Chapter Text
The Sunday passed with a viscous slowness. The light drizzle scratching at the thick panes of Nevermore was not a nuisance; on the contrary, it was delightful, at least for Lily. She was settled against the headboard of her bed, her knees drawn up against her chest. She rested her back against the carved wood, and the antique piece creaked faintly beneath her weight, a dull, deep groan that vibrated against her spine, as if the dark wood guarded the secrets of past generations who had once sought refuge in the very same posture. The air in the room was dense, steeped in the scent of ancient dampness and cold stone.
Her black, wide-band headphones pressed gently against her ears, isolating the outside world and allowing the melancholic melody of “Ódiame” to flow freely. The singer’s deep, rough, aching voice vibrated in her eardrums, seeming to rise not from a modern device, but from an old bronze gramophone hidden beneath dusty sheets in some forgotten corner of the castle. Lily smiled in silence. It was a restrained smile, lips curved into a subtle and strictly private line that barely disturbed the calm of her face. Her thumb brushed the cold screen as she played the video on her phone for the sixth time: Bran and Bardou. Her brothers’ little faces were smeared with dark chocolate, laughing in silent peals in the recording, like mischievous goblins who had plundered a stash of forbidden sweets.
Six days had already passed since the triplets’ birthday, yet every noisy blink of that celebration still throbbed in her chest like a warm echo; it was a necessary balm against the perpetual cold that sometimes managed to slip through the window seams and creep along the labyrinthine hallways of the academy. On the other side of the room’s penumbra, Roisín slept. Her breathing was a heavy, irregular whistle. She was curled into a ball, tangled in rumpled sheets that betrayed a physical struggle against restless sleep, a sure inheritance of muscle exhaustion after her long archery practice.
Suddenly, the sky seemed to tear open. A lightning bolt, silent but blindingly white, filtered through the fogged window. The sudden light painted bars of elongated shadows across the dark wooden floor, a planked surface that groaned mournfully with every gust of wind that managed to sneak through the cracks. Lily bit her lower lip, trapping the dry skin between her teeth, a nervous tic that left her with a faint taste of iron and salt on the tip of her tongue.
She sighed, exhaling slowly through her nose, and turned off the phone screen with a gentle tap. The warmth of the device vanished from her palms. She turned back to the makeshift desk on her legs and returned to her History report. Her long, pale fingers resumed their dance over the keys of her laptop. The typing was nimble, of a millimetric precision that always characterized her; each word appeared on the white document like a firm step in a somber, well-rehearsed dance.
However, the rhythm of her hands began to falter. Her concentration, fragile in the face of doubt, slid inexorably toward the tab hidden behind her immaculate document. With a subtle brush of the trackpad, the screen changed. It was a local Jericho news portal. The headlines, written in thick, black, faded letters, evoked the rough texture of yellowed newspapers from long ago. The article recounted old frictions with the local police, mentioning in a bitter tone that the school had always been a problem, a cyst for the townspeople, and that, at the time, they had deeply appreciated its imposing iron doors being closed. Lily frowned. Tension hardened the muscles of her jaw, and the bluish glow of the screen reflected in her eyes, giving her irises a cold, analytical, and dangerously curious shine. She stopped typing altogether. The pieces snapped into place with a dry click in her mind: her mothers had not attended a third year because the school closed.
She scrolled down, the sound of the scroll scraping against the silence. She found the reason buried among redundant paragraphs: lack of funding, and the unexpected, almost unreal death of the principal, Barry Dort. After that, the note dictated, the police confiscated the school records in cardboard boxes and sealed the place with padlocks, as if the entire castle had been a beast too dangerous to contain, a secret too heavy to remain standing.
And what did they do afterward? Lily brought her hands to her face, rubbing her irritated eyes with her knuckles. The accumulated fatigue of restless nights tugged her eyelids downward, as if tiny invisible lead threads were tied to them. She knew, with absolute certainty, that they had not studied anywhere else. She recalled Wednesday’s diplomas, from several universities, piled haphazardly in a crooked tower in the attic, gathering grayish dust like macabre, forgotten relics; that was the first piece of evidence. And Enid… Enid had gone to New York University to become a journalist much later. So no, there was nothing before that. Because in the oldest posts on her mother Enid’s private Instagram, she appeared to be at least twenty. Doing the math, if they were seventeen in their second year at Nevermore, there were two entire years of absolute emptiness. A blank abyss of time. A double gap year? Impossible. Why hadn’t she documented it, if Enid adored capturing and archiving every miserable instant, like that embarrassing photograph of baby Lily, sitting on the carpet, devouring an entire guajillo chile with her cheeks flushed a furious red and her eyes flooded with stinging tears? If she photographed that, why the absolute silence of two years?
