Now, I can't see where you comin' from
But I know just what you're runnin' from.
And what matters ain't the who's baddest
But the ones who stop you fallin' from your ladder, 'cause...
-Short Change Hero, The Heavy
Upon entering William de Saint-Prix's home, Thomas immediately took note at the lack of servants. Considering the size of the manor, over the last few days he'd only met the aging housekeeper, stumbled across a couple of young maids and was waited on in the mornings by William's valet. As he wasn't allowed to freely roam about alone and his room sat right next door to Connor's, he saw nothing of the outdoor servants. Well, save already meeting the late McGuire and the coach boy, Harris. The finely manicured the grounds, the existence of the greenhouse and the stables pointed to the assassin maintaining a groundskeeper, a crew of gardeners and stable hands. Despite that, he never saw them.
McGuire's body released to the undertaker, the surgeon swiftly sewed up Connor's leg. Afterwards, the late lunch with the assassin trio swiftly descended into an awkward affair. From her seat directly across the table, Dobby stared daggers at him the entire time. Tearing into on her food, she looked as though she wished it was him her teeth currently ripped to pieces. At his left, Connor half-heartedly shoved her food around her plate. Yawning seemingly every few minutes and thoroughly silent, she appeared half-asleep. Likely, from the draught for the pain the surgeon gave her earlier that afternoon.
Admittedly, William continued his pleasantries from his seat at the head of the table. He effortlessly engaged in the type of trivial conversation that gave nothing away of himself. The smooth ebb and flow of his voice could captivate any normal person. His lighthearted witticisms and harmless gossip about a ball he recently attended proved amusing enough as well. Yet Thomas found himself increasingly unnerved at how easily the banal string of sentences flowed from the Frenchman's mouth. Frankly, he'd only witness such calculated charisma from, well, Haytham.
What a crazy bunch of fuckin' loonies.
After dessert, William directed them all to the front parlor to retire. However, he disappeared for the moment. Dobby didn't stay around much after dinner either. Some cryptic blathering about needing to deal with things down in the city proper.
Meanwhile, Connor lay asleep in a plush, purple and gold upholstered chair. Her injured leg remained braced on the matching ottoman in front of it. Thomas splayed himself across the matching sofa positioned on the other side of the cherry-wood coffee table from her. He thought her dead for a split second, as her breathing was deep and nearly inaudible. Since the other three remained awake and on guard for their enemy, she had the luxury of a few hours rest.
A mottled black, white and ginger calico cat that insisted on following her around as soon as they set foot in the house also sat sleeping on her lap. It looked no older than a couple of years. It also didn't appear to take much of a liking to Thomas. Evading all his attempts at petting, it either ignored him or swatted at his ankles with extended claws. While it didn't avoid William or Dobby entirely, it mostly remained at Connor's heels.
She'd better not fuckin' die on yer watch, boy-o, Dobby suddenly warned him. They'd only settled in for roughly ten minutes or so before she jumped to her feet and buckled on her bracer. Releasing its blade with a flick of her wrist, she held it up to inspect it. The fading sunset reflecting though the windows, the light sliced across its glinting steel in warm reds and golds.
Thomas knocked back a long chug of gin directly from the crystal decanter he'd liberated from the liquor cabinet behind them. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he shrugged, I ain't her bloody keeper-
She trusts you 'nough to bring you around us, the Irishwoman cocked her head to the side. That girl's had plenty 'nough ugliness in her life to never go puttin' her faith in a single soul. But here ya be. Hell, here we all be.
Like I be knowin' fuck-all 'bout that, he darkly chuckled. Maybe she got shitty judgment.
'O maybe you do, mate, she curled her lip in the beginning of a snarl. Hopefully, it'll stop short of making me have to go rippin' your balls off before I run you through. You know, should ya decide to screw her over any. With that, Dobby gave him a sarcastic salute from her temple and marched out of the room. He could only hope she left the manor entirely, considering he hadn't seen her since then.
"You are thinking too hard."
