#local plague doctor clutches his pearls

[drbarty]

Would you rather: eat a human child or catch the plague

I of course would rather catch the plague! What a terrible question!

[glassc0ffin]

Feedback

hee hoo i wrote a tma fic in the form of frankies statement to the institute

words: 2245

warnings: none, except for phil collins and thrown staples

pairing: oc (frankie james)/jonathan sims

[[MORE]]

FRANKIE JAMES:

-That a tape recorder? It's so cute! We've been trying to get one for the station, just so we can say we have one - y'know, to impress the hipsters - but they're well out of my budget. How did you get one?

ARCHIVIST:

I - Uh, it was here when I got the job, it was my predecessor's.

JAMES:

Wow, well, I'm jealous. [GIGGLES] A little tempted for thievery…

ARCHIVIST:

...Right. Would you like to begin your statement?

JAMES:

Oh, yeah, of course.

ARCHIVIST:

Alright. Statement of Frank James, radio DJ at -

JAMES:

Frankie. 

ARCHIVIST:

[PAUSE] Frankie James, radio DJ at Tranzishon Rock, London, regarding…?

JAMES:

Uh, a series of...obscene phone calls from an unknown person. 

ARCHIVIST:

Recorded direct from subject by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of The Magnus Institute, 21st of September, 2019. Statement begins.

JAMES:

Ah, so, okay. [SIGHS]

ARCHIVIST:

...Are you alright?

JAMES:

Yeah, I just… [SIGHS] I have a hard time...getting words out. I'm not...articulate.

ARCHIVIST:

Would I be able to help?

JAMES:

How would you? It's in my head.

ARCHIVIST:

[SIGHS] You'd be surprised. [PAUSES] When did it start? The phone calls.

JAMES: 

On my show. I have a radio show at Tranzishon, late nights, 7 till 10, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Towards the end of the show, from 9 till 10, we do a requests hour. Listeners call, or text, or tweet, or send a carrier pigeon, to ask us to play songs. The last one is only if they're fancy.

ARCHIVIST:

[SNORTS]

JAMES:

[PAUSES]

ARCHIVIST:

[PAUSES] Sorry. You were saying?

JAMES:

[LAUGHS FAINTLY, A LITTLE BREATHLESS] Ah, yeah, erm… [AMUSED] I can't quite remember where I was…

ARCHIVIST:

The requests hour?

JAMES:

Yes! Okay, so, er, I was announcing the requests hour, reading out our phone number and the twitter account, and as soon as I had finished reading the phone number, we got a call. I- We've got a small team of techies - well, two - that handle incoming calls, texts, tweets, whatever. One, Paul, looked up from the switchboard at me and put me through to the listener, and I did my usual spiel. Y'know: [RADIO VOICE] You're listening to Frankie at Tranzishon rock, dear listener, what's your request?

[NORMAL VOICE] And they didn't say anything. There was dead air for a couple of seconds, then as I began to say 'Anybody there?' my headphones are blown out by the sudden high volume. The person on the other end must have been right up on the mic, because there was an immense amount of feedback and white noise. I'm sort of thankful for that, 'cause it nearly covered up what they had to say.

[PAUSES] [DEEP BREATH] I... don't want to repeat what they said. Suffice to say, the techies had some lightning speed reaction time when they cut off the line. There was more dead air as I tried to recover from the shock, I think I made a joke about them wanting the number for Babestation instead.

ARCHIVIST:

[LAUGHS]

JAMES:

[PAUSES] [LAUGHS, WEAKLY] Yeah… Ah, so, w-we banned that number so they wouldn't call again, and I ended the show with Pretty Fly (For a White Guy) by The Offspring. Because I cope with bad experiences by burying them with humour. 

[UNDER HIS BREATH] Give it to me, baby. [EVEN QUIETER] Uh huh, uh huh. 

[COUGHS]

Uh. Anyway. I went home, had my day off, and went back into work the next night and tried to forget about what happened. And for the most part, I did. The first 2 hours passed without incident, and then when I announced the requests hour, I joked about the caller the other day. My techies looked at each other nervously as I laughed. I gave them a questioning look, but said nothing. I'd ask them after the show. I read the number and twitter and waited for the requests to roll in. Again, we had another phone call straight away. I said my spiel, and my heart was in my throat as I waited for the caller to speak. I looked at my techies. Sheena, my other tech, shrugged at me. I sighed, about to give them a signal to cut them off and answer someone else when the feedback returned, louder and more harsh this time. I threw my headphones onto the desk in front of me, but I still heard the words spilling out of them.

[SWALLOWS] Y'know that scene in Silence of the Lambs? Where Lecter asks Clarice to repeat what that other inmate had said to her? Y'know - [SOUTHERN AMERICAN ACCENT] 'He said, I can smell your cunt.'

ARCHIVIST:

Good lord.

JAMES:

Yeah. It was a bit like that. There was a lot more...squelching with mine, though. Ugh. The techs cut the call, as I knew they would. I was more than a little pissed off. I started playing a song someone had tweeted and turned off my mic, turning to my techies. I asked them, why didn't you ban them like you said you would last time? Sheena said she did, that she guessed they were using a payphone or something to harass us. Paul tentatively asked if we should inform the police, and I told him to F off. We've had no help from coppers in the past when we had Nazis and TERFs flooding our lines calling us all sorts of shit, why would they help now? Cops avoid gays like the plague unless its for propaganda. So, Paul backed down. 

Before the song ended, I quickly mentioned that maybe we shouldn't take calls anymore, just texts and tweets. I didn't want it to come to that, not really. I ended the show again with a song from a small local band, earning me a shoutout on their twitter. That felt good, at least.

I went home, picking up a 6-pack of Stella on the way. I wanted to make sure I slept that night. As I sat on the tube, a good 20 minute journey to my flat, my phone began to ring. At that moment, it didn't strike me that it shouldn't have been able to get any reception underground, yet there it was, ringing in my hand. I was more annoyed at it interrupting my music, but I answered anyway. It was the same fucking caller. I couldn't hit the 'disconnect' button fast enough. But I still heard what he said. [LAUGHS SHAKILY] At least the guy has some imagination. Never the same thing twice. [VOICE BREAKS, STUTTERING] I looked around the tube to see if anyone would be witnessing my quickly approaching panic attack, and finding no-one in the compartment with me, I broke down. The next 15 minutes passed with a blur, and then I reached my station, tears stopping as fast as they had came. 

