by Andrea Jones
“You hated being alone—”
“Do not underestimate yourself.”
“I know because I can feel it. I am more to you than just a desire.”
“Just a desire? Desire should be pursued with all our abilities. It is the elixir that brings us life, the muse who inspires our endeavors.” He pulled her closer. “Deny your desire and you end your story.”
Her eyes burned bright. “I came to the Neverland following my desire. I won’t deny you any more.”
His grip on her waist was so tight it pained her. “You declared it when first we met. We have found each other.” He bent to kiss her. Her toes dug into the carpet and her hands dug into his hair as she reached up recklessly to join him. She would have him now, she had entered his game, and its risks set her blood to pounding. Just one of his kisses was worth the price she would pay. She thought of the cost, and when he let her go, she was shameless. His half-smile slipped to her lips, taunting him.
“I followed someone else, thinking he was you.”
He matched her. “So now you are playing with your power. Very good! Now you are my mistress. What is it like, at last, to taste power?”
“Like your rum, like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.” She was drunk with it. “Like you.”
“Then drink deeply, and savor every drop.”
She did, dragging him toward her, tasting the liquor again on his lips, but she couldn’t get enough. Craving sensation now, her nerves all on edge, she was breathless, and demanding. “Show me how to get my fill.”
“Ah, that is where my will comes into play. I want you never to be satisfied.”
“You would have more revenge? More of your exquisite torture?”
“Exactly! And for myself as well. Sweet agony, and may it never cease.”
“I am learning. I warn you now, you may get your wish.”
“My mistress grants my wishes. An ideal type of slavery! But are you really ready to take me on? Let us test your mettle again. Since you command it, you shall have the truth. All of it.” Still afflicted, she sobered as he held her at arm’s length, his gaze raking her face. “I have yet another reason to show mercy.” His smile could not contain his satisfaction. “My vengeance on Pan is complete. More than that, I am grateful to him! Very conveniently for me, he tempted you out of your safe little bed behind the window, and seduced you into mine.”
Gazing into his triumphant eyes, she stood engulfed in fever, breathing hard, anchored in his damaged arms while the room pitched and her thoughts careened. He had hunted her, tempted her, and seduced her. And so had Pan. And, in truth, she had tempted each of them, to gain her own desires.
And she regretted none of it. It was all part of her experience. She concentrated and pushed her emotion away, and in its place sprung a new desire. In the end, her nails tearing at his chest and at the strap imprisoning him, one leg winding around his and her body clinging to him, she uttered one brutal fact. “But I didn’t have the strength. I couldn’t open it.” Her eyes challenged him. “I’m not in your bed.”
He laughed, leisurely, and the dark, sculpted posts and woven tapestries of his bunk loomed behind him. “You think not?” He closed his hand over hers, over the clip. “Yet again, vixen, you tempt me from my purpose.”
She was ruthless. She sneered in his face, and hissed at him, “It is just as well, if your purpose is to murder Wendy!”
He stiffened, but she ignored the warning. Filled with a barbarism she didn’t understand, she thrust again, “Will you flinch when I pursue my purpose? When I draw your blood to stain my hand?”
But he read her heart, again. “You’re feeling it already, aren’t you, Jill? It’s the blood-rage. But we will kill your Wendy with kindness.” He shoved her away from him, snatched her bodily into his arms, and strode across his cabin. He flung her onto his bunk.
“Now you’re in my bed. Have your fill of that. Alone!” He turned his back as she rolled over and raised herself up to crouch catlike on her hands and hip, spitting fire.
“But I want you to—”
“Smee,” he interrupted, calling coolly toward the door. Mr. Smee entered immediately.
“Aye, Sir.”
“Fetch me a shirt.” Hook turned to her, stone-faced once more. “The ‘lady’ in my bed needs to sharpen her new claws.” Hook lowered his chin to stare at her, darkly. “And gather her strength.”
It was not long after they left her there that the lady, her features wild, prowling the cabin on silent cat feet, noticed the bottle. It had tipped over, rolled on the runner, and spilled most of its not make-believe but very real contents onto the swirling patterns and varied colors of the exotic Orient.
