Chapter 30: The Spider
Sarah Winters lived in a renovated Victorian in the Alberta Arts District—the kind of property that served as both residence and advertisement for her real estate business. Cole parked three blocks away and approached on foot, using the Hundjäger tracking sense to catalog the neighborhood's scent profiles.
The house smelled like money, fresh paint, and something else. Something sweet and wrong, like flowers rotting beneath the surface of a beautiful arrangement.
Spider pheromones. The chemical signature of a Spinnetod's feeding ground.
Cole found a surveillance position in a coffee shop across the street and settled in to observe. Sarah Winters was hosting an open house that afternoon—potential clients walking through her latest listing while she charmed them with practiced warmth.
She was beautiful, in the polished way of women who'd made their appearance into a weapon. Dark hair, professional dress, a smile that could sell anything to anyone. Her targets were obvious even from a distance: the older men who looked at her a little too long, whose body language shifted toward eager compliance when she touched their arms.
Fourteen victims over fifteen years. She's patient, careful, and very good at what she does.
The system's file had provided details on her method. Spinnetod didn't kill quickly—they fed slowly, draining life force through repeated exposure over weeks or months. Their victims aged rapidly, developed health problems that baffled doctors, and eventually died of what appeared to be natural causes.
Sarah Winters specialized in wealthy clients. She showed them properties, built relationships, and slowly drained them dry while everyone around them attributed the decline to stress or age.
A perfect predator disguised as a perfect professional.
Cole's phone buzzed.
How was your evening? Adalind's text glowed on the screen.
He typed back: Working. Rain check on plans?
The response came quickly: Of course. Try not to work too hard.
She's thinking about me. Keeping contact. Building the relationship.
He wasn't sure how he felt about that. The attraction was real—dangerously real—but so was the awareness of who Adalind would become, what choices she would make, how thoroughly she would damage the people around her.
Unless I change things. Unless I'm strong enough to redirect the course she's on.
The thought was seductive. And maybe that was the point—maybe his interest in Adalind was as much about the possibility of changing the timeline as it was about the woman herself.
Or maybe you just like her. Not everything has to be strategic.
Cole pushed the thought aside and refocused on his surveillance.
The open house ended at 4 PM.
Sarah Winters said goodbye to her last visitors with the warmth of someone who genuinely cared about their real estate needs. Then she locked up the property, walked to her Mercedes, and drove north toward her personal residence.
Cole followed at a safe distance.
The Victorian in Alberta Arts was even more impressive up close—restored to period accuracy, landscaped with professional care, the kind of home that announced its owner's success without appearing to try. Sarah parked in the attached garage and disappeared inside.
Cole circled the block and found a new surveillance position—a residential street with a clear sightline to her front door. He settled in to learn her patterns.
Over the next three days, a picture emerged.
Sarah Winters was disciplined about her routine. She left for work at 8 AM, returned by 6 PM, and spent her evenings either alone or entertaining guests. The guests followed a pattern: wealthy men, usually alone, staying for dinner and leaving late.
She's feeding on multiple targets simultaneously. Spreading the damage to avoid drawing attention.
One guest appeared more frequently than the others—a tech executive named Robert Morris, based on the license plate Cole traced through a database search. Morris visited three times in three days, staying later each time, and his appearance deteriorated noticeably between visits.
She's accelerating with this one. Maybe she's getting impatient, or maybe Morris is particularly... appetizing.
On the evening of November 28th, Cole spotted something that changed his calculation entirely.
A unmarked sedan parked two blocks from Sarah's house. Inside sat Nick Burkhardt and Hank Griffin, running their own surveillance operation.
They're investigating her. The police have made the connection.
Cole watched through his binoculars as Nick talked on his phone, probably coordinating with Monroe or checking records. The Grimm's attention was focused on Sarah's house with the intensity of someone who'd found a new target.
If Nick closes in before I can move, Sarah might run. Or fight. Either way, I lose my window.
The complication demanded adaptation.
The next morning, Cole researched Nick's investigation through public records and police band monitoring.
The case centered on a recent death—Harrison Webb, 67, real estate developer, found dead in his home three weeks ago. The official cause was heart failure, but someone had flagged inconsistencies. Webb's sudden decline, his connection to Sarah Winters, the pattern of his final weeks.
Nick's putting together the same picture I have. He just doesn't know what he's looking at yet.
Or maybe he did. As a Grimm, Nick could identify Wesen on sight. If he'd seen Sarah in her true form—eight legs, spinnerets, the full horror of her species—he would know exactly what kind of predator he was hunting.
