by Tim Waggoner
CONTENTS
Cover
Also by Tim Waggoner
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Historian’s Note
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also Available from Titan Books
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS
Grimm: The Icy Touch by John Shirley
Grimm: The Chopping Block by John Passarella
Grimm: The Killing Time
Print edition ISBN: 9781781166581
E-book edition ISBN: 9781781166598
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
First edition: September 2014
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Copyright © 2014 by Universal City Studios Productions LLLP
Grimm is a trademark and copyright of Universal Network Television LLC.
Licensed by Universal Studios Licensing LLC 2014. All Rights Reserved.
Cover images © Universal Network Television LLC
Additional cover images © Dreamstime
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
TITANBOOKS.COM
This one’s for Barb and J.C. Hendee, two wonderful writers who published some of my first stories way back when. See what you started?
HISTORIAN’S NOTE
This novel takes place between “A Dish Best Served Cold” and “One Night Stand.”
“I have seen many strange things, but such a monster as this I never saw.”
“The Turnip,” as per the Brothers Grimm
CHAPTER ONE
Dana Webber was getting a sack of groceries out of her car when she felt a prickle on the back her neck, an irritating scratchy-crawly sensation like tiny ants walking on her skin.
Someone was watching her.
She shifted the groceries to one arm, careful to keep her purse from sliding off her shoulder, then shut the door to her ancient station wagon. She still had hold of her keys, and she adjusted them in her hand so the ignition key jutted from between her index and middle fingers. Not much of a weapon, maybe, but it was better than nothing. She wished she had a small container of pepper spray hanging on her keychain, but she’d never trusted the things, had always worried they’d go off accidentally. Now she scolded herself for being so foolish.
She turned away from the car, stepped onto the sidewalk, and started toward her house. Their driveway was short and narrow, and right now Rich’s Chevy—which was badly in need of a new transmission—was parked there, leaving her to park the station wagon on the street. And since the other houses in this neighborhood were all like the one she and her husband rented—old, small, built close together with tiny yards and even tinier driveways—lots of people parked on the street. It wasn’t 8:30 yet, but cars lined the curb; she’d been forced to park almost a block from her home, and she’d been lucky to get that space. She didn’t feel lucky at the moment, though. She might’ve had to walk only a block, but right now it felt as long as a mile. She imagined eyes on her, a watcher hidden in the shadows, tracking her movements with predatory fascination.
She told herself it was only her imagination. How many times had Rich told her the same thing when she jumped at every creak their old house made, woke startled in the night, convinced she’d heard a sound and that someone had broken in, only for Rich to get up, check, and find no evidence of a prowler? Too many times.
When she’d been a child, her mother had told her that her imagination was her greatest asset as well as her heaviest burden. She’d been a talented artist, covering her bedroom walls with detailed drawings and paintings of friends, family, and pets. But she’d also worried she was dying whenever she came down with a stomach bug, and when she’d got her first period, she might not have reacted as badly as Carrie White in Stephen King’s novel, but it had still been something of a trauma for her. She was in her mid-twenties now, and while her imagination still got the better of her sometimes, in general, she’d learned to manage it.
She and Rich had been high-school sweethearts, and they’d married soon after graduation. She’d gone to work as a barista at a coffee shop near Portland Community College, while Rich found work with a landscaping company. She’d been taking classes on and off at PCC for a few years, but this semester she’d gotten serious and had decided to channel her artistic ability into a marketing degree. She wanted a job that was both creative and practical, and she viewed her new goal as a sign that she was finally, if reluctantly, growing up.
But now, walking down the sidewalk, holding her breath as she moved from one island of fluorescent light to another, she felt like a child once more, gripped by a fear she couldn’t control.
Stop it! she told herself. This was a safe neighborhood. Sure, there was the occasional domestic disturbance and sometimes there’d be a party on the street that got too loud and went on too late, but that was about it. No robberies, no assaults, and certainly no murders.
A little voice, one that came from deep inside her, whispered, There’s a first time for everything.
It was early November in Portland, and it wasn’t all that cold out. Around fifty degrees, she guessed, maybe a bit lower. She wore a long-sleeved pullover beneath a denim jacket, and usually that was enough for her to be comfortable this time of year, but now she shivered as if she were freezing. Just nerves, she told herself, but it didn’t stop her from trembling.
But instead of becoming calmer, the closer she came to her home the more her anxiety rose, and the stronger the prickling on the back of her neck became. Her breathing came in ragged gasps, and her pulse beat like the staccato rat-a-tat-tat of a snare drum. She felt an impulse to drop her groceries and run the rest of the way to her house, and she might have, if at that exact instant she hadn’t seen the child step out from between a pair of parked cars ahead of her. Dana guessed the girl was in her early teens, if that. She was thin, with a round face and a head full of curly strawberry-blond hair. She wore a T-shirt with a rainbow design on the front, a pair of old jeans with holes in the knees, and no shoes.
