til death do us pretend

by wafflesqueen

Summary:

When Wednesday needs a date to attend a mysterious, high-society funeral (that she suspects is really a cover for a secret cult meeting), Xavier volunteers to play the role of her devoted boyfriend.

What was supposed to be a one-day undercover mission spirals into an ongoing charade when rumors about their “relationship” explode around Nevermore, forcing them to keep up appearances while she investigates the cult, and he tries not to fall even harder for her.

(aka Wednesday and Xavier in a fake dating dark romcom fic that no one asked for)

Chapter 1: a funeral invitation and a bad idea

Notes:

hiiii!!! I'm back with a wavier fake dating romcom fic because I need this trope for the sake of my mental health hahaahah I know I haven't finished the other fic but I'll get back to it after I finish this one because the idea has been brewing in my head in the last days. also in this fic prinicipal weems is still alive.

The dorm room was as silent as a crypt. The rain outside pattered against the windowpane, dripping down the glass like tears that Wednesday would never shed. She sat at her desk, writing in her journal with a fountain pen so sharp it could double as a dagger. A single candle flickered beside her, casting long shadows across her severe profile.

A soft rustling broke the silence. Thing crawled up onto the desk, a black envelope clasped between his fingers.

Wednesday’s pen stilled. “If this is another complaint from Principal Weems about my cello practice hours, I’d like to remind her that genius doesn’t keep curfew.”

Thing flipped the envelope over, revealing crimson wax sealed with an intricate serpent sigil. Wednesday’s interest sharpened.

She took the envelope and touched the seal. The moment her fingers brushed the wax, a vision hit her:

She stood in a crumbling cathedral bathed in candlelight. Crimson-robed figures chanted in Latin, kneeling in a circle around an ornate coffin. The Addams family crest was carved into its lid. A snake slithered across the stone, hissing softly, before sinking into a crack in the coffin’s surface.

Wednesday blinked, and the vision vanished.

Thing scuttled up onto the desk, tapping impatiently against the wood.

Wednesday broke the seal with a fingernail, sliding out a sheet of parchment that smelled faintly of sandalwood and something metallic, like iron-rich blood.

She read aloud, voice flat:

You are cordially invited to the funeral of Morpheus Addams.

Rites of remembrance to follow.

Location undisclosed – directions will arrive the morning of.

Her lips curved, almost imperceptibly. A mystery. She respected that.

“An Addams funeral is never just a funeral,” she said. “The phrase ‘rites of remembrance’ is suspiciously vague. This could involve necromancy. Or, if I’m lucky, a blood pact.”

Thing tapped rapidly: Who is Morpheus Addams?

“A distant relative,” she replied. “The family tree is extensive, thorny, and mostly dead. I’ve heard his name in passing. He collected cursed artifacts, if I’m remembering correctly.”

Thing signed jealous?

“Of course,” Wednesday said without hesitation. “But this is also suspicious timing. An Addams death is rarely natural.” She slid the parchment back into the envelope. “We’re going.”

Thing raised a finger, signing we?

“Yes. You’ll be my lookout. I’ll need someone to testify if this turns into a massacre.”

 

…

 

Principal Weems’s office smelled of bergamot and ambition. Wednesday handed over the envelope without ceremony, standing perfectly still in front of the desk while Weems examined it.

“Another Addams affair,” Weems sighed, her expression as polished as the floor. “You do realize that whenever your family hosts an event, local authorities double their patrols?”

Wednesday blinked once. “They should double their coffins.”

Weems pinched the bridge of her nose. “Permission to leave campus is granted,” she said at last. “On one condition: You bring someone.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “A plus one? How pedestrian.”

“For optics,” Weems said smoothly. “Your reputation precedes you, Miss Addams. If you arrive alone and glowering at a high-society event, rumors will start. Again.”

“Let them.”

“I’d rather not,” Weems said. “You have an unfortunate habit of causing… alarm.”

“That’s not a habit. It’s a skill.”

“Be that as it may,” Weems said, leaning forward with a politician’s smile, “if you don’t choose someone yourself, I will assign a chaperone.”

The thought made Wednesday’s expression darken like a thundercloud. “I would rather drink bleach.”

“Then pick someone you can tolerate,” Weems said, finality in her tone. “Dismissed.”

 

…

 

Back in her dorm, Wednesday paced with her hands clasped behind her back, skirts whispering against the floor. Thing perched on her pillow, offering suggestions via impatient taps.

“No,” Wednesday said after the fifth name. “Enid would sabotage this mission with glitter.”

Ajax? Thing signed.

“Too easily startled.”

Yoko?

“She’d insist on sharing my blood bag. I don’t share.”

“Take me!”

Enid appeared in the doorway holding two mugs of cocoa, wearing her usual pastel explosion of an outfit. She plopped one mug onto Wednesday’s desk, sugar crystals glinting in the steam. “I’d be a great date. I can tone down the sparkle. Sort of.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even think about it!” Enid protested, flopping onto her bed with dramatic flair.

“I did,” Wednesday said. “Briefly. It was horrifying.”

Enid gasped as if personally wounded. “You’re impossible.”

“Correct.”

Enid pulled her knees up and sipped her cocoa. “What about Xavier? He’s cute, artsy, and used to your death threats. That’s practically boyfriend material.”

“I would rather hire a hitman,” Wednesday said without looking up.

“You need someone who won’t embarrass you.”

Wednesday turned, unamused, to see Xavier leaning against the doorway, sketchbook under one arm, looking infuriatingly casual.

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re volunteering.”

He shrugged. “Why not? I’m tall, brooding, and already immune to your death threats. Sounds like perfect date material to me.”

“Or perfect leverage if this turns into a hostage situation.”

“Either way,” he said with a lazy grin, “I’d rather be at your side than hear about it afterward.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked over him, assessing, calculating. He was irritatingly calm under her stare, which was both suspicious and mildly impressive.

“You expect me to believe you’re volunteering out of pure altruism?” she asked.

“Not pure,” he admitted. “Maybe I’m curious. Or maybe I like the idea of being the guy who doesn’t flinch at an Addams funeral.”

“Curiosity is a dangerous trait,” she said.

“I’m aware.”

They stood in silence for a beat, his smirk softening into something more earnest, her expression as unreadable as ever.

“Fine,” she said at last. “You’ll do.”

Enid squealed from her bed, nearly spilling cocoa. “This is so cute I could die.”

“Tempting,” Wednesday said, without missing a beat.

She turned back to Xavier. “If this goes badly, I’ll put your epitaph on the invitation.”

Xavier’s grin widened. “Make sure the font’s dramatic.”

 

…

 

They finalized plans later that night: she would wear her signature black dress, of course, and he would wear something equally somber. Wednesday listed funeral etiquette rules that sounded suspiciously like threats.

“No smiling,” she instructed.

“Noted.”

“Speak only when spoken to.”

“Sure.”

“And if anyone tries to flirt with you, let them. It may provide useful information.”

Xavier raised an eyebrow. “You want me to flirt back?”

“If necessary.” She glanced up from her notebook, expression flat. “Do try not to get kidnapped.”

“Is that genuine concern, or…?”

She closed her notebook with a snap. “I’d hate to waste the effort of bringing you.”

 

…

 

The same night, Wednesday sat at her desk, pen scratching against her journal as the storm outside rattled the windows. Thing curled up on her pillow like a disembodied cat.

The invitation lay beside her, its wax seal broken but still elegant. She traced the crest with one finger, thoughtful.

An Addams funeral meant secrets, whispers, and blood. The vague wording practically begged for trouble.

Wednesday smiled faintly, just enough to be unsettling. Trouble was her favorite companion.

And now she had a second one.

For better or worse.

Notes:

I hope you guys enjoy this first chapter!!! let me know what you think :)

Chapter 2: a match made in the morgue

The funeral was being held in a manor that looked as though it had been built to intimidate God.

The structure loomed at the end of a long, winding drive lined with skeletal trees, their bare branches clawing at a bruised sky. Gargoyles crouched along the roofline, their mouths twisted into silent screams. Iron lanterns flickered dimly in the mist, throwing skeletal shadows across the black gravel path.

Wednesday took it in with mild approval as she stepped from the carriage-style hearse that had fetched them from Nevermore.

“Charming,” she murmured.

“You mean terrifying,” Xavier said.

He tugged at the lapels of his jacket, trying – and succeeding – to look unnervingly good in a fitted black suit. His tie was a shade darker than midnight, and his hair was neatly tied at the nape of his neck. He looked like a brooding painting brought to life, which irritated Wednesday slightly, though she couldn’t say why.

He offered his arm with a half-smirk. “Come on. Might as well look convincing.”

She eyed his arm like it was diseased. “If you think I’m taking your arm, you’re suffering from brain damage.”

“Probably,” he said. “But for optics, right? Don’t want to disappoint your family.”

She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow with the enthusiasm of someone being handed a dead rat. “You are lucky public displays of violence are frowned upon.”

 

…

 

Inside, the manor was a cathedral of shadows. Black velvet drapes fell from ceilings so high they disappeared into darkness. Chandeliers of wrought iron dripped with crystals like frozen tears, their dim light casting strange patterns across the polished obsidian floor. The scent of incense and candle wax hung heavy in the air.

A string quartet played something slow and haunting in the corner, their faces pale and solemn under the flickering light.

Guests moved like wraiths through the space, their black attire so elaborate that even Wednesday raised an eyebrow. Lace veils concealed expressions, and gloved hands clutched rosaries or black roses. The entire affair had the air of theater; tragedy performed, not felt.

At the center of the room rested an open mahogany coffin carved with vines, ravens, and tiny skulls. Morpheus Addams lay within, dressed in a suit so sharp it could cut, his skeletal features softened only slightly by mortician’s artistry. Coins rested on his closed eyelids, and the faintest smirk lingered on his lips, as though he’d died knowing something no one else did.

“Lovely presentation,” Wednesday murmured.

“That’s… one word for it,” Xavier muttered.

Her dark eyes scanned the room. Guests greeted one another with strange gestures: fingertips brushing foreheads, fingers crossing wrists, hands clasped over hearts. Snippets of Latin floated through the air. Not all were biblical. Some were ceremonial, some… occult.

“Do you see that?” she asked, her voice soft but sharp. She inclined her head toward a towering floral arrangement near the coffin. Black lilies wound together with silver ribbon, etched with symbols: a spiral, a crescent, a serpent devouring its tail.

“Subtle,” Xavier murmured.

“They want it to look subtle,” she corrected.

They moved further into the crowd, his hand briefly resting against her back as they walked. The gesture was calculated, part of their “couple” act, but the warmth of his hand was distracting enough to irritate her.

“Relax,” he whispered as they approached the back pew.

“I am relaxed,” she replied, voice flat as a tombstone.

