Chapter I

A chill breeze stirred the orange leaves, ruffling Grimm's jacket and the horse's mane as they moved through the dense Sylvanian forest. Pale gray trunks, slender and towering, lined their path. Months had passed since Barrowham. Another awakening. 

Lycan fangs and the warlock's mad cackle echoed in his mind, unwelcome ghosts. Watters lived. Gorr-ath banished. Yet, each awakening brought a new hunt. His curse demanded it: a powerful soul must be reaped. 

Grimm inhaled deeply, stretching his arms wide, his eyes narrowed against the fading light. He patted the horse's flank. A soft nicker answered, and they pressed on. Dusk settled. The setting sun painted the falling leaves with a soft orange glow. 

The path opened onto a small village. Wooden cottages, simple and weathered, stood in stark contrast to Barrowham's stone grandeur. Villagers halted; their gazes fixed on Grimm's towering form. 

"Who is he?" a woman whispered, pulling her child close. "Is he with The Order?" a man muttered, clutching his hat. Doors slammed shut, curtains drawn. Fear hung thick in the air. Something has the locals spooked. Grimm moved toward the village center. 

The horse's hooves tapped softly on the dirt path, reaching a pub. Sturdier than the other buildings, it boasted a horse hitch outside its swinging doors. Grimm dismounted. 

His boots thudded onto the ground, dust puffing. He turned, approaching the entrance. The swinging doors creaked in the breeze, the sound of men's singing drifting out. He pushed the doors apart, revealing a bustling saloon. To his left, a bar lined with dusty bottles, a few hunched figures nursing drinks. To his right, a small stage, four men with bulging bellies singing to the rhythm of an accordion. Half the tables were occupied, villagers filling the room. 

A serving woman's eyes widened as Grimm's shadow fell across the doorway. A sharp gasp, then the crash of glass and spilling beer. A man at a nearby table lunged, his hand clamping down on her arm. "Hey!" spittle flew. "You ruined my pants!" His grip tightened. "Ow! You're hurting me!" she cried. He leaned closer, rage in his eyes. "Get me another beer, ya bitch." 

Grimm's eyes narrowed, a white-hot flare. His hand hovered near his knife hilt. "Get your hands off her, ya fat bastard!" a voice cracked through the singing. The bartender emerged, a woman with tan skin, jet-black hair, and a mole on her cheek. "I said, let her go, or I'll break yer nose!" The man released the waitress. 

Grimm's hand dropped. The waitress ran to the bartender, her face flushed. "Go get the mop, hon," the bartender said, patting her shoulder. The waitress disappeared through swinging doors. 

The bartender turned to Grimm; her gaze sharp. "You buying a drink, spooky?" she asked, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing toward the bar. Grimm nodded, and they moved to the counter. "Hey!" she shouted at the singers. "Who said you could stop?" The men grumbled, and the music resumed. 

Grimm approached the counter. Two men shifted in his path, their eyes widening at his size. "Move," he commanded, his voice low, his white eyes narrowing. They scrambled aside. He settled onto a stool, resting his arms on the counter. "Sorry about that," the bartender leaned forward, her hands briefly clasping his gloved ones. "The boys get a little handsy sometimes." 

His gaze locked on hers, "Clearly," his tone flat. She smiled, patting his arm. "What'll it be, spooky?" "I..." he began, cut off. "Bourbon!" She turned, glasses clinking, pouring the amber liquid over a large ice sphere. 

"Not from around here, are you?" she asked. "No," Grimm muttered, his eyes scanning the room. "What brings you out here to Sylvania?" A low grunt escaped him, silencing the nearby villagers. She placed his drink before him, condensation beading on the glass, hickory smoke rising from the ice. "The 'Spooky Silence'," she said, a hint of sarcasm in her smile. 

He lifted the glass, the sweet, smoky liquid touching his lips beneath his bandana. "So," she said, her hands hitting the counter, "What's yer name, handsome?". "Grimm." He muttered. Her lips curled, an eyebrow raised. "Grimm, eh? Hmph. I'm Nessa. Pleased to meet you, Grimm." He sipped his drink. "Hunting, I'm here to hunt." "Hunting? Deer?" His grip tightened on the glass. "Not deer." Nessa leaned closer, her hand resting near his. "Nothing much else to hunt here, unless you're with the Order, hunting tithe money." "No, I'm not with the Order." Nessa chuckled. "Didn't think so. Your... eh, bleak fashion sense gave it away." 

"You bitch!" The man's voice, thick with rage, shattered the saloon's quiet. "Your mop soaked my pants!" Grimm's eyes narrowed, a flash of white beneath his hat's brim. Wap! The man's fist slammed into the waitress's jaw, sending her sprawling. She sobbed, the other men chuckling. 

Nessa's eyes blazed. "Hey!" she shouted. "Stay out of this, heifer!" he roared, beer sloshing from his glass. Grimm surged from his stool, his knife gripped in his hand. He coiled, then hurled the blade across the room. Snikt! The knife sank into the man's shoulder, throwing him from his chair. "Fuck!" he groaned, writhing. "Get him!" he commanded, blood seeping from the wound. 

