Wednesday shifted against the restraints as blood seeped from the gash on her forehead, sliding through her hair and dripping down the side of her face.
The Hyde's strength had been overwhelming—one brutal throw had been enough to leave her injured—but her stare remained steady.
Her eyes tracked the candles circling the sarcophagus, methodical even now.
"So what is this?" she asked coolly. "A ritual to resurrect your psychopathic ancestor? Or are the candles purely decorative?"
Laurel didn't react to Wednesday's sarcasm. She set another jar down—inside, organs floated in preservative, unmistakably taken from her victims.
"No prayers," Laurel said. "I have a better plan."
Wednesday's gaze moved from jar to coffin. "Serial murder as a family tradition. How touching."
"Joseph Crackstone was a great man," Laurel said, smiling at Wednesday. "He protected normies from outcasts. He was meant for more. He was robbed of the life he deserved."
Wednesday met her gaze without blinking.
"I'm sure history is full of people who said the same thing about monsters," she replied. "Hitler, for example."
Laurel's smile vanished. "Don't you dare compare my ancestor to that madman," she snapped. "Crackstone was a hero. He protected normies from creatures like you."
"And now," she continued, her voice sharpening, "with your help, he will return."
"My help?" Wednesday echoed, genuinely puzzled.
Her eyes flicked past Laurel—to the boy standing nearby.
The Hyde. Responsible for every murder in Jericho.
So her earlier assumption had been wrong. Xavier wasn't the monster after all.
Laurel noticed the shift and smiled. "Your ancestor, Goody Addams, killed Crackstone," she said calmly. "But she didn't stop there. She cursed his soul—bound it—and sealed it inside this sarcophagus so he would remain trapped forever."
Wednesday looked back at the stone coffin, then at Laurel.
"Goody did the right thing," she said evenly. "A psychopath like Crackstone didn't deserve an afterlife—only containment."
"Even now, you cling to your arrogance," Laurel said coolly. "But I'm in a generous mood, so I'll indulge you."
She lifted an old, leather-bound book. "Unlike my father and brother, who relied on blind hatred to hunt outcasts, I believe in magic. And I found a way to exterminate them—by resurrecting the man who nearly succeeded the first time."
Wednesday's eyes narrowed. "Goody's Book of Shadows."
"Yes." Laurel's smile returned, almost reverent. "Everything I needed was inside. A ritual to break the seal—but it requires blood. Addams blood on the night of Blood Moon "
"You have no idea how pleased I was when you enrolled at Nevermore," Laurel said.
She stopped, then smiled to herself. "Actually… fate favored me."
A brief pause.
"The Blood Moon wasn't supposed to arrive yet." Her eyes gleamed. "But fate was generous."
"It came early."
Wednesday looked at Laurel, fully aware that luck wasn't on her side. She understood the plan in its entirety—yet, for the moment, there was nothing she could do.
"Tyler."
He stepped toward Wednesday.
"Hypocrisy," Wednesday said coolly. "You despise monsters, yet you don't hesitate to use one."
Laurel didn't respond.
Tyler released the restraints.
Wednesday barely had time to register the freedom before his hand closed around her arm. She fought back—precise, efficient movements—but it was useless. He was stronger than he looked. Stronger than before.
He dragged her across the stone floor toward the sarcophagus. Candles shuddered as they passed, their flames wavering. Glass jars lined the walls, organs suspended inside, catching the firelight like unblinking eyes.
Above them, moonlight poured through the fractured glass ceiling.
Laurel tilted her head, watching the sky.
"Now," she said softly. "It's time."
She moved without hesitation.
Steel flashed.
Pain erupted—sharp, blinding—as Laurel sliced across Wednesday's arm and forced it down onto the stone lid. Blood spilled onto the carved surface.
The symbols ignited instantly.
Light flared. The ritual had begun.
Wednesday gasped as the sarcophagus responded.
The stone drank.
Her blood was pulled from the wound, drawn into the carvings in thin, glowing lines. Laurel stepped back, breath hitching, eyes alight with triumph, and motioned Tyler to go away.
"It's working," she whispered.
She opened Goody's book, its pages rustling as if alive, and began to chant.
One by one, the jars lit up.
The organs inside pulsed, shadows writhing against the glass. Smoke bled from the symbols etched into the floor, curling upward, wrapping the sarcophagus in a dark spiral.
Wednesday gritted her teeth and yanked her arm free. She stumbled back, barely catching herself as the pain surged.
She looked up.
The symbols were complete now. The air vibrated, thick and charged. From within the stone coffin came a sound—low, grinding, unmistakable.
Movement.
Laurel stared at it, reverent and shaking.
"He's coming back."
Wednesday's gaze flicked between Laurel and the sarcophagus.
Then she heard it.
A faint sound behind her—wet, dragging, wrong.
She turned.
The blood pooled around Ethan's body began to move—slow at first, then with purpose—crawling back toward him as if drawn by an unseen force.
Before her eyes, his legs jerked—once, twice—then lifted from the ground. His spine arched sharply as his body hauled itself upright, twitching, resisting gravity like it was an inconvenience rather than a law.
The wound in his chest pulsed.
Blood streamed back into it, flesh pulling together, sealing over bone and muscle in a chilling, deliberate motion.
Fully healed.
Ethan stood fully upright.
He rolled his neck slowly, bones snapping back into place.
Wednesday's breath caught. Her eyes widened—then relief curved into a faint, unexpected smile.
The sarcophagus lid shifted.
A crack split it open, and black smoke poured out, thick and alive, crawling across the chamber ceiling. From within it, a figure emerged—twisted, inhuman. Pale skin stretched tight over the bone in pilgrim clothes. A staff struck the ground once, echoing like a verdict.
Joseph Crackstone had risen.
At the same moment, a sharp crack sounded behind her. She assumed Wednesday was making a futile attempt—there was nothing she could do now. Her ancestor was fully awakened.
But when Laurel turned, she saw something that terrified her.
The dead body was rising.
"Impossible," she whispered. She had killed him—she was certain of it. No outcast should have survived that.
What kind of monster is he?
Then his words came back to her. He had promised to make her fate worse than death.
Ethan's eyes snapped open.
Red. Not glowing—completely flooded with blood, swallowing the whites whole.
Laurel took a step back, fear tightening her chest.
Crackstone turned toward him. The first thing he saw upon resurrection was an outcast—and the sight deeply offended him.
"Filth," Crackstone spat, staring at the abomination before him.
Ethan tilted his head slightly.
"Yeah," he said calmly. "You're filthy."
"No need to announce it."
*****
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