Chapter 34

The snow-covered library tower loomed dark and unwelcoming, icicles the size of swords daggering down the clock face, when Emma and Graham pulled up. They shot out either side of the police cruiser, hands on guns as they performed a quick recon, but nothing was crashed, exploded, imprisoned, incinerated, attacked, or assassinated, which meant that if there was trouble, it was happening inside. Fuck. I was afraid of that. Nonetheless, she wasn't interested in being out here later than she had to – wanted to find out what was going on, deal with it, and maybe get back in time for a final slice of pumpkin pie before bed. Not to mention, Emma also didn't want to stick Mary Margaret with overnight David-sitting duty twice in a row. She was a neighbor, not a nanny.

Blowing a chilly silver breath between her teeth, Emma followed Graham into the shadow of the front porch, where he was frowning at the door. The chain holding it shut was gone, and the latch looked as if it might have been forced. Graham shone his flashlight through, then shrugged, muttered, "Well, here goes nothing," and shoved it open.

"Police!" Emma bellowed, holding up her badge. She still couldn't see anything or anyone, and there was a crawling feeling on the back of her neck. If somebody was trapped in the basement, why did the outside look as if there had been a struggle? And why had this tip been called in on Thanksgiving night – or had it been some kind of elaborate double-jointed trap to start with, had they been hoping that everyone would be too befuddled by turkey and cake to –

"Oh, thank God you're here!"

Emma jumped about a foot, swiveling and training her gun on the corner, as an extremely disheveled-looking Greg Mendel came stumbling out. He appeared to have been lurking near the dusty bookshelves in the very back, and was dressed for braving the elements: hat, overcoat, scarf, jeans, gloves, and boots. To say this was a suspicious turn of events for someone who had been, so far as she knew, bedridden in the hospital for the last several days was to state the least.

"You." Emma didn't lower her gun. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Greg looked abashed, like a schoolboy busted smoking behind the dumpsters. "I'm sorry. I just – well, I know it looks bad, but I swear, I really did hear something down there, and I thought I'd just – I didn't think anyone else – "

"Cut the crap. Tell me what you're up to, and I better believe it. Now."

"Emma?" Graham looked aghast. "It was him who called in the tip, he's not – "

Emma paid no attention. "So," she said to Greg, low and levelly. "Talk."

"I. . . all right." He flushed. "You caught me. I'm not as weak as it looked like. But with Regina lurking around. . . I didn't want to put her on her guard, you know? My name isn't really Greg Mendel. I got adopted by the Mendel family when I was orphaned, and I'd always been good at science, so you know. . . Greg, it's kind of an in-joke, see? But my name, my birth name, isn't that. It's Owen. Owen Flynn. And I'm here to find someone important."

Emma frowned, remembering what Tamara had told her in the hospital, how they'd come looking for one Kurt Flynn, Greg – Owen's – father. So far, her lie detector concurred with the story, although it had that same sense of something not being altogether right. "Orphaned?"

"Yeah." Greg glanced at her earnestly. "Tamara might have told you, but. . . my mom died, and then I lost my dad, when we stumbled into this crazy place and he never came out. I was what, eight? But I never gave up looking for a way back. And tonight, it's Thanksgiving and I thought everyone would be out of the way. It would be a perfect time to come look. Because Regina was holding us captive down under here, and I just thought. . ."

"You thought your dad might be here as well," Emma completed. Despite herself, she felt a faint pinprick of sympathy. She of anyone could identify with an orphan searching desperately for their parents, and she consented to lower the gun a few inches. "But if so, it would have been at least what, twenty, twenty-five years? If he is down there, I'm not really sure you want to see."

"Yes. Yes, I do." Greg set his jaw stubbornly. "And I swear, when I got here, I heard something shouting. Someone. So I did the right thing and called the cops right away, see? I'm not the bad guy. I don't want you to think that about me. I don't want anyone else to have to go through what Tamara and I did, and if it is Lacey. . . we worked with her once, you know? I feel a sense of responsibility. She doesn't deserve to be down there."

"No, she doesn't. We can agree on that." Emma had thought she'd heard a faint, ghostly shriek ripple up the elevator shaft, and as she had said to Killian back at the apartment, they needed to give Gold absolutely zero further reasons to hold a grudge against them. With that, making a decision, she turned to Graham. "Lower me down. I'll scope it out."

