The Serpent's Bite

Double release has nothing to do with my odds of surviving the reader's wrath.

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Vampire Rule N°28: Denn die Todten reiten Schnell.

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When your life is falling apart, it does so slowly...and then all at once.

The night was eerily quiet around DeAndre Etienne's villa, the man who answered to the not-so-sweet name of Hungry.

His house nestled deep in the woods that formed the domain of the wealthy, the houses in the County far from the isles where the rich and powerful could rest without fear. The villa, a relic of old money that Hungry had purchased when the drug trade started filling his pockets, now felt like a tomb.

The long driveway, once lined with well-maintained shrubs, was overgrown. The lavish pool, once a sight for sore eyes full of scantily clad ladies so desperate to catch his eye, ready to obey his every word, was now left empty, dirty and abandoned, and the mansion's ornate windows, though grand, appeared like the hollow eyes of a skull.

It was all rotten, mouldy, waiting for death.

Inside, Hungry sat with a half-empty glass of whiskey, his nerves unravelling as the silence around him deepened.

He had been running things smoothly—well, as smoothly as it gets when you are at the top of a criminal conspiracy in Gotham City, but even then things were good.

Until that Monster showed up. One moment, he was running his territory without a hitch, the next, his men were being torn apart. First, a few thugs here and there, ones nobody really cared about, a couple fine stick-ups living them bruised and empty-handed.

Annoying, but it was expected, the costs of doing business.

They said it was batman, but only a complete idiot would buy that.

The bat wouldn't crush a fourteen years old's hand because he raised a pistol, nor would he just take the drugs and money without the cops appearing to pick up the bodies a few minutes later.

No, it wasn't his style.

Then, his top earners started vanishing and coming back as giant, penniless, drugless bruises. Stash after stash, soldier after soldier, someone was trying to destroy his small kingdom and that was something he couldn't ignore.

Or so he thought.

'If I knew, I would have pocketed my money and left this f*cking city—If I knew…' He lamented, then filled yet another glass to drown his regrets.

Nothing he tried could stop that thing, that fuckin' monster. No amount of men could slow him down, no attempt to hide the drugs was successful. He was losing money, drugs and soldiers everyday...but that was nothing compared to what it did to his reputation.

And then they met—if it could even be called that.

Even now, more than a month later, his jaw still hurt from the vicious strikes, his ribs still ached and stung, his ego was reeling and demanded revenge.

Little did he know, that revenge would only make the monster explore new heights of brutality.

It wasn't like this from the start. The Monster played his little games, crippling business but keeping the men alive, so Hungry figured it was just one of Gotham's usual freakshows—someone making a name for themselves.

He'd even thought about hiring him for security.

Sure, he beat him up, and he did want a pound of flesh for that one, but this was Gotham and holding grudges when you could be making money wasn't the way.

But after meeting the other bosses, after accepting that deal with the cartel, kill of their blunt knife in exchange for a massive discount, something he conveniently forgot to mention to his associates when it was time to pay up...it was too late.

Out of nearly a hundred men sent to get rid of the snake bitch and the monster, more than forty ended up dead, twenty were beaten to a pulp and the rest ran away to who-knows-where...smartest decision they could make, really, but it was still a massive loss.

The Monster had crossed the line. And so had Hungry, when he agreed to double-cross that assassin, Copperhead.

It was a desperate move, but one that came back to haunt him now, sitting in his villa with dread curling in his gut like a tightening noose.

Tomorrow, he would be in a plane heading straight for Bermuda, with a couple millions in his pocket and a few loyal brothers who deserved an escape.

But until then—they needed to survive.

Hungry glanced nervously at the few men still loyal to him, scattered around the dimly lit room. Each one had been handpicked—thugs, brutes, and killers he had known for years. But even they looked rattled, their hands gripping their guns too tightly, eyes darting to the windows as if expecting the shadows to attack.

The tension in the air was suffocating.

"Where the hell is he?" one of the men muttered, pacing by the fireplace. His voice cracked, betraying his fear.

"Shut up," Hungry snapped, though the edge of panic in his own voice was hard to ignore. He slammed his glass on the table, spilling expensive whiskey across the mahogany. "We've got enough firepower here to drop anyone who shows up. The Monster can't kill us all."

Yeah, the freak who killed off forty men will be stopped by a couple gangsters.

The words rang hollow even to him. He knew they were sitting ducks, trapped in this gaudy villa, waiting for an enemy they couldn't fight.

Worse, there had been no word from the men he'd sent out to patrol the grounds. No one had checked in for hours.

They might have betrayed them, stole some fancy crap and fled while they could, he hoped they did.

The ticking of an old grandfather clock was the only sound breaking the silence now. Tick, tick, tick. Hungry's nerves were frayed, the rhythmic sound gnawing at him. Every tick seemed like a countdown to his death.

He felt like shooting it, but his men were so afraid they might kill him as a reflex.

"Where the hell is Tony?" one of the guards growled, nervously glancing at the hallway. Tony had been sent to check on the perimeter hours ago.

Hungry opened his mouth to respond when the door burst open.

Tony stumbled in, pale as a sheet, blood running down his face from a gash across his temple. He was breathing heavily, his eyes bloodshot and wide with terror.

"Boss—" he gasped, but his words were cut off by a loud, sickening snap.

Tony's body jerked violently, his head twisted at an unnatural angle, and he crumpled to the floor like a ragdoll.

Behind him, the woman in the skin-tight suit—Copperhead—stepped through the doorway, her green eyes glinting with something predatory.

