Chapter 50

It was as middle of nowhere as one could get. The timber walls of the ramshackle house were thick with ivy, creeping this way and that. There was a simple gravel driveway that was almost completely obscured with dead leaves. The lawn, if you could call it that, was overgrown with weeds and other plant-life I wasn't sure ought to grow in anyone's front yard. If it hadn't been for the light illuminating the windows and smoke from the chimney, I would've guessed the house was abandoned years ago.

We sat in the car, none of us making an attempt to investigate.

"So are you sure this is the right place?" Monroe doubtfully asked, breaking the silence. "That hovel doesn't look like rats could sustain life in there."

I double-checked the GPS coordinates. "That's it."

"Let's go on," said Nick as he opened the car door.

We approached the dilapidated, sagging porch with caution. The three of us stood huddled together as I knocked on the large, wooden door. There was no response and after a few minutes, I knocked again.

"What do you want?" a raspy, old voice called out from behind the door in a southern drawl that made my Dad's sound like he was from Connecticut. It came out all in one word, 'Whattdayawant.' It sure didn't sound like she was a native of Michigan.

"Are you Irina Morder?"

"No one here by that name," the voice replied quickly.

"Are you sure?"

There was a long silence. "Who wants to know?" the voice asked suspiciously.

"I'm her granddaughter. I'm Suzanne's daughter, Renée."

"My daughter and granddaughter are dead. And you'll be, too, if you don't leave my property!" the old voice bellowed out the warning.

Monroe reached for my hand. "Uh, maybe we oughta just go."

"Wait a moment," I insisted. "Please, I assure you I'm not dead," I said to the wooden door. "How can I prove to you who I am?"

There was more silence as I awaited a reply.

Monroe rocked on his heels, looking nervous. "You know, maybe we can just mail her a letter or something."

"Let's just give her a chance," said Nick. "We drove all this way." His defense was a surprise.

Finally the clatter of locks and bolts on the door being withdrawn drew my attention forward.

"Come closer to the door," the voice said and I did as she asked. She opened it just a crack enough to reveal a blue eye and a shotgun pointed at my chest.

"Lemme see your face," she ordered. I edged closer as she eyed me. She let out a gasp, shutting the door quickly. More locks clicked loudly, and then the door flew open. She noticed Monroe and Nick behind me immediately. "Who are they?" she asked with more suspicion.

"Friends of mine. They're safe."

"Come in quickly," she directed, and we went through as she hurriedly began locking the dozen or so locks back to her front door. What was this woman so afraid of?

We stood in her diminutive and rustic living room. The inside was as dilapidated as the outside. There was a modest couch and a couple of chairs, a fireplace that was all ablaze, and a few animal heads stuck on the wood paneled walls in various places. It was picturesque bucolic, no doubt.

My grandmother was a sight as well. She had long hair the color of the Portland sky pulled back into a loose braid. Her long, denim skirt was tattered and paired with an equally well-worn, blue wool sweater that intensified her deep blue eyes. They were similar to Suzanne's in the photo my mom had given me, except for their dark glare at the three of us. She had to be in her late seventies, as her face showed age with etched wrinkles, but her stance and presence proved she wasn't feeble. This was not a loveable grandma or a sweet, little granny. No, this was a grandmother; a hard, rough grandmother. She reminded me of the one from the Beverly Hillbillies. No, even that one looked sweeter than the bony, old woman standing before us.

"That's a nice Sternreiter you have hanging up," said Monroe as he pointed to a cuckoo clock on the wall. She didn't reply. "Umm, the cuckoo… over there?" The old woman remained silently fixed on us. "Okay then," he said glumly.

My grandmother kept her shotgun held tight at her side as she walked over and eyed Nick first, scrutinizing him as her old, brown boot tapped the floor. When she seemed satisfied, she did the same to Monroe.

Her eyes widened as she looked him over. "You're Wesen!" she exclaimed. Then she inched closer as Monroe held his hands up to the shotgun aimed at him. "Blutbad!" she practically yelped and steadied the gun, ready to shoot. Monroe hadn't even twitched or flashed his eyes once.