She closed her eyes, tense. The design was too detailed to remember perfectly.
And she didn’t care. She picked up the bottle and toasted the door, staring at it. Darkly. “To your good health!” Then she snatched her dagger from the desk and took the bottle to bed. She could use a good, strong drink while she designed the details of her first kill.
Chapter 24
All or Nothing
Peter yanked the curtain open again. “Tink! Tink, where are you?” He knew she couldn’t hear him, but it felt good to hear a voice. A good, strong one. A wonderful voice, belonging to a wonderful boy.
He had heard another voice today that he hadn’t expected to hear ever again. A young man’s. Slightly, returned from his final adventure. And he had called not for Peter, but for Wendy. Well, she wasn’t here. Peter had pitched Slightly’s acorn into the fire. Now he rubbed his sore head and stepped over the broken shards of the medicine bottle to throw himself into his chair. All alone.
Slightly lost, then found, and grown away. The Twins at the clearing. Wendy’s brothers and Curly flown back through the window. He’d bring them back soon, and a dress for Wendy, one of her mother’s. She’d like that. She’d say it was lovely. And he would bring back a new medicine bottle. But Nibs and Tootles… his green eyes smoldered. She had given his best fighters to the pirates! Probably in a silly effort to save himself in some kind of accord. And she gave herself up, too, as she promised Hook that day. Only now she couldn’t fly away from Hook.
It would make her rescue more difficult; he’d have to get more dust. “Tink!” He jumped up and circled the room, then stopped by the tree trunk. Placing his hands on its bark, he slid them around the back. In the shadows behind the tree his fingers bumped along until they found the crack. His nails pried at it. With a groan, the hidden panel fell open. Peter grabbed up a candle and smiled to himself. He had something even better than fairy dust. His secret cache. His armory.
Here amid the stockpile, Peter hoarded his most prized trophy. It shone in the glare as it had shone that day in the sunlight, when it blinded the tyrant of the Jolly Roger, just long enough for Peter to mutilate him… the rapier he took from Hook along with his hand. And here were knives, many knives. All belonging to Lost Boys, truly lost now. But the two boys Wendy gave to Hook were worse than lost. Peter swore to himself that in his bold attack tomorrow he would win them back, and their loyalty too, along with their boots. He smiled. He had always promised them boots, and he’d kept his word. And he had promised Wendy the Roger. She would own it by tomorrow!
Peter tucked the best of the knives in his belt and gripped the rapier. He would wield this one in place of the old sword plundered by Nibs and Tootles. Falling back, he swung it, making it sing in the air. His arm felt fine, the scar didn’t trouble him. It was another trophy, like a tattoo! He danced with the sword, feeling its power, getting to know it. He thrust his way across the room, and then he spied the golden lion skin on the bed. “Dark and sinister man, have at thee!” And he pierced it, dragged it up on the sword, and drove it into the wall. The hide hung there, the firelight casting its massive shadow over the bed. He had brought this lion down; he would bring down the lion of the sea, too! Bunching his fists, Peter punched the air. He felt his muscles swelling, pulsing with strength, and he filled
his lungs and crowed. The sound of his voice crowded the underground cavern, and then it was gone. Like his boys.
There was only one way. A duel. Kill the captain, and the crew would be his to command. Tamed at last! Wendy would look at him with stars in her eyes, as she did the night he first awakened her. She would be grateful to him for ridding the boys of the pirate threat. He would rescue Wendy. He would save them all. He couldn’t wait for the Indians, nor for the croc. He would challenge Hook in the morning, when the sun was blind-bright again, and the next sword he won he would cross with this one, and Wendy would see them every day over the mantel and know that Peter Pan was far more clever than any pirate king. She had asked for a weapon. He might even present the new sword to her. But not for keeps.
