Chapter Text
May 21st
It was a cold day in Spring when the final words of the Viper de la Muerte trilogy were first spoken. It was in an even colder room in a dark, dark house, as the morning’s first rays passed through the lone window, where those words misted the air.
“And as the Wolf’s hands, no longer clawed but still red with blood...” , the world-renowned author of the Viper novels read, the words feeling metallic in her mouth. If anyone else had been in the room, they most likely would not have noticed the signs of displeasure in the writer's expression. “...at long last were free to wrap around Viper's body, the detective felt within her a peace she had never before even suspected herself of being able to find. An anchor, a certainty...”
When Wednesday Addams is displeased, most will agree, it is a rarity for the displeasure to be considered easy to overlook. Non-existent onlookers could easily consider it to be with an either impressive, or foreboding, or indeed an all-round off-putting calmness that she neatly removed the page from the typewriter and placed it upon half a dozen similarly obsolete pages.
All night she has been up, clawing within herself to find the perfect combination of words that would live up to everything she’d been crafting for over a decade. The first attempts had, of course, been what she would consider the best; Wednesday allowing herself to type out what she would have personally found most enjoyable to read, back when she’d been the age of her target audience.
Unfortunately for her, however, she had it on good authority that such truly gruesome and bloody depictions of Viper’s emotional state would not be what her publishers would consider ‘age-appropriate’ for the majority of those seven-to-twelve-year-old readers.
(And, by far most importantly, nor was it what her true audience was hoping for.)
The final scene: after three books’ worth of trials and tribulations, Viper de la Muerte had grown so attached to her partner that, as her precious Wolf verged on the edge of endless tears, she would hug the girl who had been longing for such affection since the series began. It was the most pivotal event in Viper’s story. Wednesday could not afford to fall short at this last hurdle, and yet, the perfect words would not come.
Her hands hovered over the old machine. There was, she recognised, no requirement to write the scene in its chronological order, no reason outside sentiment for the last lines to be the last drafted to paper. For now, she could just write the ending. One letter after another.
It shouldn’t be a problem. She’d anticipated this exact phrase since before she’d even been published. No need to delay.
The words were written methodically. Automatically. And when they came out, they felt right. And with her voice, they entered the world:
“So that’s what this is, Viper realised, breathing in the blood of her Wolf and the Hyde she had slain. What she and her partner had.
It was love. Love...
Love.
A bloody bond indeed.”
It was only on her second glance that Wednesday realised her error. Where she had spoken the name ‘Viper' had been typed the pronoun ‘I'.
That page ended up not on the pile, but screwed up and dropped to the floor. A hand scurried out of the nearest door, and escorted it to the neighbouring fireplace. In a few hours’ time, it would feed the flames.
VIPER DE LA MUERTE III
A BLOODY BOND
BY WEDNESDAY ADDAMS
Dedicated to Emily, my goddaughter, for whom I can only hope Viper has served as a source of amusement - and potentially, some less fleeting value - these past few years.
When I one day leave this wretched mortal plane, I hope these stories serve as a reminder of my everlasting love for you. As will my post-mortem participation in séances which, I vow, I will one day convince your parents to allow me to tutor you in.
Should my time come before I am able to deliver such a necessary stepping stone in every young person’s life, however, you may rest assured that I will be haunting your walls both literally and, through the function of this tome, literarily.
Yours forevermore,
Wednesday Addams
Number 1, Cemetery Lane may not have been as opulent as the castle of a manor of Wednesday’s childhood, but it was every bit the abode of an Addams. A mansion in its own right, on a plot of land adjacent to a cemetery, and thankfully with its very own swamp.
(At least, a swamp that went through the house grounds. Wednesday tried to skim over the details whenever possible, but Pugsley had teased her severely when her exaggeration had been uncovered.)
Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances in which she had first taken up residence, Wednesday had come to grow incredibly proud of the place she now called home. Over her years of occupancy, what had once been just another Addams property had been brought up to snuff, and was now worthy of her family name; at night, she was lulled to sleep by the wailing of banshees, and dined with the shrouds of ghosts, many of whom she'd brought back with her from her travels, along with her numerous and often ill-gotten gains. Or ‘rare souvenirs’, as she would tell Emily while under her parents' supervision, positioned all around the house with the brazenness of a museum showing off its collection.
It was in her study where Wednesday did the majority of her writing. Located in the tower that jotted into the tallest point of the entire building, where the clock tower would be if she ever got round to installing one, facing the front gate entrance and driveway. Through the lone rectangular window she often left open, Wednesday had on many occasions enjoyed frightening unsuspecting passers-by, the routine of beckoning down a banshee to call out a greeting always being a welcome treat.
Oh, how those fearful fools could run.
There was no time for such woefully splendid joys just yet, however. The finishing touches had been placed on the final chapter, and as such, Wednesday had a responsibility to uphold:
Send a text message to her goddaughter. Or, a ‘WhatsApp’, specifically.
The manuscript sat on the dark oak table in front of her, accompanied only by her typewriter and a glass of ice-cold water. Pages straight from that typewriter, encased within a steel exterior, the title and author's name engraved in a jagged font, an uncommonly sturdy knife used as a pen. It looked sufficiently foreboding, easily doubling as a bludgeon or alternative tool of murder, just the way any novel written by Wednesday Addams should be appreciated.
Wednesday took approximately 20 photos of the steel cover, her phone’s camera adjusted to a different focus in each of them.
Pictures successfully taken, Wednesday opened the ‘WhatsApp’ app Enid and Emily had successfully badgered her into downloading. Her attempts to manufacture a more independent app for their shared use had, unfortunately, been met with an amount of ridicule she would not allow from any other earth-bound entity.
She tapped on the ‘chat’ she shared with Emily, and proceeded to spend the next 90 seconds trying to attach the picture she had determined to be both least blurry and most effective at sending shivers down the spines of the weak-willed, with 60 more seconds spent deciding on the best message to send with the image.
As requested, you are the first person to be made aware that the third book in the Viper series has been completed. Here is an image of the first completed manuscript.
“Thing!” Wednesday called. Quickly, she heard the tell-tale rapid tapping of fingers racing across the floor, and then the hand sped up the leg of the table, launching off the corner and landing with a stylish pose in all his scarred glory.
“Does this seem an appropriate message for Emily?”
Thing skimmed over the message, before throwing his whole body into his thumb. A truly enthusiastic gesture. She nodded, hesitating just a few seconds more before sending the message.
After doing so, she let the phone drop to the table with a light thud, exhaling lightly as she stood up. For a moment, she simply enjoyed the sight of skeletal trees being buffeted by the wind across the road. The other week, she had been fortunate enough to see a branch snap off and fall on top of a member of Cemetery Lane's measly church congregation. The congregation had been present and suitably horrified at the time, and Wednesday had allowed herself to be terribly excited before the injured member was helped to his feet.
What were the chances she’d be blessed with even more horrific luck? At least on that day, they didn’t seem high. Just the winds, and the trees, and the simple relaxation of watching nature tear itself apart.
“I'm having trouble internalizing it, Thing,” she confessed quietly, still absorbed in her viewing entertainment. “At long last, Viper de la Muerte’s journey has come to an end.”
She couldn’t help but feel melancholic at this literal end of a chapter. There was a lack of clarity to the sentiment, however, and Thing must have sensed that her sadness was not of the entirely agreeable sort. He jumped to attention, banging himself on the table and then smacking his fingers together, dozens of combinations all forming his closest possible imitations of a crowd’s variety of applause, celebrating her hard-earned triumph. She appreciated it.
It came to her suddenly-
“Do you know what this means?”, she asked Thing, and the hand spread his palm wide, twirling to gesture around the entire room. A deceptively wise inference for him.
“Indeed. Endless possibilities lie ahead of me. Without the trappings of a child audience and with my own incredible success, I am... free, in a sense. Perhaps I will now be able to unleash upon the world my true talents, publish what I've been burning to write all along...”
