by Tim Waggoner
Normally after a transformation, the Wechselbalg’s mind was a jumble of information as the new memories he had acquired from his latest host settled. But his current confusion was far worse than usual. A riot of sights, sounds, thoughts, and emotions swirled inside the creature’s brain, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make sense of the deluge. He wasn’t even sure why he was running, only that it was really important that he do so. Eventually he found himself jogging down a sidewalk, and he slowed to a walk. He didn’t feel tired in the slightest, and he wasn’t breathing hard either. Extraordinary!
He maintained a brisk pace as he walked, and was soon out of the residential area and entering a business district. Nothing fancy, just gas stations, fast-food restaurants, and convenience stores. The street was busier here—more pedestrians and vehicles—and the Wechselbalg felt more relaxed. Camouflage was the creature’s primary defense, and his kind always felt more comfortable when lost in a crowd.
He wasn’t sure how long he continued walking, but eventually his mind began to clear and he was able to start making sense of the newfound data crammed into his skull. The first thing he realized was that something had gone wrong this time. The information he possessed was fragmentary and incomplete. Was something wrong with the man he’d duplicated? Was he ill, or worse, insane? But as the Wechselbalg continued sifting through the imperfect memories, he realized what had happened. The man he’d copied—a police detective, as it turned out—was a Grimm. The realization came as such a shock that he stopped walking. People gave him strange looks as they moved around him, but he paid them no attention.
A Grimm… He knew about them, of course. What Wesen didn’t? But he’d never see one before, let alone interacted with one. And he’d done much more than that, hadn’t he? He’d joined with one, taken on his shape and copied his memories. Some of them, at any rate.
Although he hadn’t witnessed it, he assumed the Grimm had undergone the Auflösen, the dissolving process, just as all his other victims had. But the Wechselbalg’s new memories told him the Grimm hadn’t worked alone. He had friends, allies, some of them quite powerful. He experienced a surge of fear accompanied by a powerful urge to shed this form and don another so the Grimm’s companions wouldn’t recognize him. Without thinking, he flexed his hands and black spines began to emerge. He would grab hold of the next person who came within reach—man, woman, young, old, it didn’t matter—and he would assume their identity right here in the open, regardless of who might see.
A tall, redheaded woman wearing a tight, long-sleeved black dress came toward him, and he started to raise his hands. But then he hesitated. The bodies he took these days didn’t last long at all, but so far this one was showing no signs of wear. It was strong, far stronger than any he’d ever had before. Did he really want to give it up so soon?
The redheaded woman passed by, giving him a glance and a smile as she did. He watched her go, his finger spines retracting.
The Grimm’s allies didn’t matter, he decided, for the simple reason that he was the Grimm now. He could fool them into thinking he was their friend. After all, he’d had many years of experience at pretending to be something he wasn’t. All he had to do was get to know who the Grimm was and become him. Simple as that.
A memory came to him then, the sound of a woman’s voice, so strong and clear it was almost as if she were present and speaking right next to him.
You have to hunt down the bad ones.
He remembered the woman’s name. It was Aunt Marie. His Aunt Marie. And with her name came his own. He was Nick Burkhardt. He was a Grimm. And he had work to do.
The Wechselbalg started walking down the sidewalk again, humming happily to himself.
* * *
“At least this one’s still solid,” Wu said.
Nick and Hank looked at him.
“I’m just saying it’s a lot easier to work with an actual body.”
Wu was one of those cops who sometimes took the whole professional detachment thing a bit too far, Nick thought. Then again, he had to admit that practically speaking, Wu had a point.
Crime-scene technicians were processing the kitchen, while the Deputy Coroner knelt next to Rich Webber’s corpse. One of the CSU techs had remained outside with what Nick was fairly certain were the liquefied remains of Dana Webber. Everyone else had relocated to the Webbers’ kitchen after Nick and Hank had discovered Rich’s body.
“I know that look,” Hank said.
“What?” Nick asked.