"What – no! I'm not letting you go down there alone!"

"We went over this last time. I handled myself just fine, remember?"

"You also said you thought there was some kind of monster down there," Graham reminded her. "So did Greg and Tamara. I'm not sending you as, I don't know, the appetizer."

"So you'd come along as well and feed the Thing, if there even is a Thing, a freaking Thanksgiving dinner of its very own?" Emma said impatiently. "We're wasting time. Remember, someone needs to crank the elevator, so I designate you the cranker. Now can we – "

"No!" Graham roared, voice echoing in the dim, dingy stacks. "I am not sending you down alone! That is final!"

Emma stared at him. "All right, all right, keep your hair on. But who's going to – "

"I can," Greg suggested. "You know. Lower you both down."

"There." Graham turned to Emma, with the air of someone who had just presented a piece of unassailable logic. "He can lower us both down."

She hesitated again. It was hard to put a finger on her reluctance, exactly. Greg's story was true as far as it went, and he and Tamara had certainly seemed more or less genuine in their stated desire to atone for their previous mistakes. But she'd already stretched herself far further than was comfortable in giving Killian a second chance. . . did that mean she had to extend the same courtesy to every random Joe who came along? Was this the touchy-feely shit where she should start seeing the good in people? Nuh-uh. Not likely. And whether or not she had a valid reason for it, she would just feel better if she had someone she trusted on the other end.

The look on Graham's face, however, was not about to allow for this debate. "Come on," he said, striding to the elevator and shoving the heavy doors back. "We've got to help."

Emma bit her lip, looking at him with her usual blend of frustration and fondness. Why was he so damn noble? Yet if he wasn't letting her go down alone, she wasn't letting him go down alone either. And so, against her better judgment, she quashed her misgivings and stepped into the iron cage next to Graham. The grille rolled closed, and the library vanished, as Greg started to wheel them down out of sight, into darkness.

The elevator rattled and bumped down the shaft, rough rock walls gliding past in the uncertain glow of Graham's flashlight. They glanced at each other and smiled nervously, and then, almost unconsciously, he reached for her hand, squeezing it hard.

Emma was surprised and taken aback, but didn't pull away. It was strangely satisfying to know that he was at her side, even if it did engender a confusing flood of emotions that made her feel depressingly like a teenager. It seemed oddly disloyal to hold hands with one guy not even twenty-four hours after screwing another senseless, but she reminded herself that she was a free agent. Killian had no claim on her affection merely by appearing out of thin air for the first time in seven years, and if he got his bloomers in a bunch about her having a life while he was gone, that was his own damn problem. And for all she'd been trying to keep Graham at arm's length by stubbornly reminding him that he was her boss, there was something inside her that didn't want to keep doing it forever. He was never pushy about it, never overt, never obnoxious, would fall over himself apologizing if he uttered anything that sounded remotely like a come-on. But he was there, had always and steadfastly been there, and that, at least, was something she valued in a man. She couldn't say the same for Killian.

After a few more minutes, the cage bumped against the bedrock at the bottom, and the doors grated open. Graham and Emma quickly let go of each other's hands, then proceeded cautiously out, the beam of Graham's flashlight piercing only a few feet through the freezing darkness. Far off, they could hear water dripping. And that was all. Silence. Utter, consuming silence.

"If you see something," Graham whispered, "get behind me, get back and – "

"What? You think I'm gonna faint?" She was going to have to break him of the habit of seeing her as a delicate china doll that needed protecting. "Buddy, if there is something down here, then somebody's monster ass is getting kicked so hard it'll – "

"Shh!" Graham pulled up, eyes darting back and forth. "You hear that?"

Emma cocked her head and strained, but she didn't. "No."

"Could have sworn. . ." Graham kept walking, light sweeping up and down. "Hello?" he called. "Hello? Anyone down here? Anyone? This is the police! You're in no danger! Hello?"

Emma kept close at his side, angling her own flashlight into the crevices and burrows of the rock, the dark passages that led even deeper underground, breathing like the mouth of a great cave. She prided herself on not spooking easily, but this place gave her the creeps. "Lacey?" she hissed. "Belle?"

