“Now . . . here’s what’s going to happen, little boys. You are going to give us back all the bottles you took from us. Peter Pan is going to call back the rest of the boys, and we will get every last bottle, or so help me God, I will slit this boy’s throat. No one touches our booze.”
Kitoko’s eyes were wide with fear as he tried desperately to untangle the man’s arm from around his neck. His mouth formed the word “Peter” again and again as he looked at Peter, terrified. Wendy’s heart was hammering so fast that she clutched at her chest.
“Peter! Give him the bottles! Call them back!”
Peter looked, panicked, at Wendy, then at the pirate and back at Kitoko again.
“It’s too risky. To bring the boys back. They’ll kill us all! It’s a trap!”
The man straightened up and pointed his knife at Peter. “I’m not playing you, little boy! Have them drop the bottles in the river, and your friend will live.”
Peter’s gaze never wavered. “I cannot risk the lives of all my boys for one. He’ll kill us, I’m telling you! Kitoko, you understand . . .”
Kitoko nodded at Peter before closing his eyes. Abbott reached for his spear, yelling Kitoko’s name. Wendy opened her mouth to scream, but it was too late. With a terrible grin, the man opened up Kitoko’s throat, pushing his dagger in before tearing across his collar. There was a rush of bright red blood, and Kitoko fell facedown on the rock, his body becoming nothing more than a loose rag doll. Wendy heard nothing after that, as a fog of shock surrounded her. Peter was yelling, his face afraid and his arms strong around her. Abbott was pointing as they rose into the air. There was a loud bang, and the hair on the right side of her head felt whipped away, the smell of gunpowder on her cheek. Wendy looked out to the sea, to the two ships bearing down on the Vault, to the men swarming off the sides of the ship, so many, climbing over the river like ants, waving weapons and screaming. So many. She felt Peter’s body tighten his hold around her as they climbed into the mist. Behind the two ships, a black shape was appearing, twice their height and wider than both the ships together. The hulking mass growing closer, the fog slowly pulling away. Something in the blackness winked at her—a mirror?
“GO!” Peter screamed. “It’s the Night!”
And suddenly they were climbing up into the sky, far away from the bloodied chaos below, far from where Kitoko was lying on the rock bed, all alone as the pirates ran over his body. Wendy rested her head against Peter’s thundering heart. Up, up, up.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WENDY DIDN’T REMEMBER FLYING HOME. She remembered the heat of Peter as they rose through the mist, the blood that soaked through his shirt and pressed against her cheek, warm and sticky. She remembered Kitoko’s face. When they landed on the thatched roof, the Pan flag flapping in the wind, there was a great rush of boys. Peter set her down gently onto the wooden walkway that linked the Moon Tower to the rest of the tree. She blinked in the afternoon light.
“Peter . . . Kitoko.”
“I know,” he said gently. “That went differently than I expected it to.” His face was honest, bewildered, and a bit distraught. He tilted his head as he looked at Wendy with curious eyes. “Was the blood too much?” She nodded weakly, her stomach churning inside of her. She wondered if she was going to be sick. She heard the shouts of voices as hundreds of Lost Boys ran toward Peter, their laughter such a foreign sound after what she had seen. The boys that had been with them began unloading the wine, bags and bags of bottles, giving the bags to the younger boys. Peter leapt up.
“Oy! Take those to the Table and store them in the back. No one opens the wine until we’ve mourned Kitoko and Darby!”
The Lost Boys froze. A skinny boy with caramel skin and tousled brown hair stepped forward.
“Kitoko is . . . dead?”
Peter nodded sadly before climbing up onto the ledge. Wendy remembered the first time she had seen Peter talk to the boys, preening and triumphant. Now he was solemn, his hands crossed in front of him, reverent and sad.
“Kitoko gave his life for the Lost Boys you see beside me. Smith wanted them to return, and Kitoko stood his ground. He died for his brothers. He died being a General, and in his last moments, he confirmed why I picked him for General. Kitoko was brave, intelligent, and selfless. And though he wasn’t the type to share much of anything”—the boys gave a soft, sad chuckle—“I think he wouldn’t mind if I told you that he had become a Swift. Three days ago, Kitoko was given the gift of permanent flight. He wasn’t ready to share yet, being as shy as he was, but we had spoken of it last night, that it was time for him to take his place beside me, publicly.”
