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

were illuminated just a bit by the crack under the bathroom door. I could see the tips of his feet as he moved closer. His hairy, animal-like toes had torn through the shoes. A wet slurp echoed off the tiled walls as he swallowed drool that had gathered in his mouth. What was he, really? A wolf? Something worse?
    Whatever he was, he seemed pretty confident.
    “Please don’t hurt me,” I begged.
    That was all it took. He carelessly lunged forward with a growl. I stabbed again with my gladius, aiming for the eyes. My blade connected with something hard, and then there was a groan. The room grew bright as the bartender’s body quickly burned away.
    I used my shirt to wipe the sweat from the hilt of the short sword, then stepped out of the bathroom. My pupils were already so dilated that it was easy to scan the entire room. It looked empty, save for the three band members onstage. The illumination from the EXIT signs bathed the drummer and bassist in a sinister glow. They were hunched over the fiddler’s body; when they saw me, they stood up.
    But not the fiddler. He was still lying on the ground, groaning.
    “Who are you?” asked the bassist. He clutched his bass as if it was a battle-axe. He was taller than the drummer, more feral-like, his hands and arms a little too big for the rest of his body. The drummer was smaller, thinner, but he was glowing differently . He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts, and on his bare skin were old scars, dozens of them, each one glowing brightly.
    I stepped beside the bar, eyeing them. Sizing them up. To be honest, I was thankful neither of them were giant hedgehogs.
    “She’s the hero, you idiot,” said the drummer. “She’s going to kill us.”
    The bassist snarled. “She’s not killing me.”
    “She’s probably going to kill you,” said the drummer. He kicked the fiddler a few times. “Hey, pull yourself together or we’re all going to die in this horrible bar!”
    The fiddler stirred, mumbling something about his princess.
    And then the bassist was off the stage, charging toward me with his bass held high over his head. I waited calmly for him, keeping the gladius low. He brought the bass down and I quickly stepped out of the way. The body of the bass crashed into the bar, tearing through the wooden surface. He tore his instrument free; there was no damage.
    “That’s a pretty strong guitar,” I said, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the drummer wasn’t sneaking up on me. He wasn’t; instead, he kicked the fiddler again, trying to rouse him from his stupor.
    “It’s a bass !” the bassist said, swinging it horizontally. I crouched low and it passed over my head. My feet propelled me forward and I swung in a wide, but hit only the neck of the bassist’s instrument. Instead of digging into the wood, the gladius simply bounced off the steel strings.
    “Bass, guitar, whatever,” I said. “You’re obviously playing second fiddle.”
    “You’re not funny.”
    “What was your plan?” I asked, dodging another blow and trying my hand at another attack. This one was deflected again by the bass, but instead of stepping back I used my other hand to give the bassist a whap with my hand purse.
    “You fool!” he snarled. “There never was a plan! Not a good one, anyway.” He swung again and I jumped back, nearer the bar now. “That stupid drunk just wanted to upset his ex-girlfriend. That’s all it ever is with him. Fifty long years of it!”
    I chuckled, dodging another blow and positioning my feet into an narrow stance that would let me step closer with ease. I saw another opening, and then before I swung my gladius downward, I saw another one: he was getting tired. He was out of shape. He’d spent so many hours sitting on his butt drinking that he didn’t have the stamina to keep this up.
    I stepped back, waiting for him to swing again. When he did, I jumped back, taking a deep breath and steadying the shakiness in my legs. The bassist was