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Chapter 3

“Bloody fuck!” Killian thundered across the empty bullpen, the computer mouse he had been agitatedly clicking to zoom in on a CCTV captured image of a man bearing no resemblance to his suspect, careening across the room and shattering against the wall of his brother’s office. 

“I appreciate the frustration Little Brother, but throwing government issued hardware at walls isn’t going to solve the problem at hand; although, I can’t fault your aim, the pieces have all landed neatly into the trash.” 

Liam’s wry observation as he poked his head out of his office door, only served to make Killian press his palms into his eyes in annoyance at being caught out throwing a tantrum, the explosion of white spots bursting across his vision as he did so doing nothing to ease the exhaustion and subsequent headache he knew he couldn’t afford to nurse right now.  

It had been four long and excruciating weeks since Killian had set his sights on Walsh Osman being their killer; however, whether by some kind of tip off or sheer instinct, the man had gone completely off grid. He had left his business, his home, and his girlfriend, disappearing to god knows where. Killian was sure that he hadn’t crossed over into Mexico - which would have likely been the fastest escape route from the authorities - but it also didn’t seem as though he had tried to return to any of his old haunts in Nevada or New Mexico. Perhaps he had knowledge on how to survive in the desert and was lying low until he could figure out his next steps, and if he did, what hope did they have locating him out there? 

At first, it had been easy to set a course for bringing in Osman for questioning about his relationship with all of the victims. Killian had only needed two days of research to get all of the information that he needed to back up his hunch and present it to Liam and the rest of the team for approval to follow through on the lead. Starkey had even been able to speak with the elusive Emma Swan about her boyfriend’s whereabouts; although that had proven to be a dead end. She had apparently broken up with him the week prior to the vandalism of her home and hadn’t had any reason to believe that he was the ‘Wounded Heart Killer’ until he had decided to tag the walls of her bedroom with his calling card. She had only returned to Phoenix long enough to hand over a few assignments that she had been working on and set her home to rights before heading back to Maine to support her sister and mourn the death of her brother-in-law. 

Thinking about Emma Swan again caused a sigh of longing to escape Killian’s lips. He had wanted to question the lass himself and perhaps while he was at it, understand if his immediate attraction to her was merely of a physical nature - much like the hormonal teenager with no real knowledge of women he used to be - but Liam had demanded he attend the video conference call with the bosses back in Quantico for an update on how the case was progressing. After the interview, she had taken off again, and although there was nothing out of the ordinary with her statement, he couldn’t help feeling that it was a little too simple. There had been very little emotion behind her words (at least according to Starkey), and it left him feeling unsettled. His gut was telling him that Emma Swan was anything but lacking in emotion, despite her line of work where facts and science were the only things of importance. He needed to speak to her and make sure that she was completely safe, but he didn’t want to interrupt her time of mourning with her family unless it was absolutely necessary, so he continued to wrestle with his own feelings on this enigmatic woman in silence, praying that her small hometown on some rural coast up north was too much of an inconvenience for her ex to bother making the journey.

“You’re exhausted, Kil. You need a proper meal and a good night’s sleep. Everything will be waiting for you in the morning. Right now, you’re no good to these poor women who need you to find that bastard and bring them the peace they deserve.” 

Killian jumped at Liam’s gentle words, not realizing his brother had made his way over to his desk, leaning against it as he assessed his best agent and more importantly, his only family. Again, Killian sighed, this time in resignation. Liam was right, he couldn’t be of any use to Osman’s victims if kept insisting on neglecting his own bodily needs that allowed him to perform at his best. He owed those women his best. 

Now that he was without his mouse, Killian squinted blearily at the keyboard looking for the shortcut keys that would help him shut down his computer for the night. Liam chuckled, and nudging him aside, shut off the computer for him, before also nudging him  out of his seat to grab his jacket so they could leave the office together.     

Stepping out into the warm, clear night, the brothers debated on where they should go for take out. Although they didn’t live together anymore, it was not uncommon for them to share dinner unless one or the other had to work late  or had a date. Killian would usually whip up something for the two of them to enjoy; however, he couldn’t remember the last time he had shopped for groceries and anyway, he was much too tired to put together anything that could be considered a well-balanced meal. 

The brothers had just agreed to try out the new Thai restaurant a couple of blocks away from the office when Liam’s work cell began to ring. Knowing that if someone was calling this late it wouldn’t be for a casual check-in or inquiry, both men changed direction and headed back inside, Killian staring intently at the phone in Liam’s hand as he answered the call.

“Jones,” Liam answered brusquely, his eyes flicking towards Killian as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

Killian tried to discern what was happening by reading the expressions on his older brother’s face; however, Liam as ever, revealed nothing, his demeanor unruffled and his emotions kept locked away.

“I have one of my agents with me, so we’ll both head out to the scene now. Be there in 30.” Liam hung up without waiting for a response and began walking towards the parking lot, pulling out his key fob as he did so.

A pit began to form in Killian’s stomach the longer Liam maintained his silence. If the call had been to advise of an intangible lead, Liam would already be filling him in on all of the details and his speculations at what it could all mean. Heading towards Liam’s FBI issued, nondescript black sedan rather than Killian’s conspicuous silver Chevelle, Killian tried to reign in his questions until his brother - and at this very moment, his boss - was ready to relay where they were going and why. 

Finally, as he was backing out of his designated space, Liam spoke, his voice low and full of self-condemnation.

“Phoenix PD were called to the Echo Canyon trail earlier today to investigate some partially burnt human remains. Preliminary reporting suggests the remains are that of a female, aged between 25 to 40 years. It is not known yet whether the victim was killed on site or if they were transported there after.”

Killian focused on the streetlights they were speeding past, his mind flipping through all of the cases he had been a part of since he joined Liam’s team as though they were pages in a book on the worst of humanity. They had caught Felix Piper over a year ago just outside of Tucson; he had been a simple arsonist who turned serial killer when he decided he didn’t mind if there were people in the buildings he set alight or not. However, he wasn’t really one for outdoor pursuits; therefore, it was unlikely they were dealing with another of his victims. If this body was found in Echo Canyon, the killer would have to be an experienced hiker to not only make it through the trail, but strong enough to drag their victim (dead or alive) to their final resting place.

“Why are we being called out? What makes the cops think this is out of their jurisdiction?” Killian asked, his eyes still trained on the world outside of the car, readying himself for the horror he was about to investigate. 

Liam sighed, his hands flexing on the steering wheel as he too began to prepare himself. “They found a… calling card. A heart with a hole in its middle was found on the victim’s chest, just above their own heart.” 

A feeling of panic swept over Killian. 

Could the body in the desert be that of Emma Swan? Did she not make it to Maine to be with her sister? 

No. No, surely the victim was not Miss Swan, just another poor woman who was unfortunate enough to cross the path of Walsh Osman. 

Silence again permeated the vehicle, each Jones brother lost in their own thoughts of what this latest victim would mean for the overall case against Osman. Before Killian could think too much more on what their next best step was in tracking their killer down, Liam turned into the parking lot of the national park, where a couple of uniformed officers were waiting with flashlights, ready to lead them to the crime scene.  

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Neither man was dressed appropriately for a hike, but they pressed on, their discomfort immaterial compared to the situation awaiting them. Finally, after about 45 minutes of steady incline along rocky paths, they reached an outcropping that offered stunning views of the desert beyond and the city lights that seemed so insignificant when up this high. The area around them was strewn with boulders of varying sizes and interspersed with rugged plants and undergrowth determined to thrive in the harsh conditions of shallow soil and sparse water supply. 

A mixed group of uniformed officers, detectives and forensic personnel were huddled around a corner of the cliff face furthest from the trail, lit up by generator-powered flood lights that had Killian shielding his eyes against the brightness as he and Liam walked over to John Smee - a veteran detective who was always more than glad to hand over a case to anyone else if it meant he didn’t have to have to work too hard to catch the killer. Killian had often wondered why such a man had ever bothered looking for a career in law enforcement if it had seemed like such an effort to chase down leads and catch criminals. Shaking away his thoughts of the rotund man who had noticed their presence, Killian settled his mind on the victim who had been found and what they could uncover from her brutal murder. 

“Sir, Agent Jones.” Smee nodded his head in deference to the two men from the FBI who would likely be taking over the case if they confirmed that the evidence they had found matched their ongoing chase for the ‘Wounded Heart Killer.’ 

Both men muttered their own greetings briefly before Liam cut straight to the point, “What are the events that have led up to now?” 

“Well…” Smee began nervously. The man was terrified of the Jones’ and had always preferred to liaise with Agent Starkey on any matter that  related to the FBI; however, given the high profile of the case at hand, his own captain had demanded he speak with those in charge directly to ensure all facts were transferred with accuracy.  

“There was a local geologist - a Mr. Darling - who had been doing some surveys of the area and  decided to bring his dog along. As you might know, people are not allowed to bring dogs on this trail-”

Killian raised an eyebrow in impatience, as his head tilted to the side signaling to skip the irrelevant details and move on. Smee, on noticing the agent’s silent request, gulped heavily and continued, “Well the ah, dog, it began creating a ruckus, barking and straining to get away from Mr. Darling so it could investigate this space right here,” Smee glanced quickly at Killian again to make sure he hadn’t further aggravated him. 

“Go on, detective,” Liam urged, his voice polite but leaving no question that he needed to hurry up. 

“Yes, sir. As I was saying, the dog was causing so much noise, that a few hikers alerted some of the rangers down at the park’s station. When the rangers arrived, they found a very distressed Mr. Darling who had found a body shoved into a crevice in the cliff which had been covered up with dead tree branches and rocks as you see here. Once the rangers confirmed what was inside the crevice, they called us and we’ve been collecting evidence ever since. We haven’t been able to ID her yet, but it was this that made me think that she may be related to the ‘Wounded Heart Killer’.”  

Creating a path amongst the people crowded around the crime scene, Smee led Liam and Killian to the victim, now interred in a body bag ready to be transported to the morgue. Crouching down beside the bag, Killian carefully unzipped it, revealing what was clearly a young woman who had suffered terribly before her death. Despite most of her face being burnt beyond recognition, some of her hair was still intact. It was dark brown and likely would have been sleek and shiny once upon a time. Killian sighed in relief - this woman was definitely not Emma Swan. Moving the zipper down further, it was obvious that the killer had no clear knowledge of how they wished to dispose of the body. It seemed like shoving it out of sight into the crevice was a last resort once they realized that burning the body would take too long and arouse too much suspicion the longer they stayed out in the open. 

Scanning the victim’s chest area, Killian found the link to their killer, but almost recoiled in disgust at the sight. Raised flesh, unmarred by fire but showing a burn nonetheless, depicted a small heart with a hole in its middle. She had been branded. 

The bloody bastard branded her so that she would remain his forever...

“Do you have an approximation for time of death?” Killian barked, standing up again and looking around at the group.

“No-not an exact time, no… b-but based on a cursory observation, and the rate of decomposition of the areas of her body that haven’t been burned, it’s believed she may have died between seven months to a year ago…” Smee quickly answered, before anyone else could stoke the anger brewing in the agent’s eyes. 

Killian stepped back, allowing one of the forensic team to reclose the bag, and stalked around to the crevice that had been discovered behind all of the detritus used to hide it. Scorch marks could be faintly seen on the ground and against the cliff face itself. Lost in thoughts of how their victim could have been brought up here unnoticed, a breeze drifted in off the desert floor, the scent of roses and sweet cinnamon thick in the air. Killian closed his eyes, allowing the wind to dance around and through him, momentarily distracting him from the horror he had just observed and thanking his overworked mind for the respite that his favorite smell always invoked. 

With a final sigh, Killian made to turn his attention back to the crime scene, when he heard it: a voice apologizing and pleading for forgiveness. It was as though the voice - low and husky in tone that would be perfectly enticing to him were it not for the panic and terror that was woven through every word spoken - came from the very breeze itself. Quickly moving towards the outcropping’s edge, Killian peered out into the darkness of the night, trying to discern where the voice had come from. It was so clear that he couldn’t have imagined it surely, but no one else seemed perturbed by the outburst as they continued collecting the remaining evidence so they could finally leave the site and start the trek back down the hiking trail. 