Thing got closer to her, movements cheerful and celebratory, incredibly enthusiastic. Something close to a smile graced Wednesday Addams’ face.
The phone buzzed. The author picked up immediately, eyes leaping to the new messages as Thing leapt to the back of her chair. Emily had replied.
OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOIDFMKLXCZ\ DCVM RFSADCKLZXMC,\ ASDCM FRESD
Wednesday didn’t blink, long-since acquainted with the torture of the English language that Emily bathed in with the ease of breathing. A distinct reign of terror that was inherited from her mother. Wednesday had to admire the butchery.
A new message soon appeared.
Auntie wenny that’s ammazing!!!!!!!!
I cant believe you actually let MEEEE be the 1 st person to c this, im actually so happy rn.
Wednesday replied immediately, because as acquainted as she was with the child's propensity to grate letters against her eyes like she allowed no one else, she was not a masochist. Not where language was concerned.
Emily, need I remind you of the rules you’ve agreed to?
If we are to communicate with this technology, then you are to either abide by the conventions of contemporary language, or leave at least a ten second pause between your messages so as to give me sufficient time to read them without carving the correct language into my skin.
She had never truly gotten used to mobile phones. Part of it was her natural aversion to any technology pioneered within the last twenty to thirty years, but another part of it had to do with temptation – a device she could keep in her pocket, with which she could enter any hellish domain concocted by humanity’s globally-connected machinations, at a moment’s notice?
Truly, a forbidden fruit for Wednesday Addams if there ever was one, an evil so potent she was forced to handle it with a great deal of care. It had therefore been with a great deal of hesitation that she had taken to carrying her phone on her person at all times, and she had since become relatively adept at the device.
(The fact that this had started the day after Enid had asked her to be godmother to her yet unborn second child was, if anyone asked, entirely coincidental, and any sly smiles to the contrary would be met with an amount of hostility very few appreciated to be as restrained as it was.)
Wednesday waited for Emily to reply. After a few seconds of watching three dots waver next to her goddaughter’s name:
HOW CAN YOU TYPE THAT SO QUICKLY?!?!?!
I’ve seen you type in person, it takes you ten seconds to write two words!
Gratuitous capitalisation aside, I am pleased with your improvement.
To answer your question, your messages evoked a rage within me that granted me superlative typing prowess.
What do you think of the title?
I love it!!!!! Why does the cover look like it was written with a knife? Does anyone else know the name.
To answer your first question: because it was, indeed, carved with a knife. To answer your second: alas, Thing is a curious cretin incapable of minding his own business, which is both how he became aware and why he is currently spying over my shoulder.
Also, don’t forget your question marks.
By the time Thing had took the hint and sped out of the room, Emily had already replied.
😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂
Oh! Mum’s here, she’s asking what’s so funny. Mind of I tell her?
🥺🥺🥺🥺
Did Wednesday mind if Emily told her, instead of Wednesday herself? Of course not, she thought, that would be ridiculous.
...
There was only the crackle of fire from the other room and the howl of wind from outside as she thought it over, no other sound in Wednesday Addams’ study. She tried to enjoy the way the silence weighed on her, but it had become a rather peculiar kind of silence, offering no direction or assistance and allowing any absurd, utterly selfish urge to take precedence. She ruthlessly squashed the impulse.
Of course I don’t mind, go ahead.
She should have known what the next message would say.
She’s so happy!!!!!!! She wants 2 talk 2 u, can she?? :DDDDDDDD
Wednesday suspected she would only ever offer the exact same answer to that question:
Of course.
Immediately, her phone started to vibrate. They were ringing with Emily's mobile. She took a breath, let it out. She accepted the call.
“Hello Enid-”
Mother and daughter bellowed down the line - “ CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!!” - and Wednesday’s phone was immediately held at arms’ length away from her. Her eyes were wide, holding the monstrosity like it tried to bite her ear off, as of course it had.
