Chapter 3 : The Blutbad's Nose
Monroe's house sat at the end of a quiet street in northeast Portland. Craftsman architecture. Meticulously maintained garden. A mailbox shaped like a cuckoo clock.
I parked across the street and killed the engine. The case files sat on the passenger seat—photos, reports, evidence of a murder designed to blame the wrong wolf.
The smart play was observation. Watch the house. Confirm Monroe's identity. Approach only when conditions were optimal.
The System disagreed.
[QUEST UPDATE: THE WRONG WOLF]
[BLUTBAD LOCATED]
[OPTIMAL APPROACH WINDOW: NOW]
[DELAY INCREASES FRAME JOB SUCCESS PROBABILITY BY 12% PER HOUR]
Twelve percent. The police would find Monroe eventually. Reformed Blutbaden weren't common in Portland. It wouldn't take much digging to connect his old witness statement to the animal attack profile.
"So much for reconnaissance."
I grabbed the files and crossed the street.
The garden smelled like rosemary and something sharper—wolfsbane, maybe. Traditional Blutbad deterrent planted as a joke or a warning. The front porch creaked under my weight. A wind chime made of tiny silver bells tinkled in the afternoon breeze.
I knocked.
Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. The door opened to reveal a man in his early forties with a beard, flannel shirt, and an expression that shifted from confusion to terror in approximately half a second.
The woge was immediate. Monroe's face rippled, twisted, became something not quite human. Red eyes. Elongated snout. Teeth made for tearing. A low growl built in his throat.
[SPECIES CONFIRMED: BLUTBAD]
[THREAT LEVEL: C-RANK]
[CURRENT STATE: THREATENED / DEFENSIVE]
I didn't move. Didn't reach for the knife under my jacket. Didn't do anything that might trigger a predator's chase instinct.
"Someone's framing a Blutbad for murder."
The words came out calm. Steady. Not the voice of a hunter.
Monroe's woge flickered. The beast receded slightly, leaving something between human and wolf.
"The cops will find him eventually. Probably someone like you—reformed, trying to live clean. I'm not here to hunt."
The growl faded to a rumble. "Then why are you here?"
"Because I'd rather catch the actual killer."
I lifted the case files. Let him see them. Crime scene photos. Evidence reports. All of it laid bare.
Monroe's eyes—still red, still inhuman—tracked from the files to my face. His nostrils flared, testing the air. Blutbaden could smell fear, lies, intent. Whatever he was reading, it made him pause.
"You're a Grimm."
Not a question. A statement of fact.
"Yes."
"And you're standing on my porch with case files instead of a weapon."
"Yes."
The woge collapsed entirely. Monroe's face returned to human—bearded, suspicious, but no longer monstrous. He stared at me like I'd grown a second head.
"That's... not how this works."
I shrugged. "I know."
Silence stretched between us. The wind chime sang. A dog barked somewhere down the block. Normal sounds in a normal neighborhood, masking a conversation between predator and prey who'd somehow ended up on the same side.
"How did you know?" Monroe finally asked. "About the frame job."
"The wounds were wrong. Too sloppy for a clean kill, too deliberate for genuine frenzy. Whoever did this wanted it to look like a Blutbad relapse. They didn't count on someone who could read the difference."
[RELATIONSHIP STATUS: MONROE - CAUTIOUS (-15)]
[DIPLOMATIC OPENING: DETECTED]
Monroe's jaw worked. He looked at the files again, then back at my face. "You could have kicked down the door. Dragged me to the precinct. Let the cops sort it out."
"Could have," I agreed. "Didn't."
"Why?"
The question hung heavy. Why would a Grimm protect a Blutbad? Why break centuries of hunting tradition? Why offer evidence instead of violence?
I chose honesty. Partial honesty, at least.
"Because the old Grimm ways created enemies out of potential allies. Because someone in this city is killing people and pointing the finger at reformed Wesen. And because I'd rather have someone who knows this world helping me catch the real killer than rot in a cell for something they didn't do."
Monroe blinked. Twice. The suspicion in his eyes warred with something else—hope, maybe. Or just confusion.
"You're either the strangest Grimm I've ever heard of," he said slowly, "or you're playing a very long game."
The door opened wider. Not an invitation, but not a rejection either. Behind Monroe, I glimpsed a living room filled with clocks. Cuckoos, grandfathers, wall-mounted antiques. All of them ticking in slightly different rhythms, creating a symphony of measured time.
"Tea?" Monroe offered.
[RELATIONSHIP STATUS: MONROE - WARY (-20)]
[PACK RECRUITMENT: FIRST STAGE INITIATED]
I stepped inside. "Thank you."
The tea was chamomile. Monroe served it in hand-painted ceramic cups, the kind you found at craft fairs or inherited from eccentric relatives. His hands were steady now, but his posture remained tense—a reformed predator sitting across from his evolutionary enemy.
"So." He set his cup down with excessive care. "Walk me through what you found."
I spread the crime scene photos across his coffee table, ignoring the flinch when he saw the body. The victim's wounds were brutal even in photograph form.
