WARNINGS: Nearly genuine police work. Squeaky cheese! Mmmmm…squeaky cheese. Renard being nice. Puking. There's mention of puking, which could be bad if you're a sympathy-puker

Hank hung his coat over the back of his chair and dropped into it. "I hear you had an eventful holiday. A whole theft ring, really? Just couldn't resist, could you?"

"See what you miss when you're out having fun." Nick bent down to turn on his computer, bracing a hand on the desk as he sat up and his whole head pulsed. So far the antibiotics hadn't done a damn thing for his ear infection, but he still had six days' worth of pills to get through.

"Uh huh. How was dinner at Monroe's?" Hank sat, using his feet to pull himself up to his desk and reaching for his message pile. "Tasty?"

"Good. It was…really good." His own message pile was mercifully small and so was his email when he checked it. Brown in Property Crimes wanted to talk to him surprise, surprise. They were out of the office on an early morning raid involving two houses and four suspects in the robberies that had supplied Jeffrey—'call me Jeff'—with his ill-gotten electronics but expected to be back at ten and could Nick please come down for a chat.

Someone had filed a missing persons report for the body on the MAX yesterday. Nick forwarded that one to the detective the case had been assigned to permanently. Family notifications sucked even more around the holidays and he was fully embracing his better you than me policy today.

There was an email from Karen in IT, the persistent early bird of the department. She'd analyzed Jeffrey Rush's computer and found seven additional userID's for assorted websites that catered to local online classifieds.

He used his birthday for all the passwords, was written in scathing Italics. All of them.

He sent a thank you email to Karen and forwarded all the info to Brown figuring that's why Property Crimes wanted to talk to him anyway. With any luck he wouldn't have to deal with this case again until arraignment.

He looked up from his computer to see Hank frowning at a pink message slip. "How about you? How was dinner with the Kempfers?"

"It was weird at first, but good. It's been way too long since I've gotten to hang out with the two of them." He leaned back in his chair, content in a way that Nick hadn't seen in a long time. "We were talking about going to the coast this summer before Carly heads off to college."

"That sounds fun." He deleted a spam email for reverse mortgages, swung his chair sideways to shoot two balled up messages into the recycling bin, and said seriously, "If you go through Tillamook I will pay you to bring me squeaky cheese."

Hank shook his head and attached one of his own messages to the side of his monitor with a strip of tape. "Squeaky cheese addict," he said fondly.

Nick didn't deny the accusation. It was Juliette's fault anyway. When she found out he'd never been to the Tillamook cheese factory she'd insisted they visit on their first weekend trip as a couple. He was not, he'd quickly decided, a big fan of the dairy farm smell but the finished product more than made up for it. Juliette had used his newly discovered weakness for the delicious and squeaky cheese curds to bribe him into stopping at every antique store and second-hand shop in a fifty mile radius.

"I've got to go down to evidence storage," Hank said, waving one of the message slips from his pile in explanation. "Something's gone wonky with the Suzie Allen case."

"Alright." Nick gathered up the folders from his OUT box, tapping them into line on his desk. "I'm off to beard the dragon in his den."

"Have fun," Hank said mockingly.

Nick knocked on Renard's door, waving the folders when the Captain looked up. Renard reached across the desk for them, motioning for him to stay. "Good Christmas?"

"Yes, sir," Nick said. "Surprisingly quiet."

"Good to hear." He stood and came around to lean on the edge of his desk, holding the three folders in one long-fingered hand. "I'm sure you're aware of the large number of personal days you've accumulated."

"I am." He'd used some of it the week he'd moved out of the house but hadn't really done more than scratch the surface.

Renard looked him over, reminding Nick that the other man had done his own time as a detective, was seeing the same thing Nick had seen in the mirror that morning: a near-permanent squint against too bright light, the increasing pallor of his skin, and shadows under his eyes. "If you need some time," Renard said, "let me know."

"Um…thanks. I'll do that."

"Please do. You've had a tough few months. It's easy to get burned out at this job if you don't give yourself time to recover." He tapped the edge of the desk with a thumb. "Particularly after the mandatory counseling sessions."

