Grimm is a fantasy police drama. It follows Nick Burkhardt, a detective who learns he is a Grimm. He hunts supernatural creatures. He juggles being a cop and a protector of humanity. Only he sees these dangerous beings. The show mixes action, mystery and folklore. Sounds exciting, right?

Meet the villains from Grimm

Sean Renard

Sean is that quietly dangerous type who makes power moves while sipping coffee like it’s nothing — very poised, very controlled, and then suddenly unhinged when family is involved. He’s all about protocol and politics but will throw the rulebook out the window if his pride or blood is on the line (also apparently has a soft spot for stray dogs? don’t ask how that fits). You can picture him in a tailored suit and an unreadable expression, but sometimes he hums old folk tunes under his breath, which is weirdly humanizing. He’s the kind of antagonist who grows on you — frustrating, magnetic, and always three steps ahead.

Adalind Schade

Adalind is chaotic, brilliant, and kind of a walking contradiction: a witch who craves power but has the worst timing with emotionally awkward moments. She’ll scheme, then melt into a mom mode, then scheme again — loyalty shifts like quicksilver and you never fully trust the hand she plays. Also! She hoards weird little trinkets (like buttons? and a tiny music box) that she insists have sentimental value, which is suspicious and adorable at the same time. She’s messy in the best way — dangerous but somehow relatable — and you kind of forgive her the surrendering-to-vengeance scenes because she’s just so compelling.

Juliette Silverton

Juliette starts off as the sweet, painfully empathetic vet-next-door and then flips into this raw, ferocious force (I still can’t decide whether that’s tragic or liberating — maybe both?). She’s compassionate to a fault: will nurse an injured raccoon at midnight and then show up on your doorstep with a scathing monologue about betrayal. There’s vulnerability and then sudden, scary power, and sometimes she cries in the bathtub for reasons that are both confusing and perfect. Honestly, she’s the person who burns cookies but insists it’s “experimental” and somehow makes you love her anyway.

Baron Samedi

Baron Samedi is theatrical, unsettling, and absolutely unforgettable — picture a sharp-dressed voodoo lord who smokes cigarettes he pretends not to inhale, and who wields death like it’s a party trick. He’ll pop up with riddles and jokes, then flick his fingers and someone’s history gets rewritten (cheeky and terrifying, favorite combo). He’s got a reputation for deals that come with fine print in invisible ink, and yet he’ll give the tiniest, strangest mercy if it amuses him. Dark humor, velvet gloves, and the kind of charisma that makes you both laugh and check the lock on your door.

La Llorona

La Llorona is all sorrow and fury wrapped into one wailing legend — she’s maternal to a fault (like obsessively so) and then becomes the scariest bedtime story you’ve ever heard. She wanders rivers sobbing and sometimes actually hums lullabies at strange hours, which is impossibly eerie but also kind of heartbreaking. One minute she’s tender — the next she’s terrifying, and you never know if she’ll comfort a lost child or become the nightmare chasing you home. There’s an old-world tragedy to her that sticks with you; she’s tragic, relentless, and oddly poetic.

Eric Renard

Eric reads like cold strategy incarnate — crisp suits, colder smiles, and a chess-player vibe where people are pawns and the board is his favorite toy. He’s polished and urbane, which makes his ruthlessness sting more because it’s delivered with impeccable manners (bone-chillingly polite). Then, for no reason, he’ll do something unexpectedly small and domestic — like fix a broken radio — which makes you go “wait, what?” and second-guess everything. He’s not flashy but he’s effective, and there’s a quiet intensity that makes him dangerously watchable.

Gregorek

Gregorek feels like a hulking, old-world protector who’s equal parts gruff and oddly sentimental — a bit like a grandfather who could also crush your car. He’s straightforward, loyal to a fault, and has this rumbling laugh that scares enemies and calms friends (in theory; sometimes it just confuses everyone). He collects tiny stones from places he’s been, keeps them in a tin, and will tell you the whole history of each one whether you want it or not. There’s honor here, and also a stubbornness that gets him into trouble — in the best storytelling way.

Krampus

Krampus is delightfully monstrously specific: the holiday bogeyman who delights in judgment and has a weird fondness for dramatic timing (arrives right when you thought you were safe, of course). He’s punitive and theatrical — chains, coal, the whole aesthetic — but also has this bizarre code of conduct (don’t steal a sleigh from him, apparently). Sometimes he’s almost caring? in a twisted way — like he thinks discipline is love, which makes him terrifying and oddly principled. He’s the perfect blend of folklore horror and grim holiday moralist, and honestly you’d rather not be on his list.