Chapter Text
Capri said I didn't have to face this Alpha business on my own. That my strength is in my pack.
But the truth is... you are my pack, Wednesday.
If I wolfed out and couldn't, you know, change back...
Would you come and find me?
The road stretched in a gray ribbon through the Vermont hills, glistening faintly beneath the morning drizzle. Clouds hung low and heavy, their bellies drifting atop the maple trees, and the occasional thread of rain brushed against Wednesday's cheek before falling into the wind.
She was sitting in the sidecar, one hand loosely holding the grainy black-and-white wildlife photograph. She studied every detail of it; perhaps a missing clue might be hidden there. The camera flash had caught Enid mid-step, fur bristling, head jerked sharply on the side, eyes wide open reflecting the camera's lens.
A creature of instinct, and her friend, somewhere within.
Fester hummed an off-key whistle that fought against the purr of the engine. He, too, seemed lost in his thoughts, or perhaps he simply enjoyed the way his bald head glistened like a tombstone freshly polished for mourning. He had wordlessly thrown away his helmet, only an hour into the journey.
Wednesday favored silence. Words felt redundant when her mind was already swollen with them. Her thoughts kept circling back to Enid, lost in the woods, caught between her humanity and the monster that now dressed with her bones and skin. Wednesday's thumb twitched on the edge of the photograph, as though for an instant, she could smooth away the panic in Enid's eyes.
The road bent and dipped through forest and farmland. Red barns hunched against the mist, their peeling paint running like flaky blood. Fields sagged with rainwater, their crops listing like half-drowned soldiers.
The silence between her and Fester broke when he handed over a small black pouch without a glance. "Candy?" And Wednesday grabbed a handful of roadkill-flavored pills.
___________
Two hours passed in a blur.
By the time they rolled to a stop near Missisquoi National Wildlife Refuge, the clouds had thinned and sunlight leaked through in shards, turning the earth into mud. The air was thick with the smell of moss and damp leaves.
They dismounted, boots sinking into soft ground. A mist clung low to the undergrowth, curling around the ankles of trees. Somewhere far off, the squacking of a crow. It made for a positively depressing scenery.
"I love a good swamp," Fester said cheerfully, leading the way through knee-high ferns and cattails. "It's like nature's armpit. You never know what kind of sweets you'll pull out of it!"
Half a mile in, they reached the wildlife camera strapped to a crooked tree. Beneath it, the swampy soil still bore evidence. Pawprints pressed heavy into the mud, staggered and uneven, as though she'd fought herself every step of the way. A rotten log lay torn open nearby, shredded by large claws.
Wednesday crouched down once she reached it, gloved fingers brushing the ragged grooves. The marks still carried a trace... but her psychic sight lay dormant.
She looked around. Broken branches, flattened undergrowth, and a tree almost uprooted a little farther on.
"The signs point north," Wednesday says at last, voice flat but edged with certainty.
"Aren't your visions back now?" Fester scratched his chin, eyes gleaming.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the quiet of the swamp press in, before rising and turning around, sparing him an annoyed glance.
"They are."
___________
The sidecar coughed its last breath just as the asphalt narrowed into a sleepy border road. The green sign for Highgate–Saint-Armand leaned slightly in the ditch, as if even it had given up the will to guard the frontier.
The engine sputtered, wheezed, then fell silent.
Wednesday didn't move an inch. "Do you ever refuel your contraptions?"
Fester patted the empty tank as though it were a dying pet. "Of course not. Refueling is boring. I like never knowing where I'm going to crash on the road. It's like Russian roulette, but with fewer survivors."
A silence settled. Wednesday adjusted her gloves. "We'll need a better replacement."
"A bicycle?"
"A car."
Her gaze drifted down the lonely road. A border booth stood abandoned in the distance, the window shuttered. The improvement of electric devices has replaced the need for human presence. No border patrol either. Just a patch of asphalt stretching into Canada.
She turned toward Fester. "Hide. No one in their right mind would stop for a bald man who looks like he eats insulation wool for breakfast, lunch and dinner."
Fester grinned, taking it as a compliment, and shuffled into the treeline.
The first car rolled up minutes later; a family of four packed into a station wagon, windows fogged from bickering breath. The father slowed, uncertain at the sight of a solitary girl in black standing motionless on the side of the road. Wednesday politely approached when he came to a stop, then peered inside at the squirming toddlers and exhausted mother. Too much of a hassle. "Move along."