I gaped at my grandmother. She was a Grimm, too?

"How do you know that?" Nick asked. "He didn't have a woge."

"I've been huntin' his kind long enough to spot a Blutbad without 'em revealin' 'emselves."

Monroe's eyes were as wide as mine. "While that's a great talent you have there, Mrs. Morder, could you please put the gun down?" He gulped loudly. "I'm feeling a bit, umm, uncomfortable here."

"Please don't hurt him, he's Wieder!" I cried out. Would that even mean anything to her?

"I don't care what he is; he's a Blutbad and he's in my house, so that means I'm killin' him."

"Yeah," Monroe's pitch went up and octave, "can I object to that idea?" He held up a finger like it was a vote.

"Mrs. Morder, he isn't like other Blutbaden," Nick tried to reason. "Put the weapon down."

My grandmother glanced at Nick. "There's only one kind, boy."

Monroe attempted to recede, but she focused her gaze back on him and moved forward, pressing the barrel into his chest. Her finger hovered over the trigger, and I held my breath. She was going to kill him right in front of us!

Nick rushed out of the corner he was standing in and pulled his gun from his holster. "Mrs. Morder, lay down your weapon," he commanded this time as he pointed his gun at her. Her eyes darted in his direction, but she ignored Nick's words.

Before Nick could react, Monroe's eyes became red and panicked as the tuffs of fur emerged. He had a full woge. My grandmother was unfazed at the change, and pressed the gun hard against him. Monroe tried to pry the gun away, but my grandmother was strong for her age and held on tight. Nick didn't move. He was a cop for Christ's sake. Couldn't he take down an old lady? They wrestled with the gun until she knocked Monroe to the wood floor, aiming right at his head.

My recklessness couldn't take it, and I rushed over, reaching for my grandmother's arm. "I beg of you, don't do this!" I cried loudly. "He's my..."

She looked up at me with a surprised face. "This Blutbad is more than just your friend, ain't he?" Monroe took advantage of her distraction to scramble up and retract. She tried to aim again, but I threw myself in front of him.

"If you'd just let me explain," Monroe said as I remained between them. "I'm not that kind of Blutbad. That was so once upon a time ago, man. And Renée and I are… Well, we're dating at the moment, yes."

"Blasphemy!" my grandmother yelled and spat on the floor. "You can't be with a thang like that!"

"Hey, to be fair we aren't things! 'If you prick us, do we not bleed?'"

She steadied the shotgun in her hands. "I've got no problem makin' you bleed, Blutbad."

"Okay, not the point I was trying to make here." He held my shoulders tightly. "She's not a fan of Shakespeare I take it."

I glanced over to Nick, who had holstered his gun back on his hip, but still had his hand cupped around the handle. I shook my head at him. It was a little late for that now, Mr. Protect and Serve.

"This is a disgrace," said my grandmother with exasperation. "What in tarnation would possess someone to...?" The shotgun fell to her side, and she held her hand to her face. "Oh, Lord, I feel like I'm talkin' to Suzanne all over again."

"I'm sorry to upset you like this," I said to my grandmother, my voice shaking a little. "I take full responsibility for his actions, but I swear he won't hurt you."

Nick walked over by my side. "Renée is right. Monroe is a friend, and he's nothing like what's in the books."

The irony of this situation felt more and more like the storybook. If I didn't watch, Monroe was going to be sliced open and stuffed full of stones before we left. Or stuffed full of lead with that gun of hers, which was probably more accurate.

"Dude, I swear humans are friends, not food," Monroe said, and I elbowed him. My grandmother raised her head, glowering at him. "Okay, so not a fan of Finding Nemo either," he whispered to me.

"Blutbad, over there," she ordered as she pointed to an old fashioned, brown paisley couch. "Sit!"

Normally that kind of command would elicit an eye roll or a sarcastic reply, but today Monroe knew this woman meant business and he did as she said.

She turned to Nick, "So what are ya to my granddaughter?"

"Just a friend… and a Grimm," he added quickly.

"So, you're of our kin?"

Nick nodded vigorously.

