AN: not happy at all with this chapter, will probably issue an edit soon – sorry for the gap in updates – will work to fix that!

Bread gained by deceit is sweet to a man, but afterward his mouth will be full of gravel. Proverbs 20:17

First thing he did when he got home was hide his uniform, on the top shelf of the closet he and his sister shared. She couldn't reach that high, and no one would be reaching for the winter blankets that were rolled up there anytime soon. The uniform will be covered in wool strands the next day, but it's a sacrifice he was willing to make if it meant that his parents wouldn't know that he enlisted with the police.

Edmund accepted that he couldn't keep it a secret forever, it was unrealistic. He had never been a particularly good liar, nor did he think that his parents were dense, but the hope that he could find something else soon and forget this ever happened, dug into his mind. His thoughts circulated over this possibility, fixating on the idea that if he just kept quiet, it will pass over.

Like every other mistake in his life. Didn't.

His father had a poor opinion of the lot ever since his stretch in debtor's prison on the other side of the pond (his mother corrected that), and Mrs. Monroe wasn't too far behind with the notion that they were nothing but trained dogs, hunting whoever the higher ups wanted rounded and stuffed into a small cell.

Even Marta's opinion of the police had been heavily influenced by their mother.

"Edmund?"

The slam of the door, the wolf's back stilled, stepping off the bench that he used to get to the shelf, and quickly closing the door. Retraced his footsteps to make the 'crime' almost untraceable. He quickly changed out of his good clothes into home attire to keep up the illusion that he had been home for a while.

"Yes mother?"

There were short scuffles of steps, making it clear that the miniature woman was making way to his room, too excited to remove the scratchy socks off of her feet. She entered the room, hands clasped together.

"And? Did that overfed owl take you?"

Edmund's brows furrowed together. "You knew what he was, and sent me unprepared?"

She almost looked surprised he was upset. That's when she started the same lecture she prepared when he returned with a torn back after his father initiated him in a pack when he was thirteen.

"You can't expect others to help you when you're on a hunt. You work together, but you are responsible for yourself. Your father told you of the opening, didn't he?"

It was almost tempting to let out the truth, just to see her response.

"Yes." He admitted.

"Now did that fowl hire you or not?" She asked, slowly as if he was feeble minded.

"Yes, he gave me the position." He didn't get to finish the thought when his mother wrapped her hands around him. Unable to add in that he took down a rogue shop assistant, and making the whole thing sound like something out of a book. Probably for the best.

"You see? You're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself." She brushed his shoulders, picking off the stray hairs that had gotten on them.

"Still would have been helpful." Edmund grunted out, but his heart wasn't in it. His mother was so rarely proud of him that he didn't have the nerve to raise any sort of fuss over it. Especially since he lied to start off with.

The palms of his hands were starting to get clammy, in an inconspicuous movement he quickly wiped them off on his trousers.

The short blonde woman let him go, and held her own arms. Assessing her son, trying to make sure that she remembered this moment, cataloging the details as best she could. Before breaking the silence. "Come now, your father will be home in a few hours. Best get dinner ready."

She scurried off, Edmund however took a seat on his bed. He got away with it. Sure even this seemed pathetic when calculated against a normal human, teenagers probably managed to pull the wool over their parent's eyes a long time before this age.

But their parents weren't walking lie detectors.

Marta skipped into the room, curls rising and dropping every time she left the floor. Her face was giddy, and her small hands clapped excitedly. Edmund didn't have much time to react from her entering the room before she threw herself at him, and wrapped around his neck.

"I knew you would get it. Just knew!"

Edmund wheezed out a small laugh, patting her on the back. "Get off Marta."

"Boxes and boxes of chocolates. Necco Wafers! And gum, did you know that Henrietta Tillman has a whole pack of it? She said that Jullop got a whole" she took her arms off his neck as she spread them apart to show the enormity of amount of candy "shipment of them just last week. Do you think you could get me one?"

"A shipment?" Edmund teased. "I don't know, your teeth might fall out."

"A pack! Mother doesn't have to know, I even won't tell her that you're the one who tracked in mud on the carpet last week."

Her brother gave her a solemn look. "You wouldn't. We made a deal."

They did, in return for her silence he promised to read to her.

"I'm just changing it." She giggled with a toothy smile.

"Fiend."

Quickly pressing her small mouth to the side of his face she scurried off to the kitchen to help out their mother. Who no doubt had it in her mind that today deserved a feast to cover their table in celebration of his (false) success.

