"It's official!" Eugene practically vibrated with excitement, waving a piece of paper at me. "You're now a registered member of the Hummers!"
I stared at the certificate he'd clearly made himself. Comic Sans font. Clip art bees. My name spelled wrong.
"It's Blackthorne with an E," I said.
"I'll fix it!" He grabbed a pen and squeezed in the missing letter. "There! Now you're official."
"The pinnacle of my academic achievements."
"Don't be like that. Being a Hummer is a noble calling." He handed me a folded beekeeping suit. "I got you your own. Used, but the previous owner only wore it twice before deciding bees were, quote, 'agents of Satan.'"
"Reassuring."
"That was before my time. The bees are much friendlier now." He paused. "Well, mostly friendlier. There's one hive that's still pretty aggressive, but I think they're just misunderstood."
Another student wandered into the workshop. Tall, skinny, with the perpetual nervousness of someone who'd been stung one too many times.
"This is Martin," Eugene said. "He helps sometimes when we need to move hives."
Martin nodded at me. "You're the new guy who doesn't talk much."
"Yes."
He waited for more. I didn't provide it.
"Cool." He turned to Eugene. "Are we doing the thing today?"
"What thing?" Eugene's eyes widened. "Oh! The club fair reconnaissance! Yes! Adrian, you have to come. We're observing other clubs to see their recruitment strategies."
"We're spying on other clubs," Martin translated.
"It's not spying. It's competitive analysis." Eugene was already pulling off his beekeeping suit. "Come on! Fencing starts in ten minutes."
I followed because the alternative was admitting I had nothing better to do. Also, Eugene's enthusiasm had become oddly compelling. Like watching a nature documentary about lemmings. You knew it would end badly, but you couldn't look away.
The fencing salle occupied what used to be a ballroom. High ceilings, worn wooden floors, and the persistent smell of teenage sweat mixed with metal polish. Students in white uniforms lunged at each other with varying degrees of competence.
"There's Bianca," Eugene whispered, though his whisper carried across the entire room. "She's the queen bee. Except not literally. That would be confusing since we have actual bees."
Bianca moved like water given attitude. Every strike calculated, every parry dismissive. Her opponent, a werewolf trying to use strength over technique, lasted about thirty seconds.
"Next," she called, not even breathing hard.
Wednesday Addams stepped onto the strip.
The room's energy shifted. Even I felt it, that subtle tension when two predators recognized each other. Wednesday held her saber like she'd been born with it. No flourishes. No warming up. Just cold readiness.
"Standard rules?" Bianca asked.
"No rules would be more interesting."
"Coach Vlad wouldn't approve."
"Coach Vlad isn't here."
They saluted. Then Wednesday moved.
I'd seen master swordsmen in Vienna, Tokyo, Madrid. Watched duels when they still meant death. Wednesday fought like someone who'd studied all of them and decided they were too gentle. Every attack aimed to end things. Every defense set up the next assault.
Bianca was good. Wednesday was inevitable.
"Point!" someone called after Wednesday's blade found its mark.
They reset. Again. Again. Wednesday won each exchange, not through superior athleticism but through pure, calculated violence barely contained by the rules.
"She's terrifying," Martin whispered.
"She's perfect," Eugene countered. "I mean, at fencing. She's perfect at fencing."
I watched Wednesday remove her mask, face completely expressionless despite her victory. Still that nagging familiarity. Still that frustrating almost-memory.
"Choir's next!" Eugene announced, already dragging us away.
The music room vibrated with siren song. Literally. The windows had special reinforcement to prevent shattering. We watched through the cracked door as the sirens harmonized, their combined voices making my teeth ache.
"Divina's really good," Eugene commented. "She can hit notes that technically don't exist."
"How do notes not exist?"
"Something about frequencies between frequencies. Physics gets weird with sirens."
