Grimm: The Killing Time

by Tim Waggoner

  The ghost pepper was reputed to be one of the hottest chiles in the world, and Monroe got an industrial-sized blast of it dried and ground. He howled in pain and doubled over, coughing and rubbing furiously at his eyes. He started wheezing as his throat began to swell, and tears streamed from his reddened eyes and dripped onto the floor. The ghost pepper powder would’ve caused anyone who was attacked with it to react violently, but the effect was a thousand times more intense for Monroe, given his heightened Blutbad senses. For him—at least in terms of pain—it was almost like being splashed in the face with sulfuric acid.

  The beast in Rosalee felt malicious triumph at having neutralized an enemy so thoroughly, but the woman in her felt only horrified guilt at having hurt the man she loved.

  Strike now, while he’s helpless, her beast told her.

  All she had to do was rush forward, extend her claws to the fullest, and slash them across the Blutbad’s throat. It didn’t matter how strong and fierce he was. Once he started bleeding, it would all be over in seconds. She had to do it. It was the only way to make sure she’d be safe.

  You could run, Rosalee thought.

  He’d only give chase, her beast replied. And after what we did to him, he’ll be so furious he won’t stop until he’s caught us, clawed us open from neck to crotch, and is feasting on our entrails.

  Monroe would never do that, Rosalee told herself. Except he wasn’t Monroe any more, was he? At least not all the way. No more than she was Rosalee Calvert. She was Fuchsbau, she was speed and guile, and she would survive, no matter what it took.

  She didn’t give in to the beast so much as it took control of her, and she moved toward Monroe, growling softly, claws raised.

  Monroe was still wheezing and tears continued to fall from his eyes. He dropped to his knees and fell forward. His hands splayed in the chile powder and nearly slipped out from under him. Rosalee’s mouth curled into a cruel smile at the sight of his humiliation. The mighty Blutbad, brought low by a sniffer full of ghost pepper!

  Now that he was on all fours, she wouldn’t simply finish him off with a single swipe of her claws. She would grab hold of his hair, lift his head to expose his throat, sink the claws of her free hand into his flesh, get a good grip, and tear—

  Before she could go any farther, Monroe jumped to his feet and pressed his hands, both of which were covered with chile power, to her face, one hand over her mouth, the other her nose. She inhaled from surprise before she could stop herself, and fire exploded inside her nasal passages, and her throat felt as if it was filled with blazing hot shards of broken glass. She tried to push Monroe’s hands away, but he held them firmly against her face. Tears gushed from her eyes, and she tried to cough, but since Monroe’s hand covered her mouth, no sound came out. She thought he intended to smother her to death, and she started beating and clawing at his chest. But then he pulled his hands away and stepped back.

  Now that she was able to breathe, she attempted to draw in deep lungfuls of air, but her throat had swollen to the point where it felt like she was breathing through a straw. She gasped, wheezed, coughed, and choked, and all the while two miniature Niagras gushed from her tear ducts.

  The entire time this was happening, Monroe stood and watched. His eyes were still red and swollen, but they weren’t as teary as they had been. His breathing was harsh and ragged, but steady enough, and he no longer coughed.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I know it’s not much fun.”

  “Not… much… fun?” she gasped out. “It feels like I inhaled… gasoline, and then… swallowed a lit match!”

  She hurt like blazes. Who the hell actually ate ghost peppers on purpose?

  It took several more moments for the worst of her physical reactions to pass. When they did—when she was able to more or less breathe freely again—she realized something.

  “I can think clearly again,” she said.

  Monroe, despite still being in Blutbad form, seemed like his usual sweet self, without any sign of the bestial rage that had gripped him. She remained in Wesen form as well, but she too felt no anger and no pressure to act on instinct.

  “It’s the ghost pepper!” she said, almost giddy with excitement. “Something in the powder helped counter the effects of the Ewig Woge!”

  “Some of them anyway,” Monroe said. “We’re both still pretty hairy.” He gingerly touched the claw marks Rosalee had left on his shoulder. “And by the way, ow!”