Standing to his feet he slowly trailed into the kitchen where his mother had already started to pull out the wares necessary. By the looks of it they were going to have stew. Most likely rabbit by the legs sticking out from the bag hanging off the hook on the door.

Marta shone a grin in his direction when she noticed him. "I get the front leg."

Their mother lifted her eyes from assessing her damaged pot to level Marta with a look. "Edmund's getting a hind."

Marta's nose crumbled and she looked downright displeased. Edmund's mouth pulled up in kind. Soon as it did, the guilt started to roll in the pit of his stomach. He usually got handed off the white meat, seeing as how his father got first pick of any meal. His mother second, his sister third. Just one time, it's not as if this meal was the final one, once again he could get the darker meat.

"Don't pout Marta. You know it doesn't suit your face." The she-wolf criticized the pup. Marta looked even further devastated. Marta was typically well behaved, though she did like to act like a brat whenever it seemed like no one was watching her.

Sitting at the wooden table Edmund helped himself to one of the apples that mother bought at the marketplace. After a few years he had started to catch on how different foods affected Blutbaden differently. He was positive meat spurred a majority of the aggressive, which is why he had slowly started to cut it from his diet. He sniffed the air, just a little meat couldn't hurt could it?

Time passed by, mother worked quickly preparing the meat, skinning and removing organs far more expertly than he could. Her practiced hand was incomparable to anyone's – at least in Edmund's mind.

When the outside light dimmed to nothing, and the only glow that entered the house was from the street lamps was dinner ready. The soup was preparing on the stove, Marta was setting the table, paying to every detail possible. Her presentation had to be perfect, or else. So Edmund had set out on a quest. Slant everything by ten degrees.

Petulantly she corrected his changes, stopping his second attempt by a swift slap on the back of his hand with a spoon. He didn't like desisting, nor did he want to. What in the end stopped the two from breaking out into another one of their spats was the unlocking of the front door.

Marta resumed her work, and Edmund relaxed against his chair. The door closed, and the sound of boots hitting the corridor wall sounded throughout the house. "Alice!"

Rushed steps were taken to the kitchen, their father stood in the mouth of the hallway, coat ajar, and hat hanging off the side of his head. His brow covered in a layer of sweat, and his face as if in mid woge. He didn't take his time getting home, he ran soon as he could.

"Up here Bartholomew!"

Their father's eyes calmed down, and he seemed to have taken the first breath of the night. He sat down into a chair at the table, leaning against it, elbows propping up his forehead. In relief he shifted back, breathing heavily.

"What was it Bart?" Called their mother, she nearly glided down the stairs from hearing the urgency in his voice. But because his mother had all the grace of a small pony, her entrance was heralded by noise stomps on the staircase. She approached her husband, and put her small hand on his shoulder and crouched to meet his eyes.

Father at first didn't reply, just shaking his head. Eventually he brought up the words from his throat. "We'll discuss it later." He leaned his head in Marta's direction, implying that the child should be absent from the room. "All that matters is that you're safe." He took her other hand and kissed her knuckles. "And them too." He nodded at Edmund and Marta.

Alice looked upon with him with concern, and the same wariness that her pups did. She left his side to check on dinner. Edmund sat in discomfort watching his father. He hadn't seen him so unchecked in years. There was fear in his eyes, like all ignorant youth, Edmund had no knowledge of his father afraid of anything.

The soup was finished after a few moments, and distributed proportionally by bowls. Conversation was light, when subject finally reached his employment his father looked like he bit his tongue. He didn't look proud, he appeared to be bordering disappointment and pain.

Alice noticed, she didn't push him. She let the topic sit, hoping that Edmund wouldn't try to further it. He didn't. For that she was thankful, they finished their supper, Marta slid off her chair and left for their bedroom. Edmund was about to do the same, when his father requested him to stay.

"Not you. You sit down."

Alice gathered the bowls, clearing the table. "For heaven's sake Bartholomew. What's wrong?"

His brown eyes focused in on her gray. "Donald Nidaria is dead."

Alice rolled her eyes, placing the bowls to be washed. "As if that in any way our problem. The tracks are already financed Bart!"

"They found him this evening in an alley. With his head on a pike."

The she-wolf's knees bent slightly, but she caught herself from falling to the ground.

Edmund's heart beat faster. He wasn't dense, he could recognize that pattern fairly well at this point.

"Grimm." He managed out. Bart winced a little at the title.

