Chapter 16
Killian and Wendy left the very next morning, on the first red-eye out of Logan International. Killian was functioning at the barest minimum of sleep, images of last night's debacle still flashing gruesomely through his head, and he fully expected to be apprehended at customs control and pulled off for a friendly chat with the U.S. Border Patrol. Mercifully, however, such a sticky situation was avoided, although he did notice that they eyed up his Republic of Ireland passport quite a bit more than they did Wendy's UK one. She'd rustled up a full set of papers for him, all the oddments and scraps you had to have in this world to prove that you were who you said, identifying him as one Killian James Jones from Drogheda, County Louth. He didn't look IRA, he hoped, though if they had the faintest clue what he'd really been up to. . .
They didn't. They stamped the passport and told him that they hoped he'd enjoyed his visit to America and would return soon. They handed him back his boarding documents and waved him on. Apparently it was too bloody early for any such bullshite.
Killian and Wendy cooled their heels in the almost deserted waiting area until boarding for their flight was called. The one good thing about all this mess was that Wendy Moira Angela Darling did not, in any world, do such a plebeian thing as fly economy, and they were allowed to get on the plane first, taking their place in the squashy black leather first-class seats. Killian ruffled desultorily through the sky-shopping magazine – people in this world had a confounded passion for acquiring all the useless tat imaginable – and then shut it again. His heart was starting to pound, and they'd not even pushed back from the gate. He'd gotten used to almost everything here, but trusting his life to a pressurized steel shell hurtling at hundreds of miles an hour through the heavens, thousands and thousands of feet from the ground, was not one of them.
Wendy, sensing his distress, tried to put a hand on his elbow, but Killian jerked out from under her touch. He already regretted his decision. Thinking of how he was deliberately turning away from Gold was making his blood boil, doing nothing for his current heightened state of nerves, and he briefly thought he was about to be sick. But as such an action would utterly put paid to whatever slender scrap of dignity he had left, he managed, by sheer dint of will, to keep it down.
They pulled back, rolling down the taxiway, and Killian's knuckles clenched white as the big jet's engines rumbled beneath them. The usual interminable period of stopping and starting followed. Then they stoked up a good head of speed, faster and faster and faster, and launched into the dawn sky with a roar, the glittering checkerboard of Boston falling away below.
Killian reflexively crossed himself, astounded that he didn't burst into flames on the spot, and leaned back against the seat, hoping to sleep a little. He put on the headphones and shut the window shade, but rest eluded him. Every time he closed his eyes, he could hear Belle telling him that he was a teacher, not a killer, and see Emma's flaxen hair swinging loose from her hood, as bloody Ghost Rider swerved up from fucking nowhere to rescue her. Rescue her from me. He was a filthy rotten pirate, he'd done things he wasn't proud of to men and women alike, but the one thing he had never done, even as Hook, was to force himself sexually on an unwilling woman. He'd flirt and seduce and threaten, use his pretty face to buy him what he wanted, but he would never flat-out rape her. And while the context had been somewhat different, he'd thrown his sword at Emma. . . he hadn't known it was her, but it could have been any woman. . . that meant he was even worse than who he'd been at the worst time of his long life. . .
Troubled and tormented, Killian dozed fitfully across the Atlantic. It was a seven-hour flight, but what with the time change, it would be six PM when they landed in London – if so, if it was coming, the shadow might turn up only a few hours later. He felt eminently unready for the task, as if he was about to burst at the seams, and when the flight attendant came by to distribute arrival forms, he snarled at her so badly that she fled almost in tears. Wendy gave him a look fit to strip the skin from his bones, and Killian sank back in his seat, rubbing his unshaven stubble and cursing himself. The last thing you need is to get taken off the plane at Heathrow instead for being a disruptive passenger, you bloody idiot.
