Chapter 31
Iwake up in a panicked haze, hair mussed from where Peter’s been combing his hands through it. After insisting he take me back, I barely make it to the Den before the sun rises fully. Anxiety plagues my chest as I sneak back to my rooms.
Just as I’m about to crawl into the cot, someone clears their throat in the corner. I turn to find John propped at his usual position against the wall. Faintly, in the glow of the faerie light from the hallway, I glimpse him fidgeting with a twig in his fingers, twirling the stem and crushing the leaves between his fingertips.
“Where were you?”
“You were already asleep when I finished the dishes. Then I had to relieve myself.” I’m shocked by how easily the lie slips out of my mouth.
“I hate to hear it took you several hours. Must have been quite unpleasant.”
I can’t see John’s expression in the shadows, but I don’t have to. His voice, typically cool and even, is trembling.
“John.”
“You were out with him, weren’t you?”
I swallow, sitting on the edge of my cot to face him more fully. Like that will somehow help to make him understand, even when he can’t see my face in the dark.
“I was,” I finally say.
John goes very, very quiet for a moment. “I’d think he forced you, except that you’re lying for him. You lied to me last night about the coat, seemed so excited to be off. Your cheeks were flushed. I thought it was from the heat of the stove and the hot water from cleaning the dishes.”
Guilt pricks at my stomach. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“He’s our captor, Wendy. He’s the enemy.”
I shift again on my cot, my heart breaking at the way my brother, the boy who didn’t hesitate to slice off his own finger, is trembling. I understand what it is to fear Peter like this, to dread the day the shadows will come and take away everything you hold dear.
“All my life I knew he’d come and take you away,” John says. “All my life. Half of the time, I worried you’d go eagerly. I heard you talking to the shadows when we were children. There’s no telling how many times I caught you, hand outstretched to meet his. I used to sleep outside of your room in the hall, bring a blanket to drape over myself so I could listen. So I could hear if he came to take you, if you started to sound as if you’d been convinced.”
“Peter’s not exactly what we anticipated,” I say. “Even you have to admit that. We feared him for our entire childhood…”
“No,” snaps John. “I feared him. You…” He trails off, like he can’t bear to say the words himself. “You’ve always possessed an affinity for the darkness.”
Anger pricks at my stomach, but I tamp it down, remembering John is only looking after me. That he hasn’t seen the difference between the Peter of the shadows and the Peter of the light. John doesn’t know what Peter sacrificed to keep the Lost Boys alive.
“He hasn’t hurt us,” I say.
“Oh, yeah?” says John, holding up his stump of a pinkie finger. I can barely see its outline in the dim light.
“You did that to yourself, to be completely fair,” I tease, hoping John will join in on our usual game of being as morbid as possible, but he doesn’t.
“Wendy, it’s like he casts some spell over you. Like he always has.”
I cringe. I thought so too, when we first arrived. That Peter had some glamoured hold over me that forced me to drown in his aura, to cling to my attraction to him. Sure, he used his glamour to calm me when I first came to Neverland, but it’s not as if he did it to hurt me. I realize now that most of what I ascribed to glamour was just denial, me wishing to blame magic for the intense draw I feel toward Peter. That I’ve always felt toward Peter.
“He protects the Lost Boys,” I say. “You have to admit, he cares for them.”
“By keeping their pasts in the dark.”
“Maybe their pasts aren’t worth remembering.”
“And whose opinion is that? Yours or Peter’s?”
Uncertainty twists in my gut, but I hold my resolve. I’ve seen the agony in Peter’s face over the boys, especially over Thomas. He wants nothing but the best for them, and Peter is just as trapped here, just as chained here as they are. There’s no doubt in my mind that Peter’s only trying to keep them from pain.
“Peter’s not the only one at work here,” I say. “You’re forgetting about the Sister. He called her his master,” I say, the word thick on my tongue, like mucus.
“That’s convenient for him. A being on which he can rest all the blame for his actions.”
“Peter saved us the night of the masquerade,” I snap.
John cocks his head to the side.
“You’re forgetting what you handed over to him to get him to take me and Michael with us.”
