Grimm: The Killing Time (24 page)

“I won’t take that bet,” Renard said. He took another chocolate, unwrapped it, and tossed it into his mouth.

“I’ve worked hard to gain the trust of the Wesen community in this town,” Nick said. “And in one night, the Wechselbalg’s destroyed it. How am I supposed to help people if they’re scared of me?”

“It’s a setback, no question,” Monroe said. “But you’ve got to remember how deep the fear of Grimms runs in Wesen. It wouldn’t take a lot to bring those fears to the surface.”

“Especially now, with the
Ewig Woge
affecting them,” Rosalee added.

“I guess.” Nick knew his friends were right, but he couldn’t help feeling that if he’d only worked harder at reaching out to the Wesen community over the last few years, things would be different now. It was funny, in a way. Earlier tonight he’d been uncomfortable when the server at Blind Bill’s had treated him as if he were her friendly neighborhood Grimm. Now he wished he’d accepted that role and even cultivated it, if for no other reason than it would allow him help the Wesen more effectively.

He looked around at his friends. When he’d first learned of the existence of Wesen, he’d thought of them as something other than human. Now he thought of them as human-plus, not so much different than special. His life was so much richer for having been allowed to become even a small part of their community. And while he supposed he could never fully become one of them, he would do his best to serve and protect them as well as their human brethren. Not because he was a Grimm, or even a cop. Because he was Nick Burkhardt.

But that brought up an interesting question. What did the Wechselbalg think
he
was right now? A man named Nick or a Wesen-killing machine called a Grimm?

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Juliette said, reaching out to take his hand.

“Just thinking. From the way the Wechselbalg’s been behaving, he’s trying to fulfill the role of a Grimm, or at least what in his current mental state he
thinks
a Grimm should be.”

“He killed those two teenage taggers,” Rosalee said.

“He attacked Nick and me,” Hank said.

“And me,” Renard added.

“He didn’t kill me.” Juliette pointed out. “Or Bud.”

“Knowing Bud, he probably talked his way out of getting killed,” Hank said.

“Maybe the Wechselbalg couldn’t hurt Bud because he’s my friend,” Nick said. “Who knows how much of my personality he copied?”

“Not enough,” Renard said. “He doesn’t have any problem killing other Wesen for no reason. No rational one, anyway. So if he’s going to play out his sick fantasy of what a Grimm is like, he’s going to start hunting down Wesen.”

“But most of the city’s Wesen are heading to the Hafen,” Monroe said. “If they aren’t already there.”

“Which means the Wechselbalg will go to the Hafen, too,” Nick said.

“Damn,” Hank said. “It’ll be like shooting Wesen in a barrel.”

“And we sent them there,” Rosalee said.

“So not only are they in danger from each other,” Monroe said, “because the
Ewig Woge
is causing them to lose control, but they’re also at risk of getting sliced up by an insane Wesen that’s acting like some kind of Grimm serial killer.”

“We need to go to the Hafen,” Juliette said. “We have to keep the Wesen calm so they don’t start fighting among themselves.”

‘We have to make the cure for the
Ewig Woge
,” Rosalee said, “and get it to the Wesen in the Hafen as soon as possible.”

“
And
we have to stop the Wechselbalg,” Hank said.

Renard sighed. “That’s quite a to-do list.”

“Then we’d better get started,” Nick said.

* * *

The Wechselbalg felt pleased with himself. He’d found the storage facility without any problem. And although he didn’t have a key to the trailer, the door proved no real obstacle. Now he drove down the street, a pair of ancient weapons on the seat next to him—a double-headed battle-axe and a curved sword called a talwar, once used in India. He’d had a difficult time selecting what to bring as he wasn’t sure what the various implements of destruction had been designed for. The Other’s memories were little help as he’d only used a handful of the weapons in battle before. In the end, the Wechselbalg had chosen the two weapons he had simply because they looked the deadliest as well as the easiest to use. Sharp edges, solid metal. Sturdy and dependable, with the weight of history and tradition behind them. Proper weapons for a true Grimm. He couldn’t wait to get to the Hafen and try them out. Not only would it be amusing, it would be good practice for the next time he faced the Other.

