by Lani Lenore
Nevermor
By Lani Lenore
Text © Lani Lenore 2012-2013
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be produced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Cover art by Omri Koresh © 2013
Table of Contents
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Captain’s Log – First Entry
Chapter Twenty
Captain’s Log – Second Entry
Chapter Twenty-One
Captain’s Log - Final Entry
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
Forsaken Dreamscape
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
About the Author
Introduction
This book is about dreams – the dreams of the characters written of herein – but more specifically, my dream.
Perhaps you already know the story behind this book. If you don't, let me explain. I’ve always dreamed of being a published writer. It’s been my lifelong aspiration, but that’s an old story. I take pleasure in rewriting old stories, and I love a good fairytale.
In 2001, when I was still young in heart and mind and ability, I began a dark fantasy, Peter Pan-based fanfiction, which at the time was called simply Neverland. I began posting it online and it was well-received, but I didn't finish it until years later when I reworked the entire thing, finished it, and posted it again as Neverland: Forsaken Dreamscape.
For years, it has lived online and has been merely a fanfiction – until now.
In September 2012, I decided that I would be brave and set myself on the road to self-publishing. I've rewritten many fairytales into darker versions over the past several years, also penned a few original works, and yet none have been quite as popular as my dark fantasy sequel to Peter Pan. I decided that perhaps this was a good one to start with, but despite how popular it was among readers, I was never happy with it myself. There were good things about it, but there was something wrong, and I couldn’t quite pick it out.
I looked at it again, and after researching the copyright on Peter Pan as well as examining my own unhappiness with my story, I decided that the only way to solve my problem was to change it so that it wasn’t Peter Pan anymore. I wanted to do something new – to break away from the old story and make something of my own. I realized that in order to do that, I had to create my own story as a base, to put in front of the ‘sequel’ volume I had already written.
That is what this book is. I wrote it to create a new story to set the stage for the next book – Forsaken Dreamscape, which is now the second book in the Nevermor trilogy. I changed it from being Peter Pan into something of my own. The setup of the story is similar, but the characters and plot are different. Even though it is based on the Peter Pan legend, I feel prouder of it now that I've made it my own.
So, that is the brief history of this book. Without rambling on further, I ask that you approach this novel with a clear mind and that you enjoy the story. Thank you for giving your attention to an indie writer with a dream.
- Lani Lenore
This book is dedicated to all my fans who have stood by me, and to anyone who's ever dreamed - even if it was a bit dark and twisted.
~ ~
Remember, oh child; do not forget
When storms roll in and darkness sets,
Though truth be heavy, keep it still,
As fire will burn and swords will kill,
What happens once comes ‘round again.
As it began, so shall it end.
~ ~
Prologue
The sea was calm, glittering beneath the moon like an endless sheet of diamonds. Often, it was rocked with the turmoil of violent dreams, during which the black remnant of nightmares washed up onto the land, but on this night, the waves lapped gently at the sandy shore and the wind was steady.
The Rifter was pleased with this, even if it meant that his sword would not taste blood tonight. The cool breeze rushed through his hair and he felt at ease, for the world was also at rest.
Finding that the beach was safe, he brushed back his coat of leaves and sat down on the rocks that were jutting out toward the ocean. From here, he took in the silence – breathed it in like the salty air. The dark water stretched as far as his eyes could see, fading away until it met the blue-black sky. There was not a threat to be seen – not a nightmare or an ominous cloud – and to see nothing at all on the horizon was better than noting danger.
Though if danger had approached him, he would have laughed in its face as he cut its throat.
The Rifter often brought the others with him, but he had come by himself tonight. What he had to do, he had to do alone. The weight of this choice was on his own shoulders.
A small orb of light drifted lazily over his head, staying close to him always, as per their bond. Though it was uncommon to see a fairy wisp keeping so close to a human, this one rarely left his side. As he was the guardian of this place, she had made it her personal duty to watch over him – yet her consistent hovering led him to forget that she was there at all.
She dipped low now, flicking his ear to have his attention.
“Yes, yes. I’m awake,” he told her with a hint of annoyance. He didn’t like it when she fussed over him.
The boy lifted his eyes toward the sea again, observing the calm beneath the light of the large moon.
“Think there’s anything out there?” he asked her.
His only answer was a steady stream of whispers, spoken in a language that not many could interpret, but it was as clear as English to him.
“I guess we’ll see,” he responded. “Why don’t you go scout; try to bring something in.”
