Meisner sank into the couch where Trubel had left him, head leaning against the backrest, in a living room that could best be described as "homey". There were fleece throws draped over much of the furniture, and games and books were stowed neatly in a storage unit. Family photos competed with whittled art projects for available space on the mantel and walls.

A short, stocky man in his fifties stood in front of Meisner. Trubel had introduced him when they arrived, but Meisner was so exhausted that he was too busy trying to put one foot in front of the other to remember much of what she said. He gathered that the guy was going to let him stay there for the night, for which he was grateful. Unfortunately, the man seemed to think this required a lot of talking:

"So you're friends with Trubel, huh? I guess that means you know Nick, too. Great guy, Nick. The first time I met him though, I'll tell you, I was a bit freaked out. I mean—a Grimm, right here in Portland! Not that that's a bad thing, of course. You've gotta have Grimms to step in when things go wrong. But you don't necessarily want to come face to face with one, 'cause, you know, what with the chopping off people's heads and all. Of course, I wasn't doing anything wrong, so there wasn't really anything to worry about, but I didn't realize that 'till later, after I got to know him better . . ."

The man was perfectly friendly, but had a nervous energy level that seemed only a few steps short of a panic attack. Spouting rapid-fire phrases, bobbing and gesturing emphatically—the whole package made Meisner's head spin. He tried to float along with the stream of words, but was buffeted by currents he couldn't keep up with. Maybe if I close my eyes he'll stop talking.

"My wife is checking to make sure the bed in the guest room is made up. This isn't the first time Nick or Trubel have dropped in on us with houseguests to hide. Not that we mind—no not at all! Always happy to help out! And not that you're hiding. I didn't mean to suggest that you were hiding from someone . . . Anyway, I'm sure you have a very good reason for not hiding, I mean, uh, for not wanting to be, ah, found. Probably has something to do with all the blood. None of my business, I know . . ."

Closing his eyes was not the best decision he'd made. It did nothing to deter his host from rambling on, and now he was having a hard time opening them again. The bed is far away and the couch is right here. Here is good. I could sleep here.

He must have nodded off, because when he tuned in again the other man was standing close, trying to get his attention without actually touching him: ". . . Okay? Anyway, I hate to bother you, but my kids will be up for breakfast in the morning and I don't want them panicking, you know, seeing as you look like you walked through a slaughter house. I've been known to get a bit woozy at the sight of blood myself. Not that I'm going to faint or anything . . ."

He kind of looked like he might. Oh lord, this nice guy is letting me stay at his house. The least I can do is not scare his family. Speaking was too much effort, but Meisner made eye contact and nodded. Then he hauled himself to his feet and followed the man toward a cozy bedroom. Before entering the room, Meisner detoured briefly into the bathroom across the hall, to use the facilities and to try to wash the worst of the gore off his face and hands.

Guilt-fueled burst of energy spent, he stumbled into the bedroom. The older man provided a sturdy shoulder to lean on, and kept up a steady stream of chatter as he helped Meisner get out of his battered and stained clothes. Somehow, with the relatively dimmer bedroom lighting and his voice hushed to avoid waking the kids, the incessant talking became more soothing than irritating. It maybe even helped make a potentially embarrassing situation easier.

Meisner fell into bed and slept for twelve hours. When he woke up, it was around noon and the house was quiet. He put on the pajama bottoms and t-shirt that were helpfully left on the bedside table, and went out to the living area, then through to the kitchen. The talkative man from last night—whom he now knew was called "Bud", based on the patch on his work-shirt—greeted him with a big smile, "Hey, you're awake! I was starting to get worried! The wife just left, but I'm here for a while, taking a lunch break. Are you hungry?"

Meisner was, actually, very hungry. "Yes, thanks," he replied. Bud was already pulling out lots of food from a well-stocked refrigerator. No wonder Trubel liked this guy!

As they ate sandwiches and really excellent pie, Meisner tried to get his bearings. "I lost my phone," he told Bud, "I need to get a message to Trubel. Can you contact her for me?"

"Sure. Sure. But I tried to reach her this morning and just got voicemail. What's your message?"

"Don't kill Renard."

"Oooo-kay." He handed Meisner his phone. Meisner sent a quick text.

"Speaking of killing—which, yikes!—you know you're supposed to be dead, right? I don't mean you're supposed to be dead, but you almost were. And there was some magic thing that happened that made you not. Not dead, that is. That's what Trubel said, anyway. And she said it was better if everybody thinks you really are dead for a while. Hooo, all this death stuff is giving me the creeps—almost feels like I'm having an out of body experience myself! Of course, my life flashes before my eyes every time I go to the dentist . . ."

