Chapter 3

With not much else to do inthe woods, I headed home for a shower. I needed to sluice the smell of death from my skin, hair, and clothes.

I lived in a three-story apartment complex, to my mom's chagrin. She harped weekly about me moving out. She and my grams lived in a cute cottage on the outskirts of town. It ran on a well and septic, which caused countless issues and were costly to repair. The electricity pole kept getting knocked down because they'd put it in a bad spot. The roof occasionally leaked no matter how many guys we had out to check it. But would Mom move? Nope. She kept hoping my sperm donor—AKA the supposed love of her life—would find her. Thirty-five years later and I was pretty sure she needed to move on.

But the constant maintenance wasn't the real reason I wouldn't move in. I needed my own space, and while cramped, I loved the privacy of my one-bedroom, somewhat compact apartment. No one to get annoyed when I gamed until three a.m. No one to complain when I piled my dirty clothes on the floor.

I entered and sighed in relief as the chaos of the world receded in the face of my monochrome décor. My hair might be flaming red, but everything else I owned? Mostly black, with some white or gray. Call it me rebelling against nature.

I had no pets, at all, unlike Cinder, who lived with a bunch of mice. On purpose, I should add, not because she had a rodent problem. She tended to attract small animals. The mice kept her place bug-free. Birds often brought her berries. A local raccoon liked to steal flowers for her.

Me, I had a large-screen television, a gaming system, a fridge full of microwave dinners, and a vibrator to keep me company. Life couldn't get any better.

I shed my clothes and hit the shower, sluicing off the grime of the day. I soaped, I shampooed, and only as I rinsed suds from my eyes did I notice my tub filling with water, the drain once more misbehaving. The problem with an older place. The plumbing often sucked.

My plunger took some vigorous pushing and pulling before the clog cleared with a satisfying whoosh. With my body wrapped in a towel, I was headed for my bedroom when someone pounded at my door.

I ignored it. People had to be buzzed into the building, and since I'd not let anyone in, I wasn't about to answer. I threw on a sweatshirt and some track pants as the incessant knocking continued.

Persistent bugger. "For Grimm's sake," I huffed. I stomped to the door and peered through the peephole to see a massive chest. Like really wide.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The whole door shook. I pursed my lips and snapped, "Go away. Whatever you're selling, not interested."

"Not selling shit. Your apartment is leaking into mine," grumbled a deep voice.

"Sounds like a building maintenance problem," I opined.

"I am fucking maintenance. Something is leaking from your place through my bathroom ceiling."

His statement reminded me of my earlier plunging. Uh-oh. Had something busted when I did it?

"How do I know you're really the repair guy for the building?"

"Jesus fucking Christ. Call Larry and ask him. Tell him Aidan is at your door, and while you're at it, you could mention you're being difficult."

"It's not being difficult. It's called being safe. For all I know, you're a psycho."

"Would a psycho knock in plain view of everyone else on the fucking floor?"

"Sounds like something a psycho would say to convince me they aren't crazy." Yeah, I screwed with him. When it came to bullies, I never gave an inch and swung back just as hard.

"A free apartment in exchange for my services is really not worth dealing with this shit," he grumbled.

For some reason, that comment cinched it for me. I flung open the door and crossed my arms to say sweetly, "Ah, sugar, maybe it's your sweet demeanor that gets you those kinds of reactions."

He glared at me. "I don't do sweet."

"Or polite either," I remarked.

"You going to let me in to check, or should I just call Larry and tell him to evict your ass because your apartment is no longer considered safe for habitation since I had to shut off the water and initiate mold remediation?"

My mouth rounded. "You wouldn't dare."

"Your apartment is leaking into mine. Fucking right I will. Also, mold is no joke, and neither is drywall repair. Takes forever to clean up the dust."

"Well, since you're asking so nicely…" I swept a hand. "The bathroom is that way."

"I know where it fucking is. Every apartment is laid out the same." He stomped his way past me in his molding T-shirt tucked into snug but worn jeans.

"Hey! Shoes!" I yelled as he tromped over my clean floors.

"They're indoor shoes, Red. So calm your ass down. They ain't dirty."

"Says you," I muttered under my breath.