Nick winced. "I was going to schedule those, um, right after Christmas."

"I'm sure you were," Renard said blandly and left it at that. "Good job on that theft ring."

Nick shook his head. "Put it down to luck and one incredibly organized dad." And the fact that Jeff had gotten sloppy and posted too many items from the same robbery on one listing.

Renard stacked the folders, shuffling them into order and settled them on his blotter. "Well, if you don't mind," he said dryly, "I plan on letting the Mayor and Chief believe it was the surpassing skill of my detectives rather than blind luck and OCD tendencies that led to the arrest of the people responsible for seventeen known robberies in the greater Portland area."

"Whatever you think is best, sir," Nick said cheekily.

Renard rolled his eyes and waved a hand at the door.

He was almost out when he remembered the flyer in his pocket. He pulled it out and waved it. "Did you get…?"

"Yes," Renard said, looking vaguely amused. "Apparently I'm signed up to bring beer."

Nick brightened. That meant they'd get the good stuff. He suspected he knew who had talked the Captain into that.

He spent the rest of the morning cleaning up paperwork and making phone calls. Hank came back just in time for lunch.

"Korean?" Hank suggested, spinning his chair with one foot.

Not feeling particularly hungry, Nick eyed the remnants on the table at the back of the room but figured peanut butter fudge and leftover Christmas cookies would not make for an adequate meal.

"Don't even think about it," Hank said following his gaze. "Mexican?"

Nick shrugged. "Sure." Hank's favorite Mexican place wasn't far from one of the names from the list of potential suspects Rosalee had emailed him. A little hole-in-the-wall shop that sold charms, protections, and knitted goods. They swung by after a quick meal of taquito specials. The shop was tiny, tucked in between a bakery and an adult emporium.

Hank peered through the large front window at the hand knitted scarves and shawls. "Seriously?"

Nick shrugged. "It's on Rosalee's list. There's a smiley face next to it though." The email had contained seven names along each accompanied by emoticons ranging from happy to sly to one with tiny devil's horns. That one, he figured, was probably not good recommendation.

Hank reached for the door handle, complaining, "I'm going to come out of there smelling like patchouli."

"Probably."

There was incense but it wasn't patchouli. Sandalwood maybe and not overwhelming. The woman behind the counter was younger than he expected. Early thirties, pale skin, dark hair in a sloppy ponytail, wearing a t-shirt with Quack Attack emblazoned across the front and black rimmed cat eye glasses straight out of the 50's. She was…robustly built and Nick was a little surprised Hank didn't immediately turn on the charm. Maybe it was the witch thing. Couldn't blame the guy for being gun shy, so to speak.

Nick flashed his badge. "Marica Phipps?"

"That's me." She smiled politely. "What can I do for you?"

"We need to ask you a few questions," Hank said. "About Adalind Schade."

The smile went a notch wider. "You must be Rosalee's friends."

Nick asked, "She told you about us?"

"She mentioned you would be by." Marica leaned on the counter, eyeing Nick with a thoughtful frown. "So you must be the Grimm."

"You can tell without woging?" Nick asked, figuring it was more likely Rosalee had passed on a lot more than a warning they would be dropping by. It would be difficult to confuse him and Hank even by the roughest description.

She smiled again and shook her head. "Oh, I'm not wesen. Or at least, not wesen enough. There's fuchsbau in the family tree but it's three or four generations back. Usually I could tell by your aura but both of you are a little…off." She gave them a thorough once over. You," she pointed at Hank, "oh, honey, you are all…." She wiggled her fingers like octopus tentacles. "Jumbly."

"Jumbly," Hank repeated skeptically. "That does not sound good."

Marica rested her elbow on the cash register, chin in hand. "Oh, it's not necessarily a bad thing." She flicked a glance at Nick. "But," she continued, heavily-lined eyes narrowing at Hank, "in your case it definitely is. I can see why Rosalee sent you to me." She turned to a drawer behind her, digging into one of the many small boxes inside. "What did you want to know about Schade?"

"How do you know her?" Nick craned his neck to see what she was looking for. There was a truly manic level of rustling coming from the drawer.