My stomach caves in, my mind returning to the unconditional bargain I’d given Peter the night of the masquerade, like a blank check for him to cash at his leisure. I shouldn’t have forgotten, not with the mysterious ovals marking my skin.
“He’s asked nothing of me,” I say.
“Yet.”
I stiffen.
“Wendy,” John says, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. The motion causes his spectacles to ride up. “I know you don’t want to talk about what happened to you in the parlor that night. And I’m not trying to imply that you can’t make your own decisions about men, but I worry that, just perhaps, it affected the way you—”
“No. No, I’m not talking about this.” Flustered and unable to come up with a response other than that, I jump out of my cot and grab my coat, twisting it around my shoulders.
“Where are you going?” asks John, but my attention is fixated on the smallest of phrases. That night.
Because John is under the impression it only happened once.
“To take a walk.”
“I thought you just had one of those.”
No, I think. I flew.
I go looking for Peter,regretting making him fly me back to the Den. I should have stayed with him, shouldn’t have let John take a needle to my perfect night. Now I’m left alone with my thoughts, and they’re as hostile as ever. Peter’s confession about the origins of Neverland quelled my anxieties surrounding him, at least the idea that he’s been manipulating me. But they awakened new fears within my soul. They swarm in my head, keeping me on edge.
This place should not exist. Neverland should not exist. Simon was right when he said that Peter keeps the memories of their pasts so that they don’t have to, but dread crawls in my belly when I think of Thomas. Of Freckles.
No matter what Peter attempted, he couldn’t protect them from their fates. Sure, they survived the plague, but only to be handed over to death anyway. Thomas, strangled. Freckles, stabbed and disfigured.
The morning air is frigid, the fog obscuring my view of anything well past the shoreline, but I follow it toward the northernmost tip of the island, where I confronted Peter after Freckles’s death. When Peter dropped me off at the Den, he flew off in this direction.
It’s raining, the clouds a mist of gray overshadowing the island. I can’t imagine that Peter fares well on days like this, when the weather itself feels as if it’s bearing down on your soul. I tell myself that’s why I search for him, to make sure he’s okay. Because he’s the only source of protection the Lost Boys have, and I need to make sure he’s okay to make sure they’re okay. Because if Peter is distracted by his own gloominess, something could happen again, like what happened to Thomas and Freckles.
I tell myself it’s not because Peter has left a shard in my heart, a stitch on my soul. That I can feel his presence tugging at me. That after Freckles died, I knew in my very being where Peter had gone.
I don’t want to feel this draw toward Peter, toward the male who finds himself cloaked in shadows, hardly able to restrain himself from his whims. I tell myself that’s not the man I’m following into the fog. That I’m following the orphan who gave his life up to protect the children destined for misery. The man who holds the burden of their pasts on his shoulders so that they don’t have to. I tell myself I’m running toward the male who plays with Michael like his way is just as legitimate as any other child’s.
That’s what I tell myself as I wander into the fog until it swallows me up.
Peter’snot on the cliffside, but there’s an outcropping of rock beyond the shoreline. A boulder amongst the waves. I can see the faintest glimpse of Peter’s outline in the fog as he perches atop it. It’s the type of rock that might be simple to get to, the type I’d be tempted to climb on any day other than today, when the waves warn of an approaching storm, lapping at my feet and begging me to run back to the safety of the Den.
But there Peter is, and I can’t seem to take my eyes off him.
He’s perched atop the rock, and when the wind clears the fog in short bursts, I can see the way the spray of the sea speckles his tanned cheeks with droplets. At least, I tell myself I can see that. Perhaps I’m imagining things. With Peter, imagining never seems so far off from reality.
I open my mouth to call to him, but then a large wave crashes against his boulder, and the sound drowns out his name on my lips. I falter, wondering if perhaps I should leave him be, allow him to retreat into his sorrow in his own way.
It must have been difficult for him last night, telling me about the bloated corpses hanging from the juniper tree, about the life he bargained away to save the Lost Boys.
His name is still on my tongue when I go to retreat, all my bravery swallowed up in the deafening echo of the waves that quelled my voice moments ago.
