Ravenshade accepted my decision to stay.
That didn't mean the house intended to make settling in easy.
The wards recognized me without resistance. The rest of the property began complaining before I had taken three steps into the entrance hall.
A damaged preservation charm pushed the sensation of rotting wood into the back of my skull. Several windows rattled despite the lack of wind, a pipe knocked repeatedly inside the western wall, and the roof over the library sent me the distinct impression of cold rainwater dripping onto irreplaceable books.
"I've been here less than a minute."
The pipe knocked again.
"Very mature."
My first week in Portland was spent repairing enough of Ravenshade that the house no longer felt in immediate danger of collapsing out of spite.
The enchanted crossbow in the armory remained less cooperative.
It fired the instant I opened its case.
The bolt struck the wall less than an inch from my head.
I stared at it for several seconds, wrote a warning across the lid, and moved the entire case into the section reserved for objects requiring extensive repairs.
The surgical chamber beneath the eastern wing was worse.
Iron restraints had been built into a central table. Drainage channels crossed the floor, and the cabinets contained instruments designed for removing claws, teeth, glands, organs, and other pieces of Wesen anatomy.
Everything was organized, labeled, and disturbingly clean.
Apparently, at least one of the Blacks who used Ravenshade had considered torture a legitimate branch of medicine.
I sealed the chamber.
Destroying historical evidence wouldn't change what my family had done, and some of the instruments might still be useful for actual surgery, but I had no desire to walk past the room whenever I entered the laboratory.
The regional archive was more useful.
Three underground rooms contained maps, family names, old neutral businesses, meeting sites, safehouses, hunting territories, and agreements made with Wesen communities throughout the Pacific Northwest.
Almost none of it was current.
Roads had moved. Forests had become neighborhoods. Farms had become commercial districts. Family names disappeared from public records or changed through marriage. Several Wesen-owned locations marked on the old maps had been demolished decades earlier.
The archive gave me a starting point.
It didn't give me permission to locate every descendant through blood magic.
I could have found many of Portland's older Wesen families within days. House Black possessed rituals capable of tracking people through preserved blood, hair, handwriting, inherited objects, and several other methods that became increasingly invasive.
I refused.
People weren't entries in a dead relative's ledger.
Besides, I possessed a quieter way to explore the city.
It came with whiskers.
I transformed in the entrance hall, settled into the size of an ordinary house cat, and stepped into the shadow beneath the staircase.
A moment later, I emerged beneath Ravenshade's porch.
I traveled through the forest in larger form when the trees concealed me, then returned to the appearance of a black house cat as I approached populated areas.
Portland suited shadow travel.
Rain clouds weakened the sunlight, buildings created long alleys of darkness, and trees grew through enough neighborhoods to connect areas that would otherwise have required walking through open streets.
For the first several nights, I simply observed.
Portland's Wesen population was larger and more integrated than I expected.
A bus driver carried the warm, heavy scent of a bovine species I couldn't immediately identify. A woman closing a flower shop smelled faintly of feathers and dry grass. Three construction workers were Wesen, though none belonged to the same species.
Two teenagers arguing outside a convenience store briefly woged at each other before their human friend told them both to stop acting like idiots.
They did.
No one tore out a throat.
No one dragged a victim into an alley.
No one required a Grimm.
It shouldn't have felt important to record that. Grimm journals didn't document every human who managed to complete the day without committing murder. Yet generations of hunters treated the discovery of a Wesen as the beginning of an incident.
I had spent years forcing myself to reject that habit.
Field Journal of Hadrian Padmus Evans
Portland Survey — First Week
The local Wesen population appears heavily integrated with humans and with one another. Clear territorial divisions have not yet been identified. Several businesses appear to be Wesen-owned, although ownership alone is neither suspicious nor particularly interesting.
No behavior should be classified as threatening merely because a person woges during fear, stress, anger, or surprise. Humans display physical responses to the same emotions. Wesen transformations are simply more visible to those capable of perceiving them.
The first evidence of Portland's active Grimm came from two frightened Wesen outside a bar.
I was sitting beneath a parked car, watching rainwater flow along the gutter, when a man hurried into the alley. He smelled of fur, old leather, and fear.
Another Wesen waited near the rear entrance.
The frightened man glanced behind himself before approaching.
"I saw him again."
"The detective?"
"He looked right at me."
"That doesn't mean he saw anything."
The first man's face shifted. Fur spread across his cheeks, his ears sharpened, and his teeth lengthened before he forced himself back into human form.
"He saw me."
The second Wesen went still.
Neither spoke the word immediately.
Eventually, the second leaned closer.
"A Grimm?"
"I don't know."
"If he were a Grimm, you'd be dead."
"He asked me questions."
The second man looked more disturbed by that than the possibility of a Grimm.
"Grimms don't ask questions."
"This one does."
They separated several minutes later.
I followed the frightened man.
He led me indirectly to a homicide scene several blocks away. Police lights reflected across the wet street while uniformed officers kept pedestrians away from an alley. The Wesen stopped across from the scene, watched briefly, then left before anyone noticed him.
Two detectives stood near the entrance.
The older detective was a black man with the steady posture of someone who had carried a firearm professionally for years. His partner was younger, white, and visually unremarkable.
A uniformed officer led a witness toward them.
The witness was Wesen.
His face shifted the moment he saw the younger detective. The transformation lasted less than a second, but the detective saw it.
His expression barely changed.
The Wesen noticed anyway.
Fear rolled off him.
The detective didn't draw his weapon, accuse him of anything, or react as though the woge proved guilt. He asked whether the witness was all right and continued questioning him.
There he was.
Portland's Grimm.
I followed the detectives' car after they left the scene. They eventually separated, and the younger man drove to a house in a quiet residential neighborhood.
Before he reached the front door, it opened.
The man inside smelled unmistakably of Blutbad.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and mildly irritated.
"You can't keep doing that."
The Grimm stopped. "Doing what?"
"Showing up without calling."
"I called."
"You called from my driveway."
"That still counts."
"It absolutely does not."
The Grimm entered anyway.
I climbed a nearby tree and settled on a branch near an upper window. The curtains blocked most of my view, but my hearing was more than sufficient.
The Grimm's name was Nick Burkhardt.
The Blutbad was Monroe.
Their conversation concerned a murder victim, a frightened witness, and the possibility that a Wesen business was involved. Monroe complained repeatedly about being treated as Nick's personal encyclopedia. Nick apologized with the exhausted familiarity of someone who had made the same apology many times.
Monroe still helped him.
Nick listened when Monroe corrected him. He asked whether a species was dangerous instead of assuming it was.
When Monroe explained that an old journal described the suspected Wesen as habitually deceptive, Nick asked whether the species lied more often than humans.
Monroe snorted.
"It means some Grimm met a liar three hundred years ago and blamed his descendants."
I liked him immediately.
I followed Nick and Monroe for several nights.
Nick regularly visited Monroe's house, sometimes carrying photographs or Grimm journals. Monroe complained that Nick involved him in dangerous situations before explaining exactly how dangerous those situations were.
Nick admitted Monroe had a point.
Then he asked for help anyway.
The relationship was uneven, slightly ridiculous, and obviously genuine.
Nick had awakened without a proper teacher. He possessed inherited weapons and journals filled with generations of prejudice, yet he had somehow reached the conclusion that Wesen should be judged by what they did.
That alone placed him above many experienced Grimms I had observed.
It didn't mean he knew what he was doing.
