“Shall I help you?” A velveted steel grip closed on her collarbone and hauled her torso up against a knobbly wooden chair back. “Nicer, don’t you think?” A metallic “click” and the grip released her.
Wendy’s head swam with that small change in altitude. Her vision blurred, then cleared, and she was looking at the long, once-handsome countenance of Captain James Hook. Olive skin—now sadly etched with time—provided piquant contrast to the delicate cornflower blue of his eyes. Glossy corkscrews of an impossible sootiness spilled from beneath a many-feathered cavalier’s hat.
“Do you dye your moustaches as well?”
Hook tittered. “Splendid! I knew I could count on you to recover quickly!” He smiled a sickeningly insincere smile. “Smee! Attend us!”
Wendy heard the rattle and bang of an opening and shutting door. Again she tried to move, attempting to twist toward the sound. Now she saw the problem: thick ropes, dirty with tar, had been wound around her tightly. At least, unlike her clothing, they were dry.
Her bandoliers of ammunition were gone. Her SK likewise.
“Cap’n?” A woman’s voice? A child’s? The Smee Wendy knew was neither. But there was no way to turn around, no telling who spoke behind her.
“Swab the table clean. Then prepare and serve a light luncheon: champagne, lobster, asparagus, and creampuffs.”
“For how many?”
“Two, of course—can the presence of our guest have escaped your notice?”
“No, Cap’n.”
“No. And yet? And still? You hesitate? Go!” Scampering steps sounded, then, once more, the noises of the door’s operation. Had Hook left the cabin as well as this new Smee? Was Wendy alone? Alone, she might plot her escape—
The touch of velvet on the back of her neck snuffed out that hope.
“My pretty dear. I apologize for the lack of ebullient warmth in your welcome here. Though you’ve saved me the trouble of executing my least competent underlings, I neglected to thank you as perhaps I should have. Gossip has informed me of your quarrel with Pan—but I’m hesitant to put credence in mere rumor. Will you forgive me?”
“We’ve split up. It’s true.”
The chair was gimbaled. Hook spun her around to face him. “You swear so?”
“Solemnly.” Pirates put great faith in pledges and oaths, much like the little boys who pretended to be them. “Are you going to untie me, then?”
That slimy smile. The flash of a long sword drawn and lifted to the cabin’s low ceiling. “This will be faster.”
She shut her eyes. She couldn’t help it. A breeze stirred the loosened tendrils of her brown braids. Another. A third.
“There. Raise your arms.”
The rope’s tight coils fell away—except where they stuck stubbornly to Wendy’s wet skirt and tunic. “Thank you.”
“Of course. I’d advise you to immediately remove those damp things but for the danger of misconstruction….”
She shuddered or shivered. Or did both. “Yes. That would be bad.” Hook was nothing like her type.
“Most distressing,” the pirate replied calmly. “Instead, I offer you this nice, warm dressing robe.” Reaching to his right with his velvet-covered prosthetic, Hook removed a heavy garment of quilted maroon silk from a wooden peg. Standing creakily, she slipped it on and tied its sash.
“And as we have a while to wait, perhaps, before the refreshments I’ve ordered arrive—for Smee is new to the crew, and not yet as efficient as one could wish—perhaps you’ll allow me to explain to you a bit of what I’m about?
“Your father is a banker, is he not?”
CHAMPAGNE WAS PERHAPS NOT THE most sovereign remedy for nausea provoked by near drowning. Sipping from her never-empty glass, however, Wendy allowed its charms. Like angel hair or some ethereal form of excelsior it cradled her muzzy thoughts, protecting them from damaging each other without crowding them out of her head.
“For a modest sum I can guarantee you’ll be recognized in our initial round of construction—and for ages to come. A street name, the name of a building—or for a higher contribution, we’ll give you a more substantial form of commemoration such as a statue,” Hook said. “Later, when we get around to hiring strolling entertainers and booking acts into the theater—”
“Theater?”
