1876, England.

The twilight was amongst the commons, ushering those from the coaches and streets into guesthouses and brothels for the evening treats. Sunlight succumbed to the evening tortures and evil delights that the moon brought upon the cities and its populace. No evil that the night and lunar trances pulled from the sins of Earth for a feast could match the scribbled ravings of a vile madman.

Beside a flickering flame of his only company, a lamp, lighting his mind to lunacy, a single man sat before a desk frantically rushing an inked quill across parchment, flooding the paper with black words, mirroring the evil about which the paper read. Dejected by the only female he had ever owned, and fathering his child, his beloved son to be a bastard, the man was a poor soul, broken by the fanatical work that bore his notoriety.

Still he pushed, scratching the quill from letter to letter, word to word and line to line, recording his findings, as he would be doomed to do for eternity. The words glared back into his stress aged face, engraving his scarlet mark, the mark that only he could see, the duties and importance he had committed to his work, disallowed anything else in life to matter, marred his hide as a sinner.

"There is a genetic plague amongst us. One that has managed to slide from notice amongst the Royal Society. I fear that this is because in fact, the Royal Society is nothing much more than a fraud! A league of pathetic men of privilege who become bored with standard sciences and act as authorities on studies they know little about." The man read back as he scribed.

"I, Nathaniel Essex, have uncovered this mutant strand, one that is rapidly infecting the masses, it has even afflicted my on kin. The fools, they fail to receive my findings and have banished me from their ranks! I am in need of more satisfactory studies, the specimen closest to me, my child, has been taken from my manor by his bearer. I am no longer in ability to take blood samples needed and the plans I had for the lobotomy must be postponed. I need to find new specimens. There is word of the evil genes spreading through Eastern Europe. They have yet to be taken for more than wives tales or drunken oratories, but an in-depth study must be completed. I set off for the furthest sectors of Romania in the morning, answers shall be found there. I have devoted my life, my after life to this cause, I shall not be denied, no cost on Earth is too grave for my legend."

The night burned away like the lamp beside him, as the flicker in the lamp faded, so did the moonlight and the night sky. Essex, grinding himself laboriously at the parchment past the witching hour, bore his mind to a slumber.

The Sunday morning bells wailed through the rolling fog that captivated the commons. It was time for the male tramps and working whores to scuttle to church and repent the previous night's engagements. It was also time for Nathaniel Essex to be roused from his heavy sleep and swipe away the spittle at the corner of his lips, and the stream of saliva pooled in the bend of his elbow to be cleared. His eyes still warped by the blacks of the inside of his eyelids, the bright flash of sunlight through thick and concealing clouds was devastating, sending the painful affliction into his optics, through his nerve receptors and engraving the hurtful jab in his brain.

"Christ," Essex swore to himself.

Essex revolted back from his desk, tossing his wooden chair on its back, splitting under impact and throwing Essex roughly to the creaking, loose floorboards. His temper flared, his demeanor already malevolent from his startling realization that he would be late for his trek, Essex was sent into a childish rage by being ejected from his wooden chair. Picking himself up and dusting off his gentlemen's garments, Essex felt nervousness and disappointment flood him. He could not believe that he might miss his chance at legend because he overslept.

Like a worried schoolboy, late for his tutelage, Essex swept his periodicals and journals up hastily, threw a jacket over his shoulders and charged from his room, down the stairs, tossing the front door aside and sprinted across the lush, dew caught grass. His chest heaved fatally and hot breaths of air spewed from his pursing lips. Since his original acceptance into the Royal Society, and the frivolous and lush sins that came along with, the legions of pseudo-scholars and crooked monks of the monasteries, Essex had nothing to do with effort, past lifting a palm as signal for his shifts of slaves to cater him and guests.

A coach driver was to wait for him inside the Horse and Saddles pub, where they would then embark on a lengthy trip to Romania. Essex had requested that he not be fetched for at his intimidating manor explicitly. Essex, since being expelled from the Royal Society six months ago, and the trade papers claiming him a mad lunatic, reigning down sin on the city, had the growing suspicions that the Royal Society was monitoring him. Even if they were not, which was unlikely, Essex still had to worry about the mobs that struggled against his manor routinely, hoping to drive "the witch from his nest." He had hoped to slip away unnoticed and without bother so that his studies in Romania could go undisturbed.