Some people are brave naturally.
Others of us have just enough courage for one shot, and even then our voices shake with trepidation, never quite loud enough to be heard over the bustle of a world that’s bolder than we are.
I turn to go, but then I glimpse something out of the corner of my vision. A shadow. At first, I think it must be Peter shifting into his shadow form, but as I turn to look, I find another silhouette on the rock. This one’s climbing the edge, directly behind Peter. Battering waves obscure the sound that the figure must be making as he breathes heavily with the ascent.
At first, I’m sure the man—I’m certain it’s a man now, though probably fae—will fall on the slick rock, but his ascent is steady, determined.
As he climbs, I feel the wet and jagged surface underneath his hands as if they’re my own.
I scan the man’s features for something familiar. Perhaps one of the Lost Boys come to fetch Peter. My eyes scour the man’s figure, trying to force it into the shape of one of the Lost Boys. I tell myself it could be Victor because of the sturdy build, but I know I’m kidding myself. Even from here, I can tell his hair is cropped shorter than Victor’s, his hair lighter, his skin a shade darker. Besides, he has the bulk of a man, not a boy, and the movements of one too.
Why is a man on this island?
Why is there a man in Neverland?
I know the Lost Boys aren’t the only ones here. Tink, for example. But she came here with Peter originally, though I remember now that he left that part out of his story about the orphanage.
Before I can follow that train of thought, Peter whirls around, like he senses something. I wave at him, and he waves hesitantly back, probably less than thrilled that I’ve come out here to disturb him.
He still doesn’t see the man climbing.
The lump in my throat crawls upward, touching the base of my tongue and making me gag.
Something is very, very wrong.
“Peter, look out!” I call, my tongue finally unfastened from its restraints, but Peter only shakes his head.
I point toward the man, but of course, he’s lower than Peter’s scope of view. Peter must assume that I’m asking him to fly me up there, because he adopts a teasing stance and beckons with his hand for me to come to him.
The man continues to ascend.
“Peter!” I call, tears stinging at my cheeks now, because I know. I know. Something is terribly wrong. That man is not supposed to be here, and Peter doesn’t know what he’s facing. What’s creeping up to meet him from below.
I flail my arms, jumping up and down, hoping that will convey my panic as I point toward the strange man.
Something about Peter’s silhouette stiffens. He must have gotten my message. His shadow widens as he steps forward, craning his head to peek over the rock.
The stranger lunges.
He’s fast. Faster than any human man. He wasn’t yet to the top of the rock, but somehow his agility allows him to fling himself up and into Peter, knocking both figures to the flat plateau of the rock, a tangle of shadows struggling for purchase.
My feet bob in the hard, cold sand as I search for any way to help. I can’t reach the rock. Can’t even swim to it, not without the waves beating my body into submission and dragging me into their otherworldly den.
I can’t do anything but watch as the stranger attacks Peter, as a knife flashes above Peter’s chest.
Panic swirls within me, mimicking the waves around my feet, but I back up. The last thing I need to do is get caught in the undercurrent and risk distracting Peter or dying.
I should run back to the Den. Alert the Lost Boys that Neverland has been compromised. I’ve about convinced myself to do it when Peter grabs the other man by the neck, and in a feat I can’t quite make sense of, shoots both men into the air.
Peter’s dark wings flap around him, but the storm has intensified, and the pelting rain seems to be weighing them down. I watch as his wings fight with the howling wind to keep him upright, but even while being held by the throat, the man’s thrashing keeps Peter from being able to maintain control.
I can sense the panic rolling off of Peter, though I can’t explain how—perhaps I’m simply attributing my own state to him. Peter pivots, tightening his wings at his back as he attempts to bring the fight toward the shore. I watch as Peter attempts to drop the man upon the sharp rocks, but the man wrestles for a grip around Peter’s neck and manages to hold on.
I know what Peter’s going to do before he does it.
My heart plummets, ripping a hole in my stomach.
Peter feints, then dives headlong for the patch of jagged rocks below them.
I don’t let myself watch as Peter drives both him and the stranger directly into what might as well be spears sticking up from the ground. There’s a horrible absence of sound, of their bodies landing against the terrain as the storm drowns out all evidence of the fight.