Peter took up a stick and poked the fire until it crackled, then he shoved the fairy gauze into the flame, to blacken. He had unknotted it from his neck, but only after Tootles held him at sword point while Nibs looted his trophies. The two of them— the traitors— had stuffed his treasures in a bag and struggled up the shaft. The mantel was nearly bare now, and his sheath was empty. Wendy had borrowed his dagger! Angrily, Peter sprang up to search the shelf again. The acorn was there. Nibs had left that, and the jar with its hawk and crocodile design. Peter grabbed the acorn, rubbed his finger along its scar, and tossed it in the fire to roast with Slightly’s. He had given Wendy real kisses this morning. That was enough. He watched her green strip of gauze as it shrank back and curled, a viper in the nest.
Beside the hearth, he spied her workbasket. He opened it and scrabbled through its contents until he found it, the thimble with which she had kissed him. He slipped it on his finger, as he had watched her do countless times in the evening in front of the hearth. Settling in his chair, he stared at the fire, his eyes and his hair glowing in its light, and tapped the shiny thimble on his chin.
Thimbles and acorns. Kisses and swords. He shook his head.
Girls were so hard to understand.
* * *
She heard him calling her. It broke her heart, again. Peter needed her. He needed her now! Jewel perched, a twinkle on the dusty bark of the tree, and she covered her ears and dimmed. He had a wonderful voice, although nothing like her master’s. She had followed the instructions her master’s voice outlined, guiding the three boys to London and watching the window close, and on her return she was commanded to watch the hideout, yet had nothing to report except his crowing.
She would slip down in the night, when the crickets chirped above and he slept below, and she would nestle in his hair. That was allowed. But Peter mustn’t see her and he mustn’t feel her; she must be just another cricket. The time wasn’t right. She trusted her master to tell her when. He knew best. Stretching her wings, she sighed. Until then, she would carry out her orders, hungry and hopeful.
But the Wendy was taken at last! She was a prisoner aboard the ship. It wouldn’t be long now. Once the Wendy turned pirate and became his slave, too, he wouldn’t need Jewel so often. But Jewel’s light sharpened as a familiar pang of jealousy pierced her soul. She wished she knew. Why did her master want that Wendy? Why did Peter want her? She shook her head.
Girls were so hard to understand.
* * *
The monster dragged itself forward, strangely alone. The companion tick was absent now, and prey was easier to trap. Having gorged its purged and empty belly on waterfowl, the crocodile had turned its lumbering steps toward the forest. Victims were readily snapped up here, too, and the Island was fast becoming Paradise for this reptile that had been so long the victim of its enemy’s cunning.
It had been far too dependent for its meals on the quick creature with the low whistle and the shining blade. The larger prey had not been impossible to snatch, but required much stealth. Only the unwary— the fledglings, cubs, and children— had been easily snared. But the constant smile on the animal’s face assumed meaning now that the tick had been exorcized. The green hide slithered along the floor of the forest, in a direct line to the last place it had scented out and confronted its favored meat. The beach on the bay. Insofar as this beast could think, its thoughts were very pleasant.
Creeping through the mottled light of the underbrush, it was invisible but for the blood-red eyes. Unblinking eyes. The squawkings of the parrots and the roarings of big game affected it not at all. More interesting to its ear were the sounds of monkeys overhead, chattering among the trees. A family jumped and quarreled above, too noisily to hear the swish of flesh on the grass. These plump primates were entirely too free, plucking at one another, frisking and irreverent, and unaware of the predator below. The leaves among the branches rustled and the limbs bounced, and not one of the family saw— nor heard— the murderous log rising.
Parallel to the forest floor, inches above it, the smiling monster looked up in silence, parted its jaws, and floated higher. The monkeys raced up and down their branch, innocent of evil. They never had time to scream.
* * *
“Rowan. Lightly.” The Old One beckoned from her post on a shady blanket outside the council lodge. Her granddaughter leaned down to support her as she adjusted to sit upright. The old eyes didn’t miss the look the maiden aimed at the men, black-lashed and coy. The girl was learning to use her weapons. The woman gestured to the braves and they sat down cross-legged in front of her, politely ignoring the girl and waiting respectfully.
“Trouble stirs your spirit. What have you seen?”
