by Dee Garcia
“You’re too good for him, Tinksley. You deserve so much more. He’ll never be enough for you, I can promise you that. If he’s that quick to leave you behind, with a gang of bloodthirsty vampires no less, he’ll never be the man you need. He’s incapable, weak, a pile of flesh and blood occupying—no, wasting your time.”
His words from Izzy’s celebration ring out in my mind as the soles of laced up sandals touch down on the deck of his ship.
Even in the dim lighting of the sunset, it’s dark and eerie, not a soul lingering in sight. Then again, it’s rare one ever sees lights pouring out from its circular windows anymore. The last I heard of him voyaging out on it was back when I was a child. Now, Callan uses it mostly as a display for all of his treasures.
I would know. I’ve been here with Peter and we got caught, too.
Just another reason why the Captain loathed him.
I remember it like it were yesterday. We were racing along the beach, tracking the whole perimeter of the island. When we passed Sirens Cove and treaded into Hook’s Cascade, Peter came up with the brilliant idea to explore the ship. I didn’t want to at first, told him that wouldn’t be right, but the thought intrigued me more and more as we neared.
Massive in size. Majestic with all its gold trims, yet dark and threatening with all of its black sails. The perfect adventure.
We weren’t onboard for long before Callan appeared in the doorway of the cabin and caught Peter wielding this long, silver hook sword.
The same sword I’m coming back for now.
Knowing Hook can show up here at any moment has me skittering along the worn floorboards and down to the cabin in a flash. I can’t afford for him to catch me, because if he does, he’ll try to stop me.
And I refuse to live in the shadow of a failed attempt.
Everything looks exactly as my memory serves me; smooth black walls with an equally dark wainscotting, single-stemmed candelabras hanging every few feet or so, a vibrant, crimson damask-printed carpet adorning the floors. There’s a narrow corridor with several doors as well, but what’s behind them is irrelevant.
What I need is right here in the main area and it’s still hanging in the same spot Peter pulled it down from all those years ago.
Rushing up to the display, I remove the hooked sword with a careful hand. The weight of it takes me off guard. Holding it like this, knowing what it’s intended for, bobs my throat through an uneasy swallow. Tears spring to my eyes anew and I—
No, I can’t think about that now.
No time.
I’m back on the deck in a flash, wings elongating, ready to take flight and carry me to my next destination. Until a bundle of coiled rope catches my eye.
I’m going to need that.
Another gulp and I’m speeding to grab it. There’s still no one else on board yet I find myself looking around. I’m not just scoping for signs of life, though—I’m taking it all in, locking every inch of it to my memory banks.
It’s the last time I’ll see it.
A single tear leaks free at the thought, prompting me to push off the deck with my feet. It’s nothing more than a split-second and I’m airborne, leaving behind Hook’s grand ship and a ball of my emotions. I need to detach from them completely, to turn it all off. Get myself in the correct mindset. Again, this is what’s best for everyone. Not just myself.
Emotions will only get in the way of that, make things harder than it already is.
Hell, they’re what got me here in the first place.
Not ten minutes later, I’m touching down on barren land; my second destination. Dead grass and slim, nearly naked trees surround me and the beautiful structure before me.
The Gilded Atrium; white columns and golden details, complete with an all-glass roof—and it’s all the more magical on the inside.
Well, it was.
Bracing myself for what’s to come, I tighten my hold on both Hook’s sword and the coiled rope, and make my way inside. The first glance leaves me breathless. It’s as empty and decrepit as I feel.
Abandoned.
Forgotten.
My misty gaze scans the now moss and vine-claimed walls, the dingy glass ceiling, too. Such a shame the Faes had to ruin it for everyone. This was once a place of great joy. Social gatherings, celebrations, everything of importance happened here. I danced on these dust-riddled stone floors more times than I can remember.
The same floors I’m suddenly flitting across to get this over with. This one thing that will forever taint and tarnish my memory.
What a fool.
Such a coward!
How could she do this to her family?
Shameful voices continue shouting my fate in a loop as I scope out the perfect spot. On the dais? Perhaps the changing room behind the tattered, crimson curtain, or before the balcony off the second floor?
A subconscious chuckle leaves me, drawing a scoff out along with it. A scoff at myself and the stupidity of my rationale.
Who cares where I do it? Doesn’t matter at all, really. This place might be centuries old, but no one will hear my screams from here. It’s too far out in the Woodlands, far enough that no one ventures out here.
Not even the Natives, and this is part of their domain.
I finally settle on the dais. Seems fitting after all my performances. Obviously, there isn’t an audience present at this time, but we’ll pretend there is. A dark, depraved audience intrigued by violent delights. I imagine them all sitting there, eyes rapt on my disheveled form. Cajoling eyes, sinister smiles, anticipation for bloodshed thick in the air.
Just the thought sucks the air from my lungs.
Drops me to my knees.
Bursts open the flood gates yet again.
More tears. They’re back with a vengeance, falling freely and uncontrollably from my eyes. Vision drowning in grief, I set the sword before me and stiffen my hold on the rough cordage. The bristles prickle my palms, almost mockingly when I wince.
