The Grimm Files Collection Boxed Set

by Selene Charles

  “Did you find anything when you walked the perimeter?” I asked, still sniffing the breeze. The sulfide smell was faint, but it was definitely not from around here.

  One of the most befuddling parts of the crime last year had been the complete lack of evidence. Normally, there was something—a stray hair, a bullet, fibers, footprints, something. But in this case, there’d been nothing other than the bodies themselves. But nowhere in the report had there been mention of the strange odor emanating from the waters.

  Perhaps that was because the only beings who would have been capable of scenting such a minor anomaly were water elementals. And I was the only water elemental holding a badge. One prone to seeing conspiracies might wonder why I’d not been sent out immediately to investigate.

  I inhaled deeply. “Something’s not right with this water.”

  “They did a water drag and found nothing,” Ichabod murmured, his eyes never leaving the rippling movements below.

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t have because what I’m smelling isn’t actually in the water itself,” I said and then ran my palm an inch above the surface of the lake. The complacent pool filled with ripples, then ripples turned into waves until, with a soft roaring sound, the waters parted, revealing the densely packed mud more than ten feet beneath.

  I cocked my head, peering intently at the thick sludge and decomposing plant and animal life.

  “Do you see something?” Ichabod asked a second later.

  I shook my head. “No. But something is down there that shouldn’t be in this realm.”

  Standing, I walked a slow circle around the lake, moving the water from one spot to the next as I studied the dense, wet earth. There was something encased below, I was absolutely sure. And when I got halfway around the pond, I finally spied what I’d been looking for—a ridged knot of earth, far different in coloration than the rest of the clay bed, which was a dull, rust red. This patch was black as tar, as though something had befouled the very soil itself.

  Narrowing my eyes, I held out my palm and called for whatever was buried in the mud. A gentle swell of water latched on to the objects, suctioning them out of the muck before depositing them into my hand. I cringed at the wet glop dripping between my fingers. With a softly spoken command, the waters rolled back to where they belonged once again.

  “Come here,” Ich said and knelt, yanking me down beside him. Without asking for permission, he took the sludge from my hand, put it in the lake, and began gently shaking his fist. A moment later, a slow curl of a smile drew across his face as he withdrew his hand.

  I stared at the brown-stained silk ribbon and the large, curved black object still caked in mud resting on his palm. “What is that?” I asked with a frown, unable to make heads or tails of what I was seeing.

  Chuckling, he handed me the ribbon, which I promptly slipped into an evidence baggie before burying it in my pocket. Once again, he dipped his hand into the water, but this time, he was scraping his thumbs across the surface of the hooked object.

  “Well, if I’m right,” he murmured intently, “then you may have just found the murder weapon.”

  My brows rose. “What?” I asked, sounding shocked. But he didn’t answer. He just continued swishing his hand in the water.

  It took another minute or so to clean the object, and when he pulled it back out again, I was staring at a thumb-sized claw.

  “A cat claw?” I hissed, recalling Georgie’s words.

  Ichabod frowned and glanced at me. “Of a sort, though not entirely. Do you see the banded striations upon it?”

  He lifted the claw and turned it slightly, just enough so that a beam of sun could catch the onyx-colored band, causing it to shimmer like heated lava rock.

  “I’ve read about claws like these,” he said in that distracted voice that meant Ich was lost to the thoughts in his head. “The bands aren’t merely decorative. They are a sign of poison sacks.”

  Very few cats possessed claws like these, and most of them came from one realm.

  “This is from Wonderland,” I said, as he handed it over to me.

  The claw was aged and worn. I studied the smooth tip, noting the empty pocket where the poison had once flowed. I’d only ever met Cheshire once and wasn’t certain he possessed poison-tipped claws, but Georgie’s account was gaining more and more credibility.

  Withdrawing an evidence bag from inside of his jacket pocket, Ichabod held it out to me. I dropped the claw into it.

  “So, we know how this happened. Now, we need to figure out why and who,” he said ominously, giving me arched brows.

