Reawakened: A Once Upon a Time Tale

  Emma absorbed this, wondering what Regina must have thought was true. Had word gotten out about the kiss? Maybe. Or maybe Graham had said something to her.

  “He’s my boss,” she said finally. “And so I can’t. If you’re talking about what happened last night,” she added, “that was unsolicited. So I don’t know what to tell you other than telling you I’m not interested. You can have him.”

  “You’ve been disruptive since you got to this town, Ms. Swan,” Regina said. “If I were you, I’d be very careful that you don’t paint yourself as the town slut.”

  Okay then, Emma thought.

  “Do me a favor, Regina,” Emma said flatly. “Get the hell out of my office. And don’t ever talk to me that way again.”

  Regina seemed satisfied that she’d hit a nerve. She smiled and left without another word.

  Emma watched her go, locked the door, and did some paperwork for a few minutes, letting the irritation cool down. She was used to Regina barging in on her and saying incendiary things—that was apparently part of the job—but this time it was a little different. This time it was about her romantic life, not her son. Emma could see that Regina’s anger had a new edge to it this time around.

  But it wasn’t just that. She felt something, too. Maybe Mary Margaret was right. Maybe she did have some kind of wall up. One so seamless that she didn’t even know it was there, much less see over it. Did she have feelings for Graham?

  She was shaken from her reverie a few minutes later by the sound of her son calling her name.

  “Emma! Emma!” cried Henry, running into the station, his backpack flopping behind him.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, kid,” she said, standing. “Calm down. What’s wrong?”

  Henry, panting, pulled the backpack from his back and dumped it on the floor. “It’s Graham,” he said. “I think he’s starting to remember!”

  “Remember what, kid?” she asked. “Sit down. Catch your breath.”

  She got him some water, and Henry eventually sat down at her desk and gathered himself. Graham had been to see him, he told her. Been to see him to ask about the storybook and ask about the fairy tales.

  “And what did you tell him?” Emma asked.

  Henry looked down.

  “Henry?”

  “I told him what I thought had to be true,” Henry said. “I told him that he was the Huntsman, and that those flashes he saw when he kissed you were flashes of him remembering that time.”

  “He told you about that?”

  Henry shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “But I heard about it anyway.”

  Small towns, Emma thought. That solved the mystery of how Regina knew.

  She didn’t like the idea of Graham, who was obviously not himself, running around town having visions of anything, and she certainly didn’t like the idea of him going to a child and believing what the child had to say about the intersection of fantasy and reality. Graham was potentially in the midst of a psychotic break, she realized. She had to find him.

  “Where did you send him?” she asked.

  “I didn’t send him anywhere,” Henry said. “I told him about how the Queen trapped him into a bargain and that she ordered him to go kill Snow White.”

  Emma furrowed her brow. In Henry’s universe, the Queen was Regina and Snow White was Mary Margaret.

  “And why did she do that?”

  “Because the Queen killed Snow White’s father, and she knew that she had to get rid of Snow White as well. But she couldn’t do it herself because she couldn’t risk being found out. So she went looking around the countryside and found the Huntsman.”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s where the wolf thing comes from,” Henry said. “He loved them, and he had one as his friend. And Regina knew that, and she promised to protect the wolves if he helped her kill Snow White.”

  “And so what happened?”

  “He dressed up as one of Snow White’s guards,” Henry said, “and almost killed her, but she ran away. While he was chasing her, he realized he didn’t want to do it.”

  “How good of him,” Emma said, leaning back in her chair. She looked over at his backpack. “You really know these stories cold, kid, don’t you? You don’t even need the book.”

  “I know them all,” he said. She didn’t like the way he said it.

  “So where did he go when you were done?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Henry said. “He got really upset when I told him that the Queen stole his heart when she found out that he—”

  “So you don’t know where he is?” she said.

  “All he said,” Henry replied, “was that he had to find that wolf. Before it was too late.”

