This time, when the regret hit, I fell to my knees, sobbing.
“Mother,” I said, hardly able to form the word through my choked throat. That’s what she was, what she’d been to Peter, even if he’d forgotten. Once, they’d been each other’s only companions. He, an abandoned child. She, an abandoned guardian. They’d formed a different sort of bond. Not that of a master and servant, but of a mother and son. Except now, he was gone, and she had no one to give all this love to, no one to take away all this grief. Suddenly, I could sense it—her desire. The reason she’d brought me here. The reason she’d offered me snapshots of Peter’s life. She wanted me to understand, to feel her suffering, so when the time came, I wouldn’t hesitate.
Neverland wished to die.
And she wanted me to kill her.
11
I came to, sitting upright, back pressed against something warm, bulky, and breathing. I lay still for a moment, content to rise and fall in slight increments. The murky sky above was unchanged from when I’d last seen it, so I doubted I’d been out long. I shifted my gaze to find I’d been propped up against Cathal; the faerie hound had his head on his paws, eyes shut. Eve, meanwhile, stood with her limbs pressed against the Hangman’s Tree, her roots withdrawn from the soil. I felt something itch above my left eye but winced the moment I touched it—my fingers came away wet and sticky with blood. Cathal must have felt the movement, because he immediately perked up, ears spiked. He swiveled his head around at an awkward angle, his tail thumping against the ground.
“You’re back,” he said, sounding relieved.
Back. It was a curious word. Not awake, as if I’d been unconscious or sleeping, but back. I held out my hand, curling my fingers one by one, aware of the sensations I’d been missing only moments before, back in the landscape of memories I’d shared with Neverland. It was odd, I thought, how dreams could feel so real, despite the fact that in them you had so little control of your senses; I hadn’t once concerned myself with the state of my own body beyond being able to move it. Now that I was back—as Cathal had put it—everything seemed to have a higher resolution, a more severe degree. I could feel the dull ache of my muscles from having climbed and walked all the way out here, the burning itch above my eye, the pounding of my head from the fall I must have taken when I’d been snatched away. Other minor discomforts, too, ranging from the slight dryness of my skin to the press of hard surface against my tailbone.
“Aye,” I replied, moving my neck back and forth to relieve the stiffness. “T’anks for lettin’ me lay on ye.”
Eve came rustling over, branches rattling together in her hurry to stand by my side. She bowed slightly, one limb curling beneath my chin, forcing me to look into her eyes—such as they were. “How did you escape?”
“I didn’t. Pretty sure she let me go.” I reached up, gave Eve’s limb a brief squeeze to let her know I was alright, then made to stand. I needed to stand, to get the blood pumping, if only to think clearly. Cathal helped, as did Eve, propping me up between themselves until they were sure I wouldn’t topple over.
“I don’t understand,” Eve said, sounding uncharacteristically distraught. “When we linked consciousness, I was certain she was too weak to do what she did to you, or I’d have warned you. But she had you, so why let you go?”
“She’s craftier than she made herself out to be, Eve. Don’t beat yourself up.” I grimaced as the wound above my left eye reopened. I could feel the trickle of blood inch down my face but couldn’t be bothered to mess with it, just yet. “She probably fed ye what she thought ye wanted to see. She’s suspicious by nature, and you’re about as foreign as they come, even here.”
I realized upon saying it that I knew it all to be true, that somehow I’d linked with Neverland’s consciousness long enough to get a feel for the type of being she was. Sentient, yes, but with animalistic instincts. She’d lash out when in pain, would protect herself if she felt threatened. In a way, I suspected that had contributed to her suffering; animals experience loss differently, occasionally more severely, than we do. Having experienced hers in real time, I understood her compulsion, her desire to end it all, even if I hated the idea.
“I underestimated her, then,” Eve said.
“No, that’s not it. Ye just t’ink differently, is all. She’d only have shared everythin’ with ye if she felt like she had the upper hand. If she were dominant, in control.” I shook my head. “Anyway, it’s not worth dwellin’ on.”
“What happened when your spirit left?” Cathal interjected.
I sighed. “Neverland showed me bits and pieces of her life. Memories of Peter Pan filtered through her perspective. It was all a tad cinematic. Surreal, even. I could hear ye two talkin’ at one point…” I drifted off, realizing my memories of what had transpired were getting hazier, that I was left only with impressions, the way you’d recall a vivid dream. Damn it. “There was a meetin’ with Wendy. She was older than he was, on her way to becomin’ a woman. Lots of regret, there. Then Hook, the first time he met Peter Pan.”
“Why those memories?” Eve asked, sounding puzzled.
I scowled, wishing I had an answer; I’d wondered the same thing, at the time. Had Neverland shown me those two scenes specifically, or simply chosen two at random? Was there a connection in there, somewhere? “I’m not sure,” I replied, at last. “She seemed scattered, when we finally interacted. The first wasn’t even on the island. Which means she could watch Peter even when he wasn’t here.”
“That’s...odd. Is it possible Peter Pan became her master?” Eve mused aloud.
