Meisner was dead. And Nick was in a jail cell, where he could be eliminated by Renard and his cronies at any moment. Adalind's short phone conversation with Wu left her feeling bereft, almost like she felt when Diana was ripped away from her two years ago. People were fragile, and caring about them was dangerous.

Nick . . . Nick might still live. He had a way of getting himself out of deadly situations, with the help of his friends. There was something about him that inspired love and loyalty in others, even in her. If he dies now, the last memory he'll have of me is me taking his son from him. He can't die. He won't.

Adalind wouldn't let herself start grieving for Nick now, not while there was still hope. But Meisner. The pain hit with sharp, uncomplicated force. He rescued her. He took care of her. He didn't expect anything from her in return. Hers was a world of scheming, quid pro quo, misdirection; and he didn't give a damn about any of that. Of course he had an agenda: he was to get her from point A to point B. But he could have done that without the subtle kindness, and since he wasn't the sort of person to bother faking it, the kindness told her that maybe she was worth it—that maybe it mattered that not only was she alive, but also warm, fed, and not too scared.

Her mind kicked up images of their interactions. It settled on the memory of going up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek, just before she got on the plane. It was possibly the most chaste kiss she'd ever given a man. She'd developed a bit of a crush on Meisner, and she detected some attraction on his side too. But for once in her life, Adalind had no desire to exploit this attraction to get him to do her will. He hadn't smiled when she kissed him. He rarely did. But Adalind could tell by the way he turned inward that he appreciated the gesture. She wanted him to smile more, and not for her usual reason—smiling means the mark has been successfully duped—but because she wanted him to be happy.

She didn't realize she was crying until she tasted the salt on her lips.

Renard opened the door to the bedroom. The last thing in the world Adalind wanted was for him to see her so vulnerable. But it was too late to hide, so she channeled her pain into fury, and spat one word at him: "Meisner."

Renard's face fell.

Something about his expression stopped her cold. She was stunned to realize that she might be witnessing a genuine emotional reaction. Renard was a consummate chameleon who could manufacture whatever responses would further his interests. But Adalind knew how to play that game too, and she could almost swear that the grief in his demeanor was real.

He said quietly, "I know. Nick told me."

So much for honesty, Adalind seethed. "Nick told you? You killed him yourself!"

"That may be true . . ."

He was struggling to find words, but Adalind had no patience for him. "You're not sure? What, you've killed so many people that they run together? Here's a hint: you were supposed to be friends with this one. He saved your daughter's life!"

Renard looked like he'd been punched in the stomach. He didn't respond to her anger at all, which made it dissipate a little. She held her tongue, giving him a chance to explain himself.

"I left him for dead. I hoped he would survive."

That wasn't much better than murdering him outright, but something about the desolation in his tone gave Adalind pause.

He seemed to go through an internal struggle, before meeting her gaze and pleading, "There are things I need to tell you. But to do so, I have to make sure we have absolute privacy. Will you play along?"

She nodded, intrigued despite her misgivings.

They spent the next hour doing what Hexenbiests and Zauberbiests did best: working the room, manipulating the perceptions of those around them. He went down to the kitchen for ice to put on the bruises Nick had inflicted. She ran into him there, at first mocking him, but then smoothing the edges of her jibes so they drifted into teasing. He poured her a stiff drink, then remembered that she was breastfeeding, so he knocked it back himself and put a small splash of brandy into hot chocolate for her. She rolled her eyes, but in a way that made it seem like she found him charming in spite of herself. Together they crafted an image of an estranged couple who were just starting to recall what they liked about each other in the first place.

It was a masterful performance. It had to be. Their "audience" was a full Zauberbiest, various staff who reported to him, and perhaps their own daughter. The first was only present for part of the evening, and the last had already gone to bed for the night. No matter; both seemed to be always watching. As Adalind headed up the stairs, she overheard Renard checking in with Bonaparte to make sure the elder man didn't need anything from him that evening, implying that he might want some time alone with his "new fiancé". He said it in the not-really-reproachful way one might regard a kindly but intrusive uncle who surprised one's girlfriend with a family heirloom, rather than an evil monster who put a magical leash around her finger and threatened harm to her children should she remove it.