  Nodding, I knew exactly where the chief would be sending me once we reported back.

  “I don’t get paid enough for this job,” I sighed.

  Ich chuckled. “Says the princess with bottomless coffers.”

  I hissed at him, and he had the nerve to laugh.

  CARRYING BOTH POUCHES, I made my way toward the chief’s office. In the hour we’d been gone, the precinct had gotten even busier. Green and blue fairy light lit up the dash of the caller hotlines. Officers in uniform and in plain clothes were running around, bumping into one another in their haste to exit the building.

  Frowning, but not terribly worried, as there was always some emergency or another in a city of this size, I continued heading toward Bo’s closed office door. But after being bumped into for the third time by an officer, I growled, stopping the next uni I saw.

  Tanner, a woodland satyr and beat cop for the past twenty years, with unassuming brown hair and eyes, glanced down at the hand gripping his elbow.

  “Detective Elle?” he questioned with a slight bleat to his words.

  He had his cap in his hand, and the top button of his shirt twisted into the wrong slot, causing him to look rumpled and harried. His normally neatly groomed black hooves clopped anxiously, dropping bits of dirt and grass on the polished floor as he glanced at the line of officers winding out the door.

  Tanner often looked as though he’d just barely made it into work on time, but he’d never looked dirty. Today, he looked as though he’d taken a dirt bath. Considering he worked two jobs because his woodland nymph wife was heavily pregnant with their tenth kid, I spared his pride by giving his appearance little more than a passing glance.

  “What the hell’s going on out there today?” I asked, watching as a line of mystically issued crime-scene examiners—or MICE for short—followed close on the heels of several armed cops.

  His nostrils flared as he grunted, and he struck his hoof down once more. “Robbery at the Bank of Grimm in progress. Chief thinks it could be the Slasher Gang.”

  Pursing my lips, I released his arm. The Slashers were actually a murder of shifter crows—a group of six men and women whose MO was to leave corpses slashed to bloody ribbons in their wake. They were dangerous and a top-priority capture.

  Giving me a nod of farewell, Tanner rushed out the doors a moment later. Sirens began wailing down the streets as the cop cars rushed for the bank.

  Ichabod walked around me, sat on the edge of a desk, and crossed his hands on his lap. “What’s that about?”

  “Possible Slasher sighting at Bank of Grimm.”

  Dark brows twitched high up on his forehead. “Rock orcs guard those vaults, so I’d say the Slashers are either desperate or stupid. Hope they catch those bastards for their sake, or there’s bound to be blood filling our streets tonight.” He chuckled. Ich was known for having a morbid sense of humor.

  “Anyway, you ready to go speak with Bo, or what?” he asked.

  Hugging the baggies to my breast, I gave him a knowing glare and a shake of my head. “Don’t even try to horn in on my detail.”

  He held up his hands in a defenseless gesture. “I would never,” he harrumphed, but his blue eyes twinkled merrily. “You think so little of me, fish.”

  Punching his bicep, I snapped my teeth at him. “Call me that again, and you’ll be dinner.”

  Snorting, he pushed himself up off the desk. “H
onestly, I’ve got mounds of paperwork to see to. But keep me up to date on your findings, at least.”

  Cold case was a small unit within the precinct. Just me, Ichabod, and one other officer worked the files. The case of the Charmings had been a source of irritation for Ichabod, who prided himself on being able to solve even the toughest of riddles.

  “Of course.” I jerked my head in the direction of the chief’s white-tinted windows, ready to head back there and debrief, when I paused. "Ich?"

  "Yeah?" He glanced up.

  "When did the Charmings get pregnant? How did I not know?"

  His eyes turned serious, and he glanced to the side looking uncomfortable. I shifted on my feet, getting a bad feeling. "It was during your stint in Neverland," he said quietly, then glanced off to the side.

  We never spoke of Neverland. Working my jaw from side to side, I made a mental note to look through the royal archives for the banners announcing the birth of the princess.

  "Gotcha. Well, okay then. I'll see you when I see you."

