A/N: The muses chewed through their leashes, broke free from their cage, and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote something dark and violent and smutty. They have now been recaptured, scolded, and told it's time to get back to work on Warm Nights & Firelight.
I hope you enjoy the fruits of their madness. ;)
She's five when her parents are killed. And to this day she can still remember every horrid detail of that night. She remembers the howling wind and the bitter cold, the clatter of barren branches against the windowpane, eerie shadows and floor boards that creaked as she hid beneath them, holding her breath, peering up through the cracks, silent and terrified but unable to look away. She remembers the screams and the smell of blood, thick and metallic. She remembers the feel of it too, sticky and warm as it pooled and crawled its way across the floor, creeping through the cracks to dirty her hair and her dress, yellow cotton and buttercup embroidery stained bloody red. She remembers a dark cloak, a massive shadowed figure, fangs dripping blood and flesh, and a face she'll never forget. She remembers lifeless eyes that still haunt her dreams.
She's seven when she first hears the word vampire - tall tales told by one of the older boys at the orphanage; tales of fanged demons with insatiable bloodlust, as tall as trees and wider than horses, shrouded in shadow and death; night-walkers, life-takers. And it's in that moment that she knows it was a vampire that took her parents' lives that night. She begins researching the very next night, sneaking off to the village library, picking the flimsy lock and pouring through endless volumes, ancient texts, and faded ink in an attempt to separate fact from fiction.
She's ten when she kills her first vampire, a fluke of a thing really; careful timing and a whole lot of dumb luck as she thrusts the jagged end of a broken broomstick into its heart, watching it shatter, crack and dissolve into a pile of bone ash and blood. When it's over, she sits there in the dark on the muddied forest floor for a minute shaking with adrenaline, power and rage coursing through her veins. She kills her second vampire a month later, and that's when the coven finds her, offers to take her in and train her. They're a secret society of witches and warriors, man and woman alike, passing down knowledge through the generations, tasked with the sole purpose of destroying vampires.
She's eleven when they train her in combat; hand to hand, full-bodied fighting, the type that leaves you aching and bruised for days, the type that makes grown men cry. But she doesn't cry. She hasn't cried since that night six long years ago and she doesn't have any intention of doing so now. She learns to use knives and swords, crossbows and guns. She learns that garlic is only good for flavouring food, and that holy water and crosses and god are a waste of time in general, but even more so where vampires are concerned. It's all about fire and sunlight, wood and steel; burn them, stake them, or decapitate them. She learns how they move, where they hunt, and when they sleep, and by the time she's fifteen she's killed over one-hundred vampires.
She's twenty when she loses track and stops counting. She's twenty-one when she falls in love, and she's twenty-two when that love betrays her, leaves her behind, alone and locked up, captive for nearly a month in the hands of one of the most unbelievably vile vampires she's ever had the displeasure of facing. Eventually she kills the demon and escapes with her life, her body more or less intact, but she can't say the same for her heart or her soul, and that night as she stumbles through the quiet snow-covered forest, trailing blood, much of it her own, she makes a silent vow to never trust any part of herself to a man again.
She's twenty-three when the coven insists on partnering up its hunters. She doesn't like it; she's been hunting alone for the better part of a decade, but the vampire population is growing and safety in numbers becomes their new favourite motto. The logic is there and in theory it sounds like a good idea, but over the next five years Emma burns through three different partners, each one meeting an untimely end that she can't seem to do a damn thing to stop. August and Walsh barely last a year, both far too confident for their own good (if you think you're invincible in this line of work, you get dead fast), but when Graham dies three years into their partnership, after she's known him long enough to consider him a brother, she starts to wonder if maybe she's cursed to lose everyone she ever comes to care about.
She's 28 when they tell her they've got a new partner lined up for her.
She's twenty eight the day she meets Killian Jones.
She's twenty eight the day everything changes.
Jogging down the long hallway, she glances out the towering windows at the slanting evening sun. She's running late. Granny's going to have her head.
Slinging her crossbow over her shoulder, she skids to a stop and tightens her thick leather belt a notch, running her fingers over the hilt of the trusty wooden dagger that's sheathed at her hip before straightening her spine and pushing open the heavy double doors to the large office. She has no idea what to expect of this new partner, but one thing she knows for sure is that most men initially balk at the idea of being paired with a woman.
Granny, the oldest member of the coven, the woman that found her and took her in all those years ago, is seated at the century old redwood desk with her fingers linked and an impatient scowl on her face.
"You're late," Granny scolds as Emma enters the room and closes the doors behind her. "And it appears you've got a little vamp-goo on your cheek."
Wiping her fingers across her cheek, the tips come away covered in gritty blood, but Emma just cleans off her fingers on the fabric of her pants and shrugs. "Sorry, Gran, found one of the fuckers holed up in the shadows, hiding from the sunlight on my way here. Couldn't exactly leave him be."
Granny nods. "In that case I'll forgive you for keeping us waiting."
And it's only then that Emma notices another presence in the room; a dark figure leaning against the wall, lurking in the shadows. It throws her for a bit of a loop; she can't remember the last time she walked into a room and didn't instantly catalogue every living (or undead) thing within it.
Pushing away from the wall, the man steps out into the light, all dark leather and darker hair. "Aye, love, if it's dusting one of those bloody wankers that kept me waiting, I suppose you're forgiven." He extends his hand and his eyes flash brilliant blue as he looks her up and down, taking in tight leather and hidden weapons. "Killian Jones," he says. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."
She takes his hand and shakes it firmly, making a point of crushing his knuckles together much harder than necessary – she's never been one for a weak handshake and a flicker of something she can't quite place crosses his face at the exchange. She'd prefer to think that he looks a little bit impressed.
"Swan," she says tersely before dropping his hand and moving to one of the elaborate armchairs in front of the desk.
Killian takes a seat as well, settling down into the chair next to her, his long legs spread wide as Granny pulls out two thick file folders. Emma instantly recognises the thick red leather of her own file and she cringes involuntarily as Granny hands it to Killian. She's always hated this part of getting to know a new partner; the unearthing of ghosts and a past she'd rather remain buried. Nodding mechanically for Granny to begin, she zones out and traces the carvings on her dagger, only half listening as the older woman recounts the events of her childhood and the murder of her parents.
She's used to the looks of pity, the horror at learning that she witnessed her parents' brutal deaths as a five year old. She's used to them and she's come to expect them, but what she doesn't expect is the look of intense anger, hatred, and somehow understanding that flashes across Killian's face as he clenches his jaw and grinds his teeth.
There's no mention of Neal in her file, or the betrayal that led to her month long imprisonment behind icy stone walls way up in the northern mountains. There's no mention of the ugly pink-grey scars that mar the flesh of her thighs and stomach, puncture marks and jagged lines, painful reminders staring back at her every time she bathes. There's no mention of the toe that she lost to frostbite after nearly twenty-four hours of walking barefoot through the snow, bleeding and stumbling her way down the quiet mountain in search of help. And there's sure as hell no mention of that fact that her body was so badly beaten and abused, that barring some sort of miracle, she'll never be able to have children.
The night she finally made it home, she had informed Granny that if a word of it was ever shared with another soul, be it by mouth or by writing, she'd burn the old wood mansion to the ground. They haven't spoken of it since, and Emma prefers to keep it that way.
When Granny moves on to Killian's file and describes the death of his older brother in excruciating detail, Emma realizes why he reacted as he did. He also knows loss. She can see it in the lines of his face and the hunch of his shoulders; can see that he knows her pain because he carries it too. And from the description they both gave of the demon that slaughtered their families, she realizes, even before Granny says it aloud, that there's a very real chance it was the same vampire.
Fate is a funny thing, she thinks. If you believe in that sort of thing, that is.
She learns that he's been in the business almost as long as she has, but that he's spent most of his life living and working on the other side of the dark sea; that he just recently crossed over, and that up until a week ago he'd been tracking whispers and rumours and evidence of brutal kills that fall in line with those of his brother and her parents, hunting and gathering intelligence on the monster that he believes to be responsible for it all; a nearly thousand year old vampire by the name of Thanatos.
