Chapter 5

Lenore screwed her eyes together tightly, pressing her palms against her aching eyes—a pulsing pain seared in her forehead. She twisted the door handle, and stepped into her room, feet dragging against the whining wooden floorboards.

Fairy lights, which flickered with orange light, were strung around the ceiling, trailing down the walls and tangling around Lenore’s ceramic plant pots, which sat on the windowsill, plants crawling across the windows, down the walls, or high towards the ceiling.

Lorelai lounged on her bed, surrounded in a nest of her duvet, a pile of pillows and blankets, some were seemingly stolen from Lenore’s bed. She scrolled on her phone but looked up upon hearing the door creak open. She settled her phone down and pulled away her covers.

“Where have you been?” Lorelai asked, crossing the room to approach Lenore, who slumped down on her bed, head hung down. “I’ve been busy.” She muttered.

“That’s helpfully vague.”

“You’re welcome.” Lenore said, forcing a smile through her pained expression. 

“Headache?” Lorelai asked, earning a slow nod.

“Yeah. Today’s been… odd, to say the least.” She replied, smoothing her curls back repeatedly, fingers gripped and tugged at her hair. Lorelai grabbed her hand, “careful or you’ll pull out your hair.” She laughed softly; voice laced with a subtle seriousness. She slowly released her wrist. “Where were you this morning? You weren’t here when I woke up, or when I came back last night.” The siren asked

“Last night I went to the music room, and I left to go to town this morning.” She answered.

“What did you get up to there?”

“Visited a friend, it was impromptu really.”

“You have other friends?” Lorelai asked through a soft, teasing laugh. Lenore’s thumb grazed against her phone’s on button, unlocking with a sharp click. She scrolled through her gallery.

“Mateo.” She replied, her phone screen illuminated a picture; Mateo had his arm thrown around her shoulder, fingers intertwined with an almost ghostly figure—something seemed to shine in their eyes, while they smiled hollowly at the camera. They looked to be elsewhere.

“Who’s that?” Lorelai’s manicured nails tapped at them.

“That’s Avery. Mateo’s partner, they’ve been together since they were fifteen. Three years now.” She said. “You should meet them. You guys would get along.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You would probably all take the piss out of me.” Lenore laughed softly, smiling up at her. “Sounds about right.” Lorelai squeezed her shoulder playfully.

Lenore flinched sharply, ripping harshly up her body when a pounding shook her door in its hinges. She scrambled to her feet and approached the door cautiously. She pulled it ajar, enough to look through, her body braced against it.

Outside, Wednesday paced a hole in the landing, her brows furrowed—an oddly frantic expression on her face. She pulled door open entirely.

“Wednesday—”

“—Enid’s been kidnapped. I have thirty minutes to find her.” Wednesday’s hand darted out, grabbed her wrist and dragged her along quickly; Lenore nearly stumbled over her own feet as she was dragged along night darkened halls, where moonlight trickled through the windows, glowing on the wooden floors.

Lenore pried Wednesday’s cold hand away from her wrist, dropping behind her and saddling up close to the wall, in an attempt to get away from the shimmering light, which was cast by the swollen moon that hung tauntingly in the sky, putting the stars strung throughout the sea of black to shame.

Wednesday’s heels cut sharply through the relative silence which seemed to permeate the halls—though Lenore could hear twitches of conversation, the shuffle of footsteps, and the creaking of doors muffled through the walls.

They rushed through dark, winding corridors, then down wooden stairs which creaked underneath their weight, footsteps rattling against them, and Lenore winced; she desperately hoped no one was around to hear them.

Wednesday threw open the door, and Lenore’s hand flew out to catch it before it slammed against her. A subtle hiss escaped her at the faint brush of moonlight; goosebumps danced down her arms. She hesitated, then heard voices—one of which teased her out the door, which shut behind her.

Her footsteps were light against the stone, even as she scrambled under the overhang which kept her sheltered, where she could cling to rational thought. It only took a blink for her eyes to adjust to the dark, where everything seemed to stretch out. The battlements seem to stand taller, the sculptures had taken on a life of their own and plants twisted through the dark.