  "Yup." With a flick of his wrist, Ichabod walked back to his desk through the nearly empty precinct.

  Turning, I glided up to Bo’s door, rapped once, and called out, “Chief!”

  “Come in,” a smoky female voice called out.

  The chief—better known in certain circles as Little Bo Peep—was a middle-aged human with graying strands of hair in her once-blond curls. Her face was lined from years of stress and worry, but her brown eyes were hard and intelligent. She wore a sharply cut, light-blue shirt opened just a touch at the collar to reveal the silver shepherdess-staff pendant resting against the hollow of her throat. She was a trim, athletic woman with the ability to speak eloquently and have those around her follow faithfully.

  Walking forward, I set the baggies of evidence down on her desk. Bo’s office wasn’t heavily decorated. There were pictures on the walls of her receiving medals and awards or posing for pictures with dignitaries and royalty. But none of those accomplishments ever seemed to faze Bo much. Her greatest pride was the framed picture of a gorgeous black-and-white-speckled lamb she called Ivony, a mix of Ivory and Ebony, sitting on her desk.

  “What’s that?” Bo raised a grayish-blond brow as she tapped the tip of her pen against the baggie containing the claw.

  Sitting, I shrugged. “Not quite sure yet. But at first glance, Crane and I are pretty certain it’s a poison-tipped claw.”

  “Hmm.” Sliding it toward her, Bo opened the sack and tipped it over. The claw dropped into her palm.

  For a woman who’d grown up a shepherdess, Bo had a finer mind than most. She had an uncanny way of understanding criminals’ minds. Her insights often helped me approach a case from angles I may not have otherwise considered.

  Bo also happened to hail from Wonderland, which meant she might know just what kind of creature this claw belonged to.

  The chief said nothing as she slipped the claw back inside the baggie before turning her attention to the next object.

  Ichabod and I had focused almost exclusively on the claw, whereas Bo seemed more interested in the brown-stained ribbon. She gave the ends several gentle tugs and rubbed her thumbs across it while muttering under her breath.

  “Did you register these into evidence already?” She glanced up, still holding tight to the ribbon.

  “Of course.” I crossed my legs. “The second we returned. It’s been sitting so long in the lake bed that there are no prints, and any traces of magick on them has worn off by now too.” Curious, I asked, “Is there something interesting about the ribbon?”

  “Yes. It’s length and texture indicates it was made by Mr. Potts’s Haberdashery and Ribbons. You’ll want to go check them out first, see if they can recall to whom this particular ribbon was sold.”

  I looked askance at the scrap of evidence. How could anyone possibly remember, after all this time, who that ribbon was sold to? I must have asked that question out loud because Bo chuckled.

  “You’d be surprised. Mr. Potts is quite the… eccentric, to put it kindly. As to your other statement about fingerprints, true enough.” Nodding, Bo finally slipped the ribbon back into the baggie. “Elle, I’m going to give you special leave to carry these items with you to Wonderland.”

  My smile was thin. “I figured you’d say as much.”

  The thought of spending any time in Wonderland made me break out in hives. Without a guide through that twisted realm, it would be entirely too easy for anyone not of the realm to get lost and never find their way back. A cop with a key card was no exception.

  Wild, unruly magick coursed through every inch of that twisted place, making it nearly impossible for an outsider to tell reality from illusion. I had enough water to last three days only, and that was in my shirt and seashell combined.

  I fingered my shell pendant, and the feel of its coolness quieted the anxiety of my mind.

  Bo’s eyes narrowed. “How much water you got to last you?”

  “I’ll be fine so long as this doesn’t take longer than three days, max.”

  The chief snorted. “Yeah, well, I wish I could say Wonderland was that predictable, but we both know that’d be a lie. Tell you what—make your way down to Thantor’s dungeon. I’ll send in a request for a temporary all-access key card, just in case.”

  I blew out a relieved breath. Thantor was an onsite gnome housed in the lowest parts of GPD. As a familiar to the High Wizard Balock, Thantor had access to small amounts of high wizard magick, meaning he could create for me a special key card that would allow access the transdimensional pathways without the need for a waystation.

