Chapter 35

It wasn't the monster in the darkness that was struggling to climb the elevator shaft, rough wet rock slipping under her fingers, back wedged against the wall as she tried to inch up, but couldn't get enough leverage. It wasn't the monster in the darkness that was hunting her, prowling closer and closer, waiting to devour her if she fell. It wasn't – or was it? – the monster in the darkness that had killed Graham, taken his life between thumb and forefinger and snuffed it out like a waning moon. Was it down there still? Was it coming to take her too? Or was it just her? Was she the only monster down here, the only forgotten prisoner?

Emma barely realized or cared that she was crying; she simply didn't have time for it. She redistributed her weight, trying again to work out the ascent, but it was probably a good hundred feet straight up and the walls, being smoothed to allow passage of the elevator car, were conspicuously lacking in handholds or crevices. And even if she did get up. . . a crashing weight settled into her stomach as she realized that the car itself was blocking her in. There was no way to move it, circumvent it, unlatch it, or crawl through it. Her only faint, frantic hope was that Mary Margaret would notice she had been gone too long, and come to the library to investigate. But what if something, someone, had gone after Mary Margaret as well? Greg hadn't just lowered them down this hellpit and left them to die for shits and giggles. There was some kind of Batman-villain-caliber evil plan afoot, and there was absolutely dick-all she could do about it.

Gasping, Emma dropped back down to the ground, hands scraped and bleeding. She felt utterly powerless, helpless, trapped, abandoned, and the sensation was so overwhelming, calling out so many dark and desperate memories, that she clutched her knees, rocking back and forth as she tried to avoid descending into a full-blown panic attack. Were you supposed to hold your breath? Were you not supposed to hold your breath? You probably weren't supposed to claw off your own face. Graham's body lay a few yards away, eyes staring off into nothing, and it made her feel worse that she couldn't stand to look at him. She was making a faint, whimpering, animal sound over and over, without her volition or control, and she wanted to throw up but couldn't even bring herself to do that. With flight having been so emphatically shut down, she was also failing at fight, and after that, it was clearly one easy slide off the cliff into crazytown. Or should she try to find her way out, deeper into the passages? What if the monster was there? What if the town line would kill her?

I remember, Graham had said. I remember everything. And then, moments later, dropped dead out of the blue, just like that. What if the curse was worse than she had ever thought? What if remembering meant dying? Was it something to do with her? Had she missed her chance to save them, or did saving only mean losing? Taking away anything she dared to care for?

Emma stood up. Her legs felt weak and her chest was tight, a sensation like an electric shock fizzing unevenly in her veins. She had no idea what she was going to do – walk into the darkness and take her fucking chances, probably – when, from somewhere far above, she heard the distinctive sound of the elevator starting to descend.

Her entire body seized up. Somebody was coming, and the only reason they would be doing that was to check that everybody who was supposed to be dead, was. There might be a slender chance that she could blast her way out of this, but it wasn't exactly the smart money. Still, like everything, she'd go down fighting. Thumbing open the magazine of her gun, she checked that she had a round chambered, then hoisted it and clicked off the safety. In an eventful life spent chasing down crooks and felons and thieves, whether at the ATF or as a bail bondsman, she had never before shot to kill. There's a first time for everything.

The bumping and scraping sounds were getting closer. The elevator door grated open.

Emma threw herself out from behind her cover, dropped to a knee, and fired.

The sound was like an explosion, spraying rock chips, and was followed by a decidedly feminine scream. A decidedly familiar scream. And then – impossibly – Emma peered through the gloom and saw none other than Mary Margaret Blanchard cowering against the far wall, staring around madly for the source of the gunshot that had just taken out a chunk of stone three feet to her left.

Emma's heart just about stopped on the spot. "What the – " Fingers fumbling, horrified by what she had almost done, she slammed back on the safety and thrust the Magnum into its holster. "Mary Margaret! What are you doing here? Did they send you down too? What's – what's – "

"Emma?" Mary Margaret straightened up, abjectly relieved. "Oh my God! I thought – "

"I thought so too." Emma's hands were still shaking. If she hadn't missed so badly. . . no, she couldn't think that. "I. . . it's a trap, you shouldn't be here. Something. . . something already. . ." Unable to complete the sentence, she pointed at Graham.

Mary Margaret let loose a short scream and clapped both hands over her mouth, staring at the sheriff's lifeless body. "Oh my God," she said again, weakly. "I don't blame you for being trigger-happy. What. . . what happened?"