His friends charged. A thin man, knife in hand, and a hulking brute. The brute lunged. Grimm's boot shot out, a thunderous kick to the man's gut, sending him crashing into the wall. The thin man slashed, each strike missing. Untrained, they were bar brawlers, not fighters. The knife grazed Grimm's cheek. He seized the thin man's wrist. Crack! His hand twisted, snapping the elbow. The knife clattered to the floor. The man clutched his arm. A shadow fell. WAM! Grimm's fist connected, sending the man flying, then crashing to the floor. 

Grimm strode toward the fallen man, each footfall a heavy echo. He seized the man's throat and hoisted him. Boots dangled, kicking uselessly. Grimm's eyes burned, and the man's breath hitched. The leather of Grimm's gloves creaked as his grip tightened. "Leave," he growled, drawing the man close. "Or I'll tear your throat out." The man choked, a wet stain spreading on his trousers. Grimm turned, the man still dangling, and slammed his arm back. The man flew, shattering the saloon doors. 

"You certainly know how to make an entrance, don't you?" Nessa said, a small smile playing on her lips. "Need a place to crash?" "Yes." "Room's upstairs. We'll have a chat when you're settled." Grimm's eyes met hers. "Alright." He turned towards the door. Nessa watched him, a thoughtful expression on her face. 

The candle's flame danced, casting shadows across the room. Grimm sat; his gear spread out like a battlefield. Crickets chirped, a constant backdrop to his thoughts. This place... there's nothing wrong here. He rubbed his jaw, his gaze fixed on the wall. A knock. 

He opened the door, his hand instinctively moving toward his knife. Nessa stood there, whiskey in hand. He filled the doorway, a wall of muscle and scar tissue. She traced a line along his waist, her eyes holding his. "Cozy, Spooky?" she asked, stepping past him. "Adequate," he muttered, closing the door. 

His gaze followed her as she surveyed the bed: his tools, his weapons, the glowing orbs. She picked one up, her fingers delicate against the glass. 

The orb radiated heat, the liquid inside moving like slow honey. "Careful," Grimm said, gently placing the orb back on the bed with the others. "I don't want to set the place ablaze." 

Nessa smirked, her eyes tracing the lines of his scarred face and torso. "Interesting..." She turned, her hips swaying as she walked towards him. Reaching the bed, she picked up his knife, turning it slowly in her hand. "So, you hunt. What exactly?" 

"I don't know," he said, his voice gruff. "You came all this way, and you don't know what you're hunting?" she asked, a playful lilt in her voice. He sighed. "Cryptids," he said, his voice low. "Like the ones the Order drove out?" "Yes." 

She sat on the bed, her gaze lingering on him. "So, not the Order, but you hunt monsters... like them." She reached for his hat, her fingers brushing against his shoulder as she placed it on her head. "One would assume, Mr. Grimm, you're here for a monster." "Yes. But I don't know which one." He grumbled, sinking into a chair. 

"Tsk. Well, whatever monster you're after, you trashed my bar like one," she said, her eyes gleaming. "So, I'm a little peeved, Mr. Grimm." His gaze remained fixed on her. She moved to the table, popping the cork from the whiskey bottle with her thumbs. She took a long sip, her eyes sliding down his body, lingering on his chest. "Tomorrow," she said, a slow, predatory smile gracing her lips, "you're helping me clean up." She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his arm. "Consider it... payment." 

Grimm's eyes snapped open. A flash of Nessa's warmth, then cold iron biting his wrists. He was shackled, spread-eagled on a vast bed, red silk sheets stark against his skin. Gold bedposts, encrusted with jewels, loomed above him. Naked, he found his clothes neatly folded nearby, his hat perched on top. His heart hammered. 

Red-hooded figures lined the room's edge, their beady eyes glinting in the candlelight. A man, his face etched with defeat and anger, entered. His robes, different from the others, suggested a priest. Ritual. Grimm strained against the shackles, useless. The Queen emerged. Her oiled skin shimmered in the light, gold chains tracing her naked form. A predatory smile curved her ruby lips. "This will do." She raised a finger. A surge of magic, and his flesh swelled. 

She moved, her oiled body sliding against his, the scent cloying. His heart pounded, a foreign heat coursing through him. The robed figures chanted, their voices a low, guttural drone. Images of Nessa, her skin warm and glowing, flickered through his mind, a stark contrast to the coldness of the queen. 

Her nails dug into his skin, adding to the map of scars. She rode him, her movements feverish, licking blood from her fingers, her chin smeared crimson. Her touch was slick, cold. The chanting intensified, her hips thrusting faster. A sense of wrongness, a forced climax, as she tightened her grip on his throat. 

Asmon watched, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning. A thick, viscous fluid oozed from her. The chanting reached a deafening crescendo. 

"Ah!" Grimm's body convulsed. The Queen moaned, her grip tightening. "Arrgh!" A raw grunt tore from his throat. A searing pain, like needles piercing his flesh, erupted in his groin. Teeth. Her thrusts slowed, a sickening rhythm. She rose, her breasts heaving, and released his throat. 

Blood coated his groin. Panic seized him. His screams filled the room. "Asmon," she said, licking her fingers, "silence him. Then, throw him to the slaves." Asmon bowed his head. "Yes, my queen." His hand glowed green. Grimm's screams ceased, his body falling into a still, unnatural slumber. 

The Queen departed, her words a final, stinging lash. "Asmon," she hissed, "Your eyes displease me." He stared at the floor, his jaw clenched, a silent rage simmering beneath his forced obedience as she disappeared into the darkness.