“I can’t disagree with that notion,” Charles slithered. “So tell us Hickey,” he crossed his arms again, “What of your latest interaction that wretched little native? I take it that she is the same one we framed and had served up on a platter to the hangman? Yet on that day, you neither killed her nor followed through on eliminating Washington.”
Emphatically pointing at his left shoulder, Thomas retorted, “Why inna hell do ev’rybody be forgettin’ she fuckin’ nailed me in me back with a long-arsed dagger, yeah? I nearly bled to ruttin’ death! And that shite be after she went and beat me arse to hell ‘n back up in Bridewell. All after you,” he poked a finger at Lee, “Tossed ‘er inna me cell, ya dipshit!”
“I did nothing of the sort!” Charles lied. This ‘ere two-faced piece ‘o horseshit! Thomas seethed to himself. “Haytham!” Lee continued with a certifiable whine, “How can you sit here and not question such odious accusations? I implore you-!”
“For now, the past is not the subject of the current discussion,” Haytham raised a hand, silencing them both. “Thomas,” he turned towards him, “You must relay everything that happened between you and that woman during your mission. Do not leave out any detail, no matter how minor it seems.”
“Wouldn’t dream ‘o doing no less,” Thomas resolutely declared.
Of course, he lied his arse off. In his many years of muscling his way to the top of the food chain, Thomas mastered various methods of spinning an elaborate charade. First off, it was imperative to fill the tale with plenty of verifiable truths. Particularly if they made sense within the context of the overall deception. He started with how the assassin tracked him to his battalion and their first confrontation. Except he claimed an initial victory in their fisticuffs. In fact, he was about to stab her clear through. That was until she blurted out that she was also after the monstrous Hessian. His hesitation at that surprising bit of information allowed her to regain the upper hand and escape.
Which led to the second lesson in verbal deceit. In order to make the lie sound legit, find ways to make yourself appear a little incompetent in order to warrant as little praise as possible. The less you stood out in the midst of the falsehood, the less likely anyone would remember the specifics of your story later. That’s why he had no idea how she knew the Templars were after the same target as her little group of scoundrels. It wasn’t as though he made deep conversation with the chit every time they stumbled into each other’s path after the first time. How could he? After all, wasn’t his duty to the Grandmaster to attempt to kill her at every turn? Whether it was at the tavern out in the wilderness. Or at an abandoned cabin in the woods a few days after that. Or along the icy roads of the frontier that led back into the city. Or when he made it into Boston proper.
“For god sake, get on with your blathering, Hickey,” Charles barked.
“Best go ‘n settle yerself down right proper, son,” Hickey flexed his fingers in aggravation, “Last I checked, I ain’t addressing you, ya pisspot.”
“I find I agree with that sentiment,” Haytham sent Charles a look of warning. “Please, go on,” he gestured to Thomas.
Now came the third and last part of weaving all the disparate pieces into a plausible tale; complete and absolute conviction driven by recounting numerous but trivial details. For example? The Hessian’s target was some wealthy, foppish git with a fancy accent. Where he came from, Thomas allegedly couldn’t recall. But judging by his skills with his fists and weapons when the Hessian caught up with him in the back alleys of Beacon Hill, the target was most likely an Assassin as well. Had to be, considering how he was able to fight off that fiend’s first strikes. But it took the efforts of him, Thomas and the Assassin woman to finally fell the Hessian.
“You…aided them?!” Charles stammered in angry disbelief. “Why in the bloody hell didn’t you kill the woman and Assassin target? Two birds with one stone, Hickey! Two birds-!”
Hickey snarled, wrenching off his cravat and yanking the collar of his tunic to the side. “The bastard Kraut tried to fuckin’ strangle me too, ya blighter!” he waved at the ring of ghastly, purple bruises circling his neck. “Woulda snapped me neck like a dry-arsed twig if the woman hadn’t jumped all up on ‘is back like some rabid wolf!”
“She assisted you in your mission?” Haytham quietly demanded, gaze locked on Thomas’ neck.
“See ‘ere now,” Thomas exhaled, “I ain’t gonna call it any sort ‘o charity.”
“No?” Haytham questioned.
“Not on your life, boss-man,” Thomas sighed, “More like the Hessian went tryin’ to kill us all. So it fell into ev’ry man bein' for his self.”
Charles ran an annoyed hand through his loosely tied back hair. “So afterwards, you somehow failed to either shoot her or the other apparent Assassin? You’re slipping, Hickey,” he mocked.
