by Tim Waggoner
He curled his left hand into a fist and hit the Wechselbalg as hard as he could, driving his knuckles into the shapeshifter’s nose. Cartilage ground and a clear liquid gushed in place of blood. The Wechselbalg’s head snapped back, and his finger spines pulled free of Nick’s right hand. Despite the numbness in that hand, Nick made a fist, stepped forward, and struck the Wechselbalg with a hard right cross to the jaw. Because of the numbness, Nick couldn’t judge the strength of the blow, but from the way the Wechselbalg staggered to the side, he figured he’d hit him hard enough.
Nick moved forward, intending to press his advantage, but the Wechselbalg—perhaps knowing Nick well enough now to guess what he’d do in this situation—met Nick head-on. He charged forward, wrapped his arms around Nick, and lifted him off his feet. Nick head-butted the shapeshifter before he could do anything, and the creature’s head snapped back once more. His grip on Nick slackened, allowing Nick to break free.
The Wechselbalg was looking pretty wobbly by this point, and Nick figured he could knock out the creature with one more solid blow. But before he could advance on the shapeshifter, the Wechselbalg drew his Glock and pointed it at Nick. The creature might’ve been unsteady on his feet, but there was nothing wrong with his aim.
Nick froze, fully expecting to hear the sound of a gunshot blast and feel the punch of a bullet striking him. But before the Wechselbalg could fire, Hank slammed his shoulder into the shapeshifter, knocking him sideways. The blow caused the creature to drop his Glock, but either he wasn’t as weak as Nick had surmised or he’d recovered quickly, because he grabbed hold of Hank, spun around, and shoved him toward Nick. Then he took off sprinting.
Nick caught Hank, but the Wechselbalg had pushed him so hard that both men went down in a heap. A Jeep Cherokee was parked at the curb several dozen feet away from where Nick had parked the Charger. When the Wechselbalg reached it, he quickly climbed in, started it, and roared away from the curb.
Nick stood and helped Hank to his feet. They watched the taillights of the Cherokee as it sped away.
“I didn’t get the plate,” Hank asked. “You?”
Nick shook his head. “Too dark.”
“And here I thought you had special Grimm vision or something.”
Nick smiled. “Guess it’s offline tonight.”
He turned to his friend. Hank still had his right hand tucked into his jacket pocket. The blood splotches on his sleeve were wider and darker now. He carried the Glock in his left hand, but it hung limp at his side. He looked tired as hell, and Nick didn’t blame him. It had been a long night, and it was far from over.
Juliette came running across the lawn to join them. She wrapped her arms around Nick, and he put his arm around her shoulders and held her close.
“At least we know what vehicle he’s driving,” Nick said.
“You’re going to go after him,” Juliette said. It wasn’t a question.
“Just as soon as we get Hank patched up.” He glanced at his wounded hand. Most of the numbness had worn off, but it was still bleeding from several pinprick-sized holes. Nothing serious, though.
The three of them turned and started back toward the house. In the distance, they heard the sounds of approaching police sirens.
“One of the neighbors reported the gunshots,” Hank said.
“More than one, probably,” Nick said. He sighed and pulled away from Juliette. “You take Hank inside while I try to think of a cover story to tell whoever shows up.”
Juliette nodded, then turned to Hank. “Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of medical supplies in the house. I stocked up so I could take care of Nick.”
“He does tend to play a little rough sometimes,” Hank said.
Nick headed to the end of the driveway as Juliette and Hank returned to the house. The sirens grew louder. Wouldn’t the neighbors just love that noise on top of the gunshots? If this sort of thing kept up, he and Juliette would have to start looking for a new house.
As he waited for the responding officers to arrive, he tried not to think about how the Wechselbalg had escaped, where he might be going next, and worse, what he might do when he got there.
CHAPTER TEN
“Damn, damn, damn!”
The Wechselbalg hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand as he swore, as if to punctuate the words.