"Wot?" Thomas retorted, mind reeling back to the present.
Awake at an ungodly, early hour on the third morning of their stay, Connor added copious amounts of sugar to her tea. Sipping it, she sluggishly muttered, "I can discern it from your expression."
Her chair across the table from him sat far enough away that he could barely hear her. Since the manor was more mansion than house, they took their morning meal in the breakfast room. Significantly smaller than the dinning room, it still allowed for a table seating six and a full size china cabinet against the wall. The opposite wall held a large, silver-framed mirror that reflected the candlelight from bronze chandelier hanging overhead.
While on the road, Thomas assumed Connor insisted on waking up at the arse-crack of dawn for sake of sheer belligerence. Along with a pathological need to piss him off. But since staying at the manor, it looked as though all assassins enjoyed popping out of bed at an insane hour. The sun barely up, it was now just after seven or so in the morning.
Then again, the decadent breakfast laid out in front of them was a sight to behold: multiple types of both fresh and dry fruits, a steaming, silver serving bowl of porridge with plenty of butter, soft boiled eggs, slices of cheese, toast, bacon and sausage, chocolate pastry tarts from last night's dessert, a carafe each of coffee and two types of tea (lemon and some new concoction of tasting of orange and bergamot he'd never had in his life. Eh, it wasn't half bad), cream and sugar. The spread almost made up for everything else.
Almost. His hangover from partaking in a few bottles of fine wine at last night's dinner and in the parlor afterwards still pounded at his head. It sure in fuck didn't help that breakfast was always over by eight am. So he had no choice but to drag himself out of bed hours before he was used to. Well, at least when on leave from the army.
Thomas tiredly blinked against the watery, yellow hue of dawn's sunlight falling through the window behind Connor. Admittedly, he appreciated how it made her freckles stand out in stark contrast to her bronzed skin. It also cast her eyes strangely golden as she narrowed them.
Picking at her plate for a long moment, she palmed a piece of sausage. The calico cat lounged in the chair next to her, appearing asleep. But seeing her extended hand, it perked up. Nosing at her fingertips, the feline let out a small, pleased meow before eagerly swallowing down the offered food. Thomas snorted back a huff of surprise when Connor followed up with a few scratches behind its ears. His eyes widened even more as the animal purred and then leapt into her lap. Using one hand to eat, Connor continued petting the little mouser.
"You are plotting…something," she curtly said.
"Right in front 'o ya face?" Thomas sniffed at her accusation, "Gimme a break, love." For once, it wasn't a lie. Nevertheless, she didn't buy it. Not judging by her jaundiced look over the rim of her bone china teacup. Like everything else in the house, it screamed expensive. Its interior pale blue, the outside matched its saucer. Swirling gold bordered the lip, a spray of pink flowers painted along the outside. The set of them on the table was easily worth a quarter year of his army salary.
"So you say," she hummed. "So you say," she slowly repeated.
Ever since she'd been taking the surgeon's proscribed medicine, her usual, deliberate speech pattern sounded even more measured. It annoyed Thomas that her present state preoccupied his thoughts. He refused to entertain the notion that it hinged on anything other than his own mercenary concern. Frankly, he preferred not getting his arse killed as a result of her reduced reflexes when the Hessian finally decided to make his appearance.
He certainly didn't give a rat's ass at how she constantly appeared half-asleep. Or painfully hobbling about. Nor did he pay any sort of attention to the way her expression fluctuated between sedate and and utterly blank. Nope, he didn't find it unsettling in the slightest. It wasn't as though she painted a hypnotizing picture of lethal grace whenever they found themselves in yet another round of fisticuffs.
Nah, nothing like any of that at fucking all.
"I suggest you cease staring at me as well," her husky voice interrupted his thoughts again.
"'Cause ya be lookin' a right mess this mornin'?" Thomas groused.
"Pardon me for not measuring up to your arbitrary expectations," she dismissively waved. Without further ado, she wolfed down more toast and sausage.
