Chapter 37
CHAPTER 37
WENDY
T he Gathers—we learned from the wraith what the Nomad calls his fleet—isn’t so much a town as a community of ships strung together with rope bridges. Its backdrop is a barren cliffside made up of sleek onyx rock. There’s a dock floating on the outskirts of the community, though what it’s anchored with I can’t see. When Astor and I arrive, servants jump onto the dock from an adjacent boat.
“You can’t be here, strangers,” says a man whose weathered wrinkles seem at odds with the firmness of his physique.
“Ah, but we have the passcode,” says Astor, voice betraying no hint of deception.
A woman dressed in sailing attire follows the man out onto the deck. “Highly doubt that. The Nomad hasn’t granted any newcomers passage in months.”
“Darling,” Astor says, leaning in from behind, close enough that his warm breath fogs at my ear.
“Wanderer,” I mumble. When the two sailors squint at me, Astor prods me in the spine. “The passcode’s ‘wanderer,’” I say, this time infusing my voice with enough force to overcome the lapping of the water against the dock.
The man shrugs, then gets to work tossing Astor a rope so he can reel us in and secure us to the dock. The woman, on the other hand, seems less eager to assist us, suspicion deepening the crow’s feet framing her eyes.
The male sailor leads us across the Gathers, the three of us ambling across an assortment of rowboats, ferries, and ships, all of which are tied together with braided rope ladders. Black waters lap against the sides, causing the train of boats to bob up and down at the whims of the calculating sea. The dance of the lantern lights on board might be soothing to watch if it weren’t so eerie.
Finally, we reach the center of the network—a grand ship that looks as if it’s meant to sail oceans, not in caravans. There are no ladders connecting this one to the others, just ropes slanting between decks. Scalable, but not with ease, given the movement of the water below.
“You two first,” says the servant.
When I hesitate, Astor leans over and whispers, “You’d better go, Darling,” then adds, “Unless you’d prefer to grab onto my back.”
I flush and quickly turn away so Astor won’t see. Still, I’d seen how torturing that man to death had rocked him earlier. I shouldn’t—but there’s a part of me that feels a responsibility to take his mind off of it, relieve his pain a bit. Especially since it was my idea. “You know, I’ve never heard a man sound so torn between desire and disgust.”
Unable to help myself, I glance back to gauge his reaction. The corners of his mouth twitch in a manner I find unreasonably satisfactory. “Thank you,” he says.
“For what?” I snort.
“For putting that sensation into words for me.”
Now I’m the one embarrassed. By the time I get to the rope, my hands are shaking badly enough that I can barely hold on. I can no longer tell if it’s from the aftermath of my interaction with the wraith earlier tonight, or if it’s the competing excitement and guilt over Astor and I using each other as distractions.
“Absolutely not!” yells the sailor behind us, noticing my trembling hands. “You’ll have to carry that one, mister, or she’s not coming!”
Anger rises in my throat. “I can climb just fine,” I bite back, though my warbling voice hardly sounds convincing, especially as it’s no match for even the sound of the gentle waves.
The sailor rolls his eyes. “The rope’s shaking like a sailor who ran out of brandy three days ago, and you’re not even on it yet. Captain, carry your plaything or leave her here, but I’m not risking one of the Nomad’s guests falling. He doesn’t like it when his visitors make for alligator food. At least, not before he meets with them.”
Tears sting at my eyes, making me feel petulant. It shouldn’t matter whether I can prove that I can climb a stupid rope or not, but…
“You feel good at this—climbing,” says the captain, staring at me intently.
A lump forms in my throat as I nod.
“Is it enough for you that you and I both know that you’re perfectly capable of doing this on your own?” he asks.
I glance back at the sailor, holding his hands at his hips impatiently. “I suppose you can’t just throttle him, can you?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “If that’s what you ask of me, Darling. Though, I’ll warn you, I imagine it would make for a most unpleasant remainder of our trip.”