London began to appear below, out of the English fog. This late in the year, it was already well dark at six; by December, it would be dark at four-thirty. Despite himself, some sweet nostalgia pulled at Killian to see it again, inviting him to come home, to rest. Not that it would be so simple. For obvious reasons, Wendy had always been careful about socializing him with her family; none of them had any idea of his real identity, and most had never even met him. Jane and her daughters only knew him peripherally as one of Grandma Wendy's countless eccentric friends, which was why Killian himself hadn't recognized the junior Wendy, Emma's roommate, when he ran into her outside the dormitory. It was Wendy's elder sister Moira who was apparently in the current predicament, had a young son whom the shadow wanted, and if so. . .
They landed without incident, deplaned, and went to collect their baggage. Killian switched his phone back on, expecting to be inundated with a flood of accusatory messages, but there was still nothing. Apparently Tamara didn't yet know he'd scarpered out of the country, or else didn't care and had cooked up some other diabolical auxiliary plan. He wondered if it involved letting Belle out of the trailer; it was a bloody long time to be shut in there. Not that I give a steaming shit, he reminded himself. But what if. . . what if it did involve going after Emma again? What if this time, without him to throw a monkey wrench in matters, it didn't fail?
Killian stopped dead in the middle of the bustling Heathrow arrivals terminal, causing an overworked porter wrangling two luggage carts to inform him in no uncertain Cockney terms to get his arse moving again. He was overcome by the sudden certainty that he was in the wrong place, that he should turn around and get back on the plane right now, fly back to Boston and not stop until he found where the mysterious man on the motorcycle had taken her. He didn't even know why he felt so bloody protective. Maybe it was in atonement for leaving her behind in the hospital. For nearly getting her killed by forgetting to take the poisoned turnover. For destroying her entire life anyway, by whatever his meddling had wrought with the curse.
Just then, Wendy tugged on his overcoat, jolting him back to reality. "Killian. Come."
He resented being summoned like a dog, but for once, he swallowed his pride and obeyed. They navigated through the chaos out to the passenger pick-up, and he was just wondering if she was actually going to condescend to take a coach, when a sleek black car pulled up at the curb, and a chauffeur's impeccably uniformed head popped out. "Ma'am?"
Wendy nodded regally, and the man jumped out and loaded up their bags before holding the door for them. Killian slid into the expansive backseat, reflecting wryly that of course Wendy had a driver. She too came from a different way of doing things, an older and more formal way; you still had to get smartened up for Sunday dinner at the Darling mansion, and heaven help you if you put your feet on the furniture or checked your mobile while she was talking to you. He shifted nervously, already dreading this. He couldn't stop looking back at Heathrow as they left.
It was still the peak of London rush hour, and the driver spent as much time on the horn as he did on the brakes. At last, however, they turned into the exclusive enclave of Kensington Gardens, well-kept and fabulously expensive old row houses lining the treed streets, and pulled up before the stateliest and most expensive one at the end, windows glowing in the cold autumn night. The driver offloaded them and their possessions, then made a discreet exit.
Seeing nothing for it, Killian offered Wendy his arm, and they climbed the front steps and rang the bell. This seemed to him a queer custom to observe at one's own home, but then, he did not have a butler to answer the door, solicitously greet them, take their coats, and offer them a hot toddy to drink, then show them down the hall to the sitting room at the rear. An older woman, a younger woman, and a boy of perhaps five were waiting. Jane, Moira, and Jack.
"Mother!" Jane sprang to her feet and hugged Wendy tightly. "Thank God you're back, are you sure the traveling wasn't too much for you? If you'd told me who, I would have gone for you, you didn't have to – "
"Stop fretting, dear." Wendy gently but firmly disentangled herself from her daughter's embrace. "I did have to be the one to go, in fact, and I'm glad I did. Moira, love, get some sleep. We've someone else to manage it now."
The younger woman, eyes exhausted and bloodshot, nodded gratefully. But she still shot a curious look at Killian, skulking behind the davenport. "That's your. . . friend, Grandmama?"