I stepped off the tube and started walking in the direction towards my flat, and my phone started ringing again. My breath caught in my chest as I froze on the pavement, phone vibrating away in my pocket. I picked it up, screen lit up and facing toward the ground. Slowly, I turned it up, half shutting my eyes, as if the person on the other end wouldn't be able to see me if I couldn't see the phone. [SIGHS] Stupid. It was my mum's phone number. I answered, talked with her for a little bit - she lives a ways away, I don't get to see her a lot - and said goodnight when I got to my flat. I got blackout and passed out on my couch when I got in. Yeah, I know I'm a lightweight. When I woke up at 12pm, my TV was still on, replaying the DVD menu for Black Christmas - the 1974 version. I guess in my Stella-crazed state I was desperate to watch it again.

The entire day, I left my phone switched off. My boss won't be too pleased with me, especially after 2 shows of mine had very explicit profanity, thanks to our mystery caller, but I didn't care. 

[PAUSES]

Listen, I-I know, alright? I know it sounds stupid, I know I probably sound like a pearl-clutching housewife, how scandalous that I'm terrified of a few dirty phonecalls, but...you didn't hear them. You wouldn't want to hear them. Paul, Sheena, and I certainly didn't. At least they only heard them at the station…

Thankfully, on the Friday, we had decided not to do requests hour. Yeah, a few listeners would be upset, but the more loyal listeners would understand when one person ruins it for everyone else. We just settled for the last hour of the show to be requests from Paul and Sheena. Strangely enlightening, but I don't wish to hear any more Phil Collins than is necessary. And with Paul, he seems to think 10 songs is necessary. It isn't.

ARCHIVIST:

[OFFENDED] What's wrong with Phil Collins?

JAMES:

Apart from the fact that we're a punk rock station?

ARCHIVIST:

Fair enough. You were saying?

JAMES:

Okay, so, ah… I was on my way home again, and had all but forgotten the mystery caller. We'd figured it had just been some weirdo that got bored of us cutting him off. But as I was walking from the tube station from my flat, I heard that ear-splitting feedback again. Doubling over in pain, I reached up to pull my headphones off, only to find that I had left them at the radio station. I pressed my fists to my ears, crumpling to the ground as the whine of someone being too close to a microphone pierced my eardrums. I felt something cold trickle out of my ear. I didn't have to check my hand to guess that it was blood. I hyperventilated as I lay on the ground. Something was shouting, screaming at me, screeching slurs and threats of what it wanted to do to me, what it will do to me. I remember vomiting, and then blacking out as the overlapping cacophony reached a fever pitch.

I woke up not too far from where I had passed out, £10 and a phone lighter. It was probably some homeless guy who took them, and honestly, I'm not too bothered. I'm more angry no-one took me to a doctor or something. I think, the last thing I saw before I passed out was someone standing in the distance. Staring. Yeah, it could have been some rando, but the image stuck with me.

They were silhouetted against the bright signs of the takeaways on the street behind them, hands stretching too far down, a little too tall. I might have been delusional or in the throes of oxygen deprivation or something, but I swear I saw it smile as I lost consciousness. 

I haven't been back to my flat. I've been staying with Sheena for the past couple of days. She's alright, but I can tell she wants me out. She doesn't want what's happening to me to happen to her. 

ARCHIVIST:

Statement ends. ...Are you alright?

JAMES:

[SNIFFS] Er, I - Uh, I should be, in a bit. Thanks for, uh...I don't know. Listening?

ARCHIVIST:

It's my job. 

JAMES:

Is that it then? What happens now?

ARCHIVIST:

We'll get in contact with you if we find anything out.

JAMES:

Oh! Then, you'll probably need this then. [SCRIBBLING]

ARCHIVIST:

[SHOCKED NOISE] Wh- What are you doing?

JAMES:

Giving you my phone number, what's it look like?

ARCHIVIST:

Well, I'm sure you can give it to me on paper, not my hand! And didn't you say your phone was stolen?

JAMES:

[SCRIBBLING STOPS] Oh. Yeah. Well, if I ever get it back, then. You know where to call.

ARCHIVIST:

R-Right. Goodbye, Mr. James.

JAMES:

Frankie.

ARCHIVIST:

...Goodbye, Frankie.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST:

Mr. James -- Frankie's behaviour was certainly... strange during our conversation. He kept looking at me, pausing and then quickly looking away again, having to restart his sentence whenever he did so. Maybe he realised that he had virtually no evidence to back up his testimony. The only witnesses we have are this Sheena and Paul, and they can only back up the instances of the phone calls happening at the radio station, not anywhere else. Conveniently, Frankie does not appear to record his mobile phone calls, so we have no evidence the phone call on the tube happened. Assuming it even could happen.

Furthermore, his constant stuttering only made me think he was making the whole thing up. Maybe he just wants a story for his show. He --

TIM:

Knock, knock. Was that Frankie James?

ARCHIVIST:

Yes, i-it was -- Tim, saying 'Knock, knock' is not a good substitute for knocking. 

TIM:

Did I hear you saying that he was making it up because he was stuttering?

ARCHIVIST:

Well, yes. It's a common tell for lying.

TIM:

It's a common tell for a huge goddamn crush.

ARCHIVIST:

What?

TIM:

Oh, come on. You didn't notice?

ARCHIVIST:

No, n-no, I didn't.

TIM:

Jon, he was the colour of a tomato. He wrote his phone number on your hand! Look, he even drew a heart, for god's sake.

ARCHIVIST:

[MUTTERING] Hmm, yes, I suppose it does look like a heart… No, don't be ridiculous, Tim.

TIM:

[IN A SING-SONG VOICE] Jon has got a boyfriend, Jon has got a boyfriend!

ARCHIVIST:

Are you twelve?! Get out! [SOMETHING CLATTERS ON THE GROUND]

TIM:

Ow! Stop throwing staples at me!

[CRASHING SOUND]

[CLICK]

[tanishador-blog]

Ten Interesting Chinese Novels

 1) Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress

“In this enchanting tale about the magic of reading and the wonder of romantic awakening, two hapless city boys are exiled to a remote mountain village for reeducation during China's infamous Cultural Revolution. There they meet the daughter of the local tailor and discover a hidden stash of Western classics in Chinese translation. As they flirt with the seamstress and secretly devour these banned works, they find transit from their grim surroundings to worlds they never imagined.” (Goodreads)

2) The Joy Luck Club

“In 1949, four Chinese women, recent immigrants to San Francisco, begin meeting to eat dim sum, play mahjong, and talk. United in shared loss and hope, they call themselves the Joy Luck Club. With wit and wisdom, Amy Tan examines the sometimes painful, often tender, and always deep connection between these four women and their American-born daughters. As each reveals her secrets, trying to unravel the truth about her life, the strings become more tangled, more entwined” ( Goodreads)

3) Waiting

“Ha Jin draws on his intimate knowledge of contemporary China to create a novel of unexpected richness and feeling. Waiting, PEN/Hemingway Award-winning author Ha Jin draws on his intimate knowledge of contemporary China to create a novel of unexpected richness and feeling. This is the story of Lin Kong, a man living in two worlds, struggling with the conflicting claims of two utterly different women as he moves through the political minefields of a society designed to regulate his every move and stifle the promptings of his innermost heart.

