Unhooked

by Lisa Maxwell

  “Swim, lass,” Rowan orders. “And swim hard.”

  Relief shudders through me. He didn’t give me up, I realize. He chose me.

  And for what? He must be completely insane, because there is no way we will be able to get away from Pan, not when he can attack so easily from above.

  I don’t argue, though. Black smoke hangs heavy in the air, blanketing the sky and giving us some measure of cover. Even though the water burns my eyes and chokes me with every misplaced breath, I do my best to keep up with Rowan’s steady strokes. I push and push until my legs ache with the effort of my kicks.

  By the time we clear the wreckage of the ship and make our way across the open water, my muscles are screaming. I’ve been cooped up too long in ugly little cabins or pretty flower box rooms, and my legs feel weak and ineffective as I kick against the heavy drag of the current.

  But when something cold brushes against my leg, I grab for Rowan.

  “What is it?” he shouts, turning back to see what’s caused my distress.

  “I don’t know,” I sputter, my arms and legs churning frantically to keep myself above the waterline. “I felt something.” I can’t make out anything in the depths below except murky shadows along the ocean floor.

  He pulls me closer, his eyes serious and determined. “We have to go now, as fast as you can. And don’t be looking back.”

  “But—”

  “The Sisters,” he says simply, his eyes tense with fear. I give him a nod, to let him know that I understand, and he takes my hand and begins to pull me along.

  The Sisters. Those horrible monsters that turned the sea pink with the meal they made of that boy. The Sisters, with their corpselike skin and tangled masses of seaweed hair.

  A dark shape moves along the ocean floor.

  “Swim!” he demands, and this time I’m able to make my body obey. But there’s laughter hanging in the air above us. I don’t need to look up to know that it’s Pan, floating safely above the deadly waves, waiting for us to leave the cover of the smoke. Mocking the pointlessness of our situation with his dark glee.

  Rowan sees I’m lagging and he reaches for me, tugging me through the water as something cold and large moves beneath the waves.

  “It’s not much farther,” Rowan calls, helping to tug me through the currents. The mouth of the cove is still about fifty yards off—a distance that seems endless to my aching arms and exhausted legs.

  We’ll never make it without Pan or the Sisters catching us first. And even if we do, then what? All that waits beyond is the open sea.

  But Rowan hasn’t given in, and neither will I. The water churns, and the cold bubbles rising from below turn the sea around us icy. But we swim on, him pulling me every so often, refusing to stop.

  “Rowan!” I scream. Through the choppy waves, I see the massive creature.

  I flail with a sudden spasm of terror, and my uneven strokes can’t keep my head above the waves. I come up again, sputtering for breath, trying to make my arms and legs work together to keep me afloat.

  I thought the Sisters were terrifying before, but I didn’t understand. Not really.

  The creature rising from the depths below is covered in a mossy layer of algae and speckled with bright patches of white. Barnacles, I think at first. But I’m wrong. They’re bones. Strings of skulls drape across the huge body of the beast, a horrible necklace of its trophies.

  Both Rowan and I struggle against the pull of the water, which sucks us toward the creature as it rises from the deep. The opening of the cove is closer now—maybe thirty yards away. But the Sisters are closer too.

  I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing, though—this can’t be the Sisters. As the creature rises, its great body coming to the surface, I realize that what I thought had been three mermaids is actually one enormous creature with three torsos and three heads. Its tangled masses of hair hang limp from its three large misshapen faces as it breaks through the surface of the water. Its body is the size of a whale, and it has tentacles that flail about, slapping at the water as it continues to rise up, up above the waves.

  One of the giant tentacles rises, high above us.

  This is the end, I think. After everything I’ve been through, this is how I will die.

  The creature brings its massive tentacle down again, using it as leverage to turn in the water. Away from us.

  Toward Pan.

  “For the love of all that’s holy, I need you to swim, Gwendolyn.” Rowan’s voice comes to me like a dream as I gulp water and air and try to make sense of what I’m seeing. They are not attacking us. Perhaps they didn’t see us, or maybe they just don’t care, but the Sisters have risen out of the water, a dark mountain of tangling limbs and horrible faces, and they are attacking Pan.

  Rowan pulls me along through the water, and this time I don’t hesitate. I force my legs to kick a few times more. I force my arms to crawl after him through the water, and we make it out of the cove—out to sea—before Pan can stop us.

  On the count of three, they ran, each crouching low to the ground. As they went, the earth shook, like demons from below were rising to join the battle. The sky was alive, and bullets buzzed like hornets past the boy’s head. It was madness. And in the madness, the boy lost track of his brother. . . .

