Chapter 51
W e are filing out of the tent along with the rest of the crowd when a couple catches my eye. The man is tall, with dusty-blond hair and a swagger to his step, a gait that seems all too familiar. On his arm is a woman—the real reason my attention was snagged.
She sports an evening gown made of a pale green silk that reaches the floor, the fabric shimmering in the lamplight. Gorgeous as the gown is, that’s not what caught my attention. It’s her hair, golden and cropped short, just barely covering her ears.
The tips of them, in fact.
My heart leaps in my chest— Tink— but , upon second glance, it falls just as dramatically.
The more I look, the more I recognize what’s missing from this picture. This woman is certainly human. Even if she is fae and the cut of her hair is to mask as much, this woman is not Tink. The evidence, or rather, lack thereof, is on her back in the absence of anything resembling wings.
“What is it?” asks Nolan in my ear.
I turn to him, feel the scrape of his facial hair against my forehead.
“It’s nothing. I just thought I saw…” I glance back at the couple, but they are gone.
Once we’re outside the tent, we wind its circumference toward the back. The man who gave us the tip said that this was where the performers exited.
“Hey, you can’t be back here,” says a carny, but he clamps his mouth shut as soon as Nolan presses three gold coins into his hand.
As the carny whistles and walks away, we wait in the shadows outside the entrance, watching as the performers exit from the back. They look strange—strangely normal, that is—now that they’re not dressed up in their circus attire.
Well, that’s not the case for all of them.
Many of them one would never suspect of being touched by magic, as long as their ears were covered. Most of them you could pass by on the street without giving them a second glance.
It strikes me as odd, then, that they ended up at the carnival. I mostly would have considered this a last choice—a place for misfits. I can’t help but wonder if some of these people did not choose this life.
They’re not in cages, like the one Tink spent years in. But still. There’s something that seems off about this place.
The line of circus members departing the main tent dwindles, most of them having headed toward the smaller tents on the outskirts of the carnival, where I assume they sleep and rest.
“We should have stationed Maddox at the other entrance,” I say, worried now that Peter will have left without a trace for us to follow.
“No,” says Nolan. “He won’t miss an opportunity to see you.”
“Yes, but—” I’m interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind us, closer than they should be. The kind of footsteps that are meant to be heard.
“Yes, but I might sneak up behind you,” says a familiar voice.
We spin around.
Peter.
There’s an arrogance in his posture, but I don’t believe it. There’s something off about the way only one of his wings flicks that gives away his discomfort.
“I take it you’re not here to visit an old friend.” There’s curiosity in Peter’s voice, but an accusation as well. He glances down at my hand, where my wedding ring glints in the moonlight, then back up at my cheek—at my Mating Mark. He shifts uncomfortably on his feet.
“I see congratulations are in order,” he says.
“Let’s not pretend that you’re coming in peace,” says Maddox.
Peter crinkles a single brow at him. “I’m not coming anywhere. The three of you came to me . And I assume it’s not because you wanted a glimpse of the half-fae, half-machine,” he says, rolling both his eyes and his shoulders, the adamant wing clicking as he does.
I can’t help but think that if Charlie were here, she would be fascinated by its mechanism, how it manages to allow him to fly despite its weight.
She would have all sorts of questions about whether he’s able to control it with his mind.
And if so, how? And if not, where does he hide the trigger? How does he control it?
Does he control it?
An irksome skepticism rises within me when I think of the ringmaster.
The four of us are quiet for a moment until Peter taps his foot impatiently and speaks again.
“Well? What is it that you need? We all know you wouldn’t care to see my face again unless it was dire. You’re not hurt, are you?” He’s looking me up and down. When he swallows, it’s the strangest sensation—watching the genuineness of care he still feels for me slip across his face.
I feel no draw to him, despite him possessing part of my Mating Mark. He must feel the absence, because he glances toward Nolan, toward the Mark blooming out from under his shirt.
Peter doesn’t ask what has happened. He simply waits.
“I’m not sure what all you heard in the garden,” I say.
“You mean after I passed out from the pain?” says Peter. “No. I’m afraid I heard nothing.”
“The Sister had taken Nolan, so I summoned her back.” I pause, realizing this isn’t entirely true. But I don’t want to bring the Nomad into this. Something tells me giving Peter more information than he already has is an unwise decision. “I made a mistake, Peter.”
There’s something in his shoulders that lifts. He steps forward, ever so slightly.
Too late, I realize he thinks I’m referring to my choice between him and Nolan. Nolan’s hand comes to rest behind my shoulder blade, a gentle reminder to be careful.
“Darling here,” he says, “was put in a precarious position. She gave up much to save me.”
“And I take it that whatever you bargained away, you now want it back?” says Peter.
“Yes. Very much,” I say.
“Forgive me if this sounds apathetic,” he says, “but why would I care? I’m not your husband, Wendy Darling. It’s not my responsibility to swoop in and save you from your troubles. Not anymore.”
“I don’t believe that what you did could ever be defined as saving,” says Nolan.
Peter stiffens, and I swallow. “We’re not here to antagonize you, Peter.” He glances away, staring off toward the large circus tent. I take in a breath. “Peter. She took my son.”
“Your son?” he says, forgetting for a moment to be distant. He snaps his gaze back toward me, eyes widening.
“Yes.”
I watch the calculations in his mind. The questions he needs to ask. “When did you give birth to a son?”
“Eight weeks ago,” I say.
I watch him do the math. Count back. From the time Peter discovered my bargain with the Nomad to me marrying Nolan was less than a month. From Peter’s perspective, the child could be his. It might be a stretch, but technically, the timing would have worked.
“And whose son is he? Who’s the father?” asks Peter.