Before discovering where Nick kept his Grimm records, I found Juliette.
Nick's movements and conversations made it easy to determine which hospital treated her. Reaching the correct room required patience. Hospitals contained countless overlapping scents, constant movement, bright corridors, and very few useful shadows during the day.
At night, things became easier.
The first time I saw Juliette, she was still unconscious.
I sat on the exterior ledge beneath her hospital window while rain tapped against the glass. The window was sealed, but my hearing picked up the machines inside and the quiet voices of nurses entering and leaving.
Juliette looked peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Her body appeared healthy enough that the coma should not have held her. A curse could leave almost no obvious residue and still bury itself deeply in a victim.
Nick visited often.
Sometimes he spoke to Juliette as though she could hear him. Other times he sat silently beside her bed.
Monroe and the Fuchsbau woman I later learned was Rosalee visited as well, though usually for shorter periods.
Captain Sean Renard came once.
He arrived after Nick had left.
I recognized the surname from the Black genealogies. The records connected several Renard branches to European royalty, illegitimate descendants, and suspected Zauberbiest ancestry.
Renard remained in Juliette's room for only a few minutes.
From the exterior ledge, I couldn't see everything.
I saw him lean over her.
I saw his face close to hers.
Then the monitors changed.
Juliette woke shortly afterward.
That interested me considerably.
I followed her after she left the hospital.
Not constantly. Even in cat form, following someone every hour increased the chance of being noticed. I watched from gardens, rooftops, parked cars, windowsills, and trees.
Juliette remembered how to drive.
She remembered her house, work, friends, and the ordinary structure of her life.
She didn't remember Nick.
The absence was too precise to be natural.
When she encountered photographs of herself beside him, she understood intellectually natural.
When she encountered photographs of herself beside him, she understood intellectually that they were real but displayed no emotional recognition. When Nick approached, her body reacted with discomfort instead of familiarity.
She knew he was supposed to matter and seemed frustrated that he didn't.
Renard produced a different response.
Juliette watched him when she thought no one noticed. Her breathing changed slightly around him. Confusion, attraction, and discomfort mixed in ways that suggested something deeper than ordinary interest.
Renard showed signs as well.
He watched her too closely.
He appeared in places coincidence didn't fully explain.
Whatever woke Juliette had not simply ended the coma.
It had redirected something.
Field Journal of Hadrian Padmus Evans
Subject: Juliette Silverton
Subject retains professional knowledge, personal history, motor skills, language, and relationships unrelated to Nicholas Burkhardt. Memories involving Burkhardt remain structurally present but emotionally disconnected.
Captain Sean Renard visited shortly before the subject regained consciousness. Subsequent behavior suggests a developing compulsive response between them.
The condition resembles selective emotional severance rather than ordinary amnesia. Intervention should not be attempted until the awakening mechanism is identified.
Following Juliette gave me firsthand information Nick's group lacked.
It still didn't give me the right to walk into their lives and announce that I knew better.
I had experienced enough adults doing that to me.
The apothecary entered my investigation through Monroe.
I followed him one rainy afternoon after he left his house carrying a wrapped bundle and muttering about the wrong kind of liverwort. He drove to a spice shop wedged between two ordinary businesses.
Nothing about the building reacted to my magic.
The door had an ordinary lock. The windows carried no enchantments. No wards pressed against my senses when I approached.
The contents were more interesting.
Even from outside, I smelled herbs, minerals, dried flowers, animal products, poisons, antidotes, and several ingredients I recognized from European potion recipes.
Monroe entered through the front door.
I circled the building once and chose the simplest method of getting inside.
I sat in the rain and scratched at the glass.
A dark-haired woman looked up from behind the counter.
Fuchsbau.
She watched me for several seconds before approaching.
Monroe turned, followed her gaze, and frowned.
"No."
The Fuchsbau reached for the handle. "He's soaked."
"He's a cat."
"I'm aware."
"Cats survive rain."
"So do Blutbaden. I'd still let you inside."
"That's different."
She opened the door.
I stepped past her, shook rainwater across the floor, and looked up with the expression I had spent an embarrassing amount of time perfecting.
Monroe moved one foot away from the spray.
The woman smiled. "See? He's polite."
"He just threw water on me."
"He's drying himself."
"He could do it outside."
I walked toward the counter with my tail raised.
Monroe watched me with the mild annoyance of a large dog forced to tolerate a cat entering his space. There was no suspicion in his scent and no indication he considered me anything except an ordinary animal.
Good.
The woman crouched and extended a hand.
I sniffed her fingers, waited an appropriate amount of time, then pressed my head beneath them.
"You're friendly."
I was gathering intelligence.
The distinction was important.
Her name was Rosalee. I learned that when Monroe complained about her encouraging strays.
Rosalee ignored him, found a towel, and dried my fur while I tolerated the indignity with convincing feline patience.
"You're jealous," she told Monroe.
"Of the cat?"
"He's getting more attention than you."
"I am not jealous of a cat."
I began purring.
Monroe stared at me.
Rosalee laughed.
Nothing useful happened during that first visit. Monroe collected his ingredients. Rosalee discussed the difference between ordinary liverwort and the variety required for a Wesen remedy.
Rosalee eventually placed a shallow bowl of warm milk beside me.
The milk was excellent.
Monroe watched me drink.
"Cats aren't supposed to have much milk."
"He'll be fine."
"You don't know that."
"He looks healthy."
"That doesn't mean he can digest dairy."
I finished the bowl.
Monroe seemed disappointed when I didn't immediately become ill.
I left when another customer entered.
Three days later, I returned.
Rosalee let me inside without hesitation. Monroe wasn't present, so I spent nearly an hour beside the heater while listening to her assist several Wesen customers.
Their concerns involved ordinary medicines, allergies, sleep problems, and a young Wesen struggling with an early first woge.
Rosalee treated each person with patience and discretion.
She didn't merely sell ingredients. She understood Wesen biology, traditions, and fears in ways most Grimm records never attempted to capture.
I returned the following week.
By then, Rosalee had decided I needed food.
She placed a dish of wet cat food in front of me.
I smelled it once.
Then I hissed.
Rosalee blinked.
The substance looked like someone had taken unidentified meat, boiled it until every trace of dignity disappeared, and compressed the remains into a damp lump.
There were limits to what I would do for surveillance.
Rosalee pushed the bowl closer.
I hissed louder.
"Apparently, he's picky."
Monroe had arrived shortly before the food and looked far too amused.
"He's a cat. Put it outside. He'll eat when he's hungry."
Rosalee glared at him. "He is not an it."
"It's a male cat."
"He has a name."
"You named him?"
"Shadow."
Monroe closed his eyes briefly.
"Of course you did."
Rosalee replaced the wet food with dry pellets.
I sniffed them suspiciously.
They smelled like smoked meat, grain, and enough artificial flavoring to overwhelm a human sense of taste.
I ate one.
Then another.
They were surprisingly good.
Not something I would choose in human form, but through the Grymalkin's senses they tasted remarkably similar to bacon-flavored crisps.
I finished the bowl.
Monroe stared.
"So the wet food isn't good enough, but the cheap dry food is?"
I looked at him and ate another piece slowly.
Rosalee scratched beneath my chin.
"He has standards."
"He eats off the floor."
"That doesn't mean he can't have standards."
The third time Rosalee fed me dry food, I accepted that the apothecary had become part of my regular surveillance route.