Meisner couldn't help but smile a little, now that he was getting used to his companion's frenzied monologues. As for his own near-death experience, his life hadn't flashed before his eyes. No tunnels, no bright lights. He did recall some vivid dreams, almost hallucinations, just as he felt himself being pulled back from the edge of oblivion. In a lot of them, he was fighting. Some might think the fact that his subconscious experiences were pretty much exactly the same as his waking life indicated a certain shallowness. Meisner just thought it was efficient.

Most of the dreams blurred together, but there was one he remembered distinctly: he was sparring with a boy in his late teens, training him. Somehow he knew that the boy was Kelly. That struck him as odd. If he was going to dream about one of Adalind's children, shouldn't it be Diana? The other strange thing was how aware he had been of his own body. He'd felt himself compensating for stiffness in his knee and shoulder, and he was moving a little slower than usual—though still fast enough to take the kid down a few times. He supposed it made sense; when Kelly is that age, he would be around sixty, himself. But since when are dreams so precise about such things?

Bud had moved on to talking about his plans for the day. Apparently he repaired kitchen appliances, and had a quick job to do nearby, but then the rest of the afternoon he would be working with a group of friends to try to fix up the damage done last night. That last part piqued Meisner's interest.

Bud explained, "Every so often, lately, a bunch of jerks decides it would be fun to vandalize the businesses of hard-working Wesen. It started a few months ago, when those Black Claw assholes—pardon my French—went around attacking people and trashing shops. Last night was a doozy: more than a dozen break-ins, four with major structural damage."

"Black Claw?" Meisner inquired, trying to feel out how much Bud knew about the situation.

"I don't know if these are the same guys, or if they just like causing trouble," Bud replied, then he started fretting, "Uh, I'm not sure I'm supposed to be talking about them. Probably shouldn't. So, forget I mentioned you-know-who, 'cause maybe—"

Meisner interrupted him before he could get too far into his anxiety spiral, "Don't worry. I already know about Black Claw. I'm part of an organization that fights them." He didn't name Hadrian's Wall or offer details, since perhaps keeping things under wraps was not Bud's forte.

"So, ah, how's that going?" Bud asked.

"Not so great," was Meisner's deadpan reply.

"Well, any time you-know-who trashes our properties, a bunch of us make sure everything is fixed up pronto. Lots of Eisbibers in the building trades. We help each other out, and we lend a hand to other Wesen—Mausherzen, Seelengut, you know, the ones who get picked on. We always get it done the very next day, kind of an 'F—you' to the thugs who think they can keep us down."

Meisner thought this had to be the least aggressive 'F—you' he'd ever heard. It was kind of sweet.

"Come to think of it," Bud continued, "There's a guy who maybe you should meet. Black Claw killed off . . . well, let's say, they caused him some problems, and I think he wants to fight back, but he's trying to keep things on the down low. Anyway, if you want to come with me today, you can meet him. Well, not him, but someone who can contact him."

It was a vague invitation, and Meisner gave a noncommittal response. Conferring with one of the many people who'd been screwed over by Black Claw wasn't his top priority. Then again, if he was still out of touch with those who could give him the information he needed to decide his next move, he might as well make his host happy.

XXXXX

A couple of hours later, Meisner found himself in the middle of a buzzing construction zone. Earlier, while Bud was completing his nearby job, Meisner sent messages to the higher-ups in Hadrian's Wall, via a relay system that valued security over speed. He also took a shower. Unable to get the bloodstains out of his beard and mustache, he shaved them off. It was easier to start over; besides, it would temporarily make him harder to identify. Bud (or maybe his wife, Phoebe) had put Meisner's clothes through the wash, with mixed results. Fortunately, his jeans had survived yesterday's ordeal reasonably well—a good thing, since pants were something he couldn't easily borrow from Bud. He kept the t-shirt he'd put on when he woke up, and added a hooded zip-up sweatshirt, managing to find one in Bud's closet that both fit him reasonably well and was not covered with the Oregon State University logo.

When it comes to flying under the radar, you don't get much more low-profile than hanging out with a bunch of Eisbibers. Well, except for staying in the house, of course, but he'd just slept for half a day; he wasn't going to sit around doing nothing. Hadrian's Wall was aware of the various Wesen social organizations, the Eisbibers' Lodge system being one of the more extensive networks. They weren't considered to be important players in the conflict with Black Claw, so neither side really monitored their activities. From what he saw today, Meisner was starting to think that ignoring them might be a mistake.