"I don't know." Emma tried to swallow, but couldn't. "One moment he was fine, the next. . . he just. . . he just. . ."

Mary Margaret looked horrified a moment longer, then shook her head briskly, displaying a steeliness and savoir-faire that Emma wouldn't have expected in the quiet, mild-mannered schoolteacher. "All right. We need to get you out of here. David's at the top, he – "

"David? Is he all right? I'm sorry, I didn't want to leave you with him again, and I thought – "

"Oh. No. I mean. . . I mean David Nolan. My. . . friend." Mary Margaret's pale cheeks flushed. "We came to the library, after. . . Emma, there's something I need to tell you. It's bad."

Emma uttered a hollow, broken laugh. "I'm not really sure how this can get any worse."

"It. . . it can." Mary Margaret looked wretched. "Your David, your son. . . oh, Emma, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Two people came by my apartment, about half an hour after you left. And they. . ." She pushed aside her black bangs to reveal a discolored bruise on her forehead, and the dried blood matting in her hair. "They knocked me out and they. . ."

In that moment, Emma could actually hear her world falling apart, whistling and crashing like a bomb. Everything was horribly sticky and slow and unreal. "They. What."

"They took him." Mary Margaret's voice was a whisper. "I don't know where. Killian found me, he said he knew who it was, and he ran off right away to go after them. He must have met David – Nolan, that is – because David came up to my place and said he'd loaned his truck to a strange man in black and he was upset and wanted us to go to the library after you, so. . . I'm so sorry, I'm not making any sense, this is just so awful and I – "

"Killian?" Emma repeated stupidly. "Killian. . . went after my kid? And told you to come here?"

"As far as I know." Mary Margaret put an arm around Emma's shoulders. "He was very upset. He took David's truck and left immediately."

Emma felt the faintest easing in the giant block of ice that had become permanently lodged in her stomach. Felt as if she'd taken a breath for the first time since Graham collapsed. She opened her mouth, trying to say something, but only shook her head. "Come on. I still haven't found out what the hell is actually down here, if there's anything, and now really isn't the time."

Between the two of them, Emma and Mary Margaret managed to carry Graham into the elevator, and Mary Margaret called up to David. He must have started cranking as if he was being paid for it, because they rose swiftly toward the surface, and sure enough, when the heavy iron doors rolled back, they could see David bent over the wheel, panting. Mary Margaret ran out into his arms, and apparently oblivious or uncaring of the fact that Emma was standing right the fuck there and their love affair was supposed to be on the DL, they kissed for a long moment. Then they pulled apart, blushing and coughing, and the revelation that the body of the Storybrooke sheriff was contained within the elevator cage proved every bit as dramatic as expected.

There was so much to do after that, but it was only a blur in Emma's head. Nothing felt real. They called the hospital and the coroner and the county investigative unit and the morgue, and Graham was taken away. Emma was just meeting the detectives outside the library, apologizing for dragging them out at an ungodly hour on a holiday night, when there was a screech of tires, and Regina's black Mercedes-Benz pulled up almost on the curb. The mayor herself leapt out a moment later, white-faced and disheveled. "Oh my God! Graham – I heard something about Graham, tell me it isn't – let me through, I need to – "

Emma waved the detectives inside and turned back to Regina. "I'm very sorry, Madam Mayor, but this is an active crime scene. And seeing as yes, it's true what you heard about Graham, I'm the acting sheriff. I can't let you in."

Regina stared at her. "You're not sending those people down there? Whatever killed Graham is still on the loose! It's too dangerous!"

"I'm not going to argue this with – " Emma began, and then caught herself. She drew herself up and stared coolly down her nose at the other woman. "You know," she said. "It's funny how you just assume he was murdered. Because I don't remember saying anything about that."

"What are you talking about?" Others would have flushed, but Regina only went paler. "I'm not the one trying to put more people in harm's way! Get them out of there! Nobody is going down into that basement again until we get it thoroughly scanned and checked out. I'll take care of it, I feel a responsibility to the citizens and – "

"Excuse me." Emma's voice cracked like a whip. "You chose a really bad time to start your little power trips, Ms. Mills. Because you know what? I think Graham was murdered. By you."

