Killian is semi-conscious as he's swept through the portal, his mental faculties focused on keeping the Sea Star in his grasp as what feels like hurricane-force winds propel his body in an unknown direction. He's vaguely aware of the sensation of freefall and the swirling green light on the other side of his closed eyelids and the loud rush of magical currents that surrounds him like a cocoon. And then, several long moments later, it all vanishes suddenly, and he emerges on the other side. His momentum sends him careening sideways and into an all-too-solid wall, the impact knocking the wind out of him and sending the Sea Star flying from his hand. He crumples to the ground with a loud grunt while the blazing light from the portal rolls and compresses into a single point and then winks out of existence, plunging him into relative darkness. Killian coughs violently and then pants, groaning as soon as he has enough breath. Pain from the crash blossoms throughout his left hip and shoulder. Bloody hell.

He hears the sound of rushing water to his left, and the most unpleasant array of smells reaches his nose. The air is warm and musty, and he gags and coughs again. He recognizes the smell of human waste and refuse, but there are other smells, too, that he cannot place so easily. Despite the unpleasant nature of the place, he allows himself to lay there for a long minute with his eyes closed. Where in damnation has he gotten himself now? He knows that magic bean portals can transport a person to the realm of their choosing, but he's fairly certain he wasn't thinking of anything when he let himself be sucked in. What does a portal do without a mind directing it? Did it just see fit to transport him to this cesspit randomly? Killian snorts. Perhaps the gods have simply decided that this is where a blackguard like him belongs.

He groans again as he shifts his weight a little, noting the echo of his own voice. He wonders if he's in a cave, and he opens his eyes and blinks, taking a second to allow his vision to adjust to the poor lighting. He's in a tunnel of some sort, on a perfectly flat stone ledge next to what looks like a rushing underground river. He is relieved to see the Sea Star lying nearby, having avoided falling into the river by mere inches. It's quite dark, but not pitch black, and as he cranes his head, he notes dim orange light filtering down through two small holes in the ceiling, about fifteen feet ahead of him and ten feet up. The light from one of the holes casts a thin beam down along a wall, and he squints at what could be a ladder rung. He recognizes the roar of activity coming from above, a cacophony of discordant and unfamiliar sounds mixed with the chatter of human voices. The occasional large object rumbles by overhead. Wherever he is, he's just below a hive of people, and while it's busy, it doesn't sound hostile. He supposes he should be thankful for that.

Killian takes a deep breath and hoists himself up off his face, grateful he's gotten used to doing so without the use of what is currently a rather sore left shoulder. Other muscles protest, but at least everything appears to work. A weary sigh escapes his lips. He's had worse. Taking stock of his injuries, Killian probes his painful left hip with his fingers. He freezes and swears under his breath when he discovers that his sorest point is just beneath the pouch on his belt containing the heavy brass compass. His stomach sinks like an anchor as he realizes it must have caught the force of his crash into the wall, and he hastily fishes it out. Though he can't see it properly in the dark, his fingers detect a sizeable crack running through the thick glass face when he opens the lid, and his heart pounds. He has no idea how these magical talismans work. It might be alright, or it might be bloody useless now. More colorful language runs through his mind at the latter possibility. Between this and the business of being stranded in an unknown realm, he's having a banner day indeed.

He huffs disgustedly as he pockets the compass once more, content to sort that problem out later. Wishing he had a torch, he carefully shuffles around in the dark to retrieve the Sea Star and then makes his way toward the light shaft. He's relieved to discover that what he saw is indeed one of a series of metal rungs fixed to the wall that lead up toward the small lit holes in the ceiling. It's an easy enough climb, and when he gets closer, he can see that the holes are actually set in a circular metal panel wide enough for a man to crawl through. Winding his left arm around a ladder rung to steady himself, he sets his hand up against the warm stamped metal surface of the panel and gives it an experimental push, grunting when he realizes how heavy it is. It has to weigh at least six or seven stone, but he does sense a little give in it, the metal grating as the panel lifts ever so slightly. Killian summons all his strength and heaves, praying that he can handle whatever he's about to find on the other side.

