Chapter 6: Sine Qua Non

Accelerating down Main Street, still shaking, still hung over, and still hideously displeased that her morning had started this disruptively for the second day in a row, Emma couldn't have felt more conspicuous if she'd been behind the wheel of a clown car with sirens and a big red nose. Since the cruiser was still at the station, having been abandoned there after she ran out, panicking all the way into that horribly ill-advised bender at Granny's that had only deepened her misfortunes, after being knocked out and waking up and seeing of all people him – anyway, after all that, she had to drive the Bug. She had to think about this in stages. Get to the station, pick up the police car and the handcuffs and the gun and all the other accessories that would make it look like she knew what she was doing. Then get back, arrest the schlub, toss him in jail and hope he stayed there, and then –

She let out a groan. No matter how many ways she went about it, her next move always ended up at the same horrible place: trusting Captain Hook. Who was only the first person in her life – well, the first or second – least deserving of it. At least he – she still couldn't think his name – hadn't been so brazen as to tell her he was her only chance of getting out of this. Sure, he'd been brazen enough to walk right into the sheriff's office and tell her to forgive him – plead her to forgive him – but at least he hadn't brought Cora here. Unless he had, unless this was all some sort of sick joke plot and they were all in on it and the world was in on it against her –

Emma was so caught up in her increasing mania that she almost drove right by the sheriff's office. Cursing, she stomped on the brake and hauled the Bug into the parking spot, then got out, slammed the door rather more vehemently than necessary, and hurried up to unlock the station. It was going to feel almost as disorienting as falling through the portal, to go back in there now. That was where she'd been when her life turned upside down, yesterday.

I have to get used to it at some point, don't I? She twisted the key, stepped in –

– and stared.

The place was a mess. It had been thoroughly, methodically ransacked from top to bottom, chairs overturned, file cabinets gaping, spilling papers everywhere, the cell door gaping open; it reminded her of when she'd been forced to arrest Mary Margaret for Kathryn's supposed murder, discovered that she'd escaped, and then later found her tied up in Jefferson's mansion. Crazy son of a bitch. It seemed applicable to everyone in this situation. Oh God.

The odds weren't good that whoever was responsible had stuck around for pleasant conversation, but Emma still wasn't about to step in there sight unseen. She still didn't have the gun – she had been coming back here to retrieve it – and if she had to fight someone right here, right now. . .

"How much worse could this get?" she muttered. "Really." Then, taking a deep breath, yelled, "OKAY! Come out with your hands where I can see them!"

Nobody answered. Of course. She was just wasting time. So she waded into the middle of the destruction, head spinning from side to side as if on a pivot. Geezus, what a mess. She snatched the desk phone off the floor and held it to her ear, but heard nothing. Her lines must have been cut – were they expecting someone to be here? Did they want to stop anyone from calling the sheriff while an emergency was happening elsewhere? Questions and desperation and the resurge of panic whirled in her gut. It wasn't just the stuff that was thrown everywhere, although that was considerable. There were also deep grooves in the walls that almost looked as if they had been made by a. . .

. . . hook.

Apparently, this could get worse. Emma rocked back on her heels. There was no way to tell for sure, it wasn't as if weapons and sharp objects and suchlike were in short supply around here these days. But there was a peculiar, distinctive shape to the slashmarks, carving shallow then curving deep, and if she had been in any doubt, that was when her eyes landed on the hook graffitied on the wall. Smart as a signature. In something that looked an awful lot like blood.

Emma stared at it for a very long moment. Then she jumped up, whirled around, and sprinted across the room to the gun safe. She knelt in front of it, hands shaking as she tried to work the combination – and then she realized that the lock had already been picked. When she threw the door open, she already knew what she was going to see. It was empty.

He lied to me. She couldn't get herself together long enough to have a coherent reaction, only betrayal. Was this how he'd been amusing himself while he waited for her to wake up? How did she know that he hadn't planned that oh-so-convenient appearance to save her ass? He must have. It was all too neat. Then he'd come here to brag about his cleverness, revealing the true depth of the trap he'd set. And if so, that meant –

"Hello, dear."

Emma remained motionless just a split second longer, in a final, forlorn hope of waking up. Then she turned around to see the very last person that she wanted to see, sidling across the floor, lips turned up in what was ostensibly a welcoming smile but which couldn't have looked more threatening on a crocodile. The witch looked almost coy, pleased with herself, as she held up the gleaming hook, its point still wet and red. "Killian sent you here, did he?"

"He – you – " Emma's mouth flapped open and shut, uselessly. "Whose blood is that, you evil bitch?"