"Indeed." Wendy beckoned to him. In an undertone, she said, "Get your sword."
Rest for the weary for Moira, but none for me. Still, Killian nodded, then went to fetch it from his suitcase. Finding that in there would certainly have done nothing to convince the authorities of his status as a sane, well-adjusted individual, especially if they'd drawn the blade and discovered that it was lethally sharp, but it was undisturbed. He buckled it around his waist and prepared to head up to the nursery, when he felt another tug on his sleeve. "Are you a pirate?"
He glanced down with a start and beheld young Jack, Wendy's great-grandson, the very one the shadow was supposedly after. "What makes you ask, lad?"
"You look like one." Jack trotted to keep up as Killian strode for the stairs. "And Grandma Wendy is the Wendy, you know. The real one. Mama says it was just a story that Mr. Barrie made up for her, but I don't think so."
Smart boy. Killian raised an eyebrow and then, as Jack made to follow him, threw out an arm. "No. Your mother wouldn't want you coming up here with me."
Jack gave him a stubborn look. "I have to. The shadow won't come if it thinks I'm not here. And it has to come, so you can kill it."
Something about the lad's simple, straightforward faith in him unexpectedly touched Killian's blackened heart. He paused, then nodded, leading the way up to the dark third floor, following the faint cold breeze through the creaking Victorian corridors. Down to the end, to the Darling nursery door, and inside to the room itself at last.
The first thing he saw was the great picture window, and the ship – the pirate ship – worked in stained glass in the arch. He'd been utterly unprepared to see it, and it hit him so hard that he stumbled to a halt, assailed with grief for his lost Roger. The strangler's fingers around his heart were not loosened by the following realization that Bae had lived here, once upon a time and long ago. Had thought this was his home, not the one Killian had tried to offer him, begged to offer him. Everything about this place was ghosts, and how bloody strange it was that he should finally be standing here, so old and yet still so young. That it should be him they were looking to, the hero to make the darkness end, the second star to the right once more shine out among the night sky.
Jack tugged at his hand. "Are you all right, Mr. Pirate?"
Despite himself, Killian choked on a laugh. "My name's Killian, lad."
"That's a funny name."
"It's Irish."
"Oh." Jack considered. "Grandpa Seamus is Irish."
"So he is," Killian allowed. Jane's husband, the professor who'd been responsible for getting him into Trinity, and thus one of the few members of the Darling family he'd met face to face. "Well, lad, what time does this shadow of yours tend to show up?"
"Late." Jack eyed the window. "We'll have to wait. Can you tell me a story?"
"I. . . I'm not much of a storytelling sort."
"I think you are. Come on." Jack scrambled up on the bed nearest the window, plainly expecting Killian to join him, and after a moment of hesitation, he did. The boy curled up next to him, yawned, and put his small head on the pirate's shoulder, something that almost stopped Killian's heart. Was this what it would have been like, if Bae had stayed? Would he still have been young enough to want bedtime stories? Would he ever have trusted me enough to draw so near?
A sweet, painful spasm took hold of Killian, so hard that he had to surreptitiously knuckle tears out of his eyes. Then he settled back with a sigh, stretching his long legs, and made sure that his sword was still readily to hand. Seeing that it was, before he had time to talk himself out of it, he launched into a story about Captain Hook, Lost Boys, fairies, and mermaids.
Jack listened raptly, constantly interrupting to ask questions, and Killian finally admonished him to shut up and listen. He went on, enjoying himself more and more, altering the darker details to comic ones, casting Hook as the hero of the tale until when he was ambushed and captured, Jack sat with huge eyes and hands over his mouth until the fairies freed him. The deep, low, lilting sound of Killian's voice filled the room, lulling them both, until he too began to drift off with Jack's head nestled into his chest. It was a tearingly painful and tender moment, one he had never expected, and it was making him start to crack, eating away at his grim resolve like the tide scouring a sandbank. Until he had slipped into that place between waking and sleeping, the place where dreams lived, where he would always love. . .