He was driving far too fast for a suburban neighborhood, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t worried about Nick… No, he was Nick! He wasn’t worried about the Other giving pursuit. He would remain behind, at least long enough to make sure his partner was okay, which would give the Wechselbalg more than enough time to flee. He’d broken off the battle not because he’d been disarmed, but to give his injuries a chance to heal. His kind healed far faster than humans and even most Wesen, but it still took time. It was the fact that he was fleeing which upset him so. That, along with the Other still being alive. The Wechselbalg had tried to kill him twice now, and both times he’d failed. It was beyond maddening! He hurt from the injuries he’d sustained while fighting the Other, and while the wound to his shoulder was the worst, he was more upset by his nose. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he wondered if it was broken. The thought made him even angrier. He’d only had the nose for a few hours. The damned thing was practically brand new!
But all of his pain paled in comparison to the turbulent emotions that roiled inside him. A major part of a Wechselbalg’s survival strategy was to adapt as quickly as it could after assuming a new form. That meant shedding an identity that he’d lived with for a long time—years, perhaps decades—and adopting an entirely new one almost instantly. But his incomplete memories were impeding the process, and now that he knew the Other still lived, all of his instincts screamed at him to kill the man. How could he fully assume the identity of Nick Burkhardt if he… if the Other still existed? He considered turning around and going back to the house—the house that was supposed to be his—and trying again to kill the Other so he could be rid of him once and for all, even if he wasn’t currently at his full strength. The Wechselbalg almost did it, but he heard the sound of approaching police sirens, and instead of pulling the Cherokee into a U-turn, he continued going straight. He did not, however, decrease his speed.
Two cruisers appeared, coming toward him from the opposite direction, lights flashing, sirens blaring. He stiffened in his seat and gripped the steering wheel tighter, afraid that the officers were coming for him. But the fear passed quickly. The Other would never report that he had an exact double running around town. He would want to protect his identity as a Grimm, as well as keep the secret of the Wesen’s existence.
The Wechselbalg watched the cruisers go past, realizing they were probably on their way to the house, responding to a report of gunfire. Good. Let the Other deal with them. It would give him time to come up with a plan to—
The Wechselbalg ended that line of thought when caught sight of one of the cruisers turning around.
That’s when he realized how fast he was going, and he smacked the steering wheel again in frustration. Of course he looked suspicious, speeding away from an area where shots had been reported. If he hadn’t been so upset by his encounter with the Other, he would’ve anticipated this and driven more slowly. Why was it always so damned hard for him to think?
He briefly considered stomping on the gas and trying to flee, but he wasn’t about to run from an ordinary human police officer. He took his foot off the gas pedal and let the Cherokee slow down. It didn’t take long for the cruiser to catch up, and the Wechselbalg pulled over to the curb. He sat quietly behind the wheel while the officer called in the stop and the Cherokee’s license plate number. Then the officer stepped out of the cruiser and approached, hand on his weapon, but the gun still holstered.
Big mistake, the Wechselbalg thought.
The shapeshifter watched the officer’s reflection in the side-view mirror as he approached. He was a Hispanic male in mid to late thirties, fit, and he moved with a confidence born o
f both training and experience. He was alert, but not nervous, and the Wechselbalg knew this made him dangerous.
As the officer leaned down to the driver’s side window, he said, “License and reg—” He broke off as he noticed the Wechselbalg’s broken nose and shoulder wound. The Wechselbalg knew the man would draw his weapon and demand he exit the vehicle. But the shapeshifter wasn’t going to give him that chance. His fist blurred through the open window and slammed into the officer’s face. He put all the strength he could into the blow, and the officer flew backwards, hit the asphalt, and didn’t get up.
The Wechselbalg glanced out the window to make sure the man wouldn’t be rising anytime soon. The officer lay motionless on the ground, his nose broken and bloodied. The shapeshifter smiled. At least he wasn’t the only one with a bloody nose now. He didn’t know if the man was alive or dead, and right then he really didn’t care, just as long as the man was no longer an annoyance.
