The target was in sight. Feline grace brought the predator closer and closer to his prey. A flick of light eyes, a moment of contemplation, and then he pounced...
"Ow!" The guilty hunter rubbed his hand, wincing. A rather large cook waved a spoon at the boy.
"Thomas, you little scoundrel. Stay out of the crumpets." Thom scowled at the ground, still kneading at the red mark on his fist.
"I wasn't trying to eat the crumpets, Emelda," he muttered. The cook jabbed the boy's side with the wooden utensil.
"Don't give me that innocent act, boy. I know when you're up to something." Thomas flicked his gaze up to her, a beguiling smile upon his sharp face.
"But I *wasn't*, Emelda," he said, words coated in sugar.
"Don't try that with me, Thom," Emelda warned, waggling the spoon in his face. "I don't fall for it like your aunt does--"
"Oh, but if I ate those crumpets, then I wouldn't have any room for your absolutely *delectable* duck a l'orange," Thom purred, moving closer.
"Thomas, if you--" He smiled charmingly, giving her a peck on the cheek. Emelda laughed and lowered the spoon. "Oh, you little imp." She handed over a single crumpet. "Take this and go."
"Thank you, Emelda darling." Thomas tipped his head slightly in departure, popping the treat into his mouth. "I shall see you at dinner when I have the pleasure to sample your savory feast. Au revoir." And with a flash of a grin, the teenage boy had slipped from the room. The plump cook shook her head and laughed.
"That boy. Just like his father."
Thomas Morely prowled into the garden of the estate, trying to make the crumpet last as long as he could. Finally, he swallowed and settled down on a cement bench near the grove of trees in the enclosure. Thom was a long, slender thing, his body lean and taut with bestial potency. His head was covered in sleek mahogany hair, not a strand out of place. Azure eyes were keen and piercing, dancing with a light that seemed to say he knew something that you did not. He was only 15 winters old, but Thom's charming smile and captivating nature seemed to make up for his youth. Watching a leaf fall from the great tree above him, he crossed his legs and sat back with a sigh.
"Thommy, dear," came a voice from behind him. He scowled. Blast, did he not get a moment to himself around here?
"Yes, Aunt Beverly?" Thom turned, readying a debonair grin. The tall, willowy woman in the doorway met his gaze steadily instead of buckling beneath the charisma--like she usually did.
"It's nearly time for dinner," she said quietly, green eyes falling to the wet grass. "And aside from that, it's going to rain. Come inside and get washed up." Thomas frowned, standing up.
"Yes, ma'am," he said smoothly, sliding past her in the doorway. "I'll scrub my hands and meet you at the dinner table."
The warm water felt good running over his skin. Thom grabbed the cake of soap, a light grimace on his face as he scoured the skin on his slim hands.
"Beverly's acting odd," he muttered to himself, attacking a particularly irritating spot of dirt. "She just ordered me to dinner. She never orders anyone." Cleansing his hands from the rest of the soap bubbles, Thom turned off the tap and hurried out to the dining room. Beverly sat at the head of the ridiculously long table, saving the chair at the end for the boy. He rolled his light eyes and plopped into the cushion. His aunt was going to be dramatic.
"Thomas, don't put your elbows on the table." Thom cupped his hand to his ear.
"*What?* I can't hear you! Must be the fact that the bloody English *border* cuts straight through the dining hall!" Beverly frowned and he lowered his elbows. A flash of lightning blazed through the gloomy room as the butler brought out the entrees. Thom gave the elderly servant a nod as he received the glistening meat.
"Thank you, Pickford." The butler smiled and placed the meal in front of Beverly before disappearing from view behind a door. Thom's aunt pushed back a strand of graying blonde hair before slicing her duck.
"Thomas, I have urgent news to discuss with you." A low rumble of thunder.
"Yes, Aunt Beverly." He placed a piece of poultry in his mouth and savored the flavor. "Discuss away."
"I'm being serious, Thom." Thomas chewed, then swallowed.
"Who said you weren't?"
"I can tell, Thom. You're ready to crack a joke at any moment, and I want you to hold off--if the strain isn't too much for you." He glared down at his meal.
"Fine. Go on." Beverly prepared to take another bite, then gave up and put her fork down.