She could hear them cackling down the line, like a pair of blond hyenas. She slowly, ever so tentatively, put the phone on the speaker setting and backed away with cautious steps.
“...thank you,” she said in monotone, itching for a knife.
“I-I’m sorry, but we couldn’t resist,” Enid said, having the audacity to giggle.
“-sorry for scaring you!” Emily called down the phone, completely taking after her mother.
“You did not scare me,” Wednesday said evenly, carefully taking her seat back at the table, as the giggles started quieting down. They didn’t say anything, though Wednesday thought she could hear the sound of Enid shushing her daughter, and the crackles of the line sounded suspiciously like laughter held behind hands. “...you did, however, come closer to killing me than a great number of serial killers.”
Hoots of triumph from the phone. If anyone asked, Wednesday would tell them that she did not feel even a shadow of joy at the clamour.
“Emily, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to talk to your mother for a moment.”
The child said something that got lost across the connection, phones tending to not have the clearest reception at Wednesday’s home. Scuffling across the call, and then it was only Wednesday and Enid.
Just them.
Enid’s laughs were incredibly light, and her voice came through clearer as she held the phone closer to herself.
“Hi,” Enid said, earnest tone devoid of the previous joking lilt, but so warm that it wrapped up Wednesday like one of the woman’s hugs. Squeezing her, tight enough it was as if she’d never let go, one of the only things capable of bringing colour to Wednesday’s cheeks. She avoided looking at any reflective surfaces, just in case.
“...hello again,” Wednesday said, letting herself lean back slightly into the chair.
“So, book three done? I’m so happy for you, I know how much this means to you.”
Dealing in compliments and thanks didn’t come easily to Wednesday, even now. “Thank you, Enid. Sincerely...”, the words feeling thick and awkward. “I think Emily will like it.”
“I’m sure she will. She adores your writing.” The hint of a small smile. “Don’t tell her I said this, but she adores you.”
Wednesday let those words seep into her, then picked up the phone and turned off the speaker setting.
“Enid,” she began directly into the phone, but faltered as she heard the faintest, lightest possible gasp from across the line. She checked her tone, making sure it was as even as ever. “...you recall that with the first novel, it took a great deal of effort to decide who to dedicate it to.”
“I remember how happy your parents were when they saw their names on it,” Enid’s smile was broad now, joy audible. It seemed more relaxed almost, as if she too had leant back. “Gomez couldn’t stop his tears, and it’s one of the only times I’ve seen Morticia be so...”
The memory was easy for Wednesday to recall. If some demonic manifestation of Pride ever forced her to list the most agonisingly emotional moments when she’d thrummed with its sin, that may appear top of the list.
“I’ve never seen my mother lose her composure like she did then.”
There was the sound of movement over the phone, like a mattress shifting. A bed, or a sofa, and a light giggle. Wednesday’s grip tightened. “’Losing composure’ is a funny way of saying she couldn’t stop hugging you.”
“She can never stop hugging me.”
“You know what I mean!”
“It was horrific,” Wednesday said stiffly, recalling perfectly her parents seeing their names pride of place on the dedication page of the first Viper de la Muerte book, ‘Cracked Heart’. The explosion of such overbearing affection from her parents had been deeply ingrained onto her psyche. “It took an hour to get all her lipstick off my face.”
“It wasn’t an hour !” Enid laughed, as if Wednesday had proclaimed some humorous and outlandish exaggeration as opposed to a literal description of events.
“I fear your memory is evaporating in your old age,” Wednesday said evenly. “For it most certainly was.”
“I remember being the person who cleaned most of it off for you Wednesday,” Enid said casually, not realising how that single sentence almost stopped Wednesday’s heartbeat, “so I think my memory’s just fine.”
For a moment, there was silence, and while Enid had been successful in snatching the very breath out of Wednesday’s lungs - a truly majestic attempt at assassination, she would have admired it with awe had she not been reeling from the results - it would be far too impolite for Wednesday to allow the quiet to stretch on.