The Wechselbalg got out of the Cherokee, removed the officer’s Glock to replace the one he lost back at the house, then got back in his vehicle. He pulled away from the curb and left the officer and his cruiser with the lights still flashing. He was careful to drive more slowly this time.
Striking the officer had taken the edge off his frustration, but it quickly rebuilt to its previous level and kept mounting. He wanted more than anything to return to the Other and kill him once and for all. But even in the midst of his fury, he knew couldn’t do that. The Other would be on his guard now, and he would alert his allies as well. The Wechselbalg would need to find a way to catch him off guard—and that would take thought and planning. Both traits which, admittedly, weren’t the easiest for him at that moment. He supposed he should find someplace to hole up for a while, somewhere he’d have peace and quiet, where he would be able to concentrate more effectively while he finished healing.
But Nick Burkhardt wasn’t the sort of man to go off by himself when he had a problem. He thought better when he kept moving, kept working. So that’s exactly what the Wechselbalg would do. The Other had grown soft over the last few years, treating Wesen not only as if they were human, but even calling some of them friends. The Other had become a poor excuse for a Grimm, and the Wechselbalg had a lot of work ahead of him in order to put fear back into the heart of Portland’s Wesen. And he knew of a good place to begin rectifying the Other’s mistakes.
Now if he could only remember where Bud Wurstner lived…
* * *
Both Monroe and Rosalee still found the shop to be oppressively hot. Rosalee continued wearing a T-shirt, but Monroe had removed his shirt entirely. His muscles were larger, more defined, and harder than when he was in human form. His skin was covered with a light coat of dark brown fur, and she found the whole primitive look appealing. But she did her best to ignore how he looked. Too many people were depending on them to find a cure. Besides, they’d already fooled around once tonight. That should be enough. Right?
She snuck a look at Monroe, who was paging through another in a seemingly endless supply of old books. She bit her lip and quickly returned her attention to her own book.
“This is driving me insane!”
Monroe gripped the large leather-bound book, his claws dimpling the cover and threatening to pierce it. He’d already damaged a half-dozen books, either by clawing their covers or throwing them around the shop, which in turn caused all kinds of other damage.
Her feelings of physical attraction toward him were swept away by a wave of irritation so intense it bordered on fury. Rosalee didn’t think she could take much more of his temper tantrums. And she knew she couldn’t take him damaging any more books—especially this one.
“Be careful,” she said, trying to keep the words from coming out as a growl. “That book—which you are dangerously close to shredding—used to belong to my great aunt. It’s been in the family for generations.”
Monroe didn’t put the book down. Instead, he gripped it harder, looking at her in defiance, as if daring her to press the issue. Rosalee, however, was not in a mood to back down.
“It’s special to me,” she said, emphasizing the word by lowering her voice to a throaty near-growl. But Monroe gave no indication that he picked up on her message.
“It’s bad enough that it’s written in German,” he said, “but the type is so tiny, you practically need a microscope to see it.”
“I’ll look through it then. Maybe you should take a break.”
This is like Umkippen, she thought. If Wesen forced themselves to woge over and over, there was a danger that the Wesen side could take over, leaving them at the mercy of their most primitive instincts. The longer the Ewig Woge kept them in Wesen form, the more their control over their bestial sides would erode until nothing would be left but pure, savage animal drive.
She reached for the book, moving slowly so as not to trigger the beast that was increasingly taking him over. He didn’t snap or snarl at her, but he did take a step away from her and angle his body, as if to block her reach.
“I’m fine,” he said. “If either of us needs a break, it’s you.”
Rosalee raised her eyebrows.
“Really?”
“Yeah. You’ve been getting kind of growly over the last half hour or so.”
Rosalee tried to hold it in, she really did, but she just didn’t have the control right then.
She swept her arm through the air, intending to make a gesture taking in all the damage that Monroe’s temper had caused. She already had her next words framed in her mind.