  She stepped forward, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him. His lips tasted like chile powder, but at this point, she didn’t find the sensation of heat unpleasant, not in the slightest.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  He put his hands on her waist.

  “I’m the one who should be sorry. I can’t believe I—”

  She kissed him again to shut him up.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “It’s the Ewig Woge. But at least now we have a place to start looking for a treatment: the ghost pepper, the hottest chile in the world!”

  “Actually,” Monroe said, “that’s up for debate. In 2013, the Guinness Book of World Records decided the Carolina Reaper was—”

  Rosalee kissed him again, and this time they didn’t break apart for several minutes.

  When they separated, Monroe sighed. “Back to work?”

  Rosalee grinned, feeling hope for the first time in hours.

  “Back to work,’ she said.

  * * *

  Bud had spent the last hour or so trying to settle on a hiding place. He’d found several good ones in the basement, attic, and crawlspace, but they were all occupied by his family. The Eisbiber had a saying: Strong together; safer apart. They tended to scatter when they had to make it more difficult for predators to find them. When you hid in a group, you gave off more body heat, scents were intensified, and the sounds of respiration were louder.

  He was proud of his family’s skill at hiding, but unfortunately, they hadn’t left him with many choices for his own hiding place. He currently stood in the living room, considering his remaining options. He was contemplating hiding in the garage, or maybe going old school and digging himself a hole in the backyard, when his phone rang. He was so full of anxiety at that point that he actually jumped several inches into the air when he heard the ring. Grateful that no one had been around to see him overreact, he answered the phone.

  It was his friend Roscoe. Roscoe was just as nervous as Bud, and words poured out of him so fast that Bud—no stranger to speaking fast himself—had trouble following what Roscoe was saying. He gathered Roscoe and his family had also been affected by whatever-it-was that kept Wesen in a state of perpetual woge. He caught the word Hafen.

  “Gottagoothercallstomake,” Roscoe said, and then disconnected.

  Bud understood what was happening, and it was bad. Really bad. This woge condition was spreading among Portland’s Wesen community, and without any kind of treatment available, the affected Wesen were getting out of the city. But he had his own list of people to call in such an emergency. His first instinct was to gather his family together and tell them to start packing, but the protocol in such situations was crystal clear. Call first, flee second. Word had to be spread as fast as possible.

  Bud began making his calls, and he was in the middle of the third one when someone began pounding on the front door.

  “Gotta go, Natalie. Someone’s at the door.”

  He disconnected and tucked the phone in his pocket. The pounding continued without cease, getting louder with each second. His whiskers quivered. Always a bad sign. He wanted to hide—not that there were any good places left—but he stayed where he was. It could be someone he knew, someone who was in trouble. Then again, if any Wesen could be affected by the woge sickness, the predators would be too. And if they gave in to their animal urges… well, no one would be safe. Maybe it was a predator at the door… but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was someone who needed help.

  Throwing his fears aside, Bud rushed to the
door and put his hand on the lock. But before he did anything more, he called out, “Who is it?”

  “Burkhardt!”

  “Nick?”

  Bud quickly unlocked the door and started to open it. But before he could open it more than a couple inches, the door burst inward. The knob tore out of his hand, and he found himself looking at a man he barely recognized. Part of the problem—a big part—was his nose. It was swollen and caked with… something. Whatever it was, it didn’t look like blood. It was slightly crooked, too, or at least Bud thought it was. As Bud looked closer, he saw it move back into place with a soft click. Did Grimms heal like that? He had no idea.

  Even more worrying than the damage to Nick’s nose was the stain on his left shoulder. His jacket had a ragged hole in it, and from the amount of discoloration, it looked as if he’d lost a lot of leakage from whatever wound he’d sustained there. Knife blade? Gunshot? Bud had no idea, but whatever had happened, it looked bad.

  But it wasn’t just the nose or the shoulder. Mostly, it was the eyes. They were cold, dead, and empty. Looking into them was like gazing into two bottomless pits of darkness, and Bud couldn’t help shivering in fear.

  This is Nick, he told himself. He’s a friend.

