Okay, so my second fic for this week is a much older one, but it was new to me when several ladies on Discord pointed me towards it. Even though it is an unfinished WIP, I am now obsessed with it and learning how it might end, so I'm trying to get so many people to read and review it that the author will be re-inspired to coming back to it, knowing how much it is loved and how many people like it. I haven't been able to find melissa13 on Tumblr yet, but the story can be read on AO3 and ff.net and I really do think you will enjoy the ride it takes you on.
And melissa13, if you see this, thank you for the amazing story! I attempted to create some cover art for it too:
The Craving in Between - fic by @hollyethecurious
a Captain Swan vampire/college AU for @cssns 2020
Summary: Emma shivered at the biting wind whipping through the street as she crossed from one alley to next, the tight, thin dress beneath her jacket doing little to help keep her warm. She’d chosen it earlier that night hoping to impress a certain teaching assistant from one of the classes she and Neal shared. Killian Jones. A doctoral candidate several years her senior, and super hot to boot, Emma couldn’t deny she’d initially started flirting with him just to get under Neal’s skin, but as the semester went on and her overtures were met with equally witty and flirtatious banter, Emma had to admit there was something about Killian Jones that drew her to him.
Emma rolled her eyes, and not some mystical, mumbo jumbo, supernatural bullshit. Another scoff left her lungs, hanging before her in a mist of cold sarcasm as she recalled her ex’s words warning that Jones wasn’t human. Shaking her head, Emma thought to herself, Well, what the hell is he then, Neal?
Emma was about to find out.
Rated M / ~17,500 words / Read the story on: tumblr, AO3, FFN
asdfghjkl this fic is AMAZING! Inspired by a scene from The Vampire Diaries books and borrowing lore from TVD (but NOT a TVD AU), Hollye wrote a beautiful and suspenseful (and hot) CS vampire story. I’ve read and loved Hollye’s writing for a while now, and I was so excited to get to work with her for this event. (I’m also a fan of TVD and recently started rewatching the tv series, so this was perfect.) With a college setting, anyone with a thing for professor TA!Killian will get that added bonus (they are in TA/student roles when their attraction to each other starts, but the TA/student dynamic itself is not a reason for their attraction).
Big thank you and lots of love to the mods of @cssns for running this spectacular event again! I’ve had so much fun participating the past few years, making new friends, and seeing/reading everyone’s supernatural creations.
Summary: Two covens, both alike in dignity, / In fair New York, where we lay our scene, / From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, / Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes / A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; / Whole misadventured piteous overthrows / Do with their death bury their sires’ strife. (Captain Swan + West Side Story + vampires. But not as sad. Probably.)
rated M | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | AO3 | 6.1k words
A/N: Brace yourself for some feelz, friends; that’s all I can say about this chapter. (There’s just...a LOT of emotion. You’ll see ;) ) Eternal thanks, as always, to @optomisticgirl for being an awesome beta; to @thesschesthair for her amazing art (LOOK AT THAT AHHHHHHH); and to @kmomof4 and @cssns for putting this event on and pushing me to continue this story!
if you’ve ever seen AVPM/S, I’d like you to imagine Draco Malfoy singing the Anita part and that’s what my high school’s production of West Side Story was like
part five: tonight, there will be no morning star
The skyscraper was a wonderful invention; a marvel of modern engineering. The ability to construct a building all the way into the clouds was one of the many things Gold was glad he had lived long enough to see. He’d been impressed enough when the Equitable Life Building opened in 1870; the balcony he stood on now was at least five times higher in the sky.
It was a good thing his sense of vertigo was long-dead, else he might not be able to spend as much time out here, looking down on the city, as he did. It made him feel like some modern monarch, surveying his kingdom from on high. In reality, it was much more complicated than that, though he’d spent long enough building his empire that it wasn’t far-fetched to call it a dynasty.