When Sean came to her bedroom door, she murmured demurely about not wanting to get their daughter's hopes up. He persisted, but played the good parent, noting that some privacy from little eyes and ears might be helpful. Adalind giggled and pulled him into the room by the arm, casting a muffling spell as she closed the door behind them. She deliberately chose a run-of-the-mill spell, one that would only provide maybe an hour of true protection before fading, and which could be overcome pretty easily by a counter-spell—though not without her noticing. Their goal for the evening wasn't to block Bonaparte from spying on them, but to convince him that it would be against his family-values-bullshit agenda to do so.

As soon as they were safely in the protected zone, Adalind increased her grip on Renard's arm, pushed him to arm's length facing her, then released him. "Now talk," she ordered.

"I don't know where to—"

"Start with today."

"Black Claw hit Hadrian's Wall. We lured some of their strongest people away, and massacred the rest. Meisner was still alive when I got there. But Bonaparte . . . Bonaparte started choking him from across the room, killing him slowly. He was bleeding from his eyes and I . . . I did the only thing I could do. I hit Martin hard, throwing him backward and breaking Bonaparte's hold on him. Maybe I was too late, or maybe my blow was what finished him off."

Adalind fought back tears as she charged, "Here's what else you could have done: attacked the old buzzard instead of attacking Meisner."

"Really? You've seen what he is, what he can do. I can't go up against that," Renard admitted. After a pause, he continued, "Besides, we had an agreement."

"You and Bonaparte?" Adalind scoffed.

"No. Me and Meisner."

Adalind stared. Renard sighed and continued, "You think I just woke up one day and decided I wanted to be mayor of Portland? I wanted revenge on Black Claw for killing Andrew Dixon, and I wanted to use their power to enhance my own. Meisner needed an inside man, someone devious enough that everybody would believe he'd gone over to the dark side. The deal was, nobody would know except me and him, otherwise it might get back to the wrong person and jeopardize my cover. We agreed that, if necessary to maintain the ruse, either of our lives could be forfeit." After a pause, he added, "It is possible that he took the self-sacrificing part of the agreement more literally than I did."

Adalind glared at him, scanning his features to determine whether the last part was a sick joke. It wasn't. It was a simple truth: self-sacrifice did not come naturally to Hexenbiests and Zauberbiests. That didn't mean it was impossible for them. Adalind was sure she could give up her life for her children, and she could risk her life for Nick. But those were people, not political ideals. Altruism in the abstract, giving up one's life for a cause . . . this was a foreign notion to their kind.

She lamented, "If everyone's life can be sacrificed, what's the point?"

"Not everyone's. Not yours. Not Diana's."

"Meisner agreed to this?"

"He insisted on it."

Adalind swallowed hard. "Now what?" she whispered.

"I honestly don't know. I wasn't reporting to Meisner. The goal was for me to work my way as high up the food chain as I could, positioning myself to get the most intel and potentially cause the most damage. When I was in place, we would reconnect. But now, without anyone to vouch for me, even if I succeed nobody will believe me. Your boyfriend and his crew will still want to kill me. I'm almost better off if Black Claw wins."

"That may be true," said Adalind tartly, "But is that the world you want Diana to grow up in? A world with Bonaparte pulling the strings—pulling your strings?"

Renard scowled at her. He glanced away for a moment, then looked back and asked in an uncharacteristically tentative tone, "Will you be with me?"

Adalind snarked, "If that's a proposal, I think it's already been taken care of." She wiggled the fingers on her left hand, making the new ring glitter.

"Not like that," he shot back, "I mean will you work with me, like we did tonight?"

She replied, "On one condition: we add two names to the do-not-sacrifice list."

Renard raised his eyebrows expectantly.

She listed, "Kelly."

"Done," he said immediately.