In truth, she appeared as neat as ever. Dark locks tightly braided back in two, she'd wrapped them around her head in a crown-like fashion. It made her appear like some young, stern, German fraulein. For now, she forwent her coat and waistcoat. It left her in a double set of loose tunics, her trousers and scarlet sash with the fancy, silver "A" clasping it closed, the animal skin wrappings around her legs and her moccasins. Nevertheless, she wore her hidden blades around each wrist. Her holster also hung on the back of her chair. It held her pistol, French cutlass, a brace of throwing knives and a pouch of smoke bombs. She likely also had some weapons hidden away on her person. Yet without her foreboding hood, she appeared bizarrely innocuous.
Sitting at the head of the table in between them, William casually read the morning newspaper. Legs crossed at the knee, save a smirk, he didn't respond to their bickering. Although he attended only a casual breakfast, the assassin still dressed in full livery. His goatee freshly trimmed against tanned skin, he'd swept back his straight, black hair into a tight ponytail. The yellow ribbon binding it matched his golden colored waistcoat. Embroidered with red vines sprouting dark blue flowers, it was buttoned over a crisp, white tunic. White breeches and tall, brown dragoon boots completed the ensemble. Sheathed about his waist sat his cutlass and dagger. On his right arm, one of those bracer blades so similar to the ones Connor, Dobby and that frontier wench, Emily Burke, bore. After all, they were all on high alert for the Hessian to attack them any hour now.
Regardless of being only a couple years older than Connor and well over a decade younger than Thomas, William appeared a prince holding court. His distant laugh as the other two continued exchanging barbs kept him occupied. It gave Thomas the distinct impression that as long as he and Connor didn't come to blows, the Frenchman could entertain himself all day with watching them.
What a bizarre little trio they made. Well, all four of them, if you included the cat. Which was currently staring at him across the table with haughty, emerald green eyes. Yawning after a while, it turned its nose up at him and dropped its head onto its front paws to settle back down into Connor's lap.
It appeared that assassin cats, much like their owners, were condescending 'lil bastards.
By that afternoon, Thomas was ready to start climbing the walls and officially label himself as shit-balmy in the head. Holy fuckin' Christ, the god-damned boredom of it all. It didn't help that he was never alone when roaming the house and grounds. When it wasn't William on his arse, either a couple of maid servants or William's valet were always underfoot. Even when he ventured outside, Connor was inexplicably hobbling about within a few feet of his radius. Sure, he'd managed to give her the slip a couple of times. Yet the housekeeper or Harris happened to be around anyway.
Apparently, not all prisoners lived in cells with metal doors and bars on their windows. Or irons clapped on their hands and ankles.
"All these fuckin' servants?" Thomas scowled from his seat on the settee chair. For another maid he'd never seen been before was in the process of setting up the tea service in one of the smaller parlors on the first floor. Actively ignoring him, she finished and curtsied at William. Nodding back with a polite smile, he sent her on her way before pouring Thomas a cup. "They're bloody everywhere," the soldier grumbled.
"I'm surprised you're so aware of them, considering they tend to move about with relatively ease," William daintily sipped his tea from his seat on the rococo style, canapé couch. Positioned perpendicular to Thomas, it was edged in dark wood. Its deep green silk lay swept with a damask of white embroidered flowers matching the design of the settee. Like everything else in the house, it appeared absurdly posh.
"Ain't like most folks be affordin' an entire staff to be comin' and goin' at they beck and call," Thomas snorted.
Not bothering to look up from the page of some book he'd taken from the shelves lining the far wall from floor to ceiling, the Frenchman shrugged. "A valid observation," he intoned, "Many of us aren't so lucky."
"'Lucky,' eh? That what ya be callin' it?" Thomas huffed, snapping open the afternoon newspaper. "It's called bein' rich as fuck. Somethin' I aim to be as well, mate. The sooner, the bloody better."
"How…honest of you," William chuckled.
"I'm just bein' straight with ya."
"No wonder she trusts you-"
"Despite that you ain't doin' no such thing?" Thomas challenged, even as he kept his gaze glued to the newspaper.