Bud's specialty was refrigeration and he had some knowledge of heating and cooling systems, so they went from one site to another, wherever his skills were relevant. Other people swarmed in and out, as needed, to do demo, drywall, electrical, painting, etc. Meisner didn't have any expertise in this kind of work, but he could carry things and follow directions, so he did. The whole operation, spread over several scattered locations, had the friendly vibe of a block party alongside the efficiency of a well-trained militia. The level of organization was impressive. Though not likely to want to join in combat, a large cohesive group of civic-minded Wesen, who were pissed off at Black Claw, was a resource worth considering.

Meisner and Bud came upon a woman painting a wall, whom Bud identified as Monique, "the person who knows the guy who had the trouble with you-know-who." He introduced Meisner to her as "my friend Martin." The exchange left Meisner wondering how much energy Bud must exert keeping straight all the entities he doesn't want to refer to directly, and also wondering what it is like to consider someone a friend after knowing him for less than a day.

Monique scrutinized Meisner with an intensity that went beyond the curious gazes he'd attracted all day. He knew he stood out amongst this crowd—taller than most, and without a shred of timidity—but they were too polite to ask what he was. Monique didn't ask either, though when Bud said that he was involved with a group that was fighting "the guys who did this" and might want to talk to "your new friend", she did inquire, "You're not a Grimm, are you?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm not."

She shrugged and said, "I'll call him. If he's interested, I'll have my cousin take you there."

XXXXX

Later that afternoon, Meisner rode in the backseat of Bud's car, as Monique's cousin, Mel, directed them to a nondescript motel outside the city. Mel sent a text to they man they were meeting, then reached for the door handle to get out of the car.

"Wait," said Meisner. He scanned the area. There were about a dozen cars in the parking lot, all unoccupied. To the east of the lot was a wooded area. Meisner detected a suspicious glint of light reflected through the trees. Someone was casing the place, using binoculars. As he watched, the man moved closer to the building, followed by a companion armed with a handgun.

"Tell your guy to stay put," Meisner ordered.

"He's not answering his phone," squeaked Mel.

"I don't suppose you have any weapons?" Meisner asked Bud, who shook his head, wide-eyed.

Meisner grabbed a large wrench from among the tools in the hatchback. A little voice inside his head said, 'Really? You can't lay low for even one day?' It sounded a lot like Sebastien. As an afterthought, he picked up a baseball cap that had been tossed in the back and put it on.

Meisner made his way quietly through the trees and came, unnoticed, alongside the man with the drawn gun. He spun around from behind an old oak, slamming the wrench into the man's temple. The guy was out before he knew what hit him, without raising an alarm. It took the man with the binoculars a moment to realize that his buddy was missing, and by then Meisner was almost on top of him. He let go of his binoculars and managed to pull his gun out of his shoulder holster, but Meisner swung the wrench down on his hand, disarming him, then brought it up and bashed him across the face with it. This guy was big. The blows staggered him, but didn't take him down. He shoved Meisner back and threw a punch. Meisner ducked to the side, grabbed the guy's arm, and used the momentum from the punch to flip the guy over, dumping him hard onto his back. A kick to the jaw kept him down and out.

See—I can be subtle, mon ami.

Only you would consider hitting people with a wrench to be subtlety.

Meisner scanned the area. He saw Bud and Mel, watching slack-jawed from the car. A man in a leather jacket came around the side of the building, and a man in a suit appeared on a second floor fire escape—tall, with dark hair and striking features. The first man hurried toward the woods, further east from where Meisner stood. The second woged. Naturally, Meisner couldn't see the transformation, but a slight tilt of the man's head, followed by gasps from Bud and Mel in the car, told him that the man had morphed into something fierce. The fact that he practically flew off the fire escape and easily closed the distance between himself and the man in the leather jacket told Meisner that he'd morphed into something fast.

The two men's trajectories coincided just inside the tree-line. Meisner saw leaves rustle, but heard almost nothing. A moment later, the second man emerged, brushing off the sleeves of his suit coat. He ducked inside the building, came out carrying a travel bag, and headed for Bud's car. He got into the car via the right rear door. Meisner keept watch over the area, then slipped into the car through the left rear door, tossing the cap and wrench back where he found them. As soon as they were in, Mel got out and ran a few yards toward a trash can.

"He'll be back," Bud explained, "He just had to, uh . . . vomit."

The other man addressed Meisner in a cultured accent, "Thank you. I wasn't sure I could take down all three without being seen, or without one managing to call for backup."

"No problem."

"You are with Hadrian's Wall?"

Meisner nodded. Apparently the man had put this together from the meager information Bud had conveyed.

"I'm sorry for your loss," the dark-haired man said. "I may understand better than most. Until recently I was in the employ of the Wesen council. I am now its sole survivor. My name is Alexander."

XXXXX

Next up: I think I'll go back to Trubel. Any suggestions as to where the tunnel under Nick's loft goes? Other feedback is also welcome.