Rather than obey, the frog chose to leap away from me—sproing, sproing—right in front of a car.

Apparently, he’d not played Frogger before his transformation because he didn’t manage to avoid the sedan speeding past.

Splat.

The frog got flattened—literally squished into a puddle of green goo—which then expanded and expanded until a man lay naked on the pavement groaning, “Argh, I think I’m broken.”

I headed for him and planted my hands on my hips as I huffed, “Next time, read a damned book. The frog wasn’t cured by a kiss but by the princess getting peeved and tossing his ass against a wall.”

“I need a doctor,” he complained.

“And pants.” Transformation spells were the worst when broken, as the person returned disoriented and naked. I put a call in to dispatch. “Frog problem resolved but the Grimpher”—the name given to a person caught up in the Grimm Effect—"requires medical assistance.”

“On it,” stated Darren, our guy manning the office phone line.

“What’s going to happen to me?” whined the guy lying on the pavement.

“Nothing. Lucky for you, while annoying, you didn’t harm anyone during the course of the curse, and now that it’s broken, you can go back to your life. That is, once you get those bones set and do some rehab.”

“But what about my princess? I was supposed to get a princess.” He had the nerve to pout.

“Only the prince gets a princess in the book. And you, sir, are no prince.”

With that, I left. Another mission accomplished. Although I would admit to being miffed that I didn’t get to smack the frog myself. He’d tried to lick me on the lips with that nasty tongue of his when I’d first arrived. Almost lost it in the process. More annoying, this was the third frog I’d dealt with in the last month. I really hoped a true frog prince would find his damned princess and put that particular fairytale curse to bed, because that really was the only way to stop the cycle for a bit. See, since the Grimm Effect—also known as Fairytale Apocalypse and the Grimm Fuckeroo—through some kind of magic scientists couldn’t explain, fairytales had been infecting people. One day, a girl walks to the store, dangling her basket, and the next thing, she’s being stalked by a wolf and would have gotten eaten but for the handsome huntsman. Ask me how I know. It happened to my mother, and what do you know, the Little Red Cap curse was genetic. It passed down to me.

In high school, Dylan, a guy with wolfish intent, tried to corner me on my way home. A well-meaning kid named Nolan tried to step in and be my hero. Did I mention Nolan liked to hunt and wear plaid? Spotting the curse from a mile away, I kneed Dylan in the balls, broke his nose, and told him if he ever came near me again, I’d skin him for his fur. Then I told Nolan to take a hike. This Red Riding Hood didn’t need a hero.

Breaking the fairytale mold, that was me, hence why the Fairytale Bureau hired me as part of their investigation and prevention unit. Those of us who bucked the trend made the best agents because we weren’t afraid to stop a story dead in its tracks.

The bureau had a prime spot downtown, and I parked my motorcycle right in front on the sidewalk because a sign said no parking or stopping on the street. Would I get a ticket? Most likely not. Peter, the parking bylaw officer for this sector, had a crush on me. Contrary to what the boss said, I could play nice if necessary. I’d been known to smile for the guy at the sandwich shop so he’d load my sub with more meat.

I swung off my steel steed and removed my helmet, shaking out flame-red hair. All natural to my annoyance. Don’t get me wrong. The color suited me, and I did love its vibrancy, but I hated how people acted when they saw it. Because they A) asked me if it came from a bottle, B) accused me of lying when I said it didn’t, and C) snickered and said I must have a temper. I did and usually showed it at that point.

My briefcase, which the bureau insisted agents carry around, took only a second to unstrap from the rear fender. As to what it contained… A few items that could come in handy when in the field, such as a jar for capturing evil spirits—don’t ask me how it worked. They just gave it to me with instructions to unscrew the lid in the presence of ghostly entities, of which I’d thankfully not yet met any. It also held a vial of holy water, which honestly didn’t work on much, but it made some people feel better. There was a mirror for deflecting spells and evil stares. A silver dagger for stabbing things trying to kill me. Gold coins for bribing. Gems for the same reason—the irony being, in the post-Grimm-Effect world, those things lost all value except as bargains with monsters and tricksters. Oh, and my favorite to soothe savage beasts, the miniature harp I could play a single song on. “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” At least I didn’t have to sing, or I’d have been mauled for sure. My voice tended toward the huskier side. Blame the cigarettes I occasionally smoked, mostly to drive my mom wild.

With my briefcase case swinging from my hand, I strode inside the bureau, whistling. The boss wouldn’t be too pissed with me this time. The frog would survive despite his injuries, I’d broken the spell, and, best of all, hadn’t destroyed any public property.