"Language, dear," the witch said pleasantly. "But as it is, nobody of outstanding importance to you. Do you think I'd ever hurt my grandson? Family's the most important thing to me, as it is to you." She wiped the hook off on her skirt, admired it, then concealed it beneath her cloak. "Just a favor from the sweet young woman who was in such a hurry to get to work at the library this morning."

Emma's stomach clenched. She hadn't had a chance to get to know the new librarian very well, but she'd taken Henry there a few days ago after school, to check out some new books; she thought it was time for him to expand his horizons. The librarian had been a sweet young woman with luxuriant brown curls, named Bella or Belle – yes, Belle. Emma felt even sicker as she recalled the other detail. While she and Henry were absorbed in the children's section, and Henry was eagerly looking for books about rockets, race cars, explosions, and superheroes – she didn't know if it was better or worse than fairy tales – she'd seen, of all people, Gold come through the front door. And he didn't even appear to be there to ruin someone's life. In fact, the way he'd looked at Belle. . . there was no other way to describe it but smitten. At the time, Emma had found it so unbelievable that Gold could actually care for someone that she'd chalked it up to one or another of the pawnbroker's information-gathering ploys. But if not. . .

"Oh God," she said. "What did you do with her?"

Cora smiled demurely. "Fear not, my dear. She's perfectly all right, except for that scratch. If you want to retrieve her, you should come to join me on the ship."

"What ship?"

"Did I forget to mention it?" The witch feigned surprise. "Our dear captain's ship, of course. What is that name he gave it – the Jolly Roger? I was hoping for something a bit more imaginative, but pirates will be pirates. You see, he believed that I owed him a favor for him bringing me here. I thought it over and agreed that he was correct. So I arranged for him to remove you safely out of the way, as it would have been inconvenient for anyone to call the sheriff while I was doing what had to be done. Belle's aboard the ship, only slightly the worse for wear, and I imagine that quite soon, Gold will realize she is missing."

"And find her – " Oh Jesus tap-dancing Christ on toast, this was bad. Emma was recalling in a rush everything that Gold and Regina had told her during their little tête-à-tête in this very office, right after the fire. That Gold and Hook had an extremely personal enmity due to the latter stealing the former's wife. Emma doubted that was the way it had actually transpired, as it was her opinion that women could make their own choices as they damn well pleased about who they wanted to sleep with and when, but it seemed undeniable that Hook had, in fact, removed an intimate ladyfriend from Rumplestiltskin and it had ended on very bad terms. If Gold put two and two together, set out to hunt for Belle, and realized that to all intents and purposes, he had done it again –

"Oh God, you horrible bitch – "

By the time Emma lunged at her, Cora had already vanished in a whirl of purple smoke, leaving nothing but a whiff of brimstone behind.

(8888888)

"Far be it from me to impugn your superior and unparalleled timekeeping skills, Cap'n," said the prisoner. "But doesn't it seem that the Swan girl's been gone a bit long?"

"Congratulations, Mr. Smee." Hook turned from where he'd been pacing along the kitchen, curiously examining the multitude of torture implements that people in this world liked to have on hand for cooking. He'd never been much for gourmet, himself – a haunch of meat turned over a tavern fire, a tankard of moderately drinkable ale, and he was a happy man. But that was beside the point. "You've had a thought. How does it feel?"

Smee glowered. "You've had me tied to this ruddy chair for over three hours, that's how it feels. And it seems that she should have been back by now, if she was coming. Unless she's double-crossed you – which you would deserve, by the by – and gone to fetch someone else."

"I would, would I?" Hook said reflectively. "Much as it pains me very heart and soul to admit, Mr. Smee, you are correct."

"I want that in writing, Cap'n."

"Which you can't read anyway?" Killian twitched his shoulders in the stupid bloody jacket he was still wearing. Gods above and hell below, but he missed his usual clothing, and now that Cora had betrayed their presence to the whole sodding town, he was losing any desire to continue to refrain from wearing it. And my hook. I want my hook. Walking around one-handed like this, he was a sitting duck. Not to mention what else the witch must be up to with it.

"In which case," Smee persisted, choosing to ignore Killian's last comment, "you'd be better off freeing me, and we'll go to investigate together. You'll want another man at your side."

"Which would, no doubt, end with a sword in my back. My deepest apologies, William, but as I've still only been reunited with you for a day, and I haven't forgotten the unfortunate incident with the bounty hunters in Tortuga, I'm going on by myself." Killian opened the door, and bowed himself through it. "Sit tight."