He sometimes lamented that his efforts would never be documented in history books; how he’d spent centuries working away right under the noses of the mortals, and they remained oblivious. Maybe he’d make that his next project. Surely there was some suffering, underappreciated writer he could bribe with immortality...ah, but not tonight. There’d be time for that later. First, he had to weather whatever was coming.
He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but something in the air was different tonight; a sense of anticipation was floating on the wind, carried along by the brine of the ocean. He tapped his fingers on the rail of the balcony but was unable to tap down on what it was precisely.
“Hello, Rumple,” a voice he’d never be able to forget said from somewhere above.
Ah, perhaps that was it then; he always had a sense for when she was around. “I thought I smelled betrayal and cheap wine on the breeze. Good evening, Cora.”
The woman dropped from the roof above, landing gracefully on the terrace without even wrinkling her pantsuit. Her style had always edged on sharp, though this seemed surprisingly simple for her; he recalled bigger shoulder pads the last time he’d seen her—what was it, ‘85?
“You seem awfully calm considering what’s about to happen tonight,” she said, ignoring the jibe. Ah well, it was worth a shot; he hadn’t been able to get a rise out of her since 1621, but it didn’t stop him from trying.
He scoffed. “What, a minor scuffle? Two lads having it out over a couple blocks of territory? Seems to me it’s far more personal than anything that would actually mean something.” He’d had to restrain himself from chuckling when Jones told him about the fight; they had no idea.
“Don’t tell me you’ve grown so dense that you don’t realize what this means,” she preened.
He wanted to call her bluff, but if there was one thing he’d learned in over 400 years of dealing with Cora, is that she rarely did. “Enlighten me.”
“It means your underlings are growing restless and tired of this. Mine too. And I’d rather not have this end the way it did last time that happened.” ‘Last time’ being a bloody war; they were able to hide it from the mortals within the confines of the American Revolution but it was a near miss. He’d began rebuilding his ranks immediately; she’d taken her time. And here they were now.
“Chaos has always been my friend, dearie; I can’t say I’d be too upset if it broke out now.”
“While I wouldn't mind it either, I’d be watching your back a bit more closely. Didn’t Jones bring up something...rather interesting earlier?”
Somehow, a chill ran down his unfeeling spine—not just at what Jones had asked about, but the fact that she seemed to know about it as well. “It’s nothing; just a myth. It’s not possible.”
“Please. Think of everything we’ve seen, everything we’ve been through together. Nothing is impossible.”
“I’ve made sure of it.”
“Have you?”
She was always good at poking his buttons. And he was done with it.
“Go. And never come back.”
She had to obey, at least, and he took a small thrill in the way she involuntarily started to climb over the balcony’s railing. “Fine. I just thought I was doing you a favor, but I see it’s not wanted. See you in another 30 years, Rumple.”
She let go and fell back; he didn’t watch to see what happened when she hit the ground. He wouldn’t put it past her to frame him for murder, but she had a different angle this time.
Even though she’d left, that sense of apprehension lingered. Something was indeed coming, something that would change things in his world—but what?
And why did he get the sense Jones was involved?
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
The sun wasn’t even below the horizon before Emma left home, shouting a quick “goodbye and good luck” over her shoulder as she headed out into the evening. If she were in her normal skip-tracing clothes (aka her normal clothes), she’d be running across rooftops to get to Granny’s in no time flat. But no, this was a honeypot, so she had to walk, lest she break the only pair of heels she could actually move in without pain. (That was one thing she’d been dismayed to discover: heels still hurt, even if she recovered faster.)
Still, she powerwalked to Granny’s in record time. “Evening, Emma,” the old wolf called out. “The usual?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, slipping onto her normal stool at the fairly empty counter. It was weird—for a place known to so many, it always seemed to be fairly empty. She had to guess that last night’s meeting was the most crowded it had been in ages. Or maybe that was just part of the magic of the diner.
If she had to guess, the guy at the booth on the other side of the room was a werewolf, based on scent alone; and there was what looked like a fairy bachelorette party at the large booth in the corner. (Not to be confused with fae—she made that mistake once and only once.) Being the only vampire, it was kind of nice to feel like the odd person out for a change. Though she hoped that changed soon.
