Chapter 26

It would have been far easier just to die.

That was the one thought that stayed locked in Killian Jones' demented, clattering, tormented brain as he dragged himself down the sand, maimed left arm clutched to his chest, staggered by sun and pain and sickness, salt spray stinging his eyes as he sank to his knees. He stared at the eye of the world, telling himself that it was perfectly damned fine with him if his unnatural long life should choose this moment to go black. Die disregarded on some remote otherworldly beach, wash out to sea, lie forevermore among schools of fish and swaying weed as mer-children gamed with his bones. Then it would be over. The pain would end. He would be home.

But he was still too bloody stubborn. And, even after this long, still too afraid.

Groaning, gasping, he kept on clawing. Couldn't stand up, couldn't even dignify what he was doing as crawling, bent and broken, bloodied and blinded. But one hand – his only hand, now – kept pulling away the ground like a length of wrinkled cloth, over and over, over and over, over and over. Until the shore bent and curved away along the length of the brilliantly blue bay, and shadows came and shadows went, and he realized hazily that he knew exactly where he was.

He stared down the beach to the far end, where the sun-scarred, sand-lashed wreckage lay on its side like the carcass of a great leviathan. Its infrastructure was still mostly intact, but the rest had been stripped by scavengers nearly to the bone, its sails tattered and torn, its enchanted timbers wrenched out of its guts and used to build the portal that had sent him to the other world, to London. To Emma's world.

Another blindsiding assault of pain almost sent him flat again, but seeing it had given him a second wind. He tugged off the bloodstained rags that he'd knotted around his stump, tore a new length from his shirt, and swaddled it up again, then hauled himself to his feet and began to lurch, looking every inch a sailor marooned for months on a desert island, mustering his strength for one last dive into a mirage. It will fade away in the heat. I'm seeing things. It's not here.

But one step after another carried him closer, and then there it was, prow looming overhead. He reached out and touched it, and it was solid. And so, he made his way around to the deck of the Jolly Roger, which slanted up like a wall. He was utterly unprepared for seeing his beloved ship like this, the reminder of the price he'd paid the fairies for his escape and his new hand. I swore not to turn back into Hook, and I broke that promise. Perhaps it's no wonder that I lost it again.

Yet he had no space in his head for anything except the immediate business of survival. Winding a trailing halyard around his waist, stump clubbing agonizingly against the weathered wood, he began to climb, scaling the ship until he reached the door that led below. Everything was tilted at a dizzying angle, so he was walking on the wall and the ceiling was the floor, and it was impossible to see more than a few feet in the murk. Rubbish of every description scattered the corridor, making him look carefully where he put his remaining hand lest he cut that off as well.

At last, after a hair-raising traverse through the crew's quarters, Killian reached his own cabin and stumbled inside. He had been worried that his weight would destabilize the ship, pulling it completely upside down and hence trapping him, but it was wedged fast and hadn't even quivered as he monkeyed his way through its gutted innards. Everything in his cabin was in the same state of disarray: maps, sextants, candles, quills, inkwells, rusted daggers scattered in an ankle-deep slew of debris and his ornate claw-footed mahogany table with all four legs up like a dead animal. His bed was skewed nearly against the ceiling (which was to say, the port wall) but he braced his feet and hauled with the very last of his strength, and got it flush against the floor (which was to say, the starboard wall). Its sheets were half-rotted and smelled strongly of mildew, but it was the most princely accommodation he could have dreamed of. He crawled under the covers and passed out.

Killian had no idea how long he stayed there, wandering the boundary between sleeping and waking, living and dying. After some time, he rolled out in search of his private rum stash, knowing it was unwise to drink alcohol so soon after being sorely wounded, but needing something for the pain before it made him sick. He crawled around on all fours, finally found an item roughly corresponding to an unbroken bottle, and wrenched it open and gulped it down, trickles running down his chin. The whiskey burned his throat and made his eyes water, but he took another few slugs, then got back into bed and passed out again.

He was dragged back to consciousness some godforsaken hours (days?) later. He had lost all track of time, which was unsurprising due to this being Neverland, but the gruesome task awaiting him could no longer be put off. He searched and searched until he found a suitable knife, then committed another unnerving navigation through the bowels of the Roger until he emerged onto the deck, grabbed the halyard, and slid down vertically to the ground.