"Dēcapitāre." His father corrected. "Grimm is just a name. These demons aren't human, so they don't deserve to wear human names. Why they started calling them Grimms I will never understand."

Alice placed herself in Marta's seat. Cradling her head in her hands. "We fight land and sea to get here, and they manage to corrupt even the outskirts of the new world." Her husband waved a hand.

"We're not leaving. I refuse to run again with the tail between my legs all because of one demon."

Edmund's hands had become cold, maybe this was some sort of payback for his lies earlier?

"Bartholomew, Marta's going through the change. It's dangerous for her as it is. The last thing we need is to be looking over our backs if some monster is going hunting us."

"It will be good for her." Bart stubbornly stated. Alice's jaw nearly unhinged.

"Do you think it will be safer for her anywhere else? She has to learn what dangers there are. Or what kind of offspring do we raise? One that will get herself skinned when she is wed off? Do you honestly think that there aren't more of them out there?" Bart continued, pounding a hand on the table, making it vibrate.

"We'll protect her." Bart concluded. Gesturing at Edmund and himself. "There are other Blutbaden in town. We'll hunt the dēcapitāre down. Tear it limb from limb. Send a message to the rest of them to not come here."

Alice pursed her lips together. She knew there was no speaking reason to her husband. Much as she love him, she knew fair well of the kind of man she married. He wouldn't listen to her, or anyone. Never had, never will. But this situation had made her forget that.

"So you will not only risk your daughter's life, but your son's. Your son who doesn't hunt, who doesn't partake in any of our traditions."

So finally that comes back to conversation.

"Lets face it Bartholomew, Marta is more trained to bring in a kill than Edmund."

Edmund swallowed uncomfortably, it wasn't even true. He just didn't want to cause anyone pain. He stopped using that explanation when his mother retorted with 'what about the pain you're causing your father and myself?'.

Bart paused at this, folded his arms. "Edmund will hunt. Dēcapitāre have no spirit. Besides I think the boy knows the value of family."

There was a creak from the hallway. All three wolves froze.

"Marta." Alice called, her voice tired, and resigned. There was a shuffle at the corner revealing the apologetic child. Alice stood up and ushered her away.

"Edmund."

The teenager's attention returned to his father.

"You're going to be part of this. You will not want to refuse me."

Edmund settled morosely, hands folded in front of him.

"Good. You've asked me when you were younger how to tell dēcapitāre from humans."

He had to admit, his father never did tell him a definite answer. Just riddles, and guesses.

"They woge. Like us. When they're just budding, they're easier to spot. It's best not to approach them though, for if there's a sapling, then they're not alone. They like to travel in twos or threes. Master and pupil." His father divulged, his voice lowering in volume. Edmund found himself leaning into the conversation.

"They're sickly things. Pale, bone like. Eyes blacker than night, pit less, empty. They don't even have the whites of them. Like tar. Like death. Teeth like knives, claws just as sharp."

Edmund listened on baited breath. The nightmare of the Grimm was getting more vivid. Before where he saw something human, he now envisioned a hellish creature.

"You told me that it was harder to tell when they're older."

"They learn to control it, just like we do. There is however one thing that they can't control. When we shift." Bart woged, his wolf like features surfacing, the action pulled Edmund to do the same.

"Their eyes change. Dead black."

They returned to their human likeness.

"If you see one, how do you fight it?" Bart tested, his eyes peering into Edmund's, hoping to see some sort of thought, or inspiration from his son that showed he still had a predatory instinct.

Edmund's brow furrowed. He wasn't insane, of course he wouldn't!

"They're fast, and adaptable. A Hexenbiest caught a young one few years back, started to harvest its innards, the thing woke up halfway through, killed the dumb bastard with its belly still slit open. Healed within a few minutes, and just left. So the question is, how do you kill them?"

Out of stupidity, Edmund couldn't help but ask. "How do you?"

His father raised a finger from the table, and pulled it across his neck.

"Give them a close shave."

Monroe didn't get any sleep. None. At all. His night was party to being chased, and being cornered by Grimms. Witnessing his family tortured by the hell beasts, along with other things. His father transforming into his true form and battling the Grimm. He didn't know what was more frightening, his father, or the 'dēcapitāre'.

Thankfully he wasn't bound to the bed too long. He rose with the sun, and left before anyone else could awaken. The uniform which he hurriedly donned was covered in slivers of silver, and small clusters of wool. Which he focused on peeling off as he stood in the front of the station.