"Come now, of course I don't trust you," William smirked. "I however hold Connor in the highest esteem," he nodded at where she lay dozing next to him on the couch. Stretched out and head resting on the sofa's opposite arm, her injured leg sat propped up on a couple of pillows next to his thigh. Arms crossed over her chest, she appeared a soldier in the field taking a quick nap. Well, save the way the calico cat lay resting on her belly. Barely awake, it purred and flicked the end of its tail every so often. "So if she finds a reason to place her faith in you, I am not one to question her decision," William continued. "Otherwise, I know nothing of you, save my instincts."
"And what do those be tellin' ya?" Thomas grinned, eyes flitting upwards to take in the other man.
"That if not for Connor, you would not be alive in my presence at the moment," William titled his chin upwards.
"Wot's that then?" Thomas grunted, pouring himself a second cup of tea, "You mean ya would've gone 'n killed me?"
"Likely, Templar," William smoothly replied, "Unless you happened to end my life first."
Thomas shot him a predatory grin around the teacup. Taking a long sip, he couldn't help savoring the explosion of orange and bergamot signaling its high quality. "Sooooo," he purposely drew out the word, "How exactly did you be surmisin' who I be?" he arched a brow, setting down the cup on the gold gilded, oval shaped table between them.
"I am not at liberty to reveal conversations told to me in confidence," William waved at Connor.
"Well'en," Thomas shrugged, "I ain't gonna deny it."
William let out a brittle laugh at that. However, his suddenly icy, sapphire gaze caused to Thomas freeze for a second or so before he reached out and snatched a sandwich from a plate within the tea service. "At least you make no attempt to justify yourself," William inclined his head.
"I ain't so florid 'n fancy with me words as the others be."
"Despite that you convinced Connor not to slit your throat at the first opportunity?"
"That don't mean she didn't go tryin'," Thomas muttered, "A whole damn lotta times, mind ya."
"If she was determined to do so, it would have been done," William briefly grinned, "Likely without you realizing it. Well, not until she'd already opened up your neck from ear to ear and you were choking on your own blood."
Swallowing as he smothered the bread of his sandwich with butter, Thomas huffed, "Ain't gotta go tellin' me twice." Quickly letting the knife harmlessly clatter to the table as William's gaze darted to it, he stuffed the sandwich in his mouth. Hickey contemplatively chewed for a few moments before shrugging again. "Good thing it ain't come to that."
"Not yet," William declared with aplomb, gracefully shifting in his seat as Connor stirred.
Sleepily blinking, she rubbed at her eyes with the backs of her hands. Thomas snickered at how she appeared more child than adult for the moment. Messy strands of hair escaped her braid while she loudly yawned and stretched with a tired groan. The cat stirred as well, meowing a bit before walking up her chest. Nuzzling at her shoulder for quick scratch behind the ears, it leapt to the floor and pranced out of the room to attend to its own business.
For once without a cautious glance around for impending danger, Connor accepted the steaming cup of tea William handed her. He also set a plate piled with a couple of scones and a handful of sugar cookies on her lap as she sat up straighter. As Thomas witnessed since they arrived, she hungrily tore into it. He figured the only explanation for how she was able to scarf down so much was her constant expenditure of energy. Evidently, viciously murdering folks took work.
"This is delicious," she sighed. Her eyes fluttering closed, she let out a surprising moan of pleasure. Combined how her cheeks lightly flushed and the way her tongue darted out lick at a bit of tea along the corner of her mouth, Thomas found his eyes going wide. Along with the tell-tale carnal itch along his skin and the heat whipping through his gut. "Darjeeling?" she thoughtfully said to William while balancing the plate of treats in her lap.
"Your favorite, of course," William easily replied, "With enough sugar added to incapacitate a small child."
