Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
JOHN
T he fact that Tink is really quite pretty should not make it more difficult for me to torture information out of her.
If Wendy were here, she’d tell me there’s no reason to torture information out of anyone.
But Wendy isn’t here.
And besides, my sister trusted the creature who haunted her for her entire childhood. So I don’t know why I’m bothering listening to her voice inside my head.
When I’d dragged Tink’s limp body into the cave, I’d been ready to restrain her. I’m still not sure how long it takes the fae to overcome rushweed, so I’d brought ropes in my satchel just in case.
As it turned out, I didn’t need them. Because inside Tink’s lair was a cage.
It looks hewn from the stone of the cave wall itself. No, it’s as if it’s always been a part of the cave. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the stalactites and stalagmites grew together perfectly to form the bars, even the door and its lock. I found a key Tink keeps hidden underneath her small cot.
I’m not sure who made this cave, or who they made it for, but that’s not the pressing question at the moment.
“Did you hurt my sister?” I ask, staring at the faerie inside the cage.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. For her to snarl at me, probably. For her actions to be as untamed as her disheveled hair, cropped and golden and looking as though someone has recently run their hands through it. For her to be as unhinged as her tattered burlap garb and shredded wings would imply.
There’s a wildness in Tink. That’s as evident as it could be in the way she cocks her head. She might be trapped inside the cage, but there’s no mistaking that she’s the predator here, her stunning blue eyes calculating as she examines me.
When I was younger, I heard men label women as calculating as if it were a defect. I never understood that. But now, looking into Tink’s cunning eyes, I understand. She’s terrifying.
“Did you hurt my sister?” I ask again.
Tink nods. I detect little emotion in her reaction, except for the twitch of her full lips. A hint of pleasure there.
My heart raps against my hollow chest cavity. “Is she dead?”
I’m not sure what I’ll do to Tink if her answer is yes.
But Tink doesn’t nod this time. Instead, she blinks, her round blue eyes flashing with surprise, just for a moment. She tries to hide it from me, tries to regain her composure, but it’s too late.
“You didn’t know,” I say, though I can’t bring myself to be relieved. All this proves is that Tink didn’t kill her, not that she’s not dead. “You didn’t know Wendy is missing.”
Tink’s expression shutters.
Chills prod the back of my neck.
She really is quite pretty.
Her cheekbones slice against her otherwise delicate features. Rather than detracting from her femininity, her cropped hairstyle only highlights her distinct features. Full, pink lips, casually sly in their angle. A delicate brow. Long, blond eyelashes. Wide blue eyes.
Pretty is a tad of an understatement, and that’s just her face.
I know from the burlap sack that’s barely long enough to reach past her buttocks that her lean tan legs are just as beautiful, but I don’t let my gaze dip to examine them more thoroughly than what I can see from the periphery of my vision.
That Tink chooses to wear clothing at all is a glaring contradiction to what I’ve read in history books, packed with illustrations of wild fae dancing naked through the woods, unashamed of their exposed flesh.
The burlap sack might simply be a practical measure to ward off injuries common in the forest, but in case it’s not, in case Tink wishes to cover herself from the view of onlookers and a burlap sack was the best she could find on this island, I’d rather not ogle. Especially considering I have her caged.
“Do you have any idea what might have happened to my sister?” I ask.
Tink gnashes her glinting teeth, and the vision of a nightstalker flashes in my mind.
“It’s possible she could have been attacked on the island,” I say. “But we haven’t found any remains.”
Tink again tilts her head at me. That’s about all she can do with the rushweed in her system. Curiosity brims in her eyes. I’m familiar with the look. People offer it often when they perceive that I’ve been too blunt, or when I’ve refrained from inserting the correct dose of emotion into my words.
That’s ridiculous, of course. You can’t tell someone’s feelings strictly by the way their voice sounds or their diction. Sure, it can be a fair measure, but most people can manipulate those variables to make others infer what they want them to.
Which reminds me that Tink could have been doing just that when she acted surprised to hear that Wendy was missing. I examine the faerie, recalling how much she hates my sister for catching Peter’s attention. Had I dismissed so quickly the idea that she’s to blame for Wendy’s disappearance?
I’ll have to be more wary of her fae glamour.
