Hi guys :D Here's the next chapter! I hope you like it, but I can't read your minds, so I would appreciate if you'd Review ;) Well anyway, read and enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own GRIMM!

Puss in Boots

Ratted Out

"Roddy! Roddy, where are you?" I shout, banging against the door of the trailer at the same time. No one opens. Dang it! Where is that rat when you need him, eh? I kick at an empty can lying on the ground next to me. It hurts my toe. Crap! I take a deep breath trying to clear my mind. Where would I go if I was Roddy?

I never get to answer that question, because that same moment something huge crashes into my right side, knocking me clean off my feet. My head bumps hard against a stone in the ground and I'm probably lucky to wear my hair in a bun today, because otherwise my skull would have been cracked open. Even so I'm dazed for a couple of seconds. Ouch, that was some blow!

I blink up slowly at the person who knocked me down. If my head wasn't spinning like crazy, I'd probably be tearing him limb from limb right now. But with my eyes still slightly unfocused, it takes me a moment to recognize the pointed rat face above me.

"Roddy? What the hell are you doing?" I try to lift my hand to assess any possible damage to my head, but he presses it down against the ground. What the heck is he up to now? There's a fierce glint in his blue rat eyes and his claws dig deep into my arms. "Roddy? What-", I start to ask, but he cuts me off. "You told on me!" He snarls – actually snarls! What the-?! I thought that was my specialty!?

But that's not the point. "I did what?" I spit back at him just viciously. "You told on me! You told the police about me! And now my dad's in prison!" I stare at him. No fair! I almost went to jail for not telling on him, and now he's accusing me of ratting him out! That is so not fair!

Rage is building up rapidly inside me, flowing through my veins like poison. This time I have no fancy sports car though. My fingernails curly into long, sharp claws and my canines lengthen to an inch. Fur is sprouting on my face and I know my eyes just turned a vivid shade of bright green. How come every time I meet Roddy, he makes me woge?

"So that's what you think of me. You think I'd turn you in. Just like that." It is not a question. That's the downside of being a cat. People always think you're the bad guy. Or gal in my case. I hate it. And I hate Roddy for doing just the same thing as everybody else. My jaw clenches. I thought he was different. Clearly I was wrong. My mistake.

"Of course it was you. Who else would have known? I thought you of all people…" This is too much. I can take only so many insults on one day and now he's gone too far. I crack. I snarl at Roddy viciously. He might be stronger than me as a human, but a rat is no match for a cat, really. Especially, not a cat like me. In a flash of claws and teeth I'm on top of him. "Roddy, I think I made a mistake." I pause, weighing my words. What would be the most offensive and insulting way to put it? "I thought you were smart; that you wouldn't think I'm a bitch just because I'm a cat. But apparently, you're just as stuck up and biased as everyone else!"

I look him straight in the eyes. They're cold as steel. And that's when I realize, he's not going to change his mind, no matter what I say. My hiss wavers, and then dies. I flop back, my claws and fangs retreating back into my skin. The fur vanishes. I'm back to human. Not good.

For a moment or two I just lie there on the cold damp ground next to him. "You're an idiot. A freaking idiot." I mutter, addressing myself just as much as Roddy. He snorts, "Perhaps I was. For trusting you!" I flinch. That was not necessary!

I get up slowly and start to walk away. Just before I get in the car – a silver BMW Z4 this time – I turn once more and say, "Did it ever occur to you, that Carter and his friends might have been asked about you as well?"

I stand there watching him for a while and I swear, I've never seen anyone's expression go from 'I despise you' to 'oh shit, I'm screwed' so quickly. It almost makes me laugh. Almost, but not entirely. "Thanks for not telling on me either." I say, my voice sounding hoarse and raspy, "I would have been screwed."

And with that I turn to drive away. Or at least, that's what I'm intending to do. I don't exactly get very far – Two streets to be precise – before I break down. Not the car, just me. And I do something that I haven't done properly since my mom died nearly 7 years ago: I cry. And it's not the a-single-tear-rolls-down-my-cheek sort of crying either; it's a complete with sobbing and anything. I hate it. I don't get, why people say it's relieving. If you ask me, it's just plain pathetic. That's why I don't do it – usually.

It takes me almost twenty minutes to calm down. And I probably wouldn't even have if a frantic squeaking outside the car hadn't distracted me from my misery.

Now, to understand this you need to know that squeaking always has an effect on Klaustreichs. It awakes the instinct to hunt. Usually this is not exactly soothing, but then again I usually don't cry either. And being a fierce hunter is always better than being pathetic and heartbroken. Always. No exceptions.

The squeaking is faint at first, but getting louder by the minute. And very annoying, I should probably mention. I lift my head, which had been lying on the steering wheel why I was crying, trying to see where the noise comes from. Nothing. I frown. The squeaking can't come from nowhere, can it?

I don't get the idea to look over the car door until the first rat falls right over the edge (Yet another proof that crying is bad for one's brains if you ask me). But when I do peek over it I almost faint with shock and surprise.

Rats of every color imaginable surround the car. And not just that, they're trying to climb in. One even finds its way onto my lap. I hiss fiercely. They scatter, chaos breaking out among the rodents, but they find their way back almost immediately.

Great. What do I do now? I can't eat them all now, can I? It's not like I'm scared of rats, but they're not exactly my favorite animals either. And they certainly don't make for a good dish. They don't have enough muscle on them.

The rats' squeaking is constantly getting more persistent – a fact that is not improving my ability to think clearly. I sit there trying to decide what to do about the sudden rat plague when one of them scrambles up onto the steering wheel. It's holding a note in its mouth.

Of course: Roddy. I slap my forehead so hard it hurts. He was the one who sent the rats, why else would the attack the car like that? The rat on the other hand is getting more and more frantic the longer I wait. It squeaks desperately, but scurries off as soon as I take the note from it. Weird critters, rats are.

I read the note. It says TURN.