Wednesday sat bound in the crypt, anger tight in her expression as she stared at Laurel across the candlelit room. The air felt still except for the low, jittery music drifting in the background.
Tyler stood near the side, waiting.
"Go wait by the boat," Laurel said.
Tyler nodded once. "Yes."
Wednesday leaned into her role, her voice dripping with dry disdain. "Listen to your master and be a good little Hyde."
Tyler turned and vanished into the shadows without a single word. The heavy crypt door thudded shut behind him, leaving Wednesday alone with her captor.
Laurel paced slowly, the candlelight casting frantic shadows across her face. "I have to admit," she began, her tone unnervingly calm, "your little friend Aleksander spooked me a bit. But as my father always said: if you want to outsmart an outcast, you have to out-think them."
Wednesday remained perfectly still, her unblinking gaze locked onto Laurel.
"You know," Laurel continued, "we have roots that go all the way back to Joseph Crackstone."
"So you come from a long line of psychotic killers. How quaint," Wednesday noted flatly.
A cold smile crept onto Laurel's face. "Joseph Crackstone was a visionary. He was dedicated to protecting normies from outcasts, until his life was cut short by your ancestor, Goody Addams. And then, to add insult to injury, they stole his land to build that abomination of a school." She paused near a cluster of melting candles, looking exceptionally pleased with herself. "But throughout the centuries, my family has remained committed to Crackstone's mission. My brother died serving that cause. I decided to take a different approach. The supernatural."
Wednesday's dark eyes narrowed slightly as her mind connected the pieces. I already know about your brother, Garrett. He came to poison Nevermore, but died by his own incompetence—and a final strike from my mother.
"Tyler has been collecting those body parts to resurrect Crackstone," Laurel revealed. "The one man who nearly succeeded in eradicating the outcasts."
"You can't wake the dead," Wednesday replied, her tone laced with dark experience. "Believe me, I've tried."
Laurel let out a sharp, breathless laugh. "I believe your ancestor, Goody Addams, would disagree." She reached for a heavy, leather-bound tome.
"You stole the original from Pilgrim World," Wednesday said, her expression sharpening.
"It wasn't enough for Goody to kill Crackstone," Laurel spat. "She had to curse his soul, too."
Wednesday already knew this, but she continued to play her part. "And what does any of this have to do with me?"
Laurel stepped into Wednesday's personal space. "My dear Wednesday, you are the key. Your arrival at Nevermore set the entire plan in motion. Goody sealed Crackstone in his sarcophagus with a blood lock. Only a direct descendant can open it." Wednesday tested the ropes binding her wrists; they held firm. "A living descendant, on the night of a blood moon," Laurel whispered. "So, I bided my time. I made you feel special until you were ready to be sacrificed."
The crypt's candles flared. Sensing a shift in the air, Laurel decided to expedite the ritual.
Wednesday tilted her head, a morbid smirk gracing her lips. "I already guessed how this ends."
Laurel grabbed Wednesday by the arm, dragging her roughly toward the ornate coffin. Drawing a silver blade, she sliced cleanly across Wednesday's palm. Wednesday bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to give Laurel the satisfaction of a scream, as her bleeding hand was forced onto the crypt's stone sigil. The ancient carving hissed, searing her flesh. With a sharp exhale of pain, Wednesday wrenched her hand free.
Her task complete, Laurel shoved Wednesday aside and snatched up the Book of Shadows. She raised her hands, chanting with manic reverence: "Comuna rubra tinseret, mia cue nates, tachere benedicteret, contradeles esquientia e inaturae, dormens non ae, expiritus complet pectora. Resurgué! Resurgué! Resurgué!"
Thunder violently shook the crypt. Crackling lightning illuminated the stone walls as the heavy lid of the sarcophagus slid open. Joseph Crackstone rose from the dust.
He was a gruesome sight: decaying, greenish skin stretched tightly over ancient bones, his eyes reduced to hollow, grey pits. Wisps of thin gray hair clung to his scalp, and his weathered pilgrim garments hung off his gaunt frame. In his rotting grip, he held a long wooden staff topped with an ornate, dark metal cage. Inside the cage, a brilliant cyan light pulsed with volatile, magical energy.
Laurel gasped, her eyes wide with fanatical awe. "I am of your blood," she breathed, dropping to her knees. "I have summoned you to rid the world of outcasts once and for all."
Crackstone surveyed the crypt, his gaze settling on the weeping woman before him. Recognizing her allegiance, he extended his skeletal hand, displaying the heavy Crackstone family ring. Laurel kissed it with sickening devotion.
"My vengeance will be swift and true," Crackstone rasped, his voice sounding like grinding stones.
"As will mine," Wednesday declared. Having quietly slipped her bindings, she let the heavy chains clatter to the stone floor and stood tall.
Crackstone turned. With a flick of his staff, an invisible telekinetic force slammed into Wednesday, pinning her rigidly in place. "Goody Addams," Crackstone snarled, stepping closer. "You haunt me still. You will suffer the same fate you bequeathed me." He drew a rusted knife from his coat, raising it high. "Now, burn in the eternal fires of hell."
