A Grimm Legacy (Grimm Tales) Read online

  “So young?” Mr. Lambdin asked, disbelief plain on his face.

  “He was six and better than you’d think.” His dad lightly laid a hand on his shoulder. “We put him to work and now he knows this business inside and out.”

  His dad squeezed his shoulder before moving to attach the balloon to the basket. That simple touch, Fredrick knew, was his dad’s way of showing his gratitude for him taking over as crew chief. They wished his mom still had the strength to do it herself, but they were all pitching in the best they could.

  As Fredrick went to pull the fan out of the truck, Samuel was using the inverted basket as a jungle gym, his blue jeans making a rumbling sound as he slid down the wicker.

  “Whoa!” Fredrick hurried over and lifted Samuel off the basket. “No sliding! This is going to keep you in the air, don’t tear it up.”

  The boy stared at his toes. “Sorry,” he mumbled to his feet.

  “It’s okay. It’s just that it’s an old basket; it was my granddad’s.”

  What Fredrick didn’t say was that when his father was five years old, his own father had struggled with depression after losing his job. After than, he simply disappeared, taking nothing with him.

  Now, fifty years later, this old basket was one of the last connections they had to a man that was likely long dead.

  The whirring of the giant gas-powered fan reminded Fredrick that he had work to do. He set off, jogging to the other end of the half inflated balloon where Mr. Lambdin was leaning his weight into the crown line attached to the very top of the balloon.

  “Mr. Lambdin, we need everyone on the basket now.”

  “Sure,” he agreed easily, handing over the line without taking his eyes off the balloon. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

  Fredrick attempted to look at the hot-air balloon from an outsider’s point of view, but could only see the thing that had him away from his bed at an unnaturally early our. Crewing had long ago become more of a job and a chore than a thrill. His dad had never lost his fascination though, which is why Fredrick was freezing in this empty field instead of still in bed.

  The balloon slowly rose as if being drawn skyward by some invisible force and Fredrick craned his neck to take in the now upright hot-air balloon towering several stories above him.

  “You ready?” his dad asked. It took Fredrick a second to realize his dad was talking to him.

  “For what?” Fredrick asked.

  “Want to try your hand at flying?” His dad gave one more blast of the burner, making his passengers jump.

  A grin stretched across Fredrick’s face and quickly faded as he glanced apprehensively at the Lambdins. “Really? You want me take them up?”

  “How about you just hop in and get the balloon up to equilibrium today,” Fredrick’s dad said.

  "Equilibrium?" Mr. Lambdin asked.

  "Balanced." Fredrick recognized his dad’s teaching tone as he warmed to his favorite topic. "What we’re looking for is that perfect place where the balloon’s ready to break free of gravity."

  Vaulting over the side of the basket, Fredrick switched places with his dad. In his hand gripping the side of the basket, a strange shivering sensation started, making him quickly let go. He rolled his shoulders to try and rid himself of the feeling. Alone in the basket, he checked his instruments, and then gently squeezed the trigger, his stomach clenched with nerves.

  The burner responded with a discharge of fire so close to his head he was sure that his hair had begun to smoke. From where he was standing, it was much easier to see why his father still loved this. The raw power in his hands was much better than lugging heavy equipment through soggy grass. The balloon gave a small hop as the air slowly became warmer and more buoyant.

  Clinging to the outside of the basket, Samuel shared a giddy glance with Fredrick. The air felt different now—charged. The wan warmth coming from the struggling sun was gone and Fredrick shivered as he turned to find a massive thunderhead blocking a third of the sky.

  “Where’d that come from?” His dad caught sight of the storm the same time as Fredrick. The sun took on an odd glowing gloom, like the diffused light of an eclipse.

  The wind came before anyone had the chance to react. The stillness preceding it was as frightening as the screaming deep in the forest as the torrent of air streamed through the pines. The gale bent vegetation at impossible angles and threw all matter of things into the clearing. Pine cones, needles and branches—even several small birds—tossed about in the open space.