Her eyes flickered around, gazing upon Miss Capri. “Wednesday, what are you doing out here?” She asked—Lenore shivered subtly.

“Looking for my roommate.” Wednesday responded curtly.

“That’s a coincidence. I’ve been looking for you.” She said, “I’m putting together an orchestra for the gala. I’d like you to play cello.” Miss Capri paused momentarily, a thoughtful expression laid over her features. “On that note, do you know where Lenore Yuson is? I caught a solo of hers; it was… poetic.”

Wednesday didn’t answer, only glanced over her shoulder where she knew Lenore to be lurking. Miss Capri followed her line of sight, finding the werewolf leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, a cuttingly watchful look in her eye.

She dropped her arms and rolled her shoulders as she approached them, her jaw tight with a patient restraint—her eyes flickered down to the note clutched in Wednesday’s hand. “I don’t have time for this right now, and besides when you heard me play, you were hardly complimentary.” Wednesday spoke, annoyance thick in her voice.

Lenore neared the gothic girl, snatching the card between two fingers, and letting her eyes trail over the words, PLAY DEAD. A memory sparked.

“Oh, come on. All I was saying was if you want to be great, let the music control you, otherwise you’ll just be… playing the notes. Mechanical.” Miss Capri argued, “Rehearsal, 3:00pm, Friday. I hope to see you there. Oh, and Lenore—I hope to see you there, too.” She offered the younger werewolf a smile, who simply looked away—a pitiful attempt to hide the blush creeping up her neck.

Wednesday stared at Lenore momentarily, then snatched back her card, “this is simple word play. Play D.E.A.D. As in the notes; she’s in Iago tower,”—she gestured to partially destroyed tower— “there’s a secret passageway to the tower in the music room.”

—————

Lenore’s breath hitched as the door creaked loudly as they stepped into the music room, which was colourless from the darkness which hung along every inch. Against the wall—beside Miss Capri’s desk, a birdcage lay covered in a sheet to ensure the sleeping birds weren’t disturbed.

Wednesday hitched up her skirt, then gracefully lowered herself onto the seat before the Organ, which seemed to climb up the wall with its height, adorned with ornate carvings which twisted and circled up from the base. Lenore leaned against the wall, beside the organ where she knew the door to be.

Wednesday’s fingers settled on the keys, and she played each one—each sending a loud surge throughout the music room—nothing happened. They ached at Lenore’s hearing. “You have got to play them together.” She told her.

Wednesday nodded, and her fingers tentatively hovered over the keys, then she pressed down—a sudden ominous sound swelled, shaking the room, followed by a click, and the shifting of gears before the room fell silent once again.

A hatch cracked open by the floor, opening a small passageway. Lenore struggled to squeeze through, like she had for years; Wednesday, however had no issue, and she gracefully rose to her feet while Lenore dusted off her trousers.

They found themselves in a dark, pale stone hallway where cold clung to the walls. It sprawled out before Lenore—her golden eyes easily seeing through the dark, and her memory of these passages leading her forth.

“You know where you’re going.” Wednesday commented.

“Yeah, this place, it’s one of my usual haunts.” Lenore said.

They crept through winding, low passages, where damp came from the walls—a bone aching chill hung lowly in arched, broken-down halls, which Lenore had to duck to avoid scraping her head. It was so cold, even Lenore with her usually feverish temperature, found herself shivering, goosebumps trailing up her arms.

Wednesday’s flashlight began to flicker, dousing them in darkness, before blinking again and illuminating the hall in a beacon of pale light. “I thought you put new batteries in this thing.” She said to Thing. Then, her flashlight flickered once more before going out again, “does this look fully powered to you?” It blinked once, then twice, its shaky beam trying to illuminate the space.

Lenore’s eyes flickered around—an uncanny feeling filling her, like there was something here, with them, that she refused to see—then, it hit her, perfume, faint footsteps, which Wednesday wouldn’t have been able to hear. The hairs on her neck stood on end.

“There’s someone here.” She whispered—they spun around—a girl flickered forth, wearing an eerily expressionless bone mask, then she disappeared. Lenore’s claws snapped out. Her eyes widened, trying to capture any movement, yet she saw nothing.