The question is whether he acts like a cop or like a Grimm.
As a cop, Nick would need evidence, procedure, the slow machinery of justice that let predators like Sarah hide behind human law. As a Grimm, he might take a more direct approach.
Either way, he's creating pressure. Sarah knows she's being watched.
Cole observed the tech executive—Robert Morris—arriving at Sarah's house that evening. The man moved slowly, seemed tired, looked at least five years older than his photos suggested. He was in the later stages of feeding, maybe weeks from death if Sarah continued at her current pace.
An innocent man dying while I wait for the perfect moment.
The thought shouldn't have bothered him. The Skalenzahne's emotional dampening made caring about strangers difficult. But something in Cole—maybe the part that remembered being human, maybe just practical calculation—recognized the waste of it.
Morris hasn't done anything wrong except trust the wrong woman. He doesn't deserve to die.
But rushing the timeline created risks. Sarah Winters might be physically weak compared to Cole's enhanced capabilities, but Spinnetod had other defenses—webs, venom, the psychic influence of their feeding aura. A confrontation without proper preparation could end badly.
Friday. Her pattern shows Morris coming for a "private showing" Friday evening. I intercept after he leaves—she'll be sated, vulnerable, less likely to fight effectively.
Three more days. Three more feedings. Morris would be weaker, but probably still alive.
Probably isn't good enough.
Cole started planning a faster approach.
His phone buzzed with another text from Adalind.
Dinner this weekend? I know a place in the Pearl District.
Can't Saturday. Work. He typed back. Sunday?
Sunday works. I'll send details.
A dinner date with a Hexenbiest while he was planning to kill a Spinnetod. The absurdity wasn't lost on him.
She'd understand, probably. She knows what this world is like. Knows that predators exist and that sometimes they need to be stopped.
But that was a conversation for later—much later, if ever. Adalind couldn't know what Cole was. Couldn't know about the system, the absorptions, the humanity percentage that ticked down with every kill.
Some secrets have to stay buried.
He refocused on the surveillance footage he'd compiled. Sarah Winters' patterns were clear now: predictable routines, regular feeding schedule, the careful discipline of someone who'd been doing this for fifteen years without getting caught.
She's good at this. Almost as good as I'm becoming.
Friday. That was the window. Morris would visit for his "private showing," leave around 10 PM, and Sarah would be alone and vulnerable.
Unless Nick moves first.
Cole spent the next day monitoring the police investigation. Nick and Hank continued their surveillance, building a case that would probably never hold up in court. How did you prove someone was a psychic vampire who fed on life force? There was no evidence, no weapon, nothing that would satisfy a jury.
Nick knows that. He's not building a court case. He's building justification.
The Grimm was preparing to make a move outside the law. Which meant Cole had to move first.
Friday. No more delays.
He marked the date on his calendar, checked his equipment, and started planning the approach that would take him into a spider's web.
Thursday night, Cole received a text from a number he didn't recognize.
Mr. Ashford. We should meet. There are matters of mutual interest to discuss. Tomorrow, 2 PM, the same coffee shop where you met with Captain Renard's associate. Come alone.
No signature. No identification. Just a summons from someone who knew about his meeting with Adalind and wasn't afraid to demonstrate that knowledge.
The Verrat. Or someone connected to them.
The timing was deliberate—the night before he planned to move on Sarah Winters, when his attention was divided and his resources committed elsewhere.
They're probing. Testing. Seeing how I respond.
Cole stared at the message for a long moment, calculating options.
Ignore it, and whoever sent it would know he was avoiding them. Attend, and he might be walking into a trap. Reschedule, and he'd show weakness.
Or I could show strength.
He typed back: 10 AM. I don't take meetings at 2 PM on Fridays.
The response came thirty seconds later: 10 AM is acceptable. We look forward to meeting you.
Cole put down his phone and started revising his Friday schedule.
A meeting with unknown forces in the morning. A confrontation with a Spinnetod in the evening. And somewhere in between, the growing complication of his feelings for a woman who would eventually become one of the most dangerous people in Portland.
This life keeps getting more interesting.
He wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a warning.
Reviews and Power Stones keep the heat on!
Want to see what happens before the "heroes" do?
Secure your spot in the inner circle on Patreon. Skip the weekly wait and read ahead:
💵 Hustler [$7]: 15 Chapters ahead.
⚖️ Enforcer [$11]: 20 Chapters ahead.
👑 Kingpin [$16]: 25 Chapters ahead.
Periodic drops. Check on Patreon for the full release list.
👉 Join the Syndicate: patreon.com/Anti_hero_fanfic