Does anyone know any good crystals for cursing your enemies? I have seen many examples of channeling crystal energy for benefits, but none for evil-doing. I have tried cursing various types of crystals and slipping them to my evil manager and while it does seem to have some effect, I have found the results not as potent as they could be. Any tips?
Yes, this will officially have three parts. Part three is where everything will come together and all the action will take place. Chapter two is where the romance happens . . . enjoy, Krystal! It was so fun to write this for your birthday! Much thanks to @hollyethecurious for the banner, the brainstorming, and co-writing chapter one.
Summary: Emma and her son Henry move to the tiny, quirky town of Hopeful, Maine for a fresh start. Emma isn’t expecting her son to get obsessed with a haunted castle or for her to get involved with the mysterious, handsome man who lives in the cabin behind it. Emma soon discovers that both the castle and the man have secrets that she could never have imagined. For @kmomof4 on her birthday.
Rating: M (yes, I upped the rating. This isn’t smut, but I definitely flirted with the line. All for you, Krystal!)
Words: A lot. Sorry if tumblr eats the cut on mobile. I tried.
Can also be read on Ao3
Trigger warnings: none unless you're afraid of spiders. Oh, and Captain Cobra in case that messes with your ovaries ;)
Chapter Two: That Sings the Tune Without the Words
Hope is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words-
And never stops – at all
Henry paused in his reading. “You know, Emily Dickinson was a lot like you.”
Killian looked up from the spindle he was examining. “How so?”
The boy was perched on a stool in the corner with his literature textbook open on his lap. He rolled his eyes, looking for all the world like his mother. “Isn’t it obvious? She was a recluse.”
Killian’s eyebrows rose slightly. “That’s a big word for a ten year old.”
Now Henry scowled openly. “I hate when people say that. It’s not a big word at all; only seven letters.”
Killian chuckled at that. “You are not only incredibly bright, lad, but perhaps my kindred spirit.”
Henry seemed pleased even as he focused again on his textbook. “Mom does say I’m an old soul.”
“Oh ho! Now you’re calling me old!”
Henry laughed freely. Killian gestured towards the book in his lap.
“You didn’t finish the poem. It goes on to say, And sweetest – in the gale – is heard, and sore must be the storm – That could abash the little bird that kept so many warm – I’ve heard it in the chilliest land and on the strangest sea – Yet, never, in Extremity, it asked a crumb of me.”
“You know that by heart?” Henry exclaimed.
Killian shrugged. “I have a book of Dickinson poems. They’ve always spoken to me I guess, and it’s not as if they are difficult to memorize.”
Henry picked at the binding of the thick book in his lap. “My teacher thinks studying Dickinson is cool for Halloween. I don’t get it.”
“Maybe Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me, but if she wanted Halloween poetry, she should have gone with Edgar Allan Poe.”
Henry’s brow furrowed. “Who?”
Killian clapped his palm to his heart. “You’ve never heard of Poe? Quothe the Raven, nevermore?”
Henry shook his head. “Nope.”
“A tragedy, truly.”
“I figured you must read a lot,” Henry commented, “since Belle’s always bringing you big stacks of books. Why don’t you just go to the library?”
“I’m a recluse, remember?” Killian cleared his throat nervously and scratched behind his ear. “Why don’t you come over here, and I’ll show you how to use this lathe?”
“Cool!” Henry exclaimed, tossing aside the book and jumping up from his stool. But he hesitated before coming closer. “But Mom only let me stay if I promised to finish my homework, and you said you’d help me with those lit questions. There are more questions than there are words in the poem!”
Killian clapped his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “But I’ve also got to get this banister finished. The faster I get this last spindle done, the sooner I can help you with that poem.” He leaned closer to the boy and cocked an eyebrow at him. “And isn’t making a mess and using a loud machine more fun anyway?”
“It sure is!” Henry agreed excitedly as he donned the safety glasses Killian handed him.
Killian stood next to enry
Henry and handed him the final post of wood. “Put the wood on the spindle here,” he instructed, then he handed Henry the chisel. “Do you see this narrow part here?”
“Yeah,” Henry said with a nod.
“It doesn’t match the others, so I need to trim it just a bit. So I’ll turn on the machine, and you’ll run the chisel along this spot right here,” he shifted the chisel and lined it up properly.
“But what if I trim it too much?”
“I’ll be guiding you through it,” Killian assured him.
“Do you have like a measurement or something? I mean, do you mark the wood? I . . . I don’t want to mess it up.”
“I won’t let that happen,” Killian assured him, stilling the slight tremor of the boy’s hand. “But to answer your question, yes, many carpenters use specific measurements. But for me, it’s art. Do you do any type of art, Henry?”
The boy gnawed on his bottom lip. “Does writing stories count?”
Killian grinned at him. “Aye, my boy, it sure does. So crafting these spindles is like crafting a story. I have an idea in my head, but as I work, sometimes it turns out differently than I expected. Better, even.”
Henry narrowed his eyes, then nodded. “I think I get it.”