"What. . . how dare you!" Regina drew herself up. "I was nowhere near, and if you're suggesting that I would do something like that, I don't know who you think you're dealing with. If you – "

"I know exactly what I'm dealing with." Emma had no hard evidence, nothing but a hunch, but it was currently going haywire. "You don't really look like you were called out of bed. You're fully dressed like you've been somewhere else tonight, you just turn up here and so happen to disapprove of people going down under the library, and right before he died, Graham was trying to tell me something about you. Something like you controlled him. Sound familiar?"

"I'm not going to stand for this." Regina's lips went tight. "If anyone murdered him, Miss Swan, I would be inclined to think it might be you. So then. You really don't know what you're dealing with. How about you take your son and leave for good, before anyone else gets hurt?"

"That sounds awfully familiar. You know, for someone who swears up and down it's only advice for my own good, it's pretty damn easy to mistake it for a threat. I wonder why?" Emma most sorely longed to punch the other woman in the face, to go after her, to scream, to burn, to fall. "Now I repeat, there's no way you're getting in here, and until the recon is finished – "

"If you say so." Regina flashed a grim smile. "But I'm going to get a court order to stop people from going into a building that's condemned and dangerous, and I'm going to have it by morning. So you might want to think about that."

Emma stared at her, utterly incredulous, then whirled away. No matter if she would happily have stayed and sparred with Regina all night, something else had just occurred to her. If Killian had left town in pursuit of David junior, and then found him (please God let him find him) he wouldn't be able to get back into Storybrooke on his own. Unless he wasn't planning to come back at all, didn't give a shit. . . some dark animal part of her brain screamed at her that he was gone, he'd left her like Neal, like Graham, he'd left her and she would never see him again and –

As hot white static fizzed and snapped at her vision and her head began to reel, she realized that she was on the verge of having another panic attack, and forced down deep, nauseous breaths until she regained command of herself. Turning away from Regina, who now had a cordon of inspectors to deal with anyway, Emma ducked through the library doors and out into the chilly darkness, where she found David and Mary Margaret directing traffic for the growing throng of onlookers in pajamas straggling out of their houses to stare. They were the only ones left she trusted at all, and she had to. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed David's arm. "Hey."

He turned to her in surprise. "Deputy – Sheriff – Swan?"

"I – I need your help." Emma had so rarely uttered those words, so rarely confessed to it, that she had to take a moment to process. "My son was kidnapped, and I understand that you lent my – friend your truck to go after him. But they can't find their way back into Storybrooke on their own, and I'm the only one who can leave. I need to go out past the town limits and wait for them. I need you to handle things on this end."

David and Mary Margaret blinked, as clearly it had never occurred to them either to leave or that there might be something remarkable about her doing so. But they both nodded gamely. "We'll do whatever we can."

"Great." Emma took off her deputy badge and pinned on Graham's sheriff badge instead. Then she handed it to David. "Congratulations on your promotion, Deputy Nolan."

He grinned. "This is awesome. I always wanted to be the good cop."

For a moment, Emma just stared at him, searching out every detail that might remind her of herself, or of her David. Good classic name. Never goes out of style. Yeah. My dad's. She had never in her life more powerfully hungered to know if it was true, was recklessly and desperately hoping it was, but she was terrified of asking him to remember. Not if it meant he might die as well. If that was true, if that was the curse, if that was the darkest and foulest thing anyone could contrive. . . she had to break it. She didn't care at what cost or what effort. She had to.

David frowned. "What? Do I have something on my face?"

With a terrible effort, Emma pulled her gaze away. "No. Thanks, both of you. I'll be back soon, I promise."

The alternative was too terrible to even consider.

Dawn was breaking far off and distant through the black trees, a striking palette of rose-pink light and white snow, by the time Emma parked just outside the "Welcome to Storybrooke" sign. Since she knew the town was there, she could still see it sparkling in the valley bottom below, but she'd had enough experience by now to know that to anyone else – including Killian – it would look only like an empty, rural road to nowhere. Nervous adrenaline coursed through her body, making her leg jump, her fingers tap, her throat dry, as she sat running the heat and staring through the woods. Where was he? How long would it take? He had David, didn't he? He had to. Who had taken her son? Who?

Emma's pent-up kinetic energy was too much for her to stay sitting, so, despite the gusting, icy wind, she got out of the cruiser and began to pace. Her hair snapped and tossed in her face, her cheeks red with cold, as she tried to remember any prayers she might have learned back in her Catholic-school days at BC. It was a surprise even to her, however, to realize that the reason she was here was because she trusted Killian to get her son – their son – back. She must be. Otherwise, why would she be standing out here alone on a snowy road at dawn on the morning after Thanksgiving, almost sick with hope and fear?

