Content Sensitivity Warning: They're not in time.

X

Hastings dropped the second orb into the jar. He added more of the mixture from the third bowl before topping it off and closing the lid. There were other things he would need to do later to make sure those were safely preserved but, unfortunately, he had to put those off for the moment and deal with Miss Thomas. After all, she was the point of this exercise. It would hardly do to lose her now.

The contents of the second bowl acted as a sort of ointment spread over her eyes. Aetheric energy seemed to trigger well with symbols. It was probably related to the way emotions and physical states helped release aetheric energy. This ointment spread over her eyes—or, rather, where her eyes had been—should help speed whatever developments he hoped for in her second sight.

And, as a side benefit, it would make it difficult for her to stage a second escape. "I think you'll be much less troublesome, now," he told her, reaching for pads of cotton and bandages. "Don't you agree, Miss Thomas?"

"Rings," Miss Thomas said, her voice so weak it was barely a whisper.

Hastings paused. He'd expected her gift to manifest, of course. That was the main purpose of this. He hadn't expected it so soon.

Of course, aetheric forces fed well on pain and trauma. He supposed Miss Thomas had just experienced a great deal of both. He must remember this for future use, he thought, though it would have to be limited. After all, killing off Miss Thomas would hardly be making good use of her.

"Rings," Miss Thomas repeated, forcing herself to speak louder. Hastings was impressed. This wasn't like her usual oracles. Her answers, useful as they'd been, often came in terrified screams or garbled whispers. "Rumplestiltskin," she said. "The key you've been seeking. The thread that connects you. Hidden in silver, held by fire. Your fire, Rumplestiltskin."

Hastings frowned. He supposed it had something to do with the limits of the human mind—didn't most legends say seers were mad?—but Miss Thomas' foretellings often couched themselves in the strangest metaphors. "Fairytales, Miss Thomas?" he asked, hoping to prod something clearer out of her. "What do they have to do with anything?"

"You don't know." Her voice was weak once again. Hastings had to strain to hear her. "You never knew them. The ones you use, the ones you kill. But, they know you. You can't hide from them."

The key in the door began to turn.

X

They'd wasted too much time.

Emma had known it even while knowing they had to do it. She had to tell the others what she knew about the situation. They had to tell her what they knew. Otherwise, they'd all be walking in blind. They wouldn't be rescuing anybody if Neal dropped his gun in surprise at the first sight of his dad.

At least, they could delegate. They'd cuffed the scarred man (and, hopefully, he'd never read up on how easy it was to get out of that kind of handcuff), then told Clara and Wendy to get him out of sight. Getting spotted by whatever passed for hospital security in the middle of this wasn't going to help anyone, especially when they were still making up their exit strategy.

Neal unlocked the door while Emma stood guard over him, her gun back in her hand where it belonged. Neal kicked open the door, drawing his own gun. "Stop! Nobody move!" He had his gun on the doctor's goon. Emma, scanning the room quickly, had hers on Hastings.

Hastings looked up. He didn't look frightened or surprised, only irritated, a great man interrupted in the middle of something important by lesser beings. They might have been dirty little kids barging into an operating theatre to deliver a grubby looking box of used candy to the wrong address.

That was when Emma, only allowing herself a quick glance, saw the woman on the marble slab, the one Wendy called Miss Thomas. She saw the blood where her eyes should have been.

He'd done it. He'd really done it.

I'm sorry, Emma thought before turning her attention back to Hastings.

If only they'd been quicker . . . but, she'd had to warn Neal. They were going up against a dark wizard who, if she'd understood Rumplestiltskin right, didn't just mutilate and kill people for fun, he mutilated and sacrificed people to raise power. He had power, even if she wasn't sure how much. He'd walked around lighting lamps in the room instead of summoning fire—if there was one thing Emma knew about wizards and witches it was that they had a real thing about summoning fire. Matches just didn't do it for them. Too weak? Or too new at this spell stuff? Or maybe he was the exception that proved the rule, and fires weren't his thing. Maybe she should have asked him if he'd like to build a snowman. Not that it mattered. You didn't just walk in on a guy like that without some serious attack plans.

And there was that whole, Rumplestiltskin thing.

They'd decided the details quickly—it might have been too late for Miss Thomas, but it had been as quick as they could do it. Emma had a clear picture how Hastings thought of women. He might actually listen if Neal was giving the orders. If she gave them, the odds were a lot better she'd have to shoot him. Much as she liked that scenario (and that liking had gone up as soon as she saw what he'd done to Miss Thomas), a body with a bullet in it could complicate things long term. They still hung people here, after all.

So, Neal gave the orders; and Emma tried to look at Hastings with her magic, hoping she'd see whatever he planned to do in time to stop it. Or duck.

"You are interrupting a delicate operation," Hastings said.

"I thought you were just cutting her for laughs," Emma said. OK, she'd let Neal do most of the talking.

