Chapter 2
The world moves around like a merry go round. Round and round it goes, in a blur of darkness and glinting metal. Then, the sudden quiet. Then the loneliness.
The woman kneels on the ground and pulls the man to her, her hands shake as they touch his face.
The world is a mad, mad merry go round.
A dark, dark vulture looms over the woman, helpless on the floor. It asks for the child; it promises a horrible, horrible place, a horrible, horrible fate.
The merry go round spins and spins and the vulture laughs but there is no joy in it, only a terrible despair. The wind blows and howls, the walls and roof melt away, fall apart. The world is ending.
And then the wind falls silent and the merry go round stops its mad spinning. The vulture is a sad woman and the one on the floor is not helpless: she takes a sword from the floor and aims it at the vulture turned woman. The laughter stops as the wind stops, a hurricane that never came to be, and leaves in its place a scent of fear and sadness. The woman on the floor holds the sword steady and announces in anger and hate: You lost. She aims the sword, high and true and pierces the vulture's heart.
Then there is only blood and hurt.
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Not even bothering with being quiet, ten year old Henry Devereux slipped through the window to the fire escape, his feet quietly stepping on the metal on his way down. One floor down, he stopped and using a rudimentary lock picking tool, jimmied open the window then let himself in. If he was any judge- and he was- she'd be asleep so he helped himself to some juice and cookies and settled on the couch with the remote, the sound nearly muted.
He munched on the cookies and watched CNN feeling like the king of the castle. Then he heard noise in her bedroom. Sighing, he put the plate down, washed the cookies down with OJ and went to check on her. He worried about her. He really did.
She was all tangled up in her sheets, fighting against them, as if they had been attacking her. On her face, a bruise bloomed so dark that he could see it even in the darkness of the room.
He moved into the room and as he was about to call her name, to wake her up gently, she sat in bed as if pulled by invisible strings. Her eyes found his unerringly in the darkness.
It took her less than a second to get her bearings. "Hi, kid." He nodded. "Whatchadoin' here so early?"
"It's noon. Did you work last night?"
"Yeah." Her hand went to her cheek. It hurt like a bitch and she could feel the bones rattle under the skin where the bastard had clocked her. What was it with guys who always knew that the worst place to hit a girl was the cheekbone?
"Figures. You have a bruise the size of Texas on your face." He pointed out helpfully, hands jammed in his pockets. "Did you put some ice already?"
Yeah, no, she hadn't. She had dragged her sorry ass home after she had delivered the bastard safely to booking in the closest Boston PD precinct she could find. She had popped a funky cocktail of Advil, Aspirin and 7Up and made a minor concession to her bedtime routine: she brushed her teeth. There was a good lesson she had learnt early on: when you get hit on or around the mouth, you brush your teeth no matter how much it hurts because the day after is considerably easier all around than if you don't. And that was about it. That and the birthday wish. She had given up on birthday wishes a long time ago but the night before, for some reason, she had made one: that there be more to life than getting home battered and bruised. She stood up and the kid gave her a studious look.
She looked at the flea market full length mirror and saw what he did: the hair mused (and not in a good way), the smudged heavy makeup, the bruise- bruises- because the bastard's fingers were all but tattooed around her upper arm- and her red war dress stained with the wine he had tossed at her when she had told him why they were meeting just like fate.
Shit! Her heart sank as she saw herself through Henry's eyes. There were days like this when she had a feeling she would never amount to anything, that her one plan in life was as likely as winning the lottery. She looked at Henry and pulled the dress down where it had ridden up her thighs. "I'm gonna get cleaned up… a little."
"Okay. Do you want some coffee?"
"No… S'alright." And she disappeared into the toilet because it was embarrassing standing next to the kid when she looked like this, like someone incapable of fending for herself, let alone a family.
… … …
When she emerged from the toilet, she felt marginally better: at least she did not smell like a bankrupt brewery and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She felt a little more human, a little less decadent. And it helped that she had recovered her $25000 investment with a small incentive on the side. It made her bank account look a little less pathetic. Hell, it made her feel a little less pathetic.
She passed Henry on the couch and moved into the kitchen. A mug of hot chocolate was steaming on the counter. The kid was an angel and god knew where he would have gotten that from. Certainly not from his bitch of a mother. "Thanks, kid."
He spared her a look from the couch and stood. "You're welcome."
It was powdered stuff, but it was comforting in a way very few things in her life were. She took the first sip and the rest of the previous night melted away. Nearly. "Where's your mom?"
"Out." He shrugged and opened the freezer door. He took a bag of peas and stood in front of her. "Here." And carefully, he pressed the frozen peas against her bruised cheek. "Tell me that you paid him back for this."
"How do you know it was a him?"
"Isn't it always?"
"Allegedly." Henry snorted and pressed the peas harder. "Yeah, yeah. I think I cost him a cap. His smile won't be as pretty on his mug shot."
"Good. But Emma, you must take better care of yourself. Please. I like you better with less bruises."
She would have liked that. If only she had completed high school at least. Office jobs were less likely to get you bruises. But they usually liked people with diplomas and skills she didn't have for those neat office jobs. "I'll try. I like myself better with less bruises too."