The sun continued to inch higher through the dripping trees. Her stomach twisted in half with hunger, her eyes were hot and hollow, and it felt as if a mortar had blown a few rounds through her chest. Her memories still swam with the sight of Graham collapsing. She felt as if she was poised at the very edge of an abyss, as if everything about her life, about her future, had waged on this decision to throw the dice and wait for him, for Killian. To try it. Trust.

It was getting lighter and lighter now. Midmorning.

He wasn't here. He wasn't coming. They weren't coming.

Emma leaned back against the police car with a moan. Her son. David. God. David. Her child, her blood, her boy. David Eric Swan. How little he'd been when they put him in her arms. How little he was still now. Not even seven. Not even. Would she see him on the news one day far in the future, trailing behind his kidnapper? Would they put him on a milk carton? Would she ever even know what had happened to him, or just spend every day wondering, looking for his face in a crowd? Would she become one of those crusading moms who cracked cold cases and appeared on true crime TV shows, or would she just have to face the fact that he was lost, a lost boy just like his brother, like –

And then at that moment, as cold waves of terror began to break over her with a vengeance, she caught a glimpse of another vehicle far down the road, taking the slippery curves with a disregard that bordered on the suicidal. It roared closer, briefly out of sight through a copse of trees, and then closer. A truck. An old brown pickup, with a familiar dark silhouette behind the wheel. But it was only – she didn't see –

The truck blasted through a final snowbank and slewed to a halt, spraying slush, as Emma jumped back, convinced that she was about to be run over. Then the driver's side door burst open, and Killian Jones, in long black leather jacket, sword, and hook, jumped out.

They stared at each other for one long lunatic instant, neither of them quite able to believe their eyes. Then Killian gave her an exhausted, brokenhearted smile, took one step toward her, and collapsed.

"Killian!" Emma's scream split the quiet morning. Every other thought in her head was gone but her terror. It's happening again, it happened again, it was me, it was me, did I murder Graham after all, was it me? She knew completely and beyond all doubt that if she lost Killian in the same way just hours later, she would lose her mind. She couldn't. He had come back. Again. He had come back. And now, wonderfully, terribly, forever, she could not let him go.

She reached him the next moment and scooped him frantically into her arms, cradling his head in the crook of her elbow, her free hand fumbling beneath his jacket to his chest, feeling for his heart. His eyelids looked almost translucent, bruised, and his face was scraped and battered and sunken. As she held him, something shocked her, and she glanced down with a small yelp to see blue sparks of energy still spitting through his clothes. He convulsed silently, gasping.

"Killian. Killian, look at me." She cupped his face in her free hand and shook him, trying to get his pain-clouded blue eyes to focus on hers. "Killian! Oh my God. Killian! No! Stay with me! Come on! Come on, please!"

"Emma. . ." He shuddered as he tried to find enough breath to speak. "Emma. . . I'm sorry. . . I couldn't. . . I couldn't get David. . . they took him. . . Emma, please forgive me, I tried. . ."

"What happened?" She gripped him tighter. "Who took him?"

"Greg. Tamara." He turned aside with a small noise of agony as more crackles of lightning circuited through him. "Emma, I should have told you. . . when I crossed here. . . I didn't do it alone. There were others. Other people."

And with that, the story spilled out of him. She didn't understand half of it, these references to evil witches and beanstalks and giants and more, but she did understand that her hunch about Greg and Tamara had been dead on the money. They were working for some kind of shady organization with unforeseen powers behind them, and they hadn't given up a shred of their previous convictions. She was weirdly elated about that, but when Killian told her the identity of their operative on this side, she was flattened. James? James George? She'd always trusted her boss. Thought that he was sincere and hardworking and fair. Had he already been working for these Home Office people when she was tracking down Killian in Boston and London? How much had he told them? How much had he been responsible for? To face the fact that yet again, someone she'd put her stock in had betrayed her was numbing, a dull and terrible litany.

When Killian's hoarse voice finally fell silent, Emma continued to sit there, holding him. She didn't know what to say or feel. She wanted to be angry that he'd kept so much from her, but it was matched with a realization that she'd been guarding just as much as herself from him. Neither of us have any idea how to do this. We're no good. Groping blindly along the same path in search of the same destination, but having no idea where or what or how. Just making it up. Naked to the storm.