Look at this place! You’re the one responsible for this mess, and you have the gall to say that I’m the one who needs a break?
But she misjudged the distance, and instead of passing close to Monroe’s bare shoulder, her hand—more specifically, her claws—grazed him. Her claws might not have been as long or sharp as Monroe’s, but they could do some serious damage of their own, especially when backed by the strength of her anger. A deep scratch appeared on Monroe’s skin, and beads of dark blood welled forth.
At first he only looked at the scratch, as if he wasn’t certain what it was. But then his head snapped around to face her, eyes burning with anger. He bared his teeth, and he began breathing faster, oxygenating his blood in preparation to fight.
Rosalee hadn’t meant to hurt him, but she had. Sure, it was only a scratch, but in the grip of the Ewig Woge, even something as minor as an accidental scratch could feel like a deliberate attack. Still, that was no reason for him to act like a big baby about it. He was a big, bad Blutbad, wasn’t he? About time he started acting like it.
With a start, she realized that she’d been giving in to her own inner beast without even being aware of doing so. The loss of the rational self was the ultimate nightmare for most Wesen, and Rosalee was no exception. For a time—too long a time—she’d been hooked on Jay, a drug that had no effect on humans but was highly addictive for Wesen. She knew all too well what it was like to lose herself in pure sensation that felt like it was real, but which was actually just an artificially induced lie. The Ewig Woge was the same thing: it was a hormone imbalance that mimicked a disease, but it felt as if her animal side was fighting and clawing its way up from the depths of her being, determined to be free of the flesh-prison that had kept it caged for far too long.
She could feel herself teetering on the edge, on the verge of losing control. She used every ounce of mental and emotional strength she possessed and employed the same fierce willpower that had finally allowed her to walk away from Jay and never touch it again.
I’m not an animal, she told herself. I’m not.
She gave it everything she had, but in the end it wasn’t enough.
She returned Monroe’s snarl with interest and took a swipe at his head, intending to claw deep furrows into his cheek and jaw. His reflexes were too good, though, and he raised the book he was holding and used it as a shield. Her claws struck the back cover and took a chunk out of the leather. This drove him even further
into a rage, and she reversed the direction of her hand and knocked the book out of Monroe’s grip with a backhanded blow. Deep inside, she recoiled at further damaging the heirloom, as she watched it fall to the floor, but the beast inside her felt only a surge of gleeful satisfaction at having deprived Monroe of his pathetic makeshift shield.
Monroe roared and reached for her with his clawed hands, but Rosalee wasn’t about to let him get hold of her. She spun around and ran toward the back room, where she’d have more room to maneuver. Fuchsbau might not be as strong or as bloodthirsty as Blutbaden, but they were fast, sly, and clever. As far as Rosalee was concerned, intelligence could beat primitive savagery any day—as long as you kept moving, that is.
The back room was where the shop’s bulk supplies were kept—large canisters of spices and dried roots, huge jugs filled with liquid extracts and essential oils, jars of dehydrated vegetables, bags of nuts and seeds, and more. Rosalee was a firm believer in having supplies on hand at all times, and the shelves were so full, they bowed from the weight of the contents. There was also a large refrigerator/freezer for those materials that needed to be kept fresh, and it too was jam-packed.
She knew she had only seconds before Monroe caught up with her, so she ran to one of the shelves, grabbed a canister, and spun around just in time to see Monroe claw past the curtain that separated the front of the shop from the back. Snarling, he fixed his gaze on Rosalee. She saw no sign of the man she loved in those blazing crimson eyes, saw no hint of anything even remotely human. Monroe as she knew him was gone, and all that remained was an angry, violent beast. This didn’t upset her, though. In many ways, she was little more than a beast herself right then. But there was one difference between them. She was a beast who was prepared. She jerked the lid off the canister, cast it aside, and as Monroe charged toward her, she hurled the canister’s contents in his face.