by Aiden Thomas
But there were more pressing matters at hand.
“Pixie dust,” Wendy repeated, wiping her nose off on the back of her hand.
Peter nodded, drumming his fingers on the counter. “Yup.”
Standing in her kitchen, leaning against the counter, it struck her how weird this all was. She believed him now, that he was Peter Pan—her Peter—because how else could she explain what had just happened? She kept catching herself openly staring at him.
Peter Pan was in her kitchen. To her annoyance, she felt more nervous now, like she was meeting her favorite singer.
Under the fluorescent lights, she could see how much of a mess Peter was.
He’d found a new set of clothes again. This time, it was a pair of faded jeans with a hole in the left knee and a dark green T-shirt. She wondered where he had gotten them. Maybe he’d stolen them from someone’s backyard or nicked them from a lost and found.
Peter’s face was flushed and had a couple of small cuts. His hair stuck out in disheveled tufts and dirt was smeared across his cheek. Wendy was certain she didn’t look much better. Her own hands were filthy.
She quickly walked to the sink and ran her hands under hot water.
“As in the stuff that makes you fly?” she continued. In the stories her mom had passed down, Peter used pixie dust from the fairies in Neverland to help himself and the lost kids fly.
“It’s supposed to, yeah,” he said, lightly touching a cut on his temple that was caked in dried blood. He winced. A branch must have scratched him. “Usually, I don’t even need it, but ever since I brought you to Neverland…” Peter glanced away and toyed with the lighthouse-shaped pepper shaker by the stove. “I have to use a bunch of it just to get off the ground.” His brow furrowed, his expression pinched, as he ran his finger around the spiral base of the shaker.
Wendy squeezed the dish towel she was using to dry her hands and ran a corner of it under warm water. “So, what, do you just keep pixie dust in your pocket?” she asked.
Peter moved to the fridge and began rearranging the magnets. “What? No!” He chuckled as he examined a Fort Stevens State Park one. “I don’t need pixie dust—or, I mean, pixie dust is a part of me. I’m made up of it, I guess?” Peter frowned and scratched his chin.
Apparently he hadn’t put much thought into it, either.
He tried again. “It’s like—it’s like it’s already in my veins, you know?”
Wendy nodded slightly when he turned to her for confirmation. “And the sword?”
“I can conjure it up with pixie dust,” Peter said. “It’s a way to focus my magic and defend myself and the lost kids.”
Wendy frowned. “From what?”
Peter shrugged and snatched a red apple from the bowl on the counter. “I don’t know … stuff.”
“Stuff?” Wendy repeated, annoyed.
Seeing that she wasn’t going to let it go without some kind of answer, Peter huffed. “Like keeping bad stuff away—like bad thoughts,” he said, eyes following the apple as he tossed it between his hands. “Lost kids’ bad thoughts can manifest as dark things on the island, like huge spiders, or killer hippos, or—”
“Pirates?” She said the word without even thinking.
Peter caught the apple out of the air and stared at Wendy. The intense look in his eyes made Wendy shift uncomfortably.
After being found in the woods, Wendy remembered, she’d had nightmares for months about being chased by a pirate captain, cloaked in bright red with a black beard, who always wielded a silver pistol. She would wake up in the middle of the night sobbing until her mother could coax her down.
Had that pirate been the bad thought that had chased her in Neverland?
Finally, Peter cleared his throat. “Yeah, like pirates.” He slowly turned the apple over and over in his hands as he spoke. “The sword is how I protect the lost kids and keep those manifestations of their bad thoughts at bay.”
“Can you turn it into something else?” Wendy wondered, picturing the glowing sword again. “Like a net?”
“I mean, I could.” Peter’s lips curled into a grin. “But a sword is just so much cooler.”
A surprised laugh bubbled in Wendy’s throat.
“And way more fun,” he added.
Wendy rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah, okay.”