Sometimes I slept beside the heater. Sometimes I sat in the front window. Occasionally, I wandered into the back room and allowed Rosalee to remove me from a shelf containing ingredients she considered unsafe.
I knocked an empty jar onto the floor because I had gone nearly two hours without doing anything sufficiently catlike.
Rosalee sighed and cleaned it up.
Monroe said, "I told you."
Nick saw me for the first time during my fourth visit.
He entered carrying a Grimm journal beneath one arm and looked exhausted. Rosalee asked whether Juliette's condition had changed.
Nick shook his head.
Then he noticed me.
I sat beside the register with my tail wrapped around my paws.
"What's with the cat?"
"Shadow," Rosalee said.
"Stray," Monroe corrected.
"Temporary shop cat."
"You bought food."
"That doesn't make him permanent."
"You bought him a bed."
I glanced toward the cushion beside the heater.
Rosalee had purchased it the previous day.
I had not yet decided how guilty to feel about that.
Nick stepped closer.
His expression changed.
Not fear.
Not suspicion.
Recognition.
His blood recognized mine before his mind could understand what it was feeling.
Nick crouched and held out a hand.
"Have we met?"
Monroe looked at him.
"You're asking the cat?"
"He seems familiar."
"It's a black cat."
"That isn't what I mean."
Rosalee smiled.
"Maybe you knew him in another life."
Monroe gave her a flat look.
"Do not encourage this."
Nick touched the top of my head.
The faint recognition strengthened.
His brow furrowed.
I leaned into his hand because pulling away would have appeared more suspicious than accepting the attention.
He scratched behind my ears.
That was also acceptable.
"You sure he's a stray?" Nick asked.
"No collar," Rosalee replied. "He comes and goes whenever he wants."
"That describes every cat," Monroe muttered.
Nick continued watching me.
He couldn't explain what he felt, and I had no intention of helping him.
Not yet.
The conversation moved toward Juliette.
Most of what they discussed confirmed my observations. Juliette remembered nearly everything except Nick. Photographs didn't help. Familiar locations produced discomfort instead of recognition. Shared memories meant nothing when he described them.
Rosalee believed the effect was magical.
Monroe believed Adalind Schade caused it.
Nick knew both were probably right and had no idea how to repair the damage.
Adalind had been a Hexenbiest. Nick's blood stripped away her Wesen nature after she used a spell against Hank. Adalind retaliated by preparing an enchanted cat that scratched Juliette and placed her into a coma.
The Black records contained several examples of Grimm blood reacting violently with Hexenbiests, but very little about what happened when the Wesen side was removed while the human survived.
Nick opened Aunt Marie's journal and showed Monroe a passage written in old German. Monroe translated while Rosalee examined an ingredient list.
The curse described in the journal removed the victim's recognition of a chosen emotional connection. It didn't erase memories cleanly. It separated one person from the feelings and spiritual pathways associated with them.
The treatment required blood from the forgotten person, ash from an object tied to the relationship, several poisonous herbs, and something translated as a willing breath from the one who returned the sleeper to the world.
Monroe frowned.
"That could mean a kiss."
"Or actual breath," Rosalee said.
Nick looked between them.
"Can we make it?"
"We don't know who woke her," Rosalee replied.
Nick's expression tightened.
I did.
Or I possessed a strong suspicion.
Renard leaned over Juliette moments before she woke, and her behavior afterward suggested that whatever he had done connected them.
Whoever woke Juliette had become involved in the curse. Forcing open her original connection to Nick without understanding the replacement could make her fixate on the wrong person, damage her remaining memories, or destroy her ability to form similar emotional bonds.
Nick's group lacked enough information to recognize the danger.
That didn't mean I needed to transform in the middle of the apothecary and explain everything.
There were quieter methods.
Nick carried Aunt Marie's journal away when he left.
I followed him.
He drove beyond the city and onto a narrow road surrounded by trees. Eventually, he stopped near an old trailer concealed beneath branches and camouflage netting.
The moment he opened the door, the scent of old blood, leather, metal, oils, paper, herbs, and generations of Grimm work rolled into the night.
Aunt Marie's trailer.
Nick and Monroe remained inside for nearly two hours.
I watched from a tree.
They searched through books, boxes, drawers, weapons, and jars. Nick knew where everything was. He moved with the confidence of someone who had examined the trailer repeatedly and reorganized parts of it himself.
That complicated matters.
I couldn't simply place an unfamiliar book on a shelf and expect him to assume he had overlooked it.
Nick might be inexperienced, but he wasn't stupid.
When he and Monroe finally left, Nick locked the trailer carefully and checked the surrounding area before driving away.
I waited another hour.
Then I entered through a shadow beneath the rear axle.
I returned to human form and stood in the narrow central aisle.
Aunt Marie's collection was smaller than the Black archive but far more personal. These were working journals, carried across continents and added to by people who expected the next generation to use them.
Weapons hung from the walls. Some were centuries old. Others had been modified with modern grips, springs, sights, and ammunition. Cabinets contained Wesen remains, poisons, antidotes, and ingredients that would have earned immediate imprisonment if discovered by ordinary authorities.
Nick had searched the trailer thoroughly.
Dust patterns showed opened drawers, moved cases, and shelves where books had been removed repeatedly.
Creating a believable discovery would require care.
First, I copied the archive.
I worked through the night.
Every journal, loose page, map, recipe, sketch, letter, and weapons diagram passed beneath my hands. Exact copies disappeared into a small expanded case only I could open.
I recorded the placement of every object before touching it. When I finished with a shelf, it returned exactly as I found it.
Nick would never know the collection had been copied.
That was the intention.
Field Journal of Hadrian Padmus Evans
Location: Burkhardt Grimm Trailer
The collection contains observations absent from the Black archive, although the authors share many of the same biases.
Burkhardt has examined the trailer extensively. Any added material must appear to have been concealed within its original construction. Leaving an unexplained volume on an open shelf would expose outside interference.
The trailer already contained several concealed compartments.
Nick had found them.
A blade drawer beneath the worktable showed regular use. A floor compartment near the rear wall held ammunition and old keys. A narrow cabinet behind a removable weapons rack contained poisons Aunt Marie clearly hadn't wanted exposed.
I spent nearly an hour measuring the interior.
Eventually, I found a dead space beneath the rear bench, trapped between the wall and an old reinforcement beam.
The cavity was large enough for several books, weapons, and a narrow document case.
More importantly, I could make it look original.
I returned to Ravenshade before sunrise.
The next two days were spent deciding how much information to leave.
Giving Nick complete answers would be a mistake.
Information without context could be as dangerous as ignorance, and burying a newly awakened Grimm beneath an entire second archive would help no one.
I selected four books.
The first was an old Black field journal devoted to Hexenbiests and Zauberbiests.
A cracked leather ownership plate inside the cover read:
ARCHIVE OF THE BLACK GRIMM LINE
Beneath the words sat an old Grimm symbol surrounding a capital B.
I left the ownership mark intact.
Nick needed to understand that Aunt Marie's collection wasn't the only Grimm archive in existence.
He didn't need to know that one of the Black Grimms was still alive.
The journal contained several accounts of emotional severance curses, magical comas, and awakening rituals.
One warning had been written so heavily that the quill nearly tore through the page.
Do not attempt to restore the severed bond until the person who awakened the victim has been identified. The awakening creates a second path. Strengthening one blindly may destroy the other—or bind the victim to the wrong soul.
