The Grimm Chronicles, Vol.1 (29 page)

Fran wasn’t going to lose this house.

Chapter 5

I was inside Sam Grayle’s office. For a moment, I feared I’d been captured. But when I tried to move my legs, the strange floating feeling came over me and I realized it was just a dream. Late afternoon sunlight was streaming in through the window overlooking Lake Michigan. Sam was sitting at his desk, staring at his two brothers who stood on the other side. Sam was the only one wearing a suit coat. His other brothers were dressed in jeans and dress shirts, some kind of “business casual” tone.

“So the advertising source code is working as it should,” Sam said.

The diseased creature named Gilbert nodded, then coughed. His brother, Flick, wrinkled his nose in disgust and took a step away.

“The, ah …” Gilbert hacked again. He looked even more sickly than he had in my previous dream. His big floppy ears both looked as if they were on the verge of falling off. “Excuse me. The ‘advertisements,’ as you affably describe them, should start bringing in revenue immediately.”

“And you’re sure the code can’t be changed?” Sam asked.

Gilbert nodded. “Not unless they access the code from inside our building. Impossible, I would say. We’re well protected.”

Sam nodded. “Yes, Hans the Hedgehog did
such
a good job of killing our sleeping beauty.”

“She woke up!” Flick shouted. His face flushed red. “She wasn’t supposed to wake up. The Frog Prince’s victims
never
wake up.” His fingers clenched into fists. “Oh, I could
throttle
that idiotic hedgehog … if he wasn’t so tall and prickly.”

Sam picked a piece of lint o
ff the arm of his suit. It was a glossy gray, very high-end. “Modern medicine has made some amazing advancements … in the last fifty years.”

“Your sarcasm is duly noted,” Flick said. “You must think your brothers are a merry band of fools.”

“Oh, of course not,” Sam said. “You’re my brothers, after all! I think the world of both of you. But to be entirely honest, I’m not as worried about the hero as you. We live inside a fortress. A marvel of modern architecture! I would much rather spend my time
making money
.”

“Somebody is going to realize at some point that we’re living here,” said the sickly Gilbert. “They’ll ask questions.”

“And then I’ll put a pickaxe in their back,” Flick said. He shrugged. “It happens.”

“A bit too often for my tastes,” Sam added. “And I’m not a big fan of the financial cost of hiding bodies.”

“I’m spending my
own
money!” Flick shouted. “From our,” he pointed to himself and his sickly brother, “software business. And while you may not be all that interested in killing the only person on the planet who can stop us, my brother and I are. And we have a
plan
to kill her, too. Tell him, Gilbert.”

“Um …” Gilbert coughed, then coughed harder. “Well …” He coughed again. “Excuse me. Yes. I’ve inserted another bit of code into the
Castle Cats
game. If everything works out correctly, the hero should be taken care of quite soon. In fact, any of our enemies from here on out should be quite easy to dispose of.”

Flick cackled, rubbing his beard. “Tell him about the best part. Tell him about the
best
part!”

“Well …” Gilbert coughed again, as if he had a hairball in his throat. Both his brothers looked a little grossed out. “The best part, I suppose, is the fact that the code I’ve inserted into the game—and any future games we develop—will allow us to send hidden messages to anyone playing the game. Not just subliminal advertisements …
messages
that the players will obey.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Any message? Not just a little ad for
Carameltastic
candy bars?”

Flick nodded, smiling a devilish smile. “
Any
message. And the user will obey, thanks to this disease bag’s subliminal messaging.”

Gilbert bristled, then sneezed, spraying disgusting green mucus onto his hands. He wiped it on his pants. “I resent the term
disease bag
.”

The intercom on Sam’s desk buzzed. “Mr. Richardson to see you.”

“Richardson?” Flick asked, cocking his head. “It’s seven in the evening. What does that bloated gasbag want?”

Sam smiled. “I do believe he’s here to yell at me.” He stood on his tippy-toes to reach the intercom. “Send him up, please.”

“Should I make myself scarce?” Gilbert asked. “I mean … well, I
am
a bit of a disease bag, I suppose … and I think I may be coming down with another quite severe cold …”

“No need to leave,” Sam said. “I fear this will not be a positive discussion.”

Flick, smiling devilishly, rubbed his hands together in anticipation. I hovered closer to Sam on the other side of the desk. I was surprised he had a “normal”-sized desk. But nothing on the desk was placed out of reach from where he sat: he had a handful of manila folders, a stack of papers, the intercom and a dozen or so black pens lined up in a neat row. There was also a big white coffee mug with the words “Life’s a Beach” printed on the side.

No computer. No cell phone. Nothing
modern
.

The office doors suddenly burst open. A sharp-dressed businessman wearing a black suit barged through. His face was red and his dark eyebrows were pushed together in a mean-looking frown. He took a handful of steps before stabbing his finger in the direction of Sam. Flick and Gilbert dodged the much larger man before he could knock them over.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?!” the man yelled.

Sam shrugged. “You’ll have to be more specific, Mr. Richardson. I’m a very busy man. And a very successful one.”

“
You stole my company
!” Gilbert and Flick both covered their ears. Mr. Richardson’s scream was loud enough that even
I
wanted to cover my ears, and I was just a dream-like ghost thingy.

For his part, Sam just closed his eyes in annoyance. When he opened them, something had changed. The dark green was gone … or it had
blackened
. It was as if a shadow had crept across his face. “I bought your company,” he said in cool, calm voice. “I do it all the time. I buy other businesses and then I own them and make more money.”

“I’m a respected businessman!” Mr. Richardson said. He jammed a thumb at his chest. Wow! I hadn’t seen a grown-up go this far off the rails since sophomore year of high school, when Mr. Manti—our math teacher—went ballistic because no one did the homework the night before. That guy had thrown a chair. Mr. Richardson looked one step away from throwing poor Gilbert right through the window.