“Wednesday, go.” Lenore’s words came out calmly—while her pulse jumped. Wednesday, however, didn’t move. The werewolf stepped in front of her. The ghostly girl appeared again, she wore a silky red cloak, moving quicker than Lenore could react.

Hollow eyes appeared only inches from her—she clawed, finding only fresh air, but warm breath feathered against her hand. She was living. Lenore found it to be relieving news. Then, silence hung thickly in the air. It fell still.

Wednesday picked up the mask at her feet, which was scrawled with white writing, clocks ticking. “They’re in the clocktower.” Lenore muttered, moving forward.

—————

With a click, and sudden shudder the rickety, old elevator halted, and Wednesday ripped open the door. Lenore glanced around; she knew these grounds well, from the jagged hole in the clock, the rusted gears which dwarfed the two girls—a large circular pile of books lay underneath the metal platform; they were new.

A familiar wolfish scent filled her nose—Bruno. The metal grated stairs rattled beneath her feet as she sprinted up them. She rushed towards where her brother and Enid lay, faces flushed, chests heaving. Her hand wrapped around the chains, but she yelped like a whipped dog and leapt back when her skin sizzled. “It’s silver.” She muttered incredulously.

“You can’t free them?” Wednesday asked.

“No.”

Wednesday sharply turned to the disembodied hand. “Thing, pick their locks.” She ordered. He promptly scuttled towards them—then blades dropped from the ceiling, embedding themselves in the floor, missing him by a hair. Another fell, trapping him and try as he might; he couldn’t wiggle free.

A great, bone shaking sound echoed from down below—giant, ancient metal gears began to shift and turn after years, winding in circles; Lenore’s head snapped up when the ceiling rattled above them. It slowly began to lower towards them, swathed by blades.

“Wednesday, we need to do something and do it now.” Her voice heightened several pitches, cracking towards the end of her sentence. When Lenore turned around, to face the gothic girl—she was gone.

“Wednesday! Where are you going?” Enid asked, voice shrill with alarm. Lenore stopped—shoulders falling and raising with her heavy breaths—she leapt forward, ripping blades from the ceiling. A sizzling sting seized her palms from where cuts littered her hands, laying over an old scar on her palm while blood streamed from the lacerations.

“Lennie?” Bruno breathed out hurriedly, concern scrawled over his features. “Don’t worry. I’m okay.” She reassured him. Her fingers curled around yet another blade, yanking it down—it didn’t come, then she pulled it again. It cut deeper than the rest, splitting cleanly through her hand. A rumbling wince slunk through her gritted teeth.

A small pile of blades had been thrown aside, a decent dent made in the ceiling, but, as blood poured from her hands; she knew she hadn’t ripped out enough nor she could she take out anymore. Her mind raced as she stared up at ceiling, which was approaching her quicker than she would like.

“Oh my God. Oh my God.” Enid chanted to herself. Lenore looked over at them, fear shaking at Enid, while Bruno looked up at her pleadingly. Her jaw set fiercely and she rolled her shoulders; she reached her hands high and pressed her bloody hands into the grate. Her muscles lit up with strain—knees flaring, shoulders aching and arms shaking as the metal dug agonisingly into her palms. Her breathing grew raspy and loud—hitching as she struggled to slow the ceiling; she succeeded, if only just.

She could only buy time.

Enid could see it—the wolf which twitched at the edges of Lenore’s composure, taking advantage of the pain, of the strain flaring throughout her body. Her eyes grew darker, her pupil blotting out her iris like an eclipse, how her muscles jerked under her skin, beyond her control and the claws which slipped from between quick and nailbed. “Wednesday, you need to hurry.” Enid shouted.

Lenore’s legs trembled, then her knees gave way—they slammed against the floor. Her arms trembled and began to give away. She arched her back, pressing it flat against the ceiling. She pressed her hands into the floor; all her muscled ached jarringly.

Blades rained down around her, barely missing both Enid and Bruno—strength flickered in Lenore’s body, roaring into a wildfire as one fell inches from her brother’s face. The ceiling screamed against her, but waned slightly, enough to allow room for hope.

