Chapter 4: A Disaster Recipe Born at Nevermore
The first sliver of morning light pushed through the gap in the curtains, and Enid Sinclair was deep in a dream involving an Olympic-sized pool filled entirely with strawberry frosting.
Then she heard it.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"Mmm..." She rolled over and pressed her face into her pillow. "Who's eating soup at this hour..."
"It's not soup," Wednesday's voice arrived from across the room, flat and cold as a marble slab. "It's some kind of substance that I believe is illegal in at least four states."
Enid's eyes opened all the way.
Vic Black was sitting cross-legged in his bathroom-adjacent territory, a bowl balanced on his knee containing what appeared to be jet-black noodles drowning in a thick brown sauce that looked like the aftermath of a chemistry experiment gone deeply, personally wrong.
Venom had extended halfway out of his shoulder and was using a tendril to scoop noodles into its mouth with the casual enjoyment of someone eating a perfectly normal breakfast.
"Morning, ladies!" Vic looked up, grinning. His teeth were stained black. He did not appear to find this concerning.
"Want some? The cafeteria food has absolutely zero imagination, so I made my own." He gestured at the bowl with genuine pride. "Squid ink pasta. Chocolate fudge sauce. I call it a fusion concept."
Wednesday and Enid stared at him with the unified expression of two people witnessing the same car accident.
"You call that food?" Wednesday said. Her voice had the energy of something retrieved from a morgue. "It looks like cursed swamp runoff."
"Tastes like it too!" Vic said cheerfully, shoveling in another mouthful. "Venom says the texture is better than actual brain matter, and that's a direct comparison."
Venom nodded. "The chocolate cuts the fishiness of the squid ink. It's called balance."
Enid's werewolf nose caught the smell before she could stop it — a wall of sweet and briny and deeply wrong that hit her like a screen door in a windstorm. Her stomach lodged a formal protest.
"How did you even think of combining those two things?" she asked, with the tone of someone who genuinely needed to understand.
"Inspiration from real life!" Vic lifted his fork, twirling a forkful of black noodles. "Last night I watched Wednesday eating squid ink pasta and saw Enid going through a Hershey's bar, and my brain just —"
"— misfired catastrophically," Wednesday said.
"— connected the dots!" Vic finished. He pushed the bowl forward. "Come on. Venom made extra servings."
Wednesday and Enid exchanged a look. It lasted less than one second and contained a complete, mutual, non-negotiable decision.
Wednesday stood, walked over, and looked down at the bowl the way a crime scene investigator examines evidence that raises more questions than it answers.
"My working theory," she said, "is that Venom consumed your taste buds sometime in early childhood."
"Excuse me!" Venom surfaced, deeply offended. "I eat brains and chocolate. Exclusively. Do not put this on me."
"Don't be so closed-minded!" Vic said, mouth full. "Life is about trying new things!"
"Life is also about acknowledging when you've made a mistake," Wednesday said. "You could start right now. With this bowl."
Enid leaned in slightly, a few strands of her hair standing up from static — the involuntary response of someone whose body was refusing to get any closer to the situation.
"I love chocolate," she said carefully. "I genuinely do. But this is just..." She searched for the right word.
Vic looked at her with open, expectant eyes.
"Disgusting," she finished.
Vic clutched his chest. "Venom. They don't understand us."
Venom licked its teeth thoughtfully. "One more chance, girls?" It extended a tendril toward them with a small offering of noodles.
Enid recoiled like a cat that had been shown a bathtub.
Wednesday looked at the tendril. Then at Venom. Then, very quietly: "If you bring that within range of my face again, I will administer your chocolate sauce in a way that I promise you will not enjoy."
Venom slowly retracted the tendril.
"Is she serious?" it muttered to Vic.
"Completely," Vic said, with something approaching admiration.
Enid pressed her fingers to her temples. "Vic. Normal people do not put chocolate sauce on squid ink pasta."
Vic pointed at himself. "Not normal. We've established this."
Wednesday, already heading for the door: "On that, we finally agree."
Thirty minutes later, the three of them — plus symbiote — occupied a table in the Nevermore cafeteria.
Enid had positioned herself at the maximum reasonable distance from Vic and was working through a plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes, with a chocolate milkshake that she was guarding with both hands.
Wednesday had a black coffee. Just the coffee. She appeared to be running entirely on it.
Vic returned from the food line carrying a plate that suggested he had watched exactly one food documentary and taken away entirely the wrong lessons.
"Improved recipe," he announced, setting it down.
The plate contained: sausage links generously coated in peanut butter; scrambled eggs with a maple syrup drizzle; bacon layered with strawberry jam; and a bowl of Cocoa Puffs that had been soaked — deliberately, intentionally — in Coca-Cola.
Enid's fork stopped moving. "You're not serious."
"Dead serious." Vic scooped a spoonful of the cereal situation. "Venom and I watched a documentary on fermentation science last night and it completely changed how we think about breakfast."
Venom emerged over his shoulder, licking its lips. "Carbonation and carbohydrates. Scientifically complementary."
Wednesday took a long sip of coffee. "I sincerely hope whoever directed that documentary has since been removed from the field."
Bianca Barclay walked past with her tray. Her silver eyes swept across Vic's plate and something happened briefly in her expression — not quite pity, but adjacent to it. She looked at Enid.
"Is this a werewolf thing now?" she asked.
Enid pointed at Vic. "I have never seen this person before in my life."
"Roommates!" Vic said.
Bianca was already moving away when Vic held up a peanut-buttered sausage link in her direction. "Taste test?"
She turned around slowly.
"I would sooner," she said, with perfect Siren diction, "eat my own vocal cords."
Wednesday set down her coffee cup and brought her hands together in three slow claps. "First thing she's said that I've agreed with."
After the breakfast situation concluded — and it concluded only because Venom finished everything on Vic's plate plus the extra servings, resolving the problem through consumption — the three gathered in front of the academy's course announcement board.
Nevermore's schedule was written in deep crimson ink that looked less like a class listing and more like a series of strongly worded warnings:
Werewolf Sociology — Moonlit Courtyard Advanced Fencing and Assassination Techniques — Second Floor Training Hall Siren Theory and Practical Hypnosis Application — Black Lake Dock Toxicology and Pastry Arts — Kitchen Laboratory
Wednesday's finger went directly to the fencing class. Her black dress shifted around her like a drawn curtain. "Here."
Vic leaned over her shoulder. "Fencing! I'll be your practice partner—"
"If you come within three feet of me during that class," Wednesday said, without looking at him, "my blade will find your throat. The word 'accidentally' will appear in the report, but we'll both know."
Vic stepped back. He turned to Enid with the energy of a golden retriever who has just been redirected. "Then I'll come to Werewolf Sociology with you!"
The tips of Enid's ears went pink. "Who said you could — you can't even — outsiders aren't allowed in werewolf classes!" She crossed her arms, nails extending and retracting in agitation. "And stop calling me that!"
Vic produced a paperback from inside his jacket — So You've Encountered a Wolf Girl: A Practical Field Guide — and flipped to a dog-eared page. "According to chapter seven, werewolves respond positively to being scratched behind the—"
"THAT'S FOR ACTUAL DOGS!"
The book connected with the side of his head with a satisfying thwack. Enid's hair, which had puffed up to approximately twice its normal volume, slowly deflated as she stood there breathing hard and clutching the confiscated guide.
Wednesday was already three steps down the corridor, not looking back.
"Someone document this," her voice floated back. "I want footage. For the archives."
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