“Order up!” Granny was suddenly in front of her with a plate of one of the few things on the menu Emma could eat: onion rings. (Onions that had been soaked in blood overnight, mind you, but that was enough for her to be able to stomach them.)
“Thank you so much, Granny,” she effused, and then moaned as she bit into one. “Have I ever told you you’re a genius?”
“It’s been mentioned once or twice. When does lover boy get here?”
As incredible as it was, Emma almost spat out the bite. “Excuse me?”
“Girl, you think I didn’t smell you all over him last night? He covered it up well enough for the others not to notice, but I know better.”
First Zelena, now Granny; they were both going to have to invest in industrial-strength body spray if they were going to keep this under wraps for the time being.
“Calm down; I won’t tell.” But she leaned in across the counter and lowered her voice. “But if you need a place to meet in secret, you know I have rooms upstairs. And I promise not to listen too close.”
“Thanks; I’ll, uh, keep it in mind,” Emma stammered, then hid her embarrassment in another bloody onion ring. Granny, unsurprisingly, cackled and walked away.
It would take more than a voyeuristic wolf to keep her from enjoying fried deliciousness, though, and she savored every bite—being glad she was wearing a red dress in case of drips (Deadpool totally stole that from her, as far as she was concerned)—until there were just two left: the most perfect, juicy, crispiest ones of the bunch. But suddenly, there was only one. And she also wasn’t alone at the counter anymore.
Two seats away, Killian sat with one of her onion rings, taking a slow bite that had her mouth watering in other ways; the way his tongue swiped away the bit of blood that escaped his lips was almost arousing enough to overlook the theft. Almost.
“All those manners and no one taught you to ask nicely?”
“I told you I was a pirate,” he tossed back, taking another bite. “Not a whole lot of ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ going on there.”
“I highly doubt you ever pillaged anything as precious as those, though.” She started to stand up to close the distance between them, but he threw her a warning look out of the corner of his eye that made her pause.
“We’re in public,” he muttered with his mouth full. Damn, he was right; even if no one from either coven was here now, that could easily change. Which was really annoying because as good as his rum-flavored kisses tasted last night, she liked onion rings even more. And, you know, they probably had some business to discuss—like whatever Zelena had been talking about.
As if on cue, Granny slipped past again, but this time tossing a key (with a rather ostentatious keyring) onto the counter in front of her as she went to address her new customer. There was a room number written on it in Sharpie; Emma memorized the number and slipped the key into her lap as she sat back down. (While also making a mental note to try to find some sexy dresses with pockets.)
The appeal of her last onion ring waned given that there was something far more delicious-smelling a few feet away, so she scarfed it down, threw some cash on the counter, and then headed to the hallway that led upstairs. Granny definitely did better business in the diner than her inn, and it wasn’t anything special, but it was clean, which Emma couldn’t say about a lot of other places she’d been; her skps really loved the city’s roach motels. (Something told Emma the very nature of her host kept most vermin far from the premises.)
Room 305 was simple, sparse, but had a decent-sized mattress with a sturdy frame, and a clean bathroom. All she needed was the privacy, though.
She’d hardly tossed her purse and the key on the room’s table when a soft knock fell on the door; she wouldn’t have heard it if she was still human. She turned back and, out of habit, glanced through the room’s peephole; she was already getting a whiff of spicy and salty air through the door, but this was still the city and you couldn’t be too careful. But of course it was Killian on the other side, peering up at the door through his crazy long lashes.
She didn’t wait any longer to pull it open, and nearly as soon as she had, he was on top of her, claiming her lips with his and damn, she was right—onion rings tasted as good on his lips as they did on her tongue. (But his tongue tasted even better.)
Somehow, the door was shut behind them and while she wasn’t quite sure who was leading, they pressed together from tip to toe until they fell against the plush—and noisy—mattress, sinking in with a loud squeak of ancient steel.