"David?" she said at last. Her son's name felt strange and heavy on her tongue, almost sharp. She was dreading the answer, but had to ask the question. "So. . . do you know where. . . David?"

Killian's eyes met hers. Very quietly, he said, "Would you believe me if I told you, lass?"

She hesitated, then nodded.

"Neverland," Killian said in a rush. "He's in bloody Neverland. Second star to the right, never grow old, the whole bit, but it's nothing like whatever stories you think you know. Cora chucked him down a portal, and. . . someone else fell in with him. I tried to stop it, I tried with everything I had, I swear, but Tamara and her wretched sodding Taser. . ."

Emma shivered. She had unpleasantly clear memories of her own acquaintance with the business end of that thing. But the other thing he had said was more important. "Neverland? But there's the shadow there, there's. . ." Henry. It had been David's dream of him that had started this all. Had Pan, at last, finally found what he was looking for?

Killian coughed, a sound as if he'd been kicked in the ribs, and grimacing, tried to sit up. "Aye. And that's not the worst of it. They're coming. Cora and the terrible twosome. They have the compass. The curse won't keep them out. I played dead until they left, then raced like hellfire and damnation to get back here before they did, to warn you. We may have another hour, two at mos. We have to find a way to prepare for it. Have to fight."

Emma stared at him, unable to process what she was hearing. Then reaction kicked in, and she pulled him close again with both hands, their breath steaming silver in the air. As he was still looking at her as a man had never looked at her, as she had to take the chance, as she had to find out, as she had to know, as she knew, she held his head fiercely and kissed him even harder.

Killian made a startled noise through his nose, but it did not signify any disagreement at all; his hooked arm wrapped tight around her back, and they fell backwards onto the icy pavement together, which was fully as uncomfortable as it sounded. But neither of them cared. They kissed until they couldn't breathe, until they could barely think, and then again. Finally, gasping and disheveled and dirty, they pulled apart and clambered unsteadily to their feet.

Emma watched him like a hawk. Now. Would it be now? If he was going to die – if he would collapse the same as Graham – if she was the murderer, if she was the curse –

He didn't. He wiped his mouth with his good hand and smiled helplessly at her. "I'm at your side, Emma," he breathed. "Now and forever. Can you trust that?"

She hesitated one last time. Could feel sunlight shining inside her, to her dark and shut-away secret places, through her walls, through her pain, to places it hadn't touched in years. It wanted to hold her back, as it always did, but now when her son needed her, when her family needed her, when she needed her – she had to be stronger than that. And she was Emma Swan. She was.

"All right," she whispered to him, this man she loved. "I trust you."

He gazed back at her, and she could tell that he knew exactly what it meant. With the utmost tenderness, he touched her cheek. "Well then," he said. "I'll not lie to you. This is going to be bloody awful and awkward and everything else you can think of. But there's only one way we can do this. Only one who can help us, and it's going to damn well cost us through the nose."

Emma stared at him blankly. Then comprehension hit, and her jaw dropped.

"No," she said. "Him?"

"Aye," Killian confirmed grimly. "Him."

"Oh, look," said Robert Gold, staring in apparent befuddlement at the door of his pawn shop. "It opened quite by itself, that's the oddest thing. I surely don't see anyone I desire to speak with. Or anyone at all, actually." He turned ostentatiously back to his polishing.

"Cut it out." Emma moved closer to the counter. "We need your help."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. You seem to have mistaken me for somebody who gives a damn. Very embarrassing, really. Now can you locate the exit on your own, or do you require a snappy theme song to hit you in the arse on the way out?"

At that Killian, who was standing in the doorway (having removed his leather jacket and hook so as not to further provoke their target) took an angry step forward. "How about you shut up and listen, crocodile. I know you'd throw a bloody party if my son went and died in Neverland, but it's more than that. Home Office is coming, and they'll be here in hours. I heard them with my own ears. They'll destroy everything and everyone they can. And besides. You have a good reason for wanting to help us. A bloody good reason. I daresay it's the same as mine."

Gold stared at him with sleek, urbane, perfectly groomed loathing. "Dost mine eyes deceive me? You are walking in here of your own volition to plead for my assistance? Whatever can be next – lions with lambs and IKEA instructions comprehensible to the general public?"