It was then, as if from far away, he heard the window start to rattle.
Killian's eyes jerked open. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, but he knew it was very late, and Jack was slumbering peacefully against him. He gently pushed the boy off and sat up, tense and alert. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, hand closing around the hilt of his sword. He wasn't entirely sure that he hadn't imagined that first rattle, but –
No. He hadn't. There it was again. And there was something at the window. Something dark and boy-shaped, with burning white eyes.
Killian drew his sword, with a soft ringing rasp, as the latch on the window rattled again. All the lights were out, so he couldn't be sure, but he had a strange impression that the shadow was. . . different. Shaped to a different body, in a different way than before. As if someone else, someone new, was controlling it. Perhaps the Lost Boys. . . or perhaps not. Is there a new Pan?
That was a bloody horrifying thought. For as long as Killian had lived in Neverland, there had been no real Pan. Only the shadow, and that was bad enough. But if the shadow had finally found the boy it was looking for, why in hell was it back here, seemingly desirous of kidnapping Jack and hauling him off as it had done to countless lads over the years? Out of simple malice, out of some old memory that it had come to this window before, or. . . or bloody what? Even Killian's celebrated ingenuity was failing him. Yet it hit him then, in that moment, that something was very, very wrong.
The latch rattled one more time. The window gave. And the shadow issued through in a dark, lithe stream. Not toward Jack, sleeping unguarded on the bed and thus seemingly ripe for easy picking – but straight at Killian.
He barely got his sword up in time, slashing at it. The shadow veered away, startled, but quickly recollected itself and lunged back, and Killian felt his ears pop as if he'd just dropped a hundred stories in an elevator, a foul cold miasma engulfing him and making him gag as he cut and hacked, ribboning his blade through the trailing smoky limbs. Somehow, horribly, he was starting to understand. It was never after Jack at all. It set the trap, and Wendy and the rest walked right into it. It is after. . . me.
How or why, he had no idea, and nor did he have time to wonder. He ducked and rolled, battling it back with all his strength, as he caught a glimpse of Jack sitting bolt upright and staring with eyes the size of golf balls. But any distraction could well prove fatal, and he gritted his teeth and braced with both hands, feeling a shadowy supernal blade shriek against his own. He rolled to one side as it lacerated the carpet to the left of his head, then the other way as it lacerated the right. Fire. Fell creatures like this, wraith or shadow, could never stand the living kiss of flame.
Unfortunately, there was no fire, and no immediately obvious way of acquiring any. Killian fought to his feet, the shadow blade and the steel flashing out, entangling, and drawing back, as he and the monster circled each other, locked in the more-than-mortal combat. "Jack," he called. "Jack, get me some matches. Candles. A torch. Anything."
The lad stared. "I – I – "
"Now!" Killian roared, as the shadow lunged at him, and he could feel the coldness as the blade scraped down his own, inches from his heart. He managed to hold it away long enough for Jack to scamper to the nursery door, and could only pray desperately that the uproar woke the rest of the house in time. It had been too long since he'd used a sword in deadly earnest, fought for his life this fiercely – the last time, in fact, might well have been in that ill-fated duel against the crocodile – and he honestly did not know if he could fend the bloody shadow off for much longer. Nor did he intend to make an end like this. Not here. Not yet.
A few more fractured, desperate moments blurred past, when all Killian was aware of was the strain in his arms and the rasping of his breath in his ears, as he and the shadow clashed like – well, like Hook and Pan, mortal enemies, it's Hook or me this time. Then he heard banging at the door, saw shapes looming up, saw Jane with some sort of lighter in hand – then a gust of flame, the shadow recoiling back against the ceiling, and then shooting out of the window hard enough to rattle all the glass in the pane like an earthquake. Killian collapsed back on the floor, gasping.