Easier thought than done, however. One of the symptoms of this attack, Wednesday dimly recognised, was how it spread a dryness along her insides. From the roof of her mouth, to the back of her neck, down through her throat, temporarily inhibiting her ability to speak. There were half a dozen poisons she could name which had similar effects, all of which she had either built up an immunity to or the cures of which she had in the household. Enid’s verbal ripostes, unfortunately, always tended to strike her in unexpected places, and were not so easily fought against. A chameleon of a weapon that constantly changed its composition, leaving the author near defenceless when struck.
Wednesday took a sip of water before continuing onwards, savouring the cold, pretending nothing was amiss. “If your memory is indeed as sharp as your claws are,” she began, voice thankfully as smooth as ever, “you will no doubt recall the circumstances that led to the dedication of the sequel.”
“I remember a lot more than just that – oh God, it was like the whole world lost it when that cat left the bag. ‘Author Addams dedicates book to her would-be ASSASSINS', ‘SENSATIONAL Wednesday Addams strikes back at hits on life by telling enemies to'-"
“If you have any mercy, spare me the details,” Wednesday cut her off, in what she would never admit was a grumble, in a tone she would never admit to approaching desperate. Enid, the ruthless wolf that she was, let out a vindictively delighted giggle.
As good for sales as Wednesday’s propulsion to the spotlight had been, it had not been worth the media circus she’d been made the centre of. Truly a historically bad trade, one that had made her consider a full-on career change. She was lucky Gomez was too blinded by his pride in her to criticise her poor showing of business skills.
Being an Addams came win a price. Sometimes madness, sometimes agony beyond compare, sometimes a penchant for dramatic confrontations and the pursuit of vengeance.
Wednesday had always imagined her name might live on in infamy. She had never even imagined, her nightmares could never conceive, that she might be thrown into the public spotlight while alive, and that she would have to settle with being merely ‘controversial’. A truly heinous fate, beyond compare.
“If you say so!” Enid’s tone turned sly, bordering on coquettish. “So, you admit my memories are still as sharp as my claws?”
Oh woe, what a life she had found herself living.
Wednesday sighed. “Indubitably.”
The victorious werewolf cheered, as the psychic resisted the urge to massage her temples. Even defeated and unseen, she was above such petty displays.
Enid waited for her to continue, celebrations continuing on in the humming of a light, upbeat tune, as if put on hold.
Wednesday sighed, making no attempts to hide the sound. The humming ended abruptly.
It’s now or never.
“Enid, I want to dedicate it to Emily.”
There was more movement over the line, as if Enid was straightening up. Wednesday continued, hearing her voice become uncharacteristically hurried, and that hurry left an entirely different kind of poison behind than Enid’s words from earlier:
“We both understand why that would almost certainly be an entirely moronic decision, but perhaps if the published dedication was completely lacking in specifics, and if Emily received an entirely personal edition...”
She hadn’t rehearsed this, hadn’t had the time or forethought, and the knowledge choked her, stopped her from continuing. One of the only times she had ever let a sentence ‘trail off' into the ether.
Enid seemed to hesitate before speaking, and Wednesday wished she wasn’t as hooked into her anticipation as she was. Like a drowning woman, just kept below the surface, begging for air.
“She'll love that,” Enid said, softly and thoughtful. Then, after another moment's thought, she said, “Can we talk about this in person? Sooner rather than later?”
It was probably just typical Addams delusion, but to Wednesday it appeared as though her heart went from skipping a beat, to racing, and then to calming down to a still-galloping but altogether more reasonable pace. She inhaled, and let out a thankfully inaudible, relaxing, rattling breath.
She didn’t want to have this conversation over the phone either. “Of course. There’s other details I would like to go over, but nothing we haven’t before.”
A slight pause for Wednesday to think. Then: “Name the time and place. I can work around your schedule more easily than you can mine.”
A laugh like the break of dawn signalling the end of night. Daybreak, such a delightfully severe term.
