Chapter 39
CHAPTER 39
JOHN
I ’m on the way back from the cave, mind still fixating on Tink and what an idiot I was for not kissing her, when voices—well, a voice, really—has me wandering from my path to the Den.
It’s Simon. I recognize his voice—the suppressed quality that’s painted its edges recently—but I can’t make out who he’s talking to. In fact, as I draw closer, pushing brush out of the way as it attempts to scratch my glasses, I realize I can’t hear another speaker at all.
“He’s dying,” says Simon, somewhere off in the distance, still obscured by the bushes. “Why can’t you tell that he’s dying?”
My pulse accelerates, but I still my breathing. There’s a slim chance Simon won’t notice me sneaking up on him. Not with that fae hearing of his. I’d rather not alert him of my presence if I can help it.
“Please. Please, just let go. He’s still alive. If you let go now, he’ll recover. He’s been poisoned. Please, I’m begging you to look. He can’t breathe. You’re killing him. Stop, please!”
Abandoning all attempts at concealing my presence, I rush through the brush. I know it’s illogical, but the irrational anxiety that it’s Michael being hurt races through my mind. Thoughts of how I’ll never forgive myself if…
I come to a clearing, expecting to find a murder in progress.
But it’s just Simon, speaking to the trees. His silky black hair is matted with sweat, his voice husky. Red lines streak the whites of his eyes, and his tanned skin has gone sallow. His gaze is fixated on the thin air, like he’s listening to a judge hand down his death sentence.
“Please. I didn’t know. Just tell me what to do to fix it. I’ll do anything to fix it, Thomas.”
Invisible spiders skitter up my spine. I should call his name. Should throw him a lifeline back to reality. If you can even call Neverland that.
But I don’t. There’s some sick self-preservation instinct in me that reminds me that Simon isn’t in his right mind at the moment. I’m not certain that telling him his visions aren’t real will help. They might very well agitate him more.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. Just tell me how to fix it.”
A pause, then Simon lurches backward. As if he’s been slapped. “I…I didn’t…” Even without hearing the other side of the conversation happening inside Simon’s mind, I can tell he’s trying and failing to come up with a lie. “No. No, that’s not why I came here. I came here to apologize. I came here to punish myself. Not to relive…”
Another long pause. I step forward, careful with my steps lest I spook him. I really shouldn’t be coming any closer. I need to keep myself alive if I want Michael to have anyone to protect him. Call me a coward, but I’ll bear the shame as long as it serves to protect my brother.
“That’s really what you want?” Simon says, voice trembling. “You’ll forgive me then?”
He looks unsure. Afraid. But the version of himself that’s speaking to himself must be convincing, because Simon nods.
I watch in horror as Simon brandishes a blade and slits his own throat.
It’s not Simon I see falling.
It’s my father first, too much of a coward at the end to bear watching my mother’s death. Making her witness his instead.
Then it’s my mother, the slit of red at her throat the same curve of her all too familiar smile. The one she always donned like she did her pearls or her cosmetics.
Perhaps that’s why I don’t think.
Perhaps that’s why I make a mistake.
I rush to him, to Simon’s crumpled body. Because it’s exactly what I’ve done every time I’ve replayed my parents’ deaths in my mind. It’s muscle memory now, with how many times I’ve visualized what I would have done had I been brave that night.
Had I been the protector my father wished me to be.
By the time I get to Simon, blood is gushing from the open wound at his throat. His eyes have rolled back in his head, his body collapsed against the green grass of the clearing.
My hands are on his throat before I can stop them. A pitiful attempt to stop the flow of blood. He’s gargling now, and the sound sends me back to the masquerade, grates against my ears, makes me want to gag.
When I touch him, his eyes come into focus, just for a moment. Fixating on me. My fingers are drenched in blood. I let go for just long enough to rip off my shirt and use it to stifle the bleeding, but it’s dyed scarlet in only a few seconds. Simon’s fae, so his body is equipped to heal faster than a human’s, but it’s not instantaneous.
Not fast enough to keep him from bleeding out.
I should say something. If Wendy were here, she’d tell him he’s going to be okay.
She would lie.
Since I can’t bring myself to do that, I instead ask a question. “Do you know what happened to Wendy? Why Peter gave her away?”
Simon looks confused, bewildered, but he shakes his head. Wrong question, then.
“You can see the shadows. How?”
Simon opens his mouth, but only a gargle comes out.
I furrow my brow, trying to steel the panic, keep it from ridding me of my senses. If only I can find the right question to ask.
In the end, all I can think to ask is,
“Can I trust Peter?”
But by the time the question leaves my mouth, Simon is already dead.