Catherine finished the last of her letters to the Colonies. She dipped her pen in the ink well for her reply to James. He had voluntarily moved up to New York to give a proper reports of Templar Activity.
Though all wasn't Assassin business, but he shared the news that his sister had recently married and moved to upper New York. With his mother's passing from ammonia and Jame's other sister went under an apprenticeship with a seamstress in the city. He was left to his devises and was happy that his sisters were starting new lives and his mother had joined his father in internal peace.
James was happy, but he missed her and their adventures. He had reassured her that he was alright though. Yet a fear had been set in Catherine that James would be caught as a spy by the Templars.
The main headquarters of the Templars laid hidden within the port city. No one knew where, not even Catherine, even though she had stayed within the bounds of the headquarters. The young woman feared for James' safety and always pressured him to be safe. Warned him to never do anything that would cause him harm.
For now, James enjoyed the bearings that his newfound shop brought him.
Catherine yawned, feeling the tiredness in her eyes as her eyelids began to droop. Signaling that it was time to stop with the writing.
Glancing at the grandfather clock in her room, she noticed it was just a few minutes before one in the morning.
Pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose, she sighed. She had been in Versailles for less than a week and had found no sign of her target. Dorian hadn't even been able to pick up any leads on the man.
Monsieur Pronovost was a rat dressed in fine silk, scurrying throughout the city. The only clue she had was that he frequented taverns, but she had to wait until she heard word of the man making an appearance in the area.
Catherine extinguished the lights in the room. The moonlight cast its glow across her darkened chambers.
She skipped her usual nighttime routine, feeling too tired. She kicked off her shoes and walked over to her bed. She shrugged off her outer clothes. Catherine wore nothing but a white linen chemise that clothed her ivory skin.
She cast a glance at herself in the mirror. Her tired brown eyes gazed back at the 19-year-old girl reflected there. Catherine Cormac had changed over the last few years since the Boston Massacre, not just emotionally but physically as well. Her once slender frame had blossomed into that of a young woman.
Catherine had grown into womanhood, leaving her childlike youth behind. She imagined what life was like back home in Boston for the other girls she had grown up with. She could only picture them now, married with babies on their hips.
Catherine reached up to pull her hair to the side and examined her face more closely. With her fingertip, she traced the defined scar that ran from under her left eyelid, curving over her cheek to her ear. Her nose was slightly crooked from a solid punch she had received from Charles Lee. The scar, about half a finger thick, was barely visible to the naked eye.
Catherine Cormac wasn't afraid of Charles Lee or the men he hired. She knew she could have been a victim, but she had escaped it. Knowing her mother was alive had brought her newfound determination. The one regret Catherine held was over Azura—her death had been an accident, and Catherine would carry that guilt to her grave.
Laying her head on the feather pillow, she closed her eyes, trying to brush the memories of the past out of her mind.
Her dreams were peaceful; they had been ever since the truth about her mother came to light.
Sunlight and laughter, that were darken by shouts of screams and fire. It was the same every night, but it wasn't the nightmare that awoke the young woman from her nightmare.
A presence awoke Catherine. Her nightclothes stuck to her skin by the sweat, though it wasn't her concern at the moment.
She sat up in bed and reached for the matchbox on her nightstand to light the bedside candle. This wouldn't be the first time she had been disturbed in her sleep. A storm started outside the villa came raining down hard.
On her first night at the estate, little Arno couldn't sleep because of a roaring thunderstorm.
Catherine had stayed up with the boy, rubbing his back and humming an lullaby her mother used to sing to her. When he finally fell asleep, she carried him back to his bedroom, where he slept peacefully through the night. His bedroom was next to hers, so she didn't mind helping the child when his father was away.
However, a shiver ran down her spine, suggesting that this was different. "Arno?" she softly called.
The hairs standing on the back of her neck told her otherwise. Catherine noticed that her window was wide open, though she had left it shut a few hours earlier. Orla was gone, likely out hunting.
The assassin scurried out of her canopy bed and went to her desk to retrieve her hidden blade. She slipped the gauntlet on, locking the buckles in place. Focusing on her gift of Eagle Vision, she locked onto footprints leading from the window out of her room.
Her heart skipped a beat, and her first instinct was to check on Arno. She cared little for her own safety as long asArno was safe. She was poised and ready to pounce on at a moment notice.
She followed the footprints into the hall, the fresh mud tracks glowing bright red as they led to Arno's room. The hidden knife sprang to life from her gauntlet with a simple flick of her hand. Catherine steadily pushed open the door to the child's bedroom. She first saw Arno's sleeping figure in the bed, but above him was a man, sitting on the edge of the bed, playing with what looked like a knife.
