Page 22 of Looking Grimm

Ripley rolled his eyes. “Dye your hair. Wear some gloves. Try anonymity for a change. You might like it.”

Knowing these two, they had bubblegum pink and inky black dye on hand, but I didn’t feel like twinning with either member of the Goth duo.

“Why be a pretty corpse when you can be an ugly one?” I offered, but my effort at humor eluded Ripley entirely.

“Why be a corpse at all?” He pushed off the couch.

Maggie whined at his departure, then licked the watery blood streaking down her forearm.

I turned my attention to Ripley as he walked over to the sliding closet door. “I’m not dyeing my hair!” I called after him.

He reached into the closet and pulled out a scrap of blackfabric to fling at me.

The item struck my chest, and I shook it out into the shape of a slouchy knit beanie. I tugged it on, earning a head shake from Ripley.

“Prissy twat,” he grumbled.

Next, he pulled a charcoal-colored hoodie off a hanger and shouldered into it. Returning to the sitting area, he stepped behind the couch where Maggie focused intently on a cartoon show. Bending over the back of the sofa, he kissed the top of her head. The zombie girl chirped and patted his cheek with her bloody hand, leaving red fingerprints on his pale skin.

He pulled away and stuffed his hands in his hoodie pocket before glancing over at me.

“Well?” he asked. “Where are we going?”

“You’re not gonna like it,” I said.

“That’s a given.”

We headed toward the door, and I jingled my car keys in my pocket as though that would soften the blow of my announcement.

“The warehouse district,” I said.

Ripley halted his stride and stood for a long moment. Finally, he kicked the carpet and grunted, “Fuck.”

Nothing good happened inthe warehouse district. Not to me, anyway. It was where I was formally inducted into the Bloody Hex’s ranks after being left to sweat and suffer in a hot water closet for days. It was where Grimm had murdered five people I tried in vain to save. Donovan died here. Ripley nearly did. Judging by his hunkered posture in the passenger seat of the Porsche and the way he hid his face in the shadow of his hood, he hadn’t forgotten.

All the negative experiences I had with this place made it a logical location to search for Grimm. I’d avoided it till now, plagued by the sense of unease that rolled over me as I parked the car across the lot from where I’d watched my brother bleed out weeks before. I didn’t dare get closer to that cursed spot, too afraid I’d see the brown-red stains on the pavement.

Luckily, I couldn’t see much. It was dark, and streetlamps were few and far between. I stepped out of the car and lit a cigarette with quaking hands. Smoking inthe bathroom of the hotel room with the shower and fan running had cut my pack-a-day habit down by half, so I had some catching up to do.

Ripley exited across from me and turned to gaze at the craggy brick edifice of the building where we’d confronted Jax and his goons. The grid of splintered windows glowed dimly from inside. A good sign, or a bad one, depending on your perspective.

I glanced around, checking the area for other vehicles and finding them scattered up and down the block. If everyone drove separately, we could expect perhaps a dozen ne’er do wells congregating in the old warehouse. Though, there was the possibility they’d packed themselves in like clowns, making the actual number anyone’s guess.

Taking a long drag, I looked over at Ripley. He was tucked in the folds of his sweatshirt with his profile barely visible under the dark hood.

“You can wait out here if you want,” I offered.

He cleared his throat. “May as well give you the tour. I’ve seen parts of the place you haven’t. Temporary resident and all.”

I nodded solemnly and let him lead the way toward the dented metal door at the base of the structure. I kept my eyes fixed on his back, taking note of the thrum of a driving bassline that vibrated the ground as we drew near.

Images populated my brain, assumptions of what we might find inside. It may not have been the Bloody Hex at all. Other gangs frequented these streets, not to mention more casual delinquents. It may have been too lucky to strike gold on both of our attempts to sniff out criminal activity, or maybe insider knowledge and our own proclivities gave usexactly the edge we needed.

When Ripley tugged open the door, sound struck us like a physical force. Music and strobing lights created a raucous club atmosphere in the hollow shell of a building. People crowded the cavernous space, dancing and grinding in time to the beat. The DJ booth positioned against the far wall was manned by a figure wearing an LED mask.

We filed slowly in. A bar counter stretched down the side of the room, and two bartenders flurried behind it, pouring cocktail glasses with glowing liquid or setting fire to a line of shot glasses, every action met with rowdy applause from a drunken crowd. There were way more than twelve people here, three or four times as many, and I started checking hands. A pit formed in my stomach, and it deepened as I searched the horde and found every person sporting the Hex mark on their left hand.

At some point Ripley ducked behind me and, when I turned, I crashed into him. He staggered but kept his footing, then shoved me toward the chaos of the room.

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