How will I ever be able to handle what’s to come if the simple feel of rope grazing my skin hurts?
Exactly what the rope is for, remember?
That’s when I sob, the sound bouncing off the walls around me. When reality sets in. My parents will never forgive me for this. They may love me, may mourn me for years to come, but they’ll never accept this or come to terms with it.
And I won’t even be able to apologize.
The next ten minutes of my life are nothing more than a blur, certain parts more prominent and clear than others. One moment, I’m sinking my teeth into the rope and securing it around my head. Next I’m reclaiming the hooked sword and pulling one of my wings forward within my range of sight.
Do it, that beguiling, ill-boding voice coaxes from deep within. The same one I’ve done my best to ignore all these years.
The same one I won’t ignore this time.
Hands shaking, I go for it before I can fully process what I’m doing. The blade slices through my wing, shooting a muffled yet agonized scream forth from my mouth. The second hurts even more, harrowingly so.
So does the third, and the fourth. The fifth, too.
My screams echo.
Blood splatters around me, on me.
I can’t stop even if I wanted to, swinging the sword into my wing over and over again like the pendulum of a clock. When almost nothing remains, I switch to the other side, repeating the debauched, ludicrous act all over again.
By the time I finish with myself, I’m sitting in a crimson pool laced with my tears. My throat aches from screeching, my mind spinning, too bleary to truly make sense of anything.
Finish it.
That voice again. Though warbled and distant, I hear it perfectly. Adhere to it without second-thought. In my lightheaded, disoriented state, I somehow find the strength to make it onto my feet and stumble down the steps of the dais with the sword still in my grasp. I don’t stop there, though—no. I keep on out of the Atrium and trail through the now darkened woods, pulling t
he rope free from my mouth.
Cool air drifts from every direction, wrapping itself around me, skating through the gashes of my maimed wings. It burns hotter than a wild blaze, so much that I can hear myself crying out, but the crickets and owls supersede me, condemning every one of my steps with their nightly calls.
Fool.
Coward.
Blithering idiot.
Still, I keep moving. I don’t know how, I can barely see where I’m going, but my body seems to navigate itself. Even as I trip and wobble about, I find myself getting back up, wandering further into the Woodlands. Another step, and another after that. My head spins, thoughts jumbled in a tizzy.
Peter, my precious Peter. And my parents, the girls, too. Hook. My wings. My God, what the hell have I done to my wings?
The trail of blood behind me knows.
It knows it all, from what I did, to what I’m about to do.
In a mere blink, the Woodlands open up, giving me my one and only look at my last destination—the cliff’s edge.
Where it all ends.
Where I find peace.
With the waves mercilessly crashing into the rocky shore below, I bring myself right to the ledge and allow myself to look downward. It’s a long, long way down, I know it without a doubt, but I’m not afraid.
Unlike the waves, death will be merciful, greeting me the moment I hit.
Jump.
Again, that voice.
And again, I abide to its demand.
A few steps back and I throw myself into the air. My wings try to move in their rightful, instinctual state, but each flutter elicits a pain so sharp and so deep within me, I grow more crippled by the second.
Crying out.
Free-falling.
The asperous ground now closer than the cliff’s ledge.
It’s then I realize there’s no going back, there’s no saving me, that I’m going to die—a horrified scream breaking free from my—
♫ O Magnum Mysterium -
Nordic Chamber Choir ♫
“No,” I grate, holding her limp, bloodied frame in my arms. “No, no, no—this can’t be happening. This can’t be fucking happening!”
Finding her like this was...
I don’t even have words for it. Don’t think there is an adequate word for it. Probably couldn’t think of one in my semi-inebriated state even if I tried. All I know is, I fell to my knees in an instant and scooped her up, heart thrashing in my chest, stomach roiling with the need to wretch as I checked for signs of life.
I couldn’t believe it was her.
That I’d heard her fall as I staggered along the beach, heard every single crack imaginable when her body hit the unforgiving rocks. It’s a sound I’ll never be able to forget.
Shuddering as it ripples through me again, I steal another glance at the broken woman in my hold. At the blood spattered on her fair skin and the deep imprints of the rope running horizontally across her face. How that very rope hangs loosely around her neck, outlines of her crimson-stained fingers drenched in the fibers.
“Why, Tinksley?” I ask her softly, running my thumb along the apple of her cheek.
I know she can’t hear me. Perhaps somewhere deep in her subconscious she might, because she’s alive.
But just barely.
Her breaths skip every few beats, she’s wheezing unnaturally too, likely a result of demolished ribs or jagged pieces of her spine rupturing her lungs.
Yes, she won’t be alive for long. I don’t need a doctor to confirm that. It physically cripples me to say that, to even entertain it, but it’s the truth. Her suicide attempt won’t be just an attempt. It’ll be a hellish reality I then have to deliver to her parents. How does one even go about that?
Knock on their doors with her dead body?
Could’ve been an accident, you say.
Well, allow me to swiftly burst that hopeful little bubble for you. This wasn’t an accident at the hands of someone else. No, my friends, Tinksley did this to herself. I know it with every fiber of my being, and the why should be more than obvious.