His feet skid across the common's cobblestone grounds very noisily it seemed to the owner, not allowing him to fade away stealthily. This aggravated him; he nearly lost grasp of his documents, finally grasping them again as they neared the doorway to the pub. Inside the pub it was young and desolate, as Essex had designed. The drunkards do not go about their business until eleven o'clock in the evening, he had monitored. So at seven o'clock in the morning all were in church, there was no one inside, save the coach driver, barkeep and the unsuccessful vagrant, which every pub was hovered over by. Essex reconfirmed his grasp on his life's work and stalked for the coach driver, his position as such was marked by his gaudy and outrageous uniform, a duty that must be fulfilled by a commercial coach driver.

"Ho driver, I am Nathaniel Essex, your cargo for this day, a trip to Romania," Essex whispered as he leaned in for the driver's ear.

"Well 'ello thar. I'm Matthias Gurthrey," the driver boasted with a thunderous and cheery rush, extending his rough and soured paw forward as means of introduction.

Essex replied with a rude indignation, freeing the papers from between his arm and body, placing them in Matthias' extended hand. He shot nervous glances over his shoulder, spying outside the bar, hoping to catch his path, and coach free of interference. Beyond a young child skipping about towards the Holy Place of Prayer and redemption there was no one.

Foolish imbeciles! Worried about misconceptions of God when an evil gene will soon take capture of their souls and condemn them to the hell so richly believed in!

Essex thought about the monotony and unbelievable arrogance displayed by the hordes in the town towards his findings. He was scientist, he had no time for religion, it only detracted from objectiveness.

"We must be off, immediately," Essex demanded.

"Well, I will finish this drink and…"

"No! You do not understand, my business must be tended to as hastily as possible. We will be off now," Essex raged.

Seeming riffed, the driver reluctantly placed his mug of choice alcohol on the partition and headed for the door, Essex's papers in hold. The driver exited first, disrespectfully pushing through without holding the door for Essex. The driver threw one foot on the coach wheel, and struggled to pull his large mass up onto the coach seat. Equally put off by the driver's attitude, Essex crept inside the coach and slammed the door violently.

The wheels struggled to glide over the coarse roadways, mashing into the mud and gravel mixture, sinking into water holes and lurching back up larger stones with each passed revolution. The ride was more silent than the empty halls of Essex Manor, which only made noise with the chatter of feline companions left hungry. Essex refused to fraternize with the driver, except to say that no stops must be made, that they must drive continuously into Romania. The driver made the same vow of refusal; not even offering a "Yessir" that is customary for driver to do when given an order. Both equally sought the impossible from each other, the dogmatist Essex preferred a non-social event, one where his driver would keep only to himself. The driver, used to a more jovial client had hoped for perhaps a break from the road, or a say, a word, a grunt, something that was to be neither here nor there.

Essex hoped to happen across slumber, which would offer him reprieve from the driver's grating whistling of tunes. No such relief was found because, Essex, who had a fondness for the finest down mattresses, found only an annoying and bumpy bed that disrupted his peace. Essex heard the repulsive and intrusive driver clear his throat.

Lord! The brute is going to speak, Essex's fearful thoughts ricocheted through his mind.

"Har! You are here man!" the driver shouted gruffly toward his cargo.

A wicked smile crossed the solemn face of Nathaniel Essex. He had finally reached Romania, his land of promise. The home of his ascension to god-hood spawned from these sorted soils. It was here, in Romania that Nathaniel Essex would offer sanctuary to humanity from the plague that boiled under their flesh and hold it mockingly at the gnashing jaws of those who crossed him. It was Romania that would be forever his origin of power.

Essex pulled himself from the uncomfortable bench inside the coach; out into the cold and uninviting Romania air where his weary legs quivered under the long trip's influence. The grounds were moist and the sky was saturated with mugging clouds. An otherwise dreary day to most, was more inviting than the sweetest symphony prancing down lush marble hallways to Essex.

"Where are my items driver?" Essex requested snidely.

"Right here, prude!" the driver returned, tossing the assortment of papers at Essex.

The papers were snatched by a passing gust and thrown down to the muddy ground. The documents not halted by the swath of mud below the coach were picked up again and rolled further down the path, bating to be chased. Essex's temper swelled in his gut, festered in his mind and exploded from his skull.

"You bastard weasel! You do not percieve the severity of your actions! You may have destroyed humanity and my very chances for sanctity! If I was not so pressed for time, be sure you would be dead, whore!" Essex screamed.

"Devil's spawn!" the driver cried back. "I shall report you to the authorities for such villainous claims!"

The driver took the reigns to his horses, doubled back the coach, and sent speeding off for the opposite direction. Essex, furiously upset, rushed about the retrieval of his papers, hoping to rescue them before any serious damage could be sustained. Most sheets were afflicted by the tainted touch of the dirty ground, but they were still legible, which was satisfactory enough.