"Okay." Henry hummed while he held the peas to her face.
"So what about the babysitter?"
"On the phone to her boyfriend." He did a little yuck sound. "I wish they would get a room. I know stuff about sex that I really shouldn't."
"Why don't you tell your mom? I bet she'd be pis― upset, I mean, she'd be upset…If you told her."
"And when would I tell her?" The kid asked mildly.
It always broke her heart. Every stinking time they had this conversation. She pulled the kid to her and hugged him. "How 'bout some breakfast?"
"Rather have lunch. I'm all breakfasted out."
"Lunch it is…" She looked at the peas in her hand and finished her drink. Then she stood and collected items from the fridge and set to work.
Henry sat on the stool she had vacated.
"I worry about you, Emma."
"Why?"
"Because you're my friend. My only friend."
"It's my job, kid. I'm good at it."
"Some days you're better than others."
And wasn't that the truth. She gave Henry a rueful smile that had him cringing because the bruise looked far worse in contrast with the pretty smile. "Wanna veg out in front of the TV until your mom comes home?"
"Yeah. But don't call it veg out."
"Okay. Lemme call the office." There was a moment where disappointment shadowed Henry's face. Emma wanted to erase it. Erase his mom while she was at it, for leaving such a precious boy alone for most of his life. "I'm just gonna tell 'em I'm, alive, kid. Don't worry, I'm not going in." Henry dived into a hug and then pulled back, suddenly shy of the affection.
"'Kay."
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"Hey, sugar plum!" The fake southern accent came through the line. It was part of Harry's persona. It added weight to the Dirty Harry moniker he had cultivated over the years. It was certainly more in line with the trade than Joseph Dalensky, street rat hailing from the very non exotic Minneapolis.
"Hey Harry."
"You still alive, baby girl? I heard the guy had a mean right hook."
"Harry, I draw the line at the sugar plum crap. Don't push it or you'll find out, just as he did, that I too have a mean right hook and that I can follow it up with a nicely placed lefty."
"Aw… come on now, don't get your panties in a twist!"
"Harry…" The tone was a stark warning.
"Kay, kay. Your fee has already been transferred to your account. Nice little bunch of zeros."
"Anything for me today?"
"You want some?"
"Not particularly."
"Lady trouble?"
"Harry, how many times do I have to tell that I won't discuss―"
"Maybe you just haven't met the right one."
"Harry, private life. It's called private life." She bunched her fists in irritation.
"But we're friends!"
"No, we're not!" But it lacked bite. Emma liked Harry and that wasn't true. She liked him. She liked him a lot. He was the closest thing she'd ever had to a father.
"I gotta set you up with someun' nice. You just need to meet the right person. And baby girl, you're working too much for that."
"Stay out of it, Harry." The tone lacked the usual bite she put in it when DH tried to meddle. "Besides... I got just the guy to keep me company." She said with a smile that tinged even her voice. It always did when it came to Henry.
"Sure, sure. Stay home. Get some steak on that shiner."
"I don't have one."
"I didn't mean the steak! Get some rest, you stubborn ass."
"Take care of yourself, Harry."
"Sure will."
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They vegged out. Which was to say that they curled up on Emma's old as dirt couch and ate microwave popcorn and watched cartoons all afternoon.
Henry did his best to not curl all the way up to Emma's lap. He was ten and ten was old enough to not need anyone. Ten was old enough to not wish every day that Emma could have been his mom instead of Hilary. Hilary was not a mom. She didn't have a maternal gene, a maternal bone in her. He always called her Hilary in the privacy of his own thoughts ever since he'd met Emma on the fire escape for the first time when he was six and trying to run away from home. By the time he was seven, he had decided that Hilary had probably ordered him out of a Laura Ashley catalogue just because he would match the decoration. He didn't feel lucky at all. One of the best schools in Boston, the best clothes, the best car, the best view out of the best building in the best neighbourhood meant very little. He went to bed every day wishing upon every star that Emma would take him away from his mom somewhere far, far away because he wasn't even her kid and she spent a million times more time with him than his own mother, never mind that she taught him really cool stuff and actually talked to him, actually let him be a part of her life.
He was ten. He was old enough to find it odd that Emma lived in such an expensive neighbourhood and then sat in couches from the thrift shop and had a T.V. she had found on a random curb and carted in at four in the morning. But people had reasons for stuff, she had told him. And he trusted Emma's reasons.
Besides, the couch may have been turd brown and old but it was the most comfortable thing he'd ever sat on. He was happy on this couch. And safe. When his mother and his babysitter both left him to his own devices for most of the day, he felt safe here. Emma was his safe place.
He leaned against her shoulder and she put her arm around him and he could almost fool himself that he had the perfect life. Which was when Kelly shouted from upstairs that his mom was on her way home and where was he, and to stop being a little shit. Even her shouting sounded bored.
Emma wanted to go up the fire escape and teach her a lesson or two in babysitting but Henry would prefer neither Kelly nor Hilary found out where he went when they didn't even know he was going anywhere, so he just pushed the window open and climbed out with a cheery wave of his hand, the absolute opposite of the sadness at leaving that strange apartment.