“I am a respected businessman as well,” Sam said calmly. “What’s your point?”

“It’s … it’s …” Mr. Richardson’s chest deflated. “It’s my company.”

“No, it
was
your company.” Sam stepped out from behind the desk, as if he wanted to show the angry man that he wasn’t afraid. “Mr. Richardson, let me explain to you how I work. When I see a good company being run by an inefficient bunch of fools, that makes me angry. And so I take that company. I gobble it up and make it my own, and then I hire competent people to run it. Those competent people make me more money. And then I use that money to buy more companies.”

“You’re a monster.”

Sam glared at him. “How dare you say that.”

“You … you’re not supposed to do this to your fellow businessmen!” Mr. Richardson shouted. His anger was losing its steam. He sounded more desperate now. “You’re supposed to do this to … to …”

“To the little people?” Sam asked. He smiled.

Flick snickered.

“Money is my overarching goal,” Sam said. “I’m a greedy, greedy creature, no doubt. And yes, I do take pleasure and getting that money any way I can. You call me a monster, Mr. Richardson, but in truth I am just like you. Only successful.”

Mr. Richardson sneered. “You’re a rotten little creature.”

Sam said nothing. A quiet “Oooooh” escaped from between Gilbert’s lips. Flick’s face began to redden again. He turned, walking over to the bookshelf along the wall. He opened the small cabinet at the base.

“I believe we’re done here,” Sam said. “Thank you for your time.”

“We’re not done,” Mr. Richardson said. “You’re giving me back my company.”

Behind him, Flick pulled a rusty-looking pickaxe from the cabinet. I knew better than to try and warn Mr. Richardson, but I gave it a shot anyway. But no sound escaped my ghostly mouth.

“I’ll not give back your company,” Sam said, “because that is charity, and I don’t do charity unless I have no other choice, Mr. Richardson. Also, you’re a horrible boss and a weak leader, and I can’t have someone like that in my employ. Now, I bid you a good evening.”

And then, just like that, Mr. Richardson was lying on the ground. The pickaxe stuck out of his back.

At first, they were silent. Then Flick reached into his pocket and pulled out three Carameltastic candy bars, handing one to each of his brothers. They peeled away the wrappers, eating and mumbling an “Mmmm.”

Flick started chuckling. Sam joined in. Gilbert coughed twice, then started chuckling. Pretty soon, they were all rolling on the floor, having a good laugh about the dead guy on their office floor.

I woke up, breathing heavily. The setting sun was sneaking in through the window over my bed. I sat up, looking around the empty room and waiting for my brain to reboot.

“Oh, crap,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. I’d taken a nap and now it was time for bed. I was never going to get to sleep again tonight.

Fran had dropped me off. I’d been tired, so I’d cranked up the air conditioning and thrown myself on the bed, and now it was eight o’clock. At night.

“Well,” I said, lurching my way to the desk. “There’s only one thing to do then.” I looked around, waiting for Briar to appear. He didn’t.

“Briar?”

No answer.

“OK then. I’ll do this on my own.” I grabbed the fountain pen from the desk, then took some money from my purse. It would be enough to get downtown and back, at least.

Downstairs, my parents were sitting on the couch in the living room. Mom was reading a self-help book on dealing with extended family and Dad was watching cable news. Their fancy-shmancy phones were sitting on the coffee table. They both looked at me.

“What’s up?” I asked.

Mom stared at me for a moment, then slowly shook her head. I waited a moment, expecting a “How are you feeling?” or “Do you need some ice cream, sweetie?”

But there was nothing. They simply looked at me, not speaking.

“Ooooookay. So … I’m just going go for a long jog. I’m in training.” I could have kicked myself. Worst excuse ever. I braced myself, expecting the obvious questions, like “Training for
what
?” and “What about your pills? Did you take your pills?”

They just stared.

“All right,” I said. “Thanks for being so weird.”

I made my way down to Mooreland Road, taking it slow because the muscles in my legs had begun to feel stiff. It took two buses to get downtown, and even then I had another six blocks to Grayle Incorporated. As I got off the second bus at the stop beside a pharmacy, I steeled myself. This had to be done. There was no time to feel weak.

And I was totally going to do it. I swear, I was ready to go right into the building and stab each and every one of those dwarves with a razor-sharp saber. Nuts to the police. What were they going to do, anyway? OK, maybe arrest me for breaking and entering … but that was only if they could catch me.

I was totally going to do it.

But then things started to get interesting.

The first woman to walk out of the pharmacy paid no attention to me. I walked behind her, toward the looming tower of Grayle Incorporated that was just a few blocks east. She crossed the street, hailing a taxi with a loud whistle. 

Another woman walked out of the pharmacy, walking quickly past me with only a brief glance in my direction, her high heels clicking on the sidewalk. Her phone beeped in her pocket. She reached into her cute little brown purse and pulled the phone out, checking whatever message she had.

She stopped. I kept walking toward her, stepping closer to the street so I could give her a wide berth. It was obvious she was engrossed in whatever was on her phone, her hand absently reaching up to her head and pulling a stray strand of blonde hair back behind her ears. She had a pretty face with dark eyes to match her dark green long-sleeved shirt.

“Excuse me,” I said quietly as I passed. The woman’s head spun in my direction. She looked at me with wide eyes, saying nothing.

Something told me not to turn away from her. Not to
trust
her. It was a heavy feeling right in the pit of my stomach, impossible to ignore.

“Is something wrong?” I asked hesitantly.

The woman just stared, wide-eyed. My hand found its way to the magic pen in my pocket, as if it might protect me. Suddenly, the woman’s hand rose. I jumped back.