Chapter 50
In the end, we bury Nettle in a grave that’s deep enough for the worms not to get him.
Or, at least deep enough so that we don’t have to acknowledge them.
Tears stream down Simon’s face as he does it, and I can’t help but stare at him. As I watch him take clods of dirt and earth and cover the boy he murdered, the boy who turned him into a murderer, I marvel at how Simon has changed so much in such a short time.
When I first arrived, Simon was all smiles and laughter. Would do anything to cheer me up when I thought my worst nightmare had come true by being brought to Neverland.
Now there’s none of that person left. Only agony and grief, and a potent self-loathing I can almost smell.
Except…that’s not right. This is the same Simon I met my first day here. That Simon had already strangled his friend. The boy who had nudged me and flirted with me and teased me had already gotten a taste for murder, already wrestled with his craving for taking lives.
I wonder then how often the people whose smiles wash away our pain are only masking their own, overexerting themselves to make sure everyone else is okay, when inside, they’re withering away while no one else notices, too caught up in their own problems.
“I’m sorry, Simon,” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder as Peter watches over John and Michael.
“For what.” Not a question as much as a resignation.
“For not seeing. For not noticing.”
Simon doesn’t look at me. He just pauses for a moment, as if he too has a blade lodged in his ribcage. “Don’t worry about it, Winds,” he says.
Then he goes back to digging.
My heart aches for my friend, anxiety welling in my stomach. I’m still not sure what Peter will do with him now that we know he was complicit in the murders. Part of me wishes to keep that to myself, but hiding the truth seems like the worst thing possible for Simon right now.
Seems like it’s been the worst thing for all of us.
When the grave is done, I meander back to Peter’s side. He’s leaning over John, whom we’ve spread across the grass.
“He hasn’t quite woken up yet,” says Peter. “He was dosed pretty heavily with somnium oil. Might be a few days before he comes to.”
Anxiety stirs in my chest. “But he will wake up, won’t he?”
Peter turns to me and nods. “He’ll wake up. I’ll make sure of it.”
Anxiety still prickles at my insides, but there’s something about Peter’s words that makes them seem even more trustworthy than they did before. Despite not telling me that Neverland was a prison, I know he only kept it to himself to protect the boys. To keep any of them from turning out like Nettle.
“What happened tonight, Wendy?” Peter asks, landing his sparkling blue eyes on me.
I glance up at Michael.
“Do you think he’d understand if he overheard?” Peter asks.
“I’m never sure what he understands,” I say. “Sometimes I think it’s quite a bit more than we give him credit for.”
Peter nods, then reaches into his satchel. At first I think he’s going for faerie dust, and my heart gives a little lurch. But then he pulls out a set of earmuffs and puts them on Michael’s head. At first I think Michael will shake them off, but his face goes slack with peace as the muffs block out the wind. He actually lies on his back, still for a while, staring up at the stars.
“He never does that,” I say. “Stays still like that.”
“Maybe he’s chasing something the rest of us can’t hear,” says Peter, softly. His words tug on the knots in my belly. There’s no way Peter just happened to have earmuffs on hand.
“You made them especially for him?” I say.
Peter scratches his head. “I might have borrowed them from a wealthy family from another realm. I assure you they had plenty to spare.”
We sit in silence for a while as Simon continues digging Nettle’s grave.
“You’re not going to ask me why I poisoned you?” I ask.
“I’m considering whether I want to know.”
I bite my lip. “You mean you already know, and you’d rather me not confirm it.”
Peter sighs, running his hand through his hair.
So I tell him. I tell him of the horrors I found in his journal. Of the assumptions I’d made about him murdering the boys. How those assumptions had been confirmed by Peter’s conversation with the Sister. I tell him of Nettle’s aversion to the onions, of how the shadows whispered to him, of his plot to kill Thomas and make Simon believe it was his fault. When I get to the part about Freckles’s death, I pause.
“Which one of them did it?” Peter asks.
I bite my lip. “They never said. But I have my suspicions.” I consider the pieces of the puzzle that never quite fit—the carving of the fox into Freckles’s cheek, the singeing of his hair. The way someone removed Joel’s pinkie.
Clearly, someone was trying, not only to tell us the murders were connected, but to warn us of the next victim. Freckles’s hair was singed, the scent reminiscent of Joel’s from how he used to coax rats into the fire. And Joel’s pinkie—that was clearly meant to indicate John as the next victim.
Like one of the killers wanted to be caught.
It would explain why there was nothing on Thomas’s body predicting Freckles’s death if Simon didn’t know about Nettle’s schemes until after Thomas’s corpse was discovered. But did he participate in the murders, or did he leave his clues on the victims’ bodies afterward?
We both stare at Simon for a while, contemplating.
“What are you going to do to him?” I ask, softly, walking my fingers through the grass and interlacing them with Peter’s. It’s a plea, really. One on Simon’s behalf.
Peter doesn’t answer me. He just stares straight ahead, a blankness on his face.
“Peter.” It’s not as much of a question as it is a plea.
“None of this would have happened if I hadn’t insisted the Sister let us bring Thomas with us,” he says. “Originally, she offered to let me take the other boys, but she wanted Thomas for herself. Said he was destined to cause bloodshed, no matter where he ended up.”