No answer.

"Kurt?" That was one summons she didn't really want answered. But she had to cover all the bases, and if some hairy madman imprisoned for decades did come shambling out of the darkness, at least it would be a bombshell for the papers. Although Sidney, of course, would never print something that cast his beloved Regina in such a bad light. "Mr. Flynn?"

Still no answer.

Graham stopped again, frown deepening. He seemed to be struggling for words, or struggling against himself, as if some invisible force didn't want him to proceed any further. It was unpleasantly reminiscent of the time someone else had seemed to seize total control of him, and as that had been followed by him making a good-faith attempt to murder her, Emma was immediately on her guard. "Graham?"

"I. . ." He glanced up, face contorted with effort. "I don't think. . ."

"What? You don't think what?"

Whatever he was about to say, however, she never found out. At that moment, there was a distant rattling from behind them, and in Emma's fraught and frazzled state, it took several more to register just what it was. Then it did, and she whirled around, heart in her throat.

"HEY!" She started to sprint back across the dark, slippery rocks, hearing her voice echo eerily and having the even more uncomfortable sensation that something near at hand had heard, was stirring, waking. "What do you think you're – "

Too late. When she hurtled around the corner and flung herself at the elevator shaft, the cage was already out of sight, proceeding swiftly up and away. All her swearing, seizing hold of the bars, and shouting did not stop it, didn't change it. Why, why had she let herself be talked into this? She couldn't – she shouldn't – she should have put her foot down, she shouldn't have –

The rattling stopped. Distantly, she heard the heavy doors slamming, sealing off the shaft, and a heavy, smothering silence fell. And then, worse still, the horrifying reality.

Greg was gone. He had lowered them down here and done a bunk.

Emma and Graham were trapped in the darkness with a monster.

There may have been times in his long life when Killian Jones had run faster, but – with the potential exception of the Tortuga incident – he was currently at a loss to recall any of them. After a terse word to Mary Margaret to inform her that he was off to settle this once and for all, he launched himself down the apartment stairs like a bottle rocket, head spinning furiously with half-baked plans and frantic ideas. Could he take the ship? The Roger would be the fastest, especially with the roads blanketed in snow, but any further than several hundred yards away from shore, he would be on foot, at a grave disadvantage. And the presence of a fully rigged, sails-and-wood two-master, perfectly visible to anyone apart from Storybrooke residents, would provoke awkward questions as well, but that was likewise the least of Killian's worries. He could tell them what was more or less the truth – that he was a deranged historical recreationist out for a lark, sailing about in this authentic replica to do very important research for Oxford University – and likely get them to buy it, or at least decide that he was enough of a crazy academic to discourage further enquiries. That was, if they didn't –

And then, at the foot of the stairs, Killian ran very hard into something – someone – very solid. He stumbled backwards, seeing stars, and a man's voice said, "What the hell? Who are you?"

Furious at being so unceremoniously interrupted, Killian prepared to let fly with a scathing retort, or possibly a right hook to the face (his left still being missing) – then glanced up, got a good look, and felt it wither. He knew the man, having briefly met him at a Family Weekend at Boston College nearly nine years ago, and then again at a downtown hospital in far different circumstances. Tall, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, hands planted on his hips, sporting an expression of obnoxiously belligerent moral rectitude. Aye. That would be him. Prince Charming, better known around these parts as David Nolan. Emma's father.

"Get out of the way, will you?" Killian snapped. "I've had nothing untoward to do with your wife, so you can put that thought out of your head. Your daughter – and your grandson – are in terrible danger."

"What?" David looked shocked. "My who? What are you even – Mary Margaret's not my wife, she's just, just. . . a friend, and I want to know what you – "

Oh, hellfire. In the panic of the past few minutes, Killian had completely forgotten about the curse. The fact that even though David Nolan had given him a note and asked him to take care of his daughter – as he and Mary Margaret were preparing to return to Storybrooke with Gold, when Emma was in the hospital for eating the poisoned turnover that caused her to forget everything about who she was, when the jaws of the curse clamped down as tightly as they were originally meant to – said David Nolan now had not the foggiest idea who Killian was, or that they'd met before, or what he wanted. He racked his hand through his hair, trying to decide whether it was worth it, then finally went for broke. "I don't care if you don't remember or not. Emma and David – David junior, that would be – are in danger. Move."

