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"The real world is where the monsters are."

The bell on the door ringed pleasantly as Caroline and Bonnie entered the small spice shop. Sweet and unfamiliar scents assaulted her nose. Jars of herbs Caroline didn't recognize lined most of the shelves, charms and books were stacked on the counters.

"The sign said open, right?" Bonnie asked as she noticed nobody was behind the counter.

"Yeah," Caroline heard a myriad of heartbeats from behind the double doors to her left. "They're in the back."

One of the doors opened, and a woman slipped into the room. She was a few inches taller than Bonnie, and about the age Caroline would have been if she hadn't stopped aging at seventeen. "Can I help you?" She smiled, but her shoulders were tight and anxiety spilled off her in waves.

"Do you carry Daturas?"

Her eyes flicked quickly to the doors before she focused on Bonnie. She pushed a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "Flower or root?"

"Flower."

She moved behind the counter, pulling down a large glass jar full of light purple blossoms.

Caroline wandered as Bonnie and the shopkeeper discussed the plant. Her eyes skimmed over the handwritten labels: Turmeric, Saffron, Blister Beetles.

The books were just as strange. Written in German and French, they seemed to be fairytales. An illustration of a creature filled one of the pages, thick horns curled back around pointed ears, fur covered an almost human face.

"Care." Caroline flinched, almost dropping the very fragile looking book.

"Um, yeah?"

"Ready to go?" Bonnie asked.

Caroline closed the book on the creepy critter and returned it to its place on the shelf. "Yeah. Let's go home."

Nick paced the back room of the spice shop. Monroe fiddled anxiously with a pocket watch, while Renard stood by the back door and stared blankly into the alleyway behind the store. Hank seemed the least shaken by the news.

It was an excruciating long wait before he heard the bell ring again and Rosalee returned. "Sorry, it was a new customer."

Monroe looked up from the exposed gears he was realigning. "Did you tell them about the Friday sale—?"

"Monroe," Nick cut him off with a pointed look.

"Right. Priorities." He looked to the tall police captain. "You were saying?"

"Kenneth isn't like Viktor. He won't keep up appearances, or pretend he wants peace, he will cut down anyone and everyone in his path. As long as he gets what he wants, everything else is justified collateral damage." Renard braced his hands on the edge of the table. "If he sees us as a threat to his mission he will kill us all."

"Uh, is there any way we could, I don't know, avoid that?" Monroe said.

"The situation isn't as bad as it could be."

"You just told us the royal psychos want us dead," Hank said, raising his brows. "How could the situation possibly be worse?"

Renard shrugged."They could have sent The Weapon with him."

Nick came to stand on the opposite end of the table, he met his captain's eyes. "What the hell is The Weapon?"

"A witch. Most powerful one in centuries. Supposedly she feels indebted to Kenneth, there are plenty of rumors but no body really know why."

Hank leaned back in his seat with a thoughtful look. "I thought witches were called Hexenbiests?"

Rosalee seemed deep in thought but it didn't stop her from absently explaining, "Hexenbiests are Hexenbiests. Witches are an entirely different species."

Hank held out a hand and let it fall back to his side. "But she wasn't with him?"

"No," said Renard.

"Then maybe we're making this a bigger deal than it is," he suggested.

"I wish we were." Renard ran a hand over his face, a habit Nick had come to recognize as one of the few visible signs that he was stressed. "But Kenneth is coming after Diana, and even if I wasn't her father I wouldn't let him take her. She's too young and too powerful. If the royals get her they will corrupt her into a weapon."

"And then we're all screwed," Nick realized. No one argued, but they weren't eager to agree either, the shrill ring of his cell phone pierced the uncomfortable quiet. Seeing the caller ID he answered, "What's going on, Wu?"

"Murder. You need to get here," Wu said, rattling off an address that Nick scribbled onto his wrist.

"Think it's Wesen related?"

Renard gave him a curious look.

"Call me optimistic, but I don't think a human could do this."

"We'll be there soon," he said, ending the call.

