Chapter 3: Party
The bass from the old mill was a physical thing, a pulse in the stone, in the fillings of her teeth. It echoed the unwanted rhythm still thrumming under her skin from Weems’s touch. Wednesday stood before the cracked full-length mirror attached to the dorm door, assessing her armor. Enid had laid it out: a top of black mesh that dissolved into straps, pants so tight they felt like a second pelt. They highlighted everything—the taper of her waist, the unsettling, heavy curve of the additional pairs beneath her ribcage, the base of her tail where the fabric split. Her reflection was a stranger, eyes wide and dark in a face that kept trying to smirk.
Enid bounced into view behind her, a burst of neon pink and glitter. “You’re staring again. Admiring the goods?” She wrapped her arms around Wednesday’s waist from behind, chin hooking over her shoulder. Her scent—cotton candy and wolf—was overwhelming. “You look insane. In the best way.”
Wednesday stiffened. “It’s merely fabric.”
“It’s a promise,” Enid corrected, her voice dropping to a growly whisper. Her hands slid down, palms warm through the mesh, settling possessively on the swell of her hips. One thumb stroked the sensitive dip just above the pants line. “My promise. Don’t let Bianca monopolize you tonight, okay? She gets handsy when she’s jealous.”
Before Wednesday could formulate a retort, Enid spun her around and kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. It was consuming, a claim staked with teeth and tongue and a low, approving hum that vibrated into Wednesday’s mouth. A hand came up, cupping the back of her neck, fingers threading through the hair at her nape. The other hand slid around, groping a handful of soft flesh through the mesh, a casual, intimate squeeze that made Wednesday’s traitorous body arch into the touch.
Enid broke the kiss, breathless, her eyes glowing with a faint lupine shine. “Okay. Now you’re ready.”
Jericho in this reality wasn’t just a town; it was a neon bruise. The taxi dropped them at the edge of a district she didn’t recognize, where the old brick buildings were slathered in holographic graffiti and pulsing light. The air smelled of spilled beer, ozone from faulty signs, and the thick, sweet smoke of clove incense. The crowd was a mix of normies and outcasts, boundaries blurred in the dark. She saw a gorgon with his snakes beaded with LED lights, a faceless girl whose shifting visage mimicked the strobes.
The club was called “The Litter Box.” A flickering sign depicted a stylized, many-breasted Bastet. Wednesday’s stomach turned.
Inside was a wall of sound and heat. Bodies moved in a synced swarm, lasers cutting through a fog that smelled of sweat and pheromones. Enid immediately grabbed her hand, fingers lacing tight, and pulled her into the throng. “They’re by the VIP couches! Come on!”
Being pulled through the crowd was an assault. Every brush against her tail sent electric jolts up her spine. The low-cut back of her top left the furred appendage completely exposed, and people touched it. Fingers, deliberate and curious, skimmed the length as she passed. A guy with horns winked. A girl with scaled cheeks purred back at her. Her own ears laid flat against her skull, trying to block the noise.
Enid dragged her to a sunken area with ratty velvet couches. Yoko, Ajax, Xavier, and others were there. Bianca was already enthroned in the center, a glass of something dark in hand. She spotted them, and her eyes locked onto their joined hands, then traveled up Wednesday’s body with languid approval.
“You made it,” Bianca called over the music. “We were about to start a round of Never Have I Ever. Perfect for you, Sinclair. Your innocence is so enduring.”
Enid rolled her eyes, pulling Wednesday down onto a couch snugly, tucking her against her side. “Shut up, Barclay. You’re just bitter because you’ve done everything.”
Wednesday sat rigidly, hyper-aware of Enid’s thigh pressed against hers, of an arm slung around her shoulders, of a hand now idly, rhythmically, petting the spot where her tail met her spine. The purr started again, an autonomic betrayal she couldn’t stop.
The game began. Drinks were sipped. Stories were told—tame, outrageous. Wednesday listened, a forensic auditor of debauchery. She learned that Kent had once gotten stuck in a chimney. That Divina had a smuggling operation for rare sea salts. That in this timeline, the Nightshades were less a secret society and more a party squad with a fancy seal.
Then Xavier, his gaze soft and fixed on Wednesday, said, “Never have I ever… been interviewed by the Outcast Tribune about ‘post-human morphological evolution.’”
A few groans. Enid kissed Wednesday’s temple. “You’re such a celebrity, babe.”