Out of nowhere, before she could form a new theory, a familiar smell yanked her abruptly from her reverie. It was a dense, strange but unmistakable aroma, creeping furtively beneath the heavy oak door, floating through the room like a physical whisper carried by the icy wind of the hallway.
Lily’s nostrils flared slightly. She slowly removed her headphones, letting them rest on the silenced keyboard. She stood up in complete silence. The mattress complained, the springs creaking with a metallic protest as her weight left them. Her bare feet touched the coldness of the boards. She advanced with measured, calculated steps that barely grazed the dark wooden floor. She turned the bronze knob, icy against her palm, and left the room. Immediately, the hallway swallowed her, wrapping her in elongated, restless shadows that seemed to dance to the rhythm of the dim, flickering light of the wall lamps.
Lily followed the trail of the scent with stealthy steps that barely brushed the dark, varnished wooden floor of Ophelia’s hallway. The smell slid through the stale air like an invisible thread, tugging her along: an unusual mixture of damp earth, hand lotion, and the chemical sting of nail polish that tickled her nostrils. She went down the stairs. Beneath the soles of her boots, the wood creaked with long groans, as if the steps were trading immemorial gossip among themselves. The thick railings, carved with pale lilac vines, seemed to watch her from the shadows with blind, splintered eyes. The castle breathed around her, a living, ancient presence: a gust of icy wind sneaking through hidden cracks and raising the hairs on the back of her neck, the distant and distorted echo of laughter on another floor, the arrhythmic tick-tock of a pendulum clock that no one remembered where it was hidden.
The olfactory trail guided her like a beacon to the lower floor, spilling into a narrow corridor where the temperature dropped several degrees. The wall lamps flickered with languid blue flames, casting long, dancing shadows over the cracked oil portraits of Ophelia alumni; aristocratic figures whose painted eyes seemed to follow the cadence of her movements. Lily stopped in front of a plain dark oak door. The wood, cold beneath her fingertips, seemed to whisper the word “forbidden” without the need for a voice. She wrapped her hand around the heavy brass knob and was not surprised when the mechanism yielded, allowing the door to open with a long sigh of rusted hinges.
The familiar smell that had guided her snuffed out at once, suffocated by another far more potent, more intimate one: tart pomegranate and clean leather. Lily stepped forward and the door closed behind her. The click of the lock sounded too final, a miniature thunderclap in the midst of the stillness. She scanned the place. The right side of the room was minimalist, bordering on clinical obsession. A light wood desk, polished to reflect the dim light, held a laptop perfectly aligned with the edges and an old Polaroid camera, standing upright like a silent sentinel. Beside it, a tall, slender white wardrobe clashed with Nevermore’s gothic architecture with its immaculate modernity. The bed, wrapped in quilted white sheets, was stretched with military tension; not a single crease broke the symmetry. But what anchored her blue eyes was the corkboard above the headboard. Photographs stacked in meticulous layers, some in melancholic black and white, others saturated with color, all pinned with silver thumbtacks that glinted beneath the yellowish, moribund light of the desk lamp. The total absence of chaos confirmed what her instinct was already screaming: it was Ileana’s room.
A dry, raspy sound, like wooden phalanges drumming against a hard surface, forced her to spin on her heels. The muscles in her shoulders tensed. There was no one in sight. Just her, the oppressive silence buzzing in her ears, and the faint electrical flicker of the lamp. Then her peripheral vision caught a flash near the window: behind the white linen curtains that billowed lazily in an invisible current, a tiny shadow contracted.
Driven by pure instinct, Lily lunged forward. She extended her hands with feline agility and trapped between her palms a small, cold, knotted figure that immediately began to writhe frantically, bouncing against her skin like a fish out of water.
Her Uncle Thing.
The living hand flailed violently, all five fingers pushing, slipping, and trying to break free from her grip with an energy so desperate it was almost comical. Lily stared at him, stunned. Her blue eyes flew wide open as her heart hammered a tribal rhythm against the cage of her ribs.
—What are you doing here? —she whispered. Her voice was barely a thread, but sharp as the edge of a scalpel—. Are you spying on me?
The appendage stopped struggling. Her uncle shook vehemently, twisting the wrist left and right in an exaggerated, almost theatrical gesture, pleading for mercy. Lily tightened her grip, refusing to let go. She brought him closer to her face, inhaling the unmistakable trace of bergamot hand cream that always seeped into the seams of his scars.
—Did Wednesday send you? —she asked. Her brow furrowed, forming a hard line on her forehead, while her thumb traced, almost unconsciously, the cold, wrinkled skin of the back.
Thing shook his head a second time, the movements much faster now, on the verge of panic. Lily let out a heavy sigh, surrendering to the pathetic nature of the scene, and opened her hands. He fell to the floor with a dull thud, bounced once on the wood, and lay still, the phalanges splayed against the floor in a clear sign of capitulation.
The young Addams knelt slowly. The cold of the floor seeped through the fabric of her jeans, biting into her kneecaps.