  Chapter 29

  BY THE TIME WE REACH A Rocky beach, We are both so completely exhausted that we collapse without any thought of Pan following us. Or anything else, really.

  Some time later I wake with Rowan sitting close-by. His legs are pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, like he’s trying to hold himself together. His eyes are taking in the sun as it sets over the endless sea, and his face is drawn and pale against the white slash of his scar. I have a feeling he’s thinking of Will. Of all the boys he lost today.

  He chose me, I think.

  Back in the cove, I was so sure he would hand me over to Pan to save his crew. But he didn’t. He chose me. The guilt and the terrible hope that knowledge inspires make my eyes burn and my throat go tight. I don’t understand it. He loves those boys so fiercely. Why would he choose me instead of saving what was left of his crew?

  He sees me stirring, but he doesn’t speak or make any move to help me up. We’re on a broad, flat rock that’s still radiating the heat from the day. Around us, the world is quiet and still. With the calm ocean lapping at the shore below, it would be easy to believe that nothing is wrong. That he hasn’t just lost a brother. That I haven’t just abandoned a friend.

  “What now?” I ask once the sun has lowered itself into the sea.

  “We haven’t much choice. We’ll do as Fiona instructed. We’ll find the Queen and we’ll free her.” He runs a hand through his damp hair, pushing it out of his eyes. “Then we’ll hope for the best and try to get you and your friend back to your world.”

  “You’ll help me save Olivia from Pan?” I ask, surprised that he would offer without my asking. Especially after what he’d said before, on his ship.

  “Aye, though we’ll have to be waiting until morning, as it’s not safe to venture into the island so late in the day. It should be safe enough to stay here for the night—if Pan hasn’t come after us already, I doubt he’ll venture out in the darkness.”

  “He has before,” I say, thinking of the night he came to me on the ship.

  “That he has, but he knows now my lads and I had help getting into his fortress. He’ll be more on guard, less willing to trust his safety to Fiona and the lights of her kind for protection.”

  I want to tell him that I’m sorry about going with Pan. About the choice Will made. I know words can be powerful things, but I’m not sure there’s a single combination of sounds or syllables worthy of the loss he’s just suffered.

  “I’ll build us a fire,” he says after a while. “It should keep us safe enough for the night.”

  He sets about his task quietly, leaving me on the warmth of the rock to watch him meticulously gather debris, which he piles in a small m
ound. Then, using the steel of his fingertip to strike sparks against the dark stone, he carefully feeds the embers bits of dried seaweed until they flicker into flame.

  When the fire is burning, he lays his coat and his shirt out on the rock so they can dry in the warmth of the fire, leaving his lean torso bare in the deepening twilight. Muscles bunch and move under his damaged skin, but this time, the sight of his scars isn’t so shocking. Nor is the steel arm, as it glints in the firelight.

  Ignoring the heat that has built in my cheeks, I strip off my own damp boots and socks and warm my toes in the heat of the flames. We sit that way until long after the rosy sky has turned dark. Neither of us willing to break the uneasy stillness with words.

  In time the fire grows large enough to cast a steady glow, shielding us from the darkness beyond. My toes are warmer now, but I’m still shivering from my wet clothes.

  He frowns at my chattering teeth and takes his coat from the rock, feeling it for dampness. Satisfied, he offers it to me. “Strip out of those and wear this instead.”

  I give him a doubtful look as I consider the outstretched coat.

  “I’ll turn my back. Go on,” he says, thrusting the coat forward.

  I take it from him and wait until he’s turned away from me. “Fiona said you and Pan were friends once,” I say as I strip out of my wet shirt and pants as quickly as I can. The question’s easier to ask when I don’t have to face that dark look of his.

  He doesn’t answer right away, so I pull on the warm heaviness of his coat. It hangs to mid-thigh, long enough that I’m covered but still short enough that I feel uncomfortably bare. When I wrap it around myself, I’m surrounded by his scent—spicy and heady—the scent of the sea and the wind. And of Rowan.

  Rowan. I’ve been thinking of him as that name since . . . when? I’m not even sure. But sometime between when I saw his dark head appear in the window of Pan’s fortress and now, the Captain began to disappear for me. Now all I see is the boy beneath the title. The boy with eyes dark as the night sky.

  “I’m ready,” I say, settling myself across from him, covering my bare legs as best I can with his coat. When he turns back, his gaze brushes over me, and even though I’m completely covered, I feel unaccountably bare.

