The longer Nick spoke with Monroe, the less threatening the Blutbad seemed.
The discovery of Portland’s hidden supernatural world had shaken him, but the nervous clockmaker in front of him was making it difficult to maintain that sense of dread.
“Since you watch the news, you already know why I came here,” Nick said.
“I’m looking for the missing girl.” Monroe had been pacing around the living room ever since leaving the couch.
He reached the window and glanced outside with forced casualness.
“So the police still haven’t found her?” “Obviously not.” Nick’s sharper tone made Monroe look back with a guilty expression.
He quickly turned away again.
“That’s terrible,” Monroe muttered.
“Truly awful.” Nick remained silent.
Monroe raised both hands.
“I swear this has nothing to do with me.
I gave up the old ways years ago.
I don’t hunt people anymore.” He stopped abruptly.
“Not that I ever ate people.
I definitely never ate a child.” Nick gave him a cold look.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?
Aunt Marie may never have shown me the journals, but I still know the story of Little Red Riding Hood.” He stepped closer.
“Both victims were wearing red.
The first was torn apart in Forest Park, and the second disappeared while walking past another wooded area.
You also admitted that you smelled another Blutbad nearby.” “Please don’t make it sound like we’re one big happy family,” Monroe complained.
“Blutbaden don’t automatically protect each other.
Most of us can barely tolerate being in the same room.” His expression became uncomfortable.
“Things get especially complicated when red is involved.” Nick caught the hesitation.
“What does that mean?” “It means certain instincts become stronger.
That doesn’t make me a kidnapper.” Monroe pointed toward himself with both hands.
“I’m a respectable professional.
I repair watches and clocks.
I pay taxes, volunteer at church, eat vegetables, and avoid traditional Blutbad behavior.
I’m not prowling through parks looking for little girls.” “Maybe you aren’t.” Nick holstered his P226 and rose from the chair.
“But you know how to find the one who is.” Monroe’s face tightened.
“I saw what you were doing around the fence.
Wolves and dogs mark territory to warn others away.
If you detected another Blutbad close to your home, then you should be able to track him.” “That isn’t how I normally handle these situations.” “How do you handle them?” “I stay away from other Blutbaden, and they leave me alone.
It’s an understanding that has worked very well for years.” He tried to continue, but Nick crossed the distance before he finished.
Monroe saw only a blur before Nick seized him by the shirt and drove him against the wall.
The taller man’s eyes flashed red.
Nick increased the pressure against his chest.
“You should be grateful Aunt Marie never taught me how Grimms traditionally deal with Wesen.” Monroe’s hands curled as though he were fighting the urge to transform.
“I still consider myself a police officer,” Nick continued.
“My job is to protect innocent people and arrest criminals.
I don’t care whether the suspect is human, Wesen, or something else.” With one hand holding Monroe in place, Nick removed Robin Howell’s photograph and raised it between them.
The six-year-old girl smiled brightly from the picture.
“This child may already be in the hands of one of your kind.
If you refuse to help me perform my duty as a detective, then I may have to find out what performing my duty as a Grimm looks like.” The red light in Monroe’s eyes vanished.
He stared at Robin’s picture, swallowed, and forced an uneasy smile.
“If I told you she is probably still alive, would you let me off the wall?” Nick studied his face before slowly releasing him.
Monroe straightened his shirt and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Thank you.” “Explain.” “A Blutbad who hunts this way usually doesn’t feed again immediately after a kill,” Monroe said.
“After a successful hunt, the urge remains manageable for at least a week.
Sometimes ten days.” “Sylvie was killed yesterday.” “Exactly.” Nick’s expression remained hard.
“Then why take Robin?” Monroe glanced once more at the photograph.
“He may be keeping her for later.” The answer made Nick’s blood run cold.
“You mean he’s fattening her up.” Monroe looked away.
“That is one way of putting it.” A short time later, Monroe drove his Volkswagen Beetle through the wooded outskirts of Portland.
He kept the window open and leaned his head outside whenever the narrow road allowed it.
His nose twitched constantly as he sampled the air, while one hand remained on the steering wheel.
The small car swayed across the uneven road.
Nick gripped the handle above the passenger door and watched the trees pass uncomfortably close to the windows.
Monroe was driving slowly, but his attention remained divided between the road and whatever scent he was following.
If the Beetle struck a tree, Nick intended to be out of the vehicle before the engine stopped running.
“You can actually find him by smell alone?” Nick asked.
Monroe pulled his head back inside long enough to glare at him.
“I’m a Blutbad.” “That doesn’t answer the question.” “Our sense of smell is far beyond yours.” Nick remained skeptical.
Wolves were pack animals, yet Monroe behaved more like a solitary predator defending a private territory.
His habit of marking boundaries sounded closer to the behavior of a tiger than an ordinary wolf.
The Beetle had already spent nearly an hour following winding roads and forest lanes.
Tracking a single scent over that distance seemed excessive even for a supernatural creature.
Monroe leaned through the window again.
“He moved in circles after leaving Berkeley Park,” he said.
“Probably trying to confuse police dogs or anyone following by sight.” “You can separate his scent from everything else out here?” “Yes.” “There are animals, cars, hikers, and houses all over this area.” Monroe gave him an offended look.