"She shopped here a few times. Specialty stuff." A zip-lock bag emerged and was tossed onto the counter with a rattling thump before the rustling commenced again.

"What did you think of her?"

"Well," Marica added several more bags to the pile and paused thoughtfully, "she always picked up her orders, always paid promptly, but frankly she was a leeeettle," she held up a thumb and finger spread as far apart as they would go, "bit of a bitch."

Hank coughed out a startled laugh. "Leave out the little bit and I'm in complete agreement."

Marica laughed. "Know her do you?"

Hank said uncomfortably, "Ex-girlfriend."

"Oh, wow. Wow. Bad choice there. Still you got the ex part right." Apparently satisfied with her finds, she closed the drawer and turned back to face them, choosing a length of leather cord from a display on the counter.

"It wasn't exactly my choice to begin with."

"Ohhhh. Well, that explains the…." The octopus fingers reappeared. "Is that why you're here asking questions?"

"Ms. Schade turned up in the hospital a few days ago," Nick said, "with no memory."

In the middle of opening the bag Marica stopped dead, staring at them wide-eyed. "No way. Rosalee didn't mention that. Do you know who did it? Oh," she bopped herself in the forehead, "stupid question. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"It is," Hank confirmed. "You know anything about amnesia potions?"

Marica shook her head. "Zaubertranks aren't really my thing."

"What exactly is your thing?" Nick asked. This store was as different from Rosalee's shop as a deer from a parrot. It was brightly lit with florescent and spotlights, which Rosalee declared would degrade her product.

Lots of knitted goods: sweaters, hats, scarves, ponchos. There were also bins of crystals and semiprecious unpolished stones, dragon and unicorn statues, a rack of novelty t-shirts, and books with titles like ABC's of Magic and Native American Myths and Legends. One entire four foot section was devoted to empty glass bottles of all sizes and colors. Another section was made up entirely of driftwood and interestingly shaped knots and sticks.

"There's a lot of magic in the world that isn't found in herbs and potions," Marica explained. "We mostly deal in stones, wood, and glass. And wool. But its biggest magic is that it keeps you warm even when wet. Very important west of the Cascades."

"And you do that," Hank said.

"It's a family thing," Marica told them. She dug into the bags and began threading beads onto the leather string. "I assume you're looking into Adalind's business acquaintances?"

Nick nodded. "And past clients at the law firm. Can you think of anyone else who could do an amnesia potion?"

"If her mother wasn't dead she'd be first on the list."

"Adalind's mother?" Hank asked, startled.

"That woman was a piece of work. It's no wonder Adalind turned out like she did growing up in that house." Marica held up a bead to the light, squinting at it, and rejecting it. "The Prince kept Adalind in line when she worked for him. No one knows what happened, but when she stopped working for him she sort of went off the deep end." She waved her finger in a circular motion at her temple.

Nick exchanged looks with Hank. "You're saying Adalind works for the Prince?"

"Did. Used to lord it over us regular ol' peons, you know." She threaded a couple beads onto the leather. "Every time she picked up an order we had to hear about how she was doing this and that for the Prince or she was on her way to a meeting with the Prince. Blah, blah, blah."

"Did she ever tell you a name for this Prince?" NIck asked.

"Nah, I'm pretty sure I would have remembered that."

"What about where he worked? Or where she met him?"

"Ummmm…." She picked out another bead and folded up the bag it had come out of, laying it aside. "Not that I can recall. It's not the kind of thing you go into detail about with casual acquaintances. Even her. She wanted attention but she wasn't stupid."

Damn. That would have been too easy. "Did she ever have items delivered?"

"A couple times I think."

"Do you still have the addresses for the deliveries?" Hank asked.

Marica nodded. "Should have. On the computer." She tied a knot and handed the whole thing to Hank as she moved over to the keyboard. "Let me take a look."

Nick asked curiously, "Can you do a printout of her entire purchase history?"

"Sure."

"Uh," Hank said, staring at the bracelet in his hand, "what's this?"