Peter’s eyes filled with tears. “Pan Island is not going to be the same place without Kitoko. Or Darby. I grieve alongside my other Generals—Oxley, Abbott, John.”
John. Wendy’s head jerked up and she found her brother, standing smugly at the back of the boys, arms crossed, trying hard to not look pleased at his inclusion in Peter’s speech. Wendy felt a weight lift off her chest. He is safe. Thank God. The little git. From here he looked so much older than the last time she had seen him. Perhaps it was the confidence that radiated out from him, and for a moment she was glad for him. Her brother, finally accepted by his peers, finally proud of something he had done. Perhaps the bitterness would melt from his personality. He looked over at Wendy, and she weakly raised her hand. He rolled his eyes and turned his gaze back to Peter. Perhaps not. Peter was going on about Kitoko now, where he had found him, and his early exploits as a Pip. The crowd was both laughing and crying, except for Oxley, who was sobbing openly into his hands at the back of the room. Michael was holding onto the bottom of his shirt. A blinding pain shot past Wendy’s eyes, and she winced. Peter’s voice carried out over the boys, a wave of comfort, cradling them all in his confidence.
“Where do we go from here? Well, even I’m not sure. From here we mourn our loss, and when we are done mourning, our grief will turn to anger, and soon the tears will be those of Hook’s men, the men who did this. We will have our vengeance, and as we take it, we will whisper their names . . .” Peter’s voice dropped low as he whispered, “Kitoko. Darby.”
The boys joined in, whispering their names again and again. When their whispers grew loud enough, Peter drew his golden sword and pointed through the tree. “Grab your lanterns and head to the beach, to mourn our beloved General and our friend! And then we will feast!” Wendy watched silently as the train of boys began to snake its way down to the beach, a moving cloud of dust that quickly became one with the dark leaves around them. Suddenly, the island felt very empty, and as she looked down from the huts, she was struck by how sinister a place could seem without the laughter of boys. She stepped softly behind them all, lost in her thoughts, ignoring the headache that pressed against her temples. The boys were out of sight now, and she stumbled over her feet, unable to forget what had happened at the Vault. Barely thinking, she made her way to the side of one of the platforms, winding her way through the rope walkways until the sounds of the Lost Boys and Peter’s stirring speech faded into a dull buzz. She stumbled, her mind flitting between Kitoko’s face, Peter’s emerald eyes, and the fountain of impossibly red blood that had sprayed from Kitoko’s throat. Wendy was on her hands and knees now, dry heaving, clutching at wooden planks outside of one of the Lost Boys’ huts until she was finally able to rest, pushing her sweaty head against her hands. There was a soft flutter in the air above her, and then there was the silvery glittering dust falling all around her. She lifted her head up and saw dainty bare feet in front of her.
“Tink? I beg you, please leave me alone. I’m not feeling well.”
“Kitoko’s gone,” Tink whispered. “And you’re to blame.” Her bright blue eyes flared with pure hatred.
Then she kicked Wendy off the walkway.
Wendy felt herself falling, falling over the edge. She saw the great green plume of Centermost poke up far below her, the spindly crossed branches that would not stop her fall as she plum
meted to her death. Her hands clutched at the air as her body tightened, her muscles tense and ready to spring to life, ready to fight. She blinked. The branches didn’t rush toward her, their grand arms staying perfectly still where they were. The ground didn’t rush to meet her. She was floating. Relief swept through her. Of course, she still had flight. She turned her head up to look at Tink, a litany of formidable words forming on her tongue, as Tink stared down at her from the bridge.