The second book documented European Royal families, their illegitimate branches, and suspected Zauberbiest ancestry.
The information concerning the Renard family remained incomplete enough to be believable and detailed enough to make Nick question his captain.
The third book covered modern Grimm fieldwork: firearms, evidence handling, investigations, and distinguishing predatory behavior from cultural differences.
The fourth was a personal history of House Black and its relationships with Wesen.
That one would create more questions than it answered.
I included two weapons.
The first was a narrow cold-iron dagger with a silver-inlaid grip. Cold iron affected several Wesen species resistant to ordinary steel, while the silver channels allowed the blade to be coated with specialized compounds.
The second was a compact repeating hand crossbow capable of holding five short bolts. It folded into a rectangular case and looked like a particularly ugly tool until opened.
I repaired it thoroughly before placing it in the cache.
I also included a leather packet containing loose notes written in several hands.
No direct message.
No convenient explanation.
No instructions from a mysterious mentor.
That would reveal intent.
Instead, the notes appeared to have been collected by generations of Black Grimms.
One listed signs that a Wesen was hunting humans rather than merely living among them.
Another discussed the faint recognition sometimes experienced between Grimms.
A third warned against assuming any organization represented all Wesen.
A fourth contained an incomplete sketch of the seven-key map and several theories concerning whatever the Grimm knights had hidden.
The most recent-looking note concerned Hexenbiest curses.
If the victim awakens through the touch, blood, breath, or kiss of another, observe both parties. Compulsion may affect the awakener as strongly as the victim. Do not introduce Grimm blood until the bond's structure is understood.
That was as direct as I allowed myself to be.
Then I built the cupboard.
I used physical tools rather than magic.
The matching timber came from a broken cabinet in Ravenshade's basement, built during roughly the same period as the trailer. I reused old nails, matched the grain, and fitted the cupboard into the dead space beneath the rear bench.
There was no puzzle or conveniently placed clue.
It was simply an old door set nearly flush with the surrounding paneling.
I adjusted the warped wood and sagging hinge until the door was genuinely jammed shut, then packed grime into the seam.
Nick and Monroe regularly opened drawers, moved weapons, and crossed the old trailer floor. Each visit would loosen the warped door slightly.
Eventually, it would fall open.
No spell.
No signal.
Just old wood surrendering after one disturbance too many.
I placed the Black books, loose notes, dagger, and folding crossbow inside, closed the door, and restored everything around it.
Then I waited.
In the meantime, I continued surveying Portland.
Most Wesen presented no threat.
A few did.
The first intervention occurred outside a twenty-four-hour grocery store.
A human woman left carrying two bags shortly after midnight. Two men followed her from the parking lot.
Both were Wesen.
Their whispered conversation made their intentions clear before the woman realized she was being followed.
They drove her toward a narrow service alley by approaching from opposite sides.
I followed in cat form until one man grabbed her arm and the other covered her mouth.
Then I slipped beneath a dumpster and transformed.
My clothing and rings returned with my human body. I rose silently in the darkness, my focus ring already warm against my hand.
Neither attacker noticed me.
I curled two fingers.
The air cracked.
The first Wesen was ripped away from the woman and slammed into the brick wall hard enough to empty his lungs without cracking his skull.
The second released her and spun toward me.
"Run."
She didn't need convincing.
The Wesen woged as she fled. His jaw widened, his neck thickened, and rows of blunt teeth pushed forward beneath his lips.
He charged.
I stepped inside his reach, redirected the first swing, struck the nerve cluster beneath his arm, drove my elbow into his throat, and swept his forward leg out from beneath him.
He hit the pavement.
The first attacker recovered and pulled a knife.
I twisted my wrist.
The weapon tore itself from his hand and buried its blade in the wooden side of the dumpster.
Both men stared at it.
Then at me.
"Stay down."
The reptilian one lunged anyway.
I caught his wrist, turned beneath his arm, and broke it across my shoulder. Before he could scream, a silent binding wrapped around his torso and legs, pinning him to the ground.
His partner attempted to run.
A thin cord of force hooked around his ankles and dragged his feet backward. He struck the pavement face-first.
Three minutes later, both Wesen were unconscious, securely restrained, and positioned where mundane police would find them before either recovered.
I removed every visible trace of spellwork before leaving.
The woman later described being rescued by a dark-haired man in a black coat.
The responding officers assumed she had been too frightened to remember his face clearly.
Field Journal of Hadrian Padmus Evans
Intervention One
Two Wesen attempted to abduct a human woman. Both subdued without lethal force and left for mundane law enforcement.
Neither possessed meaningful combat training. Limited force magic and ordinary restraint proved sufficient.
Burkhardt was not assigned to the scene.
The second intervention ended less cleanly.
A Wesen had been hunting homeless men near the river. It selected victims unlikely to be reported missing quickly, removed portions of their bodies, and left the remains where the current would carry them away.
I followed it for three nights before confirming the pattern.
It was careful around humans.
It was less careful around cats.
The creature noticed me beneath a bridge and followed when I retreated into a section hidden from the nearby encampment.
I entered the shadow beneath a concrete support and transformed.
By the time the Wesen rounded the pillar, I stood in human form with my coat buttoned and my focus ring ready.
Its face opened vertically from forehead to chin.
Several layers of thin teeth unfolded from the split.
It attacked without warning.
I leaned aside as one claw passed my face, caught the wrist, and used its momentum to drive it shoulder-first into the support column.
Concrete cracked.
The Wesen twisted free and struck again.
This one knew how to fight.
I blocked the first blow with a reinforced forearm, redirected the second, and drove two fingers into a pressure point beneath its ribs.
The Wesen barely reacted.
A magical pulse threw it backward.
It landed on all fours and immediately charged again.
I dropped the temperature beneath the bridge. Moisture from the river condensed across the concrete, then froze beneath the creature's feet.
Its next step slid out from under it.
I moved before it struck the ground.
One knee landed against its chest. My left hand trapped its arm while the right pressed against the side of its throat.
"Stop."
It snapped at my wrist.
I vanished into the shadow beneath its body and emerged behind it.
The creature spun quickly enough to catch my coat with one claw. Fabric tore, and the tips opened three shallow lines across my side.
That hurt.
I struck its knee with a low kick and followed with a narrow pulse of force that shattered the joint.
The Wesen collapsed.
It still tried to crawl toward the nearby encampment.
Not away from me.
Toward the sleeping humans.
That decided the matter.
A thin blade of compressed air crossed the space between us.
The creature stopped moving.
I documented the species, collected samples, and removed the remains before sunrise.
Field Journal of Hadrian Padmus Evans
Intervention Two
Predatory Wesen confirmed responsible for at least four disappearances near the river.
Subject continued attempting to reach nearby civilians after suffering a disabling injury. Lethal force became necessary.
Samples secured. Remains removed.
Restraint remains preferable. It is not always possible.
The wounds along my side closed before morning.
They still hurt like hell.
I spent the next afternoon in Rosalee's apothecary, curled inside the bed she had purchased for me while pretending my foul mood resulted from ordinary feline arrogance.
She noticed I was favoring one side.
Of course she did.
Rosalee carefully ran her fingers along my ribs. The wounds had healed, but the underlying muscles remained tender.
"You're sore."
I gave a small complaining sound.
Monroe looked up from his book.
"Probably lost a fight with another cat."
Rosalee frowned at him.
"He could have been hit by a car."
"He walked in."
"That doesn't mean he's fine."