“You don’t ask an eagle whether it can see a mouse from the sky.” “I might if the eagle drove like this.” “Do you want me to track him or not?” Nick tightened his grip as the Beetle rolled over another rut.
“Keep your eyes on the road.” Monroe ignored him and continued sniffing the air.
Several minutes later, his posture changed.
He pulled his head back through the window, and every trace of irritation vanished from his face.
His eyes became alert as he turned toward a narrow road branching into the trees.
“I found him.” “You’re sure?” “He’s close.” Monroe turned onto the side road without slowing enough for Nick’s comfort.
The Beetle bounced along the poorly maintained path for another five minutes before stopping beside a crude wooden bridge.
The structure crossed a shallow stream and led toward a darker section of forest.
Monroe switched off the engine.
“We walk from here.” Nick stepped out and studied the area.
Dense bushes enclosed both sides of the stream, while tree branches blocked most of the fading evening light.
Through a gap in the vegetation beyond the bridge, he could make out a faint glow.
A building was hidden among the trees.
Monroe stared toward it but made no move to cross.
“We shouldn’t use the bridge,” he said.
“Blutbaden hear almost as well as we smell.
A loose board or heavy footstep could warn him before we get close.” Nick turned and noticed Monroe removing a small cloth pouch from his pocket.
The clockmaker opened it and rubbed a handful of dried plant material across the front of his shirt, sleeves, and jeans.
“What is that?” “Wolfsbane.” Nick raised an eyebrow.
“You carry it around?” “When I expect trouble.” Monroe offered him the pouch.
“It helps cover our natural scent.
The wind is moving from the cabin toward us, which gives us an advantage, but I’d rather not depend on the weather.” Nick examined the dried leaves and crushed flowers before taking a small amount.
Wolfsbane was another name for monkshood, a highly toxic flowering plant also known as aconite.
European folklore had connected it to wolves and werewolves for centuries.
Some legends claimed it could repel them, while others described warriors consuming it before entering a violent trance.
Apparently, the truth was more practical.
Blutbaden used the plant to interfere with one another’s sense of smell.
Nick rubbed it across his jacket and pants.
He leaned closer and tested the scent, but his ordinary human nose detected little beyond a faint herbal bitterness.
Monroe sealed the pouch.
“Trust me.
You don’t want to confront a prepared Blutbad in the middle of his own territory.” “You seemed cooperative once I pointed a gun at you.” “I’m civilized.
He may not be.” They moved away from the bridge and descended the muddy bank.
The stream reached halfway up Nick’s boots, and the cold water immediately seeped through the seams.
Monroe crossed without complaint.
Rather than climbing onto the opposite trail, he led Nick downstream for several minutes before circling back through thick undergrowth.
The detour kept them away from the direct route and reduced the chance of being seen from the cabin.
Branches pulled at their clothes as they advanced.
Nick kept one hand close to his P226 while watching the spaces between the trees.
The faint light gradually became clearer.
A small wooden cabin stood in a narrow clearing ahead.
Its walls were weathered, and the roof looked as though it had been repaired with mismatched pieces of metal and old shingles.
No vehicle was visible from their position.
Nick crouched behind a fallen log and studied the windows.
Before he could ask Monroe what he smelled, a strained sound came from beside him.
“Huff… huff…” Nick turned.
Monroe’s eyes had become bright red.
His beard thickened as coarse fur spread across his cheeks.
His jaw pushed forward, then abruptly withdrew.
Pointed ears emerged through his hair before returning to their human shape.
The transformation repeated in short, violent bursts.
Monroe gripped a tree trunk with both hands and struggled to remain upright.
His breathing grew heavier as the Blutbad form fought to surface.
Nick drew the P226 and stepped back.
“Monroe.” “I’m fine.” “You don’t look fine.” The clockmaker’s muzzle appeared again.
Sharp fangs pressed against his lower lip before vanishing.
Monroe squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself back into human form.
“The scent is too strong.” “The other Blutbad?” Monroe shook his head and took another ragged breath.
“Blood.
Fear.
The child.” Nick tightened his grip on the pistol.
“Can you control yourself?” “For now.” The red glow returned to Monroe’s eyes.
He turned toward the cabin, nostrils flaring as though every instinct in his body demanded that he charge into the clearing.
After several seconds, he stepped backward.
“I can’t go any closer.” Nick’s gaze remained on him.
“You brought me this far.” “And this is where I stop.” Monroe’s face shifted again, caught between human and Blutbad.
His voice came out rough and strained.
“A few more steps and I can’t promise what I’ll do.” Nick understood.
Monroe had spent years suppressing the instincts of his species.
Near the cabin, the scents of another Blutbad, trapped prey, and fresh meat were tearing through that control.
Bringing him farther might create a second threat instead of an ally.
Nick looked toward the dim light shining between the trees.
Robin Howell was somewhere ahead.
He lowered the pistol slightly but did not holster it.
“Stay here.” Monroe pressed his forehead against the tree and nodded.
“If you hear me coming after you, don’t assume I’m still thinking clearly.” Nick checked the P226’s magazine and chamber before turning toward the cabin.
“I won’t.”