My bare feet pound against the stiff sand as I sprint for them.
By the time I’m able to make out the features of the man, I’m out of breath. Peter is splayed out above the rocks, face-down with his wings sprawling out behind him. I think I glimpse where the tip of a sharp boulder is protruding through his leathery wing.
I want to retch.
But I don’t have time for that.
Not when the man, who landed several paces away from Peter, is stumbling toward Peter’s limp body, a dagger flashing in his hand.
I don’t have time to think. I just run, urging my body to go faster. I scream, hoping to distract the man from his intentions just long enough for Peter to whirl on him, but my voice is lost to the current.
As I reach the rocks, jagged pebbles splinter into my bare heels, but I hardly feel them. I hardly feel anything except for the urge to push faster. The knowledge that if I don’t reach them in time, that shining dagger will make its way into Peter’s heart.
His heart of flesh. And then Peter will die. Will succumb to the fate he feared so much as a child.
I didn’t think to ask him if he still feared death like he did then.
I might not get the chance.
Thankfully, the man was injured in the fall. He’s stumbling toward Peter, holding a bleeding and crooked leg with one arm. I’m almost in awe of the determination in his movement, when his pain must be intense enough to make most men pass out.
Then again, I don’t much feel the cuts on my feet either.
I suppose that happens when you’re running toward something you crave with all your being.
There’s a moment of hesitation when I don’t know that I can do it. There’s only one path to saving Peter, and I have never been the brave sort. Never been the type who thought I could ever take a life, even in the service of saving another.
Feet slogging into the wet sand, I close the distance between myself and Peter’s assailant, moments from reaching him.
The man readies the dagger over Peter’s back, aiming for his chest.
It’s the minute hand in my lost pocket watch clinking in alignment with the hour hand at the stroke of midnight come early. It’s an explosion of blinding light.
It’s everything I’ve ever desired with a blade to his heart.
I don’t get there in time to throw myself between the blade and Peter.
But I don’t have to.
I unsheathe my dagger—the one Peter gifted me to protect myself. And I plunge mine first.
The storm drowns out the sound, but I don’t need it to feel the breaking of flesh against my blade when it makes contact with the man’s back. The man freezes for a moment in surprise, and I realize I didn’t put enough force into the motion. Not with a band of ribs protecting the man’s heart like armor. I want nothing more than to place my fist into my mouth and scream in agony, but I need both hands for what I have to do.
I thrust again, this time throwing all my weight into it.
In faerie tales, when a person stabs another in the heart, it’s a swift motion. A clean cut that’s over with in the span of a few words.
Killing this man is not like that.
I’m not strong enough to stab him thoroughly enough on the second blow, so I have to grit my teeth and strain. I feel everything, and it’s agonizingly slow. The crunching of ribs, the splicing of flesh reverberating through my blade. There’s a dreadful squishing sensation as the tip of my blade finally, finally, punctures his heart, but even that bit of muscle puts up more resistance than I’m expecting.
He falls forward.
The man is screaming. Screeching.
That, the storm allows me to hear.
In the end,he doesn’t die swiftly, and I’m too much of a coward to slice his throat and grant him that.
I tell myself that’s not what I should be doing anyway. That I should be getting information out of the man I’ve now rolled onto his back as he moans and screams, the obsidian sand around him no darker as it licks up the blood from his wound.
“Who are you?” I ask, because that makes me feel better about not granting the man mercy. Not when I can’t bear the idea of my blade slicing against flesh yet again.
“Who are you?” I demand, but the man’s eyes are rolling back in his head, his pointed ears immune to my voice.
Finally. Finally, the Fates are going to grant me mercy and let this man die.
His hand lurches, and my eye catches on something I hadn’t noticed before. Something on his wrist.
It’s a bracelet.
Alternating red and blue beads. The one Joel said they couldn’t find on Thomas’s body.
Panic surges over me now, and I feel as if I’m going to be sick.
I watch until the murderer who’s been haunting Neverland takes his last breath.
His lungs rattle when he does.