“Okay then, ready?” Henry gave a nod, and Killian turned on the machine. The boy leaned in concentration over his work, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Killian once again though of his mother, for he had noticed the same look of concentration come over her face yesterday when she was carefully cleaning the paintings they had found throughout the house. He guided Henry’s hand when it drifted, but he was impressed with how steadily he worked. He couldn’t believe the warmth he felt in his long cold heart whenever this boy and his mother were near.
Killian stopped the lathe and lifted the spindle to examine it, then ran a square of sandpaper across the newly trimmed wood. He looked at Henry with a smile upon his face. “Good job, my boy!”
He grinned broadly “Really? But how do we know it matches the other ones? If you don’t measure, I mean?”
“Well, after a while, it’s kind of instinct. But more than that, the slight variations add character. It would look odd if this old house had perfectly matched, machine made spindles on the banister, wouldn’t it?”
Henry tilted his head to think about it. “Yeah, I guess that’s a good point.” He looked down at the floor and ground his toe into the sawdust covered floor.
“What is it, Henry?”
“I don’t know . . . I was just thinking . . . At school, being a little different doesn’t mean you have character. It means you’re just . . . weird. Especially when you’re the littlest kid in seventh grade.”
Killian’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. Now the Dickinson poetry and those algebra problems in the boy’s homework made a bit more sense. “Henry, you are a bright boy. That is something to be proud of.”
Killian sighed and set aside the spindle. “I don’t know that I was ever as intelligent as you, Henry, but I was small for my age. Smaller than my brother was at that age too. Liam was built broader than I was, and I wanted nothing more than to be as strong and good as he was.”
Henry finally met his gaze. “So what did you do?”
Killian chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “There wasn’t much I could do except wait to grow up.”
“Were you ever as big and strong as Liam?”
Killian rubbed his chin in thought, but in the end couldn’t lie to the boy. “No, but I did work hard when we joined the Royal Navy. And soon, I had callouses and muscles, and could hold my own with a swo- a weapon. I was never as good as Liam either, but I tried. And learning Greek came easier for me than Liam.” He chuckled again and gave Henry a light punch in the shoulder. “I always liked to rub that in just a bit.” Killian grew serious then and grasped Henry by both shoulders. “But listen, this is very important. Never, never be less than you are just to get people to accept you. Understood?”
Henry nodded, then gave a tiny smile. “Mom says girls like smart guys.”
“I sure do.”
Killian straightened to find Emma Swan herself leaning against a post in the entryway from the foyer, her arms crossed over her chest. There was a smile on her face he hadn’t yet seen, a light in her eyes he couldn’t read. He liked the look on her, though, and he hoped in some small way it was because of him.
“Mom, look!” Henry cried. “I got to use the – what’s it called again?” He turned to look up at Killian
“A lathe.”
“A lathe! I got to use the lathe!”
“That’s awesome, kid,” Emma said, walking up to rub her son’s head. Henry wrinkled his nose and reached his hand up to fix his mussed hair.
“I promise the lad finished all of his schoolwork except for his literature assignment,” Killian assured, both hands raised.
Emma tilted her head as she gazed up at him. “I trust you.”
No three words could have flooded Killian with more elation. The sparkle hadn’t left her eyes, and he had the strongest desire to trace that dimple in her chin. Instead, he gave his head a slight shake and took a step backwards.
“I did promise to help him with Emily Dickinson, though. After . . . we . . .uh . . . finished the spindle.” He cleared his throat, wanting to curse himself. He hadn’t been tongue tied around a woman since . . . He pushed the thought away, unwilling to complete it.
Emma quickly lowered her gaze from his, taking a step back herself. “Right, well, you two get to it. I’ll . . . just . . . start sweeping out this room and the foyer, then get to work in the library.”
“Of course.”
He watched her go, unable to help himself from admiring the way her tight jeans hugged her figure. He rubbed at that hollow place in his chest also unable to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he was able to make her tongue-tied. Of course, thinking of her tongue made his mind race further into inappropriate territory, and he was once again cursing himself.
Emma sneezed as she set the next stack of books onto the desk in the library. Dust billowed up from the leather bindings and yellowed pages, causing her eyes to water. She ran her now dirty cloth over the cover of the one on top; a book called Her Handsome Hero by an author she’d never heard of. She set it in the stack destined for the thrift store. She had learned in her research on the house that after Baelfire Gold died with no heirs, ownership of the entire property had been granted to the city of Hopeful. The house itself had been sold and used as a boarding school for wealthy boys until World War II. That meant the library was full of possibilities for their haunted museum.
“Henry’s finished his homework.”
Emma looked up as Killian entered the room. “Let me guess, he’s now playing video games.”
“No, he’s actually sanding the fireplace mantel.” Killian said as he idly picked up a book from one of her piles.
Emma raised her eyebrows. “Wow. He’s really into this project.”
Killian simply nodded in reply as he continued to shuffle through the books. “I take it this is your discard pile?”
“Well, donation pile. We’re only holding on to books of literary or historical value.”
