CHAPTER 14- ARSON
In centuries to come, there would be a question asked amongst wise men. Was it a person’s lineage that defined who they were, or the way they had been raised? Nature or nurture? With Thomas Hieronimo, the question was moot. His father had used to joke that Thomas had been born biting and kicking. And he had been wild, and his father’s hard, thundering hands had taken the wildness and pressed it into something worse. Now his mind was a perfectly balanced knife. He killed with just enough calm to be dangerous, and just enough joy to be terrifying. His body was also a knife, whip thin, and perfectly still. And when he moved, it was like a lizard flying up a sunlit wall. He steeled himself before a killing, but in truth, there was almost nothing left to steel. His conscience had been skinned and nailed to the back of his head long ago.