Wendy knelt at his side. "Are you all right?"
"Did I kill it?" Jane demanded.
Killian pushed himself up on an elbow. "No," he managed. "Only made it angry."
Wendy and her daughter exchanged worried looks. They were about to say something else, but he interrupted. "Don't worry. I don't think it'll be coming back here. It wasn't your lad it was after."
That furtherly befuddled them, but he ignored them. His head was reeling. Bloody hell, what was he going to do? The shadow had been after him. Now that he'd exposed himself to it, now that it knew he was alive, where to find him. . . he had a sinking feeling that he'd just played directly into its hands (such as they were). Still worse, it made him realize that he couldn't go back and carry out whatever idiotic notion he might have cherished about finding Emma and trying to keep her safe – from Tamara, from the man on the motorcycle, or whoever else might be after her. How on bloody earth was he supposed to protect her, if he had this. . . this thing after him? As if he wasn't enough of a danger on his own, now he'd bring a murderous shadow too.
Killian sat motionless, wrestling with his conscience. He reminded himself that he'd been planning to leave Boston for good in the first place, and this might be an extremely twisted blessing in disguise. If he now had a very compelling reason to stay away, if he couldn't return without bringing death with him, he could possibly refrain from wreaking any more havoc and misery on her life. Problem bloody solved. At least on that front.
But how could he give up on his revenge? Give up on the promise of seeing Gold dead at his feet? After so long, after so much?
The crocodile will keep, Killian reminded himself. After a few centuries, he wasn't in danger of abruptly keeling over one day, and if worse came to worse, he could stand to wait two more years – what was that now? Nothing, really. Just long enough for Emma to graduate and move away, so she'd no longer be in the crossfire when he went after Storybrooke. It was possible she didn't even remember the place, but better to be sure.
Look at you, being so bloody sentimental. How was it that after so long being determinedly alone, of imperviously repelling any woman who even tried to get close to him, he was suddenly rendered such a fool, such a concerned and conscientious soul? Deciding to delay his revenge long enough to keep her safe, to not return to Boston in case the shadow hurt her? No matter how many times he told himself that he felt nothing for the young woman, he just as swiftly proved himself a liar. He didn't know what it was, but something about Emma Nolan had captivated him, dangerously allured him. It was like coming up for air after three hundred years of a dive so deep that he had forgotten even the memory of light. She meant something, she was worth saving, and as rotten a bastard as he was, at least he knew that. That somehow, if he destroyed her as he destroyed everything else he touched, he'd never be able to forgive himself. And what are you talking about, if? You already fucking have.
Aye, she might be safe for good if he left. But who then would defend her from Tamara?
Emma put the bitch on her back the last time they faced off, Killian reasoned. Could be she doesn't need my help, or anyone's. Could be she's plenty strong enough on her own.
Wendy and Jane were still staring at him. Slowly, badly, he got to his feet, feeling like a poorly strung puppet. He had no idea what came next, he realized. Where he'd go or what he'd do. But he couldn't stay here either, and put them in danger as well. It might take the shadow quite a while to track him, if he got out of here as fast as possible, and that would buy him some time to come up with a proper plan. Figure out who was controlling it, and how to kill it. It was the least he could do. And then, when Emma was safely out of the way and the time was ripe, he could go back and do the last thing in his miserable bloody life that absolutely had to be done.
It hurt like hell. But there was no alternative.
Killian coughed. "Wendy," he said hoarsely. "Say I was to stay in England a while. Would you happen to know of any available teaching posts?"
She blinked at him. "You. . . you'd stay?"
"Aye." He coughed again. "Spare me the inquisition. Would you?"
"I. . . yes. As it so happens, I have a friend or several at Oxford, and they're in need of a history tutor at Wadham College. Killian, are you sure you'd – "
"Perfect." He cut her off. "Can you phone them in the morning and tell them I'd like the job?"