They didn't need more encouragement.
The second car fared better. A slate-gray Jeep, its driver a burly man in his forties, traveling alone. He slowed, then rolled down his window. His eyes narrowed, crawling over her in a way that dripped with condescension or something worse.
"What's a young lady doing out here on the road?" His smile was thick with insinuation.
"Sightseeing." Wednesday deadpanned.
The man chuckled as he unlocked the passenger door. "Hop in, miss. I can take you for a ride."
She slid into the seat with her suitcase, one hand already hovering over the compact taser in her pocket. His cologne was musky and cloying, like spoiled aftershave. He opened his mouth — but didn't get the chance to speak.
Fester materialised out of nowhere, plastered against the driver's side window like a ghoul in broad daylight. Before the man could react, Fester's arm shot through the open glass, grabbed him by the collar, and wrenched him bodily out of the vehicle. The man hit the pavement with a bellow, rolling across the road.
By the time he scrambled back to his feet, Fester had already slid behind the wheel, keys jingling in the ignition, and the Jeep roared to life.
The man lunged for the door handle, but Fester leaned out, fingers crackling with bright sparks.
"Don't trust strangers!" he quipped before blasting the man in the chest.
The body convulsed, spasmed, then collapsed.
Fester floored the pedal, tires shrieking as the Jeep surged forward. At this speed, the border gate's rotting wood snapped like a twig.
In the passenger seat, Wednesday calmly adjusted her coat as though nothing had happened.
The Canadian border shrank in the rearview mirror, along with the man sprawled motionless in the middle of the road.
"Efficient," she praised.
"What fun!" Fester sing-songed.
___________
The Jeep hummed down the Canadian road. Fester leaned back, one hand on the wheel, tapping along to a scratchy oldies station, while the other repeatedly twisted the dial. Each channel change brought an avalanche of static that crackled and hissed. Fester grinned at the noise. "Ah, the sweet agony of poorly tuned electric waves."
Wednesday didn't look up. She was fully absorbed in Ophelia's diary, the thin pages crisp between her fingers. Earlier, she had skimmed through, but now, with time stretching ahead like the asphalt, she could savor every sentence.
She studied a passage dated February 3rd 2001, one year prior to Ophelia's disappearance:
Mother is an enigma of indulgence and cruelty. She coddles me as if I am the crown jewel of our peculiar household, whispering that I am the gifted one who bears the fruits of her hard labor, while Morticia bears the brunt of her disapproval. Our fencing duels and hunting games are merely miniature wars of wit and strength, orchestrated so meticulously by Mother.
She delights in seeing my sister falter and recites an old family adage: "Morticia, a Frump never lets anyone see the stench of her heart's theatrics."
My sister's eyes often flash with resentment at the slightest provocation, yet there is a strange bond beneath our lifelong rivalry; perhaps one born of shared childhood trauma... Still, I cannot help but thrill in Mother's attention, even when it drives my sister to emotional despair.
Wednesday's lips pressed into a thin line as she read of more original ways in which Ophelia beamed at Morticia's expense.
Ophelia thrives on the sense of superiority the way one thrives on oxygen. Interesting. Her mind ticked through parallels, noting the uncanny similarities between herself and the author of these words: calculation, arrogance, and a penchant for observing others' weaknesses.. She's clever, perhaps dangerous, but predictable in her logic.
Fester, oblivious to the mental dissection, muttered to no one in particular. "I think the radio is alive... Either that, or the channel station is possessed by poltergeists..."
___________
Two hours north, Cowansville appeared on the horizon, a town faintly scraped across the landscape like a pencil sketch. The Jeep's fuel gauge hovered on empty, a courtesy left by the quite unfortunate burly man whose body they had left behind; a souvenir that will be conveniently never spoken of.
"Time to play the thrilling game of imitating a modern normie," Wednesday said flatly, eyeing the gas station on the roadside. Fester groaned but didn't argue.
The pump hissed under Fester's reluctant ministrations, his bald scalp glistening under the late afternoon sun. No, Wednesday had no intention of hijacking another car today. Enid could most likely gain ground quickly with those oversized limbs. They had already lost enough time.
