The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2

by Ken Brosky

  I was disappointed when we reached the schoolhouse on the southern end of town. It was nothing but a big box with a few dirty windows, and the wooden boards making up the exterior had been hammered in place with rusty nails bent at awkward angles. The roof looked like it leaked.

  “It really is a fine place,” William remarked. “For Negro children.”

  From the west, the rolling black clouds answered with thunder. Couldn’t have come up with a better response myself.

  William looked at the clouds disapprovingly. “Feels like that storm is just loomin, wouldn’t you say, Eugene?”

  I nodded. Flies nipped at our necks, taking off and buzzing in our ears when we swatted at them. Could have used another shower of frogs right about then. I still can’t believe that fairy had made frogs rain down from the sky. Who did she think she was?

  A Corrupted. That’s who. And boy, could they get weird.

  “Maybe the storm’ll miss us entirely,” I offered.

  “I doubt that,” came a female voice.

  We turned to the schoolhouse. A blonde-haired woman with sharp features was standing in the doorway, hands clasped together. She was wearing a white dress that had been stained with dust near the bottom. I recognized her immediately. A strange thought came to me, one I knew was true.

  She’s not the next hero.

  I don’t know how I know it, but I’m sure I’m right.

  Too tired to finish. I’ll write more tomorrow.

  August 28, 1875

  Constance knew who I was. That much I was certain. But we kept up appearances, letting William do all the introducing. The town wasn’t exactly quiet yesterday afternoon, and there were white people milling about, moving from shop to shop along the main road, so I made sure to address Constance as “ma’am” and give my head a little tilt downward so show respect.

  “Come inside,” she said finally, cutting off William before he could finish explaining the difference between a white child’s brain and a Negro child’s brain. I was certainly thankful for that.

  Inside the little house, Constance opened the two windows overlooking a field. Beyond the field were the black clouds on the horizon. She stared at them a moment before finally turning and giving us a wary smile.

  “My apologies for the heat,” she said, fanning herself with her hand. “Whoever designed this schoolhouse was clearly a sadist.”

  I laughed at the outrageousness of the comment. William wiped sweat from his forehead, smiling. “Well,” he said, “Negro children can handle heat very well …”

  “How did you travel here?” Constance asked me, cutting him off. “Did you come by stagecoach or train?”

  “Train,” I answered.

  She sighed, smiling. “I do so love the trains. I should like to ride one again some time. But …” She was silent a moment, then shook her head. “Tell me, why are you here?”

  William blathered on about the donation my company was considering making. Constance listened, hardly convinced. No, she knew exactly why I was here.

  I need to speak with her alone.

  But how?

  August 28, 1875

  I woke knowing full well that I had no choice in the matter. I needed to speak with Constance, then I needed to get the heck out of town before the locals finally decided I’d worn out my welcome.

  Last night, the dreams were clearer. I saw the girl dressed in funny clothes and I knew she was the hero, plain as day. She was standing in the schoolhouse, wearing strange clothes, looking around confused.

  But the schoolhouse was empty.

  Then, a cloaked man walked in through the front door. No—he flew in. His feet never touched the ground! From underneath his dark hood, his eyes glowed a menacing gold. He reached out for the girl. She struggled, but it was too late.

  They both disappeared.

  Haven’t told Briar any of this just yet. He was so excited to know Constance isn’t the hero. Thinks the two of us are just going to … I don’t know. I suppose he thinks I’m going to be around forever, like him.

  I made my way to the schoolhouse in the early afternoon, walking behind the buildings along the main street where I wouldn’t be spotted as easily. I caught the eyes of a few tending to gardens outside their homes, but nothing worth tensing up about.

  Couldn’t have been more wrong.

  At the schoolhouse, Constance was waiting. Standing by that same window, staring at the dark clouds on the horizon.

  “They haven’t moved,” she said. She turned to me. “I knew you would come, Eugene. I saw it.”

  “How?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Years ago, at a train station in Boston, I brushed up against a man in a cloak. He recoiled at my touch, as if I’d hurt him. I tried to apologize, but I was suddenly struck by a terrible seizure. I dreamed of that same man living in a different time, living with a woman he loved. Then, something happened. I didn’t understand it. They were arguing, and he lifted his hand up and … it was as if … as if he’d accidentally thrown dust in her eyes. She fell back. She … died.”

  I was speechless. She was talking about a Corrupted. I was sure of it!

  “The dreams have continued to this day,” she said. She glanced back at the clouds on the horizon. “Different visions from his life. He’s lived for so many years that he can’t possibly be human like you and I.”

  Human. That warmed my heart. Here, finally, was someone who saw past the color of our skin.

  “He’s coming … but I don’t think it’s for me.”

  “He’s coming for a girl,” I said. “I saw her in my dreams. I can see things, too.”

  Her eyes widened. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

  “No, ma’am. If anyone’s crazy, it’s me.” I smiled warmly, hoping she wasn’t on the verge of her infamous fainting spells. “We could spend all day talking about this, but we don’t have the time. I don’t. This girl from my dreams, she’s really important. I don’t know how I know this, but …”

  “I saw you once, in a dream,” she said. “Tell me, did you ever find your parents?”

