contact had unsettled her. She bolted into the thicket, disappearing into the shadows, leaving behind a damp silence.
Wednesday lay on the ground, gasping, her hand rising to touch the still-warm saliva on her neck.
She had escaped death. But what unsettled her most wasn’t the fall—it was the way Enid had saved her. Not as a friend. Not as someone who remembered. But as something carved into her very core, an impossible-to-forget scent.
Wednesday Addams, cold, steely, incorruptible, pressed her hand to her chest to steady the tremor.
She couldn’t forget her either.
The forest growled in the distance. And Wednesday knew the hunt had only just begun.
That’s what she believed—that she was the hunter and Enid the prey. Or was it the other way around?
The storm had descended on the forest like an army. The sky, metallic gray, split with lightning that lit the pines’ crowns. Wednesday tightened the reins of the skittish mare her uncle had secured only hours before, but the animal bolted, terrified of the thunder. Icy water struck her face, soaking her braids and turning her coat into a burden. She didn’t curse, didn’t cry; she only pressed her lips in fury. The rain would not break her, but the forest offered no reprieve.
When the mare slipped in the mud, she knew she wouldn’t survive the night without shelter. She spotted a dark opening in the rocks, a stone mouth in the hillside. She spurred the animal toward it, tied it to a nearby trunk, and stepped into the cave. The air was heavy, damp, scented with wet earth and moss. Only a few steps inside, the shadows swallowed her.
And then she felt it.
An animal heat, a massive heartbeat that didn’t belong to the stone. She froze. Her eyes adjusted to the dark and she made out a shape. Not an illusion. A vast body, covered in golden and blackened fur—she recognized it as dried blood—curled at the cave’s back like a beast at rest. Wednesday thought of retreating, of drawing the blade she always carried, but thunder split the sky and the wolf stirred.
It didn’t attack.
The beast turned slowly, opening eyes vast as beacons at sea, tainted with blackness. With a low growl, it recognized her as something to protect, not devour. And Wednesday, too, recognized it. Enid.
Before she could react, the wolf pulled her close with a large, warm claw, wrapping her against its chest as if she were a lost cub.
Wednesday held her breath. She felt that massive body covering her, wild heat searing through her soaked skin. Her legs clenched involuntarily and a shiver coursed down her spine. It was not like her to show such weaknesses, she told herself with fury. She was steel. She was venom. And yet, under that enormous claw, she felt things she couldn’t name.
Enid’s hand—hairy, huge—slid down to her belly in an unconscious gesture of protection. Wednesday tensed. Her heart hammered violently. And, against all logic, she lifted her small hand and clutched the wolf’s long finger, as if she wanted to chain herself there. The contrast was grotesque and beautiful: the tiny hand of an Addams gripping the savage finger of the creature that had once been her friend.
Enid said nothing. She didn’t growl. She didn’t try to bite. She simply held her, breathing slowly, as if both forms—wolf and human—recognized Wednesday as something far too important to leave to the elements.
The storm roared outside. Inside the cave, Wednesday remained awake, her eyes fixed on the darkness, analyzing each breath, every tremor. The beast did not remember her. That was obvious. But it hadn’t destroyed her either. And that meant something.
When dawn broke the storm, Wednesday watched her leave. Her pelt shone under the faint light, her claws stained with the blood of the night’s hunt. Wednesday followed her with her gaze until she vanished among the trees. And she thought: she doesn’t remember me anymore… but she still keeps me.
Wednesday sharpened her dagger as she thought. Not out of a need to wound, but because steel between her fingers helped her order her mind.
What would come next would show her something she wasn’t prepared for, something that even the gods and demons of the earthly realm would fear…
But she would discover it soon enough.
When the blood moon rose, the forest crackled with electricity. It was drowned in an impossible red, as if someone had set fire to the sky and let the embers fall onto the earth. The river thundered under the waterfall, a gray torrent shattering the night into shards of foam. Wednesday moved among the trees’ shadows like a ghost, her dagger steady in her hand, her eyes sharp, following a trail only she seemed to understand.
She recognized her instantly, and the emotion struck her in deep waves, right in her ribcage, where her heart lay.
Water ran over a human body, emerging slowly as if born from the river itself. Blonde hair, longer than ever, fell in heavy strands, still faintly touched with the washed-out traces of pink and blue. Her skin gleamed beneath the red light, marked with scars that looked like stories carved by force: claw marks, cuts barely healed, signs of an endless struggle.
Wednesday forced herself to breathe. It was human. It was Enid. But it wasn’t.
The creature opened her eyes. There was no tenderness in them, only a burning hunger.
“Hey, braids…” she rasped, as if each word tore through a rusted throat that had long forgotten how to speak. “Do you like the hunt?”
Wednesday’s heart clenched. That way of speaking… it wasn’t hers, and yet it was. Like a cursed echo of the girl she had known.
She didn’t respond. She adjusted the dagger between her fingers, as if the blade could contain what her voice could not say.
Enid smiled, twisted, dangerous. She walked toward her, water still cascading from her shoulders, circling her the way a wolf circles its prey. Wednesday turned with her, never lowering the weapon. Every step Enid took was an invisible blade, every glance a poisoned dart.
“I’m hungry…” Enid murmured, tilting her head toward the dagger’s edge. “So very hungry.”
Enid was so close that the droplets falling from her body dampened the fabric covering Wednesday’s chest.
Wednesday clenched her teeth. She lifted the knife to her chest.
“One step closer and I’ll cut you.”
Enid stopped. A drop of water slid from her chin down to her neck. She laughed, a hollow, savage sound. She lowered her gaze to the knife and then back to Wednesday, with that predator’s gleam that seemed amused by the threat.
“Lower, braids…” she whispered, with a venomous smile. “If you dare.”
The subtext hit Wednesday like a blow. The red moon made everything unbearable: the air, the closeness, the contrast between the steel blade and the bare skin before her.
The memory struck her unbidden: Enid laughing in the rain at Nevermore, the radiant clumsiness of her joy, the hugs that smelled of peaches and sweet flowers. That memory and the wild woman before her seemed like two specters layered atop one another. Wednesday felt cornered between what she had lost and what she still desired.
“This isn’t you,” she spat at last, her voice low, clinging to the only shield she knew: cruelty.
But Enid didn’t break. She leaned slightly toward her, water dripping from her hair like a curtain of fire beneath the red moon, and smiled.
“And yet… you can’t take your eyes off me.”
Wednesday felt a whip crack in her chest. She cursed her own pulse, the way her hands trembled even though the knife never lowered. The dagger weighed like a secret.
Enid took another step, slow, almost feline, brushing against the invisible boundary between them. Wednesday could have driven the knife in at that instant. She could have ended it. But she didn’t.
The wolf-woman tilted her head, as if studying her prey. Her lips curved into a ravenous smile.
“You smell it, don’t you?” she said in a low voice, like a growl disguised as a word. “The fear. And me.”
Wednesday swallowed hard, furious with herself. The dagger’s edge barely grazed Enid’s damp skin, a touch the moon turned into a broken vow.
And in that moment she knew the most unbearable truth:
She wasn’t hunting a monster.
She was hunting the echo of what she had loved too late.
The crows cawed above, as if announcing the tragedy.