The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 1

by Isabella Fontaine

  “All right?” I asked. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

  He shrugged. “It may be that I have a bit of a human-eating problem. I’ve hidden it as best I can, but you know how these things go. We are suffering from a Depression right now … you could say I’m doing the world a favor, picking off a few destitute street rats here and there.”

  The words sent a chill down my body. “Is that how you see human beings? As mere food?”

  “It is now,” said the dwarf. “I’m changing, you see. Gone are the days where I could go about my business in this world. Now, I’ve developed the most peculiar taste for human flesh. It happened about twenty years ago and has only gotten worse.” He waved a hand around. “Hence this crude storeroom. The last thing I need is for my brothers to find out. They make a point of fitting in.”

  I stepped back, bumping into one of the bodies. Instinct brought my hands up and I pushed at the man’s chest. The body swung back and forth. Vincent the dwarf walked around it, glancing up with a look of intense hunger.

  “The hunger will consume my brothers, too,” Vincent said. His dark eyes narrowed. “Maybe they won’t hunger for human flesh … but they will all hunger for something. There will come a time when all of them turn into monsters. That’s our curse. Do you despise me for being what I am?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He seemed taken aback. “Oh. Well, nuts to you. I have no intention of stopping simply because a hero says so.”

  I stepped back again, weaving around another hanging body, this one a woman who was still wearing her best blue Sunday dress. She swung back and forth. Vincent walked around her. The hunger in his eyes was focused on me now.

  “I do believe I’ll start with your liver,” he said, licking his lips with a long, reptilian tongue. “Then I’ll devour your arms. I could feel your strength when you tried to run me through with your spear. I just love muscles.”

  I bumped into another body. When I saw his face at first, I didn’t recognize him. But as he swung, his eyes opened, revealing two dull green orbs. I gasped. Richard! His normally stiff, combed hair was tussled and hanging from his scalp. His ironed black suit coat had been slashed open and the breast pocket was dangling by a thread, as if he’d been mauled by a great cat.

  “Ah, so you do know him.” Vincent the dwarf looked up, touching the sleeve of Richard’s expensive coat. “My brother was correct in his hypothesis, then. He’s got such a weak stomach, my brother. Not a fan of the murder and all. But we’re all capable of horrible things when we’re pushed back against a wall.” He stalked closer. Richard’s shadow danced across his face. “And your successes with the Corrupted have pushed us all back against a wall.”

  My hands reached out behind me, fumbling along the wooden chopping block. I found the cleaver, pulling it free.

  The dwarf used one hand to stop Richard’s pendulum-like swaying, continuing, “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that …”

  I lunged forward, swinging the cleaver at Vincent’s head. The blade stuck in the top of his skull just as it had in the butcher’s block.

  “Ouch,” he murmured. “That really hurt.”

  I brushed past the body of Richard, pushing him toward the dwarf, knocking the dwarf over. There was no way I could fight him in this room full of corpses. I needed to draw another spear. I needed a plan.

  I needed …

  February 6, 1935

  I fell asleep the previous night while still writing. This morning, I woke up inside an empty house. Too tired to finish writing about my fight with the dwarf. The wound on my leg has gotten worse. Briar has gone in search of medicine, although I have no idea where he plans on finding some. I only pray that he hurries.

  The pain is excruciating.

  February 8, 1935

  Feeling somewhat better. I rang for a policeman and asked him about my husband. The policeman recorded Richard as a missing person and asked me to notify his family, which I promised to do.

  The tunnels! Briar has just reminded me to finish my story. He’s also been reminding me on a regular basis to clean my wound and apply the ointment regularly to prevent infection. He’s saved my life once again.

  If only he’d been in the tunnels with me …

  I escaped the room full of bodies, while Vincent the dwarf struggled with the cleaver in his head. It wouldn’t kill him. In fact, in a few days he would be no worse for wear, with not even a scar to show for it. Only the powers of the fountain pen could kill him.