David senior clearly intended to do no such thing. "What are you doing here?" he repeated.

"Trying to leave as fast as I bloody can. You?"

"I was just. . . coming by to wish Mary Margaret happy Thanksgiving."

"All by yourself? After hours? Without whoever you think you're actually married to? Not suspicious at all, mate. And between you and me, the last after-hours visitors she had didn't go over that well. Pair of berks called Greg and Tamara, and now, if you'll excuse me – "

David Nolan, like a particularly bad case of foot fungus, refused to be detached. "Why did you say she – Mary Margaret – was my wife?"

"Look, chum. I've got better bloody things to do than play marriage counselor for you and your oblivious little psyche. I have to – "

But just then, Killian was suddenly the one to cut himself off. Looking over Nolan's shoulder, in search of a suitable object (such as a crowbar) to brain him with if he continued to withhold his compliance, he had instead caught sight of the old brown pickup truck parked outside. Clearly belonging to Nolan, it had snow tires, chains, and a heater, the ideal vehicle for chasing down Greg and Tamara. And he was a pirate, he'd steal it and hotwire it if he had to. But that would waste precious time, and there were more civilized ways of accomplishing it.

With that, Killian turned on the charm. He smiled. "My apologies," he said, offering a genteel bow. "I've been shamefully uncouth, I confess it. But would it be possible, if I were to borrow your truck for a few hours, that you could trot by the library – with or without the lovely Miss Blanchard, I'm the last one to judge for keeping company with a woman you're not married to – and investigate? I have a hunch that our upstanding law enforcement may have encountered a spot of difficulty. You only need to get Emma out, I don't care at all if you leave Humbert down there for good."

"What the – " Nolan looked as if he had been crowbarred over the head, which was doubtless as intelligent as he looked ordinarily. "Emma?"

"YES! EMMA!" Killian had a wild, unreasonable conviction that if he shouted the name enough, it would stir some old corner of Nolan's memory, make him realize what was at stake. "Go get Miss Blanchard if you like, and then go to the library! It's your daughter who's in there, your child! And if you don't mind, it's my son that's gone as well!"

"I don't have a daughter," Nolan whispered, but he looked rattled. "Still, how do I know you'll give the truck back when you're – "

"Mate. I'll buy you a bloody Lamborghini if you want. Just give me the bloody keys."

Whether it was the insane desperation that moved him, or some element of real conviction, David Nolan finally acquiesced. Without a word, he threw the keys at Killian, then ran past him, upstairs toward Mary Margaret's apartment.

Killian did not wait around for the heart-touching reunion. He was already sprinting outside into the night, which was clear and cloudless, stars twinkling like chips of crystal in the deep black sky. Nothing to compare to Neverland, of course, but as the heavenly vista was the only thing to recommend that cursed place, and he never intended to go back if he could possibly help it, he thought he could do without. He threw himself behind the wheel of David's truck, jammed the ignition to life, and lurched off down the street, headlights strafing the deserted town.

His first stop was the sheriff's station. The truck had a manual transmission, which was hell to drive with one hand, and he didn't intend to faff off completely without preparation. He turned into the snowy parking lot, braked, and sprinted up the steps. The door was locked, but that was scarcely an issue. Within a minute he was in, had disabled the alarm system, and was ransacking Graham's file cabinets in search of confiscated evidence.

Praise and glory to whatever impossibly forbearing gods were still on his side, the sword was there. Even better, so was his hook – Emma must have deposited it before she and Humbert headed off. Killian grimly screwed it back into its brace, then buckled his sword around his waist. In all, the recovery mission took less than five minutes. He'd almost been praying to be caught by Emma and her wolf-shagging sidekick, since that would mean they had extricated themselves from their predicament in the library, but there was still no one. Nothing. He shut up the place as tidily as if he had never been there, jumped back into his lawfully purloined truck, and took off.