“Pixie dust is my magic,” Peter continued, getting back on point. “It’s how I fly, how I take care of the lost kids, how I stay young—” Peter looked down at himself. “Or used to, anyway.” His shoulders slumped. “I can feel myself getting weaker, like my magic is just draining out of me, you know?” Peter set down the apple and approached Wendy. “Getting rid of that stuff that was trying to take you used up a lot. If we don’t get my shadow back soon, I have no idea what will happen, but it won’t be good.”
Wendy exhaled a deep sigh. She knew this was a problem, but she had no idea how to fix it.
Peter stared at her with his big eyes, as if waiting for her to come up with a solution to fix all their problems, but how could she do that? She could barely understand what he was telling her to begin with and she could barely take care of herself. She couldn’t help her brothers, so how was she supposed to help him?
Wendy stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “Here, let me clean that,” she said, holding up the damp cloth. At least the cut was something she could fix.
Peter squinted at her and leaned away.
“It’s not going to hurt, you big baby,” she said with mild exasperation.
“I’m not a baby,” Peter grumbled petulantly, but he remained still.
Wendy did her best to ignore the flutter of nerves through her entire body, being this close to him. Was there anyone else in the world who’d found out their imaginary friend was real?
Wendy pressed the cloth to his temple and Peter winced. He sucked in a sharp breath. “That stings!” he hissed, his jaw muscles flexing.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” she grumbled. Peter’s face scrunched up, but he let her gently pat the cut until the blood was gone, only leaving a small red line. “There,” Wendy said before retreating back to the other side of the kitchen. She yanked open the junk drawer and sifted through old scissors, expired coupons, and chip clips before she found a small red sewing kit.
“What’s that for?” Peter balked as if she were brandishing some sort of weapon.
“For the hole in your jeans,” Wendy said, gesturing to his torn knee.
He only looked slightly less worried.
“Just sit, would you?” she said, placing a hand on the counter.
Peter gave her a dubious look before perching himself on the edge of the cool tile. “Okay, but be careful; don’t stab me,” he instructed.
“Then don’t fidget,” Wendy told him. His knee stopped bouncing, and Wendy got to work cinching the frayed material back together with deft fingers as well as she could.
Peter probed the cut on his temple, flinching. “I need to save my energy and not use my magic for stuff like flying, you know? I need it to fight off the shadow. Pixie dust is its opposite.” Peter gestured, as if weighing two things in his hands.
“Shadows are made up of darkness. They feed off of sadness and despair. They manifest what you’re most scared of and use it as a weapon to feed off your fear. That’s why it’s stealing all those kids.” He dropped his hands and they hung heavy at his sides. “It’s collecting them and using their fear as a source of energy. They’re making it stronger.”
“That’s … terrifying,” Wendy breathed. Her eyes flickered away from her work toward the back door. Somewhere, deep in the woods, there were kids who were scared and alone, being tormented by the shadow.
“That’s why we need pixie dust to fight the shadow,” Peter continued. “It’s made from light and laughter and joy. That’s why when you use pixie dust and think of good things—happy things—it makes you light enough to fly. That’s why I’m the only one who can fight it. I can use my light against
my shadow and weaken it enough to capture it, and you can reattach it like you did before.”
“That was your shadow, then?” Wendy looped the end of the thread, tying it off securely. “That took Alex and attacked me?” She couldn’t explain with logic what had happened to her in the woods just now, and that in and of itself was terrifying to realize.
“Yes.” Peter rubbed his eyes. “The stronger it gets, the weaker I get. I can feel the magic bleeding out of me.” He looked so tired and defeated. It only made her more worried.
As she tugged the seam to test her work—it was good enough to hold together for now—a thought occurred to her. “The woods.” Heat clawed up her neck. Wendy put the needle and thread away and left the kit on the counter. “Is that why it’s keeping them there—the missing kids and my brothers? Because of me?”