  I needed a plan, but before I could do that, I needed to figure out where I was. I’d escaped the room full of bodies and now I was lost in the narrow tunnels. They stretched out in every direction, twisting and turning deep underneath the city of Chicago. The old bootleggers had built them to transport illegal liquor undetected and hadn’t worried much about comfort: the walls were made of brick and the dim bulbs hanging from the ceiling seemed incapable of providing more than a few feet of illumination in any direction.

  From somewhere farther behind me, I heard the dwarf call out, “Where are you, my dear?”

  I drew another spear on the brick wall, this time making is shorter so I could wield it more easily in the cramped space. I grabbed it, then headed deeper into the tunnels, into the darkness.

  February 9, 1935

  I’m going home tomorrow. Well, I’m going to my aunt’s and uncle’s home. The police now consider Richard a missing person, and I dare not tell them where his body is. His parents have sent me a letter that seems rather professional-sounding, as if they consider me a business partner and nothing more. In the letter, they request that I allow the police to investigate. I, meanwhile, should spend some time in the country where I may rest my delicate body and be free of Chicago’s noises and sights.

  So Richard told them before he died. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. Many wives lose their babies in the first two months … so why would he write his parents so quickly? We’d only found out three weeks ago.

  I hadn’t even told you yet, dear diary. I don’t know why I didn’t. I feel unwell. I cannot write any more this morning.

  February 10, 1935

  I am taking a carriage out of the city. Richard had a fair amount of money saved away—he was always afraid of putting it in a bank, expecting another bank run—and I cannot travel in an uncomfortable car.

  Besides, the long ride will give me time to finish writing my story.

  I’d been making my way through the tunnels for what seemed like hours. In some stretches, it was so dark that I had to keep my spear held out in front of me to ensure I did not bump into a wall. In other places, a few light bulbs were lit. The farther I went, the worse the smell became. Gone was the soft nose-wrinkling aroma of distilled liquor. Now I could only smell something much more animal.

  And I could hear it, too. First came the grunts. Then the soft roar. There was something up ahead. And behind me: Vincent, calling out for me to slow down so he may catch up and bury the meat cleaver in my head.

  “It’s only fair,” he called out.

  I took my chances, pressing forward through another square of darkness. I followed the tunnels left, and up ahead I saw a light bulb illuminating a single wooden door.

  My hand instinctively went to my stomach. Still, I felt no fear, not even an ounce. What manner of Corrupted was behind that door? It did not matter. It would die just as the dwarf would soon die, just as the terrible cat creature had died weeks ago, and just as the princess and her father had died in the woods.

  I pushed gently on the door, surprised that it opened easily. The room was lit by a handful of bulbs hanging from the wooden beams supporting the ceiling. Old wooden shelves lined the walls, and on some of them sat dusty glass bottles that had no doubt once been used to store liquor.

  On the other side of the room was a coffin. It was made of glass, and inside I could see a beautiful princess wearing a shimmering blue dress. Her hands were folded over her stomach, her eyes closed.

/>   Suddenly there was a hair-raising roar, and something jumped out from the wall to my right. I stepped back, spear held out, waiting for the creature to charge.

  But he didn’t.

  He roared. He stomped his hooves on the dirt ground. He snorted, sending warm clouds of air through his black deer-like nostrils. But he couldn’t move. He took a step back and then I could see why: his arms—man-shaped and muscled—were bound at each wrist by heavy metal braces, chained to two heavy wooden beams holding up the wall.

  He was half-man, half-stag, with thick pointy horns and a grotesque deer’s head and a barrel-shaped bare chest. The lower half of his body was covered in a brown fur. His legs bent in the way a deer’s hind legs bent. He stared at me, wild-eyed. I stared back, confused.

  Surely the dwarfs had chained him here. But why?

  “Ah!” came a voice behind me. I spun around, pointing my spear at Vincent. He smiled, tapping his meat cleaver on the door frame. “I could smell you. You smell like fresh-cooked bacon and my mouth waters at the thought of taking a little bite of flesh from your meaty arm.”