The dirge began, its low, mournful notes vibrating through the pews. A widow in elaborate lace ascended the dais, her veil concealing everything but a sharp chin. Her voice echoed through the hall, soft and eerie.

“We gather to mourn Morpheus Addams, who has passed beyond the veil… yet whose work is not yet finished. In his memory, we carry on his vision.”

Wednesday’s fingers tightened around her notebook. The language was ceremonial, yes, but there was a sharpness beneath the sorrow, like a blade hidden in a bouquet.

She opened her notebook and began sketching the arrangement’s symbols, memorizing the sigils etched on the coffin’s carvings. Beside her, Xavier leaned closer.

“You’re taking notes at a funeral,” he whispered.

“Observation is a lost art,” she murmured back.

“Your family is… intense,” he said, studying the coffin’s carvings.

Wednesday’s lips curved faintly. “We consider that a compliment.

As the ceremony droned on, Wednesday scanned the crowd. A man in crimson gloves stood near the back, his posture unnervingly stiff. He watched her openly, his pale eyes unblinking.

“New admirer,” Xavier muttered, following her gaze.

“Or a threat,” she said. “Both are equally flattering.”

The widow’s eulogy ended with a flourish. “We remember Morpheus not in grief, but in devotion. His legacy… continues.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

The mourners bowed their heads. Some whispered in Latin; others traced symbols over their hearts. Wednesday’s sharp gaze catalogued every gesture.

 

…

 

After the widow’s speech, the mourners dispersed into a side hall lined with candles and towering portraits of Addams ancestors. A buffet of darkly decadent hors d’oeuvres – charcoal macarons, blood-red drinks – lined a table draped in black lace.

Xavier leaned close to murmur in her ear, “We should mingle. Couples don’t usually skulk in corners the whole night.”

“Couples,” she echoed, flatly.

He smirked. “We’re convincing them, right?”

With a sharp exhale that sounded suspiciously like annoyance, Wednesday let him take her hand. His fingers were warm, his grip gentle but firm. She neither squeezed back nor pulled away, which, for her, was practically affection.

They drifted through the crowd, stopping to exchange perfunctory condolences. Xavier played his part effortlessly – offering soft smiles, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve, placing a hand at the small of her back when they moved. Guests whispered behind lace fans, clearly intrigued.

At one point, a severe-looking man in a raven-feather cravat approached them. “Miss Addams. We’ve heard much about you. And this must be… your partner?”

“Yes,” Wednesday replied evenly. “He’s surprisingly functional.”

The man blinked at her bluntness, clearly unsure how to respond. Xavier, suppressing a grin, slipped his arm around her shoulder with casual intimacy.

“She’s modest,” he said smoothly. “I’m the lucky one.”

Wednesday arched an eyebrow at him but didn’t protest. The man muttered pleasantries and drifted away, thoroughly intimidated.

As soon as he was out of earshot, she said, “That was nauseating.”

“You’re welcome,” Xavier murmured, clearly enjoying himself.

Later, near the buffet table, another guest lingered too long, staring at Wednesday like she was a rare specimen.

Xavier stepped behind her, placing his chin lightly on her shoulder as he reached around for a drink. “Do you want something?” he asked softly, his voice deliberately low.

The guest flushed and scurried off.

Wednesday shot him a sidelong glance. “Was that necessary?”

“Completely,” he said, sipping his drink. “You’re not the only one allowed to intimidate people.”

“Noted,” she said, her tone unreadable.

 

…

 

They gathered more fragments of conversation:

Someone mentioned “the rites tonight,” voice hushed.

Another murmured about “continuing his work” and “tests of devotion.”

A third mentioned a location outside the city, then stopped abruptly when they noticed Wednesday listening.

Every interaction only heightened her suspicion.

“Definitely a cult,” she said quietly.

“Do I get a prize for being your cover date at a cult meeting?” Xavier asked.

“You get to live. Probably.”

 

…

 

They paused near the floral display again. Wednesday reached for one of the black lilies, turning it in her hand. The silver sigils etched into the stem glinted faintly under candlelight.

Xavier glanced at it. “Think it’s just decoration?”

“No,” she said. “It’s a message. These arrangements are coded. Someone here knows exactly what they’re doing.”

As they moved toward the arrangement again, Wednesday felt the weight of more curious gazes. Xavier seemed to notice too; his hand slid into hers, fingers intertwining.

She stiffened. “Explain yourself.”

“People are watching,” he said, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Couples hold hands.”

Her dark eyes flicked up at him. “If you don’t remove your hand in five seconds, I’ll dislocate your thumb.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said lightly.

She gave him a deadpan stare.

“…Okay, maybe you would,” he said with a small laugh, but didn’t let go. She didn’t pull away.

 

…

 

A shadow fell over them.

The man in crimson gloves stood before them, pale eyes gleaming like frost. He was tall, skeletal, and unsettlingly calm.

“You two,” he said softly. His voice carried a faint accent, something old and lilting. “Your presence is… noted.”

Wednesday’s grip on the rose tightened, but she didn’t flinch.

The man’s gaze moved between them. “A united front. Admirable. We need more young blood like yours.”

“We’re here to pay our respects,” Xavier said smoothly, his hand finding Wednesday’s shoulder again.

“Of course.” The man reached into his coat and produced a small black card, embossed with a silver serpent. He pressed it into Xavier’s hand. “For tonight. The gathering begins at midnight.”

“Midnight?” Xavier echoed, feigning curiosity.

“A more fitting hour for devotion.” The man smiled faintly and moved on, vanishing into the crowd like smoke.

They stepped into a quieter corner. Xavier turned the card over in his hand. It was blank except for an embossed serpent and coordinates scrawled in silver ink.

“Well,” he said. “That was ominous.”

Wednesday’s eyes gleamed. “It was an invitation.”

“To what, exactly?”

“Something worth investigating.”

Xavier slipped the card into his jacket pocket. “So we’re going?”

“Obviously.”

He smirked. “Good thing I’m dressed for cult activity.”

Wednesday’s gaze swept over him. “I’ll admit, you clean up disturbingly well.”

“Disturbingly well?” he teased.

“A high compliment.”

 

…

 

As they made their way toward the door, the crowd parted around them like water. Guests whispered behind lace fans and black veils, curiosity and unease swirling in equal measure.

“You know,” Xavier murmured as he held the door for her, “we really sold the couple act in there.”

“We did nothing of the sort,” she replied, stepping out into the misty night. “People see what they fear. And apparently, we’re terrifying.”

“Mission accomplished, then.”

She allowed herself the faintest hint of a smile. “For now.”

They descended the grand steps together, the manor’s towering silhouette behind them and the black invitation in Xavier’s pocket like a promise.

Whatever awaited them at midnight, Wednesday felt the familiar pull of danger – and, annoyingly, the warmth of Xavier’s hand steady against hers as they walked into the night.

Notes:

I LOVE writing this scene omg felt so giggly the whole time

Chapter 3: midnight devotion

Notes:

so chapter 3 is here! took me slightly slower than usual to write because I felt a bit unmotivated :( but anyways they released the second part of season 2 yesterday and the show got me excited of writing again!

also I changed the beginning of the story (just a couple of paragraph), you don't have to re-read it because the plot will still be the same. I was re-reading it and I felt like something was missing so I changed it :)

The hearse rattled over a gravel path like a restless beast refusing to be tamed. The road was little more than a ribbon of dirt winding through skeletal trees, their bare branches arching overhead like the ribs of some long-dead creature. The only light came from the pale, sickly moon and the occasional flicker of candles in iron lanterns nailed to the trees – a breadcrumb trail for the morbidly curious.

Wednesday sat in the passenger seat, her posture as stiff and precise as a carved tombstone angel. The shadows threw sharp lines across her face, emphasizing her dark eyes and pallid skin. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, gloved fingers interlaced. She could have been mistaken for part of a funeral display, if not for the steady glint of suspicion in her gaze.

Beside her, Xavier fiddled with the lapels of his jacket for the third time in as many minutes. He’d chosen a deep charcoal suit with a high-collared shirt, clearly trying to complement her aesthetic. It almost worked, though the slight slump in his shoulders and the way he kept adjusting his gloves gave away his nerves.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he said at last, breaking the low hum of the hearse’s engine.

“I’m always quiet,” Wednesday replied without looking at him.

“Yeah, but this is… unnervingly quiet. You’re not plotting my murder or anything, right?”

“I was,” she said, voice as even as the hum of the hearse’s engine. “Then I realized it would be inefficient to kill the only person foolish enough to come with me tonight.”

Thing, lounging on the dashboard, tapped out a series of sharp clicks with his fingers.

“She’s kidding,” Xavier said, glancing at the disembodied hand. “Right?”

Thing clicked twice, almost cheerfully.

Wednesday reached for the heavy black invitation resting beside him. The vellum paper was thick and cold, sealed with crimson wax embossed with a serpent. Thing tapped the seal, tracing the faint etching with a nail.

“‘Resurrectio per devotionem,’” Wednesday murmured, translating his signs. “‘Resurrection through devotion.’”

Xavier made a face. “Nothing says ‘funeral afterparty’ like a resurrection chant.”

She slipped the invitation back into her coat pocket, her mind already working through possibilities. “They sent this to me for a reason. We’ll find out what it is.”

“Right,” Xavier muttered, glancing at the looming trees. “And hopefully not die in the process.”

Wednesday glanced at him, her dark eyes unblinking. “You volunteered.”

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Yeah, yeah. Regretting that decision more with every mile.”

She turned back to the window, her face expressionless. “We’re close.”

They reached the end of the road, where the forest thickened into a tangle of mist and ivy. Through the fog, the cathedral emerged: a jagged silhouette against the moon, its single spire leaning like a crooked finger. The windows were shattered, their glass shards catching candlelight from within like teeth. Moss-covered gargoyles crouched along the roofline, their stone eyes blank.

“Okay,” Xavier whispered as he killed the engine. “This is definitely a cult. No way this is just a family funeral thing.”

Wednesday adjusted her cloak, her expression unchanging. “Congratulations on catching up.”

He shot her a look but didn’t reply, stepping out into the mist.

They ascended the cathedral steps, their footfalls muffled by moss. Two figures in deep crimson robes stood at the entrance, masks of bone covering their faces. Their hands folded together in solemn greeting as Xavier handed over the invitation.

The taller of the two examined it, then raised his hollow mask to look them over. “Welcome, devotees,” he intoned, his voice low and resonant.

Xavier shot Wednesday a quick glance. She didn’t blink.

“Smile,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He forced a charming grin, looping his arm around her shoulder. She allowed it but gave him a look that promised unspeakable consequences later.

The robed figures stepped aside, and the cathedral doors creaked open.