Essex slowly and haphazardly stumbled into the commons at the foot of the Romanian Royal castle. His legs still trudging and slow, they had been inactive for longer than he could assume. Not only had the coach ride been horridly long, but also Essex had not left the side of his desk in chambers for months he was sure. He would gladly accept a bed for the remainder of the day and rise in the morning to begin his investigations. For being a town at the foot of a castle, the markets and bars were pale and lifeless. Essex could count the amount of present patrons on a single hand's fingers, minus the digit. This was peculiar and struck Essex oddly. Perhaps the gene had already consumed the majority? This would need further investigation; he made a mental note of his observations. Right now, the only action needing to be tended was that he find a guesthouse and sleep.

The night was comforting to Essex's tired body, days of sleepless nights, slaving away with madness at his studies beat him into a worthless slag. The dark prancing of shadows in his room easily carried him off to sleep, several hours past. Had the apparitions known that he would be raped of this luxury so traumatically, they would not have afforded it to him.

"Sir, Nathaniel Essex?" astarved voice barked through the locked door. "Nathaniel Essex?" it cast out once more, this time finally retrieving a response.

"Do not disturb a man in his sleep!" Essex scolded.

"This is the Lord's High Army," the voice returned.

"Hail for me once more in the morning, I must have my rest!" Essex berated.

"Disallowing our entry would be an act of treason against the Lord," the voice grew more alarming.

"Pray tell, you did not take that hermit bastard's words of violent threats against him?" Essex grew tired of ignorance.

Regardless, he slid out of bed, struggled on his pants and fetched for the door. On the opposite side stood two officially dressed armed men, with the lord of the estate cowering below them. They easily conveyed the image of displeasure and uneasiness.

"I am unclear as to what slander that degenerate spat to you, but I am sure you would take a man of science's words over a simple driver's?" Essex evaded coyly.

"I have no inkling of what you speak," the soldier told blandly.

"Come now fool. Do not jest with me. I know that cowering servant spoke ill of me," Essex reprimanded.

"Surely Sir, I have not one clue of what you speak. I am here on direct orders to retrieve you on behalf of the Lord. He requests council," the soldier informed.

"Well then, after you."

Essex sat in the cold and dark stone halls of the majestic castle-fortress. He was reclined on a fine red velvet stool with gold housing and legs. He was sat here while his presence was made known to Lord Russoff, overseer to Romania. It was explained to him on the voyage to the castle that Russoff's confederates outside in the villa, were made aware of the visit by one Nathaniel Essex. The black sheep of the English scientific community, a religiously tyrannical menace, intent on believing that the makeup of the human entirety was at stake for being dissolved. A witch, a dogmatist, and a sinner. One who believed that God's work was in fact, impure. A common servant spoke ill of said man and claimed that the wretch had laid stake to his life. Word was passed up to Lord Russoff wished to commune with Essex for reasons unknown.

"His Lordship will permit you." A distressed looking, gray haired man exited from a large set of double doors over Essex's right shoulder.

Essex rose to his feet, swiped twice at his wrinkled pants and nodded in response to the elderly man. The older gentlemen turned and parted the doors once again, this time holding them for Essex who slowly trailed paces behind him. The room beyond the double doors was, in a word: extravagant. The meshes of gold fabrics and royal red velvets on the bed, curtains, carpet and even dinning place settings easily put Essex's earnings to shame, and his manor to modesty. Outside a large stained glass window, depicting a victorious blood tarnished sword held above a soldier's shoulder, were acres of green roving hills, stretching further than Essex could see. The only interruptions in the pristine and regal view were the dark clouds of night and whip cracks of white lightning flashes. The mood of the room however, was anything but regal, and monetarily pleasing. Everyone, a group of near twenty, huddled about the large bed in the center of the room sustained the similar somber features that spoiled the faces of the two soldiers and single servant. Something was dreadfully wrong with the state, and it's Lord. Something that had to do with Essex, he deduced.

"Are you Nathaniel Essex?" a voice arose from the bed and the orgy laid mess of bodies and unsheathed flesh.

"That I am, who requests?" Essex replied.

"It is I, Lord Russoff." A youthful young man with shoulder length silky and flowing brown hair rose from the pile of living humans, all sheltered on his bed.

"I am at your beck and call, Lord. I…"

"I know why you are here Essex, words of your blasphemy…" Lord Russoff began. Essex tried to halt him with a pout, but Russoff silenced him with a raised palm. "…Have spread even this far, to Romania. At first, I agreed with the British, I thought you madly insane. However…"

"You have one, don't you, I figured so," Essex declared.