  But Bud’s instincts told him that a predator had indeed come to his home, and that predator had a name: Grimm.

  Bud was better able to control his anxiety than most Eisbiber—although they preferred to regard their nervousness as common sense. But his control had been shaky at best since he’d become stuck in his Wesen form, and what little remained vanished when Nick drew his gun. Bud didn’t ask why Nick was acting like this, didn’t plead with him to keep the gun down. He spun on his feet and ran. He had no conscious thought other than to lure the Grimm away from his family. If he could make it to the back door and lure him out into the yard…

  But before he could get more than a few feet, he felt Nick grab hold of his shirt collar and yank him backward. Off-balance, he stumbled, and then Nick pulled downward, even harder this time, and Bud fell to the floor. Before he could rise, Nick let go of his collar, stepped where Bud could see him, crouched down, and pressed the muzzle of his gun to Bud’s forehead. Bud’s heart pounded so rapidly that he couldn’t feel any space between the beats. If he hadn’t been in Wesen form, he would’ve feared he was having a heart attack.

  “You’re Bud,” Nick said. “Bud Wurstner.”

  Bud’s throat was so dry, it felt as if he’d swallowed a bucket of sand. It took him several attempts to respond.

  “Yes, yes, I am. And may I say, you pronounced my last name superbly. A lot of people hit the T too hard, but not you. You put just right amount of emphasis—”

  He broke off when Nick pressed the muzzle harder against his head.

  “You’re Wesen,” Nick said. “An Eisbiber.”

  Though the majority of his mind was occupied by sheer terror, a small but still rational part wondered why Nick was talking like this. Maybe whatever or whoever had busted his nose had hit him hard enough to scramble his brains a little. If that were true, it could explain Nick’s bizarre behavior. With any luck, he’d soon shake off the effects of the blow and return to normal. But in the meantime, he’d be a confused and—if Bud’s current predicament was any indication—extremely dangerous man.

  Bud struggled to ignore the feeling of metal pressing into his skin and get his fear under control. Not so much for himself, but for Phoebe and the children.

  “If anything’s wrong, Nick, I want to help. Just tell me what it is, okay?”

  Nick frowned. “What’s wrong? This whole town is what’s wrong! It’s crawling with Wesen! You’re like… like…”

  “Ants? Cockroaches? Grasshoppers? Wait—that last one doesn’t work, does it?”

  Nick ignored him.

  “Something needs to be done about all of you. The Other has failed to live up to his heritage. He’s a disgrace!”

  “I’m, uh, sure he is.”

  Wow, whatever hit him must’ve hit him really hard. Or maybe the blood loss from the shoulder wound was to blame for Nick’s strange behavior. Heck, Bud practically fainted whenever he cut himself.

  “That’s why I’m here. He needs to be taught a lesson. He’s been sloppy. Lenient. Worse, he’s been fraternizing.” Nick said this last word as if it were a euphemism for a particularly obscene and degrading act.

  Bud tried to frown, but the gun muzzle pressed to his head prevented him from doing so.

  “I’m sorry, Nick, but I really don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I’d really appreciate it if you would take the gun away from my head, though. It’s making me kind of nervous, you know?”

  Nick went on as if he hadn’t heard him.

  “I have to clean up his mess, tidy up the loose ends he’s left behind, send him a message. There’s a new sheriff in town.”

  Nick smiled the cruelest smile Bud had ever seen—and he’d once witnessed a Schneetmacher grin.

  “I don’t know exactly who you’re planning on sending a message to—and pardon me for adding this, but I have to say that sounds like a particularly ominous phrase—but if there’s anyone who can send a message and make sure it’s well and truly sent, it’s Nick Burkhardt.”

  Nick’s smile fell away, not that Bud was sorry to see it go. He fixed Bud with an appraising look, and when he spoke next, his voice was low and intense. “What did you call me?”

  Bud tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, but it was the size of grapefruit on steroids, and he couldn’t do it. He managed to find his voice anyway.

  “You mean your name?”

  Nick nodded. “Say it again.”