 

…

 

Inside, the cathedral was nothing short of macabre elegance. Hundreds of black candles flickered along pews draped in dark velvet, casting a honey-gold glow on walls carved with ancient runes. A string quartet played near the altar, their mournful melody echoing in the cavernous space. The air was thick with incense, a heady mixture of frankincense, myrrh, and something sharper – iron, perhaps.

Xavier’s gaze swept over the guests. They wore masks of every shape: birds, beasts, serpents, skulls. Many carried goblets filled with a liquid that shimmered like liquid moonlight. Groups spoke in hushed tones, some exchanging subtle hand signs when greeting one another.

It looked, Wednesday thought, less like a funeral afterparty and more like a masquerade ball for people who considered taxidermy a love language.

“This is… fancy,” Xavier muttered.

“It’s a façade,” Wednesday replied, her voice low. “All beauty masks rot.”

He chuckled nervously. “You’re just full of pep talks tonight.”

A masked woman in a raven-feather collar approached.

“Ah. New faces. Welcome,” she said, voice honey-sweet but cold. Her gaze lingered on Wednesday. “And such… presence. You must be an Addams.”

“Observation skills like that must make you invaluable,” Wednesday said smoothly.

The woman chuckled. “And this is?” She gestured to Xavier, who straightened slightly.

“Hopelessly devoted,” he said with a soft grin, sliding his arm more firmly around Wednesday’s shoulder.

The woman’s smile widened. “How delightful.” She drifted away, leaving the pair in a wake of perfume and whispers.

Wednesday tilted her head at him. “Hopelessly devoted?”

“What? I was staying in character,” he whispered.

She arched an eyebrow. “You were indulging yourself.”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted, smirking.

They wandered through the crowd, scanning for details.

But Wednesday felt it – a faint tug at the back of her mind, the prickle of a vision approaching. It was a sensation she’d grown accustomed to, like a cold hand brushing the nape of her neck.

It happened the moment her fingers brushed the goblet pressed into her hand. The liquid shimmered an unnatural silver, reflecting candlelight like a mirror. The vision slammed into her skull like a hammer.

The cathedral dissolved.

She was standing in a crypt, ankle-deep in cold water. A coffin carved with the Addams family crest cracked down the middle, light pouring from the seam. Around her, figures in serpent masks knelt, chanting in Latin.

A voice whispered, soft but insistent: Devotion unlocks resurrection. Blood unlocks eternity.

She saw herself holding a glowing object in her hand – a serpent-shaped key dripping with blood. A hiss echoed through her skull, and a flash of crimson blinded her.

She came back to herself with a sharp inhale, gripping the edge of the pew to steady herself. Xavier’s hand was on her elbow in an instant.

“Hey, you okay?” he whispered.

“I had a vision,” she murmured, shaking off his touch.

“Right now?”

“Yes,” she snapped softly. “And if you don’t lower your voice, you’ll have one too. Of your own funeral.”

Xavier raised his hands in mock surrender but stayed close, watching her with concern as she moved toward the altar.

Wednesday cataloged everything: serpent insignias embroidered onto robes, sigils etched into the stone pillars, the way some attendees seemed to orbit a man in a mask shaped like a serpent’s head.

“That’s the leader,” she murmured.

“You think?” Xavier asked. “He’s only wearing a giant snake mask. Totally subtle.”

She shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “Follow my lead.”

The masked man turned as they approached, his presence commanding silence in the crowd. His voice was a hiss that slithered through the air. “New blood,” he said. “You’ve come seeking devotion?”

“Yes,” Wednesday said without hesitation. “Devotion to truth.”

The man tilted his head, intrigued. “And you?” His gaze flicked to Xavier.

“Where she goes, I go,” Xavier said smoothly, tightening his grip around her shoulder.

The leader’s mask dipped in approval. “We shall see. Drink.”

They both lifted their goblets. Xavier eyed the shimmering liquid nervously. “On three?” he whispered.

Wednesday downed hers in one swift motion.

Xavier groaned. “Of course you did.” He drank his, trying not to gag at the metallic taste.

 

…

 

The ritual began soon after. Guests lined up to be marked with crimson ink, their wrists nicked by a ceremonial blade. Wednesday didn’t flinch as the blade traced her skin, nor did Xavier, though his jaw tightened.

When they stepped back, she leaned close. “We need to find their archives.”

“Now?” he hissed.

“Yes. Strike while the blood is still fresh.”

She tugged him through the crowd, their hands still entwined. To any observer, they looked like a couple sneaking off for an intimate moment. In reality, Wednesday was leading him through a shadowed corridor behind the altar.

 

…

 

The hall smelled of candle wax and mildew, lined with cabinets filled with scrolls and strange relics. Wednesday’s sharp eyes darted over everything, her fingers skimming the bindings of ancient books. She pulled a parchment from the stack, her breath catching when she saw the Addams crest etched into it.

“They’re not just worshipping death,” she whispered. “They’re planning to resurrect an Addams ancestor.”

“Because of course they are,” Xavier muttered, scanning the corridor nervously.

Footsteps echoed nearby. Xavier grabbed her hand, pulling her into a narrow alcove.

“What are you –” she began.

“Pretend we’re busy,” he whispered.

She glared at him. “Define busy.”

Before she could protest, he leaned close, his breath stirring the hair near her ear. His hand rested lightly on her waist, his face just inches from hers. The robed figure who passed by glanced at them, smirked knowingly, and walked on.

Xavier exhaled. “See? Worked like a charm.”

Her glare was sharp enough to kill. “If you ever use me as a shield again, I’ll test your pain threshold.”

He grinned. “Fair enough.”

 

…

 

They slipped out through a side door, the stolen parchment hidden under Wednesday’s cloak. The cold night air was a relief after the suffocating incense inside.

The hearse waited like a loyal beast, and they climbed in, silent as Xavier steered them back down the forest road.

Finally, he glanced at her. “We make a terrifying couple.”

She allowed the faintest curl of a smile. “For once, you’re not entirely wrong.”

Chapter 4: the gossip epidemic

The walk back to Nevermore was mercifully quiet. The forest path crackled with frost underfoot, moonlight cutting through bare tree branches like shards of glass. Wednesday strode ahead of Xavier, her hands clasped behind her back, while he followed half a step behind, still scanning the trees as if cultists might leap out at any moment.

They had escaped the cathedral without incident, but Wednesday’s mind was spinning. The chanting. The serpent sigils. The blood. The whispers of her ancestors in her vision. She should have felt exhilarated. Instead, she felt… off-balance. And that annoyed her.

“You’re way too quiet again,” Xavier said softly.

“I’m always quiet,” she replied, eyes straight ahead.

“Should I be worried?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

Xavier chuckled under his breath, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, letting silence settle again as they approached the looming silhouette of Nevermore Academy.

She stopped suddenly at the dorm stairs, brushing her shoulder with gloved fingers. “There’s something on me.”

Xavier, trailing a step behind, frowned. “Hold still.” He stepped closer, his face inches from hers, and carefully plucked a long strand of spiderweb from her braid. His knuckles brushed her cheekbone.

They had barely registered what happened when Enid Sinclair materialized from the shadows, wearing a fuzzy lavender robe and bunny slippers, her phone flashlight casting eerie under-eye shadows.

“Wednesday? Xavier?” Enid whispered loudly. “Why are you two creeping back at –” She froze, eyes flicking to where Xavier’s hand still suspended in midair with a piece of spiderweb.

Wednesday froze.

The werewolf’s jaw dropped, eyes wide as saucers. “OH. MY. GOD.”

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Wednesday said flatly.

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” Xavier said at the same time.

Enid gasped dramatically, spinning on her heel, and bolted back into the dorms, her robe flapping behind her like a pastel cape.

“She’s going to tell everyone,” Xavier muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Wednesday smoothed her braid. “Then she’ll die knowing the truth.”

 

…

 

By morning, the damage was done. The gossip spread faster than a wildfire.

Wednesday entered the dining hall and immediately noticed the change in atmosphere. Students glanced up from their cereal bowls, whispering behind hands. A siren boy nearly dropped his fork when she passed. A vampire girl smirked knowingly. It was like walking into the aftermath of a murder she hadn’t yet committed.

Xavier followed close behind, tray in hand, looking more amused than concerned.

“This is… impressive,” he murmured. “I didn’t think Enid could mobilize an entire school this fast.”

“She should use her talents for espionage,” Wednesday replied.

They sat at their usual spot. Within seconds, Enid plopped down across from them, her eyes sparkling like she’d just won the lottery.

“I KNEW IT,” she squealed, bouncing in her seat. “I always shipped you two! You’re like… the gothic power couple of my dreams!”

Wednesday’s expression didn’t change. “If this conversation continues, I will add ‘murdered by werewolf roommate’ to your obituary.”

Enid waved her off. “You don’t scare me, Wens. Love is in the air!”

Xavier nearly choked on his coffee. “Love?”

“Don’t even try to deny it,” Enid said, wagging a manicured finger. “I caught you two sneaking in at one in the morning. His hand was brushing your cheek. You were blushing –”

“I was not,” Wednesday cut in.

“You totally were!” Enid beamed.

Before Xavier could defend himself, Ajax slid into the seat beside Enid, his tray clattering loudly.

“Okays,” Ajax said, grinning. “I heard from Gregory in Ceramics that you two were holding hands outside the crypt last night.”

“We were not,” Wednesday said flatly.

“And,” Ajax continued dramatically, “he said there was a look. A look, man.”

“Would you like me to stab your eyes out so you can’t spread further lies?” Wednesday asked, stabbing her eggs with surgical precision.

Ajax held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just reporting the news. The people have a right to know.”

Xavier groaned, dropping his fork. “You’re making this worse.”

“I’m helping!” Ajax protested. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Enid leaned in conspiratorially. “So. When’s your next date?”

“There will not be a next date,” Wednesday said.

“Oh, there WILL,” Enid sing-songed. “You’re official now, and Nevermore is DYING for content. Just imagine the fan art!”

Wednesday’s death glare could have peeled paint off the walls. Enid just giggled.

By mid-afternoon, Wednesday found herself the subject of a whispered commentary whenever she entered a room. Someone had even started a betting pool on how long she and Xavier would last.

The final straw came when Enid barged into the dorm to find Xavier leaning over Wednesday, adjusting the string of her crossbow.

“Oh my GOD, are you two about to –” Enid squealed, clutching her phone.

“No,” Wednesday snapped.

“Yes?” Xavier said at the same time, utterly panicked.

Enid fled the room screaming.

“You know she‘s probably planning our wedding on Pinterest,” Xavier chuckled.

Wednesday turned to him, deadpan. “She’ll be buried with her mood boards if she continues.”

He groaned, rubbing his temples. “We should just lean into this, huh?”

“Lean into what?”

“The whole ‘we’re dating’ thing,” Xavier said. “At least until we figure out what’s going on with this cult. If they’re watching us, a public ‘relationship’ might make us look less suspicious.”

