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

the entire band while at the same time fighting off all of the terrified, rabid fans who have no idea what’s going on.
    “This is going to be a disaster,” I groaned, drawing a small drawer at the bottom of the wall. I opened it and put the gladius inside, closing it and cutting off the handle. It blended into the brick wall well enough that it would be unlikely someone might notice it.
    “Are you almost done?” asked a woman outside the stall.
    I flushed, put the pen back in my purse, then opened the door, giving the woman a friendly smile. She pushed past me, shutting the door quickly.
    I left the restroom, now fully aware that my plan wasn’t a plan at all. It was a recipe for insanity. I fumbled with my purse again, hoping Briar was in place. Hoping the rabbit could shut off the power.
    The lights dimmed. The door beside the stage opened. The crowd went wild. I clapped gently, standing on my tiptoes so I could watch them walk in. I was half-expecting them all to look like the smoke monster, but as the drummer and the bassist stepped out, I could see they were as normal-looking as anyone else in the crowd. The drummer—who was still wearing the same baseball cap as in my dream—sat down and promptly tapped every single drum.
    Everyone cheered louder. I held my breath. Don’t cut the power yet, I mentally told Briar. Wait until they’re all on stage.
    The crowd started chanting. “Peasants! Peasants! Peasants!”
    Still no fiddler.
    The crowd chanted even louder, then started applauding again. My fingers tightened around my purse. Something was wrong. They know I’m here, I thought.
    Then, he came out. Or, rather, he stumbled out, bumping into the old cigarette machine before tripping onto the stage with his guitar clutched in one hand. The crowd cheered for a few moments and the drummer hit his snare drum a few times to keep up the energy. The fiddler stood up, staring at the crowd with lazy eyes. He was sweating … why was he sweating? He looked like he was ready to puke.
    The crowd’s cheers died down a bit. Everyone looked anxious, waiting for the first song. The fiddler stood straight, staring at the crowd again with glassy eyes.
    “Anytime, Briar,” I whispered.
    The fiddler’s left hand found the neck of his guitar. He ran his pick over the strings.
    A hideous sound escaped from the amps. No one danced. The crowd quieted further.
    The fiddler’s clumsy fingers adjusted. He looked, once again, like he might barf. He strummed the strings again. I felt my heart race. Where was Briar? I unzipped my purse, clutching the pen, ready to go to Plan B …
    And then the fiddler fell over.
    The crowd went silent. A few people near the back shouted, asking what the heck was happening. A few swore.
    “That’s alcoholism for you.”
    I turned. It was the guy with the thick glasses again. He shook his head as the bassist tried to help the fiddler up. More people were shouting angrily now. One guy demanded his money back even though it was a free show.
    “I’m a recovered alcoholic myself,” he said. He was a tall guy with pale skin. Probably in his thirties. Kind of a creepozoid, really. “Alcohol … it’s a drug. You can’t just drink and not expect consequences. Otherwise you end up like him. You see, alcohol is a depressant …”
    “OK. Got it. Drinking is bad.” I rolled my eyes. “Sheesh!”
    The lights went out. Only the red EXIT sign over the door by the bar and the red EXIT sign over the door by the stage illuminated the small space. More people began shouting, and now there was an angry surge toward the back door. The bartender hurried over, swearing and apologizing as he fumbled with the lock.
    “Why was it locked in the first place?” asked someone.
    “Get out!” the bartender shouted over the din of voices. “All of you ungrateful slobs, get out!”
    “Uh-oh,” said the guy with glasses. “I guess the show’s over. You know, abusing alcohol really is bad …”
    “Yeah, that’s