At first glance he didn't think anyone was present, but he was proven wrong when an urchin-like cranium rose from behind the front desk. It wasn't Nick, much to his surprise. This was a slight Asian youth, hair trimmed so short he could see his scalp.

"You Monroe?"

His voice was almost chipper. He placed several books on the desk and started to spread them out for some clerical purpose. Started to sift through line by line, searching for some specific record.

"And you are?"

The teen smiled and paused his work. "Wu. Missed your inauguration yesterday, was out of town. Tell me, did Kessler embarrass himself at my job? Tell me he did. I have it on very good authority that he writes like a bear."

Kessler … Kessler … He knew of Johannes Kepler, the physicist. But Kessler didn't really ring a bell.

"Kessler?"

Wu's eyebrows raised slightly. "Tall." He gestured above his head. "Dark hair, green eyes. Looks angry half the time."

"Nick?" Monroe asked unsure.

"Yeah. Just don't call him that, Richards was the only one who did. Every two minutes they were around each other was a pit match into the making. How miserable was he?" Wu rubbed his hands together lightly, hoping to hear some insight on how his co-worker suffered at his absence.

Monroe thought back on the day he met him.

"Not that … miserable." His words must have been not desirable since Wu looked heartbroken at the news.

"Not even a little?"

Monroe was about to amend his opinion, when a set of doors opened revealing Nick, dressed in his uniform, sleeves rolled past his elbows, and a bloodied apron. The blutbad's eyes swam red, Monroe forced his eyes shut as pinched the bridge of his nose and massaged the skin between the eyes to hope and squeeze the shift back. He was too hasty with this. He should quit right now. It was the right thing to do.

"Of course I was miserable Wu. You left me alone with your chicken scratch. If I didn't know any better you labeled my forms as 'jackas-' Are you alright?"

Monroe chanced opening his eyes, keeping them focused first at Nick's boots. Scuffed, damaged, by all accounts they looked a few sizes too big. Must have inherited them. That or stole them. He slowly moved his eyesight up, so far so good. He was suppressing his instincts. Or must have been since neither of them were running for a pitchfork.

"I'm fine. Why -?" He gestured to Nick.

"Oh." Wu realized. "That takes getting used to. Kessler is our pathologist. I think the fancy term is medical examiner." He raised his eyebrows at Nick who narrowed his eyes in return.

"Inspector Renard hired him a few months back for a case where he suspected the victim was poisoned. In my opinion he's a waste of space."

Nick looked more and more tempted to hit the back of his head. His previously smug expression had been replaced with a scowl. This would explain why he smelled of blood, so he wasn't wesen. Or at least, he might not be. He could be a vulture, this job was right up their alley.

"Is blood a problem for you?" Nick inquired, he didn't look curious, he didn't even look concerned anymore. His face was expressionless, devoid of anything that could resemble human emotion, examining him. Monroe felt cold, like he was some sort of corpse, or a future one.

"No. I didn't … expect you do come out covered in it." He excused himself.

"I don't blame him. You come out looking like you crawled out of hell, and expect that he wouldn't be bothered."

After a resigned sigh, Nick nodded, admitting Wu's logic was sound. Or at least sound according to conventional thought.

"How did he separate the head from the body anyway?"

Nick looked at Wu, then at Monroe who looked more and more uncomfortable by the conversation. They were discussing last night's 'discovery'.

"I have no idea. Not to mention the cut was clean."

Wu looked the examiner like he delivered the Earth reversed its spin. "Cut. As in singular." After the confirmation, the slighter youth's jaw dropped a bit. "So what was he made of, butter?"

Nick shrugged his shoulders. "Wish I could say he was. Clean cut, got through bone in one hit. I doubt it was done by a human. I'd suggest to look at machine owners. Factories, anything that can cut through human bone with minimal effort. "

Wu swallowed uncomfortably, and left to inform the Inspector. Leaving Monroe alone with Nick. Again his scrutiny returned upon the wolf. This time it wasn't so dead-eyed, but there was definite distrust in those eyes. He was aware that he wasn't prime candidacy for the position, but he tried to explain that yesterday!

"So how long have you been here?" Edmund asked, anything to try to lighten the atmosphere. Nick's mouth creased downward and he wiped his hands on the apron.

"A few months."

"Where from?" Monroe dug further. Just move the conversation away from the topic at hand.

"New Orleans. Before then Baltimore. Lot of in between. Before that, Munich."

Monroe's attention was grabbed instantly. "You don't have the accent."