Killian chuckled at her imitation of Belle’s accent. He lifted a book from the donation pile. “This one was written by a Frenchmen in 1773. His only novel; and it barely sold any copies. A shame, really, because it’s quite good.”
Emma’s brow furrowed when she saw he was holding Her Handsome Hero. “And you know this because . . . “
He gestured around the room. “I’ve read many books in this library.”
Emma put down the book she was dusting and crossed her arms. “When? Shortly after the first moon landing? There’s fifty years’ worth of dust on these books.”
“Well, um,” he stammered, scratching behind his ear, “I didn’t mean these books exactly. I’ve taken copies from here, you know. No one else cared about them . . . ”
He trailed off, flashing her a disarming grin, and she knew he was lying. But why would he lie about where he got a copy of an 18th century French novel?
“You don’t have to justify anything to me,” Emma assured him. “We can’t be sure who bought all these books, so it’s not like they can be returned to their rightful owners.”
He turned from her and grabbed another stack of books from the shelf. Emma watched him until he turned back towards her. Then she quickly lowered her gaze to the next book in her hand.
“This one’s a keeper,” she said, “Tom Sawyer.”
Killian smiled fondly. “Ah, yes, about the mischievous orphan boy. I always identified with him.”
“Which part? Being mischievous I assume?” Emma teased.
“Both actually.” The grin he gave her was one she knew quite well. It was the kind that hid pain behind a mask of indifference.
“Oh,” she said softly, setting the book aside in the too keep pile. The last thing she wanted to do was bond with this man over past experiences. She was already on dangerous ground with him. She had frozen in place when she walked in to find him patiently instructing Henry with the woodworking. And then Henry had actually opened up to him about his struggles at school, and Killian had encouraged him to be proud of his intelligence. It was something Emma had told him a thousand times, but she knew hearing it from a male, especially one he obviously looked up to, would make a world of difference to her son. The entire thing made her heart ache in a way she had never experienced before. Henry had never bonded with any of the men she had dated, not even Graham, who had actually tried to connect with him.
“Have I said something to offend you, Swan?”
Emma looked up into Killian’s concerned gaze and realized she had fallen silent for several minutes. “Oh, um, I just . . . “ she shrugged as she turned to get another stack of books, “I know what you mean, that’s all.”
“You’re an orphan too?” He didn’t say it with sympathy or pity, just matter-of-factly, one orphan to another.
“Yeah,” she sighed, “look, can we change the subject?”
“Of course,” he told her softly, then swiftly changed gears. “That’s quite a lad you’ve got there, Swan.”
“Yeah,” Emma said, a contented smile quirking her lips, “he’s pretty great. Thanks for spending time with him.”
Killian rested his hand atop hers. “It’s no trouble. I enjoy his company.”
“Hey, mom,” Henry’s voice echoed down the corridor. Emma quickly snatched her hand away from Killian’s as they both turned to the doorway.
“Yeah, kid?” Emma hated how nervous her voice sounded. For God’s sake, all the man had done was touch her hand!
“I think I sanded the mantel pretty good, and I’m starving.”
Emma gasped as she pulled out her phone and checked the time. “Henry, I’m so sorry, it’s almost seven! Let’s head to Granny’s and get some burgers.”
“Awesome!” Henry cheered, then he turned to Killian. “You should come eat with us! Right, Mom? I mean, he helped a lot with my homework.”
Emma tilted her head at Killian and smiled, “I agree. I think he’s earned a bit of a reward.”
She expected him to tease her or lean close and murmur an innuendo under his breath that Henry couldn’t catch. She didn’t know why she enjoyed flirting with him so much, but she did. Instead, Killian looked like a deer caught in the headlights, his eyes wide and his normally flushed cheeks suddenly pale.
“I would love to,” he stammered, “but I really can’t.”
Emma elbowed him gently in the ribs, “Come on Jones, everyone’s gotta eat.”
“Yeah,” Henry put in, “please!”
Killian’s eyes darted between the two, and then he leaned close to Emma. His eyes pleaded with her to understand as he said in a low voice, “I really can’t Swan.”
Emma’s brow furrowed, and just like she knew he was lying about the book earlier, she now knew he was telling her the truth. She gave him a slight nod of understanding, then turned to her son.
“Killian’s had a long day, Henry, let’s get out of his hair.”
“Awww,” Henry pouted.
“Sorry, my boy, I’m old remember?” Killian told him, ruffling his hair affectionately.
“See you tomorrow, Killian!” Henry called as they headed out the door. Emma smiled at Killian over her shoulder, her arm flung around her son’s shoulder.
It was all so strange. Emma’s gut told her she could trust this man, and her gut rarely went straight to “trust.” Yet he had lied to her about the book, something that should have been inconsequential. Then when he told her he couldn’t join them for dinner, he was being absolutely truthful. Not that he didn’t want to; he couldn’t. Emma somehow knew the distinction was important. Killian Jones was a mystery for sure; one that she was determined to solve.
The pungent aroma of wood stain flooded Killian’s senses and made a slight headache pound at his temple. Despite that, his thoughts continued to wander in the same direction, leading him right back to Emma Swan. He rubbed wearily at his forehead with the back of his hand before rubbing at the post in front of him once again. The feelings that were stirring inside of him were those he thought he was no longer capable of; things he hadn’t felt since Milah.