No, not the next time. The
last
time.

The Wechselbalg knew the Hafen was located in Forest Park—the Eisbiber had told him this—but he wasn’t sure where the park
was.
Once again, he searched the fragmentary memories he’d obtained from the Other for the park’s location, but he came up blank. Traditionally Hafens were established outside a village or city in woodland areas, although given how large some of the world’s cities had grown over the last few centuries, some places had multiple Hafens, often within the city itself. Portland wasn’t that large, however, and the Wechselbalg was willing to bet that the Hafen—and thus, Forest Park—lay outside the city. The question was where?

The Other’s police training suggested the Wechselbalg look for vehicles heading out of the city, indicating fleeing Wesen. But while the Wechselbalg did pass the occasional vehicle, the night streets were mostly empty. Either he was in the wrong part of the city or the majority of the Wesen had already departed. He needed to come up with another plan.

A short time later, he saw a black Kia parked on the side of the street in front of a twenty-four-hour burger joint. The vehicle sat at an odd angle, lights on, and the driver’s side door open. The restaurant’s parking lot was empty, except for a trio of bird-like creatures standing around a man with features resembling a rodent’s.

Geier
, he thought.
And a Reinigen.

He pulled the Cherokee behind the Kia, turned off the lights and cut the engine. He looked over at his newly acquired weapons, considered for a moment, then chose the battle-axe.

He got out of the Cherokee and started walking toward the three Geier and the Reinigen. At first, none of them noticed him approaching. The vulture-headed Wesen were completely focused on the rat-like Reinigen. The man looked from one Geier to another, his head jerking in sharp, nervous gestures. The Geier kept flexing their taloned hands, as if eager to slice them into the Reinigen’s flesh, but so far he appeared to be unharmed. The Wechselbalg doubted the rat-man would remain that way much longer, however.

The Reinigen wore a dark-blue suit jacket over a white shirt, collar unbuttoned, no tie. Reinigen—because of their low standing in the Wesen community—sometimes tried to compensate by dressing nicely, although this Reinigen’s faded jeans and old sneakers didn’t do much to add to his ensemble. The Geier were dressed more simply—pullover sweaters, light jackets, and jeans. All dark colors, of course. The better to blend into the shadows.

The Wechselbalg’s own memories told him that Geier didn’t have any better of a reputation than Reinigen, which was one of the reasons the vulture creatures picked on them. They wanted to feel superior to someone. Geier did serve a function in the Wesen community, although it was a dark one, and most Wesen—at least those who considered themselves civilized—wanted nothing to do with them. The Geier harvested human organs and bodily fluids and sold them for use in various medicines and “enhancements.” Humans had done the same thing with animal parts throughout history—and in some cultures still did—although in the Wesen’s case, human ingredients actually worked.

The Reinigen raised his hands in what the Wechselbalg assumed was meant to be a placating gesture. All it did was make the Geier laugh. The sound was unpleasant, harsh and grating, and the Wechselbalg spoke to cut it off.

“How are you four this evening?”

They all turned to look at him, the Geier with angry surprise, the Reinigen with desperate hope. Then they took note of the battle-axe he carried at his side.

“Who the hell are you?” one of the Geier demanded. “Paul Bunyan?”

The other two laughed.

“I’m Nick Burkhardt,” the Wechselbalg said. “The one and only.”

The three Geier scowled, but the Reinigen’s face lit up.

“The Grimm!” he said.

The Wechselbalg smiled. “That’s right.”

“You ruined the organ trade in this town,” another Geier said. “The best we can do now is snatch the occasional homeless person off the street and sell the parts out of the back of our van.”

“Keeping them fresh is a real pain in the ass,” the third said.

“Hardly any money in it at all,” said the first. “Not like in the old days.”

So the Other had broken up a Geier organ-selling ring? At least he’d done
something
right.

“Why bother with the Reinigen?” the Wechselbalg asked. “And why three on one? You boys scared of him or something?”

The three Geier lowered their heads and extended their necks in a very bird-like display of aggression.

“Reinigen may not be human,” the first Geier said.

“Hell, they may not even be fully Wesen,” the second added.

“But you can make a few bucks off their organs,” the third said. “If you know who to sell them to.”

