Chapter 22 : The Grimm's Grimoire
The storage facility's security had improved since my last visit. New cameras at the entrance. A second guard on night shift. Someone had noticed irregularities.
None of it mattered at two in the morning.
I slipped through the same service entrance I'd used three weeks ago, moving through shadows with a confidence that hadn't existed during my first infiltration. The Blutbad senses made darkness navigable. The Hundjäger tracking instincts told me exactly where the guards patrolled and when.
[INFILTRATION STATUS: UNDETECTED]
[GUARD PATROL: 7 MINUTES UNTIL NEXT PASS]
[OBJECTIVE: MARIE BURKHARDT'S TRAILER - SECONDARY ACCESS]
The Airstream waited in Unit 47, unchanged since my previous raid. The lock yielded to Daniel's universal key. Inside, the familiar smell of old leather and preservation compounds wrapped around me like a memory.
But this time, I knew what I was looking for.
The weapons I'd taken before—sword, crossbow, poison—had been survival essentials. Grab and go. Tonight was different. Tonight was research.
The trailer's hidden compartments revealed themselves to careful examination. Behind a panel near the bed: a bottle of amber liquid labeled "Siegbarste Strength Enhancer." Inside a lockbox under the sink: a specialized gas mask filter, tagged "Spinnetod Toxin Protection." And tucked into a hollowed-out section of the Bestiary's binding: a leather journal, handwritten, its pages yellow with age.
[INVENTORY ACQUIRED: SIEGBARSTE STRENGTH ENHANCER]
[EFFECT: TEMPORARY PHYSICAL ENHANCEMENT (+40% STRENGTH)]
[DURATION: 15-30 MINUTES]
[SIDE EFFECTS: EXHAUSTION, POSSIBLE CARDIAC STRAIN]
[INVENTORY ACQUIRED: SPINNETOD FILTER]
[PROTECTION: SPIDER WESEN PARALYTIC TOXINS]
[DURATION: 2 HOURS PER FILTER]
The journal was the real treasure.
I settled into Marie Burkhardt's reading chair—the same chair where generations of Grimms had studied their enemies—and opened the cover.
Observations on Grimm Physiology and Development, the title page read. Compiled by Heinrich Burkhardt, 1847. Updated by successive generations.
The handwriting changed throughout—dozens of authors adding their observations over nearly two centuries. Some entries were clinical, scientific. Others read like desperate warnings.
The Grimm bloodline does not merely allow sight of Wesen—it transforms the bearer. The process begins with awakening (first woge witnessed) and progresses through stages that vary in duration and intensity.
Stage One: Awakening. The Grimm's eyes gain the ability to perceive Wesen true forms. Sensitivity increases over days or weeks. Some Grimms report headaches, nosebleeds, temporary blindness.
Stage Two: Maturation. Following the first Wesen kill, physical capabilities begin enhancing. Reflexes sharpen. Healing accelerates. The body prepares for the life of violence ahead.
Stage Three: Deepening. Trigger unknown—possibly cumulative combat exposure, possibly specific types of prey, possibly random. The Grimm's eyes permanently shift. Powers stabilize and strengthen. Few Grimms reach this stage; fewer survive it.
[GRIMM DEVELOPMENT STAGES: CATALOGUED]
[CURRENT STATUS: STAGE TWO (MATURATION)]
[STAGE THREE TRIGGER: UNKNOWN]
[NOTE: HOST PHYSIOLOGY SHOWS ANOMALOUS PROGRESSION PATTERNS]
I read deeper. The journal detailed physiological changes in exacting detail—enhanced night vision, increased bone density, accelerated synaptic processing. Each generation of Burkhardts had added measurements, observations, theories about what the Grimm bloodline actually did to human bodies.
The silver in a Grimm's eyes is not merely cosmetic, one entry noted. It appears to correlate with accumulated Wesen contact—specifically, with kills. Grimms who hunt extensively develop pronounced silver coloration. Those who avoid violence maintain more human appearance.
Hypothesis: The Grimm adaptation is biological, not magical. We are apex predators designed to hunt supernatural prey. Our bodies optimize themselves for the task.
I thought about my own eyes—the silver that pulsed when I used Grimm Sight, the way it flickered even in ordinary lighting now. According to this journal, that coloration should take years to develop. Decades, for some Grimms.
I'd had it since day one.
"Transmigration side effect? Or something else?"
The System offered no answers, only continued cataloguing.
Another entry caught my attention:
WARNING: Some Grimms report experiencing "the hunger"—a compulsion to hunt, to kill, to extract. This appears strongest in those who've tasted Wesen blood or absorbed Wesen capabilities through unknown means. If you experience such compulsion, seek help immediately. The hunger has driven more Grimms mad than any Wesen ever killed.
My hands tightened on the journal. The Collector's Obsession. The way I'd started viewing every Wesen as a potential extraction target. Monroe's confrontation about treating allies like specimens.
The Burkhardts had documented it. Generations of Grimms had struggled with the same compulsion.
"At least I'm not alone in this."
Cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless.
Headlights swept across the trailer's windows.
I was moving before conscious thought caught up—journal secured, compartments closed, body pressed against the wall beside the door. The enhanced senses tracked the vehicle's approach: single car, one occupant, familiar heartbeat pattern.
Nick Burkhardt.
His key scraped the trailer's lock. The door opened. Nick stepped inside, looking exactly as tired and confused as he'd seemed at the precinct.
"There has to be something here." His voice was quiet, talking to himself. "Aunt Marie said this was important. Said I needed to understand."
He moved through the trailer, opening drawers, flipping through books. His search was scattered, unfocused—the investigation of someone who didn't know what they were looking for.
I held position by the rear window, barely breathing. The Ziegevolk pheromones might distract him, but using them risked detection. Better to wait. Watch. Learn.
Nick found the Bestiary and opened it to a random page. His expression shifted—recognition, confusion, something like fear.
"What the hell is a Blutbad?"
He was reading about Monroe's species. The Bestiary entry included illustrations—woge forms, attack patterns, historical encounters. Everything a Grimm would need to hunt a Blutbad.
"This is crazy." Nick closed the book, but his hands lingered on the cover. "This is absolutely crazy."
He sat in the reading chair—the same chair I'd just vacated—and stared at nothing. The conflict on his face was almost painful to watch. Here was a man whose entire worldview had shattered, grasping for explanations that his rational mind kept rejecting.
"I should hate him. He's competition. A threat."
But watching Nick struggle with his awakening, I felt something closer to sympathy. He hadn't asked for this. Hadn't chosen it. He was exactly what I might have been without the System's guidance—lost, confused, dangerous in his ignorance.
After twenty minutes, Nick left. His car pulled away, headlights disappearing into Portland's night.
I slipped out the rear window and circled through the storage facility's blind spots. The journal pressed against my chest, hidden under my coat. More questions than answers, but at least now I had a framework.
Thirteen days until the Reapers arrived. Thirteen days to figure out what Stage Three meant and whether I could trigger it before the deadline.
The System hummed quietly as I walked home.
[IDENTITY INTEGRATION: 67% COMPLETE]
[STAGE THREE POTENTIAL: CALCULATING...]
[INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR PREDICTION]
"What does the last thirty-three percent cost?"
No answer. Just the rain, the city, and a journal full of dead Grimms' warnings.
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