Hank was already pulling on his jacket. "Body?"

"Body," Nick confirmed.

"Tell me if it turns into anything," Renard said.

Nick nodded his acknowledgment before they left the shop to deal with a problem they could actually solve.

Pink water ran down the drain as Klaus scrubbed the blood off his hands. After he was sure there was no sticky redness left on his fingers, and the stained clothing was disposed of, he went to the living room to wait.

Before long he heard the soft patter of footsteps in the hall accompanied by the sharp click of heels. Keys clinked against each other, the dead bolt slid out of place, the door opened, and a small blonde tornado tore into room and crashed into him.

He dropped to his knees and pulled her against his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "How was the park?"

"Good," Hope said, squirming out of his arms. "Aunt Bekah got me a..." her brow crinkled, she looked to her aunt who was relocking the door. "What's it called?"

"Falafel."

"Falafel," the seven year old repeated.

"Sounds like you had fun. Go wash up." Klaus stood as Hope skipped down the hall.

Rebekah crossed her arms. "We should leave tonight."

"We're not leaving," Klaus said flatly. "I took care of it."

"And if they told others where we are? Its not safe—"

"I am not uprooting her life again," he growled. "She's happy, and, despite your doubts, she is safe. We're staying. But you're always free to go, little sister," he waved in the direction of the door.

But she wouldn't go, she would never leave Hope. None of them would. She had become the white hot center of the universe, they all revolved around her light.

"Her hair needs to be brushed," Rebekah muttered, storming away from him and the lost argument.

Wu was waiting for them at the front door of the police swarmed house. "Someone call Alice, the Queen of Hearts is in Portland."

That didn't make Nick very eager to see the scene waiting inside. Wu pushed open the red door, the first thing to jump out at him was the absurd number of yellow evidence markers. Blood splattered the floor, the walls, Nick tipped his head back, the ceiling...

"The bodies are in the living room," Wu said as he led them carefully around the rivers of crimson and piles of broken furniture.

"Bodies?" Hank stepped over shards of mirror that were strewed under a now empty silver frame. "This a double homicide?"

"If you add ten, sure."

"Ten...?" Nick lost his voice as they came to the living room threshold.

A dark haired teen was sprawled across an overturned couch, her head bent at an odd angle, exposing the mangled mess of flesh that used to be her neck. Blue eyes stared emptily back at him. It was somehow the least gruesome part of the scene.

Hearts were thrown haphazardly around the room. Most of the bodies had empty chest cavities, and the ones that had managed to hold onto their internal organs had lost their heads.

Victim ages varied, the oldest appeared to be in her late seventies, while the youngest had an ID that confirmed he was only fifteen.

"We're thinking cult activity."

Nick tore his gaze from the massacre. "Why cult?"

Wu made a follow me gesture, and began picking his way into the room. At the new angle he could see what the couch had been hiding from his view. Thick lines of white paint made an intricate symbol, blood stained it and overturned basins spilled black liquid across it.

Pulling out his phone he snapped a photo of it, hoping Rosalee or Monroe would recognize it. Maybe Renard, though Nick was almost sure he didn't practice magic. Then again only a couple years ago he had been completely sure magic didn't exist.

"Any witness?"

"That'd be a hard 'no'. Most the houses around here are vacant, and the woman across the street claims she saw nothing."

"Fingerprints?"

"I'll get on it," he said, walking away to retrieve the scanner.

Hank looked at him. "What are you thinking, man? Is this a Wesen?"

Whether Wesen or human, it was a monster that did this. "Let's hit the books."

Adalind flipped through a poetry book and ignored Kenneth, who was watching her like she was a zoo animal. At least Viktor pretended to be polite.

"Be a dear, and get me some water?" Adalind asked Rispoli.

The Verrat agent looked to Kenneth questioningly. Something like amusement glittered in his eyes as he waved his hand in permission.

He left obediently, and unhappily, to get her a drink. She could use a real drink, she thought, absently setting a hand on her growing belly.

