Tyler
Tyler was acting suspicious. Had been all along, really. The weird gaslighting comments about mixed messages had been only the start. Not to mention the movie date in the crypt. What was he doing, trying to emulate one of those ridiculous “romantic comedies” Enid was always trying to get Wednesday to watch? Then there was the insistence on continuing to see her despite parental opposition, a well-acted demonstration of fidelity that Wednesday could find no sincere reason for.
Was she supposed to see him as a hopeless romantic, a man pining after a lesbian because of the truth of his love? Perhaps there was a story where she gave way and realized she could love him and only him, somewhere in the annals of homophobic history. More likely, she was meant to believe that this was his goal, and to dismiss him because of it. But Tyler was neither as stupid nor as bigoted as the cover story would have her assume. So why was he telling it?
More to the point: how was it, exactly, that he’d escaped the Hyde with minor injuries, when adults had died and the only other survivor (also a teenager, oddly enough) was comatose? And how had the monster and/or accomplices known to clear the Gates basement in the narrow window of time between Wednesday’s discovery and the notification of law enforcement? Certainly Enid, of all people, hadn’t tipped them off. Only one possibility remained.
So Wednesday had chosen to keep Tyler closer than a friend. Right where an enemy belonged. What she hadn’t figured out, at least not yet, was Tyler’s specific role. His involvement only muddied the waters, as far as co-conspirators went.
Sure, she’d put on a pretty good show of threatening Xavier, but Xavier couldn’t truly be the Hyde, could he? If he were, it wouldn’t make sense for Tyler to be involved, and Tyler was definitely involved. Unless a teenage normie barista had somehow managed to learn about Hydes, identify Xavier as one, and unlock him, thereby earning Xavier’s enmity? Seemed like a stretch.
As much as she hoped that the likely-wrongful arrest would shake the real perpetrators loose, Wednesday didn’t have the luxury of waiting to see what happened. Which was why she’d agreed to meet Tyler at the Weathervane tonight. Whatever else was true, she knew he was part of it. The only remaining question was how to force his hand.
Forming some sort of relationship hadn’t worked yet. Knives were always an option, as was truth serum, but she’d have to move him to someplace more secure before using either of those. Too great a risk of some normie passerby glancing in through the windows and raising a fuss.
She could dope him or knock him out, of course. But he was much bigger than she was, and while she was quite strong, dragging him to a second location seemed likely to attract attention. No, whatever she did, it would have to happen here, and it would have to look benign.
The idea came to her slowly. Power surges. Barclay. Eugene. Maybe if she kissed Tyler . . . Ugh. It wasn’t high on her list of investigative techniques, but she was running out of options.
As the conversation died down, he’d shifted ever so faintly closer. He was meeting her eyes, doing a very good impression of a moonstruck calf. If she’d been less well-trained, she might almost have believed him entranced by her.
Well, if she were going to do it, now was the time. Hesitantly, Wednesday leaned up, allowed their lips to touch. Sure enough, a familiar bolt of lightning hit. Her head snapped back. The last thing she felt was Tyler’s arm at her back, catching her.
Distorted claws, the cave, Tyler’s face transforming. Dr. Kinbott dying, Tyler shrinking back into his human form. He was the Hyde. Of course. No wonder Sheriff Galpin had stonewalled her on the DNA results. No wonder Tyler had never told her specifics about the mother he missed. No wonder they’d set up Xavier instead.
Her thoughts clarified, Wednesday assumed the vision would conclude any moment. To her surprise, though, a jittery rewind brought her back to the coffee shop, end-of-summer shorts and sunburns on the patrons at the Weathervane. Marilyn Thornhill, smiling, ordering an iced coffee, tipping well. Again. Again. Again. Until a slight shift in her posture, her body language. “You know, all this time I’ve never asked your name,” her voice soft and suggestive.
“Uh, it’s on my nametag,” pulling out the apron string for her to see more closely. “Tyler.”
“I’m Marilyn,” she smiled, holding out a hand.
Shaking it, surprised at the jolt when palms touched. “I know. I write it on your coffee cup every time.”
She laughed like he’d said something tremendously witty, licked her lips. “Nothing gets by you, huh. I bet all the ladies love you.”
Wednesday cringed with secondhand embarrassment. Was Thornhill hitting on Tyler? Worse yet, was it working?