I hesitate. Because this is the part I can’t take back. The gamble that once I make it, I can’t retract.
Two options stand before me. One, I am confident would persuade Peter. But it is not the truth. And if I’ve learned anything from my life, it’s that lies have never served me. Not me, and not others.
Besides, as much as Peter deserves pain, there’s something inherently cruel about fooling him into believing the child is his .
It is a power we have over men. Still, how often have they exerted power over us, unfairly?
All the same, I do not wish to sink to that same sort of cruelty.
“He’s Nolan’s,” I say. “Peter, he’s our son.”
“How can you be so confident?” he asks.
“I just know.” I think of my little boy’s dark hair. “The Sister took him because he is Nolan’s son,” I explain. “She wouldn’t have wanted him otherwise.”
Peter’s face falls.
I’m not sure if it’s because he himself hoped for a child, or if he hoped that a child between us would give us one last connection, one unbreakable bridge between each other.
“If you wanted my help,” he says, “it would have been smarter of you to lie. At least to say you didn’t know.”
There’s a bitterness in his tone.
“I’m not here to lie to you, Peter,” I say. “I’m not here to trick you.”
“Then what are you here for?”
“I’m here to beg you,” I say.
“Beg me with what?” He glances at Nolan. “You brought your husband with you, which means you’re not planning on offering yourself to me. We both know he would never allow that.”
I’m not entirely sure why, but it stings, knowing that Peter would accept such a bargain.
Not that it surprises me, but still. It hurts me for him too, in a way, that he believes he could attain any sort of happiness with me as his slave.
Was he really so much happier with me when I was a prisoner in Neverland, bound to him unwillingly?
I glance at him, searching for signs of misery, but Peter dons a mask of apathy.
“I’m not offering you anything,” I say.
“You know that’s not how fae work,” he says.
“I will help you, but for a price.” He reaches out his hand, and I’m reminded of the clock tower, of the hand swathed in shadows that I never should have grasped onto.
“Tell you what. I’ll help you get your son back.
And then you and I, and the boy too, can all be together. ”
He glances at Nolan, a challenge flaring in his eyes, but Nolan doesn’t rise to his bait.
It’s exactly what I was expecting. So I let his hand linger empty in the air. “I told you, Peter, I’m not here to make a bargain.”
He scoffs. “Then you came a long way for nothing.”
“No,” I say, “because you’re going to help me.”
He actually laughs—truly laughs at me—then brings his hand back to his chest and turns around, pacing off into the darkness.
“Goodbye, Wendy Darling,” he calls over his shoulder.
“You’re going to help me,” I call out to him.
“You know why? Because I’m in agony. I’ve never felt a pain like this.
It’s gnawing at me. I’m incomplete. All the pain that I went through in Neverland after John died—you witnessed it.
You know. But that was only an ache. This, Peter?
I’ve never felt anything like this.” I don’t mean for it to, it’s not an act, but my last word catches on a sob that escapes my throat.
Peter stills, halting in place. But he doesn’t turn. Not yet.
“Peter, he’s my son,” I say. “My child. She took him from my arms. I can’t even—” I squeeze my eyes closed, fully aware that I’m about to reveal something I hadn’t even confided in my husband yet.
“I can’t even remember his face. It’s already faded.
And you of all people know the things she’ll do to him.
She’s raising him to be her slave. If that were all, perhaps I could live with it.
But she’ll pretend to be his mother. She’ll take my place. And then, when he comes of age…”
Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I can hardly breathe.
“Peter, please. Please. If you ever loved me, if there was ever a part of you who felt anything for me at all other than lust… Peter, I know, I know the things you said to me that night in the inn room. I know part of it was true. And I know it kills you to see me hurt. If you ever loved me, please. Just help me.”
Peter’s breath fogs the air. Slowly, he cranes his neck to look over his shoulder. He watches me carefully, a silent question in his eyes. When he finally speaks, his voice has lost that apathetic quality. “If I help you,” he rasps, “will you believe it, then? That I truly did—truly do—love you?”
Again, I can’t and won’t lie to Peter. But I nod, swallowing. “In the way you know how. I’ll believe that.”
He scans my face for a lie, but when he finds none, he glances back and forth between me and Maddox, and then Nolan.
Nolan opens his mouth, clamps it shut, then tries again, clearly sensing that Peter is on the precipice.
“I remember you when you were a boy. In fact, that’s still the Peter I think of when I think of you.
I don’t know—I can’t pretend to know—what it did to you, having someone else’s Mark placed upon your body.
I shouldn’t have asked that of you. It was never my intention for it to hurt you.
“But Peter, I remember. I remember the other boys flocking to you.
I remember the day the warden had me place the brand upon your back.
How afterward, I thought you would hate me…
but instead you came and reached out your hand and welcomed me into the fold.
We were all just lost boys. You found me in the closet, in the corner.
“You found the others, too. They flocked to you. I never could connect with them like you did with the younger ones. I didn’t know how.
But with you, they felt safe. I always admired that.
You hated the warden for what he did to you…
but I think, more than that, you hated him for what he did to all of us.
And as you grew, as you aged and became a man, I watched you hate him even more. I watched you protect them.
“I know that we are no longer friends. I know that my decisions ruined your life. That they broke something within you. So if not for me, please help my son. He’s just another little boy taken away from his home, handed over to the hands of a predator.
Please,” he says, and my husband’s voice cracks.
There are no tears in Peter’s eyes. Just a somberness I’m not used to witnessing. They glaze over, as if he’s remembering things from his past. Things he suffered at the hands of the warden. Things he saw other boys suffer.
“All right,” he says. “I’ll help. But Astor,” he says.
Nolan looks at him.
“Double-cross me,” says Peter, “and I will ruin you.”