—Talk, then —she demanded, fixing an implacable stare on the pale knuckles.
Thing pushed himself up, flexing the joints as if the fall had taken its toll. With precise, slow movements, he raised his index finger and pointed directly at the scar that split Lily’s left eyebrow. Then he made a horizontal slash in the air, mimicking the blade of an imaginary razor, quick and lethal.
Lily snorted, warm breath colliding with the cold air of the room.
—I don’t know what Mom Enid told you at the party, but I don’t need to be watched —she declared, lifting her chin, though the slight tremor in the last syllable betrayed her—. I’m perfectly fine.
But Thing did not back off. He pointed at the scar again, vibrating with insistence, and immediately clenched the phalanges into a tight fist that burst in the air, simulating a silent but devastating explosion. Lily decoded the message instantly, a knot of ice forming in her stomach: he was threatening to do the same to Ileana. Or something much worse.
—No —she cut in. She rose in a single fluid, defensive motion—. I strictly forbid it. And I don’t want you spying on her either. Go to your room.
To Lily’s growing horror, Thing froze. Too still. The kind of stillness that in her family only preceded disaster. Lily watched him, scrutinizing every fold of his grayish skin, waiting for a reaction that never came. The silence in the room stretched, becoming dense, heavy, until understanding struck her with the physical force of an anvil.
—What have you been doing? —she hissed. The irritation in her voice now tinged with genuine urgency as her feet carried her straight toward the immaculate right side of Ileana’s bed.
Her eyes swept the room, frantic. She was looking for the pattern: a clove of garlic hidden under the pillow, a microscopic stink bomb, poisonous rose thorns... any instrument of torture that Thing might have camouflaged with the sole purpose of causing pain, hives, or hemorrhages. She crouched to inspect the impeccably clean trash bin, lifted a corner of the taut sheets, opened the closet door letting out a concentrated scent of floral detergent. Her fingers closed around the handle of the nightstand drawer —a block of light wood that slid outward with a silky whisper— and she plunged her hands blindly among cotton garments perfectly folded by color.
She was about to move the second pile when the doorknob twisted violently and the door flew open, slamming against the stopper with a crash.
And Ileana appeared.
The captain froze on the threshold, white knuckles still gripping the brass knob. Her posture was rigid. The clothes she wore were impeccable as always, but her copper-brown hair, usually so orderly, fell loose and disheveled. It was damp, heavy drops sliding down her strands from the drizzle still lashing the exterior windows. A dense, bitter stench of high-proof alcohol preceded her entry, striking Lily’s face before she could pull her hands from the drawer as if the wood were burning.
Out of the corner of her eye, Lily saw Thing slip through the gap in the door at an inhuman speed, vanishing into the hallway shadows. In the same instant, Ileana yanked the door shut with a violent slam that made the picture frames tremble.
Without taking her eyes off Lily, the vampire removed her dark glasses with exasperating slowness. She folded the temples with fingers that revealed the slightest, almost imperceptible tremor.
—Looking for something interesting in my underwear? —she asked. Her voice was not a shout, but a serious, surprisingly low and raspy tone.
A wave of searing heat surged up Lily’s neck, climbing to the tips of her ears. She cursed internally the translucent pallor of her skin, knowing that at that moment it must be glowing like a red beacon in the gloom. She tried to articulate a defense, but the syllables collided, getting stuck in the sudden dryness of her throat.
—No… a-and I wasn’t looking for anything —she managed to stammer. She took a hurried step back, the heel of her boot tearing a sharp screech from the wooden floor—. I was just…
Ileana closed the distance. One step. Then another. Slow, predatory, but with a slight drag that betrayed her state. The alcoholic smell became suffocating, intertwining sickeningly with her natural scent of pomegranate and leather. Under the yellowish light, her amber eyes lacked their usual calculating gleam; they were watery, unfocused, flashing with a raw vulnerability, as if she had just cried rivers or were holding back tears with every muscle of her jaw.
—What are you doing in my room? —she demanded again. As she pronounced the last syllable, the tone dropped, vibrating in the heavy air with something that dangerously resembled a broken purr—. Without permission.
Lily retreated another step, her survival instinct screaming at her to flee. Her back collided squarely with the edge of the desk. The rigid wood dug into her lower back, blocking her escape. She swallowed audibly. With Ileana invading her personal space, the magnitude of the intoxication was undeniable: it wasn’t a drink or two. There was much more in her system. The captain’s pupils were dilated, devouring the amber of her irises, turning her eyes into black, unfathomable wells. Lily opened her mouth, searching for a logical excuse, a biting lie, but Ileana gave her no quarter.