“To the contrary, Charles,” Haytham gave Thomas a long look of appraisal, “It is through his efforts that he has stopped one of our most dangerous foes. Before his treachery, the Hessian was only used for the most difficult of…eliminations.”
Hickey smirked and finished off his stew. Dropping his spoon into the bowl, he shoved it to the end of the table. “And that right there, Lee,” he waved, “Be the only opinion that’s goes to matterin’.”
The seemed to shut the greasy ‘lil arsehole right the fuck up for a bit.
“Soooo,” Thomas sluggishly said before taking a long sip of ale from his tankard. Normally, Haytham wouldn’t bother paying attention to how long he attempted to drown himself in drink. But a couple of minutes passed before Thomas stopped. Haytham paused his writing and looked up in question as the other man finished off the entire thing in one chug. Thomas then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Even went so far as sitting up straighter rather than lolling all over his seat. Leaning forward on his elbows, Thomas contemplatively steepled his fingers in front him. Silently staring into the flickering fire of the hearth, he remained still.
“Are you…ill?” Haytham eyes faintly widened in genuine confusion.
“Huh?” Thomas exhaled.
“You’re not nattering on and on, as per usual,” Lee taunted.
“Sod off!” Thomas retorted.
“You are far closer to sober than drunk,” Haytham’s eyes flit over him, “And you’ve been here for well over an hour. In addition, there isn’t some woman perched on your lap…come now, did someone poison you on the road?” he rapped his knuckles on the table for emphasis.
“Like I said ‘afore, I came ‘cross that bloody troublesome ‘lil assassin while out on me mission,” Thomas replied in calculated apathy, “Kinda threw off me some.”
Most people would be wholly oblivious to how Haytham’s fingers immediately tightened around his quill. Or the way the chest subtly heaved. None one would take note that his face went ashen for mere seconds before he calmly tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. However, Thomas worked with him for over two decades. There also lay the smuggler’s uncanny situational awareness. A necessary habit born of his youth in the murderous rookeries of London’s East End. It’d been put to excellent use in his current line of work.
Well’en, fancy that, Thomas mused. Filing away the reaction to think on later, he focused on the present.
Attention snapping back to his paperwork, Haytham stilled the hollow side of his quill on the parchment for so long that it leaked ink yet again. Rather than sprinkling blotting powder across it to soak up its spill, he flatly asked, “Am I to assume she is dead?”
“Oh, ho, trust me, boss-man, I went tryin’ to gut her eight different ways to Sunday,” Thomas insisted. His usual drunken smirk was absent from his rosy visage. Haytham could not see it, for he still stared down at his letter. “All I got for it be a busted nose, a mess ‘o slashes, punches, bruises ‘n me wounded pride.”
“And the woman?” Haytham nonchalantly replied.
“Yes, what of the little cur?” Lee spat, “She needs to be put down, ideally as soon as damn possible. A thorn in all of our sides,” he threw up his hands in exasperation. “For a mere savage to be so destructive in her delusions proves a stain of shame upon our entire Order.”
At Haytham’s head whipping around and his accompanying glower, Lee speedily shut his mouth. His immediately dropped his eyes to the floor. It would’ve cause Hickey to let out a loud guffaw any other time. “Please, continue recalling what you observed,” Haytham insisted.
Thomas quietly replied, “She be fuckin’ fast on the draw.”
“So I take it she made off with barely a scratch to her?” Haytham firmly asked.
“Not for lack ‘o me tryin’, but yeah,” Thomas twisted his mouth in alleged reproach. It wasn’t technically a lie. He hadn’t exactly been the one to shoot her in the leg or go knocking her into the fireplace.
“She is a liability,” Haytham’s adamant voice interrupted his thoughts, “One that we shall have to neutralize. Sooner rather than later.”
“I’d say her end should be the Order’s primary objection,” Lee growled, voice apparently back in his mouth. “Otherwise, as altogether fascinating as your dithering continues to be, Hickey,” Charles snit while checking his pocket watch, “What time is that lying turncoat General to show himself?”
“Nine o’clockish,” Thomas lazily replied.
“It is a quarter to,” Charles clasped his watch closed and stuck it in his fob pocket. “No doubt he will arrive early. I shall go fetch him,” he brusquely excused himself and clomped downstairs.
Tipping his chair to balance on its back two legs, Thomas locked his fingers behind his head. “Good luck with that ‘en.”