For more than seventeen years, this devoted and ambitious doctor has been in love with an educated, clever, modern woman, Manna Wu. But back in the traditional world of his home village lives the wife his family chose for him when he was young--a humble and touchingly loyal woman, whom he visits in order to ask, again and again, for a divorce. In a culture in which the ancient ties of tradition and family still hold sway and where adultery discovered by the Party can ruin lives forever, Lin's passionate love is stretched ever more taut by the passing years. Every summer, his compliant wife agrees to a divorce but then backs out. This time, Lin promises, will be different.

Tracing these lives through their summer of decision and beyond, Ha Jin vividly conjures the texture of daily life in a place where the demands of human longing must contend with the weight of centuries of custom. Waiting charms and startles us with its depiction of a China that remains hidden to Western eyes even as it moves us with its piercing vision of the universal complications of love.” (Goodreads)

4) Shanghai Girls

“Pearl and May are sisters, living carefree lives in Shanghai, the Paris of Asia. But when Japanese bombs fall on their beloved city, they set out on the journey of a lifetime, one that will take them through the Chinese countryside, in and out of the clutch of brutal soldiers, and across the Pacific to the shores of America. In 1937, Shanghai is the Paris of Asia, a city of great wealth and glamour, the home of millionaires and beggars, gangsters and gamblers, patriots and revolutionaries, artists and warlords. Thanks to the financial security and material comforts provided by their father’s prosperous rickshaw business, twenty-one-year-old Pearl Chin and her younger sister, May, are having the time of their lives. Though both sisters wave off authority and tradition, they couldn’t be more different: Pearl is a Dragon sign, strong and stubborn, while May is a true Sheep, adorable and placid. Both are beautiful, modern, and carefree . . . until the day their father tells them that he has gambled away their wealth and that in order to repay his debts he must sell the girls as wives to suitors who have traveled from California to find Chinese brides. As Japanese bombs fall on their beloved city, Pearl and May set out on the journey of a lifetime, one that will take them through the Chinese countryside, in and out of the clutch of brutal soldiers, and across the Pacific to the shores of America. In Los Angeles they begin a fresh chapter, trying to find love with the strangers they have married, brushing against the seduction of Hollywood, and striving to embrace American life even as they fight against discrimination, brave Communist witch hunts, and find themselves hemmed in by Chinatown’s old ways and rules.” (Goodreads)

5) Peony in Love 

“In seventeenth-century China, three women become emotionally involved with The Peony Pavilion, a famed opera rumored to cause lovesickness and even death, including Peony, the cloistered daughter of a wealthy scholar, who succumbs to its spell only to return after her death as a "hungry ghost" to haunt her former fiancé, who has married another.” (Goodreads)

6) Big Breast and Wide Hips

“In a country where men dominate, this epic novel is first and foremost about women. As the title implies, the female body serves as the book's most important image and metaphor. The protagonist, Mother, is born in 1900. Married at 17 into the Shangguan family, she has nine children, only one of whom is a boy, the narrator of the book, a spoiled and ineffectual child who stands in stark contrast to his eight strong and forceful female siblings. Mother, a survivor, is the quintessential strong woman, who risks her life to save the lives of several of her children and grandchildren. The writing is full of life-picturesque, bawdy, shocking, imaginative. Each of the seven chapters represents a different time period, from the end of the Qing dynasty up through the Japanese invasion in the 1930s, the civil war, the Cultural Revolution, and the post-Mao years. In sum, this stunning novel is Mo Yan's searing vision of 20th-century China.” (Goodreads)

7) The Kitchen God’s Wife

“Winnie and Helen have kept each other's worst secrets for more than fifty years. Now, because she believes she is dying, Helen wants to expose everything. And Winnie angrily determines that she must be the one to tell her daughter, Pearl, about the past—including the terrible truth even Helen does not know. And so begins Winnie's story of her life on a small island outside Shanghai in the 1920s, and other places in China during World War II, and traces the happy and desperate events that led to Winnie's coming to America in 1949.” (Goodreads)

8) Empress Orchid

“To rescue her family from poverty and avoid marrying her slope-shouldered cousin, seventeen-year-old Orchid competes to be one of the Emperor's wives. When she is chosen as a lower-ranking concubine she enters the erotically charged and ritualised Forbidden City. But beneath its immaculate façade lie whispers of murders and ghosts, and the thousands of concubines will stoop to any lengths to bear the Emperor's son. Orchid trains herself in the art of pleasuring a man, bribes her way into the royal bed, and seduces the monarch, drawing the attention of dangerous foes. Little does she know that China will collapse around her, and that she will be its last Empress.”

9) Raise the Red Lantern: Three Novellas

“The brutal realities of the dark places Su Tong depicts in this collection of novellas set in 1930s provincial China -- worlds of prostitution, poverty, and drug addiction -- belie his prose of stunning and simplebeauty. The title novella, "Raise the Red Lantern," which became a critically acclaimed film, tells the story of Lotus, a young woman whose father's suicide forces her to become the concubine of a wealthy merchant. Crushed by loneliness, despair, and cruel treatment, Lotus finds her descent into insanity both a weapon and a refuge. "Nineteen Thirty-Four Escapes" is an account of a family's struggles during one momentous year; plagued by disease, death, and the shady promise of life in a larger town, the family slowly disintegrates. Finally, "Opium Family" details the last years of a landowning clan whose demise is brought about by corruption, lust, and treachery -- fruits of the insidious crop they harvest”(Goodreads)

10) Death of the Red Heroine

“A young “national model worker,” renowned for her adherence to the principles of the Communist Party, turns up dead in a Shanghai canal. As Inspector Chen Cao of the Shanghai Special Cases Bureau struggles to trace the hidden threads of her past, he finds himself challenging the very political forces that have guided his life since birth. Chen must tiptoe around his superiors if he wants to get to the bottom of this crime, and risk his career—perhaps even his life—to see justice done.” (Goodreads)

[alexandralyman]

Fic Update

Summary:  A Hook/Emma angel/demon AU. They hide in plain sight, the servants of heaven and hell. The angels and the demons, who can save your soul or damn it. They stand on opposite sides, they are the bringers of light and the agents of darkness, they are enemies in an eternal war, but what happens when an angel and a demon are inexplicably drawn to each other?