—I hate you... —the vampire spat. Her pale lips trembled uncontrollably, but the timbre of her voice was granite, laden with deep resentment—. I hate you so much... Because you’re perfect. Because you look fucking perfect. Because I can’t stop watching you at the matches. Because I hate your smell. Because I spend all my time thinking about how your touch would feel. Because you make me feel weird...
The air Lily had been holding in her lungs, unconsciously bracing for a physical blow, now escaped in a trembling thread. The words fell on her heavy and corrosive, provoking an alien sensation in the pit of her stomach. It was a visceral stab, very similar to the morbid thrill of juggling sharp knives; but at the same time, it felt like driving one of those blades into her chest and looking down, bewildered, to see not a single drop of blood spilling from the wound. Only a painful emptiness.
—Ileana… —Lily murmured. She tried to shrink back, retreating another millimeter against the furniture, but there was nowhere left to go—. You should lie down... You’re drunk and...
Of all the branches and logical calculations Lily’s mind had projected to get out of that room, this variable had never appeared in the equation.
With a brusque movement, devoid of any grace, Ileana lunged forward. Her hands flew to Lily’s face, trapping her cheeks. The vampire’s fingers were icy, hard as marble, digging into the soft skin with a possessive force that immobilized her skull.
The kiss was anything but gentle. There was no shyness, no prelude. It was a hostile invasion, a head-on collision: lips against lips, her tongue bursting in with an urgency so desperate it bordered on rage. Lily felt her weight give backward, forcing her to lean completely against the desk. The wood creaked loudly beneath her weight, a splintered sound drowned beneath the roar of blood in her ears. The Addams girl’s heart was pounding so wildly, with such forceful blows, that she had the hysterical certainty that Ileana could feel the vibration slamming against her own chest.
Lily’s survival instinct finally kicked in. She raised her large hands, palms open, and pressed them against the vampire’s rigid shoulders. She tried to push her away, applying force to break the grip, but her muscles seemed disconnected from her brain; they trembled, weakened by an emotional short circuit that kept her anchored in place.
—Stop... —she managed to articulate with difficulty against the girl’s lips, her breath tasting of cheap rum and tart fruit. A pair of treacherous, scalding tears sprang from the corners of her eyes, burning her skin as they slid down her cheekbones. But Ileana was deaf to her pleas. Completely oblivious, submerged in the fog of alcohol and lost in the chaotic maelstrom of her own repressed emotions—. Please…
It was the first kiss of her life. And it didn’t feel good. There was none of the dark romantic poetry she expected from the stories. It felt like misstepping in the dark and falling backward into a bottomless pit, with the air ripped from her lungs.
Suddenly, the weight vanished. Ileana pulled away, separating their bodies with an erratic jerk. Her chest rose and fell with short, ragged breaths, dragging in air with difficulty. Her amber eyes, half-lidded, gleamed in the gloom with a feral intensity, an indecipherable mix that distilled carnal desire, pure rage, or, very likely, both at once.
—I can’t believe how nervous you are... —Ileana panted. From her lips escaped a broken, raspy laugh that sounded deliberately cruel in the silence of the room—. The unbreakable one, the great Lily Addams... trembling in front of me like a kitte—
The word died in her throat.
Then she saw the tears.
She saw them descend, thick, heavy, and absolutely silent, rolling uncontrollably down Lily’s pale, freckled cheeks. The effect was instantaneous. The thick cloud of alcohol seemed to dissipate, swept away by a bucket of icy water. The dilated amber of Ileana’s eyes cleared, her pupils contracting until they became pinpoints. The predatory tension left her body and her grip on her own sanity crumbled.
She took a step back. Then another, swaying slightly. Her face was a mask of pure terror. But she wasn’t afraid of Lily. Of course not. She was terrified of herself, of the magnitude of what she had just done.
—Get out —she ordered, her voice hoarse. She didn’t dare meet her gaze; her eyes were pathetically fixed on the floor—. Get out of my room right now.
Lily obeyed. She straightened slowly, pulling away from the desk where she had ended up half seated. Her legs felt like jelly, trembling with uncontrollable spasms that threatened to bring her down. She raised her hand, pressing the cold back against her lips, trying uselessly to erase the lingering taste of pomegranate and alcohol that burned her mouth.
She walked toward the door. Her boots dragged with clumsy, heavy steps, without a trace of the stealth with which she had entered. She grabbed the knob, pulled the wood, and stepped into the corridor, refusing to look back.
The door closed behind her. The click of the latch fitting into place resonated with the softness of an apology in the stillness of the empty hallway. Alone beneath the blue light of the lamps, Lily stood petrified. Her chest heaved with shallow, broken breaths. The tears continued their silent descent, dripping onto the dark floor, while the enormous castle around her seemed to have held its breath, keeping a lugubrious minute of silence around her.
She had not the slightest idea what had just happened.
But a cold, absolute certainty settled in her chest: she knew that something had broken.
And that, perhaps, no matter how hard she tried, nothing would ever be the same again.