… … …
Loneliness was heavy then. It always was when Henry left to go back home. Emma went back into the bathroom and topped up on painkillers and studied herself in the mirror. She was nearing thirty and she had more scars and bruises than prospects or money in her bank account. And if anything, the shiner on her face told her that it was too much. That all of this was too much and that she would not be able to do this for much longer.
"Happy birthday, Emma Swan!" She belatedly greeted herself in the mirror. "Congratulations on another banner year!"
She went to bed thinking of Henry and of a bank account that never quite bounced back.
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The sound of the spinning wheel was soothing, comforting. The Evil Queen sat at the old table and let the future sink in, made her peace with it. Where do I start? The warmth of the fire and the comfort of the stew in her belly made her body heavy and reluctant to move.
"Find the one from your vision." The old woman answered her unvoiced question out loud. Her hands, Regina noticed, were too smooth for an old woman who had spun wool all her life, the dress too green to belong in this hut. The voice was hypnotic. Soothing, calming, like a lullaby, she imagined, though she'd never had one. For once she was not tired and hurting and hungry all at the same time. For once, her feet were warm and there was food in her and the threat was not imminent. Her bones didn't hurt and the spinning of the wheel was peaceful. She couldn't have moved even if she'd tried. She couldn't even muster anger at her fate.
"If fate is written anywhere, it is in you." The old woman again commented on her unvoiced thoughts. Regina kept her eyes closed. Her feet were warm from the fire and nothing hurt. She wanted to be suspicious and angry but this felt good. It felt too good to move. Like molasses running through her veins. "Open yourself to life, to love. Live, Regina."
What's love got to do with it, the Evil Queen wondered, her thoughts scattered like butterflies in the summer. And why were they all so interested in the Princess now? Snow White she could understand, maybe even the peasants, waiting for deliverance. A good princess is a better defender than a worn out, old Evil Queen. But Rumpelstiltskin? He never stitched a cloth without tying the knots first. He wanted something from Snow's whelp and it wouldn't be good. But what did she care? She'd have peace at last. Peace in death was better than this mockery of a life she'd been given as a punishment. Too bad for the princess.
The old woman moved from her spinning wheel and touched Regina's back. The comfort of the act made Regina forget how unnaturally easy the old woman had moved. She closed her eyes. "You won't be alone, Regina. You won't be alone again. And I give this gift to you: whatever you touch, you will know. I'm not sending you to your fight alone this time, though I wish I could do more." The voice was soothing and hypnotic and the hand rubbed soothing circles down Regina's back. "In this land without magic, you will need to be more careful." She hung a small pendant around Regina's neck, "This will cloak you from the imps until it's time you fight. Do not take it off. And when it is time to return, it will bring you both home."
Her body was weary and sleep was a blessing. She felt the old woman's comforting hand on her back. "Remember, dear, your fate is the one you make. Open your heart." Then, there was only warmth and oblivion. She let herself fall.
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Awareness was a gradual process: warmth enveloping her, softness under her face, softness over her. There was brief moment when it all felt like a dream, one where she was back in her childhood bed. A body rolled into hers and an arm snaked around her waist and pulled her into the warmth. The panic was immediate, visceral and utterly violent: she jumped up and backwards and reached for her daggers. Her eyes searched for Leopold first and the old woman next but everything was dark. Her heart pounded, far away from her chest, in another world, anticipating pain and betrayal. She breathed hard and fast and swiped blindly at intervals with both daggers, blinking hard to make her eyes work in the darkness.
It turned out she was not quite ready to die. Not without putting up a fight.
… … …
The usual dream of the dark vulture looming over the woman and the man wounded on the ground subsided, melted into something quiet and calm which was so unusual it should have woken her up as much the dream itself always did. Except the warmth felt good and familiar and so she just rolled over onto the dip of the bed and draped her arm around the warmth. She sighed deeply in contentment and that was what effectively woke her up: the unusual solidity that went with the warmth. She brought no one here. No one. She rolled out of bed and fell backwards. The room was dark and she could not see what had been in her bed. She patted around the bed, trying to get some sense of direction, to find her Taser or her gun or a shoe, anything, anything at all. She was not helpless. She would never be helpless again.
She walked backwards from the bed to what she hoped was the window, her head spinning. She needed light. She needed to identify the threat and deal with it. A bail bonds person collects enemies like some people collect baseball cards. And most of those, extremely dangerous and motivated. But when her fingers snagged the cord of the blind and pulled, what she saw was not nearly what she had braced for.
… … …
The light from the rising sun suddenly invaded the room and illuminated her threat: a woman. It was just a scared woman, the Evil Queen thought to herself when she identified the threat. A blonde woman in very, very reduced sleeping garments that left very little covered from the eye. Not an imp, not a troll, not a kelpie. Not Leopold. Just a woman. She raised her hands still holding the daggers trying to show she meant her no harm, but the woman she had thought helpless raised a weapon of her own.
"Don't you even blink!"