A/N: Whoo! I know it's been a long while since I posted the last chapter... But things have yet to slow down, and I've been putting more time in writing my own original works. I've got to get this novel done by next year... . Anyway, I had some time today, since I've been sick the past few days. It's a good thing I can write short chapters here...

So, we have more of Pythos, and Sharon. X] Review? You can pet wolf!Break!

Break: O_W I am not a pet!

Chapter 9:

Foiled

Pythos darted around yet another corner, his long, sleek body maneuvering easily over the flat surface of the marble halls, and running carpets. He kept to the base of the wall, just in the corner, to avoid feet of any kind.

The house was on the hunt for him. And no small wonder – a cobra was a thing to be feared.

A part of him relished in the terror he brought to the inhabitants of the household. It was his power to wield, his and his alone. Even wolves could not summon the influence to utterly petrify a human being. For a wolf was a mortal enemy, to be sure. But a single bite from his jaws, which were faster than a blink, and his victim knew that their time on this earth was over. His venom would escort them to the very gates of the afterlife. And there was no escape.

He could hear the women's shrieks of fright as they relayed the tale of their witness, the shouting of men's voices down the corridors, the heavy tramping of feet on the rugs… and somewhere beyond all of that, he could detect the gentle squeak of wooden wheels.

"Found you…" he hissed to himself.

He dove behind an urn as two men in long black coats hustled past. When their footsteps faded into the next hallway, he peered out, and continued on.

Following the sound of the wheelchair was not difficult. It was so foreign among all the other sounds of the house – the only one of its kind. Like a laugh on a cold, icy mountain, it rang out like a signal for him to trace. And trace it he did, right into the grand parlor on the main floor.

Her back was to the door. Good. She, and the young heiress sat beside the fireplace. The girl curled up at her grandmother's feet, leaning on the blanket that encircled the lower half of the elderly woman's chair. Wrinkled hands clasped smooth, flawless ones as the old one whispered words of comfort.

"My dear girl… You know he would rather die serving you than any other way. And in the end, I doubt your argument stood out in his thoughts."

"But it's my fault! If I hadn't been so rash and stormed off like I did, he never would have gone after that wolf. He'd be here; things would be like they always have been…" The heiress sniffled, burying her teary face against her grandmother's hands. "What if he did think of that argument… What if he felt as guilty as I do… I know he did, grandmamma. He always felt guilty… about everything…"

"Shhh…" The old one sighed. "We… can never know for sure how things truly were. What we can and must do now is hope for the best, and look to the future."

For a long moment, the heiress didn't reply. Her face slowly hardened into a cold, hard sorrow. Pythos saw the self-hatred oh so easily from where he had curled up in the dancing shadows of the hearth.

"What future, grandmamma? How… I can't imagine a future without him in it…"

Tears spilled over again – and would keep spilling over, he guessed, indefinitely. For days, weeks, probably years to come. This new wound, dealt cruelly in the depths of the night, would more than likely never heal.

And that knowledge made swell a sick pleasure in Pythos' heart. A smile tugged at his scaly lips.

It was then, as the heiress' eyes were closed in grief, and the grandmother's head bowed in silent comforting, that he emerged from his hiding place. His grin grew wider still as he inched closer, and closer to his target. If he could just slip under those wheels, and get at her ankle…

He heard the guntshot, and then nothing.

~PH~

Sharon couldn't hold in the shriek of fright as the gunshot resounded through the manor. More shouts that sounded as surprised as she felt followed, and she heard their owners approaching the parlor.

She felt herself pulled closer to her grandmother, and further from the fire. Sheryl gasped, and Sharon hurried to follow her gaze. In front of the fireplace, lay a massive writhing black serpent, its head blown completely away. She whirled, along with her grandmother, to face the doorway.

A man in a long, black coat stood framed in the brighter light from the hallway behind him – a black coat oh, so different from the Pandora agents'. There were no shoulders of white; instead, a golden cross and chain adorned the front, matching the buttons, graced by tendrils of long, golden-blonde hair. His arm still remained rigid, pistol poised to fire in the gloved hand, and the last waft of smoke drifted from the barrel.

He cocked his head, and smiled at them. His mismatching eyes narrowed with the unnerving expression, but their depths were untouched by the mirth he attempted to show. So similar, yet so different from Break's smile…

"Lady Sheryl," said the gunman with an incline of his head. "Miss Sharon. Hullo."

"Vincent!" Sheryl placed a hand on her chest, inhaling deeply. Sharon watched as the fright slowly drained from the elderly woman's countenance.

But Sharon didn't relax. Her late guardian's never-ceasing wariness of the contractor of Dormouse seemed to have passed to her.

"You scared us half to death," continued her grandmother, her hand absently stroking Sharon's hair. "But thank you. I never-"

"The King Cobra is among one of the largest and deadliest snake breeds in the world," the adopted Nightray rattled off, lowering his gun. "A single bite can inject anywhere between two-hundred, and five-hundred milligrams of toxic venom, equal and exceeding the average injection of the western diamondback rattlesnake, and fully capable of fatality. The cobra's venom targets the central nervous system…" He paused, heaving a sigh as he holstered his pistol. "Depending on the severity of the bite, you might have been dead within half an hour."

Sheryl gave a short laugh, letting tension ebb away with the action, while Sharon could only scowl.

"Well then, thank you, good sir, for saving our lives," said the duchess with a smile, which Vincent returned.

"What was a cobra doing in our house?" Sharon didn't even try to hide her distaste. She was in no mood to deal with the Sewer Rat right now, and she had no doubt that he would be the last person to be sympathetic to the dark occasion at hand.

"Looking for an easy meal, by the looks of it." Oh, how she loathed his smile… "It's a good thing I was on my way to offer my condolences." His smile dimmed, but only just, as he looked straight at Sharon. She saw the deceitful glint in his red eye. "The Hatter will surely be missed."

The Hatter. Vincent never called Break by his name. One of the many things of which Sharon had inquired of Break in the past, and one of the many things which he would never answer.

"Thank you, Vincent. Your kind words are appreciated." Sharon hoped she wasn't imagining the slight hint of sarcasm in her grandmother's words. It made a small smile tug at her mouth. Obvious, Sheryl would only be so cordial to the man, and the fact that they seemed to harbor the same distaste for Vincent as her guardian had seemed a proper tribute to him.

"Gilbert told me of your task force, Miss Sharon," said he, stepping further into the room, so that the light of the fire played at his features. "I am honored that you requested I be a part of it."

"Well, despite all else, you are skilled with a firearm, even better than your brother," Sharon replied curtly.

"I am sure Hatter would be proud of your desire to avenge his death."

There was something dark in his tone, and his stare, something… something she couldn't quite put her finger on. But it was enough to make her shiver. And she began to wonder if it was truly a good idea to request the services of the likes of Vincent Nightray…