Since the end of Winter Break, Alaric wondered how his life had gotten to this point. Before he had met Wednesday Addams he would come home from class, make a sandwich, work on a report, maybe hit the gym or go for a skate, make dinner, do more work, and go to bed. Rinse, lather, repeat. Now, however, his sanctuary was slowly being invaded by an outside force. He glared at the little yellow square of paper stuck to his refrigerator.
'Alaric,
You are out of milk. Please pick some up on your way home from class. Also, there is a basket of laundry outside the bedroom., Use the Woolite Dark.
Wednesday'
Over the last few weeks, as January turned into February which inevitably turned into March, Wednesday had slowly been moving her herself into Alaric's apartment. At first it seemed innocent enough; a spare change of clothes for the morning after, a tooth brush, some shampoo so she wouldn't smell like a man, things that made sense at the time. Then she commandeered one of his dresser drawers, and half of his bathroom space, and a shelf in his refrigerator. And the notes. How he despised those seemingly innocent pieces of paper! 'Alaric, please set some dinner aside for me. I'm in the mood for pork.' 'Alaric, please stop moving my preserved foot in a jar, I have it where I like it.' Lord that woman was infuriating! It was like having a wife! Although there were similar benefits…
During his little mental rant, he had taken the basket of her laundry to the bathroom where the washing machine and dryer were stored and set about loading her clothes. Near the bottom of the basket he'd come across the little wisp of fabric that was somehow considered underwear. As annoying as it was being asked to wash her clothes, he certainly hadn't been complaining when he removed them from her. That was one thing he appreciated about Wednesday: her up front attitude about her desires and wants. If she wanted to have sex, she said so, usually before bodily dragging him to the bedroom… Or the living room… Or the shower… Or her dorm, if she caught him right after class. He still couldn't get over how strong she was. He was twice her size, but she was nearly a match for him in strength. The last time they went to the gym together she had tossed him around like a ragdoll before he finally got it through his head that she didn't need him to go easy on her. Wednesday Addams was a grown woman who could handle her own shit. Except laundry, apparently.
"May as well get the milk before it gets late…" Since the laundry wouldn't be done for at least another half an hour and he didn't feel settled enough to start work, he threw his sweatshirt back on and made his way to the market. One of the reasons he chose this particular building to rent in was that it was blocks from the Stop N' Shop, which made things so much easier when supplies were running low. It was just as well that Wednesday finished off his milk and forced him to make this little trip; nothing in the fridge appealed to him for dinner tonight, and he needed chai powder anyway.
"Find new prosperity! Allow Father Dagon into your life!"
'Oh great. These assholes again,' he thought dismissively. Since the start of the school year, the Esoteric Order of Dagon had been making more and more appearances in the fair city of Arkham. From what little effort Al had put into learning about the group, they were some kind of religious cult based out of Innsmouth, Arkham's ancient, dilapidated neighbor to the south. According to the EOD, mankind needed to return to the ocean where their supreme deity, Dagon, resided with his servants. Worshiping Dagon brought with it promises of wealth and power, and in the past EOD had brought a great deal of wealth to Innsmouth. After a government raid in the late 1920's however, the town had fallen back into crippling poverty, and the EOD went underground. Now they were back, and making a nuisance of themselves in Arkham. "You there, young man," the fish-eyed preacher called to Al. "You are a lad with a strong form, but your strength of body will only carry you so far! Let Dagon bring you to a new level of existence!" A woman, or what he assumed was a woman, as the Innsmouth look of flabby lips, scaly skin, and bulging eyes made differentiating between genders difficult, handed him a pamphlet while shooting him doe-eyes. He suppressed the urge to shudder.
"Yeah, Padre, I'll get right on that," he muttered, taking the pamphlet while doing his best to ignore the woman, and hurried into the store. The pamphlet found a new home in the garbage, and Alaric found a new resolve to leave the store at the other exit away from the cultists.
XXXxxxXXX
After placing Wednesday's clothes in the dryer, Al set about getting dinner ready. More and more often he found himself making food for two, in case his paramour invited herself over for the night. If she didn't, he at least had leftovers for the next day. With the chicken and vegetables roasting away in the oven, he set about finishing a lab report he had been working on for the past week. Notebooks and textbooks covered his kitchen table, highlighters streaked across important and relevant lines of information, and numerous tabs found themselves bookmarked for later review on his laptop. Results were checked against control groups and then checked again, notes were typed neatly in a new document and set aside for inclusion in the results section. In the middle of typing out his procedure, the buzzer for the oven went off with a piercing screech. Saving his progress and marking his place in the various notebooks he had brought out, Alaric emptied the oven of its contents. Setting the chicken on the cutting board to rest, he set two spots at the table just as the door to his apartment opened. Not a moment later he was under the cool, confident gaze of Wednesday Addams. Her hair looked rather frazzled under her wool hat, an accessory she used to combat the unseasonably cold weather. "Set dinner on the table, I need to wash up. You may greet me properly once I am done." Without another word she set her bag down by the couch and marched off to the bathroom.
"Yes, dear," Al muttered, slicing the chicken and spooning the vegetables into their proper serving dishes before setting the table. That was another thing he had learned about Wednesday in their time together: any physical affection usually happened on her terms. Granted, he enjoyed their encounters, so he was comfortable enough with her setting the pace, although he did enjoy the little squeals she made when he would give her behind a firm squeeze without warning. She'd flush and give him a smack to the back of the head, he'd whine about her abusive tendencies, and by the end they'd be snuggling. As he was setting the salt and pepper on the table, she re-emerged from the bathroom, her hair neater than it was when she entered. Taking her seat, she began to eat as Al poured her a glass of the ice tea she'd made the day before last. "I take it dinner meets with your approval, oh mistress of the household?"
"The flavor is adequate, and it seems to be cooked properly. It will suffice," she replied, seeming to not have heard his little dig. "Judging by your body language I can assume your classes went well enough today. Did you purchase more milk, like I requested?"
"Yeah, I saw your note when I got home, went out shortly after. Those weirdoes from the EOD were at the supermarket again, tried to convert me. Bunch of fish-lipped freaks."
"Do not dismiss them so easily. The Esoteric Order of Dagon may be smaller than it once was, but its followers are dedicated to seeing it succeed," Wednesday said with a pointed look.
Al shrugged, helping himself to more chicken. "Alright, alright, I'll be careful. Nice to see that you care, though an 'I love you,' would be nice." At her glare he changed the subject. "So, how were your classes?"
"Ugh. The incompetents I have to deal with. My project partners have yet to…"
XXXxxxXXX
After the table had been cleared and the dishes put in the dishwasher, Al took a seat on the couch with one of his textbooks, reviewing the day's covered material and pre-reading tomorrows once again. Wednesday, apparently having no work that needed to be done, commandeered the remote and set about browsing through the on demand section of his cable package. Having found a show she liked, or at least tolerated, she took her spot on the couch and leaned into Al's side. "Alaric, I have a question for you."