“Should have known Granny would want to hear something like that,” he chuckled. “Saucy old wolf.”
“Eh, let her listen.” Emma’s own arousal was climbing too fast for her to care, and she pounced on Killian again, wrapping a leg around him and pressing her core against his. He was definitely eager, too, she could tell; it was kind of funny how, out of all the bodily functions that ended when a person transitioned to a vampire, arousal was the one that remained unchanged. She’d had her fair share of flings in her afterlife, but no one had her as keyed up as Killian did with so little effort.
His hand wandered down her side, squeezing her waist and then pulling her rear impossibly closer, before toying with the hem of her dress. “I thought last night’s dress was rather demure for you,” he said between kisses, “but this one is positively sinful.”
“Good. Means work will go fast tonight. Horny bond skips usually fall for it pretty fast.”
“I can see why. I’d tell you to be careful, but I feel like it would be better to warn your prey.”
“Emma Swan always gets her man.”
“What a lovely motto.”
“True so far. And that includes right now.” She sucked a line of kisses down his sharp jaw to the juncture of his neck, drawing a delicious moan from him. “Do you have one?”
“Aye,” he breathed, eyes squinted shut as if trying to regain his thoughts. “A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.”
“And what is it you want?”
He opened his eyes—clear blue even in the dingy yellow light. “You, love. Just you.”
How could she do anything but kiss him within an inch of his afterlife?
Everything that followed was a rush of sensation rather than any coherent thought:
The brush of his beard against her neck, the firmness of his chest beneath her hands (as well as that of his ass), each graze of his fingers against her thigh as they moved her dress up.
The way his weight settled above her in a way that was both oppressive and comforting, the dance of fingers as they undid his fly (she wasn’t even sure whose all were involved in that), the bob of his cock as it sprang free from denim confines.
How something so hard could feel so soft in her hand—nearly enough to make him come undone on touch alone, but she’d be damned if she let that happen. (Or, well, damned more than she probably already was going to be.) How, for the first time in 15 years, she genuinely felt flushed.
It was all she could do to shove her lace panties aside and guide him home, and oh—she didn’t have the words for what that felt like: to be filled so perfectly it could have brought tears to her eyes (you know, if her tear ducts still worked).
And then he moved and—holy shit. Her fangs dropped down on their own accord again but she couldn’t be bothered to care this time; hell, all she wanted to do was sink her teeth into him, but she’d have to settle with using a heel to press him back in.
“You feel incredible, darling,” he murmured, slightly lisping—his fangs had dropped too. Maybe she hadn’t learned all there was to know about vampire biology. But that could be dealt with later; right now, she just needed him, and to find the release that was inching closer painfully slowly.
“So do you,” she whispered. “But it feels amazing when you move.”
“As you wish,” he said into her ear, his breath somehow feeling hot on it, and he complied. They started slow, careful presses in and out to find their rhythm, then picking up speed and power. She really hoped the bed frame would hold up (Twilight did get that part right) and was sure Granny was getting a good show, but she put any other wonderings into finding his lips again, the play of teeth and tongues and lips coinciding with the meeting of other body parts.
It felt like a slow climb—something she was used to in post-mortem relations—but then the precipice came out of nowhere and she was suddenly falling, gasping into Killian’s mouth as her release carried her away, though she held his shoulders with an iron grip to keep from floating too far.
He wasn’t far behind, she felt, and his fingers would have left imprints on her side were they still capable of being bruised. She felt his release spill inside her as his movements stuttered until he was done, slipping out and falling next to her on his back.
It was probably some long-buried instinct that left them feeling out of breath after sex, but Emma was pretty sure she was sweating. Dead or alive, that had been one of the greatest orgasms of her life—and, honestly, sex was so much easier while undead, what with the whole not needing birth control or being worried about STIs. But this—this was something else.
“I do have to admit, that wasn’t my initial aim in following you up here,” Killian said, pulling her into his side. “But I’m not complaining.”
“I think we’d have some issues if you were. You seemed very enthusiastic about it.”