Read this chapter on ff.net here or on AO3 here

                                               Part Nineteen

Saint Luke's was lit up against the night sky like a Christmas tree, the bright red EMERGENCY sign followed by an equal sided cross that was the universally recognized symbol of first aid across the Western world were both clearly visible from across the wide street as Emma parked her Bug in a miraculously open spot behind a van emblazoned on the side with the logo of a local news channel. Two more news vans were parked a little further down the block and white floodlights pierced the darkness, each coming from atop a TV camera aimed at the hospital. Emma stood next to her old yellow car for a moment and watched, taking in the stone-faced security guards who had come outside to hold the clamouring reporters at bay just outside of the entrance to the ER. They were like a flock of vultures, swooping down to pick apart the latest juicy carcass that had crossed their path until there was nothing left but the bones.

"-unconfirmed reports that Caroline Spencer, wife of longtime city councilman and mayoral hopeful Albert Spencer, was brought here to Saint Luke's by ambulance from the Prince Hotel approximately an hour ago. A source has told us that Mrs. Spencer was found in a suite at the hotel in considerable distress and hotel security called 911. It is not known if Albert Spencer was with his wife at the time or the exact nature of her medical emergency, hospital representatives are refusing to confirm if she even is, in fact, a patient, citing confidentiality laws. We'll remain on scene as this story continues to unfold, now back to you in the studio."

The light on top of the camera switched off as the burly cameraman stopped filming and the reporter was on his phone almost immediately, still holding his microphone in his other hand. "Have we found Spencer yet? Tim's on his way to the house and I've got Niri and Dan staking out the other entrances at the hospital so he can't slip in without us seeing. Wait...a drug overdose, are you serious? Caroline fucking Spencer OD'd at the Prince Hotel? Who's the source on this? Is the maid willing to appear on camera?"

He was whispering furiously, obviously trying to keep his voice down with his network rivals standing so close by but Emma heard him anyway, eavesdropping on his conversation easily with a flick of her fingers that made it sound like he was speaking right to her. While Ecclesiastes strictly forbid eavesdropping, warning not to take heed of the words of others, lest you hear them curse you, angels were not subject to the same rules as man and she needed all the information she could get right now. When the conversation turned to the amount of money they would be offering their "source" under the table to spill all the dirty details - and bribery was illegal by both divine and secular law, but she wasn't in the mood to enact punishment for the sin, the reporter could answer for that one to Saint Peter, eventually - Emma stopped listening and pulled out her own phone from inside her jacket. The picture Elsa had sent filled the screen when she tapped on it and she stared down at it with a frown, Caroline Spencer, the elegant society hostess and potential new queen of City Hall if her husband managed to unseat Regina Mills in the rapidly approaching election, was lying on a gurney with a bloody track mark in her elbow and a demon's brand on her skin. It appeared that the Heaven's Gate heroin had claimed another hapless victim, but this one made no sense.

Hospital security could keep the reporters out, but they couldn't stop an angel. She could bypass entire armies, and had, in the past, during ancient battles in the Holy Land and more recently when all of Europe had been laid waste by a madman whose name was as reviled now as Lucifer himself. Emma stepped into the ER and strode through the crowded waiting room without a single questioning glance from a nurse or an orderly thrown her way. Another set of doors required a hospital ID badge or for someone at the triage desk to open them by pressing a buzzer that was mounted safely out of public reach - but that didn't stop her either. The doors parted like the waters of the Red Sea with a mechanical screech as they swung open, but it wasn't the Promised Land of milk and honey that awaited her on the other side. She was greeted by the Angel of Death herself, with flecks of dark blood drying on her snowflake-patterned scrubs and a halo of fluorescent light shining down on her from above. Death was the final step on the earthly path and when a mortal soul went into the light, they were looking into Elsa's eyes. She too had followed armies once upon a time, walking the fields of battle in their wake, entering the cities devastated by plague. The final visitor to the nursery, the sickbed, the sinners and saints, both old and young, healthy and ill, rich and poor, she came for them all, in the end. Hearts ceased to beat and skin went cold, so cold, under her divine hand. Had that been the fate of Caroline Spencer tonight with the mark of a demon on both her flesh and soul?

Damn you, Killian.

His silky voice immediately answered back in her head, "Too late."

Emma followed Elsa to an exam room at the end of the hall, where another security guard was positioned outside, eyes forward, thumbs in his belt, oblivious to them both when they passed right in front of him. It looked like the most private space available for a high-profile patient in the busy ER, where worried parents sat with fevered children still dressed in their footie pyjamas and what looked like an entire bachelorette party in skimpy clubwear were all huddled around a woman with a rhinestone tiara sitting askew on her head and a ripped sash that read BRIDE-TO-BE slung over her shoulder who was dry-heaving over a plastic basin. A woman in a matching MAID-OF-HONOUR sash with dark makeup smudged under her eyes was rubbing her back and talking to the same doctor that Emma remembered from her last visit, looking even more tired and worn with another paper cup of coffee clutched in his hand as he nodded and listened to whatever had gone wrong on what was supposed to have been a night of celebration.

"I think it was one of the paramedics who tipped off the press that she was brought here instead of City General or Mount Sinai, I'm going to pay him a little visit later," Elsa said, shutting the door behind them, "I always knew Hans was an asshole and his whole modest, first responder, "don't thank me I'm just doing my duty" routine with the new nurses was nothing but a big phony act. Let's see if he can still keep it up with the flaming sword pressed right against his neck."

She waved a hand over the door handle while she talked and it shimmered under her silver light, looking like it had just frosted over with a thick covering of ice. The room had no lock, but no one would be able to enter it now and Emma quickly looked around. There was the usual stainless steel carts laden with supplies and instruments, a box of latex gloves, a canister of swabs, more of those kidney-shaped plastic basins. Machines beeped, and a black silk robe was lying in a haphazard pile on the room's lone chair with a red lace bra peeking out limply from between the folds of fabric, she supposed they were the clothes Caroline Spencer had been wearing when she was brought in. The robe had been swapped for a plain hospital gown and plush hotel lines for a thin blanket that was faded from constant washings in industrial machines. There was an IV needle taped into the back of her left hand, folded on top of her right and both resting on her stomach. Her wedding and engagement rings were still on, a large diamond solitaire and channel-set band that together took up half her finger all the way to the knuckle. She had more diamonds in her ears, a pair of large, square-cut studs that could easily have been a birthday or anniversary gift from her wealthy, older husband.

Or from someone else who was both wealthy, older, and had a keen eye for fine jewellery.

Black pearls hung from round diamonds the size of cherries, delivered to her in a velvet box several lifetimes ago at Versailles with a note written in elegant script and signed with a single K.