The panel gives way enough for him to get the lip up and over the surface above, and with a few more hard pushes to slide it away from the opening, he's clear. The wild mixture of noises grows instantly louder, and he takes a lungful of the cooler and less pungent air that pours through the hole before reaching his arm up and pulling himself through.

He is not sure what he expected to find, but what awaits him is decidedly not it. The world above the tunnel is like no place he's ever seen before. Killian manages to get to his feet and finds himself standing on one side of a wide stone street. Not five feet away from him, the rest of the street is occupied by a collective of strange, horseless carriages rolling along in two single-file lines. It's nighttime, or at least he thinks it is, though there are so many lights around him it's nearly bright as day. He backs away from the hole and rotates in a slow circle, trying to take it all in. Tall buildings loom in every direction, and no matter which way he turns his head, he finds a huge magical picture shining down on him. Some of the images are static, some are moving, but all are real as life. Everywhere are words that he can read but which make no sense to him: Sony. Levi's. Jersey Boys. Foot Locker. Lancome. There are people scattered all over, including a crowd that crosses the street together in a jumble. Their clothing is unusual and widely varied, and he's agog at how scantily clad some of the women are. Though a veteran of many strange worlds, Killian swallows, feeling overwhelmed by the noise and the lights and the smells and the complete and alarming unfamiliarity of it all. Where the bloody hell is he?

He vacates the road and moves toward a less crowded corner of the square to try to get some semblance of bearings and plan his next move.

"Hey! Sir? Pirate!"

His hand falls to the hilt of his sword reflexively, and he whirls around, preparing to meet trouble. His wild eyes dart this way and that before landing upon on a family of four coming toward him with big smiles on their faces. The parents look cheerful but tired, and they have two young children, and boy and a girl with them, the boy practically dragging his father over with a wide, gap-toothed grin and shining eyes. Killian stands here dumbfounded at the sight of such an innocent looking family eager to greet him, much more accustomed to having parents turn away and shield their children from the infamous Captain Hook.

"Hey, can we get a picture?" the father asks, holding up a small rectangular object eagerly.

Killian remains hopelessly at a loss. "Uh…"

"Great!" The father hangs back a few feet, while the mother, son, and daughter enthusiastically accost Killian, embracing him as though he's a dear friend they haven't seen in ages. They turn their faces toward the father as he holds his little rectangular object out in the front of him. "Say 'cheese'!"

Cheese?

"Cheese!" the children chorus.

A white light, brilliant as a fairy's glow, suddenly flashes from the man's device, and he peers at it in his hand before he nods and yells, "One more!" The light discharges again, leaving Killian seeing spots.

The mother removes her hand from Killian's back and flutters her lashes at him. "I have to say," she breathes, "Yours is the best costume I've seen on any of Times Square character ever." She runs her eyes down his body appreciatively. "You look amazing."

"Quit flirting with the poor man, Becca," the husband calls good-naturedly. "The kids are supposed to be more excited about this than you are."

The woman, Becca, blushes prettily and rolls her eyes. "They just love pirates," she gushes, ruffling her boy's blonde hair.

"He's got a hook, Mom!" the little boy says, his jaw slack and his eyes wide as he gapes at Killian's left arm with delight. "And a sword! He's like the real thing!"

"Isn't that neat, baby?" she asks him in indulgently. She grasps Killian's bicep and gives it a squeeze before pressing a worn green slip of paper into his hand. "Thank you so much for the picture. You've made their night."

Killian nods awkwardly and manages a small smile. "Pleasure."