Dana’s anxiety drained away. The sinister watcher she’d imagined was just a neighborhood kid, but something still didn’t feel right. It wasn’t that cold a night, but it wasn’t yet warm enough to be going around without a jacket, and barefoot. Dana feared the girl was in some kind of trouble. She knelt, put the sack of groceries on the sidewalk, then hurried over to her.
“Are you okay, honey? Is something wrong?”
The girl stood in a patch of shadow between two streetlights, but now that Dana was closer, she could see that there wa
s something off about the girl’s appearance. For one thing, her facial features were remarkably uneven. Her left eye was set lower than her right, significantly so, and her left ear hung lower than it should, and it was tilted backward, giving Dana the impression that it might fall off any moment. The left side of her mouth drooped too, and the flesh on that side of her face sagged, as if the girl was a wax statue in the process of melting. But that wasn’t all. Her curly hair was thinning, and her scalp was bare in several places. As Dana watched, a lock of the girl’s hair above her drooping ear detached and fell onto her shoulder. The girl didn’t react, and Dana wondered if she was even aware that it had happened.
Dana experienced a wave of revulsion and felt an urge to back away from the girl. But she ignored the impulse. The kid was clearly suffering from some kind of medical condition—one that maybe had affected her mind as well, given the way she just stood and stared at Dana without expression. This poor thing wasn’t a threat. She needed help.
Now that she no longer had need of a weapon, Dana tucked her keys into her purse and stepped closer to the girl. She crouched down so she could look her in the eyes, hoping she wouldn’t seem too threatening.
“Are you lost? Is there someone I can call for you?”
The girl didn’t reply, but her gaze focused on Dana. She took that as a good sign. It meant the kid wasn’t completely out of it. Dana gave her a quick once-over. She didn’t appear to be injured. There were no signs of blood or bruising. None visible, anyway. Whatever was going on with the poor thing, Dana couldn’t leave her like this, standing out in the cold, confused, underdressed and barefoot.
Moving slowly so as not to startle the girl, she reached out and gently took hold of her hand. Her skin was clammy, and even though Dana didn’t apply any pressure, the flesh seemed to give under her fingers.
She suppressed a grimace of distaste. “Why don’t you come with me to my house? It’ll be warm inside, and I’ll make you a cup of cocoa while we figure out what to—”
Dana froze as the girl raised her other hand, flexed her fingers, and three-inch black spines jutted from her fingertips. Before Dana could react, the girl grabbed hold of her throat and squeezed, the spines sinking into her flesh with the ease of hypodermic needles. At first it felt as if her throat was on fire from the inside, but the pain quickly vanished, replaced by an almost pleasant numbness. She’s drugging me somehow, Dana thought, panic rising in her chest. She felt the paralysis rapidly spread through her body, and she knew that she had to fight back and try to escape now, while some strength remained in her.
No longer was the girl’s face expressionless. Her eyes were wide, filled with life and energy, and her lopsided mouth—which Dana saw was not so lopsided anymore—was stretched into a cruel, satisfied smile. And her hair had changed. The strawberry-blond curls were now straight and brown. Just like Dana’s.
Dana took hold of the girl’s wrist with both of her hands and tried to break her grip. But despite the girl’s slight frame, her hand wouldn’t budge. Maybe the girl was stronger than she looked, or maybe those finger spines had sunk too deeply into her neck. Given how numb Dana’s throat was, she could be doing all kinds of damage to herself by trying to pull the spines free, and she wouldn’t know it. She let go of the girl’s wrist and started hitting her. Her arms felt heavy as lead now, and it took an effort of will to raise them after each blow and strike again. She wasn’t able to hit with any real force, and the girl ignored the blows as if she didn’t even feel them.
The girl seemed taller now, and had to crouch to stay level with Dana. Her clothing had changed too. She was now wearing the same denim jacket and pullover Dana was, her jeans no longer had holes in the knees, and her once bare feet were now covered by a pair of boots identical to Dana’s. Her body remained that of a female, but now she looked like an adult. And not just any adult—she looked exactly like Dana.
Dana could no longer raise her leaden hands to strike at the girl. No, it wasn’t a girl, was it? It was some kind of thing. She was so weary, so empty, as if she had been hollowed out inside. It wasn’t just her energy that was gone. Her mind had become a complete void. She no longer remembered where she lived. No longer remembered her husband’s name. She couldn’t even remember her own name, nor was she aware of ever having had one. Her body fell limp, and she would’ve collapsed to the sidewalk if the creature who now resembled her in every detail didn’t have its finger spines embedded in her throat.