The whispers swirled nastily as the fairy zipped around him, cutting bright streaks through the air, but the Rifter gave it no attention.
“I don’t care,” he said, uninterested in her complaints. “Just do it.”
With one last curse, the wisp shot off across the sea, keeping low, until she was only a tiny pinprick in the distance.
Left alone, Rifter whistled briefly to himself. This night needed to be fruitful. He was like an unlucky fisherman, tired of coming back with empty nets. His Pack might start doubting his skill if he kept returning without what he came for.
Reclining lazily, the Rifter to
ok out his flute – a row of reeds lashed together – and blew into the end to produce a long, melancholy sound. The music flowed out over the dipping sea, disappearing into the further reaches of the universe. He paused, hearing the way the water carried the sound over it, passing it from one wave to the next. Yes, it was a good night for this.
Closing his eyes and listening to the sound of the ocean to inspire him, he began to play a slow, haunting melody.
Chapter One
LONDON - 1873
1
Wren looked down at the tips of her shoes, closed her eyes and transported herself into her own past.
She imagined the large, familiar house that she’d once called home, which had the notches in the doorframe marking the progress of her growth since she was a child. Her mother was in the other room, knitting mittens for the baby, and Henry was in the hall, making a mess with his jacks. The thump of the rubber ball resounded down the wooden corridor, so that even their servant, Agatha, could hear it in the kitchen, where she was preparing tea. Wren sought the smell of her father’s pipe that was still on the air, though he was away at work. The heady aroma never left. It saturated everything.
Wren could almost recall it – only almost. She sniffed once as if she could catch a whiff of the memory, but it was just beyond the veil. When she couldn’t quite immerse herself in it, she had no choice but to come back.
Taking in a deep breath as if to seal the images away – to place them back in a tidy corner of her mind where they had been preserved – she opened her eyes to see her reality. When she looked up, she hadn’t managed to deliver herself. No magic spell could take her back to her innocent youth.
Miss Nora’s Home for Wayward Children was not anything more or less than what was expected. The gray walls, with their peeling paper, were patchy with water spots that started at the ceiling and spread out at the angles like an infection. There was always a pervading smell of the thick coal smoke that covered London, billowing out from the chimneys of the factories that had taken over the East End. As with all the other row houses and lofts, a thin layer of black dust covered every surface and never seemed to go away, no matter how much one wiped or fussed. It was the only thing that seemed constant and eternal to the ones who lived here.
The Home wasn’t a palace, but it was a roof over the head and a bed to sleep in, as opposed to living on the streets with so many other unwanted children. Wren knew this, and not a day went by that she didn’t have to remind herself that she appreciated it.
It was a Wednesday, but all of Miss Nora’s orphans – these forgotten children who seemed to be a class of society all their own – were dressed in their Sunday best. They were excused from their schooling for this event: adoption day. Wren had been through so many of these days before, and each time, she told herself that this might be the one that counted – the day that someone would want to take her home.
Just remember to smile at the decent ones and keep your head down when the riffraff pass, she coached herself.
Wren was in a simple dress that she had made herself, stitched by hand from basic cloth. It hung limply on her thin frame and the seams were a bit crooked, but it made her look innocent and young – at least she always hoped for that. There was no reason to draw attention to her nubile body or otherwise make herself look the whole of her fifteen years, for doing so might garner unwanted attention. She didn’t want the wrong visitors to notice that she was pretty. She was too close to marrying age to risk that.
She was holding Maxwell’s small hand in hers, her callused fingers against his smooth palm. He was only four and needed her steady hand to keep him in place, but aside from that, she wanted to show the visitors that they were together. They were blood siblings and she needed that message to be clear.
Henry was standing on the other side of her, looking sloppy as usual. His brown hair was a bit too long but he wouldn’t allow her to cut it. His clothes were too big – chosen from a collection that had been at the Home for years before they had come here. He’d agreed to stand next to her, but insisted on his independence by refusing to hold her hand. The idea of touching his own sister disgusted him like nothing else. Such was his thinking at twelve.
There were at least twenty orphans at Miss Nora’s, all usually so covered in soot from the factories that their faces could not be distinguished one from another, but today they were clean enough that they could be recognized as children again. Their skin had been scrubbed and their shoes had been polished, all in line now as they waited to be examined by the visitors.