Progress has been slow and just last week the ancient vampire had completely disappeared off of everyone's radar after crossing the border into this land. He's in unfamiliar territory with no partner, no leads, and no idea where to look next. He wants her help and she's fully prepared to give it to him. She can slay baby vamps all night long, dust them without breaking a sweat or batting an eye, but this, this is the challenge she's spent the last twenty-three years since her parents' murder waiting for.
They run though training schedules for the week ahead, setting up individual and team sparring matches. She'd rather get right to work on picking up the trail and seeking out information, but she understands the necessity behind the delay. They need to learn each other's fighting styles, pick up on strengths and weaknesses, and figure out how to fight effectively together and back each other up. If they don't, it's that much more likely one of them will be killed, and while she just met him an hour ago and hardly knows a thing about him that wasn't written in the file, there's already an understanding there of sorts, and she's really not ready to lose another partner again so soon.
She just hopes that their fighting styles will be a bit more compatible than things ever were between her and Walsh.
Granny dismisses her with instructions to give her new partner a tour, and Emma stands, nodding her head in a silent gesture for him to accompany her through the doors, not waiting to see if he'll follow.
She's not really in the mood for playing hostess. She mostly just wants to head to the gym and beat her fists against a punching bag for a solid hour. And she's definitely not in the mood for small talk, but it seems Killian Jones didn't get that memo because he catches up to her quickly, falls into step with her as she turns the corner toward the armoury, and then he starts talking. "You've been here since you were a child then, love?"
"Since I was ten," she answers with a sigh. It was in her file. She's sure he read it. "And it's Swan, not love." She rolls her eyes. "Work with me long enough without getting killed and I might just let you call me Emma."
"All right, Swan, if you insist. Though for curiosity's sake, just how long do you think that might be? And if I'm awarded the privilege of calling you Emma, perhaps after that I can work up to calling you love?"
She scoffs and picks up her pace. "Not in your lifetime, Jones."
"Ah, well luckily I'm a man who prefers a challenge!" he proclaims from several steps behind her. He makes no effort whatsoever to catch up and she can practically feel the heat of his eyes on her ass as she walks.
She rounds the final corner before the armoury and with a quick glance over her shoulder she reaches up and fires off a bolt from her crossbow. It plunges into the very tip of his left boot, missing his toes, but effectively pinning his foot to the ground. Granny's probably going to wring her neck for the damage to the hardwood, but the look on his face is totally worth it.
"Bloody hell, Swan!" he curses. "Be careful where you point that thing!"
Taking a step back toward him, she squats in front of him and braces a hand against his thigh, yanking the bolt from the floor and freeing his boot before standing and tapping the wooden stake against his chest. "You just be careful where you point your eyes or next time I might aim a little higher."
He looks properly smarted and rightly so, standing there inspecting the damage to his boot with a deep frown tugging at the corners of his lips.
Pushing open the armoury doors, she heads to the closest wall to hang up her crossbow. "You want this tour or not?" she asks, poking her head around the doorframe.
"Aye, lov- Swan, but you've gone and ruined my favorite pair of boots."
He's pouting like a petulant child and she can't help but laugh. "We'll get you another pair later. You'll want warmer ones anyway. There's a whole room full of leather goods just down the hall." She doesn't bother telling him that most of the items in there used to belong to hunters that haven't made it home, because if he really has been in the business for as long as his file says, he'll already know.
"Please continue," he insists, taking a step into the armoury with her.
He's mostly quiet after that, only speaking when he requires clarification on the odd matter, and over the course of the next hour she shows him around the mansion, pointing out the kitchens and training rooms, the infirmary, gardens, and stables. She explains their daily routines, several mandatory standard operating procedures, and part way through the tour she introduces him to the few other hunters that are actually home from missions for the moment. They'll be sparring against Red and Whale later in the week and she's already looking forward to giving Ruby a good ass-whooping after an embarrassing defeat at the hands of her best friend the week before.
At the end of what she believes constitutes a rather thorough tour, she leaves Killian back at the clothing storage to pick out whatever he desires, telling him to make himself at home and that she'll see him bright and early tomorrow morning for their first training session.
He thanks her and bids her a polite good night, and as she heads down to the training rooms for a quick round with a punching bag, she thinks that just maybe, if he can manage to stop staring at her ass and calling her love, she wouldn't mind having him as a partner.
That of course comes with its own set of problems.
Because as she well knows, whether by death or betrayal, everyone always leaves.
She trudges through knee-deep snow, barefoot as she heads for a horizon that's always just out of reach, waiting for a sun that refuses to rise. Red snow falls and confusion sets in as an icy wind wraps yellow cotton around her thighs, wet fabric clinging to her legs as she shivers and stumbles. Buttercups bloom and shrivel before her eyes, turning to ash and drifting away.
She has to keep moving. She can't stop. If she stops, she dies. Death is too easy. She's never liked easy.
Laughter swirls on a gust of wind, dark and humourless, cold. So cold. She spins, searching for its source but all she sees are trees. Trees and shadows and nothing. The horizon is gone and the wind picks up. Branches clatter against impossible glass. There is no glass out here.
She spins again, searching for her own footsteps. They're too small, child sized and filled with blood, bright red against the snow. She looks down and blood leaches up the skirt of her dress, swirling letters and words she cannot read. There's a stabbing pain in her womb and blood pools at her feet. She lifts her skirt and there's a black hole where a child should be. She closes her eyes and refuses to cry. When she opens them, scars carve themselves into a word across her stomach.
Empty.
A scream sounds in the night. Keening. A lament for the dead. Sorrow for that which will never exist. Where is it coming from? She closes her mouth and it stops. It came from her. She drops her skirt and it starts again.
Her knees buckle and she collapses to the ground. She winces and looks down. Rough wood scrapes against her knees and snow falls through the cracks. She bends and looks closer. Her own eyes stare back at her through the gap in the boards, cold and hardened and afraid.
Footsteps crunch through the snow and she looks up. Her mother and father hold hands. All lifeless eyes and gaping wounds. They try to speak, but she can't hear a word over the ringing in her ears. A shadow creeps up behind them. She can't warn them. She can't save them. She's bound and gagged and filled with useless rage. They blur together and a bolt from a crossbow penetrates their chests. They dissolve into blackened ash upon bloodstained snow. In their place she stands holding the crossbow.
"Killer," a voice whispers in the dark. An accusation. She turns, lifting her weapon. The shadow moves, multiplying and flickering from tree to tree. She fires. Again. And again. The bodies drop but they don't dissolve. She takes a step closer.
August looks up at her, slowly choking on his own blood. "Killer."
Walsh lifts a mangled hand from the gaping wound in his chest and points at her. "Killer."
Graham picks up his fallen head from the forest floor and holds it out to her with bloodied hands. "You're a killer, Emma."
Laughter sounds again. Louder this time. Deep and dark and sinister. She closes her eyes and turns around. When she opens them Thanatos has Killian by the throat. She lifts her arm, ready to fire, but her weapon disappears.
Thanatos laughs. "Don't you know, Emma? You're a killer," he taunts.
And then he rips Killian's heart out.
She wakes with a start, her heart beating frantically in her chest as panic strikes at her nerve endings, muscles coiling as she bolts upright in bed and reaches for the wooden dagger beneath her pillow. Cold sweat soaks through her pyjamas and into her sheets and she wipes at the bead of perspiration that rolls between her breasts, holding a hand to the thunder of her heart as she grips the dagger and focuses on slowing her breathing.
It was just a dream.
It was just a dream.
It was just a dream.
She repeats it until she believes it. Until her breathing slows and panic subsides. Until she feels steady enough to stand. Safe enough to release her death grip on the dagger and go about the business of changing her clothes and her sheets.
Afterwards, bundled up in cotton and leather with a thick wool blanket, she opens her window and climbs out onto the roof, her dagger tucked into the side of her boot. She won't go back to sleep. She never does after a dream like that. Instead she prefers to sit out in the cool night air, facing east while she waits for the sun to rise.
