Chapter 37
Iintend to tell Peter about capturing the captain as soon as he returns from whatever mission the Sister has him conducting in the other realms.
A week goes by before he gets back, and after several trips to the cave to force-feed Captain Astor more rushweed, as well as offer him actual food I sneak from the kitchens, I decide I won’t tell Peter.
I saw what Peter did to the nightstalker that dared to hunt me on the cliffs that one night. I can’t imagine what he’d do to the man who killed my parents. Though part of me welcomes such violence, I’m not ready for the captain to die. Yet.
I want answers. The fact that Peter puts more value in protecting the Lost Boys than restoring their memories has me inclined to believe he won’t hesitate to usher the captain and his secrets to the grave. And later, when I weep over never uncovering the truth behind my parents’ deaths, he’ll tell me I’m probably happier not knowing.
I am not happier not knowing.
When I first arrived on the island, I managed well enough by pushing queries about my parents aside. It seemed the reasonable thing to do, aware that, cut off from our home realm, there was no chance of discovering why the captain held such a grudge against them. Why whatever they did caused him to hate me.
I want to believe John’s theory, that my father simply sent the captain on a dangerous expedition that resulted in his wife’s death. It’s not a flattering theory, but it’s the kindest we can come up with. It could very well be that my father was misinformed by an expert in sailing conditions. My father never sailed in these expeditions himself, after all, only funded them. Maybe forcing the boat out under poor conditions was a misguided mistake rather than a greedy attempt to stuff his coffers at the risk of the crew’s life.
Still, I need to know this is the case.
Something tells me it is. But perhaps that’s just my heart wanting it to be so.
Funny how gut feelings have a tendency to tell us the kinds of things we want to hear. Some people’s do, at least. They talk to them like they’re oily merchants trying to sidle up and earn their favor with flattery.
My gut feelings are generally not so complimentary.
They prefer the blunt approach. The panicked what-ifs of the worst-case scenario. The scenario where the captain took revenge on my parents because of a cruelty for which they truly deserved their fates. A cruelty that has something to do with me.
My stomach turns over with anxiety when I think of it. It consumes my every thought, stealing me away. At breakfast this morning, Simon had to poke me in the shoulder to get my attention after calling my name several times.
John is getting suspicious that something is off. If I don’t want Peter knowing about the captain, I want John knowing about him even less. Peter would kill the captain to protect the Lost Boys and would walk away from the murder, soul and conscience unscathed, believing he was only fulfilling his duty.
John would not be so lucky. The scent of blood would wake him in the middle of the night, the sound of the captain gurgling on his own lifeblood. Hatred and revenge might be rotting John’s bones, but at least his soul isn’t yet broken.
Then there’s the problem of my cravings.
They’re worse at night, exacerbated by the lack of sleep I’m getting. Though, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t fixated on the storehouse all hours of the day. I worry that the shadows—the Wraiths—will return before Peter does and that this time I’ll have no armor against them.
There’s only one activity that provides me any relief.
I can only visit the captain at night when I’m sure everyone else is asleep. This proves to be problematic, but I make it work.
He’s yet to answer questions about my parents. He’s yet to answer any questions, really, but I still feel as though we’re making progress. Each time he scalds me with his words, the pain sears my heart a little less. I become a tad more numb to the insults, the slights on my character.
I have a feeling that by the time this is over, I won’t hurt at all.
I’m collectingrushweed along the beach near the cliffs when a dark figure forms in the sky. As he approaches, limbs and wings come to focus in my vision, along with a smile that knocks my breath from me.
“Hello, Wendy Darling.” Peter sweeps to the ground in front of me. He’s in his solid form, though he allows his shadows to nip at the waistband of my pants and curl around my shoulders, making me slip off my feet and into his arms.
“Hello, Peter,” I say. The grin that tugs at my lips comes without forethought, a smile I don’t have to practice like the ones I used to offer to my countless suitors.
“Where’s my favorite Darling running off to?” he asks, though I don’t think he intends for me to answer, given the way he pulls me into his kiss, pressing his lips to mine until I’m lost in the feel of him.
It’s a good thing, too, because I’m not keen on answering his question.
When Peter pulls away, he seems to have forgotten he asked anything. He wheels me forward by my hand, twirling me in circles.
“Where are we going?” I giggle, though I can’t help but glance toward the cave where I’ve trapped the captain. It’s not terribly far off, but I worry it’s within hearing distance for Peter, though the rush of the waves should keep sound from traveling.
Besides, surely the captain knows better than to alert Peter of his presence.
“On an adventure,” he says, swinging my arm in his. There’s a buzz about him, the flicker of a glow. Like he’s the center of a particle of faerie dust, making everything around him just a few shades brighter.
At first, I think he’ll take my hand and fly me heavenward, so I let out a gasped shock when he backs me into the cliffside, the jagged rocks jutting underneath my shoulder blades.
I don’t have time to protest before his mouth meets mine, desire threatening to whisk me away.
