16. Peter
Peter
Iblink and find myself out on the green, the stars, one brighter than the rest, lighting the crowd around me.
I’m alone, except not at all, but my boys are nowhere nearby.
I twirl, my limbs weightless, my feet lifting off the ground, readying me for flight.
Lightning bugs buzz overhead. Bobble-fish pulse as they bump against each other in the breeze.
People laugh, and dance, and press each other up against the canvas tents, feeling each other up, or dragging each other into the privacy of their flaps.
Sex fills the air. Music beats from the raised pavilion at the center, overlooking the waterfall rushing over the edge of Neverhaven.
Silver trays surf atop the crowds, littered with tall glasses of bubbles and piles of dust. Hungry hands grab for the treasures, fueling the fire ablaze in their empty eyes.
I’m no longer laughing as I search the faces, looking for someone familiar.
“Love the wings, Peter,” says a silky-haired woman with gems crawling over her bosoms. She runs a long, painted fingernail over my shoulder.
I stare into her blue eyes. No, that’s not right.
I shake my head, her eyes returning to brown, and stumble away from her.
A man with fuzzy bear ears bumps into me, shooting me a wink before carrying on.
Shimmery greenish scales sparkle in a glint of light. “Rourke!” I shout, grabbing the muscular arm and flipping the man toward me. The smooth face that stares back is nothing like the jagged and domineering features of my stepbrother. “Sorry,” I mutter, backing into the crowd.
Of course, it’s not Rourke. He would never attend an event like this.
Not even a boatload of pixie blood would allow him to stand near so many warm bodies.
He’d be a crocodile in bloody water. A part of me wishes he were here, though, wishes for his company in my current, suffocating isolation—wishes for him to end the party in a wash of red.
I unbutton my vest and rip open my shirt, my damp chest meeting the cool night air. It’s a bad trip. It’s not my first, and I’m seasoned enough to realize what’s happening, but it doesn’t make the creeping panic subside.
Someone grabs my shoulder, flipping me to them. “Peter! Aren’t you going to the show?”
It’s Julian, a short-statured bloke I’ve spent a few evenings out in town with. A shite card player, and a dull conversationalist, but a warm body if you’re looking for an entourage to fill the quiet. “What show?”
Julian’s one eye, the one not hidden with an eye patch, widens in surprise. “I thought you’d know. Trago’s been spreading the word of a performance in your drawing room. It’s supposed to be hush-hush.”
The pixie dust must be leaving my system because a pounding annoyance replaces any remnants of earlier glee. “Well, let’s go. We wouldn’t want to miss the performance.”
Julian gulps, perhaps noticing the anger in my eyes.
He leads me through the crowd, trotting up the stairs and entering the estate through one of the long hallways at the side of the greenhouse.
Trago must have also provided directions to the drawing room, as Julian has never been to Hollowbrook, as far as I know.
We push through the doors, the room stuffy with chatter.
Men, some of nobility, some eager for a title, all around my age, take up space as they smoke and drink and laugh.
None of my lost boys, well, except for one.
Trago sits in a chair brought up on the long table that spans the length of the room.
Belle is restrained, blood-smeared, and bleary-eyed, perched on his lap.
My vision turns red.
I almost miss Trago’s darting eyes and the crack in his voice. “Peter! You’re just in time. I was about to show your humble guests the prize of the century.”
Belle’s eyes flip to mine, a glimmer of pleading hope shot in my direction. A white cloth is stuffed into her mouth, and she wears only her undergarments, her bottom half dotted with blood.
“What. Are. You. Doing?” My voice echoes off the wood paneling.
He stands, grabbing Belle by her collar.
Her shins slam against the table. “Oh, don’t be sour, Peter.
She was wandering the halls. When she found me, she begged me to help her escape.
” He laughs. “You should have seen it, for a moment I really had her believe I would rescue her from her Darling and spirit her away from Hollowbrook.” Some of the men chuckle, but most chatter amongst themselves, too fucked up to follow.
I stalk closer, the room folding into a silence with each step.
“I know, you said we couldn’t fuck her, your Father wouldn’t like that, but this is perfect, she's bleeding so we can all have a taste of that sweet pixie blood without filling her with our heirs.” He grabs her jaw, and for a moment, my vision gives out, and instead of my dear lost boy, my father stands before me, fondling my pixie.
Panic swims in Trago’s eyes. I revel in it. Imagine the eyes of my father. “Peter, I’m just having some fun.” Trago drops Belle, her knees banging on the tabletop. He jumps off to meet me.
The boiling of my blood steams when our chests nearly touch.
With all my force, I connect my fist with his ugly, yappy jaw.
The room lays silent. Trago cups his busted lip, blood gushing down his chin.
It’s a beautiful sight to see, and I’m finding myself enjoying his costume more and more.
I look down at my crested ring, covered in his blood, and wipe it against my vest. I guess the damned rose is good for something.
From the look of it, Trago will need a healer to stitch him up.
He limps into the crowd, out of my view.
I climb onto the table, placing a hand on Belle’s shoulder as she stares up at me in horror or wonder, I can’t tell with the small amount of pixie dust in my system. “Party’s over, boys!” I shout. Not turning away from her.
No one moves.
“I said the party is fucking over! Get out! Shadows, get everyone out!” The doors swing open, the black-coated men enter and grab people by the arms, swinging them out the doorway. The room is a flurry, the same as my heart, as I stare down at the bloodied pixie, tethering my gaze to hers.