“And how could I not be?” he smirked, turning to look at her. But then his smile fell, and he pressed his thumb against her lips; it came back red. “Apologies, love; did I hurt you?”
She licked her lips and tasted the copper. “No; I hadn’t even noticed. It might have been self-inflicted,” she said, pressing her tongue against her own still-exposed canines. “I wish I knew why that kept happening.”
“It’s just the effect I have on you.”
“Yeah, it is.” Her normal MO when flirting was to refute a statement like that, but...why lie? “I’ve been waiting to see you all day.”
“I can tell.” She lightly slapped his shoulder, and he chuckled at the reaction. “I felt the same way; I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”
“A day is a lot less than 15 years. It dragged but I managed. Thank you for not murdering my dad last night.”
“That wouldn’t have been very gentlemanly. And if anyone was going to do any assassination last night, it would have been Graham killing me.”
Ugh, of course he would; she groaned. “Sorry; he can’t take a hint. You make out with a guy once twelve years ago and apparently he keeps a flame lit for the next decade.”
“I can hardly blame him, especially knowing how you kiss.” His thumb again traced her lips, which had healed by now, and god, the reverence in that gentle gesture was nearly as overwhelming as her orgasm. But then his brow furrowed. “You don’t suppose true love’s kiss is real, do you?”
Emma blinked, confused; where had that come from? “No, probably not, though I wouldn't dare say that around my mom—she most likely believes in it. Why?”
“Granny mentioned something to me last night after the meeting, and I did some research today...were you also aware the prophecies were real?”
“No, I was not.” Though surprised, she listened as Killian told her about Gold and his powers—actual, honest-to-god, dark magical powers—and the prophecy that spelled his end. She wasn’t too surprised that it was kept under wraps, especially given what she’d learned from Zelena last night (which Killian somehow did not know, which made her feel like less of a newb for once).
But most shocking was the fact that Kililan thought she was the one the prophecy talked about. “Fuck.”
“That’s a succinct way of putting it.”
“I don’t word good, so the fewer, the better.” Quips aside, she was having a hard time wrapping her head around the whole thing. “So I might be the only person that can kill Gold and end this whole feud? That’s….a lot.”
“I know, but I want you to know it’s not a burden you carry alone.”
And then the other half hit her: true love. Did that mean…? “So...that’s us? That means we’re—”
“Maybe,” he said softly, probably sensing her panic. She couldn’t deny that she had deep feelings for Killian, but true love? That was...that was her parents, that was fairy tales; that didn’t happen to her.
“I don’t want all that,” she whispered. “I just want to be with you; I don’t want to be responsible for ending some centuries-long feud.”
“I know, love,” he murmured, and pulled her close; she was nestled into the crook of his neck and other than her dad’s patented hugs, she’s never felt so safe. “It’s not for certain; just a theory, and you’re under no obligation to act on it. But if you choose to, know that I’m here beside you each step of the way.”
“Or we can just run off; go hide in the woods upstate or something. Or Maine—or even Canada; they’d never find us there.”
“Not likely, no,” he chuckled; she could feel the vibration of it through his collarbone onto her cheek. “Maybe a cottage by the seaside somewhere? Some remote little beach?”
“Mm, sounds perfect.” Her parents would understand, right? And even if they didn’t….well, they could deal. “Let’s just do that right now. Let me go catch this skip, and then I’ll pack my bags and we can go.”
She felt more than saw his smile. “As much as I’d love that, I’m afraid I have some other things to attend to this evening.”
Oh right, the fight—how could she forget? “I guess that brawl is kind of pointless then, isn’t it?”
“Aye; perhaps why Gold seemed unperturbed by the idea.”
“Then what’s the point in letting it happen? Do you think you can stop it?” It was probably because she was fairly young and hadn’t been fully indoctrinated to the cause, but the thought of an inconsequential fight that had even a slight chance of becoming something worse—because, with the way tensions ran, that was alway a possibility—made her really nervous.