Killian turned to Emma. "Can I please hit him? Just once?"

"No!" Emma snapped, hastening to run interference. She could feel Killian tense, as if he manifestly did not like having her standing between him and his mortal enemy, but remained where she was. "Gold. You can guess we wouldn't be here unless it was desperately urgent. Neither of you is going to be killing the other, period, or – "

"Or what? You'll throw me in jail?" Gold arched an utterly out-of-fucks eyebrow. "Try to revoke my merchandising license? Just think of all the black market antiques I could be selling."

"No. They're coming here to find and trigger a self-destruct on the curse. Not a happy kind to make it go away and everything back to normal. Everybody is going to die."

"The curse," Gold mused. "So you believe now indeed, Miss Swan? And have attached yourself at the hip to this puling wastrel? The fates giveth and taketh away indeed. How can you be so sure that this. . . individual is telling you the truth?"

Emma stiffened her spine. "I trust him."

"Do you?" Gold's eyes glittered. "Despite everything, dearie, I rather like you, so I'll hope for your sake it's not the last thing you ever do. And yet, how are these terrible villains supposed to find the place?"

"The curse won't stop them," Killian growled. "They have the compass."

"Doubtless how you arrived to spoil an otherwise lovely little village, I collect? Passed it along to them when you were done?"

"They stole it from me, you mincing, murderous, malingering mound of – "

"Oh, such as you stole my – "

"Will both of you please shut up!" Emma roared, startling both of them. "Good lord! You can get back to arguing who's done each other more wrong later. Gold. . . everything comes with a price. We need you to do this. As a favor. We can pay."

"Oh believe me, dearie. You can't afford what I'd charge for a favor like this. Arm and a leg isn't just a figure of speech. Certainly not in some cases." Gold cut his eyes nastily at Killian's missing hand.

"I only need one to strangle you," Killian snarled, as Emma threw her shoulder sharply into him.

"Dearly as I should like to let you try, if only to teach you a lesson, you are wasting my precious time and energy with your tedious bloodthirst, and I do not care to look on you either right now or ever again. The exit, as I indicated, is that way. Good day."

"Oh no, Rumplestiltskin. You don't get to just walk away. It's your son too, in Neverland. It's not just mine. Didn't see that coming, did you? It's him. It's Bae."

Three-quarters of this sentence made absolutely no sense to Emma, but she saw the way Gold froze absolutely dead in his tracks. The silence was hideous. Then Gold revolved around on the spot and, moving as little of his mouth as humanely possible, said, "What?"

"Bae. Your son, you pathetic cretin. Do I need to make a bloody fucking slide show? He fell down the portal after David, into Neverland. Both of them. Are. There. At Pan's mercy."

Gold opened and shut his mouth. He clearly longed most desperately to contradict this, but couldn't. "How – " he said. "How could – "

"Still think we can't pay?" Killian growled. "Still think there's nothing you want?"

It was the first time Emma had seen Gold so completely discombobulated. She was having a feeling as if she was overlooking or forgetting something very important, but didn't know what, and anything that induced Gold to consider helping them was something that had to be promoted. She held her breath, gaze flicking nervously from one man to the other.

"So," Gold said abruptly. "If we were to make a deal, say. . . if I was to assist you in your venture, and in recovering our respective offspring. . . you might, say, consent to leave forever and never return?"

"It's not as if I'm that bloody eager to stay. I've got a life elsewhere. Did, at least."

"And we all devoutly anticipate you getting back to it. But Miss Swan, now, the savior. . . she'd have to stay behind, of course. She couldn't go with you. You'd have to leave her. For good."

Emma's heart caught in her throat. She glanced fearfully at Killian, wondering just how he'd finesse this. Or was it the terrible price of Gold's help – find her son, lose his father –

"No," Killian said flatly. He reached down and took Emma's hand with his good one, his long, callused fingers closing warm and firm around hers, as he pulled her protectively against him. "That's not going to work. You're not going to play on us and try to pull us apart and set us one against the other. We – are – a team, and that's how you'll deal with us. With me and so with Emma, and with Emma and so with me. Do I make myself excruciatingly clear?"

Gold looked at them, clearly hoping that Emma would break ranks, or give him a hint, or side with him, but all she did was tuck herself more prominently into Killian's side, not budging. Together, they stared the pawnbroker down with enough force to ignite several tons of TNT.