For three centuries, he had watched the world pass before him, ever changing. Yet he was stuck as a mere spectator, forced to hide in the shadows lest suspicions be roused about a man who never aged. That was the reason that female company, or any company for that matter, had been rare in his life. Occasionally he would take a woman back to his cabin simply as a way to release his pent up frustrations and physical loneliness. He always chose those carefully; grifters who were just passing through, or a tourist who was up for a no-strings-attached tryst while she was on vacation. Of course, the more Hopeful deteriorated into a ghost town (pun completely intended), the more he found himself alone for long stretches of time. Until he woke up one day and realized it had been years, not months, since he last interacted with another human being. His voice was rough from misuse, and he startled to discover that he not only conversed with animals and inanimate objects, but himself. It had been a startling and frightening revelation.
That had to be why Emma Swan consumed his every thought, awake and in his dreams. He had gone from being that recluse Henry had mentioned to being in her lovely presence on an almost daily basis.
You don’t dwell on thoughts of Belle or Henry all day long. His mind argued. He sighed as he dipped the rag into the dark stain once again. And now here he was talking to himself again.
Everything had changed the day he had literally run into Belle French poking around the castle. Like Henry, she had been curious about the old place rumored to be haunted. Not to mention she was the most adventurous and curious woman he had ever encountered. She had already done extensive research in her beloved library on Gold Manor, and had recognized him immediately, gasping out his name as she dropped her flashlight. Never for one second had she found his story unbelievable. Another way she was like Henry. And now she was determined to find a way to free him from his curse.
In three hundred years he hadn’t had a single friend, and now he had three. Though if he were completely honest, his fantasies about Emma Swan were far outside the realm of mere friendship.
“Ugh, it reeks in here! How have you not passed out?”
Killian turned to find Emma Swan herself standing below the ladder he was perched on, the sunlight streaming through the brand new glass on the French doors illuminating her hair. The way she wrinkled her nose was adorable while her wide stance and hands braced on her hips shouted feisty strength. She was a contradiction in softness and strength, dark and light, and he found her absolutely mesmerizing.
“I find it clears my head,” he replied dryly.
She rolled her eyes. “Liar.” She reached down for another container of stain and a rag. “This looks tedious. I’ll start down here, and we’ll meet in the middle.” She knelt down at the bottom of the staircase, prying the lid off the stain can with a screw driver. He kept his mouth shut about messing with his tools; she hadn’t exactly been making a suggestion. More like an order.
They worked on the banister in silence for several moment before he heard Emma make a little sighing noise. He glanced down at her to see her brow furrowed and her teeth worrying her bottom lip. Whatever she was contemplating, he had a feeling it wasn’t the banister in front of her.
“You’re a mystery, Killian Jones.”
He almost lost his balance on the ladder.
“I’ve asked about you around town,” she continued, still not tilting her gaze up to his.
Killian swallowed, unsure what to say as she paused. He should have expected as much. She was the town deputy, and Killian was spending a lot of time with her son.
She calmly got more stain on her rag before continuing. His heart thudded in his chest.
“The only people who’ve ever seen you around are the postmaster and the employees at the market.” She cut her eyes up to him. “You love to read, yet you never go to the library.”
“Why do that when I have a lovely librarian who makes house calls?” he quipped with his most charming grin.
Emma frowned as she turned her gaze back to the banister. Was she jealous? God, he hoped so.
“Speaking of Belle, she’s the only one who seems to know your name. And she’s definitely the only one who ever comes out to see you.” She made a funny sound in the back of her throat. “Except for me and Henry now I guess.”
“Belle is just a friend, if that’s what you’re beating around the bush for.”
Emma snorted through her nose. “Don’t really care about your social life, Jones.”
Killian made his way down the ladder. “So you say, Swan, and yet you’ve evidently spent a great deal of time looking into just that.”
She huffed as she stood to reach the next part of the banister. Killian moved the ladder down a bit. “Please, don’t flatter yourself. You are an employee of the city, so I have every right to look into your background.”
Killian couldn’t help scratching behind his ear. “I – uh – thought Belle handled my paperwork.”
“She did.”
It was all Emma said on the matter, but Killian couldn’t help but wonder. She certainly sounded suspicious. He rubbed his forehead wearily.
“You know, this stain is giving me a bit of a headache. Do you mind finishing here while I install the new doors on the curio?”
“Sure,” Emma replied, “but leave the ladder. I can barely reach where I’m staining now.”
“It’s okay, Swan, I find vertically challenged women quite fetching.”
Emma tossed her rag at him, shooting him a withering glare that held little heat. He laughed, pleased to see the spot of pink in her cheeks and the twinkle in her eye. God, he loved teasing her!
They fell into a companionable silence again as they worked, only the sound of his drill bit and the occasional scraping of the ladder breaking the quiet of the room.
