While she wore her usual impassive expression, Connor’s heart thundered in her chest. Reflected in her wide, watery gaze, the blood red flames from the McCready’s home tilted and whirled in a macabre display of color. The familiar scent of burnt wood, grey ash and the distant tinge of scorched, human flesh mingled in the air.
It nearly caused her to vomit.
Closing her eyes, she willed herself slow her breathing at the all too familiar sight of fire consuming an entire household. She shivered, though not from the biting gusts of wind licking up from the ocean to the east. Logically, she knew old memories had little to do with the scene in front of her. Yet her vision swam, her fingertips numb with mounting dread as she swallowed back bile. Thankfully, she was perched relatively far from the lip of the roof and a few doors south of the blaze. So there was little danger of falling to the cobblestones, should a fainting spell take her. Still, there were the guards to be aware of…
“Duncan,” she whispered, abruptly recognizing the pattern of footsteps just to her left. Not to mention, the sound of his fingers jangling his rosary beads along his right hand.
“Miss Connor,” his soft, Irish drawl filled her ears. It proved a blessed comfort, replacing the heaving, fatal crackle of the fire licking at the house. Eyes snapping open, she jerked her head in greeting. A few years ago and she would’ve chided him for such formality, as there was no need for him to grant her that strange, colonial title of “Miss.” Now, she’d come to accept to it easily enough. He meant no insult, simply respect. Frankly, it was made all the more extraordinary considering that he now knew she was the daughter of the man who’d murdered his uncle.
Slowly moving to her feet, she held out a hand. Thankfully, it was no longer shaking. “How do you fare?”
“I may ask the same of you, Connor,” he lightly said, returning her handshake. Briefly looking her over, he arched a ginger brow, “I nearly snuck up on ya, lass.”
“Nearly,” she swallowed, “But not quite.”
"Heh,” he chuckled, “Were I a younger man, I may have succeeded.”
"Then let us be glad you are more an old man than I,” she retorted, cracking the faintest of grins.
Glancing between her and the fire beyond at her back, Duncan gave a small, knowing shrug. “Mayhap we should travel by the streets, Connor? The patrolling soldiers are far too occupied with…that,” he pointed to the flames over her shoulder, “Than two supposed civilians.”
“I agree,” she quickly shook her head.
Lithely making her way to ground, she immediately turned in the opposite direction of the burning home.Following in her wake, Duncan remained at her heels. After a few moments of silence, they crossed into the northern section of the city. Slipping into the backdoor of the tavern Duncan frequented, they headed to their usual table in the corner. Within a few moments, Duncan had his usual ale, Connor forgoing such for water. While she was a bit famished, her stomach was still twisted into knots.
“It’s all pretty horrifying, God rest their souls” Duncan let out a heavy sigh, “Especially their little one, Whitney.”
Letting out a curse in her native language, Connor shook her head to clear it. To know that a child perished in the flames as well sent her reeling. “How…do we know that none of them escaped?” her voice rose a bit.
“Blending with the crowd out there,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “No one saw them leave when the fire broke out. And judging by how fast the house caught, it was likely set on purpose.”
“We have tracked the McCreadys all autumn.” Biting back a groan, Connor angrily waved a hand, “Considering Mr. McCready’s employer, this is likely the work of General Matthew Davenport, I presume?”
“Aye,” Duncan solemnly frowned, dark eyes flashing with ire. “When you sent us out to scout the mystery of your missing convoys round ‘bout then end of summer, it proved surprisingly easy to discern his involvement. He’s become bolder and bolder in attacking Patriot outposts on the frontier."
“Clipper mentioned you were both able to infiltrate his stronghold at Fort St. Mathieu?”
“With little issue,” Duncan smiled, absentmindedly running a thumb along a rosary bead. “The gent’s always had a head for simple, effective planning. He’s also got quite a talent for improvising when things go south.”
"'Go south?'" Connor asked with a hint of confusion.
"Forgive me," Duncan briefly laughed, "It's a colloquialism meaning, 'when things go bad.'"
“Hmm," she nodded, mentally adding to her English repertoire. "Anyway, he has undoubtedly flourished under your direction,” she steadily continued. She didn’t fail to notice the color that bloomed to Duncan’s cheeks.
“The boy gives me far too much credit,” Duncan nearly stammered, ducking his head and taking a long draught of ale.
“Somehow, I doubt that,” Connor assured him.
“I see,” Duncan lightly coughed. “In the meantime, you mentioned in your letter before you arrived that another one of your convoys was attacked a few weeks ago?”
"Typical Templar impudence,” Connor groused, barely able to hold back a pout.
Chuckling at her expression, Duncan reached out and gave her hand a comforting pat. Pleased to see she didn’t flinch, he agreed, “No doubt. Combined with the fact that Mrs. McCready was nearly there as far as trusting me with the full details of her husband’s involvement with Templars, I can only assume he caught wind of the family’s possible defection.”
“Surely not from our end?” Connor croaked in alarm, eyebrows shooting upwards.
“Clipper and I were absolutely mum,” Duncan raised a hand of reassurance.