"You'd leave Boston? You just got the post there! Killian, I don't understand. You should – "
"Wendy." His voice was low in his throat, almost a growl. "I've just fought a shadow on your family's behalf, nearly died for my trouble, and am trying to do whatever I can not to turn back into him, as you made me promise. I'm not going to bloody argue about this. Just phone them."
She looked at him a long moment, then nodded. "All right," she said softly. "In the morning."
Not even twenty-four hours after he'd arrived in England, Killian Jones was aboard the train from London Paddington to Oxford, with one suitcase full of possessions and a head full of questions. He hadn't yet had the interview at Wadham, but that was only a formality, an ambassador presenting his credentials; Wendy's was a name to conjure with, and they were looking to replace the tutor who'd been sacked as quickly as possible. This time, he told himself, he was going to toe the bloody line so precisely as to not put even a smudge out of place. A second chance was the last thing he deserved, but somehow he had one, and he had to keep this job long enough for Emma to graduate and leave Boston. He'd live demurely as a schoolmarm if need be.
They rolled north through the green English lowlands, and it was midmorning by the time they arrived in Oxford. Killian decided to walk from the train station instead of catching a black cab. He set off up toward the city center, losing himself among the flocks of students, up the narrow wynds to the intersection of St. Giles' and Cornmarket, past the bustling pedestrian thoroughfare and onto Broad Street. He passed Blackwell's, the Sheldonian Theatre, and the distinctive gothic spires of the Bodleian Library, then hung a smart left onto Parks Road, from which it was only a few steps to Wadham. He presented himself at the porter's lodge, received admittance, and headed through into the main quad, around to the left and the fellows' garden, where he'd been told to meet the head tutor. An hour later, he had the job.
This secured, Killian supposed grimly that he had to do the bloody business of breaking ties to Boston, but he couldn't quite bring himself to it. Yet he had to at least find a place to stay for the night, and then get to the business of finding a proper flat – which in Oxford was liable to cost an arm and a leg, but he'd deal with that when he had to. So he took the bus out to Iffley Road and rented a room at one of the bed and breakfasts, left his things, and returned to the History Library to prepare himself for his lessons tomorrow. Apparently it was in both feet first.
He felt obliquely better as he whiled the afternoon away among the books. More like a man again, not a monster, and hoped that he might have, for the first time in his godforsaken life, made the right decision. He sent emails to his new students introducing himself, and worked steadily until five PM, when he decided to pack it up and head to a pub for supper.
Pulling his coat up and looping his scarf around his neck, he stepped out into the evening. It had been raining, as usual, but there was a clearing in the west, and a breath of flame touched the low clouds. All the stone was dark with the damp, spidered ironwork clutching a gasp of pale sky. Glowing windows reflected on the sidewalks, towers and cupolas painted out of existence in the dusk, their bells calling clear and distant. Lampposts casting pale oases of glow on the cobbles, the shadows turning long. Buses and bicycles swept by, the scurrying maze of people held up jackets and shopping bags against the spray. Ancient colleges and modern shops, the essential and enticing contrasts of Oxford. He was very glad to be home.
Emma Swan staggered through the rest of the week like a zombie. After the attempted mugging and then the crazy encounter with August W. Booth, she was afraid to leave the dorm room at all, but forced herself to stick to her routine as if nothing was wrong. She hadn't even gone to get her leg looked at by a doctor, for fear of the awkward questions that might follow, and dosed it stubbornly with antibiotic ointment and butterfly bandages until it began to stitch up. It would leave an ugly scar, but if that was all, she was lucky.
However, there was only so much pretending that it hadn't happened that she could do. She made sure to call Jack and inform her that she wanted to file a restraining order, and baffled the attorney completely by saying that it wasn't against Neal, but against this mysterious August character. This in turn led to a multitude of the sort of questions she'd hoped to avoid, but Jack finally agreed to take care of it. This made Emma feel a bit better, but only a bit.
