Chapter 23 : The First Warning
The Mellifer phone buzzed with coordinates and a single word: Urgent.
I found the body in an alley off Burnside, half-hidden behind a dumpster. The Mauzhertz—mouse Wesen, harmless, terrified of everything—had been decapitated with surgical precision. The scythe wound was unmistakable.
Pinned to his chest: a note in German.
Wir kommen, junger Grimm. Dies erwartet deine "Verbündeten."
[TRANSLATION: "WE ARE COMING, YOUNG GRIMM. THIS IS WHAT AWAITS YOUR 'ALLIES.'"]
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: REAPER ADVANCE SCOUT]
[TIMELINE ACCELERATION: CONFIRMED]
The Mauzhertz's name was Timothy. I knew this because his wallet sat open beside him, driver's license visible, a deliberate insult. Look what we killed. Look how easy it was.
Timothy ran a cheese shop in the Pearl District. He'd never hurt anyone in his life. His species were prey animals—victims, not predators. The Reapers had murdered him to send a message.
My hands shook. Not from fear. From rage.
"Cross."
Angelina materialized from the shadows, her face tight with fury. "This is my territory. My district. Whoever did this came through my patrol routes."
"They wanted you to know." I photographed the body, the note, the deliberate arrangement. "They wanted both of us to know."
"Then let's find them and show them what we know in return."
The Blutbad senses I'd extracted made tracking easier. The killer had been careful—professional, experienced—but not careful enough. A trace of industrial solvent on Timothy's clothing. Boot prints in the alley's grime. A scent trail leading northeast.
We followed.
[TRACKING: REAPER SCOUT]
[SCENT PROFILE: MALE, 40-50, HEAVY WEAPON USER]
[DESTINATION: SHIPPING YARD, SECTOR 7]
The shipping yard sprawled across three acres of Portland's waterfront. Container stacks created a maze of metal canyons, perfect for ambushes, terrible for pursuit. I'd prepared this district weeks ago—traps, escape routes, observation points—anticipating exactly this kind of confrontation.
The Reaper waited in an open space between containers, hood drawn, scythe polished to mirror brightness. He made no attempt to hide.
"Young Grimm." His voice was German-accented, cultured, the kind of refinement that came from European education. "You brought a Blutbad as your defender? How far the Grimms have fallen."
[REAPER SCOUT: IDENTIFIED]
[THREAT LEVEL: B-RANK (EXPERIENCED)]
[COMBAT STYLE: TRADITIONAL SCYTHE TECHNIQUES]
[WARNING: DO NOT ENGAGE ALONE]
Angelina's woge surfaced immediately—red eyes, extended claws, the predator's hunger. "You killed in my territory. Nobody kills in my territory."
"I killed vermin." The Reaper's contempt was palpable. "That mouse was nothing. A message to the Grimm who thinks he can build alliances with monsters." His attention shifted to me. "You should have run when we gave you the chance. Now we'll have to make an example."
He moved.
The scythe swept in an arc that would have taken my head if I hadn't been expecting it. I ducked, rolled, came up with my sword drawn. Angelina attacked from his flank—coordinated, the training we'd done paying off.
The Reaper was faster than expected. He deflected Angelina's claws with the scythe's shaft, spun, drove the blade toward my chest. I blocked, felt the impact rattle through my arms.
"Predictable." He pressed the attack, driving me back toward a container wall. "All brute force and desperation. Is this the best Portland's new Grimm can muster?"
"No."
I triggered the trap.
The container above us had been rigged three days ago—industrial cable, tension release, fifty tons of metal waiting for the right moment. My foot hit the trigger plate. The cable snapped.
The container dropped.
The Reaper was good—reflexes honed by decades of hunting—but he wasn't superhuman. He threw himself backward, escaping the main impact, but the container's edge caught his leg. Bone cracked. He went down screaming.