"Your name is not Thomas Morely." Thomas dropped his own fork.
"*What?*" For a moment, the mask of repose flickered. Then he regained composure and coughed. "Excuse me, what did you say?"
"Your name is *not* Thomas Morely," Beverly repeated, folding her hands and resting her chin on them. Thom stared down at the slick surface of the table, then looked up at her.
"Then what, praytell, is my name?" His aunt sighed heavily.
"That is precisely what I wanted to discuss. Your name is Thomas Lombard, Thommy dear. Your father--"
"My father?" he interuppted. Thom was losing his feline grace, having it replaced by common teen awkwardness. "But I always thought my father was--"
"Dead?" Beverly lowered her eyes. "He is, darling. I'm sorry." He stared at her.
"Well, I was going to say 'permanently off on business', but that's another way of saying it." Thom interlaced his fingers, gazing down at the oak table hard. "So...my father's dead, Aunt Beverly? It is for certain?"
"I believe that's what I just said," she snapped, tapping her long nails on the table. He frowned to himself.
"My father's dead," he said quietly. "Could you be a *little* more understanding?"
"I'm sorry, Thommy. I'm just very flustered. I just recieved this telegram--" She held up a piece of paper. "--and it informs me that they've figured out just who your father is. His name was Philip Lombard." Thom looked up.
"What did he do? As a profession?"
"He was a captain. A captain of a ship." He perked.
"Really? A captain of a ship? Where did he go?" Beverly seemed to shift slightly.
"All over the world, from what this says. There is other information as well, Thom, and I fear some of it may not be to your liking." Thomas swallowed hard.
"I understand, Aunt Beverly. Go on." She stared at the slip of paper.
"Perhaps you'd better read it yourself," Beverly stated quietly, pushing it away. Thom got slowly to his feet and met her at the end of the table, taking the telegram in shaking hands.
*Miss Beverly Morely, it has come to our attention that the information you requested has been recovered. The father of Thomas Damien Morely is Philip Lombard. We are sad to inform you that he is no longer living, having passed on in the summer of 1940. The knowledge we acquired consists of his occupation, spouse, relatives, and the details of his past and death. Before reading on, we warn you that some aspects of this man's history may shock you.*
Thom looked up at Beverly, frowning, but read on when she gave him a sharp nod.
*Philip Lombard was born in the winter of 1912 in Devon, England. The names of his parents are unknown, but living relatives consist of a cousin in Nova Scotia, an uncle in America, and a niece in Scotland. When he was 17, Lombard set sail on a clipper ship for Africa. He spent several years as a captain and then traveled to the Congo, gathering tribesmen and friends to forage into the jungle and look for ancient artifacts. However, when he reached the age of 26, Lombard found himself and his safari group lost in the bush. He abandoned 21 of the tribesmen in the night and lead his men out. Unfortunately, the forsaken men died.*
Thom scowled at the telegram.
"My father was a murderer." Beverly shook her head.
"No, no, Thom. They were only natives." He watched her a moment, then lowered his eyes in uncertainty.
"Perhaps," he mumbled, then continued reading.
*During that year, Lombard took a wife after traveling from Africa to Devon. Her name was Nicola Clyde, a 22 year old novelist. They had a child--the charge you live with now--and soon after, Philip left. 2 years later in 1940, he was invited to Indian Island by an Isaac Morris for the compensation of 100 guineas. He was joined at the mansion on the island by 9 other guests--Anthony Marston, Dr. Edward Armstrong, Justice Lawrence Wargrave, General Jonathan MacArthur, Emily Brent, Ethel and George Rogers, Inspector William Blore, and Vera Claythorne. There, in the span of two or three days, every inhabitant of the island was murdered. Philip Lombard is said to have been one of the last to be killed. It is reported that Vera Claythorne shot him with a revolver in self-defense. This is the limit of our knowledge, Miss Morely. We apologize for the delay and any inconvenience or grief we might have caused.*
Thomas dropped the note on the table.
"You expect me to believe that my father was a murderer, involved in a conspiracy and killed by a woman?!" Beverly sighed heavily.
"I know it's hard to swallow, Thommy dear, but--"
"And if this is true, then why am I with you? I didn't see a sister in there anywhere."
