Nick followed the middle-aged man into the kitchen while the rich scent of apples, cinnamon, and baked pastry drifted from the open oven.
The aroma was sweet enough to make his mouth water, but his attention remained on the room rather than the food.
The cabinets displayed delicate English bone china, and spotless fabric curtains hung over the windows.
Every surface had been cleaned and arranged with almost obsessive care.
The only objects that seemed out of place were a heavy meat grinder on the counter and several strings of homemade sausages hanging near the wall.
Late summer was a strange time to prepare and store that much sausage.
“What kind of work do you do?” Nick asked casually.
The man pulled on a pair of thick oven mitts and removed the apple pie.
“Like you gentlemen, I work for the city.” He carefully placed the tray on the counter.
“I’m a mail carrier.
It isn’t a glamorous profession, but I enjoy it.” Hank had already lost patience with the visit.
The man wore the wrong shoes, had welcomed them inside without hesitation, and lived in a house too open to hide a child easily.
He forced a polite smile.
“Sorry for disturbing your evening.
I think we’ve taken enough of your time.” Hank turned and headed through the living room toward the front door.
Nick caught his arm before he could reach the handle.
“Can’t you ask a few more questions?” Nick whispered.
“There’s nothing here,” Hank replied under his breath.
“He let two homicide detectives walk through his house.
Both bedrooms are open, and we can see almost every room from the living area.” “That doesn’t prove anything.” “I would suspect my grandmother before this guy.
I’d also like to keep my badge after you already searched one innocent man’s house today.” Hank started to pull away, but the homeowner entered the living room behind them carrying the pie.
He hummed softly as he walked.
“Are you sure you won’t stay for a slice?” Hank stopped.
His entire expression changed as he turned toward the man.
“What song are you humming?” Nick had been considering whether to provoke a reaction by using the word Blutbad.
It took him another moment to recognize the familiar melody.
“Sweet dreams are made of this…” It was the same song that had been playing repeatedly through the pink iPod recovered near Sylvie Oster’s remains.
Hank reached the conclusion at the same time.
“It’s you!” His hand shot toward his service weapon.
The lights went out.
A violent howl filled the cabin as darkness swallowed the room.
The Postman moved with terrifying speed, swinging the metal pie tray directly at Nick’s head.
Nick’s enhanced reflexes allowed him to twist aside before the tray struck.
It passed close enough for him to feel the rush of air against his face before smashing into the wall.
A powerful shape lunged past him.
The Postman had fully woged.
Red eyes flashed in the darkness while coarse fur covered his face and arms.
His jaw extended into a wolf-like muzzle filled with sharp teeth, and his body dropped forward as he charged toward the exit.
Hank had barely drawn his pistol when the Blutbad slammed into him.
The impact launched him through the doorway and sent him tumbling across the ground outside.
“Stop!” Nick shouted.
He reached the porch with his P226 raised, but Hank was already lying on his stomach and aiming at the fleeing figure.
The Blutbad sprinted on all fours beneath the moonlight.
He had covered more than thirty feet before two gunshots shattered the silence.
Both rounds struck him.
The creature rolled across the dirt and collapsed near the edge of the clearing.
Nick felt his stomach tighten.
Robin was still missing, and the only person who knew where she had been hidden was now bleeding on the ground.
He rushed from the cabin and helped Hank to his feet.
His partner winced and pressed one hand against his ribs, but he kept the pistol trained on the fallen suspect.
Together, they approached carefully.
“Nick, did you see that?” Hank asked.
His hands trembled around the weapon.
“He changed.
He ran like—” “Later.” Nick moved ahead and kicked the revolver-sized space around the suspect clear, though no firearm was visible.
He then crouched and rolled the man onto his back.
The Postman’s wolf-like features were already receding.
Fur disappeared beneath pale skin, the muzzle collapsed, and his pointed ears returned to their human shape.
A final red glow flickered through his eyes.
Hank recoiled half a step.
“Where is Robin?” Nick demanded.
“Where did you put her?” Blood spread across the Postman’s chest.
Hank’s two rounds had entered through his back and passed through vital organs, leaving dark stains beneath his apron.
The wounded man struggled for breath.
“You…” Blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
“You’re a Grimm…” The last word escaped as a whisper.
His body went still.
“Damn it!” Nick rarely lost his temper, but anger surged through him.
The killer had died without revealing whether Robin remained inside the cabin or had been taken somewhere else.
Hank touched his injured ribs and looked toward the house.
“She has to be in there.
Let’s search it again.” “No.
You stay here.” “I can still move.” “You were just thrown through a door.
Call headquarters, request backup and medical assistance, and secure the body.” Hank wanted to argue, but Nick had already turned away.