Sleep isn't something she requires much of. She learned to deal without it early on. Somehow the monsters in her head have always been much scarier than the ones she faces in the flesh.
Looking out over the mansion's yard, she traces the tall wrought iron fence-line with well trained eyes, taking in the faint shimmering residue that marks the protection spell cast over the grounds. She catalogues the guards on duty and the few rooms in the south wing with candles still burning bright.
She catches sight of unfamiliar movement down below, lurking in the shadows by the stables, and without hesitation she discards her blanket through the open window and starts scaling her way down the wall, grabbing hold of windowsills and eaves, clinging to the strong vines that cover the entire eastern face of the mansion.
Dropping to the ground silently with practiced ease, she withdraws the dagger from her boot and rounds the far side of the garden, sticking to the shadows as she heads toward the stables.
She sets eyes on the figure again, and this time she instantly recognises the man sitting on the stone bench with his head in his hands as her new partner. Silently returning the dagger to her boot, she watches him for a minute, cursing herself for what was surely a ridiculous overreaction. They haven't had an intruder within these walls in the entire time she's been living here, there's little reason to think they would now.
Shaking her head, she decides to blame her amped up reaction on the dream. She's about to turn and head back to her perch on the roof outside her window when his voice stops her.
"I know you're over there lurking in the shadows, love. No need to skulk away; there's plenty of room on this bench if you'd like to join me. If not, feel free to go ahead and leave, I'll not be offended."
She really should scold him for calling her love, she really should, but he looks like he's had about as much luck sleeping as she has so she lets it slide, emerging from the shadows to take a seat next to him on the bench.
"What are you doing up?" she asks. It's a pretty stupid question, but it's all she's got at the moment and it seems like a better alternative than sitting here in silence.
He laughs once, a dry, humourless thing. "Mostly just cursing the night and a great many things that go bump in it. I've also been cursing the gods, but I'm reasonably certain they've grown tired of my bellyaching and are no longer listening." He rubs at his eyes and turns his head to look at her, still leaning heavily on his hands. "In short; I couldn't sleep."
She nods and stretches her legs out, crossing her feet at the ankles as she tilts her head back and looks up at the cloudy night sky. "I couldn't either," she admits.
He's silent for a full minute before asking, "Does he haunt your dreams too? Rip you from sleep in a cold sweat with your heart in your throat and despair clinging to your very being?"
Returning her gaze to him, curious, she finds herself nodding again. "More often than not."
Sighing, he leans back, mirroring her position. "Bloody nuisance it is," he grumbles, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a flask. "Apart from the odd time I've insisted upon being knocked unconscious by drugs, I've not had a proper night's rest in nigh on two decades." He takes a sip and offers her the flask. "Rum?"
Accepting it without a word she takes a swig and allows the liquid to burn a trail down her throat and into her belly, warming her from the inside out and warding off the chill of the late autumn night. She hands it back to him with something approaching an attempted half smile and then she turns her sights to the gardens.
It's still dark out, the sliver of the crescent moon lost behind the clouds, but light streams from the lanterns lining the path, casting warmth into a thicket of apple trees in the garden. The last of the deep red fruit are dropping from the nearly naked branches, mixing with fallen leaf litter on the ground, and she really should make a point of gathering them up in the morning. Beyond that, corn crops and grape vines wither, brown and dying, their harvest long past. Pumpkin vines crawl along the ground, the bright orange squash ready to be picked, and she breathes out, finding some semblance of peace in the moment.
They sit there in silence, drinking until the flask is empty, and when dawn breaks and warm sun spills over the frosted grounds, they rise and head inside.
Finishing one last stretch, she levers herself up from the training room floor, rolling her shoulders and cracking her knuckles as she sizes Killian up.
"Ready when you are, Swan," he says, standing there barefoot in tight leather breeches, black cotton unbuttoned half way to his navel, chest hair exposed, and a cocky grin on his face.
He doesn't look very ready.
Punching him in the nose, she kicks out his right knee, hooks his left ankle, and takes him down hard, pinning him to the mat with a knife at his throat as she straddles his hips. "Sure doesn't seem like you were ready," she taunts, looking down at him.
He coughs, taking a deep breath to replace the air that she just knocked out of his lungs. "I was taking it easy on you," he defends, groaning quietly, "it's bad form to throw the first punch where a lady's concerned."
She laughs and shakes her head, still pressing the knife to the underside of his jaw. "I'll warn you once, Jones. I'm no lady. If you take it easy on me because I'm a woman, you're going to be spending a lot of time on your back."
A dangerous grin spreads across his lips and he raises an eyebrow. "I fail to see how that's a problem, Swan." And then he disarms her with a flick of his wrist, flinging the knife to the side and head-butting her as he flips them quickly, holding her arms above her head with calloused hands around her wrists, pressing her to the floor with the length of his body. "Unless you prefer to be the one on your back?"
His restraint of her upper half is more than effective, but he's left her legs loose, so she bites her lip and blinks up at him, staring at his lips and sucking in a deep breath that has her breasts straining against the material of her corset. "That all depends on who's on top," she says, smiling cunningly at him. His eyes drop to her cleavage and it's enough of a distraction that when she plants her left foot, shifts her hips and knees him in the groin, he releases his hold on her wrists just long enough that she can slip away and spring back into a standing position.
"Bloody hell, Swan, that was a cheap shot," he complains. He gets to his feet pretty quickly though and she has to give him credit for that.
"I fight dirty," she says with a shrug. "I figure if the bad guys aren't going to play by the rules, why should I?"
"Fair enough," he concedes, widening his stance. "Shall we go again?"
She nods.
They spend the next two hours trading blows, training in hand to hand combat as they learn each other's moves, picking up on strengths and weaknesses. After that they move to swords for another hour before finally heading outside to the shooting range. She prefers her trusty crossbow, he's a fan of the big guns, and he matches her shot for shot, target for target.
The night's frost has melted, but the late morning air is still cool and she can see her breath as she pulls the bolts from her final target and reloads the crossbow. She always ends her training sessions with a run just outside the property's fence line and she's little bit impressed when he agrees to accompany her.
It's almost noon, they've been at it for the better part of four hours, and he hasn't quit on her yet.
It's more than she can say for any of her previous partners on their first day.
She tugs on the laces of the mossy green corset, lifting her breasts a little higher, pushing them closer together, and ultimately restricting her ability to breathe as she ties the knot and curses the dress to hell and back.
Why does she always have to be the bait?
Because for some reason (having a lot to do with their ability to survive the transformation), vampires are a predominantly male species.
And she's the one with boobs.
That's why.
It's been a month to the day since Killian Jones first walked into her life; a month of training and sparring and learning to fight together as a team. The last two weeks have been spent on the road, chasing down leads, frustration and disappointment at every turn as trail after trail turns up cold. They've killed plenty of vamps, sure, but any real progress on the matter of Thanatos has been hard to come by.
Tonight she hopes to change that.
And that's why she's wearing a dress, frowning at her reflection in the tarnished mirror while she stands in her tiny room above the increasingly noisy tavern below.
Shaking out her hair, she lets the loose waves fall over her shoulders and down her back before hiking up her skirt and double checking that the wooden dagger strapped to her thigh is secure. There's another hidden in her boot and she drops her skirts when a knock sounds at her door.
"Swan? You about ready?" Killian asks, his voice muffled by the old oak boards.
She pulls open the door, checks that the hallway is empty, and ushers him in quickly. "I can't breathe worth a damn in this thing, but I'm ready."
He looks her up and down, his eyes settling on her cleavage, and his frown deepens. "You sure you ought to be wearing that? A bit revealing isn't it?"
She rolls her eyes and pats him on the shoulder in mock reassurance. "That's kinda the point, Jones. I can't exactly walk into the tavern dressed head to toe in black leather, swinging my crossbow around, and expect some big bad vamp to let his guard down."
He huffs and she shakes her head, pushing him back toward the door. "Besides, I've got my dagger," she pats her thigh, "and you'll be lurking in the shadows if I need backup, right?"
He nods and settles his hand on the doorknob. "You're reasonably certain you can get this sod to talk? What sort of name is Vlad anyway? Talk about clichéd."
