The Grimm Chronicles, Vol.1 (13 page)

I shrugged. “I dunno.”

He placed his hands on his hips, his favorite position for lecturing and/or badgering. “Are you still bummed out about Edward?”

“Um … yes.” Maybe a little. Although “bummed out” didn’t seem appropriate under the circumstances. I’d told my parents that Edward and I had simply broken up. I hadn’t had to “fake” being upset, either. I
had
been upset … just not for the normal reasons you’d expect when dating a high school boy.

Dad put an arm around my shoulder, careful not to touch the bandage. “Sometimes, you meet someone who you end up really caring about, but that person turns out not to be who you thought he was.”

Boy, you had
that
right, Pops.

“People change sometimes,” he continued, leading me back into the living room. The TV was blaring, set to a news channel. “Sometimes, they decide to change for the worse.”

“I just feel stupid for not seeing it,” I said.

We sat down on the couch. Dad groaned, stretching his left leg out on the coffee table. “People are complex. Being in a relationship is work, and if one person isn’t willing to accept that, then sometimes it’s better to break things off. You’ll get over it.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

He reached for the massive gray remote on the coffee table. “Now,” he said, running his thumb over the dozens and dozens of brightly-colored rubber buttons, “which one of these gets us to Netflix?”

“Oh my
gawd
, Dad.” I pointed to the “DVD” button. “You have to turn on the DVD player, remember? I just taught you this last week. For, like, the hundredth time.”

“OK … DVD …”

I glanced at the screen, where the news program had just returned from commercial. I did a double take, then whacked the remote out of my dad’s hand before he could turn on the DVD player.

“What the heck?” he asked.

“Just hold on,” I said, fixated on the screen. “Who is that?”

Dad groaned again as he picked up the remote off the floor. “Who? That guy there?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Duh. Of course. Who
is
that?”

Dad looked at the short little man on the TV. The footage showed him walking into one of the buildings in downtown Milwaukee, then cut to him shaking hands with a much taller man. Someone regular-sized, I should say. The man I was asking about was much, much shorter. Like a dwarf.

“That’s Sam Grayle,” Dad said. “He owns Grayle Incorporated. Big bank. He just bought one of the skyscrapers downtown.”

“Does he …” I swallowed hard, “have brothers?”

Dad scratched his head. “A few, I think. They all run the family businesses. They’re all little people, too. Midgets, I mean. Or are they dwarfs? I can’t remember what the politically correct term is. It would be good to know. Powerful men like Grayle don’t like being offended.”

I stared at the little man as he addressed the news reporter, looking up at her and flashing a smile. He was small, wore a sharp gray business suit and had a close-cut dark beard. He looked in his mid-forties; the hair on top of his head was thick and full, greased down and combed to the side. His orange-ish skin was wrinkled a bit, like he’d been fake tanning for too long. The reporter interviewing him seemed charmed by his demeanor and laughed along with him.

“Come on in,” he said to the camera. “Let’s give Milwaukee a tour of Grayle’s brand-new headquarters. Completely renovated.”

The reporter, star-struck, signed off and promised a follow-up the following night. I wanted to scream at her to run, run and don’t look back. Don’t go into that building. Don’t listen to anything he says!

… Sam Grayle was
glowing
.

Chapter 2

That night I had another strange dream. It felt jumbled and confusing, as if someone had taken all of the scenes in a movie and shaken them up and then played a few at the same time. The only thing I remembered when I woke up was the rats. Big, dark brown creatures with long slender tails that whipped around as they made their way through a dark sewer. I was following one of them; he was much smaller than the others, small enough that he could slip through the bars of a grate and enter a much smaller tunnel. It sniffed around for a while, then nibbled on something (I really don’t want to know what it was) before slipping through the grate again to join its brethren. Dozens and dozens of them.

What did it all mean?

I picked out a floral print ruffled blouse and a pair of white pants, then made sure to grab the fountain pen from my desk. I didn’t like stuffing it in my pocket. I liked wearing my pants tight, which made the pen stick out like a sore thumb. It was terribly noticeable. Just a week ago, Tricia and Seth had come over to console me over the “break-up,” and Tricia had noticed the bulge in my pocket immediately.

“Darling, school is
over
. It’s summer!” she said. “Unless you’re an undercover reporter, that pen has
got
to go. It’s distracting attention away from your legs.”

She was right: I needed to carry around the pen, but I also needed to
not
look like a total weirdo. I could keep it in my purse, but what if it was stolen? The night of Edward’s death, he’d picked up the pen and it had
burned
him … was that true if anyone picked up the pen, or just Corrupted?

“A good scientist always runs tests,” I said aloud.

“Tests about what?”

I spun around, letting out a quick “Ah!” and nearly karate-chopping Briar right off my desk. “What is wrong with you?” I asked.

The rabbit innocently looked around. He was sitting on top of my desk, next to my laptop, his legs crossed. “I don’t believe anything is wrong with me.”