Already feeling my spirits lifted by the reassurance the captain believes in me, I nod. “Alright. You can carry me then. But just know that I’m always going to assume you paid that man to be ornery just to get the chance to hold me.”
The captain stares at me awhile, a softness glinting in his eyes. “Consider me caught.”
I let out a surprised chuckle, but before I can respond, he lifts me into his arms. Without thinking, I find my legs wrapping around his torso as he stares up at me, his gaze dancing across my face, his hands secure at my waist.
“I’m pretty sure this is the wrong way,” I say.
“I didn’t notice,” he says, quickly shifting me to his back. We scale the rope like that, me clinging to him for life itself.
When the unpleasant servant leads us through the winding corridors in the hull of the massive ship to a back room filled with a dazzling array of collectibles, I have to school my expression at the man who stands from the desk and introduces himself.
The Nomad is young. At least, he looks young, about my age. He has sandy hair, a sturdy yet sleek build, pointed ears, and cunning sapphire eyes that scan over me and the captain quickly, his gaze lingering on the captain’s hand and my cheek. I watch him try to fit the two Marks together, the brief glimpse of confusion when he realizes they don’t match.
“What’s this?” he asks. “Did the Fates bring me fates-crossed lovers? Those three do possess a cruel sense of humor.”
A shiver prances across the bulges of my spine as I search his boyish face for any signs of a lie.
“You’re wondering if the stories about me are true,” the Nomad says, folding his hands together as he props his elbows on the scattered pieces of parchment that lie strewn across his desk.
“Are they?” I ask, remembering what Vale told us. That the Nomad once crossed into the realm of the dead.
The Nomad examines me, then offers me a casual smirk as he leans back in his chair. “You can never count on all of the stories being true.” He cranes his neck back and forth between the captain and me. “I assume you want those Mating Marks removed.”
My heart gives a little lurch. It feels suspiciously like hope, but the captain beats me to answering. “Just the one,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m afraid my companion here is partial to hers.”
A pebble lodges itself in my chest.
“Interesting,” says the Nomad, flicking his head in a gesture for us to move closer. We do, and when we reach the desk, Astor splays his hand across the desk for the Nomad to examine. The blond fae pulls a magnifying glass out of his desk and peers through it at the golden tendrils spread across the back of Astor’s hand. When he reaches the dead flesh and purple scars that stain Astor’s forearm, he clucks and whispers, “Sloppy.”
When I turn to Astor with a questioning brow, he doesn’t look at me, so I prop my hands on the desk, fingers tented. I’m so nervous, I’m shaking, and leaning on the desk helps support my weight.
“What makes you think I can help with this?” the Nomad asks, dropping Astor’s hand and leaning back in his chair once again, arms folded over his chest. When Astor’s hand falls back on the desk, his pinkie brushes mine, sending a wave of heat up my arm, piercing my heart.
I suck in a quiet breath. It’s the slightest touch. So slight, I can’t help but wonder if I’m the only one to notice. Astor doesn’t move. And I don’t pull away.
“You’re friends with the Fates, aren’t you?” I say, impatience creeping up my throat and into my voice.
Astor must interpret my shaking voice as a symptom of fear, because he hooks his pinkie around mine. My body stops breathing on its own.
Amusement flashes across the Nomad’s face. “The Fates? Friends? I wouldn’t call them that. Is that what you two would call one another?”
Immediately, I shift my hand away, breaking contact between me and Astor. His hand doesn’t move.
“Let’s just say we look out for one another,” says Astor, the firmness in his voice surprising me.
“The point is that you maintain contact with the Fates, don’t you?” I ask, hating the lack of assurance I betray by how high my voice spikes at the end of the question.
The Nomad taps his fingers against his biceps, arms still folded. “Communing with a Fate is a rather complicated process. And even if it weren’t, the Eldest Sister doesn’t like her decisions challenged. If she Marked the two of you, it’s because she’s scoured through all the possible matches and made a decision that’s in your best interest. Even I have to admit, she’s hardly ever wrong. You’d do well to heed her advice.”