At that, Gold was finally forced to recognize defeat. He sighed. "So, then," he said. "If you're truly prepared to accept my assistance, then here's what you have to do. Back in – our world, shall I now feel free to call it? – I distilled a certain essence. A bit of special help. To save for a rainy day, as it were."

"Well, it's storming like a bitch right now. What is it?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out. Trust me – if you're trusting him, it should be no burden – when I say that I require it to put up a defense around this town that may stop our Home Office intruders from breaking through. Get it, bring it back to me, and we'll discuss matters from there. And as you said, we're on a time limit." Gold consulted one of the numerous old clocks hanging from the walls. "I'd wager you have about an hour, at the most."

"So?" Emma said, adrenaline starting to rev. "You have details about this mysterious mission?"

"Of course."

"So? Where is it – this thing – that we're supposed to get for you hidden?"

"Oh, I think you know." Gold bent down behind the counter and emerged with a long mahogany case, polished and shining. "You'll want this."

"What is it?" Emma stared at it, at a loss.

Gold reached for the clasp, and flipped it open. His grin was faint and shadowed, almost sad. "Your father's sword."

Ten minutes later, Emma and Killian were pulling up in front of the library – which, thanks to David Nolan's unstinting efforts, had been cleared of almost everyone. Regina was gone, thank God, although wherever she was now likely wasn't any better. In fact, David himself was the only one left, standing vigilantly at attention outside the door and clearly astonished to see them. "You were telling the truth?" he sputtered, staring at Killian.

"Don't need to sound so shocked about it, mate," Killian retorted, sounding miffed. "Your truck's parked downtown, just as I promised." He tossed a keyring. "Here."

David pocketed it, still looking somewhat suspicious, then glanced to Emma. "Are you coming back to take over? What do you want me to do?"

"Funny you should ask." Emma ran a hand through her hair. She had no idea how on earth she was going to do this – return, on no sleep, not even a day since Graham had died in her arms in this very place, where she had seriously thought she would die as well. Only that she had to. "I need to do something. For t-the investigation. I need you to lower both of us down."

"Wait a tick." Killian was glancing from Emma's sheriff badge to David's deputy one, confused. "Not that I object, mind you, but where's Humbert?"

Emma's throat closed. She could not cry now. She couldn't. "He's. . . he's dead."

She was bracing herself for a smart remark, terrified of it, not able to joke about it so soon and so raw, but instead Killian looked completely gobsmacked. "What?"

"He. . . we. . . we were down there together and. . . he said he remembered, and he kept talking about Regina, and then he just. . . died. Just collapsed and he was. . . he was gone."

Killian's dark eyebrows drew together sharply. "Talked about Regina, did he?"

"Yes. He said she was controlling him. It didn't make a lot of sense, I don't – "

She had expected him to look confused or scornful, but he looked anything but. His face went still darker. "Is there a place where. . . Regina might keep things she doesn't want found?"

"Yes," David said unexpectedly. "Mary Margaret and I have seen her in the graveyard. There's a Mills family crypt there, and she. . . she goes in and out sometimes."

"Ah." Killian nodded.

"Do you. . ." Emma stared. "Do you think you know what happened?"

"I might have an inkling. Sounds familiar." Killian's face was drawn and tight. "Come on, lass. We're wasting time. Tick tock."

Emma nodded, stepping into the elevator cage with him. The sword Gold had given her was awkwardly slung across her back, but she had her gun, which she trusted a good deal more, and as the door shut, she couldn't help glancing covertly at David. Your father's sword. Were they closer than ever to breaking the curse, or closer than ever to destroying everything for good?

Killian put a hand to his belt, and his own sword hanging there, as they began to descend. As the light shut out, as the dark cold air came up to swallow them, as side by side they went down and down. Breathe. You can. You can. You can. Emma bit her lip until she tasted blood. Was Graham still down there too, with the spirits of all those prisoners who had never left?

They reached the bottom at last, and stepped out. The air smelled different at once, stranger. Hotter. As if, beyond all doubt, something was waking up. The monster. But she was no longer sure what or why or where. If it even existed. If it wasn't her. The monster in the darkness.

"Stay close, lass," Killian whispered. "It's down here. We're going to have to fight it."

"Fight what?" Emma's voice, despite her best efforts, wavered.

"Who." She could hear his grim smile. Could hear as well, something starting to wake up, to draw closer. Distant, thundering footfalls. All hell unleashed. "The dragon."