Golden curls and an amused smile broke through Killian’s thoughts as the voice changed from panicked apologies to whispered pleas for help, forcing him to flinch backwards in surprise. 

Why did hearing that voice make him think of Emma Swan? 

The pit that had formed in his stomach the moment Liam had answered his cell deepened, threatening to swallow him whole in fear, his earlier worries of whether Emma was safe with her family coming back to the fore. How could he possibly be thinking like this? Hearing imaginary voices that somehow make him think of a woman he has never even met? No, he was tired and upset at discovering a new victim - that was the logical explanation. He was a man who dealt in facts and believed that if he could see it and if he could touch it, then it must be real. Hearing voices would be a sure fire way to get himself taken off the case, no matter what position his brother held at the Bureau. But then again, he had always trusted his gut’s instincts - they had never steered him wrong, why would now be any different?

“Liam,” Killian called out, walking over to his brother and gesturing that it was time to go. Liam nodded, but his own raised brow asked what the urgency was in leaving so quickly. 

“We need to know where Emma Swan is. Now.”

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Elsa paced the kitchen, alternating her path from length to breadth and back again, furious with her inability to calm her mind enough to reach out to her sister through their bond. It had been four weeks of silence from Emma after she had promised to be back to help her bury her husband and support her in the necessary adjustments that she and her little girls would need to make to their lives so they could carry on without him. Instead, she had to make all of the arrangements for the funeral herself, pack up the rest of their belongings so she could list the quaint craftsman style cottage that she had loved so much for sale and move in with the aunts, while also continuing with her plans to open her small cafe now that she had employees who would be relying on her to provide paychecks to them. She did all of these things, as grief stricken and overwhelmed as she was, all while under the judgmental gaze and whispered accusations of Storybrooke’s denizens. 

Elsa knew that Emma would never let her down like this without a good reason. The text messages she had received in the days after Emma was due to return home explaining away her absence were stilted and formal, lacking any warmth or humor that was usual of her sister’s form of communication. Elsa would never claim to be a more powerful witch than Emma; it was fact that her sister had exceptional talent in spades across all different disciplines of the Craft. However, over the years, Elsa’s abilities with intuition had been carefully nurtured and allowed to develop to the point that she no longer needed the subtle cues of the natural world to let her know what the immediate future held. She hadn’t needed the call from the Phoenix PD this morning asking if she had spoken to her sister, she hadn’t needed to know that the FBI were involved and hoped to confirm that Emma was safe from her boyfriend turned prolific serial killer, and she certainly hadn’t needed to see the telltale smudge of red on the full moon last night that heralded that discord and death was now on its way. 

The house creaked and groaned around her, breaking up the silence that had pervaded throughout since Aunt Belle and Aunt Ruby had taken her girls for a day out further down the coast so Elsa could concentrate on tracking down her missing sister. The noises calmed her, offering her solace and the sense that she was not alone in this. Breathing deeply, Elsa turned to the kitchen table that was already set up with everything she needed to reach out to Emma. A small black velvet cloth was spread out, upon which a brand new pillar candle sat within a circle of white rose petals, ready to be lit. Beside the cloth lay a clear quartz crystal - a conduit to which Elsa could focus her frayed energy and help in powering her location spell. The white rose petals would hopefully strengthen the bond that she and Emma had created with each other so long ago for the duration of the spell, while the candle would light the path to discovery of her most beloved sister.  

Elsa sat down, trying to even out her breathing and empty her mind of everything but the question of where Emma was and ignoring the burble of dread that she was anything but okay. Picking up the crystal, Elsa began to trace the scar on the palm of her hand, murmuring softly as she did so. After a moment, the candle ignited, the flame elongating to twice its usual size as Elsa continued her incantation. A tingling sensation began to race along her scarred hand, as though a thousand angry ants were crawling over it, and Elsa fought to keep her focus - she was so close to finding the answer to her question that she couldn’t afford to be distracted.

The piercing chime of her cell phone ringing in the back pocket of her jeans startled Elsa, causing her to drop the crystal onto the cloth and disturbing the ring of petals that she had carefully arranged around the candle. The candle’s flame extinguished at the interruption, but Elsa was too busy reaching behind her to retrieve the device to notice. 

She didn’t bother checking to see who was attempting to call her; she was too keyed up and more than ready to go against her usual peaceful nature and tear the caller a new one.  

“El?” a trembling voice whispered.

The rebuke ready to spill from Elsa’s lips dissipated at the sound of her little sister’s terrified voice, relief and terror merging to form a knot in her chest that didn’t know whether it wanted to loosen or tighten into something almost Gordian at the sound. 

“It’s me, Em. Where are you? Are you safe?” she managed to choke out, trying to keep the fear out of her own tone, but knowing she had failed miserably. 

A small sob, followed by a shaky breath was the only answer for a long moment before Emma confirmed she was holed up in a motel just off Interstate 95 near Boston. She had no idea where Walsh was, only that he had left some hours ago and she had only just managed to escape long enough to find a payphone and call the only person she wanted to talk to right now.

“Stay inside your room and barricade it. Do not answer it for anyone but me, okay? I’m bringing you home to Storybrooke, we’ll figure out what to do next after that,” Elsa soothed, already moving towards the vestibule and where she kept her car keys on the small row of hooks beside the front door. She hated to end the call, but Emma needed to get inside her room where she could find some modicum of safety until she was able to get to her. With a final reassurance that she was leaving now and would be there as soon as possible, Elsa hung up and raced out the door, texting Aunt Belle to let her know what was going on and to ask that she extend their trip to an overnighter so that she could get Emma home and settled in properly. 

Sending a prayer of protection towards her sister, Elsa climbed into her car and sped off in a swirl of dust and gravel, hoping that she could make good time and bring Emma back to where she belonged - home.  

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Four hours of driving with nothing but her own thoughts for company, Elsa tried to reconcile the events that had led up to her racing down the I-95 to rescue her sister. Emma was an intelligent woman who worked with law enforcement every day, who was young and fit and had no trouble sending a man on their way when she no longer felt a connection to them - whether by kind words or a knee to the groin, whatever the situation called for. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself and knew how the law could protect her should she ever find herself in need of help, which was why it was so odd that instead of calling 911, she decided to call Elsa instead. Did she not feel safe talking to her colleagues? How much did the FBI know about Emma and her relationship with Walsh? 

Elsa hadn’t received much information over the phone from the authorities; only that Emma’s safety was in question and that Walsh was a suspected serial killer whose victims spanned across multiple states. The fact that Emma was an extremely talented witch who should’ve been able to find some way to subdue her kidnapper played on Elsa’s mind. Emma had told her that she had used belladonna on Walsh previously so she could come home to Storybrooke. Had Walsh found out and decided to punish her for it? How was she being held against her will to the point that she could not employ any of her magic to escape? There were limits to their abilities of course; they couldn’t do things like disappear and reappear at will like in Harry Potter - but surely there was something that Emma could have used to her advantage to make her escape. 

Elsa had made good time getting to the small dingy motel just off the interstate, thankful for the full tank of gas she had had the presence of mind to fill only the day before. Staring at the row of rooms that she had parked across from, Elsa figured that Walsh would have chosen one as far away from everyone else as possible. Slowly, she got out of her car, keeping her keys in her hand while she searched her surroundings to ensure no one could come at her by surprise. Making her way to the dented and peeling door marked with a crooked number ‘8’, Elsa gently knocked on it, a series of taps that they had used as children when communicating with each other whenever one (usually Emma) was in detention during their school years. In a matter of moments Elsa could hear something heavy being pushed aside along with the turning of the door’s lock. The sight that greeted her had tears springing to her eyes, forcing her to swallow down the sob that was fighting to break free.

Emma’s golden curls hung limply around her face, greasy from days of going unwashed and without proper care. Her skin was a ghostly white, highlighted even more so by the dimly lit room behind her. Her clothes were wrinkled and in some places ripped, as though she had been in a fight. The black eye that bloomed heavily with a mix of purples, blues and reds was the most concerning however, and Elsa fought to not reach out and prod at it to confirm the extent of the injury. 

 “Oh Emma,” Elsa could no longer hold off the tears that were now streaming down her face, reaching out to grip her little sister’s trembling arm and pull her into a hug. 

“I’m so sorry, El. I shouldn’t have called, but-” Emma began to mumble into Elsa’s shoulder, her voice weary and defeated. 

“Don’t you dare apologize! This is not your fault. I don’t care what happened, this is not on you, it’s on him. As soon as we get out of here, we are finding the nearest police station and we’ll sort this out okay?” 

Emma just nodded, slowly stepping back on unsteady feet and turning around to gather up the few possessions of hers that Walsh had shoved into a duffel bag after he had kidnapped her and forced her to travel in zigzags across the country in the weeks since. 

Elsa could feel her heart breaking all over again at the movements of her sister. It was obvious she had at points fought hard against her kidnapper - her movements slow and cautious, as though she feared injuring herself further. However, aside from her physical appearance, there appeared to be something off about Emma. Focusing in on her aura, Elsa was shocked to find that it was a muted shade of gray. Usually, Emma’s aura was a sunshine yellow, cheerful and full of playful energy, that would often glitter with spots of white that highlighted her quick mind and connectedness with the world around her. The gray that was now emanating from her was not natural, Elsa could feel that, but she couldn’t discern the reasoning behind it. 

Deciding to puzzle out that anomaly later when she could be sure of their safety, Elsa ushered Emma out the door of the dilapidated lodgings and began quickly making their way towards her car. They were halfway there when Emma, who had been explaining that Walsh had disappeared hours ago after he had punched her for laughing along with the poor delivery kid who tried to understand what the hell Walsh meant by wanting pepperoni and cheese donuts and not the pizza that he had actually ordered, suddenly stopped, her eyes fixed on the full moon above that was just beginning to brighten against the purplish-blue of the twilight sky. 

“Blood on the moon,” she murmured, her grip on Elsa’s arm tightening even as her other hand plunged into the depths of her tote bag, frantically searching for her stone of protection. 

“I know, but we’re leaving now Em, we’ll protect each other okay?” Elsa continued pulling Emma along with her, now only steps away from her car. 

“No, no, I need my dragon glass, he must have taken it, that’s why- shit!”

Emma stumbled, her sneaker catching the edge of a small pothole and slipping off her foot entirely. Before Elsa had a chance to help her put her shoe back on, Emma - with a speed that was surprising, given her previous fragility - had already put it back on and re-tied it, before setting off towards the dark blue Honda parked at the other end of the lot. Elsa sighed in resignation and followed after her, picking up the bag that Emma had dropped as she did so.

The driver's side door to the car was unlocked for which Emma was grateful. She didn’t want to have to reveal to her sister just yet that she was still recovering her power from whatever influence Walsh had placed over her, draining it to the point that even unlocking a door seemed damn near impossible. Yanking the door open, she leaned in to start searching the console, hopeful that Walsh hadn’t tried too hard to hide it. Spotting the faint gleam of a smooth, dark surface at the bottom of one of the cup holders, Emma quickly reached for it, the tips of her fingers just managing to graze across the top of the object, when she was forcefully yanked backwards by her hair. No sooner had she registered that she was not alone, than two arms wrapped around her torso, pulling her into the back seat.

“Emma, are you sure it’s not just in one of the millions of pockets in this bag?” Elsa called out, her head dipped low to search the contents of Emma’s tote, her hand fumbling through the accumulation of receipts, chewing gum wrappers, hair ties and pens. Coming to a stop at the open door of the car, the sharp tap of metal on glass drew her attention away from her search and onto a man holding her little sister tightly against his chest in the backseat, the gun clenched in his hand returning to its position beside Emma’s temple. 

“Drive,” the man growled.   

