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F.B.I. HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Her high-heeled shoes tapped out a steady rhythm on the hard linoleum floor as she weaved her way through desks and chairs on her way to the appropriate office. She had heard enough of Division Chief Regina Mills to last a lifetime, and hardly any of it was charitable. The woman was said to be as strict and hard-nosed as they come, which, though they were useful skills in singlehandedly heading a division, made for a less than stellar personality.
Taking a deep breath, Isabelle French strode into the room with much more confidence than she felt. Do the brave thing, she had told herself the day before upon receiving the call that she was going to be reassigned. Truthfully, she could not say she minded all that much; her current position was comfortable enough, but lately she had begun to find it a bit lacking. Far more than lacking, in fact. She had grown bored, and that was something Isabelle could not abide.
And if she just so happened not to have to deal with a certain dull-as-dirt, arrogant coworker asking her out to dinner every other week, then all the better.
“You asked to see me, ma’am?”
“I did,” the Division Chief looked up from her computer screen and shamelessly assessed Belle from head to toe. “Have a seat, Agent French.”
Isabelle glanced around the spacious office as she sat down in the chair directly in front of Agent Mills’ desk, a nameplate announcing its occupant in gold block letters. Sticky notes were lined up on the edge of the blotter, and every paper was neatly stacked. Not a pencil was out of place, and Isabelle got the distinct impression that likely all other aspects of the woman’s life were approached with the same meticulous precision.
“It says here,” the woman said, nodding towards the monitor next to her, “that you’ve been with us for just over a year.”
“That’s correct, ma’am.”
Division Chief Mills turned back to her screen, tucking a lock of shoulder-length, raven hair behind her ear. “Masters in history, undergraduate in political science. You’ve done a two-year stint at the DIA...” She arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “A small sort of accomplishment, I suppose. So tell me, what brought you here?”
“The desire for change,” Isabelle shrugged. “I grew up in a small town, with a father who had his own ideas about what I should be doing with my life. I didn’t agree, so I left. I held a couple of steady jobs in the private sector before I joined the DIA. I was training as an analyst there when I got recruited by the Bureau.”
Agent Mills nodded absently, like she had not been paying much attention even though it was she who had asked in the first place. She soon cut to the chase. “We have an agent here; his name is Sionnach Gold. Ever heard of him?”
“Yes, I have.”
Of course Isabelle had heard of Agent Gold. Everyone had. A son of immigrant parents, he grew up to become a foremost expert on psychology and the occult. His claim to fame was having written an extensive paper on a string of homicides back in the early ‘90s, dubbed the “The Storybook Killings,” wherein each victim had been killed based on the more gruesome scenes of the original Grimms’ fairytales. Isabelle had found it rather interesting reading, herself. In fact, it was Gold’s paper that had directly led to the capture and prosecution of a copycat who had emerged years later.
But impressive credentials did not change the fact that the man also had just about the worst reputation of any agent Isabelle had ever heard of. “Fool’s Gold,” they called him. He was supposed to be brilliant, but many said he had become entirely too immersed in his work over the years, that each of this theories was more outlandish than the last. If one talked to ten different people back at the Academy, one would get ten different rumors about Gold: he was a bastard, he was obsessive, he was wasting his life. Had lost touch with reality.
The list went on.
However, far from their desired, off-putting effect, the inflated stories only served to make her more curious about this man. But when she would ask people if they had ever seen this behavior for themselves, they would quickly change the subject. It seemed to Isabelle that for all the rumors and gossip about Gold that the other agents were eager to spread, none of them really knew him—or had even met him, for that matter. It was with this understanding in mind that she had briefly thought of how much she might enjoy meeting the mysterious agent in person, just for the rare opportunity to get to separate fact from fiction.
“Good,” Agent Mills said, jolting her from her thoughts. The older woman leaned forward and laced her fingers together on top of her desk. “Then I assume you’ve also heard of his current little pet-project?” The disdain in her tone was obvious. “The one he calls the ‘X-Files’?”
Isabelle shrugged. “They’re supposed to be cases which deal with strange and unexplained occurrences.”
“They are also unassigned and on the very fringes of what constitutes acceptable casework,” said the Division Chief. Her crimson lips formed a frustrated frown. “I see no reason to beat around the bush—the reason I asked you here is I want you to keep an eye on him. Your job will be to observe and report on the nature and validity of these ‘cases’ of his.”
“You mean spy on him.”
The woman shrugged a shoulder—not affirming, but not bothering to deny it, either. “Not in so many words. Agent Gold has a habit of being a bit... erratic. I want someone with a good head on their shoulders to keep him from going completely off the reservation, so to speak, and an individual with your background, well... I think you are well-suited to the task. Your new assignment begins tomorrow.”