But as his hands roam my body and find the waistline of my trousers, the world shifts, and I’m sixteen. I’m no longer in Neverland, but in my parents’ smoking parlor, heady incense filling my nostrils as I try to sever my mind from my body. My pale pink fingernails dig into the velvet lining of my father’s favorite chair, while a man whose name I haven’t bothered to remember…
“Peter. Peter, stop,” I say, my breathing ragged as I pull myself from his hungry kiss and grasp at his wrists, now playing with the buttons on my pants.
He blinks, and it takes him a moment to seem like he hears me. When he raises a brow in confusion, a host of dreadful memories bash me over the back of the head, swirling my vision.
“What’s wrong, Wendy Darling?”
The words teeter on the tip of my tongue, but they refuse to go any further, muted by the warnings of my mother never to tell a soul. So I offer Peter a half-truth instead. “I promised myself I wouldn’t.”
He cranes his head to the side. “Ever?”
I let out a nervous laugh. “No. Of course not. Just not…” My cheeks heat, and I try to hide my embarrassment—unsuccessfully, I might add—by taking Peter’s hand and wiggling it. “Not until I see a ring on your finger.”
Peter’s pointed ears flick, and for a dreadful moment, he says nothing. I wait for him to laugh, to tell me I’m being silly. That marriage has no meaning in a realm tucked away from the rest, a world all our own.
I’m already preparing a defense that will keep me from having to tell him the truth, but when he removes his hand from mine, there’s a weight left behind, a metallic chill wrapping around a finger on my left hand.
My gaze drops, and so does my heart.
The ring is forged of silver, a dazzling emerald shimmering amid a halo of sparkling diamonds.
“Peter.”
I glance back up at him, at his beautiful face. His shining copper hair. His perfectly tanned skin. The ever-present twinkle in his eyes. He’s just smirking, that smug arrogance playing into his features perfectly.
“Is this one of your tricks?” I can’t help the way my voice falters, but Peter just shakes his head.
“I told you, Wendy Darling. You and I are going on an adventure. That is…” He extends a hand. “If you’re brave enough.”
A breathless smile tugs at my lips, and I pinch the band of the ring between my forefinger and thumb, rotating it over the skin where my finger meets my palm. It fits loosely, just a tad too big.
That’s what Peter was doing while he was away. Procuring a ring from one of the realms.
I forget to breathe.
Peter twists his head to the side, examining me with vague curiosity. “You don’t like it?”
“No,” I laugh. I laugh because it’s a ridiculous notion. Because it’s absurd to imagine any sane girl not cherishing the moment a beautiful boy gifted her a beautiful ring. “It’s just…”
He swivels me into his chest. “It’s just what?”
“It’s just…don’t you think it’s a bit…hasty?”
“Says who?” he asks, his eyes gleaming.
“Says…well, says anyone with an ounce of sense, probably.”
“If you’re looking for the sensible sort, I’m afraid you’re with the wrong man.”
I bite back my smile.
“Wendy,” he says, taking my hand. “I just got back from a harrowing journey to the other realms. Where men and women are slaves to time, constantly chasing ambition until the clock ticks down, the sand runs out. They watch what they love slip between their fingertips because they wait too long. They strive and work by the sweat of their brow, then their heart gives out on them before they can enjoy the pension they’ve set up for themselves. I don’t want that for us. You and I? We don’t have to heed time. What we do today, tomorrow, it doesn’t make a difference. We’re on whatever schedule we desire here. Just you and me. We make the rules.”
“I have to admit, I like the sound of that.”
“I thought you might. But you still look disappointed. Why?”
I gaze up at him, openmouthed as I grasp for the words. It’s a silly notion, but it’s tugging on my heart, causing the slightest ache of disappointment. “It’s just that I always imagined that the man asking for my hand would be kneeling.”
“You want me to kneel?” Peter’s scoff is tinged with playfulness. “Why?”
“Because. It’s just what’s done,” I laugh, my nerves coming through. “It’s how I always imagined it would happen.”
Peter bites the inside of his cheek as he grins. “Were you imagining me proposing to you, or was it all those suitors of yours?”
“It was usually a faceless man proposing to me,” I admit with a chuckle.
Peter knits his brow playfully. “I do fit that description on occasion.”
“I suppose.” My fingers interlock with his, swinging his hands back and forth. “But it’s what I’ve always dreamed.”
“My, my, you are traditional-minded, aren’t you?”
My face flushes. Peter’s such a free spirit; I don’t want him to see me like he did before. I don’t want to go back to being the girl who teetered on the edge, clinging to the surface without ever letting myself jump.
Peter must note my embarrassment, because he slides his thumb over my finger, slipping his hand over the metal, then pocketing the ring. My stomach plummets as I lose sight of it, but then he pulls me close and brushes a kiss on my forehead. The salty breeze picks up, meaning his kiss is the only warmth around. “What if I have a better idea?”
Before I can answer, he shoots us into the air, the black sand beach a streak of charcoal against a blue and green canvas below us.
Thousands of feet above Neverland, he asks again. “Wendy Darling, will you marry me?”
“Of course,” I say, as I lose myself in his kiss. The rush of his lips on mine is so intoxicating, I almost can’t feel the ring he slides back onto my finger.