His first attempt, but not his last.

"She's still alive," Emma whispered, both surprised and relieved. The blanket was not pulled over Caroline's face but her eyes were closed, slightly sunken in their sockets. Her cheeks too, had both seemed to collapse inward and feathery lines stood out around her blue-tinged lips as if she'd lost twenty pounds and aged ten years overnight. She was virtually unrecognizable from the polished political wife in designer suits and perfect French twists who'd stood next to her husband and smiled for the cameras while he gave speeches and shook hands all over the city during the last few weeks of his high-profile campaign.

Elsa huffed out a breath, pushing back an errant lock of hair that had escaped from her braid with the back of her hand, "Barely. She was seizing when they brought her in and I could feel that her soul was about to slip free, but they managed to stabilize her at the last possible second. If she'd been brought in even a minute later she probably would be dead, but-"

"What?"

Emma looked up and met Elsa's gaze across the bed while the machines and monitors quietly hummed and recorded each fragile heartbeat, every sluggish breath. Caroline Spencer looked like she was asleep, but it was clear that something else was going on. If she was aware of the two angels above her she gave no sign, there was no flicker behind her eyelids or twitch of her fingers at the sound of their voices. She lay unmoving except for the slight rise and fall of her chest, tucked underneath the blanket with her hands folded atop it like a child's discarded doll.

"They're pretty sure she had a stroke," Elsa explained, dropping her voice below what mortal ears would be able to hear, "The neurologist on call wanted to consult with the head of the department in person before confirming it officially, he's on his way in now. Even if she pulls through, there's no telling how much damage has already been done."

Alive, and not. Emma knew that a stroke nowadays could mean anything from a near-total recovery to major impairment, it all depended on so many factors like the speed of treatment, the patient's age and general health. She was caught in a shadowy limbo with her ultimate fate hanging in the balance, in more ways than one. The sin was like perfume, invisible to the naked eye but clinging to her ashen skin and filling the air in the small exam room. But it wasn't the scent of flowers or vanilla of Chanel No 5, it was dark, insidious, and all too familiar to Emma.

Both Spencers had been present at the mayor's gala. Albert had even danced with Regina Mills, Emma had seen them together in the middle of the dance floor, all practiced smiles and ostensibly putting their differences aside for the evening though they'd stood as far apart from each other as possible and barely managed to make it through one song. And while her husband had his hand on his rival's back and was probably wishing for a knife to plunge into it, Caroline had been dancing with someone else.

"We had to pump her stomach before we could even do the MRI, her blood alcohol level was dangerously high. Hans said that in the hotel room the whole minibar had been emptied and there was bottles all over the place, vodka, champagne, scotch, you name it. He was probably sneaking pictures of it all on his phone that'll be plastered online tomorrow, the prick."

"Scotch," Emma repeated, feeling hollow and empty, "There was scotch."

"And then there's this," Elsa continued, completely oblivious to the significance of what she'd just said as she reached for Caroline's folded hands, "It's why I called you."

The mark was even uglier in person, a jagged knot of dark, twisted tissue on the inside of her left wrist that seemed to pulse along with every beep of the heart monitor next to the bed. Mortals might only see a mole, a harmless blemish or birthmark, but to their eyes it was like a tiny curled serpent that had sunk its venomous fangs deep into the delicate skin and blue vein and was draining the lifeforce from its victim more than any physical wound ever could. Neither she nor Elsa dared to touch it directly, and for the first time in a long time Emma felt a sense of cold apprehension along with the suspicion that was clawing relentlessly at her heart. It was unmistakably a demon's mark, and it was fresh.

Elsa's eyes flashed silver as she carefully placed Caroline's hands back on top of the blanket, her own palms filling with light. She was clearly furious, and an Angel of Death's fury was more dangerous than any other's. The temperature in the room dropped as she clenched both hands into fists, her face pale as snow and her lips thinning to a tight line.

"Daemoniacus!" she practically spat in disgust, the light glowing bright through her fingers. Demonic. "They're behind this somehow, all these overdoses. Men, women, even children! The one who was here that night, with the dark hair and blue eyes, the Corrupter-"

Killian. Let me be damned to the rest of the world, but I am Killian to you.

He couldn't be Killian to her now.

"-he's not just corrupting them, he's killing them! They are dying before their time and I can't stop it, it's like a new, unnatural plague has taken hold and it's only getting worse by the day. I'm going to find him and he will pay for this."

"No."

Her voice was colder than ice and a shard of it seemed to have lodged somewhere in her chest where her heart should be. She smoothed back the tangled hair from Caroline Spencer's brow and calmy met Elsa's surprised look. Emma squared her shoulders and felt her own hands fill with golden light. He might have been born from infernal flame with the soot of it on his lashes and the reflection behind his eyes, but he could still burn like the succubus had. She'd spared him once in Paris, and this was the price she had to pay for that mercy.

"If the Corrupter was the one responsible then I will destroy him myself."

It was more than a promise, it was a holy vow that echoed in the tiny room as if it was the grandest cathedral even as someone began to pound on the other side of the door. The handle rattled but refused to turn, Elsa's seal held fast. But she couldn't keep it locked forever. Her head whipped around to look, her thick braid bouncing over her shoulder. Voices rose in consternation and they were clearly out of time.

"Emma-"

Elsa grasped her wrist, her light eyes narrowing as she searched Emma's face. She felt like she was made of stone, as much a sculpture as the marble angels that decorated Saint Raphael's. Cold and forbidding, and yet capable of shattering into a thousand pieces if she fell.

"Vale, beata angela Elsa."

Farewell, blessed angel Elsa.

The light enveloped her and the exam room disappeared in a blink, Elsa's snowflake-patterned scrubs and silver-blonde hair turning into the starry sky and the silver moon as she reappeared outside, hidden in the shadows next to her car. She leaned against the driver's side door and tipped her head back, staring up at the heavens above and wondering if she'd ever see Elsa again. The choice she'd been trying to avoid for centuries suddenly loomed in front of her like a mountain, forcing her to face what she could no longer ignore.

Killian answered on the first ring, probably wondering why she had called him directly instead of sending a text. They were supposed to limit their contact unless absolutely necessary until he'd taken care of the demon he called the Dark One, but this wasn't a conversation they could have with abbreviations and silly emojis.

"Emma, what's-"

She cut him off before he could finish, not bothering to beat around the burning bush, "Are you having an affair with Caroline Spencer?"

His silence was her answer and she huffed out a frustrated breath, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose, "Killian."

"Audistis quia dictum est antiquis non moechaberis," he quoted, softly, in Latin. The seventh of the Ten Commandments, thou shalt not commit adultery. "You know it's still a sin, and you know what I am."