"Sit tight?" Smee yelled after him. "Sit tight? Oh, very funny! You're a real jokester, Captain! Bloody jokester! You think the Tortuga bit was bad, I'll never get another – "

The sound of his first mate's voluble ire cut off behind Killian as he reached the bottom of the stairs, slammed the front door open, and pelted into the street. That old seadog's sense on the back of his neck was tingling. The way he'd always known if the customs officers were lying just offshore, if a particularly bad storm was coming up, or if an enemy was only playing dead. And much as he was loathe to admit it, Smee was indeed right. Emma had been gone too long.

Head down, Killian started to trot. The good thing about this pustulant arsehole of a town being as small as it was, it didn't take him long to make it from Emma's apartment back to Granny's bed and breakfast, lope up the porch, open the front door, and tiptoe with exaggerated caution up the stairs. There was no sound from behind Cassady's door, so he must still be the guest of honor at his pity party. That was just fine with Killian. He wasn't currently in a mood to brook interference.

He removed his key from his pocket, unlocked the room door, and stepped inside. It was small, decorated with quilts, teddy bears, antiques, assorted vintage knickknacks that he found hideously ugly and hence not worth stealing. . . and his clothes.

Killian extracted himself in double-quick time from the jeans, sneakers, and jacket. He was not sorry to see the back of any of them, particularly the sneakers, which had been bloody hell to tie with one hand; he was not accustomed to feel like an imbecile while putting on his shoes. Pulling his things from his bag, he dove into them with gusto – the breeches, the red vest, the blouson shirt, the boots, and last but not least, his double-breasted leather coat with its collar, and his sword buckled on its broad belt around his waist. He was himself again at last, for the first time since setting foot in this place.

Killian leaned into the mirror, inspecting the dashing quality of his appearance, the devastating charm of his smile, the darkness of his eyeliner, and the general restoration of his debonair swashbuckling charisma. It was to his satisfaction, and he spun about. Now let anyone get in his way if they wanted, just let –

"Going somewhere?"

Someone had most expeditiously taken him up on that offer, and most assuredly gotten in his way. The least welcome of all potential get-in-the-wayers, in fact. A red-eyed Neal Cassady stood in the doorway, staring at him, in a manner which Killian would be hard-pressed to classify as friendly. It was a familiar look; he'd seen it on the various occasions on which his exit from a fetching female's boudoir had not been entirely as discreet as he wished, and he'd had to fight his way past their offended menfolk. It was so familiar, in fact, that his hand fell automatically to his sword. Good bloody thing I have it back. Although it had to be admitted, it was his own vanity what had got him into this minor disadvantage. If he hadn't been so dead-set on going back to fetch his clothes, this unfortunate run-in could have been avoided. But no matter.

"Cassady!" he said jovially. "How wonderful to see you restored to yourself. I'll be sure to talk with you later. Good day." He attempted to shove past him.

Neal Cassady was having none of that. "Like hell you will. What's with the outfit – you some kind of leather daddy? Who are you, really? What have you been doing to me all this time? I don't buy that you have no idea who Emma is. I can't believe I was dumb enough to fall for that in the first place." He took a step forward. "I want some answers, man. Now!"

"Alas." Killian showed his teeth. "The answers don't want you. Nobody does, in fact. Least of all Emma, and if you abandoned her so that you couldn't get her back when groveling on your knees, that's your fault. Not mine, not hers. Now get out of my way."

"I don't think so." Cassady crossed his arms. "Not that it's any of your fuckin' business, but as I told you, I never wanted to leave Emma. I was forced to. So why don't you just – "

"I don't think so." Killian's fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. "You see, time is of the essence right now, and you are annoying me severely. I've no wish to kill you just at the moment, although I'm certainly not opposed to you wallowing in your misery, but if you care for her as much as you say, you'll let me by."

"I heard that one from the August guy. I'm tired of having to tell Emma I love her by leaving her. So you in your funny clothes and your fairy – "

That was all Killian cared to hear. He reached down and drew his sword with a sharp, slithering hiss, enjoying the shocked expression on his opponent's face as it slashed the air. "Oh, good. You know what this is. Well, you can choose which end you'd like to continue your diatribe to, and I have to tell you, I do not care for your face at all. Let me provide a point of clarity. Two ends. Choose which one. Sharp?" He laid the tip against Cassady's throat. "Or not? Hey?"

Neal Cassady was a number of things, an idiot chief among them. But even to his idiocy, it seemed, there were limits. He got out of the way.

(8888888)

Outside, Killian broke into a run. It was still early enough that most of Storybrooke was asleep, and if they weren't, they could be damned. Emma had said she was going to the sheriff's office, unless she'd lied (had she lied? That betrayed both a commendable coolness under pressure and a considerable unscrupulous ingenuity, both of which dangerously intrigued him) so that was the direction that he took. Who knew how much time he'd wasted in that little confrontation with Cassady. Belching bloody gremlin. All he's good for is to tell me she has a weakness for thieves.