  A wolf.

  Sure.

  Emma had seen one of those things. Once.

  • • •

  She was faster than he expected her to be—men were always underestimating her. She knew that she would not be able to outrun him forever, but she had enough time to do what she needed to do. After a few minutes of tearing through the woods, Snow White found a tree to hide behind, crouched low, and began composing the letter to the Queen. So long as she could say what she wanted to say, she could accept her death. So long as the message got through.

  Within minutes he had found her. She had already completed the note.

  She hardly looked up when he came around the corner.

  Panting, he took her in, saw what she was doing, and shook his head. “You’re running for your life and you stop to write a letter?” he asked. “I will never understand people. Royals or otherwise.” He raised the dagger.

  “You would have caught me eventually,” she said, setting aside her quill and beginning to fold; the man paused. “This was a better use of my time.” She looked up and held the letter toward him. “Please deliver this to the Queen after you’ve killed me.”

  “What does it say?”

  “You can read it if you like,” she said. “It’s not a trick,” she added, seeing the skepticism on his face. “Read it first, then you can kill me. I’m ready.”

  Cautiously, he reached out with his free hand and took the letter. While he read her words, Snow White watched as he slowly let the dagger fall to his side.

  And then, a surprise: She saw a tear in his eye. She watched as it trickled down his cheek.

  Snow White said nothing.

  The man stuffed the letter into his tunic.

  “Take this,” he said, holding out a reed. “It will work as a whistle. Blow into it when you need help. Help will come.”

  “You’re letting me…?”

  “Yes, go,” he said, straightening up. “I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”

  “But why?”

  “Run,” he said. “Don’t ask another question. Just run, girl.”

  • • •

  Graham was running away from Regina’s house when Emma spotted him. She drove past him, back toward his truck, and parked, waiting for him. Soon he trotted up.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” she said. “You look stressed. Can I have a second?”

  He glanced up and saw her standing in front of his car, arms crossed.

  “Not now, Emma,” he said, continuing. “I’m busy. You should be at the station.”

  “I’m trying to help.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Hey, stop,” she said, coming toward him. She put a hand on his arm and told him that he needed some rest, that it was no good to listen to a ten-year-old. Graham, frustrated, told her that Henry was the only one who seemed to make any sense. He tried to tell her about the wolf—to tell her that it somehow fit, that he couldn’t feel anymore; he hadn’t felt much in a long time.

  “I have no heart,” he said. “I can’t say it any other way.”

  “You do,” Emma said, shaking her head at him. How had he descended into this much of a tailspin after one awkward interaction on the street? Sure, he’d crossed a line, but it was just one bad moment. They could fix it. She didn’t understand
what had happened to him.

  “Graham, come on,” she said, stepping close. She took his hand and put it on his own chest, held it there. “Feel.”

  He closed his eyes, breathed in.

  “That’s just the curse,” he said. “It’s not real.”

  “No,” Emma said. “It’s not. That’s you. That’s your heart. You’re fine.”

  Looking over Emma’s shoulder, Graham said, “Am I?”

  She frowned at this, twisted, and turned to look. She gasped.

  The wolf. The wolf was there, standing on the sidewalk not ten feet from them.

  “I’ve seen that wolf before,” Emma said.

  Her first evening here. In the middle of the road, when she had tried to leave Storybrooke. Graham had made fun of her. And now here he was, chasing it.

  What in the hell is happening? Emma thought.

  “That makes two of us,” Graham said. “Come on.”

  • • •

  They followed the wolf into the woods. Graham retold Emma the story he’d heard from Henry—that in the other world, the Queen had taken his heart—and he said that it had occurred to him that the wolf was taking them back to his heart. “This wolf was my companion at one point,” he insisted. “I think it’s trying to show me where to find it.”

  “You have it, Graham,” Emma said.

  He shook his head. “No. And I have to get my heart back, Emma,” he said. “I have to.”