Connor smirked at that before downing most of the tea. William poured her another as she shot a glance to Thomas. Brows furrowing at his flushed face and bright eyes, she murmured, "You appear peaked-"
"That be like your fifth cup 'o the day, considerin' breakfast," he babbled. He forced himself to look away as she licked the sugar off of a cookie before popping it into her mouth. The fact that she was in no way purposely being seductive only made it worse. He needed to get a hold of himself…
"Hmph, that's odd," William shook his head in dismay, his eyes flitting across the entire tea service, "It seems that the kitchen staff forgot to include the cream for the scones-"
"That be 'cause he murdered the milkman to break in," a terrified, high pitched voice said from across the room.
Thomas spun around in his chair, only to widen his eyes and snarl, "Jesus fuckin' Christ!" as he scrambled to his feet.
Hand snapping to his pistol, he had only the blink of an eye to jerk himself in the opposite direction. Dodging the hurled shortblade aimed at his heart, a combination of sheer luck and his unexpected speed resulted in it scraping past his upper arm. Unfortunately, it slashed close enough to rip through the cloth of his coat before thudding in the polished wood panel of the wall behind him.
At the same time, the thunderous clap of a shot rang out. Had not William thrown himself off the sofa and rolled to floor from his seat, his chest would have taken the fatal shot. Roughly snatching Connor with him caused her to pitch to the floor right the bullet ricocheted off upholstery less than an inch from her hobbled leg. Unfortunately, her movement proved sluggish. Left on her knees and leaning an elbow on the table, her fingers weren't fast enough to snatch her own flintlock out of its holster from where it hung on the arm of the couch. A flick of her hand did manage to unsheathe her hidden blade. Trouble was, it would do no good from her position across the room from their assailant and his hostage.
Harris looked utterly terrified. Then again, no one blamed him, considering the Hessian's second flintlock pressed to the boy's temple. A fresh bruise also bloomed across his cheek. Blood trailing down his split lip, it stained his ripped collar where the Hessian had it twisted in his meaty fingers against his neck.
"He will not hesitate to kill him," Connor hissed behind to the other two men.
"No shit!" Thomas sneered. Glancing back at her, he flinched at her expression of unadulterated hatred directed toward the mercenary.
"Oui," William tersely replied, gazed darting between their enemy and Harris.
"H-he got me on the stoop of the kitchen house. I just…I just wanted some milk with me tea," Harris' lip quivered. Big, brown eyes wide and rapidly blinking, he stammered, "But the milkman…he…he went 'n bloody sliced open the milkman!"
"Shut your mouth, boy," the Hessian coldly commanded, shoving him further forward into the parlor.
"F-forgive me," Harris babbled on. Voice rising with hysteria, he hiccuped, "I didn't wanna tell 'im where you was. Didn't even go saying anythin' when he went hurtin' me. Then he…he said he'd go killin' anyone in his sights if I kept it up! I-"
"Do not worry yourself, Harris," William soothed, voice light despite that his raised hands. "It is not as though anyone expects a grown man to terrorize a child."
"A traitorous drunk, a crippled half-breed and a decadent Frenchman?" the Hessian's thick accent disdainfully curled his mouth. Eyes clinically sweeping over them, he spat, "Barely worthy of my troubles to kill you all."
"An endeavor that you will fail in," Connor promised.
"Wretched woman," the Hessian glowered. "You are nothing but a mere thorn in my side that I will enjoy breaking before you draw your last breath. After I kill the other ones in front of you, ja?"
"I waste no time for such theatrics," she methodically replied, expression now sparing nothing in way of emotion. It made Thomas inwardly shudder as she continued, "For all I require is my blade within your throat."