The blade plunged downward—but stopped inches from Wednesday's chest, caught in a sickly, vibrant neon-green barrier of wispy energy.
Crackstone and Laurel froze. Laurel whipped her head toward the crypt's entrance. Standing in the stone archway was Aleksander. The same neon-green energy curled and cascaded from her fingertips like living smoke.
"Morozova," Laurel hissed, her teeth bared.
At the name, Crackstone's decaying features hardened into absolute fury.
Before Laurel could move, Aleksander casually flicked a finger. A telekinetic shockwave lifted Laurel off her feet and slammed her brutally against the crypt wall, knocking her out cold.
Recognizing the true threat, Crackstone discarded Wednesday, tossing her aside like a ragdoll. He leveled his staff, unleashing a massive, roaring fireball straight at Aleksander.
Aleksander merely smirked. With a fluid motion, she summoned a Mana shield. The transparent blue barrier flared to life—massive and shaped like a riot shield—absorbing the fiery impact with a brilliant, blinding glow. Dropping the shield, Aleksander retaliated with a concussive blast of telekinetic force, sending Crackstone staggering backward.
Seizing the opening, Aleksander reached into the ether and conjured a gleaming sword, its steel immediately igniting with the searing, magical flames of a Dragon Breath enchantment.
Wednesday stepped forward, her dark eyes reflecting the roaring orange flames of the enchanted blade.
"I'll take that," Wednesday said, her voice a flat, icy contrast to the heat of the room. She wrapped her hands around the hilt, pulling the heavy sword from Aleksander's grasp. "This is an Addams family feud. Stand down. Only intervene if I am violently dismembered."
Aleksander gave a small, approving smirk and took a step back, letting the neon-green aura around his hands dim to a low simmer. He crossed his arms, perfectly content to watch the show, acting as an overqualified spectator ready to provide support.
Wednesday turned her attention back to the resurrected pilgrim. She adjusted her grip, settling into a flawless fencing stance. "Let's finish what Goody started."
Crackstone snarled, his decaying face twisting in rage. "Abomination!"
He lunged, swinging his heavy, metal-caged staff with surprising speed for a walking corpse. Wednesday didn't flinch. She pivoted sharply, bringing the flaming sword up in a calculated parry. Steel clashed against magical metal. The Dragon Breath enchantment flared violently on impact, sending a wave of searing heat that made Crackstone hiss and stagger back.
The supernatural fire was devastating. Every time Crackstone tried to press an attack, Wednesday met him with precise, aggressive strikes. She didn't fight with brute force; she fought like a surgeon, using the weight of the sword and the blistering heat of the enchantment to systematically break down his defenses. The flames licked at his rotting robes, forcing the undead zealot on the defensive.
Desperate and losing ground, Crackstone raised his staff high. The cyan light inside the cage pulsed blindingly bright before unleashing a massive, roaring fireball straight at Wednesday's chest.
Wednesday didn't dodge. Her expression remained completely bored.
Gripping the hilt with both hands, she swung the flaming sword like a baseball bat. The enchanted steel bit into the fireball, catching the magical projectile and brutally swatting it away. The fireball careened off the blade and shattered against the stone ceiling, showering the crypt in harmless sparks.
Crackstone froze, his hollow eyes widening in genuine disbelief.
"You're losing your touch, Joseph," Wednesday deadpanned, taking a slow, predatory step forward. "But then again, you've been dead for four hundred years. I suppose I can forgive the sloppy technique."
With a quick, practiced twirl of the burning blade, she advanced, the firelight casting long, terrifying shadows of her pigtails against the crypt walls.
Backed into a corner and realizing that engaging an Addams in a sword fight was a fatal error, Crackstone slammed the base of his staff against the stone floor.
The cyan magic within the metal cage flared to a blinding intensity. With a desperate, sweeping motion, Crackstone unleashed a shockwave of raw kinetic energy that blasted a massive hole through the crypt's ancient wall. Heavy stone blocks and mortar exploded outward into the foggy night, sending up a thick cloud of dust and debris.
Crackstone staggered through the jagged opening, coughing and seeking the tactical advantage of the open courtyard.
He didn't get far.
Wednesday stepped calmly through the swirling dust, the rubble crunching softly beneath her thick-soled boots. The Dragon Breath sword burned fiercely in her grip, casting a menacing, fiery glow over her unblinking features. She looked less like a teenager and more like an executioner arriving for her shift.
"Running away?" Wednesday called out, her voice cutting through the night air. "How historically accurate of a pilgrim."
However, the courtyard was no longer empty. The explosion had drawn a crowd.
Tyler stood a few yards away, his posture rigid, eyes darting between Crackstone and the fiery blade in Wednesday's hands. He was dangerously close to shifting, a low, guttural growl already vibrating in his chest.
Opposite him, a breathless Enid had just burst through the tree line, flanked by Bianca, Ajax, Xavier and Wheems. Enid's bright pink and blue hair was a stark contrast to the gloom, but she wasn't smiling. Her claws were fully extended, gleaming sharply in the moonlight, and she looked ready to rip someone apart.
"Wednesday!" Enid yelled, her voice a mix of terror and fierce relief. "We brought backup!"