“Luck has nothing to do with skill, Thomas,” Haytham wearily said, haphazardly dropping his quill. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. For far too long, as far as Thomas was concerned. Upon opening them again, Thomas shirked back at their suddenly haunted stare at some spot behind him. The younger Templar realized he’d never seen his master look so obviously, well, aged. His hair bore far more grey than the rich dark brown he recalled. While noble in bearing, the refined, carved lines of his visage formed deepening grooves. His breaths long and tired, his shoulders were hunched. “Skill,” Haytham finally exhaled, “That is what wins wars. It seems the girl wishes one against us. So who are we to deny her?”
Swallowing, Thomas forced on what he hoped was a careless smile and raised his tankard. “No truer words be spoken, gov’ner.”
Haytham’s attention swiftly flicked back to him. Shadowed and inexplicably ominous, he never looked away while Thomas drank. In fact, he continued staring so fixated that Thomas gingerly set down his jug.
“Erhm, somethin’ got you all worried, mate?”
Haytham’s gaze narrowing, he raggedly whispered, “You never saw it within her, did you?”
Thomas halted at the sight of the older man’s left hand gripping the edge of the table. His other fingers dug so hard into the wood that their sharp scrape caused the hairs along the back of Thomas’ neck to prick up. Rocking his chair back down to the floor, he slowly began, “I, ehrm, don’t ‘xactly go gettin’ your meanin’-”
“My daughter may attempt deceive those who hunt for her by going by that ridiculous male name of ‘Connor…’”
Wait…what?
What??
WHAT?!
WAIT ONE GOD-DAMNED MINUTE-?!
“But make no mistake; she bears the Kenway cheeks, nose and turn of the chin,” Haytham morosely confirmed, “As well as the propensity for revealing all that she thinks within her expression. It obviously hasn’t rightfully been trained out of her.”
Owlishly blinking, Thomas clearly heard the revelation. But he could not comprehend it. Not with the horrific buzzing beginning to fill his ears.
Haytham’s words continued flying from his lips, stilted and hoarse. “She also wears her mother’s distinctive beads about her neck. For there was no mistaking them when I laid my eyes upon her in Bridewell.”
Silence. It was all Thomas could muster. Silence and balls to the mother-fucking wall raw, unadulterated terror.
He slept with Haytham’s daughter.
Whether a few seconds or an eternity passed before he realized the roaring in his ears was indeed the result of his frantic heartbeat, he’d never be able to say.
He slept with Haytham’s daughter.
He gleefully watched as she gambled, downed a bottle of whiskey and then deliberately kissed him.
He slept with Haytham’s daughter.
He eagerly allowed himself to be seduced and encouraged her to have her way with him.
He slept with Haytham’s daughter.
He reveled in the feel and taste her beneath him, his mouth tracing the curve of her dusky skin, her nails clawing down his back as…
HE.
FUCKED.
HAYTHAM’S.
DAUGHTER.
It took every ounce of Thomas’ strength to stay his trembling hands and drop his sweaty palms to rest on his knees. But it didn’t stop him from bobbing his head in stunned panic. His only relief lay in that Charles remained downstairs.
“W…w…why would you ev’er go sayin’ that sort ‘o madness?!” he hissed, “Who else be knowin’ ‘o her parentage?! I ain’t tellin’ a soul ‘bout it…fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck!” Wiping a hand over his face did nothing for his pallid, fraught complexion. His stomach roiled as his vision blurred far beyond simple drunkenness.
Without warning, everything he’d imbibed rushed back upwards. The only solace was the bucket of logs near the fireplace. Stumbling from his seat, Thomas snatched it up, dumped its contents and wretched into it. The stench curling up into his nose had nothing on the nightmarish images of Connor’s old man doling out dozens of ways to torture him before finally cutting out his heart with his god-damned hidden blade. With his increasingly shitty luck, Lee would be standing by and clapping his hands in perverse delight at the sight of it all.
“You appear wholly put out by this revelation,” Haytham deadpanned.
How in the fuck-all didn’t he see it?! No wonder his instincts constantly flared up at her little ticks and random mannerisms. Except they weren’t so fucking random. Not considering he’d seen them for god-damned decades in her father.
“Apparently you find this troublesome-”
“Maybe ‘cause I…cause I…near fuckin’ killed ‘er?!” Thomas strangled out. He despised how his rising hysteria dripped all over his words. As well as how he took a terrified step back when Haytham purposefully rose from his seat.