I was fine.
Mostly.
She placed a bowl of milk beside the bed.
I drank it.
Monroe watched.
"You're rewarding him for getting into fights."
"He's hurt."
"He doesn't look hurt."
"He's acting hurt."
I deliberately lowered my head onto Rosalee's hand.
She looked at Monroe triumphantly.
Monroe stared at me.
I closed my eyes.
Surveillance required sacrifice.
Nick and Monroe returned to the trailer two days after I installed the cupboard.
They didn't find it.
That was reassuring.
They searched for a Wesen entry, removed three journals, argued over a translation, and left.
The following evening, Nick entered alone. He opened the rear drawer hard enough to shake the bench, but the cupboard remained closed.
Another day passed.
Then Nick and Monroe returned while looking for a particular bottle mentioned in Aunt Marie's notes.
I watched from a tree beyond the trailer.
"This would be easier if Grimms believed in labels," Monroe complained.
"They have labels."
"Half of them say things like 'the liver of the beast that walks beneath the moon.' That is not a label."
"It probably made sense at the time."
"It never made sense."
Inside, a drawer slammed.
The bench shifted against the trailer wall.
There was a faint wooden crack.
Then something struck the floor.
Both men became quiet.
"What was that?" Nick asked.
"I don't know."
Footsteps moved toward the rear bench.
Monroe inhaled.
"Old paper."
"There's old paper everywhere."
"No. This is stronger."
Nick knelt.
The warped cupboard door had fallen open. One hinge remained attached, leaving it hanging crookedly above the floor.
For several seconds, neither man spoke.
"I've searched this trailer," Nick said.
Monroe leaned closer.
"Apparently the trailer disagrees."
"That wasn't open before."
"It looks like it was jammed."
Nick touched the edge of the door.
Wood crumbled slightly beneath his thumb.
"The hinge broke."
"Probably from us opening and closing everything."
"I've sat on this bench."
"And apparently that wasn't enough."
Nick looked into the dark cavity.
The scent of old leather, oil, paper, and metal entered the air.
He reached inside and removed the first Black journal.
Monroe leaned over his shoulder.
Then became unusually quiet.
Nick noticed.
"What?"
Monroe took the book and stared at the ownership plate.
"I've seen this mark before."
"Where?"
"Not in person. Old family histories. Stories my grandfather told when he wanted us to stay out of certain forests."
Nick frowned.
"What does it mean?"
Monroe read the faded words.
"Archive of the Black Grimm Line."
"The Blacks?"
"House Black, depending on which story you believe."
Nick looked back into the cupboard.
"You've heard of them?"
"Everyone has heard something. Most of it probably isn't true."
"That didn't answer the question."
Monroe exhaled.
"They were an old Grimm family. Older than most lines still operating in Europe. Supposedly, they hunted things other Grimms wouldn't go near."
"That sounds useful."
"They also hunted things other Grimms had already decided weren't dangerous."
Nick looked down at the book.
Monroe continued reluctantly.
"Some Wesen stories describe them as protectors. Others describe them as butchers. There are stories about Black Grimms sheltering entire communities from the Royals, then wiping out another family because one member broke an agreement."
"So nobody knows what they were actually like."
"Oh, people think they know. That's different."
Nick removed the second book.
It carried the same family name but a slightly different seal.
Monroe stared at it.
"That's another Black mark."
"You're sure?"
"Pretty sure."
Nick removed the remaining books, followed by the leather packet, dagger, and folded crossbow.
One book smelled different.
Monroe paused while holding it.
Nick noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You stopped."
"It smells odd."
Nick looked around the trailer.
"Everything in here smells odd."
"That's true."
Monroe sniffed the book again.
"Old hide, blood, oils, something bitter. Probably whatever they used to preserve it."
"Is it dangerous?"
"Every book in this trailer is probably dangerous."
Nick accepted that and placed it with the others.
He opened the Hexenbiest journal.
The binding settled near the section I had prepared.
His German remained limited, so he handed the book to Monroe.
Monroe began translating.
Neither interrupted until he reached the warning.
"Do not attempt to restore the severed bond until the person who awakened the victim has been identified," Monroe read slowly. "The awakening creates a second path. Strengthening one blindly may destroy the other—or bind the victim to the wrong soul."
Nick went still.
"Read it again."
Monroe did.
Nick took the book and stared at the warning.
"What else is in there?"
"A lot."
"Anything about identifying the person?"
"Maybe. Give me a minute."
Nick unfolded the most recent-looking loose note.
Monroe read over his shoulder.
"If the victim awakens through the touch, blood, breath, or kiss of another, observe both parties. Compulsion may affect the awakener as strongly as the victim."
Nick's hand tightened around the paper.
"A kiss."
Monroe looked at him.
"Who was with Juliette when she woke?"
"I don't know."
"You need to find out."
Nick gathered the books.
His movements became faster.
Focused.
He still possessed incomplete information, but he finally knew the correct question.
That was enough for tonight.
I dropped silently from the branch and entered the shadow beneath the trailer.
Nick paused inside.
"Did you hear something?"
Monroe sniffed.
"No."
Nick remained still for several seconds.
Then returned to the Black journals.
I shadow-hopped into the forest.
Nick brought everything to the apothecary the following evening.
I was already lying near the heater when he placed the books, notes, and weapons across Rosalee's counter.
She took one look at the ownership plate and stopped moving.
Monroe noticed.
"You recognize it too?"
Rosalee looked between him and Nick.
"Freddy had a book with that symbol. Not a Grimm journal. An apothecary ledger."
"What did it say about the Blacks?" Nick asked.
"Not much. It recorded remedies traded to different families. There were several entries involving them, but Freddy said their Grimm line disappeared."
Monroe folded his arms.
"That's what most people believe."
Nick glanced between them.
"Most?"
Rosalee opened the Royal genealogy book.
"The Blacks collected information from everywhere. Wesen, Grimms, Royals, even Hexenbiests willing to trade with them."
Nick looked toward the Hexenbiest journal.
"That would explain this."
Rosalee didn't look reassured.
"Other stories said that once the Blacks learned how to kill something, they never forgot."
Monroe nodded.
"My grandfather said they kept records on every weakness they discovered."
"Which is exactly what every Grimm journal does," Nick said.
"Not like the Blacks. Most families recorded what worked during a hunt. The Blacks supposedly experimented until they knew every possible method."
Rosalee set the journal aside.
"What else was in the cupboard?"
Nick pushed the remaining volumes toward her.
"The Royal book, a field manual, and this."
He lifted the fourth volume.
Unlike the others, it had no title embossed across its cover. The leather was dark, unevenly colored, and heavily worn, with several repairs along the spine.
Rosalee accepted it.
Her nose wrinkled.
Monroe noticed.
"You smell it too?"
"Yes."
Nick looked between them.
"Is something wrong with it?"
"It smells unusual."
Monroe glanced around the shop.
"We are standing beside dried glands, animal fat, powdered organs, and a Grimm book that smells like a graveyard."
"That's why I'm not worried."
Rosalee opened the cover.
The first page carried a handwritten title in brown-black ink.
A Brief and Occasionally Unpleasant History of House Black and Its Dealings with Wesen
Beneath it, in smaller writing, was the author's name.
Recorded by Lord Hydrus Black, because my descendants possess the unfortunate habit of forgetting every lesson they did not learn while bleeding.
Monroe leaned closer.
Then froze.
Nick noticed immediately.
"What?"