She looked him over just the same as if she could easily tell a Grimm as she could a Wesen. "Last name?" she asked.

"Well, mine is Burkhardt," he promptly replied, "but my mother's maiden name was Kessler."

"Kessler." She nodded approvingly then glanced down at Nick's bandages. "What happened to your hands?"

"Stangebär attack on the way here," Nick replied like he'd been dealing with Stangebärs all his life.

"Nasty critters. You're lucky it only got at your hands. My sister had quill marks all over her arms the first time we took one on." She shook her head at the memory. My grandmother turned her attention back to me. "Come here… Lemme take a gander at you," she said, and for the first time there was a smile on her frail lips.

I approached her cautiously, and she took my face in her hands.

"Oh, my word. You look just like her." The old woman touched my face as she spoke. "But the eyes… Well, o'course you'd have your father's eyes," she said as if that would be expected. As she stared into my eyes, reflected in hers was such sadness and loss.

"So, you're also a…?"

"…a Grimm. Uh-huh."

"I don't understand," I said. "The research we did shows that my grandfather was a Morder and was part of the Grimm line. I'm sorry to sound rude, but how could you be one, too?" After what had just happened I'd be as rude as I wanted to be.

"We're both Grimms from the same line."

Dear God, I'd walked into Deliverance where people married their cousins. She must have recognized my grimace because I surely wasn't hiding it.

"We were six generations apart," she continued. "Many of those who could see married that way. Marriages with non-seers were difficult and dangerous."

I recalled her maiden name from my mom's ancestry. "So, the Richmonds were also Grimms? Wow."

"Richmond?" Monroe squeaked from the couch. "Oh man…"

My grandmother gave him a satisfied smirk.

"I apologize for not being able to contact you prior to my visit," I said, regaining my even tone. I wanted to add, 'And if I'd known you were going to try to shoot my boyfriend, I wouldn't have come at all.'

"How'd you find me?" she asked guardedly. "You shouldn't have been able to find me."

"I had a friend helping me with my ancestry once I found out about the Archers. She's great with research and located you here near Crescent City when she found out my father was from around here."

"This ain't good." My grandmother shook her head and turned pale. "If she can find me then others can, too."

"Not necessarily. My friend just happens to excel with these types of things." It wasn't best to mention she hacked into a few illegal sites since Nick was standing right there.

"Were ya followed?"

I shook my head slowly. "I don't think so." This woman was obviously paranoid.

My grandmother paced the floor a few steps. "I don't understand how you survived." She looked up at me again. "When your parents were killed, I was told you'd died along with 'em. That you're standin' here is a miracle. I dunno why they lied."

Why would they lie to her? The measures the Davenports took to change my birth certificate and pretend I was theirs without ever mentioning my adoption began making sense. Perhaps cutting ties was so I could live a normal life without knowing the truth about the murders. Maybe it was just to keep me safe from the lunatic who killed my parents. Whatever the reason, I'd missed out on multitude of history, knowledge, and family.

"So, you've seen this world all your life. That must've been difficult on ya as a child and not knowin' your heritage." Her words took me off guard. Of course she would know, but I was so used to people not knowing that I stammered out a response.

"Yeah, uh, well, I grew up this way, so it wasn't a shock, but I was definitely pegged different growing up."

She smiled in acknowledgment. "I began to see at age twelve, but I already knew how to behave and react. You didn't get that kinda history and for that I'm sorry." She shook her head. "Who taught ya about what you are?"

"Well, I had Wesen friends who explained everything to me," I replied softly. I wasn't about to reveal too much to this woman.

Her face took on a look of utter disgust. "Wesen… teachin' you? That ain't the way you should've learned." She looked like she might spit on the floor again. "The ones that raised you, they didn't know about you?"

"No. I tried to explain it, but they didn't understand."

Her face turned serious. "How have you handled your Waldgeist half?" She asked with concern.

I tilted my head. "Waldgeist?" I repeated. What the heck was that?

"Oh," she looked at me with a pained stare. "You don't know do ya? Your father was Wesen."

A/N: More crux, zenith, pinnacle moments! The rest of this story will unfold tonight...

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