"And Nick."

Renard pursed his lips. "I will try to avoid killing Nick, but you have to know that there isn't much I can do for him. If he wants to live, he needs to stop doing dumb things like assaulting his superior officer—and mayor—in front of witnesses. He's in police custody, and soon he'll be transferred out of my precinct and into Bonaparte's hands. I'll let Wu stay on tonight. He's sure to relay information to Hank, Monroe, and Trubel. Maybe they'll come up with something. That's the best I can do."

Adalind wasn't satisfied, but, reluctantly, she nodded. An alliance was formed.

XXXXX

Sean Renard drove toward Nick Burkhard's residence, with Conrad Bonaparte seated beside him. After much thought he concluded that, as was so often the case, everyone else was wrong and he was right.

It had been an eventful day. He'd killed a friend. His lover had been murdered, presumably by his young daughter. He'd come clean with Adalind and enlisted her support. And, just now, he'd stood by helplessly as Bonaparte did his notorious chokehold trick on Adalind, forcing her to reveal Nick's home address. Adalind seemed to think she could get a warning out to Nick. Renard left her to it, as he accompanied Bonaparte to what might well be the scene of the next massacre.

All of this led Renard to the realization that Bonaparte needed to die. And, more importantly, that Bonaparte could be taken down. True, he was powerful. But he wasn't nearly as clever as he thought he was. He projected an image of culture and refinement, but, where it counted, he depended on brute force when finesse would serve better.

As a case in point, Meisner would have been more valuable as a live hostage than a dead martyr. Bonaparte had apparently done enough research to learn that he would be resistant to torture, and that Hadrian's Wall would not negotiate for his life. Fair enough. But nobody is completely impervious to psychological coercion, and Bonaparte had someone who knew the German agent well at his disposal to show him what buttons to push. If Renard refused to help emotionally destroy his old comrade, well, that would tell Bonaparte something too. Since Martin was one of the most stubborn people Renard knew, all of this probably wouldn't result in much usable information. But it would serve a greater goal that Bonaparte had completely overlooked: luring Trubel into their hands. Everyone was so focused on getting at Nick that they forgot about the baby Grimm. She was young, impulsive, and had worked closely with Meisner. Lean on him and she'll do something stupid to try to help him. Get her and you've got one Grimm, plus leverage over another.

Further evidence of Bonaparte's short-sightedness was his use of force against Adalind, where surveillance and sleuthing should have sufficed long ago to learn a simple address. The strong-arm approach undermined Bonaparte's long term goal of bringing her on board. It also pissed off the father of her child—who, in Renard's not-so-humble opinion, ought not be underestimated.

Renard glanced over at the older man, who briefly looked up from his phone. He schooled his features to look appropriately subservient. Determining how, exactly, to bring about Bonaparte's death would require some thought.

As for what everybody else was wrong about, they were all wrong about Black Claw, though in various ways. Those who opposed the movement thought it could, and should, be defeated. Burkhardt believed it was as simple as the good guys beating the bad guys: the noble Grimms defeating the dangerous Wesen. Meisner wasn't quite so naïve. But he was wrong about the possibility of beating Black Claw by amassing intelligence and firepower against them. You can't wage a traditional war against a grass-roots mob with a constantly shifting command hierarchy. Cut off one head and more will grow back.

More importantly, they'd missed the point that Black Claw would be nearly impossible to beat because, at least with regard to its foundational goal, Black Claw was in the right. It is completely insane that a large portion of the population needs to hide their true nature from the rest. Oppressed groups throw off their oppressors; that's just how history works. Once there is a crack in the dam—which Black Claw made—there is no turning back the tide. Nor should there be. It is hard to hold the moral high ground when you are defending an unethical status quo.