"I'm not Lombard's sister, Thommy. I'm not related to him in any way. I was friends with his wife--your mother--and when she passed on, I took you in." Thomas glared at his shoes. His aunt held up a goblet of wine. "Go on, Thom darling. Have a sip. It will calm your nerves." He looked up at her blankly, then seized the chalice and heaved it against the wall. The crystal shattered in a flurry of diamond shards and the wine seeped out on the floor in a puddle of rich scarlet liquid. Like blood.
"It will *not* calm my nerves! I've just found out my whole life is a lie and my father is a cold-blooded murderer! Offering me wine and acting as if nothing's changed will do me no good because *everything* has changed, Beverly!" Thom began pacing like a cooped up animal.
"You will do well to remember to address me with respect--" He whirled on the woman.
"I do not need to address you with respect! You are not my aunt! You are not my mother! You never told me any of this until now! You couldn't even tell me how my mother had died!" Beverly stared at him in amazement. Thom went on, but now his voice was solemn and stony. "And now I wish to be left alone." He whirled and began to stalk out. Beverly's voice stopped him.
"Wait, Thommy!" Thomas turned. She held out another piece of paper. "Take this." Slowly, he reached out and took the slip from her. "It came with the telegram," she said quietly. He nodded, putting it in his pocket. She went on in a whisper. "Thommy, can't we just forget this? Pretend like it didn't happen? Things can go back to the way they were."
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "But things won't be the way they were. Not ever again, Aunt Beverly." Then Thomas turned and left the dining hall.
Thomas Lombard. His name was Thomas Lombard. The boy lurked around his room, giving a kick to whatever random thing seemed to be in his way.
"Stupid, stupid telegram," he growled, giving a rather hard punt to a shoe. "I never wanted to know any of this." Thom reached in his pocket, crumbling up the slip of paper. Then curiousity overcame him. He unfolded it cautiously. It was a black and white photo of a man, a man in his 20's. His face was sharp and chiseled, a wolf-like smile upon his lips. His hair was dark and and slick. And his eyes... his eyes were piercing and light. Probably blue.
This was Philip Lombard. His father.
"Ow!" The guilty hunter rubbed his hand, wincing. A rather large cook waved a spoon at the boy.
"Thomas, you little scoundrel. Stay out of the crumpets." Thom scowled at the ground, still kneading at the red mark on his fist.
"I wasn't trying to eat the crumpets, Emelda," he muttered. The cook jabbed the boy's side with the wooden utensil.
"Don't give me that innocent act, boy. I know when you're up to something." Thomas flicked his gaze up to her, a beguiling smile upon his sharp face.
"But I *wasn't*, Emelda," he said, words coated in sugar.
"Don't try that with me, Thom," Emelda warned, waggling the spoon in his face. "I don't fall for it like your aunt does--"
"Oh, but if I ate those crumpets, then I wouldn't have any room for your absolutely *delectable* duck a l'orange," Thom purred, moving closer.
"Thomas, if you--" He smiled charmingly, giving her a peck on the cheek. Emelda laughed and lowered the spoon. "Oh, you little imp." She handed over a single crumpet. "Take this and go."
"Thank you, Emelda darling." Thomas tipped his head slightly in departure, popping the treat into his mouth. "I shall see you at dinner when I have the pleasure to sample your savory feast. Au revoir." And with a flash of a grin, the teenage boy had slipped from the room. The plump cook shook her head and laughed.
"That boy. Just like his father."
Thomas Morely prowled into the garden of the estate, trying to make the crumpet last as long as he could. Finally, he swallowed and settled down on a cement bench near the grove of trees in the enclosure. Thom was a long, slender thing, his body lean and taut with bestial potency. His head was covered in sleek mahogany hair, not a strand out of place. Azure eyes were keen and piercing, dancing with a light that seemed to say he knew something that you did not. He was only 15 winters old, but Thom's charming smile and captivating nature seemed to make up for his youth. Watching a leaf fall from the great tree above him, he crossed his legs and sat back with a sigh.
"Thommy, dear," came a voice from behind him. He scowled. Blast, did he not get a moment to himself around here?