Enid’s tone had brightened with their shared relief. “Thank you. Seriously Wednesday, no matter how you go about it, Emily is going to be so, so happy about this. It'll make her-"
There was commotion over the line. A familiar voice. Ice shot through Wednesday’s veins, purging any relief or warmth.
Wednesday grit her teeth as husband and wife conversed, Enid pulling away.
“Hey Ajax! Wednesday’s on...”
Static robbed her off the rest of Enid’s sentence. Ajax's voice was far more distant than Enid's had been, but that damnable relaxed tone he always carried – as if every urge flowed out of him freely, unfiltered by brains or second thought – seemed to transcend all other barriers and sail straight into Wednesday’s ears.
She wanted to tear them off.
“Oh, hi Wednesday! I hope you can come ‘round soon, we've all been missing you.”
Infernally pleasant as always.
“Hello Ajax,” she said evenly. Enid giggled down the line, before her focus turned fully towards her husband. Wednesday could make out just fragments of conversation as she strained her hearing, cursing the next-door flames for the audacity to be crackling so joyously, and not yet over her desire to render herself deaf via extreme otoplasty.
Spite got the best of her; with the yank of a desk-based lever, water poured down into the fireplace, extinguishing the flames with a long hiss. She could usually enjoy the snake-like sound, faint as it would be, but not on this occasion. All the while her eyes stayed fixed to that damnable tree, that STILL refused to drop its branches on unsuspecting heads.
“Mind if I call you back and we figure out a date later, Wends?” Enid’s voice, bright and joyful, but regretful all the same. Wednesday contained a sigh.
“Of course you can, Enid. Remember to give this phone back to Emily.”
And she hung up before Enid Petropolus could say goodbye.
Wednesday exhaled the sigh she'd held back, opening the manuscript to its last pages, slowly drinking in those final words yet again.
The end of a chapter , she remembered. Well, at least now I understand that bout of unexplained melancholy.
Thing crawled back up her chair, resting on her shoulder and patting her comfortingly. Unfortunately, the urge to bat him off had long since been lost to time.
Wednesday stood up and strode out of the study to the fireplace. She examined it, searching for any last traces of paper.
Sure enough, the page with the blasphemous error had been fully incinerated. Chances were it would keep nagging at her, but the secret was now alive only in her mind, less real than the warmth that had spread from the flame and clung to the rest of the room.
Thing tapped a rhythm against her shoulder.
“I'm perfectly horrid as always, Thing. No cause for alarm,” she replied.
Maybe make it a bit warmer? Thing asked.
Wednesday made it two seconds before caving to the hand's request. Within minutes the previously drenched firewood had been replaced and a warm fire was back roaring in front of her. Thing requested they stay, sat instead of standing, so that the aging hand could warm up his knuckles.
“I'm going soft,” she cursed herself, adjusting her posture to give Thing more of the heat. “Next thing you know I'll be knitting you mittens.”
Thing chittered excitedly. Wednesday openly groaned, as the fire started warming her up.
The front page of The Common Herald, from not-too-many years ago:
MURDERS AT OUTCAST INSTITUTE
By Viviane Columbia
The world is holding its breath as we learn that last night, evening to early morning, Nevermore Academy – an institution famed for being one of the only educational centres in America that offers admission exclusively across the entire Outcast spectrum– was the stage of numerous murders, and has been for many months.
Police are currently treating the matter with immense secrecy, and are currently refusing to share the full scope of the situation with the public. What is known is that amongst the deceased are Nevermore Principal Larissa Weems, and local ‘normie’ Tyler Galpin, 17, son of the local sheriff.
Also known is that over the past few months, ‘normies’ have been found murdered across the town of Jericho where Nevermore resides. Most victims were “mauled to death”, to such a degree that a bear was held as the prime suspect, according to a local witness. Shockingly, Mayor Noble Walker passed away after his life support was turned off overnight, following the mayor being well on the road to recovery after having been driven over in broad daylight.
Rumours persist that a 16-year-old werewolf has been taken into custody on suspicion of Galpin’s murder, and is being suspected of further involvement in these crimes.