  The storm punched through the wall of trees and tore toward the balloon like a possessed force, incredible and otherworldly. In the span of a heartbeat, the balloon was wrenched from the passengers’ grips and rocketed into the air. The force alone was able to crumple Fredrick onto the basket floor. He squinted up past the uprights to find the balloon squeezed flat and wrenching wildly in the wind. He clawed around the bottom of the basket for a handhold as it dodged through the air, threatening to hurl him out. Suddenly Fredrick was weightless as the basket flipped in the air. And then he was falling.

  Fear clawed its way up as he fell, threatening to stop Fredrick’s heart before the impact killed him. Something whistled by, but Fredrick was to paralyzed with shock to even turn his head. A moment later a dull smack struck him behind the ear. Pain shot through Fredrick’s head and neck as a black void closed around him.

  Chapter 3

  “You’d rather be dragged down from below?”

  Quinn Neel flopped her suitcase onto the bed in the guest room where buttery walls were decorated with frescos, landscapes and wine racks that glowed in the early evening light. Swimsuits and t-shirts tumbled to the floor while her thirteen-year-old sister, Sophie, rifled through her own bag across the room. A briny breeze ruffled the filmy curtains and Quinn could imagine she’d arrived in Tuscany instead of Carmel Vineyard in Napa Valley.

  During the fall break from school, Quinn’s family made a yearly pilgrimage to the vineyard owned by her Aunt Muriel to help out during harvest time.

  “What do you think is for lunch?” Sophie asked, sniffing the aromas drifting up from the kitchen.

  “I’m betting Aunt Muriel’s specialty.” Quinn zipped open her suitcase and flipped open the top.

  “Homemade spaghetti and meatballs?” Sophie guessed.

  “Homegrown, homemade spaghetti and meatballs.” Quinn said, lifting a finger as if making a considerable distinction. She neatly transferred clothes from her suitcase to the set of drawers against the wall. “I’m pretty sure she does everything but butcher the cow. Not that I’m complaining.”

  "Dinner’s ready!" Quinn’s youngest brother, Albert shouted toward the open door as he hurled past them and scooted down the stairs.

  The oldest, Max, paused in the doorway, "And if you don’t hurry, there won’t be any left." He thundered after his brother, the girls on his heels.

  They made their way down to the dining room, which was really the old cask room. Barrels of wine still lined the walls, silently fermenting, and a long dining table transformed the narrow room. Carpets and recessed lighting were added to make the place cozy and warm, but the floor was still stone and you usually needed a sweater this deep into the house.

  The boys beat them to the dining room, but Sophie tackled Max and stalled him long enough for Quinn to barrel into his seat jostling the table piled high with steaming piles of pasta, meatballs, green salad, and bread. The wine glasses waiting for the adults vibrated dangerously. Quinn and Max held their breath as they settled.

  “I won!” Quinn gripped the sides of her chair as it rocked slightly from side to side.

  “You cheated,” Max pointed out in an ungracious manner.

  “Kids,” their dad’s tone was a familiar kind of weary, “settle down.”

  They served themselves family style, the hot pasta painful in Quinn’s mouth, too impatient to let it cool properly.

  Her family was an odd mix of cultures. Aunt Muriel and Quinn’s mom were Italian wi
th long dark hair, dark eyes and dusky complexions. Her dad’s family was from India, so they all inherited inky hair, dark brown eyes and skin appearing permanently tan, no matter which parent they favored.

  Quinn soaked the rest of her sauce up with her bread and sized up her parents, deciding the best way to broach the subject of rock climbing.

  "Quinn and Max are on weeding duty this afternoon." Her dad said before Quinn had a chance to put her plan into action.

  "What about climbing?” She asked over Max’s groan.

  Her dad raised an eyebrow at her over his fork full of pasta, but a smirk was already forming. He was always one step ahead of her. "You might have time for a quick climb if you hurry with lunch.” Quinn grinned down at her nearly empty plate, “But you can’t go by yourself.”