The Hessian gave a grim smile. However, his weapon was no longer pressed to the boy's skin. Nor was his finger still on the trigger. His looser grip on his collar also allowed Harris to slump forward, the balls of his feet dragging along the floorboards. A dangerously small opening, Thomas mused. Then again, nothing of that sort ever seemed to daunt the assassin. After all, the most lethal and unpredictable adversaries were always those defending their pack. He witnessed the grisly results of it time and time again when facing off against their shared enemies out on frontier…
It took Hickey a few seconds to process the inexplicable hiss of air racing past his ear. So he couldn't help but wince as the largest porcelain plate of the tea service narrowly avoided slicing his head only to smash into the Hessian's lower arm. Mercifully, it did so with enough force to cause the mercenary to wildly fire in their direction versus at Harris. A ring of metal on metal met them rather than the bloody thud of contact with flesh. For the bullet glanced harmlessly off the silver tray William snatched in front of himself when Connor hurled her improvised weapon. Thankfully, Henry smartly fled the room, the blur of his dark blue livery disappearing out the door the only remnant of his presence.
"Nuh-uh, mate," Thomas tsked while training his pistol on the Hessian's chest. The soldier's hand froze only a few inches from to his back where his third flintlock remained holstered. "Don't even fuckin' try it," he barked, "Not 'specially after that there slimy-arsed stunt with the kid."
"I'm afraid that dinnerware was one of a set that is no longer manufactured," William grinned, palming his pistol from his belt and unsheathing his double hook-blade.
"I see you continue to care for the most critical concerns at hand," Connor said with exasperation, eliciting William's laughter. On her feet now, she drew her pistol from her holster. Her other hand clutched her tomahawk.
"A discussion saved for after this settled," William shrugged.
"Right-o," Thomas retorted, eyes never moving from the Hessian, "'Cause I sure in the fuck ain't dyin' today."
His gaze burning with loathing, the Hessian flatly countered, "Proof that your faith is firmly placed on the wrong end of your situation."
"'Cept I got the pistol now, mate," Thomas jeered. "And fancy that, there ain't no more kids hangin' around that you can go murderin', neither."
The shot of both Hickey's and William's flintlocks echoed in the cavern of the room. But both bullets only harmlessly ricocheted off the Hessian's chest with a tinny clank. One bounced off the polished floorboards while the other rebounded and nearly struck Hickey in leg.
"De tout ce qui est saint!"
"Wot in the fuckin' bloody hell-?!"
"Armor, you imbeciles," the Hessian dangerously smirked, rapping a fist on the apparent metal plate beneath his clothing on his chest.
"Regardless, your head is not impervious," Connor scowled as Thomas snatched out his second flintlock and aimed dead-on.
Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough as the Templar snarled and lunged forward, his meaty hands clamping around his throat.
Vision already darkening, Thomas landed a solid punch to the mercenary's jaw. In spite of the tell-tale crack of bone that signaled he'd broken it, his foe's fingers continued to tighten. Never mind being strangled, the horrid burn and compression of his windpipe made him swiftly realize that his neck was about to be snapped. Especially as the Hessian suddenly used one hand to snatch him by the chin and twist his head in the opposite direction.
Ugh, what a shitacular way to go.
Well, fuck that.
Using one hand, he raked his nails down the Hessian's face. At the same time, he drove his other palm upwards, breaking the man's nose.
All at once, the pressure disappeared from his neck and he tumbled to the ground. Head slamming into the wooden floorboards, his vision swam with flashing dark spots. Meaning he suffered more damage to his hard head than he'd prefer. He would've cursed at his ill luck if he could just catch his fucking breath. Shakily rolling to his side, Thomas hacked and coughed, eyes wet with pain. But even as he wrestled to get air back into his lungs, his hand flew to the spare blade in his boot. Yanking it out and frantically scooting backwards, he willed himself to focus. For in front of him, Connor managed to leap on the Hessian's back. Driving her stiletto into upper arm just above his collarbone, she hacked at his other one with her tomahawk. Well, that certainly explained why the mad German so quickly unhanded him.
Yanking her knife out at the Templar's roar of disbelief, she attempted to slash her ax across his neck. Regrettably, his goret flung around it as he yawed backwards and spun, vainly trying to dislodge her. Gritting her teeth against the blaze of pain from her injured leg, she securely locked her ankles around his waist. Regardless, the metal of the name plate still prevented her from landing a clean cut. Ever the improviser, she braced her arm across his throat and forced his chin into the crook of her elbow. Effectively immobilizing him, she then plunged her weapon into where his shoulder met his neck.