Emma sighed, she did know what he was, knew it intimately, and the word slipped past her lips, "Damnate."

Demon

Damned

"That I am, beata. But I won't lie to you."

She wondered if that was really true. "So your answer is yes."

Another moment of silence passed before he whispered, "Yes."

The lights of Saint Luke's continued to twinkle across the street, virgin white and blood red. Even more reporters had shown up while she was inside, eager to pull back the curtain and expose the human frailty behind the polished surface. Caroline Spencer had been found guilty, and the world had come to judge her for it. She'd join the long line of fallen women stretching back to Eve, even in this day and age an unfaithful wife was punished more severely than a cheating husband in the court of public opinion, at least. The madonna/whore complex was still alive and well, and Emma wasn't naive enough to think that anyone would believe she'd been in that hotel room taking drugs alone. Not with the red lace lingerie and demolished minibar and any other juicy details that were sure to make their way onto the front page.

But just who had she been with tonight?

Killian was either innocent or trying to play dumb, she could hear the confusion in his voice but she couldn't trust it, couldn't trust her own instincts when it came to him.

"Why are you asking me this now, Emma? Do you want me to break it off? Do you...do you want sexual fidelity from me? You've never asked-"

"You're not capable of that," she interrupted, scuffing the toe of her boot hard against the curb and trying to ignore the burning knot inside her stomach that was making her cheeks flush hot in the cool night air. The feeling was unsettling, the sudden flash of anger and something else that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Something that made her voice bitter and her eyes burn.

"Of course," Killian agreed, but it came out tight and clipped and sounded almost...hurt, "Demon, as you said. And who am I to ask that of an angel, the next time a starving young artiste prays to you for inspiration and you deign to answer him."

Emma felt her back go straight against the Bug, "You're not...you are not still jealous of Auguste, are you? Seriously, Killian? It's been almost three hundred years!"

His voice dropped even lower and took on a dangerous edge, "I watched you cry because of that man, Emma, and he was not worth your tears."

The memory washed over her where she stood, a vision of the single tear that shone brighter than any diamond falling to the hard-packed dirt at his feet on the road outside of Paris and the rose that bloomed from it. She shook her head, feeling a shock going through her at the realization that Killian was still holding a grudge against the man after all this time. Sure, he would occasionally toss off an insult about Auguste's paintings that usually included some kind of dig at his obvious lack of skill between the sheets as well as on canvas...but they were getting wildly off track and she needed to steer the conversation back to the present, not the past.

"Look, just forget about Auguste for right now, okay? I need to know, were you with Caroline tonight, at the Prince Hotel?"

She could sense the shift even through the phone, as he suddenly realized that she wasn't asking the question just out of the blue.

"Yes, I was. Why?"

Emma chewed on her lip and when she didn't reply his voice got even more urgent.

"Emma, tell me what's going on."

"I take it you haven't been watching the news," she finally sighed, "Killian, she overdosed on heroin tonight. At the Prince Hotel. She's currently at Saint Luke's."

"WHAT? But….how? That's not possible...she's not...is she?"

The shock and surprise in his voice certainly seemed genuine, but the devil lied. She quickly explained about the seizures and the stroke and Elsa's suspicions.

"Tell me you had nothing to do with this."

It came out as more of a plea than a demand and she heard his sharp intake of breath.

"You think that I….that I what? Held her down and forced her to shoot up?"

"Well what am I supposed to think, infernal one? You just admitted you were with her tonight and I don't think heroin was on the room service menu along with the thirty dollar salads!"

"Oh, you'd be surprised, darling," he drawled back, suddenly dark and knowing, "Grease the right palms and anything is on the menu. Of course they don't advertise it openly along with the free wifi and continental breakfast, but every concierge in this town has a little black book of contacts, including the Jolly Roger's address. I am sin, angel, and you, out of all people, have always known it. I'll confess every last one to you and flagellate myself bloody at your feet in penance, but I swear to you I am not guilty of this!"

Her own breath caught in her throat as her vision swam at the edges and the lights swirled together, crimson and alabaster. The fork in the road, the eternal choice, sin or salvation.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

She wanted to believe him and that scared her more than anything, that even in the face of all the evidence to the contrary she still thought there was a chance he could be redeemed. Not by Him and His grace, but by herand her alone. Her own sin was the sin of hubris, for thinking she could keep playing with fire and not be burnt. He'd consume her long before she could ever save him - it was his nature. Like the old fable about the scorpion who'd stung the frog carrying him across the river and drowned them both because he couldn't help but strike down his own saviour, they couldn't change what they were.

"Emma? Emma, are you still there?"

She heard him but she didn't answer, pressing the phone to her ear and listening to his ragged breathing coming across the line. Telephones had been hailed as a miracle once upon a time, a wonder of science that bridged oceans and crossed impossible distances in the blink of an eye.

Emma.

She heard that too, even more miraculous than the small device she held in her hand that was now so ordinary and commonplace. Despite everything, despite every reason why she shouldn't, she still wanted to answer him.

"I'm still here, Killian."

Why did she keep answering him?

"Give me one more night and I will end this, I will drive the Dark One and his fucking heroin out of the city no matter what it takes but I need more time. Please, blessed one, please put your faith in me for one more night, I know it's asking a lot, but I swear I won't let you down."

It could be one more night to cover up his tracks, to make the Dark One into his scapegoat and wash his hands clean of the sin. She should say no, she should stop pretending they could be anything other than enemies and whatever was between them had to end before it drowned them both, she should keep her vow and do what she should have done when she'd found him held prisoner by the Holy Church in Spain.

"Have you come to dispatch me properly then? Well, just do me the courtesy of making it quick."

He hadn't resisted her then...and he wouldn't resist her now, if she went to him. At least, not until it was too late.

"One more night, damnate."

She hung up before he could say another word and the phone slipped from her numb fingers, bouncing off the curb and landing on the street with a thump. When Emma bent down to pick it up she was startled to see a large crack had appeared on the screen from the fall, a lightning bolt that cut diagonally across the glass. It cut her shadowed reflection in two when she angled it in her hand and stared at it. Above her head the whole row of streetlights started to sputter and pop while across the street the reporters all stopped, frowning as they tapped their suddenly unresponsive earpieces and shook their dead microphones. An ambulance pulled into the emergency room bay, sirens wailing, lights flashing, turning their skin red and their eyes black while the noise drowned them all out. It looked like they were screaming into the flames, lost and tortured souls crying out for someone to listen.

But for a moment that lasted for the eternity between heartbeats, everything inside her head was completely silent.