Eagerly, Rowan answered, “We have been at the mercy of the Black Chief, and he allowed us to go in peace. He said for the woman’s sake, Lightly and I must stay on our mountain.”
Concern etched Lightly’s face as his gaze sought the crone’s. “Hook sends warning that he knows of our talks with Peter. Two of my brothers are now among his crew. They must have told him.”
The Old One closed her eyes and leaned against the lodge. White wisps of hair straggled in the breeze. “So now it is brother against brother?” After a moment she opened her eyes and shook her head. “No, the council has acted wisely to deny the boy’s request. You will bear the message to him in the morning.”
The friends’ shoulders relaxed, and they sent each other relieved glances. Rowan turned to the woman to lay down the other matter that troubled his spirit. “Old One, we have seen my mother. I ask what the elders decided.”
She blinked slowly. “Rowan, Lily and the others have broken with tradition. It will take time for the tribe to understand.” She looked from Rowan to Lightly. “Always, there is fear of the new.”
With a heart too stout for silence, Rowan frowned. “Fear of a new baby?”
Her bent posture grew rigid. “It is not like you to take advantage of my good will. But I understand that you begin to think for yourself, and that is well. No, not the baby, but the father. We have never allowed relations with the pirates, and the People distrust the unknown, the untried. But it is my hope that by her example, Lily will teach us to open our minds.” She reached up to her granddaughter, who slipped her hand in the wrinkled one. “And our hearts.”
Rowan set his hand, strong and brown, on his partner’s knee. “She has already taught me that much.”
She patted his arm, her touch skimming his skin like a whisper. “You have the courage of a warrior. I need no naming ceremony to understand that. But it will take place at the next moon.”
Lightly smiled at Rowan, and watched him grow taller. The girl with black lashes giggled.
The young men ignored her, politely.
* * *
When she woke, she was in his bed, on his ship, in the sea. The wind had risen and the ship rocked her like a cradle. Through the open window floated the endless hushing of the bay waters. Alone in the captain’s quarters, Wendy’s wild energy had been directed into a plan of action, and over time she eased into the rhythm of the waves, soothed by the long, reassuring words of the sturdy wooden beams that held his world together.
She sat up, alert to her situation. Here, in
this place that knew him so intimately, the force of his presence lingered. Yet even as she had lain with his nearness, he allowed her solitude and reflection. Now the flame he had ignited was steadier, but it still burned.
Once again her flesh began to prickle with both panic and anticipation. Her heart sped. She seized the bottle and tipped it up to drain the last swallow of rum, tasting it thoroughly before releasing its fire to flow all the way down to the pit of her stomach, and lower. She couldn’t stop herself from writhing in its heat, nor did she wish to, and her back arched and her legs moved instinctively, while the palms of her hands pushed at them. She was alone, waiting for the mystery, and he whom she had chosen to guide her through it.
Feeling under the pillow for the sharp metal of her dagger, she reassured herself, then rolled off the bed to stand for an uneasy moment, regaining her sea legs. The cabin was dark, with one thick candle shining in a lantern. It hung near the day bed, and her heart sank as she perceived the carving of the imprisoned swan. She remembered now; she was no longer the Wendy-bird. And soon she would no longer be Wendy. She was locked in this beautiful cage by her own desire. And his. Her lip lifted in distaste; Pan with his medicine had, ironically, sealed his Wendy’s fate.
Other changes had occurred while she slept. The Oriental runner vanished, and in its place were satin slippers. The couch appeared to be recovered in splendid colors. Wendy pushed herself away from the bed and stepped toward it, light-footed. There on the couch were her things, the plunder from the hideout— her pouches of powder and shot, her book, even her eagle feather.
Softening, she lifted the book, handling it as if it brimmed, like a cup full of wine. She touched it to her lips as if to sample it. And then she embraced it with all her heart as she smelled the dry scent of leather and it carried her back to the hours before, and ahead to the hours to come. She shivered, releasing a cascade of warmth to flow into her limbs. Tucking the book in her palm, she raised her green-gauze skirts in both hands and held them to her face, closing her eyes, breathing in his scent and falling in with the motion of the sea.