She left the car and stepped into the gas station store, the bell on the door jangling like a tiny death knell.
The interior was grimly vibrant. Shelves lined with fluorescently colored snacks of questionable origin, jars of maple syrup stacked in shelves that were slowly caving under the weight, and packets of deer jerky lay in their plastic graves.
Behind the counter stood a lone cashier, a middle-aged woman with pale skin and eyes that seemed permanently disinterested in humanity.
Wednesday approached, her talon boots clicking sharply against the grimy linoleum.
"Any loup-garou sightings lately? Wolves. Werewolves. Shape-shifters. Anything out of the ordinary in your dingy little town?"
The cashier blinked. "Uh... no, not really. I don't think so."
Wednesday's patience already began to fray. "You don't think so? Are your eyes defective, or your memory selectively lazy?"
The woman flushed from embarrassment and straightened her posture. "I mean... If you're talking about outcasts, I haven't noticed anything unusual. Not that I know of."
Then, she paused, actually thinking about it. "Well, some campers spotted a large animal yesterday... but it's probably just a regular animal, like a bear. Nothing special. Certainly not..." she hesitated, her expression a mix of fear and revulsion, "...you know. A werewolf."
Normies. This was perhaps the most important moment in her entire barren life, and her lack of spatial awareness was ruining it.
"You are a treasure trove of uselessness." Wednesday's voice cut like a scalpel.
Then she turned on her heel.
Outside, the fresh air was a relief from the suffocating incompetence.
Fester wasn't at the car, but a cheerful call of her name drew Wednesday's gaze to her uncle, who was currently shoulder-deep... in a public trash can.
He waved a crumpled stack of newspapers. "Lookee here!"
Wednesday raised an eyebrow, walking over to accept the dirty papers after a second of hesitation. The French headline screamed of dangerous 'loup-garou' sightings in La Vérendrye forests, far to the north. This must certainly be Enid. But why north? She absolutely despises the cold...
Fester's stomach grumbled audibly. "I'm starving."
Wednesday ignored the pang in her own stomach. "Next stop," she said simply.
The Jeep rumbled forward again, tires crunching gravel.
___________
The sign outside read Ben La Bédaine, glowing in tired neon that weakly flickered as if it had already given up on its own existence, with only electricity to reanimate it. Inside, the diner was dimly lit, smelling faintly of grease, old coffee, and fryer oil soaked into the kitchen walls.
Wednesday sat in a vinyl booth across from Fester. Her plate was nearly untouched, limp fries and a sad slab of poutine cooling beneath fluorescent lights.
Spread across the table instead were her tools: a topography map of Québéc, its folds creased and sharp, the French newspaper with its bold werewolf headline, and her own notepad, where she had been methodically scribbling hypotheses and elimination charts on Enid's possible whereabouts.
Across from her, Fester chewed noisily on the remains of his burger, ketchup dripping down his chin. He slurped at his soda with a sound that made the nearby waitress blanch and retreat behind the counter. The few other diners would cast occasional glances, then quickly pretend to study their own meals.
Fester wiped his mouth with his sleeve and grinned. "You know, kid, for someone who insists on solitude, you're really going all out for your little blond roommate."
Wednesday's eyes flicked up, expression carved from marble. "What are you insinuating?"
Fester waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"If you're attempting to be amusing," she frowned in mild disgust, "your failure is profound."
"Hey, I'm just saying," Fester said, waving a fry for emphasis. "There are other monsters to befriend! You're treating her like she's the only one left on Earth. Which... I guess she might be one day, if the normies keep pushing them to extinction." He chuckled darkly.
Wednesday ignored him, returning her focus on the map. She circled the blot of forest that was La Vérendrye, 13,000 square kilometers of near-endless wilderness. The largest in all of Canada. Her pen hovered, then pressed hard enough to almost pierce the paper. "The reserve is vast. Multiple sightings have been reported. If Enid is moving without a plan, she may already have crossed paths with others."
Fester leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, La Vérendrye... I remember the last time I visited. There were notorious man-eater werewolves at the time... Nothing left but the guts still warm on the moss. Beautiful place."
The corner of Wednesday's mouth twitched, a reaction just shy of approval. "Yes. Perfect werewolf territory. Dense forests, unbroken peace and enough prey to last for generations." Enid had chosen an ideal spot. Perhaps it was known among her species.