The roads were slick and icy, but at least there was nobody else on them, and Killian was an expert at getting anything – animal, vegetable, mineral, or mechanical – to do all sorts of things it had never before dreamed of. He stayed in low gear as he rumbled down the empty two-lane highway, eyes straining the dark horizon for any hint of another car. After whatever bastard's trick they had employed to put Emma and Graham out of commission, then knocking out Mary Margaret and snatching young David, Greg and Tamara simply had to have left. There was only one way out of town, so he could be sure he was on their trail for now, but depending on how much of a head start they had. . . and they had the compass, because he'd been such a fool, such a damn fool for leaving it. . .

Killian steadfastly refused to think about what would happen if he couldn't find them. It was not even a possibility he would acknowledge. He hadn't come back this far, after this long, to lose. Not to give up the son he'd only just discovered he had, or his mother. Gods, how he hoped Emma would understand. That if he didn't come back, that he'd gone down fighting trying to get David back to her. . .

He had to think, though. Had to focus. Anything, any clue that might tell him where Greg and Tamara were planning to go. Back in the Enchanted Forest, during his audience with Mordred, the bastard had bragged about having a well-placed plant in American law enforcement, someone working for Home Office who'd been reporting constantly on Killian's circumstances, enabling them to arrange that little trap with Mr. Smee and the bean. What else had Mordred said? He was a hard sell, but we eventually brought him around. His former lover did some excellent work for us as well. Jack Antonsson. I can tell you her name because she's dead.

Well. That was bugger-all to go on. Just knowing that it was someone who'd worked on his case, who'd had a girlfriend named Jack, who'd initially registered an objection but finally given in. Whether because of ultimate conviction or of blackmail was up for debate, but –

Oh.

Oh.

The solution hit Killian over the head like a bucket of freezing water, so blindingly obvious that he kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. Emma had been the one working on his case when they'd so fatefully met up again, first at the Renaissance Hotel and then in London, a newly minted agent of the ATF sent to track down miscreants such as himself. And thus, Home Office's mole. . . it wasn't her, but her boss. Old boss, rather. And that meant –

Boston.

Greg and Tamara – with his son in tow – were headed for Boston.

"Emma! Emma, stop, it's no use!" Graham was still trying vainly to catch hold of her, to restrain her, as she continued to swear and shout and grapple at the bars. "Emma, calm down, we have to think, we have to put our minds to it, we have to – "

"This could have been avoided if you'd just listened to me when I told you I wanted one of us up there!" Emma didn't care if it was fair or not; so far as she could tell, they had just been abandoned down here to slowly freeze or starve or be monstered to death, and she was not at all disposed to be rational. "Now what the hell are we going to do? I don't even have a fucking cell phone on me, and he shut the doors, so it's not like anyone is going to hear us scream. And seeing as this place gets checked once every ten years if we're lucky, they'll find our skeletons down here like, I don't know, some prehistoric people curled up in a cave to die – "

"I'm sorry." Graham looked ashen. "You're right. I should have listened to you. I'm sorry."

"Well, that just does us a fucking lot of good then, doesn't it?" Emma whirled on her heel, breathing hard through her nose. Her adrenaline was roaring, refusing to subside or sit down or wait for any kind of a far-off and not-at-all-certain rescue. "One of us is going to have to try to climb the elevator shaft and see if we can get the doors open at the top. Unless there's another way out of here, through the passages?"

Graham shook his head. "I. . . I don't know. And some of the passages might lead to the town line, and I. . . we can't. . ."

"You can't, you mean. What the hell is even up with that?"

For a moment, he simply stared back at her blankly. Then, in a voice that didn't sound like his own, he said, "Regina. . . she doesn't. . . she doesn't want. . . controls. . . I don't think. . ."

"Graham?" Emma frowned. He didn't look good, and even her anger at him didn't preclude her concern. She put a hand on his cheek, slapping him lightly. "Hey. If we're going to have any chance of getting out of here, we need to work together. Stay with me, buddy."

"No!" Graham insisted, with increasing vehemence. "Regina! She – "

"She what? Controls you? Yeah, I could kind of tell that, but then again, she tries to play with everyone like chess pieces, and I have no doubt that she's weaseled away Greg and Tamara and Greg's dad and everyone else who got in her way, but why are you telling – "

Graham cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

Emma was so surprised that she could not muster the least resistance. She could only yield for a breathless, bedazzled minor eternity to the sensation of his lips on hers, his fingers curling gently around her as if she was something rare and precious and perfect, as if he was coming up from a deep dive at so very long last. Her hand reached up to cradle the back of his neck, her mouth opening despite herself, close to him, drawing nearer a flickering candle that –

And then, Graham jerked backwards. The look in his eyes would have frightened her, if it hadn't been for the tears running down his cheeks, the expression of pure and transcendent awe as he stared at her. "Emma," he croaked. "Emma. I remember."

