by Kara Swanson
Acclaim for
DUST
“A vibrant, mesmerizing storyteller and original voice in young adult fiction.”
—Tosca Lee, New York Times best-selling author
“Dust sparkles with hope, magic, and a little bit of pixie dust. If you loved Peter Pan as a child, you’ll devour every gorgeous page of this romantic adventure! I can’t wait to see what happens next!”
—Lorie Langdon, award-winning author of Olivia Twist and The Doon series
“A whimsical imagining of the dark side of Neverland. Dust takes readers beyond the fairytale and, if possible, brings even more enchantment to the already beloved story.”
—Nadine Brandes, award-winning author of A Time To Die, Fawkes, and Romanov
“Kara Swanson’s Dust will send you soaring above the bounds of this tired world to a Neverland you’ve never seen before and won’t ever forget.”
—Wayne Thomas Batson, best-selling author of The Door Within Trilogy
“Dust is pure magic! Fans of Peter Pan will be delighted to fly off on this journey sprinkled with faith, trust, and pixie dust! Kara Swanson is an author to watch. Her tale is a fantastical spin on a beloved classic.”
—Sara Ella, award-winning author of The Unblemished Trilogy and Coral
“Dust is a soaring adventure that taps into the darker themes of J.M. Barrie’s original tale while still giving the reader an entirely new and magical journey. If you loved Peter, this book is for you.”
—Shannon Dittemore, author of Winter, White and Wicked
“With vivid descriptions, conflicted characters, and spirited pacing, Dust has it all. Swanson’s captivating sense of wonder makes this novel an immersive journey into a land you’ve visited in your dreams—and sometimes your nightmares.”
—Christopher Hopper, best-selling author of Ruins of the Galaxy
BOOKS BY KARA SWANSON
The Girl Who Could See
Dust
Shadow
Shadow
Copyright © 2021 by Kara Swanson
EPUB Edition
Published by Enclave Publishing, an imprint of Third Day Books, LLC
Phoenix, Arizona, USA.
www.enclavepublishing.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, digitally stored, or transmitted in any form without written permission from Third Day Books, LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-62184-173-9 (printed hardback)
ISBN: 978-1-62184-175-3 (printed softcover)
ISBN: 978-1-62184-174-6 (ebook)
Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, www.DogEaredDesign.com
Typesetting by Jamie Foley, www.JamieFoley.com
Printed in the United States of America.
To Orrie and RJ—
For crawling into the darkest places with me,
lighting a spark, and showing me I could
ignite.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Acclaim for Dust
Half-Title
Books by Kara Swanson
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
1. Peter
2. Claire
3. Peter
4. Claire
5. Claire
6. Claire
7. Claire
8. Peter
9. Peter
10. Claire
11. Peter
12. Claire
13. Peter
14. Claire
15. Peter
16. Claire
17. Peter
18. Peter
19. Claire
20. Peter
21. Claire
22. Peter
23. Claire
24. Peter
25. Claire
26. Peter
27. Peter
28. Claire
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Promotion
Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist.
Children already know that dragons exist.
Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.
—G.K. Chesterton
Neverland
Falling out of the sky is far less fun than it sounds.
One minute I’m soaring past the stars, barreling through a veil of color and magic and snatches of children’s voices and whispered dreams—and then there it is. It spreads out below me in familiar rugged curves that I know better than my own shadow.
Neverland.
I angle toward the island, trails of Jeremy’s packet of pixie dust lifting my body, when I start to stutter. My body wobbles midair, and I check the store of dust, only to find that it’s almost gone. I try to coast, treading late-afternoon air, but the last shred of dust flickers out.
I drop.
Spiraling toward the roiling, dark stretch of Neversea below like some rock shot from Slightly’s slingshot, I flail in the air but can’t seem to slow. All hints of airy pixie dust gone.
Blast it all!
When I had Tink, there’d always be plenty of dust to make it to Neverland. To drift lightly down to perch on the trees and spy on Lily’s tribe—or kick one of Hook’s cannonballs out of the air. But this time, without her, it took much longer to even to get a bead on the island. Neverland usually calls to me, like a siren’s lure drawing me closer—but instead my Never Never Land pushed me away. Hid.
As I plummet past the stars, through the clouds and biting wind toward the thrashing Neversea below, I suddenly realize why.
This whole island is angry.
It’s in the chilled air. The way the water kicks below me. The skeletal silhouette of the island.
I slam into the icy waves like a cannonball. They knock the breath from my lungs and batter my skin as I sink. Cold numbs my body before I can beat for the surface. The Neversea wrestles control, swallowing me up.
The island isn’t just angry—Neverland is afraid.
Its fear leaks through the water around me, weighted and churning with such panic it makes me nauseous. This is nothing like the crystal clear, warm depth I’m used to.
I force myself to strike for the surface and break through. I shake wet hair out of my eyes as the water continues to swell and writhe around me, almost thick and slimy as it attempts to drag me away from the island. Neverland’s craggy shores rise in the distance, not as far as I’d thought, but even from this vantage point, something is off. The color is leached from the shore, the sand dark and the trees lifeless and charred.