  “Who is this?” I asked, nodding to the stag creature. His arms were pulling in vain at the chains.

  Vincent laughed. “I thought you’d be more curious about the princess in the glass coffin. She’s a very special princess. Very dangerous.” He took a step forward. “She nearly destroyed the entire city of Chicago in 1871. The Great Chicago Fire.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the peacefully slumbering princess.

  “Her touch,” Vincent explained, “is what makes her so deadly. The magician in the Grimms’ story … he cast a spell on her after the story was over. A cruel thing to do, I admit! But then again, what else is a magician expected to do? And so this particular princess slowly began to develop a fondness for fire. Just a touch … that was all it took after a while.”

  “And so now she’s sealed away,” I said.

  The dwarf nodded. “My angry little brother would love to watch Chicago burn once more … which is why our oldest brother keeps this terrible creature down here. Chained up, but more than happy to protect his dear, sweet sister.”

  I stepped away from the coffin, bumping my head on one of the hanging light bulbs. Shadows danced on the wall as the bulb swung back and forth. The stag creature leapt forward again, pulling madly at the chains binding his wrists.

  But this time he had not leapt for me.

  “You can’t beat me, dear girl,” said Vincent. He chopped at the air with his cleaver, no doubt imagining me a few feet closer. “I’m too strong for you.” His fingers tightened into a fist. “These hands have shed much blood … and they’re about to get bloody once again.”

  “I have no intention of beating you,” I told him. I stepped around him, backing up to the far end of the room. The stag creature was watching me, keeping close to the glass coffin.

  “Careful,” Vincent said with a chuckle. “He really is one mean son of a gun. He’ll rip you to shreds if he can.”

  “Will he?” I asked. “Or will he go after his tormentor first?”

  The dwarf’s eyes widened. Before he could react, I swung the tip of my spear at the stag-creature’s chain, slicing it in two. With one free hand now, the stag grabbed the other chain and pulled at it with both of his human-shaped hands.

  “No!” Vincent cried. “You fool! He’ll kill us both!”

  I cocked my head. “I thought Corrupted couldn’t kill each other … unless it was in the Grimms’ story.”

  “Perhaps I’m being a bit melodramatic,” the dwarf acknowledged, “but that doesn’t mean he can’t gore me a few hundred times with those antlers!”

  One more mighty pull and the stag-creature was free, taking with him not just the chains but also one of the thick wooden support beams. The far end of the ceiling caved a bit, groaning loudly.

  The stag-creature looked at me. Then at Vincent. It kept staring at Vincent, breathing in and snorting.

  “Fine!” Vincent shouted. “I’ll kill both of you!”

  As he ran forward, the stag-creature swung the chain that was still connected to the wooden beam, deftly knocking Vincent toward the other end of the room. The dwarf landed with a grunt, then stood up, wielding the cleaver in front of him. The next time the stag-creature swung the chain attached to his other hand, Vincent grabbed it and pulled with a stunning display of strength, nearly knocking the stag-creature to the ground. But instead of falling, the stag stepped forward, lowering his horns and charging.

  For the next handful of tense breaths, the two of them were entwined in one heap, kicking up dry dirt. The stag-creature’s sharp antlers shattered one of the light bulbs; heavy shadows danced on the wall.

  I realized this was my best chance. I stepped closer to them, spear outstretched. Vincent had begun swinging his meat cleaver wildly while the stag-creature snorted and stomped his hooves in frustration. He swung his chains again, nearly knocking me over. Vincent grabbed the chain and pulled the stag creature close, bellowing.

  This was my moment. With one quick swing, I managed to cut both of them with the tip of my spear. Vincent the dwarf looked at the black cut on his shoulder, then dropped the meat cleaver.

  “Oh, what a fitting end,” he muttered. He disappeared in a black puff.

  The stag-creature did not. He was too strong. The burning blackness around the cut on his leg refused to grow. Who knew? Perhaps in time it might even heal itself. I would need to act quickly. I would need to stab him again.