  My mouth hung open in surprise. “Um … yes,” I finally said. “I did. Found their gravestones, that is. In Florida. They lived there after the Civil War was over. Couple years later, my pa got arrested for selling oranges on the wrong side of a street.”

  “Is that a law?” she asked.

  “Only for Negros,” I explained. “And he had to work off his fine. Was sent to work at a bullet manufacturer for two years. Died in a gunpowder explosion. My ma died of influenza a few months later.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. Her gaze dropped to the dirt floor. It’s funny, but I could see the little indentations in the dirt where the kids had been sitting.

  “We got bigger things to worry about now,” I said.

  She nodded. “This man I dream of, he …” A tear rolled down her cheek. “He couldn’t control his magic. That’s what it was. People died. His magic grew more and more powerful. Now … now I fear he can control it, and it has made him even more dangerous. This girl from your dreams … can she stop him?”

  I nodded. Not a moment of hesitation.

  “Then tell me what I must do.”

  “This girl is going to come here,” I said. “You have to tell her about your dreams. She’s gonna need all the help she can get.”

  Too tired to continue. Just a couple more days and I’m free.

  August 29, 1875

  I tried taking the side road back to the train station.

  Bad idea.

  I noticed them following me right away. You don’t survive 10 years fighting Corrupted without getting real good at knowing the world around you. But there was nothing I could do. There were six of them. Two were following behind me on the road. Another two up head, cutting me off. Two more hiding near a white one-story house with purple drapes.

  They stopped me another block up.

  No point calling for help. No one to help me. I could have f
ought, yeah … Briar had taught me enough over the years. But then I remembered the Hessian from so many years ago. I remembered the rage boiling in his eyes, the lust he had for hurting other people. He hadn’t always been like that. He’d once been a boy just like me. Just like all of us. An innocent child.

  I let em take me. I let em shout names at me. But I didn’t let em hurt me. When one of em tried punching me, I dodged and let him punch his friend instead. I figured between the two of us, the guy’s friend deserved a punch more than me anyway. By the time they were done arguing about it, we were past the train station, a good quarter mile north inside the forest.

  One of the men, with pale skin and a bubbling wart on his fat nose, announced that it was a crime for a Negro to speak to a white woman.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said.

  The man just shook his head. He flashed a badge. Of course he was a sheriff. Old Eugene has all the luck, doesn’t he?

  “Also a crime for Negros to walk around town without an escort after four in the afternoon. That’s curfew.”

  “Must be tough for working Negros to get home on time,” I remarked. Oh, I couldn’t help myself.

  The sheriff squinted one eye and leaned closer, examined me. His breath smelled like onions. The other men were close to us, squeezing us in. I noticed for the first time one of them had a gun. I cursed myself for sassing back.

  “You’re in a lot of trouble, son,” said the sheriff.

  “Can’t we talk about this?” I asked.

  The sheriff shook his head real slow-like. “This is—”

  There came from the trees a terrible howl. A scream, really. High-pitched, hair-raising, loud enough to cause all seven of us to jump.

  The white men looked around nervously. Two more pulled out guns and aimed them at the oak trees.

  “What’s that?” one of them asked.

  Another scream, this time coming from a different direction. I nearly clutched one of the white men out of fear. I’d never heard a sound like that. And I’d seen some pretty terrifying monsters in my lifetime.

  “Who’s there?” the sheriff called out.

  His voice echoed all weird-like, as if someone was mocking him from deeper in the thick forest.

  The other men began murmuring to themselves. “Let’s just take him to jail,” said one, grabbing my arm.

  “Jail … jail … jail …” the word echoed above us. A wind picked up, rustling the lobe-shaped leaves in the trees.

  Another scream, this one closer.

  “That’s a mountain lion if ever I heard one,” said the plumpest of the men.

  “A mountain lion!” the sheriff said incredulously. “Ain’t no mountain lions around here, Warren!”

  Another scream. The crack of a branch. It came falling down right in front of us, thick as a man’s torso and twice as long. The men with guns pointed up and started firing their pistols. Leaves and twigs rained down on us.

  Another scream came from right behind us.

  “I saw something!” Warren said. “It was weird looking as all get out!”

  “Just cool your head,” said the sheriff. The men stayed close, searching the forest. Suddenly, Warren screamed, dropping his gun and running back the way we came. Everyone turned to where he’d looked and we let out a collective gasp.

  There, standing beside a tree, was some kind of feral creature covered in mud and rags. He had long horns and a smooth, cone-shaped face with rabid-looking blue eyes and terrible buckteeth.

  “Shoot him!” the sheriff said. They fired their pistols. The creature bounced around, hissing, dodging as many bullets as it could. Some of the bullets hit it and it fell over, dying dramatically.

  The men stopped firing.

  Suddenly, the creature leapt to its feet! The men fired again, but this time the bullets didn’t stop it from skulking closer, hissing.

  The men’s pistols clicked. My ears rang. For a moment, the entire forest was silent.

  The creature screamed again.