Monroe stared at the name.
"Lord Hydrus Black."
"That means something to you."
"My grandfather called him the Black Dissector."
Nick looked at the title again.
"That isn't exactly subtle."
"He wasn't known for subtlety."
Rosalee turned the page.
At first, the book appeared to be an ordinary family history, assuming anyone could describe Black family history as ordinary.
Hydrus recorded marriages, births, political disputes, alliances, hunting territories, agreements with Wesen communities, and personal stories concerning various members of House Black.
His tone shifted without warning between formal documentation and personal insults directed at relatives dead for centuries.
Rosalee read one passage aloud.
My uncle Perseus claimed he could distinguish a Blutbad from a Wildesheer by smell alone. This confidence lasted until he followed the wrong man into a tavern and was beaten unconscious with a chair. He later insisted the chair had been enchanted. It was not.
Monroe smiled despite himself.
"At least they recorded their mistakes," Nick said.
"Some of them," Rosalee replied.
She turned several more pages.
The personal stories gradually became stranger.
One entry discussed negotiations with a Wesen settlement. The next examined whether a particular species possessed a second liver. A short account of a Black wedding was followed by three pages measuring the density of Skalengeck scales.
Rosalee's expression changed.
"What?" Nick asked.
She turned the book around.
The page contained a detailed anatomical drawing of a dissected Wesen torso. Every organ had been labeled. Measurements filled the margins, along with notes concerning muscle density, bone structure, and possible uses for several glands.
Nick stared.
Monroe grimaced.
Rosalee turned another page.
Then another.
There were hundreds of entries.
Hydrus dissected Wesen from dozens of species. Some had been killed during hunts. Others had been executed by their own communities or handed over by families who didn't want the bodies returned. A few had been recovered from battlefields or purchased from less reputable Grimm lines.
Hydrus wrote about each body with clinical fascination.
He also used almost everything.
Fur became lining for coats and winter gloves. Scales reinforced armor. Tusks became knife handles, spearheads, and crossbow components. Tendons strengthened bows. Horns became containers capable of safely holding corrosive substances.
One preserved membrane had been fitted into goggles because its original owner could see clearly through smoke.
Nick studied the sketches.
"He made weapons and clothing out of them."
Monroe read beneath an illustration of a long coat.
Reinforced with Hässlich hide. Resistant to puncture, abrasion, and poor weather. Smells dreadful when wet.
Rosalee didn't look amused.
"He was wearing Wesen."
"He was using their bodies," Nick said.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Wesen bodies."
Nick stopped.
"You're right. That sounded worse than I meant it."
Rosalee's posture relaxed slightly.
Monroe kept reading.
"Some were executed criminals."
"Some," Rosalee replied. "Not all."
Nick looked over her shoulder as she turned to another section.
"What is that?"
The page contained a recipe beneath a large handwritten heading.
Oil of Final Revelation
Rosalee read the ingredient list twice.
Rendered animal fat.
Flaxseed oil.
Pine resin.
Strong alcohol.
Powdered charcoal.
Mustard seed.
Salt.
Vinegar.
Several common herbs.
She frowned.
"This isn't magic."
Monroe leaned closer.
"Are you sure?"
"None of these ingredients are."
Nick pointed to the preparation instructions.
"Then what does it do?"
Rosalee read the explanation.
Her expression hardened.
"It prevents a Wesen from changing back after death."
The room became quiet.
Nick looked toward the anatomical drawings.
"So Hydrus could dissect them while they were still woged."
"And preserve the parts properly," Monroe added.
"The Wesen has to swallow it while alive," Rosalee said. "If they die within twelve hours, the body remains in its Wesen form."
"Could we make it?" Nick asked.
"Yes."
Rosalee answered immediately, then appeared uncomfortable with the fact.
"There's nothing rare here. The preparation is exact, but any pharmacy and grocery store would carry most of it."
Monroe read the note beneath the recipe.
The subject must swallow two spoonfuls. One is insufficient for larger breeds. Three causes vomiting, which rather defeats the purpose. Liesel suggested adding honey. This improved cooperation but left the preserved tissues faintly sweet, an outcome I found irritating.
Nick frowned.
"Liesel?"
Rosalee turned back to the family section.
"Lady Liesel Black. Born Liesel Vollmer."
She stopped.
Monroe leaned over her shoulder.
"No."
"What?" Nick asked.
Rosalee looked up.
"She was a Fuchsbau."
Nick stared at her.
"Hydrus Black was married to a Wesen?"
"A Fuchsbau," Monroe said.
"The man who dissected hundreds of Wesen."
"Apparently."
Rosalee began searching the notebook more carefully.
Once she knew Liesel's name, the woman appeared everywhere.
She wasn't a prisoner, servant, research subject, or secret mistress.
She was Hydrus's wife.
His hunting partner.
His closest adviser.
Judging by the annotations filling the margins, she was also the only person who could tell him he was being an idiot without starting a blood feud.
One entry described a hunt for a Mauvais Dentes.
My wife located the creature before I did. She also killed him before I arrived, which she has mentioned fourteen times since breakfast. The tusks are excellent. I have decided to make her a pair of knife handles from them, partly as a gift and partly so she will stop boasting long enough to eat.
A second handwriting had added:
Hydrus has omitted that he fell through a roof during this hunt and required me to pull him from a pig trough.
Hydrus replied:
Irrelevant to the anatomy.
Liesel answered:
Relevant to me.
Monroe almost smiled.
"She sounds terrifying."
Rosalee nodded.
"I like her."
"You learned she existed thirty seconds ago."
"She pulled him out of a pig trough and made sure everyone knew."
"That's fair."
Nick flipped through several more pages.
Hydrus and Liesel hunted together repeatedly. They tracked Wesen who preyed on humans and other Wesen. They protected settlements from Royal hunting parties, rogue Grimms, and violent neighboring families.
Liesel also served as Hydrus's only reliable connection to an organization he referred to as the Council.
Nick stopped turning pages.
"The Council?"
Monroe and Rosalee both went still.
Nick noticed.
"What Council?"
Monroe looked at Rosalee.
Rosalee looked back.
Nick's eyes narrowed.
"There's a Wesen Council."
Monroe released a breath.
"Yes."
"You never mentioned that."
"You never asked."
Nick stared at him.
Monroe lifted both hands.
"That sounded better before I said it."
"What is it?"
"An international Wesen authority," Rosalee explained. "It enforces secrecy, settles certain disputes, and deals with people considered dangerous to the wider Wesen community."
Nick looked back at the notebook.
"Hydrus worked for them?"
"No," Monroe and Rosalee said together.
Rosalee continued.
"Definitely not."
"The Council and Grimms working together would be generous wording even when they weren't actively trying to kill each other," Monroe added.
Rosalee found another entry.
"Liesel was his contact because the Council knew she married a Grimm."
"And because Hydrus apparently respected her enough to listen occasionally," Monroe said.
The notebook described a relationship that remained fragile even at its best.
The Council did not communicate directly with Hydrus.
Information and requests passed through Liesel when their interests aligned. She sometimes gave Hydrus warnings about dangerous Wesen, and sometimes passed his evidence to Council representatives when a matter crossed borders or involved wider politics.
No one pretended they trusted one another.
One entry summarized the arrangement clearly.
The Council has sent Liesel another request that I refrain from interfering with their investigation. I informed my wife that I am not interfering. I am conducting a separate investigation in the same territory, involving the same suspects, for entirely unrelated reasons.
