Hook breathed in, shaking a bit, trying to rid himself of the poison that had just exploded into his veins, his heart.
He shut his eyes. “Replenishing his stock of Lost Boys, no doubt,” he said, refocusing the conversation.
“Most likely.”
“How long do you expect him gone? A week, two?”
“How long, sir?”
Hook made a frustrated sound and looked away from Starkey. This fool place. Whenever he mentioned time, the most competent men turned to idiots; no one had any notion as to what it was.
“Never mind, Starkey. Leave me.”
Starkey tipped his hat and headed back onto the ship. Hook paced even more feverishly now. Pan was gone. Of course he was. He could feel the island’s wickedness soaking into his innards. It made it all the easier to give into that very same wicked streak in himself. He smiled and strode up to the ship. Upon arriving at his cabin, he reached inside and took up his sword, then closed the door and walked around the deck, twirling it absentmindedly. When Smee saw him, he held up his hands and gave him an appraising look.
The ice had actually warmed Hook up, and he laughed out loud at this. “Not to worry. I’ve not had a drop of rum.”
The fact that he could once again form coherent words seemed to satisfy Smee, so he tottered off. Hook set his elbows on the ship’s edge and continued smiling, looking almost dreamily out over the water and the deep turquoise ice floating in shards atop it. He breathed deeply. The air, for once, tasted like air. Not like vanilla, or the ash of Pan’s fear, or the metal he’d tasted the night he’d killed Bibble. He’d known then that Pan was slaughtering his too-tall Lost Boys. Blood and iron in the air. But not today. Today, it tasted, simply, like water and salt and the wind above the sea.
A time without Pan. A time without provocation and flying and arrogance. That ever-present feeling of irritation that was always tickling him under the collar disappeared, and he was free to simply sit and taste the nothingness.
As he gazed out over the ocean, he suddenly stepped back and tilted his head. He squinted and looked again, then knit his eyebrows together and called for Starkey.
“Aye, Captain?”
“Do you see that, over there?”
He pointed out just across the sea at a small island off the coast of the mainland, one he’d somehow never seen. There was something off about it, as though it wasn’t fully real. But the longer he stared at it, the harder the lines became, the more vibrant the colors, until within minutes the dream-like peculiarity had worn off.
“Aye,” said Starkey, a wistful smile turning his lips. “Keelhaul Isle.”
Hook tilted his head. “Why have I never seen it before?”
“It only shows up when Pan’s gone, Captain, when the darker parts of Neverland show their faces. It’s a place built on drunkenness and lechery.”
Hook smiled then, eyes alight. “Drunkenness and lechery? Sounds the ideal place for a pirate ship to make bed.”
“It does indeed, Captain.”
“Well, what are we waiting for? To Keelhaul!”
A hearty cheer rose up from the men, and Hook looked eagerly toward the island. He was more than ready to lose himself in a bit of debauchery.
It did not take long to reach Keelhaul, which was surprising, given the amount of ice floating in the sea. But Peter’s absence seemed to give Hook new life, new power, and perhaps it gifted the Main as well. It was faster—larger, almost. The dark wood gleamed like he’d never seen it do. Everything else in Neverland was chalky and dulled and pastel, but the Spanish Main was vibrant. Without Pan to keep him and his dream in check, Hook could feel it in his bones, as though the muscles in his arms were harder, the blood itself rushing through his veins with more enthusiasm.
When they docked, he stepped off the boat into the darkness. It was night there, though he could look out on the rest of the Never Sea and see that it was bright everywhere else. Perhaps it was always dark on Keelhaul Isle. This suited him just fine.
What wasn’t black as night was cast in a glow that was almost red, like an ember, and the place smelled like smoke and heavy perfume. Men laughed loudly, bawdily, and women joined them. It wasn’t quiet, like the Main often was. But the grimy ruckus gave Hook an odd peace that the mainland never had.
He stood there for a moment, cracking his long fingers with his hook. This place, it seemed, had not fallen under the murky spell that had overtaken the rest of Neverland. It was teeming with raw, dirty color and life. There were women and men alike running along the dimly lit cobblestone streets, some plundering storefronts, some playing raucous instruments (and not very well), some drowning themselves in alcohol.
Hook’s crew joined him on the dock, and he smiled widely.
“What will ye have us do, Captain?”
He shrugged. “Whatever you wish.”
The pirates scattered, but Thatcher, Smee, and Cecco remained with Hook. He ignored them, largely, strutting through the black streets, tall and imposing and dreadfully elegant. When he passed, women and men bent and whispered urgently to one another, and stared, wide-eyed, at him. This gave him pause, but he walked on as though he didn’t notice.
“Captain?” Thatcher inquired.
“Indeed.”
“That storefront over there, it seems unoccupied.”
Hook looked in the direction Thatcher was speaking of. It was dark, and the door was closed. Through the dimness, however, he could make out the jewelry glimmering gaudily in the windows. He raised an eyebrow at Thatcher. “Observant.”
“It’s a jewelry store, Captain,” the man continued. “Full of gold.”
“Get to it, man.”