Not very promising.
I wrestle with the Neversea, fighting to make it to that shore.
I almost crow out of habit, but of course my Lost Boys won’t answer. Or if they did, it wouldn’t be to help me. No one here would want to pull me out of this water. More likely they’d shove me back under.
As I get closer to the craggy shoreline, my body aching and creaking like a blithering ship, I see something fluid and glistening slide through the water a few paces ahead. And then the flash of a rippled, sharp fin. I halt, bobbing in the frigid water, not daring to breathe.
Good gad. I hope the sirens aren’t hungry.
I’m only a few feet from shore, so I push down my uneasiness and continue swimming, trying to keep the dangerous undersea creatures well within view. Suddenly, an oily tail slides past my leg.
My skin crawls, and I wrench away. Oh no . . .
I angle around whatever clipped my leg and swim faster, desperate for that shoreline. Suddenly a sharp lance of pain tears across my si
de. Another cuts through my right shin. I grit my teeth.
Not good, not good, not good.
Thin streams of crimson fill the murky waters. The scaly creatures circle me, sharp talons protruding from thin fingers and tangled, oily hair obscuring pale faces. My chest caves in, too tight to breathe.
Don’t just wait for them to add seasoning and take a bite!
My heavy and stinging limbs stir back into motion, legs pinwheeling as I swim as fast as I can through the thick water. But the sirens easily keep pace, taking their time as they try to tear me apart. A claw slices through my arm. Teeth puncture my leg. A webbed hand pulls at my hair.
They’re toying with me.
“’Ey, chums! We used to be mates, remember? I used to feed you pirates?” My voice is breathless and raspy, salty water snaking down my throat. “Remember those grand ol’ times?”
But the sirens are fast nearing a frenzy. I’m only five feet from the dark stone beach rimming Neverland, but two webbed fists circle my legs and pull me under. I can’t kick away. They’re far too strong.
Dark, thick water fills my vision. Other webbed hands pin my legs and circle my arms, wrenching me deeper as I writhe and fight.
Only a shred of air is left in my lungs. Every fiber of my being is blooming exhausted. Somehow, I’ve always been able to hold my breath longer in the Neversea than I could on Earth—but now my chest is already screaming.
I kick at the slithery grips holding my ankles, losing my shoes in the process, and when my head snaps up, one of the sirens hovers in front of me. Charcoal tendrils of hair curl through the water around her pale features. The large, hollow eyes staring at me from her gray skin are more dilated than I remember, but it still clicks. The scar on the right cheek, the sharp jawline, the thin lips . . . I know her.
“Nyssa?” All the sirens freeze.
She drifts closer and makes a clattering, hissing noise. The other sirens let go and drift back a pace.
My lungs burn, and my eyes are blurred, but I see her scales have become dull and warped, almost slimy. No longer the familiar glossy ebony. Come to think of it . . . I glance around and realize that all of these sirens seem different. Thinner, bonier, duller. Their tails a little shriveled, their scales lackluster.
I turn back to the siren in front of me. The others hover in the water around us, their tails swishing deftly, deferring to her. She is their queen, after all. And one of the few sirens I’ve ever really respected. But this is not the Nyssa I remember.
“Peter . . .” I mumble, gesturing to myself, and she tilts her head again. A spark of hope ignites—maybe she’ll remember. Maybe she’ll let me go.
But her panicked eyes remain unchanged, and she shakes her head.
Great.
Her thin, rubbery lips pull wide to reveal rows of sharp teeth. I kick toward the surface with my last shreds of strength—but it’s too late. She lets out a long, haunting wail.
A dozen sirens bare their teeth and launch at me, ready for the kill. Frenzied and furied and ready to tear me to shreds. I’d seen them do it to pirates before but never thought this was how I’d go.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I roll into a ball.
Sorry, Claire. I didn’t even get to you.
Some rescuer I am.
A webbed claw burrows into my shoulder, but before their teeth can tear through the skin, one of them screeches.
A small tunnel of bubbles flashes past my cheek.
My eyes fly open, and I see dozens of small threads of bubbles through the water around me. I drift upward, not even sure how I haven’t lost consciousness yet. As I near the surface, I can make out the sound as small projectiles continue to cut through the water, scattering the sirens. The sirens hiss and bare their teeth but quickly slide backward through the water and away from me.
Bullets.
Someone is firing into the water.
It’s a miracle they didn’t hit me.
I can just make out the water lightening above me, and then a hand reaches down.
I manage to get my numb fingers into the proffered grasp. I’m dragged up onto a rugged wooden slat.
I roll over, hacking and gasping for air. My ears ring, and I can’t even lift my head to see who is turning me on my side. Gradually my vision clears.
I’m on a makeshift raft of driftwood, and someone is hunched at the front, pulling on a length of crusty rope. Pulling us to shore. I start when I see the rusted pistol lying beside him.
