Vladimir had a hard time sleeping that morning. His claw-like hands dug into the sheets, thinking back to the corpses that rested on the street that night. It haunted him, racking the inner workings of his mind, but he didn’t know why. Their empty eye sockets. The drool from their mouth. The pools of blood…He shook his head and turned to his side, seeing the back of his wife’s head. 

Eleanor.

Was he ever glad to have married her. Beautiful. Obedient. Intelligent. Elegant. He was able to converse with someone worth his intellect. And even though he was opposed to the arranged marriage at first, he has grown to love the decision now. But he wished to know if she ever felt the same. As he reached a lanky finger out to touch her hair, her body shifted slightly. She just woke up.

“Are you awake, dear?” she asked, turning her head. 

He inched back his hand before speaking. “Yes, my love.”

She sighed. “What troubles you at this hour?”

“Nothing troubles me.” he put a hand to her cheek as he moved closer. “Just some racing thoughts, nothing more.”

“Racing thoughts, you say?” she turned towards him. “Of what kind?”

“The kind that I wish not to discuss.” 

She furrowed her brow, but did not proceed further. “Perhaps playing the piano will clear your head. You always seem so tranquil as you play on it.”

He chuckled. “I remember the day you bought it for me” he held her close, a slight flinch from Eleanor as he drew near.

“Yes…I do too…”

“Now what troubles you?”

“Nothing, dear. Simply nothing.”

The room once filled with light tender love was filled with uncertainty. He let her go. “There must be something bothering you. Your tone shifted.”

“Please, dear. I don’t wish to fight-”

“Who said we were fighting?!” He sat up, his hair falling to his face. “You are the one wishing to make a fuss!”

“No I-” she froze and took a breath. “I believe you should play that piano now.” she turned back over, signaling to Vladimir that the conversation was over. The gall of that woman he thought. He slipped out the bed, grabbed his robe, and left the room in a huff. 

The stairs he took circled down from the third floor all the way to the first, but he only needed to reach the second for the time being. The railings were made of stained wood, along with the steps which were covered with a deep red carpeting laced with a black dramatic pattern. A similar pattern was on the wall except for a lighter red for the background and a deep red for the pattern. 

There were dark paintings and photos of the three of them. Vladimir, Elanore, and their only child Ciel. Ciel was his pride and joy. A strong and independent man just like his father. He stopped on the stairs to look at the family photo they took. They were all wearing their finest attire and Ciel was only seven at the time. “Oh Ciel,” he murmured before touching the painting. 

He quickly recoiled his hand however,  for he felt grains of dirt and a small lining of dust coated his hand. He shook it in disgust, trying to get rid of it. He ended up wiping it off with his handkerchief, placing it in his pocket. “I’ll have to scold the maids for this later.” he grumbled as he completed his walk down the stairs. 

He went down the hall, passing more paintings that probably needed dusting as well, and entered the last room to the right. It was the entertainment room, the third largest room in the house. It had a stage for performances, the finest lounging chairs, a bar, and a variety of instruments neatly put in a corner along with the grand piano sitting there lavishly. 

Only Vladimir himself was allowed to play the piano, though he did teach his son Ciel from time to time. He sat down on the seat, scooting it back and flipping back his hair. He combed it through with his claw-like fingernails and set his fingers in the resting position on the keys. “Ok, Mr. Drakon” he murmured to himself. “What shall we play today?”

His finger hit the higher C#, causing a high pitch to echo through the room and creep a bit through the empty hallways. “Still sings as sweet as ever.” He then began to play the Funeral March that reverberated through the room, reaching to every object and piece in there, seeming to even make the walls cry. 

His eyes clenched shut as he knew the keys by heart. A. F. C♭. Every note echoed through his memories as he let his thoughts race along them. A man and woman dancing in proper ball attire. White wigs adorned both of their heads and their skin white as milk. The air was choked from the fumes of perfume and must as they spun around in classical ballroom fashion. 