“We don’t have complaints about who she’s Mated us to,” I say, at which point I think I glimpse Astor cringe out of the corner of my eye. The Nomad must see it too, because his blue eyes dart toward Astor ever so slightly before focusing back on me. “Captain Astor’s Mate is dead. He just wants to be rid of his suffering.”
The Nomad actually laughs. His smile would be beautiful if he weren’t so eerie. If he weren’t mocking Astor’s pain. “You’re even more na?ve than you look, Miss Darling.”
I go rigid. “How do you know my name?”
He smiles. “I know plenty of things. But no need to worry, it’s not so sinister as you believe. I have my scouts collect information on anyone who ports near the Gathers. I understand that the two of you dispatched one of my own earlier this evening.”
Astor goes stiff next to me, his hand still tented on the table, flexed and ready to unsheathe his blade, when the Nomad leans across the table. “No need for alarm. He was outside the borders of my protection, rendering retaliation unnecessary. Besides,” he says, homing in on me, “the two of you are intriguing enough to live. What are you trying to do, Miss Darling? Take away his pain?”
I can take away your pain.
Unease slithers through me. He’s right. I’m not here for Astor. Astor can take care of himself. I’m here for Peter, to find a way to rid him of the curse.
I should know better than to try to take away anyone’s pain. Let Astor do what he wants. It’s none of my business, anyway.
The Nomad must be bored of taunting me, because he turns toward Astor. “I can’t help you remove the Mark. Unless you’d like me to take a blade to that wrist of yours, of course. I do enjoy the sensation of slicing through bone.”
Astor withdraws his hand, tucking it into his pocket casually. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Pity,” pouts the Nomad.
I barely hear him, shocked that such a simple solution would work. For the barest sliver of a moment, my mind takes me away with it, and I’m imagining clawing my Mark from my face. Scraping away at my skin until there’s nothing left to bind me to Peter.
For a fleeting moment, I let myself glimpse through the peephole of a door I previously thought locked to me, into a world where neither Astor nor I are Marked. A world where he is free to let go of his wife, and I am free from the Mark that ties me to Peter.
But of course, that wouldn’t work. Tink already clawed at my Mark on the island of Neverland, and when my wounds healed, the Mark healed with it.
“If you don’t let me do it, it seems your Darling girl might just do it anyway,” the Nomad says smirking at me. “You’ve been looking contemplative over there.”
Shame washes over me as I return to the present. When I glance at Astor, he’s staring at me intently. Unreadable.
But I get the eerie sensation he can read me. Stare directly into my soul and glimpse what I was thinking—the slightest betrayal of Peter. Of my Mate.
My Mate. I repeat the term in my head like my brothers’ lives depend on me searing it into my memory.
“You thinking of ridding the captain here of his Mark?” asks the Nomad. “Or yourself of yours?”
My face goes scarlet, and I scramble for my defense. “I was just thinking of how that would never work.”
Astor and the Nomad both look at me questioningly, but I refuse to look at the Nomad at the moment, so I focus on the captain. “Tink.” When he raises an eyebrow, I go on to explain. “She’s a faerie that inhabits Neverland. She had a fling with Peter in the past. He brought her to Neverland, but when it didn’t work out, she refused to leave. She didn’t much like having me around.” I caress my face, where the scars have healed over from her attacks. “Tried to claw my Mark off. Clearly, it healed back over.”
“Well, perhaps if you ever get desperate, you can ask the captain here to cut that pretty head of yours off,” says the Nomad through pearly teeth.
Astor actually flinches, and the Nomad holds his palms up. “I meant no offense. The two of you truly are a serious lot, aren’t you?” When neither of us answers, the Nomad sighs. “Tell you what. I’ll see what information I can gather. I no longer commune with the Fates, but I might know a way.”
“What’s the price?” asks Astor.