So they were assigning her to work directly with the agency pariah? Fine. Let them stick her in the basement. Isabelle always did enjoy a challenge.
“Understood, ma’am.”
A curt nod was her answer, and Agent Mills turned her attention to some paperwork without another word.
When Isabelle took just a second too long to recognize the conversation was over, the higher-ranking agent looked up, her pen stopped in mid-signature. “You are dismissed, Agent French.”
“O-Oh, right,” Isabelle said. She quickly stood, anxiously smoothing out her charcoal grey suit jacket. “Of course. Thank you, ma’am.”
The next morning found her on the elevator heading down into the bowels of Headquarters. The doors slid open to reveal a dark little hallway studded with stumpy filing cabinets. A ripped-out piece of notebook paper taped on the far wall read: “Welcome to the Dungeon.”
Cute, she thought, rolling her eyes. She stepped out of the elevator and followed the short passageway until she got to the office on the end and knocked.
“You lost, dearie?” called a low, Scottish brogue.
She slowly opened the door and was immediately taken aback by the cluttered office space. Arcane artifacts littered the desk and filing cabinets, while myriad photos, newspaper clippings, and handwritten notes absolutely covered two large corkboards on the walls.
The man himself was sitting at his desk, sleeves rolled up, jotting down some notes as he pored over a thick, leather-bound book. While Isabelle’s fingers itched to examine the antique text, she reminded herself there would be time enough for that later. Gold’s dress, a simple but well made blue shirt and navy tie, was pretty much the only thing about him that screamed ‘federal agent.’ Collar-length, light brown hair tinged with silver fell into his face as he read; a pair of reading glasses was perched low on his sharp nose. About a day’s worth of stubble coated his chin, which led Isabelle to believe that maybe he was as tenacious as people said.
Regardless, he looked quite different than the picture she had constructed in her head. She could not say she was entirely disappointed.
“Agent Gold? I’m Isabelle French. I’ve been assigned to work with you,” she said, holding out her hand for him to take. Removing his glasses, he finally lifted his head and quirked an eyebrow; he looked down his nose at her arm in a way that suggested he was waiting to see what else she might do with it.
“Yes, so I’ve heard. Do your best to contain your excitement.”
Though he did finally shake her hand when it was clear she would not relent, his annoyance was palpable. Letting out a bitter little laugh, he asked, “So, who’d you piss off to land this dream post? ADA Swan?”
Isabelle pursed her lips. Since yesterday, she had been determined to make the best of this assignment, but she already had a sinking feeling that Gold was going to make it as difficult as possible for her. Unfortunately for him, he had not yet had the pleasure of discovering just how stubborn Isabelle French could be.
“Actually, I was looking forward to it.”
“Really,” he deadpanned. “Not scared of being shut in the basement with the FBI’s most unwanted, eh?”
“No,” she said flatly, “I’m not.” She spared a minute to savor the fleeting look of surprise that crossed his face.
“Be that as it may,” he sneered, “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“That isn’t—”
“Save it, dearie,” he said, and went back to his reading.
“Look,” she said, keeping a tight grip on her growing irritation, “we’re going to be working together for the foreseeable future whether you like it or not, so I suggest you get used to it.”
He sighed dramatically and closed his book with a dull thud. He drummed his fingers on the worn cover, considering something—considering her—before abruptly getting up to grab a file laying on a low row of cabinets against the wall.
“Tell me, French, what does this look like to you?”
He opened the folder in front of her, spreading out several crime scene photographs across the available surface area of his desk. Two people, each found in a heavily wooded area, were lying in pools of their own blood while blank eyes stared up at the sky in frozen terror. Chests had been ripped—no, punched—open, and limbs were laying in all manner of unnatural angles. At that moment, Isabelle thanked her lucky stars that she was not very squeamish.
Dated two days ago, the startlingly brief report stated the two had been victims of an animal attack.
“Well,” Isabelle said, “the report says they were mauled by a wild animal...”
“I know what the report says,” Gold said impatiently. “I’m asking you to tell me what you see.”
She took the proffered pictures, examining them more thoroughly this time. The first photograph showed a young man. Obviously some kind of businessman, judging by what was left of his clothes. Blood had pooled and coagulated in the giant hole in his chest cavity. The second victim was a woman, but the outcome had ultimately been the same. The thing was: there were no claw marks, no puncture wounds—not even scratches. There was not even any blood loss save the obvious cause of death.
Isabelle had never heard of any animal that did this.
But while the photographs were clearly odd, Isabelle knew the cause of the attacks—whether it be animal or human—was grounded in reality, regardless of whatever Gold might be thinking.
“It doesn’t look like any animal attack I’ve ever seen,” she admitted. Sparing a glance up at Gold, his expression was unreadable, though he nodded for her to continue. “The report states that both victims’ hearts are missing, but everything else seems to be intact,” she went on. “In my opinion, these killings appear to be ritualistic in nature.”