  “Do I need to again point out how insane you sound?”

  “Not necessary,” Graham said, distracted. “Look.”

  They were at the edge of the cemetery, and the wolf had trotted up to a large crypt and stopped, nosing at the door, looking back at them. Emma had to admit—it looked a whole lot like the wolf she’d seen the first time she’d tried to leave Storybrooke.

  “In there,” Graham said. “My heart is in there.”

  He rushed to the crypt. Emma followed him in.

  The inside of the crypt was relatively clean, considering, and Graham started to feel along the walls and the floor of the small stone room, clearly intent on finding a secret panel, something. Anything. Emma just watched, unsure what to do. Could she find a way to snap him back to reality? Or was this something bigger, something that would require… a hospital?

  His brief search revealed nothing.

  He looked around again. Then let his eyes rest on the coffin itself.

  “No. You are not digging up some grave, Graham,” Emma said. “Stop for a second. Think about this. The law aside, you’re not well. You’re—”

  “What are you two doing here?”

  Emma and Graham both turned, startled at a third voice.

  Regina, holding flowers, stood outside of the crypt, a few feet away, a look of legitimate shock on her face.

  “Police work,” Emma said, stepping out into the grass. “What are you doing here?”

  “Putting flowers on my father’s grave,” she said, “like I do every week.”

  Bullshit, Emma thought, looking at Regina with great skepticism. It was her father’s grave? It was nothing if not suspicious. That word didn’t even do it justice.

  “We’re looking for something,” Graham said to Regina.

  “You don’t look well at all, dear,” Regina said, her face softening now that she’d seen Graham. “Let’s take you home.”

  “No.”

  Regina, tense, looked back and forth between them. Eventually she raised her chin and nodded. “I see. You and she.”

  “It has nothing to do with that,” Graham said firmly. “It’s about you. I don’t love you and I don’t want to be with you. Not anymore, Regina. It doesn’t feel right.” He shook his head and looked down, frustrated. He tried again: “I don’t feel anything when I’m with you. I want the chance to feel… something.”

  Regina took this in, a new rage building in her eyes. Emma saw Graham bracing himself for some standard Regina-style verbal abuse, but her eyes snapped to Emma.

  “This is your fault,” she said. “You can’t stay away from what I love, can you?”

  “They keep coming to me, Regina,” Emma said. “Maybe you should ask yourself why people keep running away from you.”

  It felt good to say that.

  “Regina, it’s not—”

  But Regina ignored Graham’s words as she took a quick step toward Emma, dropped her flowers, and—to everyone’s surprise—punched Emma square in the mouth.

  Her head snapped back as a circle of pain opened up around her mouth, but she didn’t fall, and she held herself steady by reaching for the coffin. She saw as Graham lunged to restrain Regina before she could strike again.

  Emma stared at Regina for another moment, rubbing her jaw.

  Then, without another word, she walked away. She heard the last of their conversation as she headed back to town. She wasn’t going to do this now.

  “Graham,” Regina tried. Her voice had softened.

  “Don’t talk to me,” Graham said. “Don’t talk to me anymore. We’re done. Forever.”

  Emma smiled.

  • • •

  Later, Graham dabbed hydrogen peroxide near the small cut on Emma’s jaw. She protested, but she let him. She liked being close to him, she liked the care he was taking. She liked what he had said back at the crypt. For Emma, this was the beginning of a new story. A new love story, maybe, even though Emma would never have called it that.

  “I don’t understand any of it,” Graham was saying. “The wolf, any of it. I think—I think so much of it has been Regina. You almost start to feel insane when you’re in the wrong relationship.”

  “Tell me about it,” Emma said.

  “I don’t know how I went so far down that road with her in the first place.”

  “I know why we do that,” she said, thinking of all the times it had happened to her. “It’s safe. And being alone is terrible. Ow!” He’d dabbed the peroxide over the open cut and it stung. He smiled apologetically, touched her hand.