She laughs. It really is a ridiculous name. Everyone knows that the real Vlad, Dracula himself, was dusted way back when Granny was still in diapers. "I'll do my best," she promises, "and if I can't get it out of him the easy way, I'll lure him outside away from everyone else and we can do it the fun way."
Killian's face lights up at that. "I don't see why we can't just skip right to the fun way."
"More flies with honey, or some shit like that," she insists as they step out into the hall. "I'll see you in a few hours, partner."
He nods, still frowning, and they part ways in silent agreement.
As she heads down the steps to the tavern, she pinches blood into her cheeks, shoves her breasts together again, and sweeps her hair to the side, exposing more of her neck. She hates it, but she may as well look as appetizing as possible.
She orders a bottle of vodka, swipes two glasses from the bar, and makes a beeline for the darkest corner of the room. Vlad is already seated at a table in the middle of the tavern, talking to a leggy brunette, and as she walks past, she catches his eye, holds up the bottle of vodka, and nods towards the corner, continuing on without a glance backward.
He'll follow.
They always do.
Somewhere in the shadows on the other side of the bar she can feel Killian's eyes on her, his hidden presence a comforting reassurance. She doesn't search for him though. She won't blow this by turning her attentions elsewhere.
Taking a seat facing the wall, she cracks open the bottle of vodka and pours herself a glass, sipping at it slowly while she waits.
It only takes a minute and then she's forcing herself not to flinch as a cold hand settles on her shoulder briefly before the vampire takes a seat across from her. If he weren't a bloodsucking soulless demon, he might actually be considered handsome, and she pushes a flirtatious smile to her lips as she reaches out to fill the other glass with vodka.
"I see you've abandoned your previous company," she notes, pushing the glass towards him. "In search of a better time?"
Vlad takes the glass and downs its entire contents in one swallow. "I am. Tell me baby doll, do you have a name?"
"I might," she says coyly, refilling his glass before taking another sip from her own. "I'm thinking you should tell me yours first though."
He chuckles darkly and reaches for the glass again. "It's Vlad."
"Pleasure to meet you, Vlad. I'm Emma." She holds out her hand, suppressing a shudder when he takes it and presses cold, wet lips to the back of her fingers.
She forces another smile to her lips, playing the part and shifting her chair closer.
Somewhere from across the room she can practically feel the rage rolling off of Killian in waves and she hopes he understands that she hates this part of the game every bit as much as he does.
There's consolation in the fact that by sunrise, one way or another, Vlad will be nothing more than dust in the wind and blood upon the ground.
It's been nearly three hours and she's well into her fourth glass of vodka. It's not enough to impede her fighting skills or dampen her reflexes, but she's growing weary of keeping up the act and being called baby doll when she has yet to learn a damn thing of any use.
It's time to move to plan b.
It's time for some fun.
Reaching out for the vodka, she intentionally makes her movements sloppy, almost toppling the bottle on her first attempt to grab it. "Vlaaaad," she whines, "I'm tired of sitting around. Let's get out of here and go for a walk."
His eyes darken at the suggestion, and he stands, offering his hand. She takes it, leaning heavily against his side as she allows him to lead her through the tavern and out the door, knowing that Killian will be following close behind.
The night air is cold, winter approaching quickly. It's already snowing in the next town north of here and she doesn't have to fake the shiver that courses through her frame as they wander deeper into the forest.
No doubt he thinks he's the predator here, the lion to her lamb.
She smiles.
He's in for a rude awakening.
She doesn't wait for him to get the drop on her, and she trusts that Killian is nearby, so she intentionally stumbles, going down on her knees on the hard ground next to a large tree.
Vlad reaches for her, bending, but before he can touch her she somersaults forward out of his grasp, pulling the dagger from her boot as she goes. Springing up she catches him by surprise with a powerful side kick to the chest, knocking him forcefully back against the nearest tree.
Four loud shots sound in quick succession, heavy wooden steaks pinning his body to the trunk, one to each wrist, another to his shoulder, and a fourth just below his heart.
The vampire howls in pain, snarling, his fangs emerging as his skin turns ashen and his eyes swirl onyx, dark and demonic and filled with rage.
"Hey Jones!"Emma calls into the night. "You missed his heart!"
Another stake sails through the night, lodging just above Vlad's heart this time. The vamp roars again, struggling against the restraints, but Emma just takes a step closer, delivers a swift roundhouse kick to side of his head and presses her wooden dagger over his heart. "Ah!" she scolds. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Any luck that time, Swan?" Killian's asks as he finally steps into view, a large gun slung over his shoulder.
Emma shakes her head in mock annoyance, still holding the tip of the dagger to Vlad's chest. "Missed again. Your aim really has gone downhill, Jones," she says in jest, grinning at him as he wiggles a lighter from his pocket and tosses it to her. She catches it easily, flipping the cap and spinning the thumbwheel. A flame bursts forth and her grin widens.
"S-swan?" Vlad stutters, renewing his struggle to escape.
"You've heard of me?" Emma sneers, holding the flame closer to his face. "Excellent. That means you'll know what I'm after. I'll give you a choice. You're dead regardless, but we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the painful way."
Killian falls into place beside her after retrieving the discarded bottle of vodka from the ground and pocketing it. "I'd take the easy way out if I were you, mate," he suggests, leaning hard against the stake penetrating the vampire's right hand. "Best not to get on this one's bad side."
Vlad snarls again, teeth gnashing as he stares them down and refuses to speak.
Emma laughs. "Oh good, I was so hoping you'd choose the painful way. It's much more fun. And after the evening we've had, honestly, I could use a little fun."
Killian raises an eyebrow and catches her gaze. "What do you say, Swan? Should we get straight to the fire, or should we pull this wanker's fangs out first?"
Emma grins, shoves the lighter into her corset, and holds out her empty hand. "Did you bring the pliers?"
When the sun rises, slanting through the trees, and Vlad turns to dust on its golden rays, they have a name.
Muruaneq.
It's a small settlement way up in the northern mountains. Further than she's ever travelled before. A nearly two month journey (if the map is correct) through thick forest and up the dangerous slopes of towering mountains.
It's not much, but it's more than they've had in months.
It starts to snow as they make the trek back into town and she shivers. The wind picks up, and quietly, without a word, Killian shrugs out of his jacket and hands it to her.
She slips into the warm weight of it and smiles.
The next seven weeks are spent moving north across the countryside on horseback, bitter cold nights spent seeking shelter where they can find it as the days grow shorter and the sun struggles to reach the halfway point in the sky.
The dreams grow worse the farther north they travel and more often than not Killian wakes looking as shaken and haunted as she suspects that she does.
Most of the time they don't sleep much at all.
When do, they aim for the waning daylight hours.
Somehow the dreams don't seem to find them there.
They lose a horse during a vampire attack one frigid morning just before dawn as snow and fangs and bloodied carnage tear through their camp. She comes through it with a nasty gash on her palm that she reluctantly allows Killian to stitch shut and bandage, his hands warm and gentle against her own. The next three days are spent seated in front of him on horseback, huddled against each other for warmth as the storm continues to rage and the sturdy black stallion ploughs onward through the ever deepening snowdrifts and howling winds.
By the time they reach the small settlement of Muruaneq, a snowy little town carved into the side of the mountain, the dead of winter is upon them and she wants nothing more than a hot meal, a scalding bath, and a real bed for a night.
They settle the ailing stallion into the relative warmth of the small community's only livery stable, ensuring he's to be well cared for before they gather their belongings and head for what looks like an inn next door.
A handful of coin sees two steaming bowls on the table in front of them within minutes. Two heavy brass room keys and the promise of hot water waiting upstairs follow a moment later, and after peeling off her damp leather gloves, Emma spends the next five minutes warming her frozen hands against the heat of the bowl before she works up enough energy to actually eat.
Killian sits across from her looking equally exhausted as he spoons the last bit of soup into his mouth, and then scrubs his hands over the beard he hasn't bothered trimming in nearly two months. His hair is longer now too, a mess atop his head, ends sticking out in every direction.
It looks good on him though.