Lenore breathed in deeply, pressing her eyes closed—something scratched in the corners of her mind, something which knew exactly where to prod to test her fraying composure, its prowling grew wilder as blood pooled beneath her skin, bruising forming over her back from the cutting pressure. The conversation which buzzed around her fell into something inaudible as her pulse raced, and the wolf clawed at her mind.

Then, before she could fall flat on her stomach, the clanking quieted, then halted—the ceiling stopped. A shiver ripped through her trembling body, and she collapsed against the floor, her tight chest heaving.

Moments later, with another groan from the machinery, the ceiling raised up. “Wednesday, you did it!” Enid called out in utter relief.

Lenore’s breathing trembled; she couldn’t push herself up—her body was sloth with exhaustion; she could only look up when she heard slow, sarcastic clapping.

“Who’s there?” Wednesday asked—more so demanded.

On the edge of the platform, a pair of hands appeared, followed by a figure who blinked into sight; she had auburn hair, perfectly braided into plaits, wide, glassy eyes which were fixed on Wednesday.

“Happy Prank Day, Wednesday.” A sickly-sweet voice said; she had seen the student in passing before, most namely on the first day. “My crazed stalker is an invisible thirteen-year-old.” Disappointment leeched through Wednesday’s words.

Agnes, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on Wednesday, shook the keys teasingly, before carelessly throwing them onto Enid and Bruno.

“You call this a prank?” Lenore breathed out heavily, rage trembling in her tone, and something inhuman clawed at the fraying edges of her voice. “You tried to kill my brother. Enid, too—you burned me with silver!” Her voice grew loud enough to strain against its own volume. Her chest heaved, and she forced herself up, even against her roaring exhaustion, her pain and onto her knees.

Agnes’s gaze flickered momentarily onto Lenore, fear simmering subtly in her expression, but attention didn’t waver long, quickly returning to Wednesday—a sick sort of devotion on her face.

“We haven’t been properly introduced, I’m Agnes DeMille”—she hitched up her pinstripe skirt and curtseyed to the gothic girl—”your number one super fan.” She greeted.

“You don’t seriously expect me to believe you pulled off this elaborate prank solo.” Wednesday stated doubtfully.

Chains clattered, slipping limply off the two werewolves onto the metal floor as they sat up; Bruno cast a concerned look over towards Lenore, who had hatred glimmering in her dark eyes. “Lenore?” He asked, voice whisper thin, borderline fearful. She didn’t reply or even look at him, like she hadn’t even heard him.

Her chest heaved, and her gaze remained fixed on Agnes, “I had a little help from some DaVinci’s, after I blackmailed them with incriminating Snapchat pics. Perks of being invisible,”—Wednesday rolled her eyes, utterly unimpressed—”I just asked myself, W-W-W-D, what would Wednesday do?”

Enid glared fiercely at her, “that’s my line, you little psycho!” She yelled, quickly getting to her feet, brushing off her skirt. “I knew if I came up with the most twisted game, I’d get your attention.” Agnes sighed dreamily. “I hope it’s lived up to your exacting standards… admit it, you’re a little impressed.”

Wednesday stared at her blankly. “I can’t believe we were almost perforated by your fangirl mini-me.” Enid said, staring seethingly at Wednesday, the young wolf was stood between both girls who seemed to be caught in a staring contest.

Enid’s claws clicked out as she sharply raised her hand. “Why don’t I return the favour?” She strode towards Agnes, but Bruno quickly grabbed and gently lead her back. “Park your claws, Rainbow Barbie.” Agnes commented. “Besides, I got you some along time with the pack hottie. You’re welcome.”

Lenore grimaced.

Wednesday approached, brushing past Lenore with little notice, “you almost burned my novel at the Founder’s Pyre.” She stated angrily. Agnes sighed dreamily, “that was just an appetiser,”—she gestured up at the bladed ceiling—”this was the main course.”

“Then why kill Galpin and place his eyeball on Enid’s cushion?” Wednesday asked.