God damn the wall at his back. He should’ve angled himself closer to the stairs…
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 29b/?
Emphatically pointing at his left shoulder, Thomas retorted, “Why inna hell do ev’rybody be forgettin’ she fuckin’ nailed me in me back with a long-arsed dagger, yeah? I nearly bled to ruttin’ death! And that shite be after she went and beat me arse to hell ‘n back up in Bridewell. All after you,” he poked a finger at Lee, “Tossed ‘er inna me cell, ya dipshit!”
“I did nothing of the sort!” Charles lied. This ‘ere two-faced piece ‘o horseshit! Thomas seethed to himself. “Haytham!” Lee continued with a certifiable whine, “How can you sit here and not question such odious accusations? I implore you-!”
“For now, the past is not the subject of the current discussion,” Haytham raised a hand, silencing them both. “Thomas,” he turned towards him, “You must relay everything that happened between you and that woman during your mission. Do not leave out any detail, no matter how minor it seems.”
“Wouldn’t dream ‘o doing no less,” Thomas resolutely declared.
Of course, he lied his arse off. In his many years of muscling his way to the top of the food chain, Thomas mastered various methods of spinning an elaborate charade. First off, it was imperative to fill the tale with plenty of verifiable truths. Particularly if they made sense within the context of the overall deception. He started with how the assassin tracked him to his battalion and their first confrontation. Except he claimed an initial victory in their fisticuffs. In fact, he was about to stab her clear through. That was until she blurted out that she was also after the monstrous Hessian. His hesitation at that surprising bit of information allowed her to regain the upper hand and escape.
Which led to the second lesson in verbal deceit. In order to make the lie sound legit, find ways to make yourself appear a little incompetent in order to warrant as little praise as possible. The less you stood out in the midst of the falsehood, the less likely anyone would remember the specifics of your story later. That’s why he had no idea how she knew the Templars were after the same target as her little group of scoundrels. It wasn’t as though he made deep conversation with the chit every time they stumbled into each other’s path after the first time. How could he? After all, wasn’t his duty to the Grandmaster to attempt to kill her at every turn? Whether it was at the tavern out in the wilderness. Or at an abandoned cabin in the woods a few days after that. Or along the icy roads of the frontier that led back into the city. Or when he made it into Boston proper.
“For god sake, get on with your blathering, Hickey,” Charles barked.
“Best go ‘n settle yerself down right proper, son,” Hickey flexed his fingers in aggravation, “Last I checked, I ain’t addressing you, ya pisspot.”
“I find I agree with that sentiment,” Haytham sent Charles a look of warning. “Please, go on,” he gestured to Thomas.
Now came the third and last part of weaving all the disparate pieces into a plausible tale; complete and absolute conviction driven by recounting numerous but trivial details. For example? The Hessian’s target was some wealthy, foppish git with a fancy accent. Where he came from, Thomas allegedly couldn’t recall. But judging by his skills with his fists and weapons when the Hessian caught up with him in the back alleys of Beacon Hill, the target was most likely an Assassin as well. Had to be, considering how he was able to fight off that fiend’s first strikes. But it took the efforts of him, Thomas and the Assassin woman to finally fell the Hessian.
“You…aided them?!” Charles stammered in angry disbelief. “Why in the bloody hell didn’t you kill the woman and Assassin target? Two birds with one stone, Hickey! Two birds-!”
Hickey snarled, wrenching off his cravat and yanking the collar of his tunic to the side. “The bastard Kraut tried to fuckin’ strangle me too, ya blighter!” he waved at the ring of ghastly, purple bruises circling his neck. “Woulda snapped me neck like a dry-arsed twig if the woman hadn’t jumped all up on ‘is back like some rabid wolf!”
“She assisted you in your mission?” Haytham quietly demanded, gaze locked on Thomas’ neck.
“See ‘ere now,” Thomas exhaled, “I ain’t gonna call it any sort ‘o charity.”
“No?” Haytham questioned.
“Not on your life, boss-man,” Thomas sighed, “More like the Hessian went tryin’ to kill us all. So it fell into ev’ry man bein' for his self.”
Charles ran an annoyed hand through his loosely tied back hair. “So afterwards, you somehow failed to either shoot her or the other apparent Assassin? You’re slipping, Hickey,” he mocked.