“Certainly! Some days it will rain—this is England, after all—and our holiday-goers must be amused or they’ll leave. We should have a cinema as well—though not, I think, a library. Too bookish. Perhaps some sort of indoor games center…” Dipping a quill pulled out of his hatband into a dish of chocolate sauce, the pirate marked a square on the map pinned to the cabin wall. “…about there.” He nodded. “Yes.
“But as I was saying, when all that’s under way we’ll naturally expect you, as one of the principals, to exercise a bit of discretion as to who fills your part. Actually collaborating on the show itself would require further financial involvement, but I’m sure you’ll want to take the opportunity. Won’t you?”
There was a long pause; the first, really, since Hook’s disquisition had begun. Unless Smee’s silent interruptions when bearing in trays of food counted.
Evidently it was time in the program for Wendy to assent to helping Hook with his scheme. Instead, she asked, “What’s in it for the mermaids?”
“More bathers,” Hook answered promptly. “They are particularly partial to adolescent boys. I’ve promised them plenty.”
“But don’t they know…” Wendy was at a loss to describe the ruination she felt sure Hook’s unnecessary plans would result in. They’d affect not only the seaside, but all the country for miles beyond—the ancient markets would fail for lack of custom. Farmers and goose girls and their ilk would disappear; in their stead thousands of strangers would descend on Skegness’s environs, bringing with them their loud motors; their stinking tons of refuse; their demands for fresh water, food, petrol, and who knew what else. All this was to transpire under her aegis? Watched over by her distorted likenesses?
This was nothing like true immortality.
Hook mistook her speechlessness for disbelief. “Mermaids are notoriously bubble-headed,” he said. “Fairies with tails rather than wings.”
At this Wendy kept her council, though inwardly she shook her head. Creatures born to magic could be called venal perhaps, but never stupid. Look how Tink disappeared when the action was about to start. And where was she now? And Lily—what had happened to them?
The door opened a crack, then a little wider—wide enough for Smee to squeeze in. Without a word he began gathering their used crockery and the remnants of their feast.
Hook protested the removal of the shell-shaped serving dish of pastries. “Leave that. No—no—I’ve not finished—and bring us some port. And suitable glasses. No, the champagne stays! Do you understand me? Don’t mumble!”
No longer high and piping but hoarse and low, the servant’s assent came clear enough to gladden Wendy’s quailing heart. It was Lily’s voice.
No surprise, then, when on “Smee’s” return the cabin’s door remained open behind him. Though the faint green tinting the shadow it threw was another matter.
Tink had returned. A happy ending must be in sight.
“Put the glasses there. You may pour,” Hook instructed. With seeming clumsiness the shapeshifter spilled a gout of deeply crimson wine, creating an enormous stain on the table’s white cloth. “Fool! I warrant you’d foul up so simple a task as walking the plank. Shall we discover if tis so?”
“Smee” cowered back toward the doorway, shaking his dirty-looking hair, lips and beardless jaw moving wordlessly in apparent terror.
“Well? Take care of this mess you’ve made first! Then we shall see!”
The shapeshifter left and returned again—too soon?—carrying a basin of steaming, soapy water. They promptly tripped over absolutely nothing and dropped it. More swearing from Hook. Exeunt Lily. With their next entrance, they introduced a wooden pail from which
a pair of long rods protruded: a mop handle and a familiar length of gunmetal. Would her captor notice it? Hook’s eyes narrowed. “Smee” slipped in the water and fell, spattering suds on the pirate’s satin brocade breeches. While rising and fending off Hook’s fists, they placed the pail near enough for Wendy to retrieve her lovely KP from it. She raised and aimed it.
Hook froze in the midst of a roundhouse swing. His olive complexion paled to a yellowish ecru. “No! Please!”
Was it possible Peter had neglected to inform the pirate captain of the life cycles natural to Neverland’s inhabitants? It would be very like him to forget.
“‘To die will be an awfully big adventure,’” sneered a glint of emeralds from the corner by the door. Tink grew to full size and spat a gob of foaming saliva at the pirate’s polished boots. It landed accurately.
