Chapter 2
“Did you have an enjoyable night out?” The voice that sounded from the shadows was familiar, yet it sent a shiver down my spine.
Uncle Reuben. He was home early from whatever social gathering he’d engaged in. I ground my teeth, wishing it was Hook, a burglar, or even Meaty Hands from the alley. Someone I could sink my blade into.
Or at least someone who fought fair.
“Good evening, Uncle. I was feeling restless. Went for a little stroll.”
“Did you now?” He rose from the mattress. His every move set me on edge. With the lithe movement of a predator, he stepped over to the lantern next to John’s bed and lit it. The reflection of the light highlighted his square jaw and stone-hard eyes. “Open your cloak.”
He approached as I reluctantly did as he bid me.
“Now why would a young lady feel safe enough to go on an evening stroll unaccompanied, and yet need to bring every single one of her throwing knives?”
I lifted my chin. “That is why I felt safe. You know you taught me well.”
His gaze fell to the jeweled dagger at my waist. He reached and pulled it from its sheath. I lifted a hand, wanting to stop him, but caught myself, forcing it back to my side.
But not before Uncle noticed.
The blade glinted darkly as he examined it. “And what have I taught you about lying to me?” he asked.
I let out a fast breath. “Uncle, I—”
“This is quite the specimen.” He held up the dagger toward the light. “Where did you get it?”
The challenge in his steely gaze dared me to lie to him. I was caught. If I told him a lie, he’d know right away, and I’d be punished. If I told him the truth, I’d be dead. Uncle didn’t care for me. He simply didn’t want me to be a nuisance, which I had a tendency to be. But I understood how he worked.
Tarnish his good name, and he’d end me.
Better punished than dead. “I found it.”
“Where?”
“On the road near Kensington Gardens.”
He didn’t react, which made me more worried. Lying straight to his face while we both knew I was being untruthful was defiant even for me. I might as well have spat on him and stated outright that I wasn’t telling.
“I think I will keep this.” He slipped the dagger into his pocket and turned away.
“No, Uncle. Please—”
When he spun to look at me, the angry threat in his eyes made me recoil. “Get changed. We are going out to practice.”
I swung my blade and danced back as my cousin, Ezra, counterattacked. He was bigger and stronger, but I knew enough tricks to offset his natural advantage. Ezra, however, also knew my tricks. He pressed me, not allowing me the time to capitalize on his slower movements. Our swords clashed in a series of swift strokes.
Uncle, with his frosty glare observed from the sidelines, noting every poor execution, every mistake. He leaned on an unopened umbrella he’d requisitioned as a few flurries had struck the carriage on the ride out. “Whoever loses gets fifteen lashes.”
That sent me on high alert. Uncle was in the mood to hurt.
Ezra also became much more concentrated in his hits. But he wasn’t as good as me. My cousin enjoyed books and arguing about biology with his academically-minded friends. He hated fighting, and it showed. Some nights, when I felt particularly bad that he had a father like Uncle, I’d take the fall, and the lashes, for him.
Not tonight. Tonight, I had something to prove.
I lunged, taking advantage of an easy opening. Ezra was unable to parry. One more move and I’d have him.
Uncle stuck out his umbrella, smacking it against my shins. I gasped, hitting the ground hard. Ezra lunged to strike at my prone form, but I rolled, knocking his sword to the side and sweeping his legs from under him, laying him out on his back. I jumped onto him and pressed my blade to his throat.
“Y-yield,” he panted.
Anger coursed through my veins, and I turned to Uncle, ready to accuse him of cheating. The red mottled look on his face stopped me, as I realized too late that tonight of all nights I should have taken the defeat. Uncle wanted to punish me, and instead, I’d humiliated his son.
“Go work on your throwing,” he said through clenched teeth. He marched over to the weapon rack and pulled down the whip before pointing at Ezra. “Shirt off.”
I felt sick. Only when Uncle was in his worst moods would he strike us with our shirts off. I cast an apologetic glance toward Ez, guilt curling in my stomach. Uncle’s mood was my fault. But both of us knew better than to question his demands, so I picked up my throwing knives while Ezra took off his shirt.
I walked through the field, flinching every time I heard the whip snap across my cousin’s skin. The healed over marks on my own back stung with each hit. He took it silently. We always took it silently. If we didn’t, Uncle didn’t stop at five, or ten, or whatever number he doled out. He kept going till we learned to shut our damn mouths.
A lesson about life, he usually said. Complaining doesn’t do shit. So shut your mouth and take your dues.
The targets for the throwing knives were near the trees farthest from Uncle’s manor. We were at a small estate outside the city, about a two-hour ride by carriage from our home in London. When my parents had died a few months after John and Michael disappeared, Uncle Reuben had taken over my home, and taken charge of me as well. Now, except for when he took us to the countryside, we spent most of our time in London, where Uncle more easily maneuvered among the social circles of the semi-elite. Ezra and I were only along for the ride.
