It's Called Murder- wednesday

6.

Jericho was a sleepy little town with simple people and simple traditions. Banners announced a Harvest Festival coming up and the town's last of being founded by Pilgrims. All about it was straight out of hell. Mourn eyed every stranger walking by in disgust as the blue van entered the town's heart and stopped in front of a crisp white building.
"Dr. Kinbott's office is on the second floor. Other Nevermore students swear by her," Weems told Wednesdays, who had been forced into the passenger seat while her brother sat in the back.
She turned to look at the woman," You'll be waiting for her until I'm done?"
"Perhaps afterward, we could visit the Weathervane for some hot chocolate," Weems suggested softly.

Wednesday huffed, "Principal Weems, this feeble attempt at bonding is beneath you." She reached out to open the door.
"And chauffeuring your students around is below your pay grade," she added.
Weems looked at her, her smile disappearing, "Given you're history, I'm sure you intend on running away. I'm here to prevent that from happening. "
They stared at each other.
"I wish you luck," Wednesday said as he pushed the door shut.
Weems now turned to look at Mourn, who was already sniffling as dramatically as possible.

"I don't want her to run away," he said with big eyes, "It's the first time I made friends.
"It was an act and, in his opinion, a pretty bad one, but Weems fell for it.
"Don't worry," he winked at him.
"I won't let her. Why don't you go and look around? Maybe you find even more friends on the way. I know about a few local teens who help prepare the festival; perhaps they need help."
"I could ask," he smiled softly, fanning his dark lashes to make his eyes even more significant.
Carefully, he grabbed the door handle and then looked back at her for assurance. She nodded, and Mourn stepped outside.

Slowly, he walked away from the car, leaving Weems and this act of shyness behind. He had work to do. It was almost comical that after all those years, people still underestimated his influence on his sister's plans.
He wasn't dragged along like they thought he was. He'd never been. The twins had simply found out at a young age that people hate aspiring women and couldn't resist a cute little boy.
By now, they had shamelessly exploded that image.
A prime example was why they got sent to Nevermore: The Nancy Reagen High swimming team, of which Mourn had hooked up with the team leader, his deputy, and the rich kid. Long story short, it didn't work out, and the twins took their sweet, sweet time to pick out their fishy revenge.
This time, Mourn was in charge of getting them out, and he looked around town curiously, searching for any indication of a train station or taxi stand. Of which there were none. Pathetic.

On his second round through the main streets, he passed the cafe Weems had talked about, briefly glancing through its windows. And he stopped hot in his tracks. Behind the counter, framed by clouds of steam, stood a boy his age, maybe older, and he'd never seen someone that resembled the cover art of those filthy young adult werewolf romances he liked to hide under his bed so accurately. Everything about him looked warm and soft: his hair, eyes, skin, and even clothes were different shades of yellowish brown.
He frowned gently at the coffee machine that kept blowing steam at him, puffing his fluffy hair and Mourn  couldn't help but be intrigued.
Also, regardless of how much he hated it, he needed help to navigate the town's mobility, and why not connect duty with a little bit of curiosity and a coffee for Wednesday? So he rounded the shop and entered, walking straight up to the barista. The boy had clapped at the machine in a desperate try, and in return, it spit another thick cloud of steam in his face, and as it lifted again, Mourn was already looking up at him, deeply fascinated.

"Holy crap!" the barista explained, looking at him with wide eyes, which were, in fact, blue with tiny specks of honey brown that reflected in the light like gold.
"Do you make a habit of scaring people?" Even his voice was smoothly soft.
"Indeed, but this time, coincidence worked in my favor," Mourn answered truthfully as he took in every detail of the other face. The boy's gaze mirrored the favor, eventually settling on his jacket.
"Oh wow, didn't realize Nevermore changed their uniforms," he concluded and did not sound particularly thrilled at his revelation.
Mourn ignored the tone of his comment and eyed the machine instead, "I suppose there is no espresso? I need a quad for my sister's soul."
"Well, the espresso machine is having a seizure, so all we have is drip," the boy responded, and Mourn couldn't stand how strangely lost he looked faced by that problem.
"Drip is for people who hate themselves and know their lives have no real purpose or meaning. Wednesday's a tortured writer. She isn't there yet," he dismissed the offer quickly with an indifferent wave of his hand.
Drip really wasn't the drink for a jailbreak. There had to be a better solution .