“Very good, French,” the other agent said. “Now tell me, why would these be labeled animal attacks when the evidence tells an altogether different story?”
“It could have been a shoddy investigation,” she argued. “Or the real killer is bribing local law enforcement. There is a completely logical explanation for this, I hope you know. It’s just a question of knowing where to look.”
“Oh,” Gold said airily, “I already know where to look.” He held up two plane tickets. “I hope you have a warm coat, French,” he smirked, “because we’re going to Maine first thing in the morning.”
Isabelle could tell she was in for a very long flight.
STORYBROOKE, MAINE
50 MILES EAST OF BANGOR
Gold sped down the rain-slick street while Isabelle went over the crime report again and again. There had to be something she was missing. Something that would make Gold reconsider whatever farfetched scenario he had likely concocted before they had left Washington.
The GPS in their rental car told them they were coming up on their destination, and Isabelle looked up to watch the dense, forest-lined road gradually give way to modest homes and privately owned businesses. Driving up and around the sleepy little town, they parked at the base of a ridge that led up into yet more woods. A dated, abandoned squad car told them they were in the right place.
They got out of the car to make the rest of the journey to the crime scene on foot, and Isabelle immediately sensed something... off about the place. She could not quite place the feeling; it was reminiscent of the peculiar sensation in the air right before a bad storm. The problem was that there was nothing but blue sky as far as the eye could see. She did not like this, not one bit.
“Feel that, French?” The question was so sudden it startled her, causing her to almost trip over an exposed tree root. Though subtle, there was no mistaking the hint of slightly manic enthusiasm in his words. “That is the telltale sign of residual magic. Magic that most likely is behind our little ‘hiking accidents.’”
She looked at him askance, slowly becoming aware that he was not joking. He meant every word he said.
“Magic,” she repeated flatly. “You think magic is behind these killings? As in spells, potions, hexes—that kind of thing?”
He hummed in agreement, completely ignoring her blatant skepticism. “You know, French, I would have pegged you for having a more open mind.”
“Oh, I do have an open mind,” she said. “What I don’t have is time for blaming very real crimes on the supernatural.”
They spent the remainder of the walk in silence. About ten minutes later, they came upon a cordoned off area, the neon yellow police tape standing out in stark contrast against the rich browns and emeralds of the forest.
Isabelle soon spied a young man wearing a badge and leaning against a tree. No other soul was present, and she realized they had just encountered Storybrooke’s police force of... one.
“Jesus, we’re in fucking Mayberry,” Gold grumbled, his breath turning to mist in the crisp autumn air. Isabelle bit her lip to keep from sniggering.
“Ah, here comes the cavalry.” The slim, dark haired man walked up to them with a smile that was friendly enough, although it did not reach his eyes. “You must be the folks from the Bureau? I’m Sheriff Graham.”
“Special agents Gold and French,” Gold said in curt introduction, flashing his badge out of habit as Isabelle did the same.
“Nice to meet you.” The sheriff paused and sheepishly glanced around the otherwise deserted forest. “As you can tell, we’re a little shorthanded around here. I do the best I can, but I have to say I was not prepared for what I found out here.”
“Oh, really?” There was a cold, challenging edge to Gold’s voice. “Because it seems to me your little out-of-the-way town has become a veritable hotbed for this kind of violent activity. Care to explain why that is, dearie?”
Sheriff Graham shifted uncomfortably, and Isabelle could tell he was becoming uncomfortable under such candid scrutiny. She might not have had the years of field experience Gold did, but she knew enough to see that an agitated officer was likely not going to be a cooperative officer, so she took it upon herself to intervene.
“You’ll have to excuse my partner, sir,” she shot a pointed glare at Gold, who just rolled his eyes. “You just caught him on a bad morning.”
“We all have them,” Sheriff Graham weakly joked. When it was clear Gold was not laughing, the other man cleared his throat awkwardly. “Anyway... everything I was able to find is detailed in my report. I never found anything useful in my initial search, but you’re more than welcome to take a look around for yourselves.”
“Have you noticed anyone acting suspicious lately, sheriff?” Isabelle asked, pulling a pair of rubber gloves out of her coat pocket. “Someone perhaps behaving erratically or deviating from a known routine?”
The sheriff appeared to consider it. While his tone was polite enough, he spoke a little too quickly for Isabelle’s liking. “Not that I know of, no.”
As it was, she only nodded. Gold was already several feet away, crouching down to examine a nondescript patch of soil.
“So, aside from the removal of the bodies,” Isabelle gestured to the empty ground before them, “everything else about this scene is intact?”
“That’s correct.” The sheriff then walked a few feet off, apparently not wanting to interfere.