She wants to run her fingers through it. Maybe mess it up a little bit more.
And the fact that she's even thinking about acting on such a thought is a sure sign that she ought to get some sleep.
Pushing her bowl toward him, she offers up the remnants before standing and swiping one of the keys from the table as she yawns. "See you in the morning, Jones," she says, balancing herself with a hand against his back as she steps over the bench and shoulders her bag.
He reaches for her bowl. "Aye, Swan. In the morning."
Her room is small, little more than four walls and a door, but there's a bed laden with thick blankets, a fire burning in the hearth, and a tub full of steaming water calling her name, so she discards her belongings at the foot of the bed and strips bare before sinking into the bath.
She stays there until falling asleep and drowning becomes a very real possibility, and after she finally coordinates her limbs for long enough to rise from the tub and dress, she stokes the fire, flips back the blankets, and crawls into bed intending to sleep straight through 'til morning.
She wades through warm water, waves lapping at her shins as she holds fistfuls of her skirt, attempting to keep the yellow fabric dry. There's a full moon high in a cloudless sky, influencing the ebb and flow of the dark sea's tide. In the distance there's a dock. She drops her skirt and runs toward it. Pulled by an invisible force. She knows she should fight it. She runs faster.
The wooden pier is rotting, waterlogged and bound by fleshy seaweed. The waves still, the water is mirror like. She looks down. Killian looks up, meeting her eyes. Young and afraid. His lips move. He calls her name. "Swan!"
Something grabs her ankle and she stumbles. The sand shifts. The surf rises. She goes under. Seaweed tangles in her hair, winding around her wrists. Something grabs her ankle again. She kicks out and looks down. Cold dead hands dig into her flesh, pulling her deeper.
She struggles. She can't breathe. Panic seeps into her chest. Water seeps into her lungs. She claws at her throat and tries to swim for the surface. There is no surface. There is no up and there is no down. Just darkness. She can't breathe. It's dark. She's drowning. There is no light. She looks at her feet. Dead eyes stare back at her. The eyes of her brother. She doesn't have a brother. Understanding dawns.
Liam.
Her eyes close and the world goes dark.
Lightning strikes her chest and the sea spills from her mouth. She coughs up blood and death and life. Everything hurts. She opens her eyes. Liam looks down at her, blood weeping from his eyes. She understands now. She should have died.
The world shifts and now she's the one looking down. Killian lies in the sand. He reaches for her. Cold and wet and shaking.
"You should have died." She speaks the words, but they are not her own.
He closes his eyes and nods in pained agreement. "I know."
Everything. All of it. Pain and sorrow and disappointment. Anger and rage and despair. It surges in her chest. Swells. Crests. Breaks. Spills from her eyes. "Please don't die," she whispers.
But he's already gone.
"Emma." She spins toward the dock and young boy sits there. A young boy with Killian's eyes.
"You're not real," she accuses.
He laughs and holds out his hand. "Neither are you, love. It doesn't matter. Come. Have a seat. The sun's about to rise. "
She sits down on the weathered wood. "Don't call me love." She wants to punch him. But he's just a boy. And she's just a girl. A lost girl. An orphan. She looks down at her dress. Yellow. So much yellow. She hates yellow.
When she looks up, it's snowing. There's no sunrise in sight. She should have known. Everyone lies. Everyone leaves. She doesn't want him to leave. She's already in too deep.
Sinister laughter sounds in the darkness. She spins. She knows what comes next.
She's no longer wearing yellow. She's black leather. She's darkness incarnate. She's bathed in blood. Her crossbow rests steady in her hands. She aims at her target. At Killian. She can't do a damn thing to stop it. She's a woman possessed. He's going to die anyway. He's going to leave her. At least this way she has a say in the matter. She settles her finger over the trigger. She takes a step closer.
"I'm sorry," she says, "but I'm a killer."
"Swan..." It's not a plea. It's not a promise. It's quiet acceptance. "It's all right."
She pulls the trigger.
She's out of bed and on her feet before consciousness fully registers, shoving her feet into her boots and grabbing the room key as she slams the door behind her and stumbles out into the hall. She swallows down bile and shakes her head in a futile attempt to clear her vision, to slow her breathing as panic clings to the periphery of her being.
Focus, Emma, focus.
She needs to see him.
Steadying herself with a hand against the wall, she closes her eyes, trying to recall the room number on the other key.
"Emma?"
She opens her eyes and turns so quickly that she almost trips over her own feet, her equilibrium shot to hell along with her nerves.
Killian's standing there in the doorway of the room across from hers, pale and shirtless and looking like he's seen a ghost. She knows the feeling.
"Love?" he asks again, quiet, holding out his hand.
"Don't call me love." It comes out loud, childlike, eerily familiar, an echo of her dream.
She looks at his face; sees the recognition there.
Their dream?
She takes his hand and he pulls her into his arms, against the warmth of his chest, hugging her tight.
"Killian?" She presses her nose against his jugular, against the heat of his skin, sweat and soap and rum, his heart thundering beneath her palm, reassuring her that he's very much alive. "What the hell is going on?"
He shakes his head, beard catching in her hair. "I've not a bloody clue."
Down the hall a door creaks open and a head pokes out, an older woman glaring at them in silent irritation. Emma shouldn't be surprised; it's the middle of the night after all and she's not sure they've been keeping their voices down. She's not sure of much of anything if she's being honest.
Pushing Killian backwards into his room, she kicks the door shut behind them, propelling him toward the bed with her hands firm against his chest until the backs of his knees make contact and he sits, looking up at her, confusion and fear and want written all over his face.
She's sure of one thing; she wants him.
Bending, she kisses him hard, bruising and demanding, biting her nails into the strong muscle of his bare shoulders as she steps between his thighs and silently wills him to get with the fucking program. His hands settle on her hips, fisting in the fabric of her blouse. She sucks his bottom lip between her teeth and bites down. He growls, low and deep, a rumbling tremor that has her tugging at his hair and changing the angle.
"Swan, are you-" The start of a question.
She cuts him off. "Don't talk."
He nods once, meeting her eyes, and then he's kissing her again, hands in her hair, gentle at first. She doesn't want gentle though so she twists her fingers in his dark locks and pulls harder. He gets the idea, yanking her head back as his lips leave hers, teeth and beard rough and rasping against her neck, soothed by his tongue as he drags it over her pulse.
Scraping her nails down his chest, crisp hair and hard muscle beneath her fingers, she rakes a thumb over his nipple and grins when he shudders. She wants to taste him, lick the smell of sweat and soap and rum from his skin, drag her teeth over his collarbone and walk her fingers lower, but he's tugging at her shirt, threatening to rip the fabric, so she grabs the hem and yanks it over her head, tossing it to the floor.
Her stomach is scarred and she knows it's not a pretty sight, but he doesn't pay the blemishes any mind, doesn't let his gaze linger on them for more than a second before he's stepping her closer, large hands on her leather clad ass as his lips close around a nipple, teeth tugging at her flesh, his tongue like fire, branding her skin.
She wants more. She wants him. She's not waiting.
Shoving him forcefully onto his back, she taps his hip, and nods for him to shift further onto the bed. He does as instructed, propped up on an elbow, watching her with dark eyes as she kicks off her boots and quickly peels the leather from her legs, taking her undergarments with it.
Climbing onto the bed, naked as the day she was born, she straddles his thighs and palms his erection through the leather of his breeches, bending to rub her nose against the trail of hair below his navel as she shifts backwards and drops her lips to his left hip bone, nipping at the delicate flesh. His hips jump and she looks up at him as she pulls at the laces holding his trousers shut, holding eye contact while she works blindly with deft fingers until the leather gives and she can reach inside to circle her fingers around his length.
His eyes snap shut with a groan and she looks down at the weight of him in her hand, thick and straining. Bending, she drags the flat of her tongue along the underside of his cock. "Bloody hell, Swan," he curses, and then he's reaching under her armpits and hauling her up his body for a brutal kiss as she settles over his hips and rocks her pelvis, coating the thick ridge of him in wetness.