The children wave as the woman shuttles them back over to their father, and the family disappears back into the crowds. Killian stares after them. What the bloody hell just happened? He takes a moment to examine the paper he's been given, which is printed with the portrait of a bearded man on one side and the picture of some sort of temple on the back, the words Five Dollars appearing on both sides along with the number five in most of the corners. He doesn't have long to contemplate it, however, because, much to his dismay, he finds himself ambushed several more times by other sets of parents with children and one group of tipsy young buxom women who are as aggressive with their hot little hands when they snuggle up to him as any tavern whores he's ever met. Normally, he'd be more than happy to find himself the center of so much female attention, but the circumstances are too strange for him to enjoy it. Bewildering as they are, each encounter for "pictures" leaves him with additional dollars, and he smirks as he realizes that it must be currency, albeit the least valuable-looking currency he's ever seen. Still, the attention he's garnering is growing by the second, and Killian decides to not risk another groping and to evacuate this very odd place, this Times Square, in order to regroup somewhere quieter.

He finds a man hawking maps on a corner and exchanges a couple of the crumpled one dollar bills one of the girls had shoved down the front of his shirt for a folded map of this city, New York, feeling triumphant at having finally found a source of useful information. His confidence grows further once he realizes that all the streets are named or numbered and he learns to identify them by the helpful little green signs posted everywhere. It doesn't take him long to figure out his current location on the map, and he smiles to himself when he notes the building depicted several streets away marked "New York Public Library." A library. Finally, a concept he recognizes. It strikes him as a decent (and hopefully more peaceful) place to start looking for more information about this strange realm, and he sets out, the growing thrill of a new adventure hastening his step.

ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ

"Thanks." Emma flashes the waiter a grin as he whisks her empty dinner plate off the table and moves away.

Her purse rests on the table to her left, and she pulls out her cell phone to check her messages. Her eyes light up when she sees a text from one of her best informants regarding the skip she's been trying to locate for the past two weeks. Her quarry, an abusive husband and felon with a rap sheet a mile long, has been a slippery son of a bitch to track down, and she's had to put out more feelers than normal trying to get a lead on the guy. Fortunately, it seems her friend Will, a former thief and con-man, has come through with a tip courtesy of his contacts at Rikers, where he did time for robbing a prestigious art gallery a few years back. The corner of her mouth quirks upward with satisfaction as she taps out a quick message of thanks.

She cranes her head toward the back of the restaurant, wondering what's taking her boyfriend so long. It's been almost fifteen minutes since Walsh excused himself to go to the restroom, and she's itching now to get home to her computer and see if she can start making something useful out of Will's information. Besides, she promised to pick her son up at eight, and she needs to get going soon if she's going to make it in time.

She smiles Walsh finally emerges from around the corner. He's wearing her favorite all-black ensemble – black shirt, black tie, black tailored suit – and his brown hair is charmingly disheveled as always as he hurries back to their table.

"I was about to send a search party," she teases.

He grins, settling back into the chair across from her. "Sorry. Didn't mean to keep you waiting. I, uh, decided to take care of the check while I was up."

Emma's smile widens with pleasant surprise. "That's great. I was just thinking that I need to get going soon. I promised to pick Henry up at eight."

A wrinkle appears between his brown eyes. "Come on, you've got a couple minutes. At least stay for some desert," he goads. He gestures to someone over her shoulder, and the waiter suddenly re-appears at her elbow.

"Oh!" Emma blinks as a plate is slid in front of her bearing a wide-mouthed stemmed glass filled with two perfect scoops of vanilla ice cream beautifully garnished with drizzled chocolate and raspberries. She looks up at the eager expression on her boyfriend's face and smiles weakly. "Oh Walsh, that's really nice, but I'm so full I couldn't eat another bite."

He ignores her. "You remember our first date?" he asks.

The corner of her mouth twitches, and she gives a tiny sigh, nodding.

"You were being you, so I couldn't swing a dinner." He chuckles affectionately. "I brought you here for lunch, which didn't stop you from ordering an ice cream sundae, which wasn't on the menu." He shrugs. "I bribed the chef. They made one up."