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Elsa focused on keeping her hands steady on the wheel and her breathing even - it wouldn’t help their situation if she freaked out now. The man - Walsh - was quietly humming along to a tune, his body wedged into the corner of the backseat, his face cast in eerie shadows that seemed to twist and morph his features into grotesque forms that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Renaissance painting depicting the demons of Hell. Tucked tightly into his side along with a bottle of tequila was Emma, her revulsion at the position she found herself in clear upon her face. However, her eyes never strayed from the gun gripped in Walsh’s other hand as it tapped out an accompanying rhythm to the tune that was now starting to poke heavily at Elsa’s threadbare nerves.

“When I was a kid, I always wanted a sibling. Someone who would have my back, whom I could rely on no matter where I was or what I was doing. Someone who could never abandon me, you know?”     

Swallowing back a sarcastic reply that the world was grateful to his mother for only spawning one psycho, Elsa kept her expression a mask of indifference, knowing that any small show of emotion could upend any plans she could come up with to get them out of this mess. 

“Why did you never tell me you had a sister, babe? We’ve been together almost a year now. Didn’t you think it was time I met your nearest and dearest?” 

Emma flinched at the sound of Walsh’s voice next to her ear, causing him to chuckle as he traced a long finger tenderly down the side of her cheek. 

“T-there was never a good time. Elsa lives so far away and is so busy, I-I didn’t want to bother-”

“'Bother with introducing her to the most important man in your life?” Walsh’s voice became deadly soft, the finger that had been stroking her cheek, hooking under her chin so that she was forced to look up into his eyes glittering with the unpredictability of his deranged mind.  

Elsa tapped on the brakes hard enough to jerk both Walsh and Emma out of their seats, interrupting the surging anger that was in danger of erupting at any moment, but not enough to arouse suspicion of her intent. Walsh adjusted himself back into place, his interest now settled on Elsa, allowing Emma a moment of reprieve. 

“You know Elsa, you’re quite pretty too, what with that icy blonde hair and big blue eyes. You’d be even prettier if you smiled more though. You remind me of that cartoon princess, you know the one that all the kids want to be. She never smiled much either.”

Elsa knew exactly who Walsh was referring to even as she tried to push down the shudder that threatened to expose her distaste for his observations. Her girls loved that princess and often compared her to their mother, something that never failed to make her heart soar and reveal her hidden smile. 

Walsh’s eyes connected with hers in the rearview mirror as he spoke, and Elsa attempted to return her attention to the road, but not before noticing the two pendants that their abductor wore on a silver chain around his neck. The first, was what appeared to be a solid silver love heart with a hole punched through its middle. The pendant was large enough that Elsa could see even in the dim light of the car, what appeared to be teardrops embossed onto the heart. The second pendant was of a Celtic cross made of brass set with alternating gemstones of amber and ruby. The cross seemed to emanate a flow of energy that overwhelmed and dampened all else - including her own abilities.  

So that’s why Emma hasn’t been able to fight back…

Realizing she had been staring for too long, Elsa silently turned back to the road, but Walsh had already caught on to what she had been looking at. 

“Handy little thing this is when you have a witch for a soulmate,” he chuckled, lifting the pendant up for a closer inspection. “The woman I bought it from swore it would render me impervious to all witchcraft, but it seems her 100% guarantee was a little flawed. I’ve fallen under the spell of the most beautiful woman in the world, and though I haven’t been released from her thrall, I don’t ever want to be.”

“Walsh, please. Let Elsa go. I’ll stay with you, I promise, we’ll go anywhere you want. Just the two of us,” Emma whispered, her tone submissive - something no one who truly knew her would ever associate with the fiery Swan sister. Flicking her eyes back to the rearview mirror, Elsa watched as Emma pulled Walsh to her, placing his head into the crook of her neck, her hands reaching up to smooth down the wild tangles of his unkempt and shaggy hair. The pendant around Walsh’s neck was beginning to truly affect Elsa now. She attempted to tap into their connection and send as much energy to Emma as she could and share some of the burden of placating the monster who clearly had no intentions of ever getting over his obsessive desire for the woman he was currently threatening with a gun; however, she felt her energy hit what almost felt like a wall of impenetrable steel blocking the way forward. 

Did Emma do that? 

Before Elsa could attempt to try again, she felt the invisible wall encircling her and Emma both, while everything else around them, including Walsh, became distant and muted. Glancing again into the back seat, Elsa caught her sister’s eye just as Emma leaned forward slightly, her voice seeming to echo within Elsa’s head, exhausted and strained, but no less urgent. 

“ The belladonna is in my bag…”

The forgotten bottle of tequila was still wedged between Emma and Walsh, its contents still three quarters full. If Elsa could find a way to get ahold of the bottle and somehow add enough belladonna to it to knock Walsh out long enough for them to find the nearest police station, then they could be free of this nightmare. Elsa’s mind raced with ideas that she discarded just as quickly, conscious of the weapon that glinted menacingly with every light they passed on the empty highway stretching out before them. She sent a prayer to Lady Fortune and The Maiden to help guide her way.

Time had stretched into tension-filled silence since Emma had attempted to placate Walsh by making promises she had no intentions of keeping, and it seemed that Walsh had finally caught onto her words and the emptiness of their meaning. 

“You promise?” he sneered, lifting his head from Emma’s shoulder. His eyes were red-rimmed, a combination of alcohol and whatever pills he had been popping to stay awake as he drove cross country, evading the law he knew were coming for him. His skin was a pasty gray that contrasted heavily against the dark sweater that Emma wore, giving him the appearance of some kind of ghoulish spectre determined to drag its prey back to the bowels of the underworld from which it crawled. 

Emma tried to remain stoic in the face of such malice emanating from her ex, but she couldn’t help the involuntary flinch as his grip around her waist tightened. 

“You left me once before, for her . Fool me once… No, nothing you say will be worth a fucking damn until you understand the depths of my love for you and admit that you feel the fucking same! Do you know how many women I had to discard while trying to find The One? To find you? ”

Deciding that trying to refute his words would only escalate his insanity further, Emma shook her head mutely, locking her eyes onto his in the hopes that he would keep talking, giving Elsa time to formulate how to get the belladonna out of her bag and somehow into Walsh’s system. Eyeing the tequila bottle next to her, Emma reached for it in a show of taking a swig and passing it onto Elsa; however, Walsh was too quick. He dropped the gun to rest between him and the door of the car, grabbing the bottle himself and taking a long gulp.

“Not yet babe, you can have it after we complete our bonding ritual.”

“What are you talking about Walsh? I meant it when I said I’ll go wherever you want!” Emma couldn’t keep the rising panic from spilling over into her words, wondering what the hell he meant by a ‘bonding ritual’ while also praying she would never have to find out. 

“We are branded onto one another’s souls. My heart is yours just as yours is mine, but I don’t want to hide our love from the world; I want our brands to shine so brightly that no one will ever mistake what we are to each other. No one will ever come between us, not when they know they will never have a chance to do so.” 

Where the lighter had come from, Emma had no idea, but suddenly a small flame erupted, giving a demonic flair to Walsh’s features as he pulled the Wounded Heart pendant away from his chest and held it above the flame. His intentions now clear, Emma scrambled to the other end of the car trying to maneuver herself into any kind of defensive position that the small space would allow. Walsh followed her, one hand clutching the red hot pendant, the other, the bottle of tequila. 

“Don’t be afraid, Sweetheart. Just one little burn and it will pass before you know it. Here, take this,” Walsh attempted to nudge the tequila into Emma’s hand even as he tried to find a bare patch of skin above her breast to place his mark; however, the car swerved violently, almost fishtailing onto the other side of the road. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Don’t you dare touch my sister!”

“Watch the fucking road!”

“I’ll watch the fucking road when you stop trying to brand her like she’s fucking livestock!! If you have any sense in whatever is left of your drugged out brain, you’d realize that trying to burn a mark onto someone that every cop and FBI agent in the country are on the lookout for is the worst idea! Now give me that bottle and keep your hands to yourself, or I swear on Hecate, you’ll wish the cops had you in their custody!”

Emma couldn’t remember a time that Elsa had ever raised her voice to anyone let alone let loose an expletive at them. Even in her years of absence, she found it hard to believe that Elsa would’ve been in a situation that called for it. Walsh too, seemed stunned at her outburst. He silently handed over the tequila, a speculative cast to his expression, as though he was slowly unravelling a complex puzzle but unsure if he had all of the pieces to reveal the entire picture. Elsa snatched the bottle away and took a furious sip, careful not to show her distaste for straight liquor. 

“I see your sister has the same fire as you, Babe. Must be where you got it from, huh?” Walsh chuckled, slinging an arm around Emma, the gun now back in his hand, as he began to stare out the window, his thoughts turning to where their next destination would be now they had a new companion. 

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

“How much belladonna did you put in?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t really in a position to measure it exactly, Em.”

Elsa and Emma stood by the hood of the car directly in Walsh’s line of sight as he relieved himself behind some low shrubbery that surrounded the deserted car park of the rest stop somewhere in New Hampshire. He had forced both women out of the car, taking the keys from Elsa, the threat of deadly repercussions if they tried to flee made real at the sharp click of the slide being pulled back on the gun he still held in his hand. 

“I know I put enough in there that he should have well and truly passed out by now,” Elsa muttered, her nervousness only evident by the constant transfer of one foot to the other, causing an erratic sway to the lower half of her body.

After preventing Walsh’s attempt to burn her baby sister and managing to get him to hand over the bottle of tequila, the next issue was how she was going to extract the tiny bottle of belladonna from within the mess of Emma’s bag. Making sure that Walsh’s attention had been occupied elsewhere, she looked down into the front passenger seat only to find it sitting atop the bag as though she had only placed it there moments ago. 

Thank you, Mistress Fortuna… 

“Do you think there’s a chance we could overpower him somehow?” Elsa asked, glancing sideways towards Emma and dismissing the question instantly. Emma’s skin still held a ghostly pallor to it, and one dull green eye looked sunken in from lack of sleep as the other was still swollen and marked up by the hit she had sustained earlier today. Even her already slight frame appeared more frail from stress and obvious weight loss. Her gifts - an essential part of her being - had been smothered to the point that Elsa worried if she would be able to make a full recovery. Emma would need her and the aunts more than ever after this was all over. 

Emma didn’t seem to hear Elsa’s question anyway, her body stiffening as she stared up at the moon. The red smudge that had been there during its entire phase had deepened to the color of wine - or more accurately, blood - which could only mean one thing: death would visit them tonight. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Walsh drawled, his voice thick and languid as he drained the last of the tequila. 

Emma and Elsa both snapped to attention as he approached, the gun in his hand tapping a beat against the side of his leg. Both women forced themselves not to tremble at the malice curling through his drunken slur, their own hearts seeming to match beat for beat whatever tune he was playing out in his head.

“I don’t think I like your influence over my Emma. You’re like a volcano waiting to erupt; too unstable and too volatile.” Walsh’s gaze was fixed on Elsa, his mania reaching new levels as the tapping against his leg became faster. Emma would have burst out laughing at this assessment of her sister under any other circumstance; Elsa was the most level-headed and kindest person she had ever met, a person who held herself with a dignity that likely outstripped any royal family on this earth. Her outburst earlier was a minor ripple within the deep, still waters that was her soul, a natural response that Walsh could never (and would never) comprehend. 

“Emma and I need to disappear, and I can’t have you tagging along, whispering in her ear and turning her against me. We are forever, but I will always be second in her heart if you’re still here.” 

Elsa’s eyes widened in fear, but she was rendered speechless, any attempt to make him see sense fleeing her completely as her thoughts turned to home and her daughters who would begin to wonder where she was. Emma on the other hand, sprang into action, the threat to her adored sister’s life providing the surge of energy that she had been lacking since she had called Elsa at the motel to fill her up and clear her weary mind. She didn’t have the use of her abilities - the pendant around Walsh’s neck still affecting her - but it hadn’t been so long since her bail bonds days that she had forgotten how to tackle someone and disarm them.  

Walsh noticed Emma tensing for a fight, and in an attempt to stop her charge towards him, he accidentally dropped the gun, the force of it hitting the ground and sending a shot off into the darkness beyond the dim lighting of the parking lot. The crack of the gun shattering the silence of the still night air froze everyone - including Walsh - the shock of the noise allowing a moment’s reprieve before all hell broke loose again.  