Seizing and howling like a feral animal, the Hessian floundered into the wall with a thud. Had he not been so powerfully built, his unconscious action of driving Connor into marble mantle of the fireplace probably wouldn't have hurt her much. However, her injured leg fell from around his waist, causing her body shift. It resulted in her taking the full impact of collision between a hefty foe and unyielding stone. Head lurching back, it collided into the corner of the mantle with a sickening impact. Only by Providence did she not fall directly into the flames as she slumped to the ground with a rasped groan.
Spinning around, the Hessian ripped her dagger out of himself with a vile squelch. Flipping the weapon about, he braced it reverse grip while advancing on William.
Slashing out, his strikes arced far too swiftly for Thomas to see. Anyone else would be sliced to ribbons. But William elegantly ducked, dipped and twisted out of every reach. Thomas thought him insane as he purposely backed closer into the corner of the room. Then, he abruptly launched himself off the wall, a vicious knee connecting with the Hessian's crotch. Scrapping and brawling in the back alleys of London's Whitechapel in his youth, Thomas learned long ago that no man, no matter how much he boasted of his prowess, could take a solid whack the family jewels. Such was the case for the Hessian, who doubled over and clutched at his groin. William's immediate roundhouse kick then hurled their enemy across the room.
The Hessian vainly attempted to regain his footing, but it was to no avail. Toppling backwards, he smashed into the table in the middle of the parlor. His weight and the sheer force of the impact split its glazed glass into dozens of razor sharp shards. Letting out a stunned grunt, he attempted to twist out of the fall. It only caused him to over-spin and slam into the floor, face first.
Thick, jagged lumps of glass ripped his uniform, waistcoat and tunics beneath it to shreds. He should have bled in nearly a dozen place from the damage. But he wore another metal plate on his back. Eyes wide and head lolling to side in stunned disbelief, he shakily propped himself up one arm.
"C-connor!" Thomas rasped, stumbling to his feet. She remained lying adjacent to the fireplace, still as stone. And less than arm's distance away from where the Hessian clawed at the floor. Despite his other arm limply hanging at his side and one of his legs appearing unable to move, the mercenary wheezed and dragged himself towards her with morbid determination.
From out of nowhere, a dark form hissed and seemed to drop out of the air, landing on the Hessian's arm. The German roared as sharp little teeth pierced the soft flesh between his index finger and thumb. Claws latching on to his wrist, the cat scratched deep lacerations into his skin. Even as the Templar flung his arm back and forth, the animal fearlessly refused to budge. That was until he reached over with his other hand and snatched the cat by its scruff. With a gargle of annoyance, he tugged and yanked, finally ripping it from the meat of his arm. Hurling the calico into the opposite wall, he ignored its yelp as it connected with the hard surface.
"Merde!" William grit at their enemy's relentless press forward. But as the Hessian's grasping fingers snatched Connor's ankle, the Frenchman surged forward and dove for his legs to avoid the shards on his back. Grabbing Connor's stiletto from where it'd landed on the floor, he heaved the Hessian over to his back. Surely, slicing open his throat would do him in once and for all.
With nary a warning, Connor sprung back to life. Heaving herself upward, she planted her back against the pillar of the hearth while at the same time maneuvering her body to clutch the Hessian's head between her knees. A flurry of red found her yanking her crimson sash from about her waist. Abruptly knotting it around the mercenary's neck promptly made it into a primitive noose. She then wrapped her hands around either end of it, her fatal intent as clear as day. Yanking upwards while planting her feet on the Templar's shoulders, she viciously thrust him down to slide along the floor. The effect used his own weight against him as she put her makeshift garrote to its grisly use.
The bastard didn't even give them a satisfaction of a scream as the unmistakable, grotesque shrick of his neck snapping finally echoed in the air. An eternity seemed to pass before the Hessian's legs finally stopped flailing and jerking. Combined with his sightless stare at the ceiling and rigid form, he had to be dead. Not to mention getting stabbed multiple times, having his spine rearranged and then being strangled.