“You’re thinking that if you’d known Mr. Webber was in the kitchen when you were talking with—” he paused “—Mrs. Webber, you might’ve been able to get to him before he died, maybe even save his life.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” the Deputy Coroner said. He was a stocky man in his mid-thirties, with curly black hair, glasses, and a thin mustache. He wore a coroner’s jacket, slacks, rubber gloves on his hands and blue cloth booties over his shoes. “Even if you’d been standing in the kitchen when he was attacked, you couldn’t have saved him. The way he was cut, he was basically dead before he hit the floor.”
Nick had seen enough murder victims to know the man spoke the truth, but it didn’t make him feel any better.
Nick turned to Hank. “Now that this is officially a homicide investigation, I think we should have another chat with Mr. Delgado. If nothing else, I’d like to get a look at him.”
Wu raised a questioning eyebrow at that comment, but Hank nodded in understanding. Nick wanted to meet Mr. Delgado and see if he might be Wesen. If so, they’d be able to talk to him openly about what he witnessed.
Nick looked at Wu. “Can you hold down the fort here?”
“Consider it held,” Wu said.
Nick thanked him, and he and Hank left the kitchen, walked down a short hallway to the living room, then out the open front door. As they made their way to the sidewalk, Nick glanced toward the lone CSU tech and saw she was collecting samples from the goo puddle.
“So we’re dealing with some kind of shapeshifting Wesen that kills people by turning them into tapioca,” Hank said.
“Looks like.”
The partners stepped into the street and continued walking as they talked.
“The creature seems to have trouble maintaining a stable form,” Nick said. “It was starting to fall apart, almost melting as if it was made of wax or something.”
“But it managed to assume a new body before it left,” Hank said.
“Maybe it just needed some time,” Nick said. “What I can’t figure out is why it cut Mr. Webber’s throat instead of dissolving him.”
“You got me,” Hank said.
“You know, the creature didn’t make a lot of sense when it talked. It seemed off somehow, like it wasn’t thinking straight.”
“You think maybe its brain was melting, too?” Hank asked.
“Something like that. It could explain why it killed Rich Webber instead of dissolving him. It just acted on impulse instead of thinking the situation through.”
“Could be,” Hank agreed. They reached the other side of the street, and he nodded toward a simple house with a black shingled roof and red-brick walls. “This is it.”
Nick looked at it for a moment, then turned to gauge the distance to the Webbers’ house and to the spot on the sidewalk where the CSU tech was working.
“It’s a fair distance,” he said.
“Not to worry. Our man tells me he has eyes like a hawk.”
Nick smiled. “Then I wouldn’t trust a thing he says.”
They headed for the house.
* * *
The CSU techs were still processing the scene at the Webbers’ house when Nick and Hank climbed in the Charger and pulled away from the curb. Mr. Delgado hadn’t given them any information that he hadn’t already passed on to Wu and Hank, and he hadn’t woged in Nick’s presence. That didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t Wesen, but Nick’s instincts told him the man was h
uman.
“Now what?” Hank asked.
“I suppose we should let the Captain know what’s going on.” Nick took his phone out of his pocket and called Captain Renard. The man answered on the second ring.
“Renard.”
“It’s Nick. Hank and I ran into a case that looks like it’s Wesen-related. It’s a messy one.”
“I’m listening.”
Nick gave him a quick rundown of what had happened at the Webbers’. When he was finished, Renard said, “Messy and weird. Any idea who—or what—might be responsible?”
“Not yet. I was hoping you might have some thoughts on that.”
“Sorry. Nothing you’ve told me rings any bells. See what sort of leads you can turn up and keep me informed.”
Renard disconnected and Nick returned his phone to his pocket. He filled in Hank on what the Captain said, and then he sat back and thought.
As usual, Nick had felt uncomfortable talking with Renard. They’d had a decent working relationship during Nick’s time with the department, but the revelation that Renard was Wesen—technically half-Wesen and half-human—and a member of the Royal Family to boot had changed things between them. On the one hand, it made working together easier, since they could openly discuss Wesen-related cases. But Renard liked to play things close to the vest, and while Nick knew the man was embroiled in political intrigue with the Wesen royals, he didn’t know much beyond the basics. It was hard to fully trust someone that kept his agenda as well hidden as Renard, and for this reason, Nick tended to view him as an uneasy ally rather than a friend.