"Female victim. Mid-thirties. Found in Forest Park early this morning. Official report will probably call it an animal attack."
Monroe leaned closer. His nostrils flared, testing the air. "These claw patterns are wrong."
"I noticed."
"A Blutbad on the hunt—even one in relapse—would go for the throat first. Quick kill. Minimal struggle." He tapped the defensive wounds on the victim's arms. "This is theater. Someone wanted her to suffer. Wanted it to look messy."
"Exactly what I thought."
"So who would frame a Blutbad for murder? Who benefits?"
Monroe sat back. His expression had shifted from wariness to genuine interest—the look of someone whose survival might depend on solving this puzzle.
"Could be someone with a grudge. Blutbaden aren't exactly popular, even in the Wesen community. We're... intense." A dry laugh. "Or it could be misdirection. Kill someone, make it look like monster work, let the cops chase the wrong suspect."
"While the real killer does what?"
"Disappears. Sets up the next victim. Achieves whatever goal made them start killing in the first place."
The clocks ticked their endless chorus. Outside, the afternoon light was beginning to fade.
"There's something else." I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "The victim was found near the Burkhardt property line."
Monroe's cup froze halfway to his mouth. "Burkhardt? As in Marie Burkhardt?"
"You know her?"
"Everyone knows the Burkhardts." His voice had gone flat. "Grimm family. Old blood. Marie's been out of the game for a while—sick, from what I heard. But her reputation..."
[GRIMM ARTIFACT DETECTED - PROXIMITY ALERT]
The notification pulsed at the edge of my vision. Whatever Marie Burkhardt had, the System wanted me to find it.
"I heard she has a trailer. Full of... antiques."
Monroe's eyes narrowed. "You're interested in Grimm weapons."
"I'm interested in understanding what I'm dealing with. The more I know about this world, the better chance I have of catching whoever's actually doing the killing."
It wasn't quite a lie. But it wasn't quite the truth either.
Monroe studied me for a long moment. The clocks filled the silence with their mechanical heartbeats.
"You're different," he finally said. "From the other Grimms I've encountered. They look at Wesen and see monsters. You look at me like..."
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying to figure out where I fit. Not as a threat. As a piece of something bigger."
The observation was too accurate for comfort.
"Maybe I am."
"That's either very wise or very dangerous."
I thought of the System's Pack mechanics. The potential for recruitment. The way this strange new existence rewarded cooperation over conflict.
"Why can't it be both?"
Monroe snorted. Almost a laugh. "You know, a few hundred years ago, this conversation would have ended with one of us dead."
"A few hundred years ago, a lot of things were different." I gathered the photos, tapping them into a neat stack. "But we're here now. And there's a killer out there who wants to destroy everything people like you have built. Reformed Wesen. Normal lives. The chance to be more than what instinct demands."
The words landed harder than I'd intended. Monroe's expression flickered—old pain, carefully buried.
"You really think you can catch them?"
"I think I have a better chance with help."
Another long pause. The cuckoo clock on the wall struck four, its mechanical bird singing three times before retreating.
Monroe stood. Walked to the window. Looked out at his quiet street, his careful garden, his constructed normal life.
"There's a Wesen bar downtown. Rabe. It's where the community gathers to exchange information. If someone's targeting Blutbaden specifically, word would spread there first."
[INTEL ACQUIRED: WESEN GATHERING LOCATION]
[RELATIONSHIP STATUS: MONROE - NEUTRAL (0)]
"That sounds like a start."
Monroe turned back to face me. "I'm not joining your crusade, Grimm. But I'm also not letting some psycho frame my species for murder. You find something, you tell me. I hear something, I tell you. Strictly transactional."
It wasn't trust. It wasn't alliance. But it was a crack in the wall.
"Deal."
I extended my hand. Monroe hesitated only a moment before taking it. His grip was stronger than human—the Blutbad strength barely contained beneath the surface.
"This is probably a mistake," he muttered.
"Most interesting things are."
The handshake broke. I headed for the door, files tucked under my arm, mind already racing through next steps. The Rabe bar. Blutbad community networks. Marie Burkhardt's trailer full of weapons and secrets.
"Cross."
I paused at the threshold.
Monroe's expression had shifted again—not quite friendly, but no longer hostile. Something closer to grudging respect.
"If you're playing me, I'll know. And reformed or not, I'm still a Blutbad."
"I'll keep that in mind."
The door closed behind me. The wind chimes sang their silver song.
[QUEST UPDATE: THE WRONG WOLF]
[ALLY SECURED: MONROE (PROVISIONAL)]
[NEXT OBJECTIVE: INVESTIGATE WESEN COMMUNITY FOR FRAME JOB EVIDENCE]
I walked back to the car, my mind humming with possibilities. A reformed Blutbad who knew the underground. A murder designed to look like monster work. A Grimm trailer full of weapons I'd need to access.
And somewhere in Portland, a killer who had no idea that their carefully constructed frame job was already falling apart.
I started the engine.
The hunt was just beginning.
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