Elsa was the first to snap out of it. The gun had slid only a few feet behind Walsh, but with the advantage of facing her would-be murderer, she could see where it had landed and made a dash towards it. Despite his reflexes being dulled by drugs and alcohol, Walsh seemed to retain an almost inhuman strength as his arm banded around her waist, tackling her to the ground just as her fingertips brushed against the handle. Flipping over onto her back, Elsa found herself pinned to the ground, Walsh’s body caging her in, his breath hot and sour against her face. 

“You stupid bitch! You aren’t gonna come between us, I will never let it happen!” Walsh screamed, his hands encircling Elsa’s neck. 

“NO!” yelled Emma, as she leapt onto Walsh’s back, attempting to pry him off Elsa, and failing miserably. He was strong, much too strong in her current state. She searched around for the gun, the thought of letting off a shot to scare him into releasing Elsa the most logical idea she could think of. In the scuffle between Elsa and Walsh, the gun seemed to have been flung somewhere into the shrubs close by, but Emma had no time to search as Elsa’s gasps for air became more and more labored. Spotting a thick branch that would likely do enough damage to force Walsh away, Emma grabbed it and prepared to beat the living daylights out of her piece of shit ex-boyfriend. It was her fault that Elsa became a part of this mess, but she would make sure Walsh paid dearly for it before handing his ass to the cops. 

Emma was about to bring the branch down when Walsh seemed to go limp, his weight falling heavily onto Elsa, who managed a small whimper of relief to show that she was okay. The sound of a motorbike kicking into gear startled the sisters briefly, the hope that someone would come to their aid extinguished as it faded away. It didn’t matter really, they were both too concerned with their present problem of dealing with a comatose serial killer to worry any more about it. 

“I think he’s well and truly out of it now. Help me lift him up,” Elsa urged, pushing against Walsh’s chest. He was dead weight on her small frame, and she could already feel the tingle of her legs going to sleep from being in the same position for too long. 

Nodding quickly in answer, Emma tucked her arms under his armpits and began to lift, as Elsa continued to push. They had just about lifted him off Elsa and were preparing to lay him out on the ground when Elsa glanced at his face and let out a cry that sent a chill spiraling up Emma’s spine. 

“Emma… he’s gone…”

“What do you mean ‘gone’ ?” Emma snapped, already knowing what it meant but not wanting to reconcile with it.

Turning the body of her former ex and tormentor over, Emma could see exactly why Elsa thought he was dead. Dark brown eyes rimmed in red stared unseeingly at the night sky that was now strewn with a sea of stars that no one whose spirit resided on this plane would not immediately appreciate. The full moon was now a beautiful white light in the darkness, unblemished with portents of doom.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god… We have to call the police, I have to turn myself in, oh god, my girls! How am I going to explain that I killed someone? That right after their father leaves them, their mother has to leave too, and all of it is my fault!!” Elsa sobbed, her anguish piercing through Emma’s horror at what lay before them. 

Pulling Elsa off the ground and into her arms, Emma held on tight. So many times throughout their childhood, it was Elsa who had been the one to soothe, to comfort, and to keep the fear at bay. She had supported Emma through every whim and every decision not to return home where she knew she ultimately belonged; there was no way in hell Emma was going to allow her to take the blame for this. It was likely that if they left Walsh here, he would be found by the first family that made a pit stop while making their way up north for whatever summer festival or activity one of the many small towns dotted around all the way along the coast and up to the Canadian border had to offer. The local authorities with hopefully no real knowledge of dealing with dead bodies and evidence would take over, and maybe mishandle the body in some way before realizing who Walsh was and calling in the FBI to take over. By that time, it could be hoped that toxicology reporting would show up the copious cocktail of drugs and alcohol in his system and therefore, maybe lead to a ruling of his death as an overdose. 

That’s too many hopes and maybes to get out of this with no suspicion of our involvement…

Emma continued to hold onto Elsa as she sobbed into her shoulder. She thought of their Craft and the rules around what they could and couldn’t do in compliance with it.

What if Walsh didn’t have to be dead?

Gently pulling away from Elsa, Emma placed her hands on her shoulders to gain her attention. 

“You said that you asked the aunts to bring Jack back to you. What was it that they said?”

For a moment, it appeared as though Elsa hadn’t heard her, her brow creasing in confusion as she struggled to understand what Emma was saying.

“They… they said that they wouldn’t do that, that they don’t do that - ever.”

“Okay, but they never said they couldn’t, right?”

Again, Elsa stared confusedly at her sister, her line of questioning seeming odd given-

Oh…

As the comprehension of what Emma was asking was reflected back to her in Elsa’s face, Emma nodded quickly, their salvation in getting out of this mess only a couple of hours away.

“You weren’t tempted by the prospect of immortality? Not even once?” Killian asked as they made their way out of the caves.

“The idea of living forever? Watching everyone I love die?” Emma shook her head “No. I’ve seen what living for centuries has done to you and Gold. You, at least, were in Neverland, surrounded by your crew. No one around you even aged. Gold never formed a bond with anyone. That’s probably what darkened his heart a lot faster. He’s lived for centuries, and still doesn’t understand friendship, and love. I don’t ever want that kind of existence.”

Meeting up with her parents, Emma saw that everyone Dracula had turned was back to being human.

David, seeing his daughter and her boyfriend, eyed Killian with scrutiny. “Are you back to your normal self?”

“Aye, I’m back to my usual extraordinary self.” Killian grinned.

“I’m so glad that you both are alright.” Snow hugged Emma and Killian. “It’s a relief that the theory that everyone would be human again once we got rid of Dracula was right. He is gone, right?”

Emma nodded. “Nothing but dust. We won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

“Now we’ll only have to worry about the next villain who will pop up in this town.” David sighed “But, that’s a worry for another day. Today, we celebrate our victories.”

“I think we should get Henry, and Regina, and have burgers and milkshakes at Granny's,” Snow proclaimed.

Everyone was in agreement and headed out to do just that.

No surprise, Henry demanded to know every detail of the epic battle. He was eager to write down another installment of his family’s heroic wins.

“That Dracula didn’t know who he was messing with.” Granny said as she brought their plates of food. “Emma would never want to become a vampire. She would have to give up onion rings.”

“And chocolate milkshakes.” Emma added, grabbing hers from the trey. “The idea of being a vampire was not nearly as tempting as Dracula thought it was.” She looked at Killian. “The trade would have certainly been a downgrade.”

A couple of nights later, when Henry was again staying at Regina’s, Emma decided to surprise Killian with a game of dress up.

Killian walked into their bedroom and stopped suddenly. His beautiful Emma was wearing an interesting set of clothes.

“It’s called a cheerleading outfit.” She explained. “I thought after slaying vampires it was appropriate. Technically, I am a vampire slayer now.”

Killian recalled Emma and Henry showing him a television play about a teenage girl who was called a slayer and fought monsters. He had thought there were many similarities to the girl on screen and the woman he was in love with, and had told Emma so. Of course Henry had loudly agreed with him and she had been greatly flattered.

She swayed her hips as she moved to him. “Do you want to reenact some of the scenes from the show?”

“Where did you find it?” Mary Margaret asked as she pulled on the thick leather gloves.

“He was down at the docks,” Smee said. “Nestled in a coil of rope. I almost missed him, but he squeaked at me. It’s like he wanted to get my attention.”

The bat squeaked, as though it were chiming in.

“He didn’t even put up a fight. He was easy to catch - you’ll see why,” Smee said as the last of the towel fell away, leaving the bat exposed in Mary Margaret’s hand. Annoyed, the bat spread its wings, and Emma ducked out of the way of the enormous right wing. 

It was only after she righted herself that noticed his left wing, which Mary Margaret had caught and was gently holding. It was only half the length of the right, ending with a club of scar tissue just below what would have been the wrist. Mary Margaret was examining it critically, frowning.

“It’s an old injury,” Mary Margaret said, releasing the wing. The bat gave her a sour look and tucked it to his side. “No way he’s been living wild. He’s probably someone’s pet; a sailor, maybe, since you found him at the docks. He’s definitely used to being handled.”

He was also very obviously a ‘he,’ Emma couldn’t help but notice when the bat rolled over onto his back, his rear towards Emma. He looked towards her, gave a startled squeak, and wrapped his wings around himself.

Emma needed to stop anthropomorphizing the residents, because there was no way he could be embarrassed by accidentally flashing her.

“We’ll put him in one of the isolation cages for now,” Mary Margaret decided. “Just because he seems healthy now, doesn’t mean there’s nothing wrong with him. Ruby, I brought a banana for a snack; it’s in the break room if you could grab it for me, please?”

“Do you have any idea where he came from?” Emma asked Smee. Fruit bats were illegal to have as pets, and while Emma didn’t think the owner would get more than a fine, they could lead to a larger illegal animal trade organization. “Anyone new around the docks?” It was the wrong time of year for it, though; most of the boats that came to Storybrooke for the summer tourist season had departed in the last few weeks. It was possible one of them had left the bat, but that meant he’d been on the docks fending for himself for at least a week. He look too healthy for a pet that had been abandoned that long.

“We have one ship that’s wintering over for repairs, but he’s not the bat’s owner,” Smee said. He seemed very certain of this, but there was something shifty in his gaze as he said it. Emma prided herself at being good at detecting lies and Smee…wasn’t lying, not exactly, but he wasn’t telling the truth, either. Before Emma could pursue it further, however, Mary Margaret interrupted.

“Obviously, he can’t be released into the wild,” Mary Margaret sighed. “He seems pretty docile; we can probably put him in the bat educational program, assuming he’s healthy and remains easy to handle. Thank you for bring him, Mr. Smee. We’ll take good care of him.”

Smee took this as his cue to leave, but not without an odd backward glance at the bat.

Emma told herself the bat did not nod at Smee.

Ruby returned with the banana and began to peel it. At the sight of it, the bat began squeaking and straining towards it. “Someone’s hungry,” she cooed, and held it out. The bat’s mouth opened wide, and he tore off a chunk that looked like it should have been too large for him.

They let him eat as much as he wanted while Mary Margaret held him. When he was finished, consuming almost the entire thing (How? Emma wondered. Where did he put it all?), Mary Margaret said, “I need to feed the others. Emma, could you get some gloves and put this guy in the furthest isolation cage?”

Emma grabbed another set of gloves. “Isn’t he too big?” The cages were designed for much smaller brown bats; he’d be cramped.

“He should be okay for a few days. And since he can’t fly, we don’t have to worry about too little space. He should have enough room to spread his wings, at least.”

The bat chittered, and licked banana mush off its muzzle. “We’ll have more fruit for you tomorrow,” Mary Margaret promised. “A variety. How do you feel about strawberries?” She chattered on as she transferred him to Emma.

The bat squeaked excitedly.

Which was a valid reaction to strawberries, but couldn’t be in response to Mary Margaret’s words. Right? 

Could bats pick up words, like dogs? Maybe he did understand ‘strawberries.’

Emma carried the bat to the back area, past the large, open enclosures that housed the permanent populations, as well as the wild ones that would be released as soon as they were ready. The isolation cages were smaller, designed to make it easy to catch a bat that would need constant care and observation.

She opened the door of the last cage, the largest, and gently lowered her hands. It took some prodding to move him off her palms, and at last he moved with great reluctance. He crawled across the floor of the cage to the bars, and immediately began to climb them to the top, unhindered by the missing finger bones of his wing, then crawled around the top until he found the perfect spot. He anchored his feet in place and dropped his body until he was hanging upside down, eye to eye with Emma. Then, with a great yawn, he pulled his wings around himself until only the tips of his ears were visible.

“Stay out of trouble,” she told him.

Emma could have sworn he’d winked at her.

~oOo~

Emma stopped by the marina at the end of her shift, curious if the bat’s owner had returned. Her attention was drawn to a ship she hadn’t seen before, a massive wooden ship that looked like it would be more at home in the Caribbean than in Maine. It was moored at the largest dock, and Emma saw it had no sails, nor any rigging. It must have been the ship Smee said was staying over for the winter, since that was the only reason to derig it. She hadn’t expected anything so… spectacular. The ship was gorgeous. She studied it curiously for several minutes, wondering who would own such a vessel, then shrugged and headed towards the main office. The door was locked, however; Smee had already left, and there was no one else on the docks.