Wednesday considered this, then gave a single sharp nod. “Fine. But if you buy me flowers, I’ll poison them.”

 

…

 

Their first “date” was coffee.

Xavier met her outside the Weathervane with a steaming cup in hand. “A quad, no sugar, extra bitter,” he said, offering it with a grin.

Wednesday took a sip, face unreadable. “Mediocre.”

He laughed. “Thanks for the glowing review.”

Inside, students from Nevermore subtly tried to snap photos of them. Wednesday met each camera with an icy glare, ruining every shot.

 

…

 

The second “date” was sketching.

They sat under a tree near the quad, Wednesday perched stiffly on the bench while Xavier sketched her. Ajax lurked nearby, peering over Xavier’s shoulder.

“Dude, you should totally write her a sonnet about her eyes,” Ajax whispered loudly.

“No,” Wednesday said.

“Worth a try,” Ajax muttered.

Enid appeared with her phone, snapping “candid” photos. Most were ruined by Wednesday’s soul-piercing glare.

Except one.

She caught Wednesday mid-smirk, her lips curling at something Xavier had said. He was laughing, sunlight filtering through his hair. It looked… real.

Enid squealed with delight and ran off to share it with the entire school.

 

…

 

Their third “date” was a bench by the greenhouse.

“Put your arm around me,” Wednesday said flatly.

Xavier blinked. “What?”

“For optics,” she said.

He obeyed, draping an arm over her shoulders. She sat rigid as a corpse, staring straight ahead.

“You look like you’re plotting my murder,” he murmured.

“I am,” she replied.

 

…

 

By the time the sun dipped below the treeline, Wednesday had endured three “dates,” four unwanted photoshoots, and six separate students whispering about how “cute” she and Xavier were together. It was exhausting. Not physically – Wednesday thrived on endurance – but emotionally, in the sense that she felt like suffocating every time someone squealed over them.

Xavier, however, seemed oddly at ease. He walked her back to Ophelia Hall, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, a tired smile on his face.

“Thanks for not stabbing anyone today,” he said lightly.

“The night is young,” she replied.

He chuckled softly, but there was something in his expression – an edge of unease, a shadow in his eyes. Wednesday noticed. She always noticed.

“Something’s bothering you,” she stated.

Xavier hesitated at the base of the dorm steps. “Just… everything we saw last night. The sigils. The chanting. It’s not sitting right with me.”

“It shouldn’t,” Wednesday said. “That’s the point.”

He smiled faintly but didn’t answer, and Wednesday filed his silence away in her mind.

 

…

 

That night, Xavier couldn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the evening’s events in his mind—the fake smiles, the whispers, the staged closeness with Wednesday. It was almost enough to distract him from the unease gnawing at his chest. Almost.

He rolled over, sketchbook in hand, trying to capture the strange sigil they’d seen at the cathedral. His charcoal moved in looping, serpentine shapes, but the more he sketched, the heavier his eyelids became… until sleep dragged him under.

Xavier dreamed.

He was back in the cathedral. The serpent sigil blazed above like a second moon, casting everything in crimson light. Cultists knelt in a circle, chanting in a language he didn’t understand.

And there, in the center, was Wednesday.

Chains made of writhing serpents coiled around her wrists and ankles. Her black dress was torn, her expression as calm as ever even as the snakes constricted.

A figure in red robes stepped forward, a serpent-shaped ring glinting on their finger. They raised a dagger.

Xavier jolted awake, gasping. His sketchbook lay open beside him. He grabbed a piece of charcoal and began sketching furiously, the image of the ring burning in his mind.

When he finished, he stared at the page. The cult wasn’t just plotting – they were expecting them.

“They know we’re coming,” he whispered to himself.

Notes:

enid and ajax as meddlers and comedic relief is my roman empire

Chapter 5: art lessons and alibis

Xavier’s studio smelled faintly of charcoal, old paper, and the faint tang of candle smoke. Shadows stretched along the walls, twisting around sketches of serpents, cryptic symbols, and Addams family crests. It was quiet except for the occasional scratch of pencil on paper and Xavier’s low muttering to himself as he traced a particularly jagged sigil.

Wednesday leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, expression as unreadable as ever. She had insisted on coming – reluctantly – because Xavier had a “theory” he needed her help to confirm. She didn’t care much whether the cult was planning a massacre or a bake sale; she was here because staying away was boring.

“So,” Xavier began, tracing a jagged sigil on his sketchbook. “Last night’s vision… the chains. They weren’t just decorative. They form a pattern, nested in the larger sigil. I think it indicates the next gathering’s location.”

“Fascinating,” Wednesday said, voice flat, but her eyes were sharp. She leaned forward slightly, catching every line of his sketch. “It’s inefficient, though. A nested sigil like this is unnecessary unless someone wants to communicate a very specific warning, or a trap.”

Xavier swallowed, then asked softly, almost too quietly: “Do you ever… get scared? Seeing things like that?”

Wednesday paused. The question was simple, but the way he asked it – hesitant, almost vulnerable – was unusual. Most people expected her to shrug off fear entirely. She did, usually, but…

“I am rarely surprised by death,” she said finally. “But danger… I am curious about danger. That is different from fear.”

Xavier nodded slowly, studying her. “I think… I’d rather you weren’t curious in that way.”

She met his eyes briefly, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. Then she looked away, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’d rather I wasn’t myself. That’s a common sentiment.”

He didn’t reply immediately, and she allowed the silence to settle. It wasn’t uncomfortable. For once, it felt like a truce between them – a quiet understanding that words weren’t always necessary.

 

…

 

After hours bent over sketches and sigils, Xavier finally leaned back, rubbing his temples.

“I think we’ve covered everything we can for today,” he muttered, eyes still on the chaotic pages. “I just… wish we had more information.”

Wednesday tilted her head. “Information comes to those who wait, or to those who dig. You are doing both poorly.”

Before he could respond, a loud knock rattled the studio door.

“Open up!” Enid’s voice shrieked through the wood. “It’s time for your relationship lessons!”

Xavier groaned, and Wednesday’s eyes narrowed.

Enid barreled through the door in her usual rainbow-colored chaos, waving a clipboard and clutching a bag of “couple behavior manuals” she had apparently borrowed from an online influencer forum. Thing scuttled along the windowsill with a tiny cape that looked suspiciously like it had been borrowed from Wednesday’s doll collection.

“We’re going to teach you two to look like a real couple. If you want to keep the cult from suspecting anything – and if you want the school to stop gossiping – you need lessons. Right. Now.”

Wednesday’s eyebrow twitched. “You realize the last time I followed your advice, it ended with a photo of me glaring at the sun?”

“Yes,” Enid said cheerfully. “Exactly. Improvement is the goal!”

Thing hopped onto the table, gesturing with both hands to demonstrate “natural intimacy”: linking arms, casual hand touches, leaning shoulders together. Wednesday’s stare could have pierced steel, but she humored him because optics were, admittedly, useful.

Xavier fumbled through it, awkwardly holding her hand and almost tipping over a nearby inkwell. “I… think I’m doing it wrong,” he muttered, flustered.

“You’re doing it poorly,” Wednesday agreed, voice flat. “But adequately grotesque.”

Enid clapped her hands. “Progress!”

It did not disappoint. Xavier stumbled over Thing’s “lessons,” accidentally knocking over an inkwell. Enid clapped her hands in delight. Wednesday, arms crossed, simply sighed and wiped her fingers with a tissue.

 

…

 

Later, in the quieter studio, Xavier attempted to sketch Wednesday properly – not just as a muse for his visions, but as a way to interpret the sigils through human form. Wednesday sat rigidly on a stool, her hands in her lap, expression unreadable.

“You’re fidgeting,” Xavier said softly. “Relax.”

“I am as relaxed as one can be when someone is staring at you, pencil in hand, as if your essence is a charcoal experiment,” she replied.

“Right, well… forgive me for trying,” he murmured, tapping the tip of his pencil. “Just… hold still.”

Minutes passed in silence, punctuated only by the scratch of charcoal against paper. Xavier’s gaze kept flicking from her hands to her braid, to the subtle curve of her jaw, the slope of her shoulders. He noticed everything – how she didn’t quite meet his eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking, the faint smudge of ink on her fingers from his previous sketches.

At one point, he reached out gently and brushed a streak of charcoal from her hand. Wednesday froze, eyes narrowing – but she didn’t pull away. The gesture, slight as it was, lingered longer than either expected.

“You’re… distracting,” she said finally, voice flat, but something softer underlined it.

“You think I’m distracted?” he asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“I think,” she said carefully, “that you should be more focused on the symbols than me.”

“Fair,” he said, though he didn’t return fully to his sketches.

 

…

 

Xavier was packing away his pencils when a black-winged messenger owl tapped against the windowpane, carrying an envelope sealed with an unfamiliar crest. Xavier broke the wax seal and held the envelope out to Wednesday.

“Another funeral,” he muttered.

She examined it with practiced precision. “The location… Blackthorne Manor. Century-old estate, supposedly abandoned after a relative ‘disappeared.’” She tapped the envelope. “They’re escalating. Whoever’s orchestrating this knows we’re coming.”

Xavier’s hand hovered over the envelope. “Do you think it’s a trap?”

“Possibly,” Wednesday said. She tapped the envelope with a long finger. “But irrelevant. We go. That is all that matters.”

There was a pause as they stared at the seal, the weight of danger pressing into the quiet room. Neither spoke for a moment, letting the tension linger.

 

…

 

The sun had finally disappeared, leaving the quad bathed in twilight. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, and the crisp night air smelled faintly of damp leaves and distant candles. Wednesday adjusted her coat and walked with her usual precise stride, but Xavier matched her pace, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“You’ve been quiet since we left the studio,” he said softly.

“I’ve been thinking,” she replied, not looking at him.

“About?”

“Everything,” she said simply. “The visions, the funerals, your sketches, the… chaos of today.” She gestured vaguely toward the empty quad. “Humans are foolish, but dangerous in groups.”

“You know,” Xavier began, hesitating, “I’m… worried for you.”

Wednesday didn’t look at him. “Why? Because of a few robed cultists? Because you saw a snake in a dream?”

He swallowed. “No. Because… I see you in these visions. And every time, you’re bound, or bleeding, or worse. I can’t just… ignore it.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked toward him briefly, neutral but attentive. “Your concern is noted. Ineffective, but noted.”

He chuckled nervously. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. But I am capable. You need not worry.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, a quiet rhythm settling between them. The cool night wrapped around them like a cloak, and for once, neither needed to fill the space with words. Wednesday’s mind lingered on his earnest expression longer than she expected, and Xavier silently noted the subtle tension in her shoulders, wondering if she was as unnerved as he was.

By the time they reached Ophelia Hall, both of them carried a weight heavier than the night air – the unspoken, the concern, the mutual recognition that the world they were entering was far more dangerous than they’d anticipated.