“To the contrary, Charles,” Haytham gave Thomas a long look of appraisal, “It is through his efforts that he has stopped one of our most dangerous foes. Before his treachery, the Hessian was only used for the most difficult of…eliminations.”
Hickey smirked and finished off his stew. Dropping his spoon into the bowl, he shoved it to the end of the table. “And that right there, Lee,” he waved, “Be the only opinion that’s goes to matterin’.”
The seemed to shut the greasy ‘lil arsehole right the fuck up for a bit.
“Soooo,” Thomas sluggishly said before taking a long sip of ale from his tankard. Normally, Haytham wouldn’t bother paying attention to how long he attempted to drown himself in drink. But a couple of minutes passed before Thomas stopped. Haytham paused his writing and looked up in question as the other man finished off the entire thing in one chug. Thomas then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Even went so far as sitting up straighter rather than lolling all over his seat. Leaning forward on his elbows, Thomas contemplatively steepled his fingers in front him. Silently staring into the flickering fire of the hearth, he remained still.
“Are you…ill?” Haytham eyes faintly widened in genuine confusion.
“Huh?” Thomas exhaled.
“You’re not nattering on and on, as per usual,” Lee taunted.
“Sod off!” Thomas retorted.
“You are far closer to sober than drunk,” Haytham’s eyes flit over him, “And you’ve been here for well over an hour. In addition, there isn’t some woman perched on your lap…come now, did someone poison you on the road?” he rapped his knuckles on the table for emphasis.
“Like I said ‘afore, I came ‘cross that bloody troublesome ‘lil assassin while out on me mission,” Thomas replied in calculated apathy, “Kinda threw off me some.”
Most people would be wholly oblivious to how Haytham’s fingers immediately tightened around his quill. Or the way the chest subtly heaved. None one would take note that his face went ashen for mere seconds before he calmly tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. However, Thomas worked with him for over two decades. There also lay the smuggler’s uncanny situational awareness. A necessary habit born of his youth in the murderous rookeries of London’s East End. It’d been put to excellent use in his current line of work.
Well’en, fancy that, Thomas mused. Filing away the reaction to think on later, he focused on the present.
Attention snapping back to his paperwork, Haytham stilled the hollow side of his quill on the parchment for so long that it leaked ink yet again. Rather than sprinkling blotting powder across it to soak up its spill, he flatly asked, “Am I to assume she is dead?”
“Oh, ho, trust me, boss-man, I went tryin’ to gut her eight different ways to Sunday,” Thomas insisted. His usual drunken smirk was absent from his rosy visage. Haytham could not see it, for he still stared down at his letter. “All I got for it be a busted nose, a mess ‘o slashes, punches, bruises ‘n me wounded pride.”
“And the woman?” Haytham nonchalantly replied.
“Yes, what of the little cur?” Lee spat, “She needs to be put down, ideally as soon as damn possible. A thorn in all of our sides,” he threw up his hands in exasperation. “For a mere savage to be so destructive in her delusions proves a stain of shame upon our entire Order.”
At Haytham’s head whipping around and his accompanying glower, Lee speedily shut his mouth. His immediately dropped his eyes to the floor. It would’ve cause Hickey to let out a loud guffaw any other time. “Please, continue recalling what you observed,” Haytham insisted.
Thomas quietly replied, “She be fuckin’ fast on the draw.”
“So I take it she made off with barely a scratch to her?” Haytham firmly asked.
“Not for lack ‘o me tryin’, but yeah,” Thomas twisted his mouth in alleged reproach. It wasn’t technically a lie. He hadn’t exactly been the one to shoot her in the leg or go knocking her into the fireplace.
“She is a liability,” Haytham’s adamant voice interrupted his thoughts, “One that we shall have to neutralize. Sooner rather than later.”
“I’d say her end should be the Order’s primary objection,” Lee growled, voice apparently back in his mouth. “Otherwise, as altogether fascinating as your dithering continues to be, Hickey,” Charles snit while checking his pocket watch, “What time is that lying turncoat General to show himself?”
“Nine o’clockish,” Thomas lazily replied.
“It is a quarter to,” Charles clasped his watch closed and stuck it in his fob pocket. “No doubt he will arrive early. I shall go fetch him,” he brusquely excused himself and clomped downstairs.
Tipping his chair to balance on its back two legs, Thomas locked his fingers behind his head. “Good luck with that ‘en.”