  Quinn turned her best pleading-sister eyes on Max. She’d waited all year for this. The climbing walls at home didn’t come close to the physical challenge of the sheer sandstone cliff practically in the vineyard’s backyard. It didn’t deliver the adrenaline rush of shoving yourself exhausted and sweaty over the top.

  Max tried to avoid her gaze but she shoved her face into his and he gave in. “Fine,” Max shoved his chair back, “but you’ve gotta take my turn at the dishes this week.”

  “Deal,” Quinn said quickly. She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t asked for a week’s worth of chores. He knew she would have paid it-- anything for climbing.

  Dumping her dishes in the kitchen sink, Quinn hurried Max out the back door onto the tiled patio. The light mottled light and dark across the floor through the grapevines woven through the arbor overhead.

  They followed the dirt path to a small shed set on the edge of the vines. Max twisted the dial, 3-16-32, popping the lock and pulling the door open in one motion. Dust sifted out of the shed creating motes in the light that wound around the two. From the looks of things no one used the climbing gear since they were here last fall.

  The shed was organized within an inch of its life. They found their packs and zipped them open, quickly stacking the gear in a pile as they took inventory. Harnesses, carabineers, belay kit, helmet, rope, shoes, tarp and chalk.

  "All here," Quinn said, stuffing things back in her pack.

  "Mine too, although I have my doubts about the shoes still fitting." Max frowned down at his feet.

  "Your feet are just trying to keep up with your big head," Quinn told him sweetly.

  “Sorry. Who’s taking my turn at dishes? Oh right, that would be you,” Max said.

  Quinn wacked her irritating brother in response.

  They shouldered their packs as they hiked away from the property toward the cliffs at the back of the vineyard. Completely vertical, the deceptively smooth rust colored giants stretched several miles in either direction with only a slice of shade appearing at the base of the cliffs. They didn’t pause until they reached the gloom of the cliff. Quinn pressed her back against the rapidly cooling rock, the chill leaching into her body a welcome relief from the unyielding sun. As her breathing slowed, Quinn bent and unzipped her pack and pulling out her harness she clipped herself in.

  "You’re going first?" Max asked.

  "Course." Quinn didn't look up, but she knew her brother was laughing at her.

  “That’s right, can’t handle watching someone climb above you,” he said, uncoiling rope from his bag.

  “If someone is going to fall I don’t want to look up and see them rocketing toward me.”

  “You’d rather be dragged down from below?” Max asked.

  “You bet,” Quinn said. She shaded her eyes and squinted up the rock face in front of her.

  Max stepped up to Quinn and did a quick figure eight to tie onto her harness. "Up you go.”

  “You’re going to do a check when I get to the first anchor?” Quinn asked, wiping her sweaty hands on her pants.

  “No,” Max rolled his eyes, “I thought I’d let you climb without any safety precautions. That way, when you fall, Dad can blame me and feel justified in killing me in the most painful manner possible.”

  "I’d hate to miss that,” Quinn quipped cheerfully as she ran a hand through her black hair. It wasn't completely out of control since she cut it last month, but it had already grown two inches since then and if left unchecked would be past her waist before school was out for the summer. Her hair grew quickly as a child but recently things were absurd, averaging two feet a year. Instead of tapering off as it got longer, it just grew faster.

  Quickly braiding her hair, Quinn pinned it up close to her head before settling her helmet and clipping the strap under her chin.

  “Any day,” Max sighed.

  "Belay on?" Quinn asked. Her brother parroted the response. She found her first foothold and muscles straining, took her first step up the cliff.

  When Quinn climbed, everything faded away except the dry, cool grit of her chalked fingers pressed against stone. Pressure and squeeze of the fissure she burrowed her toes into. Constant stretch and tighten of little used muscles as she pulled her own weight. The cliff face reached skyward like a puzzle. She had to plan out several moves in advance, if she put her hand here, then a foothold had to be close, or she’d have to back down and try again.

  Finding her rhythm, she was so focused no time passed until she looked up for her next handhold and instead found a sharp line where shade gave way to sunlight. She leveraged herself onto the ledge forming the cliff top, feeling the usual euphoria of being on top of the world, and collapsed onto her back. Arms spread wide, Quinn felt sweat creating mud where the dirt stuck to her body. She closed her eyes and stayed that way for two breaths—ten—somewhere past twenty she opened her eyes and righted herself.