It doesn't take much, just a quick shift of her hips, up and back as she sits up and balances her hands against his chest, and then she's sinking down on his length, biting her lip while his fingers press bruises into her thighs until he's fully sheathed.
It's been a while – a lot longer than a while actually, and wiggles her hips, intending to take a moment to adjust to his size.
He doesn't give it to her.
His hips snap up against hers forcefully as he flips them and presses her into the mattress, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while he grips her hip with the other and sets a demanding rhythm that she eagerly joins, clawing at his back and his ass and his hair, anything she can reach, anything she can grab hold of to anchor herself.
He sucks a bruise into the swell of her breast and she hitches a leg over his hip, changing the angle of his thrusts. He sinks deeper, harder, and his grunt of pleasure echoes her own as she yanks on his hair, pulling him from her breast to crash their lips together, teeth knocking as he growls and his tongue sweeps into her mouth.
And then he's pulling back, withdrawing from her, leaving her empty and biting back a frustrated sob.
"What the hell?" She opens her eyes and he's watching her, shifting to discard his pants before sitting back down on his heels, all tense muscle and dark hair, his fists clenched, his cock hard and glistening with her arousal in the dim light of the lantern on the wall.
"Flip over," he demands. "Get on your knees."
She doesn't move at first and his eyes darken, his eyebrow lifting in a silent challenge. "Now, Swan," he growls.
Flipping over, she pushes up to her knees, looking back over her shoulder just in time to see him take his cock in his hand as he rises up on his knees and reaches for her, jerking her hips backward as he presses into her slowly, inch by agonizing inch before pulling back out and entering her all at once.
She whimpers and struggles to remain upright through the force of his thrusts, knuckles white in the blankets as she presses back against him, the slap of her ass against his hips sounding in time with their combined breathing. The hairy brush of his leg against her inner thigh spreads her wider and his left hand leaves her hip to wrap across her torso, palming a breast and pulling her upright with her shoulders pressed against his chest and her back arched, her hands grabbing hold of his arm.
A silent scream falls from her lips because fuck, he's pressed right where she needs him, the heavy drag of his girth stretching her as he rocks his hips and sweeps her hair to the side, lips and tongue and teeth hot on her neck as he twists her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
"Killian," she whines, needing more, letting going of his arm to reach for her clit. He gets there first and swats her hand away, circling the slick flesh with his thumb, fingers reaching down to feel where they're joined. Her head falls back against his shoulder and she squeezes her eyes shut as her pleasure builds, white hot and violent, an inferno threatening to consume her.
She lets it, reaching back and grabbing hold of his thigh as she tightens around him and burns.
Tensing, he stills, holding her there as he comes, his hand tight on her hip, groaning as he whispers her name like a oath and bites down hard on her shoulder, his thumb still pressed to her clit, prolonging the flutter of her inner walls, pleasure cresting again and again and again until it's too much, she can't take it anymore and she links her fingers with his to wrench his hand away, squeezing hard as she slumps forward to the mattress, bringing him with her.
He's half covering her, still inside her, and she groans, turning her face sideways as she attempts to catch her breath.
Keeping her eyes closed, she tries to stave off the inevitable panic of 'oh god what have I done?' for a minute or two longer.
It doesn't work.
He presses a kiss to her shoulder, his lips gentle against tender teeth marks, and she panics, releasing his hand and wiggling out from beneath him. She hisses when he slips from between her legs and she doesn't bother making any attempt whatsoever to clean herself up as she reaches for her pants and pulls them on.
She's pulling the shirt over her head when he asks the question she's been dreading. "Perhaps we should talk about this?" She shoves her head through the hole in the fabric and looks at him, instantly closing her eyes and turning away because he's still unabashedly naked, lounging there in all his well built glory, and she so cannot do this right now.
"There's nothing to talk about, Jones. There was an itch. We scratched it. End of story," she says with as much venom as she can muster. It's a lie and the words feel like acid, burning as they roll off her tongue.
She can hear the anger in his exhale before he speaks. "Buggering hell, love, that's a lie and you know it! You're a bloody stubborn one, aren't you?"
Snapping, she whips back around to face him. "Don't call me love..." she grinds out, her voice low, dangerous and gravelly.
"Why not? It's because you're afraid, isn't it? Afraid to let me in. Afraid to lose me. Because even if you refuse to admit to it, you care about me, and that terrifies you!"
"I'm not afraid of anything!" she shouts. Another lie. "Go to hell, Jones."
His lip curves up in a grimace as his eyes darken, his fists clenched and his jaw ticking away. He's standing now, still naked, but that hardly matters...
"I've been to hell, Swan, through the wringer and back again more times than I can count. So have you. I've no bloody intention of returning because you demand it of me!" He's shouting now too and she reaches for a boot, looking away. She needs to get out of here now.
"Fucking look at me, Emma!" She does, his tone demands it, and his voice is so loud that maybe he startles himself a little bit too because he sighs and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, pulling at his hair and suddenly looking exhausted. "You're not the only one with holes in your file. Those scars on your stomach and thighs hold more than a story of physical pain, don't they?"
Her stomach drops, her heart constricts, and she lashes out, ripping the lantern from the wall and hurling it at his head. He catches it easily and she wants to scream. Instead she pulls on her other boot and turns for the door. He makes a grab for her wrist and she shakes him off. "Don't fucking follow me, Jones. I swear to god..."
He sighs, a pitiful thing, exhaustion and sadness, reluctant understanding.
She yanks open the door, refusing to look back, knowing that if she does, if she meets his eyes, she won't be able to leave, and right now she needs to clear her head, process and breathe without him looking at her like she's the solution to every question he's ever been unable to answer.
She slams his door shut and crosses the hall to open her own, only staying long enough to tuck the dagger into her boot and don her jacket and her gloves before wrapping a scarf around her neck and stepping back out into the hall.
The same head that poked out of the room down the hall earlier is glaring at her once more and she scowls back at the woman. "Say something," she spits. "I dare you."
The woman retreats and the door closes.
Taking the steps two at a time, she breezes through the darkened tavern and out into the night. It's cold, colder than it was when they arrived, but it's stopped snowing now and the wind is gone, the snow-covered town quiet and still.
Trudging through deep, powdery drifts, she heads for the edge of town where forest meets cliffs in a spectacular view of the surrounding wilderness. She doesn't venture much farther and if she looks over her shoulder she can still see the warm light of the dimly lit town. It's far enough though that she feels alone with her thoughts, which is exactly where she wants to be at the moment.
Everything below and beyond is blanketed in snow, dusted in moonlit glitter, untouched and unspoiled. Thousands of stars adorn the night sky, their brilliance only overshadowed by that of the northern lights, Aurora Borealis, shimmering collisions of electrically charged particles dancing through the atmosphere in varying shades of chartreuse and magenta.
She tightens her scarf and brushes the snow from a large boulder so she can take a seat. The stone is cold through the fabric of her pants, but she pays it little mind as she watches the sky and attempts to make sense of her thoughts.
Everything Killian said was true, maddening in its accuracy. He reads her like an open book, sees through her lies and her walls, and he's right; she's afraid, terrified even, to let him in, to love him, to lose him. She already cares about him far more than she should, and now she's gone and thrown sex into the mix. She should have known he wouldn't be content with just the physical. There are emotions at play here, one's she finding it increasingly hard to ignore, and she can't afford to lose focus on what really matters.
They have a mission to attend to. They need to find Thanatos; find him and kill him, rid the world of his evil and avenge their families by staking the bloody tosser good and proper. They're Killian's words, not hers, and she sighs, gathering a handful of snow together in a ball and packing it tight before whipping it at the trunk of a nearby tree. A light dusting of flurries shudders from its branches, but otherwise the night remains still.
She's frustrated and antsy, and she knows killing Thanatos would solve a lot of her problems, but she actually has to find him to do that, and that's definitely not going to happen tonight.
She stays seated on the rock for a while longer, hoping that by the time she heads back to the inn, Killian will have given up waiting for her and gone back to sleep. She knows they need to talk, but she's not in the mood for it tonight, not by a long shot.
Growing cold and tired, she's nearly ready to head back to the warmth of the inn when it happens.