Liesel informs me this is the definition of interference.
I informed her that definitions are frequently written by cowards.
Liesel added beneath it:
He interfered.
Another entry was less humorous.
Three Council representatives met Liesel at the western bridge. They would not cross into Black territory while I remained visible. Sensible.
They provided the name of a Geier trafficking children and requested that I leave the arrest to them.
I provided the location of the Geier's grave.
Our relationship remains strained.
Nick stared at the passage.
"He killed the person before they could arrest him."
"Looks that way," Monroe said.
"And the Council kept speaking to his wife afterward?"
Rosalee found Liesel's annotation.
The Geier had murdered six children. The Council objected to Hydrus acting without consultation. They did not object strongly enough to request the body.
Monroe looked uncomfortable.
"That sounds about right."
Nick glanced between them.
"So the Council knew Hydrus hunted Wesen."
"They knew he was a Grimm," Rosalee said. "That was enough."
"And they accepted Liesel marrying him?"
"Accepted is probably too strong."
Some Council representatives treated Liesel as compromised. Others apparently believed she was the only reason Hydrus showed restraint toward certain Wesen communities.
Hydrus's opinion of them varied from cautious respect to open contempt.
Council Agent Morgenstern has again referred to my wife as an unfortunate victim of Grimm manipulation.
Liesel broke his nose.
I offered assistance.
She declined on the grounds that there was very little nose left to break.
Monroe laughed despite himself.
Rosalee smiled.
Nick shook his head.
"This family was insane."
"Complicated," Rosalee corrected.
"Insane can be complicated."
"That's fair."
Rosalee turned another page and found a section marked with a faded red strip.
The heading read:
On Borrowed Senses and the Cooperative Nature of Blood
Nick leaned closer.
"More oil?"
"No. A potion."
Rosalee examined the ingredients.
Alcohol.
Honey.
Salt.
Crushed juniper berries.
Vinegar.
Dried orange peel.
Several ordinary roots and herbs.
The final two ingredients were written separately.
Seven hairs freely given by a Fuchsbau.
Nine drops of blood from the same donor.
Monroe looked at Rosalee.
She stared at the recipe.
Nick noticed.
"What?"
"It uses Fuchsbau blood and fur."
"Hair," Monroe corrected.
"In woge, it would be fur."
Nick looked at the instructions.
"What did it do?"
Hydrus called the potion Liesel's Borrowed Nose, though Liesel had repeatedly crossed out the name and offered alternatives in the margins.
The finished potion temporarily granted Hydrus scent perception comparable to a Fuchsbau.
He could separate overlapping scents, identify individuals from traces left hours earlier, recognize fear and illness, distinguish related bloodlines, and follow trails through crowds or light rain.
The effect lasted between four and six hours.
The first batch also caused sneezing, headaches, and what Hydrus described as an unreasonable craving for roasted chicken.
Liesel's annotation read:
The craving was not caused by the potion. Hydrus always wants roasted chicken.
Hydrus replied:
Unproven.
Nick looked at Rosalee.
"This worked?"
"According to him."
"There aren't any magical ingredients."
"There's Fuchsbau blood and fur."
"But nothing from a Hexenbiest."
"No."
Monroe reread a paragraph.
"It says magic."
Hydrus had written:
The magic within Wesen blood is not limited to those breeds arrogant enough to throw furniture without touching it. Every bloodline carries its own nature. Proper preparation allows one nature to instruct another temporarily, provided the donor is willing and the recipient survives the lesson.
Nick frowned.
"Grimms could use magic?"
"Old books use that word for all kinds of things," Monroe said.
Rosalee nodded slowly.
"He may have considered every Wesen ability a form of magic. Hexenbiests use the same word."
"And drinking someone's blood gave him their senses."
"Temporarily."
"Could we make it?"
Rosalee hesitated.
"The ingredients are simple."
Monroe pointed toward her.
"Except for the part where it requires your blood and fur."
"I noticed."
"I'm just making sure."
Nick looked between them.
"I'm not asking her to."
"Good," Monroe said.
Rosalee continued reading.
"The donor has to give the blood and fur willingly. Hydrus says unwilling material causes rejection."
"What kind of rejection?" Nick asked.
"Vomiting. Fever. Temporary blindness. Loss of smell." Rosalee paused. "In one case, the recipient believed he was being hunted by geese for two days."
Nick stared.
"Geese?"
"Hydrus didn't explain."
Monroe nodded solemnly.
"They know what they did."
Rosalee ignored him.
"The preparation is closer to alchemy than an ordinary remedy, but there's nothing here I couldn't reproduce."
Nick looked again at Hydrus's use of the word magic.
"So either he believed Wesen blood itself was magical, or the Blacks knew something no one else wrote down."
"They were Grimms," Monroe said. "They thought everything they didn't understand was either magic or something they should stab."
Rosalee gave him a look.
"That's unfair."
"Is it?"
"Probably not."
I remained curled in the bed with my eyes closed.
They had no reason to suspect Hydrus meant the word literally.
That was preferable.
Rosalee marked the page with a cloth ribbon.
"I want to study this later."
Monroe looked at her.
"Study."
"Study."
"Not make."
"I didn't say that."
"You were thinking it."
"I was thinking that a temporary Fuchsbau tracking sense could be useful."
"For Nick."
"For anyone."
Monroe looked toward Nick.
"You're not drinking her blood."
Nick raised both hands.
"I didn't ask."
"Good."
Rosalee smiled faintly.
"You're being protective."
"I'm being reasonable."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
I almost opened an eye.
They were stealing my lines before I had introduced myself.
Nick eventually asked the question that mattered most to him.
"Does the Council know about every Grimm?"
"The Council tries to," Rosalee said.
"Do they know about me?"
"We don't know."
Monroe's hesitation said otherwise.
Nick noticed.
"That means probably."
"Probably," Monroe admitted.
"How long?"
"We don't know."
Nick stepped away from the counter and paced once across the shop.
He was understandably angry that no one had mentioned an international authority monitoring the hidden world around him.
That was useful.
He needed to understand that Aunt Marie's journals weren't the entire world.
Nick stopped beside the counter.
"Why didn't she write about them?"
"She might have," Monroe said. "You haven't translated everything."
"That's not an answer."
"No, it isn't."
Rosalee closed Hydrus's notebook halfway.
"Some Wesen don't like discussing the Council around Grimms."
"Why?"
"Because Grimms usually react badly to being told Wesen have their own laws."
Nick looked toward the anatomical drawings.
"And the Council reacts badly to Grimms cutting apart people."
"Yes."
"That sounds reasonable."
"It often is," Rosalee said. "That doesn't make everything the Council does reasonable."
"You don't trust them."
"I trust some people connected to them. That's different."
Monroe nodded.
"Very different."
The conversation eventually returned to Juliette.
Rosalee opened the Hexenbiest journal and compared it with Aunt Marie's formula.
"This treats the person who wakes the victim as part of the curse instead of an outside ingredient."
Monroe pointed toward the loose note.
"And it says the awakener might be affected too."
Nick's expression hardened.
"So whoever woke Juliette might be drawn to her."
"And she might be drawn to them," Rosalee said.
Nick looked away.
He was thinking about Renard, even if he didn't have enough information to understand why.
Rosalee read farther.
"The book says attempting to restore the original bond before identifying the second one can make both conditions worse."
"Can you figure out how to identify who woke her?"