A brilliant red-and-gold sunset was just splashing into the dark ocean. The air was warm and lulling, smelling of palm and brine and coconut, by every appearance a tropical paradise. There was no sight of another living creature, human or animal or otherwise, for miles and miles down the sweep of the beach. He was utterly alone, the kind of private-island escape that some rich investment banker would have paid a mint for back in his world (somehow, indeed, it had become his world). Now, it was the knowledge that the only thing standing between him and a slow, torturous end was his own skill and resilience.

Gritting his teeth, alarmed to see how much fresh blood had stained the shirt rags tied around his stump, Killian gathered enough wood to make a fire, and stoked it as high and hot as he could, grateful for the warmth against the deepening chill of the Neverland night. I won't be nearly as grateful in a few bloody minutes. He had brought out the rum, and drank it until his vision started to swim. He had to go find something to eat, but the state he was in, he'd not last an hour. He wasn't completely unarmed – he had the dagger – but it was suicidal flattery to think that he was anything other than a badly wounded cripple, starving, half-drunk, and slowly bleeding to death, who'd spent years living as a scholar, not a soldier.

At least they didn't take my right hand. His fighting hand, his writing hand. He'd be nothing without that hand. And terrible though it was, he'd lived three hundred years without his left. They want me to crawl away like a dog and die, or else stay alive, but as a weakling phantom, forever reminded of what he was but unable to do a damn thing about it. Bugger that. Bugger that. If they wanted Captain Hook to remember who he was, he fucking well would.

This thought was cold comfort, but still comfort, and it gave Killian the strength to face up to what he had to do. He searched for water, found a fresh spring, drank as much as he could, hauled some back, and boiled it, plunging the knife into it in order to effect a rudimentary sterilization. Then he gingerly peeled away the bloodstained wrappings, sucked in a breath at the sight, and braced his good arm on the keel of the Roger to keep it as steady as possible. With a hiss, a curse, and then several more, he began carefully trimming away the ragged flesh.

This exercise was cause to down another few gulps of rum when he was through, swearing and sobbing in dry, punching bursts. Then, since alcohol was the only disinfectant he had, he gritted his teeth, picked up the skin, and used the rest to douse his stump.

The pain was mind-numbing, especially when he pulled off the not-boiling but still scalding kettle of water, and rinsed it clean. He was afraid that shock was going to knock him out, and had to take a breather. Last time, his crew had press-ganged some local healer to deal with the wound, but such an individual was not to be found here. Nor his crew, and Killian felt another ache that had nothing to do with his missing limb. Pirate ships were not about to be mistaken for charity institutions, and he had not hesitated in dealing harshly with miscreants; he had not become known as the feared Captain Hook by accident. But by and large, his men had sailed for him because they wanted to, and their loyalty was deep and fierce. They respected and admired him enough to unquestioningly accept it when Milah became his co-captain, and did not turn a hair at the prospect of sailing down the maelstrom to Neverland. But they were all gone now. Claimed by the curse or by the more prosaic seaman's fate of drowning, drink, or debtor's prison, gods knew.

No more time to reminisce. He had to finish this. Killian thrust the dagger into the fire, stirring and blowing on the coals until they raged white-hot. He waited until the blade was glowing cherry-red. Then in one fell swoop, good hand wrapped in the last remnants of his jacket, he grabbed it, bared his stump, and clapped the searing iron to the exposed, bloody end.

This time, the pain was so ungodly that it felt as if he was tumbling head over heels down an endless black tunnel, pursued only by distant screaming. Down and down and down to the inferno at the bottom, but it would not even swallow him and put a merciful end to his suffering. Instead it went on and on and on, the stench of his own burning flesh in his nose, his entire body shaking as he retched, lying sprawled in the sand as the stars came out, as the fire dwindled down to ash, as he knew that he was sending up a literal smoke signal to every predator within a hundred miles and he had to get back inside the Roger now.

He drew more water, as much as he could carry, so he wouldn't have to emerge again for a long time. Then he somehow summoned the strength to ascend the deck, fumble through the contorted darkness of the ship, and back into his cabin, where he rammed a candlestick through the latch just in case. Then he fell onto the bed, dead to the world, pursued by tortured specters and half-remembered dreams. Nothing made sense. It only hurt.