She survived midterms, barely. Knowing that her continued enrollment at BC depended on not flunking any of them, she set up camp in the library for two days beforehand and managed to pull a handful of B's and one A-minus, to her vast surprise. Then it was time for something even worse. Despite everything, Jack hadn't managed to persuade the state to drop the charges against her without trial, and she had her first court appearance tomorrow.
Emma didn't sleep a wink the night before, and dragged herself out of bed feeling utterly sick, to shower and dress and do her best to resemble an innocent, wrongly accused young woman. Jack had told her to play up the naïve schoolgirl angle, so she put her hair in two braids and wore her black hipster glasses, a sweater and plaid skirt and boots. Then she stood outside, shivering, until the attorney's Volvo pulled up.
They didn't talk much on the way downtown to the courthouse, but Jack put a steadying hand on her arm as they stepped out. "It's going to be all right, Emma. Okay? There's really no evidence against you that's admissible in court, and the reason they took this to trial in the first place is because Spencer is a giant bag of dicks who likes to ruin people's lives. But one more time, before we go in there, I'm going to ask you. If you agree to testify against Neal, we can end this nice and easy. What do you say? Can you do that?"
Emma brushed her hand across her eyes. "I don't want to," she whispered.
"Why not?"
"I. . . I want him to come back." She turned away. "He. . . I guess he was kind of a loser, but he was the only person who was ever there for me. He. . . I just. . . if I wait, maybe he'll. . ."
"Sweetie," Jack said. "I get that you're young, that you've just had your heart broken, but you've got to listen to me. Your boy isn't coming back, all right? He's gone. Did a bunk. He framed you for his crime and ran. You owe him a big fat fucking nothing, okay? You can do so much better. Guys who really love you don't do what Neal did. I don't care what his excuse was. He can shove it. Now. Will you?"
Emma hesitated, agonizing. But if nothing else, her bizarre encounter with August had showed her that she could fight back, that she didn't have to take it, that if she was going to survive, she had to cut the dead weight and start to swim. Where would she have gotten if she let those two nutcases mug her? Why did she owe anyone anything? They'd all showed how much they cared for her. Every single one of them.
Well. Fine then. Jack was right.
Fuck them.
"Okay," she said, barely audibly. So she swallowed and said it again, louder. "Okay. I will."
Two hours later, she was walking down the courthouse steps, cleared of all charges.
Emma felt like she was floating, half in a dream. Something this good had no right to happen to her, no reason. Well, she wasn't entirely off the hook; since she'd known about the pot operation and done nothing to report it, she'd been sentenced to a fairly stiff fine and 100 hours of community service. But there was no jail time, it wasn't going on her permanent record, and Jack was almost beside herself with glee at sticking it so resoundingly to Spencer, who'd slunk out with his tail between his legs, patently in disgrace and stewing on a proper revenge. "We should celebrate, hon! This is huge! But wait, you're not 21, are you?"
"No," Emma admitted. She wasn't about to get busted with a fake ID just minutes after getting out of trouble, and despite everything, she couldn't feel happy. Nothing had really changed, not ultimately. "I think I'd just like to go home."
Jack shot her a curious look, but consented to drive her back to campus. As Emma was climbing out of the Volvo, the lawyer called, "I'm still looking for your parents, you know."
"You're wasting your time." Emma swung her purse onto her arm.
"Am I? I'm not so sure about that. I've got a good contact, think this lead is a strong one. Can we set up a meeting? Tamara's very interested in working this out."
"Tamara?"
"Lady who's been doing some digging for me. She thinks she might know where to find them."
Emma hesitated again. The name was faintly familiar from somewhere, but she couldn't place it, and her heart had sped up several notches. "I. . . Jack, please don't play with me. My parents abandoned me twenty years ago. They've had plenty of chances to come looking. They haven't."
"What if they haven't been able to?"
"Why not?"