Wendy was terrified of the woods and the shadow was using it against her. It had lured her in there to taunt her with Alex, with the promise of finding her brothers, just to feed off her fear. It was her fault. It was all her fault. Wendy raked her fingers through her hair. “But why? Why my brothers? Why me?”
“I don’t know,” Peter murmured quietly, thumbing the stitches on the knee of his jeans. “All I know is you’re the only one who can help me catch my shadow and put it back.” He looked … not good. His tan skin was paler than normal. Puffy bags were starting to form under his eyes. He was missing his usual spark. The change was unsettling.
Wendy wondered when was the last time he’d gotten some rest and something to eat.
“If we can’t stop it, what will happen?” she asked. “To the kids? My brothers?”
Peter shrugged and stared at the floor. It pained her to see him like this. It pulled at something in her chest. At the same time, she was frustrated with him. If she was going to help him, she needed more guidance and answers. She couldn’t just magically solve this mystery on her own. Those kids needed her and Peter—they had to find and rescue them. She needed to see her brothers again, to bring them back.
“Peter…” Wendy hesitated, scared of the answer she might get. “What will happen if you keep getting weaker, and it keeps getting stronger?”
Peter looked up and watched her for a moment. She could see him thinking. Physically, he was so young, even if he was growing older. But his intense eyes felt like they held the age of the galaxies swirling behind them. He was a star locked inside a boy’s body.
Peter shrugged again. “Nothing good.” He tried to conjure up a smile, but it was nothing compared to its brilliance when he really meant it. “So we can’t let that happen.”
Wendy pressed her fingers to her mouth and tried to think.
“We need to call the police. We need their help,” Wendy finally said. She couldn’t believe she was even considering it, but where else could they turn for help?
Peter arched an eyebrow, shaking his head. “Wendy, you barely believe me, do you really think a bunch of grown-ups are going to believe a word of this?” he asked. “They’ll lock me up and throw away the key!” He scowled. She had hit a nerve. “They can’t help us.”
“Then we need to at least tell them about Alex!” Wendy pulled her phone out of her back pocket. Her mind raced, thoughts tumbling over one another. She needed to do something. She needed to come up with some immediate solutions to these daunting and insurmountable tasks.
“They need to know he’s missing—his parents need to know! At least then people can be on the lookout for him,” she insisted. Wendy paced back and forth, tightly gripping the phone. “I—I don’t know what I’ll say, how I know he’s gone missing,” she mused. “I can just make something up—”
Wendy’s cell phone lit up. An AMBER alert with Alex’s name filled the screen.
“Too late,” Wendy said. Peter leaned over to give it a look. “They already know.” Wendy snatched the remote from the counter and turned on the TV. Sure enough, it was on the news, too. Alex’s face smiled at her from the corner of the screen. In the center, Detective James stood in the middle of a street. Bright lights from news cameras lit up his face, causing him to squint.
“Mrs. Forestay witnessed Alex being taken from their backyard this evening, but didn’t get a good enough look at the abductor to provide a description,” Detective James said.
Guilt swarmed inside Wendy.
“I heard voices when I was in the woods,” Wendy said, turning back to Peter. “I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were definitely kids. I couldn’t see them but it felt like they were right there, just out of sight.” Her skin crawled as she thought about the voices, the breathing, the footsteps. “That’s gotta be where it’s hiding.”
“That’s where I had tracked it to, when you found me in the road,” Peter said, walking to stand next to her. His shoulder lightly brushed against hers. “After what you saw, I think that’s a pretty safe bet.”
“Do the police know that?” Wendy wondered as she watched Detective James talk about a special hotline the police department had set up for anyone who had any information about the missing children. “Should we tell them?” she asked, looking up at Peter.
His jaw was tight. “Grown-ups can be slow at figuring stuff out,” Peter said flatly. There was that disdainful tone that always crept into his voice when he talked about adults. “But they’re bound to put it together sooner or later.”