She smiles at the silly memory. "I remember. I was nervous. Now I'm full," she says again.

He reaches forward and rotates the plate slowly. "Will you at least look at it?" he asks gently.

Resigned, she obliges. Her eyes go wide and her heart stops when she spies the diamond engagement ring that spins into view, positioned on the plate in the center of a decorative chocolate curlicue.

Walsh's hand creeps forward across the tablecloth to take hers. "Emma, I don't want to freak you out," he says quietly, his eyes shining, "But I think it's time. We've been dating for two years now, and I think we're ready to move on to the next step in this relationship. We're really good together. We've built a great life together with you, me, and Henry, and I think we have an amazing future ahead of us."

Her breath is caught in her throat as he gets out of his chair, still clasping her hand, and takes a knee next to the table at her feet. "Emma Swan," he says, "Will you marry me?"

Thoughts swirl in Emma's mind as a mixture of surprise and panic washes over her. He's proposing. Proposing. He wants to get married. How did she not see this coming? She swallows, her mouth suddenly very dry. He's not wrong. They have it really good. He's easy-going, they get along well, he's good with Henry, and he puts up with her weird hours and her crazy idiosyncrasies without complaint. Her life has seemed more normal ever since she'd wandered into that new furniture shop in Brooklyn Heights on the recommendation of a friend and met the cute owner who'd taken to her right away, put a rush on her end table, and then asked her out when he'd personally delivered it to her home. Walsh is sweet, straight-laced, honest, reliable, and he's introduced stability into her sometimes chaotic life. He's exactly what she needs. What's not to love?

Why isn't she overjoyed?

"Uh, Emma?"

She blinks, realizing that he's still watching her expectantly and that other people nearby have also ceased their own conversations and are craning their necks waiting for her to say yes. Her head starts to swim. "I—" The silence that's fallen around them seems deafening, the only sound she hears the incessant banging of her own heartbeat. Her instincts take over, and she pushes herself back from the table. "I'm dizzy," she mumbles, trying to sound apologetic. "I – I need some air."

She's not sure how she makes it out of the restaurant without stumbling on her three-inch stilettos or how she remembers to grab her purse off the table as she goes. The whole thing is a bit of a blur, honestly. The night air is chilly, and she realizes when she pushes her way through the door and gets struck by a stiff breeze that she's left her coat inside. She really doesn't care. She moves away from the restaurant's windows as quickly as she can, still feeling the eyes of the other patrons on her, and, unsure what else to do, she beelines up the block toward her car.

She's running. She hasn't run from anything in years, not since… not since she was young and stupid, a troubled former foster kid living a life of petty crime. That was a decade ago. A decade. She thought she was past this sort of thing. Apparently not, she thinks crossly. She bites her lip and screws up her face in frustration as she wraps her arms around herself to try to fend off the cold. What is wrong with her? The man she loves asks her to marry him and her first emotion is panic, her first instinct to high-tail it and leave him embarrassed in front of a restaurant full of people. God, she's a horrible person.

She hears Walsh's feet beating the pavement even before he calls out her name.

"Emma!"

She turns, a pang of guilt shooting through her chest as she registers his concerned expression and her coat in his hand. He should be furious, but he looks more worried than anything, and it just confirms for her that she's a terrible human being who doesn't deserve this really good guy. Emma glances down, unable to look into his doe-brown eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" she says, grimacing.

Walsh trots up to her, slowing as he approaches, as though afraid to spook her. "Emma, calm down. It's okay." His expression softens, and his voice drops. "It's okay. I should have known better than to put you on the spot like that."

She hazards to meet his gaze, her features tight with remorse. "I – I don't know what got into me." She lets him come close and wrap her coat around her shoulders before drawing her into a hug.

