Modern Wicked Fairy Tales: Complete Collection

by Selena Kitt

  “You have to come meet the boys.”

  “The boys?”

  “I have boys too.” He sounded rather proud. “I collect them. Tink does her best to take care of them, but of course, you can’t really count on her all the time, especially when she gets into one of her moods.”

  “I bet.” Wendy made a face, having already been subject to Tink’s mood swings.

  “What they really need is someone to look after them…” Peter explained, leading her down the stairs into the large living area off the kitchen. Wendy blinked and rubbed her eyes, sure she was seeing things. Everywhere she looked, young men were draped and curled and stretched out on the floor, the sofa, chairs, even one sitting atop the grand piano in front of a large door wall, singing at the top of his lungs while another boy played. Most of them were in various stage of undress—lounge pants or boxers with no shirts, a few of them in just briefs and a pair of socks.

  Wendy gaped at Peter. “These aren’t boys… they’re… our age!”

  “Well, technically, I suppose.” Peter shrugged, waving to a boy who called out his name, steering Wendy into the room. The boys were looking at her, quite curious. “But they’re all rather lost, you know. None of them can find their way.”

  “To where?” She frowned up at him, her brow knitted. Sometimes Peter seemed to talk in riddles.

  “Anywhere.” Peter slipped an arm around her waist as the boys started to get up, coming to find out who this girl in their midst might be. “So they stay here, at Neverland.”

  “Do they all stay here?” she whispered as they drew nearer.

  Peter scoffed. “You thought I was all alone in this great big house?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  The boys were closer, looking, but not asking about her, not yet. The music was loud, probably too loud for any of them to hold a normal conversation. Even the piano-singer was having a hard time hearing himself over the noise.

  “And no girls?” Wendy inquired, the display of masculine flesh around her a heady sight, like a smorgasbord of men.

  Peter grinned. “Just you, now.”

  It was a prospect that made her dizzyingly uncomfortable, although not entirely in a bad way. Her thoughts were interrupted by the swing of a door and in came Tink, changed out of her green sparkles, trading that for red feathers and sequins, including a red and white boa wrapped around her neck that made her look a little like a tall, blond candy cane.

  “Peter!” Tink blew the boy three kisses, leaving red lipstick prints on her big palms.

  Wendy couldn’t help but state the obvious. “I think Tink likes you.”

  “Of course she does,” Peter agreed. “But I don’t swing that way.”

  She would have asked which way he meant, but she had a feeling she knew, given what was happening already in the periphery, men kissing and touching and rubbing flesh through thin layers of clothing at the edges of the room. To Wendy, it looked like everyone here except maybe Peter swung that particular way!

  “I have something fun for you, Wendy-dear!” Tink’s voice dripped saccharine, the false sweetness leaving the girl feeling numb as the tall blond approached. “I made it up special, just for you!”

  “Tink,” Peter warned, frowning and starting to pull Wendy away as Tink opened the little tin box in her hand.

  Wendy was too curious for her own good. “What is it?”

  “Pixie dust.” The blond leaned in and blew hard with her red-painted lips, the white stuff inside puffing up into Wendy’s face in a cloud. She coughed and gasped and sneezed and Peter swore, but it was far too late for that. The world was already spinning, her feet going out from under her so fast she was hardly aware of Peter catching her and bringing her down to a sofa amidst a sea of concerned faces.

  “Goodness,” Wendy whispered, her eyes seeking out Peter and finding him. “That’s… lovely.”

  “Wicked Tink.” Peter grinned at the way Wendy stretched and smiled on the couch. “She’s gone and given you a happy, hasn’t she?”

  “Is she really all ours, Peter?” One of the boys asked, eyes wide.

  Peter nodded. “If she’ll have us.”

  “I’m Curly,” a boy with dark curls announced. “And this is Nibs.” The boy beside him nodded a hello, his hair long and straight and dyed a deep, jet black to match the eyeliner and dark lipstick he wore.

  “I’m Slightly.” It was the boy from the top of the piano, his hair bright red, smiling down at her now with laugh-crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “On account of I’m just a smidge over slightly-too-handsome.”