“We found his lair,” Nick added.
“If Robin isn’t inside, I have another way to track her.” He could bring Monroe back.
Once the police established a perimeter, the reformed Blutbad could follow Robin’s scent from the cabin without exposing himself to the other officers.
Nick reentered the house and switched on the lights.
The living room returned to its warm, harmless appearance.
Embroidered pillows rested on the couch, family photographs lined the shelves, and the sweet smell of damaged apple pie still lingered in the air.
Nothing about the interior suggested that a cannibalistic creature had lived there.
Nick searched both bedrooms again.
He checked beneath the beds, inside the closets, behind the curtains, and under every piece of furniture large enough to conceal a child.
He found nothing.
The closets were arranged with unnatural precision.
Shirts hung according to color, shoes stood in perfectly aligned rows, and folded linens formed even stacks on the shelves.
The Postman’s obsession with cleanliness extended throughout the house.
Nick examined the walls but found no hidden rooms or unusual gaps.
The cabin had no attic, and the roofline left no space large enough to hold someone.
That left only one direction.
Down.
He returned to the living room and forced himself to slow his breathing.
Panic would make him overlook details.
The cabin stood on a slight foundation.
If the Postman had built a concealed space beneath it, the entrance would need to remain accessible while blending into the floor.
Nick began stamping his boot against the wooden boards.
Most sections produced a solid response.
Near the couch, however, the sound changed.
He stepped back and tested it again.
Hollow.
Nick shoved the double couch away from the wall.
A handmade woven rug covered the floor beneath it.
He pulled the rug aside.
A rectangular outline had been cut into the wooden boards.
An iron ring rested flat inside a small groove, nearly invisible unless someone knew where to look.
Relief and dread struck him at the same time.
Nick grabbed the ring and lifted.
The hidden door opened with a long creak, revealing a steep wooden ladder descending into darkness.
A faint sound came from below.
“Mmm… mmm…” Someone was trying to cry out through a gag.
“Robin!” Nick climbed down so quickly that his boot nearly slipped from one of the rungs.
He reached the cellar floor, found a switch along the wall, and turned on the lights.
A bare bulb illuminated the small underground room.
Robin Howell lay tied to a child-sized bed against the far wall.
Rope secured her wrists and ankles, while a cloth gag covered her mouth.
Her eyes widened when she saw him.
Nick crossed the cellar in several strides and removed the gag.
“Please,” Robin sobbed.
“I want my mom.” “I know.” He began loosening the ropes around her wrists.
“My name is Nick.
I’m a police officer, and I’m taking you home.” The child stared at him through tear-filled eyes.
“He said he was going to feed me.” “He can’t hurt you anymore.” Nick freed her ankles and checked for visible injuries.
Robin appeared frightened and exhausted, but there was no blood on her clothes or evidence of serious physical harm.
He lifted her carefully from the bed.
“You’re safe now.” Robin wrapped both arms around his neck and clung to him with surprising strength.
Nick held her against his chest and climbed back toward the living room.
For the first time since finding her backpack, the pressure surrounding his heart began to ease.
Outside, Hank guarded the Postman’s body while waiting for assistance.
Every movement in the surrounding forest made him turn sharply, his weapon ready.
The moonlight and cabin lamps provided enough illumination for him to see that the corpse now appeared completely human.
Nothing remained of the creature that had knocked him through the doorway and fled on four limbs.
Hank could no longer dismiss Nick’s stories as trauma-induced hallucinations.
He had heard the inhuman howls, seen the glowing red eyes, and watched the Postman transform before charging into the night.
He had fired at something that looked like a wolf wearing a man’s clothing, yet an ordinary human body now lay before him.
Only days earlier, Hank had advised Nick to continue seeing a psychologist.
Now he wondered whether he needed one himself.
The shooting was also Hank’s first time killing a suspect.
He remembered Nick once mentioning the stages people passed through after a traumatic experience, though he could no longer recall their proper order.
He considered calling Wendy the next morning.
Speaking with his ex-wife was usually a terrible idea, but it might be better than spending the night wondering whether monsters had always lived in Portland.
Sirens finally sounded beyond the trees.
The distant wail grew louder as patrol cars and emergency vehicles approached the bridge.
Hank released a slow breath.
Then the cabin door opened.
Nick stepped onto the porch carrying Robin.
The little girl held tightly around his neck, her face pressed against his shoulder.
Tears still clung to her long eyelashes, but when she noticed the flashing lights approaching through the forest, she lifted her head.
Robin looked at Nick and gave him a small, trusting smile.
The sight removed the last of the tension from his chest.
Sylvie Oster could not be saved.
Robin Howell could.
For tonight, that was enough.