"What?" Still disoriented from their closeness, she took a step toward him. "You remember what?"

"Everything." He ran a hand down his face. "I remember who I am – who you are. You've come back. I always knew you'd come back. For all of us. For your parents. Emma. . . I've known you for most of my life. From when you were Emma Nolan, until now. And before, back in our world. . . I'm sorry, I did everything for Snow and Charming that I could, but Regina – "

"Shh." Emma put a hand to his mouth. "Graham. . ."

"I remember," he whispered, his fingers threading through the fine blonde hair at the nape of her neck. "The wolf. . . it was mine, I was the Huntsman, I. . ."

"Graham, calm down. Just – just – later, all right? Later."

He was still breathing hard, cheeks flushed. Their gazes remained locked. There was a strange, transcendent edge to the air, as they leaned close once more, eyelashes fluttering, about to kiss again. To hell with explanations and excuses and time, with everything, nothing but the –

Graham's eyes rolled back in his head. He had time only for a brief, confused noise before he dropped like a stone.

"Graham?" Emma, shocked, threw herself to her knees, grabbing him, pulling his head into her lap. "Graham? Graham! Look at me! What's wrong? Graham!"

He stared at her hazily, the life already fleeing from his face. His words emerged as if from very far away, from a terrible effort, as if a vise was closing around his chest and crushing it. He tried to raise a hand to touch her cheek, but couldn't. "I love you."

And then, just like that, with no rhyme or reason, as she clutched him close in the darkness of the library basement, panic threatening to overtake her, knowing that she was alone now, completely alone, that that little flame of hope had been snuffed out by the flood, he died.

Killian had driven this route three times before, from Boston to Storybrooke and back. However long it had taken him on any of those occasions, it took half as long this time. Once he got south onto the interstate, he slammed the gas pedal to the floor and did not let up for anything short of an act of God. Boston. Somewhere, anywhere in Boston. They had the compass, they must be intending to bring through the entire lot of Home Office and sic them on Storybrooke. Once out from under the cloaking effect of the curse, Greg and Tamara could make contact with anybody they liked – and Killian himself was going to have to go single-handed against all of them –

Fine. If that was what it took. He had to get David back, or die. Nothing else mattered. If the elder David and Mary Margaret had gone to the library and found Emma – they had to, another thought he could not stand –

It was sometime in the godforsaken wee hours of the morning when the horizon began to be pinpricked with the city lights of Boston and its suburbs. It gave Killian the devil of a turn to see the place again. He had, after all, lived and taught here, and now he was racing in on two wheels, desperate to stop a crime that might have already taken place. Why didn't I just do away with Tamara when I had the chance? Instead he'd listened to her, worked with her, even – how sick the memory made him – attacked Emma on her behalf. I didn't know it was her, I thought. . .

Yet that was even worse. At the time, he had not known that Neal Cassidy was who he was. Had seen him in passing at BC, thought he looked faintly familiar, but would never dream of guessing that Baelfire had not only escaped from Neverland, he'd ended up smack dab in the same place. Likewise, Killian had never told Bae his real name; from Milah's death until he arrived in London on Wendy Darling's doorstep, he had introduced himself only as Hook. Hence, if Neal thought that the dapper, charming, mysterious man seemed too reminiscent of a particularly unpleasant time in his past. . . well, the professor had both hands, whereas the pirate only had one, and he would have thought it better to let bygones be bygones. Either convinced himself that he was mistaken, and Professor Killian Jones' resemblance to Captain Hook was just an eerie coincidence, or been determined not to say anything and hope that he was left alone.

Think, Killian. Think. He had a bloody doctorate degree, they didn't just hand those out like candy to village idiots. Had to be logical, think critically, sequentially, as if he was just doing more , Home Office could pop through anywhere, but they were likely to be coming from the Enchanted Forest, from the ruined castle on the bay. That meant they'd throw the magic bean into the water. Which meant water on this end. So. . .