Angelina was on him before he could recover. Her claws pinned his shoulders to the concrete. My sword pressed against his throat.
"You were saying something about predictable?"
The Reaper's eyes—visible now that his hood had fallen—held no fear. Only calculation.
"Kill me. It changes nothing. More will come. Better than me."
"I know." I pressed harder. Blood welled around the blade's edge. "That's the point."
I could feel the System's prompts at the edge of my consciousness—ability extraction available, kill registered pending, the cold mathematics of optimization. Part of me wanted to take his head. Make an example. Send the same message he'd delivered to Timothy.
But dead scouts told no stories.
"Angelina. His hand."
She understood immediately. Her claws closed around his wrist—the one holding the scythe—and twisted. The Reaper's scream echoed off the container walls. Bone separated from flesh. Blood sprayed across the concrete.
"Go back." I crouched to meet his eyes, letting the silver pulse bright. "Tell them what you found. Tell them the Grimm in Portland has Pack. Has allies. Has traps they won't see coming." I pressed the severed hand into his remaining grip. "Tell them to send their best. I'll be waiting."
The Reaper stared at me with something that might have been respect, or hatred, or both.
"You've just killed yourself. You know that."
"Maybe." I stood, cleaned my blade on his cloak. "But I'll die interesting."
We left him there, bleeding, crawling toward escape. The Mellifer network would track his departure, confirm he'd left the city, report back. The message would reach Europe within days.
Angelina walked beside me, her woge receding, expression thoughtful.
"That was cold. Sending him back maimed."
"It was necessary."
"I didn't say I disapproved." Her smile held edges. "I'm just not used to Grimms who think strategically. The old ones would have killed him on principle."
"The old ones are dead." I flexed my hand, feeling the post-combat tremors. "I intend to be different."
Scalpel's Clinic — Two Hours Later
The Geier worked with practiced efficiency, stitching the slash across my ribs, checking Angelina's clawed forearm for infection. His nervous energy had faded since joining the Pack—professionalism replacing fear when given meaningful work.
"The wound's clean," Scalpel reported. "No toxins, no complications. You'll be sore for a few days, but nothing requiring rest."
"Good. We don't have time for rest."
Rosalee watched from the doorway, arms crossed, expression disapproving. She'd arrived when we called, bringing additional supplies, but her silence spoke louder than words.
"You sent back a maimed Reaper with a message." Her voice was flat. "That's not survival strategy. That's provocation."
"I know."
"They'll respond. Faster now. With more force."
"I know that too."
She stepped into the room, past Scalpel, stopping close enough that I could see the conflict in her eyes. Fox pragmatism warring with something softer.
"Why? Why make them angry when you could have made them cautious?"
I considered the question. The honest answer was complicated—strategic calculations, psychological warfare, the need to establish reputation. But underneath all that was something simpler.
"Timothy. The Mauzhertz they killed." I met her eyes. "He sold cheese. Never hurt anyone. Never posed a threat. They murdered him because he existed in my sphere of influence." My voice dropped. "If I'd run like they wanted, they'd have killed more. Timothy, his family, anyone who'd ever done business with me. Running doesn't save people. It just spreads the target list."
Rosalee was quiet for a long moment.
"You're betting everything on being scary enough to make them hesitate."
"I'm betting everything on being too expensive to destroy." I stood, wincing as the stitches pulled. "Scared enemies make mistakes. I need them to make mistakes."
"And if they don't? If they come with overwhelming force?"
"Then I'll have allies who can help me survive it." I looked at her—at Scalpel working quietly in his corner, at Angelina examining her bandaged arm, at the network of relationships I'd built over three weeks. "I'm not alone anymore. That changes the math."
Rosalee didn't argue. She didn't agree either. But when she handed me additional bandages for home care, her touch was gentler than before.
Twelve days remained. The Reapers would respond to my message. Viktor would hear about his scout's failure. The game was accelerating.
I intended to keep up.
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