"Hm," he grunted skill perusing his book.
"Some of my peers were curious as to the start of our relationship, and mentioned the fact that to knowledge of those on campus you have not engaged in a lasting romantic relationship since the end of your Junior year." He looked up.
"And?"
"I am curious as to why you made that choice." It was a fair question, he supposed. While Al was no Adonis, he was a good looking man who had been on a championship team in his years at Miskatonic. Coupled with what appeared to be a bright future, his looks and athletic ability made him a draw to many young women at the ancient higher-learning institute. Still, since the incident at the end of his third year of college he had essentially remained celibate, even though there had been no shortage of opportunities and offers. It was reasonable for there to be questions about why he chose to start a new relationship after three years of solitude.
"A couple of reasons, actually. My senior year was the year I took my MCATs, and I had to maintain my GPA to ensure I got into medical school. Add my hockey season into the mix and my whole year was taken up. After college I started med school, and that was a full time job in and of itself. Most people in medical school don't even think about dating until residency because the schedule that they have to keep is so demanding. Anyone in a relationship during school usually continued it from college, and even then it usually doesn't last." It was true, too. Most doctors that he had met hadn't been in any kind of lasting relationship until their residency had started. The reasoning was that they were technically out of school and would have dedicated off time. As residents, they were officially doctors and drawing a salary, even though the hours were long, and the pay nowhere near what they would be making after their residency ended. Without having to dedicate their off hours to studying, they could actually form and hold lasting relationships.
"If that was the case, then why did you choose to accept my offer? As unattractive as it sounds, I did have to coerce you quite a bit to get to this point," she admitted, looking up at him with calculating eyes.
"To be honest, I find myself drawn to you. You infuriate me like no one ever has, Wednesday. You blackmailed me, your family tried to kill me, and you started a fight with my father at a party I didn't invite you to. If we're being realistic, I should have filed for a restraining order. In spite of all of that though, I actually like having you around. You'll listen to me prattle on about the particulars of the human body and actually engage in the conversation. You act all cold and collected, but I've woken up more than once to you toying with my hair." She her default scowl intensified and if he had strained his hearing, he might have heard her mumble some sort of denial. "You're a good person in there somewhere, Wednesday. I believe that. You have it in you to be, in your own way at least, sweet and loving. You're so intelligent, and witty; In possession of a cold, other-worldly beauty, while simultaneously burning me alive with your fiery sensuality. I'm enthralled by you, Wednesday." He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger, earning him a scowl. "That, and I could bounce a gold coin off your ass. Booty like that comes along once in a lifetime."
"That was actually turning out to be very sweet, until you felt it necessary to bring my posterior into it. You're a pig, Alaric, but you're my pig."
"I like you too, sweetie."
"You say that, and yet I am still waiting to be properly welcomed." Rolling his eyes, Al set down his book and turned to the side, enveloping her in a hug.
"Welcome home, baby. I missed you," he murmured into her sable locks, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. A kiss of her own to the curve of his jaw was his reply, prompting him to hold her more closely, savoring the radiant warmth of her body. For all her eccentricities, her seeming lack of emotion, and those infernal post-it notes, Al had come to genuinely enjoy the company of Wednesday Addams. "For the record, you told me to hold off on your welcome because you had to pee. You can't possibly be mad at me for doing what you said."
"I am twenty-one years old, Alaric. I can be as unreasonable as I desire."
XXXxxxXXX
"Burning the midnight oil, eh Doc?"
Al looked up from his laptop and smiled. Working late at the lab often meant running into the cleaning staff, and Al's favorite member of the custodial crew was a man who went by 'Hog.' He was a tall, almost impossibly lanky man, with the most impressive mullet Alaric had ever seen. The Fu Manchu moustache completed his image in a way no other facial hair could ever hope to. "Just finishing up for the night, Hog. How's life treating you?"
"Eh, I can't complain. Well, I could, but no one would listen," he said, shrugging. His jumpsuit was a faded blue, with heavy metal band patches covering holes and tears. "So, what's new in the life of Doc Hartmann? Been forever since we've had a little pow-wow." Kicking aside his mop and bucket, Hog pulled up a stool at the lab table, leaning back without a care in the world. "Word on the street is that you have yourself one foxy little lady?"
Al chuckled, closing his computer. "I suppose I do. Wednesday Addams, she's an undergrad."
"Hm, Addams, Addams," Hog pondered out loud. "Oh, she's the one with the scowl that could strip paint off a car! Takes guts going after a lady like that. Uh, no offense, Doc."
Al laughed a full-bellied laugh. It was an apt enough description of Wednesday. "No offense taken, Wednesday is an… Acquired taste. The daughter of a mad billionaire and a woman who just might be an actual vampire. I spent Christmas with them, you know. In those few days I was nearly stabbed, blown up, eviscerated, beaten, and possibly poisoned. Strange as it was though… I kind of had fun." Hog, using ancient secrets of the passed down from janitor to janitor, produced two previously unseen frosty cold cans of cherry cola from his cart of cleaning supplies. Al accepted the offered beverage gratefully. "Tell me Hog, you ever notice anything, well, weird going on here?"
"I'm a janitor, Doc. I've seen a lot of weird shit."
"I mean really weird. I've been on this campus for six years, man. Thought I'd seen everything, y'know?" Al sighed into his can. "It's only in the last few months though that I've started to really see things. I went my entire undergraduate career without noticing this, but there are literally dozens of doors to basements in buildings where I know for a fact that there are no basements. Every single one bolts from the inside. And the carvings! Wednesday does occult studies, and the symbols in her books are all over the old buildings. Then I start noticing the people hanging near the Occult Library. I always wrote them off as the goth kids, but some of them look just… Sinister. Like those Dagon wackos that've been popping up lately. You ever notice any of this stuff Hog, or is it just me?"
Hog took a long pull from his can, crushing against his forehead in a way Al had only seen in movies and Foster's beer commercials. "Look Doc, I've been working here for damn near fifteen years now. I couldn't begin to guess how many couples I've caught in the stacks, or some of the crazy shit I've seen left on loose pieces of paper. I shit you not, I have a one-hundred-page dissertation, replete with citations and footnotes about how Chester A. Arthur was in fact a sentient potato-man. The fact of the matter is, Doc, that this place is frickin' old, and was designed by, built by, staffed by, and attended by some of the kookiest motherfuckers to ever walk out of New England. Of course I see all the weird stuff around here. I got theories, too. Those cult people? Half-human fish men. Those doors? Secret tunnels under the school for bizarre rituals. That's why we keep all those weird books, some of which I think are printed on human skin." He took a step back cracking his neck with a muffled 'pop.' "But I suppose that's the price we have to pay to do what we love. I gotta mosey Doc. If I don't see you around, stop by my place over on Starlight Ave. Got some real wicked stuff that you'd really dig." With a jaunty whistle Hog was back out in the hallway, while Al closed up his laptop. He'd done enough for the night.