The barista just looked at him with an apologetic, tight-lipped smile.
Mourn sighed, knowing all too well that this was a classic case of curiosity killing the cat, but he asked anyway,
"So what is wrong with it?"
"It's a temperamental beast with a mind of its own, and it doesn't help that the instructions are in Italian," the other boy told him, having no idea how his peculiar choice of words had sent a tiny shiver down Mourn's spine."Sei carino," he mumbled out of instinct staring at the barista in awe.

"What did you say?" the boy asked, looking at him puzzled but with an intensity that told Mourn his words had sent a message regardless.
"If I help you, can I get a favor?" he asked, fanning his dar lashes for the second time today but with a completely different intention.
"I don't think you can help me, but sure," the other shrugged awkwardly.

Swiftly, Mourn made his way around the counter. He stood right in front of the other boy, holding his gaze through glossy eyes as he gently pulled the brochure out of the barista's hands, bathing in the intensity of their tension for a brief, bittersweet moment.
Then he looked down to read, quickly skimming over the language that came so naturally to him.
"I need a tri-wing screwdriver and a four-millimeter Allen wrench," he announced the most vital information.
"You speak Italian?" the barrister frowned at him . Mourn nodded with pride, "It's a mother tongue of my family."
"You're European?"
" I guess you could say so, "the boy nodded again while rolling up his sleeves. Skillfully, he jumped on the counter. "Can you get me the tools already?"

"How do you know how to do that?" the barista wanted to know as he eyed the hit handle of the screwdriver, gaze lingering a little too long on his slender fingers to be unintentional.
Mourn pushed a stubborn lock out of his face with the back of his hand as he said,
"My sister built me a steam-powered guillotine for Christmas once, and it tends to have the same problems."
"A guillotine?" the soft boy echoed in disbelief.
"To decapitate Marie Antoinette and Anne more efficiently," Mourn explained, which made the other visibly more confused as he now gawked at him.
" Our dolls," Mourn added for clarification, and the barista didn't bother to bore further.
So he suggested," Why don't you call me a taxi while I save your job?"

" No Taxis in Jericho. Maybe an Uber?"
Mourn paused his work to frown at the boy," That's even more pathetic than drip."

Tyler chuckled, and Mourn was very much surprised by that reaction.
" What about trains? "he asked while fixing the last screw.
"The nearest station is Burlington. It's half an hour away. "
Mourn hummed in dismay, pulled out his arms from the machine, and put down his sleeves again, looking up at Taylor, "You have to watch the valves. They become loose easily under the pressure,"
Mourn nodded at the machine. Tyler blinked.
"Okay. Never met a Nevermore kid that made their hands dirty."
Mourn slid off the counter, taking his original position of standing in front of Taylor.

"Fools. All of them," he cooed softly, pleased by his the boy had to gulp at his tone.

"I'm Tyler, by the way," the barista then introduced himself finally, coming very close as he pressed the machine shut.

Mourn tilted his head, disappointed at how quickly he withdrew himself from his personal space, " I'm Mourn."
"That's a pretty name. It suits you."
"Yours too." They stared at each other, and Mourn knew this would likely be the first and last time they'd ever met. What a shame.
" I tell you what, Mourn, to show you my appreciation, I could drive you to the station," Tyler suggested after a while.
"You got a car?" He was wildly impressed. Both Addams twins were banned from ever getting a license, and to be honest, they did not need one as they had Lurch, the Butler. But still, a car was making Tyler even more attractive in his eyes. Independence was a good look on boys.

"Yes. I'm off work in an hour. Maybe that's how I can repay you?"
"An hour?" Mourn repeated softly.
"Yes."
"Very well, I can live with that, Tyler. I'm still waiting for my sister anyway," Mourn decided. It was a good deal, giving him a little more time to admire the sunshine of a boy up close.
"Does she know where to find you?"Tyler asked, glancing over Mourn and out onto the street.
"She always finds me," Mourn replied with the tiniest of smiles that Tyler mirrored immediately.
"Cool. Do you want me to make you anything? Espresso, Latte machiato? Hot chocolate?"
"Red eye," Mourn sighed, already approaching an empty table backward, holding the other boy's gaze captive.
"Of course. Coming up right away."
Mourn sighed again as he slid into the sitting booth facing the counter, observing Tyler at work.
What a pretty...his line of thoughts was interrupted as images flooded his mind like a movie clip, showing the scene of a car accident and a man, neck twisted weirdly, dead in his driver seat. It was a vision, but it wasn't his.