Beane Odette - Reawakened - A Once Upon A Time Tale

— Yes, — he said. — I’ve heard that.

— Then you understand.

Gold nodded at this. Emma couldn’t tell if he respected it, questioned it, or just found it amusing.

It was late, but Emma decided to have a look around near the toll bridge. She didn’t know where Mary Margaret had escaped to, but without help, she couldn’t have gone very far, and hiding in the woods was just as likely as anything else. The bridge meant something to her. Maybe she would head there.

Emma took the Bug and made her way toward the outskirts of Storybrooke, worried for her friend. Distracted by her thoughts, she was not paying attention when she ripped around a tight corner and nearly hit a man.

She only glimpsed him for a second as he lurched off the road, diving away to avoid being run down.

Emma stopped the car, got out, and ran back to him. In the bushes she found a man she’d never seen before, sitting upright and clutching at his ankle. He nodded and said, — Hello. Nice night for a walk. — He was tall and lanky, Emma saw. Handsome in an unusual way, and dressed more formally than most in Storybrooke.

— I’m so sorry, — Emma said. — Are you hurt?

He used a tree to help himself stand, then tried to put some weight on the ankle. It didn’t look like it would hold up too well.

— Let me give you a ride home, at least, — Emma said.

— I’m fine, I’m fine, — he said, waving her off, gimping back toward the road. — It’s really no problem. — But it obviously was a problem, and he struggled getting just a few feet.

— How far is your house?

— About a mile, — he said. — That way.

— You can’t make it a mile, — she said. — Come on. Let me drive you; it’d be silly not to.

He sighed and seemed to see the light.

— Okay, — he said, — fair enough. What’s your name?

— I’m Emma Swan, — she said, holding out her hand. — I’m the sheriff. I don’t think we’ve ever met.

— The sheriff! — he cried, smiling. — No, I don’t believe we have. I don’t get out much. — He shook her hand. — But it’s good to meet you. My name’s Jefferson.

Emma was surprised when Jefferson pointed out his driveway — an old private road she’d never even noticed before, not far from the very edge of town. They crept through the woods about a quarter mile before coming to a wrought-iron gate and, once through, to the home itself. It was impressive, to say the least. Classical, regal, enormous, and lit up like a Christmas tree. Emma couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. The man lived in a mansion in the middle of nowhere. He looked down on Storybrooke like a lord. How did she not know this guy?

She helped him to the door, and when he invited her in, she agreed. She had to admit: She was curious. Not wanting to get into any details about Mary Margaret, she had told him that she was out looking for a lost dog. He seemed to accept it.

— You must have a big family, — she said, which was her way of saying: How could anyone need this much?

— No, it’s just me here, — he said, limping into the foyer.

Emma followed him, and they entered a large, plush living room.

— This search you’re undertaking, — he said. — You’re out here looking for your dog, is it? I believe I can be of some assistance. I know you have your fancy GPS devices and what have you, but I’m something of an amateur cartographer… — He was rustling around now at a rolltop desk, and when he turned, he was holding a rolled-up map. He limped past her again and unfurled it on the top of the piano. — This has great detail of these woods, — he said. — Please use it.

— Huh, — Emma said, looking at the map.

— Can I get you anything to drink? Some tea to warm up?

Emma was transfixed by the map, not just because of its incredible detail, but because of the artistry of it. She started studying the areas she knew, remembering her various encounters. It would have been nice to have had this when they were looking for David…

She looked up. Jefferson was gone from the room, but she could hear him in the kitchen, clinking cups together. He reappeared a few minutes later with a tray of tea.

— I thought you might like to warm up before the search, — he said.

Emma distractedly took a cup.

— This map is incredible, — she said, sipping at the tea. — You’re very talented.

— Thank you, — he said. — It’s one of my hobbies.

— And what is it that you do for a living? — she asked.

— Oh, this and that, — he said. — Many things. — He eased himself down onto his couch. — Come, come, — he said. — Have a seat.

Emma glanced once more at the map, then went to the couch and sat down. Maybe it was the stress of the last few days, maybe it was the lack of sleep, but she was suddenly feeling tired. Very tired.

— I really should be going, — she said, sinking into the couch. Drowsily, she looked at Jefferson. — I should…

— You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.

Inexplicably, she dropped the cup of tea. It tumbled to the carpet. She stared down at the wet stain, shook her head. Usually I would try to clean that… she thought.

— It’s really fine, — Jefferson said, and his voice stretched across the room.

She frowned, squinted over at him. All of him was stretching.

— Who… — she tried, but something went wrong. She rolled off the couch, onto the floor, only vaguely aware that she’d been drugged… that he had…

— Who are you? — she managed, but the world — all of it — was going gray.

She dreamt of a man — a father. A father and his daughter.

It was only the two of them.

The father was bold, confident, and powerful. But he was hiding, too. Hiding from the Queen.

He and the daughter played.

They were safe.

They were safe until the Queen came back.

When she woke, she was alone.

She was in the same room, facedown on the couch, her hands bound behind her back. It took her a moment to remember. When she did, the adrenaline started to rush. She was in trouble. Maybe big trouble. Emma managed to squirm her way to the edge of the couch and twist enough to see that the teacup she’d dropped was still there. Watching the door — she didn’t know where Jefferson was — she got herself up into a sitting position, slid down to the floor, and managed to knock a throw pillow down on top of the cup. With her shoe, she crushed the teacup. She picked up one of the shards and went to work on the tie that was biting at her wrists.

She was free in a minute.

Once she was up, she looked around the room for a weapon — her gun was in her car — and settled on an iron poker from the rack beside the fireplace. Could she run? Sure. But that felt wrong. She was about to go hunting for psychos when she noticed the telescope at the window, pointed down at Storybrooke. She checked the door once more and looked into the eye of the telescope.

She shuddered.

The sheriff’s office, in perfect focus.

Jefferson had been watching her.

She took a breath and decided not to think about the implications of that discovery. Instead, she crept toward the hallway, poker held like a sword.

She came to a half-open door. She heard the sounds — metal on metal — before she got there, but what she saw through the crack made her eyes go wide: the silhouette of Jefferson in a darkened room, sharpening what appeared to be a large pair of scissors.

She stepped back and took a breath. She was about to burst in when she heard a different sound.

A whimper.

Coming from down the hall.