Killian kept up the pace all the way to the station, which he had passed numerous times in the several days he'd been in this world. Not disproportionately, of course. Heaven forfend. But Emma being as important as she was, it made sense that he pay extra attention to where she occupied herself. That was her yellow machine – car, it was supposedly called – parked outside, and yet nothing seemed to be moving inside. Which meant. . .

Killian barely restrained himself from shouting for her. It was good and bloody loud in his head, though. SWAN!

He barreled through the door – and stopped short.

He knew the signature touch, he knew from the state of the place, even before he saw the actual mark on the wall. A hook? In blood? How terribly vulgar. It made him look like some sort of raving madman, a mindless killer, which despite his manifold and one other flaws he was not, thank you kindly. But as his eyes flicked around the ransacked sheriff's office, his conclusions were inescapable. Piss and hellfire. Cora had actually taken his advice.

Emma Swan was nowhere in sight.

He took a few steps backwards, boots crunching on broken glass. If he was the witch, and he was totally bloody insane, and he'd destroyed the place and got the princess captive, what would he do next? It was all about cleverness for Cora, cleverness and ruthlessness and arrogant confidence and bloodless competence and casual throat-cutting. A set of attributes which more or less described him (though he didn't mind some blood) so he'd always prided himself on more or less being able to keep up with her thoughts. Where would she have gone? Where would she have taken her?

Killian's eyes bolted open as the answer hit him.

"That bitch," he said aloud. "Filched my hook, then my lass, then my ship?" He almost didn't realize what he'd said, and when he did, reminded himself that Emma was his lass only for the purposes of the current exercise, i.e. getting hold of her for revenge upon his crocodile. That was the seven-letter word starting with r and ending with e that he wanted; he hadn't come to Storybrooke for any other purpose. Revenge. Not romance.

That didn't mean he was about to let Cora get away with what she'd just done. The writing was quite literally on the wall. This was about him too. His own survival, and Killian Jones was most vested in his own survival. Had been for three hundred years. And he hadn't made it for so long by tolerating fools, forgetting them, or forgiving them. Or by passing up an advantage, alliance, or cheerful backstabbing. Or by valuing his loyalties very highly.

He was going out there, aye.

But not alone.

(8888888)

It had been a long, hard night for David and Mary Margaret. Ruby had called them in a panic at midnight, telling them that Emma had vanished from outside the diner, and begging them to kill her immediately for her negligence in looking after their daughter. David had jumped out of bed, belted on his sword, and gone straight downtown in search of Emma, but found no trace. All he could get out of Ruby was that she had arrived in a total conniption around midafternoon, demanded numerous drinks, and refused to tell her what was so wrong. This was a pattern that had kept up well into the evening, at which point Emma had refused her repeated offers of assistance, said various regrettable things to her (Ruby didn't think she'd meant them, really) and done a bunk.

Meanwhile, Mary Margaret had to think fast to come up with some lie to tell Henry, who had been awakened by the commotion and was naturally concerned by it. She'd barely gotten him back to bed by the time David returned at dawn, looking haggard and horrified, to report that he didn't know where their daughter was. He was going to have a cup of coffee, make some phone calls, and then go over to her apartment in search of clues.

They were sitting together in the kitchen, David shoving breakfast down the hatch as fast as he could, when the knock came on their front door. Mary Margaret tensed. They weren't expecting anybody, and her imagination had already supplied her with the kidnapper coming by to deliver a ransom note – or worse, some gruesome body part of Emma. She clutched at David's arm as he knocked his chair over in his haste to stand up. "Please! Be careful!"

"I'm being extremely careful." He disappeared down the hallway.

Mary Margaret cast a despairing look at the top of the stairs. Henry would be awake any moment, and then what were they going to tell him? They couldn't keep this secret if Emma didn't return in the next few hours. And so. . .

It was worrisomely quiet. She got to her feet, stepped out, and opened her mouth to call for her husband –

– Just in time to hear him roar, "YOU!" Just in time to see the man at their door stagger backwards. Just in time to think that wicked right hooks must run in the family –

– And then, speaking of hooks, have a moment of horrible recognition.

"You," Snow said, numbly at first. Then viciously, as the pirate captain was still rubbing his bruised cheek and looking chagrined. "You bastard, what are you doing here?"

"Helping you catch your witch," he said through gritted teeth, "and learning something of from whence your lovely daughter packs her punch. You'll want to trust me on this. Cora has Emma, or she will very shortly. There is no time to waste. We must head for my ship at once."