“Luck has nothing to do with skill, Thomas,” Haytham wearily said, haphazardly dropping his quill. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. For far too long, as far as Thomas was concerned. Upon opening them again, Thomas shirked back at their suddenly haunted stare at some spot behind him. The younger Templar realized he’d never seen his master look so obviously, well, aged. His hair bore far more grey than the rich dark brown he recalled. While noble in bearing, the refined, carved lines of his visage formed deepening grooves. His breaths long and tired, his shoulders were hunched. “Skill,” Haytham finally exhaled, “That is what wins wars. It seems the girl wishes one against us. So who are we to deny her?”
Swallowing, Thomas forced on what he hoped was a careless smile and raised his tankard. “No truer words be spoken, gov’ner.”
Haytham’s attention swiftly flicked back to him. Shadowed and inexplicably ominous, he never looked away while Thomas drank. In fact, he continued staring so fixated that Thomas gingerly set down his jug.
“Erhm, somethin’ got you all worried, mate?”
Haytham’s gaze narrowing, he raggedly whispered, “You never saw it within her, did you?”
Thomas halted at the sight of the older man’s left hand gripping the edge of the table. His other fingers dug so hard into the wood that their sharp scrape caused the hairs along the back of Thomas’ neck to prick up. Rocking his chair back down to the floor, he slowly began, “I, ehrm, don’t ‘xactly go gettin’ your meanin’-”
“My daughter may attempt deceive those who hunt for her by going by that ridiculous male name of ‘Connor…’”
Wait…what?
What??
WHAT?!
WAIT ONE GOD-DAMNED MINUTE-?!
“But make no mistake; she bears the Kenway cheeks, nose and turn of the chin,” Haytham morosely confirmed, “As well as the propensity for revealing all that she thinks within her expression. It obviously hasn’t rightfully been trained out of her.”
Owlishly blinking, Thomas clearly heard the revelation. But he could not comprehend it. Not with the horrific buzzing beginning to fill his ears.
Haytham’s words continued flying from his lips, stilted and hoarse. “She also wears her mother’s distinctive beads about her neck. For there was no mistaking them when I laid my eyes upon her in Bridewell.”
Silence. It was all Thomas could muster. Silence and balls to the mother-fucking wall raw, unadulterated terror.
He slept with Haytham’s daughter.
Whether a few seconds or an eternity passed before he realized the roaring in his ears was indeed the result of his frantic heartbeat, he’d never be able to say.
He slept with Haytham’s daughter.
He gleefully watched as she gambled, downed a bottle of whiskey and then deliberately kissed him.
He slept with Haytham’s daughter.
He eagerly allowed himself to be seduced and encouraged her to have her way with him.
He slept with Haytham’s daughter.
He reveled in the feel and taste her beneath him, his mouth tracing the curve of her dusky skin, her nails clawing down his back as…
HE.
FUCKED.
HAYTHAM’S.
DAUGHTER.
It took every ounce of Thomas’ strength to stay his trembling hands and drop his sweaty palms to rest on his knees. But it didn’t stop him from bobbing his head in stunned panic. His only relief lay in that Charles remained downstairs.
“W…w…why would you ev’er go sayin’ that sort ‘o madness?!” he hissed, “Who else be knowin’ ‘o her parentage?! I ain’t tellin’ a soul ‘bout it…fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck!” Wiping a hand over his face did nothing for his pallid, fraught complexion. His stomach roiled as his vision blurred far beyond simple drunkenness.
Without warning, everything he’d imbibed rushed back upwards. The only solace was the bucket of logs near the fireplace. Stumbling from his seat, Thomas snatched it up, dumped its contents and wretched into it. The stench curling up into his nose had nothing on the nightmarish images of Connor’s old man doling out dozens of ways to torture him before finally cutting out his heart with his god-damned hidden blade. With his increasingly shitty luck, Lee would be standing by and clapping his hands in perverse delight at the sight of it all.
“You appear wholly put out by this revelation,” Haytham deadpanned.
How in the fuck-all didn’t he see it?! No wonder his instincts constantly flared up at her little ticks and random mannerisms. Except they weren’t so fucking random. Not considering he’d seen them for god-damned decades in her father.
“Apparently you find this troublesome-”
“Maybe ‘cause I…cause I…near fuckin’ killed ‘er?!” Thomas strangled out. He despised how his rising hysteria dripped all over his words. As well as how he took a terrified step back when Haytham purposefully rose from his seat.
God damn the wall at his back. He should’ve angled himself closer to the stairs…