I pulled the first knife. The lanterns hanging off the surrounding trees gave the only light. Throwing at night made hitting the target more difficult, but if I could throw in the darkness, then reaching my mark in daylight would be all the easier. The blade struck wide of the bullseye, landing several rings out. A breath of frustration escaped. In my mind, Hook’s blue eyes mocked me.
I saw him in every target. Tonight, I was particularly infuriated, and not just because Ezra was getting whipped on my behalf. No fairy dust. No dagger. All these years of practice to take on the evil kidnapping son of a bitch, and still I wasn’t any closer to achieving my goals.
Fly to Neverland. Find my brothers. Take revenge on James Hook.
Drawing another knife, I aligned my throw more carefully before releasing. It hit only an inch outside the bullseye. I frowned. Close. But close wasn’t good enough to face off against the dread pirate captain of Neverland.
I adjusted my large boy’s coat and cap, shoving up the sleeves of my buttoned shirt that had rolled too far down before grabbing another knife. Uncle only let me practice at night, dressed like a boy, even though I swore there was nobody around to tell. But a girl learning how to fight was about the most improper thing imaginable.
After being a whore, that was.
My next throw hit the bullseye. I straightened, a small smile coming across my face. “You’re dead, Captain.”
The only way I’d convinced Uncle, the esteemed naval commander, to agree to train me was because I behaved better when he let me fight. Not even the threat of sending me away to finishing school had gotten me in line. It would only be another place where I’d embarrass Uncle and most likely get kicked out. He’d tried using the lash on me when I was younger to control me, but despite the horrid pain, I’d seen it through. It had become our deal. He’d teach me to fight, and in return, I’d put up with parties and prospective suitors—be the perfect, controlled lady in society.
That meant giving up my friends and those that he deemed unworthy of our elevated station, which in either a logical or sadistic sense included getting rid of Nana.
Even though I still lived in my childhood home, when Uncle came along, he’d uprooted my life just as thoroughly as if he had moved me across the country. I flipped the next knife in my hand. It was a worthy trade. I’d primp and preen and be whatever he wanted as long as he let me train.
A shadow loomed behind me. Needles pricked my skin.
Uncle was watching.
Releasing a slow breath, I focused on the target, pulled back on the blade, and released. Another bullseye.
“Throw the last two with your left hand.”
So I did. They landed wide of my mark. Disappointment gathered in my gut. I wasn’t as good at throwing with my non-dominant hand. When I turned to face Uncle, his large form towered behind me. A clicking sound made me freeze as he lifted a revolver, the end of the barrel an inch from my face.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. Uncle’s eyes glittered with blackness.
“Do you realize how easy it would be to stage your death?” he asked, his voice cold, emotionless. “Stupid, careless girl gets in the way, in a training accident. That’s all it would take, and everyone would believe me.”
I trembled. It would be too easy for him. He could do it right now, and who would care? Who would miss me?
The pistol didn’t waver. “This is your last practice. I’ve arranged for you to marry a war friend of mine who lives in St. Ives. Joe Rafferty is his name. I’ve spoken with him at length. He assures me he will keep you in line.”
My tongue had gone dry, and a sour taste rose into my mouth. Uncle’s gaze held mine. “What will you do?”
Nausea roiled in my stomach. “Uncle, I’m sorry. From now on—”
“It”s too late for that. I’ve given my word. Did you think this deal between us was going to last forever? It’s time you take your place in society. What will you do?”
The look on his face told me there was only one answer.
“I’ll accept.”
He lowered the gun, and I sucked in a breath of relief, my eyes burning. I pressed a hand to my chest as if that would stop its erratic beating.
“Good girl. We leave tomorrow following noon tea to travel to St. Ives. Come. We’ll return to London for your last night.”
I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or simply voice my objections, but the revolver at Uncle’s side kept me silent during the entire journey back to London. I wasn’t sure if Ezra saw Uncle pull his gun on me, but he was quiet, too. Perhaps he sensed the tension or was smarting over his beating and didn’t want to set off Uncle.
Perhaps he was irked at me for not taking the fall.
I didn’t care. Ezra didn’t hate me. But he’d never stand up for me, either. Another thing I’d learned in our close to seven years of living with Uncle Reuben’s cruel tendencies.
When we returned to my home, I raced up to my room and shut the door. The old nursery was both comforting and filled with painful memories. After my brothers were taken, my mother had sat in there day after day, staring out the window, wasting away.
Until the day she died.
My father had followed not long after.
Swallowing the pain in my throat, I stepped up to the toy soldiers that guarded the window. I touched the smudges of dirt on their smooth painted wood that my mother would never again clean.
My fingers drew into fists. I couldn’t leave London. It was the only place that had a black market where I had hope of finding fairy dust. Or had a chance of Peter returning to me. So many years of planning and training. This couldn’t be the end.
I looked around the room at the paintings on the walls—of stories I told as a child.
Of Neverland.
I reached into my shirt and pulled out the acorn button. For so long, I’d thought that Peter would come to get me to rescue my brothers. Or at least might have rescued them himself and brought them to me. At first, I’d waited by the window with my dying mother for that possibility. I still waited by the window for that possibility. But if I left to marry some Joe Rafferty, there’d be no hope.