“I’ll certainly try; I agree, I don’t like the thought of unnecessary fighting, either.” And he’d probably seen more than his fair share of it. “Whatever happens, I’ll come find you when it’s all done—I promise.”
“I will hunt you down if you don’t.”
“I wouldn’t expect any less.”
She kissed him again, slower and sweeter than before. “Ugh, I don’t want to go, but this skip will pay rent for a month.”
“I don’t want you to go, but it’d be ungentlemanly to make you late for work.”
“Do you always have to be one?”
“Yes.”
She sighed. “Fine.”
Thankfully, they had enough time for one more make out, and she was already making a mental note to hit a drug store later for some perfume; his scent was probably embedded in her pores at this point. (She also mentioned he might want to do the same; he said he’d stop by his apartment before heading to the fight.)
Eventually, they righted themselves and made their way out of the room, pausing for one last, slow kiss in the hallway after locking the door.
“Not a moment will go by I don’t think of you,” Killian murmured, but he may as well have shouted it for as hard as it hit her.
“Good,” she replied, hoping he heard how much she meant the same thing back.
With one final peck, she dashed out the back door and into the night, off to whatever seedy bar she was finding the scumbag-of-the-week. Hopefully, this would be a quick one—she already missed Killian.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
For a moment after Emma left, Killian stood stock still in the hallway, Emma’s scent lingering around him as his fingers traced the feel of her lips on his. That was not at all how he anticipated this encounter to go—he was fairly old fashioned in some senses, especially when it came to someone he wanted to court properly—but any complaint had died before he could give it voice. In a way, they were just making up for lost time, he supposed.
And he would see to it that they weren’t limited in that regard ahead.
Granny gave a lascivious wink when he placed the key on the counter in the diner, and he was sure she’d have more to say were the evening crowd (as it were) not filling up the place. He used that to his advantage and took his leave, even though he still had a few hours until he was due anywhere.
He spent a bit of time at the docks, mulling over how they’d changed over the years (and eyeing the ships for sale; he’d had to sell his last one and was in the market for something new, especially if a quick getaway might be needed at some point), before keeping his promise to Emma and stopping at his apartment for some fresh cologne to cover her scent. How no one had noticed it the night before was a mild miracle, but adrenaline would be running strong tonight and senses would be on high alert.
(He so loathed to erase the evidence of her on his person, though.)
There was still time to kill, so he walked slowly (well, for him) in the direction of the lot, even patiently waiting for crossing lights to indicate the all clear rather than dart out early like most New Yorkers did. He should probably find a snack, since he didn’t get to finish his drink at Granny’s; a hunger-like pang was stirring within, but there wasn’t enough time for that now.
The lot was mostly empty when he arrived, and the street oddly quiet; at least that boded well for this rendezvous—and perhaps he’d be able to maintain the peace.
As he got closer, a pinprick of light burned out of the darkness; it took but a millisecond for his eyes to adjust and see that Robin was waiting, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.
“You’ll smoke yourself into an early grave,” Killian scolded lightly, as he’d done many times before.
“Tis a pity I never got the chance, then, aye?” Robin tossed back. He and his wife had been emigrating to America in the mid-1800s when scarlet fever broke out on their ship; his wife and unborn child didn’t make it, but somehow, Gold had been aboard, and turned Robin before the disease claimed him as well.
In life, Robin had never had the money to maintain a tobacco habit, but once he found himself with unlimited time—and lungs that would never damage—he’d taken it up with gusto.
“Just don’t let me catch you vaporizing, or whatever it is,” Killian teased.
“Vaping, and no, never.”
They waited in companionable silence as Robin finished his cigarette and started on another. That caught Killian’s interest; while smoking might be a favored hobby for Robin, he’d never been known to indulge in chain smoking—unless he was nervous.
Footsteps on the other end of the lot drew their attention; David, Graham, and the others (though thankfully not Zelena) stepped from the shadows. At the sight, the twisting in his gut coiled again, and an ancient feeling washed over him: trepidation. He hadn’t felt that since...god, not since Yorktown.