  “All better,” Graham said.

  “Getting there,” Emma said, and she leaned forward and kissed him. It felt right.

  It was nice, and brief. A little breach in the wall, Emma thought.

  He pulled away from her after a moment. He smiled at her strangely.

  “What?” Emma said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I remember,” he said.

  “You remember what?”

  “The first time we kissed, I had a flash of it,” Graham said. “Just a flash. That’s what set it off. And now—now I can remember everything.” He was getting excited. He took her hand. “She is the Evil Queen, Emma. She—”

  Graham’s legs suddenly buckled, and Emma reached for him, concerned. “You okay?” she said.

  As his eyes rolled back into his head, he tried to muster a sound, but Emma couldn’t make it out. “Hey, hey, hey,” she said, holding him up. “Come on, Graham. You’re just dizzy, right?”

  But it was worse than a dizzy spell, she soon realized, and the weight of his body forced them both down. He looked sadly at Emma. The sadness was what really scared her.

  “Graham!” she cried, shaking him. “Graham!”

  He groaned again and took a few labored breaths. “I love you,” he said.

  “Don’t act like you’re dying, Graham,” she said, panic in her voice. “Please don’t do that.”

  He reached up, touched Emma’s face. She was crying. He was using all the strength he had to wipe away the tears.

  • • •

  He was gone. Gone just like that, gone with little explanation. Cardiac arrest? By the time the ambulance came, Emma knew in her heart that he’d left the world. She stayed with him on the ground, weeping over him, until the paramedics had to calmly, delicately remove her arms from his body. She watched numbly as they put him on the stretcher and carried him away. There was no need to go to the hospital. It was obvious to everyone in the room. Unlike John Doe, this one would not be waking up. There were no m
iracles to be had here.

  CHAPTER 7

  DESPERATE SOULS

  Since Graham’s death, Emma had been sleepwalking through her job as acting sheriff. Storybrooke had suddenly gone quiet, giving Emma some room to mourn the loss of her friend.

  The news about Graham was simple: He’d died of natural causes, a heart fibrillation that had haunted him since childhood.

  Dr. Whale showed her the chart, and Emma accepted it, but a part of her suspected something was off with Graham’s death. But that didn’t mean she was about to start believing in a curse. It was just the type of thing people did when they were vulnerable; she’d seen it a thousand times. The truth was he was gone, and that was that.

  It was a Wednesday morning when Emma arrived at the office and found a message from the service telling her that Mr. Gold had called and asked her to come by his pawnshop when it was convenient. With nothing else going on, she picked up her coffee and headed back to her cruiser.

  She found Gold in his back office, applying some kind of clear liquid to a cloth. Emma assumed the horrendous odor in the room—somewhere between manure and sweat—was coming from it. As she announced herself, Gold did not look up, and instead kept applying the liquid. “Lanolin,” he muttered. “That’s the smell.”

  “Lovely,” Emma said.

  “It’s the same reason sheep’s wool repels water,” he noted. “Quite amazing, really. Highly flammable, of course.”

  “I got a message from the service,” said Emma. “What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to express my condolences about Sheriff Graham now that things have died down,” said Gold, finally looking up. Emma wouldn’t have called it a sympathetic look, but she could see that he was trying to be kind. “Not good for the town. But I know you two were close.” Gold began cleaning up around his desk. “You’ll do well as a replacement,” he said.

  “I’m not replacing him.”

  “Two weeks as acting sheriff makes you sheriff, Ms. Swan. That’s what the law says.”

  “You don’t say,” Emma said. She wasn’t sure what she thought of the idea. Sheriff Swan.

  “I also wanted to tell you that I have some of his things here, and I wondered if you might want something.” Gold stood, picked up a cardboard box on a nearby countertop, and carried it over to her. He set it down on a table and Emma saw a number of items she recognized: Graham’s leather jacket, his sunglasses, his cell phone.