I squeeze Peter’s hand. “She was wrong. You see that, right?”
Peter turns and looks at me, face blank. “All I see is a pool of blood. An abundance of death, following these boys wherever they go.”
I shake my head. “But none of it by Thomas’s hands. You gave that back to Thomas. His innocence. You took him out of that wretched place, and he became something different. You set him free.”
“And now he’s dead. And so are Freckles and Joel and Nettle. And Simon—”
“You don’t have to hurt him, Peter,” I say. “He was manipulated. Nettle tricked him into believing he was a murderer, until he was. I know you meant well, but it’s not good for them—not remembering. You only wanted to shield them from pain, but they still feel it, every last one of them. I’ve seen the shadows beneath their eyes, the way some of them cry without knowing why. Their past is affecting them, whether they remember it or not. The Lost Boys need the truth, difficult as it is to bear.”
Peter turns to me. “And the truth about Simon? That he killed some of them? How do you think they’re going to handle that? You didn’t see them, Wendy. You didn’t see the murder in their eyes back at the orphanage. You think you see the shadows now, but the hate that festered in their souls… If you want to tell them the truth, it won’t protect Simon.”
“So what are you going to do, then?” I ask.
Peter doesn’t answer.
“What are you going to do with him?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Panic whirls in me. “I know you’re supposed to dispose of them. I know…” I sigh, slipping my hand into my pocket and removing the journal. I’ve already told him that I read it, but there’s something about showing it to him that feels even more invasive. Peter stares down at it, and where I expect to see anger, I find nothing.
“How much of it did you read?”
“Enough to know that the Sister will expect you to kill Simon for what he did. Enough to know that’s why she gifted you with your shadow magic. So you could do what needs to be done.”
Peter glances down at the ground and fiddles with a blade of grass.
“You don’t have to obey her, you know,” I say.
“She’s my master. You know that as well as anyone. You’ve seen what she can do to me. How she can make me kneel.”
“But you defied her already.”
His brow raises. “Did I?”
“You didn’t kill Thomas.”
Peter sighs. “Thomas wasn’t showing signs of murder when he died. He died because of what Nettle remembered from his past. I wasn’t required to end Thomas.”
I bite my lip. “Joel—surely you knew what he was capable of. You’d seen him torturing the animals. You didn’t kill him, though.”
“Didn’t have to. Nettle did that for me.”
“Exactly. Nettle, not Simon.”
Peter cocks his head to the side. “Wendy.”
“But there’s got to be something you can do. You even went as far as making the Sister believe you killed them.” I fidget my toes in the earth, thinking. “Because you were afraid if she knew one of the Lost Boys was on a killing spree, she’d kill all of them. You’ve already defied her and won. Can’t you see that? Didn’t you say that she can’t see everything in those tapestries of hers?”
Peter’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll try to think of something.”
“Promise?” I ask.
He squeezes my hand. “I promise I’ll try.”
I nod, holding onto that promise with all my heart. “Why didn’t you tell me this was a prison?”
“Because I didn’t want you to be afraid of them. I didn’t want you to see them any other way than how I see them.”
I frown, brushing the hair from Peter’s face. “And what if the way you choose to see things is flawed? What if refusing to acknowledge the flaws of others hurts them worse in the end?”
Peter actually smiles at that. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I have you to help me see.”
“Your secrets don’t protect us…” I say, tears stinging at my eyes. “You were dosing the onions with faerie dust, weren’t you? To keep the boys from seeing the shadows?”
Peter blinks. “Yes. Well, no. Not exactly. But I mixed faerie dust into the soil.”
“Why not do that with all the vegetables?”
Peter grimaces. “Onions are best for obscuring the taste.”
“You said I was a shadow-soother, but that’s not all that special, is it? Otherwise you wouldn’t have worried about dosing the Lost Boys.”
“The Lost Boys are…well, let’s just say the fact that they can shadow-soothe and also be accepted by the reaping tree…it’s not a coincidence.”
My chest goes numb. “Because there’s something missing in us.”
Peter avoids addressing that inference. Instead he says, “I still can’t quite understand why the shadows’ affinity for you is so strong. Few fae can communicate with them. With humans, it’s almost unheard of. Like I said, you likely have fae blood in your heritage, but that shouldn’t be enough.”
“Or explain why the onions didn’t work on me.”
Peter shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t. For some reason, you needed something stronger.”
“Do you think John and Michael are shadow-soothers?”
Peter stares at the ground in front of him. “I don’t know.”
I bite my lip. I don’t think I’m ready to consider what this might mean for my brothers anyway. So I change the subject. “How did you know where to find us tonight?”
He cranes his chin down, giving me a knowing look. “After you poisoned me, it wasn’t too far of a stretch to assume you’d be trying to escape. That you’d need faerie dust to do it, more than you already had, assuming you’d try to take all the boys with you. Once the poison worked its way through my system, I came straight here.”
I frown, wondering why Peter’s body was able to flush the poison so much faster than Captain Astor’s. Perhaps it has to do with his shadow magic. “So you came to steal us back?”