“Shit, come on!” he heard Emma complain after about thirty minutes of working. He turned to see her atop the ladder, straining to wipe the last spindle in the center of the banister. She was standing on the very top rung, the one that was clearly labeled “not a step” in bright yellow. On her tip toes was more like it.
“Emma,” he warned as he set aside his drill and came closer.
“I’ve . . . almost . . . got it . . . “
The ladder rocked as she reached up, and Killian surged forward as Emma lost her balance. She let out a sharp scream as she fell backwards. It was cut off when she collided with Killian’s chest. The rag she was holding hit him in the face before fluttering to the floor, and the can of stain wobbled before tipping over, sending the dark brown liquid streaming like a waterfall down the rungs of the ladder.
He shook his face and blinked to get the dust from the rag out of his nose and eyes. When his vision cleared, he was practically nose to nose with Emma. Her green eyes widened as they stared at one another. Every cell in Killian’s body was keenly aware of Emma in his arms. The slight weight of her legs draped over his left arm, her skin beneath his calloused fingers where her shirt had ridden up, the curve of her breast against his chest, and the arms that were wrapped tightly around his neck. A smile hitched at one corner of his mouth as she continued to gaze at him, her fingertips idly toying with the hairs at the nape of his neck. It sent shockwaves all the way down his spine.
“Um,” Emma finally spoke, “why are you still holding me?”
“Oh . . . right,” he muttered, his face burning as he quickly put her down. He rubbed at the back of his neck as she straightened the bottom of her shirt. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she said with a shrug. She stepped close, invading his space. His heart was beating so loud, he wondered if she could feel it beneath her palm when she laid it upon his chest. “Don’t try to distract me with flirting, Killian Jones. I’ll figure out your secrets.”
He quirked a brow at her, then leaned close, swiping his lower lip with his tongue. “Who’s flirting, Swan? I just saved you from a broken neck. You’re the one who was fiddling with my hair just now.”
Red crept up her neck as she blinked rapidly. “You – you are such a – a,” she stuttered, “a . . . “
“Dashing rapscallion?” he teased with a pout.
She narrowed her eyes. “An arrogant jerk,” she finished with satisfaction. He only chuckled as she marched over to grab some rags from the floor. “Oh, and by the way,” she added as she began to rub vigorously at the wood stain still dripping down the ladder, “I’ve never heard of a cocky recluse.”
His mouth fell open at that. She glanced over her shoulder at him with a smirk.
“I don’t know why you’re hiding out here, Jones, but I will find out. I’m not taking my eyes off you for a second.”
Killian threw her smirk right back at her as he sauntered into her space. He leaned close and winked at her. “I would despair if you did.”
The music had been Killian’s idea, and despite the fact that he was humming a tune by The Cure under his breath as he made even strokes with the paint roller, Emma couldn’t help wondering if it was a subtle way of avoiding her. Or something.
She chose to focus instead on the fireplace mantel so she wouldn’t accidently paint it “cranberry sunrise.” God, why did paint colors have such ridiculous names? She sat back on her heels, brushing at a stray hair with the back of her hand. Only half of the room was painted, but it really was a great color. For a “haunted house” anyway. The dark wood stains and deep reds would create the gothic ambience they were going for. It would look even better once they put up the gilded wallpaper and the heavy brocade curtains.
Emma glanced over at Killian and smiled when she saw him swaying his hips slightly to the music. She sighed and carefully set the brush down on the drip pan. Then she rose from her position on the floor and walked cautiously over to him.
“Um, Killian?”
He didn’t stop with the paint roller, simply looked at her and winked, still swaying a little to the music. “Like what you see, Swan?”
Emma rolled her eyes. “No, we, uh . . . need to talk.”
He wearily lowered the paint roller. “In my experience, it’s never a good thing when a woman says that.”
Emma grimaced. Of course he assumed she was about to give him a hard time again. When hadn’t she? Pulling her gun on him, calling him arrogant, insinuating that the time he spent with her son was anything less than innocent and kind. He rescued Henry from the barbed wire, and even saved her from a broken neck when she fell from that later. Yet how did she thank him?
“Look, about my . . . asking around about you . . .”
He came incredibly close, causing her to lose her train of thought. He reached up and began to rub his thumb gently over her cheek. She literally felt herself sway as the breath rushed from her lungs. He smiled softly at her.
“You had a bit of paint there.”
“Oh.”
His thumbed stopped rubbing gentle circles, yet his hand didn’t leave her face. His fingers gently caressed her jaw line, his thumb hovering over the dimple in her chin.
“And as for your little investigation,” Killian said in a low voice, “try something new, darling. It’s called trust.”
Her eyes widened as he lowered his hand. “I do trust you! That’s what I’m trying to say.”
His brow furrowed in confusion as he pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket. Who carried a handkerchief anymore? He wet it with his tongue, an act that she found fascinating. Then he tilted her chin up with the tips of his fingers and dabbed at the same spot on her cheek again.
“Uh, are you wiping spit on me?”
He chuckled. “Aye. I didn’t quite get that paint off. You were saying?”
