As soon as he was excused, Thomas rose, leaving the room with quick steps. He was urgent to leave this house of demons, be they allies or no.
By the time he left the building, his mind was already racing with thoughts. Thoughts of what he had learned, and that he was now allies with demons. Even if this alliance would end with the reforging of Cráwa, the middle-aged Stark was concerned. While Carmen would not give in to vile tactics, there were those of her coven that might not be as kind. It would be difficult to co-operate with the very creatures he slayed, even if some held gratitude to his kin. It wasn't even that he feared a dagger in the back, or teeth in his neck. He feared familiarity with these creatures. They were born of the tempress that fell from the heavens - if the legends were anything to go by. Thomas knew that some hunters worked in unison with demons at any moment given. They grew to trust... But, what if you were to kill these allies you had grown so fond of? What then?
While rumors were not always the most reliable resource, there had been hushed whispers of Alisa herself falling for the offer of kinship with demons, only to have her blade forced into the heart she had grown to love. I will not allow this to happen to me! the Stark thought to himself. I'd rather die.
The sky was dark with clouds of gray. Typical weather in London. The soft rain was of no concern to any of the citizen. Thomas even liked the rain above the sun. It was another weather where darkness and shadows ruled. Another weather that hid him, not only in shadows, but the veil of water that covered the whole of England's capital. Not to mention how it would oh-so-quickly wash away the blood of the dead. Easier to dispose corpses of demons, that way. Contractors, too. Immortal or not, a watery grave sealed the fate of every contractor, to the point where joy went through them, as their demon was slain. It was a cruel practice, of course, but an effective one.
Before he knew it, Thomas was home. An actual home, too, not some rotten inn. It was a pharmacy, the main source of his income, like all Starks had for centuries. He sliped inside quietly, not wanting to rise suspicion by slipping into a well-known pharmacy in the clothes of an assassin. He didn't bother lighting up the front, there would be no business today. Instead, he contininued into the back, a small gathering of rooms any normal home needed.
The thought of stowing away his hunter gear was swatted away by a desire for warmth and rest. So, instead, he headed into the bathroom, opening up the flow of water into the modest metal tub, steam already starting to fill the air.