“OK listen, rabbit. From here on out, we need to set some ground rules. First and foremost, you do
not
just appear in my room. I like having my privacy. Get it?”

“Not especially.”

“Well, too bad. From here on out, you knock gently on the door and I let you in.”

He sighed a long, exasperated sigh. “I hate rules.”

“Too bad! You’re here to help me. So I’m in charge.”

“Fine, fine. Then I have a few rules myself …”

“Nope.” I grabbed my purse from the bed, stuffing a tube of lipstick inside.

“It would be nice to have some diced carrots available from time to time …”

“Nope.”

He followed me to the door. “Well at the very least leave me a head of lettuce or a cup of milk! I can get quite dehydrated running around doing my investigations …”

“Nope.” I opened the door and turned back to him. “You want a cup of milk? You get it from the fridge. I swear, you’re like a thirteen-year-old version of me! I used to always say that to my dad. ‘Dad, go get me something to drink.’ And he’d always respond, ‘What am I, you’re servant?’ Gawd.” I closed my eyes and rubbed my throbbing temple. “I’m turning into my parents.”

“Hardly an insult. They seem quite delightful, actually.”

I stepped into the hallway, closing the door before Briar could follow.

Downstairs, Mom was making breakfast. The delicious smell of greasy meat hit my nostrils even before I could make my way into the kitchen. Dad was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper. Mom had two skillets sizzling on the stovetop: one for bacon and one for eggs.

“Good morning, sweetie,” she said.

“You’re too cheery for the morning,” I told her, sitting down at the table.

Dad folded his paper and glanced at the kitchen clock hanging over the fridge. “It’s barely morning, to be fair. Don’t be grumpy with us just because we get up before the crack of noon.”

“It’s eleven!” I exclaimed. “You’re exaggerating, just like you always do.”

Mom set a plate of eggs and bacon and toast on the table. “Do you want some cheese?”

“No,” I said, using my fork to pile eggs and bacon on top of a slice of toast.

“Save some for us,” Dad said with a laugh.

“She’s hungry,” Mom told him sternly. “All that exercising is making her hungrier.” She looked at me and frowned. “You’re not taking steroids, are you?”

“Mo-om!”

“I’m just asking, that’s all.” She sat down at the table, drinking from her green Madeline Associates coffee mug. It was the name of her ad agency, the agency that seemed to go out of its way to ensure Mom had the strangest working hours on the planet.

“Looks like good weather this weekend,” Dad murmured.

I turned to take a look at the weather section of the paper; something over Dad’s shoulder caught my eye: the refrigerator door was open. My first thought was: oh, the wind blew it open. My second thought was: Alice, that’s the most ridiculous thought you’ve ever had. My third thought? Well, maybe I was going crazy.

But then the milk jug floated out of the fridge. I realized what was happening and glanced nervously at my parents: Dad was still reading his newspaper and Mom, thankfully, had tasked herself with spreading jelly over three slices of toast.

I could have killed that rascally rabbit.

“Hey,” I said, so suddenly that they both gave a little start. “Hey, look at this.” I pointed to my forehead. “Do you see this?”

Both Mom and Dad leaned in closer, squinting. Behind them, the floating jug of milk was tipping over, pouring its contents into a floating glass.

“It’s like, some kind of zit, right?” I asked. “I mean, what else can it be?”

“I don’t see anything,” Mom said, leaning in closer.

“You have too much makeup on,” Dad said. He returned to his paper. “Probably skin cancer.”

Mom sighed, but before she could turn to admonish him, I pointed again. “No, it’s like a mole or something. Don’t you see it?”

Mom shook her head. “No, I don’t see anything.” Behind her, the jug returned to the fridge. The floating glass of milk tipped, and as the liquid escaped the lip it disappeared. Right down the invisible rabbit’s gullet.

“Well,” I said slowly, watching the glass land on the countertop next to the fridge, “I guess it’s gone. It probably was just a zit then.”

Mom leaned back, eyeing me with more than a fair bit of suspicion. “Are you sleeping all right?”

No. “Yes. Fine. Wonderful. I just read a lot at night.”

Mom leaned in, clutching her mug in both hands. Here we go: interrogation time. “What are you reading?”

Oh, just an old copy of
Grimms’ Fairy Tales
with lots of names crossed out. Studying up on who’s still alive and causing all sorts of mayhem and destruction all over the planet. Corrupted creatures that grow more evil with each passing year, Mom. “Books about monsters.”

“That’s why she’s staying awake all night,” Dad said with a smirk. “She could never handle any of those monster movies she used to watch as a kid.”

“Dad, I’m eighteen. I can handle monsters.”

“Even aliens?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Maybe …”

Mom chuckled. “I remember when you showed her
Aliens
and she had to sleep with the lights on for an entire month. How old was she?”