"Maybe. There are several diagnostic preparations, but I need time to translate everything."
"How much?"
"Nick."
"How much time?"
Rosalee met his eyes.
"A few days, if I want to be certain we don't hurt her."
Nick clearly disliked the answer.
He accepted it anyway.
That was important.
Monroe opened the Royal genealogy and scanned the index.
"Renard."
Nick turned toward him.
"What?"
"There's a Renard family listed under the Royal branches."
Monroe moved the book closer to the light.
Rosalee joined him.
Nick stepped beside them.
"What does it say?"
"Several illegitimate lines connected to the Kronenberg family. Possible Zauberbiest ancestry. Most of the records are incomplete."
"Zauberbiest?"
"The male equivalent of a Hexenbiest," Rosalee said.
Nick stared at the page.
"Captain Renard is a Royal."
Monroe looked at him.
"You knew that?"
"I suspected he was connected to them. My mother knew more."
Rosalee glanced toward the Hexenbiest journal.
"And he visited Juliette in the hospital."
Nick looked sharply at her.
"How do you know?"
"He's your captain. I assumed he checked on her."
"I don't know if he did."
The uncertainty bothered him more now than it had before the books appeared.
Good.
A correct question at the right time could accomplish more than a complete answer forced onto someone who wasn't prepared to believe it.
Nick turned back to the Black ownership mark.
"What happened to them?"
Monroe shook his head.
"Depends on the story."
"The line vanished," Rosalee said. "No confirmed sightings. No new journals. Nothing traded under their seal."
"When?"
"More than a century ago, I think."
"Some stories are newer," Monroe said. "Rumors, mostly. A Grimm using Black weapons. A destroyed Royal safehouse with one of their symbols carved into the door. That kind of thing."
"Could any of them still be alive?"
Monroe and Rosalee looked at each other.
"Grimm families are good at disappearing," Rosalee said.
Monroe looked less convinced.
"The Blacks weren't known for hiding."
I nearly snorted.
They worked through the remaining pages of Hydrus's notebook gradually.
His later entries became more personal. His handwriting began shaking with age. Liesel corrected his spelling more often. References to hunts became less frequent, replaced by stories about younger family members and arguments over what should happen to the archive after their deaths.
Near the end, Hydrus described Liesel's final hunt.
She survived.
Hydrus didn't participate because she had forbidden it after he injured his knee and refused to admit he could no longer run properly.
His response covered two pages.
Liesel wrote a single sentence beneath it.
He sulked for six weeks.
The final entry concerned the construction of the notebook itself.
Rosalee began reading silently.
Then stopped.
Her face changed.
Monroe noticed.
"What?"
She leaned closer to the page and inhaled carefully.
The odd scent they had noticed earlier suddenly mattered.
"What is it?" Nick asked.
Rosalee turned the notebook toward them.
Hydrus's final entry was written in larger, darker letters.
On the Construction of This Volume
A family history should reflect the family that created it. Paper produced from trees seemed inappropriate.
The covers are tanned Hässlich hide, reinforced at the corners with Skalengeck scales.
The binding cords are prepared from Blutbad tendon.
The adhesive is rendered from the connective tissue of three Geiers, boiled with preserved Gallblase fluid until sufficiently stable.
The pages are formed from layered and pressed Bauerschwein intestinal membrane, bleached, dried, and treated until they accept ink.
The ink is made from powdered Lausenschlange scale, Jägerbar gall, and Blutbad blood. Liesel contributed several drops to the red annotations after informing me that fox blood produces a superior shade.
The clasp is carved from Mauvais Dentes tusk.
Nothing was wasted.
I consider this my finest book.
No one spoke.
Rosalee slowly touched the edge of one page.
Her fingertips recoiled.
Monroe stared at the binding.
"That's why it smells wrong."
Nick looked at the notebook.
Then at the anatomical drawings.
Then back at the final page.
"The entire book?"
Rosalee swallowed.
"Every part of it."
Monroe leaned closer but didn't touch.
"The pages aren't paper."
"No."
"The glue."
"Wesen."
"The ink."
"Wesen."
"The cover."
Rosalee closed the notebook carefully.
"Wesen."
The room remained silent.
I stayed curled in my bed.
I did not laugh.
It required considerable self-control.
Nick finally spoke.
"He wrote a book about dissecting Wesen inside a book made from dissected Wesen."
Monroe stared at the closed cover.
"That is the most Grimm thing I have ever seen."
Rosalee looked disturbed enough that the notebook might have personally insulted her.
"He used Fuchsbau blood in the ink."
"Liesel volunteered," Monroe said cautiously.
"That does not make the rest better."
"No."
Nick rubbed a hand over his face.
"We have to keep this."
Rosalee looked at him sharply.
"I didn't say use it. It has information we need."
She looked down at the book.
"I know."
Monroe took a cautious step away from the counter.
"I'm not touching it again without gloves."
"You carried it here," Nick said.
"I didn't know."
"You sniffed it."
"I deeply regret that now."
Rosalee stared at him.
"You smell dead bodies all the time."
"Not usually in book form."
That broke some of the tension.
Only some.
Rosalee wrapped Hydrus's notebook in a thick cloth and placed it inside a wooden box.
"I'm storing it separately."
Nick didn't argue.
Field Journal of Hadrian Padmus Evans
Black Archive Introduction
Burkhardt reacts strongly to withheld information but remains capable of listening once the immediate anger passes.
Calvert challenged his wording concerning harvested Wesen remains. He corrected himself without defensiveness.
Monroe uses humor when uncomfortable and will apparently handle future Black books only while wearing gloves.
They interpreted Hydrus's references to magic as old terminology for Wesen abilities. No suspicion of formal spellcraft.
The Black name now possesses context before my eventual introduction.
Unfortunately, much of that context is made from corpses.
Nick took the Hexenbiest journal and loose notes with him.
The Royal genealogy remained with Rosalee and Monroe so they could translate the relevant sections.
Hydrus's notebook remained at the apothecary, sealed inside its wooden box. Rosalee wanted to study the tracking potion, oil recipe, Liesel's annotations, and Council references without touching the volume more than necessary.
The field manual returned to the trailer.
The weapons remained unused for the moment. Nick clearly wanted to test both, but Juliette's condition took priority.
I approved.
He paused before leaving the apothecary.
His gaze moved toward my bed again.
I opened one eye.
Nick crouched beside me.
"There it is again."
Rosalee looked over.
"What?"
"He feels familiar."
Monroe sighed.
"It's a cat."
"I know."
"That should settle the issue."
"It doesn't."
Nick placed his hand on my head.
The recognition passed between us again.
I began purring before the silence became suspicious.
Rosalee smiled.
Monroe looked offended on principle.
Nick scratched behind my ears.
For a moment, his expression softened.
Then he stood and left to continue trying to save Juliette.
I remained beside the heater.
Across Portland, two arrested Wesen were recovering from injuries caused by a man the police hadn't identified.
Near the river, four missing-person cases would eventually lead nowhere because the creature responsible no longer had a body to discover.
Inside Aunt Marie's trailer, several Black journals now sat among Nick's collection as though they had always belonged there.
At Rosalee's apothecary, a sealed wooden box contained Lord Hydrus Black's family history, written in blood, bound in tendon, and filled with proof that House Black's relationship with Wesen had never been simple.
They knew my family before they knew me.
That was enough for now.
For the moment, everyone believed they understood the shape of the board.
I intended to keep it that way.
At least until they found the next note.