Hungry felt his stomach drop.

"So, this is what you call loyalty?" she asked, her voice smooth and mocking. "Sending me to die after hiring me for a job. I've had worse bosses, but not many."

The men around Hungry raised their guns, but before anyone could fire, Copperhead moved. She was faster than any human should be, her body twisting and contorting in a way that defied logic. She darted forward, a blur of motion, and in a heartbeat, she was among them, metal claws flashing.

Hungry watched in horror as his men fell one by one. Copperhead didn't kill cleanly. She slashed tendons, crushed windpipes, and left men gurgling for air as they drowned in their own blood. It was brutal, efficient, and terrifying.

Compared to this, being killed by some thug sounds like a good time.

Shots were fired, bodies dropped, but she was still slaughtering them.

In less than a minute, Hungry was the only one left standing.

He stumbled back, his heart pounding in his chest, eyes darting to the heavy gun on the table. But before he could even think about reaching for it, Copperhead was in front of him. Her hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat, the metal piercing his skin and mixed his blood with her poison.

'I'm dead.'

Hungry gasped, clawing at her hand, but her grip was like iron. His vision blurred, spots dancing in front of his eyes as his body started giving in, his intoxicated brain showing him visions of times long gone.

His mother asking him why he dropped out of school after all the sacrifices she made.

His father chasing him out of the house when he found a package under his roof, in his own basement.

The love of his life, rejecting him to marry some brown-skinned accountant named Jerry.

"You made a mistake," Copperhead whispered, her lips curling into a sadistic smile. "You thought you could use me. But now, you get to die for it."

Hungry's world began to darken, his final thoughts not of regret or repentance, but of hatred—hatred for the idiot who had suggested double-crossing her, the moron who came up with this mess of a plan. He wished for nothing more than for that fool to suffer a worse death than the one awaiting him.

With one last convulsion, Hungry's body went limp in Copperhead's grasp, his eyes glazing over as life left him.

Copperhead dropped him unceremoniously on the floor, wiping her hands with his overpriced silk tie. She stood over his body for a moment, her heart still racing from the thrill of the kill.

Then, with a quiet exhale, she turned and left the villa, leaving nothing but corpses in her wake.

The job was done, it was time to...to come back home.

. . .

When Copperhead returned to John's house, the sun was beginning to rise on the horizon. The tension in her shoulders eased as she stepped inside, her senses immediately attuned to the dim lighting and the cool air. She wasn't sure what she expected when she returned, but the sight of John sitting in his high-backed chair, a chalice in hand, didn't surprise her.

Standing vigil beside him was his servant, Reginald, though John insisted on calling him bubbles because 'There is nothing more intimidating than a scary motherf*cker called bubbles.'

She knew better than to question that madman by now.

He looked up as she entered, looking a bit tired, yet with a small smile playing on his lips.

"You're back," he said softly, his voice smooth as silk. "And I take it Hungry won't be bothering us no more?"

Copperhead nodded, the exhaustion of the night catching up with her. "It's done. He's dead. They all are."

"Good. You've proven yourself tonight." John's eyes gleamed in what she hoped was approval, his smile widening as he rose from his chair.

She stepped closer, her gaze flicking to the chalice in his hand. "So, what now?"

John tilted his head, studying her for a moment. "Now, it's time to make our arrangement official."

Her brow furrowed slightly, but she didn't back down. She had known this moment was coming. Harker had promised her power and safety, a fraccion of the sorcery that made him what he is.

She had seen what that man, Reginald could do, strenght and endurance beyond an untrained man. All because he gave his loyalty to John Harker, he said.

Larissa wanted this power.

John extended the chalice toward her, the dark liquid inside swirling hypnotically. "Drink," he said, his voice commanding but not harsh. "Drink, and you'll be more than you've ever been. No more running, no more hiding. You'll have strength, speed, power beyond anything you've known. Safe from the ravages of times, as long as the bond is maintained."

She frankly had no idea what he was talking about.

"Will it make me stronger?" She asked bluntly.

"Yes," He answered, still trying to salvage the solemn mood.

Copperhead hesitated for only a second before taking the chalice.

She raised it to her lips, the liquid thick and cold as it slid down her throat. As she drank, a burning sensation spread through her chest, making her gasp. She dropped the chalice, clutching at her chest as the fire spread through her veins, igniting every cell in her body with newfound strength.

John watched, his red eyes glowing with satisfaction. His fangs glinted in the low light, and Copperhead could feel his power wrapping around her like a cloak.

When the burning finally subsided, Copperhead straightened, her breathing ragged but steady. She felt... different. Stronger, faster, sharper. Everything about her felt heightened, as if the world had suddenly come into focus.

John stepped closer, his gaze locked on hers. "Welcome to your new life," he said softly, his voice laced with power. "We must renew the bond for three nights, and then you will truly become my faithful ghoul."

She met his gaze, feeling the bond between them like a pull at her very core. It wasn't the same as the contracts she had taken in the past. This was something deeper, something more... binding. And she found herself craving it, wanting to serve him, to prove herself to him.

It was unnatural, the way the flimsy, emotional loyalty she felt grew stronger after a single night, but she couldn't find it in her to regret it.

He kept his word, after all.

"I won't let you down," she promised, her voice steady and certain, she now knew what to do.

"I know you won't. Now, come. We have work to do."John's smile widened, his fangs flashing in the dim light. 

Unfortuantely for him and his plans, Larissa had other plans.