                                               -------------

His rage flared almost incandescent, white-hot and boiling under his skin. Killian could feel his eyes turn crimson, his teeth sharpen, his face and form shifting from man to demon and back again. Even the worst of the Inquisition's torture hadn't revealed his true face, he'd maintained the facade and laughed at the pain while his bones were shattered to powder and his infernal blood was spilled was spilled in that vile dungeon all those years ago. But the thought of losing her had snapped his control and his fingers turned to talons around the phone in his hand, cracking the screen clear in two. He flung it across the room and watched it smash against the wall, bursting into flame from the force of his anger. The acrid stench of melted plastic filled the air and he slammed his palms down on his desk, dropping his head and catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the polished black marble.

Damnate

Killian

The pull inside was almost too strong to resist. Every instinct was screaming at him to go to Emma, answer her summons the way he was really meant to and mark her indelibly as his. If he did then she'd have no choice, his brand would bar her from Heaven from the rest of eternity and she'd be unable to return to the one place he couldn't follow. He'd come close in the past to doing it...so close...one night in particular when he'd sensed that she was teetering on the edge of surrender and wouldn't try to stop him, but he'd forced himself to hold back. He could bring her right to the brink and he'd spent centuries trying his best to do just that, but he couldn't push her over. She had to take that final step on her own and fall willingly, if she didn't want it of her own volition, didn't want him both not-human body and damned soul...it had to be her choice, no deceit, no trickery, none of his usual tactics, or she'd despise him forever. Literally. Eternity was a very long time and while he'd openly sneered in the faces of priests and popes, boldly told saints to go fornicate with themselves and gleefully thumbed his nose at the Holy Inquisition itself, wearing their disdain as proudly as a king wore a crown, but if she turned her back on him-

Smoke curled out from under his fingers and started rising towards the ceiling in thin spirals like stairways that dissipated long before reaching heaven while a single tear fell from his eye, landing right on the glowing, pinprick reflection of his pupil with a tiny splat. But no perfect red rose sprang to life from the heated marble, as he'd told Emma once nothing grew in Hell and he was incapable of miracles. He bought her the flowers he couldn't grow, and all he could do was watch while the tear etched into the stone like acid, destroying the perfect and expensive slab in one fell swoop.

"Dark One."

The moniker fell from his lips as a bitter curse and his reflection showed that his eyes were twin flames, burning from within as he dug his claws into the ruined desk and slowly dragged ten parallel lines across it. He'd been so close to getting the one thing he coveted above everything else and now it was slipping through his fingers like sand thanks to the oily dealmaker. All the years of waiting patiently for his angel to fall, biding his time across Europe, the West Indies, the New World...and now his carefully laid plans had been shot right….

...to Hell.

"DARK ONE!"

He wanted the other demon's head on a silver plate, to lay at her feet as the spoils of war and to hear the last confession from the shrivelled lips that would prove his innocence before he burnt his offering to his divine lover and took what he wanted in front of the smouldering pile of ash. But he had to be careful, and Killian forced himself to take several deep breaths instead of overturning the desk completely. Rumpelstiltskin was clearly taunting him, there was no other explanation as to why he would have gone after Caroline Spencer. He'd told Emma the truth, he'd been with her earlier that night at the same hotel where they'd had their first tryst after meeting for lunch to "discuss" the heritage building preservation project she was spearheading with the local historical society. It had gone exactly as he'd expected from the moment he'd received her email, money, power, sex, she had the first and wanted the third, probably knowing full well that her husband was also getting some on the side. Both Spencers played the game, but Caroline's drugs of choice were Botox and skin fillers, not heroin. There was no earthly reason for her to just suddenly decide to start shooting up out of the blue.

No, Killian was certain that the Dark One was sending him a message, just like he'd sent his imps into the Jolly Roger to cause a bit of chaos without getting his own hands dirty. It could be payback for insulting him in Paris, these kinds of petty spats between demons could go on for centuries, spawn entire wars and topple kings in their wake. Rumpelstiltskin had no scruples, destroying one human soul to enact revenge wouldn't even register with the demon who'd been right in the thick of the French Revolution making deals with everyone from the nobility to probably even Napoleon himself. The strike on Caroline was a taunt, a goad, and the vibrating bass from the music playing downstairs was like the ticking of a clock in his ears.

Your move.

He didn't have time to play Rumpelstiltskin's sadistic games, he needed to end this, now, before he lost his angel for good. She was on the verge of leaving him, he could sense it like a shark that smelled blood in the water, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it with the Dark One skulking around unseen in the shadows. He'd carelessly led the other demon straight to Emma once, he wouldn't make that mistake again. The threat to break her wings echoed in the back of his mind and if he so much as tried to touch her, then Killian would destroy him, no matter what the consequences. Even demons could be killed, as Zelena had discovered in Paris under a shower of holy water that melted her right into the sewers with the rats. Rumpelstiltskin was much more powerful than the succubus had been, but he didn't care. He'd risked Heaven's wrath and seduced an angel, he didn't fear anything or anyone. Not the Dark One, not the Angel of Death, not his own unholy master or even the one who'd banished him to Hell.

Except...but he refused to even think it. She'd come back to him, she always did. At the end of every Lent, every time he called...she always answered.

Always.

The thought was his anchor, the only thing keeping him from flying off the handle completely. Killian rolled his shoulders back under his suit jacket and straightened up, ignoring the damage to the expensive desk as he fussed with his silver cufflinks. Jefferson was still analyzing the heroin sample and the cops were still searching fruitlessly for the dealer while continuing to keep the existence of the new drug a secret from the press, but he was done with waiting. He wasn't after the Dark One's minions, he needed to cut the head off the snake and the rest would take care of itself. It was time to summon him and finally settle this face to face.

When he opened the door and stepped out of his office not a single soul in the Jolly Roger would be able to tell that anything was amiss just by looking at him. His eyes didn't glow, his nails were short and clipped, his teeth were blunt behind unsmiling lips. To the naked eye he was human, body, blood and soul. He'd burn anyone who tried to touch him, but one look at his dark expression should warn anyone from trying to get too close.

Scarlet pushed off from where he'd been leaning against the wall, clearly debating on whether to open his mouth or not. He'd driven Killian to the hotel and back to the club afterwards in silence, keeping his head down and staying a step behind, not drawing any attention to himself, but he was entirely focused on his employee now and he gave Scarlet a hard look, eyes narrowing with sudden suspicion. His first assumption was that the Dark One was having him tailed, learning about his affair from whoever he'd engaged to follow him around. It wasn't like he'd been particularly discreet about it, she was the one who was married, not him. Caroline had even visited him at home more than once, although she'd been somewhat put out by his refusal to fuck her in his own bed. Emma's scent still clung stubbornly to his sheets, her presence imprinted right into the silk. He'd slept in the other bedroom to keep it off him, unwilling to let go of even that tiny little piece of her.