Notes:

I'm sorry this chapter is slightly shorter than the rest :(

Chapter 6: operations smoke and mirrors

Notes:

so this is another short chapter for you guys. a filler before we get into the higher stakes!
i also decided the story will be 12 chapters in total :)

Moonlight spilled through the narrow dorm windows, casting long, angular shadows across Wednesday and Enid’s room. Wednesday’s side was precise: stacks of notebooks aligned perfectly on her desk, sketches pinned in neat rows, and a carefully annotated map of Blackthorne Manor taped to the wall. Enid’s side was chaos incarnate: glitter scattered across the floor, stuffed animals perched precariously on every surface, and a half-assembled “spy kit” of goggles, masks, and rainbow-colored capes sprawled across the bed.

Xavier sat cross-legged on Wednesday’s bed, leaning over the map and sketchbook. “So, the plan is simple: attend the funeral, blend in, and… gather information without being noticed?”

“Simple?” Wednesday repeated, eyes narrowed. “This is a centuries-old estate, shrouded in fog and secrecy. ‘Simple’ is not the word I would use.”

“I mean,” Xavier said carefully, “it’s simple compared to the cathedral cult. There, we nearly got sacrificed. Here, we at least have invitations.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched, though she didn’t smile. “Invitations are meaningless if you do not know what you are walking into.”

Enid burst in from the adjacent bathroom, a rainbow scarf dangling from her hair like a battle standard. “Operation Smoke and Mirrors is a go!” she announced, waving a clipboard. “I’ve brought disguises, props, and tactical snacks. Very important. Very tactical.”

Wednesday’s lip twitched. “What are the snacks?”

“Trail mix!” Enid said. “Essential for stealth energy. Also, disguises!” She thrust a glittery cape into Xavier’s hands. “See? Very stealthy. Extremely inconspicuous.”

Xavier held it up and raised a brow. “I look like a malfunctioning rainbow.”

“Exactly,” Enid said brightly. “Blend into the shadows!”

Wednesday pinched the bridge of her nose. “Blend. Into. The shadows. Yes.”

Once Enid had settled into a corner, scribbling escape routes and “discreet observation points” on a poster board, Xavier and Wednesday turned their attention to strategy.

“I think we should focus on movement within the main hall and side chambers,” Wednesday said, pointing to the map. “There are vantage points here and here. I can observe without being noticed if we position ourselves strategically.”

Xavier leaned over, tracing the lines with a finger. “True, but if we use the balcony overlooking the gardens, I can get a better perspective on guest behavior. Patterns, who interacts with whom, what’s normal and what’s… unusual.”

“And risk exposure,” Wednesday countered. “Observing discreetly is preferable to improvising. Improvisation is messy.”

“Sometimes improvisation saves lives,” Xavier said, smirking.

“You improvise. I plan,” she said evenly. “I tolerate your improvisation only if it prevents you from tripping over a chair in front of witnesses.”

He chuckled, and for the smallest fraction of a second, Wednesday’s lips twitched. Not a smile – but close enough.

 

…

 

Enid, bored of the quiet, decided it was time for another demonstration. “If you’re going to gather evidence, you must look like a couple!” She tossed two fake mustaches at them. “Optional, but very convincing!”

Xavier groaned, “Enid, please –”

“I am ignoring this,” Wednesday said flatly.

She didn’t put the mustache on, but she let Xavier roll his eyes dramatically, and that was enough.

 

…

 

Hours passed in a mix of planning, quiet discussion, and occasional interruptions by Enid or Ajax. Thing popped up on the windowsill at least three times, demonstrating hand signals and “silent communication,” which Wednesday considered mildly annoying but harmless.

Finally, they reviewed the plan one last time. Xavier folded his arms, frowning slightly. “I have to admit… I’m worried about you. This manor… it’s more intense than last time. I can’t shake the feeling that something could go wrong.”

Wednesday looked at him, expression neutral. “Your concern is noted. Probably unnecessary.”

“It’s not unnecessary,” he said softly. “I’ve seen what happens in these visions. And… I can’t help worrying about you.”

She studied him quietly. The words were simple, but they carried weight. He wasn’t speaking casually; his concern was real. She wanted to dismiss it, but instead… she let herself consider it. Just a moment.

“I am capable,” she said finally, her voice even, cold. “You are concerned unnecessarily. Now, let us move on to the next step.”

Yet, inwardly, she allowed herself a fraction of thought – a seed of curiosity about his concern. She would never admit it aloud. She would never let him see. But she considered it nonetheless.

 

…

 

By the time they finished, the plan was set. They would enter through the main doors as invited guests, keep to the pre-identified vantage points, and gather evidence of suspicious behavior – rituals, gestures, interactions, anything that could hint at danger.

Outside the window, the fog lay thick over the quad. Blackthorne Manor waited like a slumbering beast, cloaked in shadows and whispers.

Inside, Wednesday adjusted her notes, Xavier reviewed his sketches, and Enid fussed over props. Together, they were prepared – but nothing in the world could prepare them for what awaited behind the manor’s doors.

Chapter 7: funerals and faux affections

Notes:

hey guys I'd like to apologize in advance that it's gonna be longer for me to finish this fic as I expected :( I got ill and will also be traveling for holiday soon. I have the draft outline of each chapter ready, I just need to write them :(

anyway, enjoy chapter 7!!! (this chapter has been edited a little bit)

The carriage road leading to Blackthorne Manor was a long, winding snake of cobblestone, slick with mist and lined by skeletal trees. Each gnarled branch reached like an accusing finger toward the fog-choked sky. Wednesday Addams sat perfectly upright in the back seat, unbothered by the carriage’s jostle or the creeping chill that curled through the cracked window. Beside her, Xavier adjusted his cuffs for the third time in five minutes.

“You’re fidgeting,” she said flatly, her tone dripping disdain.

“I’m preparing,” he corrected, tugging at the lapel of his black suit jacket. It was a sharp cut, accented with a dark silk tie and a small silver pin shaped like a raven’s feather – a nod, she assumed, to his artistic tendencies. He looked… annoyingly polished. “We’re supposed to blend in, right? You don’t think I overdressed?”

“You could attend your own funeral in that suit,” Wednesday replied without looking at him, her pale gaze fixed on the wrought-iron gates approaching through the fog. “Appropriate, given how tonight will likely end.”

He let out a soft huff of amusement, running a hand through his hair, which he’d actually tamed for once. “And here I was, hoping for a compliment.”

“Your optimism is nauseating.”

The carriage stopped with a lurch before towering gates flanked by stone gargoyles. A pair of figures cloaked in black robes stepped forward, their faces hidden behind bone-white masks. One held a lantern; the other raised a skeletal hand in silent greeting. Wednesday extended a folded invitation with meticulous precision. The guard scanned it, then swung the gate open with a groan that echoed into the night.

Xavier offered his arm as they stepped out. “Shall we?” he murmured, a teasing lilt in his voice.

She stared at his arm for a beat, expression unreadable. Finally, she looped hers through his. “If you smirk,” she whispered icily, “I’ll break your arm.”

“Can’t wait,” he said, grinning at her as they ascended the gravel path.

 

…

 

The manor loomed before them like a gothic cathedral, its spires clawing at the moonlight. Candles glowed faintly in high, arched windows, illuminating silhouettes of robed figures drifting through shadowy halls. The air was thick with the scent of wax and withered roses.

Inside, the entryway opened into a vast, vaulted chamber draped in black velvet and silver-threaded tapestries depicting serpents and ravens. At the center of the room stood a massive coffin, its lid carved with swirling sigils and faces frozen in eternal screams. Candles surrounded it in concentric circles, each flame flickering like a heartbeat.

Wednesday’s eyes flicked over every detail: the angles of the tapestries, the strange curvature of the coffin, the Latin inscriptions etched into the floor. Xavier leaned close, murmuring in her ear as if whispering something tender, when in truth, he was confirming her suspicions.

“They’re definitely not here to mourn,” he said softly, his gaze scanning the robed figures standing in silent formation.

“No,” she whispered back, her voice as smooth as a scalpel. “I think they’re here to raise the dead.”

 

…

 

They moved as a pair, perfectly in sync – Wednesday’s severe elegance balanced by Xavier’s polished, artistic composure. It wasn’t hard to play the part of a grieving couple; Xavier’s protective hand at her back and her cool, calculating glances made them seem both untouchable and united.

Xavier leaned in again, his lips near her ear, and murmured with infuriating nonchalance, “We look good together, you know.”

“We look like a pair of undertakers,” she said without missing a beat. “Focus.”

He smirked but obeyed, his eyes sweeping the crowd. The robed mourners swayed slightly as a hooded priest began to chant in Latin. The air thickened, humming with something old and dark.

They drifted toward a side altar, drawn by a glimmer of silver. On a pedestal lay a ceremonial dagger, its hilt encrusted with jet stones, and beside it, a heavy leather-bound book. Wednesday’s hand hovered over the dagger.

The moment her fingers brushed the cold metal, the world tilted.

She was no longer in the candlelit hall but standing in a circle of crimson light. The coffin lid was open. A figure writhed within, stitched together from pieces of corpses, its empty eyes snapping open as a blood-red moon glared through a shattered window.

Xavier lay on the floor, his shirt soaked with blood, his face pale, lips trembling as he screamed her name.

The chanting grew louder, filling her skull until it felt like her head would split. The cult leader loomed over her, a bone crown gleaming in the firelight, his skeletal hand raised high –

Wednesday’s breath caught as the vision shattered. She blinked rapidly, the dim hall rushing back into focus. Her hand trembled slightly against the dagger, but she quickly hid it, curling her fingers into a fist.

“Wednesday,” Xavier murmured, his hand brushing her elbow. His voice was low, gentle. “What did you see?”

She glanced at him, her pale eyes colder than usual, though he could see the flicker of unease in their depths. “They’re planning a resurrection ritual of someone dangerous. I couldn’t recognize who,” she said, slipping her hand into her pocket to steady herself. “We need proof.”

He nodded without hesitation, moving to her side.

They slipped behind a velvet curtain into a smaller chamber lined with bookshelves. Xavier moved quickly, sketching the symbols he’d seen on the coffin lid while Wednesday examined the altar. She found a thick, dust-laden tome bound in cracked black leather, its cover etched with the cult sigil that pulsed faintly in the candlelight. The air around it felt colder, heavier – like the book itself was exhaling centuries of death. Wednesday’s fingers hovered just above it, sensing the latent power stitched into its spine.

She glanced at Xavier, who was still absorbed in his sketches, then slid the grimoire into her satchel with practiced ease. The altar groaned softly, as if protesting the theft, and a gust of wind stirred the chamber despite the lack of windows.

“You like this too much,” Xavier teased softly, catching the sharp gleam in her eyes as she examined the dagger again.

