Stalking Wendy Darling

Chapter 1

Chapter One

WENDY

THE SILVER ISLE

“ T here’s something incredibly wrong with you,” Tajo said with a wrinkle in his nose as he watched me hack up the torso of a cow.

“This is a butcher’s shop,” I pointed out, pausing humming my jaunty little tune to talk to him, the cleaver dripping blood as I gestured at him. “I’m butchering.”

“With a little too much delight for my liking,” he muttered, but went back to slicing meat for the counter in the shop at the front.

I’d been working here for three months now and I was loving it. Not only was it fun to hack up meat, it helped me manage my violent tendencies, something Mama Darling said was going to get me killed one day. Not that the anger would burn me up and I’d spontaneously combust in an explosion to rival the fireworks of cannon fire, more like I’d pick a fight with the wrong person. It almost happened last week. 1

“You’re just jealous that I can find true enlightenment in a cow carcass,” I teased Tajo, smirking at his broad back as the dark-skinned man shook his head and ignored me.

I went back to hacking up ribs, a glow of pride in my chest at the clean cuts. Damn, I was good at this. Maybe I could get promoted to… to chief beef hacker.

“Jealous without a doubt,” the man drawled, tutting as he glanced out the shop window. “Look at that. Fool kids running around like they’re invincible.”

I went back to humming, lining up the ribs I’d butchered in a neat little row. Tajo liked to talk; he didn’t need my help to carry a conversation.

“There’s a whole pack of them out there, laughing and joking as if black sails weren’t sighted off the coast of Gold Haven this morning. I’d put three silver on them going right to the docks to catch a glimpse of the ship. As if they wouldn’t be slaughtered by the crew.”

“They’re kids,” I pointed out. “Kids are fascinated by danger.”

“They’ll be fascinated all the way to a watery grave.”

I shook my head and brought the cleaver down again, enjoying the loud thump of it on the counter. Everyone who grew up in the islands knew the rule: never, ever, whatever you do, draw the attention of Hook’s crew. Most sane people kept their heads down to avoid eye contact, and if people spotted black sails on the horizon, they stayed indoors. It was smarter that way—the crew of Death’s Right Hand, better known as the Banshee, weren’t just philanderers; they were black-hearted thieves and cold-blooded killers. If a town pissed them off, it would be burned to scorch marks, razed to the ground. After they looted everything valuable, presumably. It would be pretty dumb to burn valuables.

I could admire their panache and style, and killing anyone who earned their wrath sounded pretty fun actually, but I was a girl’s girl through and through and I drew the line at their constant kidnapping of women. Every summer the Banshee made berth, and a woman was stolen, never to be seen again.

And sure, it must have gotten lonely on board that ship, and dick was probably not everyone’s flavour of choice, but had those bastards never heard of asking a woman? Kidnap was wrong. And honestly, embarrassing for them. Imagine being so foul that you couldn’t even get a woman in the most disreputable taverns on the islands. We had one here in the Silver Isle. It was called the Rotten Ewe, it stank of stale beer and sweat, the floors were always sticky, and it was a hotpot of drunks, coarse language, gambling, and loose morals. If those men on the Banshee couldn’t even get a leg over with Two Moons Theresa, I pitied them. 2

“Wendalyn,” Tajo said with a little huff that told me he’d be scowling and sulking soon. “Did you even hear me?”

“Huh?” I turned to face him, dismissing thoughts of pirates. “Sorry, I was thinking about boobs.”

He sighed. Heavily. “Your sister’s outside; she’s waving at you through the window.”

It was closing time already? Aw, I didn’t even get to finish hacking up my cow. “You’re not even going to say my distraction by boobs is relatable?” I asked Tajo, my arms folded across my chest.

“Your workday is over, please leave,” he said instead.

I rolled my eyes and waved at Joanna who hovered outside the butcher shop window in an attractive confection of silk and ribbons. I’d probably wear a dozen different ribbons if I worked in a ribbon factory, too. People might look at me strangely if I wore the things I made as a fashion statement. Ribbons and pork chops were not one and the same.

When my sister looked at me through the glass, a smile creasing her eyes—a rich caramel, completely at odds with my storm-blue, much like the rest of her, warm and brown and soft was at odds with me, cool gold and angular—I fluttered my fingers at her. She wrinkled her nose at the blood, but she must have got the message because she leaned her back against the window as I washed my hands, scrubbing a brush under my nails until they gleamed.

“Be careful,” Tajo warned when I threw on my coat, smoothing my hands down the row of gold buttons. I won them in a game of cards last month and they were a source of pride for me. Growing up in Mama Darling’s Children’s Home meant finery was few and far between, but siblings were everywhere I looked. Joanna was my favourite—sweet and doll-faced and beautiful, but with a wicked sense of humour no one would suspect behind those big, brown eyes.

“I’m always careful,” I assured my boss and ignored his scoff. “You be careful, too. Don’t get eaten by the meat grinder.”

The look he gave me was flat and exasperated. Smiling, I headed into the shop, a little bounce in my step as I looked out the window—and everything inside me ground to a halt.