Yet.

The day wasn’t done.

As I walked in, Luanne glanced at me from behind the reception desk. “Hey, Hood.”

They didn’t call me that because I wore a stupid red cape—I didn’t own a cloak, or anything red for that matter. However, I had the misfortune of being named Blanche Hood, courtesy of my granddad, Marcus Hood, an actual woodsman before the curse made it a thing.

“What’s new and exciting?” I asked, pausing to chat.

Luanne was one of the few in our office who’d not defeated her curse. She’d been caught, but in a good, not bad way. She was currently married and popping out kids. A lot of kids, thanks to her fairytale, which was based on “The Twelve Brothers.” For the moment, she’d birthed seven boys, and the plan was she’d get her tubes tied before she hit twelve, because the thirteenth child, if a girl, would result in the death of her sons. Did I mention the fact Grimm stories tended to be dark and very murderous?

Luanne leaned forward with an excited gleam in her eyes. “What’s new? I’m surprised you didn’t hear. We have a serial killer on the loose.”

“Really? Since when?”

“Since this morning. Someone discovered a bunch of bodies in an old shack in the woods. Word is they were torn to pieces by a wild animal.”

My brows raised. “Sounds like it might be a case for the bureau.”

“Most likely,” Luanne agreed. “I heard from Sally upstairs that Hilda was on the phone with the police chief.”

“Then I guess I’d better get up there if I want to get assigned to the case.” Unlike some, I didn’t shirk jobs. I found satisfaction in solving cases and breaking curses. Not to mention, a serial killer sounded way more interesting than smashing another frog or cutting yet another wannabe-Rapunzel’s hair. Funny how a simple snip was all it took to break that curse, which had the unfortunate side effect of turning the women into agoraphobics. The way they carried on after their trim, you’d think I cut off a limb. Apparently I’d ruined their chance at true love. Never mind the fact that, again, the world did not have enough princes for all these hopeful damsels. I never understood how some wanted the torture of being stuck inside, waiting to see if they’d be lucky enough to snare one of the rare royals caught in the same cursed storyline.

The Rapunzel one rarely ended well. Even decades later a fairytale that needed royalty wouldn’t settle for a commoner. Although that might change. Rumor had it a few monarchies were offering to knight and give titles to those willing to pay big bucks. Would the curse recognize that they’d been anointed and not born? Guess we’d find out.

“If you find out any juicy details, do spill,” Luanne said as I went on my way.

I ignored the elevator for the stairs. I didn’t trust the box strung on the cable. It would be too easy for a fairytale curse to decide I needed rescuing. No thanks.

I took the steps two at a time and arrived on the third floor, only slightly huffing. Who needed a gym membership when I got all the exercise I needed for free? First floor held interview rooms, as well as a staging area for larger operations. Second floor was where we kept those who had to be detained, as well as our lockup for magical artifacts until they could be neutralized. Third floor held the main office, which bustled as agents—who happened to be Grimphers who’d beaten their curse—worked at various tasks.

You had Sally, who monitored for budding curses by watching social media for keywords. Tyrone, who kept track of former freed Grimphers to make sure they didn’t fall right back into another story. Belle, Mahoney, and Judd were field agents like me, while Cinder in the corner handled any of the legal stuff that cropped up, like a homeowner trying to sue when I accidentally blew a hole in her roof getting rid of the goblins infesting her place.

At the far end of the chaos, the director’s office. As I strode for it, Belle hissed, “I wouldn’t go in there.” Belle, like me, had also managed to foil the curse afflicting her. In her case, the beast proved unredeemable, and when she kept rejecting him, he tried to break into her house, which didn’t end well for him. The case was a slam-dunk self-defense one, and she could now live without fear of getting stuck with a monster.

“I am totally going in because I hear there’s a juicy crime scene that needs someone from our office.”

“You might want to skip this one because, from the sounds of it, it might be a wolf,” she divulged.

My brow arched. “Which is exactly my specialty.” I’d spent my life studying them, even wrote my college thesis on wolves, so who better than me?

“I just don’t know if you should be getting near any wolves.”

I snorted. “I already told my wolf and the huntsman to take a hike.” Despite Nolan being cute and well-meaning, I knew better than to sleep with him and give the curse anything to work with.

“You say that, and yet rumor has it the Grimm Effect is possibly evolving and is now trying to trick people who’ve managed to escape into a second shot.”