“Oh, about sixteen or so!” Dad said with a wry smile.

I pulled the magic pen out of my pocket and set it on the table. “OK, well, I’d love to sit here and be laughed at all day, but I’ve got to get to the library. Oh, Dad, will you hand me my pen?”

He reached out and absently grabbed the pen. His eyes widened. “Wow! Was this in the oven or something?”

I snatched it out of his hand and stuffed it back into my pocket. “Yeah, I had it set to three-fifty for an hour. Doofus.”

“Have a good day!” Mom called after me.

“I will!” I called back before stepping outside. The sun was out. The air was hot and muggy. Robins sang from the tall ash tree in our front yard. From down the block came the sound of a riding toy’s plastic tires rolling along concrete. All in all, a great day to be outside. Not a great day to be cooped up inside the library.

“Why so grumpy?”

I didn’t jump, didn’t even turn around in surprise. Gawd, I thought … I’ve gotten used to the giant talking rabbit! “I’m beginning to realize that volunteering inside a dark library has some drawbacks,” I said.

Briar hopped up beside me. “Where’s your purse?”

I stopped. “Crap! I must have left it in the kitchen. I was a little preoccupied making sure my parents didn’t see something that would have given them heart attacks. Like, for instance, a floating jug of milk.”

Briar shrugged. “You told me to get it myself. Personally, I think your parents would find my sense of humor quite refreshing. They’re an enjoyable couple of humans.”

“They’re incredibly
annoying
,” I corrected him. “You just think they’re funny because they tease me.”

“That is
one
reason,” the rabbit said. “So would you like to hear what I’ve been up to?”

I glanced around as we crossed the street. The street outside my house was pretty empty for a summer day. Most of the bright green yards had been fresh-cut over the weekend and only a few cars sat in the driveways. At the intersection, I glanced down toward where Seth lived. He had a part-time job but mostly worked in the afternoons and evenings. Meaning Seth, like just about every other teenager in the neighborhood, was still asleep.

“Go for it,” I said.

“Well, it turns out the mansion Edward owns has been foreclosed on by a company called Grayle Bank …”

“Did you say
Grayle
?” I asked, turning to him. “As in
Sam
Grayle?”

“Yes. Now if you please.” He cleared his throat. “Now, Grayle Bank has foreclosed on the mansion because Edward apparently wasn’t paying his monthly mortgage. Meaning he borrowed money to buy the mansion, but never paid the bank back.”

“Very convenient. OK, we’re coming up on the main drag. We’re incommunicado until my break this afternoon.”

“What?” Briar’s whiskers twitched. “Why?”

“Because,” I said with a grimace, “that street up ahead?” I pointed a block ahead, where our cute little neighborhood bumped up against the busy main drag filled with restaurants, banks, nail salons, shopping centers and—of course—the old library. “That’s a
busy
street. And I don’t want someone I know to drive by and see me walking on the sidewalk talking to myself like a crazy person. Get it?”

“Ah.” Briar stopped, bowing low. “Of course. I shall see you very soon.”

And just like that, he was gone again.

“I’m getting so sick of that,” I murmured.

Fran was the librarian on duty. The library smelled like her perfume, which smelled kind of like the stiff vodka drink my parents enjoyed after a long week. One drink each on a Friday night. Instead of consuming it, Fran apparently sprayed a bunch of it all over her body before coming in to work.

“You’re late,” she said to me in a low voice as I approached the check-in counter. I glanced at the clock on the computer in front of her: I was three minutes early.

“Do you want me to start re-shelving or keep cleaning?” I asked.

Fran eyed me up and down. I knew for a fact she hadn’t liked the outfit I’d worn yesterday. Sleeveless was a little too scandalous in her book. No, Fran preferred long-sleeved loose-fitting tan tops and plain black dresses that reached down to her ankles. She also seemed to genuinely enjoy reading classic British literature because there was always one sitting on the desk in the little librarians’ office.

“Re-shelving should always come first,” she said finally, apparently not interested in criticizing my wardrobe … yet.

I grabbed a stack of softcover novels and meandered toward the fiction section, more than content to take my time. It had only taken a few weeks before I felt comfortable moving from section to section. The books were becoming familiar to me, like old friends waiting to say hi. Was it boring? Yeah, sometimes. But once I got away from the checkout desk and Fran’s cloud of perfume, I could smell the thousands and thousands of
pages
and everything felt good again. I was surrounded by words and stories and famous authors and loved it.

When it was time for my break, I grabbed the book I’d been reading all week and went outside to enjoy the last rays of the afternoon. I sat in the back of the library, on a bench in the little courtyard that during the morning was oftentimes filled with a dozen or so kids from one of the library’s summer reading clubs. The courtyard was a large circle of grass surrounded by an old white picket fence that divided the library property from the parking lot. At the base of the fence was a flower bed consisting of a ring of roses and tulips and bright orange perennials.