"Honey, if you're not ready, it's okay to say so," he tells her soothingly. "I thought we were on the same page, but if we're not—"

"No, no, we are," she says hastily into his shoulder. "You're right. What we have is really great. It makes sense to move forward." She shakes her head as if to straighten out her jumbled thoughts. "I just… I guess I just have more baggage than I thought I did." She sighs and looks back up into his face sheepishly.

Walsh nods and leans back, running his hands up and down her upper arms. He inhales deeply. "I'll tell you what," he says. He looks down, pulling the ring box from the pocket of his wool greatcoat and lifting her hand to press it into her palm. "Take this and sleep on it," he suggests, folding her fingers closed over the velveteen case. "Take as much time as you need." He ducks his head to force her to look into his eyes again, his face kind. "Hey. I love you, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

Emma gives him a meek nod and a watery smile. "I love you, too."

ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ

Even at night, New York is bustling and noisy, with people and horseless carriages everywhere. Killian quickly figures out what seems to be the protocol to cross the street, dictated by square lights at each street corner that flash lit symbols to walk or stop, though he notes that many people seem to disregard them and boldly plow ahead whenever and wherever they want. While other streets are not quite as bright as Times Square, store fronts and other business everywhere remain well lit, and no matter which way he looks, the streets and the city seem to stretch on forever. He passes clothing shops and restaurants, stores that appear to be selling the most wondrous toys he's ever seen, and window displays of sparkling jewels that leave him aghast at the potential wealth of this world that can offer such treasures for sale on an everyday basis.

He's never actually seen a library available for public use, though it strikes him as a lovely idea. The nearest things he can think of are a couple of large monastery libraries in the Enchanted Forest and the royal library at Agrabah, great private storehouses of books that are sometimes made available to guests of the monks or of the Sultan, respectively. The New York Public Library, it turns out, surpasses them all. It's a sight far larger and grander than anything he could have imagined, standing out like a great stone temple in the heart of all the glass and metal buildings around it. The edifice is highlighted by carved reliefs near the roofline, and two giant stone lions flank the very broad staircase leading up to the front door. Killian is gratified to find that, like most of the other businesses he's passed, the library is still open, despite the sun being down. A sign by the mammoth set of double doors indicates that it closes at eight o'clock this evening, and a clock tells him it's just after seven now.

Like the front of the building, the hall just inside the library's entrance is stately and imposing, with enormous stone columns supporting soaring ceilings that are decorated by graceful archways and more intricate carvings. It feels more like a palace than a library, and he stands there in awe of it as people pass by around him. The collective hushed voices of patrons echo throughout, creating a low din of nebulous chatter.

He strolls farther in, hand on his belt and his face tilted upward as he continues to study this magnificent place. He passes by another column the width of a great tree trunk and promptly collides with a small boy carrying a stack of books.

The boy, perhaps all of eleven years and with a mop of brown hair, falls to the ground with an 'oomph,' the books scattering across the creamy polished floor. He groans as he sits up and surveys the mess. "Really?" he asks, sounding harassed.

"Apologies, lad," Killian offers. "I didn't see you." He crouches to help gather up the books.

The boy sighs. "It's okay. I guess I should put these in my bag anyway." He unshoulders the red pack on his back and pulls open an ingenious built-in seam. He glances up at Killian and wrinkles his little face as he begins to stuff the books inside. "Why are you dressed like that?"

Killian frowns indignantly. "Why are you dressed like that?" he shoots back, gesturing at the lad's blue trousers, black coat, and gray and red striped scarf.

The boy grins, accepting another book from Killian's hand. "Are you in a show somewhere? Or is this, like, for an early Halloween?"

Killian stares at him blankly. "I'm sorry, mate. I don't know what any of that means."

The boy reseals the seam of his pack and slings it back over his shoulder, climbing to his feet. "You're not from around here, are you?" he chuckles.

"That's rather an understatement," Killian says dryly. He also rises, scratching behind his ear. "I'm quite lost, actually."