XXXxxxXXX
You need to find your balance. You can't think too much, or too little. Fight with your head, but don't ignore your instincts. If your gut says dodge left, then dodge left." It amazed Alaric that Wednesday could give a calm lecture whilst trying to spit him like a rotisserie chicken. He batted away her blade, a rapier of minimalist design which perfectly suited his dour lover, and feinted to the left. What appeared to be a slash down at her shoulder became a disemboweling thrust. Wednesday, having been raised with a sword in her hand, parried with minimal effort. "Good," she noted with mild approval. Her foot lashed out, striking Al's knee and sending him toppling. "But there is still room for improvement."
"Goes both ways, babe." Al hooked his left foot behind Wednesday's knee, using his right shin as a fulcrum to force her off balance. As she hit the floor, Al Sprung onto her prostrate form, his hand on her throat before she could fully turn onto her back.
"What have I told you about foreplay during practice, Alaric?"
"That it is always welcome, and even encouraged."
"Yes, except during armed combat practice. The blades may be dull, and our padding thick, but an accidental sword to the crotch doesn't sound pleasant for either of us." Al had to concede that point. Crotch-shots weren't enjoyable for anyone, and even to this day he always wore a cup while skating. "Still though, you're making excellent progress. You seem to perform best when you have an actual goal to work towards. Maybe I need to start providing you with incentive."
"Sooo…. You're saying we can end practice early, have a post-gym quickie at my place, nice long shower together, then dinner," he asked, hopefully. A positively evil smirk tugged at the corners of her lips.
"If you can score a clean hit, yes. If you do it in the next five minutes, I'll also put my hair into the ponytail you seem to love so much… And I'll wear The Shorts, but only if I get to pick dinner." Al's eyes blazed with new determination. Wednesday had in her possession the modern barbarian's kryptonite: a pair of terry cloth shorts that, while not as skin-hugging as her leggings, framed her fabulous bottom in such a way that when she wore them he couldn't focus on anything else. Scrambling up, he hefted his sword into a high guard.
"You'll be lucky if we make it back to the apart-" her blade licked out at his stomach, his own sword coming down to meet it. Unlike the previous hour, however, Alaric did not step back. He met her strike full on, pushing forward. If Al wanted his prize- and did he ever want his prize- he couldn't afford to go on the defensive. Wednesday had experience on him, that he couldn't overcome. Her speed, however, he could match. While Wednesday Addams could strike like a cobra, Alaric Hartman had his own panther-like agility to work with, leaping and rolling around her attempts to run him through.
"Come now, Alaric, can't you do better than that? Where is your fire? Don't you want to fuck me?" Wednesday never cursed, especially when referring to their lovemaking. She was more than aware how riled up that got him. The blood in his ears began to roar, a hot flush creeping up his body as he let himself become immersed in the sheer ferocity of their duel. His feints and chops steadily grew more precise, and the world around him began that increasingly familiar slow down. He saw that barest of openings in her defense and surged with a speed that surprised even the normally stone-faced Wednesday. While she was able to block his diagonal slash, it was only just. The force of his attack made her arm go numb, the sword dropping from her nerveless fingers as Alaric pressed in for the kill. Not one to go down fighting, Wednesday attempted one of her signature judo throws only to be out maneuvered as Al twisted himself to divert his momentum. His left foot lashed out and caught Wednesday in the stomach, his sword following immediately after.
"I Yield."
The words barely penetrated his blood rage. When the world finally resumed its normal pace, Alaric's sword was leveled against her shoulder, in what would have been a dismembering cut in an actual battle. Wednesday pulled off her protective mask; her deathly pale cheeks flushed red with exertion. Her sable locks were plastered to her forehead, sweat coming in rivulets down her face. At that moment, Alaric thought, she had never been more beautiful. His mask came off without comment, his lips crashing against hers as they began a new struggle for dominance. He hauled her up, her legs wrapping snugly around his waist. Her fingers tangled in his hair, threatening to rip it out by the roots as she forced his head down.
"Ja mein sieger..." she hissed. His kisses were like hot irons on her neck, his mouth ravenous as her German affirmation spurred him on. These were the moments she dreamed of, the rush of battle blurring into the haze of lust. She briefly wondered if they would even make it home or if he'd just take her there for all to see. Exhibitionism was something they'd yet to try after all…
"Um… Am I interrupting?" …And it appeared that it would remain that way for now. A choked growl of frustration caught in Alaric's throat as his head whipped around to view the most unwelcome intruder. She was a tiny thing, barely five feet tall. Al was fairly certain he'd eaten things bigger than her.
"You are, but that's my fault for not minding the time, Wednesday said, releasing her beau from her python-like grip. "Alaric, this is Alfie Cornfoot. She's in my Art of the Hyborean Ages class. Alfie, this is Alaric Hartmann, my boyfriend." He grunted in greeting, still rather sore about having their quality time interrupted. Wednesday whacked him on the head. "Pardon Alaric, he's a bright boy but his manners can be atrocious."
"It's fine... I mean, you guys were pretty… um, involved just now." A furious blush stained her cheeks. It wasn't every day that you could see two people engaged in such blatant public displays of affection after all. "Are we still on for tonight?"
"Tonight," Al queried, "what's tonight?"
"Wednesday said she'd show me some of the symbols from her Occult Studies classes, to see if I could incorporate them into my art," Alfie started, only to trail off into low mumblings that even Alaric's new and improved hearing couldn't detect.
"Ask him, Alfie. We've discussed you need to be assertive," Wednesday commanded. The art student straightened, taking a deep breath with closed eyes.
"I also wanted to ask you to act as a model for my sketches. You have a similar profile to the art of King Conan of Aquilonia, and I'd like to try my hand at the techniques I've learned. If you wouldn't mind." Al glanced back and forth between his girlfriend and her classmate.
"Is she serious?"
"It was my suggestion, actually. You have the regal bearing of Conan's line, and your eyes are that same volcanic blue described in the scrolls of his adventures," Wednesday explained, beginning to gather her things. "That, and you are an aesthetically pleasing man to look at."
He took a deep breath in an obvious effort to calm himself. "… Certain promises were made, Wednesday. I fulfilled my end of the bargain."
"You did mein Sieger," she soothed, walking to him and placing a smooth hand on his still warm cheek. "We'll have our time together, I promise." She turned her head to address Alfie. "Would you be willing to give us some time? Say, two hours? You can join us for dinner." Alfie looked hesitant to accept. She'd set aside time to meet Wednesday, it wasn't exactly convenient or fair to ask her to wait additional time. Obviously Wednesday was aware of this, as she retrieved a heavy book form her bag. "Here is my book of occult symbols and rites, assembled by my grandmother. You may read it while waiting for us. I only ask that you not read any of it aloud. Any questions you have can be discussed while we eat, and if you'd like Alaric will pose for some preliminary sketches." At his questioning glance she simply mouthed 'shorts' at him, effectively silencing the future physician.
