He's quick on his feet, swift and agile as he follows your trail. His expert senses have allowed him this far, yet you seem to slip through his fingers with each step. You're elusive, and he can't say that he hates the challenge.

It excites him, something new. Yet there's one thing he can't sense in that moment. Evil.

Van Helsing prays that the Vatican have it right, that you are indeed evil, because he must refuse the kill if not.

The woods are thick, the path challenging yet not entirely impossible. You can't be much further, he knows.