The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2

by Ken Brosky

“Right, right. So Agnim could see you just like the sailors—and the captain, presumably—aboard that cursed ship. So very strange.”

  “No, it wasn’t just that he could see me,” I said, closing the closet door. My poster of Ryan Gosling stared back at me. Sigh. Remember when I used to finish my homework and just stare at Ryan for a good hour because I didn’t have a care in the world?

  Yeah. Me neither.

  “Alice! Will you please finish your sentence?”

  I spun around and shook my head, clearing away naughty thoughts. “Sorry. Right. We were talking about Ryan Gosling?”

  His ears flopped down. “We’re doomed.”

  “OK. Wait. Right! The dream. So Agnim could see me, but that wasn’t all. He was … I don’t know … it was like he could control the dream. And then he almost fried me with some sort of magic spell.”

  “Spells!” Briar pounded his paw on the desk. “Now that’s a start. If only we could figure out who this dastardly fellow is … was there anything else?”

  I walked over to the window, picking absently at my teeth as I watched Dad’s car pull out of the driveway. I needed a shower … and some floss …

  “Alice!”

  My entire body snapped to. I shook my head again. “Oh gawd. I’m losing it, Briar. I feel like I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night and now I’m acting all spacey. I get this way when I don’t get much sleep.”

  He sighed. “I’m aware.”

  “So what do I do?” I asked, wide-eyed. “He’s going to come after me again tonight!”

  “We must learn more about him. Tell me: what else do you remember from your dream? Try to stay focused now. You can sleep in your Genetics class.”

  He was right. I was doing pretty well in Genetics. I was doing pretty well in every class. Not great anymore. Not all A’s … but all B’s … and that was going to have to be good enough for the time being.

  “Alice! Consarn it!” He waved his paws wildly in front of my face.

  “OK. We were in a little town.” I closed my eyes, trying to picture the scene. “A storm was coming … Agnim arrived with the storm … there was a schoolhouse … there was an Ace Telegraphs, whatever that is …” My eyes snapped open. I grabbed Briar’s shoulders. “There were frogs!”

  “Er, frogs?”

  “They were falling from the sky!”

  His eyes narrowed. “Say what now?”

  “Falling from the goshdarn sky, Briar!” I waved my arms around the room. “Like, for real!”

  He crossed his legs and tapped his cheek with one paw, thinking. I loved when he did that.

  “Agnim said the scene in my dream … the town … it was real. He said my dream was of a different time. That storm was real, Briar.”

  He turned to the laptop, typing furiously. “This definitely reminds me of that time I was down south with Eugene. Were the frogs alive?”

  “Yup.”

  “Just like when we fought that Corrupted fairy. If only I could remember the name of the town ...”

  “But what does it all mean?” I asked. “Hurry. Seth will be here to pick me up any minute.”

  Briar typed furiously on his keyboard. “If I can find the town, maybe we can begin connecting the dots. This will require some detective work. I’ll send a message to my historian friend post-haste. He will surely know … oh dear.”

  He tried clicking away but I swatted his paw before he could close his Facebook window. “What the heck is that?”

  Briar’s eyes went wide. “It appears to be you.”

  “I know it’s me.” I could see that plain as day: it was me walking down the first-floor hallway at school. I was wearing the exact same shirt I was wearing now, which meant it had probably been taken a week ago. My hair looked awful, meaning whoever had taken the photo had caught me after fencing practice.

  There were more photos, too. It was a Facebook page dedicated to “Fashion Failures,” as the massive headline so boldly explained. They were all girls from Washington High. And underneath every single picture was a nasty little diatribe explaining exactly what “fashion crimes” the alleged perp was guilty of.

  I grabbed the mouse, nearly pulling its cord from the USB port of my laptop. “Guilty of wearing too much purple? It’s not purple! Who’s doing this?”

  I scrolled to the names of the page’s creator. Cynthia Blake, the Mean Girl equivalent to Joey Harrington. And there, under “fans,” were all of the other Mean Girls and their boyfriends. And Tricia.

  And Briar, who was a “fan” of over a gazillion pages.

  “What are you doing?” Briar asked as I sped back to the closet.