When Killian finally awoke the third time, he was ravenously hungry, badly dehydrated, thin as a ghost, and running a low fever. But he was more clear-headed, and while his stump was still throbbing, it was not unbearable; the pain had changed to the sort that meant it was healing. His makeshift cauterization job had stopped the bleeding and sealed most of the open wound, and he carefully stitched the rest, thankful that he'd burned off most of the nerves and barely felt it. Then he bandaged it, drank all the water he had, and decided it was time to get moving.

After another ransacking through the cabin, he managed to find a chest of clothes that the looters hadn't gotten to. He changed out of the ruins of his Earth suit and into the garb of his old (new) life instead: leather trousers, boots, blouson black shirt with a deep vee neckline, leather jerkin. He didn't want the long jacket; it would only slow him down. Instead, he cut a patch from it and used it to fashion a combination brace/cuff for his stump, then clambered out to scour the rigging for another hook, such as the one which had first given him his name.

To his delight, he located one such object, and after filing it to a lethal edge, carefully screwed it into the brace. It was nonetheless more for decoration than anything; his stump was still barely mended, and swinging it into anything was a very poor idea indeed, but enemies might see it from afar and decide discretion to be the better part of valor. And staring down at it, Killian felt a sudden, savage thrill. Pan and his gang of pustulant little arsewipes had hoped to unman him, but they'd only remade him. For that, they would pay, and pay dearly. Bloody Robert Gold or Rumplestiltskin or whatever he called himself could attest to the unwise nature of trimming Killian Jones short a hand and a woman but leaving him alive to fight back.

The first order of business was to find food. Having equipped himself with as many daggers as he could carry but wishing sorely for his sword, Killian descended the deck once more and dropped with reasonable agility to the ground. He returned to the inlet of fresh water, to stick his face into the stream and drink and drink. He lay there, panting and in pain but viciously glad to be alive, and then drank some more. At last, when his thirst was sated, he filled up a pair of skins, slung them over his back, and struck out into the jungle.

That first foraging trip yielded a bumper crop of fruit and small animals to roast, and subsequent trips yielded more. Making the wrecked Roger his base camp, Killian hunted, rested, and ate for weeks on end, starting to size up the possibility of repairing it. There were trees aplenty in Neverland; there would be no lack of suitable timber, but it was the enchanted wood that he really needed. Otherwise, the ship would not be able to sail through interworldly portals, and that was precisely what he required it to do.

He vigilantly tended his stump against infection, and began to train himself again, drilling with hook and blade, pushing his complaining body to the limits and collapsing into bed almost too sore to move. But he had to. He wouldn't be left out here in idyllic isolation forever. Sooner or later, the Lost Boys would discover that he was still alive and in no mood for surrender, and then the battle would continue. How soon was soon or how late was later, Killian had no idea. He wondered how much time had passed in the real world. He wondered if anyone remembered that he was gone. He wondered if anyone cared.

Emma was in his dreams almost every night – on the occasion that he dreamed at all, that was. But it was a decidedly mixed blessing. He could see her, but never reach her or speak to her or touch her, and she always receded further and further down a long tunnel, until she was out of sight. It was a testament to his singular stubbornness that he'd managed to hold onto her this long at all; Neverland was wicking away the memories of all his old pain, all his old loss, begging him to bite the forbidden fruit and fall, to become Captain Hook for good again. To let go. It would be the easy thing. So easy.

As easy as dying. And yet, for better or worse, he had failed to die.

And so, now, against the same odds, he must fail to forget.

Killian was almost completely recovered by the time he had his first skirmish, notwithstanding the various close shaves with animals he'd had while hunting. A Piccaninny scouting party, noting that the abandoned pirate ship had begun to look inhabited again, came down to investigate and was not pleased to find none other than its infamous captain in the flesh. A brisk dust-up resulted, in which they were convinced that it would be more trouble than it was worth to capture him and retreated into the trees, but this was only a temporary reprieve. Now that they knew where he was, and who he was, they'd be back, and in greater numbers.

