The night was dark, as nights are wont to be, but something about this evening was different from the millions that had come before. On this night, there was something in the air--heavy, cloying and sticky sweet.

Blood.

The iron and copper was so thick in the atmosphere that even a mortal’s dull senses could’ve picked up on it if they knew what to search for. Ever since the city of Fortune had fallen to the darkness--overrun by Lycans, Vampires and Dark Magic Practitioners--the rich scent of human blood was everywhere.

Ezekiel McCoy, a man not long out of his forties, stood outside an abandoned church upon this night, staring at the worn down building but not really seeing it. His cold, gray eyes swept over the shattered stain glass windows, the oak door that had been rent in two and left lying on the brown lawn, and instinctively, he knew.

McCoy had once been a simple county preacher with parishioners in this very building, praising the lord and raising the spirit in those around him, but now he stood with a shotgun propped up on one shoulder and a gleaming silver axe in his free hand; completely free from any of the trappings of a man of God, save for a silver cross that dangled from a deceptively thin, delicate looking chain around his neck.

Ezekiel McCoy was a preacher no longer. Now he was the leader of a small rag-tag group of slayers calling themselves ‘Crusaders’ and a more dangerous mortal man Fortune had never seen. He was the only thing that the unholy monsters in this God forsaken place feared, and for good reason.

When this change was wrought in his soul, he wasn’t entirely certain, but he knew the very beginnings of the birth of the sinner that stood before this fallen house of God came into the world the night his wife was murdered by the blood sucking scum that had overthrown his town.

When his Rebecca disappeared, leaving nothing but a bloodstain behind her, something within the holy man cracked and cracked deep, leaving his daughter Rhiannon to try and pick up the pieces as he sank further and further into vengeful wrath.

But none of that mattered…none of that had any bearings on the fact that standing here, before the church he used to be the spiritual head of, he knew there was something dangerously amiss.

“Ezekiel?”

Ezekiel didn’t turn to seek out the voice, just jerked his chin at the church before him. “They’re gettin’ stronger, Jonah. Makin’ it onto holy ground.”

A much younger man stepped forward out of the gloom, armed in much the same manner as his mentor. “I didn’t think they could do that, sir.”

“They can’t. At least, everyone says they can‘t…but the evidence don‘t lie, boy.” McCoy turned and met the green eyes of his patrolling companion for the evening, Jonah Cross, a boy barely out of his teens. “The claw marks on that door, the blood, fur and ash everywhere. The Lycans and the Vampires had a bit of a tussle here tonight, that much is obvious.”

“But on holy ground?” Jonah’s brow furrowed with worry. “Nothing I’ve ever read says--”

“Don’t believe everythin’ you read. ‘Specially not ‘bout these sorts of things. I’ve learned that they can change and adapt to suit their needs, Jonah…though I’d hoped holy ground would remain a refuge for us, if nothin’ else.” Ezekiel cast his eyes on the shabby house of worship once more. “But it looks like even the lord on high’s gone and given up Fortune for lost.”

“At least we’ve still got the sun…”

“Provided the Dark Practitioners haven’t figured a way to blot it out yet.” McCoy shifted his shotgun a bit. “But that’s not what I’m worried about most. Wind’s changed,” he said shortly, turning to look at the younger man. “They’ll be eatin’ themselves a’fore the day is out.”

“What? What do you mean ‘they’ll be eating themselves’?”

Ezekiel‘s smile was bitter. “Betrayal, son…betrayal.”