The ATF was where Emma had worked, and hence where her boss, Home Office's mole, must work as well. You could see Boston Navy Yard from the ATF offices. He remembered that from when he'd done a brief scope-out of the place – right before Greg and Tamara kidnapped him and foisted him into the back of that bloody U-Haul trailer, in fact. And that was where –

Killian pulled the truck around so fast that he left all the rubber of the tires on the road, and slammed down the accelerator again, shamelessly running a red light and hoping he didn't end up with the police on his tail again for his trouble. But it didn't matter. Nothing did.

He knew where they were going.

The wintry night sky was just turning the faintest shade of pearlescent grey by the time Killian had parked the truck at the empty Flagship Wharf and was sprinting down the icy docks toward the yard, and the distant, anchored silhouette of the USS Constitution. It was suspiciously absent of all the usual security personnel and rigmarole that would be expected for a working U.S. Navy installation – apparently, the head of the ATF and thence Home Office dupe had pulled some strings with his federal buddies to get them to conveniently clear out tonight. It confirmed Killian's suspicions beyond a doubt, and as his footsteps were echoing like gunshots, he slowed to a stealthy walk, hand on his sword. He could see people down toward the end of the pier – and swirling in the cold water, the telltale green vestiges of a closing portal.

They're here. His already overworked heart picked up several more notches. There were four of them, all adults. One he didn't recognize, wearing a dark hood. Then Greg and Tamara, beyond a doubt. And even worse, Cora, looking as unruffled as if she'd just been dancing at a ball. Bloody hell, had she been working for the bastards all along? When he thought of how much time and effort he'd put into that, first in getting her out of jail and then double-crossing her. . . and she had been likely laughing up her lacy sleeve at him the whole time –

Killian pressed himself flat to the wall, not daring to break cover until he caught a glimpse of David. Where was he? Where? Greg and Tamara clearly hadn't gone to the bother of taking him only to chuck him out of the car somewhere on the lonely New England highway. So –

"Well done indeed," Cora was saying, voice carrying on the cold predawn breeze. "I know it's been a bother and an inconvenience for us all, but it's almost done. Stealing the compass from Hook's ship – that was a stroke of brilliance. Now all we have to do is navigate to Storybrooke with it, and take care of our business. You did find the trigger?"

"We think so." That was Greg. "It'll be under the library, we're all but certain. Once the sheriff and the deputy are out of the way, we'll send Belle down to retrieve it. As you said, it will kill everybody who was brought here by the curse, and wipe Storybrooke off the map."

"You sound pleased." Cora could almost heard to be arching a haughty eyebrow.

"Of course I am," Mendel said violently. "That place, that woman, ruined my life, and now I'm finally about to have my revenge."

"Of course. Once we go – "

And then, the unseen, unidentified fourth figure spoke up. "Wait. We're going to Storybrooke? You never said anything about that! You never said anything about killing everybody! If I'd known – if I'd known anything about that – I wouldn't have come near, I never would have – "

"Second thoughts?" Cora again. "You did seem so eager to assist us when we told you that we were going to stop your father from hurting anyone again. Well, Mr. Cassidy. This is precisely what we're doing. I hope you're not backing down now."

Hidden just a few dozen yards up the dock, Killian was quite certain he was about to faint. He could feel his knees going out, latched his hook around a pipe to keep his balance, staring madly at the second man – at Neal, at Baelfire, who was standing apart from the rest, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched defensively. It was plain that he had been dragged along by duress, or at the very best grudging consent, and wanted nothing more than to run as far away as possible, as fast as possible. You did seem so eager to assist us when we told you that we were going to stop your father from hurting anyone again. But how – gods, how –

"I said," Neal repeated stubbornly. "I don't want to go to Storybrooke. And if you try to make me, it'll be a very, very big mistake. For you."

Cora considered him. Then she said sweetly, "Well then. Perhaps you don't have to. We have a special delivery to make, and perhaps you'll consent to act as courier. Mr. Mendel – if you would be so good?"