"Yes, Aunt Beverly?" Thom turned, readying a debonair grin. The tall, willowy woman in the doorway met his gaze steadily instead of buckling beneath the charisma--like she usually did.
"It's nearly time for dinner," she said quietly, green eyes falling to the wet grass. "And aside from that, it's going to rain. Come inside and get washed up." Thomas frowned, standing up.
"Yes, ma'am," he said smoothly, sliding past her in the doorway. "I'll scrub my hands and meet you at the dinner table."
The warm water felt good running over his skin. Thom grabbed the cake of soap, a light grimace on his face as he scoured the skin on his slim hands.
"Beverly's acting odd," he muttered to himself, attacking a particularly irritating spot of dirt. "She just ordered me to dinner. She never orders anyone." Cleansing his hands from the rest of the soap bubbles, Thom turned off the tap and hurried out to the dining room. Beverly sat at the head of the ridiculously long table, saving the chair at the end for the boy. He rolled his light eyes and plopped into the cushion. His aunt was going to be dramatic.
"Thomas, don't put your elbows on the table." Thom cupped his hand to his ear.
"*What?* I can't hear you! Must be the fact that the bloody English *border* cuts straight through the dining hall!" Beverly frowned and he lowered his elbows. A flash of lightning blazed through the gloomy room as the butler brought out the entrees. Thom gave the elderly servant a nod as he received the glistening meat.
"Thank you, Pickford." The butler smiled and placed the meal in front of Beverly before disappearing from view behind a door. Thom's aunt pushed back a strand of graying blonde hair before slicing her duck.
"Thomas, I have urgent news to discuss with you." A low rumble of thunder.
"Yes, Aunt Beverly." He placed a piece of poultry in his mouth and savored the flavor. "Discuss away."
"I'm being serious, Thom." Thomas chewed, then swallowed.
"Who said you weren't?"
"I can tell, Thom. You're ready to crack a joke at any moment, and I want you to hold off--if the strain isn't too much for you." He glared down at his meal.
"Fine. Go on." Beverly prepared to take another bite, then gave up and put her fork down.
"Your name is not Thomas Morely." Thomas dropped his own fork.
"*What?*" For a moment, the mask of repose flickered. Then he regained composure and coughed. "Excuse me, what did you say?"
"Your name is *not* Thomas Morely," Beverly repeated, folding her hands and resting her chin on them. Thom stared down at the slick surface of the table, then looked up at her.
"Then what, praytell, is my name?" His aunt sighed heavily.
"That is precisely what I wanted to discuss. Your name is Thomas Lombard, Thommy dear. Your father--"
"My father?" he interuppted. Thom was losing his feline grace, having it replaced by common teen awkwardness. "But I always thought my father was--"
"Dead?" Beverly lowered her eyes. "He is, darling. I'm sorry." He stared at her.
"Well, I was going to say 'permanently off on business', but that's another way of saying it." Thom interlaced his fingers, gazing down at the oak table hard. "So...my father's dead, Aunt Beverly? It is for certain?"
"I believe that's what I just said," she snapped, tapping her long nails on the table. He frowned to himself.
"My father's dead," he said quietly. "Could you be a *little* more understanding?"
"I'm sorry, Thommy. I'm just very flustered. I just recieved this telegram--" She held up a piece of paper. "--and it informs me that they've figured out just who your father is. His name was Philip Lombard." Thom looked up.
"What did he do? As a profession?"
"He was a captain. A captain of a ship." He perked.
"Really? A captain of a ship? Where did he go?" Beverly seemed to shift slightly.
"All over the world, from what this says. There is other information as well, Thom, and I fear some of it may not be to your liking." Thomas swallowed hard.
"I understand, Aunt Beverly. Go on." She stared at the slip of paper.
"Perhaps you'd better read it yourself," Beverly stated quietly, pushing it away. Thom got slowly to his feet and met her at the end of the table, taking the telegram in shaking hands.
*Miss Beverly Morely, it has come to our attention that the information you requested has been recovered. The father of Thomas Damien Morely is Philip Lombard. We are sad to inform you that he is no longer living, having passed on in the summer of 1940. The knowledge we acquired consists of his occupation, spouse, relatives, and the details of his past and death. Before reading on, we warn you that some aspects of this man's history may shock you.*
Thom looked up at Beverly, frowning, but read on when she gave him a sharp nod.