She flung the door open, stepping into the room with gritted teeth, ready to throw herself at the shadowy figure.
The man turned around with a snake-like smirk, pressing his finger to his lips to shush her. "We wouldn't want to wake the innocent, now would we? Though I must ask, why did it take you so long to sense my presence?" The man spoke with a thick accent, an accent that almost sounded Greek.
"What are you doing in this house?" she demanded, her voice low and dangerous.
"Oh, don't worry. I'm not here for him—I'm here for you, girl." He continued to toy with his dagger. "But unless you want to see the boy hurt, go put on some clothes and be back in five minutes. We'll be leaving shortly. And don't even think about waking anyone up."
Glancing at Arno, the knife was near inches from the boy. The shadowy man could kill Arno moments before she could react.
No choice but for the teenager to give in the demands.
Catherine growled, giving a short, curt nod.. She didn't waste time, changing into her assassin robes. Catherine thought quickly about where she could hide a weapon in case of a fight. She made her way back to Arno's bedroom to find the man still playing with the knife.
She silently prayed that Charles would realize she was missing. But she didn't need saving—she could handle herself in any fight.
"I see you didn't take your time. Not going to do anything with your hair?" the man taunted.
"Where are we going?" she asked, glaring at him.
"To meet some friends of mine." He reached out to grab her arm tightly. "Shall we, Miss Cormac?"
How did he know who she was? No one was suppose to know her name besies of the ones confined in the brotherhood, even the mentors were so careful on how her name would spilled out.
Catherine ripped her arm away from him. "You're kidnapping me by threatening a young boy?"
"Oh, I'm not kidnapping you. I'm not dragging you out of here."
Catherine spat in his face. "I demand to know who you are."
The man didn't flinch as the spit landed on his cheek. "Let's just say my associates and I have been hunting your kind for a very long time. We have an offer for you." He calmly wiped the spit from his face.
"Templars," Catherine spat, glaring at him.
The man showed a wolfish grin before letting out a cackle as he led her out of the room. "Oh, my dear, it's more than that. We shouldn't keep Pronovost waiting." He made sure she stayed quiet as they crept through the halls.
Catherine's eyes widened at the sound of the name. Pronovost was her target—Martian Pronovost. She quickly composed herself, hiding any sign that she recognized the name. He was a suspected Templar, believed to have murdered his wife's previous husband for the young couple's wealth. Catherine knew it would be easier if she allowed the man to escort her.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
He beckoned her to follow him through the front door of the house. "Call me Adonis."
Catherine wasn't about to let herself fall into another trap, like what happened back at the Boston warehouse. She refused to become this man's victim.
"Well then, Adonis," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "lead the way to your master. I want to know who has the nerve to come into my home and threaten my mentor's son."
"It wasn't a threat, just a little incentive.." The man threw her out in front of him, forcing her to walk ahead. Her curly red hair fell in front of her face from the force of his push.
She combed the curls out of her face as she walked forward into the darkened streets. Even in the late hours, the streets were still alive with activity. Catherine remembered the harlots, thieves, and hermits who prowled the streets at night, looking to fill their pockets. She never paid them any mind as she ran above them, shrouded in darkness. But now, as she stepped through the streets of Versilia, she noticed that hardly a soul was in sight. They passed the occasional patrol of guards keeping curfew in check.
The strange man guided her through the streets without any concern about being caught.
After an hour of walking, they arrived at a private home on the outskirts of the city, guarded by brutish men hired to stand watch. The guards allowed the pair to pass without question. "I wouldn't try anything funny, girl. We outnumber you," one of them warned.
"Do you know who I am?" Catherine shot back.
"A girl who's supposed to be dead, who could barely stand on her own," the man sneered.
"I escaped, didn't I?" Catherine huffed.
The man chuckled. "Luck."
"Well, I don't need luck, by the way." Catherine didn't pay attention to the décor or the expensive furnishings. She kept an eye out for an escape route. The man led her to a back room of the small but lavish home.
He opened the door for her, revealing a well-dressed man sitting and talking to another man over a glass of dark wine. "Ah, here is our guest of honor."
"Oh, so I'm a guest now?" Catherine mocked, giving a sarcastic bow. "I didn't realize that."
The well-dressed man who had been standing with a drink greeted her. "We're not forcing you to stay, girl. Sit, have a drink." He reached for a bottle of wine and poured another glass. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Martian Pronovost."
"I assume you know who I am," she replied, raising an eyebrow as she refused the drink.