Hastings gave her a disgusted look. "Hardly. And she'll bleed out if you don't let me bandage her."

Emma risked another glance at Miss Thomas. "She'd stopped bleeding," she said. And she shouldn't have. Unless Hastings used magic. Or hot irons. Isn't that what they were supposed to do in this time? Burn wounds closed? Or was she just thinking of that cable show, whatever it was called? Or maybe he'd used whatever else you used in the 19th century to stop bleeding.

"Turn around," Neal ordered. "And get down on the ground. Hands behind your head." The goon obeyed. Hastings didn't. "You too," Neal said.

Hastings still didn't move. He was looking at Neal speculatively. "You're Mr. Swan, aren't you? Lucas said they found Miss Thomas at your house. I take it you know what she is? Are you a student of aetheric forces, as well?"

"You mean magic?" Neal said. He gave Hastings a sardonic smile that had about three centuries of Lost Boys, psychotic Peter Pans, and a mad Dark One behind it. "I know about it. I wouldn't say I'm a student. That's my dad's thing."

"Your father? He's a man of learning, then?"

"Too much learning," Neals said. "Now, get down or, so help me, I'm shooting."

"Really?" Hastings said. "I doubt it."

Emma felt the tingle in the air. "Neal, he's using magic!" she yelled, trying to put up some kind of shield against the spell. But, she wasn't the one it was aimed at. She felt it slip past her and snake towards Neal.

X

Hastings felt a touch of sympathy for Mr. Swan's unknown father. For a moment, he imagined him as a man very much like himself, intelligent, curious, and not letting foolish superstitions stand in the way of increasing humanity's knowledge. Also, like him, he seemed to be a man gifted with a son who, whatever his admirable qualities, was driven more by action and impulse than by calm thought.

His Benjamin had been the same. When he'd discovered what measures his father had taken to preserve his life, he'd deliberately destroyed the apparatus (Hastings wouldn't call it a spell) he'd been using to funnel life energy into Benjamin. He'd done it at the worst possible time, just when Hastings needed to transfer another supply of life energy. Benjamin couldn't survive without those regular "feedings." The apparatus had needed to be constantly maintained. Hastings had tried to recreate it in time, but he'd been too late. It seemed that Mr. Swan's father, wherever he was, had been similarly cursed in foolish, self-destructive offspring.

But, it was the son that concerned him, not the father. Tempting as it was to imagine a potential colleague—someone he could discuss matters with openly, without the guarded terms and supposed speculations he'd used in his scientific correspondence—he wasn't going to allow his work to be ruined by a stupid lout, either.

If he was a stupid lout. Lucas had told him they'd shot Mr. Swan, but they'd also released the sphere. No one in range of it should have remembered what had happened. They would create some explanation for the dead or wounded man, and that would be that. Yet, here was Mr. Swan, unwounded and completely aware of what was going on. He seemed to share Benjamin's disdain for this new science, but he had some understanding of it.

And, he'd come here to fetch back the seer Hastings had taken from him. No, Mr. Swan knew something about using aetheric energies.

If his wound was like Benjamin's, then it wasn't really healed. Forces had been applied and were holding it in place. Remove them, and the matter would take care of itself. Carefully, as if he were trying to keep his hands where the murderous Swans could see them, he put down the bandages. He didn't even have to pick up the bone knife. He just had to let his hand brush against it.

The knife truly was remarkable. It let him reach out. He could feel the aetheric energy around Mr. Swan—and see where it was focused in his chest.

Really, it was just what he did when harvested energy from any of his subjects only easier. He didn't have to try and store this energy or use it. Hastings reached out to it, grabbed hold—and pulled it out.

Mr. Swan turned white and collapsed on the floor. Why shouldn't he? There was a bullet hole in his chest.

X

Alive.

It took more than a small fire to kill his old man. Neal knew that. Hey, even if you killed him, he'd probably find a way back. The man was the king of loopholes.

Except, the kid had believed it. And, when Emma told him the kid was wrong, she described a Rumplestiltskin Neal barely knew. This wasn't the Dark One who killed Ogres and laughed while he did it.

Yeah, he was alive. But.

Neal tried to concentrate on the big, trigger-happy jerk Dr. Psycho had helping him, not on what he saw in the cage. But, he'd looked. He'd seen.

Papa kenneled like an animal—worse than an animal. He wouldn't be able to move more than a few inches.

And his leg.

Papa never liked people to see his leg, not even Bae. As a child, it hadn't bothered him much. He remembered being so little that, when he ran up and hugged Papa, grabbing him around the knees. He remembered feeling the wrong shape of Papa's bad leg and the spot where the bone jutted out. He remembered the few times he'd seen it, despite Papa's best efforts. They'd lived in a one room cottage with a small loft. It wasn't like anyone could keep secrets there. He'd seen Papa's scars and the way his leg had healed from the blow that crushed it, twisted and bent.