Joanna wasn’t leaning against the shop anymore. She was being dragged down the cobbled street, fighting like hell as a behemoth of a man attempted to throw her over his shoulder at the same time she kneed him in the balls. A spark of pride formed in my chest at how viciously she fought, but it was drowned out by a sudden surge of rage.

No one hurt my sister. No one.

I hurled myself across the checkerboard tiles of the shop floor and wrenched the door open. The bell above it let out a pleasant little chime.

“Not the vibe, bell,” I snapped, not bothering to close the door behind myself. “Not the damn vibe.”

The air of the Silver Isle always smelled the same—like sweaty bodies, the fresh tang of a storm, and a crate of fish left in the sun all day. Unpleasant but familiar. Home. I gulped it down as I launched into a pursuit.

Cobbles were a hell of a bitch to run on, and the behemoth already had a head start. By the time I burst onto the street, he’d disappeared down one of the smaller alleyways that led to the docks. The bastard was taking Joanna, stealing her like Hook’s crew had stolen so many innocent women. I hoped she kicked him hard enough that he’d never sire a child in his life.

No, I hoped she kicked him hard enough that his balls went inside his body.

Shit, focus, Wendy.

I swore as I collided with Ma Peggy, knocking a bundle of bread loaves from her arms even if nothing ever managed to dislodge the children clinging to her ankles.

“Sorry,” I yelled over my shoulder, pushing my body as fast as it could go. “Gotta thwart a kidnapping, you know how it is.”

Where the fuck did they go? I scanned every alleyway I passed, searching for a glimpse of rage in purple silk ribbons, but all I found were crates piled to the rooftops, salt-stained cobbles, and an abandoned boat with a hole in the hull.

“Fuck!”

“Language,” a stooped old man with a cloud of white hair barked at me as I took an alley at random and exploded onto the broad street that ran the length of the docks.

“We live in a port town,” I huffed, racing past the man. “Our first words are fuck and shit and— there you are, you giant bastard.”

Down the street, weaving around crab boxes, mouldering nets piled on the side of the road, and fishermen trudging from boats to the row of storehouses that lined the docks, the behemoth carried my sister, unmoved by her kicking and screaming. His destination was undeniable: at the end of the docks a ship five times bigger than any other hulked over the leaning buildings and unimpressive vessels of the Silver Isle.

Its sails were in the process of unfurling, as black as the dead of night, marked by no symbol or sigil. Its wood gleamed deep mahogany, clearly well loved, and the rigging looked newer than most ships in the bays around it. It was annoyingly beautiful for a ship whose crew was kidnapping my sister.

Death’s Right Hand was its name, but almost everyone called it the Banshee because the screams it caused heralded death. For the same reason, other islands called it the Harbinger.

Hardened sailors continued their work, but as I raced toward the Banshee most people ducked their heads and quick-walked down the street, decidedly away from the ship. Probably because they had a dash of common sense, where I lacked it the second someone decided to hurt my family.

“Get back here, you weak-chinned giant fucker!” I yelled, but the bastard didn’t turn even to clarify if he was giant and also a fucker or someone in the habit of fucking giants.

I pushed myself faster, a gasp ripped from me when my feet slipped on the slick cobbles. Rage seethed behind my ribs, coalescing in my heart until it burned like a hot coal, devouring my panic at falling. I hit the ground on my ass, because of course I did. But it took me seconds to get my feet under me and propel myself back into a sprint.

“Joanna!” I screamed. “Kick him, bite him, keep fighting!”

Like she heard me even though the distance between us grew bigger and bigger, she renewed her struggles, driving a boot into his gut. I was gratified to hear him let out a deep curse.

“Mad girl,” a skinny man ferrying boxes of iced fish from his small boat said, shaking his head as I raced past him, the dark shadow cast by the Banshee growing bigger the closer I got. “No one can be saved from the black sails.”

“I do not need your defeatist attitude right now,” I panted, my teeth bared as I ran full-out, a chill of goosebumps going down my arms as the behemoth reached the ship and walked with expert balance up the precarious gangway. Joanna wriggled over his shoulder, throwing fists and kicks at him, to no effect.

My heart squeezed. I was losing her. The slip had cost me the seconds I needed to catch up with them. I’d been raised on this island, surrounded by salt, sea, and sails; I knew exactly what a ship preparing to sail looked like, and the Banshee displayed every intention of leaving.

I ran faster, breathing hard, my chest a pinched knot like a crab had its nasty little pincers around me. 3

“Joanna!” I screamed, catching myself against a pile of junk and pushing off hard, as if the extra momentum would carry me to my sister, as if she hadn’t already been hauled aboard the huge ship.

I reached the gangway just as a black-bearded man grabbed the top of it, hauling the plank of wood aboard. With a scream of rage, I stumbled back to the cobbles, so furious I was shaking. I scanned the ship, searching for a ladder, a rung, another way aboard, but fire and light streaked towards me on the heels of a crack, and I jumped aside a split second before the bullet would have blast a hole in my shoulder.

“Saggy assholes!” I screamed, panting for breath, my ears ringing from how damn loud the shot was. For a split second, the heavy fog of gunpowder overpowered the rotting fish stink of the harbour.