Emma swallowed thickly. It was really hard to concentrate when he was staring at her face that way. Her skin tingled where his fingers brushed.
“I just know what it’s like to screw up big time. To want to start over, and not have your stupid decisions come back to bite you in the ass.”
He smiled again, brushing his knuckles down her cheek. “There, all gone.”
Emma shook her head. “Do you know what I’m trying to say?”
He tilted his head at her, both eyebrows raising. “Perhaps.”
She let out a long breath of exasperation. “What I’m saying is I don’t care why you’re a loner or what you’re running from. Because . . . you and I . . . we understand one another.”
Killian nodded as he shoved the dirty handkerchief back into his pocket. “Aye, love, I believe we do.”
**********************************************
Emma couldn’t believe how everything was coming together. The new staircase was complete, not only with the beautiful stained banister, but with patched and sanded steps. They were waiting for a runner to be delivered, and she couldn’t wait to see the rich crimson against the dark stain of the wood. Killian had picked it from the sample book she and Belle had brought form the hardware store, the same way he had chosen the paint and wallpaper.
Emma shook her head to clear such thoughts and chose instead to admire the new coat of stain on the fireplace mantel and on the hardwood floors. The house was coming together, that was what mattered. Not Killian Jones and his reclusive tendencies.
“So what are we doing today?” she asked him.
His back was to her as he hoisted a large, rolled up oriental rug off his shoulder. It caused his shirt to ride up in the back, exposing the hard muscles there. The ones Emma couldn’t deny that she had fantasized about digging her fingernails into. Why did he have to be so damn hot?
Killian leaned the rug against several others that were nestled in the corner of the room. He turned to her, flashing that easy grin of his.
“Well, the room is incomplete without rugs, not to mention historically inaccurate. I found these in the attic. They were probably stored up there after the school closed in the forties, so they aren’t period accurate, but better than brand new.”
Emma tilted her head and frowned. “They’re disgusting.”
Killian chuckled. “Aye. But Belle rented a steam cleaner. It’s out on the veranda. We need to go through all of these, clean them up, make sure they’re in good enough shape, then figure out where they should go.”
She nodded, “Okay, sounds good. We’ll need one in the foyer, two probably in the parlor, and one in the library. Think we’ll have enough?”
Killian patted the rugs. “I brought six down, and left four more on the second floor. Hopefully the rodents didn’t nibble on too many of them.”
Emma wrinkled her nose as she thought of the disgusting things they might find as they unrolled them, and Killian laughed. She pulled on the first one and grunted. “How did you lug these down from the attic all by yourself?”
A shot of fear made her spine go cold as she thought of rats, snakes, and –
“It’s a spider,” Killian continued.
She had to force herself not to scream and do a ridiculous dance around the room. On her list of things that freaked her out, spiders were at the top. Without turning her head, she cut her eyes to her left and saw a black spider slowly descending from a thread of web from the top of one of the rugs. As it spun, dangling just over her shoulder, she saw a distinctive red hourglass marking on its underbelly.
“Killian,” she hissed, her fear increasing ten-fold.
“It’s a black widow, I know, just be still –“
But before either of them could figure out what to do, the spider dropped to Emma’s shoulder and then crawled more quickly than Emma could have anticipated down the front of her shirt. All calm flew out of her mind then. She screamed, trembling all over, and without thinking, she pulled her shirt over her head and flung it aside.
Killian should have been thinking about the poisonous spider if he was a decent man at all. But instead, he was distracted by the smooth porcelain of Emma’s skin, the curve of her waist just begging to be grabbed, and the way her breasts bounced as she brushed at imaginary spiders. Her bra was a tiny thing that dipped low on the swell of her breasts, and as she bent over, brushing at her arms, they almost burst free of their confines.
“Killian, where is it!” she screamed, startling him out of his inappropriate ogling.
He forced himself to examine her torso in a more clinical way and didn’t see anything. He strode quickly over to the t shirt she had tossed upon the floor, and there, crawling calmly over the wrinkled fabric, was the spider. Killian quickly brought his boot down on the creature, leaving a nasty smear of spider guts on Emma’s shirt.
“Sorry, love,” he apologized, “I didn’t want to risk losing sight of it again.”
“Thank you,” she shuddered, placing her hand to her chest. Which was heaving in a very distracting way, he couldn’t help noticing. “Did it get me?”
She pulled her hair up and off her neck, turning her back to him. Killian’s own heart was thudding now, as he gazed at what she was offering up for his perusal. He noted every freckle; one on her collarbone, a smattering around the clasp of her bra, and one large one begging to be kissed at the small of her back.
“Um, no, I don’t see anything.”
She turned to face him, her cheeks pale and her lower lip trembling. He didn’t blame her; black widow spiders were nothing to mess with. He once again scanned her frame, this time trying (and failing) to be more clinical.
He let out a relieved sigh. “No, Swan. It didn’t get you.”