Marica glanced at him over her glasses. "Howlite to help the insomnia, turquoise for protection, opal for healing, and quartz. Lots and lots of quartz. Like, five kinds of quartz."

"Uh huh." Hank examined the bracelet gingerly. "And what's the quartz for?"

"Lots of things, but mostly we want to suck out the bad humors."

Hanks eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "I have bad humors?"

"And here I thought it was just a bad sense of humor," Nick muttered and got an elbow in the ribs for his trouble.

Marica nodded seriously and poked a couple more keys. Somewhere under the counter a printer hummed to life. "A zaubertrank," she explained seriously, "alters your body chemistry, but it also affects your spirit. Your body eventually returns to normal as the potion is passed on or cured or whatever, but it leaves behind a mark. Think of it like supernatural grape Kool-Aid, everything it touches gets stained." Pulling paper out from under the counter she held it out to Nick. "Here ya go."

Invoices. Two of them. And the delivery addresses were…. "One went to the law firm and the other to Adalind's apartment." The third page was the purchase history, a lot of dates and words that meant nothing to him. Folding the papers, he tucked them into a pocket for Rosalee to take a look at later.

"How do you know about Grimms," he asked Marica, "if you're not wesen?"

Marica left the computer to lean on the counter again. "Oh, my family has been avoiding Grimms for centuries. Witches and Grimms…." She blew the bangs out of her eyes and waved a hand around. "Let's just say we don't always get along, what with the burnings and drownings."

"Burnings and drownings?" Nick asked alarmed. Good God, what had his family done now?

"Back in the old days. Not so much now." She pointed at Hank, "Wear that against your skin for fifteen days then come back and see me again."

"For the bad humors," Hank said skeptically.

"Yep."

"Okay then." Hank gave him a look, the one that said: If you're done with the questions let's get the heck out of here.

"Well, I think that's all we need for now. Thank you for your time, Ms. Phipps."

Hank held up the bracelet. "How much do I owe you?"

"No charge," she said airily. "Any friend of Rosalee's and all that."

"You know you're going to have to wear that," Nick said when they were out on the street. "Rosalee's going to ask."

Hank made a face. "The problem with putting it on is that people are going to see it."

"Hey, you could wear it like an anklet," Nick suggested, resting his hands on the car roof while he waited for Hank to unlock the doors. "You know, like little girls do."

Hank glared at him and got into the car.

"Well, I thought it was a helpful suggestion." Nick opened the door quickly before Hank could lock it again and leave him standing on the curb. He made a show of feeling his forehead and cheek, checking to make sure that glare hadn't taken skin off.

Hank rolled his eyes at the dramatics. "Well, that was…different," he commented. "She's a special sort of….special."

Nick sighed noisily. "Yeah, yet another group of people my ancestors persecuted and ostracized."

"At least they did something besides behead these guys."

Nick smiled, reluctantly allowing himself to be cheered. "That was getting a little old." He leaned over to turn on the radio certain that it was safe now that Christmas was over.

When a heart breaks, no, it don't break even—

Switch.

If she's lonely now she won't be lonely long—

Switch. Quickly. That didn't even bear thinking about.

Baby, sometimes love just ain't enough—

"Oh for the love of…!"

"Just put on the MP3," Hank suggested, clearly laughing at him. "I cleared all the depressing love songs off after my last breakup."

Nick pushed the button.

I'm friends with the monster living under my bed….—

He leaned his head against the side window letting out a slightly hysterical laugh. "How is this my life?"

"Hey, look on the bright side."

Nick dutifully asked, "What's the bright side?"

"You have a handsome, brilliant partner to get you through these troubled times."

Nick smiled. "Oh well there's that." The cool window felt good against his forehead. Until Hank hit a pot hole. "Ow." He slumped into the seat, letting his head fall back against the head rest.

"You doing alright?" Hank asked. "You're kind of quiet today."

"I'm okay."

Hank gave him a sidelong glance.

"Tired mostly. And the weather isn't helping."

"I hear you there. News last night said we're close to the record for most sunless days in a row."

"Yay us." He'd been living here long enough the gray and the rain didn't bother him much, but lately he found himself thinking fondly of sunny skies. Maybe Wu's depression pamphlets had a point.