Thus, he had to either move camp or render the Roger seaworthy, and having found his beloved ship again after so long, he wasn't inclined to leave it. This was the sort of sentimentality that might get him killed, but death could damned well take its chances; he'd punch the bastard in the face if it got too eager. But the logistics of the plan remained a motherfucker. It was not in the least likely that he'd be able to fell, haul, and transport enough timber to rebuild his girl single-handedly (ha bloody ha) before the Piccaninnies or the Lost Boys took an interest in things, and he doubted that the fairies would be in a great hurry to help him again either. Therefore, there was only one breed of Neverland's inhabitants that he could hope to appeal to.

Killian was not overly enthused by the plan, but had no other choice. He was hell-bound and determined to get back to Emma if it was the last thing he did, and if he had survived so long and so improbably in the pursuit of revenge, it seemed ludicrous to him that he could not manage the same in the service of love. So, one fine evening as the sun was painting vivid streaks over the lagoon, he climbed onto the rock and began to sing.

It wasn't long until the water began to ripple, and he caught flickers of movement, drawing closer and closer. Then they began to surface, long hair swaying like weed, eerie bronze skin glimmering, eyes silver and gold and green and purple, webbed fingers and scaled tails flashing as they crowded nearer. One of them laid a hand on his boot, not pulling him under – not quite. "Who are you, human?"

Killian cleared his throat painfully. It had been so long since he had talked to anyone except himself that his voice sounded strange. He held up his hook. "You'll know me."

"You?" A hiss traveled the gathered mermaids, both scornful and admiring. Their relationship was complex; he had frequently been in touch with them for information on their mutual enemies, the Lost Ones, given them treasures and trinkets and occasionally a disobedient member of his crew, and in exchange, they'd generally refrained from trying to drown him. "We had not heard that you were returned to Neverland, Hook."

Again, it gave him a deep dark thrill to hear the name spoken. Why had he spent so long running away from it? What would the world be like, without him? He grinned. "I want to propose a bargain. You'll help me restore the Jolly Roger."

"And what do we get?"

He hesitated. Mermaids were fickle wee bitches, and you'd always get bit in the arse if you weren't careful, but no matter. "Anything you want."

The mermaids whispered, debating the merits of this offer. As they did, Killian noticed one of them near the back, one he had never seen before – which meant nothing, considering the length of his absence, though mermaids were long-lived creatures and could rarely be killed by men. He had never seen a mermaid with blue eyes before, and hers were, as dark sea-sapphire as – as his own, in fact. Her hair was red, adorned with shells and pearls, and she was watching him intently.

"You, lass," he called to her. "What's your name?"

She kept gazing at him, but didn't answer. She shook her head.

"That one doesn't talk." It was the mermaid who had hold of his leg. "No matter to you. So you want your ship back, Captain. You want the mastery of all you lost. What for, this time?"

When dealing with these creatures, it was best either to lie nonstop, or else be perfectly honest, and he had already started with honesty. "A woman."

"A woman." Glances all around. Jealous bints, the lot. "So you want to leave Neverland again, Hook? Take advantage of us and flee?"

"My business. Are you going to take the offer, or do I have to go to the fairies?"

That was an utter bluff, considering how unlikely the fairies were to help him, but the mermaids maintained an intense rivalry with them, and as he'd hoped, there were hisses and scowls. The blue-eyed one was still watching him as if transfixed, as if she could not turn away, and her scrutiny was making him uncomfortable. But the mermaids themselves seemed oblivious, and retreated under the surface for a brief conference before they returned. "Your bargain is accepted, Captain," the leader informed him. "We'll name our price when we see fit."

Killian should have been wary about that; any time a mermaid agreed to delay the consummation of a bargain, they were waiting for the worst possible moment to fuck you over, but he was too excited to care. He and the queen shook hands on it, and in short order, the lagoon turned into a boiling hive of industry as mermaids began to surface in their dozens and their hundreds, swimming to where the Roger was beached, and dragging it into the water. It lay skeletal, stark, as they swarmed through it, diving down and coming up with pieces doubtless torn from other shipwrecks, patching it together and hammering it until it began to resemble a proper vessel again. The sails were mended, the rigging strung, until at last, shedding ocean through the gunwales like a thundering waterfall, it slowly hauled upright, mast pointing toward the stars. A lantern flickered on at the stern, illuminating its name. One of the mermaids, hauling on a rope, raised the skull and crossbones.

