That evening, Wednesday slipped into the Nightshade Society hideout alone. The place was quiet in the way secrets prefer-sealed, deliberate, waiting.
Nathaniel Faulkner's diary was kept here. Founder of Nevermore. Archivist of truths people have decided to forget.
She stopped just inside the chamber.
"Uncle Fester," she said evenly. "You were supposed to be ahead of me."
A pause.
Then a figure eased out of the shadows.
"Fashionably late," Fester replied, pleased with himself. "Sneaking is more fun when someone's watching."
"So where is the safe?" Wednesday asked, already scanning the walls.
Fester hummed thoughtfully. "Hmm. Let me remember."
He studied the paintings—somber portraits, stern ancestors, eyes that followed you just enough to be irritating. He stopped in front of one, tilted his head, then grinned.
"This one's lying."
He lifted the frame aside. Behind it, set neatly into the stone, was a steel safe.
"That diary should be in here," Fester said, pressing his ear against the door.
Wednesday watched as his fingers hovered over the dial. He listened, adjusted, listened again—patient, intimate, like the safe was telling him a secret.
Click.
Click.
From the ease of it—the casual tilt of his head, the relaxed patience—you could tell this wasn't rare for him. It was routine. Almost comforting.
Another subtle turn.
Click.
Then, finally, a soft mechanical sigh.
The safe door swung open.
Inside lay a single, weathered book—leather-bound, edges worn, the name Nathaniel Faulkner pressed faintly into the cover.
Wednesday took the book and opened it, skimming past centuries of cramped handwriting until a particular symbol caught her eye. She slowed.
Hyde.
According to Nathaniel Faulkner, Hydes were among the most dangerous outcasts ever documented. They were born of outcast mutations.
Their transformation was triggered, not inherited in the traditional sense. A Hyde only emerged after severe emotional trauma, often awakening under chemical inducement or hypnosis.
That was the most disturbing part.
They bonded with a master—the one who unlocked them. Once awakened, a Hyde obeyed that person completely, carrying out commands without question.
Violence, murder, destruction—it was all an extension of the master's will.
In human form, a Hyde could live undetected for years. No physical signs. No records. Nothing that distinguished them from any other outcast—or normie.
"Hm. So Laurel Gates is the master of the Hyde," Wednesday muttered.
That explains why the monster was carrying out her orders.
After that, she stepped outside and immediately saw the commotion.
Students were moving in the same direction, voices low, clustered and uneasy. Not panic. Not excitement. Something tighter than both. Wednesday followed without hesitation.
The courtyard came into view.
The grass was scorched into clean, deliberate lines, the smell of smoke still hanging in the air. The words hadn't been scratched or painted—they were burned deep into the ground.
FIRE WILL RAIN
The embers glowed faintly as evening settled over the courtyard, leaving no doubt this wasn't a prank.
"Hmm." Wednesday studied the scorched message, recognition settling in. She'd seen the same warning at the Gates mansion. This wasn't a coincidence.
"It appears she's done concealing herself," Wednesday said coolly.
The message wasn't a mistake or a slip—it was a challenge. A deliberate provocation.
Catch me if you can.
The message burned itself into her mind long after the crowd dispersed.
She headed back to her dorm, already piecing together the implications.
The moment she opened the door, she froze.
There was a familiar smell in the room that shouldn't be in the room.
"Thing?" she asked.
No response.
Her eyes swept the room again. Nothing looked disturbed at first. Then she saw it—soil, scattered across the wooden floor in a thin, careless trail.
"Belladonna," Wednesday said quietly.
The smell clicked into place. She knew it well. Potent. Toxic. Strong enough to induce unconsciousness if inhaled long enough. Which raised a far more troubling question—why was it in her room?
Her gaze shifted to the desk.
A single sheet of paper lay there, placed deliberately. Not hidden. Not rushed. Waiting.
Her name was written at the top.
Wednesday picked it up and read.
If you want your werewolf friend, come to Joseph Crackstone's crypt on Raven Island alone.
Her expression didn't change.
But something cold settled behind her eyes.
Then, without warning, a vision seized her.
Wednesday found herself standing before Joseph Crackstone's crypt. Goody appeared beside it.
"There's no time," Goody said. "Crackstone is close to returning. You have to stop him."
Wednesday frowned. "He's dead. How does a dead man return—and why is this my responsibility?"
"Because I bound his soul with a curse and sealed him in that coffin," Goody replied. "Now one of his descendants is breaking it. The seal is failing."
"But he was a normie," Wednesday said. "What threat could he be to the outcasts?"
"He won't return as a human," Goody said. "What rises will be something else. Something dangerous for every outcast."
Wednesday's jaw set. "Then how do I kill him?"
Goody's voice lowered. "You strike through his black heart."