The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2 by Ken Brosky, Isabella Fontaine, Dagny Holt, Chris Smith, Lioudmila Perry

really true. Thanks for telling me over and over and over,” I muttered, spinning him around and pushing him toward the door. “Please leave now before you die.”
    I spun and made my way through the crowd, back to the women’s restroom. In the darkness, I fumbled my way to the last stall, opening the door and then closing it behind me. I reached down, my fingers accidentally touching the disgusting floor a few times before I found my little makeshift drawer. I pulled it open at the loose corners, reaching in and grabbing the gladius.
    I stepped on the toilet seat, pressing one hand against the wall for leverage. “Please remember to wash your hands,” I whispered to myself, taking a deep breath.
    Here we go.
    This wasn’t exactly how I’d expected things to happen … but then again, I didn’t think the fiddler would get drunk before he enacted his diabolical scheme.
    But that’s what alcoholism does to you, in the words of the creepy hipster. If only I could make a poster with the fiddler’s face on it—now that would keep Trish from abusing alcohol: “Hey, this guy almost managed to steal all the music from the entire world … but his alcoholism got in the way! You can steal all the music in the world, but you can’t abuse alcohol at the same time.”
    Now it was improv time. What was it Briar always told me when we were training?
    “Expect the unexpected. Anticipate.” At this point, he would always raise one paw. “Plan ahead, then plan ahead again. And always have a sword ready.”
    I heard the door open, temporarily bathing the bathroom in a dim red glow. My heart skipped a beat as the door shut. It was nearly pitch-black in the bathroom, save for a little sliver of red sneaking in under the door, reflecting off the dirty tiles. I held my breath, listening to the shuffling of feet on the floor.
    “Hello?” came the bartender’s voice. “Anyone in here? We’re closed now.”
    I heard his feet shuffle closer. The door of the first stall slammed open. The feet shuffled closer. The door to the second stall slammed open. I took another deep breath, ordering my eyes to adjust faster to the darkness.
    Listen, Alice. Take in the details .
    OK. The door was going to open inward . The bartender was obviously being careless—otherwise, he wouldn’t be pushing them open with such force. If I timed it right, I could jump out before he even realized what happened.
    The feet shuffled in front of the door to my stall. I clutched my gladius. It was a short sword, the kind the ancient Romans preferred because it was easy to wield. The blade was only a little longer than my forearm, wide, sharp, made of iron with no hand guard and a short handle. Perfect for slicing and dicing in a cramped bathroom.
    The bartender drew in a long, raspy breath. My legs tensed. I couldn’t see anything more than a shadow as the door opened quickly; I jumped forward, stabbing my sword at the dark figure.
    Then I saw his eyes. Just a hint of glowing gold, as if they were powered by batteries that were low on juice. He took a step back, grabbing my arm and twisting it, pulling me out of the stall and shoving me against the wall.
    “Oof!” I huffed. My reflexes kicked in quickly and I reached out with a leg, pushing us apart. I stepped back, keeping my gladius in front of me. There were only about four feet of space between the bathroom wall and the row of stalls. Not enough room for me to swing a foil, not enough room for the bartender to spread his arms … but plenty of room to swing a shorter gladius.
    Good call, Seth.
    “Hero,” the bartender hissed. “I thought I smelled something foul.”
    I stabbed at his dark, imposing figure with my gladius. But the bartender dodged, swatting at the flat blade with one strong hand.
    “I’ll pluck your eyeballs and eat them like grapes!”
    I said nothing, trying to keep track of his dark figure in the blackness. I had no doubt those eyes of his were helping him see. The tiles between us