"Yeah, says me," he replied, somehow hearing me.

I frowned and followed to find him fiddling with the shower knobs. "Where's your tools, Mr. Fix it?"

"In the maintenance closet. Ain't no point lugging them all up here until I know what I need." He ran a finger along the caulking. Patted his hands along my floor.

I cleared my throat. "Um, I had to plunge the drain again. Could the leak have come from there?"

He cast me a glance. "Hairball issue?"

I gaped at him. "I am not shedding that bad."

"Doesn't matter. A few strands here and there accumulates." He leaned into the tub, and his jeans pulled even tauter. Nice ass. Pity he was a jerk.

He grunted. "Un-fucking real."

"What?"

"You somehow managed to plunge hard enough to disconnect the drainpipe." He couldn't hide his incredulity.

"What can I say? I don't know my own strength."

He rose and towered. "This is going to be a pain in the ass to fix."

"But you can fix it, right?"

He nodded. "Yeah. But it won't happen today. I'm going to need to buy some shit for the repair. I'll cut a hole in my ceiling to access the problem and pray I can fix it that way, or we're gonna have to rip out the tub."

I blinked. "Because of a loose pipe?"

"You disconnected it, Red. As in, right now, any water going down that drain is just pouring into my place. Which means no more showers until it's fixed."

"Excuse me? I kind of need to shower."

"Then do so at a neighbor or friend's place."

"That's not exactly convenient. Shouldn't the management of the building be comping me a hotel until it's fixed?"

"Not when it's your fault it's broken," he countered.

My lips pursed. "I didn't do it on purpose. I just wanted to clear a clog."

"You should have snaked the clog. Or called me."

"Well, I know that now," I grumbled.

"Are you going to be around tomorrow?"

"Why?"

"Because I'll be coming in and out of your place to fix it, that's why."

"I'm going to be at work."

"In that case, do I have permission to enter during your absence so I can get started?"

"Do I have a choice?" I groused.

"Depends on if you want to ever bathe again or not."

"Fine," I huffed. "But no coming in between 8 p.m. and 8 a.m."

"Is that when your boyfriend comes over?"

"No." I snorted. "It's when I relax from my day and sleep, you moron. Once I head to the bureau, I'm usually gone until late afternoon."

"Which bureau you work for? With your attitude, I'm going to guess the DMV."

"Ha, so funny," I scoffed. "Actually, I'm with the Fairytale Bureau."

He recoiled. "You're one of them?"

"An agent, yes," my dry reply. Some people had this weird thing about us, as if even just conversing would cause them to be cursed next. Not the way it worked. Actually, no one knew how the Grimm Effect chose people.

"I'll work on it tomorrow when you're gone," he muttered, heading for the door.

"Will it be fixed by dinner?"

"Depends on how well it goes, so no showers until I tell you it's good," he admonished before leaving.

Pleasant fellow. Obviously new since I'd met the last maintenance guy. Maurice of the giant belly, who came to replace my leaky faucet last year and had to have me help him since he couldn't fit under the sink.

With the oh-so-pleasant Aidan gone, I turned on the news and grabbed my phone. As the subject of the murders in the woods came up, I paused my scrolling of social media to listen.

The announcer knew less than me. She kept the report to unidentified bodies found in the woods, no suspect yet, but she did mention the possibility of wolf involvement.

Could it be a wolf?I wondered. Some of the facts didn't add up. The closed door for instance. Unless the wolf shifted to his man shape to open it and then shifted back to wolf before he left.

And who were the victims? I'd seen men and women in the pile, so the killing wasn't sex-based. I couldn't have said the average age, though. Too much blood and decomposition for that.

What of the guy who'd found it, Mr. Walden? Shaken but composed all at once. I still didn't get the dog. He seemed like the type to own a large breed, not a tiny fluffy lap thing. Could be his wife's or girlfriend's. His story sounded plausible, though. A dog might have smelled what we couldn't, hence how Walden was led there.

My phone rang, and without glancing, I knew who called. Only one person had the circus-theme ringtone.

"Hi, Mom."

"Baby girl!" My mom always sounded so cheery to hear my voice. "It's been ages."

"We talked two days ago."

"So much can happen in two days," she gushed.

"Oh really? What happened?"