Enid turned sharply to Wednesday, disgust twisting rightfully at her features. “That eyeball was real?” She asked incredulously, horror plastered surely on her face. “I didn’t kill Galpin.” Agnes denied, “I wanted to become your friend. Not your next murder case… took this as a souvenir.” Agnes reached into her pocket, pulling out a sleek black phone.

Wednesday snatched it from her hand. “I already scrolled through his texts. And his emails.” Agnes said.

“So, if you didn’t kill him, who did?” Wednesday asked, a hint of doubt still laced throughout her voice. “I can help you find out.” Agnes suggested, chuckling softly as she awaited the girls reply.

————

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bruno asked—again, for the tenth time as he helped Lenore trudge along, back to her dorm. She leaned against him, her arm slung across his shoulders while he wrapped an arm around her, helping her achingly heavy body along, through the still halls.

“Yeah. I need to lie down is all.” She muttered, a yawn parting her lips as she stumbled along, struggling to keep her heavy eyes open. Bruno practically dragged Lenore up several flights of stairs—almost tripping over her own feet, and the edges of the steps as they made their way further up the building.

A soft, twinkling light filtered through the frosted windows framing the old oaken door of Lenore’s dorm. She sighed out in relief, craving her bed as her legs ached painfully beneath her. Bruno opened her door, which slowly fell ajar before being forced further open by Lenore’s palm.

Music played softly from Lorelai’s speakers, echoing around the room, along with the siren’s incessant footsteps, which tapped against the floor as she paced along the dorm. Her chest fell with a heavy sigh, relief flooding her expression when she laid eyes on the siblings, then worry swelled when she noticed the blood dripping onto the floor from Lenore’s fingertips.

“Lee?” She rushed forward, slipping an arm around her waist. Lenore slung her arm around Lorelai’s shoulders; they stumbled forward, and the werewolf fell onto her bed, slowly sitting up with a pained grunt. Bruno lingered awkwardly in the doorway.

“What happened?” Lorelai asked sharply, arms crossed over her chest as she glared down Bruno, who shifted between his feet anxiously. “Um, it’s a long story—some Wednesday impersonator kidnapped Enid and—” he rambled, scratching at the back of his neck. “—Go, Bruno. Sleep.” Lenore’s voice came, tired and stern in equal measure.

He swallowed harshly, then shifted back slowly, “goodnight,” he stepped into the dark corridor, door closing behind him.

Lorelai rung her hands, tugging on her lip worriedly as she looked over at Lenore. She was slumped over, perched on the edge of her bed; her arms were bloody, palms covered in patchwork cuts, blood dripping off her fingers.

“What did you get yourself into?” Lorelai questioned breathlessly; she determinedly strode into the bathroom, slamming open drawers as she rooted through the items, looking for a first aid kit, which she found under the counter.

Lenore’s bed dipped down as Lorelai quietly sat down beside her; she brushed her hand down the werewolf’s arm and twisted her wrist over, tracing her slashes with a featherlight touch. Lenore flinched away, hissing softly under her breath—the sirens grip tightened, not painful, but firm.

On Lenore’s palm, on her left hand, underneath the cuts, an angry sizzling burn lay, blisters forming on the wet, raw flesh. “Silver…” Lorelai muttered, “who burned you?”

“Agnes DeMille, some freakish Wednesday stan.” Lenore answered, voice strained from pain. Lorelai’s gaze softened, and she unsurely gripped the bandage, “hold up your hand,” she began messily, tightly wrapping the pristine white bandages over the raw flesh; red slowly bled through, staining the bandages—she wrapped them again, until nothing more bled through.

“Turn around.” Lorelai said. Lenore’s movements were sluggish, slow and clumsy as she turned around, twisting at her blankets and wincing when her hand brushed against the bed. The siren gently caught her right wrist and wrapped the bandages through the gaps between her fingers, covering a cut which slithered between her middle and index fingers. Her eyes lingered on an old cut which lay across Lenore’s palm, which had scarred over years ago—seven years ago.