“Not much profit in it,” the first said. “But these days, we can’t afford to be too picky.”

“Of course, now that
you’re
here,” the second said, “we might change our mind about the rat.”

“Grimm organs are rarer than rare,” the second said. “We could name our price.”

“And then double it,” the third said.

“Triple it,” the first added.

Without further warning, the Geier came running toward the Wechselbalg, talons held high. The Wechselbalg grinned, raised the axe, and stepped forward to meet them.

It didn’t take long.

When it was finished, the Wechselbalg leaned down and wiped the axe head clean on one of Geier’s corpses. There wasn’t much he could do about the blood covering him, but he’d worry about that later. Besides, he kind of liked it.

The Reinigen had watched the Wechselbalg kill the Geier in horrified fascination. Now the Wechselbalg walked toward him, kicking a Geier head out the way as he approached. In death, a woged Wesen normally resumed its human appearance, and while that process was occurring, it was taking much longer than usual with the Geier. The head he kicked still retained a good portion of its avian qualities, and the grotesque thing bounced across the asphalt, leaving blood splotches as it went.

The Reinigen trembled and tried to draw in upon himself, as if hoping to appear less threatening. “P-please don’t hurt me.
Sir
,” he added quickly.

The Wechselbalg liked that.
Sir.
Very nice indeed.

He held the axe down at his side so as not to intimidate the Reinigen any more than necessary.

“Where is Forest Park?” he asked.

The Reinigen stared at him. “Um… what?”

The Wechselbalg took a step closer, and the Reinigen flinched.

“Forest Park—where the Hafen is. How do I get there?”

The Reinigen blinked several times, as if he was still having trouble understanding. The Wechselbalg considered brandishing the axe to loosen the man’s tongue, but then the Reinigen finally began speaking. He gave the Wechselbalg clear, concise directions, and the shapeshifter committed them to memory.

“Thanks,” he said. He turned to go, but then he stopped himself, and turned to face the Reinigen once more. “You’re still woged.”

He glanced at the Geier’s bodies. Although they were dead and returning to their human aspects, the process was taking far longer than normal for all of them. He remembered his conversation with the Eisbiber. He hadn’t taken note of it at the time, but the little man had stayed woged the entire time they’d talked. The Wechselbalg looked at the Reinigen once more.

“How is this possible?”

“I don’t know,’ the rat man said. “Whatever it is, it’s happened to a lot of us. It’s some kind of sickness, I guess. No one seems to know. It’s why everyone’s headed to the Hafen. I was on my way there myself when these three—” he nodded to the dead Geier “—stepped into the street and forced me to pull over.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I was so stupid. I should’ve just run them over and kept going.”

The Wechselbalg narrowed his eyes. “Do you truly mean that?”

“Hell, yeah! Lousy carrion-eating bastards.”

“Then you’re one of the
bad ones
.”

Before the Reinigen could react, the Wechselbalg raised the battle-axe, swung it in a swift horizontal strike, and lopped off the rat-man’s head. Blood fountained, the body collapsed, and the head—still wearing an expression of surprise—hit the ground, bounced, and rolled to a stop.

The Wechselbalg watched as the Reinigen’s head slowly began to assume human features. He experienced a mild wave of dizziness, and sweat broke out on his forehead. He drew the back of his forearm across his head, and the dizziness passed.

Must be getting tired
, he thought.

He wiped the blade clean on the Reinigen’s clothes, then turned and walked back to the Cherokee. This had been a good warm-up. Now he was looking forward to the main event.

He climbed in the vehicle, started the engine, and headed toward the Hafen.

* * *

Nick’s night vision had always been good, and it had sharpened considerably since he’d come into his heritage as a Grimm. But he still felt almost blind compared to Monroe. The man moved through the forest with a swift, silent confidence that Nick struggled to emulate. Monroe wore his jacket once more, but he’d removed his shoes.
Need to stay connected to the Earth, you know?
He’d said before they’d started.

Nick
didn’t
know, not exactly, but as the two men made their way toward the Hafen, Nick began to fall into a rhythm with Monroe, his initial awkwardness melted away, and he began weaving between trees and moving through underbrush with newfound ease.