Isabelle and Gold quickly got to work, investigating every square foot of earth that might yield a clue. They were at it for hours, until she was convinced they must have combed the area at least a thousand times.
They came up empty at least a thousand times as well. No hairs, no fibers, no footprints... nothing. The scene of the second killing yielded more of the same. It might as well have been a ghost that committed those murders.
While Gold appeared to be oddly at ease with the situation, Isabelle could not say the same. She was growing irritated, and not just with the crime scenes—it was the fact that nothing about this whole damn situation made any sense. Peeling off her gloves and rubbing the bridge of her nose, Isabelle looked behind her to see the sheriff now wandering aimlessly around the vicinity and checking his watch, like an exasperated babysitter anxiously awaiting the parents’ return.
“Somewhere you have to be, sheriff?” she called over her shoulder.
“Just wondering if you’d be kind enough to move this along is all.” He whipped his head around to look at her, his eyes suddenly dark and cold. “When I said 'have a look around,' I didn't assume that meant you would take all day.”
Isabelle tried to conceal her surprise. Gone was the quiet, friendly sheriff they had met earlier that morning, and she wondered what could have happened to have caused such a change in him.
To her right, Gold opened his mouth to say something, and she shook her head at him in warning. The movement was barely perceptible, but to her relief Gold complied and remained silent.
“We were just finishing up, as a matter of fact,” she said as nonchalantly as she could. Sheriff Graham raised an eyebrow as if he were not entirely convinced but said nothing more. “But we are going to have to take a look at those bodies.”
The man only nodded, a tight, controlled gesture, and said, “You’ll need to talk to Dr. Whale about that. He’s over at Storybrooke General.”
STORYBROOKE GENERAL HOSPITAL
12:09 PM
On their way to the hospital, Isabelle could not help but notice all the suspicious stares aimed in their direction. And the people walking towards them on the sidewalk were determined not to make eye contact at all. Isabelle could not quite decide which made her more uncomfortable.
She had not thought they were that conspicuous. Was the simple fact that they had not been born in this town enough of a reason to throw these people into such a state of unease? She began to wonder just how long it had been since this place had seen a couple of strangers.
Her partner, meanwhile, seemed unfazed. He simply kept examining the material in his hand. At first glance it appeared to be ordinary dirt, until he flipped over the little plastic bag and it caught the sunlight; it shimmered dully, like some kind of ground up, silvery gemstone.
“What’s that?”
He jerked his head up at her question, as if he had forgotten for a moment she was there. “Not sure,” he said. “Found it at the first crime scene.”
“And when were you planning on filling me in on that little detail?”
“Eventually,” Gold shrugged. “You would have found out once I asked you to run it down to the local crime lab for analysis, at any rate.” He flashed her a toothy grin.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible—has anyone ever told you that?”
“Regularly,” he smirked. Finally shifting his attention to their surroundings, he must not have liked what he saw by the way he scrunched up his nose in disgust. “Cute town,” he remarked sarcastically, noticing their audience of onlookers. “If you don’t mind the slight chance of agonizing death, that is.”
“Oh, I think it’s rather... quaint,” Isabelle said. Her partner snorted at the obvious lie, and she threw up her hands in defeat. “Alright, it’s creepy as hell. Satisfied?”
“Yes,” he said, “very.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw the ghost of a genuine smile flit across his face.
Reaching the sliding glass doors of the hospital entrance, both agents walked inside but stopped cold in their tracks when they heard the unexpected shouting coming from the nurse’s station.
“I’m not going to tell you again, Marie—order me some more of those sedatives!”
A blond man wearing a doctor’s coat had just finished terrorizing the poor nurse when he spotted them standing in the lobby. He seemed a bit unsteady on his feet as he swaggered closer. He absolutely reeked of alcohol. Isabelle shivered slightly when his eyes settled on her and examined her with a gaze that was anything but professional.
“Why, hello there,” the lascivious doctor said, his voice now reduced to an acceptable volume. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Miss...?”
“Special Agent French, FBI,” she said, emphasizing the acronym and enjoying the way the doctor’s leer immediately vanished. “This is my partner, Special Agent Gold. We’re here investigating the violent events that took place on the outskirts of your town a few days ago. I understand you were the one to handle the autopsies?”
The doctor cleared his throat and attempted to regain some semblance of composure. “Yes, I did. I’m Dr. Whale.” He shook his head. “What a mess.”
“We’re going to need to see those bodies,” Gold said.
“Well, that’s going to be a little difficult,” Dr. Whale retorted, “seeing as how they’re already in the ground.”
“Then we’ll just have to get an exhumation order, won’t we?”
“Cause of death was sustained blood loss due to an animal attack,” said Dr. Whale, plainly becoming irritated. “There is no reason for a secondary examination. Unless you are questioning my ability to perform a routine autopsy?”