Silence settled over the room, the uncomfortable kind that made you overly aware of every movement made or breath taken in. It went on for so long that when a knock came at the door Adalind flinched. Which Kenneth seemed to enjoy.

She was surprised to see him get up from his chair and head for the door. Rispoli returned. "Sir, perhaps you should let me—"

"Oh, shut up," he shouted, before throwing open the door.

Adalind took the glass Rispoli offered her and set it on the coffee table. She tried to see who stood in the hall but Kenneth's tall frame effectively hid them. "How was your flight?" Kenneth asked over his shoulder as he led the mystery guest into the room.

He walked into the living, finally giving Adalind a clear view. It was a brunette teenager, flanked by two Verrat agents.

"Long and boring," her voice was sweet even as she complained. She fell into one of the overstuffed chairs, the cream-colored lace of her skirt rippled. An array of gold bangles adorned her slim wrists. Her dark hair was braided back from her face, tied with leather cords and clay beads.

She look like one of Stefania's gypsies.

She crossed her arms. "You better have a good reason for bringing me back to the states."

Adalind half expected Kenneth to smack her. But he wasn't angered by her blatant lack of respect. A slight smirk even appeared. "Perhaps I just missed your sunny disposition."

"Kenneth," she said, kicking her boot-clad feet onto the coffee table. "I'm one smart-ass comment away from breaking your neck."

It was an absurd threat, she was a foot shorter than him, and a good fifteen years younger.

He laughed. He laughed. It was actually a pleasant sound when it wasn't followed by him beating someone senseless. "Then who would bring you spell books?"

Adalind, feeling she had been ignored long enough, shut her book with a loud thump. "Excuse me, what the hell is going on?"

"How rude of me, Adalind Schade, this," Kenneth tipped his head towards the girl, "is Davina Claire. She's my special weapon."

The title seemed to please Davina, but it sparked a sick feeling in Adalind. There was only one reason to have his 'special weapon' at his side, Kenneth was preparing for a war.

One Week Earlier

Philadelphia

Streetlight reflected off the blood-stained machete as Trubel brought it down hard on the Skalengeck's neck. Like butter, she thought as the blade glided through the creatures flesh and cleanly severed the bone.

Down the street his head rolled, in the quiet of the late hour she could hear the scales scrape against the pavement. Then abruptly it was silent. Had he shifted back?

No, it was something else. Her skin buzzed with awareness. The fight wasn't over. She gripped her machete, the weight in her hand reassured her.

"Thank you," a make voice, with the slightest trace of an accent, spoke from the shadows. "We've been tracking him for weeks. Always just a few minutes late."

Tracking a Wesen? Trubel's first thought was the Wesen Council, but... No. They wouldn't waste time tracking down a killer who covered his supernatural footprints so well.

Trouble narrowed her eyes at the figure she could just barely tell apart from the darkness. "Who are you?"

The man stepped forward into the light. He was mid-thirties, dressed in black and greys, Trubel might have taken him for Verrat, but there was something about his scruffy beard and smirk that made her throw out the theory. "I'm not the important one here—"

"Name." Never trust someone who won't tell you their name, Hank's voice echoed in her mind.

"Meisner," he reached into his jacket.

She held her blade up, knowing it was pointless if he pulled a gun before she could reach him. He slowed his movement, and she saw it was a paper in his hand. Extending it towards her, he waited.

Trubel hesitated, then snatched the paper from him and retreated a few steps before unfolding it. It was a family tree, names that meant nothing to her dribbled down the page and split apart into branches of more meaningless names... and then she saw it. In the left corner at the bottom of the page was written in careful print Theresa Rubel.

"Will you hear me out, Theresa?"

She shoved the paper into her pocket, letting her machete fall back to her side. "Call me Trubel."

A\N: I finally got around to writing this! This story is set after 4x16 of Grimm, and a few years after 4x19 of TVD (that will be explained). The quote is Rick Riordan. For those of you who have read my story Can't Go Back I promise there will be lots of Klaroline scenes in this.

Tell me what you think, and if you see any typos please let me know. Thanks for reading!