Chapter Text
"21, 22, 23, 24, and 2—"
The Addams hand trembled as if she miscounted. Dicer Dot was missing. Another layer gone from her nest, leaving now only 24 chickens and chicks.
Her dark eyes darted, catching a blood trail across the hay. She ignored it at first, thinking it must've been Thing, her old cattle dog, getting into another fight and bleeding over the straw. But as she stepped closer, her eyes swept over the paw marks — far bigger than her own hands.
Too big. Too heavy.
Another wolf? she questioned, feeling a slow, curious grin threaten her lips. No doubt she killed most, if not every one near this village, with her trusty shotgun when she first moved here. But the thought of a survivor or something new.
It thrilled her.
The church bells rung far off from the chapel, singing it was about time again for the afternoon market.
She could spend all her days worrying over blood splatters and missing chickens. But what would be the fun in that?
She walked around methodically, collecting eggs from her layers, her boots squelching in the muddy, blood-mixed hay, before heading off to fetch fresh milk. Her hand skimmed a feather sticky with blood and she rubbed it between her fingers thoughtfully.
After all her work was packed, she walked toward town with Thing panting like the old dog he was, tongue lolling, tail limp, until they made it to their usual booth.
She slid water under the table for him and sat, pulling her dark shawl tighter against her shoulders, watching the old cheery faces move like ghosts through the market.
"You're here early, Addams," Divina scoffed, settling into her booth. The reek of fish and old blood stung Wednesday's nose.
Divina — about Wednesday’s age — lived with her parents, selling fish and whatever else she dredged up from god-knows-where. Wednesday didn’t bother asking. She had no interest in eating creatures that smelled like low tide and death.
"Yeah," Wednesday mumbled, rubbing her tired eyes. "Preparing for a hunt later."
Before Divina could reply, a tall figure shadowed her table. She didn’t need to look up. She already knew.
"I’ll have my usual," Tyler said brightly, practically glowing in the dull afternoon sun. He pointed at the milk jars. Wednesday fought the urge to roll her eyes.
She packed up his order quickly, her movements sharp.
"When are you gonna start selling meat?" Tyler asked, voice too hopeful.
"Never," Wednesday snapped, tying his bag tighter than necessary and thrusting it toward him. She didn’t need to explain her distaste. Blood and slaughter were fine, but selling it ? That felt too mundane, too pedestrian.
Tyler smiled like an eager puppy, waving before hopping away, leaving behind a trail of too-cheerful energy.
"You know that boy has a serious crush on you," Divina teased once he was out of earshot, laughing into her sleeve.
Wednesday only stared after him, deadpan.
"I’d rather be mauled by a feral dog," she muttered darkly, gathering her coins.
Later that night...
After smoking something harsh and bitter, she cleaned her bullets, watching the clouds peel away from the fat, full moon.
Thing was locked up in the shed, too old to help.
Wednesday sat by the fence, her shotgun cradled in her lap like a lover, a faint lantern glow beside her.
The cold gnawed at her fingers. She flexed them deliberately, savoring the numb ache. Three hours dragged by. Her eyelids drooped. The night smelled sharp — blood, frost, something animal.
Then — a shadow streaked past.
The chickens shrieked, flapping in panicked bursts.
Wednesday's heart kicked against her ribs — but she smiled.
"Finally," she whispered to the dark, cocking her gun.
She ran toward the coop.
There crouched against the smashed coop wall — golden-brown fur, massive and matted, heaving with the creature’s breathing. It wasn't a bear. It wasn’t a wolf.
It was something worse.
Nose buried deep in feathers, the beast yanked a struggling hen from the pile. Feathers burst into the air like confetti.
Wednesday’s breath misted in the cold. Her instincts howled for blood, louder than fear, louder than reason.
"Drop it," she said aloud, voice flat as a gravestone.
The beast looked up.
Its eyes glowed reflective, eerie blue shining against the moonlight.
Before she could fire, the creature charged, knocking the gun from her hands with brutal speed.
She slammed into the dirt, her breath whooshing out, and the beast pinned her, its fur soaking her sleeves with blood and drool. Its claws dug into her wrist, piercing deep.
The pain bloomed, sharp and bright. She didn’t flinch.
Instead, she grinned.
Up close, the stench of it filled her lungs — wet fur, blood, and something older, feral.
"You’re beautiful," she whispered up at the monster, her voice trembling not from fear, but from awe.
Blood dripped from its jaws onto her face. She licked instinctively, the taste metallic, sweet, rancid. Her heart hammered so hard she could hear it.
The chicken gave a final, pathetic cluck, then went limp in the beast’s grip.
For a moment, Wednesday and the creature stared at each other — frozen, wild.
Then, without warning, it tore its claws free from her wrist — flesh parting like warm butter.
Bounding off into the woods, vanishing into the night.
A day later at the market...
Wednesday sat slouched at her booth, flicking at the edge of her bandages absently. The cloth had turned a dirty, angry pink from seeping blood. She should have changed it. She didn’t bother.
Divina hadn’t come to her stall yet strange. She was usually here before the sun was done dragging itself across the sky.
Everything was unusually quiet, the village caught in an evening lull, the colors of the market washed in a tired orange from the setting sun.
It was different from
that night
.
Different from the raw smell of blood and fur and the wild drumbeat of her own heart.
No matter how she tried, she couldn’t push it from her mind. She didn’t
want
to.
She
craved
it.
Craved another meeting. Another fight. Another taste.
With a low, frustrated sigh, Wednesday let her head fall against the table, arms folded beneath her cheek, letting her eyes close against the slow, dull ache blooming in her wrist.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A sharp, neat sound — nails on wood — broke the heavy stillness.
Wednesday’s eyes flicked open, cold and unamused.
Before her stood a stranger — someone she didn’t recognize.
Blonde hair caught the dying sunlight, gleaming like something unnatural. Wide blue eyes — not unlike the beast’s — stared down at her.
But softer. More human.
The woman — looked out of place among the rough farmers and heavy-handed merchants. Too clean. Too... polished.
"Do you sell meat?" the stranger asked, her voice light but certain, like she already knew the answer she wanted.
Wednesday stared at her in silence for a long moment, heart thudding once, hard.