Nick turned his thoughts to the mysterious shapeshifting Wesen. It seemed as if the shapeshifter had “copied” Dana Webber, killing her in the process and reducing her body to a puddle of slime. But after attacking him, the creature had assumed a man’s form. Although she’d killed Rich Webber, she hadn’t copied him. His body was still intact. Maybe there had been another man in the house that the creature had copied, and they simply hadn’t located his liquefied remains yet. The creature seemed to change form fairly often, but whether that was by choice or out of need, he didn’t know. Whichever the case was, it might not remain in its current shape for long. And if it changed again, the physical description they had of their suspect—vague as it was—would be useless. They needed information, and they needed it fast. He knew of only one place they might find it.
“Let’s head for the trailer,” he said. “Better stop for coffee on the way, too. We might have a long night ahead of us.”
Hank sighed. “When don’t we?”
* * *
On the way to Forest Hills Storage, the facility where Aunt Marie’s trailer was parked, Nick called Monroe to tell him what had happened and to ask if he and Rosalee had ever heard of a shapeshifting Wesen like the one he’d encountered. Monroe said he hadn’t, but he and Rosalee would head to the spice shop and go through her reference books on Wesen anatomy and physiology to see what they could find. Nick then called Juliette to let her know what was going on, and she told him she’d go to the spice shop to give Monroe and Rosalee a hand. Nick was grateful for their help. He didn’t have an ego when it came to solving these kinds of problems. All that mattered to him was stopping the shapeshifter before it killed again.
It had been Nick’s Aunt Marie who’d first revealed the family legacy to him. She’d been a Grimm herself, and tough as nails, even when she’d been dying from cancer. She’d given Nick her trailer, which was filled with books of lore, weapons, and chemicals that she’d used throughout her years battling evil Wesen, and after her death, it not only became an invaluable treasure trove of resources for Nick, the trailer kept Aunt Marie close in his memory. Whenever he was in it, researching a new type of Wesen or adding his own accounts to the accumulated lore of his ancestors, it was like he could feel her presence, as if she were still watching over him.
Nick and Hank spent the better part of an hour searching through Aunt Marie’s books without any luck. Juliette called to tell them that they’d found something in Rosalee’s books, so Nick and Hank got back in the Charger and drove to the Exotic Spice & Tea Shop. Rosalee Calvert had inherited the shop from her brother, and while all the substances she sold were legal and unregulated, in the right proportions and combinations, they acted like medicine for Wesen. In a sense, Rosalee was like a medical doctor to the Wesen community in Portland, and she’d been a big help to Nick on a number of cases.
Nick parked on the street, and he and Hank walked to the shop. The sign on the door was turned to CLOSED, but the lights were on inside. Nick tried the knob, found the door unlocked, and he and Hank entered. As always, the first thing that hit him was the smell, a thick miasma formed from hundreds of different substances: spices, roots, dried flowers, incense, seeds, desiccated insects, acrid liquids, and aromatic powders. It was almost overwhelming to his Grimm sense of smell, and not for the first time he wondered how Rosalee and Monroe, with their enhanced Wesen senses, could stand it.
The shop walls were covered with shelves from floor to ceiling, filled with canisters, bottles, and vials, all covered with typed or handwritten labels, some yellowed from having been on display for years. Nick always felt as if he were stepping back in time a century or more whenever he came in here, and that sensation, coupled with the intense smell, was a little disorienting.
Rosalee stood behind the counter, Monroe at her side. Juliette stood in front of the counter, and they were all looking at a large leather-bound book lying open between them.
The three looked up as Nick and Hank entered, and Monroe and Rosalee smiled a greeting. Juliette’s hello was a bit more demonstrative. She walked forward to meet Nick, put her hands on his shoulders, and leaned in for a kiss. Nick slipped his arms around her waist and when their kiss was finished, they hugged. Juliette Silverton was a veterinarian, and her work schedule and Nick’s rarely coincided, so each time they saw each other, they made sure to make their moments together, however brief they might be, count.
Juliette possessed an almost ethereal beauty that took Nick’s breath away every time he saw her. She was an elegantly thin woman with long auburn hair, whose intelligence and good humor showed in both her gaze and her smile. She exuded an aura of caring and concern that served her well as a vet, and which made her a sympathetic friend and a supportive partner. She was Nick’s rock, his safe harbor, and he didn’t think he’d be able to keep doing what he did—both as a cop and as a Grimm—without her.