  Smiling in anticipation of the decent, she tugged on the rope to warn Max and transferred the knot from her harness to the anchor on top of the cliff. She gave herself enough slack to edge backwards toward the ledge.

  The wind at this height eddied around her, yanking strands from her tightly bound hair. She torqued her body slightly and could see the house, model-like at this height and the rigid rows of grape vines marching through the vineyard. Beyond that were grass covered dunes, and then the sea.

  Without pausing to think, she kicked off from cliff face. As her body swung toward the rock wall she slowed her fall with careful control of the rope and absorbed the impact through her knees. She jumped again, and again until a few feet from Max she eased herself back onto land.

  "Have fun?" Her brother asked. Quinn could only nod as a ridiculous smile refused to leave her face. "Good 'cause it's time to get to work." That cleaned the grin off her face.

  "What about your turn?" Quinn said, guilt gnawing slightly in her stomach now the fun was over.

  "I got what I wanted." Max bent and wound the rope, knocking off dust as he went.

  “Which is?” Quinn asked.

  Max paused and squinted up at his sister. “A week without dishes.”

  "I've added some plants you might not be familiar with, so let me give you a tour." Aunt Muriel bustled down the orderly rows as Quinn and Max trailed in the rear. "It's mostly heirlooms from your father's family."

  "Aren't heirlooms antiques?" Max asked.

  "They can be, but they're also plants, or seeds saved and past down from generation to generation." Aunt Muriel parted the leaves on the nearest plant and with a rapid twist and yank, pulled a fruit off the vine and handed it to Quinn. The odd fruit was a tomato in weight, texture and size, but the color shone through in the darkest red, the color of fresh blood.

  "It usually makes for unique produce. Your grandmother sent me these seeds. She really has the most amazing green thumb."

  Quinn hadn’t known that about her daadi. A world away in India, Quinn had only seen her a few times. She was a very quiet and reserved person, especially since Quinn's daadaa died. Her dad received a call just last week from his brother saying Daadi wasn’t doing well.

  Aunt Muriel refocused her thoughts, pointing as she marched through the
garden. "Blood tomatoes, stripped gourds and rampion."

  "Rampion?" Quinn paused to memorize the deep green color of the leafy plant. The name sounded familiar. "This isn’t what I pictured."

  "Weeds go in the compost heap, ripe produce goes in the baskets. Haul them in when you're done. Dinner's in a few hours." Without a pause in her bustle, Aunt Muriel exited by the gate and headed toward the vineyard.

  Beside the vegetable beds, Quinn joined her hands behind her head to stretch her complaining muscles. She turned toward the water as the sun continued to rotate toward the horizon. The wind still puffed bits of breeze from the water and the air nibbled at her bare arms raising the fine hair.

  The last row loomed long before her. She caught her face on her shoulder trying to wipe the sweat without grinding dirt on her face from her hands, wishing the work already done.

  Quinn resumed her kneeling position and reached toward the rampion needing thinning. A slight spark popped and a tingle shivered its way up her arm as she rubbed her forearm on her thigh trying to rid it of the prickly feeling. She rotated the offending arm and took a closer look at the rampion, wondering if she had brushed against a stinging nettle.

  Nothing.

  She reached for the plant again, spurred on by her gurgling stomach. She continued down the row head bent to her task and the tips of her fingers prickled again. Withdrawing her hand from the depths of the leaves, the tingle spread up her arm and her vision narrowed, pricks of light flickering at the edge of her vision. Something was really wrong. She turned to call out to her brother, but Quinn never got a word out as blackness took over.

  Chapter 4

  “I wouldn’t get in that antique if I were you.”

  Dylan glanced over his shoulder. He caught himself and tired to adopt a more casual attitude. Deer Harbor in the San Juan Islands was tiny, and if the harbormaster saw what he was doing he would definitely tell his dad.