I uttered a disparaging noise. “It can try all it wants. Not only will I send any wolf packing but anyone wearing plaid too.” My dating profile on the app Not Looking for a Happily Ever After specifically stated no one in the forestry or wildlife industry. I wasn’t about to end up suddenly bound in a magical curse that would fool me into thinking I was happy. I’d seen the results. Girls who’d been kissed awake out of a coma regretting the stranger they’d hooked up with, or the Snow Whites, pregnant and abandoned because they tended to be seduced by guys who liked the idea of a virgin in need of saving. So many didn’t understand that, after the curse ran its course, the happily ever after part rarely lasted. On the contrary, I’d found most Grimm-induced relationships finished in violence, much like the original tales.

Was that to say everyone ended up miserable? No. I mean Luanne adored her husband. And my cousin beat the evil-stepmother curse and chose to love her stepkids rather than having them abandoned in the woods. But my mom… She’d let herself be seduced by the huntsman when he rescued her from the wolf, but he was a cad who left her pregnant and alone.

Now don’t think I didn’t believe in love, because I did. My grandmother loved my granddad, and he was pretty awesome until a tree fell on him in the woods. And before you ask, if a tree falls on you in a forest, you do scream, but even if heard, it doesn’t help when your whole body is crushed.

Belle sighed. “I’m glad you’re so confidant. I swear I’ve been on tenterhooks this past month waiting for a beast to appear.”

I frowned. “You think your curse is active again?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just can’t shake a feeling something’s about to happen.”

“You should try a distraction. You want first crack at this serial killer case?”

“No thanks.” Belle grimaced.

Surprising since Belle had been bitching about the fact she kept getting the most boring cases. Like her most recent one where she helped a Grimpher spin gold so she wouldn’t have to give away her baby to a guy named Rupert Stilt. His real name. I checked.

“You sure? Because if you need this case, it’s yours.”

“No way. I’ve got my vacation coming up.”

“Ah yes, camping in the woods.” I made a face. “Doesn’t sound relaxing to me.”

“I enjoy getting close to nature.”

“Better you than me.” And I meant it. My idea of relaxing had a pack of smokes, bottle of tequila, some good tunes, and a video game where I got to blow up zombies.

“Hood! My office. Now,” Hilda bellowed, and I grinned.

“Looks like I am up. Sweet.”

Despite what Belle cautioned, I was afraid of neither wolf nor curse. I’d beaten it once, and if it decided to come after me for round two, I’d shelve it again.

Chapter 2

The briefing with Hilda didn’t take long. She didn’t yet have a file for me to read because the case was too fresh. What I received was an order to get my ass down to Regent Park and join the police as they catalogued the site where they’d found a bunch of bodies.

When I’d asked, “Any suspects?” Hilda’s lips pinched. “Looks like an animal did it. Possibly a wolf. Is that a problem?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good because I need my best on the job. I’ll expect a report before morning. You’ll ignore your other pending cases until this one is handled.”

Awesome news, seeing as how the cold cases I had would have kept me chained to my desk, calling up people and asking the same questions over and over. Boring!

Upon leaving the bureau, I hopped on my steel steed and scooted off, making good time. Regent Park proved easy to find with its armada of police cars and flashing lights. I wondered how many victims we were talking to elicit such a response. I showed my badge to the rookie manning the do-not-cross tape.

The rookie pointed. “The crime scene is in the midst of the woods, about a hundred yards that way.”

I eyed the forest, thick and dense, an almost exact clone of the original Black Forest in Germany. Very old according to the people who studied it, which proved interesting, seeing as it had only been established a decade ago when the new suburb went in. But the Grimm Effect didn’t care about things like natural growth. Whatever powered the curses created what it needed.

Some people had theorized that something must have been unearthed for this to have happened. That we’d unleashed some evil upon the world. I agreed. What no one knew was how to find it and make it stop. Hell, it took more than two decades of chaos before the bureau was even established to try to keep the stories and their ill effects in check.

I hiked into the forest, the outside noise quickly muffled as soon as I’d made it a few paces past the edge. The size of the trees proved impressive, the boles too wide to hug, covered in a gray-green moss. The branches were gnarled like some of the trunks.

Little light filtered through, just enough for me to see. The path taken by the cops proved easy to follow, given the trampled foliage and a dropped evidence bag, but it was the smell of puke that let me know I neared the crime scene.

I emerged into a clearing that should have been sunny given the blue skies outside the forest, but somehow thick clouds hovered overhead. Police bustled around in the weed-infested yard that surrounded the falling-down hut. Some took pictures, and others plucked random items to seal in plastic bags. While the crime itself might be fairytale related, the bulk of the investigation—AKA analysis of evidence on-site—would be done by the cops on the off chance it turned out to be just a regular ol’ psycho and not someone acting out a scene from a Grimm story.