"Yes. Romania has been suffering many deaths within the last month. We feared a plague at first. That was until my cousin, Frederic, became one of your mutants," Russoff explained.

"So the gene is here? The lycanthropic gene is in the state?" Essex asked, verging glee, as best as the cold man could become.

"Somewhere, running loosely like a wild predator. He has been reigning red death upon my people since, even making a raid on this fortress. Fearing for the decimation of the state, I have locked myself away into seclusion with the presence of my wives, lovers, friends and sorties. Reconstruct the society if need be, we will prevail. Very few people are allowed within my sanctuary. You are more privileged than even most my more elite confederates." Russoff explained.

"I feel fortunate to be in such high regard," Essex thanked.

"That is not to say that your stay in the castle will be without reason. Since you are the only one who has made any scientific studies with this "gene" as you put it, you are the best qualified to cure it. That is what you must do," Russoff finished.

"Of course."

Essex after his meeting with the Lord, was whisked off for his chambers. A large and sprawling room, with no furnishing, save a bed, table, chair and lamp. Suiting enough Essex thought. Those would be the only items in use from his living quarters at least. Essex was soothed by the austere. He did not need all the comforts and flashy items, only the practical. There was no sense in owning items that would do nothing but collect dust, unless of course it was a feather duster. Essex slapped his documents, which he brought from the guesthouse on the table; stripped and rolled into bed, hoping to recapture the sleep his tired body had enjoyed earlier. His eyelids crossed and his pupils rolled into bleakness. His chest began to rhythmically heave, exhaling a gentle whisper, which developed into a slight snore. Nathaniel Essex was prepared for his final rest of the evening, when his ears piqued up, waking him once more. The sound was inaudible the first time, a soft whistle it sounded to rested ears. When the sound chimed again, there would be no mistake in it. A wolf's howl.

"Christ!" Essex sinned.

As he shoved each leg into his pants, and rested a shirt over his shoulders, his mind raced. He was tired, devoid of rest and yearning for sleep. He had never witnessed a full-grown mutant, one who had tasted blood, was he ill equipped for such a meeting? Lastly, would he die? He knew that any one other than himself left alone with the mutants would be dead, but they were unimportant. Was he willing to die for his legend? He had told himself yes, but now that the castle was captured by the mutant and the possibility was grave, did he tell himself only lies?

Essex cracked the door to his chambers open slightly. Outside his room, no torches were lit and only shadows were at play. His visibility was low, only improving when the lightning was active. No sounds were detectable. Since the original howl, he heard not a single sound, no screams, no howls, and no sounds of struggle. All was peaceful. He finally ventured out into the hallway. His first place of observation would have to be the Lord's quarters. He was the only person stationed otherwise, and that was because of his request. He quietly crept on toe toward the Lord's chambers.

He had reached them without fail, or harm, except for the rushes of adrenaline that shook his body when the lightning would snap. He placed one single, trembling hand on the knocker and paused. He was afraid to enter. He was afraid to see what he may stumble upon. His mind told his hand to push the door open with the knocker, but his bones were frozen, locked in place by fear.

The door buckled under an extreme force and snapped in a loud crack, splintering the door on top of the frozen Essex. The action rendered him useless, pinned under the weight of the mutant, who now stand on the shattered door, caved in on his chest. Essex tried to revolt, but his strength was vastly ineffective. The full grown mutant outweighed seven hundred pounds easily, and stood about ten foot tall. Essex squirmed as a stream of saliva spilled from the foul winded maw of the creature onto his chin. The lighting snapped violently again and the mutant dipped toward Essex, sinking his massive jaw into the throat. Short nibbles sawed at Essex's Adam's apple, finally freeing it in a tug of crimson flesh and matter that splashed around the stone hallway. Essex gagged for his last breaths of air, no longer able to fight the mutant's dagger-teeth from pulverizing his exposed neck. As a last hope, Essex read a prayer, the only prayer he knew in his mind. He had hoped since he was failed by science, the religion he desecrated would forgive him and save his mortal soul.

"I offer you salvation, Nathaniel Essex."

His prayers were answered.

TO BE CONTINUED...

AUTHOR'S NOTES

First off, Thanks to Brent Lambert for letting me in on his madness. Thanks to M2K for letting him have his madness. I must admit, this little project was my most enjoyable fan-fiction experience. The ability to know nothing about the characters you are going to use is liberating, and challenging at the same time.

Trying to mash together Mister Sinister and (to be named later sorceress) was quite a "mind-fuck." Hopefully I will have accomplished this by the end of my three issue run, in a read that is nothing short of enjoyable. Again, thanks to all whom made it possible.