I got a ton of alerts this last time. Which is fantastic! But do you know what else would be fantastic...reviews! I can't tell if I'm doing good, or bad or...yeah. So please give me feedback! Questions, comments, critiques, etc! I'd love 'em.

Plus, I have a tourney tomorrow, so it would be really cool to wake up to a crap ton of reviews. *hint, hint*

You guys have been so great. I am especially thankful to my regular reviewers. You're amazing. 3

I've taken a stab at 31-32, but only 26-30 is officially finished. Expect another chapter Monday...maybe Sunday, if I am especially motivated.

-XXX-

From that corner he creeps into view, eyes heavily shadowed. Teeth, which are far yellower than before, flash. In the dim and flickering light, his skin appears scaly, and glitters. The already mussy hair is lank and greasy. He's at the bars quickly, clinging to the spikes.

"My lovely little bookbinder's daughter," He breathes. "Come to visit her demon, her fearsome mage." There is mad laughter. "Why, beauty, have you come to me on this night? You know what night it is." His voice drops.

"Who are you?" I approach, hesitant."Why are you here? Why aren't we in the forest this time?"

His expression alters to something a little more savage. "Two months. Two months, and I have had to pick and pry to find anything about this babe. They've not acted kindly—rarely a meal passes without some sedative being slipped into my drink." The ink in this last word is punctured painfully. "Makes the visions come far more frequently…yet they do not want to listen."

"And oh, to look about your most beauteous face…" A single finger is extended to trace my jaw. Unconsciously, I lean into the touch. "…I would fear I am dreaming, my dear, if I hadn't foreseen your coming. My most resourceful Ophelia. Tonight…tonight it comes! Ahahahahaha!"

He savors his moment, rolling in his laughter.

I come closer, wrapping my hands around the fractured bars. "Tonight?"

"Yes, yes, yes! Soon," He hisses. "We shall be gone from this place."

"Whoa. I'm not technically here as it is, you…you. And you're not coming with me."

Hands find my waist and I am thrust into the bars. His hands burn feverishly. High above, the tiny window darkens. I strain my neck to see dark, smoky clouds ahead. A storm.

"It's here, it's here," He chants. Lips are pressed to my neck. I shudder into him. The dried skin puckers, then opens to nip and lick. Savagely, hands trail down my form, while my shoulders are given open-mouthed kisses. The precise and luxurious style of his lazing tongue forces me to remember someone else who has worshiped my body is such a manner.

Cold has sweep over the cell. The clouds shift through the small opening in the ceiling to curl around us. Like a weary kitten, it rests at our feet.

"What's here?"

Again, laughter. "The thing that shall take us away, away!" He sings against my skin. "Out and away, to another happy ending."

"Where are we going?" I ask breathlessly.

"Someplace horrible!" His cackle is broken. And I think, "What could be worse than this?"

The darkness begins to wrap around us, twisting to cover our bodies. Frighten, I unconciously push closer to the imp, who seems not afraid, but rather excited and energized. How can he be enjoying this? His hands roam my body, not offering much comfort. Instead, I feel repelled. Wishing to recoil, I thrust back. But he maintains a good hold on my limp wrists.

Without warning, he takes my lips ferociously, saying as he pulls away, "Whatever world or land we find ourselves in, we'll be together. I promise you. You may not recall this life, but I shan't let you go. I swear it. We'll be together."

It's then, before the clouds rise to drown me, that I stare into his bright eyes. In the unsettlingly wide pupils, I see amber and gold. Gold. Gold. And then I can see it, see traces of my-of Mr. Gold in the demon, in the sharpness of his face, to his thin, strong hands, and playfully dark eyes.

The thought is absorbed. I gasp loudly. "No—I don't even know what you are. I don't want—"

Again, he takes my mouth. Through curled lips, he murmurs. "Oh, but you shall." His half-lidded eyes are suddenly guarded. "Ophelia."

That's it. Just my name.

And then-darkness.

-XXX-

"I get it," I say abruptly, propping myself off the pillow with one elbow. In the night, I'd found myself curled next to the pawnbroker on the fold-out bed of the couch. "You didn't it to put Emma in power. You did it for yourself. To put the sheriff's office in your pocket."

"Yes?" He smiles. "Come now, Ophelia, I am a mere pawnbroker—what would I need from the sheriff? This is shady business you're speaking of."

Which is the only kind of business he deals in. The question just fuels me further.

"I don't know." I stubbornly, recoil from him. "I haven't the faintest idea—It's not like you've ever dealt in any sort of criminal actions such as, say, blackmail or arson."

Mr. Gold laughs lightly. He finds this all kinds of hilarious. "I run a pawn, my love. Not a crime family, or a mob. You've been watching too many episodes of The Sopranos."

My TV addiction aside, I know I'm right. Life is a huge power struggle for him. It would be perfectly natural for him to trap Emma Swan as he did, placing her just where he wanted. Logical. Sensible. He must have jumped at the chance, planning it mere hours after Graham passed. I would've, if I was a deranged old man, too.

Old is still debatable. In certain light, he appears nearly-youthful. The lines vanish mysterious, and his eyes gain a playful air. Other times, he can look exceptionally ancient. His wrinkles become deep crevasses, his sockets hallow, hands curl into chicken-claw fists. The transformation is swift, frightening. One must wonder if he notices, or takes measure to increase either appearance.

At this very moment, he appears youthful, even buoyant.

"Ophelia. We should be rejoicing. Regina has lost just a little more of her grip on Storybrooke. This calls for wine."

"Do you always drink in celebration of your arson attempts?"

"Always," He answers gravely.

He climbs for the couch-bed, and hands me his robe. I watch him stretch, wincing with several motions. The rollaway, while convenient, mustn't be very good for his aging limbs. Something akin to sympathy swells in me, and I hand him his cane without comment. Together, we enter the kitchen, where a bottle and pair of chilled glasses await us. He pours both glasses in steady measure. Handing me the stem of one, he raises his brows. "Unless you have any qualms?"

It's barely eight in the morning.

I accept the glass. "Not as far as I know." I say cheekily. "So, to Emma's election."

"Grand," He "clinks" the lip of his glass with mine, but does not drink. Instead, he turns the crystal in his hands, watching the light reflect off the faceted surface. I sip slowly.

"Do we have to go in today?"

Mr. Gold doesn't glance up, but his tone is one of surprise. "I suppose not, my love. Are you tired?"

I nod.

"A day off does sound like just the thing. A proper treat, after this victory." He muses.

The word "treat" privately thrills me. It is a word hardly used, old-world and charming. Though I'm still pissed, my heart trills a little with his inclining head and soft smile. Yes, a day off would be quite a treat.

-XXX-

Just a quick note: For those of you who might not recall, the top section was taken from chapter 9, however, the POV and some other minor details were altered given Ophelia's fake memories, etc.

God, I cannot believe I just typed that. Soap opera, anyone?

Anyways, in coming chapters (particularly 29) there will be some very key details that correspond/are in relation to things seen in earlier, pre-Storybrook chapters. I'm getting bored, and Ophelia is going to really begin noticing some things that are going to "rock the boat."Just a head's up. Don't forget, I'm alway open to questions/comments.

As always, thank you for the support. Please review.