A slender man in a suit stood talking to the police chief with a small fluffy dog tucked under his arm. It seemed rather incongruous given his size and appearance—tall, thick of shoulder, square-jawed, blond hair cut short. The suit glanced at me as I approached, and I was struck by his vivid blue eyes. Pretty boy. I wondered what he was doing out here in the woods.

Chief Patterson, whom I’d worked with before, noticed me and waved. “Hood, glad you could make it before we let our witness go.”

I sauntered close, hands in my pockets, and drawled, “Came as fast as I could, Chief.”

The police chief gestured. “This is Mr. Walden. He was the one who called in to let us know about the bodies.”

I eyed him up and down. “You don’t look the type to be wandering around in a cursed forest.” His leather loafers were more meant for pavement.

The handsome man shrugged. “I’d not planned to go hiking. Blame my furball. Rambo saw a bunny and slipped his collar to chase it into the woods. I followed and stumbled across this hut, which had my dog losing his mind. Usually, I would have just grabbed Rambo and left, but given he wouldn’t stop growling and yipping, I thought I should see why and made the mistake of opening the door.” He grimaced. “Kind of wished I hadn’t.”

“What did you see, Mr. Walden?” I asked, wanting to get his first impression while it remained fresh. The more time passed, the more witness details tended to change.

“The stench hit me before my eyes could figure out what I was looking at. I’ve never smelled anything so horrid.” His lips twisted. “Then I saw the reason why.”

Chief Patterson interrupted. “Tell her about the suspect.”

“You saw who did it?” my sharp query.

“Maybe?” Walden shrugged. “Like I told the officers, I can’t be sure what I saw. It happened so quick. While I stared in shock at the pile of bodies, motion caught my eye. By the time I glanced, I’d have sworn I saw the tail end of a wolf leaving through the back window.”

“How do you know it was a wolf?”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “It could have been a large dog. Whatever it was, it had gray and black fur, a long tail, and a good-sized body.”

“But you didn’t see it actually killing anyone or chewing on parts?”

Walden shook his head. “No, and I’d rather not.”

Understandable. “Do you live around here, Mr. Walden?”

He nodded. “Yes, I moved in a few months ago, about a mile from here. I’ve walked by this place dozens of times but never had an issue. And before you ask, I’ve never seen a wolf before. Just a few bunnies, which is how I ended up here.”

The man sounded sincere and a little shaken. Understandable given what he’d stumbled across. “I assume you gave the officers your contact info in case we have more questions?”

“Yes. Although I’m not sure what else I can add.”

“You might be surprised at the details you can remember later.” Especially if questioned after making him drink some Candor Tea. Don’t ever do that while drinking and playing Truth or Dare. I’d had a friend get dumped on the spot when the topic of best sex came up and she said her ex used to make her come multiple times at once. Me, I admitted that I never wanted to fall in love. The truth to this day.

“In that case, here’s my card… Ms. Hood?” He said it questioningly.

“Actually, it’s Agent Hood with the Fairytale Bureau, investigative department.”

“Nice to meet you, Agent Hood. Now if I’m done here, could I go home? I’d like to toss back a few whiskeys and try to forget what I saw and smelled today.”

“You’re free to go, Mr. Walden.” Patterson waved him off.

I watched him walk away before tuning in to what Patterson was saying. “…your impression.”

I clued in real quick. “You want me to go in there?” My nose wrinkled. It should be known I wasn’t squeamish. I was the girl who would take a live worm and stab it on a fishing hook. Who could hunt a turkey in the fall, pluck it, gut it, and brine it for cooking. But exploring a massacre that stank? Not high on my list. Regardless, a picture would never do this travesty justice, not to mention images didn’t give me a chance to walk the crime scene and truly get a feel for what might have happened.

“Got a mask?” My kit lacked the necessary equipment, since I didn’t normally investigate scenes with decaying bodies, but I knew better than to walk into a place making experienced cops puke without something to block the smell. Not to mention, I didn’t want to taste it when I breathed.

Patterson snapped his fingers, and one of his plebes scurried over with a shoulder bag.

“Equip Agent Hood so she can go inside.” Equipping meant more than a face covering to help with the stench. There was also the menthol compound that made my eyes water when applied under my nostrils. Then there was everything that would ensure I didn’t contaminate the scene: booties to go over my combat boots and gloves for my hands. As if I planned to touch anything.

I slid past the partially ajar door and stood just within for a second. Mr. Walden must have had a strong stomach to have been able to withstand the odorous carnage. The potent menthol rub didn’t quite mask it. Odd how I’d not smelled it outside, given the cracks in the siding. I made a note to have Sally return and check for spells.