“Maybe,” Gold shrugged. “Ask me again when you’re sober.”
Isabelle wanted to smack her partner; he was going to make it impossible for them to get information from anyone in town, and then they would be up shit creek. For his part, the good doctor looked like he wanted to strangle Gold there and then.
“So, Dr. Whale,” Isabelle said in an effort to prevent a third murder, “are you certain you did not find anything during your examination that would have suggested anything other than a wild animal was responsible for these deaths?”
“No,” the man in question kept his gaze fixed on Gold, “nothing.”
All too quickly, Isabelle felt like a harried pet owner trying to get two dogs in the same house to stop attacking each other. “Come on, Gold,” she nudged his arm a tad harder than was necessary, “we have an exhumation order to call in.”
A muttered string of curses was her reply, but the two men did finally end their strange little standoff. Dr. Whale stormed off down the hallway, but not before casting another angry glare in their direction.
“Must you antagonize every single person we need to talk to?” She took out her phone and began searching for the number of the local judge.
“Oh, ye of little faith, Agent French,” he teased, pointing a long finger in her face. “Have you ever stopped to consider the fact that there might be a method to my madness?” When all she could do was stare at him in confusion, he elaborated. “People pushed past their limits become flustered; flustered people can’t always think straight, and when people can’t think straight, the less chance they’ll have to properly formulate a lie.”
Isabelle was seconds away from stamping her foot like she was a child who was just told she would not be getting dessert. She knew he had a point, the bastard.
But that did nothing to stop her from wanting to slap that smug grin right off his face.
The trio of them stood in Storybrooke’s tiny cemetery, two federal agents and a sheriff, watching the backhoe do its work and chew up the dark, freshly dug soil. Isabelle always felt a bit guilty at the thought of participating in an exhumation. Was it right to disturb the dead if doing so might help catch their killers?
Gold shook her from her thoughts when he suddenly flung open a coffin lid with a grunt. Isabelle had to hold her sleeve to her nose, while Sheriff Graham did the same. The smell of congealed blood and decay permeated the air.
Grimacing at the ghastly odor, Gold leaned in to inspect the body of the first victim. Something intrigued him enough to forget the assault on his senses because he suddenly started to fish around in his coat for a pocket knife and another small plastic bag. He scraped up some of the dried blood and fluid surrounding the gaping chest wound and put it in the bag, holding it up to the light and studying it.
“French,” he called, beckoning her closer. “Send this off to the local crime lab for compositional analysis, would you?”
Somehow, she knew he was going to say that. She nodded wordlessly, taking the bag from him. She was just glad she was already wearing her rubber gloves.
GRANNY'S DINER
7:47 PM
After realizing neither had had anything to eat since their flight north, the agents decided to grab a bite to eat, especially since they would have to wait for the results on the two sample substances Gold had found. Isabelle was not sure she would even have much of an appetite after the events of the afternoon; however, her hunger came back in full force once she opened the door of the diner and inhaled the mouthwatering scent of home-cooked food.
The eatery looked as decent as any; it was cozy, clean, and not too crowded. It in fact, it came highly recommended by the stern, white-haired woman who had rented the two of them rooms for their stay in Maine.
When Isabelle led the way inside and saw that same woman behind the counter fussing with a stack of food orders, Isabelle only shook her head in humored resignation. She certainly had walked right into that one, she thought as she and her partner settled into a red vinyl booth.
They had just ordered a couple of cheeseburgers when, in the blink of an eye, the diner went silent as the grave. Curious, Isabelle looked over Gold’s side of the booth to see what all the fuss was about and frowned when she saw nothing more or less than a woman strolling through the door like she owned the place. She was an older woman, though no less glamorous despite her age, and something about her immediately set Isabelle’s teeth on edge.
The stately woman casually scanned the other patrons, who appeared just short of cowering underneath their tables in fear, before her gaze settled on Isabelle and Gold. She sauntered over, auburn curls bouncing slightly as she walked, and fixed them with a stilted politician’s smile. Once she got closer, Isabelle noticed her crimson nail polish was chipped; hardly unusual, yet she thought it passing strange for an obviously put-together woman to overlook such a detail.
“You must be the federal agents I’ve been hearing so much about,” the woman said, her voice rich and deep, “I thought I’d stop by and say hello. See how you’re enjoying our little hamlet.” Though her face may have said differently, there was anything but friendliness in her words.
“How very thorough of you,” Isabelle muttered under her breath, her empty stomach slowly chipping away at her generally even-tempered nature.
“And you are?” Gold did not bother hiding his irritation either, as usual.
“Cora Miller,” the woman replied coolly. “Mayor of Storybrooke.”