The creature stood up, and as it rose, it lifted her into a standing position. Dana’s body hung slack in the creature’s grasp, and there was no longer anything she could do to try to free herself. She couldn’t think, let alone move. She was still conscious, still aware, at least on some primitive level, but that was all.
“Don’t worry, honey,” the creature said in her voice, its tone gentle, almost loving. “It’s almost over. But I need one last thing from you.”
It… she reached out with her free hand, slipped Dana’s purse off her shoulder, and slid it over her own.
Dana, or at least the last remnant of what had once been Dana, opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She experienced a sensation of release, or letting go, and then she felt like she was falling, falling forever.
The darkness rushed upward to take her and she felt no more.
* * *
The Wechselbalg retracted its finger spines and examined its hands. Her hands. It was female again. It—she had to remember that. She was old, very old, and she became confused far too easily and often these days.
She, she, she, she, she.
She gazed down at the body on the sidewalk. She didn’t regret what she’d done to the original Dana; soon the dead woman would be nothing but a viscous puddle of dissolved flesh and bone. She was Wechselbalg, and this was how she survived. She felt no more remorse for what she’d done to the woman than a wolf felt for preying on a doe. Still, something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it—then it came to her. She had approached the woman in the open, but her kind were supposed to be careful to take their victims where they couldn’t be seen, deep in forests and valleys, places where the residue could be easily disposed of. If any humans discovered it, they wouldn’t know what to make of it. But if any other Wesen found it…
She shrugged. So what if they did? Her kind was rare enough that they might not recognize the residue for what it was. And even if they did understand, they wouldn’t be able to track her. Her scent was long gone, along with the original Dana. That was her kind’s great strength: to change, to hide, to disappear. And that’s precisely what she intended to do now.
She sidestepped the prone figure, picked up Dana’s groceries, then closed her eyes and began searching the woman’s memories. She found an image of Dana’s house, and a man polishing a Chevy out front.
Rich, she thought, my husband’s name is Rich.
She opened her eyes and started walking.
CHAPTER TWO
“Come on, guys. Why don’t we step outside and talk about this?”
Nick Burkhardt flicked his gaze from one man’s face to the other as they squared up to each other, trying to gauge their reactions to his words. But as near as he could tell, neither had heard him. The two men were in their early twenties, both brown-haired, with similar stocky builds. One had a full beard, while the other was clean-shaven. The bearded one wore a brown sweater, while the clean-shaven one wore a blue long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his forearms. They both wore jeans and sneakers. The two looked enough alike to be brothers, although from what Nick could gather, they were cousins. And to make matters worse, they were both Jagerbaren: bear-like Wesen capable of great strength and savagery.
“I think you may need to turn up the volume a little.” Hank Griffin flanked Nick, his voice calm. But Nick could detect the tension in his partner’s words, telling him that Hank was ready to go into action any second, if necessary. And it was looking more necessary with each passing seco
nd. Hank was a tall African American man with a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. He had what Nick thought of as a quarterback’s build—broad-shouldered and thick-bodied, all of it muscle. He could present an intimidating figure when he wanted to, which came in handy when questioning a suspect, but most of the time he had a twinkle in his eye and an easy smile. Right now he was in full-on intimidation mode.
In contrast to his partner, Nick was lean, with short black hair and stubble to match. His eyes were his most striking feature, or so he’d been told. Juliette said there was an intensity in his gaze, and that his eyes were always moving, taking in everything around him. Except when he interacted with people. Then all of his attention was centered on them. He now focused that intensity on the two Wesen, but he hadn’t been able to get a response from them. So far neither of the cousins had thrown the first punch, but Nick didn’t know how much longer that would last.
Blind Bill’s was a small bar, not far from Lewis and Clark Law School. It had a deliberately grungy vibe, the kind of place that looks like it tries a little too hard to be a dive, but the microbrews listed on the chalkboard hanging behind the bar told a different story. The clientele were all college students, and while they had a tendency to dress down, their almost conspicuous lack of obvious tattoos and piercings told Nick these were classic Type As—future doctors, lawyers, and MBAs—who didn’t want to risk their future employment opportunities just for the sake of fashion.
“They’ve been like that for the last fifteen minutes.”
Beverly Burello—the server who’d called Nick out to deal with this problem—stood next to him. She was a thin, almost sleek woman in her late twenties, with long, full, reddish-brown hair that hung to her waist. She wore a black T-shirt with the Blind Bill’s logo on the front, and skinny jeans so tight they looked as if they’d been painted on.
She went on. “They just stand there, trash-talking each other. I was hoping they’d either cool off or take it outside. As you can see, my hopes were not fulfilled. I tried talking to them, but I’m not exactly the most intimidating person, you know?”