Smee and Cecco and Thatcher bounded off for it, and Hook stopped in the middle of the street, arms folded across his chest, grinning smugly as his boys slammed down the door and raided the place. Within minutes, they were heading toward him, arms full of treasure. True delight warmed him and he laughed. Keelhaul was a pirate’s paradise. He wished for a moment that Peter was dead (which was not a new sentiment) or stuck in London (which was new) so that they could make port here instead of the child’s island.
Hook walked on across Keelhaul, casually taking note of the landscape and inhabitants thereof, seeing more and more awed onlookers. The stars here were clouded by the smoke and dirt that lifted into the air, and the scent of alcohol and unwashed bodies lingered in the darker, dirtier corners of the place. The taste of spice melted on his tongue when he breathed in, and every now and then, he caught the distinct aroma of heavy incense.
There was a definite spring in his step as he and his followers made their way through the dark streets, candlelit lamps flickering and casting shadows on their faces.
Hook stopped when he reached a particularly dilapidated and wholly unimpressive little wooden building. It was glowing from the inside, and a little light just barely illuminated a crooked, rotting sign that hung over the doorway. It read “The Crow’s Nest.”
Hook pushed the door open with a slow creak and walked inside, enjoying the hushed silence that fell over the occupants when he did. There was an old piano in the corner that no one was playing, and a barkeep with a salt-and-pepper beard who was sloshing alcohol over the mugs he handled. Hook first wandered to the bar.
“What’ll you have?” said the barkeep in a voice that suggested that he’d sampled more rum that night than he should’ve.
The captain brought his hook to his face, considering, a force of habit from when it had been a hand. The barkeep’s eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped.
“Hook? Are you—Captain Hook?”
“I am.”
The barkeep leaned just slightly backward, but Hook did not miss it.
“Drink’s on me, Captain,” he said, and he handed him a glass of rum.
Hook brought it to his lips and leaned back against the bar, eyeing the room. The only men from his crew there were Jukes and Flintwise, so the tavern was comprised largely of strangers. Strangers wh
o stared at him and whispered.
It was strange, he thought. He hadn’t done much in the way of sea exploits, but, perhaps he had by Neverland terms. Or perhaps it was only that he’d always imagined himself to be the fiercest pirate in the sea, and so here, now, that was reality. Either way, he did not complain, for it stroked his ego vigorously.
He tipped his head back and drained the glass of every drop, then stood from the bar, noting that several of his crewmates were now seated in the tavern. He walked quietly over to the piano, touching a single ivory key with his hook, and it made a hollow sound. The instrument had the sort of tinny timbre one expected from a tavern’s piano. He slid his hook gently down several more keys, and sat at the bench.
He’d played the piano a long, long time ago. He’d always hated it, he remembered. Mother forced him to play the thing, day in, day out. And, once upon a time, he could make it sing. He wasn’t entirely sure if he could anymore, what with his hook replacing his hand. Hands, it turned out, were particularly important things when it came to playing instruments.
When he played the first bar, it was slow and awkward. Strange playing with just six fingers (or fingerlike things.) But he played another quiet, hesitant measure. And he kept playing, until the music was neither stilted nor awkward. It was beautiful, at least in his mind. James and Chopin had not always gotten along, but he and Nocturne in C# Minor played well together. So, the pirate allowed the haunting melody to sweep him away.
It was not a piece that was fitting for the place, but Hook did not care. He was far away; sweaty, sour bar smell replaced with the smell of home and London— sweet and clean and damp. He was small, sitting in a tiny living room, fingers melting across the old piano keys as the church bells rang out in the night, a strange harmony. His mother sat beside him on the bench, soft and smelling like flowers, pretty pale wrists laid over the edge of the keys, not playing, just listening and smiling softly.
Finally, the memory died out, and he reached a point in the song he’d not yet mastered. And he never would. He opened his eyes and stared around the room at the dirty men who were drunk and mesmerized.
There was not a sound in the place. But then, one of the men began to clap, and several others joined in, and the place was filled with noise, all directed at him.
“Hook!” someone chanted. And another, and another, until the entire patronage was chanting his name and clapping and whistling. Hook stood, trying to camouflage the smile that was popping up on his lips. He made his way back to a secluded table, grabbing more rum on the way.
The corner was dark, and Hook found himself enjoying the solitude and simply observing.
“Captain Hook?” a sultry voice intoned.
“Aye.”
He stared at the woman over his stein. She was lovely, tempting, all curves and softness. Long red hair and bright green eyes and a full mouth that said his name beautifully.
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“Does it?”
He gently kicked a chair out and she sat in it, crossing one leg boldly and slowly over the other.
She leaned over the table. “It does. I’ve heard your name whispered in many dark corners on the island.”
“I’ve not had the pleasure of hearing yours,” he said over the mug.
“Malena.”
He took her hand and brought his lips to it. She did not blush.
“What brings you to my table, Malena?”
“I wondered if you’d buy a drink for me.”
Hook considered for a moment, and she leaned over closer to him. Her scent was sweet, and she was boldly perfumed. She smelled nothing like Tiger Lily. And perhaps that was the precise reason that he gave in to her.