  Feeling equal measures confused and creeped out by the request, Bud nevertheless fulfilled it.

  “Nick Burkhardt.”

  Nick looked at him for a few moments after that, face expressionless, gaze unreadable. Bud had the sense he was thinking something over, weighing his options. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what those options were.

  Nick finally seemed to come to a decision. He smiled and removed the gun muzzle from Bud’s head

  “Yes. I am Nick Burkhardt.” He stood, tucked his gun away, and held out a hand to help Bud to his feet.

  Bud didn’t trust Nick right now, but he didn’t want to make him angry, either. So he took Nick’s hand and let the man help him up. And if his grip hurt and he yanked Bud’s arm too hard, so what? At least Nick wasn’t holding a gun to his head anymore.

  The two men regarded each other in awkward silence for a moment. Nick was the first to break it.

  “I should be going. I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Sure, sure,” Bud said. He had no idea what Nick was talking about, but he was too relieved that Nick was leaving to care.

  Nick’s manner turned serious once more. “Stay in tonight. It’s dangerous out there, and it’s only going to get worse.”

  “I know,” Bud said. “I got the call.” When Nick frowned, Bud continued. “The call to go to the Hafen?”

  “Yes, the Hafen. Which is…”

  “In Forest Park,” Bud said. “I told you that before, remember? When you were here the last time? Well, I didn’t tell you exactly, but you guessed.”

  Nick nodded. “Right. And the city’s Wesen are gathering there now?”

  “Yeah. All the ones that are stuck in full woge, anyway.”

  Nick nodded again. “Good,” he said, and then added, “Very good. How about you, Bud? Are you going?”

  “I have a couple more calls to make—folks I need to tell about heading to the Hafen. And then I’m going to pack the family in the truck and head for the park.” He let out an uncomfortable chuckle. “If I can get them to leave their hiding places, that is.”

  “Okay,” Nick said. The smile he gave Bud this time was more normal than before, but it still held a hint of cruelty. “See you there.”

  * * *

  After Nick left, Bud closed and locked the door. He knew it wouldn
’t keep out Nick if he was determined to get back in, but it made him feel better. He took several deep breaths to calm himself, then took his phone from his pocket and made his next call.

  “Jerry? It’s Bud. Are you—yeah, me too. The whole family, yeah. We’re heading to the Hafen in a bit, and you should too. Yeah. Right. Oh, one more thing: if you see Nick Burkhardt you should steer clear of him. Yeah, I know I told you he’s my friend, and he is. Or at least, he was. But something’s happened to him, and I don’t think…” Bud frowned. “No, I didn’t hear about any Skalengeck teenagers. Why?”

  * * *

  As the Wechselbalg drove away from Bud’s house, he was glad that he’d been merciful and spared the Eisbiber’s life—for now, at least. His luck, it seemed, had finally taken a turn for the better. Portland’s Wesen were doing him the favor of gathering in a single place outside the city. That would make his work so much easier. He was going to need more weaponry for a job this big, though. Specialized weaponry, too, as some Wesen were more resistant to gunfire than others.

  A piece of the Other’s memory—one he’d searched in vain for earlier—finally emerged then, an image of an old-fashioned travel trailer, located in a facility called… Forest Hills Storage. He couldn’t recall the address, but now that he remembered the name, he should be able to find it. He was a police detective, after all.

  He smiled. By the time the sun rose, the ground in Forest Park would be soaked in Wesen blood. It was going to be glorious.

  * * *

  De Groot sat at his desk, daylight streaming in the window behind him. The window provided a picturesque view of the city, one suitable to put on postcards to sell to tourists, but he rarely took the time to turn around and enjoy it. He was a busy man with much to do. Too much to waste time looking out windows.

  He appeared to be a human male in his sixties, balding, with a full white beard that might’ve made him look a little like St. Nicholas if it hadn’t been for his dark, severe eyebrows which were furrowed in a constant frown. And his eyes, of course. Behind his wire-frame glasses they glimmered with a hard intelligence that marked him as a man who knew the seriousness of his job and intended to perform his duties to the utmost of his ability—regardless of the cost.