"Well, I guess that'll work… I don't want to impose. You're sure it isn't a problem Mister Hartmann?" The girl looked nervously at Alaric. He hadn't seemed happy about any of the scheduled activities, especially being volunteered as a model. Still, he sighed and nodded his assent. A quick confirmation of the address and they were gone, leaving a somewhat confused student of the fine arts holding ancient tome of arcane knowledge.
XXXxxxXXX
When Alfie arrived, Wednesday was practically glowing. Her normal corpse-like pallor was replaced by an almost healthy-looking flush, which helped bring out the light bruising around her collarbone. Seating herself in an arm chair, she stretched out, looking rather like a lioness or some other big cat after a particularly satisfying meal. Alaric seemed to be in better spirits as well, smirking to himself as he poured over his books. "Is dinner in the oven, or…?" She cringed mentally, but it was the only thing that she could think say rather than commenting on their obvious afterglow.
"We ordered Thai, Alfie. I took the liberty of getting your usual," Wednesday answered, smiling to herself as she watched Al gingerly touch a sore spot on his shoulder. Some her finest work. Alfie, choosing to ignore the connotations behind that smile, pulled the Addams' Grimoire from her bag, opening to some carefully marked pages.
"I did have some questions about this particular sign." She pointed to what looked like a warped five-pointed star. "I noticed it appears in some of the friezes and carvings in the more remote temples, especially in the ones from the Early Stygian Period, after the Cataclysm."
"Ah yes, the Elder Sign. It's thought to be one of the most powerful protective symbols known to sentient life. When dealing with the Old Ones, their servants, and some even say the Outer Gods, it is one of the best forms of protection. Now, painting it on your torso will not prevent you from being attacked, but placing it on doors and walls makes for an effective barrier. With what we've learned in Occult Studies about the ancient religions, it's no surprise that the priests wanted an extra level of protection. If they ever lost control of their summons, the beings from beyond would be effectively trapped. At least until a way could be found to send them back." Alaric looked up from his studies, mouth agape. It was the longest he'd ever heard Wednesday wax poetic about her studies. Eventually, however, a need to study overrode his curiosity and it was back to his books while his lover and her peer spoke of 'cryptic books of Hsan' and 'Star Stones of Mnar.' So involved was he with his books, it came as a shock when a heavy leather-bound tome slammed onto the table in front of him.
"The fuck Wednesday?!"
"Go change, you have sketches to model for." His glare didn't waiver.
"I'm studying."
"You agreed to model."
"You know how important my work is-"
"You said you would. I know we intended on spending a longer period of time making love and that you are upset, but that is no excuse to break your word. It won't be so long that you won't be able to continue." Her slender hand cupped his face, still so cool against his skin. "You did promise me, Alaric."
He looked ready to refuse, but let his shoulders sag. "The usual outfit, then?" He already knew the answer and trudged off to his room. Minutes later he emerged, leaving Alfie with a slack jaw and a heavy blush. Sporting what Al had come to call a 'fur speedo,' rustic looking leather boots, and a band of bronze around his head, Alaric Hartmann looked every inch a modern depiction of Conan of Cimmeria. His skin was tinged darker towards tan in spite of his predominantly European heritage, his eyes a shade of blue than seemed to burn with the sheer force of his personality. His iron-corded sinews stood out in enviable definition without appearing too bulky, and the sword in his hand appeared as if it had always been there.
Over the course of the next two hours Alaric posed to Alfie's specifications, adjusting periodically. The dynamic poses were agony. The closest living thing to Conan he may have been, but he had spent several hours having the stuffing beaten out of him by the seemingly-frigid heiress to a multi-billion-dollar fortune. Alfie, the very picture of professionalism, studied him with keen eyes, seeking out each individual pulsing vein and twitching muscle fiber. Her blush was still in full force, but the sense of nervousness seemed to have abated. Alaric noted with an appreciative eye the dexterous manner with which she used her pencil, not so different from the way a surgeon handled a scalpel in a delicate surgery, movements alternating between crisp and fluid, firm and dainty. All the while Wednesday was draped on his couch, eyes never wavering in their piercing stare.
Those eyes had haunted his mind for months; they promised pain and pleasure alternating in an unending cycle, wherein she would take hold of his soul and twist it to suit her desires. Looking too long made him swear that he could hear laughter, the laughter of the mad tinged with the piping of flutes not meant to be played by human mouths. He would often wonder what knowledge she held in her head, what slivers of the unknown crawled through her neural paths that could shred the consciousness of mortal men. Like her ability to reduce him to a beast of a man, half starved for the taste of her pale flesh, the cryptic tidbits of knowledge Wednesday held her in her mind, or perhaps what they implied, could frighten him to the most primal parts of his being. But Al, like most humans, had a defense mechanism: He ignored it all. If the notion of alien monsters beyond space and time entered his head, he would think to himself 'If they haven't noticed you yet, they probably never will,' and go back to work. Denial was a powerful tool, and Al was perfectly content to use every tool at his disposal to get through his day.
"I think that'll be all for today." Al let his arm, hoisting his sword overhead, drop down with a satisfied groan. Thank God he was staying in tomorrow, he'd be lucky to lift a pencil. "Thank you again Mr. Hartmann, I'm so sorry for intruding on your night." Alaric waved her off with his good arm.
"No worries. Just give me a heads up if you need to do this again." She nodded, smiling as she gathered up he supplies. Wednesday rose, stretching in such a way as to display some of Alaric's more preferred attributes. He recognized that look. No sleep tonight, then.
"Thank you for stopping by, Alfie. I'll have you come by during the break. I have many more books for you to look at." And with that, Alfie Cornfoot got the bum's rush, barely clearing the doorway before it slammed shut and the deadbolt clicked ominously. She tried not to think about what was about to happen to the future physician.
XXXxxxXXX
Whenever they spent a weekend together it was Alaric's job to get groceries and other essentials. This was because he not only had a car, but because Wednesday couldn't be assed to do anything she didn't feel like doing on a Saturday. So he'd make trips to Stop n' Shop, maybe the butcher or the bakery if they wanted something special, and even her dorm room if she wanted something that she'd forgotten. Wednesday's roommates, two girls whose names he'd never bothered to learn, knew better than to impede him when on a mission from Wednesday.
It seemed that other people had learned that lesson on this particular market trip. The Esoteric Order of Dagon, who had been preaching outside the store for several weeks were nowhere to be found. Now that he had thought of it, the weird cult from Innsmouth hadn't been seen my anyone since the day Spring Break had started. Wednesday had mentioned their absence from campus to him when she'd shown up the night Break had started with her duffel bag. Without their barking and shouting, town seemed almost dead. Miskatonic students rarely stayed around during the break periods. Very few thought of chilly, wet New England as prime Spring Break territory.