She shrugged and headed to The Belfry.

Mary Margaret was already there, feeding the residents. It alway icked Emma out, to see her gentle sister-in-law feeding the ecstatic bats their mealworms.

“How’s our newest resident?” Emma asked.

“He was just waking up when I checked on him,” Mary Margaret said. “He looks alert, with no obvious signs of illness. The vet stopped by earlier to take some samples, so we should know soon if there’s any diseases we should worry about.” She frowned. “There was a bit of blood in his cage, but the vet couldn’t find any injuries. Did you cut yourself when you put him in the cage last night?”

“No,” she said, but examined her hands anyway.

“Huh. Well, if you’d like to feed him, there’s a bowl of fresh fruit in the fridge for him.” Mary Margaret grinned. “At least you’ll be able to feed this one without screaming,” she teased.

Emma scowled, because her revulsion to mealworms was totally valid, thank you very much.

Ruby had thrown a mealworm at her.

It had gone down her cleavage.

Emma was never going to touch a damn worm again.

Emma found the bowl of fruit, snagging a chunk of melon for herself before picking up the bowl and carrying it to the quarantine cage.

He was clinging to the bars of the cage when she arrived, his nose pressed to the fine mesh between the bars as though he’d been waiting for her. When he saw her - or, more likely, the bowl of fruit - he began to squeak excitedly.

Emma was charmed.

The name ‘Killian’ had been written on the paper taped to his cage, in fancy penmanship that Emma didn’t recognize.

“Killian, huh?” Emma asked.

The bat squeaked.

“Okay, if you say so.”

She snagged another piece of fruit - a strawberry this time, much to the bat’s indignation - then placed the bowl at the bottom of the cage. Killian quickly climbed down and hopped into the bowl, quickly losing himself in fruity bliss.

Emma laughed, then went to help Mary Margaret finish up.

“Who named him Killian?” she asked.

Mary Margaret frowned. “I thought you did. The name was there when I got here, and you were the last one to see him.”

“If I’d named him, it would be something like ‘Batty,’” Emma pointed out. “Or possibly ‘Dracula.’” She shrugged. “He seems to like it, so we may as well keep it.”

Mary Margaret gave her a strange look. “I’m sure he doesn’t care,” was all she said.

~oOo~

Killian’s test results came back clean. As long as his phlegmatic temperament continued, he’d be introduced to the other bats, though he’d be kept in a cage alone to accommodate his disability. He seemed fine with this; the smaller cage was beside the bigger one, so he could watch and communicate with the other bats if he chose. It also had bars that were easier to grip and climb. For a fruit bat with full, functional wings, it wouldn’t be ideal, but since Killian couldn’t fly, all he needed was enough room to stretch his wings to the fullest without touching the bars.

When he continued to be easy to handle, they decided it was safe to hold him without gloves. He seemed to like this, settling into Emma’s hands contentedly.

That was how she found out that bats <i>purred.</i>

“Oh,” Mary Margaret said. “He really likes you! Guess you’re his official caretaker from now on.”

Killian continued to purr in her hands. Emma decided maybe this wasn’t so bad.

Because he was so comfortable with people, even seeming to prefer their company, Emma took to carrying him around the sanctuary. Sometimes he’d be burritoed in a blanket, other times he’d drape over her shoulder, that incredibly long intact wing lazily hanging down. He seemed very curious about the computer whenever she played around with it at the desk (officially ‘doing paperwork’ for the sanctuary, but actually looking at memes) and she’d see his wide, dark eyes staring at the images.

He seemed especially interested in the staffing schedule.

Emma was also the only one he allowed to ‘fly’ him. It was something they did with elderly bats, holding them and carrying them around the sanctuary, wings spread, as if they were flying. Killian seemed bemused by the whole process, but allowed himself to be carried around. 

Especially since the reward was always a bowl of fresh fruit - and gentle ear scritches from Emma.

~oOo~

Emma hadn’t intended to start dating again. Her divorce from Neal had been messy; he hadn’t been willing to let her go, despite his affair with his now-girlfriend Tamara. She thought she was done with men.

And then her sister-in-law introduced her to Walsh. They’d met when Mary Margaret had gone to the new furniture store in town, and she’d been charmed by his politeness. 

Emma had tried to refuse Mary Margaret’s efforts to set them up, but then David had joined in. Her brother had thus far sided with Emma, and had talked Mary Margaret out of multiple attempts at a set-up. For him to approve of Walsh? That meant something. So Emma had reluctantly agreed to the date.

Walsh felt… safe. He was polite, respectful. Not particularly adventurous, which would have been a big turn-off once, but now it had appeal. Best of all, he didn’t argue with her every decision. She’d forgotten what it was like to be in a relationship with no drama.

One date became two, and plans were made for a third.

~oOo~

Emma arrived late to the sanctuary on the night of her second date. She hadn’t wanted to be out so late, but Walsh had admitted to being something of a night owl, and didn’t really eat until around nine in the evening. Emma had had to have a pre-dinner before dinner, because she knew she’d starve to death if she waited that long.

But she’d had more fun than expected. And eating later in the evening meant fewer diners, which had made the restaurant more intimate. 

She’d liked it.

And the dim interior made it harder to maintain eye contact with Walsh. She’d noticed that he had a really intense gaze, and tried to meet hers as often as he could. It was… uncomfortable, for reasons Emma couldn’t really explain.

Emma put it out of her mind as she turned her attention on the anxious fruit bat, who was perched with his muzzle sticking out of the cage. At the sight of her, he gave several ear-piercing shrieks.

“Sorry! Sorry!”

Killian gave her a sour look.

“Hey! Don’t give me that! It’s not like you can tell time!”

He continued to glower.

“Okay, sorry!”

He tilted his head, considering. Then, with a sound that was almost a purr, he extended his right wing towards her thumb, snagging it with his clever little finger, and pulling her hand closer. He was about to pull himself onto her hand when he suddenly froze.

His nose twitched, wrinkled, and he bared his sharp little teeth. And then he did something he’d never done before.

He hissed.

Emma jerked her hands back. “Whoa! What’s with you today?”

He continued to stare at her as though she smelled rancid, and he wouldn’t come near her. Rather than stress him out further, Emma let him be. It wouldn’t hurt him to miss a night of flying.

~oOo~

A bat’s rejection shouldn’t have stung.

Killian continued to be edgy the rest of the night, so she left him alone.

After her shift, Emma realized she was too restless to sleep. Maybe it was a lingering excitement over the date, or maybe Emma really had taken Killian’s tantrum personally, but she didn’t want to go home. It was Neal’s weekend with Henry, and she couldn’t face being cooped up in that empty house.

So she went to The Rabbit Hole, Storybrooke’s only nightlife scene. She drew a few glances as she walked in, but they lost interest as soon as they saw she was off duty. She went straight to the bar and ordered a strawberry daiquiri, because apparently hanging around a fruit bat made you crave fruity things.

She’d been there maybe ten minutes when someone sat beside her. A richly accented voice that definitely did not send a shiver down Emma’s spine asked for a rum. 

Emma waited until he’d been served his drink before turning to him and asking, “New in town?” 

He turned, and Emma’s breath hitched when she met those blue, blue eyes. “What gave it away, Love?” he asked, amused.

English accents turned her into putty. Especially when combined with a smoldering gaze.

Mistakes had been made.

“I know everyone in this town,” she said. “You stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Oh? And who might you be?”

“I’m the sheriff,” she warned him. 

“And you don’t take kindly to strangers ‘round these parts?” he mocked, adapting a twang.

“We’re fine with strangers - so long as they don’t bring trouble.”

He grinned, flashing sharp teeth. “And I look like trouble?”

Emma arched an eyebrow. 

His smile widened. Oh, he knew exactly how he looked.

“Killian Jones,” he said, offering his hand. Emma lifted a brow when, instead of shaking, he brushed his lips across the back of her hand. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She hmmphed, refusing to be charmed by his old world manners.

Emma’s eyes fell on his left wrist, where a thick leather brace supported a rather alarming looking metal hook. His gaze followed hers. “Forgive the hardware,” he said. “Crude, I know, but it’s far more useful sailing than a more delicate prosthesis or a false hand.” He pulled his arm closer to his chest, not quite hiding it, but at least making it look less threatening.

His name wasn’t the only thing he had in common with their fruit bat.

“Are you a sailor, Mr. Jones?”

“Killian,” he reminded her. “Or Captain Jones, if you prefer to be formal. And I’m actually a pirate.”

Emma scoffed, then realized, “That old-fashioned ship in the marina! It’s yours!”

Killian nodded. “Aye, the Jolly Roger,” he said. That seemed a bit too on point. “I do charter sails for history buffs, as well as doing movie and television appearances. You’d be surprised what people will pay for a two-week Caribbean cruise with a dashing rapscallion like meself.” He grinned, and once again Emma had the unsettling thought that his teeth were very, very sharp.

“And what brings you here, Captain?”

“My ship is in need of repair, so I’m going to winter over in your lovely town,” he said. 

“Odd; Granny Lucas didn’t mention taking in any lodgers,” Emma noted.

“I’ve made other arrangements,” Killian shrugged.

Maybe he’d leased a place, then. The cottages were usually only available to lease to summer tourists, but she wouldn’t be surprised if one of the owners made an exception.

“You don’t happen to own a bat, do you?” she asked suddenly.

He blinked rapidly, blindsided.

He had beautiful eyelashes.

“Like…a baseball bat?” he asked slowly.

“Never mind,” Emma muttered. She pulled a couple of crumpled bills out of her pocket and set them on the bar. She stood up. “Nice to meet you Mr. - Captain Jones. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“I didn’t get your name,” he said. It wasn’t a demand; rather, a polite inquiry. He was allowing her to be mysterious if she chose. Not that it would be hard to find out her name, since she was the sheriff. Still, she appreciated it.

“Emma Swan,” she said.

“See you around, Swan,” he said, low and throaty, and she totally did not shiver.

She left before she could embarrass herself.

~oOo~

Emma’s third date with Walsh led to a fourth.

After each date, Killian-the-bat would give her that angry hiss, and Emma wondered if he were somehow jealous that someone else was taking her time.

But he’d eventually get over it.

Which was probably a good thing, because they had their first school visit of the semester, and if he’d been cranky, he’d have missed out on having dozens of adoring children who cooed at him and gave him all the fruit he could ever want.

Though he wasn’t too crazy about being touched by their sticky fingers. But he allowed it, showing more patience than Emma had ever had.

She saw Killian-the-human several times over the next week; usually at the bar, once, coming out of the hardware store with items she assumed were for ship repair. Each time, he gave her a significant Look that she couldn’t read.

And then it happened, on a night when Emma was walking out of Granny’s diner with a bag full of carryout containers and a couple of donuts in preparation for an overnight shift at The Belfry. 

After three weeks of casual conversation, Killian asked her out for a drink. 

And Emma…she wanted to go.

Even though she barely knew him, she felt a spark with him, something that was more than just the thrill of his smoldering gaze.

“I’m actually seeing someone,” she said.

She hadn’t meant to sound regretful. She shouldn’t feel bad about dating Walsh, right?

“You don’t sound so certain,” Killian observed.

Dammit. “No, I am,” she said firmly. “He’s…nice.”

“All right,” Killian said. “I’ll see you around then, Swan.”

Emma released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. That had been harder than she’d expected. And a little part of her had feared he wouldn’t respond well to being ‘friendzoned.’

She watched him walk away, swaggering, then turned and stepped forward - into something very solid.

Walsh.

A deep frown was etched into his features. Emma wondered how long he’d been standing there in the dark, and if he’d heard everything.

“Who was that?” he asked.

Emma didn’t like his tone. Clearly, he had been eavesdropping.

“Just someone wintering over,” Emma said. “We talk occasionally.”