"You'll have to ask Tamara. She's the mastermind." Jack shrugged. "When do you have some time free in your schedule?"
"This is crazy, I – "
"Just trust me. Look what happened when you listened to me this morning, huh?"
"Fine." Expelling an aggravated sigh through her teeth, Emma pulled out her day planner and flipped it open, then frowned. "Yeah, I don't really have any time until Thanksgiving break. That's about two weeks from now."
"Thanksgiving break, then. Pencil it in."
Emma started to do so, then stopped. "What's in this for you?"
"You're my client. You could use someone in your corner. And what's better, sitting around and never looking for your parents, or at least turning over some rocks and seeing what we find?"
"If you say so," Emma muttered, making a note of it. She thanked Jack, then watched her go again, before heading inside to her dorm. She was completely exhausted, so much that she could barely stand upright, and despite the fact that it was only early afternoon, crawled into bed. Sleep was already reaching for her, dragging her under.
She dreamed of a boy. A strangely familiar boy, a boy who was hers, the baby in her arms grown up to a kid with a mop of brown hair and freckles and a lopsided grin that was Neal to the life, a kid who was too smart for his own good, a kid who drove her nuts, the best kid in the world. She knew his name, in the dream, and reached for him, desperate to have him back, to protect him, to tell him that she hadn't lost him after all. But he receded from her with every step, growing fainter and farther away, his voice echoing back to her as she screamed and ran after him, until the light had died and when she looked for him, all she saw was a shadow.
The two weeks flew by. Emma was on far more pins and needles than she pretended at the prospect of actually meeting someone who might know something about her parents, but that plan took an unexpected detour a few days beforehand. Wendy informed her that she was going home to London for the break – they didn't have Thanksgiving in England, of course, so it would be an excuse for a week of shopping and museum-hopping and partying and otherwise thoroughly enjoying themselves – and she was insistent that Emma come along. "You need to celebrate somehow, it's been such a shitty semester for you! And now that you're not an accused felon anymore and it won't look like you're trying to flee the country. . . come on. Please?"
"I don't know." Emma frowned. "Jack really wants me to meet this Tamara chick."
"Meet her when you get back. You need a vacation like nobody's business."
Emma hesitated. She had to admit that she was tempted by the possibility – well, who wouldn't be? All-expenses-paid holiday to London, yes please. But her new philosophy of looking out only for herself made her sure that there was some kind of hidden string attached, and she was fully cognizant of the fact that this would almost certainly involve a repeat encounter with Wendy's formidable namesake grandmother. The old lady had scared her enough the first time, she didn't really want to go through it again. But that was a lame-sauce excuse for turning this down, and what else was she going to do? Sit in the dorm and eat ramen?
"Okay," she ventured. "If you're sure."
"Of course I'm sure!" Wendy scoffed. "This will be the best, you'll see. Maybe you'll actually smile for the first time all year."
Emma wondered what that would be like. She couldn't even imagine it. But she let Wendy book the extra plane ticket, and sent a text to Jack informing her that the meeting with Tamara would have to be rescheduled due to her having accepted a trip to London instead. Then she finished up the rest of the week in an excited haze, and headed to the airport with Wendy on Friday evening.
They boarded, settled into their seats, and took off. It was an overnight flight; they'd be arriving in England on Saturday morning, and Wendy was already on about everything she wanted to take Emma to – they'd go to Westminster Abbey, the London Eye, the Tower, Harrod's, the West End for a show, and then up to Oxford to visit her loads of schoolfriends there. Most of them were either perplexed or jealous that she'd gone to the States for university, but Wendy confided that she'd wanted to get away. Do her own thing. Trod her own path.
Emma mumbled agreement, nodding off against the cushioned headrest as the plane sped into the night. She was drifting into the place between sleeping and waking, where dreams lived and time stopped, and –
The boy was there again. Her boy. Waiting for her.
The shadow.