“A personal welcome from the mayor?” Gold glanced quickly at Isabelle, his expression confirming he was just as suspicious of the overly invested woman as she was. “Glad I remembered to shave this morning.”
“I’m Special Agent French,” said Isabelle, wishing nothing more than for this unnerving woman to leave them alone. “And this is my partner, Special Agent Gold.”
Cora only nodded. “You’ll have to forgive my small-town ways,” she asked innocently, though her eyes were flinty and cold, “but is it a habit of the FBI to send out seasoned agents to investigate every poor soul who got on the wrong side of a bear?”
Isabelle refused to let the obvious barb affect her. “I don’t know, ma’am,” she said in feigned confusion. She was aware she was laying it on a bit thick, but once she noticed their food was on its way, she realized she no longer cared. “I was under the impression we were here to solve some very human homicides. Isn’t that right, Gold?”
“Indeed,” her partner drawled. He flashed Isabelle his patented smirk, only this time it was different. The expression was warmer somehow—more mischievous. No doubt he was delighted she was willing to play this game with him for once. Just then, a scantily clad young woman with long dark hair set two plates down in front of them before scurrying away under the mayor’s baleful glare. “Now, as much I’ve been enjoying this riveting conversation," he turned back to the older woman, "I’m afraid you’ll have to come back to meddle another time, dearie; my partner and I are quite famished.”
The corner of Cora’s mouth twitched the slightest bit. It left Isabelle wondering how common it was that someone—more than one someone—would dare speak to the self-important woman with such insolence.
It was probably not often.
The mayor turned on her heel and left, and it seemed like the entire diner heaved a collective sigh of relief.
“Wow,” Isabelle remarked, greedily plunging a fry into some ketchup, “and you didn’t even instigate that time.”
“I know,” Gold said with wicked amusement. “Weird, huh?”
6:03 AM
Isabelle breathed deeply as she stretched in preparation for her morning run. After checking that her sneakers were tightly laced, she made her way out of the small bed and breakfast. She squinted against the low-hanging sun and turned around, heading west down the sidewalk. Some part of her recognized it was probably not the best idea to go for a jog alone with a potential murderer on the loose, but she was not going to stray from the center of town. Plus, she was armed.
Mentally daring anyone to think they stood a chance against her, she broke into a run, the methodical sound of rubber hitting pavement cutting through the silence of the chilly air.
She reached as far as the outskirts of the cemetery before deciding to turn back, pausing for a moment when she noticed something amiss. A grand mausoleum stood, a monolithic mockery of the modest gravestones that otherwise peppered the well-kept patch of land. The name “Miller” was carved boldly across the top of the structure, and Isabelle wished she could have been surprised at the obvious display of wealth and influence.
Checking the time on her phone, Isabelle made her way back to her room. Freshly showered and dressed, she figured she might as well go and see if the crime lab’s results were ready. She picked up her phone from the nightstand, she saw she had a new message—it was from Gold.
“Went to pick up lab results. Try not to miss me too much.”
Isabelle sighed and dropped the phone on her bed. Now she would have to think of something to occupy herself while she waited for Gold—and to distract her from how incredibly interested she was in what the lab’s report would make of the substances they sent in. She finally settled on stopping in at Granny’s for some breakfast.
Never to be caught traveling anywhere without a book if she could help it, Isabelle sat in the quiet diner with the fantasy novel she had brought with her from home, sipping at her cup of tea.
She had not even realized she had been sitting there for a couple of hours when something large dropped into the opposite side of her booth.
Oh, someone. Gold had returned, file in hand. He did not look happy.
“So,” she said cautiously after he had ordered a cup of black coffee, “anything enlightening?”
Grim-faced, he slid the slim file across the polished table. She set aside her book and skimmed the lab’s report. Nothing could be determined about the shimmering silver powder Gold had found, but the analysis of the blood sample he submitted yielded a curious result. It appeared that a trace of an unusual and inorganic substance had been found within an otherwise completely normal sample.
It was identified as... nail polish?
She thought back to the bodies, how it had seemed like someone had punched a fist straight through their chests... Then it hit her—the mayor’s chipped nails!
Isabelle’s head shot up at the realization. She knew it was a long shot, but a lead was a lead as far as she was concerned. Gold, on the other hand, was utterly confused. He was sipping his coffee and regarding as warily her as one might a wild animal that could pounce at any moment.
“Problem, dearie?”
“The mayor,” she blurted, careful to keep her voice low.
“What about her?”
“The nail polish found in the blood sample,” she said, pointing to the corresponding lines on the report. “Last night, when the mayor interrupted us, I noticed the polish on her one hand was chipped. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but...”
