Chapter 8: Addams Family Values
The Nevermore quad buzzed with students, their chatter a low hum against the rustle of autumn leaves. The air carried the sharp scent of damp grass and roses, the oaks casting long, skeletal shadows across the cobblestones. Adama stood beside Wednesday, her posture rigid, her black dress stark against the gray stone. Her dark eyes flickered with anticipation, a rare crack in her stoic facade. "My parents are… intense," she warned, her voice a low monotone that carried an undercurrent of pride.
"Bring it on," Adama replied, his grin wide, his uniform slightly askew, one sleeve rolled up from habit. His HUD hummed faintly:
[System: 0 Ultimate Skill Cards. Active Skills: Ultimate Immortal Body, Ultimate Illusion Creation, Ultimate Lightning Body.]
Gomez and Morticia Addams swept into the quad like a gothic hurricane, Gomez's mustache twitching with charisma, Morticia gliding with an elegance that seemed to defy gravity. "Adama Stiels!" Gomez boomed, clapping his shoulder with enough force to make him stagger. "The boy causing havoc! Splendid!"
Morticia's smile was enigmatic, her dark eyes like pools of ink. "Chaos suits you, dear," she said, her voice a velvet purr.
They retreated to a classroom, its walls lined with dusty portraits of Nevermore's founders, the air thick with the scent of chalk and old wood. Wednesday flipped open a tome, its pages yellowed and brittle. "Our family founded Nevermore," she said, her fingers tracing faded runes. "There's a link to the Hyde—and to Crackstone's prophecy."
Adama nodded, his mind racing. Time to shine. He focused, illusions shimmering to life, the room transforming into a spectral scene: an Addams ancestor, Tiberius, battling pilgrims in a burning village, Crackstone's shadow looming over a pyre. The air grew heavy with the scent of smoke and blood, the illusion so vivid that Gomez leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "That's Tiberius!" he exclaimed. "Fought Crackstone himself, the old devil!"
Wednesday pointed to a rune in the vision, glowing red. "This ties to his prophecy. A beast unleashed to purge outcasts."
Adama grinned, feeding off Gomez's enthusiasm. "A prankster and a historian! You're family already," Gomez boomed, his laughter echoing.
For Pugsley, lounging nearby with a mischievous glint, Adama conjured an illusion—a guillotine "malfunctioning," its blade stuck mid-air, sparking with fake lightning. Pugsley yelped, then burst into laughter, his round face alight with glee. Gomez roared with mirth, slapping his knee. "A trickster with flair!"
Wednesday's lips twitched, a rare almost-smile that sent a jolt through Adama stronger than any lightning. "You're tolerable, Stiels," she said, her voice softer than usual.
The family visit ended, but Enid caught Adama in the hall, her face pale, her pink sweater rumpled. "It's getting worse," she whispered, rubbing her arms where faint claw marks lingered from her failed transformations. "I'm scared, Adama."
He knelt, pricking his finger with a pin. A drop of blood welled, glowing faintly with the power of his Ultimate Immortal Body. "Drink," he said, offering it. She hesitated, her nose wrinkling, then licked it, grimacing at the metallic taste. Color flooded her cheeks, the claw marks fading, her breathing steadying.
"You're stronger than this wolf nonsense, Sinclair," he said, standing, his voice firm but kind. "We've got this."
She hugged him, quick and fierce, her warmth a stark contrast to the hall's chill. "Thanks, Adama. You're the best."
Alone in his dorm, he sprawled on his bed, moonlight silvering the stone walls. This family's a gothic fever dream, and I'm loving it, he thought. The Crackstone link was a puzzle piece slotting into place, but his memories—something about a teacher, a mastermind—remained stubbornly out of reach. "Like a locked level in a buggy game," he muttered, sleep pulling him under as the night grew still.
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