Bianca’s smile was a razor. “Oh, that piece. The photos were… educational.”
A flash of memory, not her own, hit Wednesday: a sterile room, a reporter with a hungry look, a commissioned photographer suggesting poses that emphasized “the unique lateral development.” The shame was hot and borrowed.
“I need air,” Wednesday said, her voice cutting through the laugh.
“I’ll come—” Enid started.
“Alone.” The word came out sharper than intended. She softened it with a forced, awkward stroke of Enid’s cheek, a gesture that felt alien in her muscles. “Two minutes. The incense is overwhelming my senses.”
She extracted herself, ignoring Enid’s slight pout and Bianca’s knowing stare, and pushed through the crowd toward a dark hall marked with a stick-figure cat fleeing a box. The bathrooms were down here, the noise slightly dampened.
She splashed water on her face, staring at the stranger in the smeared mirror. The water dripped from her chin onto the mesh, making it translucent. She growled at her reflection.
The door swung open. Not Enid. Not Bianca.
A woman leaned against the doorframe, blocking it. She was older, maybe forty, with tired eyes and faint, silvery scars that danced like lace up her neck. She wore a technician’s jumpsuit, unzipped to reveal a tank top. Her gaze was clinical, exhausted.
“Hey, kitten,” the woman said, her voice gravelly. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. Slumming it?”
Wednesday said nothing, just watched.
The woman pushed off the frame and took a step in. The door swung shut. “You look good. The sixth set settled nicely, I see. No residual nerve torsion?”
Ice flooded Wednesday’s veins. This was not a fan. This was a mechanic.
“Who are you?” Wednesday asked, her tone flat.
A bitter smile. “Wow. The masterpiece doesn’t remember the sculptor. Larissa said you might have some dissociation. Post-modification psychological drift.” She shook her head, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. “I’m Sybil. I did the install. In the sterile lab under Weems’s office, while you were so high on painkillers and suggestion you thought it was your idea.” She lit the cigarette, the flare illuminating the deep grooves of regret on her face. “You were her peace offering, kid. After the Reconciliation. The Addams heir, remade into something pretty and harmless and pleasurable. A living symbol that the old, dangerous ways were… neutered. Weems’s idea of genius.”
The world narrowed to the smoke curling between them. The bass was a distant heartbeat. The touch, the kisses, the glances—it all crystallized into a horrifying, perfect structure. She wasn’t a person here. She was a project. A diplomatic artifact.
“Why are you telling me this?” Wednesday whispered.
Sybil took a long drag. “Because I clean the filters in these places. I see what gets washed away. And because you’re looking at me with dead eyes, not bedroom eyes. That’s new.” She dropped the cigarette, grinding it under her heel. “The modification has a base programming. Seek affection. Provide pleasure. Be amenable. But it’s grafted onto an Addams brainstem. I always wondered what would happen if that core woke up.”
She moved to the door, paused. “The central control interface is a biometric lock. Weems has the key. It’s in her office. Behind the portrait of Crackstone.” She barked a laugh. “Her little joke.”
Sybil left.
Wednesday stood in the buzzing silence, the water still dripping. The door burst open again, this time with a flood of light and sound.
“There you are!” Enid’s voice was pitched with playful suspicion. “I was starting to think you’d given some normie a private show in a stall.” She bounded in, her expression shifting to concern at Wednesday’s stillness. “Hey. You okay?”
She reached out, placing a warm hand on Wednesday’s bare midriff.
This time, Wednesday didn’t just feel the foreign pleasure. She felt the wiring beneath it, the artificial pathways laid into her flesh. She saw the lab, the deal, the portrait of the bigot hanging in the office of the woman who’d had her taken apart and rebuilt.
She looked at Enid, at the genuine worry in her sunny eyes—worry for a creation, for a pet, not for the person who was supposed to be there.
A plan, cold and sharp, slotted into place in the ancient, unmodified parts of her mind.
She leaned into Enid’s touch, letting a purr roll out, deep and convincing. She tilted her head, exposing the line of her throat. “I’m perfect,” she murmured, the lie smooth as silk. “Just felt a little faint. Take me back to the party. I want to dance.”
Enid’s worry melted into delight. “That’s my girl.”
As Enid led her back into the crushing, rhythmic dark, Wednesday’s new, sensual smile didn’t waver. Behind it, she was mapping the route to Weems’s office, the portrait, the lock. The investigation was indeed over. Now, it was time for surgery.