“Yes,” he said slowly, seeming to speak more to himself than her, “yes, of course! How the fuck could I have missed that?” When he finally looked back at Isabelle, she saw that familiar glint in his eye, like when he had been convinced he had sensed magic back in the woods. “Those who take others’ hearts desire power and control over anything else. And what better suspect than a mayor in the middle of nowhere with a massive superiority complex?”
Gold slapped his palm on the table, rattling their cups. “There’s something I need to take care of,” he said abruptly, taking one last gulp of coffee and hurrying out of the diner.
Isabelle was left staring after him in stunned silence. He definitely was a strange one; that much at least the rumors had gotten right.
So with her partner God-knew-where, she chose to spend the afternoon questioning anyone who could overcome their suspicion long enough to answer her. But her effort was for naught; she learned nothing. Well, nothing useful, anyway.
It was nearly sunset, and still there was no sign of Gold. Restless and frustrated, she took her flashlight and gun and ventured out to the mausoleum she had seen earlier. Over the years, she had learned to trust in her strong intuition, and right now it was telling her that that structure could turn out to be an important piece in this ever-twisting labyrinth of an investigation.
STORYBROOKE CEMETERY
The heavy metal door creaked inward on its rusty hinges under her light touch. Isabelle listened for any movement, and when she heard nothing but the cold, dead silence, she cautiously made her way inside. Her small flashlight made flickering shadows dance in the cavernous space.
She kept her free hand in contact with the wall as she walked, surprised when her fingers constantly brushed over little metal protrusions along the way.
Shining her flashlight on the wall, she realized the bits of metal were actually handles. Dozens of tiny drawers lined every wall except the one with the entrance. She pulled on one of the small brass handles to reveal a short drawer, like a safety deposit box. There were no jewels or documents in this compartment, however—only a nondescript wooden box.
Isabelle bit her lip, eyeing the suspiciously innocuous container. Forever a slave to her boundless curiosity, she shook off any wicked feelings of guilt at prying and sternly reminded herself this was all in the pursuit of investigation. She curled her thumb under the hinged lid to peek inside. An eerie red glow emanated from the crack, and when she lifted the lid all the way, her eyes widened in shock and more than a little nausea.
It was a heart.
Above it, on the inside of the lid, was a label that simply said “Whale.”
She moved down to another drawer and opened it. This one said “Graham.” She opened another. Another.
"Has she been controlling all these people?" Isabelle whispered to herself.
Every time it was the same: each space contained an unnaturally—and impossibly—glowing heart, labeled with a name, the organs otherwise pristine despite no refrigeration or preservation method of any kind.
Except for two drawers at the end.
The last compartments she opened had boxes resting inside like all the rest, only these were empty. She glanced up at the lids.
Her and Gold’s names stared back at her, written in a steady, scrolling hand.
Whipping out her cell phone and almost dropping it in her haste, she punched in the number corresponding to her partner’s in her speed dial. She cursed under her breath when he did not pick up.
“Gold, it’s me,” she whispered urgently after hearing the beep of his voicemail. “I had a feeling about the Miller mausoleum and I came to check it out. Th-They’re all here—the hearts. This is where she’s been keeping the hearts of all her victims, and I think we’re her next targets. I’m going to try and go after her. This ends tonight.”
“How right you are, dear.”
The silky voice bounced off the stone walls, causing Isabelle to freeze up in shock and fear. Be brave, she told herself, turning slowly to find Cora leaning casually against the doorframe in her designer suit, examining her no doubt freshly-painted nails.
“You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? Well, it’s no matter,” she purred, sauntering ever closer. “I’ll still get to add a federal agent to my collection.”
Isabelle dropped her phone in favor of grabbing her gun. She kept her aim as steady as her trembling hands would allow and fired, once, twice, three times. The sound of the shots ripped through the autumn night as she emptied her entire clip into the grinning woman. She may as well have been shooting at nothing for all the good it did.
The bullets tore through flesh and bone; blood splattered on the walls and dripped onto the ground, yet Cora still stood.
Not knowing what else to do, Isabelle reached for another magazine in an attempt to reload when Cora casually flicked her wrist. Immediately, Isabelle was frozen in place, unable to move; all she could do was watch as Cora came closer and held out her hand, which was now drawing perilously close to Isabelle’s chest.
The older woman’s lips twisted into a smug, satisfied smile. Isabelle only glared at her in defiance; she would not give Cora the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
Just as Isabelle was trying to quantify exactly how painful having one’s heart ripped out would be, Cora suddenly doubled over, clutching at her own chest in agonizing pain. An inhuman howl escaped her, and Isabelle could already feel whatever force was keeping her immobile begin to weaken. Meanwhile, Cora had fallen to the ground, gritting her teeth as she rolled and writhed on the marble floor.
A few seconds later, and she finally lay motionless. Dirt and cobwebs stuck to her hair while glassy, unfocused eyes pointed right at Isabelle.