Lips pressed together into a thin line, she closed her eyes for a moment. Hunching down and pulling her hood closer about her head, she crossed her arms in frustration before replying, “I know you both were. You have always been the paragons of silence. As has Stephane.”
Duncan nodded in agreement as he took a sip of his ale, “He was our proverbial ‘in’ to the McCready’s, considering the family frequented the inn where he works in the kitchen. Hence, how I was able to make her acquaintance,” Duncan affirmed.
“Of course,” Connor replied.
“I purposely wandered about the market just down the block from Stephane’s. It took ‘bout a month or so, but she and George eventually had me over for dinner every week or so.” Withdrawing a bit, Duncan pulled a small, red, leather-bound notebook from his robes. Sliding it across the table, he smirked, “Snooping around the house every time I crossed the threshold, I was able to copy roughly three-quarters of his log book from his study.”
Eyes widening, Connor reached out and snatched it. Flipping through the pages, she immediately realized that George McCready certainly valued details. Dating back a couple of years, there were logs of transports and bribes, as well as exactly how much he apparently skimmed. Surprisingly, his embezzlement was minimal. Surely not enough to murder an entire family over.
Bloody Templar brutes.
After a long while, Connor leaned forward and declared, “It looks as though my next journey shall be to the Fort, then.”
“You’ve no wish for Clipper and me to carry this out?” he swiftly asked.
Glancing down at where the rosary was wrapped around Duncan’s wrist, Connor let a grin slip to her face. “How long until he returns from Trenton on his current mission?” she casually asked.
“He’s due in less than week,” Duncan summarily said, twisting the beads through his fingers.
“And so you keep him in your prayers?” Connor nodded in understanding.
Staring at her for a bit, Duncan let out a pent up sigh and shifted in his seat a bit, “It is the least I may do for…a dear friend.“
"We all hope for his safe return. He will acquit himself with aplomb, I am sure,” Connor dipped her head in agreement. “However, between his current assignment and Stephane’s present undertaking in the Carolinas to train Jacob Zenger, I need your eyes and ears attuned to the city for any new developments. Thus, I believe it is best if I pursue General Davenport on the Frontier.”
“As you wish,” Duncan waved. “Though as much as you believe you don’t need to hear it, do be careful Connor.”
“You need not worry yourself,” she shyly replied, glancing away for a moment. “But,” she began drumming her fingers along the aged table, “I assure you that I am grateful for your concern.”
Connor’s stomach finally settling, she joined Duncan for dinner. Planning her journey and reviewing their intel, the two talked deep into the night. It was nearly one in the morning by the time they retired to their rented rooms upstairs.
Soon, General Davenport would find that the Assassins were no longer mere myth, but rather, a force to be reckoned with.
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 9/?
It nearly caused her to vomit.
Closing her eyes, she willed herself slow her breathing at the all too familiar sight of fire consuming an entire household. She shivered, though not from the biting gusts of wind licking up from the ocean to the east. Logically, she knew old memories had little to do with the scene in front of her. Yet her vision swam, her fingertips numb with mounting dread as she swallowed back bile. Thankfully, she was perched relatively far from the lip of the roof and a few doors south of the blaze. So there was little danger of falling to the cobblestones, should a fainting spell take her. Still, there were the guards to be aware of…
“Duncan,” she whispered, abruptly recognizing the pattern of footsteps just to her left. Not to mention, the sound of his fingers jangling his rosary beads along his right hand.
“Miss Connor,” his soft, Irish drawl filled her ears. It proved a blessed comfort, replacing the heaving, fatal crackle of the fire licking at the house. Eyes snapping open, she jerked her head in greeting. A few years ago and she would’ve chided him for such formality, as there was no need for him to grant her that strange, colonial title of “Miss.” Now, she’d come to accept to it easily enough. He meant no insult, simply respect. Frankly, it was made all the more extraordinary considering that he now knew she was the daughter of the man who’d murdered his uncle.
Slowly moving to her feet, she held out a hand. Thankfully, it was no longer shaking. “How do you fare?”
“I may ask the same of you, Connor,” he lightly said, returning her handshake. Briefly looking her over, he arched a ginger brow, “I nearly snuck up on ya, lass.”
“Nearly,” she swallowed, “But not quite.”
"Heh,” he chuckled, “Were I a younger man, I may have succeeded.”
"Then let us be glad you are more an old man than I,” she retorted, cracking the faintest of grins.
Glancing between her and the fire beyond at her back, Duncan gave a small, knowing shrug. “Mayhap we should travel by the streets, Connor? The patrolling soldiers are far too occupied with…that,” he pointed to the flames over her shoulder, “Than two supposed civilians.”
“I agree,” she quickly shook her head.
Lithely making her way to ground, she immediately turned in the opposite direction of the burning home.Following in her wake, Duncan remained at her heels. After a few moments of silence, they crossed into the northern section of the city. Slipping into the backdoor of the tavern Duncan frequented, they headed to their usual table in the corner. Within a few moments, Duncan had his usual ale, Connor forgoing such for water. While she was a bit famished, her stomach was still twisted into knots.