Catherine caught a glimpse of the Templar ring on his finger as he extended the glass toward her. She scrutinized his appearance, looking for any signs of his affiliation. She saw nothing obvious, except for a pin on his outer coat—a design of two intertwining vipers.
"Take a seat, Miss Cormac," the second man spoke. "We have a proposition for you—one that could be most generous and might even help you find your mother."
"Why would I accept help from Templars? You people are the reason I'm in this situation in the first place." She refused to sit, concealing her true intentions.
"What exactly did Adonis tell you about why you were brought here?" the second man asked.
Catherine narrowed her eyes at him. "He threatened a young boy. I had no choice but to come."
Martian Pronovost made a ticking noise with his tongue. "I thought I said to extend a clean invitation."
"Well, she's here, isn't she?" Adonis retorted. "I did my task."
The second man held up his hand, signaling for Adonis to be quiet. Catherine guessed that Adonis was lower on the chain of command. "Yes, you did. Now, go take a seat and wait for further instructions."
It suddenly clicked for Catherine—the accents of the men speaking were Greek. She had only heard Greek accents once before, back in the harbor at Boston.
"Miss Cormac, my name is Marco Ange. I'm trying to recruit Mister Pronovost here for a quest."
Catherine scoffed in disgust. "A quest? Trying to dress as some kind of noble adventure."
Marco chuckled as he stood up with the help of his cane. "Not quite, my dear... but I do enjoy the imagination of the young."
Marco had olive-colored skin, he was significantly older than anyone in the room, but he was in strong athletic shape. . "Will you listen to an old man's request?"
Catherine stayed where she stood, wary of a trap. "What is it? You mentioned my mother."
"Ah, yes, Rose. I had the pleasure of meeting her a few years after I took time to track her down though only in passing. Let me tell you, you are her sunrise, Miss Cormac."
The young woman's expression didn't falter as she listened to the old man talk about her mother. She only stood there, silently. "I don't believe a word you say."
"Well, it doesn't matter if you do or not. I have an offer for you."
"What kind?" Catherine asked, fidgeting with her hidden blade. She was ready to strike at any moment.
The old man walked over to her, gently patting her back as he guided her to a desk with a map of the known world. "You know, my dear, we've been after people like you for a very long time."
Catherine inched closer. "Assassins?"
Martian laughed. "Not quite, but people with your abilities. Instead of hunting you down like animals, we want you to join us."
Catherine wasn't sure what the old man was talking about. "You mean Eagle Vision? It's a rare gift, but not that rare. My father has it, my friend Connor has it, and several others in the Brotherhood have it too."
"No, no, it's more than that. Have you ever felt a connection with animals, especially winged ones? Or have you experienced visions from the past or the future?" He drew on the words trying to draw a picture for her.
His voice sunken low, almost like wolf speaking to a lone fox cub in the wild.
Catherine wanted to retort, telling him he was foolish, but there was a flicker of relaxation. Small moments of her life that were unsubtle moments, thinking about the visions she had been experiencing over the past few years. She had assumed they were a permanent side effect of coming into contact with the Precursor Box.
Marco raised his glass to her. "I see the look on your face tells me everything."
Catherine quickly adjusted her expression. "You don't know that," she said, pointing at him accusingly.
How the hell would he know that about her? Catherine's mind raced, trying to figure out how he could possibly know. The visions came to her in dreams, and the special connection with animals? She couldn't explain it, but it felt as though she could understand an animal's nature just by looking at it.
She already knew Orla's behavior. In fact, under the moonlight, she had seen the shadows of Orla's wings. "How do you know about this?" she demanded.
A smile spread across Marco's lips. "Tell me, child, have you ever heard of the Order of the Ancients?" he asked.
Catherine gritted her teeth, was this a secret sect that was connected to the Templars? The morals he shared within his organization felt like Templar ideology, but worse. Much more darker.
The brief experience she had with the Templars in the Colonies, especially Haytham Kenway and even her own father would never agree to this idea. To bring description to whole countries to bend it under the control of one group.
Martian spoke with a grin, "I was in the same boat as you, Miss Cormac. You see, this cult is thousands upon thousands of years old. We can trace our roots all the way back to Ancient Greece. In fact, the Templars are a branch of us. We are composed of Assassins and Templars from all over the globe. However, we are small in number."
It was like he knew he saw her questioning this. This had to be a lie, how true was this?
"If the Templars branched from you, then you're all the same," Catherine spat, gritting her teeth. "If you think I'll swear an oath to you, you're insane."
