Chapter 4: The Scalper's Glimpse
The Quad was a labyrinth of shadows, the damp air clinging to Oliver's skin like a second skin, its chill seeping through his rumpled Nevermore uniform. The mist hung low, curling around the Gothic arches, carrying the faint scent of wet stone and something sharper—ozone, like a storm brewing. He stood beside Wednesday Addams, her black dress a stark silhouette against the gray, her braid motionless, her eyes scanning the horizon with forensic precision. She's a machine.
His fingers brushed the compass in his pocket, its faint hum a reminder of the System's cryptic guidance.
The message from their earlier scan lingered, urging him toward the Weathervane, and his heart raced, a mix of dread and determination. This is real. No turning back.
Wednesday's voice cut through the mist, cold and businesslike. "The tremor was a magical signature," she said, her eyes flicking to him, her fingers twitching as if itching for her knife. "I want to know its origin." Her tone was a command, not a request, and Oliver nodded, his throat tight. At least she's focused on the problem, not me.
"Got a… gut feeling about it," he said, framing the System's alert as instinct, his voice steady despite the lie. His fingers twitched toward his tie, the fabric grounding him as Wednesday's gaze narrowed, a micro-reaction of suspicion. "Gut feelings," she repeated, her voice flat, her lips twitching in a way that suggested she didn't believe him. She's too sharp.
The Weathervane was a cozy contrast to the Quad's gloom, its air thick with the scent of burnt pastry and bitter coffee, the warmth a fleeting comfort against the chill in Oliver's bones. The wooden counter was scarred, its surface warm under his fingertips as he muttered a Revelio spell, the System's magic surging through him like a current. The air hummed, a sterile, metallic scent rising, and his skin prickled as faint burn marks appeared on the counter, glowing faintly.
The message was a jolt, its vagueness forcing Oliver to think. A warlock. The Scalper?
Wednesday knelt beside the counter, her fingers tracing the burns, her eyes narrowing as she inhaled the ozone scent. "Deliberate," she said, her voice rapid, clinical. "Not accidental. A summoning residue, likely tied to a larger artifact." Her deductions were a torrent, and Oliver struggled to keep up, his mind racing. She's like a magical Sherlock, and I'm her confused Watson.
He spotted a small, charred coin half-hidden under a napkin, its surface etched with a twisted serpent. His fingers trembled as he picked it up, the metal cold and heavy, the System blaring:
The message was maddeningly vague, and Oliver's jaw tightened, his mind piecing together the clues with Wednesday's observations. It's part of something bigger. He showed her the coin, his voice low. "This mean anything to you?"
Wednesday's eyes flicked to it, her fingers brushing its edge, a spark of recognition in her gaze. "It's a conduit," she said, her voice softer, almost reverent. "A piece of a ritual." Their eyes met, a shared understanding forming, though her suspicion lingered in the tilt of her head.
The trail led them to a dead end outside Jericho, the coin's hum fading in the open air, the mist thicker now, the ozone scent gone. Oliver's frustration mounted, his fingers clutching the coin, its weight a reminder of their failure. We're missing something. Wednesday's posture stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line, her patience fraying. "This is pointless," she said, her voice sharp, her braid swinging as she turned to leave.
But the System spoke again, its tone urgent:
Oliver's heart lurched, and he lied, his voice steady. "I heard a rumor about a passage in the library."
Wednesday's eyebrow quirked, a flicker of intrigue crossing her face, her suspicion tempered by curiosity. "Lead the way," she said, her tone a challenge. The air grew colder, the mist curling around them like a warning, but their reluctant partnership solidified, the catacombs calling.
Oliver's Internal Monologue (15 sentences)
"This is insane. A warlock's out there, leaving coins and burn marks, and I'm supposed to solve it with her? Wednesday's like a blade, cutting through everything, including me. She doesn't trust me, and I don't blame her—I'm lying about the System. That coin, that serpent—it's tied to the mirror's message, isn't it? Seek the Serpent. But what is it? The System's not helping, just throwing riddles at me like I'm a game piece. The Weathervane felt alive, like it was watching us. Wednesday's deductions—they're brilliant, but she's too sharp, too close to figuring me out. I'm not just a student; I'm a Host, whatever that means. The catacombs sound like a trap, but we're out of options. If I screw this up, it's not just me who pays. Enid's back there, counting on me, and I'm barely holding it together. I need to be smarter, faster, or this Scalper's going to win. I'm not ready, but I'm going anyway."
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