  Wendy laughed like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard, and maybe it was. Her body sure thought so—it was tingling, alive with good humor.

  “His name is Edward Slight,” Peter interrupted, making a face. “Oh, here are the twins.”

  For a moment, Wendy had thought she was seeing double, those two same faces and reddish-blond curls poised over her.

  “There are far too many of you to remember all your names,” Wendy apologized, half-sitting on the sofa now, seeing them all surrounding her. Twenty? Thirty? How many rooms did this house have anyway? Where did they all sleep?

  “You’ll learn us all,” one of the twins assured her.

  “Over time,” the other twin piped up.

  “Okay, let the girl breathe, would you?” Peter reached for her hand, pulling Wendy to standing. The world had stopped swimming, but now it was glowing, all warm and fuzzy around the edges. It was delicious.

  “I love this song.” Wendy put her arms boldly around the boy’s neck and tucked her head under his chin. “Let’s dance.”

  She’d never heard the song before in her life and didn’t care, except that it was slow and pulsing and alive as they rocked together in the middle of the floor. They were the only couple for a moment or two, but then boys started to join them, twined together, limbs wrapped, hard flat bellies pressed together, navels kissing.

  She thought she’d never seen anything so interesting before and she couldn’t help staring as Nibs and Curly kissed each other like lovers, the pink flash of their tongues almost as much of a surprise as a glimpse of the pierced stud in Nibs’ tongue.

  “Are you shocked, Wendy Dahling?” Peter whispered, tucking a piece of sandy-blond hair behind her ear for better access. His breath was hot and it made her shiver.

  “Terribly,” she whispered back, nuzzling his neck, feeling him shift his weight in response. She was lost in the feel of him, long and lean, the way his hands pressed her lower back, but she noticed someone missing and couldn’t help remarking on it. “Where did Tink go?”

  “She’s pouting.” Peter’s chuckled. “I think she wanted to dance with me instead.”

  “I can’t blame her.” She couldn’t believe she was admitting it, but the way Peter’s arms tightened around her alleviated any of her self-doubt. Why else had he invited her here? Wendy knew how the world worked, especially when it came to men—or boys, who were just slightly less mature versions of the same. She knew Peter would demand payment eventually. She hadn’t expected any less.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” she suggested, glancing around at the plethora of sex going on in the room. For some reason, it all seemed natural, the way the boys were mingled together on couches and bending over chairs, a cacophony of flesh, playing in time with the pounding music.

  “We can’t leave yet.” Peter scoffed. “The party’s just started.”

  What did he want? She wondered, still feeling wild and dazed as he led her over to a sofa. Curly and Nibs were on one end, oblivious to anything else but themselves. Slightly was on the other end with a boy Wendy didn’t recognize or didn’t remember, but she wasn’t looking much at his face anyway, as the boy’s considerable cock was out and being swallowed at great length by Slightly, who knelt between the unknown boy’s thighs.

  “Sit with me, Wendy-girl.” Peter pulled her into his lap and she felt the evidence of his arousal through his jeans. So he did want so
mething, she mused, wrapping her arms around his neck, feeling Nibs shifting behind her, giving out a low moan. Curly must have been doing something nice to him, although she couldn’t see what from her vantage point.

  “What do you want from me, Peter Pann?” Might as well just come out with it, she reasoned. Put all their cards on the table.

  “Nothing.” He shrugged, smiling.

  She touched his nose with the tip of her finger like he had with her. “I don’t believe you.”

  He opened his mouth to protest but they both heard the plaintive, “Wendy!?” call from the stairs. She jumped up and Peter followed, although by that time she’d already ushered eight-year-old Michael back upstairs, thankful she’d reached him before he could get around the corner and see what was going on in the living room—not that Michael and John hadn’t seen worse, living where they had.

  Wendy tucked him back in next to his sleeping brother, kissing him on the forehead.

  “I had a bad dream about a giant fairy,” Michael whispered.

  “Did you?” Wendy blinked at him in the light of the nearly-full moon.