“Not her master. He was her companion. Her first friend. In time, she grew to love him and thought of him as hers. It wasn’t Merlin’s directive that she sacrificed herself and the island for, it was Peter. She didn’t want him to grow up, to grow old.” An idea struck. “Maybe that’s why she showed me Wendy. The girl who left Neverland to grow up, who grew to resent Peter and his childishness. It’s possible she wanted me to see what she feared would happen.”
“And Hook?” Cathal asked.
“Maybe who she feared he would become?” I shook my head. “Either way, Peter is gone, and she’s devastated. She released me so I could find a way to kill her.” Even saying it aloud sounded horrific. Funny how, not so long ago, I’d considered letting Neverland waste away for the good of everyone involved. Now that I’d communicated with her, now that I knew she was a thinking, feeling creature, I found myself compelled to do the opposite.
“If you do that, then you’ll have to find another way to go after your friend,” Eve cautioned.
“But ye know how I can, don’t ye?” I asked, studying my companion.
Eve looked away.
“We talked about it while you were gone,” Cathal said, clearly speaking for her. “It would be difficult, but not impossible. The Beast may be stronger than the tree thought, but she is still wounded. Still vulnerable.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve called Neverland that before. Why?”
“That is what the Otherworlders call her kind. It is an old name, from another time.”
“I think it would be a mistake to kill her,” Eve cut in. Not for the first time, I wondered whether Eve saw something of herself in Neverland—if she felt a kinship with this unique, isolated creature. Would she resent me if I did as Neverland wished? Probably. But then, she wouldn’t be the only one.
“If we can find another way, I’ll try it,” I agreed. “But she’s in more pain than I’d have thought possible, and I won’t leave her to suffer.”
“If you bond with her, it’s possible you could strip away those memories,” Eve suggested. “I’m sure you’d be able to influence her emotions. Perhaps communicate directly.”
I was already shaking my head. “I won’t lobotomize her. She’s entitled to feel, even if that means she wants to die. Just because I think it’s shortsighted, doesn’t mean I have the right to override her wishes.”
“There might be another way,” Cat
hal said, breaking up what might have become an awkward silence. “Neither of you think like beasts, which means you’re missing the obvious.”
“Enlighten us,” I said, unable to keep a smirk off my face.
And so he did.
12
I held Eve’s seed in my right hand. My left was coated liberally with fresh blood taken from the wound above my eye; no sense cutting open my palm when I had a perfectly good gash to choose from. Besides, the blood was only a key. What mattered most was what happened after I opened the door.
“Remember, focus on the message,” Eve said, speaking over my shoulder in the hushed voice reserved for church or libraries. “If the hound is right, if you can convince her there’s more to live for, she may bond with you willingly.”
I raised the pip, curious. “And this?”
“Think of it as a fail-safe if things don’t go the way we hope they will.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” I said sardonically. Still, I squeezed the seed in reassurance, replaying Cathal’s words in my head for the dozenth time as I prepared myself for what I was about to do.
“She’s lost her young,” he’d said, speaking with the authority of someone who’d experienced something similar. “The only way to get over that is to find something else to care for. Another pup to take care of. If you can give her something like that, her instincts will take over.”
Once he’d explained his reasoning, I had to admit Cathal’s solution was obvious—perhaps even more so than he knew. It all came back to Wendy and James Hook, to the memories I’d been privy to. What if Neverland had fixated on those two instances not because she’d concerned herself with Peter’s trajectory, but for some other, subconscious reason? Looking back, I realized she’d never shown me images of Peter interacting with his family, though of course she must have witnessed them. Had the older, more sophisticated Peter simply repulsed her, or had she kept those moments to herself as she’d kept her thoughts from Eve?
My own memories inevitably flashed back to those quiet moments in Peter’s house, though they kept veering back to the little girl who’d been playing by the Hangman’s Tree, who’d squealed with joy whenever Peter took her in his arms. Little Wendy. And then there was the boy who helped set the table, the child with his father’s face watching me from behind his glasses. Little James.
Convinced of what I had to do, though I had no idea how I was going to pull it off, I thrust my hand against the withered bark of the Hangman’s Tree. Nothing happened. The bark felt ashen beneath my hand, as if I could push harder and watch the whole thing turn to dust. After several seconds, I began to feel a bit silly; maybe drawing out Neverland with the taste of my blood wasn’t going to work, after all.
“So, now wha—” I began.
And that’s when Neverland tried to drown me.
It was nothing like before. There was no sense to it, no direction. Though I’d experienced the tremendous power of a hurricane once before, the sheer intensity of being buffeted to and fro—the brutality of having my mind whipped about—was far more overwhelming. And yet I felt I could read her thoughts; Neverland had asked me to kill her, and instead I’d tried to lure her, to initiate the bond. I’d come to dominate her, not to ease her suffering. She felt betrayed, momentarily overcome with rage, her grief forgotten. I would pay.
But that wasn’t why I was here; I fought through the vertigo, shouting mentally with everything I had. Unable to produce coherent thoughts, I focused on one word, screaming it over and over again even as she assaulted me with everything she had. I could feel my sanity slipping under her barrage. I was losing myself, piece by piece. Neverland gnawed at my memories, consuming my mind in bite-sized chunks, much as she had Peter’s childhood friends—a trick she’d learned to keep the other children docile, to make sure they continued to play with Peter even as their companions bled and died in the name of fun. For some reason, that knowledge—the horror of what she’d done to keep Peter happy—brought me back to myself. I was able to stand still in the eye of the storm, if only for a moment. At last, the sound of my voice reached my own ears.