She's not sure what exactly clocks her in the side of the head, but her world tilts and the snowy ground rushes up to meet her face as she falls from her perch on the rock. She struggles to remain conscious as her vision blurs and her temple throbs. Blood drips from her hairline, staining the snow as blackness edges into her vision, and the last thing she remembers before giving into the pull of unconsciousness, is looking up and seeing Thanatos's laughing face.
Well that's one way to find the bastard, she thinks as the darkness surrounds her and swallows her whole.
She wakes disoriented to cold stone against her cheek, her limbs folded unnaturally, crumpled beneath her body. Her head throbs painfully as nausea swims in her stomach. She groans and tries to push herself up, but her head screams in protest and she collapses back to the ground, breathing through the pain until it settles enough that she can crack an eye open and look around.
The dark ice-covered walls of a dungeon stare back at her, lit only by a sliver of moonlight streaming in from somewhere she cannot place.
She tries to rise again and the pain flares. Bad idea. She groans and closes her eyes. What the hell happened?
Memory swirls to the forefront of her consciousness.
Thanatos.
Panic rises and adrenaline propels her upright, her heart thundering and her head pounding as she reaches for the dagger in her boot. It's gone. Of course it is. She crawls her way over to the nearest wall where she props herself up and gingerly examines the damage to her head. The bleeding has stopped but the skin is swollen and tender so she carefully rests it against the chill of the ice-covered stone.
She needs to do something. Find a way out of here. Come up with a plan. Killian doesn't even know she's missing and he likely won't until morning. Shivering, she huddles into the warmth of her scarf, the cold against her temple slowly easing the pain. She's so tired, tired and confused. Maybe, maybe if she just closes her eyes for a few minutes everything will be clearer...
She opens her eyes to snow-covered forest at the brink of dawn, pink hues and soft light, a warm fire burning in an invisible hearth as she stares at a mattress floating several feet off the ground. She steps closer. Killian is sleeping, blanketed in white. Snowflakes cling to his eyelashes and beard, stark in contrast to the dark of his hair. He looks peaceful. She hates that she has to wake him. Maybe she'll just crawl into bed with him instead.
Taking another step, something pulls at her leg, halting her. She looks down. Cold iron manacles circle her ankles, chained to an invisible force that pulls her forcefully backwards away from Killian, away from the dawn, into the dark.
She digs her nails into the bark of a nearby tree and screams his name. "KILLIAN!" She fights the pull. She's not ready to wake up. She's not ready to leave. She doesn't want to go back to the darkness. "WAKE UP!" she screams.
Killian bolts upright in bed, bright eyes meeting her own, blue and wild and burning. "Emma?"
She loses her grip on the tree, thick bark peeling away in her hands. She clings to it and claws at the snow. The snow turns to stone. It's no use. She skids backwards. "Find me," she requests quietly, reaching for him as the darkness closes in around her and drags her away.
She wakes curled in on herself, facing the stone wall and clutching the bark from her dream. A low chuckle sounds behind her, filling her with dread, but she pushes it down and discreetly tucks the bark into her jacket before sitting up and turning to face Thanatos.
He shakes his head and looks down on her from across the dungeon, standing on the other side of thick iron rungs that she hadn't noticed before. Her ankles are chained as well, her boots tossed aside out of her reach, the heavy metal shackles cold through the leather of her pants.
"Reaching out to your partner in your dreams; clever girl aren't you?" Thanatos observes, caressing the metal bars with a pale finger. "Don't think I'll be allowing that to happen again so soon. It's a shame though; I do so enjoy toying with your minds in that particular way. Humans," he spits out the word with disdain, "such fragile creatures, so weak-minded and malleable."
She stands and struggles in vain against her restraints, grinding her teeth. If she had her weapons, if her legs were free, the bastard wouldn't be nearly as smug.
He just laughs and presses his gaunt face against the bars, grinning at her with soulless eyes. "You may as well just have a seat, Emma. Don't tire yourself out too much, save your energy for later; I like a little fight in my prey. Your mother was a fighter," he tells her, running his tongue over the points of his fangs, "your father too. Until I ripped them apart and drained the life out of them while you watched."
The shock must register on her face, because he's laughing again. "Thought I didn't notice you hiding beneath the floorboards, cowering like a mouse, vermin, just an innocent little girl dressed in sunshine and flowers. I took that from you didn't I? Just as I took your parents. You see, I find it so much more fulfilling to leave a survivor amidst the carnage; take everything from them and then haunt their dreams for decades until eventually I come back for them. Did the same thing to that Jones boy too, that partner of yours; his parents were already gone, but killing his brother was just as sweet. And soon I'll take you from him too."
Rage flares red hot in her chest and she clenches her fists so tight that her knuckles crack. "That won't happen." The words hiss through her teeth in a low growl. "He's going to find me. And we're going to kill you. That's a promise."
Thanatos shakes his head again, this time in mock sadness. "He won't find you, not in time. Maybe in the spring, when the snow melts and the bones of the mountain are revealed, maybe then he'll find your body, bloodless and torn apart, slowly decaying right here on the floor of this very cell. Maybe then, when he's too distraught to fight back, I'll bleed him dry and turn him into one of us," the vampire taunts. "He'd kill himself wouldn't he? Before the transformation completes. Take his own life rather than become like me."
She wants to scream, but she won't give him the satisfaction of hearing how thoroughly his words are tormenting her. Instead she remains quiet, holding his gaze and refusing to look away.
"Cat got your tongue?" Thanatos asks, looking bored. "Shame. But alas the sun is rising and it's been a long night. I'll let you while away the day in your chains. Scream all you want, no one will hear you." That said, he slips away, a shudder of black in the shadows, moving with unnatural speed.
Crumpling to the floor, she looks up at the cavernous walls of her prison, up to where the pale light of approaching dawn filters through the jagged rocks. She looks up and she waits. For nearly half an hour she sits there, and when she's certain Thanatos isn't going to return, she gets to work.
She pulls the bark from her jacket and examines it carefully, crumbling away the weaker edges to reveal the sturdier inner portion. It won't serve as a weapon, it's not nearly large enough or strong enough, it's too flexible, but if she breaks off a slender piece and whittles away at it, she might just be able to pick a lock or two. She might just be able to free herself. She honestly doesn't know if Killian will be able to find her, and she doesn't intend to wait around to find out.
Moving over to the stone wall, she snaps off a piece of the bark and finds a jagged edge of stone. The going is slow; her head is still pounding, but the dizziness fades as she works, focused on her task. She gets one ankle freed, but the bark snaps and she has to start all over again with another piece, biting her tongue and resisting the urge to scream in frustration.
When her legs are free she pulls her boots back on and moves to the bars, reaching around through the cold metal to blindly fiddle with the lock, closing her eyes and listening as the tumblers click and shift. When the door swings open she grins; all those years spent breaking into libraries as a child really did come in handy.
The tunnels are a maze of vast passageways and she has no real idea which way is out, but she follows her instincts, heading for daylight and fresher air, searching, as she moves, for anything that can be used as a weapon. She finds the old wooden handle of a torch, and as she rounds what she hopes is the last corner, daylight almost in sight, she runs right into Killian's chest and almost falls flat on her ass.
He steadies her with a hand at her hip as he steps back to look at her, shock quickly transitioning into an amused half smile. "I'll have you know, Swan, you're depriving me of a dashing rescue," he jokes.
She can't help but laugh, cringing a little bit while holding her still aching head. "Sorry, Jones, but the only one who saves me is me." She certainly is glad to see him though. Relief courses through her veins and everything from the night before just seems to fall away; the tension, the fight, bitter words, and while a large part of her just wants to fall into his arms and stay there, they really should strike while they still have some element of surprise.
"You doing all right, Swan?" he asks, reaching out to cup her cheek and gently examine the gash at her temple. "Looks like a nasty bump you've got there."
She only lets him hover for a moment, leaning into the warmth of his palm for several long seconds before straightening and nodding. "I'll live. Please tell me you brought weapons?"