  “Don’t look! I’m changing.”

  “Why are you changing?”

  “Because I can’t wear a purple shirt to school now! Gawd, Briar, do I really have to spell it out? You can turn around now.”

  He sighed, examining the plain gray blouse I’d put on. “Humans.”

  I made a point of lying low the entire day. Even in Mr. Feinman’s class, I stayed quiet. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, knowing full well that a significant portion of the school had probably seen that horrible web page. My suspicions were confirmed when we broke off into groups to discuss our poster presentation.

  “It’s probably for the best that you stay away from purple,” said Jennifer Wisenhunt, the perky blonde volleyball player who was pretty good at commenting on everyone’s business. “I mean, no offense, but it’s just one color. And you don’t want to get on the Mean Girls’ bad list any more than you already are.”

  “Helpful, as always,” I murmured.

  “Hey, can we just focus on this?” asked Brad Johnson, our other group member. “We have to create a poster about strikes. What is a strike?”

  “It’s when the workers walk out to protest something,” Jennifer said. She pulled a nail file out of her red purse and started going to town on her thumbnail. “My grandpa did one at the steel factory he worked at. He said he got beat up.”

  “By whom?” I asked.

  “Strikebreakers.”

  “Did he fight back?” Brad asked, wide-eyed. “I’d ‘a socked em in the face.”

  “No, dummy. None of them fought back. That’s why they won.”

  “You lost me.”

  She sighed. “In the papers the next day, everyone was all like, Ooooh, the steel company beats up its own workers, and Ooooh, all they wanted were hardhats. So the steel company gave in because looked like total jerkwads.”

  “That helped during the Civil Rights movement, too,” added Diego, the quietest of us. “Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. preached nonviolence.”

  “Let’s make those for our poster,” Brad said. He grabbed the box of colored pencils and pulled out the red one. “I’ll draw all the blood and stuff. Alice, you can do the writing.”

  “Why can’t I help with the drawing?”

  Brad raised his eyebrows and smiled a dorky braces-laced smile. “Because if there’s one thing this picture doesn’t need, it’s purple.”

  I groaned. It was going to be a long day.

  Thankfully, fencing class offered a reprieve from the hour-to-hour anxiety. I unleashed it on Margaret and Jasmine and Rachel, holding nothing back. Chase spent most of his time coaching Rachel, giving her outrageous tips on how to move her feet and block my best shots. Her strength was almost overpowering at times—thankfully, she still couldn’t quite break the bad habit of making predictable moves, letting me sneak in for a few pokes.

  Jasmine and Margaret were tougher. Margaret was definitely getting better, and Jasmine had an incredibly annoying habit of making her foil dance in the air, like it had a mind of its own. It annoyed me. And then I started thinking about the fact that I would be doing so much more if we had more sabers to practice with and didn’t have to share with the boys, and then I started thinking about how much money the football team got for equipment, and then I started getting aggressive with my attacks.

  It didn’t win me any f
riends in the locker room that day (and I have a funny feeling Jasmine made a point of leaving before I could ask to borrow her hairbrush), but I needed the release. Even just a few hours of worrying constantly about whether someone passing me in the hall had seen the Mean Girls’ website was causing me so much stress that I seriously felt sick to my stomach.

  I barely touched my salad at lunch. I gave it to Clyde, who’d simply brought a roll of crackers for lunch. He piled dressing-enhanced lettuce on each cracker, then a mini tomato. Watching him made my stomach feel worse.

  “I really think you should just beat them up,” Seth said later at the library. “Pow! Pow! A couple knuckle sandwiches to their pretty little kissers.”

  “What are you talking about?” Chase asked, ducking to avoid Seth’s wild kung-fu moves as he wheeled up to our table. He had a lap full of old history books. “The Mean Girls, or the weird cult?”

  He shrugged. “Either? I dunno. Seems to work pretty good in the movies.”

  “Well this isn’t a movie,” I said. I hefted a stack of fiction books in my hands. I had one more stack left and then I was free for the day, thankfully. My energy was sapped.

