Page 34 of Looking Grimm

“You drew first blood,” Ripley replied. “You took prisoners. Future casualties. War’s what it is, mate.”

My gaze drifted again to the wall separating us from the Oliver twins. “I’m not gonna kill them, Rip. I can’t.”

Maggie leaned forward to kiss Ripley’s cheek. Despite her affection, he looked somber as he spoke. “If you don’t, Grimm will. And he’ll kill your investigators, too.”

Charlie said it first: Grimm was preparing for a fight. I’d laughed it off, and I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean to be in a war but, apparently, I had started one.

Sitting in the Porschewith the engine idling, I glared up at the sign across the front of the drab little store called Pour Decisions Wine & Spirits. I couldn’t think of a more appropriate place to throw away six days of sobriety and get the liquid courage I needed to deal with the Everett twins.

It would have been easier to kill them. Alternating between silencing their screams of pain and giving them opportunities to respond to my questions had proven an impossible balance to strike. Now, their arms were broken and so was my will to continue an interrogation that had yielded only insults and refusals.

They had no reason to tell me anything. Ripley was right. Answering my inquiries about where I could find Grimm and what his plans were would not save their lives, so why die traitors? But that was exactly what I needed them to do, and for that, I needed whiskey.

Killing the motor, I kicked open thecar door, then stepped out into the lot.

I needed the biggest bottle of whiskey I could carry so I could drink until I didn’t care what kind of damage I caused. If the twins were going to end up dead anyway, I could destroy their bodies piece by piece until they said whatever I wanted to hear. Of course, if I was too drunk, my magic wouldn’t work, and I might have to resort to pulling teeth and fingernails.

Rattling my keys in my hand, I pulled up the hood of the sweatshirt I’d borrowed from Ripley’s closet. It was a little snug, but not enough to refute the truth in what Pippa had said a week ago. Maybe I should eat more.

Pour Decisions was tacked onto the end of a nondescript strip center, neighbored by a dollar store and a vape shop. The dollar store was closed at this late hour, but the vape shop had a few patrons milling outside.

Focusing ahead found the liquor store’s windows papered with posters advertising different kinds and brands of liquor. It made it hard to see inside but, since the other three cars in the lot were directly in front of the vape shop, there were not likely to be customers. All the better for someone with an infamous face to get in and out unnoticed.

News reports had been relentless since the gas attack, and I was hardly anonymous before. I’d had to sneak out to get here, toeing the line of that unfathomable stupidity Ripley had threatened me with.

When I walked inside, the shriek of the doorbell made me flinch. I tugged on the hood again, pinning it to my cheek on the side that faced the register counter and the slouched man who sat behind it. He mumbled a greeting to my arrival, and I gave a dismissive wave in return.

Four aisles stretched toward the back of the narrow shop. There were no signs to direct me to what I sought, and I didn’t dare draw more attention to myself than necessary by asking the clerk, so I picked the rightmost aisle and ventured forth.

I recognized a bottle here and there from the shelves at the Bitters’ End, but I kept walking, rubbing my thumb along the side of my ignition key tucked in my jeans pocket. Elevator music played faintly and failed to overpower the sound of my footsteps as I tread the slick, linoleum floor.

On the third aisle, I found the whiskey and reached for the uppermost shelf. I’d gotten spoiled to Nash’s top-tier liquors, but a glance at the accompanying price tag almost caused me to choke on my own spit.

I lowered my expectations and my grab for something that would be better as a mixer but would also get the job done in a pinch. Tucking the hefty bottle under my arm, I adjusted my hood once more, then headed for the front of the shop.

The cashier paid less attention to me now than he had when I first arrived. He said nothing as I set the glass vessel on the counter with a clunk. When he didn’t grab the bottle to scan it or key anything into the register, I made brief eye contact.

“Something wrong?” I’d hoped to prompt him, but his ghastly pale skin and wide-eyed look of terror told me something else entirely.

“Please don’t hurt me, man.” He raised both hands in surrender.

Behind him, four tiny televisions broadcast different camera angles throughout the store. Vantage points for anosey—or dreadfully bored—employee to snoop on his sole customer. How long had I been in here? Wasting time wandering and perusing the goods like I wasn’t wanted dead or alive?

Through the papered window, red and blue lights flashed. I glanced aside, then back at the clerk, finding myself as shocked as he was.

“You called the cops?”

His head bobbled.

I turned toward the glass, peering between the posters to see a squad car in the lot outside. Its doors opened, and a pair of investigators unloaded. It was dark out but, between the patrol car lights and the glow of the sign, I could see enough to identify the suited man approaching the entrance.

Slick black hair, tan skin, and a snooty expression made him undeniably Tobin Moreno, possibly Holland’s last surviving team member. I muttered a curse under my breath, followed by a question I didn’t expect an answer to.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

Tobin was no beat cop. He kept office hours and wasn’t expected to respond to a call after 10PM. Then again, with the Capitol down eight investigators and two of Tobin’s teammates missing in action, it was likely an all-hands-on-deck situation. Not to mention that anything with my name attached was apt to be passed up the ladder after Grimm’s illusionary antics.

Tobin walked forward with his cell pinned between his chin and shoulder, talking while looking wholly uninterested in what he’d been sent here to do. Only two investigators and no tactical squad meant whatever the clerk said to summon them must have been too vague to garner concern.

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