Color returned to Emma’s cheeks as she lifted her gaze to meet his. She was still holding her hair in a messy heap atop her head. The atmosphere was suddenly charged, and he noted that her chest was heaving again, but in a different way. This wasn’t fear; it was desire. She dropped her hair, and it went tumbling over her shoulder, resting between her breasts in a teasing way. He couldn’t help that his eyes drifted from her eyes to watch the tresses brush against her cleavage. When he tore his gaze away, he was relieved to see a slight smirk upon her lips. She took several steps forward, reaching for him with her palms out. Her gaze never leaving his, she slipped them up his shirt, dragging her fingernails through his chest hair.
He couldn’t take it anymore; he grabbed her bare waist as he had been longing to do, and captured her lips. Emma’s hands snaked around to his back, her fingernails scratching in an intoxicating way. They both groaned as they deepened the kiss. Emma pressed herself flush against him, and his only thought was that there was too much fabric separating their skin. Emma seemed to have the same thought as she began to push up his shirt.
They parted just long enough for Killian to get his shirt over his head, then they surged together again. If possible, Emma was pressing herself even closer to him. His hands trailed along her spine, then back up again, pausing at the clasp of her bra. He unhooked it, and relished the feel of her completely bare back under his palms.
He practically growled against her lips as he realized how few surfaces were available to them in this room. He pivoted, pressing her back against the nearest wall as he tugged her bra straps free of her shoulders. Emma broke their kiss to tilt her head back, a moan escaping her lips. He sucked at her neck as he ran his thumbs over her breasts, then he trailed kisses down to the valley between them. Emma arched her back, and he needed no further encouragement as he worshiped each breast with his tongue.
Once he had her crying his name, he fumbled with the button and zipper of her jeans. Then he sank to his knees in front of her as he yanked them over her hips. He trailed kisses teasingly up her inner thigh until he felt her tugging at his hair.
Emma hooked her bra, then reached down to retrieve her t shirt from the floor. She frowned and turned to Killian, who was pulling his own shirt over his head. Watching the muscles in his arms as he performed that simple task made her think of the way she had gripped his biceps just moments ago as he had thrust into her. She shook her head to clear it. This man was like a drug!
“I . . . um . . . can’t wear this shirt,” she told him lamely. Why was this so awkward? They had been far from awkward five minutes ago. Or maybe that was easier because they hadn’t been thinking then.
“Oh, right,” he said, scratching behind his ear. “Come on out to the cabin, and I’ll find you something.”
“Yeah,” she continued, “then we can get back to these rugs.”
“Um . . .aye.”
Yes, definitely awkward.
Emma followed him out of the back of the house, through the gardens, and out of the door in the hedge. She had come to find out that he was the one who had installed the door, which was why it was so much newer than everything else. They made their way through the trees and to Killian’s cabin, the cool October air making goosebumps rise up on Emma’s bare skin. The inside of the cabin held welcomed warmth, and Killian made his way quickly to one of the two doors off the kitchen. He stepped inside and began rummaging through the drawers of a dresser in the corner of the room. Emma stood in the doorway, clutching her dirty shirt self-consciously to her chest. The bed seemed to loom large against the far wall, invitingly soft with a homey quilt draped across it.
“This should work,” Killian said as he turned to her, but when their eyes met, his expression went soft. He tossed the flannel shirt on the end of the bed before striding to her. He cupped her face with his hands and searched her face. The blue of his eyes were bright. “Oh Emma,” he breathed out, and then they were kissing again.
Emma wasn’t surprised in the least when they tumbled down to Killian’s bed for round too. Somehow, she had known all along this was why she had followed him here.
*************************************************
Killian pulled Emma close, pressing soft kisses to her shoulder blade, her back against his chest. He marveled at how perfectly she seemed to fit against him. She turned in his arms, and he was relieved to see a relaxed smile upon her face. She reached out and traced his jaw slowly, her fingers then drifting to trace the scar on his cheek. He held his breath, partly at her tender touch, and partly from fear that she would ask about the scar. The last thing he wanted to do was lie to her directly. Lies of omission weighed on him heavily enough.
“This feels strangely right, doesn’t it?” she finally said.
He arched his brow at her. “Are you calling me strange, Swan?”
She rolled her eyes and smacked him lightly in the chest. “You know what I mean.”
He pulled her closer, pressing kisses to her hair. “If you mean this feels like exactly where we’re supposed to be, then yes.”
He felt her lips curl into a smile against his collar bone “Exactly.”
He swallowed hard, then pushed her shoulders gently so he could look into her eyes. He cupped her face again, this time kissing her forehead gently. He murmured against her skin, “There’s something I want to say, but I’m afraid you don’t want to hear it.”
“Then don’t say it,” she whispered back, “please.”
He nodded, deflating somewhat, but he had been expecting her to react that way. She startled him though, when she shoved him onto his back and straddled him. She grinned down at him, pinning his arms over his head.
“I prefer we not talk at all.”
She kissed him roughly, almost desperately. “Emma,” he groaned, sitting up so he could gather her in his arms. He broke the kiss, brushing her hair away from her face. She looked almost panicked as she pressed her fingers to his lips.
“Please, Killian.”