“He seemed to want to do more than talk,” Walsh said. His jaw was clenched, and Emma frowned. Oh, no. They were not going to do this.

“It doesn’t matter what he wanted,” Emma said coolly.

“Come to dinner with me,” Walsh said. It wasn’t a question.

Oh, hell no. She was not going to put up with this possessive bullshit. 

“I have other plans,” she said.

“Like what?” he demanded.

“That’s none of your business,” she snapped.

Something flickered across Walsh’s face, then he abruptly deflated. “Sorry,” he said. “I know I have nothing to worry about. I just don’t want to lose you, Emma.”

Emma studied him, all senses on alert. But he seemed sincere enough. Still… “We’ll discuss this tomorrow,” she told him wearily. “Right now, I have to get going.”

She made it to The Belfry just as Ruby was leaving for the day. “I left some bags of popcorn for you for later,” she told Emma as she pulled on her coat. “There’s some Milk Duds, too.”

Emma grinned. “You’re the best, Ruby.”

“I know,” the other woman grinned toothily.

Nights at The Belfry tended to be long. Emma only over-nighted once a week, and she used the time to binge watch shows. The last time she’d done it, Killian-the-bat had sat on her shoulder and squeaked at the screen.

She’d just checked the bats and was about to put a bag of popcorn in the microwave when she heard the front door open.

Emma froze. She could have sworn she locked it.

And then a familiar voice called, “Emma?” and she relaxed. Marginally. Why was Walsh here?

“Walsh, hey,” Emma said cautiously. “We don’t really allow guests this late at night.”

“I’m not a guest, I’m your boyfriend,” he reminded her. 

Emma went over to the front desk, sitting on the edge. Her hand crept over to the lamp on the corner.

“That doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not? Is he here?”

Nope. Not doing this.

“Walsh… If you’re going to do this, then I don’t think we should see each other anymore. I’m not going to put up with someone who doesn’t trust me and stalks me at work.”

Walsh leaned back, staring down at her. But he made no move to leave. Emma braced herself for the inevitable meltdown.

Instead, he threw back his head and laughed.

At her shocked look, he said, “Did you think that would hurt me? It’s a relief, actually,” Walsh said. “Having to pretend to be interested in you is draining. You’re too abrasive, and you don’t trust anyone. Which, admittedly, was the right choice here. But it’s over now, and my master will reward me well.”

His eyes were red. Not bloodshot, but glowing a baleful crimson. “What the fu-”

Then their eyes locked, and Emma felt…something. It writhed around in her mind, clawing into her, leaving her feeling dirty. He was inside her head somehow, and she wanted him out, out, OUT!

Emma jerked her gaze away, and Walsh snarled.

“Why isn’t this working?” Walsh fumed. “You should be mine!” Then he smirked, showing off far too sharp teeth. “Guess we’ll have to do this the fun way, then.”

Emma reacted. Her hand flew to the heavy lamp on the desk corner, and she flung it at Walsh’s head. He didn’t react in time, and it hit him squarely in the forehead.

He didn’t even flinch.

It should have taken him down, or at least disoriented him long enough to continue attacking or escape. No man should have taken a direct hit to the head and just shaken it off.

He wasn’t normal.

He wasn’t human.

So Emma ran.

Her lunge to the side caught Walsh by surprise, and he didn’t immediately react. It bought her a few precious seconds to dart through the door leading towards the cage room.

There was an emergency exit in the back of the sanctuary. Emma sprinted towards it.

Walsh stepped out of the shadows, blocking her path.

<i>How?!</i> How had he gotten in front of her? It wasn’t possible!

“I’m not here to kill you, Emma,” Walsh said in exasperation. “I’m just going to take you to my master.”

Killian shrieked, beating his wings against the bars of his cage. Walsh ignored him.

“But…nobody said I couldn’t rough you up a bit.” His hands extended towards her, tipped in razor sharp claws.

Killian fell silent.

Emma dropped to the floor and kicked her leg out, hitting Walsh in the knee with bone-breaking force. It didn’t do more than stagger him, however, and he quickly recovered. Emma rolled away, but misjudged her direction and slammed into one of the cages. The bats inside fluttered their wings in agitation.

Walsh lunged towards her.

And then Walsh crashed to the floor. Something bumped and rolled across the floor, coming to a stop before Emma. Walsh’s head, the red fading from his eyes as they slowly dimmed. 

Standing over the body was Killian, the human Killian, dressed in black leather and wielding what looked like a pirate’s cutlass. “Are you all right, Love?” he asked.

His eyes had the same red glow as Walsh’s.

“What the fuck?” Emma shrieked.

Killian gave her a crooked smile.

A fang poked out from behind his lips.

“Apologies, Love,” Killian Jones said. The red was fading from his eyes, though the sharp fangs remained. “I’ll clean up the mess.”

Emma just stared at his teeth.

One of them was chipped. Just like Killian-the-bat’s.

“You’re…you’re…” 

“A vampire, yes,” Killian said. As if it were the most normal thing in the world. But Emma supposed that made more sense than what she’d been about to say: You’re my bat! “As was your…boyfriend.”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend,” Emma muttered. “It was just a couple of dates.”

“Mmph.” He crouched down, examining Walsh’s body. Then, to her horror, he dragged his finger through the small pool of blood and put it in his mouth.

“He’s a neophyte; probably not more than a year since he was changed. Which means his master has to be close by, because a vampire this young seldom strays far from his master.” Killian studied her closely. “Which means he was specifically sent to seduce you. I wonder why?”

Emma didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t know, she wasn’t special. 

“You somehow resisted his attempt to control you,” Killian continued. “That’s a rare gift.”

”You should be mine,” Walsh had said. 

“How can you be a vampire?” There was a shrill edge of panic to her voice. This was too much, far too much.

“It’s a long story,”  he said. “I won’t get into that tonight. All you need to know is that I hunt vampires like him, those who break our laws and hunt humans.”

“But… I’ve seen you during the day.” Walsh, on the other hand, she’d never before sunset. She’d just assumed he was a night owl, not a freaking <i>vampire</i>

“I’m over 300 years old. I’ve developed an immunity to sunlight. I don’t like it, but I can go out in it.”

“Three hun-” Her brain stuttered to a halt. “Are you actually a pirate?”

Killian chuckled. “I have been called such, yes. I prefer ‘dashing rapscallion.’”

“You would,” she scoffed. 

“There’s that spirit,” he said approvingly. “It’s a lot to take in, I know.”

She tried to back away, forgetting in her panic that the cage was behind her.

“I’ve been here over a month, and you haven’t had any mysterious deaths or illnesses related to blood loss, aye?”

There hadn’t been, actually. The town had been as calm as it always was after the tourist season ended. That didn’t mean Killian didn’t do his hunting elsewhere, but she hadn’t heard anything from the nearest towns, either.

“So…you’ve been living in town as a bat and a human for a month, and no one even noticed?”

“The werewolf knows, but she and I reached an understanding.”

“The…the werewolf…” Emma repeated faintly.

“The lovely Miss Lucas,” Killian said. “She figured out what I was fairly quickly, but we came to an agreement.”

“Ruby…is a werewolf…”

“Aye. She’ll probably be furious that I told you, but she will vouch for me. She knows our laws, and how strictly we enforce them.”

This was all too much. Emma had snapped. She blurted out the next thing that came to mind. “Shouldn’t you be a <i>vampire bat</i>?”

Killian looked pained. “I don’t have the most fearsome bat form, I admit.” And then his expression became lascivious. “But I’m certainly one of the biggest.”

Of course you are, Emma thought. 

Emma’s hands were still shaking. She clenched her fists, hoping to hide the trembling.

He noticed, however, and his face softened.

“I mean you no harm, Swan,” Killian said softly. “I rarely need to partake in human blood, and then only with willing donors. This town is safe from me.” His gaze went to Walsh’s corpse. “His master, however, seems to have no such qualms. It appears we were right about his intentions.”

“Is…is that why you’re here?” Emma asked. 

“To find his master, yes,” Killian said. “We suspected that a powerful old vampire was no longer keeping to our laws, and I was dispatched to track them. So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for some time. Though I suppose you’ll want me to find other accommodations,” he added regretfully. “Pity; you have some lovely fruit.” 

Emma assumed that was supposed to be an entendre, but when she looked at his expression, she realized that, no, he actually meant fruit. What kind of vampire fed on fruit? “You can stay for now, until you find something better,” Emma offered. “Although, you will have to put up with the Bat Education Program,” she finished apologetically. “Mary Margaret wants to make you the star. But somehow, I don’t think you mind being the center of attention.”

Killian grimaced. “I’ll tolerate it. But only if the children wash their hands,” he growled

“She’s calling you the ‘am-bat-sador,’” Emma warned.

”Bloody hell,” Killian groaned. “But it will help me guard the children. They’re preferred victims of rogue vampires,” he concluded grimly.

A shiver went down her spine, and this time it wasn’t because of his accent.

Something evil was coming to Storybrooke.

He was soon fully engaged in the task, his other concerns slipping away with the minutes that ticked by until he could call it a day, and it suddenly felt as if he had managed some worthwhile work after all. Perhaps not for Jones Shipping Ltd., but important all the same. He tried not to picture the scoff and disappointed shake of the head his father would have given at that; Brennan Jones did nothing if not for the furtherance of their name and holdings, and his imagination’s echoes of the sharp retort that would be on his mother’s lips did no good either.

All the same, he was anxious to show Emma what he had turned up, and in only a couple hours’ searching. It wouldn’t be what one might call pleasant dinner conversation - certainly not what he’d usually entertain as fit for a second date - was he crazy to consider it as such?  He felt Emma would want to know all the same. It was proof that what she had seen the night before, horrifying as it must have been, was hardly mistaken or imagined. And it was a first stop toward finally uncovering the truth after all this time. Emma deserved to be set free at long last - they all did.

When it finally neared five o’clock, Killian had never locked up his office and left work so quickly. He headed straight for the town square and those mesmerizing green eyes he was eager to feel upon him again. He had been missing them for longer than he’d ever fully realized.

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

The morning after intense visions Emma always felt a bit hazy, slightly dazed and headache-y, almost as though suffering from a mental hangover of sorts, from exerting such focus and emotion. That morning was no different, but she shuffled gingerly through her usual routine as always, wincing but not about to waste time recouping her strength if she still hoped to open for business as planned.

By the time she had returned to the gallery, a shocking amount of coffee in her system and a satisfyingly crisp and greasy bacon sandwich from the local diner in her stomach, she already felt more herself. She had called the young lady, Violet Clemens  back and hired her after all. She was going to need help, and the sale she had already made - to Ruby Jones, of all people! - had boosted her confidence. She might as well sink everything into this; if she went down, she would go down swinging with all she had.

Violet had joined her in the shop just after 12:30, and they had spent a cheerful couple of hours putting the last items and displays in place. The other woman had proven a real asset already: agreeable, quick, and a good eye to boot. She was pleasant company and a worthy distraction. Emma was already exceedingly glad of her presence.

It was just half past three when Emma paused to stretch, catch her breath, and survey their progress with a proud smile. There really wasn’t too much left after Killian’s help the previous day, and all that she and her new employee had just accomplished. Smiling broadly, she thanked Violet once more, and got them both a cold water bottle from the small fridge she’d had Killian’s help in nestling on the shelf under the counter. They were due a cool drink and a moment’s sit down, she felt sure. 

While they were still sipping their drinks perched on the tall stools she’d placed behind the counter, the bell above the shop door jangled merrily to announce the arrival of Mayor Walsh Ozman with his wide, charming-the-public smile. Emma stood and moved forward to greet her old acquaintance, asking what they could do for him, even though she was privately amused at how well the public servant schtick seemed to suit him. She would have never imagined that the unhappy, mean-spirited boy of their youth would be wearing that wide smile and winning local elections when they all grew up. Then again, she couldn’t have pictured much for her future either, not back then. Still, she mused curiously before returning her attention to Walsh’s reply, she would have to ask Killian if it was an election year and if Mayor Ozman was trying to win over these two newcomers to his town by turning on the charm.