And that clearly ended well. (He thought to himself, sarcastically.)
He couldn’t pinpoint a reason for his sense of dread; it was certainly not the first time the two teams had gone head-to-head (even if he hoped it might be the last). He couldn’t count the number of lives lost to the feud over the centuries—thankfully few innocent ones, but the number of siblings-in-arms sacrificed to the cause was far too high.
He’d never been nervous before any of those encounters. So why was this one giving him anxiety?
(Because so much was riding on this. Because he didn’t want to let Emma down.)
Will and Henry appeared out of nowhere, suddenly behind them, and if it was possible for the scene to get even more silent, it did. The men were lined up shoulder to shoulder in two opposing lines; it was like the standoff in a terrible spaghetti western, but without the benefit of a Morricone score.
The tension was palpable as they all stood stone-still, waiting for the other side to make any sort of move. It would have been the perfect time for Killian to intervene—convince them all to back down—but he was too worried that even so much as a pin drop would make waves.
In the end, it turned out to be the drop of cigarette ash that sent things into motion; Robin’s burnt end had barely hit the ground before he and Graham were on top of each other, snarling and slashing in the middle of the carpark.
An outsider would have thought it was some strange dance, or possibly performance art, with the way they clamored at each other but never seemed to land any blows. But Killian’s keen eyes could see each dodge of a body from a clawing limb, their extended fangs thirsting for blood, and the way Graham curled inward when Robin landed a first, firm punch on the other man’s stomach; that finally drew Killian from his stupor.
“No; that’s enough!” he shouted, then put himself between them. “We don’t need to do this.”
Despite his advanced age, he didn’t have as much an advantage over the two of them as he thought he did; they simply jumped away and continued. Before he could step in again, a firm hand had him by the shoulder.
“Hey, this was your idea; what kind of power grab is this?” David growled; his other hand was curled into a fist. Should have known he’d be itching for a fight, too.
“You really think this will solve anything?” Killian spat. “Our bosses don’t care; this goes way beyond us, mate.”
Killian threw him off and made for the other two, who were now wrapped in what he guessed was some sort of wrestling move, arms gripped on the other’s shoulders. But before he got all the way there, David jumped in front of him.
“I’m not your mate.” David was glaring and trying to use his height advantage to intimidate, but Killian wouldn’t dare hurt the father of his love, even if he was his opponent at the moment.
“Fine, but I’m not your enemy either; you don’t even know what you’re fighting for.”
“You think I don’t know?” Now he was moving toward Killian—though, over his shoulder, he could see that Robin had landed another punch, this time on Graham’s chest. “Aurum turned me and my wife against our will. Aurum made our daughter grow up without her parents. You just take and take, and do whatever you want without facing the consequences. And now, what—you think you can get out of them because you might lose?” The irony in that statement, of course, being that Robin had now hit Graham in the jaw, who had paused to cradle his sore chin.
“But you have her now; doesn’t that count for anything?” Killian pleaded.
He realized as soon as he said it that he’d made a grave error. David stopped, taken aback. “How did you know that?” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
Killian didn’t take the time to answer; with any luck, that would be explained later. He jumped on the opportunity presented and dashed toward Robin and Graham again, pushing Robin away as he was about to make what would likely be the winning blow.
“Bloody hell, mate,” Robin sputtered, and Killian was about to reply, except he was suddenly face down on the pavement after something that felt vaguely like a foot hit him in the back.
“What game are you playing, Jones?” David yelled from above, giving Killian a good idea of who had attacked him. He was back on his feet in an instant, and so were the rest of the gangs, all around them. Fuck; so much for not bringing anyone else in.
It was Robin’s turn to step in front of Killian. “Are you trying to start a rumble, Nolan?”
“I didn’t start anything, but I will if that’s what you want.” Next to him, Graham pulled a suspiciously long, slender object from a pocket, and the subsequent swish of the weapon confirmed: he had a switchblade.
And a second later, Robin had pulled his own out.