“I came to beg you to stay.”
His dark lashes falter a bit as his eyes droop, taking in my face, scanning my Mating Mark. “I can’t do this without you, Wendy. Tonight made that plenty evident. I can’t see what you see. Feel what you feel. There’s something in me that’s missing, and it leaves these boys vulnerable.”
I hesitate. “Your shadow form?”
Peter blanches. “It amplifies the worst parts of me, yes.”
“So you could kill the boys if it came down to that.”
Peter’s gaze goes glassy, and he stares off into the distance. We’re going to have to discuss this at some point. As much as I care for Peter, the way he acted toward me in the tunnels chills my bones. Knowing that darkness dwells inside him…it doesn’t change the way I feel about him, but I’d be a fool not to be wary.
Still, he’s lost one of his own tonight, and I’m too empty to confront him about it at the moment. Instead, I venture a different direction. “That’s why you came for me? Because you need my help?”
“I came because I need you. You asked me before why I didn’t tell you about the Mating Mark.” He runs his hand through my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “Remember what it was like the first time you flew in my arms? That terror, that exhilaration that seeps down your legs, making them so weak you feel as if they’ll no longer function once you’re back on the ground? I could get drunk on that feeling, Wendy Darling. But I’m not like you. I don’t like to fall. Ever since your hand brushed mine in that clock tower, I’ve known you were going to be the highest high I’d ever reach. That once I got a taste of you…” He trails off, peering down the cliffs into the raging sea below. “Well. We always have to come back down eventually, don’t we? I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to acknowledge it myself. Didn’t want anyone else to have that kind of power over me. But I can’t ignore it anymore. I’m afraid I don’t possess that sort of self-control.”
His gaze dips, lingering on my mouth. “Legend has it that when the Fates weave Mates,” Peter says, trailing his finger down the mark on my face, feeling its every ripple and fold, “they wind the two from the same thread, splitting it down the middle. That neither are whole until they find one another.”
“But they don’t always find each other,” I say. “I thought it was rare.”
Peter’s eyes glint with mischief. “That, Wendy Darling, is where your history books told you wrong. Mates always find one another.” My heart races underneath his touch as he cups my chin with his knuckle. “They can’t help themselves,” he whispers. “The draw is too intense. They belong to each other the same way a heart belongs to the ribcage, a root belongs to the tree. One cannot function without the other.”
“If we can’t help ourselves, you’d think you wouldn’t have been able to keep it in that we’re Mates,” I say, that single doubt robbing me from the thrill of sinking into the moment with him.
“I already told you; I didn’t want to frighten you.”
My heart is hammering. “Why did you think that would frighten me?”
A mischievous smile curves on Peter’s lips. “Because, Wendy Darling, you don’t think it would have terrified you to know that you belong to me?”
“And if I still want to leave?” I ask. “If I don’t want to keep my brothers somewhere they’ll always be in danger?”
Peter lets out a breath. “Then I guess I’ll just have to pretend the part of my soul you take with you never existed.”
I swallow. “But you’d let me go.”
“Only if you wanted me to.”
I trace my memories back to Victor’s father, the man whose name I don’t even know, can’t even honor. “I killed an innocent man because of this.” Absentmindedly, I trace my fingers over my Mating Mark. “Because of us.”
Peter lets out a slow breath. “Thomas and Victor’s father was imprisoned—debtor’s prison, if you can believe it. Sentenced to ten years after he couldn’t repay the debt he’d taken out to keep his family fed. When the doctors came to take Thomas and Victor away, he was the only one to protest, but he had no rights to them considering his sentence.” Guilt pierces my gut, then snaps the hilt, leaving the blade in my flesh for good measure. This poor man’s family had been ripped away from him, and I’d sentenced him to death without trial for trying to reunite them.
Peter continues, “Thomas used to send his father drawings. I think he was the only person in the world other than Victor that Thomas truly forgave.”
“Before Neverland,” I say. “Before he forgot.”
Peter nods. “I didn’t realize who he was until I saw Thomas’s old drawing in your hand. Even then, I couldn’t see what good it would do to tell you. Seemed the type of thing best left to ignorance.”
Tears well up in my eyes, a question lingering there. How can I stay with Peter, knowing what my love for him does to me? What it does to others. But then my mind calls back to the night at the clock tower. “You said yourself in the clock tower I’ve always belonged to you. I think I’ve always known that.”
And how can I be afraid of something that’s always been true, something I’ve carried around with me in the pockets of my soul, knitted up inside me? We humans, we only fear the unknown. It’s not in us to fear the present.
“The only thing I ever truly feared was not finding the broken piece of my soul,” I say, blinking the tears away. “I don’t ever want you to let me go.”
In answer, he presses a claiming kiss to my lips. “Then I won’t. I want you, Wendy Darling. More than I want to take my next breath.”
His words send a shudder of delight through my bones, bringing tears to my eyes.
“If you’ll stay with them for a while, I need to tend to Simon,” says Peter softly as he pulls away.
“What are you going to do to him?” I ask, regretting the question as soon as I ask it.
Peter takes my cheek into his palm and presses a kiss on my forehead. “I’m going to fight for him.”