“Lucky guess.” The fairy shrugged, and with a flutter of gossamer wings, she was gone in a second, heading down toward the beach, where Peter’s loud voice rang through the tree. Wendy cautiously flew down to the nearest hut, relishing the feeling of her feet on the wooden planks. Righteous anger at Tink burned through her, though she wasn’t able to maintain it for very long. Tink looked so lost and sad, truly a miserable creature if Wendy had ever seen one. She was undoubtedly powerful, but there was a trembling beneath those bruised eyes, an undercurrent of vulnerability that reminded Wendy of a frightened child. Her blazing jealousy of Wendy, the way she clutched so desperately to Peter—Tink seemed more childish than the youngest Lost Boy, while at the same time seeming as ancient as the warm wind that pulsed around the island. Wendy walked to the edge of the walkway around the hut, pausing to push aside some branches and take in the turquoise sea crashing beneath her; the comforting sound of waves pulsing against the island calmed her thundering heart. Bright pink flowers above her head draped and winked in the sea breeze, tiny pieces of translucent dust spiraling down from their lips. With a deep breath, her mind trying to stay off of what had transpired at the Vault, Wendy turned toward the beach. Taking each step slower than normal, her stomach tightening with dread with each pad of her foot, she reluctantly made her way down, her eyes constantly looking up to make sure that Tink didn’t return. She didn’t.
When Wendy emerged at the beach, the Lost Boys were all standing linked together, their hands wrapped around each other’s wrists, their bright faces turning out toward the sea. The line of them stretched the entire south side of Pan Island, water lapping at their feet. Peter was out over the water, his pointed feet hovering just over the surface, a white lotus flower in his outstretched hands. When he saw Wendy, he nodded to her, and the Lost Boys fell silent.
“We begin,” he murmured.
The Lost Boys began humming, a sound so low and quiet that it reminded Wendy of the flutter of a bee’s wings. The low hum echoed out over the water, reaching Peter and beyond, out into the depths of the dark water, out to the sea, out to other worlds, probably. Peter slowly lifted the flower over his head, and Wendy could see the snaking white tendrils of flight flowing slowly from his forearms into the flower. The lotus began to glow, unearthly, pulsating with pure white light, its beating heart at the center of its petals, thrumming to the sound of the Lost Boys’ hums. Peter held it for a minute over his head before gently unfolding his hands in a circular motion. The flower rose up into the air, spinning as it went. As it went higher, the Lost Boys raised their hands with it, the slow line of arms moving upward as their hums turned into the quiet chant of Kitoko’s and Darby’s names to all who would hear. The lotus climbed swiftly upward, a sparrow of light, until eventually it became one with the heavy rain clouds that were quickly darkening the Neverland sky. It disappeared into the lowest of the clouds, its light winking through the cluster like a faraway star. Peter turned back to the boys, tears spilling down his ruddy cheeks.
“And now Kitoko and Darby watch over us all, Lost Boys no more. They are found.” He choked on his words, coughing to cover his sob.
The boys repeated it quietly to themselves.
“They are found, they are found.”
Wendy mouthed the words, unable to make sound escape her lips, so heavy was her heart. They are dead. Wendy caught a shimmering wink from the outskirts of the beach. Squinting, she spotted Tink, the fairy perched as still as a statue, her chest resting on a rocky outcropping that overlooked the beach. Tink’s gaunt face was stoic, her body curled in on itself as she stared blindly out to sea. Pain radiated out from her, even at this distance, and Wendy could see that her skin seemed to glow with a dull blue hue. Wendy looked away, suddenly feeling voyeuristic to Tink’s unhappiness.
The line of boys had quietly turned away from the beach, and they were hoisting themselves up the sheer rock face, back to their huts. Oxley, John, and Abbott remained on the beach. Oxley was still crying, big sobs that wracked his shoulders. Abbott’s face remained stern, his emotions unreadable. John stood awkwardly beside them both, fidgeting the way he always did. Peter gave Wendy a small smile as he made his way back to the Generals. Abbott unexpectedly reached out and pulled Peter into a hug. Oxley joined them. John eventually joined in as well. The Generals stayed like that for several minutes while Wendy looked out over the ocean, something unseen pulling at the back of her mind, like the beginnings of a thread unraveling a sweater. Peter eventually withdrew himself from the Generals and flew toward her, his white shirt flapping in the ocean wind. He gently rested both hands on her shoulders.
“Are you all right?”
Wendy nodded, feeling stronger in the crisp, clear weather.
“It’s going to rain,” she murmured. Peter didn’t seem to hear her, his mind somewhere else, but he nodded anyway. Then he looked down at her, his bright green eyes looking deeply into hers. The thread stopped pulling as she fell deep into his scent, the feeling of his hands on her shoulders.