I sheltered behind a barrel almost as big as me, my eyes narrowed on the beautiful mahogany curves of the Banshee, calculating how fast I’d have to run.

“Okay, Wendy, on three. One. Two—”

I exploded out from behind the barrel before I could reach three, because I was a surprise even to myself and being predictable was tedious.

I ran in a zigzag, my eyes on the deck, fixing on the tall, lithe bastard leaning casually against the railing in a brown, sea-stained coat and a jaunty hat. It had a blood-red feather in it that I instantly coveted.

“When I murder you, I’m taking the hat,” I yelled, jumping aside when he lined up a shot. The scent of explosives thickened in the air, a cloud of grey and silver obscuring his face for a moment, but I knew without a doubt this was the captain. The fearsome Kingston Hook, whose reputation blackened and bloodied the shores of every island in the Chain of Saints. He didn’t look nasty enough to have done half the things his reputation claimed. Where was the sneer, the haggard beard and crazy eyes? Even I had crazy eyes.

I ground my teeth, shielding behind a collection of lobster pots that would do little to prevent me being ripped apart if he shot again. Some fearsome captain he was. If he hadn’t been armed, I would have scaled the ladder I now spotted curving over the belly of the Banshee, climbed aboard, and thrown him quite nicely into the sea.

Maybe I’d make myself captain. I did like that hat, after all…

“Motherfucker!” I screeched, diving down the slick dock when he aimed and fired without hesitation, making a splintered mess of the lobster cages. “Give me back my sister!”

I might have imagined his sinister laugh. My nostrils flared, my anger incensed to a heat akin to the fires of Hell. I was going to burn this bastard until he screamed, rip an apology out of him for kidnapping my sister, along with ripping out his toenails. I’d never tortured someone before, but how hard could it be?

When the lanky fucker in the brown coat and really nice hat turned away, I leapt to my feet and ran as hard as I could for the ladder, my breath coming fast and sharp, clawing its way from my lungs and up my throat.

“No!” I cried when the ship creaked and began to move, the winds favourable. “Why are you—so fucking—favourable,” I panted, pushing myself harder, my heavy coat a hindrance, making me sweat. I didn’t have time to remove it, only to keep running, my eyes glued to the ladder, my heart crashing into my ribs.

I could do it. I didn’t know what I’d do when I was aboard, or how I’d take on a whole crew, but I could do it. I stretched out my hand, a stitch piercing the muscle on my side; my nostrils flared as I ran through it, pain making my eyes sting. I could reach the ladder. I could—

A lance of fire tore through my shoulder and down my arm, and I dropped to the cobbles with a scream, cold soaking through my coat into my knees even as an inferno coursed through my shoulder. Tears streamed down my face, pain slow to join the fire but wrathful when it hit. I tilted my head up, staring at the Banshee through my tears, and saw the captain dip his pretty fucking hat.

I bared my teeth, a deep growling breath leaving me.

I tried to get to my feet, to get to that damned ladder, but the pain kept me on my knees, kept me crying, screaming, swearing. By the time I propped myself against a barrel, finally on my feet, Death’s Right Hand was out at sea. A strong swimmer might still catch up, but not one with a bullet in her shoulder.

“Are you mad, girl?” someone demanded, male and rough, unfamiliar. “You could have been killed. Even kids know to run when they see black sails. What are you doing running towards the damn ship?”

“They got my sister,” I said, suddenly burning hot, sweat dripping off my forehead. He fucking shot me. I’d never been shot before. “He took my sister.”

“She’s gone,” the man said in his rough voice but not unkindly. In my swimming vision, he had three heads, all salt-stained and weathered, each in a crimson wool hat. “I’m sorry, girl, but she’s gone.”

“Say that again,” I panted, gritting my teeth against the heat, the agony, the deadness in my shoulder. “I fucking dare you.”

“It’s the truth, no matter how hard,” he sighed. “Best to make peace with it. Come on, I’ll take you to Doc Francis. She can patch you up.”

“Make peace with it,” I breathed, ignoring the black spots crowding into my vision, keeping my eyes fixed over the fisherman’s shoulder on the Banshee as she grew smaller, further. “Make peace with my sister being taken.”

“Being dead,” the man corrected sadly.

I really do not need this negativity.

I dug around in my pocket and pulled out the knife I’d pilfered from Tajo’s stores, whipping it up and into the fisherman’s stomach.

“She is not,” I snarled into his wide-eyed face, “dead.”

I ripped the knife out and watched him stagger back in surprise. I should have felt bad. I didn’t feel anything except fire and pain. I didn’t need Doc Francis, I needed revenge. I needed to save Joanna before her ribbons became bloodied.

A sound like a dying horse came from me when I took a step, preventing my knee buckling from sheer force of will alone.

“Should have stopped talking,” I told the fisherman, putting one foot in front of the other, taking the pain into myself, allowing it to flow through me as I dragged myself off the dock and to Mama’s.

I would kill the behemoth who took Joanna. I would kill Hook. I didn’t care how long it took me, or how difficult it would be. I would kill them all.