“Break it up, you two,” Monroe said in mock irritation. “We have some serious Grimm-type work to do.”
Nick smiled at him as he and Juliette separated. The two of them went to the counter, Hank close behind.
Monroe had curly brown hair, a thin beard, and thick eyebrows. He was of medium height and build, and tended to wear plaid shirts or sweaters with jeans. Nick thought he looked like a college professor or maybe a professional artist. These impressions were reinforced by Monroe’s seemingly inexhaustible supply of offbeat trivia.
“Thanks for coming down here so late,” Nick said.
“No problem,” Rosalee said. “It’s not even ten thirty yet.”
“And you know Blutbaden,” Monroe said. “We do our best work at night.” He frowned. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”
In German, Blutbad meant blood bath, and the name was more than appropriate. Blutbaden were a wolf-type Wesen infamous for their savagery and bloodlust. Monroe was, in his own words, a “reformed” Blutbad, who maintained a tightly controlled regimen of diet, exercise, meditation, and medication designed to help him suppress the violent tendencies of his kind. He was neat in his habits and dress, a sign of the control he exerted over every aspect of his life to keep the wilder aspects of his Blutbad nature in check. But from time to time, Nick could see the wolf in Monroe peering out through his friend’s eyes: a calculating feral intelligence combined with barely restrained urges. In these moments, Nick felt very glad that Monroe worked as hard as he did to keep t
he beast inside him contained.
Rosalee was a Fuchsbau, a fox-type Wesen, and while on the surface, a Fuchsbau and a Blutbad might seem an odd combination for a couple, she and Monroe made it work. She was a gentle-natured woman with brownish-red hair, large eyes, and full lips. She was extremely pretty, but Nick thought her most attractive feature was the way her face mirrored her emotions. Whatever Rosalee felt, good or bad, was displayed for the world to see. Given his job, he often had to keep his own feelings hidden, and he admired such openness. He found Rosalee’s apparent lack of guile to be ironic, though, as Fuchsbau had a reputation for being manipulative, scheming, and shady. Rosalee didn’t seem to possess any of these traits, but every once and a while, a sly look came into her gaze, and Nick knew there was more to her than met the eye.
Nick nodded to the book on the counter. “So what have you got?”
Rosalee placed an index finger on one of the entries.
“Read this and tell me if it sounds like the Wesen you encountered tonight,” she said.
Nick turned the book around so he could see it better and read aloud.
“‘Wechselbalg. German for changeling. These Wesen are born without identities of their own and exist by periodically assuming the identity of others. They take on their victim’s appearance, personality, and memories, reducing the victim into basic proteins in the process.’” He paused and looked up at Hank. “Sounds a lot nicer than ‘puddle of goo,’ doesn’t it?”
“Sure does.”
“Wechselbalgen are where the legends of doppelgangers came from,” Monroe said. “You know, evil spirits that duplicate their victims’ bodies and replace them? I’ve never met one before.”
“Me neither,” Rosalee said. “From what I understand, they keep to themselves for the most part.”
Nick continued reading. “‘The Wechselbalg is known to duplicate only humans. It is unclear if this is a biological restriction or a preference. While the Wechselbalg has no true appearance of its own, it does have a transitional form that resembles fluid quicksilver. It uses retractable needle-like spines to absorb a victim’s identity, and while the specifics of how the process functions remain unclear, it is believed that duplication is accomplished in a relatively short time. Wechselbalgen are generally healthy and are immune to disease even while in human form. Their borrowed bodies do tend to show signs of wear and decay after a time, signaling the need for the Wechselbalg to seek out a new victim. The length of time a Wechselbalg can retain a specific form is uncertain, but it’s believed that five years is the average, with ten years being the upper limit. As long as the Wechselbalg can find new forms to duplicate, it can conceivably live far longer than a normal lifespan. Health concerns for Wechselbalgen include infection of digital spines if they are not cleaned regularly, loss of dermal elasticity—especially as the time to seek a new host approaches—and in their later years… Verfallserscheinung.’” Nick hesitated as he stumbled over the pronunciation of the word. He looked up from the book. “What does that mean?”