Vladimire was small as he stood in the corner of the ballroom. He dreaded the blasted wig adorned on his head, making his scalp itch and burn. But he kept his hands still, being the proper boy they adored. Soon a flash of a shadow of a body, and then…

Vladimire gasped as he opened his eyes and touched his cheek. He was…crying? Clenching his fist, he ferociously wiped his eyes. He sighed. “A man does not cry…” he said to himself.  Vladimir positioned his hands at the keys to start again, but got interrupted by the door ringing. His grumble of irritation soon grew into a yell. 

“CAROLINE!” he shouted, attempting to awaken her. “CAROLINE! I SWEAR, IF YOU DON’T GET UP-”

“I’m up sir!” a shrill british voice responded, rushing down the spiral staircase in her nightgown and circle-shaped glasses. 

“Oh bloody hell, don’t go to the door so disheveled!” he raced after her down the stairs, grabbing her ferociously by the shoulder. She froze, staring at him in fear. He quickly combed through her hair, adjusted her dress, and pushed up her glasses. “There, now answer the door!”

“Y-yes sir!” she ran and opened the door, the light of day seeping in. Vladimire hissed and stepped back to the darkness of the house. “Good Morning sir, please state your name and reasoning.”

“Good morning’ to you, mam! The name’s Ferguson and I'm here to bring a report on our recent findings from the round table!”

As if Vladimir’s headache wasn’t big enough, it was the walking blood bag. He silently groaned as Caroline looked at him for a response. “Send the oaf in…” he grumbled as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

Ferguson strolled in as Caroline closed the door. “Shall I get the two of you some wine?” she asked, looking at Vladimir

“Tea would do us better, thank you.” Vladimir replied, answering before Feruson could, as he began to trail back up to the entertainment room. “Follow me…”

Ferguson nodded and rushed behind him. Vladimir gritted his teeth as he heard him run up the stairs. He could only think how that could ruin the steps and carpeting. He turned to him. “I’ll tell you this one time. Never run up the stairs.” he spoke sharply.

“I understand, but you don’t need to speak to me like a child,” he responded, chuckling a bit. Ferguson was met by his daggered eyes and his chuckle switched to a stifled cough. 

He held disdain for the man. Nothing more than a bumbling man going through life as an empty husk. How did his father raise such a disappointment? 

“Do you play?” he said once they reached the entertainment room.

“Pardon?” Ferguson asked, puzzled by the question.

“The piano” he sat down at the seat.

“I’m afraid not, sir. Only string instruments such as the violin or the fiddle.”

“The piano is a string instrument too, Mr. Wiles.”

“So, you know my last name?”

“Why of course,” he began to play a dark and gentle melody. “It was your late fathers after all.”

“Ah, of course,” he walked to a violin in the corner of the room. “May I?”

“Help yourself,” he said. He truthfully didn’t want his human hands all over it, but he needed him to get closer and to trust him as a member of the table. 

He played along with Vladimir, filling the abode with gentle melodies. Even Vladimir had to admit that he was good on the instrument. 

“So, you had a report for me?” he said, still playing the piano.

“Oh! Right!” He gently sat the violin back where it laid and grabbed the stack of papers that laid on top of the piano. “So I discussed the issue about the vampire slander to the publisher…however-”

Vladimir stopped playing, visibly gritting his teeth already. “What do you mean, however?”

Ferguson grew nervous. “Well, he ended up brushing me off, saying how it ‘brought in more sales’ and how vampires deserve nothing more than what they get.” 

Vladimir’s fist slammed on the keys. “Blasted men!” he cursed through his teeth. “Racist basterds, all of them-”

“Wait, wait, sir! I have good news as well!”

The steam that seemed to go from his ears dissipated. “And what would that be?”

“We have a bit of a lead.” He pulled out a small jar with traces of a blue liquid and a small printed logo with a spider and the letter M on its back. Vladimire snatched the vile from his grasp, inspecting it closer

“What is this?” he asked, inspecting it closely.

“It’s a jar of what we believe to be the drug substance,” he hesitantly answered. “I found it in the publisher’s office.”

“Is that right?” he asked as his face curled into a grin, showing his fangs and his pale gums. “Well, let's pay the man a visit shall we?”

The room was silent before Ferguson spoke. “Do you mean now or-”

“TONIGHT!” he slammed his fist down and sighed in frustration. “We will go…tonight."