“What? You don’t think me a generous spirit?” Again, when the Nomad is met by unamused silence, he swivels his attention to me. “This Tink character? What kind of faerie is she?”
Confused, I shrug. “Unseelie. She had wings.”
“What type?”
I scramble for the words. “Similar to a butterfly’s, but the texture and color was more like a dragonfly’s.”
“Did they glow?”
I nod. “A little. Why?”
A sly grin overtakes the Nomad’s face. “Faerie dust is a rare commodity, Miss Darling.”
I blink. I’ve never considered how faerie dust is harvested. The memory of the dust goes sour on my tongue. Not that I hold much sympathy for Tink when she’s tried to kill me twice.
“Hm,” says the Nomad, who then turns to Astor to work out the arrangements.
Sensing I’ve been dismissed, I wander away from the desk, worn out from the Nomad’s taunting. I’m pretty sure he’s just stringing us along, waiting for his opportunity to wheedle something out of us. Besides, I’m drained from my brief lapse, from where I let my mind go just now.
I’m trying to find something for my hands to do to make sense of my conflicting feelings when I come across a sketchbook laid out on the nearby mahogany counter.
I’m not sure whether I’m allowed to rifle through this or not, but as the Nomad is still talking to Astor and doesn’t seem inclined to stop me, curiosity gets the better of me. Inside the sketchbook are drawings of the ancient ones, the fae who took to the stars in death, the ones who still look down upon us.
There’s not a tale depicted in this sketchbook I haven’t read to John and Michael at some point or another. The first I find is a dreadful tale about a man who hunts down and brutally murders his Mate after discovering she’s rejected him in favor of his brother. Michael always loved that one for some reason. Then there’s the story behind a winter constellation called Ranger’s Tears. In that one, a man sacrifices his wife to bring back his mistress, trading the lifeblood of the murderer for that of the victim after his wife slaughtered her in a fit of passion.
I flip through the pages until, finally, I find what I’m looking for. The Reaper and his lover, a miserable oak reaching into the heavens to grasp for him. I’m not sure how old this sketchbook is, whether it’s the work of the Nomad or if he’s simply collected it from someone else, but I let my fingers trace the charcoal grooves of the drawing. The dots that make up the Reaper in the sky—the ones that match my Mark—down to the rest of the drawing. The Reaper’s body and the oak that make up the Mating Mark on Peter’s back.
Guilt pinches my chest at the thought of my Mate. I’ve been off gallivanting with the captain, losing my focus on freeing Peter from his curse. The lies I tell myself aren’t all that convincing—I know how close I was to letting Astor sweep me into his arms the other night, allowing myself to melt into his kiss. Denying it doesn’t change the frequency with which I’ve returned to that moment in my mind, letting myself play out what might have happened had I leaned in rather than away. I’m betrothed—yet I turn my head for whoever is nearby. Whoever is willing to offer me a breadcrumb of attention. Even if that person ruined my life, destroyed my family.
No. I belong with Peter.
It’s written in the stars. Written on my skin. Stitched to my heart. A bond as eternal as the story of the Reaper and the Oak. I trace my fingers down, finding the tombstone through which the oak burst, sure that even the grave couldn’t keep her from her lover.
In the end, the expanse between the earth and the heavens was always going to be too far.
The fox digs at the base, searching to find a soul in the roots. As my fingers caress them, searching for the oak’s soul, too, something strikes me as odd, but I can’t quite place it. There’s something about the drawing that feels both unfamiliar and familiar.
“Come on, Darling,” says Astor, placing his hand on my shoulder. When I turn to look at him, my gaze lands on his hand instead, lying gently but protectively on my shoulder. His sleeve slips down, revealing his wrist.
Across the back of his hand swirl golden tendrils, coming to a point at his wrist before being cut off from any circulation, lifeless bruises extending the length of his forearm.
Except they aren’t tendrils, like I’ve always thought.
They’re roots.