Purchases in hand, Al trudged through the misty air, wiping the damp from his forehead. He scanned himself into his building and road the impossibly slow elevator to his floor. Something felt off the moment he stepped out of the elevator car. Several hall lights were out, and there was an unpleasant fishy odor about. His door handle was loose, but not broken, something of little consolation when he saw the war zone upon opening the door.
His kitchen table was reduced to kindling, as if a great weight had been dropped on it. Books and magazine were thrown about with abandon, the kitchen floor covered in shards of broken ceramic. A glint of red caught his eye: Blood. His good butcher knife had an already congealing layer of the fluid on the blade, and a few feet away was a severed hand. 'No,' he thought, 'there's no way," his mind moving immediately to Wednesday. He allowed a slight moment of relief; It wasn't hers. The skin was almost scaly, with unkempt finger nails. Then webbing threw him off, however. This hand was almost… Amphibian? He shook his head, no time for speculation. Opening his mouth to shout for his paramour, his phone rang out in the ruined apartment. Her name appeared on screen.
"Wednesday, where are you? Are you okay?"
"Your lady's just fine, Ricky-boy." That voice. "Hellooo? Anybody home?"
"Hilliard you cock-smoking piece of human garbage, where the fuck is Wednesday!?"
"Whoa now, let's keep a civil tongue in that head of yours Mr. Hartmann. I've got your chippie right here, and may I just say she's a piece. Looks even better than that dot-head you were chasin'. Probably smells better too."
"If you touched one hair on her head, there won't be enough of you left to bury!" Why didn't he kill the bastard when he had the chance?
"Not really the hairs on her head that interest me," he chortled. "But don't worry that pretty little mug of yours. I'm just going to give your sweetie a tour of the school. Show her places no one ever gets to see. Then we're having a little shindig with those fish-eyed religious wackos. You ought to stop by."
"Oh I'll stop by," he spat, spittle foaming at his lips. "You better hope that none of the nerves in your legs can still feel pain, 'cause I'm gonna open them up and go looking!"
"See you soon Ricky." The call ended, but Alaric was already moving. The door was left open, any concern for the theft of his belongings long-forgotten as he jumped down flights of stairs, not patient enough and far too angry to wait for an elevator. His car tore out of the lot, tires squealing and throwing up smoke with the stench of burning rubber. Al didn't care it the whole town saw it; he was going to murder Hilliard McPherson.
XXXxxxXXX
Miskatonic University was old, older than the founding of America. According to their own history, they were the seventh college founded in what would become the United States, and the third in New England. Even though the campus had expanded outwards over the years, the original campus that held the library still sat behind high stone walls and heavy gates of cast iron. The place was a veritable fortress, as Alaric found out when he attempted to gain entrance. The security gates wouldn't raise, which while not normally a problem as anyone could just plow through the flimsy lengths of plywood, were backed up by locked iron gates to prevent illegal entry to the campus parking lots. Further attempts at entry were met with similar problems, forcing Al to abandon his car in what may have been a tow zone.
"What the fuck?" He muttered to himself as he approached the Scholar's Gate, the campus' original main entrance. The archway was constructed of a greasy black stone, obviously different from the fieldstone construction of the rest of the walls, and smelled faintly of smoke. The doors were apparently the original one installed at the college's inception, and were rumored to be made from the hull of an old pirate ship. The wood looked phenomenal for its supposed age and was banded with iron, although closer inspection would reveal strange carvings that caused unnatural sensations in the eyes of the beholder. Massed outside the gate was a yellow bus, a crowd of undergrads with duffel and equipment bags, a dilapidated pickup truck operated by Al's favorite janitor, and a slightly built ginger-haired lass.
"Doc, you got any idea what's going on? None of my keys work, and these kids need to get in." Hog looked as perplexed as Al had ever seen him, and that was saying something for a man who knew more about the seedy underbelly of the storied college than most. One of the kids stepped out from the crowd, a bag of goalie equipment slung over his shoulder. Clearly the hockey team was present.
"Mr. Hartmann? What are you doing here?" Jimmy Patterson, Class of 2016, if he recalled correctly. Al would occasionally skate with the team in exchange for access to the rink.
"Al, the doors won't open!" Alfie piped in.
Al ignored them all. "Hilliard!" He bellowed, all questions from the peanut gallery ceasing at the unadulterated rage in his voice. "I know you're there! Open this fucking door before I tear it open! When I'm done with you, not being able to walk is going to be the least of your worries! They're gonna have to invent new laws for the shit I'm going to do to you gimp-legged, limp-dicked, crippled mother fucker! God himself won't be able to put you back together when I'm finished!" He raised a fist to pound on the door and stopped mid-motion with an ominous 'thunk,' like a massive deadbolt being thrown. Al rushed back to avoid the opening doors, nearly falling over himself.
It had been years since he had seen Hilliard, not since he'd been released from custody. The look Hilliard had given him stayed in his mind since that day, a look of unmitigated hatred that promised tortures that would be legendary in Hell; a look that swore blood feud between them and their descendants until none were left. Al had smirked in return; convinced Hilliard could do no harm. He should have just killed him that night and saved himself the trouble.
"There's my boy. How the fuck are ya, Ricky?" Hilliard McPherson hadn't aged well. He was thin, bony really, his skin thin and papery. Veins stood out in stark blue against the white of his skin, bulges of bone sticking out at his joints That smirk though, the one he wore right up until his 'accident,' the smirk that seemed to say 'I can do whatever I want to whoever I want, and I dare you to stop me' was back in its rightful place. Flanking either side of his wheelchair were two hulking brutes. The men had broad, flat faces with wide bulging eyes; Their skin was pale, and upon closer inspection, had the sheen of small scales not unlike those found on fish. Dirty overcoats covered their massive frames, although they did a poor job of it; these men were ill-proportioned masses of muscle, and not terribly bright from the dull looks in their eyes. So this was where the Esoteric Order of Dagon had come to.
"I want Wednesday back, Hilliard. Now."
"Jesus Christ, you believe this asshole," Hilliard asked one of his hulking abominations, who merely grunted in response. Apparently not even fish-monster men could stand being around Hilliard. "I ain't seen him in four years and that's how he greets me? No, 'Hey Hilly, how's tricks?' or even a simple 'Hello.'" He shook his head, sighing. "I guess this is what passes for manners these days."
"You know what, fuck it." Al marched over, ignoring the calls from the assembled crowd, making a bee-line to Hilliard. One of the goons stepped up to block his path, raising a broad, meaty fist. Hog winced in anticipation of the punch he knew was coming, and the damage it would do to his favorite student's face. He made to dial 911, but stopped before pressing the call button when Al did… Something. Hog didn't see his move beyond his continued forward motion. The towering fish-man crumpled, gasping for breath in harsh, warbled wheezes. Massive hands clutched at his midsection, eyes clenched shut in a rictus of pain as Al advanced.