He sighed as he let strands of her hair slip between his fingers. “I need to at least tell you that this isn’t just –“
She wouldn’t let him finish, but brushed his lips with a chaste kiss. “I know.”
“Belle?” Emma called as she stepped into the Hopeful Public Library.
“Over here!” the brunette called, waving her hand from behind a study cubicle in the back of the room.
Emma headed that way and found Belle surrounded by books and papers, all of which looked hundreds of years old. Emma smiled as she propped her arms on the edge of the cubicle’s partition. “I’m glad you love this part because that looks incredibly boring to me.”
Belle shrugged. “I can’t lie, I’m a total nerd. Plus, if I’m going to lead part of the ghost tours, I need to know all the facts backwards and forwards.”
She tucked her hair behind her ear in an almost nervous gesture, then quickly slammed the book in front of her shut like she had been caught at something. Before Emma could give her actions too much thought, the little bell at the circulation desk dinged, and the librarian hurried to her feet.
“Coming!” she called to her new patron.
After she left, Emma sat down in the cubicle, suddenly curious what had Belle so jumpy. An extremely old and yellowed paper, covered in a plastic sleeve, poked out from beneath the pile of books. Emma slid it out and gasped at the face she saw sketched there. The resemblance was uncanny, the slightly mussed hair, the scruffy jawline, the thick eyebrows. And even though they weren’t blue, the intensity in the eyes was the same.
It looked exactly like Killian.
In the bottom corner, the artist had scrawled her name: Milah. Emma sat back, her mind reeling. Was there a deeper reason why Killian seemed to know so much about Milah Gold and the estate? Was he a descendant of the man in this picture? And if so, why hide it?
Emma glanced over the edge of the cubicle, but Belle was guiding the elderly visitor to the arts and crafts section. Emma turned back to the stack of dusty books and opened the one Belle had shut so quickly when she arrived. Luckily, the brunette had left a slip of paper inside to mark her place. Emma scanned the words, their old-fashioned phrasing tripping her up a time or two. It was a recounting of Milah Gold’s affair with her pirate lover, that much she could comprehend. And two words stood out starkly on the page: the pirate’s name, Killian Jones.
Emma suddenly felt the air leave her lungs as she looked between what she had just read and the drawing before her. Her mind struggled to make sense of it.
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.”
Emma jumped to find Belle standing next to her, an intense expression on her face. Emma shook her head. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what you mean.”
“That’s him,” Belle said simply, gesturing to the drawing, “that’s Killian, the one we both know.”
Emma closed her eyes tightly. “That can’t be . . . it isn’t . . . possible,” she breathed out the last word.
“He’s cursed, you see. He can’t leave the manor grounds. He tried to save Milah, but he didn’t understand the magic he was dabbling in –“
“Magic?” Emma interrupted incredulously. She stood quickly, shoving Belle aside. “I – I – have to go.”
She dashed from the library, her breaths coming out in gasps. She raced down the sidewalk, not slowing down until she found herself at the docks. She leaned forward on her knees, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Part of her brain told her it was crazy, but another part started to process all the little signs. How he turned down Henry’s invitation to dinner at Granny’s. How he never went to the hardware store. How Belle brought him books from the library. The way he reacted to the painting of Milah and Emma’s suggestion that her grave could be a tourist attraction.
Then there was the drawing made by Milah Gold herself. It was clearly drawn by a woman who knew every inch of her lover’s face. A face Emma herself knew so well, down to the scar Emma had traced with her finger just yesterday.
Shit, was she sleeping with a three hundred year old pirate?
If there are differences in light and dark magic, does that mean there should be dark transfiguration, and dark charms too? Cause all I hear about are dark curses and if that's all there is to dark magic, there should be no problem just keeping them banned. Cause what do you use curses for? Light spells are enough for self defense. Dark spells are more likely to cause someone serious harm so if you used that for self defense, then you could end up tried for excessive force, or worse, you could actually kill that person. It's way easier to just stupefy them. Faster too. And guilt free. If there are other branches of dark magic that actually have some use, other than causing excessive harm, then maybe they shouldn't call dark curses dark, it gives all other dark magic a bad name. They should call it destructive magic instead. That way, it's separate from ritual magic, mind magic, and other branches of magic that are considered dark.
Dark Curse #1: For this curse to work we need a long list of ingredients that are hard to come by, including one lock of each of the Darkest Souls of the Realm, and the heart of the person I love most. This is a work of years.
Dark Curse #1.5 that got stopped: I dumped stuff in a well and added the heart of my first henchmen. Do I, Peter Pan, even know what love is?
Dark Curse #2: We took a few months to gather the ingredients and brew this and it requires the heart of the person the caster loves most.
Dark Curse #3: This was a different spell altogether and then I added the heart of the person I love most the demon who possesses me loved most. Somehow that transforms a messaging potion into the Dark Curse(tm).
Dark Curse #4: I didn't show you how I brewed this curse, but both my Dark One son and my fairy minion grandson still live... What is love? (Baby don't hurt me).
Dark Curse #5: We need the magic of a witch who once killed what she loved most. And a coven.
Me: What even is consistent story telling anymore.
