"Who said a vampire can't have telekinesis?" Ethan replied calmly. "Just because modern vampires don't exhibit it doesn't mean they never did."
Even in this world, there had to be a vampire progenitor—much like the alphas among the werewolves.
And even if modern outcasts had watered-down abilities, diminished by time and dilution, the progenitors would have been something else entirely.
Monsters in the truest sense of the word.
Wednesday studied him in silence, her expression unreadable.
"Hm," she said at last. "You raise a valid point."
Extinct bloodlines were not unheard of in outcast society. Entire species had vanished without a trace—Yetis, Cyclopes, their legacies reduced to footnotes and records.
It was entirely possible that Ethan didn't belong to a common strain of vampire at all, but to something older—an ancient vampire clan long extinct, erased in time that the modern world retained no record of it.
"That also clarifies my doubts regarding you," Wednesday said.
She turned without waiting for a response.
"Follow me," she added. "I may require your assistance."
Ethan tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering across his face, then fell into step behind her.
The two of them stopped in front of the Pilgrim Meeting House. The building was closed off, its doors secured by lock and clearly marked as under renovation.
Wednesday examined the lock with mild disdain.
"Now," she said, gesturing toward it, "use your monstrous strength and break the lock."
Ethan stared at the door, then at her. "Did you bring me all this way for manual labor?"
"Yes," Wednesday replied without hesitation.
She turned to face him, her expression flat but deliberate. "You've been dropping hints about the monster in the woods since the moment we met. Subtle ones. Irritating ones."
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
"I've been forced to do most of the investigative work myself," she continued. "So I assumed you wouldn't object to contributing something useful for once."
A brief pause followed.
"Consider it restitution," Wednesday added. "Or community service."
"I didn't ask you to solve it," Ethan said. "I only mentioned—"
"It's the same thing," Wednesday cut in. "You don't dangle a deer in front of a starving lion and expect it not to eat."
Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it.
"Well," he admitted, "I can't argue with that logic."
He simply gripped the lock and applied pressure.
There was a short, sharp crack as the metal snapped under his strength. He let the broken pieces fall to the ground, then stepped aside.
Wednesday didn't comment. She simply pushed the door open.
They stepped into the Pilgrim Meeting House.
The interior was plain and museum-like. Wooden display stands were arranged in precise rows, each capped with glass. Along the walls, cases showcased relics meant to glorify Jericho's past—tools, books, carefully preserved artifacts.
Everything was labeled, polished, and presented with almost obsessive reverence.
At the center of the room stood a plastic model of Joseph Crackstone, frozen mid-sermon, his expression eternally righteous.
"Hm."
Wednesday moved through the space slowly, her gaze sharp and methodical, as if expecting the exhibits to confess under pressure.
While she examined the displays, Ethan's attention drifted to a large painting mounted on the far wall.
The Old Meeting House, 1625.
"Wednesday," he said quietly, "you should see this."
She joined him, her eyes scanning the canvas—then stopping.
One figure stood slightly apart from the rest—a young woman, strikingly similar in appearance to Wednesday herself, a book clutched tightly in her hands.
The same black book.
The one from her vision.
The one she'd seen outside Crackstone's crypt.
A chill settled in her chest as recognition sharpened into certainty.
This wasn't coincidence. The prophecy spoke of the dead Crackstone—and of her. Now the girl from her visions stood captured in a painting from the same era as Crackstone himself. The connection was undeniable.
If answers about her future existed, they weren't waiting ahead of her.
They were buried in the past.
"That girl," Ethan said, "is Goody Addams. Your ancestor. That's why she looks like you."
Wednesday's eyes narrowed.
"And, as usual," she said coolly, "you won't explain how you know my ancestor—someone I didn't even know existed."
"You're spot on," Ethan replied. "And yes, I won't say."
Wednesday studied him for a long moment, unimpressed.
"Sometimes," she said at last, "I wonder what goes on inside that brain of yours—and what your end goal really is."
"I already told you," Ethan replied, completely unashamed. "A healthy teenage love relationship."
Wednesday didn't blink.
"Didn't you accept Enid's Raven date?" she asked.
"Yes."
A beat.
"Scumbag," Wednesday said flatly.
"Well, I gladly accept that praise," Ethan said lightly. Unlike Enid, Wednesday wasn't someone you could fool with half-baked stories. With her, it was better to be direct.
"You seem to have no concept of shame," Wednesday observed.
"Well," Ethan replied, unfazed, "I left it at home. It kept getting in the way of my dreams."
Wednesday stared at him for a moment.
"Delusional," she said flatly.
"I have no interest in men," Wednesday continued. "And even if I did develop one in the future, you would be at the very bottom of the list."
Ethan's lips curved, amused.
"So," he said softly, stepping just a little closer, "I am on the list."
He met her gaze, close enough now that she could feel his presence—five inches, no more.
Wednesday didn't step back.
She looked up at him, eyes sharp and unflinching.
"Don't flatter yourself," she said. "I keep lists for efficiency. Not hope."
At that moment, Thing—who had been searching quietly—scrambled into view. He tapped insistently, then pointed toward a nearby display case.
Inside rested the very same book from the painting.
Wednesday walked over, opened the case, and lifted the book with care.
"Codex Umbrarum," she read. "That's Latin for Book of Shadows."
She opened it.
The pages were blank.
She closed the book with finality.
"Great," Wednesday said flatly. "It's fake."
Wednesday turned toward Ethan and noticed his expression hadn't changed—as if he'd expected the outcome all along.
"You knew the book was fake," she said evenly. "Which means you also know where the real one is."
Ethan met her gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Nevermore."
******
A/N: The Patreon version is already updated to Chapter 53, so if you'd like to read ahead of the public release schedule, you can join my Patreon
👉 patreon.com/JamesA211