  “That does it!” the sheriff said. He pushed me toward the creature, knocking me to the forest floor. I turned, watching the men run quickly back the way they came.

  I turned to the creature. He was crouching over me, the vicious expression on his face gone. His horns were no long pointed forward.

  They were flopped over.

  “B … Briar?” I asked.

  “You were expecting, perhaps, another deus ex machina?”

  I laughed. “Never knew you had it in you.”

  “Nor I,” the rabbit admitted. “Nor I. Do you like the rags? I got the idea from your Medusa friend, actually.”

  “I think I prefer your stylish vest,” I answered.

  August 30, 1875

  On our way back. Train should pull in at New York City tomorrow around seven in the evening. I told Briar about the fish. Told him everything was going to be fine, just like I promised. Nervous fella doesn’t believe it for a second, but he’ll see soon enough. A new hero was coming. She was going to meet Constance, just like in my dreams.

  I told Briar we gotta take precautions. I put the pen in a small box. When we arrive in New York City, Briar will take it to the library downtown, where it will rest among a collection of rare books that are closed to the public.

  Last night, I dreamed of the new hero, arriving inside the schoolhouse. Constance was waiting for her. Together, they watched the storm finally roll into town.

  Tonight will be my last dream of Corrupted.

  September 1, 1875

  Little time to write. Should have known. Should have known. I want to get to Harriet and hold her in my arms just one more time, but it’s too dangerous. Briar … not sure where Briar is. He went to the library to stow away the pen, just like we planned. Usually, he can find me easy enough, especially when I’m in trouble.

  But what if he can’t anymore?

  September 2, 1875

  He’s still following me. That same short little man in the gray suit that I met so, so many years ago. The Hessian is with him, following him like a faithful dog. No doubt getting paid a pretty penny … or is it revenge he wants? The little man is a Corrupted. I didn’t realize it ten years ago but I know now. He knows I don’t have the pen. Library’s shut down, locked up, even though it’s the middle of the day. No one can tell me why the doors are locked. Briar … don’t know where he is.

  Just want to see Harriet one more time. But I can’t. Can’t endanger her life. This little man in the gray suit … it’s like he’s been following me for ten years. He knew exactly where I’d be. He knows—

  (Pages missing.)

  Book 6: The Order of the Golden Dragon

  Chapter 1

  I slipped through the front door of Chase’s house, creeping along his family’s vegetable garden and then skulking behind a man-sized evergreen sapling for cover. My fingers tingled. With the coast clear, I slipped around back, one hand pressed against the brick foundation as I very carefully peered around the next corner, my hand clutching the magic foil I’d drawn on the ground underneath the house’s front steps.

  And there they were. Three guys wearing pitch-black robes with the hoods drawn up over their heads. They’d broken the window and I suddenly had a terrible thought: what if one had already slipped through?

  But then they began very carefully using their terrifying golden claw thingies to scrape away the shards of glass still clinging to the window. They were being careful, not particularly interested in cutting themselves in the process of climbing through.

  None of them was glowing. Not even a bit. If these were the same ones who’d been in the car that followed us back from the pier, then there was a good chance they were all human. Which meant unless I wanted to commit murder, I would have to get creative in dealing with them.

  I turned back around the corner of the house, pulling out my pen. I set down my foil and used the pen to draw a big square in the grass. Then I drew another square a few feet away, overlapping the original squ
are. I connected the corners with straight lines. It was just like the 3-D box doodles I always made in my notebooks, only with the help of my imagination this was no simple 3-D box.

  It was a trap.

  I ran around the box, back to the corner of the house, peering around. Two of the robed men were in the process of lifting up the third to the window.

  “Eep!” I exclaimed.

  The men turned. I waited, giving them the most convincing look of surprise that I possibly could. They dropped the one who’d been ready to slip in through the window, letting him land comically on his butt. They reached for their golden claw-shaped weapons that they’d set on the grass, slipping each one over their hands.

  “Are you guys looking for me?” I asked innocently. They moved closer. “I’ll take that as a yes!” I said, disappearing around the corner. I jumped over the massive trap. The outline was only slightly glowing now, fading with each passing breath. Hurry, I thought.

  The robed men turned the corner. They stepped onto the trap and suddenly the surface hardened, then collapsed. Two of the men fell inside immediately. The third man’s foot hit the edge of the box and he flailed a moment before falling inside as well.

  I stepped closer to the trap, peering inside. There they were, a good eight feet below. Unharmed. A little angry, though.

  “Silly weird robed guys! Didn’t you know who you were messing with?”

  “We do now,” muttered one of them.

  “I’m going to have to ask for your weapons,” I announced in a low voice. “And please, no shouting or yelling. You don’t want to wake the neighbors. They have a tendency to call the police when they notice creepazoids hiding in pits.”

  One of the men’s hoods had fallen back; sure enough, he was nothing more than a middle-aged man. No glowing skin, although in the moonlight it was clear he could have used a little moisturizer from time to time. He had thinning hair and wide, dark eyes.

  “To relinquish the golden claws is to relinquish our very existence,” he said.