"Do you believe in sin, Mr. Scarlet?"

The music continued to thump under their feet like the beating of a guilty heart while he stared Scarlet down, watching his face carefully. The man's eyes were normally very expressive, large and open with every thought in his head passing behind them. Windows to the soul, indeed. At the question they went hooded, his head jerking back a fraction and his fingers twitching at his sides. Will Scarlet knew about Caroline Spencer, knew Killian had been with her earlier at the Prince Hotel. Will Scarlet knew about Emma, even if he had no idea what she really was.

He knew far too much for his own good.

"Sin?" Scarlet repeated, sliding his twitching hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

"Yes, sin. You know...sloth...wrath…lust...greed."

He'd felt it from Scarlet, felt the heat of his lust when he looked at Lacey or Ana up on stage, felt the simmering anger hidden behind the blank poker face when he purposefully needled the man, felt the greed that wrapped around his heart and soul with grasping fingers and whispered in his ear that he deserved more.

"Yeah," Scarlet said at last, with a cocky defiance that few dared show him, "You know what, Mr. Jones? I do."

Killian smiled, but it was far from pleasant, "Do you pray for forgiveness from your sins?"

"Do you?" Scarlet shot back.

He clapped a hand on Scarlet's shoulder and gave it a hard squeeze that made the other man's eyes water and his face twist in a grimace. Killian leaned forward and spoke directly into Scarlet's ear, "I pray for one thing and one thing only, and it isn't forgiveness. I know I'm too far gone for that."

If Scarlet was secretly working for Rumpelstiltskin behind his back then it wouldn't be forgiveness he'd be praying for, it would be deliverance from the Hell he'd discover hidden underneath the world he thought he knew. But no angel would come swooping down to save him, Killian would make damn sure of that.

The club was full, drunk, nearly-naked bodies writhing like a pit of vipers everywhere he looked when he entered the main room. It reeked of the deadliest of sins, the teeming mass was indulging in them openly right under his watchful gaze. Gluttony in the form of endless bottles of champagne, the sloth of the soft-bellied men who sat on their asses and leered at the lithe dancers with lust glittering in their eyes. They were oblivious to the flames that licked unseen at their heels, the creeping darkness behind the pulsing lights. Killian moved in shadow, crossing the floor while the flashing strobes from the stage hit everywhere except where he stood.

"Shut it down."

Peter paused halfway out of his seat, shock crossing his face at the order, "Boss?"

"We're closing early. Kick everyone out within the next twenty minutes and tell the employees not to come in tomorrow, cancel all deliveries and call everyone on the schedule. The Jolly Roger is closed until further notice."

"But-"

At Killian's glare Peter shut his mouth and swallowed heavily, giving him a nod. He turned to the DJ booth and made a slashing movement across his throat, pushing through the throng and getting swallowed up almost at once. Killian glanced towards the bar and saw that the thief was working tonight, probably with a wad of pilfered bills stuffed into her low-cut bandage dress. She caught his eye and her face immediately flushed with guilt, liquor sloshing over her hand as she missed the shot glass in front of her.

Non furtum facies

Thou shalt not steal.

He didn't say a word, he just wrapped his hand around the bartender's elbow and pulled her through the kitchen and into the storage room. The music suddenly shut off, followed by faint exclamations of surprise from the dancers and customers as he threw open the door that led down into the basement.

"Mr. Jones, sir, listen, I can explain!"

It was clearly dawning on her that the jig was up, her heels scraped loudly on the stairs as she twisted and tried to pull free of his iron grip. Killian ignored her pleading, quickly punching in the code on the keypad with his free hand, one eight one two. The door swung open and revealed the secret room where the imp was still locked up in a steel cell. He looked up with a grin as Killian pulled the cord to turn on the lightbulb.

"Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate," the imp intoned, sticking out his tongue. It split into two long forks that wiggled and waved obscenely and the bartender jumped almost a foot in the air, losing a shoe and falling back against the bars of the empty cell behind her.

"Shut up!" Killian ordered, rolling his eyes at the reference. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

"Oh, Corrupter, have you brought me a friend? Fi fi fo fum, I smell the blood of a sinner."

The imp giggled to himself while Killian pried her fingers from his sleeve and pushed her gently into the cell. She made a mewling noise in the back of her throat and he grasped her chin, tipping her head back so that she was looking right into his eyes.

"Stealing from me was not a good idea, Jacqueline."

Her face was ashen under the heavy makeup and she tried to shake her head, "I..I didn't, I swear!"

She was only compounding her own sin with the denial. Killian glanced down and saw the outline of something square under her dress, he tapped it with a finger and she paled even more.

"Try that again."

His suspicions had been correct, Jacqueline pulled out a damp wad of cash and handed it over with slumped shoulders while the imp hooted and hollered.

"What the fuck is that?" she cried, glancing at it over his shoulder. Killian thumbed through the money, counting it quickly before slipping it into his pocket. She had been getting bolder and bolder with her thefts, there wasn't anything under a fifty.

"What the fuck are you?"

He ran his own tongue over his teeth and lifted his head. Jacqueline had her arms wrapped tightly around herself, gooseflesh prickling over her bare skin. Killian smiled and watched her shiver even more.

"I am your employer, and you didn't read your contract closely enough before you signed it."

She opened her mouth, probably to scream, but he laid a finger over her lips before she could make a sound and whispered, "Shhh."

The effect was immediate as her pupils dilated wide and her hand crept to her throat. She stumbled back to the wall and slid down it, her legs folding under her as she stared up in mute horror. Killian stepped out of the cell and slid the door closed, locking her in. He didn't want her to scream herself hoarse even if the room was soundproofed, he would have need of her voice tomorrow.

"Say your prayers, Tweedledee."

He watched the imp snort with derision, the tattoos on his arms rippling and moving under the light. A snake uncoiled along his forearm and the gates of Hell swung open, the tiny sinners inside struggling to break free. Killian reached up and pulled the cord again, plunging the room into darkness. One more night and it would all be over.

Scarlet was waiting out front with the Escalade, sitting in the driver's seat with the engine running and his phone pressed to his ear. When Killian emerged from the Jolly Roger he quickly ended the call, his face turned away from the darkly tinted window. The leather seat creaked when Killian sat down in the back behind him, pulling out Emma's miniature from his inner jacket pocket. He flicked it open with his nail and stared down at the faded paint.

One more night….and he would have what he wanted. The Dark One...the Angel of Death...no one would stop him.

Killian lifted his head and met Scarlet's gaze in the rearview mirror. He slipped the portrait safely back into his pocket, over his heart.

"Drive."