Some of the callers were not specifically looking for children as sons and daughters. They were looking for apprentices, servants, older girls to serve as nannies. Wren was not unwilling to work for her room and board, but it was often that even these people would not want to take all three of them on, and she wanted them all to stay together. This was her one aspiration. She didn’t want to be separated from her brothers. They were all she had left.
While she put on her best face for the visitors with softer expressions, some guests were not quite so scrupulous. She could tell by the gleam in their eyes that they were looking for something different – unsuspecting laborers for the workhouse, or they were thinking vile thoughts as they looked at her supple complexion.
Wren tried her best to fend some of these off, and had so far managed to do it, finding that it worked well to claim that Max was her own son instead of her brother. The thought of an unwed mother so young tended to put people off. Or if the visitor was suspect for a factory workhouse, she would direct Henry to slouch or pretend that his legs were uneven so that he would look weak. Miss Nora already had them working in a factory to earn their keep at the Home. Wren did not want them living in one. There, they would be treated as nothing more than property and would no doubt suffer the mishandling that went with it.
Wren felt she was a fairly good judge of character and she kept her eyes peeled for the genuine article – even if Henry couldn’t care less. He usually stared at his own shoes and the cracks between the floorboards rather than put on his best face.
It would be nice if he would try sometime, she thought. I can’t do it all by myself.
She looked out across the room with the thin drapes and the threadbare settee, looking toward a decently dressed pair that had caught her eye immediately. They were clearly married, and the woman had a warm smile as she pointed out a few of the younger children to her husband. He was, perhaps, a bit more stern-looking than Wren might have liked in a father figure, but the woman reminded Wren of her own mother, who she had not seen since she’d kissed her goodbye on the steps of Miss Nora’s nearly two years ago. These people at least looked clean and well-to-do, and that was enough reason for her to want them.
The couple was moving in their direction now, and Wren felt her heart speeding up. She was the neglected girl at the party who was finally being asked to dance – but this was so much more important than that.
This is it, she told herself. Make it count.
“Stand up straight,” she whispered to Henry, but all he did was squirm and look up at her with defiant blue eyes. All the soap in the world couldn’t wash away the look of ill-temper that was constantly on his face, and Wren could only hope that her own smile and politeness would make up the difference.
As the couple drew closer, Wren’s chest clenched with both fear and excitement. Her hand was trembling slightly against Max’s, and she hoped that her anxiety was not showing through to the outside.
When the woman hesitated in front of them, she did not seem to see Wren at all. Her eyes settled on little Max instead as if she’d just spotted the most adorable puppy hiding in the bushes. She leaned down to address him immediately.
“Hello, what’s your name, pet?” the woman asked him sweetly.
Max turned against Wren’s leg and didn’t speak. He was one of the more attractive young children – his innocence unspoiled by a hard life, even though he’d cried his share of tears for thei
r lost mother that he could no longer remember.
The woman looked hopeful for an answer from him, but Wren knew that he wouldn’t talk to her now. As little help as she got from Henry, she got even less from Max, who was fine around the other children but had never felt comfortable in the presence of strange adults. She put her hand on his head to soothe him as he clenched her dress and hid his face in the folds.
“His name is Maxwell,” Wren said for him.
The woman was still looking at him anxiously, and Wren would have given anything to have that sort of attention.
“Say hello,” she urged her brother, knowing that he was the ticket, and eventually Max looked sheepishly up at the woman.
“Hullo,” he mumbled. He couldn’t have sounded more uninterested in her except if he’d been bawling, but the woman seemed delighted.
“What a charming little boy,” she commented, her eyes shining. “I have so wanted a little one. I haven’t been able to have my own, you know. He even looks a bit like me, don’t you think?”
Wren wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she only smiled. She supposed that if it went unquestioned, a resemblance might be seen, but as far as Wren herself was concerned, it was fairly obvious that she was not related to this woman. The lady’s eyes were blue, but small, and her nose was slightly crooked over her thin lips. Now that Wren was close enough to notice these things, she wondered how she could have been reminded of her own mother in the beginning.
My mother was lovely. This woman is nothing like her.
The woman now caught her eyes on Wren, who was not always overlooked for being pretty, especially when one was so close. Her eyes were blue and kind, her skin pale, and when her hair was not covered in soot, it was a lovely golden color that spiraled down her back. Her lips were sweet, and they always seemed able to find a smile to lift another’s spirits, even when she was unhappy herself. It was as if the core of her soul was visible on her face, revealing her inner beauty as a rare and perfect pearl.