  “I can’t find anything about an order of dragons,” Chase said, leafing through a massive tome with a leather cover. It was an old book, something Briar had found in the basement. It was an old record of business entities in the United States around the turn of the Twentieth Century. “But I’ve definitely found some interesting stuff.”

  “Me too,” Seth said, sliding his book across the table. I looked at the page he was on: a copy of a newspaper ad from World War I.

  “Draconem Industries,” I read, “proudly serving the U.S. military with a variety of ammunition, announced today an expansion of its principal factory. The factory will be expanding its manufacturing of munitions and explosives. Draconem currently manufactures seven different bombs, each designed to be dropped from the sky and capable of destroying even the most well-fortified enemy emplacements.”

  “Or a building full of civilians,” Seth added, wrinkling his nose. “The whole thing stinks. See that name? That means dragon in Latin.”

  “Right … the meaning is hidden,” Chase said, grabbing one of the other old books piled up on the square desk. He licked his finger and leafed through the pages. “I saw something too ... Here it is. Look at this, from 1970.”

  “The U.S. government recently purchased new flame-based bombs from the Yang Corporation,” I read. “The jellied gasoline compound is designed to stick to enemy soldiers for maximum casualties. The Army boasts these new bombs will ensure victory in all future wars.” I looked at Chase. “Ew. Really?”

  He nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Believe me, you don’t want to know more.”

  “So how is this connected?” I asked.

  “It’s tricky,” Chase said, grabbing another book. “And I would have never thought about it if my ex-ex-ex-girlfriend hadn’t gotten one of those stupid trendy Yin-Yang tattoos. Here.” He slid another much newer book across the table. “I dog-eared the page. No, wait.” He grabbed Seth by the shirt and looked at him, wide-eyed. “I rabbit-eared the page.”

  Seth pretended to be impressed. “Har-dee-har-har.”

  I looked at the page and felt my heart jump in my ribcage. “The Yang symbol is a dragon. Briar was right—the Order of the Golden Dragon is everywhere. Definitely big enough to very quietly move around a giant sleeping dragon.”

  Chase nodded excitedly.

  I was less thrilled.

  Once we’d done enough research to make our eyes bleed, I ran home, switching into a pair of more comfortable sweatpants. I looked in the bathroom mirror, making a sour face at my reflection. Gawd, I thought, what if someone from school saw me outside and took another picture? I mean, let’s not fool ourselves: I could totally pull off black sweatpants, provided they weren’t too baggy in the butt area. But still, I had to look mildly presentable. I had to.

  I didn’t want to end up on the Mean Girls’ website again.

  So I went back to my closet, tossing aside the violet shirts in favor of something older and outside-appropriate, something that the Mean Girls would appreciate: a long-sleeve red and white striped shirt with solid red sleeves. It was enough. I disliked the color, but at least there was nothing about it that seemed worthy of ridicule.

  “So that’s how you’re going to be now?” I asked my reflection. “You’re going to throw out your favorite shirts so you won’t be bullied?”

  “Yup,” came the reflection’s answer.

  I jogged to the baseball diamond two blocks away from Chase’s house, thankful for the cool weather, which would minimalize sweating. I hurried past couples out for strolls, cutting through alleys and testing my leg muscles with more than a few dodges of imaginary Corrupted. Every time I went through an alley, I imagined that crazy Frog Prince who’d come out of nowhere. Thinking of him reminded me of Sam Grayle and all of the unfinished business the two of us still had. Thinking of Grayle made me think of Death. Thinking of that made me wonder just how long I was going to last as the hero.

  Thinking of that upset me, and so I brushed away all of my thoughts, focusing instead on the environment just as Briar had taught me. I was getting closer to Chase’s neighborhood, which had fewer cul-de-sacs and more square-shaped blocks full of small houses with green front yards full of leaves. I ran on the edge of the sidewalk, avoiding the dry leaves scattered across the grass and concrete, listening to the sounds.

  A car with a damaged muffler.

  An owl, awake a few hours early.

  Dry leaves shuddering on a maple tree.

  A middle-aged couple standing in their front yard, arguing about a couch.

  I took it all in, walking the last two blocks to cool down. I was aware of my shoes crunching on the dry leaves. It used to be a sound I liked as a kid. Heck, I liked everything about fallen leaves! I liked jumping in piles of them, I liked stuffing them in friends’ shirts, I even liked raking them.

