In Storybrooke, Mr. Gold strives to be the man Bae used to love--until Belle is kidnapped to Neverland. If he resumes his Dark One powers to save her, can he control them? In the Enchanted Forest, Emma battles ogres, zombies and her ex to get back h...
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Rumplestiltskin (Mr. Gold): Love makes us sick. Love has killed more than any disease (7:15 A.M.)
At first light, the Lost Boys and their prisoners-turned-allies had started an earnest hunt for the missing fairy. Surreptitiously, Emma had outlined the basics of a grid search to the three women and each had agreed to shepherd four of the boys. They hadn't announced this arrangement formally to avoid an anti-grownup backlash.
Now that it was dusk, Emma's greatest fear had come true. One of her charges was in big trouble. If not for the lucky chance that Slightly had picked up a long stick to whack Freebird for taunting So's your mum, he'd have been long gone down the lightning sand pit rather than just up to his armpits. As it was, Freebird's grip on the other end of the stick was the only thing saving Slightly from a quick burial.
Six snarling ROUS and the wriggly twins she was clutching under her arms prevented Emma from lending a hand. On the off chance that their Great Dane build meant the rats-on-ultra-steroids were doglike, Emma instructed the twins through gritted teeth, "Don't run. Don't show them your backs. Don't look them in the eyes."
Emma heard a pop, followed by a blow torch blast from a fire spout. Startled, Freebird lost his grip. As he scrambled forward to grab the stick, Emma's stomach lurched. Just as it was sliding off the edge of solid ground, he caught it again—barely.
Of all the ironic things, Emma heard Tootles' distant shout, "Tink! It's Tink! She's here!"
Great. In trying to find her, one of her comrades was about to be lost. Maybe if I get the ROUS to chase me, then the twins can help Freebird pull Slightly out.
Then she heard, "And she's got Peter! Peter! Peter!"
Peter Pan?
Images of the dashing, plucky, talented, pint-sized hero flooded Emma's mind. Without thinking, she shouted: "Peter! Help! Slightly's slipping down a sinkhole!"
She craned her neck in the direction of Tootles' cries. Soon, a figure zoomed over the top of the trees.
It wasn't the Peter Pan of the stories.
It wasn't the intrepid lad dressed in green.
It was that goddamn, double-crossing, no-good, son-of-a-bitch Neal Cassidy.
* * * * *
For the second evening in a row, Smee kneeled before his coffee table, staring at the open biscuit tin. "I shot him," he repeated nervously, "but he just kept on walking. He may look like a man, but he's the Dark One through and through."
"Maybe you missed..." The soft, sweet voice drifted out from the white light.
Smee swallowed hard. "I—I didn't miss. I was within 300 yards. I could have hit him with a musket, let alone my Ruger."