"Fucker's got nine bloody lives!" Thomas breathed, collapsing to sit on the floor. "Bloody fuckin' hell," he raggedly coughed as he closed his eyes and drew his knees up.
"So it would seem," William replied with surprising alacrity. Chest heaving, he wiped his brow and took in Connor. Seeing her eyes fluttering open, he let out snorted chuckle that was more akin to relief. "And Connor has ten." Dropping to sit next to her, he grabbed her hand and gave a light squeeze for emphasis.
"Ain't gotta go tellin' me twice," Thomas painfully nodded in agreement. Gingerly touching his neck, he winced at the feel of the bruises forming. "Hell, we all do."
"For the better," Connor rasped, her expression lacking its usual irritation.
"Or worse, in your case," William smirked at Hickey.
"Frenchmen's got fuckin' jokes," Thomas groused. It took longer than he liked to pull himself to his feet. However, he crossed the room in a few strides to meet the other two.
At the same time, the cat stumbled out of the corner. Save shaking its head a few times, the animal didn't appear worse for wear as he moved forward and lightly nosed at William's hand with a loud meow. Feeling along the back of her head, he slightly recoiled at Connor's groaned exasperation when he hit a tender spot. Bringing his fingers up to find them bloodied, he started murmuring various questions to test the extent of her injuries. Things such as her age, the current year and day, who he was and so on.
The duo's distraction allowed Thomas to toe at the Hessian's shoulder before he crouched down and unwound the makeshift garrote from around his neck. He couldn't stop from wrinkling his nose at how its edges actually cut into the arsehole's skin, Connor's strength evident. The blighter was as dead as a door nail though. About fuckin' time, he thought to himself. Glancing back to William and Connor still babbling, he surreptitiously removed the Hessian's Templar ring and pocketed it before inquiring, "So who be gettin' the fun job 'o dumpin' this mongrel's body?"
"We shall sort that out after attending to her first," William insisted, shooting Thomas a look of admonishment as he opened his mouth again.
"Suits me," Thomas shrugged. Glancing downwards, he took in the cat twining around his legs. "Wot?" he asked the feline. Shockingly, the animal didn't reach out and swat at him. Instead, it settled for rubbing its cheek against his ankles. Taking it as a sign of an unspoken truce, Thomas leaned down and cautiously ran a hand along its back. Arching into his touch for a few moments, it strolled away. Though not before turning tail to hiss at the Hessian's corpse. "Yeah," he tiredly smiled, "He be a right proper bastard, boy-o."
Meanwhile, William slowly drew Connor to her feet. She could already feel her thoughts swimming, her limbs becoming heavy and her speech beginning to slur as she repeated herself. "Do not…do not trust," she trailed off. Her tongue felt like cotton, loose and dry in her sandy mouth. Hand flailing, she reached out to grab William by the collar. Though on account of near passing out again, it came off more as lamely pawing at his shirt. "You cannot trust him," she droned. "He…is…a liar. Deceiver. Save for my threats, he would betray us. No hesitation-"
"I know, mon Cherie," William worriedly grinned. "I know," he clasped her hand in both of his. "Now, stop struggling against the sleep. You need your rest."
"Hmph," she drowsily exhaled. After a while though, it was impossible to stay awake. And so Connor finally allowed the darkness to claim her.
Notes:
"Oui" - "Yes" in French
"Ja?" - "Yes" in German
"De tout ce qui est saint!" – "Of all that is holy!" in French
"Merde!" - "Shit!" in French
"tea, some new concoction of tasting or orange and bergamot he'd never had in his life...it wasn't half bad" - Basically, this is a description of Earl Grey tea. While it existed, it wasn't specifically known as that blend until about 50 years later. Named after the 2nd Earl Grey, the British Prime Minister in the 1830s, Lord Grey received the special blend of tea as a gift. It became hugely popular afterwards and the rest is history. In this case, I like to think the ever-refined William is ahead of his time.