Killian himself stood on the beach, marveling at the efficiency and thoroughness with which this job was conducted. Then he waded into the water, grabbed the rope, and swung up onto the deck, finally restored to its proper proportions, hearing it thump satisfyingly under his boots. He took a quick tour belowdecks, and furthermore ascertained that everything was as it should be. Returning above to where the queen was leaning on the side, awaiting his approval, he said, "It's bloody marvelous. Well done."

Her mouth twitched. "Don't forget. We'll return for our price."

"I'm sure you shall." Killian intended to be well out of Neverland by the time their greedy little minds decided just how much treasure they wanted. "Thank you."

Her eyes narrowed as if she suspected the subterfuge, but she nonetheless accepted his word, and called in a high, shrieking ululation to her sisters. The water frothed white as they began to dive, but in moments, the sea was blackly and glossily calm again.

Killian watched them go, then strode to the helm, preparing to get underway. There was enough magic left in the Roger that he could still captain her by himself, and his girl, once more wakening to his command, began to assist, sails belling out against the moonlit night and lines lashing into place. As he took up his place behind the helm, he saw with a pang that the letters he'd etched while teaching Bae to steer the ship – P and S, slashed through in a fit of despair after he'd let the Lost Ones take him – were still there. That made him think in turn of how he was all but certain that Bae had escaped to the real world, taken the name Neal Cassidy, and become, somehow, Henry's father. His lad, and Emma's.

That thought was almost unbearable. Did Emma even know who Henry actually was, or that he existed here? But still more, there was the inescapable fact that Henry, that Pan, had taken his hand. . . and the empty, aching place in Killian's heart where he had always longed for a family and a son. He'd offered it genuinely to Bae, and far more cynically to John and Michael Darling, but time and again, he'd been spurned. You will never be a father. You will never have a home, save this one.

Killian shook his head; it was getting harder and harder to chase out the seductive whispers. He had to take care. Otherwise he'd go down, and he knew from experience just how far the fall was. If he did, he'd never rise again.

One thing at a time. He had his Roger back now, and that was enough. He ran his hand and hook along the wheel, caressing it, closing his eyes, breathing in the scent of sea and salt and canvas and hemp, then opening them and gazing at the far horizon. As the ethereal auroras banded the dark sky, as Neverland lay sleeping and somnolent in the sultry night air, the pirate ship began to move, scarring a wake into the still water of the bay. Very soon it had disappeared from sight.

Regaining command of his ship did wonders for Killian's position. As long as he stayed a good distance offshore during the day, and only came ashore, if at all, at night to resupply, he could avoid any unfortunate entanglements and glean a treasure trove of information. The Lost Ones, as he soon learned, ruled with an iron fist on the island's western coast, using the shadow to terrorize anyone who happened by and still in active hunt of boys to join Pan's gang. Killian observed these instances with scrupulous attention; the shadow clearly had the ability to move between worlds, flying between Neverland and Earth, and he began to wonder if there was any way to capture it and coerce it to take him back. If he approached Henry, if he tried to bargain with him. . .

It only took Killian a few aborted attempts, however, to realize that this was not at all a feasible strategy. He had no way of appealing to the boy's better nature, and trying it nearly got him killed, again. Even if Henry did still remember Emma, which was far from certain, he assuredly had no inclination whatsoever to help Killian get anywhere near her.

Therefore, he required a new plan. Nothing could be ruled out, so he raised his canvas to a strong southerly breeze and simply set sail, far into the wild and trackless waters between worlds, long out of any sight or scent of land, just him and the sea and the Roger straining and creaking, as he steered her through swells and squalls and gales, convinced that he had in fact escaped and might soon see London on the horizon. When he glimpsed land, far off and distant, he was nearly certain. But the closer he drew, the sooner he realized that it was depressingly familiar. That it was the green jungle of Neverland rising from the waves, shrouded in sun and mist, and he had only sailed one vast circle, to end up precisely where he began.

He started to go slightly mad.

He talked to crewmen who weren't there. He hauled up lines and made preparations to sail when the wind was at a dead stop, complete doldrums. He walked hours and hours through the dark hold, humming half-remembered sea shanties to himself, watching the stars and lighting lanterns to signal passing ships that dissolved to nothingness in the night.