Lenore’s hands were wrapped in white bandages, slight messy, secured by medical tape—it would work, for now—maybe until the cuts healed; she would need a balm for the silver burn, though. “We’re going to the nurses office tomorrow.” Lorelai said as she picked herself up off Lenore’s bed, brushing invisible lint off her pyjama trousers.

Lenore’s eyes were heavy with exhaustion, she blinked through the throes of tiredness, and offered Lorelai a soft, dopey smile. “What would I do without you?” She asked, dry humour lacing her tone. The siren laughed breathlessly, holding something more than softness which bloomed in the silence. “Crash and burn.” She replied after a beat of quiet.

As Lorelai turned, preparing to crawl into bed, to lie under the covers for the night—she caught Lenore’s darkened eyes for the first time that night. Her breath hitched, and she stared, caught by the darkness in the werewolf’s eyes; she stepped back, almost tripping over her own feet.

“Lorelai? Are you alright?” Lenore asked—she knew Lorelai wasn’t; she could hear the siren’s heart slamming against her ribcage, “um, yes, yeah. We- yeah, we should get some sleep.” Lorelai responded, falling back onto her bed.

Lenore winced, expression twisted with pain as she tried to stand up—her legs shook, knees roaring with a hot ache which sent her back down onto her bed. She silently watched as Lorelai hurriedly pulled her covers over her, and laid down, staring at the wall, which was covered by pictures strung together by ribbon.

Darkness fell over their room—though Lenore hardly noticed. She looked between Lorelai and her burning hands—the siren’s racing heartbeat filled her ears; she hesitantly pulled back her covers and sunk down onto her bed. It took only minutes until she fell into sleep—which was far from peaceful.

—————

An infernal heat blazed in Lenore’s veins—her skin prickled with goosebumps; dampness soaked into her shirt while foliage tickled her bare skin—she gasped, her breathing came short and sharp as she sat up suddenly. Her fingers curled into the grass. Dirt sunk under her nails.

Trees stood still—silently around her in a circle, ash-like branches knitted together, fiery leaves, speckled with brown spots formed a thick canopy; overgrown grass, speckled with Wolfsbane hung around her ankles. She pulled herself up from the ground, crossing her arms over her chest.

Branches crackled behind her, roaring like thunder as they snapped, ripped from their trees—heavy footsteps shook the ground beneath her—then came the quiet crunch of autumn leaves; she spun around. Nothing.

A jagged hole had been ripped in the trees, splintered wood jutting out, pieces of wood littered the ground and grass had been crushed, and wide paw-prints, larger than her head, had been left in the dirt.

A guttural growl from the darkness between the knitted branches—Lenore’s breathing picked up. The damp air settled on her skin; her shirt was plastered against her back—sweat formed on her face and neck.

Fog began to roll towards her, coming from the watchful darkness, which from the newly made hole in the trees; it hung around her feet, blurry and shifting—shadows darting in the mist.

“Come on! Come out, let’s get this over and done with.” Lenore yelled out at the forest—silence replied. She huffed bitterly. “What are you a coward now?” She bit out. A gust of wind howled, rustling the trees and making her shiver, despite the heat playing in her chest.

The moon hung in the inky sky, swollen and full, framed by shifting, grey clouds—it loomed over her; she could’ve sworn she saw it blink, before its chokingly heavy gaze returned, fixed on her. Her chest tightened.

Lenore sighed; she wrapped her arms around herself, trying push away the dread which squirmed in her stomach—a wave of loneliness crashed over her. She shivered against the cold, jaw tight and teeth chattered together as mist began to swathe around her, cradling her a newborn baby. An aching chill settled in her bones.

Mist poured in quicker, growing thicker by the second, raising like the tide, teasing at her waist—a growl ripped through the still air; she whipped around. Nothing.

As the moments passed, each longer than the last—she could feel something watching her, pacing ever so impatiently around the forests edge, waiting for a chink in Lenore’s armour. It came in her own acceptance of what had to happened—what she had to do to wake up, to escape. Lenore knees buckled, and she pulled her legs to her chest, waiting with her back turned in the meadow of her bane.