"Any time you feel like stopping him," Hilliard snarked, spurring the second thug into motion from his state of assumed shock. The naturally bulging eyes made it difficult to discern certain emotions. The beast charged in with a gurgled cry, swinging a wild left haymaker. Alaric, however, had been training with Wednesday Addams; her precise and coordinated movements made this lumbering oaf's attack look like it was moving through tar. Stepping in to meet the charge, he reached under and over the brute's arm, fingers settling on the bicep as he pulled the limb down to where the wrist was set against his shoulder. All of the power was gone from the blow and Alaric was in a perfect position to use the mammoth man's momentum against him, which he did immediately. The sudden redirection stumbled the man and brought him to his knees, which given his considerable height, made him see eye to eye with Alaric. Not that he saw very much or for very long. Al's left hand snapped out with the speed of a striking cobra, delivering multiple short, hard punches to the behemoth's face. Through his fury, Al noted the bones of the face had more give than those of a normal person; they were softer, squishier he supposed, like cartilage. The man from Innsmouth sagged, barely conscious, and Al let him drop to the ground.
"Y'know, most people would feel bad about hitting a cripple," Hilliard quipped. Had he been less angry, Al might have given some consideration that not only did Hilliard not seem to be frightened of his impending beating, he actually seemed eager. He didn't flinch when he was hoisted upright by his shirt collar, didn't seem fazed when he was nose to nose with the irate medical student.
"Let her go before I fucking murder you," Al hissed. "I'm not fucking around anymore Hilliard. Don't make me hurt you worse than you are now."
Hillard grinned, like the happiest boy on Christmas. "Oh Ricky," he all but crooned, "you couldn't hurt me if you tried." Snarling, Alaric reared back his fist and let it fly. Imagine his shock when instead of flying teeth and breaking cartilage, his fist met the flat of Hilliard's palm. "Funny thing about my impairment Ricky. I got better." With more strength than Al ever remembered him having, Hilliard pushed. Al flew back, taking the front of Hilliard's shirt with him, and landed flat on his ass. He looked up, stunned.
Hillard McPherson was standing on his own two feet, his mouth twisted into a jubilant grin tinged with a nigh inhuman cruelty. "Well, well, well. It turns out all I needed was some alternative medicine. All that money wasted on highly educated pricks like you Ricky, and some mutant hicks from Innsmouth had the fix the whole time. I'd tell my father, but I don't see what good it'd do. Now, I believe you wanted a fight." Al scrambled to his feet, dumbfounded.
"What the fu-" Hilliard was upon him, a bony fist driving into his jaw and sending his down to his knees. His head was swimming, his vision blurry as Al raised his head only to have Hilliard's foot bury itself in his stomach. He felt at least one rib give way, blood rushing up his esophagus and into his mouth.
"Aw come one Ricky," Hilliard jeered. "I didn't have the luxury of seeing you coming. What's your excuse," he demanded, lifting Alaric into the air much as had been done to him a scant few seconds ago. "Not so fuckin' tough now are you Ricky? Where's that badass who ruled the ice? You get soft on me?" Each question was punctuated by another shot to the ribs, the iron grip on his windpipe preventing Alaric from crying out. "I gotta say, it feels real good to scrap again. Hell, it feels good not to have to piss in a bag anymore! But you know what I miss? I miss the pussy, man. Back when all I had to do was look at a girl right and off came the clothes. I ain't been laid for nearly five years Ricky. You know how much that blows?" A strangled gurgle was his reply. "Right, 'course you don't, Mr. Big Hockey Star. That new piece of yours is a real keeper. The ass on her, dear Lord!"
"Someone call the cops," one of the undergrads shouted, noticing Al turning an unhealthy shade of blue.
"Any of you fishy freaks sees a cellphone, you open fire! I want everyone here dead if they even look like thinking about calling the cops!" Hilliard shook his head, bringing all back to eye level. "I ain't gonna kill you. I ain't even gonna cripple you, which is more mercy than you gave me. What I am gonna do is let you go, finish my little treatment, and then tear that pasty whore of yours open. I'm gonna fucking ruin her before I let those mutants use her for whatever it is they're doing. That sound good to you?" Even through his rapidly oncoming unconsciousness, Al threw a weak punch, barely tapping Hilliard's cheek. He had the audacity to laugh. "If nothin' else, you're tenacious. Now, you go take a nap, and hopefully I'll see you later." With inhuman strength Hilliard tossed Alaric through the air, where he impacted his car, caving in the windshield and setting off the car alarm. He didn't move. Hog sprinted over to his fallen friend, the hockey team and Alfie not far behind.
"You can have him back now! And don't bother with the cops, they wouldn't respond even if you did call them. And make sure you bring him back before tomorrow night if he wants to try this again! It'll be fun, cute even." Whistling a jaunty tune, Hilliard McPherson turned on his heel and strolled back past the gates, enjoying his newly regained ability to walk. What a wonderful break this had turned out to be! He could, Al Hartmann was a broken man, and he had a nice bit fluff lined up to complete his evening. And it was only the beginning. If those fish-lipped freaks were to be believed, this was only the start of something big, something that would change the world. For the small bit of help (as he saw it) that he gave, Hilliard was promised power beyond his wildest dreams. The ability to terrorize and torment anyone he saw fit, and do so out in the open with no fear of repercussion was too tempting to pass up. Throw in the ability to walk again and the humiliation of the man who crippled him and his soul was sold.
(ADD MORE/EDIT)
XXXxxxXXX
It was a thoroughly down-trodden and morose group that made its way into Al's apartment. Hog had insisted that the fallen med student be placed in the bed of his truck, with Alfie wiping the blood from his weeping cuts. Al had faded in and out of consciousness nearly the entire ride. He caught flashes of Alfie's worried face as she tried to clean the blood from his face. He knew he was in the back of Hog's truck, but his senses were telling his brain otherwise. The smells of sweat, burning wood, and roasting meat fought for dominance in his nostrils; his mouth tasted of sour wine; conversations in hundred languages, all of them dead, roared in his ears; and his skin prickled with the heat of a great fire. Someone was trying to hold his attention.
"Doc, you gotta wake up!" He jerked up, gasping for a ragged breath of air. Hog and Alfie were kneeling beside him. The hockey team was filing out of their bus. His apartment building…
"I couldn't save her…" he muttered. All his new strength, and he was handily beaten by a man he believed to be a cripple. "A fuckin' gimp rapist… I was there this time, and he still took her from me…"
"Doc, there was no way you could have-"
"If I'd fuckin' killed him back then Wednesday would still be here! Smita would still be here! He's been getting away with murder his whole damn life and I had the chance to stop him!" In spite of his fractured ribs Al attempted to leave the truck bed. "I could have stopped it all there, but I sank to his level. I left him crippled because I wanted him to suffer, and now Wednesday is paying the price for my mistake. God fucking damn it!" His fist lashed out, denting the corroding sheet metal of Hog's truck. The friendly custodian hopped over the side, coming around back to try and help Al out of the truck.
"Doc, you got listen to me man. We'll figure this out, but we gotta get you inside. Once we get you bandaged up we can call the cops, or the Feds, or the Army! There has to be someone out there who can help us!"