Wendy chewed on her bottom lip. She felt compelled to call the police about the woods, but how would she explain herself? The detectives were already looking at her for answers—they suspected her of lying or holding back something. That was why they showed up at her house to begin with. If she talked to them and they started investigating her more, if they started searching the woods, would they find Peter? And how would they explain him and his connection to all of this?
“They’re going to search the woods,” Wendy said, because of course they would. “They’ll find the hunting shack you’re staying in. They could find you, Peter.”
Peter, who had been scuffing the toe of his shoe on the floor, froze. Apparently he hadn’t considered that, either. He tipped his head back and let out a halfhearted laugh. “I guess we better hurry then,” he said, looking down at her with a sad grin.
Wendy pressed her hands against her abdomen. She felt like she was going to be sick.
In the living room, the view of Detective James changed on the television, catching her attention. It was a drawing of another missing person.
“Oh no,” Wendy groaned.
Detective James spoke: “We have also been alerted to another child who went missing from the hospital the day before yesterday. The boy was originally found unconscious on Williamsport Road but went missing shortly after being brought to the hospital for treatment. His name and whereabouts are unknown, but we have reason to believe he is connected to the string of local disappearances,” he went on.
Wendy’s eyes grew wide. Reason to believe he is connected to the string of local disappearances?
“What’s wrong?” Peter asked. He stepped closer, peering at her carefully. “You look like you’re going to barf.”
“If they think you have something to do with the missing kids,” Wendy said, the panic rising in her throat pushing the words out rapidly, “and they think you have something to do with what happened to me and my brothers, then that means that they think I have something to do with it, too!”
Peter blinked, but then everything seemed to click into place. “Oh,” Peter said with a cringe. “Oops…”
What could she possibly tell the police? Yes, detective, my brothers and I actually ran off to a magical island in the sky called Neverland. They were kidnapped by an evil shadow, but a magical boy saved me and brought me back home! Oh, and all those kids that have gone missing? Yes, well, the shadow got them, too, and now it’s up to me and the magical boy to get them back!
“You’re right,” Wendy said, staring unblinkingly at the TV. “I might barf.”
Peter stepped back.
A composite sketch took over the screen.
It was a drawing of Peter. Not a very good one, but definitely him nonetheless. His nose was pretty accurate, and they got his ears right, including the way they pointed and sort of stuck out. But his cheeks and jaw in the picture were too round and young looking. It was a sketch of how Peter had looked when she’d found him in the street—but, looking at him now, as he leaned across the counter and intently stared at the TV, it was clear to Wendy that he was still aging quickly.
And the eyes, of course, didn’t do his real ones any justice.
Detective James continued on in the background: “He has been described as having brown hair, blue eyes, and standing at about five foot five. He’s guessed to be between the ages of twelve and fourteen and may be confused or disoriented. If seen, please call—”
Wendy inspected Peter. She was five foot five and, standing next to Peter in the kitchen, he was definitely a good few inches taller than her. She looked at the screen again. Wendy remembered how he had looked when she first found him in the middle of the road. But now? He was definitely taller, and his cheeks weren’t round anymore. Still covered in freckles, they sloped over more defined cheekbones and blended into his more defined jawline. Had he really aged that much in just a couple of days?
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Peter asked, squinting as he frowned at her.
“I’m not staring at you,” Wendy said, cheeks growing hot as she gave his shoulder a shove. “I guess if anything, losing your magic is useful, since the aging will make it harder for people to recognize you from the ER,” she said in an attempt to find a silver lining.
“Yeah, but not useful in getting my shadow back.” Peter scowled. “The weaker my magic gets, the more I age. I’m not supposed to grow up, Wendy. If we can’t fix me soon…” Peter looked lost for words. “I don’t know what’ll happen, but those kids will be lost for good.”
“And so will my brothers,” Wendy said.
Peter dug the palms of his hands into his eyes.
The sound of a key sliding into the front door lock made Wendy nearly jump out of her skin.