“Wendy Darling, I promise tonight will be a night you will never forget.”
His fingers trailed her cheek, and Wendy suddenly turned away, embarrassed at the public affection of it all. Abbott and John were staring at them, Abbott’s eyebrows furrowed, his eyes calculating. John looked simply disgusted. Peter tilted his head.
“Why don’t you go lie down for a few minutes? You look tired. Then in a few hours, you can join us for the wine feast. Does that sound pleasing to you?”
Wendy looked back at him. “Kitoko and Darby are dead, Peter. You can’t have a feast tonight.”
He kissed her forehead.
“Life is for the living, Wendy. And I plan on living a very, very long time.”
With that, Peter Pan flew off into the tree, and Wendy felt the beginning of raindrops on her face, dripping off her chin and mingling with her tears, the differences between them rendered obsolete as they made their way to the sea.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AFTER THE NAP PETER HAD SUGGESTED, which did turn out to be sorely needed, Wendy moaned as she peeled off her sticky shirt and pants, soaked with sweat and flicked with blood. Kitoko’s blood. The air rushed around her skin as she washed herself with the bowl of water, longing for soap that she highly doubted existed anywhere on Pan Island. There were a few dresses that had been laid out for her by some Pip earlier in the day, and Wendy decided on a simple white nightgown, pale pink stitched flowers dotting the neck, the cut of the gown a bit lower than her liking, no doubt a sleep frock that once belonged to a pirate’s mistress. She slipped on her black shoes and tied up her hair with a light blue ribbon that she untied from the hammock. She gradually made her way down to the Table, not even flinching as she slid down the trunk this time, her legs wrapped around it like some sort of primate, feeling miles away from the lady she once was. She was still very far from the Table when she started hearing their voices, the feral shouts and insults of the boys, like a roar through the tree, unhinged in all their maleness. With a sigh of resignation, she continued on her way, eager to spend some time with Michael and—dare she hope for it?—Peter.
Hundreds and hundreds of candles flickered and leapt as she walked toward the Table, following the funnel of noise that seemed to circle around her the closer she got. Before she even entered the room, she smelled the feast, and to her dismay, her mouth began watering. The aroma of mushrooms and cream, butter-soaked beef, and pungent berries swirled in her nostrils. As she ducked into the hot room, filled to the brim with screaming and laughing bo
ys, her eyes took in the enormous piles of food that covered the circular table. Pips were racing up from down below, covered in sweat and carrying the food with their bare hands before plopping it down messily in front of the ravenous boys who tore at it like animals. Plump shrimp dusted with herbs and piles of white corn disappeared into hundreds of mouths¸ each one noshing the food, crunching and talking as they reveled in the stories of the day.
“Here!”
A Lost Boy handed her a hunk of meat, charred and crusted in all the right places. Wendy’s stomach betrayed her emotions, and she found herself biting at the edges before she could stop herself. The meat was tender and perfectly cooked, and she was barely aware of the juice dripping off her chin until she had polished off most of it. Wiping her hand on the back of her dress, Wendy grabbed a piece of dark brown bread before making her way toward a towering pile of wine bottles, stacked haphazardly on a rickety table and adorned with hundreds of daisies.
She reached out, her fingers trailing along each raised glass, red, white, sea glass, all filled to the brim, all waiting for the ravenously hungry boys to descend. Her eyes filled with tears, looking at the bottles, remembering what the cost of this tower of debauchery had been. She remembered how the pirate’s hand didn’t shake as he drew the knife across Kitoko’s throat. She remembered the growing desperation of Darby’s cries. Wendy stared up at the bottles, a whisper in her mind encouraging her to break them all. Instead she started to turn away, until a smaller bottle at the base of the pile caught her eye. It had a small tag on it that read Wendy. Her hand curled around it as her mouth fell open in shock—it was the same small rose-colored bottle that Peter had given her, the same bottle that she had left at the Vault. When had he had time to grab it? He must have gone while she was sleeping. The nerve of that boy—and the romance of him. It took her breath away.
Wendy Darling Page 22