“You wrong me!” Hook cried. “I’m as brave as any—”
Lily—still being Smee—thrust one grimy hand over Hook’s mouth. “Enough yammerin’. Crew’s sleepin’ sound and won’t be comin’ to investigate anyways.” They puffed up into a semblance of the pirate captain himself—wickedly exaggerating the leanness of his vulpine face, the dramatic slant of his brows. “‘Break out the rum! Triple rations for every man jack of you!’” The roaring growl of the shapeshifter’s delivery served as excuse for their un-Hooklike sound.
“All hands accounted for?” Wendy asked. “We can just leave?” No wonder Tink was back.
“What about them plans? After I brung you all the way here to ruin ’em—don’t you wanna?”
Wendy looked over at Tink. No sign of jealousy. “Was that why? I have a hard time imagining you couldn’t have handled this on your own, Lily.”
“Whoa there! Stop that squirmin’ about, you!” Lily clamped their arm around the throat of the original Hook. He continued to struggle. Freeing one befrilled hand he tugged at its copy.
“Let him talk. No harm in that.”
“So you say.” But Lily dropped their hand from the pirate’s mouth and wiped it on the satin pantaloons he wore—not on their own.
“Papers,” Hook gasped. He bent forward as far as Lily’s throttling arm let him, gulping for breath. “Before you leave—sign what I’ve drawn up—I’ll not bother you—further. No pursuit—”
“What you’ve drawn up?” Wendy frowned. “Your notes?”
“Not those—agreements. Dressing gown—lower left pocket—”
Shifting her submachine so it nestled in her crooked right arm, Wendy felt for and found a folded square of stiff foolscap sheets. She opened it one-handed, read the first page, and snorted in derision. “When did you expect to trick me into going along with this?”
“Show me!” Tink demanded, moving to hover at her shoulder. Of course the fairy couldn’t read. Wendy pretended not to know that. “Poor penmanship, and it’s a very legalistic document. Shall I summarize? Basically this assigns all rights to reproducing my likeness—Ha!—or ‘any reminiscent renderings or associated memorabilia’—that’s vague enough!—to ‘Smee & Assoc.’ You, I take it?” She scowled at Hook, who left off his pitiful wheezing.
“For ‘a consideration’—the amount’s left blank! And I’ve framed similar contracts for you pair as well. You could each of you name a tidy sum if you chose. And you’d be immortal to boot!”
“Hunh. So you say—a tidy sum of what?” asked Lily. “Tell us why we shouldn’t simply slit yer gizzard here and now and have done with you?”
“Two words,” simpered the captain with a flirt of his preter-naturally long eyelashes. “Peter. And Pan.”
The Jolly Roger rocked. The empty bucket slid a small distance on the cabin’s floor. The scraping sound it made filled a minute’s silence.
“You must understand.” Hook stepped away from Lily. Who let him. “I’ve inquired most minutely into the cause of your disagreement with your former beau, Miss Darling.”
“You are going to die.”
“The point being, I gather, at whose hands?” Strutting over to the table he lifted the black-labeled bottle and poured himself a generous amount of the remaining wine. “Having bargained away the right to kill me yourself in exchange for Pan’s acquiescence to the presence at your side of your lovely companions—and they having made like treaties—I believe you have no option left at this point except to join forces with me. Or sign.”
“Here.” Wendy held the SK out to the shapeshifter.
“What?” But they took the gun.
“Just for a moment.” Wendy gripped the unsigned contracts with both hands and tore them in half. Tore the halves again. Again. Opened her fingers and let the pieces flutter down to add to the sad mess of suds and red stains.
“The pleasure of killing you will be Peter’s, ultimately, yes. But some lesser sweets we are entitled to claim for ourselves.”
“Tink.” Wendy undid the dressing gown and removed the sash. “Take this and tie him.” Lily gave the SK back to her and helped as well.
WENDY DROVE FAST. SHE TORE through the new night like the screams of the man tied up in the Invicta’s rear driver-side seat. Once they passed Skegness Lily had gotten rid of Hook’s gag. Who was there to hear him? At first Tink and Lily added their delighted cries to his wordless yowling.
But now they neared Boston. Too much noise would attract unwanted attention. Nor was Boston to be the only population center on their way to the Peaks. Wendy’s companions would have to subdue their prisoner anew. She told them to do what was needed.