"Not even if it means seeing your mother again?" Martian asked, his voice oozing with temptation. "We can even provide the money that will help aid your sweethearts' people."
Catherine's eyes flashed with interest. She fought to hide the flush in her cheeks when he referred to Connor as her lover. She wanted to retorted and argue, but it was so mundan. Her cheeks gave away her feelings.
Adonis laughed from his seat as he drank a bottle of wine. "Those letters to your 'friend' say otherwise. They'd make a wench blush."
"They do not contain any risque topics!" Catherine snapped at him. "How are you stealing my letters?"
"Oh, don't they?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Catherine was ready to pounce on the Greek man and kill him. She knew she had to take care of this group—they were too dangerous to leave alive. Martian would be the first to go. He was her true target.
"The reason we brought you here, Catherine," Marco spoke eagerly, "is because we want you to join us. We'll give you what you want, but you have to do something first."
Catherine stared down at him, suspicious. "What?"
"I need you to kill my wife," Martian spoke up. "She'll be at the palace tomorrow, in the royal gardens—an easy target."
This had to end, no more talking to these fools.
"That may be true, but she's in the way." He shrugged. "She gave me what I wanted, so now I have no use for her." Martian's dark eyes met hers. "Though, I'd be more than willing to let you take her place. I mean, as my wife, can you imagine how much we could accomplish together as a couple?" He laughed. "And you're not a bad-looking girl, even if you're a bit dinged up." He walked up to her and reached out to touch her face.
The assassin was caught between the two men. Her hidden blade was warm against her wrist, and a dagger was tucked up her other sleeve. If she could eliminate the third man, she could take out the two most powerful men in the room.
Martian looked over at the other Greek man. "Adonis, you can go ahead and take care of it. You should get set up in position."
"That's a shame. I was hoping for a lovely woman on my arm," Adonis remarked as he fixed his coat collar before making his way out of the room.
Martian continued to stare her down. "I figured that killing wouldn't suit you, but there are other ways you can be useful to us. It would be fitting, especially after you killed one of us already."
Catherine could count on one hand the high-profile targets she had killed. "Who?"
"Azura. She was our eyes in the Colonies. She wrote that you had much promise in her letters. It's a shame, though."
The young woman stiffened, remembering the Persian woman who died accidentally. "That was an accident."
"Unlikely. I would never join a bunch of Templars," Catherine growled.
Marco cleared his throat. "We are not Templars. We are better than them. Instead of trying to rule mankind, we are trying to end it."
Catherine was taken aback by his words. "What?"
"The world has existed far longer than any of us can imagine. As the cycle of life shows, all things must come to an end," Marco explained, taking a measured sip of his wine. "We once sought to guide mankind, but now we see it for what it truly is—disgusting creatures who do nothing but enslave, kill, and rape. Our goal is to restart with a select few, new leaders of the future that will rise above to maintain order."
Catherine could hardly believe the words coming from this old man. She glanced at Martian, who remained unfazed by this twisted ideology. "How, you couldn't possible.."
Then it hit her—the artifacts, like the one in Lisbon. If they could replicate those effects, the devastation would be unimaginable.
she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "How many are you at the head?"
"We are what's left, especially after how you have witnessed it firsthand—the British firing upon your home, leaving you to die in a burning warehouse."
Catherine's eyes burned with fury. "That was the work of a few men, not all of mankind," she retorted, her voice trembling with anger. In a flash, she unleashed her hidden blades and struck.
Her blade plunged into Martian's throat, and he crumpled to his knees, blood seeping from the wound. "Do you think I fear death, girl?" he croaked, clutching his neck.
Marco staggered back as her blade nicked his shoulder. He fumbled for his pistol, but Catherine paid no heed to the dying man's taunts. She pounced on Marco, wrestling for control of the weapon. A shot rang out, hitting the ceiling, a warning to the men downstairs.
With a swift knee to his chest, Catherine knocked the breath out of Marco. She drove her hidden blade into his chest, her movements precise and deadly. Blood soaked her clothes as Marco's breaths grew shallow. "I should have seen that coming," he wheezed, his voice weak.
"Do you think you'll survive without a man like me or a group backing you?" From the paling of skin, and the blood that was pooling at him. He wasn't going to live.
"I couldn't care less."
"And what will you do against the Colonial Templars?"
"I'll deal with them just as I dealt with you."
Heavy footsteps echoed outside the door, accompanied by the concerned voices of the mercenaries. Catherine darted toward the window, leaping out and vanishing into the dawn. As she fled, she prayed this would be the last she'd ever hear of this group.