She glanced at the newspaper again, as though the print might rearrange itself into answers she hadn't yet grasped. "But there are too many reports. Too scattered. Some may be fabricated, others misplaced. If she's being pursued... they are closing in faster than I can."
Fester reached for her untouched meal. "So what's the plan? Flip a coin? Eeny, meeny, miny, wolf?"
Wednesday slapped him on the wrist before he could steal anything. Her glare was sharp enough to pin him in place. "This is not a game, Uncle Fester. It is a hunt."
"My dear niece," He hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe stop overthinking and start sniffing around... You got instincts, kid. Use them."
Wednesday tapped her pen against a scribbled page, silent for a moment. Then she finally closed her notebook. On her shoulders alone weighted the enormity of the task.
"How am I supposed to find her in all of this?" she wondered.
"Fret not," he grinned, licking his plate clean. "Something tells me that once you put yourself out there, she'll howl herself right back at you!"
The waitress set the check down with a trembling hand, as if delivering a curse, and quickly retreated.
Outside, the highway stretched north into shadow.
___________
The Northern Star motel stood at the edge of the highway like a weary sentinel, the neon sign this time held strong. But the 'N' buzzed faintly, so that from the road it looked more like the Orthern Star.
Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of bleach and mildew, wallpaper curling at the edges like paper left too close to a flame. Wednesday accepted the room key with the same expression one reserves for bad medicine: cold acceptance.
The room was no better. Outdated floral curtains sagged from their rod, the carpet bore stains of unknown provenance, and the bedspread looked like it had survived decades of heinous crimes.
Wednesday turned to Fester. "I assume you'll be under the bed as usual."
He blinked, then smiled. "Ah, memories. You always looked so disappointed when you caught me before I could scare you."
"You never scared me."
"Lies," he said cheerfully. "Your left eyebrow would twitch. That's intense fear in Addams' language."
Wednesday raised her brow in demonstration. "See, this is boredom."
But instead of entering the room, Fester stayed put at the door. "Nah, tonight I think I'll, uh... sleep outside." His grin stretched wicked. "Maybe check out the locals, see if anyone's got wallets fat enough to lighten. Or lives worth spicing up."
Wednesday didn't miss a beat. "Suit yourself." She slammed the door in his face.
The sudden silence was preferable.
She went to the small desk, laid out her belongings with meticulous order, then prepared for bed. As she began to unbraid her hair, dark strands slipping through her hairbrush like thin threads, her mind replayed the conversation from dinner. The vastness of La Vérendrye. The possibility of hunters or a pack of werewolves closing in.
This time of early night usually belonged to a ritual: Enid padding into their dorm room in ridiculous pajamas patterned with rainbows or kittens. She would dramatically throw herself on her bed with her laptop and fill the silence with rants about teachers, classmates, boys, or her latest gossip entry.
The chatter had once grated on Wednesday, but now, the absence was deafening.
I miss her. The thought arrived sharp and unwanted. She quickly shoved it away, but not before it left a mark.
Without warning, her body seized.
Wednesday's vision darkened, and her eyes rolled back as if yanked by invisible strings. The floor rushed up to meet her knees, then her back. Her mind was not her own anymore — she was somewhere else.
A forest. The deep hush of pines rushing past her. Breath coming in ragged but exhilarated bursts. Heartbeat frantic.
Beneath the fur, she could feel her muscles coiling with explosive energy. Scents flooded her awareness, beyond her own abilities: damp earth, lichen, human, gunpowder, blood, a faint tang of prey.
She couldn't see what Enid was tracking, but she felt it... the thrill of the hunt, the hunger. Her unbridled excitement for violence was intoxicating.
And then it snapped away.
Wednesday's body slammed back into herself. She lay sprawled on the motel carpet, her chest heaving, every nerve sparking like live wires. The aftermath of a vision always left her a bit shaken, but this... this was amplified. Her veins still hummed with Enid's pulse.
She slowly pulled herself upright, hand gripping the side of the bed. Her breath steadied, though her mind did anything but.
She sat there in the silence of the dim motel room, hair partly undone and face pale against the gloom, staring wordlessly into the dark.
The vision hadn't given her any answers. But it had given her something far more dangerous: hope.