“It’s all pretty horrifying, God rest their souls” Duncan let out a heavy sigh, “Especially their little one, Whitney.”
Letting out a curse in her native language, Connor shook her head to clear it. To know that a child perished in the flames as well sent her reeling. “How…do we know that none of them escaped?” her voice rose a bit.
“Blending with the crowd out there,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “No one saw them leave when the fire broke out. And judging by how fast the house caught, it was likely set on purpose.”
“We have tracked the McCreadys all autumn.” Biting back a groan, Connor angrily waved a hand, “Considering Mr. McCready’s employer, this is likely the work of General Matthew Davenport, I presume?”
“Aye,” Duncan solemnly frowned, dark eyes flashing with ire. “When you sent us out to scout the mystery of your missing convoys round ‘bout then end of summer, it proved surprisingly easy to discern his involvement. He’s become bolder and bolder in attacking Patriot outposts on the frontier."
“Clipper mentioned you were both able to infiltrate his stronghold at Fort St. Mathieu?”
“With little issue,” Duncan smiled, absentmindedly running a thumb along a rosary bead. “The gent’s always had a head for simple, effective planning. He’s also got quite a talent for improvising when things go south.”
"'Go south?'" Connor asked with a hint of confusion.
"Forgive me," Duncan briefly laughed, "It's a colloquialism meaning, 'when things go bad.'"
“Hmm," she nodded, mentally adding to her English repertoire. "Anyway, he has undoubtedly flourished under your direction,” she steadily continued. She didn’t fail to notice the color that bloomed to Duncan’s cheeks.
“The boy gives me far too much credit,” Duncan nearly stammered, ducking his head and taking a long draught of ale.
“Somehow, I doubt that,” Connor assured him.
“I see,” Duncan lightly coughed. “In the meantime, you mentioned in your letter before you arrived that another one of your convoys was attacked a few weeks ago?”
"Typical Templar impudence,” Connor groused, barely able to hold back a pout.
Chuckling at her expression, Duncan reached out and gave her hand a comforting pat. Pleased to see she didn’t flinch, he agreed, “No doubt. Combined with the fact that Mrs. McCready was nearly there as far as trusting me with the full details of her husband’s involvement with Templars, I can only assume he caught wind of the family’s possible defection.”
“Surely not from our end?” Connor croaked in alarm, eyebrows shooting upwards.
“Clipper and I were absolutely mum,” Duncan raised a hand of reassurance.
Lips pressed together into a thin line, she closed her eyes for a moment. Hunching down and pulling her hood closer about her head, she crossed her arms in frustration before replying, “I know you both were. You have always been the paragons of silence. As has Stephane.”
Duncan nodded in agreement as he took a sip of his ale, “He was our proverbial ‘in’ to the McCready’s, considering the family frequented the inn where he works in the kitchen. Hence, how I was able to make her acquaintance,” Duncan affirmed.
“Of course,” Connor replied.
“I purposely wandered about the market just down the block from Stephane’s. It took ‘bout a month or so, but she and George eventually had me over for dinner every week or so.” Withdrawing a bit, Duncan pulled a small, red, leather-bound notebook from his robes. Sliding it across the table, he smirked, “Snooping around the house every time I crossed the threshold, I was able to copy roughly three-quarters of his log book from his study.”
Eyes widening, Connor reached out and snatched it. Flipping through the pages, she immediately realized that George McCready certainly valued details. Dating back a couple of years, there were logs of transports and bribes, as well as exactly how much he apparently skimmed. Surprisingly, his embezzlement was minimal. Surely not enough to murder an entire family over.
Bloody Templar brutes.
After a long while, Connor leaned forward and declared, “It looks as though my next journey shall be to the Fort, then.”
“You’ve no wish for Clipper and me to carry this out?” he swiftly asked.
Glancing down at where the rosary was wrapped around Duncan’s wrist, Connor let a grin slip to her face. “How long until he returns from Trenton on his current mission?” she casually asked.
“He’s due in less than week,” Duncan summarily said, twisting the beads through his fingers.
“And so you keep him in your prayers?” Connor nodded in understanding.
Staring at her for a bit, Duncan let out a pent up sigh and shifted in his seat a bit, “It is the least I may do for…a dear friend.“
"We all hope for his safe return. He will acquit himself with aplomb, I am sure,” Connor dipped her head in agreement. “However, between his current assignment and Stephane’s present undertaking in the Carolinas to train Jacob Zenger, I need your eyes and ears attuned to the city for any new developments. Thus, I believe it is best if I pursue General Davenport on the Frontier.”
“As you wish,” Duncan waved. “Though as much as you believe you don’t need to hear it, do be careful Connor.”
“You need not worry yourself,” she shyly replied, glancing away for a moment. “But,” she began drumming her fingers along the aged table, “I assure you that I am grateful for your concern.”
Connor’s stomach finally settling, she joined Duncan for dinner. Planning her journey and reviewing their intel, the two talked deep into the night. It was nearly one in the morning by the time they retired to their rented rooms upstairs.
Soon, General Davenport would find that the Assassins were no longer mere myth, but rather, a force to be reckoned with.