"You should talk to your homeopathic friend about it. You said the doctor didn't find anything, but you're obviously not one hundred percent and it ain't getting better on its own."

Nick frowned. "You think it might a zaubertrank?"

Hank shrugged. "Everybody else has gotten nailed with one, why not you? Maybe this was Adalind's plan from the start. Dose you with some concoction…

"And then conveniently lose her memory so she can't be blamed," Nick finished.

Hank added ominously, "Or have an antidote beaten out of her."

"I wouldn't put it past her," Nick agreed, "but I already talked to Rosalee about it. She thinks it might be my changing Grimm metabolism."

"You have a Grimm metabolism?"

"Apparently," Nick said with a sigh.

Hank pulled into the PD garage, claiming a parking spot fairly close to the stairs. "You, my friend, need a tropical vacation. Two weeks on the beach drinking things served in tall, frosty glasses will cure anything."

"Didn't you take your second wife to Hawaii on your honeymoon?"

"And it was the high point of the marriage," Hank said. He shifted into Park and turned off the engine. "Don't slam the door," he warned, "this isn't your busted up ride."

Nick chuckled and shut the door with overmuch care, ignoring Hank's mild glare. "Since when did you start listening to rap music anyway?"

"What? I can't broaden my tastes?"

"If you start listening to rap, I'm going to have do the driving more often."

Hank clucked his tongue mockingly. "Say that again when you actually get your vehicle back, partner."

() () ()

The house was cold when he got home that evening. The thermostat said eighty but it felt more like fifty. He nudged it up until he heard the heat pump kick on then went to search the refrigerator for something that looked appetizing. Failing that, he settled for toast and peanut butter and a glass of milk, followed up with a long, hot shower.

By six he was tucked up on the couch in his PJs with a mug of hot tea, a blanket, and his laptop, paying absent attention to the TV. Sometimes he could pick his next case watching the evening news. A good day was when he wasn't already involved with anything featured on Continuing Coverage.

Still no news from Mom. He didn't know if that was good or bad. Instead of dwelling on why she might not be able to respond, he sent scores from the Christmas bowl games. His dad, Nick remembered, had spent football season working his way through a steady stream of mystery novels. Mom had watched every game and had a complicated system for deciding which team she would cheer for. It included any team coming from any state she'd ever lived in (which was a lot). If both teams were from states she'd lived in, support was determined by duration of habitation in said state and type of mascot.

He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke, overheated and nauseous, face to face with a darkened computer screen. Shutting the laptop, he set it on the floor next to the couch and struggled into a sitting position.

It was dark outside, rain blowing against the windows in noisy sheets. He ran a hand through sweaty hair, scraping it back from his face and tried to see his watch in the light from the TV. The news was long over, replaced by some reality show he didn't recognize.

Resting forearms on thighs, he sat for a few minutes trying to get his thoughts together. He felt sick and achy and feverish and, seriously, no he was absolutely not getting the flu.

The room was mostly dark except for the lamp, and the light from the TV was stabbing into his brain. Fumbling for the remote, he turned it off then pushed to his feet, swaying a little as he waited out the head rush and dizziness.

The trip upstairs took forever, one hand on the wall, stomach flipping and that dreaded feeling of sickness rising up in the back of his throat. He almost forgot to step over the tripwire and bumped into the bedroom doorframe on the way by. He didn't even attempt to hit the light in the bathroom, relying on what illumination made it through the window to get to the toilet just in time.

Crouched over the bowl, retching helplessly, he was struck by three things. One, he was really glad he'd just cleaned the bathroom. Two, vomiting was not good for a headache. Three, milk did not taste the same coming back up.

He pulled himself up enough to rinse his mouth at the sink then sank back down, shaky and weak. Bed…in a minute. The cold felt so good against his legs, he decided that stretching out full length on the floor was an excellent idea, pressing his face against the tile. Yeah, that was nice, that was good. He'd just stay right here for…ever.

It was, he reluctantly admitted, entirely possible he had the flu.

TBC

Author's Note: See just a tiny cliffhanger.