“I find death rituals… charming,” she said, tucking the dagger into her belt.

He grinned despite himself. “You’re terrifying.”

“Flattery won’t save you if you bleed on my boots.”

 

…

 

A floorboard creaked.

Wednesday froze mid-step, her eyes narrowing to slits as the sound echoed in the candlelit chamber. Xavier’s hand hovered instinctively over his sketchbook, but it wasn’t paper he’d need. He reached for the heavy silver candelabra perched on the altar instead, its weight reassuring but awkward in his grip.

The velvet curtain behind them rippled.

Three figures stepped through, masks gleaming bone-white in the dim light, their black robes whispering against the marble floor. The front figure’s voice was a low hiss.

“Intruders.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked over their positioning, her expression sharp and calculating. “Two armed with staffs,” she murmured to Xavier, her voice barely above a whisper. “The one in the middle – dagger at the hip. Aim for him first.”

“Copy that,” he muttered, tightening his grip on the candelabra.

The cultists advanced, their movements unnervingly synchronized.

Wednesday struck first. She darted forward, a streak of black silk, her blade flashing in the dim light. She slashed at one of the cultists’ – the one with a deer bone mask – arm with surgical precision, drawing a startled cry. He stumbled back, clutching his sleeve, and the other two surged forward.

One swung his staff; she ducked low, twisting like a shadow as the weapon whooshed over her head. She jabbed upward, catching him in the ribs, and he crumpled against the altar with a grunt.

“Watch your left!” Xavier shouted.

The third cultist charged him. Xavier swung the candelabra with all his strength, the heavy silver slamming into the man’s mask with a resounding crack. The cultist reeled back, dazed.

“Nice aim,” Wednesday deadpanned, pivoting to knock the staff from another attacker’s hands.

“Thanks, I had a great coach,” Xavier shot back, his grin flashing despite the danger.

But their victory was short-lived. Deer bone mask, snarling, lunged at Xavier with his dagger. Xavier jerked back, but the blade slashed across his shoulder, tearing through his jacket and shirt.

He gasped, stumbling, one hand flying to the wound as blood seeped through his fingers.

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of emotion breaking through her mask of calm. She pivoted, driving her blade toward the attacker’s hand. The man hissed and withdrew, clutching his wrist, and she pressed the attack, striking with ruthless efficiency until he backed away.

More shadows moved beyond the curtain – they didn’t have time.

“Go!” he barked, grabbing her hand.

They bolted down the corridor, slamming into the nearest servant door.

 

…

 

They dashed into a narrow, torchlit hallway. Xavier’s breathing was ragged, blood soaking through his sleeve. Wednesday tore off a strip of his jacket with ruthless efficiency, wrapping it tightly around his arm as they ran.

“You’re pale,” she said bluntly.

“I’m fine,” he panted, though his voice trembled.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“And you’re… surprisingly gentle,” he muttered, eyes flicking to her as she tightened the makeshift bandage.

“I’m practical. You’d be difficult to drag out of here if you collapsed.”

But her hands lingered a fraction too long on his arm. He noticed, though he didn’t dare comment.

 

…

 

They burst out into the cold night air, stumbling through the overgrown gardens and into the woods beyond. Behind them, shouts echoed as cultists fanned out, lanterns bobbing through the darkness.

They didn’t stop until the manor was a distant shadow. Xavier collapsed against a tree, breath heaving. Wednesday crouched beside him, her black dress streaked with dirt and blood, the stolen dagger and grimoire clutched tightly in her hands.

“Worth it,” he said with a tired grin, his hair falling into his eyes. “So… we won, right?”

“No.” She glanced at him, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“We’ve declared war.”

 

…

 

The same night, a shadow watched them from the edge of the woods. The cult leader stood shrouded in his black robe, his skeletal crown glinting in the moonlight.

“They’ve taken it,” he said, voice low and furious. “And they’ve seen too much.”

A masked follower bowed. “What are your orders, Master?”

The leader’s pale lips curled into a menacing smile.

“Bring me the girl.”

Chapter 8: when shadows whisper

Notes:

okay another chapter because I've written this 2 days ago hehehe (also this chapter is edited, I re-read it a couple of time and felt like something was missing)

The quiet hum of Nevermore Academy’s infirmary was a stark contrast to the chaos of Blackthorne Manor. Pale moonlight streamed through tall windows, glinting off medical instruments and the silver tray beside the cot where Xavier sat, shirtless from the waist up. The deep slash on his shoulder had been cleaned and stitched, but Wednesday insisted on rewrapping it herself, claiming Nurse Rosaline’s bandages were “sloppy.”

“Hold still,” she murmured, tightening the cloth with practiced precision.

“Ow,” he hissed, flinching.

She raised an eyebrow. “If you can swing a candelabra at a grown man in a mask, you can tolerate a bandage.”

“I think I preferred the masked man,” Xavier muttered, though his voice was more amused than annoyed. He watched her work, her pale fingers deft and deliberate, her expression unreadable as always.

“You’re reckless,” she said finally, her voice low.

“Me? You’re the one who stabbed a guy twice your size.”

“And yet here you are bleeding,” she replied coolly, tying off the bandage.

Xavier tilted his head, studying her. “You were worried.”

She glanced up sharply, her dark eyes narrowing. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You were,” he pressed softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I saw it. In your eyes. Just for a second.”

Wednesday froze, her gaze flickering over his face like she was memorizing it despite herself. “You’re delusional from blood loss,” she said, though the faintest pause betrayed her.

He leaned back against the pillows, exhaustion weighing on his frame, but his smile lingered. “You’d miss me.”

Her hands stilled on the edge of the bandage. She looked at him for a long moment, expression unreadable, before finally saying, “You’re inconvenient. But… useful.”

Xavier chuckled softly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Wednesday didn’t respond, but she carefully placed a glass of water on the nightstand and adjusted the blanket over him. When she turned to leave, Xavier’s voice stopped her.

“Wednesday.”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“Thanks… for saving me.”

Her face softened – just barely. “You were never mine to lose,” she said quietly. “Don’t make me regret it.”

With that, she slipped out of the infirmary, her footsteps echoing down the dim hallway. Xavier exhaled, staring at the ceiling with a faint smile. He was bleeding, exhausted, and stitched together, but he felt strangely… warm.

Unbeknownst to him, Wednesday lingered just outside the door for a moment, fingers brushing the dagger at her belt. Her thoughts were sharper than ever. They’d stolen something priceless, and now the cult would come for them.

And she’d be ready.

 

…

 

The next evening, by the candlelight in Wednesday’s dorm room, the atmosphere was different: meticulous, controlled, almost sacred. Thing scuttled along the desk, flipping pages of the stolen ritual book with uncanny dexterity, pointing here and there at cryptic Latin phrases. The book was heavy, its leather cover worn and etched with strange sigils that seemed to shimmer faintly in the lamplight.

Wednesday turn the pages carefully, her fingers careful not to tear the brittle parchment. The margins were cluttered with inked annotations – half in Latin, half in symbols that looked carved rather than written. A faint title was etched along the spine in faded silver: Codex Medullae.

“Codex of Marrow,” she murmured in translation, her voice barely above a whisper.

Xavier leaned closer, sketchbook in hand. “That’s… not ominous at all.”

Wednesday ignored him, tracing a sigil etched like a seal across one of the center pages. The ink wasn’t just drawn; it was pressed deep into the fibers of the paper, like a brand.

“This is no mere book. It’s locked,” she said flatly.

“Locked?” Xavier frowned, pencil paused mid-stroke. “You mean magically?”

“Obviously. If this were a physical lock, I’d already have it dismantled.” Her eyes scanned the margins, covered in runes and hastily scrawled Latin notes. “This seal is designed to keep the unworthy from reading past a certain point. Which means what comes next is far more dangerous.”

Xavier sat back slightly, glancing between the page and his own sketches of the symbols. “So… basically, we stole a cursed book.”

“An accurate descriptor,” Wednesday replied. She traced an illustration of a skeleton, each bone labeled with strange glyphs. “Whoever wrote this believed that bone is more than structure; it is a vessel. A map.”

Xavier tilted his head, sketching the sigil in his notebook. “A map to what?”

Her lips curved, not in amusement but in grim fascination. “Resurrection, if the legends are to be believed.”

Xavier continued sketching symbols into his notebook as he spoke. “Look here. The symbols around the coffin – they repeat. And these match what I’ve seen before,” he said quietly, nodding toward his sketches from the night at Blackthorne Manor. “It’s like… it’s like they’re following some structured ritual, not just random superstition.”

“Exactly,” Wednesday said, voice clipped. “And now we have evidence. If we interpret this correctly, we can predict the next step. Control the variable. Preempt the chaos.”

A sudden knock at the door made both of them flinch. Wednesday’s hand went to the hilt of her dagger. Xavier froze mid-sketch, pencil in hand.

The hallway was empty. A black feather tied with red twine lay on the floor outside the door. The same symbol they had seen on the ritual book was etched into the wax sealing it.

“We’re being watched,” Wednesday said, stoic as ever. She bent down to pick up the feather, tucking it carefully into the book. Xavier shivered, eyes wide.

“They know we took it,” he whispered, shivering at the thought.

“They will soon learn what happens when we are underestimated,” she replied, her gaze flicking back to the book with a hint of dark satisfaction.

 

…

 

Night fell heavy and damp over Xavier’s dorm room. The Codex lay open across his desk, pages curling faintly in the candlelight. Symbols repeated across the margins, Latin phrases scrawled in precise handwriting that seemed almost alive in the flickering light.

Hours passed. Rain pattered steadily against the window, creating a rhythm that seemed to sync with the pounding of his heart. His eyelids grew heavy, but every time he tried to rest, images of the ritual flashed behind his eyes: the coffin, the chants, the altar, the blood.

Finally, exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted into sleep.

He was no longer in the dim dorm room. He was standing in a stone chamber suffused with crimson light. The air smelled of iron and smoke, thick and suffocating. Candles lined the walls, their flames twisting unnaturally, casting shadows that moved like living things.

Wednesday was there, bound to a massive altar carved with serpents and skulls. Her black dress was torn at the hem, wrists bound with thick leather straps, but her dark eyes shone defiant even in her peril.

The cultists circled her slowly, chanting in a rhythmic, hypnotic cadence:

“Sanguis vivus Addams ad redivivum necessarius est!”

The words reverberated in Xavier’s chest, low and relentless. He tried to step forward, but invisible chains held him back. His mouth opened, and he tried to scream her name, but no sound emerged.

A hooded figure raised a dagger, its blade glinting in the flickering red light. The shadows stretched toward her, crawling across the floor like living tendrils. A coffin lid slid open at the far end of the chamber, revealing a figure stitched together from corpses, its hollow eyes glinting with malice.