“Uh, are you trying to ask me out?” Good boy. He would have been what, 15 or 16 at the time? Reveal the pedophile now, if indeed that’s what she is.
“Only if you’re interested.” Her eyes were light on his, amused. “Tell you what. Give me your hand.”
Holding it out, palm up, a little bemused and a lot wanting. Not in possession of a full frontal lobe to note that romantic approaches by adults toward high schoolers were illegal for a reason. She pulled a permanent marker from the cup on the counter, scrawled her name and phone number on his hand. “I think we’d enjoy getting to know each other. More . . . deeply.”
Devils take me now, gagged Wednesday mentally. Alluded-to statutory rape wouldn’t have been excused by a more genteel phrasing, of course, but did Thornhill really have to throw in the gratuitous adverb? Crimes against children, the justice system could punish. Crimes against the English language? That was up to God. And Wednesday. A far less forgiving duo.
Thornhill turned to leave, throwing Tyler a wink on the way. His gaze shifted to his hand as she departed. Well, first to her derriere, then to his hand. Not that Wednesday could blame him for that. To use the common-if-crude parlance, she was also something of an “ass man.”
From there, things sped up. Zip, zip, zip. Thornhill handing him a folder labeled “Francoise,” saying “I respect you too much to keep this from you.” Zip. Thornhill rolling her eyes as Donovan shouted from downstairs that he was heading to work. “He did this to her, you know. And you. By acting like she was some shameful secret, like her nature had to be hidden. You know you can’t trust him.”
Zip. “Did you know that Nevermore doesn’t even accept Hydes anymore? They wouldn’t teach your mother how to manage her nature. It’s why she died. Outcasts are nothing but hypocrites. They’re discriminating against you, just the way they say normies do to them.”
Zip. Thornhill’s smile, feral, predatory, teeth showing. “You never have to hide from me. I know how powerful you are. And I think it’s sexy.” Zip. Thornhill’s lips light on Tyler’s. “I don’t care if it’s us against the world. I’ll always choose you.” Zip. Thornhill kneeling in front of him, unbuttoning his jeans. “Don’t you want to be good for me?” Zip. Thornhill’s face, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, head tipped back, moaning.
Zip. An attack. One of the hikers. Wild joy flaring at the first swipe of claws. Freedom, potency, brutality, glee. The single present moment. Blood. This is what I was made for. Zip. In the bathtub, submerging. Internal tug-of-war. I can’t keep doing this. I have to keep doing this. Until, finally, a clarifying thought. Nobody faults a bird for flying.
Zip. Thornhill serious, tracing her hand down Tyler’s arm. “You can choose, you know. I might have unlocked you, but you don’t have to serve me.” Her own voice, Tyler’s own voice, rumbling up. “I know. But I want to.” Zip. Another attack, Thornhill forgotten in the glory of gore. Rage at the suffering of the self, love at the rending of the muscle, elation at the snap of bone. Zip. Thornhill, grinning at the severed foot, voice pornographically breathy. “You took her, didn’t you, with your claws? Hope you’re ready to take me. No claws this time, though.”
Wednesday smashed back into her body, quivering with rage. Her eyes met Tyler’s with the force of a face slap, and she flung herself forward, out of his arms. “Still a lesbian!” she managed, halfway to the door by the time she’d finished the sentence. “I have to go.” She sprinted out, mind racing too fast to permit a less suspicious, more nonchalant response.
Even if Tyler did deduce what she’d seen, though, it wouldn’t matter. Thornhill was the mastermind, and therefore the greater danger. Wednesday had to find her immediately. Now that she knew what Tyler had been through, and knew what he’d done, protecting Nevermore was the first step. Justice could be moved forward later.
And justice would come for both Tyler and Thornhill. Nothing in Wednesday’s research had indicated that a Hyde lost their free will once unlocked. While he’d certainly been manipulated, he’d repeatedly chosen to continue killing.
She wouldn’t revictimize Tyler by imagining him blameless by dint of his trauma, by viewing him as a gun in the hand of a murderer. He wasn’t an object, no matter how Thornhill had treated him. There were plenty of people who’d been groomed and abused and never murdered anyone.
That said, she couldn’t help the twinge in her chest, the pressure and pain at what she’d seen. She’d leave Tyler alive, if possible. But she was going to enjoy killing Marilyn Thornhill.