The Tibetan air was crisp and cool as Esme St Clair made her way up the mountain path towards the shimmering white sphere lodged in the side. It had been a few days since Sherrinford had been recovered, and he was still too badly injured to move around - the Contessa had sent her in regards to meet a Mister Marcel Black. From what she was aware, the man was a valet and one of the best - but she was not prepared for the sheer minimalistic serenity of the rooms.
The main chamber was a soft white, showing only a small shrine at the back, a neat bookcase of leather bound tomes in alphabetical order, and a pristinely polished grand piano. Quickly checking to see if anybody was there, she took a seat and played a snippet of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata to test it out - it was tuned to perfection, as she had expected, and a small holographic display arose before her eyes showing the notes to come in full detail.
"I didn't think Armstrong would be the sort to play this sort of thing," she muttered to herself under her breath.
"He doesn't." She wheeled around to see the butler, pristine as ever, stood a few paces away. His long blonde hair was slicked back in comparison to his "master's" black militaristic style, and he wore a full white tuxedo with red ascot. "I, on the other hand, do. But Beethoven is a tad too simple, perhaps?" In response, Esme launched herself into Khachaturian's Toccata, her hands moving like lightning over the keyboard. She was about to begin the andante espressivo movement when she heard the faint slither of metal.
She reached up and caught the handle of the katana as Marcel attempted to slice her vertically before curling up and kicking him squarely in the jaw. He tilted his head just far enough to dodge it, and launched a few punches into her contorted ribs. She collapsed to the floor, and swung her legs as she fell, managing to catch behind his knee. She pulled her foot to her chest, throwing Marcel towards the wall.
He crashed into the wall, and raised his hands in submission.
"Very good, Mademoiselle St Clair. Very good indeed. The technique could use a title polishing, but overall exceptional form." He gave a little applause before handing over a small key. "The keys to the master's quarters. Take one of the needles and administer direct to the heart." He nodded before beginning on the piano - a slow, almost mourning piece that Esme couldn't quite recall.
Everett Wen smiled as he walked into the halls of the castle. It had been years since he had visited Ingolstadt - the last time, he had sneaked the secrets of creating life into the notebooks of some upstart scientist, and things had gone out of control - but now all was peaceful. He heaved open the great oaken doors and walked to see the myriad notes that had been left behind on the desks by old vials and dirty Petri dishes, left alone for decades.
Finally, he found it - a leather bound journal. There were a few minor psychical precautions, but the power was faint at best - he wrenched open the book and in an instant, the Contessa's last stand against him finding her motives were shattered. He remembered her when she came to him - utter beauty masking that glorious bloodlust. But now - now she cared about things. It was tedious, now - another obstacle to overcome.
His eyes came across the word "Götaland", and a chill ran down his spine as realisation dawned on him.
Around Ingolstadt, the people could swear that on that night, there was thunder by the castle.