My hazy brain riffles through the list of anyone on this island who could possibly have access to a gun. Was I just scooped out of the siren’s hold to be caught by one of the pirates?
Clenching my jaw, I get to my knees and reach for the gun.
“You should rest. You just almost drowned. That fall didn’t look fun either.”
Fist around the handle, I stare at the figure who continues to steadily pull on the rope, hand over hand, drawing us to shore. He’s lean, with shaggy dark hair and a stained brown shirt that seems a bit too big for his shoulders.
“Who are you?”
He doesn’t even flinch when I nudge him with the muzzle. “Not going to answer if you’re waving that at me. Not that there’s any bullets left. Used them all saving you from those sirens.” His voice is low, even-toned. He just continues hefting on the rope. There’s something familiar about the easy, languid movements and the way his voice doesn’t waver.
I set the gun back down just as he pulls the raft up and jumps ashore, ragged pants rolled up his shins. He gestures for me to get out. I lurch off the makeshift raft and wade clumsily to a shore almost as black as siren scales, the cuts littering my skin stinging with every painstaking movement.
My mysterious rescuer drags the raft up onto the sands. One shoulder slumps, head ducked and thick hair hanging into his eyes. When he rubs at his nose with the back of his hand, a familiar tick, I stare. It can’t be.
“Tootles?”
Warm almond eyes rise to meet mine, and he reveals a familiar half smile that for a moment gives me a flash of who this boy used to be. Not quite the smallest, but always the quietest, Tootles had a soft, disarming way about him.
That was one of the reasons I was shocked when he aimed an arrow at a Wendy-Bird and sent the young Story Girl tumbling from the skies. If Slightly had shot the arrow, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised. But Tootles? The lad really had the worst luck, and he’d been ready for me to plunge the arrow into his own chest as punishment for the accidental shooting.
And I might have, if Wendy hadn’t stopped me.
“It’s been a long time, Peter.”
His words abruptly bring me back. I try to step toward him, but my legs finally give out. I sink into the dark sand and stare at him. “I thought you were dead. I was sure Connor had . . .”
He trudges toward me. “He certainly tried. But I’m quicker than I look.”
That I know.
As Tootles reaches a hand down to help me to my feet, hope starts to rise. If Tootles survived, who knows what else could still be intact?
He looks older, quite a bit older, like all of the Lost Boys do. Another reminder of just how broken this island has become. Not to mention that time runs differently here anyway.
Tootles eyes the nasty cuts and bite marks that really sting now.
“We’d better get those cleaned up.” Something about the iron in his tone makes me pause. This Tootles’s grip is strong and calloused, skin littered with thin scars that hadn’t been there before. His eyes are haunted, his languid movements weighted.
“What happened to you? How long have you been here? And thanks for not letting me become siren chow, by the way,” I add as he leads me across the beach. We pause near a thick, charred tree for me to lean on and catch my breath. The obsidian sand lining the beach fades into the coarse ground around the trees, and there are strange darkish veins cutting across the dusty terrain. Something is seriously wrong with this place.
“Speak quieter,” T
ootles tells me as he tears strips from his oversized shirt to bind up the cuts running streams of red down my skin. “The pirates patrol this beach about this time every day. We should find somewhere to hide.”
I skirt a glance around. “I don’t see—”
Tootles’s hand clamps over my mouth. “Trust me.”
Point taken.
He gestures for me to follow him, and I try to match his silent footsteps through the charred, twisted remnants of the jungle and toward a large rock covered in slimy moss. He brushes a dangling curtain of the moss away to reveal a small nook in the rock and motions for me to duck in. He follows close by, letting the veil of moss fall over the front of the secret alcove again.
“We’ll wait a few minutes for them to pass, and then I’ll take you home.”
Crammed in against the slimy back of the rock, it’s jarring just how thin Tootles has become and the way his bony shoulders and ribs jut through his threadbare shirt. He obviously hasn’t been eating well.
My own ribs sting every time I breathe, the patchwork of small gashes making it hard to focus and sucking away my energy.
Still, I’m desperate to ask: “What’s going on, mate? What’s Connor done? Do you know where Claire is?”
He shushes me again, still peering out through the veil of moss, keeping impossibly still.”
I pull my knees to my chest, trying to breathe through the biting pain that keeps flaring up. At least his makeshift bandages have stopped the bleeding for now, and it’s only the slices on my shoulder that seem especially deep.
Silence hangs over us, and when Tootles finally speaks, each word is weighted enough to ground a pixie. “Connor has near-total control of the island. Neverland is dying, Peter.”
He traces a strange dark vein that skitters across the ground beneath our feet. His voice is so hushed I have to strain my ears just to catch it. “The creatures here are all terrified. You saw it with the sirens—they’re changing. He’s mutilating it all.”
Searing anger boils through my bones. I launch to my feet, bursting through the veil of moss. “That’s it! I’m going to go find him and Claire and—”