Peter-fucking-Pan.
What’s worse is that I should’ve known something like this was a probability, we all should have. You see, just three weeks ago, Beatrix alerted the council her daughter had fallen into a deep depression when she learned of Pan’s disappearance. Apparently, he felt the need to have one last taste of her before he took his leave—regardless of Phillipe’s warning—and thought it would be a romantic, memorable gesture to leave her a note for when she awoke.
So much for that.
I like to think he did it purposely, but eh—what do I know, right?
As a result, she’s not left her bed since, hasn’t seen the light of day or inhaled even a wisp of fresh air. We’ve all been worried about her, though clearly not enough that we missed the signs.
We failed her, and now she’s hours away from taking her last breath, if that.
Unless…
“No,” I mutter to myself, trying and failing to force that thought from my mind.
Of all things, I can’t do that to her, not when she’s always detested the beast that makes up half of her DNA. Can you imagine what were to happen if she woke up and was a completely different type of beast? A transformation materialized without her permission?
It’s the only way, though.
I study Tinksley yet again and siphon my hearing to her breathing, to her heart rate. It’s past the point of irregular, declining into the danger zone at an alarming rate.
She’s fading. Save her.
“Fuck,” I hiss, mentally warring with myself on what to do.
Neither solution is easy, a true double-edged sword. If I don’t do it, she’ll die. But if I do…she’ll hate me.
And no, I can’t just heal her, either.
There’s no way my lifesource can repair the damage she’s done. It’s too extensive, too permanent. She’d die before her body regenerated to its normal state.
It’s right about then I finally realize what I’ve been taking for granted all these centuries—the ability to heal someone, without taking their life in the process.
Without forcing them into a new life where you’re allowed to live on after death, forever cursed with the insatiable need for blood.
It’s the only way. It’s literally the only way.
The harrowing truth because I refuse to let her die. This may be what she wanted, but it’s not. Going. To. Happen. Just having to swallow down the fact she wanted to die is a bitter, macabre pill. How could she ever truly believe she wasn’t worthy without him? That she couldn’t live without him?
It’s maddening to think.
Impossible to accept.
He must have really had those claws in deep, deeper than I’d accounted for, huh?
But now he’s gone, and I’m still here. I’ll always be here, reminding her that she was too good for him then and she’s still too good for him now. Better off without him. I’ll spend every one of my days drilling that concept into her thick skull, teaching her how to move on and how to live this new life, if it’s the last thing I ever do.
So, she can hate me all she wants. I have an iron will she’ll never break down and a lesson she’ll never forget once I’m finished with her.
Dragging my gaze a few feet away, I lock my sights on my sword. My hooked sword, a treasure from Incendia, one Pan tried to steal several years ago. She must have gotten her hands on it just hours ago, because it was proudly displayed on the ship this morning. Setting Tinksley down ever so carefully, I scramble across the damp sand for it. Somehow, it weighs heavier than I remember as I scrutinize it. Flip it back and forth, focusing on the thick layer of her blood caking the edges. Knowing this is what she used to harm herself makes me sick. If it weren’t so valuable, I’d have the tide wash it away. A flash of what its purpose looked like comes to me, rattling another shiver down my spine.
Don’t go there, Callan.
I can’t. It’s f
ar too debased, mostly because it’s her. My eyes snap over to her nearly lifeless form. Had I not been wandering the beach, she would’ve died out here. Alone in her despair. Hurting.
Which is exactly why I have to do what I have to do.
Fate always has a plan, regardless if it’s what we want or not.
Securing the damned sword through my belt, I amble back to where Tinksley lays and drop down beside her, fishing my pocket knife free.
“It’s the only way,” I tell her as I scoop her up once more and slice my palm open.
Blood dribbles from the now open wound, splattering onto her chest in vivid crimson droplets. My nostrils flare at the sight of it, instantly plaguing me with guilt for being even remotely aroused given the circumstances. One deep breath, then another—I constrain myself to breathe through the rush before my fangs can elongate, before instinct to devour my female kicks in.
She’s not yours yet. Won’t be at all if you don’t get on with it.
Right.
Another inhale and I’m tilting her head back carefully, bringing my fist just over her delicately ajar mouth. Squeezing. Ensuring the trickle descends where it’s intended. She doesn’t need much, but I continue letting it flow, working it down her throat with a gentle hand. I note how those decadent, tropical eyes flutter slightly at my touch, but the rest of her remains perfectly still.
Not for much longer, though.
“I’m sorry, Tinksley,” I start suddenly, heart thrashing in my chest anew as I secure one arm around her shoulders, seal my bloodied hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me, okay? When it’s all said and done, please forgive me.”
Snap.
Goddammit, what the hell is taking them so long? Feels like I’ve been knocking on the door—my door, no less—for a fucking century. I’m starting to get—
“Callan,” she croaks again, snapping my gaze to her beautiful face. She’s been in and out since I left the water’s edge, something I’ve not seen or experienced before with a—
That’s when the door flies open.
On the other side of the threshold stands my father, a confused yet equally alarmed expression marring his dark features. “What the hell happened?” is the first thing he inquires.