“Children!” I screamed. “Children! Children!”
Neverland hesitated. I could sense her confusion, her caution. She’d been caught before by the words of a mortal, a man who’d spun such wonderful lies she’d practically rolled over before she knew what had happened, before she felt the leash close round her throat. That’s why she’d always loved Peter; he’d been brutally, unapologetically honest. His moods were wildly unpredictable, but he’d never said anything he hadn’t meant. The question she had to ask herself—the question roiling about in that tumultuous space which might have been called her mind—was whether I was like Peter, or like the man who’d chained her to this island.
Unfortunately, as I looked deep within myself, I realized the answer was neither.
Once, not so long ago, Peter Pan and I had shared similar traits; impetuous and unyielding, I’d prided myself on being untamable even when it contradicted my own self-interests, even as it ruined the few relationships I’d hoped to cultivate. And yet, though I’d become arguably wiser and therefore better equipped to manipulate situations to suit my needs, I clearly lacked the crucial ambition, the necessary cruelty, to do what my father had done; I simply couldn’t deliver false hope, couldn’t offer empty promises. Whoever or whatever I’d become—goddess or godling or something else altogether—I was at least someone who valued her word above all else.
And so I gave Neverland my word. I gave her images. I gave her emotions, my emotions. I let her see, let her feel, what I was proposing. I held in my mind a vision of what we would create, of what would be born from our bond. I proposed not domination, but patronage.
Finally, I showed her Little Wendy. I explained she was to Peter what Peter had been to Neverland—that to love her was to love a piece of him. I fixated on James’ face, on the way he held himself—in so many ways a cross between the Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up and the dastardly Captain James Hook. What a man he might become, I thought, if only he had a place to call home. Using them, I painted one reality after another, each with Neverland in the backdrop, supporting Peter’s legacy. And, since I couldn’t keep my horror at what she’d done at bay, I leaned into it, insisting there were better ways to show her affection. That what she knew of joy and love were mere facets of much larger, much more valuable jewels.
Still, she resisted. It quickly became clear that my hunch was right; she’d always sensed there was something special about the girl, something unique about the boy. She’d felt drawn to them from the beginning, though she’d never spoken with them as she had Peter—by then, she’d been too busy fending off time. But the notion that they would fill the void Peter had left behind was not something she could comprehend, not something she could tolerate.
Nothing could replace Peter.
With that one thought, Neverland dismissed my visions of the future and prepared to lash out at me once more. Her will was even clearer to me, suddenly: she hadn’t wanted this, but after consuming my power, she would escape this place. She would wander, would travel to those exotic places Peter had flown to without her. Maybe there she’d find someone who could end her existence there. If not, she suspected she’d go mad. Part of her regretted the harm she’d do, while another relished the idea of casting off the chains of consciousness—shackles which had never fit her to begin with.
In my mind’s eye she rose up like a tidal wave, her malevolence replaced with sorrow and pain. In moments, she’d crash over me, taking away everything I was. Everything I could be. I’d gambled big and lost. I felt a surge of panic, but it wasn’t my own; it was there in my hand. A pulse of frantic energy, waiting to be unleashed. But that couldn’t be right. I had no hands here. No body. Before I could dwell on it, however, the wave descended.
I pinched my eyes shut, praying it wouldn’t hurt.
13
It hurt. It hurt a lot.
“Son of a bitch
!” I screamed, my right hand throbbing with nerve-searing pain.
“Don’t let go,” Cathal said.
I blinked past tears to find the faerie hound standing not three feet away, his hackles standing straight up, teeth bared in a show of ferocity. But, if I could see him, it meant I’d returned to my body. But how? I turned to stare down at my poor hand only to find it pressed against the Hangman’s Tree, Eve’s seed caught between my palm and the bark. The pip was glowing white hot, and the stench of burning flesh rode the air.
“What’s happenin’?” I demanded. I searched for Eve, only to find the Tree of Knowledge hugging the Hangman’s Tree from the side. Everywhere she touched, the same white light shone, though in her case there was no smoke. And yet, based on her twitches, her pitiful moans, I knew she burned as I did.
“She’s doing what she thought to do before,” Cathal replied. “I told her you wouldn’t like it, but it’s her choice. Whatever you do, don’t let go of her core. If you do, you’ll kill them both.”
I shook my head, breathing shallowly, the pain severe enough to give me the shakes. “What the hell are ye talkin’ about?”
But there was no time for explanations. The light pulsed brighter as the seed sunk into the flesh of the Hangman’s Tree. Eve did the same; the larger tree appeared to swallow her in increments, though I could tell she was the one fighting to merge. I realized that, somehow, she must have taken my place. That the pip had served as a sort of lifeline—a method to switch my consciousness for her own. Which meant that even now she was battling for control.
Sea Breeze: Phantom Queen Book 8 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 8