In a desperate attempt to slow the burn rate of his sanity, he took up writing. He'd always been slovenly at keeping captain's logs before, but could see nothing productive to be achieved by documenting his hallucinations, so he began to write books instead. There was plenty of parchment and ink, and it helped keep the organized, professorial, rational part of his mind in the forefront. Remembering the research he'd been doing back at Oxford, he wrote a new comprehensive history of piracy in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and then a genealogy and literary analysis of classic fairy tales. They'd need a fair amount of editing, not least because he'd written them by hand while adrift in the waters of bloody Neverland and more than half insane, but he held out hope that they could be used to constructively contribute to his academic career on the vanishingly slender chance that he ever got home. They were substantial things, several hundred pages, and he was quite proud of them.

Killian was finishing the book on fairy tales when he finally caught wind of what might, at last, be a new chance. Someone had come to Neverland, someone neither Lost Boy nor Indian nor fairy nor mermaid, but another man, who was actively seeking to meet with the inhabitants of the realm and thought they might be interested in what he was selling. A merchant, a peddler, a procurer of rare and valuable items. Since what Killian was after was most certainly both – and since hearing those words had sparked an old memory in him – he arranged to get in touch with this entrepreneur, and on the designated night, sailed into shore, dropped anchor, and debarked.

He had acquired a new sword in the course of his perambulations, and strapped it around his waist, then shrugged on a dark cloak and hood. He waded onto the beach, emptied the seawater from his boots, and squelched up the sand toward the cove.

As planned, he had arrived some time in advance of his potential business partner. He drew his sword, stepped into the shadows of the palm trees, and waited, making no noise, utterly indivisible from the darkness of the Neverland forest, hearing strange sounds, croaking and crying – and then, at last, heavy footsteps and puffing. A short, stout figure, outlandishly decked in similar clandestine attire, was climbing the rocks toward him.

Killian's mouth turned up bitterly. Then in one move, swift and sharp as a hawk diving from the sky, he stepped out, knocked the bastard clean on his arse, and flicked the tip of his sword to said bastard's throat, holding a dark lantern aloft in his hook. It cast its light over an unmistakable red hat, a plump bearded face, and an expression utterly blank with shock. "C. . . Captain?"

Killian's smile, if it even could be called that, stretched further, curling back over white and sharp teeth, a full-blown madness setting fire to his eyes. "Good evening, Mr. Smee."

Storybrooke

"Okay," Emma said. "Well. That figures. I know this guy. He's been a pain in my ass for a while, and I'd appreciate the chance to talk to him. Alone."

She'd been expecting these people to make a stink about it, but instead, Regina agreed almost too quickly. "You don't want your son there when you're trying to interrogate his kidnapper. I'll take him back to my place. He'll be perfectly safe, I promise."

Emma shot the other woman a cool look. She didn't like the way Regina was already holding onto David, and liked even less the prospect of letting him out of her sight again, but unfortunately, she had no way to demur; she did need privacy to stuff August's head up his asshole. So she turned to her son and informed him, "Just so you know, you are in a whole lot of trouble, and I'm not going to forget it. But you're going with Ms. Mills for now. If anything else goes wrong, if anything at all is weird, call me on my cell phone immediately, okay?"

"Okay," David echoed tremulously. "Please don't be mad at me, Mommy?"

"Oh no, buddy. No busting out the mommy." Nonetheless, Emma knelt down and pulled her son into her arms, hugging him hard, embarrassed to realize that she was choked up. Eventually she would face up to just how terrified she had been, how she had briefly been utterly certain that she had lost him too, but not now. She had other things to look out for, now.

Regina shepherded David out of the diner and over to her black Mercedes, and Emma trailed after them, Graham at her side. He offered to give her a ride, but remembering what had happened the last time they'd been in a car together – even if he didn't – she told him that she'd just follow in the Bug.

Five minutes later, they pulled into the sheriff's station, and headed up the steps. Graham flicked on the lights, then retreated into the glass-walled office and tactfully shut the door. He was there, and they could see each other in case he needed to hastily intervene, but he couldn't hear.

Emma drew a deep breath, then whirled on the prisoner in the cell. He had clearly been waiting for her; he didn't seem surprised. "Emma."

"August. You're going to tell me right now what you said to make my son get in the car with you, or so help me, you will be eating and shitting out of the same hole."

He inclined his head. "I'm sorry."

"Are you? That wasn't what I asked."