Killian saw Greg stepping out of sight, and every muscle in his body turned to stone. Now, it must be now. Especially when, a few moments later, Greg reappeared, leading a confused, shivering, and clearly very upset young David Swan, who was glancing around apprehensively at all the unfamiliar adults. "Please," he was saying. "Please, Mr. Mendel, I don't want to go, I want to go home. I want my mom, please. I don't like you, you're bad, I don't – "

"Now, now, sweetheart." Cora smiled. "It's not like that at all. You're very lucky. You get to go to Neverland tonight. The real Neverland, where Pan's waiting for you. He wants you very much, you see, and we're going to give you to him."

David's jaw dropped. There was a split second while he tried to take it in, and in that moment, to complete and utter hell with secrecy or lies or silence or anything, Killian Jones acted.

"Get away from my son, you bastards!" He ripped his sword clear of the scabbard and threw himself down the dock at a dead run, only barely having the time to enjoy the looks of total shock on every face. Greg was running to head him off, and Killian swung his sword back – he'd kill them all if he had to, every one of them, no loss whatsoever and –

"Tamara, dear," Cora said, as if asking the other woman to swat a particularly vexatious fly. "Go ahead and get that for us, will you?"

"With pleasure." Tamara stepped forward and pulled something from her belt. While Killian was still spinning toward her, fighting off Greg, she pointed it at him and pulled the trigger.

He tried instinctively to duck, but it wasn't a gun. No bullet caught him in the shoulder. Instead, he was thrown ten feet backwards in a howl of crackling blue energy, sword flying out of his hand, body jerking and writhing out of his control as paralyzing shocks cascaded through him from head to toe. Tamara kept the modified Taser aimed mercilessly at him until he was almost foaming at the mouth, convulsing, hook banging against the dock, completely incapacitated.

"Very nice," Cora said, peering with mild approval at the results. "I may have to look into acquiring one of those. And now – " David's wrist clamped in one hand, she made an elegant gesture with the other, and a glimmering magical bean appeared in her palm. "Let's get on with it, shall we?"

"You won't. . ." Steam billowed from Killian's singed jacket, his lungs heaving and charring with every breath. "Take. . . my son. . ."

David gaped over his shoulder. "Mr. Jones? Captain Hook? D. . . Dad?"

"Dad?" everyone present repeated incredulously. Particularly Cora, who looked as if the irony was simply too sweet for words. Then she shrugged, said, "Family is a curse, Captain, take it from me," and threw the bean. "Neverland!"

A whirling green portal opened up in the cold dark water of Boston Navy Yard at once, humming and spitting and spinning. David yelled and jerked free of Cora, fighting like a little wildcat, like his father's son, but she merely made another gesture, and he was wrapped about tightly with invisible bonds. Then she shoved, and he stumbled backwards, fell from the deck – and vanished down the emerald-green maelstrom, out of sight, off the face of the very earth.

"DAVID!" Killian struggled to roll himself to all fours, blind with terror, never knowing anything like it, seeing his son gone in front of his eyes, down to Neverland – to Neverland – the mermaids' curse, Pan, that fey and dark and dangerous and terrible place – because of him, because of him, because of him –

Tamara casually pointed the Taser at him again and unleashed another burst, and Killian collapsed. Then, just as the portal was starting to close, Cora made a gesture, and Neal was thrust violently backwards off the pier, splashing into the water as the magic gulped at him greedily.

Neal shouted desperately, hanging onto the mooring and trying to avoid being sucked down after David. Killian was still trying to crawl, and for a moment, their eyes locked dead onto each other's. In the other man's face, Killian could see nothing but the teenage boy he had taken onto the Roger, concealed and shielded, been so desperate to adopt, to raise him as his own, to make a family with him. He could not, must not, let these bastards take both his sons from him, and, gasping and swearing with agony, he tried to force his malfunctioning body forward. "Bae. . ." he croaked. "Hang on, Bae, I'll get you, lad, I'll help you, I'll protect. . ."

But it was not the teenager who looked back at him. It was the grown man, and his face was almost unrecognizable, twisted with anger and hate, remembering as well as Killian did the night that the pirate captain had sold him out to the Lost Ones. When everything had come apart, after Bae had confronted him on the deck of the Roger with the drawing of Milah, had blamed him for tearing his family apart. After the last shreds of Killian had vanished for good and all, and there was only Hook.

"I know. . . very well. . . what kind of help. . . you give," Neal Cassidy spat, and let go.