For a brief moment Monroe thought the coroner was about to smile. However whatever it was meant to be, was dutifully pushed out of existence. "I do." He didn't go on to explain though. He just stood there, thinking. Silently.

"How'd you start working as this?" The more elusive answers were, the more people want to pursue them. Though this might be ill advised.

"I was trained as a surgeon." Short, and not descriptive. Lie. Most medical personnel bragged, his aunt on his mother's side was a nurse and she couldn't shut her mouth about how long and grueling training is, and how lucky she was that she could pass it. She prided herself that she was only of twenty who managed to meet credentials.

"Where?"

Nick's face seemed to turn even sourer. He wanted Monroe to drop this, out of whatever reason he was lying, he knew – if he didn't answer, or requested that he stop his questions, it would look worse.

"Dallas."

Monroe wasn't stupid, he knew enough about the war ten years previous to know this sort of movement wasn't that of a reasonable being. There were three conclusions. The first was that there are many, many cruel factors to Nick Kessler that made this truth. Second the jackass was lying. Third, he was insane.

To be fair of heart, he liked the second more than the first or third. What did it even matter? He wasn't Detective Dupin, and his life wasn't narrated by Edgar Allan Poe. (Thankfully) This wasn't a life calling, nor was he set on figuring out the mystery of Nickolas Kessler. If the Portland Police Department hired him, they probably had good reason. He knew for a fact that this job would not be in high demand.

"How is it Dallas?"

Kessler's head tipped to the side. "Hot."

He wasn't going to get much out of this, the intrigue grew, but his instinct told him to drop it. And he listened this time.

"Care to help me with something Monroe?"

Edmund's brow creased, suspicious. If he wanted him to position himself over a blade and plunge it through his chest, he didn't know if he was. Sounded like something he would want to avoid.

"What?"

Kessler turned his back to him, and opened the doors he came out of, giving Edmund full display of the mounted head, and body of the dead Löwen. Clothes removed, wounds scattered on the torso, blood pooled on the tile floor, slowly draining out. Monroe couldn't stop shifting – the scene was revolting. The smell wasn't any less so.

"There's some metal embedded in the spine, I thought perhaps you'd like to hold the-" He wasn't going to be holding anything. Except maybe a bucket to his mouth.

"You know, I think I should speak to the Inspector. I still don't know what my assignment is. Just out of courtesy, you understand." Edmund didn't wait long for any confirmation that Kessler had accepted, or understood what he had said. He bolted, following Wu's scent – just to get anywhere else.

Patrol. He was placed to walk rounds close to the disposal site. Three hours of nothing, it gave the Blutbad time to filter out the stench of blood, and decaying corpse from his system. He had to stop himself from looking back however, one glance back at the scene made his nose sting fresh with the scent. Kessler was not to be trusted. How often would their paths really intersect beyond the occasional nod?

Possibly very limited.

The fresh air did wonders for his insides. He was a changed man. Or at the very least a calmed one. Eventually his patrol made for the port. The largest ship docked was a cargo carrier. Large, steam stacks lifting to the blue sky. Edmund breathed in the air, as the wind brushed through his hair, and against his face. There was something palliative about the way ocean air smelled, and played.

Getting closer to the edge, the wolf strolled. He wasn't going to rush this past of the journey. Though in hindsight he really should have.

There were shouts from overhead for the police. It took Monroe a few minutes to recognize that he was the one who was being addressed. Looking up to the source of the screams, he saw a sailor gripping the metal of the side of the cargo carrier, looking far too frightened to be the bearer of good news.

"Yeah you! Get your arse up here!"

Edmund's chin jutted out. He had half a mind to ignore that and keep walking. But his legs made for the stairs that led to the deck. Climbing onboard was a rushed journey, sailors regularly made for the edge to call him on faster, to which he automatically obliged too. A sort of dread started to build in his stomach. His feet snapped at the deck, led by the sailor.

"We thought he stayed in Spain, haven't seen him since then." He managed to pick out, the rest was slurred, and mumbled. They came to a crowd, one he had to push through to see the center. When he did he sorely wished he hadn't. A lid of a barrel was pushed open, for the second time today he regretted taking this job.

Inside the barrel, shining through the vinegar was a human face, dry, withered, frozen in a state of shock. Next to it was another, and then another.

"That one's Tom, the other two are Harris and Killian. Harris and Killian are usually lounging, didn't even know they were gone."

What the hell was wrong with this town?