As it turned out, the mayor was also hoping to make an early purchase - it seemed that he and his wife were quite close to their 15th anniversary, and having lived in Storybrooke all that time, he was anxious to shop for a gift somewhere completely unknown to her. He genuinely did want to offer any help he could as a town representative, but if he could find the right anniversary present at the same time, he would be incredibly grateful.

Violet happily began to show him around the shop, directing his attention to various framed photographs which might work especially well as romantic gifts - the close-up bud of a red rose, two swallows entwined in flight, a couple’s joined hands in silhouette against a sunset’s orange and gold. Not only that, but she kept up a lively patter of information that proved just what a sponge she had been for all of the information Emma had told her so far about her process, materials, and subject matter. Violet answered the mayor’s questions nearly as well as Emma herself could have done, and it pleased Emma more than she could say, thinking that not only had she helped someone in need of a job, but that she had managed to find someone with the pep and sweetness they needed out front, all the engaging personality she herself often fought to project, as well as a genuine interest in the art itself.

By the time Violet had shown Walsh all the way around the store cheerily, the mayor had a selected photo in hand once they returned to the counter and Emma was marvelling at how lucky she had been to find such a natural saleswoman along with all of Violet’s other positive traits. The red rose picture Walsh had selected seemed a touch obvious, but then, who was she to judge? She had chosen it to crop and display as she had because its blatant appeal almost guaranteed it would sell. They weren’t even officially open yet, and this was her second painting sold. If this could keep up, she might not have as hard a road making her gallery succeed as she had anticipated.

As she rang up the purchase and ran the mayor’s card, Violet carefully and efficiently wrapped the frame as she had been shown. Walsh grinned broadly the whole time as her new assistant prattled on. “You’ve really saved me a long, drawn out search with this, ladies. And Marjorie will love it too. Plus, it was a chance to keep business local. Your gallery is going to be a great addition for Storybrooke, just wait and see.”

“I certainly hope so,” Emma replied, a pleasantly warm glow of pride in her chest as she did so.

“You just give me a call if there’s anything I can do to help out,” he reminded again as he headed out the door with a wave. “It is part of my job, after all.”

When he was gone, Emma found that they really had accomplished nearly all that she had planned for the day. With heartfelt gratitude, she sent Violet off a bit early, promising that she was just going to lock up and make an early night of it herself as well. No need to tell the younger woman that she was going to be picked up at five like a kid after daycare for her own safety.

Violet hadn’t been gone but a few minutes before Emma had all in order and was gathering her things to leave, true to her word. She made sure the lights were out in the back office, that all was in its proper place, and was just bending to gather her things from under the counter, when she heard the door open once more, its bell chiming in announcement. Standing straight again, she had begun to speak before even seeing the person who had entered. “I’m sorry, but we’re not open for business yet. I was just leaving for the day, and - “ but the rest of her polite dismissal died on her tongue when she recognized the person who had arrived - a face she had hoped never to see again.

“Well, seeing as I’m already here, you’ll just have to make an exception, won’t you?” The question was taut and dangerous, hardly a question at all, though phrased as such. Every nerve in Emma’s body stood on end in response. Her limbs took on the same sort of wary motionlessness they had years ago, like a rabbit going statue-still in hopes of evading a predator’s notice, yet ready to dart away the moment an opening appeared.

Vic Franken hadn’t darkened her path again after she’d paid him off for her safety and peace of mind once he found her in Boston. Emma had hoped that fragile truce and space would hold, despite his breach of parole, but her former “guardian” never had been particularly wise, and he was eerily apt to return to what he knew, what was easiest, particularly when he was desperate. Emma wet her lips nervously and attempted to keep breathing calmly, steadily, focused on taking in any weakness she might be able to use to her own benefit. The past six or seven years had not been kind to him by the looks of it. Always tall and wiry, Franken appeared almost unhealthily gaunt, with dark shadows under eyes that were still as sharp and wild, darting quickly about the gallery space, to her, and back again. His clothes were worn and wrinkled, his hair stood on end in places, and he was moving closer, coming to stand just on the other side of the counter - much nearer than Emma could handle without her knees going a bit watery in spite of the fact that she wasn’t 13 anymore and she had every right to order him out of her place of business, whether he thought so or not.

“You s-shouldn’t be here,” she managed to say coolly, her voice only quavering slightly, for which she was grateful. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, intending to look serious, but also hoping to hold herself together as best she could.

“Damn it!” he howled, the loud exclamation ringing in the air between them as his large hand slammed down on the counter, rattling the surface with a bang, and causing Emma to shrink backward against her best effort to hold her ground. “You aren’t so high and mighty that you can just shove me out! I put a roof over you head, and you owe me for it! I’m not leaving ‘til I’m good an’ ready!”

At that, Emma regained herself through sheer outrage alone. This monster had made her childhood miserable, and she wasn’t about to have him barge in and take anything else from her. Standing taller and tipping her chin up to face him squarely, Emma’s spine returned to her after the shock of his appearance, while her hand scrambled carefully through her things beneath the countertop. She hoped Franken wouldn’t notice what she was doing before she could lay hands on the pocketknife she knew was somewhere in her purse. Granted, that wasn’t much of a weapon, but she wasn’t going to face him without any sort of defense - not ever again.

An eerie sort of calm washed over the man for a moment then, as if he and Emma were locked in a stalemate and her facing him steadily had given him pause. His exacting gaze continued to take in the large main room of her shop, and Emma held her breath, finally feeling her fingertips graze the handle she was searching for at the bottom of her purse. She knew better than to drop her guard; his quiet hesitation was like a hurricane’s eye, the calm before the gale began to batter and howl once more. Grasping her prize, Emma pulled it free and flicked it open, not wanting to show her hand too soon and yield the element of surprise if she had to wield it. 

As Franken returned his focus to her, an unnatural almost proud look crossed his features, as out of place as it was, particularly when an attempt at some sort of paternal smile twisted his visage. “Seems like you’ve done alright for yourself since I saw you last, Emma,” he finally murmured in a cajoling tone.

She snorted; regardless of how dangerous it might be to antagonize him, she couldn’t even pretend they were on terms to make friendly small talk. “If I am doing well, it’s no thanks to you,” she retorted bitterly.

Franken’s nostrils flared as he reeled back to his full height, the calm attempt at appealing to her good side shattered in an instant. “Ungrateful wench!” he hollered, eyes bulging wide as he swung a hand wildly, catching the edge of a large, framed portrait on the wall behind him and knocking it to the floor, where it crashed on its face and sent glass shattering outward in a wide spray. “After I took you in, fed you, clothed you, saw that you had a roof over your head? Now you’re too good to return the favor?”

Emma gasped in dismay at the largest piece in her gallery’s fall and destruction, but was quick enough to dodge his flailing hand when Franken reached out in an attempt to grab her shoulder and haul her close. She was just fast enough to evade him, thankfully. She might be fully grown now instead of a scrawny, underfed kid, but she still didn’t need to find out what he would do if he got a good hold on her. 

“Took me in?” she spat back, practically seething in anger that he would dare pretend he had actually provided any sort of genuine care. “Is that what you did?” Shaking her head in disbelief, Emma finally raised the small blade before her, as if warning him to keep his distance, even if there wasn’t much more space behind the counter for her to put between them. “Which part am I supposed to be grateful for, hmm?” she barrelled on, now that the gates were open, her words kept spilling out. “The beatings that left me so sore I could barely sit or walk for days afterward? The hours I spent locked in the pitch dark cellar as punishment for my demons? The shame and fear you made sure I never forgot from the moment I crossed the threshold of your house until the day I got away from it?” The small pocket knife wavered along with her hand, and her vision blurred with hot tears of frustration, but Emma didn’t falter. “Tell me what exactly I should be thanking you for?”

With a wild growl, he whirled away from her, grabbing frames from their hooks and hurling them against the walls or to the floor, knocking a large easel to the ground and smashing his foot through the canvas print it had held. He was on as much a tear as a toddler having a fit, but imminently more dangerous. Rounding on her again, his eyes were wild, and if possible, Emma would have sworn he was foaming at the mouth.

It was then, in desperation to save the work he hadn’t already destroyed, that she acted without thinking clearly and charged out from behind the counter she had carefully kept between them - so focused on making him leave that she left herself vulnerable by coming too close. “Get out!” Emma cried, mindless of his larger build and out of control demeanor; the threat he posed flying from her head as her work - the pictures she’d poured her heart and soul into, and the inventory she needed to keep her business afloat - clattered to the ground, breaking and being trashed before her eyes. She might still have the small blade gripped in her sweaty fingers, but she wasn’t thinking about defense as much as ridding herself of his presence before he destroyed her means of livelihood. “You have no right to anything from me! You need to get out of here before I call the police and tell them you’re in town!”

Franken whirled from the far wall where he’d been wreaking havoc and instead turned towards her seething with unrestrained rage. There were many times in her years growing up when Emma had feared that this man was unstable; dangerously obsessed with her “unholy” visions and driving them from her by any means necessary, and that his volatile fanaticism would injure her beyond what she could heal from or survive. Emma had spent far longer than was fair, wasted too much of her life, waiting to be out from under his thumb, no longer catching her breath and ducking a fist sure to fly or a bruising belt buckle if she said too much or let the wrong words slip. It had been long enough now though that she wasn’t guarding every thought and impulse, and she didn’t stop to second guess or recognize the danger as she took her stand. Willing to defend this little space she’d made for herself, even if it meant facing the monster from her past head-on and all alone.

The violence that twinkled maliciously in Franken’s deep, dark gaze should have been a warning, but Emma was too riled up and determined that this time she wasn’t backing down, wasn’t letting this pathetic excuse for a man take anything more from her. Where a younger, more wary version of herself would have shrunk back and put space between them, Emma instead pressed forward capitalizing on the man’s momentary shock. She wasn’t sure what she intended to try next if he didn’t move, but her body seemed determined to herd him out the door, with or without the full thought and cooperation of her racing brain.

Barely a moment’s warning, where a low, evil chuckle rumbled from his throat, evidencing anything but humor, was the only signal Emma got, and the next thing she knew, Franken had struck so fast she didn’t even see the movement - like a copperhead concealed in dank marsh water, having already bitten a person before one even knew it was there. Her head whipped to the side with the impact of his fist shooting out and making contact, leaving her ears ringing and her lungs gasping for air.

Emma struggled to keep her feet beneath her, even as the world around her tilted sideways. A wailing inside her head like sirens brought back all the times she had fallen before this monster as a child, curled tightly in a ball to protect herself from the blows he’d rained down on her for the smallest imagined infractions or the involuntary glimpses of prescient knowledge she couldn’t help possessing - they’d been part of who she was even then, as much a her hair or eye color, and they refused to stay hidden. Emma had attempted to - for all she was worth - having immediately learned speaking of what she saw, no matter how important it might seem, only earned her more suffering and degradation. 

Flailing her arms, she managed to catch the side of the counter and steady herself before she went tumbling to the floor. Franken was right there, coming for her again with his arm raised, no doubt reveling in the same sort of drunken power he had missed while the inexorable familiarity of the old, horrible pattern clutched Emma by the throat with fear. 

This time she wasn’t having it. She’d fight him even if it broke every bone in her body. With a cry of pain soaked in years of suffering unheard, Emma pushed off the counter, leading with the sharp pocket knife and sheer desperation, she meant to make her own mark this time. “Leave me alone!” she bellowed, as she took her first step to meet him.

But, despite his own seeming haze of madness and unsteady mind, Vic Franken was still quick and powerful as a gator and just as mean. Much like he’d always been, he was too large a foe for her to fell unprepared and without proper defenses. His meaty paw caught her wrist with crushing strength, until her fingers were forced to release her blade and it clattered to the floor and skittered away uselessly as she felt her tendons and bones ground painfully beneath his grip. 

He pulled her close to his face until their noses nearly touched, as if trying to understand why he couldn’t make her cower the way he once had. Emma could just begin to hear the blessed sound of sirens in the distance that she prayed were coming their way. Thank goodness she had shouldered the extra cost of hidden cameras and a security company who monitored their feed continuously. When he’d begun to tear her gallery apart it would have been obvious help was needed though she’d had no time to call for it.

