A/N: Well, it's been a wild few weeks here IRL, and I honestly can't see it getting less wild anytime soon. Posting new chapters for this story might be a little sporadic for the next few months, but rest assured this story has a lot of life left in it, and I will be finishing it. Thank you for your patience and your interest in seeing this story continue!


Nick can feel it—the moment the tide turns—the moment the room turns against him.

"I'm a Grimm," he tells the Lodge, feeling like a bit of a fraud considering, well, everything. "But I'm also a cop, and I can help you, but only if you help yourselves first—so please, let Arnold Rosarot know that if he comes forward, we can put an end to this hässlich threat."

"When someone defies the hässlichen, they send us a message," a woman says. She looks like a soccer mom, but the fear in her eyes tells him she's never had the simple luxury of watching a soccer game without fearing for her life and the lives of her loved ones. "I don't want my husband or my children to end up being that message."

"I say we send a message back to the hässlichen," another woman says—another soccer mom type—this one with rage in her eyes. She's also afraid, and it's made her bloodthirsty. "We've got a Grimm! You mess with us, you lose your head."

"Call to order! Order!" The chairman of the Lodge has to shout to be heard over the cacophony of frightened voices. Nick wonders if that's the primary qualification for chairing an eisbiber lodge—being able to make yourself heard in the back. "We will put the question to a vote—"

"Wonderful," Adalind says, gliding up to the podium so smoothly in her heels, you'd think she belonged there. "Love a vote. But first, if I may be permitted to address the assembly, Mr. Speaker?"

The speaker blinks at her, and she waits, smiling serenely like a lawyer who knows what she's doing, and Nick really, really hopes she does.

"The Lodge recognizes—"

"Ms. Adalind Schade, counsel and partner to the Grimm."

The speaker blinks again—nods—bangs his gavel for good measure. "Ms. Schade has the floor."

Adalind grins—a shark smelling blood in the water—and then she turns to address the crowd—the very picture of warmth and grace.

"Good people of the Lodge, thank you for your time and your consideration of this urgent matter. I know the power of our traditions—of the rituals and rites and sacrifices that have kept our ancestors alive for thousands of years. I'm a Portland native—I've lived here all my life, just like the rest of you, and I know that our customs and ancient agreements have kept us safe for centuries. They've kept us safe—secure—alive, but I ask you all—every single one of you—to look inside yourself and answer one simple question: we're alive, my friends—of course we are—but are we truly living?"

There's a titter of conversation through the crowd, and Adalind rides that wave.

"I wasn't," she says, and a hush falls over the room. Nick glances around—there's something in the eyes of the crowd now—some shared understanding that he doesn't quite get. He didn't grow up in this world—he doesn't have this baggage. It hasn't been fun, coming into the wesen world on the edge of his thirties, but maybe growing up in it—growing up with the fear of discovery and death from all directions—maybe that took its own kind of toll on a person. On a community.

"I'm a hexenbiest," Adalind says—and the crowd gasps—"and a lawyer and six months ago, I was doing everything in my power to maintain the status quo. To keep the rich and powerful rich and powerful—to appease their lust for more—more money, more control, more influence over the world the rest of us only hope to share. I had money and influence and a Royal boyfriend, and I wasn't living—I was too scared to live—to be myself, to think for myself, to defend myself. And then I met a Grimm."

She turns to Nick then—and the smile on her face is bright and genuine. The crowd turns to look at him, too—eyes wide with new curiosity—wondering what on earth—who on earth—could put a smile like that on a hexenbiest's face.

"We tried to kill each other," Adalind says. "It was love at first fight."

There's a soft wave of laughter in the crowd, and even as Nick finds himself blushing and wishing he could hide, he realizes what she's doing. She's telling them a story—a love story—and they're all but eating it up out of the palm of her hand.

"Nick is nothing like the Grimms we've heard about our entire lives. He's not a storybook monster—he's a man. A good one. He fights to protect the people of this city—to build a space where more of us can live and grow beyond the confines of our heritage. These customs no longer serve us—not as a group, not as individuals. They keep us isolated—alone—afraid. And it will take enormous courage to reexamine them—to question—to build something better, but I want you to know that you don't have to do it alone. Nick will help. I will help. We will all help each other. In this moment, I think we're called to think in new ways—to dream of a better future for our children. I'm ready to hear that call—to answer it to the best of my ability. I hope you are, too. Thank you."

Chaos erupts as she steps down from the dais and makes her way towards him. The audience had been held captive by her voice and her tale, but in their absence many voices swell and break—all fired up by her words.

"She's amazing," Bud whispers in hushed tones by Nick's shoulder as Adalind slides into place by his other side.