Xavier lunged, desperate, but he could not move. He saw each detail with terrifying clarity: the way the flames reflected off the metal of the dagger, the hiss of the cultists’ robes, the taut muscles in Wednesday’s arms as she struggled against her bonds.

The chanting grew louder, drowning out all other sounds. His chest felt as though it might explode. He tried again to shout her name. “Wednesday!”

A cold, mocking voice hissed from the shadows. “Without her blood, the Addams cannot return. Do you understand, boy?”

He felt ice crawl over his skin. The resurrected figure stepped closer, and the shadows seemed to twist, trying to reach out and pull him in. Panic surged through him in waves, suffocating and inescapable.

Suddenly, he jerked awake, gasping, sheets tangled around him. Sweat soaked his hair and shirt, and his sketchbook lay open, untouched his nightstand. He grabbed it with shaking hands and began furiously drawing every detail – the altar, the robes, the dagger, the Latin phrase – his pencil scratching desperately across the page.

Even as he drew, the echo of chanting seemed to linger in his ears.

“It’s real,” he whispered to himself, voice trembling. “It’s going to happen.”

 

…

 

The morning light slanted through the tall windows of Wednesday’s dorm, streaking the room with cold pale gold. Outside, rain still drizzled faintly, leaving the courtyard slick and shimmering. Xavier sat on the edge of her bed, sketchbook open across his knees, the pages filled with jagged, frantic lines – diagrams of altars, hooded figures, Latin inscriptions, and the skeletal figure that had haunted him all night.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, rubbing his eyes. “I… I don’t know what it means,” he admitted, voice tight, almost hoarse. “But it’s bad. Really bad.”

Wednesday stood across the room, arms crossed, her black dress falling like ink over the floorboards. Her gaze slid over the pages without hesitation, scanning the symbols with sharp focus. “Then we ensure it never happens,” she said, her voice low and precise. There was no panic in her tone – only calculation.

Xavier hesitated, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I saw… everything. The altar, the candles, the chanting. They… they need Addams blood. And they’ll do it. They will do it if we don’t stop them.” His words tumbled out, urgent, uneven, betraying the fear he usually hid behind humor or bravado.

Wednesday stepped closer, her pale fingers brushing a page lightly as if testing it for traps. “We will anticipate them. We control the variables. If they expect us to be careless, they will fail.”

“But the way I saw it… it was like a warning. I felt it. It wasn’t just a dream.” Xavier’s hand shook slightly as he traced the Latin phrase with a fingertip: Sanguis vivus Addams ad redivivum necessarius est.

She arched a brow but didn’t comment immediately. Then, almost imperceptibly, her gaze softened – not in overt affection, but in the subtle acknowledgment of his fear. “If you have seen what may come, it is our advantage. You do not fight blind,” she said, voice measured. “We move strategically. Panic is useless.”

Xavier swallowed, nodding, though his chest still ached with tension. He pushed the sketchbook toward her. “Look here – the way the cultists are arranged, the patterns of the candles. The shadows… I think this is exactly where they plan to do it. If they follow the ritual precisely, it’ll be in a stone chamber with… with red candlelight like I saw.”

Wednesday leaned over the desk, eyes narrowing at the diagrams. She traced the lines of the altar with her finger, noting the placement of each figure. “You are precise. And observant. If they are predictable, we are not blind either. Good.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “You… you think it’s real? My vision?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Visions are data. Sometimes predictive, sometimes deceptive. We act as if they are predictive.”

She stepped back, straightening her posture. “We plan our next steps,” she said, gesturing to the sketches. “More surveillance. We decode the Latin. We anticipate attacks. And we do not waste time debating whether visions are real or not.”

“Right,” Xavier agreed, closing the sketchbook reluctantly. “I’ll… try to sleep before the next wave of nightmares.”

Wednesday’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, her expression unreadable, before she turned to her desk. Thing scuttled to Xavier’s side, nudging him with encouragement – or maybe warning. Outside, the rain continued to fall, quiet but insistent, like the distant, persistent threat of the cult.

 

…

 

By mid-afternoon, the cult escalated their warnings. A small parcel appeared on the bench outside Wednesday’s dorm: a dead serpent, its eyes sealed with wax, marked with the same sigil from the feather. Xavier nearly jumped out of his chair when Thing dropped it onto the table, gesturing frantically.

Wednesday examined it calmly, noting every detail with clinical precision. “They are signaling,” she said. “We are now their focus.”

Xavier scribbled the sigil in his sketchbook, hands shaking slightly. “Do you think…?”

“They are aware we have the Codex. They will act accordingly.” Her tone was calm, but Xavier could see the tension in her jaw, subtle but real.

Enid bounded into the room just then, practically bouncing off the walls. “Wait! Why are you two standing so close? Oh my god… is this an actual date?!”

Wednesday’s pale brow arched. “We are planning a murder.”

Enid gasped. “For legal reasons, that better be a joke.”

Xavier muttered under his breath, “It’s not.”

Ajax appeared behind her, carrying two mugs of something steaming and suspiciously colorful. “Don’t ask,” he said, hands full. “But yes, apparently, it’s a date-slash-murder session?”

The chaos of their friends’ interventions contrasted sharply with the heavy tension of the threatening parcels.

 

…

 

The dorm was unusually quiet. Enid had gone for a date night with Ajax, taking her chatter and pastel energy with her, leaving Wednesday in blessed silence. Only Thing sat nearby, curled in his box, occasionally twitching a finger.

Wednesday hunched over the Codex, every candle in the room lit to illuminate its faded ink. The seal she had studied earlier gleamed faintly in the candlelight, as if mocking her attempts to pry it open. She ignored the taunt, methodically scribbling translations and diagrams in her notebook.

The runes formed a pattern. Not random. Not decorative. A map.

She whispered fragments of Latin under her breath, her pale finger hovering over a word written in crimson ink that had barely faded over centuries. The language twisted in her mouth, older than anything they’d studied in Nevermore’s dusty archives.

The book thrummed beneath her fingertips.

The candles flickered.

A shadow rippled across the page, though nothing had moved. Wednesday’s spine stiffened. She flipped to another section, more frantic now, piecing together a partial translation:

“Bone remembers. Bone binds. From marrow, the vessel rises.”

Her pulse quickened – not fear, but exhilaration. She closed the Codex sharply, locking her notebook on top of it. There was a pattern here, something the cult desperately wanted. She didn’t have all the answers yet, but she had enough to be dangerous.

Chapter 9: the bone mother

Notes:

so guys this will be the last update for this week since I'm going on vacation for a week!!! I wrote you a quite long one I think hahahaha
see you again next week :) enjoy chapter 9!!!

Shadows crept up the walls like spider legs as Wednesday hunched over the Codex of Marrow again. Every page was an anatomical map of horror – diagrams of bones etched with runes, vigils stacked like letters in a sentence. Her notebook lay open beside her, filled with sharp, precise handwriting that only she could decipher.

She’d been reading for hours. Enid had left earlier, promising to return after a movie night with Yoko, leaving Wednesday in the solitude she preferred. Thing perched on the edge of the desk, his restless fingers tapping against a mug as if to say, You’ve been at this too long.

Wednesday ignored him, turning another page. A faint shimmer of silver ink caught her eye. She tilted the book under the candlelight, her dark gaze narrowing at a single name, hidden in the curling script.

Ebonrose Addams.

The letters glimmered as if freshly written, as though someone had carved them into the page centuries ago and preserved them with something darker than ink.

Wednesday traced the name with her finger. The parchment was cold to the touch.

And then the world dissolved.

She saw herself transported to the late 1400s, to a world rife with plague, superstition, and candlelit laboratories. The stench of rotting herbs and iron filled the air. A woman in a gown of deep black silk moved with deliberate precision in a dimly lit chamber, surrounded by glass vials, anatomical sketches, and herbs drying from the rafters. Her hair was white, streaked with ash and dust, and her hands were skeletal, moving with precision as she stitched sinew to bone with a needle of silver.

“Bone remembers,” the woman murmured in a voice like a funeral bell. “Bone binds. From marrow, the vessel rises.”

Wednesday stepped closer, silent as the grave, but the woman’s hollow gaze turned on her, eyes as dark as obsidian.

“You have my blood,” she said softly, lips curling into a smile. “And I will have yours.”

Wednesday jerked back, but the world shifted violently. She now stood at the edge of a plague-ridden village. Fires burned in the streets. Families prayed to saints as the Bone Mother’s cult carried her through the night, her skeletal crown gleaming under the moon.

“We shall be forever,” the woman whispered as she held up a leather-bound tome – the Codex. The cover was stitched with sinew, bound with locks carved from bone. “Forever families. Forever bones.”

Wednesday gasped sharply as she came back to herself, her hand still pressed to the name. The candles in her dorm flickered violently. Thing tapped urgently on the desk, sensing something was wrong.

“I know who she is,” Wednesday murmured, snatching up her pen and scrawling the name and details into her notebook. “Ebonrose Addams. The Bone Mother.”

Thing chirped in alarm, but Wednesday was already flipping pages, her mind racing. The cult wasn’t just dangerous – they were planning something catastrophic.

 

…

 

The wind outside rattled the windowpane like skeletal fingers. Wednesday sharpened her dagger, laying it neatly beside her notes. She could almost feel the Codex humming beneath her hand.

That was when Thing stiffened, his fingers curling like a fist. He tapped against the desk in sharp, staccato bursts: Someone’s outside.

Wednesday slid her dagger into her hand. The candles flickered out, plunging the room into near darkness. She turned toward the window, only to catch a flicker of movement – shadows slipping along the sill.

The first cultist came through the window soundlessly, a rabbit bone mask covering his face, a long dagger glinting in his hand. Wednesday lunged forward before he could fully step inside, slashing upward, her blade kissing his arm. He hissed and fell back, but another figure was already at her side, striking with brutal precision.

Thing leapt from the desk, clawing at the second attacker, his small frame surprisingly strong as he wrapped around the cultist’s face. The man snarled and tore him off, hurling him against the wall. Thing hit with a sickening crack, his fingers twitching in agony.

“Thing!” Wednesday’s voice was sharp with alarm, but she couldn’t afford distraction. She stabbed the man’s leg, forcing him back, but the smoke was already filling the room – thick, choking, smelling faintly of herbs and blood.

A third cultist burst through the door. Wednesday spun, her braid whipping behind her as she threw a blade from her boot. It lodged in his shoulder, but he didn’t falter, lunging forward to grab her arm.

Wednesday fought like a feral creature, her strikes precise and merciless, but she was vastly outnumbered. A heavy blow to her ribs sent her crashing against her desk, scattering books and ink. She grabbed a candlestick and smashed it into another’s skull, the clang echoing, but more hands grabbed her arms, pinning her down.

“Unhand me,” she hissed, voice cold as a tomb.