"Yeah?" The boy's face lights up with interest. "Maybe I can help. What are you looking for?"

"A way back to the Enchanted Forest."

The boy's forehead furrows, a frown crossing his lips. "Did you just say 'the Enchanted Forest'? Is that upstate or something?"

"Upstate?" The word is foreign on Killian's tongue. He shakes his head patiently. "I don't think so. The Enchanted Forest is in another realm."

"Realm?" the boy repeats incredulously. "Like, in Thor?" Recognition lights his eyes. "Wait, are you one of those cosplayers? Is this, like, live-action role play, or whatever?"

Killian heaves exasperated sigh. "Lad, I don't know what any of that means either."

"Henry."

"Beg pardon?"

"My name's Henry," the boy repeats cheerfully. "What's yours? Captain Hook?" He gives a cheeky grin and glances down at Killian's hook.

Killian raises an eyebrow. "You've heard of me?"

Henry laughs. "No, really – what's your name?"

"Killian Jones," Killian says, dipping his head. "Though," he adds with a chiding look, "Few are brave enough to call Captain Hook by his real name, lad."

The sunshine fades from Henry's expression, and his eyes narrow. "Wait. You actually think you're Captain Hook, don't you?" he says.

Killian bristles. "If you're suggesting I'm not who I say I am—"

"But…" Henry interjects, appearing confused, "Captain Hook is just a storybook character. You know, from Peter Pan."

"A storybook character?" It's Killian's turn to frown. "Henry, I assure you, I am quite real." Frustration begins to brew in his chest as Henry looks him up-and-down once more with increased scrutiny.

"Shouldn't you have a weird moustache and a big floppy hat?"

What? "Henry, I don't know what you may have heard about me," Killian says, pinching the bridge of his nose, chagrined, "But it seems you most assuredly have heard wrong." He takes a deep breath. "Let's start again, shall we?" he suggests, forcing a polite smile. "My name is Killian Jones. Most people know me by my more colorful moniker – Hook." He raises his eyebrows and holds up his hook for emphasis. "I come from the Enchanted Forest, which is in a world separate from this one. I arrived here this evening through a magic portal while escaping an evil queen who was trying very hard to kill me, and I am simply looking for a way to return home."

He's on the verge of giving up and walking away, but the thoughtful way Henry stares at him gives him pause. After a long moment, the boy shifts his pack on his shoulder and bobs his head toward the front door. "Maybe we should go find a place to sit down," he says, "So you can start from the beginning."

Killian allows himself to be led back out of the library, where Henry moves off to one side of the great staircase and plunks himself down on the top step in the shadow of an enormous pillar, indicating for Killian to join him. Over the next thirty minutes the lad listens to Killian's account of his search for the Sea Star, the Evil Queen's plot to destroy Misthaven, and Killian's escape from her clutches using the pilfered magic bean. Henry's eyes shine as he takes in the tale, his expression.

"Can I see it?" he asks when Killian concludes his tale.

Killian blinks. "See what?"

"The Sea Star."

Glancing around to guard against prying eyes, Killian digs into one of his better concealed pouches and produces the palm-sized jewel. Even in the indirect lighting which bathes the front of the library in a warm glow, it sparkles and glimmers with multicolored radiance.

Henry gapes, the last vestiges of skepticism fading from his face. "Whoa…"

"Indeed." Killian's lips pull briefly upward, and he stows the stone away beneath his coat once more.

Henry sits back, leaning on his hands, lips pursed. "You're not like Captain Hook in the story," he observes.

"Stories are colored by the people who tell them and are prone to embellishment over time," Killian retorts. "However my tale reached this world, I assure you it did not come from me."

"So you're not a villain like in the story?"

Killian thumbs his lip absently, quickly weighing what and how much to divulge. "I daresay I am. I have done many a dishonorable thing." He's not sure why he's admitting this to a child, particularly to the only person he's met thus far who understands his situation, but there's something about this boy – something about his innocence, his candor, and perhaps even his resemblance to Baelfire – that makes Killian feel open or even obligated to sharing the truth.

