Grimm: The Killing Time (22 page)

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.

In his well-tailored suit he resembled nothing so much as an old-world European banker, and in many ways, that wasn’t too far off the mark. He spent his days doing calculations and risk assessments, but as a high-ranking member of the Wesen Council, the currency he worked with was not euros or dollars, but rather lives.

He was looking through a report regarding a group of Hadosheru suspected of planning a takeover of the Yakuza when there was a knock at his office door. Without looking up from the report, he said, “Come.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the door opened and one of his assistants entered. It was Adelbert, and De Groot knew at once that the man was bringing bad news. His hesitation before entering was a telltale sign.

De Groot looked up from the report then. Adelbert was thin, blond, in his late thirties, and had much to learn about mastering his emotions. De Groot could see the tension in his eyes and in the tight line of his mouth. He was the most junior of De Groot’s assistants, but if he didn’t acquire more self-control, he’d soon be looking for a new position. As far as De Groot was concerned, self-control was the single most important quality for a Wesen to cultivate, It was, after all, the core of the Code of Swabia, was it not?

“What is it, Adelbert?” As always, De Groot kept his voice soft and his words measured.

“We’ve received a communication from America. From Portland, Oregon, to be precise.”

Despite himself, De Groot’s pulse quickened. Recently, Portland had become an area of special interest to him, and any news from there had his complete attention. He closed the folder in front of him and motioned for Adelbert to come all the way into his office. He did not, however, give the man any indication that he wanted him to sit, and Adelbert remained standing.

Without any further encouragement, Adelbert began speaking. De Groot listened intently and with increasing concern. When his assistant finished, De Groot sat back in his chair and clasped his hands on top of his desk. He thought silently for a time, and Adelbert remained standing where he was, nervously quiet.

At length, De Groot spoke once more, and only someone who knew him exceedingly well would’ve detected the note of worry in his voice.

“I want our best agents on a plane to Portland within the hour. They are to do whatever is necessary to deal with this situation.”