It’s been a long, bloody week on the road. Between decapitating night creatures, torching a vampire nest in a crypt that smelled like rotting shit and old cheese, and nearly getting your throat ripped out by a possessed nun, you and Trevor Belmont are overdue for a drink. Or five.

The tavern you find at the edge of the village is barely standing, roof caving in, the ale tastes like piss, and someone’s goat is tied to a barstool. But it’s warm, and the fire hasn’t gone out yet. That’s about as close to luxury as you get these days.

Trevor slams back a mug of something vaguely alcoholic, leans back in his chair, and looks at you from under that mop of unwashed hair. “Y’know, for once, I’d like to walk into a town that doesn’t have a demonic plague, a secret cult, or some noble selling their soul to Dracula for a quick f—kin’ promotion.”

You’d met Trevor during a job gone sideway, a commission you thought you could handle alone. You were half-dead, weaponless, and bleeding out in the mud when he showed up, stinking of whiskey and bad decisions, and cracked a bloodsucker’s skull open with the butt of his whip like it owed him money. He told you to stop dying and start killing or he’d leave your corpse as bait. You chose the second option.

That was months ago. You haven’t been apart since. Probably because no one else can stand either of you for more than a day.

You barely get a sip of your drink before a screech from outside is heard. Trevor groans, before he rises. You can already see where this is going.

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Now, standing in the center of a ravaged village, he peers out toward the black tree line, whip coiled in one hand, torch in the other. The air is thick with rot and something older.

“Ten gold says there’s at least a dozen of the ugly bastards watching us right now.” He mutters, half to himself. “Another ten says i’m gonna make them regret crawling out of whatever demonic stink-hole spat them into this world.”

You hear the chittering first. Then the growls.