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  “Course.” Bo nodded. “I’ll also ring the local constable to let him know you’re coming.”

  I gripped the seat’s armrests. The last time I’d been sent to Wonderland, my guide had been none other than Cheshire himself. He’d vanished and reappeared on me throughout the course of my investigation, causing me to panic every minute of the fifteen hours I was trapped in that realm. Needless to say, I wasn’t much of a fan.

  “Can you note that I’d rather not have the cat meet me this time?” I tapped the evidence baggie. “With this claw, he’s definitely one of my persons of interest.”

  “Of course. But I don’t think this belongs to Cheshire. Ruthless and slightly mad he might be, but he does not possess poison-tipped claws.”

  I’d suspected as much but hadn’t wanted to rule him out just in case. “Then who does?”

  Bo shrugged. “There are many in the realm who do. But still, question Cheshire. Because of his special abilities, the cat sees and knows most, if not all, of what’s happening within the realm. I’m keen to read your report on this one.”

  Nodding, I stood.

  “And, Elle.” Bo tipped her head. “Good job. I’d feared we’d lost all viable leads at this point. I should have known a siren would sniff out the truth of things in that lake bed.”

  “Yeah. Well, I just wish it hadn’t pointed in the direction of Wonderland.”

  “Aw, c’mon. It’s not all that bad.” Bo chuckled.

  “No, you’re right. It’s worse.”

  Bo’s laughter followed me out the door.

  CHAPTER 3

  DETECTIVE ELLE

  THANTOR SAT AT A HIGH DESK, his tiny feet kicking back and forth languorously as he scribbled his quill across the roughened, cream-colored parchment unfurled before him. He was a wizened old gnome with few strands of gray hairs left on his liver-spotted head. He wore thick glasses that caused his pupils to appear twice as large as they actually were.

  The dungeon he occupied was dank, cold, and very poorly lit, which was how the gnome liked it. He was used to living deep beneath ground and, like all gnomes, suffered from light sensitivity.

  Dressed only in a long green woolen coat, he looked ridiculous, as most gnomes generally did. But it was to anyone’s peril to believe them harmless.

  Gnomes had no power of their own, but the
y were receptacles, which meant they were ideally suited to contain the excess power High Wizards couldn’t or didn’t wish to hold inside themselves any longer.

  His long, pointed ears, which curled slightly inward and stretched several inches above his head, swiveled in my direction as soon as I walked through the door. No one could sneak up on a gnome. Nearly blind they all were, but their hearing more than made up for the loss.

  “What do you need, siren?” Thantor’s voice sounded like the low-rumbled cry of a demon in heat.

  I tipped my chin at the golden key card sitting on the corner of his desk. “I’ve come for the card.”

  Taking it in hand, he held it out to me, and his curved black talon scraped against my palm as I took it. “It only has three days’ worth of magick.” He peered at me from over the top of his bottle-thick glasses.

  “That should be enough.”

  He sniffed. “Should ye need more than that, there is a gnome in Wonderland who goes by the name of Pillar. Find her. She’ll be happy to oblige.” Then he went back to scratching on his parchment and ignoring me completely.

  “Okay then,” I mouthed, and turning, I used my special key card for the first time, smiling as I swiped it through the air right where I stood. A time portal opened swiftly. “I could get used to this.”

  I stepped inside, closing my eyes as time sped by in a dizzying blur. Before I knew it, I’d crossed dimensions into yet another world.

  Wonderland was like no other place in the existence of Grimm. Where it’d been only midmorning in the city, here there was darkness. The sky was ablaze with pinpricks of gem-colored starlight. A red moon hung suspended above me. Large, skeletal-shaped tree trunks twisted like spires into the air. Shadows breathed and danced all around.

  I clenched my jaw, trying to catch my bearings. Right was right in Wonderland, but sometimes right was also left. One wrong move, and I’d wind up gods-knew-where.

  It must be quite late at night. There was a deep sort of silence to the place, the kind that only happened during the witching hour.