Chapter 37 : The Captain's Approach
The coffee shop on Hawthorne was the kind of place that pretended to be casual while charging eight dollars for a pour-over. Exposed brick walls, reclaimed wood tables, baristas with complicated opinions about extraction ratios. Not the kind of establishment I'd have chosen for a meeting with Portland's most dangerous cop.
But Renard had made the suggestion, and in the language of power plays, accepting someone's venue choice was a form of currency.
He was already seated when I arrived—corner table, back to the wall, clear sightlines to both exits. Professional positioning that would have looked natural to anyone who didn't know what he was.
I knew what he was.
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: CAPTAIN SEAN RENARD]
[SPECIES: ZAUBERBIEST (ROYAL HYBRID)]
[POLITICAL STATUS: BASTARD PRINCE, EXILED]
[DANGER LEVEL: A-RANK (POLITICAL), B-RANK (COMBAT)]
[CURRENT ALLEGIANCE: UNCLEAR - MULTIPLE LOYALTIES SUSPECTED]
"Mr. Cross." Renard gestured to the chair across from him. "Thank you for coming."
"You made it sound important."
"I made it sound like a consulting request." His expression was smooth, controlled—the mask of a career politician who happened to also be a monster. "Please, sit. The coffee here is actually quite good."
I sat. The chair was uncomfortable, deliberately so—another small psychological advantage for whoever controlled the meeting space.
A waitress appeared. I ordered black coffee. Renard already had something complicated with foam. We waited in silence until she left.
"You've been busy." Renard's tone shifted once we were alone. "Two Senior Reapers killed. A Siegbarste destroyed. Multiple alliances formed across species lines." His eyes flickered—just for a moment, something red glowing beneath the human surface. "Very impressive for a Grimm barely a month into his awakening."
"I'm a fast learner."
"Clearly." He sipped his complicated coffee. "The question is what you intend to do with everything you've learned."
"Survive. Build. Protect the people under my care." I kept my voice level, watching for tells. "Standard stuff."
"Nothing about you is standard, Mr. Cross." Renard set down his cup. "You work with Wesen. You've recruited a Hexenbiest—one I had considerable plans for, incidentally. You've created something that hasn't existed in centuries: a Grimm-led Pack."
"Is that a problem?"
"For some people, yes. For me?" He smiled—a politician's smile, calculated to convey warmth without committing to it. "It's an opportunity."
The coffee arrived. I wrapped my hands around the cup, letting the heat ground me. The Reaper tactical analysis I'd extracted was working overtime, parsing Renard's body language, identifying inconsistencies, flagging potential deceptions.
"What kind of opportunity?"
"The kind that benefits both of us." Renard leaned forward slightly. "You've established yourself as a power in Portland's Wesen community. That power needs legitimacy, protection, resources. I can provide those things."
"In exchange for what?"
"Occasionally handling problems that can't be solved through conventional channels." His voice dropped. "The police are effective against human criminals. They're useless against Wesen threats. When something needs to die quietly, you have the skills to make it happen."
"You're asking me to be your attack dog." I sipped my coffee. "With better PR."
"I'm offering you legitimacy." Renard's expression didn't change. "What you do with it is your affair."
The offer was exactly what Viktor had ordered, filtered through layers of deniability. Renard was playing his assigned role—approach the Grimm, offer partnership, bring him into the Royal sphere of influence.
But Renard was also playing his own game. I could see it in the small tells that the tactical analysis highlighted—the way his heartbeat stayed steady when discussing Viktor's interests, the micro-expressions that suggested distaste for the message he was delivering.
"I know what you are, Renard."
The statement landed like a physical blow. Renard's mask slipped for a fraction of a second—surprise, calculation, something that might have been fear.
"Do you?"
"Royal blood. Zauberbiest power. Bastard prince, exiled to Portland because your existence is inconvenient to people who matter more than you do." I met his eyes, letting the silver pulse bright. "You're playing every side against the middle, trying to build your own power base before someone in Vienna decides you're more trouble than you're worth."
Renard was quiet for a long moment. The coffee shop's ambient noise filled the silence—grinding beans, steaming milk, the chatter of customers who had no idea what was being discussed three tables away.
"You've done your research."
"I have good sources." Adalind's intelligence, filtered through weeks of analysis. "The question isn't whether I accept your offer. The question is what you actually want."
"I want what everyone wants." Renard's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "To survive. To matter. To stop being a pawn in games played by people who see me as nothing but a useful embarrassment."
The words held genuine emotion—the first authentic thing he'd said since the meeting started. Renard wasn't just delivering Viktor's message. He was looking for his own allies, his own protection against the Royal family that had cast him out.
"Then let's negotiate properly." I set down my coffee. "Not Viktor's offer. Yours."
Renard studied me with new interest. "What do you want?"
"Information sharing. Both directions. You know things about Portland's Wesen politics that I can't access through conventional channels. I know things about Wesen capabilities that you've only read about in reports." I held up a hand, ticking off points. "Mutual protection. If Viktor moves against me, you warn me. If someone moves against you, I provide support. Within reason."
"And?"
"No attacks on Pack members. Ever. By you, by your people, by anyone you have influence over. My people are off-limits."
Renard considered this. The calculation in his eyes was almost visible—weighing costs, benefits, risks.
"That's a significant commitment."
"It's a significant alliance." I leaned forward. "I don't need legitimacy from a man even more hunted than me. But I'll take an ally who understands survival. Someone who knows what it's like to have powerful enemies and limited options."
"You're describing yourself as much as me."
"I know."
The moment stretched. Renard's mask had fully dropped now—not the calculating politician, not the dangerous Zauberbiest, just a man trying to navigate impossible circumstances.
"Viktor will expect reports on your activities. Intelligence he can use."
"Give him what he asks for. Filtered through what's actually useful to him." I shrugged. "He'll figure out eventually that you're managing the relationship instead of controlling it. By then, we'll both be strong enough that his displeasure is a problem, not a crisis."
"That's a dangerous game."
"All the games are dangerous. I'd rather play them with allies than alone."
Renard picked up his coffee, took a long sip, and nodded slowly.
"You're not what I expected, Mr. Cross."
"I get that a lot."
"Most Grimms are predictable. Hunt, kill, move on. You're building something." He set down the cup. "That makes you either very wise or very foolish."
"History will decide which."
"It usually does." Renard stood, reaching for his wallet. "I'll pay. Consider it a gesture of good faith between new allies."
He dropped cash on the table—enough to cover both drinks and a generous tip.
"One more thing." Renard paused. "Nick Burkhardt. He's important to my plans. If your paths cross—and they will—I'd appreciate you not killing him."
"I have no interest in killing other Grimms."
"Even ones who might see you as a threat?"
"Especially those." I rose, feeling the negotiation settle into place. "Nick's confused, not dangerous. He'll figure out what he's supposed to be eventually. Until then, I'm not his enemy."
"That's remarkably generous."
"It's pragmatic. Dead Grimms attract attention. Living ones can be useful." I smiled—an expression that came easier now than it had weeks ago. "Besides, someone has to show him there's another way to do this job. Might as well be me."
Renard shook my hand at the door. The grip was firm, professional—the handshake of two people who'd reached an understanding without becoming friends.
"I'll be in touch, Mr. Cross."
"I'm counting on it, Captain."
I walked into Portland's afternoon light, feeling the new alliance settle into place. Renard wasn't trustworthy—probably never would be—but he was predictable. A man protecting his own interests could be worked with, managed, even relied upon within specific parameters.
The game board had changed. New pieces, new possibilities.
And somewhere in Vienna, Viktor was waiting for reports that would tell him exactly what he wanted to hear.
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