She was pleasant enough in conversation and certainly a pleasure to look at, and, to his surprise, he preferred her company to the dark solitude he’d been craving.
“Having a drink with the famous Captain Hook.” She laughed a girlish, sultry little laugh. “None of my friends will believe it.”
“And none of my crew will believe that I’ve had the pleasure of the company of someone as lovely as you.” He grinned at her and stole a glance over her shoulder, at Jukes and Flintwise, who were cackling and looking in their direction. His grin deepened and turned a bit wicked.
She smiled at him coyly, and then yawned. “I’m quite tired, Captain.” She ran her dark red fingernail along the rim of her glass in slow circles.
“I hate to see you go.”
He didn’t feel much of what he was saying, as though someone had scripted the lines for him. But, he did feel a very noticeable jolt of heat when she whispered, “There are some awful rogues about. I wonder if you’d walk me to my room.”
He set down his glass and let her take his hand and lead him upstairs. When they reached the door to her room, she leaned back against it.
“This is you?”
“Yes.” Her bold gaze did not leave his for a moment when she asked, “Would you like to come in?”
Hook was uneasy, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“I’m no harlot,” she said. “I live above the tavern.”
“Is that so?”
“I swear it.” She leaned harder against the door and opened it, and Hook was drawn inside with her. Her room smelled like her perfume—strong, sweet, and sensual. She closed the door again and stood there, waiting for him in the candlelight. His pulse began to race, and he reached out and touched her collarbone. He couldn’t decide if the heat in his torso, in his face, his throat, was from desire or guilt.
Probably it was an extremely potent mix of both.
His fingertips burned where they met her skin, and he breathed in shakily. She took a step closer to him and put her hand on his torso, then let it fall downward, until it rested low on him, much too low. Hook ground his teeth against each other, and she grinned up at him. Tiger Lily’s face flashed across hers, and he blinked and stumbled backward. None of this was right.
“I can’t do this,” he managed, voice rough and conflicted.
“Don’t worry about her.”
He frowned and looked at her again. “Who?”
“The girl. Whoever’s got you looking so guilty.”
He looked off into the corner of the room. Tiger Lily’s dark, smooth skin, her smoke-and-flowers scent, her laughing voice. Those things mattered. They mattered.
But Malena pulled him back to this place, this room, with her fingertips and silky voice, when she said, “She’s not here with you. I am. Think about me.”
Malena took off her overcoat, exposing her shoulders and the swell of her breasts. Hook clenched his jaw, torn. She was not, and would never be, Tiger Lily. But she was beautiful, and she was soft, and she was standing there, inviting him into her bed. He drew in a ragged breath, and despite Tiger Lily’s face in the back of his mind, he reached out his hook and flicked it across the top button of her shirt, sending it falling open. Then he jerked the hook back, terrified of touching her skin with the thing after the disaster with Tiger Lily.
His pupils darkened as her chest rose and fell, and his heart pounded through his ribcage, and she wet her lips. One look at her body was enough, and Hook gave over to her. She tore off every piece of his clothing and he let her, trying to ignore the fact that her skin was too pale, and her smell was too sweet, her voice too smooth. When she kissed him, he growled low and kissed her back with fervor. If he could drown in the taste of her, he could black out the memory of Tiger Lily’s lips.
She was eager and sensual and clawed at his back and shoulders as he buried his face in her neck and used her as an escape. It was bare, meaningless feeling. And, hollow though it was, it felt good. But no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to focus on the feeling and the body of the woman beneath him, he could not push Tiger Lily’s face from his mind. When it was over, and she was sleeping, naked, against him, he found that he was emptier than he’d been before. And Tiger Lily haunted his thoughts.
PAN WAS ABSENT FROM THE MAINLAND FOR QUITE some time, and as Hook was something of a celebrity on Keelhaul, and with no Peter or Tiger Lily to motivate him to leave, the Spanish Main stayed docked there for the length of the captain’s sabbatical. The pirates busied themselves with rum and looting and the occasional woman. Hook did not behave entirely differently.
He found that being known to every citizen of Keelhaul did not work against him in any capacity. Every tavern he entered had a free drink waiting and a host of women more than willing to throw themselves at him. At first, he found it difficult to ignore the guilt, unable to force Tiger Lily from his mind. But as this grown-up paradise in the midst of Neverland grew colder, so did he. Consequently, his bed grew decidedly warmer.
One morning, after a heavy snow had fallen the night before, Hook woke and looked out the window. There was a woman lying next to him, one whose name he could not recall, and he did not care to. The sunlight streaming happily in and warming his pillow had him somewhat preoccupied.
The woman stirred and turned over, eyes heavy, hair mussed. Hook did not turn; he simply stared out the window.
“Captain?” she asked, voice still having that dreamy, scratchy quality it has when one wakes.
“Hm,” he replied.
The woman sat up, not regarding the soft sheet when it fell from her chest. She ran her fingers up and down Hook’s bare back. He did not react.
“Distracted?”
“It’s warmer today,” he said, uneasy energy building in his limbs and gut.
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