August gazed at the ceiling, then back at Emma. "I'm sure you remember what I told you about this place. How there was a curse, and we needed you to break it. That I was your guardian angel. You. . . you were right what you said, back then. I've done a pretty terrible job. But one way or another, I had to get you here."

"By kidnapping my son?" Emma lashed out. "He's six years old. You son of a bitch!"

"I deserve that." August met her eyes, imploring. "It wasn't the right thing to do, but I'm not good at doing the right thing. Still, I've had this date circled on the calendar for weeks. Knowing that when you finally turned twenty-eight, I had to find David and – "

"Wait. You've known where I was, and that I had a son? The hell have you been doing? Sitting with your thumb up your ass, awaiting the opportune moment to fuck up our lives?"

August flinched. "The book," he said to the cell floor. "Once Upon a Time. It's been doing pretty well for itself. There's even talk about making it into a TV series. I was getting readings. Reviews. Prestige. Schmoozing with the literary elite. In other words, there was a lot of money coming in, and I. . . I was more concerned with living it up in Manhattan than going after you."

"But that book. . . I read it. It was practically fucking about me!"

"Yes." August looked painfully eager. "It was. I was hoping you'd see it, that you'd – "

"And all this time, you've been living the high life on the royalties from this book about me, and knew that I had a son, and never saw fit to share any of it with – " Emma almost couldn't speak. Thinking of the nights she told David she'd already eaten because she'd given him all their food, that they had to hide under the covers to stop the gremlins from getting them when in truth she couldn't pay the heating bill, the winter she'd walked everywhere in subzero weather because she couldn't afford either a T pass or to fix the Bug. . . they weren't on the brink anymore, were doing better since she'd taken the bounty hunting job, but that was a new development. "How much did you burn through?"

"Something like twenty thousand dollars." August's voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry!" Emma screamed, loud enough that even Graham, walled up in the office, glanced over concernedly. "You fucking motherfucker, I hope you fry in hell!"

Just then, something even worse occurred to her. "Manhattan. . . you were living in Manhattan? Bryan said that the guy I was supposed to go after was living there, before he got busted and taken back here. To Boston, I mean. It was you, wasn't it? It was you!"

August, looking stunned, shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Much as she wanted to lay every global malady from war to floods to famine at August W. Booth's door, Emma had to admit that her lie detector concurred with him on that; he wasn't the man she'd turned down the chance to go after. At least so far as the bail bonds are concerned. Feeling as if she was about to fly off the handle, she gulped down a few desperate breaths. "And now, as an attempt to atone for it, you kidnap my son. Yeah, asshole. Your sense of right and wrong is fucking screwed the fuck up. And you haven't answered my question, by the way."

"I was expecting it to be a lot harder," August admitted. "But I drove up to David's school, and he came over and asked me if I was the man Henry had told him to look for, who was going to take him to Storybrooke. I said yes, and he got in. That was it."

"I am going to kill that kid," Emma muttered. Years of teaching him to be careful, to look out for himself since Boston was a big city, to not take rides from strangers, to borrow someone's phone and call her if anything was wrong, undone in an instant by some charming douchebag bad-boy author who was directly responsible for a lot of the shit in their lives. Still more, she couldn't shake the guilt that if she was around more often, if she really knew what was going on in David's life instead of getting reports from his teachers and babysitters, if she'd looked out for him properly, this wouldn't have happened. At least it had had a semi-happy ending, if this could be called that, but she still felt sick. What did he get us into? What did I get us into?

"Who's Henry?" August asked.

"None of your fucking business." Emma turned and waved. "Graham!"

The sheriff almost broke something in his haste to extract himself from the office and rush to her side. "Emma?"

"Leave this loser locked up," Emma informed him. "Then can you please show me to Ms. Mills' house, so I can pick up my son and get out of here?"

"No!" August looked stricken. "Emma, you can't – "

She whirled on him. "No. You don't get to talk. You don't get to say a word. You get to sit there and think about what you've done. Think if you see anything whatsoever wrong with this situation, and if I hear one word about how you don't deserve to be where you are, I'll break your neck with my bare hands. Graham?"

"Emma," he said again, looking rather awed. He showed her down the steps, and once more, she followed him in the Bug to an elegant colonial-style mansion set back on a wooded drive. This was apparently Regina's house, and she sat still after parking, collecting herself; she didn't want David to see her so upset. Then she got out and trotted up the front walk, knocking on the door.

