Thomas cried out in pain as red stained his white slacks, and he desperately looked around in shock, trying to spot who had fired the bolt, but he didn't manage to spot the perpetrator. Thomas snarled, and if the light hadn't been taken out, his fangs, now fully extended, could have been clearly visible in the night. He pulled out the arrow, tossing it to the ground and deciding to not take the risk that the next one would be aiming for his heart.

He went the way the cats seemed to be leading him, limping as quickly as he could, looking for somewhere he could duck into to hide from his attacker. If he didn't find somewhere he could hide, he thought, maybe he could make his way back to the hotel. Let Cesare know there was a hunter in Islington, because the arrow told Thomas that's what it had to be, and get a room for the night.