The cultist closest to her chuckled beneath his mask. “Soon, little raven. We only need your blood.”

Wednesday slammed her forehead into his, breaking his nose with a satisfying crunch, but the others tightened their grip.

The door flew open again. “Wednesday!” Enid’s voice was panicked, terrified. She froze in the doorway, staring at the smoke, the figures in masks, Wednesday’s struggling form.

“Enid, run!” Wednesday barked.

Enid bolted forward but was met with a wall of smoke. One cultist hurled a small black candle at the floor; it shattered with a hiss, releasing more choking fumes. Enid coughed and stumbled back, tears streaming from her eyes.

Wednesday’s world spun as someone struck the back of her head. Hands dragged her toward the window. She twisted and kicked, managing to sink her dagger into one attacker’s thigh, but they were stronger, faster, and prepared.

Enid’s scream echoed through the dorm. “No! WEDNESDAY!”

The cultists vanished into the night, Wednesday in tow, leaving Enid kneeling in a cloud of smoke with Thing twitching weakly in her arms.

 

…

 

Xavier’s studio was dimly lit, the smell of paint and turpentine hanging thick in the air. He sat hunched over his desk, sketching from memory, his hand moving faster than his thoughts. Each stroke of graphite was harsh, jagged, capturing glimpses of a tomb he’d seen in flashes all week. He didn’t even realize his hand was trembling.

The slam of the door shattered his focus.

“Xavier!”

Enid’s voice cracked like glass. She stumbled in, eyes red, tears streaking down her face. She clutched something in her arms – a towel, shaking as though it held a living creature.

“What –” Xavier shot up from his chair, alarm spiking. “Enid, what happened?”

“They –” Enid’s voice broke into sobs. She thrust the bundle forward, and the towel fell open, revealing Thing. His skin was pale, his fingers twitching weakly.

Xavier’s heart dropped. “Oh, no…”

“They took her!” Enid’s voice rose, shrill with panic. She was gasping, choking on her own words as she clutched the edge of his desk. “The cult, they – they broke into our room. Thing tried to stop them, they hurt him –” Her voice dissolved into a sob. “They took Wednesday!”

For a moment, Xavier couldn’t process her words. They didn’t feel real. The pencil slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor.

“What do you mean, they took her?” His voice was sharp, demanding, but underneath it was raw panic.

“I…” Enid’s chest heaved. “I came back, and there was smoke everywhere, and Thing was – he was just lying there – and Wednesday was – was gone!”

Xavier felt the room tilt. He grabbed the edge of his desk, knuckles white. Ajax appeared in the doorway, breathless, taking in the scene with wide eyes.

“Enid, slow down,” Ajax said, voice low, trying to ground her. “Start over. What happened exactly?”

Enid shook her head violently. “They had masks, and smoke bombs, and she told me to run. I – I tried to go after them, but they vanished into the woods! I don’t know where she is, I don’t know –”

Xavier grabbed her shoulders, steady but firm. “Hey. Enid. Look at me.”

Her tear-filled eyes snapped to his.

“We’re going to find her,” he said, his voice steady now, though his pulse thundered in his ears. “She’s alive. You know she’s alive.”

Enid nodded shakily, tears streaming down her face.

Ajax moved to take Thing, wrapping him gently in a fresh towel. “We’ll get him patched up,” he said softly. “He’s tough.”

Xavier turned away, pacing the studio. His hands were shaking. He curled them into fists.

This is my fault. I should’ve seen it. Should’ve been there.

His gaze flicked to the sketches littering his desk, visions he’d dismissed as nightmares. Now they felt like warnings he hadn’t been smart enough to decipher.

“Xavier,” Enid whispered.

He turned back to her, jaw tight. “We’re not waiting around for Weems or the police. They’ll be too slow. We need to start now.”

Ajax set Thing down carefully, looking grim. “We don’t know where they took her yet.”

“Then we figure it out,” Xavier snapped. His voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying the fear clawing at him.

Enid flinched at the sharpness in his tone, but he softened immediately, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I just –” He pressed his palms to his face. “I can’t lose her.”

The room went still. Enid blinked at him, startled by the rawness in his voice. Ajax glanced at him, brows furrowing.

Xavier dropped his hands, looking more vulnerable than he’d ever allowed himself to appear. “She’s… she’s all sharp edges and walls, but she’s…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “She’s Wednesday. I can’t explain it. I just know I can’t let anything happen to her.”

Enid reached out, squeezing his arm. “Then we won’t. We’ll bring her home.”

He met her gaze, nodding once. Something steely settled in his expression. He moved to the desk, grabbing Wednesday’s notebook. Her handwriting was sharp, efficient, page after page of deductions and diagrams.

“She knew they’d come for her,” Xavier murmured, scanning the pages. “She left us clues.”

Ajax stood over his shoulder. “Then we use them. We’ve got all night to figure this out.”

Xavier clenched his jaw, determination hardening into something dangerous. “We’ll get her back,” he said quietly. “I don’t care what I have to do.”

 

…

 

Sleep didn’t come easily that night, but exhaustion eventually dragged Xavier under.

He dreamed of a tomb.

A vast underground chamber, its walls lined with skulls. The smell of old blood filled the air. Candles burned in bone holders, their flames crimson. In the center, a black marble altar gleamed under the light of a blood moon.

Wednesday was tied to it, her pale face expressionless even as cultists circled her, chanting in a language older than time.

“Sanguis Addams. Os Addams. Vita aeterna.”

Addams blood. Addams bone. Eternal life.

A woman figure loomed over her, skeletal hands hovering above her chest.

“Forever,” the Bone Mother whispered.

Xavier jerked awake, gasping, drenched in sweat. He grabbed his sketchbook, hands trembling as he sketched every detail: the altar, the moon, the symbols carved into the floor.

He stared at the page, his heart pounding. This wasn’t just a nightmare. This was where she was. This was what they were planning.

 

…

 

Morning crept over Nevermore like a ghost, pale light leaking through the rain-streaked windows of Xavier’s studio. The world outside was gray and still, but inside, tension buzzed like static.

Xavier hadn’t slept. His sketches from the nightmare littered his desk: the altar, the crimson candles, the shadowed tomb, and Wednesday bound at the center. The images stared back at him like accusations. His hands were stained with graphite, his knuckles raw from where he’d gripped his pencil too hard.

Enid sat curled up in the armchair across the room, hugging her knees, her face pale and blotchy from crying. Ajax leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a rare seriousness tightening his features. Even Thing, swaddled in clean bandages, rested on the edge of the desk, twitching his fingers weakly, as though urging them on.

“This is all we have,” Xavier said hoarsely, pushing Wednesday’s notebook toward them. His voice was rough from exhaustion. “She left notes. Names, sketches, diagrams. She knew something like this would happen.”

Enid leaned forward, scanning the pages. “She must’ve figured out the book’s secrets.”

Xavier’s eyes flicked over the notes again. “She found a name. ‘Ebonrose Addams.’ She circled it, underlined it three times.”

Ajax raised an eyebrow. “Addams? Like… her family Addams?”

“Yes.” Xavier flipped to a page where Wednesday’s sharp handwriting sketched out a family tree, old names scrawled in black ink. Ebonrose’s name was written like a curse.

“She wrote this too,” Enid said softly, pointing to a passage in Latin Wednesday had copied. Her finger trembled over the spidery letters. “‘Sanguine Addams… vitae novae clavis.’”

“What does that mean?” Ajax asked.

Xavier’s jaw tightened. “Blood of an Addams is the key to new life.”

The words sank in like ice.

Enid gasped. “They’re going to… use her blood to bring back someone?”

“Not someone,” Xavier murmured. He pointed to a sketch Wednesday had drawn – a woman with hollow eyes, crowned in thorns and bones, draped in funereal robes. “Her. Ebonrose Addams. The Bone Mother. That’s who they’re trying to resurrect.”

Enid wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “This is insane.”

Ajax scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Okay, so we know what they want. But not where.”

“I saw it.” Xavier’s voice was sharp, certain. Both of them looked at him.

“In my dream,” he clarified. “Last night. I saw where they took her. A tomb. There was a blood moon.”

“Wait,” Enid said suddenly, her eyes wide. She was still poring over Xavier’s sketch of the tomb when her gaze flicked toward the window, toward the faint light of the morning. “You said you saw a Blood Moon, right?”

“Yeah,” Xavier said, his voice hoarse. “Huge, red, low in the sky.”

Enid ran a hand through her hair, pacing the room. “That’s not tonight. The Blood Moon’s in two days.”

Ajax raised an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

She shot him a look. “Because I transform on full moons, remember? I’ve been counting down to this one for weeks. It’s going to be huge.”

Xavier’s stomach twisted. Two days. That meant they had a timer – an invisible clock ticking down to whatever nightmare the cult had planned.

“They’re going to do it on the Blood Moon,” Enid said, her voice shaking slightly. “It’s… symbolic. Power, cycles, all that ritualistic stuff.”

“Two days,” Xavier muttered, staring at his sketches again. His pencil hovered over the altar scene, his chest tight. “We’ve got two days to find her before they –” He broke off, jaw tightening.

“Then we plan,” Enid said firmly, her voice hardening as if to keep herself steady. “We gather everything we need, and we go in before that moon rises. If they want to do this ritual on a Blood Moon, we stop it before it starts.”

Ajax let out a low whistle. “Two days to prep for a suicidal tomb raid. Love this plan already.”

Xavier ignored the sarcasm, flipping through Wednesday’s notes again. “She left diagrams, sketches of symbols and runes. If we interpret them correctly, we can predict their traps and the ritual setup.”

Enid leaned closer to the notebook, her eyes sharp. “She circled this part of the crypt map, near the forest’s edge. Blackthorne family ruins. That has to be it.”

Xavier’s pulse jumped. “The symbols in my sketches match hers. This is where she’s being held.”

“We have two days to turn this into a plan. And if they’re doing the ritual on the Blood Moon…” Ajax voice trailed off.

“We stop it before they begin,” Xavier said, voice tight but resolute. He clenched his fists. “We’re not losing her.”

Thing smacked the desk in agreement, small fingers drumming like a metronome.

Enid’s eyes softened, despite her fear. “Wednesday would do the same for us. We have to try. We have no choice.”

Xavier’s jaw hardened. “Then we prepare. We study the tomb, the symbols, everything. We have two days. We don’t fail.”

Ajax stepped forward, a rare seriousness on his face. “Then let’s gear up. Weapons, distractions, everything. We leave nothing to chance.”

Xavier picked up Wednesday’s dagger, feeling the weight of her presence in the room. Even absent, she had guided them, left them breadcrumbs. His chest tightened, a mix of fear, guilt, and determination.

“I swear,” he whispered to himself, “I’m bringing her back.”

Notes:

also guys in this story Enid is not an Alpha yet!!!