"Nothing, but something could have," she insisted.

"Is there a point to this call? It was a long day." Not entirely true, but my frozen dinner awaited, as did a few hours of virtual zombie slaying.

"I'm making your favorite for dinner…" she sang.

Okay, that perked me up. "Steak sandwiches?"

"Yup, it's all prepped and ready to cook if someone is interested."

"On my way." Fuck zombies. I'd kill them later. No one ever said no to Mom's steak sandwiches. Tender slices of beef, not too thick, flash-fried in some mixture that had garlic, salt, pepper, and some weird sauces I couldn't have named. She layered it on a garlic butter toasted bun, along with fried mushrooms, onions, green peppers, melted mozzarella, and then the weird but tastiest part, chopped lettuce with Italian dressing. Tangy, salty, crunchy, and tender all at once. I drooled as I headed out of my place for the twenty-minute drive to my mom's.

As I gunned my machine, the sky remained bright, the late summer sun not setting for another hour still. I'd have to ride back in the dark, or I could spend the night. My mom kept my room untouched in case I wanted to move back in. Not happening, but I did appreciate the thought.

While the forest with the murder scene resided on the other side of the city, I couldn't help but eye askance the copse of trees I passed as I hit the burbs. None of them old and gloomy like Regent Park, but that could change if the Grimm Effect decided it had a use for them.

The whole magic thing used to be a concept unknown, at least according to my mom, Grams, and history books. The world used to not worry about suddenly being dragged into a storyline that wanted them to be a certain thing. Didn't have issues with witches and monsters. Didn't worry about magic changing the very fabric of reality. Some wished fervently the Grimm Effect would disappear. I wasn't one of them. This had always been a part of my life. Me against the curse that tried to force me into its version of a happily-ever-after. Or the Grimm version of The End.

Lives had been ruined by it, but some enriched as well. I know Luanne claimed to be super happy, although I had to wonder if that would last when she got her tubes tied and the curse couldn't make her have any more babies.

My mom certainly didn't emerge a winner. She'd indulged in a grand love affair, which turned out to be fleeting. Sure, she claimed that having me was all that really mattered, but I saw the sadness in her eyes during her lonely moments. I wish she'd meet another dude—I'd even have settled for a new huntsman—to sweep her off her feet. Alas, Mom pined for the man who ditched her and never once looked back.

The lane I turned down had glowing moonlight to guide me to the cottage, which looked adorable, as always. A stone exterior with white accents, like the wood trim around the windows and doors. The cedar-shingle roof of an orangey-brown hue went well with the garden backdrop. Mom did have a way with plants, which Grams claimed skipped her in favor of her daughter and older sister. I'd never met my great-aunt with the green thumb, as she lived overseas. Since the Fairytale Apocalypse, flying became too risky and expensive on account of the planes needing accompanying fighter jets to deter dragons.

Yes, dragons.

Apparently they used to be considered myth. No longer, and they could be very territorial about the skies.

I parked my bike and had barely taken off my helmet when the door opened and Mom screeched, "Baby girl!"

"Jeezus, Mom. I saw you on the weekend." She'd made fresh spaghetti sauce and sent me home with several premade containers for meals. I didn't care how strange I looked with a cooler strapped to my bike.

"Can't a mother be delighted to see her most perfect daughter?" Mom clasped her hands and beamed.

Grams cleared her throat. "A perfect granddaughter wouldn't be riding that death trap." Grams, bless her heart, did not approve of my motorcycle. Or my clothes. Or my lack of a husband and kids. But apart from that, she was rather awesome—and taught me everything I knew about fleecing at poker.

"You only say that because you haven't ridden in so long. Hop on and I'll take you for a ride and prove to you that age is just a number. Next thing we know, you'll be wearing chaps as you go travelling cross country, picking up burly dudes with giant beards called Moe."

Without missing a beat, Grams replied, "I do have a bustier that does great things for my tits."

A normal mom would have been traumatized to hear my seventy-five-year-old Grams talking about her boobs. Mine encouraged it. "It does. And those jeans you have do great things for your ass. Speaking of ass, have you lost weight, baby girl?"

I almost rolled my eyes. "No, Mom, I have not lost a single pound."