Even if Tink didn’t hurt Wendy herself, she’s obsessed enough with Peter that she wouldn’t betray him if she knew he was the one to blame.
“If you don’t tell me where Wendy is, you’ll come to regret it,” I say, nodding toward her shredded wings.
This time, fear flashes across Tink’s face, but again, she masks it quickly enough. She closes her eyes, making as if to fall asleep.
“You’re not even going to bother answering me?”
Eyes still closed, she grins—the wry sort.
“What? Are you so bored on this island that you enjoy riling others up? I’m sorry to break it to you, but I’m not one to be easily riled.” Well, except when it comes to those who hurt my family. But I refrain from mentioning as much. “You won’t like what happens if you don’t answer me.”
Tink’s smile dissipates, but her cheeks and forehead are smooth, betraying no fear of me. She thinks I’m a boy talking a big game. Threatening her with cruel words, but no follow-through.
I’m not a bad person. Not a sociopath either, though there was a time when I thought perhaps I was. After I overheard Wendy’s sessions with her alienist, I spent my early adolescent years reading through works of the world’s most renowned alienists on the subject. They claimed that the defining characteristic of a sociopath is that they lack empathy.
I might have believed that definition applied to me, if it hadn’t been for my family. In fact, I did believe it for a time. Had resigned myself to the morbid truth that I feel nothing for others.
But then Michael had gotten to be old enough that we noticed him struggling with what other children could do with ease. I would hear the comments others made about my brother. Comments that were probably meant to be well-meaning, or at least they’d convinced themselves they were well-meaning. People do that often—gossip and tear down others, then pat themselves on the back for being concerned.
He didn’t understand what they were saying about him, of course. But I did. And I felt on his behalf what he did not. Absorbed every mark against him as if it were branding my own soul. And then there was what I overheard one night in the parlor, happening to Wendy.
I’d felt that too. But feeling had led to fear. Perhaps if I hadn’t been capable of feeling, I would have stepped in and helped.
No, I’m no more of a sociopath than my sister is. I simply reserve that empathy for a select few.
I’m choosing not to extend that to Tink.
It takes me over an hour to make the fire. Neverland is humid, so even with the flint I snuck from a closet back at the Den, it takes a while for the handful of dry spindles I could find to catch. By the time I finally set my carefully arranged tent of sticks aflame, I’m second-guessing myself. Whether I can actually go through with this.
I plunge my dagger into the fire anyway. Watch the dull blade turn the color of a molten sun.
Despite having dosed her with rushweed and caged her, I’ve tied Tink’s hands together as well. Just in case. When I open the cage door, Tink can do nothing but offer me a challenging grin. The rest of her still can’t move.
She shows no sign of fear. Not even when I brandish my still-glowing dagger.
“Talk,” I say.
I’m met with a defiant smirk. She doesn’t think I’ll do it.
That’s because she doesn’t know me.
When I place the blade against her—a long line tracing her clavicle—I feel nothing but the lackluster protest of the outer layer of her skin, which sutures immediately after the blade punctures it.
She doesn’t scream, choosing the clamp her jaw instead, but her eyes fling open, tears welling in them. She’s a tough woman, and she’s fae, so I imagine the tears are more from shock than anything.
There’s a bright red mark left behind.
When I touch the blade to her again, she spits in my face.
I keep going.
The second branding is more difficult. Straight across her thigh. I know it’s a relatively safe place to burn her. More fatty tissue to absorb it. No vital organs to damage. That’s why I chose it. But it feels intimate, and as Tink whimpers, I don’t hear Tink, but Wendy, crying softly from the parlor after a suitor readjusts his cravat on the way out the door.
The thought makes me ill, and for a fleeting moment, the panic begins to set in. The doubt.
I can’t do this.
But I’ve failed Wendy one too many times. I won’t fail her again.
I make another mark, and as Tink cries, I remind myself who I’m doing this for.
Who I’m protecting.
It’s only later that night as I’m lying awake in bed, considering what more I could possibly do to break her, how she could be so stubborn in spite of such pain, that the realization hits me in the gut.
As I cooked Tink’s skin, she didn’t refrain from telling me because she wouldn’t.
It’s because she can’t.