Next, the massacre itself. I couldn’t have said how many bodies were piled inside. They’d been stacked every which way. Not all in one piece either.

A body at the front lacked an arm and one leg below the knee. A stray arm lay a few feet from the pile but didn’t appear to match. The wounds on the bodies appeared ragged and savage. As if torn apart by a wild animal.

Or a wolf.

I edged closer and crouched down before stating, more as an observation than anything, “Is it me, or is there no biting or chew marks?”

The guy in a full bodysuit taking pictures paused to say, “Didn’t need to chomp them to kill.”

“But why kill them if not to eat them?” I pointed out.

“Because whatever did this is a killer.”

The easy answer but I knew better. I’d studied wolves. Yes, they did kill to protect the pack and defend themselves. But most times when they hunted it was to feed, not just for the sake of killing. However, if this were part of a Grimm story, then it could be plausible. The wolf in “The Seven Young Kids” did eat the children without provocation. In “Little Red Cap,” which some called “Red Riding Hood,” he was bad as well. The wolves in all the stories were, and I’d know. I’d made it part of my college thesis to document them all.

Some might say that perhaps a regular rabid wolf had done this. I’d disagree. A normal wolf would have killed them and left them at the site of the kill, not dragged them to hide in a hut.

I did a circuit of the small shack, which was long abandoned if I went by the dust and grime. I spotted a broken chair and lopsided table. The bed was just a frame. There were no personal items. No clothing, pictures, or even knickknacks. Just a spooky hut in a spooky forest that most likely just appeared one day.

A window caught my attention, as it was the only one that had its shutters open. It had to be the one Mr. Walden claimed to have seen the wolf—or large dog—escaping from. Interesting how not a single strand of hair got caught on the sill. No claw marks either. Not impossible, of course. A large-sized canine could have simply leaped and not had to pull itself over the ledge. An open window explained how it got in and out, but if it were the killer, how had it gotten the bodies in here if the door was closed?

Another oddity struck me. I flipped around to eye the room with a frown.

“What’s wrong?” asked the photographer.

“Where’s the flies?” Decomposing meat should have been covered with the swarming fuckers.

The guy shrugged. “This whole forest doesn’t have a normal ecosystem, so is it really that surprising?”

It led to me making another mental note to have Sally do a spell-check, not just on the lack-of-smell situation—because an open window should have aired out the reek for at least a few yards around—and the lack of usual decay. Maggots, flies, even local wildlife should have been having a heyday with this rotted feast.

With nothing to see, since I couldn’t exactly touch the bodies, I exited to see Patterson talking to someone, who then moved off at a brisk pace.

“So?” he asked.

“Definitely a murder scene,” my deadpan reply.

“Any ideas on who or what we’re looking for?”

“Mr. Walden seemed to think a wolf or a dog.”

“Bah. We both know a dog wouldn’t have piled them up nice and tidy. Wolf either.”

“A werewolf might have.” The Grimm Effect had changed one aspect of the story in that the wolf in “Little Red Cap” was literally a man who became a wolf. AKA a werewolf.

“Werewolves are usually smarter,” he opined.

True. They didn’t want to get shot. “I’d say anything willing to massacre people on that scale lacks a few brain cells.” I paused before saying, “Do you have any suspects?”

“Not yet. Too soon. Once we sift some of the evidence, maybe we’ll find some traces of DNA.”

Which would help, as everyone these days had to donate to the registry. It became necessary when the curse sometimes changed people physically to the point they couldn’t be recognized. Upon birth, nurses now took blood for the regular tests and the DNA bank.

“I’ll see if the office has any wolves or other known folks with great big claws on file in the area,” I mentioned.

“You think it’s someone local?” Patterson asked.

“Someone not from around here wouldn’t have known about this hut and most likely would have left the bodies scattered. This seems more like the killer felt this was a safe spot for them. I doubt too many people go for casual strolls in these woods.”

Patterson shook his head. “Even my own guys didn’t want to come in here. Said it was haunted.”

“I assume you’ll have some of your task force going door to door asking if people saw anything?”

“Already got the rookies on it. I’ll have the report sent to your office. If you find something, be sure to send it over,” Patterson stated.

“Sure thing, Chief,” I said, lying through my teeth. We only passed on pertinent info for non-Grimm crimes. Other than that, we tended to handle the cases ourselves. Not everyone had the guts to smash a frog, behead a monster, or hold down a girl to cut her hair. I did.

Because the alternative was letting the curse win, and I didn’t like to lose.