Of course, Black Claw got things wrong, too. Their basic goal of letting Wesen become "unhidden" may be sound, but the movement was run by an assortment of psychopaths who couldn't think beyond next month's body count. Also, they wanted to end the oppression of Wesen by turning around and killing or oppressing non-Wesen. Of course the Kehrseite, and Wesen who care about their welfare, won't go for that. It's as if Martin Luther King Jr. pushed for civil rights with the goal that blacks would subjugate whites, rather than be equal to them. Furthermore, Black Claw was happy to engage in gratuitous violence to achieve their ends; in fact, for many of them, violence seemed to be their main end, with vague gestures toward liberation as an afterthought. Renard knew better than to expect that the move toward civil rights for Wesen citizens could be a completely bloodless revolution, but that didn't mean a bloodbath was acceptable. Not in his city.

Renard and Bonaparte arrived at the industrial area where, apparently, Nick lives. Renard spied cameras near the entrance, so he parked a short distance off. They were not the first to arrive; Bonaparte had called in a substantial strike team, who had already breached the door, awaiting the order to advance.

"Go," Bonaparte said, his voice quiet yet commanding, "I would prefer the Grimm alive, for now. Kill the others."

Renard would have liked to have gone in with the strike team, but Bonaparte motioned him to wait, and he didn't have good reason to defy the man right now. While he would prefer it if at least Hank and Wu made it out of this alive, he wouldn't really be able to do anything to ensure that anyway. So he waited.

Several minutes, two waves of troops, and a hell of a lot of gunfire later, Renard and Bonaparte entered the living area. It was strewn with bodies—all of them Black Claw, as far as Renard could tell. The only one left standing was Nick. That didn't make much sense. Nick was tough, but not clear-the-room-of-heavily-armed-fighters tough. Perhaps Trubel, Monroe, and the others had helped him fight, and he was covering their escape. Even assuming that turn of events, it was impressive.

Bonaparte gave voice to the surprise Renard felt: "I underestimated you. I didn't think a Grimm could do this." He didn't dwell on the mystery, however. "Book or no book, I should have killed you when I had the chance. But I won't make that mistake again."

For the third time today, Renard had a front row seat as Bonaparte telepathically choked someone. Perhaps he was becoming desensitized to the brutality of the move, because this time he was able to think more strategically about what to do. Unfortunately, he still came up with nothing good. Bonaparte had made it clear that he was willing to sacrifice a key objective—obtaining the Grimm genealogy—to be rid of Nick. Renard didn't have anything better than that to use to re-direct the man.

Renard noticed something odd. Nick's back was arched, head back, as he fought to breathe, giving Renard a great view of his shirt. There were bullet holes in it. Several. A little fresh blood ringed each one, but the wounds were no longer bleeding. If he was wearing Kevlar, there wouldn't be blood, at least not in that pattern. If he wasn't wearing Kevlar, he should be dead.

Then Renard noticed something even odder: his own hand reaching for a sword that had been dropped by one of the fallen combatants. Part of his brain felt like this was the most natural thing in the world to do, but another part felt like a spectator in his own body. Before he could parse this out, the sword hit home, right through Bonaparte's back.

The Zauberbiest looked surprised as he fell, but not nearly as surprised as both Nick and Renard. For a moment, they shared a profound thought: oh, crap!

Putting two and two together, Renard made a mental note for his parental to-do list. Not only did he and Adalind need to talk to Diana about not pushing people to get together, and not killing people, now they would have to add not pushing people to kill people to the list. Who knew the "terrible twos" could be quite this terrible?

But that was a problem for another day. Right now, he needed to deal with Nick. Addressing the younger man, he said, "Three things: First, I'm not your enemy. Second, I won't harm your son. Third," he nodded down at Bonaparte's corpse "I'm going to blame you for this."

Rage had started to creep back into Burkhardt's eyes, so Renard decided to make his exit. He still wasn't sure what to make of the bullet holes in Nick's shirt, but if the Grimm was, somehow, impervious to harm, it would be a bad idea to tangle with him now. Renard wiped the handgrip of the sword against his jacket and dropped it, using that motion to cover aiming his gun. He shot Nick in both knees and ran for the elevator.

XXXXX

Next up: back to Meisner.