"The cops are definitely out," called out Jimmy Patterson. Rushing over to assist Hog, he took one of Al's arms and threw it over his shoulder. "We tried calling the cops on the ride over. The minute they heard anything about the college they hung up. None of us have been able to get through since."
"Hilliard's dad has a lot of power in his town," Al wheezed out. "Hilliard probably found his Poppa's blackmail folder and is strong-arming the police. Means the old man is dead."
"You really think he'd k-kill his father?" Alfie stuttered out, blanching.
"He made a deal with an apocalypse cult of fish-people to get back at me. Patricide really isn't so far out of the imagination. He's planning on raping and murdering Wednesday. Still the same fuckin' monster I should have put down five years ago... Dean McPherson was human garbage, but he was smart human garbage. A stunt like this would require using everything he has on the police department. He'd never give up all his cards like that.
The trudge up the stairs was as grim and silent one would expect. Some of the younger students had heard rumors of what a terror the Dean's son was, but seeing it firsthand…
"Look Doc, I hate to be the broken record here, but what's the plan?" Hog ventured as they reached Al's still-ruined apartment.
"A question I myself would like answered." Gomez looked much as he did when Al saw him at Christmas: Impeccable suit, slicked-back hair, perfectly oiled moustache… But gone was that jovial grin. Rather, a look of grim resignation was etched on his face. Lurch, the Addams' butler, stood behind his master, who was seated on perhaps the only in-tact chair in the entire room. "I gathered by the state of your home that my daughter was taken by the Esoteric Order of Dagon. Based on your rather sorry state, I would say you were unsuccessful in your attempts to rescue her. The question I have for you now is what you plan on doing now that you have been defeated. Will you try again to get my daughter back, or will you lay here like a beaten dog?"
Al shrugged off Hog and Jimmy, stumbling briefly before righting himself. "Of course I want her back, Gomez! But how do you propose I do it? I just got beaten half to death by a fucking cripple! I can barely breathe, let alone fight!"
"If that's your attitude, then you clearly aren't the man my daughter believed you to be," Gomez snapped. "My Wednesday has never so impressed by anyone as she was with you! She sank her time and energy into bringing what she saw in you to the surface, and this is how you repay her? Leaving her to spend her last hours at the hands of a rapist? She gave her heart to you Alaric! Does that mean so little to you?"
"I never wanted her love!" Alaric roared, ignoring the throbbing of his broken ribs. "Your daughter blackmailed me into all of this! Threatened to ruin me, my career! Do you really think I could love her after all that?!"
"Why are you still with her, then? If her actions disgusted you so much, why do you effectively allow her to live with you? Why not send her away? I know she gave you the opportunity to do so." Gomez took Al's silence as permission to continue. "The truth of the matter is that you've come to care for Wednesday, maybe even love her. But you're not man enough to save the woman you love." The look of disappointment on his face spoke volumes. "You're not even man enough to admit the truth to yourself. You try so hard to cling to the veneer of civilization, denying the very blood that roars in your veins! No one expects you to wear a loin cloth or start gnawing on a joint of meat! I don't know what sickens me more: That my daughter is going to die as a sacrifice on the altar of some eldritch horror, or that she died loving a coward." Gomez didn't blink when Al grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt. He didn't twitch a facial muscle when Al bodily threw him across the ruined apartment, or even when he was hauled to his feet and slammed into the wall. He'd have to remember to compensate the landlord for that.
"Coward, huh?" Alaric snarled before letting Gomez drop to the floor onto what was once probably a very stylish end table. "Hog, you know of any secret ways onto campus?"
"Sorry doc, the place is locked up tighter than the cafeteria when the frozen waffle shipment comes in." Rather than looking frustrated, Hog grinned. "But lucky for us, I just might have a key back at my place."
XXXxxxXXX
Hog's home was nothing like Al expected. He had expected Hog to live in an old garage, or long-closed Roy Rogers. Instead, the friendly janitor lived in what could only be described as a mansion. A massive, early twentieth century Classic Revival-style mansion on the outskirts of Arkham. None of the windows were cracked, the paint looked fresh, and the lawn was immaculate. To summarize, the antithesis of its owner.
"Hog, you live here?"
Hog made a noise of amusement. "Pffft, as if. The house is the family pad. Great-Great-Grandpa built the place at the turn of the twentieth. Way too fancy for me, so I live in the back." The motley crew followed their host around the side of the house, finding a sprawling property of at least five acres, at the rear of which sat a garage or perhaps a small warehouse. "Had it built after my Gramps passed about ten years back. Grandma still lives in the main house, sends food out for me to make sure I eat."
"And what do you have in here that can help us lay siege to a college campus?" Alfie asked.
"My baby, of course." After fumbling for a light switch, the loud 'clang' of a stadium light relay preceded the flood of fluorescent light that made Hog's world visible to all. "Welcome good people to my post-Industrial Batcave." Massive shelving units lined the walls, piled with a mishmash of tools, machine parts, and general scrap metal. Several vehicle bays occupied the center of the structure, the rusted hulks of different cars and trucks in various states of repair on prominent display with one notable exception. At the far end of the warehouse sat an old Army, driven straight out of Patton. The rear bed, normally covered by canvas stretched over metal ribs, was replaced with an angular metal shell almost like that of a turtle. "Not bad, huh?"
"Not at all, it's a lovely… Whatever it is we're looking at," piped in Alfie.
"!943 GMC CCKW 2 ½ 6x6," Hog finished. "Her name is Charlotte. Was gonna turn her into my own personal R.V. Had plans to put in genuine shag carpeting, some awesome speakers, maybe a disco ball, and of course, a water bed. But I figure we could use her to break down the main gate to save your fair maiden, doc."
"Hog," Al started with a sigh, "It's not that I don't appreciate the offer, but I'm just not seeing it. I mean, yeah, your truck could probably break down the gate, but wouldn't that leave you with a smashed in front end? And what about the guns? I don't know how many of those freaks have guns and I don't want you, or anyone else ending up like human Swiss cheese."
"Doc, please. I'm almost insulted." Hog rapped his knuckles against the side of his truck. "Armor plated her myself, almost a full inch thick on the back shell. If tall, dark and gruesome over there helps out I could weld a ram on her no problem," he declared, gesturing at Lurch. The butler groaned what Al guessed was an assent, followed by a confirmation by Gomez who insisted on accompanying them.
"Why, Lurch would be delighted to help. My man here is a veritable master of siege weapon craftsmanship."
"And as for those guns… Well, let me show you something." Hog scampered into the back of the truck, and following a minute or two of loud crashes and even louder cursing, threw open a hatch at the top of the shell near the cab of the truck. "Just a minute, gotta get this thing up…"
"Is that a machine gun?!"
"Not quite Alaric. Unless I'm mistaken that appears to be an XM174 grenade launcher," Gomez informed, looking mildly impressed. "I assume you have the proper permits?"