It took Regina several moments to answer, and she was clearly displeased to see who it was. "Miss – I didn't catch your last name?"

"Never mind that. I'm here for my kid."

Regina pursed her lips. "Yes, the child you were so eager to foist off on another stranger, so soon after he was kidnapped? Are you sure you're in the best state of mind to take care of him?"

Emma stared at her. "Whoa. That is none of your fucking business. David? David!"

His dark head peered around Regina. "Mom?"

Emma let go a ragged, jerking sigh. "Let's go."

Regina glanced between them, as if she couldn't decide whether to boot them out posthaste for Emma's sake, or beg them to stay for David's sake. It was the latter who said, "Mom, we can't go! We're finally here, we need to do what we've came for! Like Henry said!"

"What did your friend Henry say, sweetie?" Regina cooed.

Emma shook her head violently at him, but too late. "He said we needed to break the curse," David insisted. "That once we did, there would be a way for him to find us again, and we could join him in Neverland forever and ever. I always knew it was real! I want to go there!"

A most extraordinary expression crossed Regina's face. She went pale, then shook her head hard, mastering herself. To Emma she said, "You're right. He clearly needs therapy, and unfortunately, it's a case beyond Dr. Hopper's abilities. You'll have to go back to Boston. Best choice for everyone."

Emma stared at her coolly, then held out her hand for David. Without another word, she led him to the Bug, and buckled him into the back seat before climbing behind the wheel. She felt lightheaded, almost giddy. She sat there a moment longer to be certain that she knew what she planned to do, then started the car and put it in gear.

"Mom!" David begged. "We can't go back to Boston! We can't – "

"Oh no, kid," Emma muttered. "We're not."

"Sorry, dearie?" Mr. Gold was the same slight, unprepossessing man as before, leaning on his cane as light streamed through the windows of his shop. Emma and David had spent the night at Granny's Bed and Breakfast, and after making a few enquiries at the diner the next morning, were directed to the pawnbroker's. But Emma had ordered her son to wait outside in the car. If this guy was anything like she remembered, she didn't want David near him.

"I thought you said," Gold went on, "that you were looking for an apartment."

"I am." Emma stared him down. "I heard you were the landlord of pretty much everything around here, so I figured I'd start with you."

"You mean you're moving here?"

"No. Not necessarily. But it does mean I'm staying for at least a little while."

"Well. This is quite a novelty." Gold moved down to open a cupboard and pull out several apartment listings. "I do have a few vacant units I'd be happy to rent you, Miss Swan. Just yourself, would it be?"

"No. Me and my son."

"Your son?" His expression might have been friendly, but his gaze was too intent, too uncomfortable, too scrutinizing. "Cherish every moment with him, dearie. They grow up fast."

"I know." Emma swallowed. "What about those apartments?"

Gold shrugged, then unfolded the listings for her. There were flats on the second floor of historic Victorians, a studio apartment in a quaint refurbished brick building – "next door to a schoolteacher, if that's of note, your lad will be attending school, surely?" and several more, and Emma ran her finger down the lines, performing her usual mental budget calculations. Her decision to stay had been impulsive, and she was already starting to regret it, but she thought suddenly that if Graham didn't go psychotic again, she could take that job as his deputy if it was still available. That ought to cover small-town rent.

She was close to settling on a few she'd like to look at, when the bell on the door jingled and David wandered in. "Mom, I'm hungry! Are you going to be – "

Emma's head jerked up. "David! What did I tell you about – "

"Miss Swan." Gold was staring at the young boy with a thoroughly terrifying expression. Taking in his face. His eyes. Putting two and two together. "Is. . . that. . . your son?"

"Yeah. Actually." Emma lunged to wrap her arm around David's shoulders and pull him tightly against her side. She prayed he couldn't feel her trembling. "We're a package deal."

"So I see." Gold's lips peeled back in something far too unsettling to deserve the name smile. He was belatedly recovering, but the look in his eyes remained savage. Once he had satisfied (or dissatisfied) himself that the situation was in fact what he'd calculated, he inclined his head, his gaze never leaving David. "Indeed, my dear. We are all extremely eager to have you stay."