“You think this is over?” he hissed angrily. “I’m not finished with you…far from it. You won’t be rid of me until I say so. Don’t you forget it.”

Flinging Emma away like a discarded ragdoll, she stumbled with the force of it, tripping on the debris that littered the floor and slamming back into the counter that had saved her minutes before. Franken fled out the door and was gone, and she slumped to the floor - for the moment too dizzy and aching to get up again. Trying to catch her breath and make her surroundings stop whirling around her, Emma breathed slowly, closing her eyes and allowing her head to lean groggily against the smooth, cool surface until she could gather her bearings.

The siren sounds drew nearer still, for which she was so thankful she could cry, but then she heard the door swing open once more, and she lurched frantically to attention, struggling to get her feet under her for fear that he had come back to finish her off. What she saw instead almost started her laughing hysterically, having never imagined this particular visitor’s appearance would send relief washing over her.

“Emma?” Ruby Jones’ voice was shocked and disbelieving, even concerned, all rolled into one as her heels click-clacked right across all the broken glass towards her before she crouched at her side, fingers already gingerly dabbing at the trickle of blood from the broken skin at her temple and then holding an honest-to-goodness monogrammed handkerchief to the spot. “What happened here?”

Emma reached out to still Ruby’s hand, shaking her head with as little force as possible and still wincing, “More who than what…” she managed, still trying to fully gather her wits and fighting for her speech not to sound slurred. She swallowed, wetting her lips and pressing on. “It was Franken….my old foster father…remember?” Ruby nodded, mouth and eyes both gaping wide at her. Emma sighed, “Thank - thank goodness it sounds like those sirens are close… don’t wanna tell this all more than once.”

“Vic Franken?” Ruby growled, her wide eyes narrowing. She looked for a second as if she might have clawed the man’s eyes out herself if she had been here just a little sooner. Emma again had to choke back out of place hilarity at the other woman’s defense of her. Rose would have loved it; she was just trying not to get whiplash. “What did that bastard think he was doing coming here?” Ruby snapped out.

Emma chuckled lightly, squinting against the way even that made her head hurt. Somehow Ruby’s fiery temper made her heart feel a little lighter. This nightmare was still dogging her, but the sheer absurdity of someone she’d have sworn even two days ago couldn’t stand her being ready to fight for her, lightened the dark cloud that had settled over her. Giving the former debutante a mischievous, if weary, side eye, she teased. “Whoo, Miss Ruby! That’s quite a mouth you’ve got there for a nice Southern belle! What would your Mama say?!”

Ruby rolled her eyes at the teasing with a dismissive snort, even as she let Emma grip her forearms and help her to stand again, holding on until sure she was steady. “Well, first she would have told me to walk on by and leave you where you fell, so clearly I don’t much care what she has to say.”

Emma began to nod her acknowledgement that what Ruby said was true, then quickly thought better of it at the shot of pain that lanced through her. 

Ruby shrugged, offering a crooked smile. “Besides,” she added ruefully, “Mama despaired of me a long time ago.”

Emma drew in a sharp breath, a few sadly clarifying things about Killian and Rose’s sister instantly becoming clear. 

“Now,” Ruby continued, red fingernail raised to point at Emma authoritatively, “you are gonna report this sorry excuse of a man so they can nail him to the wall, and then we’re gonna get you patched up, okay?”

Emma didn’t get to respond further as they were interrupted by what seemed to be the entire Storybrooke police force’s arrival just then, with a worried David Nolan leading the charge. She’d give her former defender credit. Though he looked half beside himself when he first burst through the door, his deputies flanking him, David quickly saw that the perpetrator was gone and, while she was injured and shaken, Emma was no longer in immediate danger and had someone at her side. With an almost visible effort, he reigned in his protectiveness and brought his anxiety back under stern professional control. 

Turning, he began capably barking out orders to his fellow officers - not unkindly, but feeling the urgency and not at all wanting to allow Franken to escape and cause this sort of damage again. Through the buzzing that seemed to have taken up residence in her brain, Emma heard David directing a perimeter to be set up to keep Franken from getting out of town, with an APB being put out with Franken’s name and description to all possible news outlets. He also organized the coordination of his people coming in to gather evidence and block off the space outside on the walk so gawkers couldn’t  make their way in and disturb anything that could aid in their search. 

Though there were an overwhelming number of people swarming all about inside the shop, Emma was grateful that only David himself came over to ask a few questions of her. Ruby had led her, wordless as she had ever seen the youngest Jones sibling, over to one of the tall stools at the counter, coaxing her into gingerly sitting down, being kind enough even to avert her gaze and hold back her own questions when Emma leaned slightly over, her still-spinning head against Ruby’s side as she attempted to swallow her nausea back down her throat. Ruby just rubbed a hand across Emma’s shoulder blades gently and stood there as steady and calm as a pillar of marble.

David stooped to look into Emma’s eyes with his own careful concern as he reached them. “Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?” he asked promptly, his words clipped and tight, making the strain he was still under to remain calm and professional all too clear. Emma was fairly certain he already knew the answer anyway. If she tried to shake her head and deny his suspicions, her world would only keep spinning more frantically.

Just barely meeting his anxious stare with her eyes slitted narrowly open, she managed a half-convincing, “Calm down, Nolan. We all know I’ve had worse.”

The sheriff’s lips pressed together into a thin line, his whole expression pulled taut enough that Emma couldn’t even gauge whether anger, guilt, or fear was playing the largest role.  His arms crossed firmly over his broad chest as he stood back to his full height, sensing that hovering would not make her any more agreeable, but he didn’t cease watching her, not allowing her to shut him out. “That isn’t funny,” he ground out, low enough that in the bustle around the shop only she, Ruby, and himself heard the admonishment, yet she felt chastened all the same. “You are clearly not safe, even out in the open, in broad daylight, and what if the security company hadn’t called us soon enough, if Ruby hadn’t walked in when she did? Emma, you could have been - “

Her eyes shot up to meet his savagely, knowing the rest of his sentence and not wanting it spoken aloud. Despite the ringing in her ears and rolling of her stomach, her fierce look froze the words on David’s tongue. She’d traveled so far, worked so hard to be more than the helpless, pitied victim of that man’s abuse - and she wasn’t letting him make her one again.

Before any of them could speak further, or the tension between them could fully dissipate, the door flung back on its hinges wildly as someone else rushed into her gallery. “Emma!” Killian’s unmistakable voice called out, cracking with worry on the second syllable, even as David moved aside slightly so his friend could see her for himself.

A strangled sound escaped his throat, and in moments Jones was across the room and on his knees before her, reaching out as if to pull her close, then jolting back as he took in the trickle of blood and the bruising that had already begun to color the side of her face. Looking wracked with indecision, he simply held his place before her, as near as he dared, and breathed out a choked, “What happened, Swan? Are - are you alright?”

“She will be,” Ruby offered with much needed certainty from beside Emma, laying her hand on her brother’s shoulder, as if to steady him and remind them both that she was there.  It was new from her - for both of them - but her typical self assurance was bolstering in the fraught moment and incredibly welcome.

Killian finally released a full breath, his forehead falling to rest upon her knee, and his fingers reflexively clutching her denim-clad leg for a moment as he trembled with relief. After a moment to gather himself, he looked up into Emma’s face from where he crouched before her, eyes swimming with unasked questions and the fear - still all too close to the surface - that he had nearly lost her.

Emma didn’t have the strength to hold back, not in that tremulous moment when she was hurt and wanted to scream at the unfairness of everything falling apart around her. She grasped his t-shirt at the shoulder, comforted by his warm solidity beneath, and ran a hand over his brow, amazed that he was there and was so intensely concerned - and that she allows herself the luxury of that - before trailing her fingers through his unruly dark hair. “It was Franken,” she murmured lowly, just wanting it all out, like poison drawn from a wound. “He was here, mostly after money, I think…” she paused. “But as you can see,” she gestured to her face, “that clearly wasn’t enough to keep him from leaving a souvenir for old times’ sake.”

She could see the angry tic in Killian’s jaw, working to restrain the fury he felt, and though his was quieter, it seemed to run even deeper and even harder to contain than David’s had before it.

At that, David broke into the moment. “Killian, why don’t you take Emma to Storybrooke General to be checked out? I can swing by there later, when all this is under control, if I have any questions that can’t wait until tomorrow.” He waved to the crime scene which her gallery had become as he spoke.

Killian’s “Aye” and terse nod were all that voiced his agreement to the sheriff’s suggestion, but he stood and offered Emma a hand; balance and support to pull herself up if she chose to take it. Ruby squeezed her hand, promising she would check on her later as well.

She wanted to argue, to say the fuss wasn’t necessary, but as she stood and then wavered unsteadily, she knew there was no point. She merely took Killian’s arm and leaned on him wordlessly without a fight. None of the three people surrounding her would let her close call be brushed aside - not this time. For now, she accepted the concern and decided she’d give herself a minute in which she didn’t have to be so strong.

    *~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

A few hours later Killian was leading Emma from the waiting room of the small local hospital, walking and as close behind her as humanly possible without getting their feet tangled and making her fall. She wanted to tell him that she’d be fine, to take her back to her car and then go on home, but the determined and independent core she had built up, the one which usually allowed her to offer those placating refrains so easily seemed irretrievably weakened. She couldn’t push him away. Where she would usually deny or ignore whatever had shaken her, Emma couldn’t this time. After all she had accomplished and how far she had traveled, after how long she had denied herself and stayed as far away as she could, it hadn’t been enough - not long enough, not far enough - her past and its monster had still found her and attacked.

So she didn’t want to need Killian Jones’ warm and steady palm at the small of her back, the comforting heat and gentle, guiding pressure easily felt through the thin material of her cotton blouse, but need it she did. “Come Lass, the truck’s over here,” he murmured, soothing and low near her ear, leaning in to speak for her ears alone as he steered her toward the corner of the lot where he had parked. 

There really hadn’t been much anyone could do for the busted lip and rapidly blackening eye she was sporting, other than cautioning her to ice it often and to take aspirin as needed for the pain, but they had made sure nothing was broken in her nose, cheekbones, or jaw. She had also been cautioned, since she’d suffered some nausea at first, that if she became dizzy again or threw up, she should return for further examination. She hadn’t presented with a concussion, but one might sometimes show up later, and they wouldn’t want to miss it if so.

The doctor who had looked her over and the nurse were both concerned about sending Emma home alone; they wanted her observed and awakened every couple of hours. At Killian’s assurance that he would stay with her and do just as they suggested, however, they had relented and she had finally been released.

It wasn’t until he was helping her up into the high seat of his truck’s cab and moving to shut the door that she finally forced herself to protest - it was too much, he didn’t need to put himself out.

Killian was having none of it. He wouldn’t even let her finish, interrupting her protests in a heavy handed way she hadn’t yet seen from him. The solemnity of his vow was irrefutable when he swore that “This time, Love, you won’t be alone until that bastard is caught. Not until this is over.” His eyes burned into her like twin blue flames. “You are too precious for me to do otherwise.”

As much as the fervent emotion from him stole her breath, frustration mounted within her right alongside it. She’d spent so much of her early life beholden to one person or another, moved and driven by the whims of Fate or the system. She didn’t want to be a responsibility or a chore to anyone - not even someone honorable, who took his role as seriously as Killian. Especially not to Killian. She shook her head angrily, biting back tears. “This is stupid! I’ll just go…”

Jones didn’t even hesitate. “Then I’m going too… to the end of the Earth, if that’s where you’re headed.”

She was swiping at the errant tears that wouldn’t be held back any longer, wincing when she got too close to the tender area near her eye socket and sniffing back worse sobs as she beseeched him in last resort. “Why? Killian, why would you do that? So you can get yourself killed trying to protect me?!?”

But he merely shook his head, leaning into her space, pressing his forehead to hers and his warm breath caressing her cheek. “I’m not going to let that happen, Swan. We’ve both lost enough. I’m with you now - no matter what - and we’re going to stand and fight.”