The presence grew stronger, scratching at the edges of the trees—dread twisted in Lenore’s stomach, heart leaping to her throat—but she waited, just waited there as flowers withered, and wolfbane flourished. The rumble of breath came at her back, hot, stinking air brushed against her neck. A deafening growl came before the—

—————

Lenore’s alarm blared. Before she could react or think—her palm collided her screen, cracking it. Silence swallowed up her room. Her burning eyes opened, even as golden morning light pulled tears from her eyes, she didn’t dare close them—she couldn’t. Instead, she pulled herself up—pain roared in her back, an ache playing in her arms as pushed herself against her headboard.

She pulled the covers off her body and swung her legs off the bed; her feet stumbled clumsily against the floorboards—her knees burned when she rose. She swayed—catching herself, wrapping her fingers around sun bleached wooden poster of her unmade bed.

Her eyes lingered on her bed. A twitch in fingers as she gazed down on her messy, wrinkled blankets, duvet pulled back and pillows flattened because of her restless slumber; she sighed and shook her head—she didn’t have the energy to make it.

When Lenore stepped towards her drawers, her left knee buckled—she breathed out harshly through gritted teeth, her jaw grew tight enough to ache. She must’ve stirred up an old childhood injury, from where she’d broken her knee when she was eleven. It tightened during cold weather—today, though, it felt like she had only fallen yesterday, not seven years ago.

A pained grunt left her as she pushed herself up, stumbling before steadying herself on her drawers—her claws dug in, leaving thin scratch marks in the wood. She shifted her weight onto her right knee. Her hand grasped her leg, which burned beneath her skin, strained muscles aching. Lenore clothed herself, into something which made her seem more graceful than she was; a fitting brown turtleneck, black baggy jeans, combat boots, along with a hint of silver. She slid her leather jacket on, before making for the door.

Her light eyes lingered on Lorelai, who was tucked in a nest of blankets—she seemed to be sleeping peacefully; she wasn’t, though. Her breathing came sharply, muscles twitched in her sleep, eyelids flickering—like something seemed to haunt her even as she slept.

Lenore’s hand tightened around the brass door handle.

—————

As Lenore struggled down the halls, whispers from students hummed in an incessant buzz; the rumours must’ve already grown from a spark into a wildfire. Likely due to Enid’s gossip. Her typically silent footfalls fell gracelessly against the floor, earning stares from her fellow student body. They raked over her curiously—her shoulders curled in, and she tried to disappear, shoving her bandaged hands into her pockets; she limped quicker through the halls, making her way towards the courtyard.

The ornate wooden doors whined as her shoulder forced it open; pale autumn light poured into her eyes as she stepped outside, door slamming shut behind her. Lenore’s head lulled down, focusing purely on the damp stone beneath her as she limped through the courtyard, which was peppered by students who whispered and spoke in hushed voices.

Snippets of conversation bled through the muffled voices—speculating on Lenore’s limp, her brothers and Enid’s newly formed relationship, while rumours already seemed to spiral out of control about what happened last night. Her boots fell dully against the pathway as she approached the stairs which ascended to the main building.

Her bandaged hand reached out, to pull herself up the stone stairs—her hand lingered before the railing, a familiar laughter falling into her ears. Her chest warmed. Her eyes fell closed, a muted growl of agitation died on her tongue.

“Hi, wolfie.” Agnes’s innocent, teasing voice came. Lenore implored herself to be the bigger person, to ignore her—something clawing at mind told her otherwise. To her surprise, she almost did, but then came the next jab, “you look a little… tired. Did you sleep well?” Agnes tried to hide her flinch when Lenore’s head snapped up, followed by an unnatural crack of her neck—her pupils swelled.

Lenore’s shoulders rolled forward, squaring broadly, while her knees locked, standing taller, any slouch had been wiped clean; she stood like the layers of muscle which cradled her knee weren’t burning.

The very picture of composure, draped in leather and an unshakeable grace—yet she was truly anything but.

Agnes’s hand—dwarfed by the wolf’s own, wrapped around Lenore’s wrist, followed by a weak attempt to turn over her hand; to show her handywork, where she had managed to burn the wolf—regret came moments too late for the girl.