"Sort of. I bought a decommissioned XM from a collector, then modified it to fire the 37mm canisters. The 37 doesn't have the same stringent permit requirement, so I decided to abuse that little loophole. I can mount her to the roof, give her a drum magazine, and we pelt those freaks with flashbang grenades! Gonna be real hard to shoot us if they're blind.
"Where did you get flashbangs?" Alfie piped up.
"This town has a KILLER swap meet. Got a case of five-hundred for sixty bucks and the keys to a 1996 Pontiac Montana. Not the van itself, just the keys."
"You have any weapons for us to use once we get in?" Al's head snapped to Jimmy and the rest of the team, who were all nodding along. No, there was no way he was letting this happen. It was bad enough that Hog was going to have to get involved in his little suicide mission, he was not letting these kids ride into Hell with him. And he said as much.
"Absolutely not! Jimmy, I'm probably going to die trying to rescue Wednesday! I can't let you kids die helping me in my suicide charge!"
"But we're not kids Mr. Hartmann. We're adults and have every right to make the choice to be involved in this. Mr. Addams told us about those Dagon people on the way over. They want to end the world, and it sounds like they might be able to pull it off! I mean, if immortal fish people are real, a two-thousand-foot-tall demon with an octopus for a face could probably be real too!" He gestured toward his teammates. "If those freaks succeed, we're all dead. Maybe not today, or next week, but sooner rather than later. We have the chance to protect the people we love, and with all due respect Mr. Hartmann, fuck you if you try to stop us." He was a good choice for Captain, Al thought. He had never given a grand motivational speech like that.
"… You have anything else from that swap meet of yours that could help?" Al asked Hog with a heavy sigh. A smirk was his answer.
XXXxxxXXX
When Al and Hog had talked about the secrets of Miskatonic University, they had barely scratched the surface with their observation. The entire campus was sitting atop a labyrinth of tunnels and chambers, some made by recent, if not modern equipment and machinery, while others still were clearly cut from the living rock by rough, crude hands. It was in one of the latter chambers, fashioned some several dozen feet under the surface of Miskatonic where one Wednesday Addams hung chained to the wall by her wrists. Her face betrayed nothing, holding that constant, dead-eyed expression that had been her defining physical feature since before she could remember. Yes, her clothing was in tatters, Deep One-Human hybrid blood splashed across her hands and face, but Wednesday was not perturbed. Alaric would be there soon enough, and if he proved not to be the man she believed him to be… Well, this was hardly her first kidnapping. The same could not be said of whoever had picked out the shackles that bound her. 'Amateurs,' she thought, 'I can still move my wrists.'
"Hey there, Sweet Cheeks. I just had the most entertaining chat with your hubby."
'And then there's this prick…'
"I gotta say, Allie looked fantastic. Beat my two goons but good, and before I could even get out of my chair." Hilliard's gait was halted and clumsy. "Of course, he'd have to be in top form to get himself a fine piece like you." He whistled appreciatively. "Shit, if I knew they built em' like you…" A bony hand reached out only to stop a scant few inches from her stomach. He shook his head, as if trying to clear out the cobwebs in his mind. "Nope, gotta control myself. I start now and I might not stop." Even the threat of rape couldn't stop Wednesday's analytical mind. Hilliard was exceedingly pale and sweaty, even more so than a person who had spent the better part of five years confined to their house in a wheelchair would be. There were slight twitches in his extremities and his pupils were dilated to an almost comical size. If she didn't know better, she would have even said that there appeared to be something moving under his skin…
"You mentioned Alaric?" Hilliard shook his head clear again.
"Oh yeah, he stopped by for a chat. When I didn't feel like talking about you, he got a little violent. Even tried to hit me." His smile could have made a crocodile shiver. "So I beat his ass and threw him through a windshield. Didn't know a person could throw up that much blood." Wednesday's face remained stoic. "Those weirdos aren't even done fixing me yet and I still almost killed your boy toy. Just imagine what fun we'll get up to once they're done."
"I assume you'll be waiting for Alaric to return."
"Of course. No sense in putting on a show if he isn't there to see it."
"And what makes you so sure that he'll come?" Wednesday, of course had no doubts that Alaric would return for her. It was simply who he was; her modern barbarian warlord wouldn't allow his woman to be taken from him for long.
"Because he came after me last time. Your boy hates me like nothing else in this world. Instead of killing me, he left me a fucking cripple so that I could suffer for the rest of my life. That's how I know he'll be here at the appointed time. Except I'll be ready. Once I'm done with this freaky magic rehab bullshit the fishes have cooked up for me, I'm gonna break each and every one of his limbs. Then, once he's lying there in a broken pile, I'm going to ruin you in front of him. Every fucked up thing in my head is on the menu, and believe you me sugar tits, I can get real fuckin' creative." He gripped her jaw in his frail fingers, gripping so hard that she knew a bruise was already forming. "Al Hartmann is going to die by my hands, and there is fuck all anyone can do to stop me." He released her face with a violent push, her head striking the rough stone behind her. She saw stars.
"He won't let you live this time," she called out as he plodded through the dank water that covered the chamber floor.
"Is that a fact?"
"You are going to die like an animal, and I am going to watch the light leave your eyes with a smile on my face." The corners of her mouth quirked upward. "Have the Deep Ones fix you as fast as they are able to. I don't want my Alaric's first kill to be a useless half-man." The pain of his fist burying itself in her stomach and the subsequent urge to vomit were well worth it.
XXXxxxXXX
That little fucking whore had the nerve to mock him! Half a man, huh? He'd show her just how much a man he was! His fist lashed out at the wall of the tunnel, barely registering the way the rough stone finish scraped away skin and flesh, leaving his hand a ragged, bloody mess. Just more work for the fish to do.
His father had made the mistake of questioning his manhood one too many times, and he'd paid for it. For years, Dean McPherson had never missed an opportunity to nag his son about his mistakes. 'I hope that little curry muncher was worth it, because she'll be the last woman you'll ever touch,' he'd rage. 'I raised you to be smarter than that, and your stupidity has ruined my legacy!' It had been an off-handed remark that had set Hilliard on his father. The old man didn't realize his son could walk, and the look on his face when Hilliard had snapped his neck was still stuck in the young man's mind. Not that he regretted it. His mother, on the other hand, that still stung. He hadn't wanted to kill her, but she just wouldn't stop screaming. Ultimately it had been for the best, he convinced himself. After all, the takeover of the campus relied on his father not being able to interfere.
"Everything is prepared, mortal." One of the Deep Ones had tracked him down, staring with those unblinking eyes. "It is time to complete your procedure."
"It's about fuckin' time."
A/N: I know, I know, it's been three years. A lot has gone down. Lost a job, been going to law school, and I'm not gonna lie, kinda lost my muse. Hope this extra-long chapter made up for it, and I promise to try and get something out in a timelier manner. At most two chapters left in this one, already have plans for a sequel.