"I know," Nick says, grinning down at her. She's smirking—of course she is—she deserves it. "Love at first fight?"

"Too much?" She flutters her eyelashes up at him, and he thinks, no, just right.

The speaker has to bang his gavel for a full minute before the room settles down. Nick's pretty sure they haven't seen an orator quite like Adalind Schade in these parts in a very long time.

"Order! Order! Everyone, call to order!"

Eventually the crowd subsides—allows the speaker to speak.

"Thank you, Ms. Schade, for your testimony. We will put the question to a vote. All those in favor of the witness coming forward?" Nick glances around—about half the room raises their hands. "Those opposed?" The other half. In the end, they have to tally the votes. The motion passes by a margin of one.

"That was close," Bud says under his breath.

"That was Adalind," Nick says. There's not a doubt in his mind that her little speech won them the vote.

"That was fun," Adalind says brightly. "Great date night idea, Nick."


It's not as simple as all that, of course. First he has to find Arnold, which even with Bud's help takes some doing. In the end, he doesn't even find Arnold—Arnold finds him. He walks into the precinct and introduces himself like he hasn't been the subject of an intensive police search for days. With the witness in hand, he's finally able to arrest Sal Butrell—the bridge troll responsible for murder—only when Nick and Hank find him, Sal's face is a bloody, swollen mess.

"What happened to you?" Nick asks while Hank does the honors with the handcuffs.

"Family reunion," Sal says, and Nick has the sinking feeling that he's missed something important, but he doesn't have time to dig into it, not when he has to organize an ID parade and protection for Arnold.

"Did I do all right?" Arnold wants to know, and Nick can't help but smile at the kid.

"You did great," he says, "We've got Sal Butrell locked up and waiting for arraignment. I know this wasn't easy, but I'm proud of you."

"We all are," Adalind says from her perch on his desk. "That took real courage, Arnold. Thank you."

Arnold blushes under her praise like a school boy, and Nick can sympathize. There's something about getting a compliment from Adalind that just makes you really feel like you've earned it.

"Look, Arnold, you might want to lay low for a little while, just to be on the safe side," Nick says.

"How about the Lodge?" Bud says. "You'll be safe there, huh?"

"Sure—sure. The Lodge is good. I like the Lodge."

"Okay, I'll drive you there myself just to be sure you get there okay," Nick says, and Adalind hops off the desk.

"I'll come with. Gotta make sure our star witness stays safe and sound."

So, they all leave the precinct—Bud and his friend John—Arnold and Adalind and Nick. Hank stays behind with the paperwork, and Nick doesn't think anything of being down a gun until they reach the Lodge, and it becomes clear that they've been followed.

"Go to the Lodge and stay there," Nick says, and the eisbibers spend a moment in tense consultation debating the merits of staying to help before he shoos them off with a final, "Go!" Then he turns to Adalind—ready to urge her to leave as well, but she's already one step ahead of him, as always.

"Give me the crossbow," she says. "I'll go high, try to pick them off. You try to look pretty and don't get killed."

"Right," Nick says, because what was he thinking, trying to send her to safety with the rest of the civilians. Adalind's never been a civilian—not at any point in her ridiculous, witchy life. "Don't shoot me by accident."

"Never by accident," Adalind says, and it sounds like a promise. Like if she kills him one day, he'll know why, and that's a strange sort of comfort at the moment. He passes her the crossbow with a kiss and then she's gone, climbing high while he runs to open ground for the upcoming fight.

The scythes are the first clue that he's dealing with Reapers. They're fast—faster than he is without his powers—and it's all he can do to dodge and roll out of their reach, under their blades. Adalind gets off a shot and it hits one in the leg, bringing him to his knees just as Nick dives out of the way of the other one's scythe, missing that deadly arc of silver by an inch—an inch that the one hamstrung by Adalind didn't make.

Then there's one left, looming over him with the bloody scythe, ready for the killing blow. Nick can hear Adalind cursing as a crossbow bolt slips through her fingers, and Nick searches for something—anything to defend himself—and then he looks up at a strangled kind of gurgled sound in time to see the head of his erstwhile assailant fall to the ground.

The body slumps, and Nick watches it fall in slow motion like a puppet with cut strings, and then he sees someone else loom out of the shadows behind him. A small, wiry woman with dark curly hair and tired eyes that he hasn't seen since he was twelve.

"Oh, thank God," she says, letting the hand clutching a deadly looking dagger fall to her side. "Nicky, I came as soon as I heard. Am I really going to be a grandma?"

Nick just blinks and swallows, barely able to understand her words. There's only one thing he can say—only one question on his lips.

"Mom?"