We moved on. Art club, where Xavier Thorpe painted visions that moved when you weren't looking directly at them. Archery, where the centaurs dominated through sheer anatomical advantage. Drama club, which seemed redundant at a school full of teenagers.
"Why are we doing this?" I asked as Eugene took detailed notes.
"Know your competition! The Hummers need to stand out at the next club fair."
"You want to compete with sirens and sword fights using bees?"
"Bees are fascinating! Did you know they can recognize human faces? And they do a special dance to communicate? And—"
"Eugene." Martin interrupted. "He knows. You've told him. Multiple times."
Eugene deflated slightly. "Right. Sorry. I get excited."
"I hadn't heard about the face recognition," I lied.
His entire face lit up. "Really? Oh, it's amazing! They have these specialized neurons that process facial features just like humans do. They can remember a face for days, sometimes weeks!"
We walked back to the workshop, Eugene explaining bee neurology with the passion of someone who'd found their life's purpose at fifteen. Martin split off at the dormitories, leaving us to tend the hives.
"Hold this," Eugene handed me a frame heavy with honey. "We need to harvest some for winter storage."
"It's September."
"Preparation is key! The bees know winter's coming. They're already changing their behavior patterns." He scraped honeycomb into jars with practiced efficiency. "My mom says I got the bee thing from my grandmother. She was a swarmer too."
"Family tradition?"
"More like family weird." He smiled, self-deprecating. "Mom's normal. Dad's normal. Then there's me, talking to insects."
"Could be worse. You could talk to politicians."
He laughed. "See? You are funny. I knew we'd be friends."
Friends. There was that word again. I focused on holding the frame steady, not responding to the casual declaration of attachment.
Sage appeared in the doorway. "Eugene, please tell me the honey's ready. My sleeping draughts have been pathetic with store-bought."
"Almost done!" Eugene carefully filled her jar. "This batch is especially good. The bees were happy this summer."
"Happy bees make better honey?"
"Everything makes better anything when it's happy," Eugene said simply.
Sage looked at me. "He's always like this. Relentlessly optimistic. It's disturbing."
"I've noticed."
"Yet you keep coming back." She took her jar and left before I could respond.
She had a point. This was my fourth Hummers session this week. At some point, I'd stopped pretending it was just surveillance and accepted that I actually enjoyed watching Eugene work with his bees.
Back in Thisbe Hall, Derek had started his poker game. "Adrian! You in?"
"I don't gamble."
"It's pennies. Literally. Kyle lost three cents last week and acted like we'd bankrupted him."
"Maybe later."
Translation: never. But they'd stopped taking it personally when I declined. I'd established myself as the quiet guy who hung out with the bee kid. Not unfriendly, just uninvolved.
"Your loss," Derek said, dealing cards. "Hey, did you hear about the harvest festival coming up? Apparently it's a whole thing. Costumes and everything."
"Thrilling."
"Wednesday Addams said she's going as herself but more cheerful. I think it was a threat."
The others laughed. I retreated to my room before anyone could ask about my costume plans.
One week at Nevermore. Seven days of pretending to be seventeen. Seven days of Eugene's encyclopedia of bee facts. Seven nights of Wednesday's cello concerts.
I'd developed a routine. A dangerous, comfortable routine.
Wake up. Pretend to eat. Go to classes where I pretended to learn things I'd known for decades. Listen to Eugene explain why bees were superior to all other insects. Help with the hives. Avoid social obligations. Listen to twisted Bach. Repeat.
It was almost peaceful. Almost normal.
Which, in my experience, meant something was about to go catastrophically wrong.
Through my window, Wednesday's cello started its nightly performance. Tonight she played something violent, all sharp notes and aggressive bowing. The kind of music that suggested someone had annoyed her more than usual.
I listened while organizing my nothing. Three shirts. Two pants. One leather jacket. The beekeeping certificate with my name spelled wrong.
One friend who talked to bees.
One familiar stranger who played cello like revenge.
One week of normal that couldn't possibly last.
But for tonight, it was enough.