  “She was scary.” Michael’s thumb went to his mouth. Sometimes he still did that, when he was very tired or anxious. “She told me she was going to eat me up if I didn’t find you.”

  Wendy glanced behind, wondering where she might find Tink. “Are you sure it was a dream?”

  “She had wings,” Michael mumbled around his thumb, eyes closing already.

  Shutting the door behind her, she found Peter sitting on the edge of her twin bed. How had he managed to find this room for her, with so many boys in the house?

  “I’ll take them somewhere else tomorrow.” Wendy kept her voice to a whisper, sitting next to Peter on the bed. “We can’t stay here and impose on you.”

  “You can’t go.” Peter’s hand found hers in the darkness. The window was open and the sound of the swamp outside was night music. “I just found you.”

  She looked at the moonlit windowsill, felt the warm breeze on her face. “I’m just not sure this is the place for us.”

  “Where else is there for you to go?” Peter asked. The boy had a point. He squeezed her hand. “I promise, I’ll make Tink behave.”

  “And what do you want in return?”

  He shrugged. “I told you—nothing.”

  “You have to want something.”

  “Okay, then.” He pulled the covers down, exposing the sheets beneath. “One thing.”

  She knew it. But she asked anyway. “What?”

  “A goodnight kiss.” Peter patted the bed.

  “And that’s all?” she asked, suspicious.

  “Yes.” Peter laughed, wrestling her around onto the bed and tucking the covers in around her. “Go to sleep. You’ve had a very long day.”

  She sighed. “I’ve had a long life.”

  Peter’s mouth was magical, his lips impossibly soft, his breath like sweet nectar. Just one kiss, so very brief and tender. Wendy whimpered when they parted.

  “I’m going to throw you a birthday party,” he announced.

  She smiled. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to.” He sprang up from his spot on the bed, going over to open the door. She saw him framed in the light from the hallway. “Good night, Wendy-girl.”

  “Goodnight,” she whispered as he closed the door behind him, not quite believing that he was going, that she was letting him go. But he was gone, back down to join the merriment, she imagined, and that thought had her wondering if she maybe needed to see a therapist as much as the folks at the foster care home said she did. What was she thinking, bringing John and Michael into this craziness?

  Maybe it was just Tink’s “fairy dust” that had her feeling warm and high and fine with everything. Maybe she’d re-think it all in the light of day, pack their bags, and go. But right then, with Peter gone and the lonely sound of crickets in the distance, she found herself very disappointed that she hadn’t insisted that he stay.

  * * * *

  Peter had the house going mad, planning for Wendy’s eighteenth birthday party. He’d had just a few days to put it all together, and he’d even enlisted Tink’s help. The only thing that bothered Wendy was his plan for Michael and John.

  “I’m telling you, they’ll be fine!” Peter reassured her for the umpteenth time, helping her carry the boys’ bags down the stairs. “Every little kid wants to spend the weekend at Disney World!”

  Well, she had to admit, he was probably right. She just wasn’t sure the twins were the right people to be taking care of them. It was like the blind leading the blind. Or the immature leading the immature. They were just boys themselves. How could the twins be responsible for her little brothers?

  Of course, how could she? She was just a kid herself, really.

  It was John and Michael who finally convinced her, popping up around her uncontrollably like Mexican jumping beans. They were desperate to go, Peter was paying—although she was afraid to ask where all the money came from—and there might not ever be another opportunity like it.

  “You both be good.” She kissed Michael’s cheek, and he accepted that willingly enough, throwing his arms around her neck in a hug. John was more reticent, wiping her kiss away, but he let her kiss the top of his head without rubbing that off before he got into the car.

  “And you two, too!” She hugged the first twin—Marmaduke—and then the other—Binky. She knew their names now but still couldn’t tell them apart. “Take good care of my babies.”

  “We will!” They agreed simultaneously. One of the twins got into the driver’s seat, the other in the passenger’s side, and Wendy waved to the boys and they to her, out the back window, until the car disappeared around the corner.