"You don't seem like such a bad guy to me," Henry says. "I mean, you got the Sea Star back to save all those people."

Killian fingers one of the large rings on his hand, slowly turning the cold metal around on his finger, the trophy of one of many vengeful executions suddenly feeling heavier than usual. "I'm hardly a good man, mate. I am guilty of many sins you would likely find abhorrent." He stares soberly out at the urban landscape before him and swallows. "That said, people are not black and white. Not all kings have honor, you know," he says bitterly, glancing at Henry, "And not all pirates lack it." He hangs his head grimly. "We are not always heartless."

Henry considers him in silence, chewing on his lip before appearing to reach a decision. He points a little finger in Killian's face resolutely. "I'll try to help you," he says, "But you can't hurt anybody here. And you can't steal. And don't lie to me. I don't help bad guys."

Killian manages to withhold the laughter that bubbles up within him at this boy's absurd promise. "I appreciate the offer, lad," he says with a nod. "Henry," he corrects. "But how exactly are yougoing to help me?"

Henry seems unworried. "I don't know yet," he admits, "But my mom taught me when you don't know where to start, you just have to go back to basics and take it one step at a time. You don't know anything about New York, and you need a place to stay. It's like E.T.,and I'm your Elliott." When Killian's expression goes blank, he rolls his eyes. "It's a movie. Never mind." A chime emanates from Henry's pocket, and he pulls out a device like the ones that people were using for pictures in Times Square. Glancing at the face of it, he shoves it hurriedly back into his pocket and gathers his pack up, rising to his feet. "A mission like this needs a cool name," he announces. "How about…Operation: Black Adder?" He flashes Killian an infectious grin and starts down the stairs. "Come on."

Killian stands and follows, again choosing not to examine the fact that he's allowing himself to be led around by a child too closely. "Where are we going?"

Henry reaches the bottom of the stairs and veers right, heading toward the street that runs along the north side of the library. He points to a funny-looking, bright yellow carriage which is sitting in a spot on the far side of the street near the corner. "To introduce you to my mom. She's a private investigator. If anyone can help, she can. She can do anything."

Anxiety and disappointment builds as Killian accompanies Henry down to the street. There is no way the lad's mother is going to be as receptive to him as the boy is, and he resigns himself to the idea that his encounter with Henry is likely to end with the woman shuttling her son into their vessel and speeding away as fast as she can.

As expected, the figure in the front of the vehicle immediately emerges when she sees Henry approaching with a strange man in tow. Killian's step involuntarily slows when she comes into view. She's bloody gorgeous – tall and lithe, a vision of long golden hair, graceful features, high cheekbones, and large eyes framed by thick lashes. She wears a long red coat which hangs open. The enticing, form-fitting black dress he can see beneath it only comes to her knees, leaving most of her creamy bare legs exposed, the long line of them made even more even more tantalizing by the impractical height of the heels on her black slippers. When she frowns at him and narrows her eyes warily, he can tell that she is not a woman to be trifled with, and the overall effect is magnificent.

"Hi Mom!" Henry calls to his mother as they reach the street, the cheerful tone of the lad's voice suggesting he's either oblivious to her defensive posturing or just content to ignore it.

"Henry," she calls back. "Who's your friend?" She arches a brow at them both, and shoots Killian a steely look.

Tough lass. He chuckles inwardly, now determined to try to win her over. If the fire in her eyes is any indication, she's going to prove a challenge, and he always did love a challenge. Killian flashes his most dashing smile, pleased when she blinks, and he strides forward off the curb toward her. He barely has time to register the way she suddenly glances sideways and gives a start before a loud, strained screech and the blast of a horn erupt to his right and the blinding lights of a vehicle come bearing down upon him.