They were immediately back on top of each other, with the others egging them on— “Right in the heart, Robin!” “Go for the neck, Graham!”
Killian’s lone attempt to pull Graham back (he was the closest to him at the time) ended with him also being pulled away by Jefferson; he and David restrained Killian and while he might have been able to shake off one of them, the two of them together were too much. He had to watch helplessly as the two in the center continued to swipe at each other, blades glinting dangerously in the murky streetlights.
It was still only until first blood, right? And that was bound to happen faster now that sharp edges were involved.
Almost in slow motion, he watched as the tip of Robin’s blade sliced at Graham’s cheek, leaving behind a thin line of red. He sighed in relief, little as he needed that breath; that was it—it was done.
David and Jefferson loosened their grip on him and he shook them off, not withholding a glare in David’s direction. He then turned to face Robin, to get him—all of them—out of there as quickly as possible, but his voice got stuck in his throat.
While Robin had barely relaxed, let down his guard for the briefest of seconds, Graham lunged at him and sank his blade into Robin’s chest.
Into Robin’s heart.
The world stood still for a moment as everyone stared in shock, and the reality of what just happened washed over Killian. It wasn’t until Graham jerked the blade free, dripping blood—Robin’s blood—on the ground, that he was jolted enough from his stupor to move.
“No!” Killian screamed, then ran to his friend just as he collapsed. “No, no, no,” he muttered, pressing a hand against Robin’s wound, but there was no use for it—a vampire was just as susceptible to that kind of stabbing as a mortal was.
Robin was gasping for air, useless as it was, as his lifeblood spilled out onto the asphalt below him, quite literally draining the life from him; little would be left in a few moments but ash and memories. If Killian could cry, he’d have been sobbing.
“Tell—tell ‘gina—” Robin stammered, but was quickly losing energy.
He knew what he was asking, anyways. “I’ll tell Regina,” he promised.
With his last bit of strength, Robin wrapped his hand around Killian’s and squeezed, smiling, as death finally came for him. It was fast—too fast, but wounds like that always led to a quick death. It wasn’t the first time Killian had held another person as they disintegrated in his hold, but it was by far the most painful. And the most unwarranted.
The dust that had been Robin settled in the air around him, landing on his hand where blood was still fresh. In more ways than one, Killian began to see red.
Without thinking, he grabbed Robin’s abandoned switchblade and in one swift moment, stood and shoved it at Graham, instinctively finding his most vulnerable spot.
Graham stammered back, pulling the weapon out—and hastening his own demise. All too quickly, he collapsed on his knees, his team gathering around him, and a moment later, he too was ash.
A sharp wind off the ocean blew Graham’s remains toward Killian, bringing with them the realization of what he had done:
He’d killed a member of Emma’s coven—practically her family.
And he’d done nothing to end the feud; if anything, he escalated it.
Bloody fuck, what had he done?
And what could he do now?
He stared in horror at the blood around him, trying to formulate a plan, when Will blessedly broke the fragile silence.
“Rozzers!” he shouted, then began to run, only to see no one else move. “Cops?” he translated into American English, which got the reaction he was looking for; everyone hopped to their feet and ran. No one wanted to explain this scene to mortal police.
Everyone but Killian. He wondered if his feet had become concrete, he was so rooted in place. It wasn’t until Will was in his face, urging him to move, that he did.
“Do you have somewhere to lay low? I don’t think Coroza is gonna let this one go,” he asked as they dashed from the lot.
His thoughts immediately turned to Emma, suicidal as that likely was. Could he drag her into this? Or would that be the least likely place they’d look?
He’d have to risk it. “Aye, I do.”
“Alright, then go; the less I know the better. Good luck, mate,” Will told him, then ran in another direction; belatedly, Killian realized, headed toward where Belle lived.
There was no time to dwell on that, though, and he changed course to head uptown. He had no idea what lay ahead, but he knew one thing: whatever it was, he wanted Emma at his side.
(Assuming, that is, she forgave him.)
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
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