  “Okay, back to work.” Peter ushered Wendy back into the house. “You go help Tink in the kitchen.”

  Wendy made a face. “I’d rather be slowly disemboweled.”

  “I’m sure she’d be happy to oblige.”

  “Very funny.” She nudged him with her hip. “Where are you going?”

  “I have more surprises to plan.” He gave her a push toward the kitchen. “Now go!”

  The kitchen was the only room in the house that wasn’t simply lined with bookshelves. The living room, bedrooms, even the dining room, had wall to ceiling shelves crammed with books, books and more books. Only the kitchen and the bathrooms had been spared.

  Tink was on her knees, rummaging through a cupboard and swearing like a sailor under her breath.

  “Hi Tink.”

  “Ow!” Tink swore again, holding her head where she’d banged it on the bottom of an open drawer. “Warn a girl, would you?”

  “Sorry,” Wendy apologized, although she wasn't sure she was really sorry. “I thought I was.”

  Tink straightened, still rubbing her head. “What do you want?”

  “Peter said I should help you.”

  “He did, huh?” Tink sighed. “Okay, here. Sit. Can you paint?”

  Wendy snorted. “Paint by numbers maybe.”

  “Oy.” Tink threw up her hands. “Okay, see these flower petals? Paint them all pink.”

  “I can do that.” Wendy eyed the white pastiche petals doubtfully.

  “Good.” Tink busied herself at the sink, rinsing and stacking dirty dishes. Tink seemed to be the only one in the place who actually did any housework or cooking. Wendy had offered to take some of the burden—it was the least she could do, she figured—but Tink had practically hissed and spit at the idea.

  “So tell me something, Tink.” Wendy looked at the three-tier cake on the table, wondering if Tink might have poisoned it just out of spite. But of course, if she knew Peter might eat it, Tink wouldn't dare. “Why do you hate me?”

  “I don’t hate you.” Tink was quick to reply but then she hesitated, frowning at Wendy. “I just love Peter.”

  “I can understand that.” Of course she could. Peter was easy to love. She was halfway there herself.


  “I don’t want him to get hurt,” Tink went on. Of course, that wasn't everything, and they both knew it.

  “I don’t either,” Wendy agreed. “See, we’re really on the same side.”

  Tink raised her waxed eyebrows. “I’m not sure I’d go that far.”

  Wendy went on painting petals Pepto-Bismol pink. She didn't have the heart to tell Tink that she hated pink and she figured Tink probably wouldn't care. Or more likely, she would be secretly delighted she’d picked the thing Wendy liked least.

  “How long have you known him?” Wendy figured they might as well talk about the one thing they had in common.

  “Two years.” Tink had a secret smile on her face. “He got me off the streets.”

  Wendy glanced at Tink’s outfit—a black sequin mini-dress under a flour stained apron. You can take the girl off the streets, but...

  “And how long have you all been here?”

  “At Neverland?” Tink shrugged. “About that long.”

  “Did he get all the other boys off the streets too?” Wendy was thinking about the other night, the way the boys had touched each other, making out in all corners of the room, still not sure if her memory was clouded by her experience with Tink’s “pixie dust.”

  “Most of them.” Tink lined up appetizers on cookie sheets.

  “So what do they all do now?” Wendy sat back to admire her work. Painting flower petals wasn't rocket science or anything, but she thought she was doing a satisfactory job.

  “They live here.”

  Wendy looked at Tink, thoughtful. “But… how does Peter pay for everything?”

  Tink didn't reply for a long time, arranging canapés on the tray. Finally, she said, “Maybe you should ask Peter that.”

  The phone rang and Tink grabbed for it, looking relieved. It was the old fashioned kind that hung on the wall with a twisty cord attached.

  “Hello?”

  Wendy turned her attention back to the task at hand, smiling to herself at all the preparations Peter had undertaken just to give her a happy birthday. She could count on one hand the times she’d had a birthday cake, let alone a party. The last party she could remember was her tenth, and it had been a downright disaster, ending with her drunken stepfather sending all of her friends home and then doing unspeakable things to her while John and Michael cried in the other room.