  Now, they were something else entirely: a liability. Every time my foot stepped on a crunchy leaf, it betrayed my presence. It told everything hiding in the shadows exactly where I was.

  Rachel, Clyde, Seth and Chase were already at the baseball diamond. Seth and Clyde tossed the softball to each other like pros, occasionally lobbing one at Rachel, who shakily caught the ball with a black leather glove. She had changed into baggy jeans and a black t-shirt, which looked right on her. The more subdued clothing choices she’d been making for school lately just weren’t her. Dark and baggy to match her dark eye shadow … that was her.

  Chase watched them all approvingly, buttoning up his black vest. He was wearing a leather headband, too, and had an old worn leather baseball glove in his lap.

  “Got one more for me?” I asked Chase. He reached into the red sports bag hanging from the back of his chair and tossed me a brown leather glove. “Thanks. Who’s batting?”

  “Rachel,” he said.

  “What do I do?”

  Chase squinted in the setting sunlight, peering over at the diamond. “Clyde is pitching. You can play infield. Seth can play outfield.”

  I nodded, giving his head a pinch with the big glove as I passed. I jogged over to the dirt between second and third base.

  “All right!” Chase called out, wheeling onto the dirt behind home base. “Come on, Rachel.”

  “She’s going to you,” Clyde said, pointing to me. “She’s a softie. She likes to swing early.”

  “You’d be a better trash talker if ya took off your sunglasses,” Rachel said, grabbing the bat sitting on home plate. She got into a batting stance. Chase murmured something to her.

  Clyde pitched the ball underhand. Rachel swung, connecting. The ball went rolling toward me. I crouched, clumsily scooping it up and tossing it back to Clyde.

  Clyde pitched again. And again. Every time, Rachel swung early and the big softball came rolling toward me.

  “I’ll just read a magazine,”
Seth called out.

  “Come on,” Chase said. “Close your stance. Trust me.”

  Rachel slid her left leg—her front leg—further to the right, closing her stance. Clyde swung again. She connected early again, but this time her shoulders were facing toward first base. The ball went rolling that way. I ran across the diamond, scooping up the ball and tossing it back to a flabbergasted Clyde.

  “Now swing upward,” Chase said. “Like you’re swinging a golf club.”

  “I’ve never swung a golf club,” Rachel said, laughing nervously.

  “Neither have I,” Chase said. “But we’ve both watched it on TV.”

  Clyde pitched again. Rachel swung downward, missing. The ball bounced once and landed in Chase’s glove. He plucked the ball from his glove. His fingers touched the ball, moving it around in his hand. It looked so comfortable there, and it was impossible for him to hide the longing on his face.

  Finally, he tossed it back to Clyde. “Try again,” he ordered. “And make sure you use your natural strength.”

  Clyde tossed the ball again, this time putting a little pepper on it. Rachel swung, connecting with the ball. It sailed up into the air, right at me. I jumped at high as I could, reaching out with the baseball glove. The ball floated over, landing into the grass in front of Seth.

  “Yes!” Rachel shouted, jumping up and down. She jogged to first base, celebrating all the way.

  “All right,” Chase said, unable to contain a proud smile. “Who’s next?”

  I nearly knocked Clyde over on my way to home plate.

  Chase nodded, wheeling back a foot. “Now get your stance right. Come on. Come on. Slide your foot forward.”

  “I’m more comfortable like this. Pitch it, Clyde!”

  Clyde tossed the ball. I swung, feeling the wooden bat barely connect. The ball piddled back to Clyde.

  “That was a screamer!” Seth called out from the outfield.

  “Just listen to me,” Chase said with an exasperated frown. “Slide your foot forward. Watch the ball, and as you’re swinging, let the sweet spot of the bat connect with the ball. Let the bat do the work.”

  Clyde pitched again. I swung, following the ball with my eyes. It connected with the thickest part of the bat, flying past Clyde and bouncing in front of Rachel, who was standing in the dirt between second and third base. Rachel clumsily grabbed the ball with her bare hand instead of using the glove.