"You look pale. Are you getting enough sunshine?" The interrogation continued as we went inside, the interior as eclectic and cozy as the exterior. The furniture didn't match at all, the couch and chair completely different styles and fabric, which clashed with the patterned wallpaper and striped rug. The dining room had a good-sized wooden table with six chairs, all different. The kitchen cupboards at least had been painted to match, but then Mom had decorated them using stencils, the bright splash of colors almost more than my monochrome-loving heart could take. A shrink would take one look at the home I'd grown up in and my apartment now and probably say, "It makes sense."

The idle chitchat lasted while Mom fried up dinner. I didn't say a word as I devoured two of the sandwiches, which she served with freshly made kettle chips sprinkled with salt and vinegar.

The amount of food ingested required me to pop the button on my jeans in order to fit in the dessert of upside-down pineapple cake. Also a favorite. Mom did spoil me in the best way.

I sighed as I relaxed afterwards in the living room, almost drowsing in food-coma satiation. That was until Mom blurted out, "I hope you're not going anywhere near those murders."

My eyes popped open. "Why?"

"I've got a bad feeling about it." Mom chewed her lower lip.

"It'll be fine."

"Are you saying you are?" Mom squeaked.

"Kind of don't have a choice since I'm the investigating agent."

"Can't you turn it over to someone else?" Mom pled.

"You heard the girl. It's her job. Was it as gruesome as they said on the news?" Grams had bright inquiring eyes.

"Very gross."

"Who could do such a thing?" Mom paced and wrung her hands. "How awful. Those poor families."

"At least they'll get closure," I stated. So many families didn't. The amount of people missing every year could be staggering. As the curse took them on wild quests, many of them fatal, some folks never knew what happened to loved ones.

"They were saying it might be a wolf," Grams stated.

"That's not been confirmed."

"A wolf?" Mom perked up. "I don't suppose there's a huntsman involved too?"

"No, there is not," I replied firmly. "So you can stop thinking this is the Grimm Effect trying to ensnare me again."

Mom's lips turned down. "Who says I wanted the huntsman for you?"

"Oh, Mom…" It did hurt me to dash her hope.

She clapped her hands, once more smiling brightly. "Cards anyone?"

"I really should get back. I've got an early start in the morning." Not entirely true. None of the agents had set times to be in the office. We were expected to do our jobs, and since those sometimes could have us keep weird hours, we went in when we wanted. For me, that was usually after nine so I could sleep in. But knowing I'd have the police report to check over, I planned on being there earlier.

I hugged my family goodbye and set off on my bike, the night sky barely visible over the city lights as I neared my neighborhood. I parked in my spot and headed for the entrance. A glance upwards showed my windows dark but the one below it illuminated, and a figure standing silhouetted. A big figure.

My ornery neighbor. It bugged me to know he'd be coming in my place while I wasn't there. Not that I feared theft, more that he might snoop in my things. I'd once lived in a place where the landlord used to go through my underwear drawer. I'd tossed them all once I found out and moved. I also anonymously reported the perv to the cops, and what do you know—his apartment and hard drive held enough to have him charged.

As I neared the locked entrance to my building, a shadow moved, and I halted, my hand dropping to reach into my jacket. While I only brought my briefcase on official business, I never went out, even casually, without a gun.

A low teasing note preceded the man stepping into the light, a fiddle held in the crook of his shoulder and neck. He played a sad song and stared at me intently. From the streetlight, I could see his fingers bandaged, his expression mournful. Cursed and somehow led to me.

"What do you want?" I asked, not relaxing my guard.

"I hate music," he whispered. "But I cannot stop playing." Of course he couldn't. He'd been caught in "The Strange Musician" tale. The man would fiddle endlessly, drawing wild animals to him, which would then also try to kill him. It wasn't a story with an ending. The musician kept travelling, playing, until he died. A cruel curse with only one solution.

I strode for him and ripped the violin from his grip and smashed it upon the ground. Over and over until it was just mangled wood and strings.

The man stared at me.

"You're welcome," I stated.

"But—"

"Stay away from music shops and places with instruments and you'll be fine."

His mouth opened and closed before he whispered, "Thank you," and ran off.

If only they could all be so simple.