Lenore’s body moved in an animalistic blur, too quick to dodge—her fingers wrapped around Agnes’s throat in an unforgiving hold; she choked out a sickening gurgle, words dying in her throat.

A bubbling string of gasps slipped through Agnes’s crushed throat, sputtering uselessly past her gaping lips as she tried—desperately, hopelessly to drag air down her surely burning throat. Her legs kicked as she was dragged under darkness, nails clawing at Lenore’s hand.

Lenore, however, leaned in. Her hot breath burned against Agnes skin, close enough the werewolf’s teeth to ache for flesh, “does it burn?” her voice rumbled, something deep, unnatural harmonised with her. Lenore’s mind flickered back to the bite of silver, which still sizzled against her palm.

Agnes’s little gang of teenage troublemakers and fangirls had fallen silent; laughter had devolved into a tense desperation. People gathered around them, curious and horrified in equal measure as they watched the young Outcast blink into sight, then back out; a truly helpless attempt to save herself.

Agnes’s face paled further, and her pulse danced beneath Lenore’s hand—she stared out at the group; some students shouted, imploring the werewolf to drop her, let her go—their pleas fell on deaf ears. None wanted to risk becoming the unravelling wolf’s next target.

Then, like something had decided to pity Agnes—her silent prayers had been answered and the crowd of predatory students, all trying to get the best look, parted like the red sea. Bianca, eyes sharp, head held high, strutted forth with an effortless grace. She held up her pendant.

“Let her go.” She commanded—her smooth voice, which seemed to speak with a dozen pitches at once—crept in through cuts in Lenore’s skin, the spaces between her fingernails. Her grip loosened. Otherwise, she remained unmoved.

“Put her down.” Bianca’s voice came sharper, her overlapping tones came louder. They slunk through her ears like silk. Lenore’s hand trembled. She yielded. Agnes dropped to her knees, gasping rawly, wetly for air, clutching at her bruised neck.

Lenore’s legs trembled beneath her; she blinked, and a furrow pinched between her brows—confusion visible on her face. When realised what happened, what she had done, she stumbled backwards, face flushed with shame; which rose in her throat, too. Her stomach twisted. Bile burned at her mouth.

“Follow me,” Bianca said cooly, spinning on her heel—walking off. Lenore soon limped after her, struggling, tripping over her own feet as trailed the siren up the stairs, which were slippery from the early morning rainfall.

Bianca’s heels sharply thudded against the waxed, wooden floors, cutting tensely—through the quiet, accompanied by the distant clammer from students. She could hear the siren’s heart race, growing surely louder, faster as they closed in on the end of the hallway, towards the principal’s office.

Fear, bled thick, and strong—almost palpable through Bianca’s veins; she picked at her nails as they neared the office, then she stopped suddenly. Lenore almost bumped into her, pausing before ceiling high wooden doors, adorned by carvings of ivy and mistletoe.

“Stay here,” Bianca stated stiffly, knuckles rapping firmly against the wooden door; her hand shook subtly. Principal Dort’s voice called her in, and she slipped through the door, into the office—where Lenore caught a glimpse of him stood before the fireplace.

The door snapped shut.

Lenore slumped down gracelessly on the bench bolted against the wall outside the office. Her head thumped. Her breathing grew quicker—panicked. She couldn’t get expelled. Not now.

Her head snapped up as a keening, coarse howl rushed down the hallway—the distance discussions of students fell away. Her ears twitched. Her muscles ripped beneath her skin with tension. Her breathing quickened once more, rasping shallowly past her parted lips—her eyes darted around. A shadow, hulking—but shapeless—paced the far end of the hall, impatient and sudden, its movements twitched from quick to slow and measured.

“Lenore? Lenore?” Bianca’s voice called out distantly; she grasped the werewolf’s shoulder, who jolted away with a muted yelp. She looked to the siren, then back at the hallway—nothing. She sighed in relief.

“Yeah?” Lenore asked shallowly.

“Principal Dort will see you now.” She stated—something like sympathy weighed on her features. Then, she picked herself up, pinning back her shoulders and holding her head high. She strode off down the hall, leaving Lenore to her punishment.