The caged man's leg was bare for everyone and anyone to see. Neal saw all the familiar wounds as well as the new one. It was a ragged line, black with crusted, dried blood where the man Emma was trying not to shoot had butchered his father.

No, Bae told himself, not his father. Except it was.

Neal had worshipped is father. He had believed Papa when he held him at night and told him everything would be all right, never doubting that it would be. Others may have seen a crippled coward, but Neal had seen a hero—and Papa had seen that in Neal's eyes. It wasn't till Neal saw his own son looking up at him with the same light in his eyes that he realized what that look meant to a man.

You didn't take a man like that and strip him of every scrap of dignity. You didn't cage and chain him as if he were an animal.

So, Neal got angry, and he told Hastings about his father. He bit back on what he really wanted to say, My old man would have you for lunch. He'd make snail soup out of you.

And Neal felt the magic reach out for him and grab him in the chest.

X

Mrs. Swan really was a monstrosity, Hastings thought as she aimed her gun at him and pulled the trigger. Stopping a bullet would have been beyond his abilities at this point, he thought, but it was no great matter to stop a bullet before it fired. The gunpowder simply didn't ignite. Without that, the bullet wouldn't fire.

Mrs. Swan cursed vilely and launched herself at Hastings. He lifted up the bone knife, ready to defend himself, while muttering under his breath. The words he used had no particular power, and he wasn't using them to shape aetheric energy. His only use of aetheric forces at this point was to provide a focus or link. Mrs. Swan didn't hear what he was saying.

Lucas did.

The man got up and, as Hastings almost backed away from Mrs. Swan in time—she landed a passing blow against his jaw that would have hurt a great deal more if he weren't already moving—Lucas grabbed Mrs. Swan from behind.

"Hold onto her!" Hastings ordered. Lucas had more mind than Stephens and a small, petty liking for the pain of others. But, he had bound Lucas to him in other ways. Once he gave the man the order, it would take more than whatever pain Mrs. Swan could inflict on him to make him let go.

"I meant this to be a more rational conversation," he told Mrs. Swan. "But, you've given me no choice. I have a few questions for you, Mrs. Swan." He lifted up the bone knife, examining her face. "Let's begin."

A small form darted under Hastings' raised arm from behind. He saw it from the corner of his eye right before it grabbed his arm.

Baelfire.

The boy looked like a small demon, his eyes burning with fury. Hastings looked at him in bewilderment, wondering what could have caused this change. He didn't even fight as the boy pulled Hastings' hand down, away from Mrs. Swan. Then, as if he were a wild animal instead of a human being, Baelfire seized his hand in his teeth and bit down as hard as he was able. Hastings cried out, in surprise as much as pain. His grip on the bone knife weakened, and Baelfire knocked it out of his hand before kicking it across the room.

Hastings pulled his hand free and struck Baelfire across the face. "You stupid boy! What are you doing?" he demanded. He wanted the bone knife back, but there were other tools close by the operating table he could reach out and grab. Or so he thought. Then, the tray holding them tipped over.

Poltergeist effects. It wasn't Baelfire. The boy was pulling himself off the floor, but he was too dazed for a focused attack like that. Hastings looked at Mrs. Swan. "You. You're an aetheric sensitive." Was she a catalyst? Or dared he hope that what she had done was from forces she had generated? He considered endless possibilities. "Lucas, get her in a cell. As soon as I've taken care of Miss Thomas, I'll need to start running experiments on her."

There was a high-pitched, mad sound, not unusual in the asylum. Hastings had heard such things before, though his lab was usually far enough away from the inmates for him to be undisturbed.

But, this sound wasn't coming from the hallway. This sound was coming from behind him.

It came again, a mad giggle. "Oh, no, dearie, leave the little lady alone. I have some things I need to say first.

There was a—a creature standing behind Hastings. Shaped like a man, covered in glittering, green-gold scales, it was completely naked. Smiling, it showed its brown stained fangs as it regarded him with lizard eyes. It lifted a clawed hand, holding a dagger. The creature tilted the blade so Hastings could read the name written on it.

Rumplestiltskin.

The creature lashed out with its other hand, fast as thought, closing around Hastings' throat in a viselike grip. Hastings realized how small the creature was. Hastings was a tall, strong man. The creature might be only half his weight. But, its grip was like steel. Hastings pulled at the creature's arm with both his hands to no effect.

The creature lifted its knife close up to Hastings' eyes. "I think it's time you and I had a little chat about magic, dearie. Let's start with lesson one. If you survive, we'll move on to lesson two." He giggled again.

"Weaver?"

"Oh, very good, dearie. Keep up the good work and you may even live to lesson three." The humor vanished from his face. The creature looked at him with cold fury. "Lesson one: All magic comes with a price—and I think it's time you started paying it."