*Philip Lombard was born in the winter of 1912 in Devon, England. The names of his parents are unknown, but living relatives consist of a cousin in Nova Scotia, an uncle in America, and a niece in Scotland. When he was 17, Lombard set sail on a clipper ship for Africa. He spent several years as a captain and then traveled to the Congo, gathering tribesmen and friends to forage into the jungle and look for ancient artifacts. However, when he reached the age of 26, Lombard found himself and his safari group lost in the bush. He abandoned 21 of the tribesmen in the night and lead his men out. Unfortunately, the forsaken men died.*
Thom scowled at the telegram.
"My father was a murderer." Beverly shook her head.
"No, no, Thom. They were only natives." He watched her a moment, then lowered his eyes in uncertainty.
"Perhaps," he mumbled, then continued reading.
*During that year, Lombard took a wife after traveling from Africa to Devon. Her name was Nicola Clyde, a 22 year old novelist. They had a child--the charge you live with now--and soon after, Philip left. 2 years later in 1940, he was invited to Indian Island by an Isaac Morris for the compensation of 100 guineas. He was joined at the mansion on the island by 9 other guests--Anthony Marston, Dr. Edward Armstrong, Justice Lawrence Wargrave, General Jonathan MacArthur, Emily Brent, Ethel and George Rogers, Inspector William Blore, and Vera Claythorne. There, in the span of two or three days, every inhabitant of the island was murdered. Philip Lombard is said to have been one of the last to be killed. It is reported that Vera Claythorne shot him with a revolver in self-defense. This is the limit of our knowledge, Miss Morely. We apologize for the delay and any inconvenience or grief we might have caused.*
Thomas dropped the note on the table.
"You expect me to believe that my father was a murderer, involved in a conspiracy and killed by a woman?!" Beverly sighed heavily.
"I know it's hard to swallow, Thommy dear, but--"
"And if this is true, then why am I with you? I didn't see a sister in there anywhere."
"I'm not Lombard's sister, Thommy. I'm not related to him in any way. I was friends with his wife--your mother--and when she passed on, I took you in." Thomas glared at his shoes. His aunt held up a goblet of wine. "Go on, Thom darling. Have a sip. It will calm your nerves." He looked up at her blankly, then seized the chalice and heaved it against the wall. The crystal shattered in a flurry of diamond shards and the wine seeped out on the floor in a puddle of rich scarlet liquid. Like blood.
"It will *not* calm my nerves! I've just found out my whole life is a lie and my father is a cold-blooded murderer! Offering me wine and acting as if nothing's changed will do me no good because *everything* has changed, Beverly!" Thom began pacing like a cooped up animal.
"You will do well to remember to address me with respect--" He whirled on the woman.
"I do not need to address you with respect! You are not my aunt! You are not my mother! You never told me any of this until now! You couldn't even tell me how my mother had died!" Beverly stared at him in amazement. Thom went on, but now his voice was solemn and stony. "And now I wish to be left alone." He whirled and began to stalk out. Beverly's voice stopped him.
"Wait, Thommy!" Thomas turned. She held out another piece of paper. "Take this." Slowly, he reached out and took the slip from her. "It came with the telegram," she said quietly. He nodded, putting it in his pocket. She went on in a whisper. "Thommy, can't we just forget this? Pretend like it didn't happen? Things can go back to the way they were."
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "But things won't be the way they were. Not ever again, Aunt Beverly." Then Thomas turned and left the dining hall.
Thomas Lombard. His name was Thomas Lombard. The boy lurked around his room, giving a kick to whatever random thing seemed to be in his way.
"Stupid, stupid telegram," he growled, giving a rather hard punt to a shoe. "I never wanted to know any of this." Thom reached in his pocket, crumbling up the slip of paper. Then curiousity overcame him. He unfolded it cautiously. It was a black and white photo of a man, a man in his 20's. His face was sharp and chiseled, a wolf-like smile upon his lips. His hair was dark and and slick. And his eyes... his eyes were piercing and light. Probably blue.
This was Philip Lombard. His father.