Dimly, she became aware of steady, pounding footsteps crunching on the gravel outside. Finding she was able to move once more, Isabelle bolted for the only exit. Hand on the doorframe, she gazed out into the gathering darkness, and sighed in relief when the sound was immediately followed by the unmistakable waver of a handheld flashlight.
“Gold?”
Out of breath, he finally spied her and jogged closer, flashlight in one hand and an ornate wooden box cradled in the other.
“French!” he called, genuine concern written all over his features. “Are you alright?”
“Y-Yeah.” Isabelle gave herself a once-over and nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay.” She realized her hands were shaking, even worse than they had been earlier. The true gravity of what had almost happened suddenly struck her like a freight train, and she felt her eyes burn with tears. Pure impulse took over, and before she even knew what she was doing, she had thrown her arms around Gold and was hanging onto him for dear life. He did not seem to know what to do with his hands, but neither did he make an attempt to push her away.
“It’s alright,” he soothed, settling on awkwardly stroking her back with his arm since he still had his hands full. “It’s over... It’s done.”
After what felt like hours, she finally released her partner with a breathy, self-deprecating laugh. “Sorry,” she murmured and wiped away a few tears that had escaped, “I’m not usually such a goddamn wreck.”
He pretended to consider the point. “I think you have a pretty good excuse this time.”
She supposed he was right, and again let her eyes drift towards the carved box he was carrying. “What is that?”
“It was where Cora kept her heart.” He lifted the lid only to reveal a pile of glittering gray dust. “Too bad she wasn’t as clever at hiding it as she thought. I had an inkling of where it might have been hidden based on previous readings on the subject. I’ve been searching all day, and then when I got your message... Well, I wanted to make sure I found it before things went sour.” He looked past her to where the former mayor’s contorted corpse laid among her perverse treasures, and his lips quirked the tiniest bit. “Guess I succeeded on both counts.”
“Y-You... But how... Her heart?” Practically none of his words had registered aside from his implying that Storybrooke’s mayor had been quite literally heartless. She struggled to make sense of the absurd concept. “There is no feasible way someone could walk around without their heart! It’s just not possible!”
“With black magic it is,” Gold said, now deadly serious. “The exceptionally skilled practitioner will often remove his or her own heart and hide it away so that they can’t be killed. Well,” he held up the box, “unless someone else is able to locate and destroy it, that is.”
Isabelle could not help feeling like she had been transported into one of her novels. She shook her head and laughed despite everything. “Stephen King’s got nothing on this place,” she murmured.
That even earned a chuckle from Gold, and she realized it was the first time she had heard a genuine laugh out of him. Perhaps he was just as giddy with relief as she was.
After they had regained their composure somewhat, the two agents set about returning the orphaned hearts to their rightful owners. Isabelle felt like some kind of macabre Santa Claus, distributing the missing organs to the handful of unfortunates who had been under Cora’s control. Regardless, the people took them gratefully, no questions asked. Isabelle shuddered to think of how prolonged and extensive the mayor’s reign of terror had been that people hardly bat an eyelash at the thought of jamming enchanted hearts back into their ribcages.
She knew she would be neurotically checking her pulse for at least the next month.
F.B.I. HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Down in the forgotten basement once more, Isabelle and Gold spent the better part of an evening discussing what should be included—or not, if she had her way—in their case’s final report. They did not speak of much that did not pertain to official business, and certainly nothing personal, but Isabelle found more and more that she truly did enjoy talking to Gold. Their conversations stimulated her, challenged her. He always kept her on her toes in their verbal sparring, and it was refreshing in a way she would never admit out loud.
With their work finished for the day, Isabelle started to gather up her things, wanting nothing more at that moment than a good book, a hot bath, and her bed. Actually, she might have already had the “entertaining reading” area covered, since Gold, albeit reluctantly, allowed her to borrow the ancient tome he had been scouring on the first day they had met.
Fiddling with the book until it fit at least most of the way into her bag, she thought back on the past few days and felt a smile creep across her lips. Heart-ripping and dark witches aside, she had to admit the whole thing had been quite an adventure; the kind of adventure she had always craved.
Securely fastening her black trench coat, she wished Gold a good night and turned to leave the office.
“Good work out there, French,” he said almost as an afterthought just as she had reached the door. “You may not turn out to be as useless as I initially thought.”
The words were gruff and perfunctory, though his expression was anything but. It was obvious that it was not in his nature to give compliments, yet there was something unreadable in the mercurial agent’s eyes; if Isabelle had to guess, she might have said it was a hint of pride, of respect. She could live with that. Smiling, she gave him a quick nod in acknowledgement, and headed for the elevator.
Oh yes, Isabelle mused as the doors slid shut in front of her, she could see herself getting used to this new assignment.
It would certainly never be boring.