Chapter 17: The Wolf Inside
The parking structure at midnight was empty.
Cole stood in the center of the third level, surrounded by concrete and shadows, and let the Blutbad instincts unfold. His senses expanded—he could smell the residue of exhaust from cars that had left hours ago, hear the heartbeat of a security guard three floors below, see in near-perfect clarity despite the absence of light.
This is what a predator feels.
He ran.
The speed was intoxicating. Columns blurred past as he sprinted from one end of the structure to the other, movements so fast that a human observer would have seen only a shadow. The Skalenzahne had given him strength and durability; the Blutbad gave him velocity, the ability to close distances before prey could react.
Combined, I'm genuinely dangerous now.
He tested the limits for two hours. Sprint drills. Vertical jumps that cleared eight feet. Grip tests on structural supports that left finger-shaped dents in concrete. By the time he finished, he had a clear picture of his capabilities.
Enhanced strength: approximately three times human baseline, sufficient to lift a car or punch through a wall.
Enhanced speed: nearly double human maximum, fast enough to cross a room before most people could draw a weapon.
Enhanced senses: hearing that could track heartbeats, smell that could identify individuals, night vision that rendered darkness irrelevant.
Regeneration: minor but significant, capable of healing wounds that would incapacitate a normal person within hours instead of weeks.
And the rage.
The Blutbad anger was harder to quantify. It surged when he pushed himself physically, when his blood was up and the predator instincts demanded release. Cole could feel it now—the urge to hunt, to chase, to kill something and feel its life drain away.
He breathed through it. Controlled it. Filed it away as a resource to be deployed when needed.
I'm not the wolf. The wolf is a weapon I carry.
The distinction mattered.
October 28th brought news.
Cole sat in his apartment with coffee and the Oregonian's morning edition, scanning for relevant developments. The warehouse fire investigation had stalled—no witnesses, no survivors, no leads. Police were treating it as organized crime activity, probably connected to eastern European trafficking networks. The case would remain open but inactive, another unsolved mystery in a city full of them.
Clean.
But other news caught his attention.
LOCAL DETECTIVE PRAISED FOR FOREST PARK CASE CLOSURE
The article detailed Nick Burkhardt's successful resolution of the "Forest Park Mauling" case—a killer now in custody, victims identified, families notified. The details were vague, carefully scrubbed of anything that might suggest supernatural involvement, but Cole knew what had really happened.
Nick had caught his first Wesen. The Postman, if Cole's memory of the show was accurate. A Blutbad serial killer who'd been hunting women for years, finally brought down by a newly awakened Grimm.
Nick's journey is beginning. Right on schedule.
The timeline confirmation was useful. Cole now knew approximately where he stood in the show's chronology—early Season 1, before most of the major events that would reshape Portland's supernatural landscape. Adalind was probably already working her plan against Nick. Renard was pulling strings from the shadows. Monroe was teaching Nick about Wesen culture.
And Cole was building power in the margins, unnoticed by any of them.
For now.
He finished his coffee and opened his laptop. Time to resume the PI work that provided his cover identity. Two clients had emailed during his integration period—one checking on the status of their case, another requesting a new consultation.
The new client was interesting.
Mr. Ashford, I represent a corporate entity seeking investigation into possible intellectual property theft. The matter is sensitive and requires discretion. Please contact me at your earliest convenience to discuss terms.
The email came from a law firm Cole recognized—Dalton, Hughes & Associates, one of Portland's most prestigious corporate practices. They handled work for major companies, wealthy individuals, and—if Cole's research was accurate—organizations with connections to European money.
Royal money, potentially.
He replied with professional courtesy, suggesting a meeting to discuss the case parameters. The response came within minutes: tomorrow afternoon, 2 PM, at an address downtown.
Someone's eager.
Cole spent the rest of the day preparing. He reviewed everything he knew about Dalton, Hughes & Associates. Researched their client list. Cross-referenced with the Royal holdings he'd identified during the Volk operation.
The connections were there, buried under layers of corporate structure, but traceable if you knew where to look. Crown Properties LLC had used Dalton, Hughes for real estate transactions. Several of their major clients shared investors with Royal-connected European firms.
This isn't coincidence. Someone wants to meet me.
The question was why.
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