What a pathetic, na?ve child. I yanked the chain off my head and hurled it across the room. What was I thinking? Peter wasn’t coming.
The carpet in the room was old, worn. I still made out traces of bloodstains on the rug from that night, when I’d walked across thousands of pieces of tiny glass. I grasped the small bottle of potion I had bought from the woman at the market off my bedside table, popped the lid and swallowed.
I curse James Hook with a rotten, torturous existence,I thought.
It tasted of watered down berry juice. As I suspected. Fake.
Dropping the vial, I moved to the window and pressed my forehead against it, my breath gathering on its panes, and sank to the floor.
The light winked on in the upstairs bedroom of the home across from mine, catching my attention. Through the sheer gauzy drapes, the outline of a woman stepped into the room, followed by a man. Mrs. Blackwell was a widow of several years, but after her husband died, instead of remarrying, she’d taken to having various late-night visitors.
He came up behind the woman, wrapping his arms around her. I watched as Mrs. Blackwell lifted her arms, grasping the man’s neck, and rolled her hips. The man’s shoulders fell, releasing tension as she moved against him again. Her knees bent and this time she moved up and down, shoving her backside along the length of his body. The man moved with her, his hips churning with small thrusts.
I expelled another breath and reached for the window, shoving it open. Winter cold blasted my face, but I didn’t care.
They shed each other’s clothes as if they were no more than tissue paper. When they were completely bare, he slid a hand under her chin and kissed her, moving her back onto the bed. Mrs. Blackwell went willingly.
The familiar changes in my body took hold as I watched them rock, thrusting together in an impassioned heat. My heart raced, and an ache built in my breasts, a steady pulsing beating between my thighs. For a moment, I imagined the man inside the curtains looking at me like he wanted me, moving against me like that.
The first time I’d watched Mrs. Blackwell through the window, I’d felt guilty as hell. Not to mention the strange feelings it elicited in me had sent me scurrying to my bed, determined never to look again. But inevitably, my curiosity had gotten the better of me and I’d returned. I tipped my head against the grate, accepting my urges for what they were, letting them run their course, leaving me gutted and hollow.
And so alone.
I didn”t watch every night, even though I half suspected that Mrs. Blackwell had put up the sheer curtains because she wanted to teach me the pleasures of being a woman. I was the only one with such a view. But tonight, I found myself considering an idea for the first time in my life. Maybe I”d run away, stay in London, sell my body for survival. The desire raging in my veins as Mrs. Blackwell and the mystery man made love right in front of me almost convinced me that I could do it.
But I wasn”t ignorant. The way Mrs. Blackwell ran things differed greatly from the way I would be treated on the streets. Yes, perhaps I”d end up with lovers like the men my neighbor cultivated, but I”d also have to face brutes like Meaty Hands. Men who thought, if they paid, then they could do whatever they wanted to me. And if I was desperate enough, I”d have to let them.
Still, was what I had awaiting me any better?
He assures me he will keep you in line.Uncle’s words told me that Mr. Joe Rafferty was as bad as my uncle. Or worse. A shudder ran through me. Uncle had been confident when he said that, like this man would be the final thing to break me.
I looked up at the stars where I used to fly. They used to wink at me. They used to be my friends. What I”d give to escape into them now. But they only stared at me as they had every other night. Not winking.
But then, one light moved. I squinted. Perhaps a shooting star? I”d made plenty of wishes on those, to no avail. The light shot toward me, growing larger.
I rose to my feet. If it was a shooting star, it was headed straight for me.
It careened past me and into the room, lighting up the space much brighter than any of the lanterns. A familiar tinkling sound, like bells, drove my heart into my throat.
“Tinker Bell?”
The fairy landed on the top rail of the window grate. Her diminutive figure revealed a form covered in leaves and tree sap. Her hair was twisted up in a bun and she had a tiny pocket and dagger strapped to her waist. The wings on her back sparkled and fluttered with the smallest of movements, as if she couldn’t bear to stand still.
“My god, Tinker Bell. You’re here! My brothers, are they alive? Do you know where they are?”
Tinker Bell made large gestures and tinkled. I had forgotten. I didn’t speak fairy language.
I grabbed my cloak, pulling it on, checking to make sure my throwing knives were in there. Walking over to my bed, I pulled out a belt filled with sheaths designed to hold my knives against my thigh, strapping it on my trousered leg. “I need your dust to get to Neverland.”
The fairy nodded and gathered some dust from her pouch. She blew it, and the golden specks settled around me. It was happening. Before I rose into the air, I walked over to where Peter’s kiss lay on the ground, picked it up, and put it on. He’d sent help. Seven years late, but he’d sent for me.
My chest filled with relief. I was leaving my uncle and his atrocious marriage arrangements behind. Finally, I could go to Neverland. My heart burned with the strength of my desires. I’d find my brothers.
Then I’d kill the captain of the Jolly Roger with his own hook.
I shut my eyes and let those thoughts fill me. When I opened them, I was floating in the air.
“Lead the way, Tink.”
And with that, I followed the little fairy out the window and up into the sky. Second star to the right and straight on till morning.