"Perhaps we should head back, let you rest, return wh-"
She cuts him off with a glare. "Weapons, Jones, did you bring them or not?"
"Aye." He nods, sliding the large bag from his shoulder to sit it on the ground between them.
"Then let's go dust this fucker."
That turns out to be easier said than done.
She thinks that finding Thanatos in the mass network of underground tunnels is going to be the hard part. She couldn't be more wrong. They've hardly been back below for more than ten minutes when she hears it; that smug laughter, circling in the dark.
Holding up her torch, she raises her crossbow. Killian does the same with his gun; shifting to stand so that their backs are pressed together, protected from an unseen attack.
"Emma, Emma, Emma." It echoes off the walls, reverberating back and forth. She can't pinpoint its source. It's too dark. "It appears I've underestimated your resourcefulness." He laughs again, closer this time. "And this one's determination to find you; simply astounding. He loves you, you know. I can smell it on him. It reeks. Not very appetizing I'm afraid, but no matter, I'll make do."
Groaning, she rolls her eyes. She's had more than enough of this; all bark and no bite. She's cold and she's cranky and she's no longer chained down. It's time to see what this monster is made of.
Tapping her heel against Killian's ankle in a silent signal, she snuffs out her torch, plunging the cavern into darkness, all shadow, no light. "Thanatos is it?" she asks, feigning boredom. "You know, for a supposed big bad of a vampire, I'm hearing an awful lot of talk. You might want to try backing up those words with a little action. Unless impotency is an issue? I mean you are what? Almost a thousand years old?"
" It's bound to happen, mate," Killian adds. "No need to feel ashamed."
Thanatos snarls, an inhuman roar of rage sounding from somewhere above.
Dropping the lightless torch, Emma reaches back and taps three fingers against Killian's thigh. On the count of three.
One.
Silence.
Two.
Rustling, a rush of movement in the dark.
Three.
She turns with Killian, sticking behind him as he strikes a handful of flares against the stone floor, igniting them and scattering them as he spins. Light bursts through the cavern, bright and glowing red like dragon fire, illuminating walls and shedding light on their attacker. Thanatos flinches backwards, momentarily thrown off his pursuit by the startling brightness. Emma fires, aiming for his heart, but the vampire shifts at the last second and the wooden bolt hits him in the shoulder instead. She fires again and hits just an inch too low.
Screeching, Thanatos rips the stakes from his flesh, throwing them to the ground. From there it's a blur of movement and then he's in front of her, eyes dark and fangs dripping saliva as he swipes at her with razor-sharp talons. She blocks the first blow, her arm aching with the force of the impact, she ducks out of the way of the second, but she's too slow to stop the third and his claws slice through the leather of her jacket, tearing into the skin over her ribs as he rips the crossbow from her grasp and backhands her across the room.
She connects with the wall with a sickening crunch, all of the air immediately vacating her lungs. Struggling to keep her eyes open, she sucks in a laboured breath, coughing and silently begging her body to cooperate as pain radiates upward through her side from her hip. Her vision swims and concern for her partner is the only thing keeping her conscious as she holds her hand to the gashes in her side and makes a failed attempt to get to her feet.
The fuzzy image of Killian and Thanatos trading blows plays out before her eyes, red and black and flashes of white and silver as Killian draws his sword and slashes at the vampire, his gun smashed to pieces upon the floor.
Panting, she crawls forward, knees aching, cold stone biting into her bloodied hands. If she can just get to her crossbow... she can end this.
She looks over her shoulder as she crawls; Killian's losing ground, he's not going to win this on his own. She pushes to her feet and stumbles the last several steps to the crossbow, picking it up and turning just as Thanatos takes the sword from Killian's hands and turns it on him, slicing open his shoulder before picking him up by the throat and slamming him into the nearest wall. The stone cracks, debris scattering to the ground, and when Killian drops, he doesn't get up.
"No..." Her voice comes out small, barely a whisper. He can't be...
Despair is quickly replaced by rage, but when she lifts the crossbow and moves to take aim, Thanatos is gone.
Killian coughs, opening his eyes and she sags with the most profound relief she's ever felt, still holding the crossbow high, spinning to scan the room. Where the hell did the fucker go?
A cold breeze wraps through her hair, sending a shiver cascading down her spine as a voice like ice whispers in her ear. "I'm right behind you, Emma."
She tries to turn, but her feet are planted firmly to the floor. She can't move a muscle; she paralyzed and powerless to resist, possessed and not in control of her own body. "What the fuck?" she spits, her eyes still on Killian as he struggles to sit up, looking back at her with concern in his eyes.
"There's a good girl," Thanatos speaks again, pulling her hair to the side with a long finger as he presses himself to her back and drags his fangs down the side of her neck. She shudders as she holds Killian's gaze, wanting to cry and scream, sickened by his touch, unable to move, unable to do a damn thing but stand there and let it happen. "Now lift that crossbow," Thanatos requests, "and aim it at your partner's heart."
Every fibre of her being fights against it, but still she lifts the crossbow and points it at Killian where he sits on the ground, beaten and bloodied, holding his arm and looking up at her, his eyes filled with trust.
"Fight it, Swan," he tells her. "Fight him."
Her finger settles over the trigger and she chokes back a sob. "I'm trying, but everyone I care about dies. One way or another they end up leaving. Why should you be any different?"
He shakes his head. "I'm a survivor, Swan. It doesn't have to end like this. I don't have to die and you don't have to kill me. Just put the crossbow down, turn around, and stake the bloody bastard."
She tries, but it's like she's standing witness in a body that's not her own. "I can't."
Killian smiles at her, his gaze full of love and hope and faith and everything that she's struggling to hold onto as Thanatos presses closer, his will becoming hers.
"Yes you can," Killian insists. "I believe in you, Emma, but you don't have to do it for me. Do it for your parents. Do it for yourself. Take him down."
"Kill him!" Thanatos snarls in her ear and her finger flexes over the trigger, hesitating, because even on death's door Killian's faith in her hasn't wavered, and she won't do it, she won't. She will not be the one to take his life, and he will not die here today. She will not lose another partner. Not if she can help it. She's sick and tired of everything she loves being taken from her.
It ends now.
"I SAID KILL HIM!" Thanatos roars in her ear.
But something changes then and the paralysis slips away as she slowly reaches for the wooden dagger concealed in her belt, fingers circling the hilt while she holds the crossbow steady, still pointed at Killian, her finger poised over the trigger. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice breaking.
And then she spins, dropping the crossbow and plunging the wooden dagger into Thanatos's heart with two hands and every ounce of strength she possesses. "I can't kill him, but I can kill you."
Shock registers in the vampire's black eyes. "How?" he sputters, choking on his words, on blood and dust as his insides begin to dissolve.
"I guess humans aren't as weak-minded and fragile as you thought, huh?" she says, and then she twists the blade. Bloodied dust showers down to pool at her feet, and satisfaction swells in her breast for all of three short seconds before exhaustion sweeps in to take its place, her stance faltering as adrenaline dissipates, leaving her weak and shaky, feeling every single bump, bruise, and cut.
Wiping the dagger clean on her pants, she tucks it back into her belt before limping over to the stone wall, holding her side as she collapses in the rubble next to Killian. Seeking out his hand, she links their fingers together as she rests her head against his uninjured shoulder and closes her eyes. She laughs with relief, but her wounds protest at the sudden movement and she settles for grunting instead. "Ouch."
Killian echoes her expression of pain with a groan of his own, holding a bloodstained hand to the deep gash on his arm. "I don't know about you, Swan, but I'm thinking a vacation might be in order. Starting now would be good."
She has to stifle another laugh. First-aid might be a little higher on the agenda, but a vacation doesn't sound like the worst idea ever, especially if it's with him. The thought doesn't scare her as much as she expects it to and she smiles, squeezing his hand. "Not Swan," she corrects. "Love."
"Beg your pardon?"
"You can call me love now," she clarifies, wincing as she lifts her head and twists slowly to face him. "If you'd like."
He nods, searching her face. "Aye, love, I'd like that very much indeed."
And then he smiles so wide that his split lip starts to bleed all over again. She kisses him anyway.