A meaty slap resounded behind her, followed by loud snivels. “Will you hush!” Tink scolded. “We’ve hardly done anything to you yet!” The pirate subsided into low whimpers. “Only a few cuts—no worse than you’d expect from shaving!”
Lily chuckled hoarsely, turning in the passenger seat to comment. “It’s his blood. He don’t like to see how the stuff ’s so yellow.” The shapeshifter had abandoned their sly parody of Hook’s looks for the appearance of his nemesis, Peter. A little taller, a little heavier, a little swarthier about the cheeks—though he wasn’t exactly a grownup, any more than the original. Who would probably laugh heartily when he caught sight of Lily’s impersonation.
For that to happen, though, they had to reach him by take-off. No being pulled aside by police officers for investigations of screaming passengers.
And Hook’s wails had once again resumed, rising in volume. Reluctantly, Wendy slowed the Invicta to an idling standstill on the A52’s bleak emptiness. Setting the brake, she swiveled in her seat to assess the situation by fairy light.
Snot smeared the pirate’s bare upper lip, which quivered un-becomingly. But at least he wept more quietly now they’d stopped.
“Mayhap he’s grievin’ for his moustaches,” Lily opined. They had been fine, decorative specimens of hirsute masculinity, to be sure.
“Here—give him a hankie,” the shapeshifter added, offering their own.
The pirate’s hands were bound by the dressing gown’s sash. Tink took the used-looking wad of blue cambric with no sign of disgust and swiped it across Hook’s face several times, sopping up most of the tears and mucous.
Wendy smiled—encouragingly, she hoped. Perhaps gagging him again would be unnecessary. “That’s better, isn’t it? Anything else before we get going again to find Peter?”
“Before we—” Hook’s red lips hung apart wordlessly. A whine issued between them, building dangerously toward a shriek.
“What’s got you so scared? This can’t be the first time you’ve died.” Lily’s matter-of-fact tone of voice halted the pirate’s screeching mid-crescendo.
“You don’t like seeing your blood spilled?” Tink asked scornfully. “Ask for a blindfold—Peter won’t mind.”
“Maybe it is his first time.” Wendy bit her lip, recalling her fall from the empty sky to the hard surface of the ocean. Her aerial powers had vanished with the fairy dust blown off in the wind of her passage between Britain and Neverland. She well remembered the fear, the bone-breaking pain,
the frigid depths opening below, the shrinking circle of her conscious self—all the self she’d ever known. “It’s always the hardest.”
“I suppose.” Lily sounded doubtful. They died whenever they changed.
“Look here, Hook.” Wendy took her hands off the steering wheel to grasp his shoulders. “You lost. But you know we’re nothing but stories, right? ‘Our little life is rounded with a sleep—’ and then we wake up to be told again.
“When Peter kills you, you’ll die, strictly speaking. You won’t stay dead, though. ‘As long as children are innocent and heartless’ they’ll play at being you. You’ll die. But you’ll never be dead for long. Trust me.
“Now let’s finish up this adventure right. You two take care of him if he gives so much as a peep!”
Wendy turned to face forward again, checked the fit of her leather racing gauntlets, and gripped the wheel one-handed. Ignoring Hook’s quickly smothered protests she slipped the Invicta back in gear and headed straight on till morning.
THE SCION
S.R. CAMBRIDGE
THE WOMEN IN OUR FAMILY die young.
That’s what Nana liked to say.
Not that I ever heard it from Nana; Mam would often say it. Nana herself died when I was eight days old. She had eight days to cluck over me and stroke my hair—Aunt P once said to me she knew right then I’d be bold, born screaming like I was, my head of hair like a black bear’s—before she left the world pistols blazing on the road west to Georgian City. Nana had been forty-five, longer than a Zawisza woman had made it in years, longer than her four sisters. She’d taken out nine faithful with her.
Nana was buried in the wild, outside the gates of New Creemore. We had a cemetery, but Mam hadn’t wanted Nana put there. Nana liked being out better than being in, Mam explained to me. Like you, Nika. So I patted Nana’s grave for good luck every time I left New Creemore.
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