Chapter 1: The Invitation in the Shadows
The dorm room smelled of lukewarm tea and the faint, acrid ghost of burnt popcorn. A single bulb flickered above the desk, its uneven pulse casting long shadows that danced over a half-finished crossword and a framed photo of two girls grinning before a broken fountain. The room was a study in opposition. One half was a catastrophe of discarded books and a perpetually crumpled black hoodie flung across a perfectly made bed. The other half was meticulously ordered, save for a single, crisply folded note hidden beneath a pillow.
Wednesday Addams stood by her own chaotic desk, her pale fingers smoothing the edges of a thick, cream-colored card. Her expression was carved from marble. “The address is a rented estate on the outskirts of Jericho. The festivities commence at midnight. It’s admirably direct.”
Enid Sinclair was trying to fold a pair of socks for the third time. The pink and yellow stripes blurred under her nervous hands. “Yeah. Direct. That’s one word for it. ‘Clothing-optional transcendental gathering’ is a bunch of other words for it. Really loud, scary words.”
“The invitation was specifically extended to ‘visionaries and outcasts,’” Wednesday recited, her voice flat. “Given the sender’s suspected involvement in the disappearances, my attendance is not optional. It’s investigative.”
“It’s an orgy, Wednesday.” The word felt too big for Enid’s mouth. She dropped the socks. “People will be… congregating. Without their… congregations.”
Wednesday didn’t look up from the card. “I am aware of the standard definition. The lack of fabric barriers may, in fact, facilitate observation. People are less guarded in their nakedness. More prone to unconsidered statements.”
Enid’s laugh came out as a strangled hiccup. She flopped onto her bed, the colorful patchwork quilt puffing around her. “Unconsidered statements. Right. That’s probably what they’re thinking about.” She pulled a rainbow sherpa blanket over her head, her voice muffled. “I can’t do it. I have a thing. My claws feel weird. I think I’m coming down with something deeply, physically embarrassing.”
There was a soft, metallic shink. Enid peeked from under the blanket.
Wednesday was testing the edge of a small, cruel-looking blade against her thumb. She held it up to the flickering light, examining its potential trajectories. “Your physiological symptoms are psychosomatic. Your pulse is elevated, and your scent has shifted to one of acute anxiety laced with…” She paused, her dark eyes finally cutting to Enid. “Something else. But you are not ill.”
Enid sat up, the blanket falling to her shoulders. “Of course I’m anxious! This isn’t like sneaking into the Nightshades library or digging up a grave. This is… people. Naked, sweaty, humping people. And we have to just… mingle?” Her voice cracked. “What’s your plan? Interrogate someone while they’re… mid-hump?”
“I intend to identify our host, ascertain the nature of the ‘transcendental’ practices hinted at here, and locate any evidence linking him to the missing normies.” Wednesday laid the blade on the desk and picked up a roll of black athletic tape. “My primary concern is practical. Strapping this to my thigh is obvious. The ankle is preferable, but limits mobility.”
The casual discussion of blade placement while talking about an orgy was so perfectly, absurdly Wednesday that Enid felt her panic momentarily recede. It was replaced by a hotter, more confusing rush. The image flashed, unbidden and vivid: Wednesday’s pale, lean thigh, the stark black tape against her skin, the—
No.
Enid shoved the thought down, where it joined the chorus of others she refused to name. She focused on a thread coming loose on her quilt. “You could just not go. We could find another way. Stake out the house. Go through his trash.”
“His trash is comported by a private service. The estate perimeter is warded. This is the most efficient point of entry.” Wednesday began methodically wrapping the tape around her own slender wrist, testing its give. “Your attendance, however, is not strictly necessary. My cover would be more convincing as a solitary seeker of forbidden experiences.”
The words slapped Enid. Solitary. The idea of Wednesday going into that den of hedonism alone was somehow worse than the prospect of going with her. Worse because of the quiet, sick twist of jealousy that followed it—who might try to touch her, talk to her, see her.
“No,” Enid said, too quickly. She cleared her throat. “I mean, that’s a dumb plan. Pairs are less suspicious. Everyone brings a… a date. Or a buddy. We’re buddies. Buddy system.”
Wednesday’s head tilted. The flickering light caught the emptiness in her eyes. “You are displaying wildly inconsistent reasoning. Thirty seconds ago you were proposing we excavate landfill.”
“I changed my mind! Werewolf prerogative.” Enid stood up, pacing the narrow divide between their worlds. Her socked feet were silent on the scuffed floor. “You need a buffer. Someone to run interference if some creep tries to get… transcendental with you. I can be buffer-y.”
Wednesday watched her pace. “Your agitation is exceeding useful parameters.”
“I’m not agitated! I’m buffer-y!” Enid stopped, gripping the back of her desk chair. Her knuckles were white. She took a breath, the air still tasting of burnt popcorn. “Look. It’s gonna be weird. For both of us. But you’re right, it’s the best lead we have. So we go. We get in, you do your Sherlock thing, we get out. We don’t… participate.”
“Obviously.” Wednesday set down the tape. Her gaze was unsettling in its directness. “What is the ‘something else’ in your scent, Enid?”
Enid’s heart performed a frantic, stumbling drum solo against her ribs. The room felt impossibly small, the flickering light suddenly theatrical, spotlighting her lie. She could tell her. The truth was right there, a live wire in her throat. It’s because I’m terrified of seeing you like that, and more terrified of wanting to see you like that, and my mom would have this double hernia if she knew, and I’ve only slept with two guys and it was so boring and what if I’m bad at this, what if you look at me and just see a awkward, colorful mess—
“It’s dread,” Enid blurted out. “Massive, epic, cosmic dread. About the whole naked… thing. For me. Personally.”
Wednesday held her stare for a few more seconds, then gave a single, slow nod. She accepted the answer. Of course she did. She took things at their stated, surface value. It was both a relief and a kind of agony.
“Then your dread will serve as a convincing camouflage,” Wednesday concluded, turning back to her tools. “Nervousness is expected. Now, the more pressing issue: I require a method of concealment for a locking knife that does not involve standard garment closures. Think.”
Enid sank onto her bed, the fight leaving her in a rush. They were going. She was going to see Wednesday Addams at a nude orgy. Her best friend. The person whose quiet, contained presence had become the axis her world spun on. She watched Wednesday’s precise, deliberate movements, the focused set of her shoulders under her black sweater.
The invitation lay on the desk like a verdict.
Enid took a deep, shaky breath. “What about your hair?” she said, her voice quieter now. “You could braid the sheath into one of your braids. At the nape of your neck. It’s heavy enough, and no one would look for it there.”
Wednesday paused. A flicker of something—approval, perhaps—passed over her face. It was gone in an instant. “That is… not entirely without merit.”
She picked up the knife, its steel glinting in the dying light. Outside, the sky was fully dark. Midnight approached.
The decision was made. The investigation was moving forward. And Enid’s secret, trembling and hot, remained tucked away inside her, another burden to carry into the strange, dark night ahead.