  The stag-creature was enraged now, swinging with both chains. He used the chain attached to the wooden beam to sweep me close. He used the other chain like a whip, trying to wrap it around my body. Twice he succeeded, and twice I slipped away (though each time feeling the sting of the metal chains on my arms).

  I felt some strange urge to escape, compelling me back toward the door. I’d never felt this before, and when the stag-creature stepped closer once again and lowered his sharp antlers to charge, my legs propelled me backward.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” I muttered, gritting my teeth and diving out of the way of the sharp antlers. The stag-creature turned, stared at me with his dark, narrow eyes, and charged again. I met him halfway and slid on the dirt ground, lifting the spear up into the stag-creature’s stomach.

  Black ashes rained down like snowflakes.

  Now it was just me and the princess, encased in her glass coffin. She was beautiful. Near perfection. Flawless pale skin with a hint of rose on the cheeks and curly blonde hair that sat atop her bare shoulders. I had a strange thought: had the magician from the story encased her in the coffin because he knew what she might become? Did the Brothers Grimm create characters with unwritten motivations? There was nothing in the original story about the magician’s desire to protect the world from the princess, to be sure … but was it possible that those terrible brothers had accidentally inserted their knowledge and desires into the characters of their stories?

  It was not so impossible to imagine. After all, the fountain pen I carried with me responded to my knowledge as well. It relied on my knowledge to create the things I drew … like my spears. Perhaps the Brothers Grimm had done the same thing when they wrote their stories.

  I looked down at the princess. She was looking up at me with icy blue eyes. The glass coffin’s top was heavy, but I could move it. And as I did, the princess took a deep breath.

  “I know why you’re here,” she said quietly. She had a soft voice, one that no doubt had not been used in many years. Her soft pink hand lifted up.

  I set down the spear, reaching into my pocket for the fountain pen. I reached out for her hand.

  “No!” she said in a concerned voice. “Do not touch me. You will burn.”

  “Of course,” I said. I held out the pen. The princess looked up at me, her delicate blonde eyebrows raised.

  “Why did they make me like this?” she asked.

  “I do not know,” I said. I felt pity for the girl. There had to be
some reason why her touch turned things to fire. There had to be some reason why the Brothers Grimm had written this story.

  I gently pressed the nib of the fountain pen to the princess’s palm. She closed her eyes and a look of relief spread across her face as the burning blackness slowly consumed her.

  I’m returning home now. I will write more once I’ve spent some time with my aunt and uncle. I will also investigate the dwarfs’ bank with Briar and see what I can find out about their operations.

  February 11, 1935

  (Entry burned)

  February 25, 1935

  I’ll keep my baby safe. I’ll hide her away …

  March 15, 1935

  No one must ever know where I hid her. Especially not the dwarfs. With my daughter safe, I may hunt them again. I will—

  (Entry ripped apart)

  Book 3: Revenge of the Castle Cats

  Chapter 1: Briar

  Then two of the eyes that Three-eyes had shut and fell asleep, but the third, as it had not been named in the song, did not sleep. It is true that Three-eyes shut it, but only in her cunning, to pretend it was asleep too, but it blinked, and could see everything very well.

  [xii]

  My name is Br’er Rabbit, and I’m a hero.

  OK, OK, I’m not the hero. Alice is the hero. But I’m a hero, and that’s pretty darned good too, if I do say so myself. And I do say so myself, by the way. Alice wouldn’t admit I’m a hero by any degree, that’s for sure. And I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a trickster at heart, and it isn’t my job to perform any heroics, per se, but that doesn’t mean this cuddly rabbit can’t break the mold once in a while.

  And while I’ve helped a fair number of heroes through the years, I can say without a doubt in my mind I’d be much happier sitting on the sidelines where it’s safe, offering sage advice and perhaps munching on a carrot or enjoying a cup of coffee. But sometimes, that just ain’t in the cards.