  “I know you’re not friends now,” I tell him, trying to distract him and myself. “But something had to have changed. . . .” I let my voice trail off, not wanting to voice the question directly. But he understands my meaning.

  “Don’t paint me the hero, lass,” he says stiffly. “The only thing that truly changed is that I learned a new way to kill.”

  I frown, but I don’t allow myself to react, and I don’t press him. The stiff set of his shoulders and the self-loathing I hear in his voice are enough to tell me that he judges himself more harshly than maybe even I could.

  I wait, giving him the time he needs, and eventually, he speaks again.

  “Though it’s no excuse, Pan tricked me into taking that first life. He thought it would bind me to his cause. Instead, it had quite the opposite effect.” The firelight flickers across the sharp features of his face, shadowing his eyes, so I can’t quite make out the emotion there. “You see, the Dark Ones are quite curious beings, Gwendolyn. As you’ve well seen, they’ve the ability to harvest life, but what is a human life save the memories it carries? Without memory, there is no empathy, no humanity. Without memory, we are not ourselves.”

  I think about my hazy memories of that other world and how unsettled I feel because I can’t recall them. I think about Olivia, how different she is without any recollection of who she once was. And I find I can’t disagree.

  “When I took that first boy’s life, it gave me more time in this world. But it also gave me the child’s long-buried memories. They helped me to remember the world I came from, the person I’d been. Otherwise, I might never have left Pan’s keeping.”

  “But you did leave,” I say, focusing on what seems most important.

  “Aye, I did.” His eyes meet mine. “I began to see Pan’s games for what they were. He believed himself to be a bloody hero, and I came to believe he needed a suitable villain. Someone who could stand against him in this world.”

  “I can’t imagine he let you go willingly, though,” I say, the question in my voice clear.

  “No, that was Fiona’s doing. Because she knew I’d been close to Pan, Fiona believed me to be useful. It was she who helped me escape from the fortress. And she who arranged for my ship and my arm”—the clockwork hand clenches, as if to accentuate his point—“which she enchanted, so I could stand against him as a true equal.”

  “But you never did help her free the Queen,” I charge. “You didn’t even tell Fiona where Pan was hiding her.

  “I couldn’t.” He glances across the fire to where I’m sitting. “Do you think Pan just has the Queen tucked into a cage somewhere? Perhaps in a chest or behind a locked door in the Great Hall of his fortress?” He shakes his head. “He’s buried her in the heart of the island, and none of the Fey who remain are strong enough to unearth her—Pan made sure of that. It took the Queen’s power to put her there, and it would take the Queen’s own power to call her forth again.”

  “Because of the runes on his chest,” I realize.

  “Aye. Pan’s used his power well. Fiona and her kind aren’t of the Queen’s own blood, so there’s nothing they can do to release her.” Rowan leans forward to stoke the fire. “Not that I let Fiona know right away, mind. But that secret would have been no use to my lads if Neverland had continued to tear itself apart. So I told her of what Pan had done to keep her Queen hidden for so long. Because until he’s defeated and the Queen is released, none of my lads have a chance to return to their world.”

  “That’s why Fiona was in London,” I say, understanding. “She was looking for me too.”

  Rowan’s expression is clouded with regret. “And for that, I’m sorry. Had I known then what I know now—had I known you—I would have allowed this whole bloody world crumble to dust before I uttered a word.”

  “That wouldn’t have stopped Pan,” I told him. “It wasn’t Fiona who finally got to me. One way or the other, I think I was always going to end up here. But I’m not sure if I can do what Fiona thinks I can,” I tell him honestly. “That thing that happened in the dungeon—it was the first time I’ve ever managed to do anything remotely Fey-like.”

  “You’ll do what you can, and we’ll take our chances, because we’ve no other choice. I don’t have a ship. I don’t have a crew. . . .” he says, his voice faltering, his eyes closing against the pain of his loss.

  “You loved them,” I say, seeing it so clearly in the pain written across his features.

  “Aye, but I’ve killed them too. Just as he does.” He meets my eyes. With his jaw shadowed by more than a day’s growth of beard and his hair mussed and hanging idly over his forehead and his chest bare in the flickering firelight, he looks very much the pirate he claims to be.

  But he also looks tired and worn from trials I can’t begin to imagine.

  “If I were braver, I’d have chosen death long ago,” he tells me, a confession and explanation all at once. “In that way, Will was far stronger than I’ve ever been.” His eyes bore into me, daring me to condemn him. Or maybe asking me to forgive.

  I’m not sure that I can do either.

  “Weak as I may have been, I’ve tried to use my life as best I can. As long as my life can serve to protect even one lad, I can’t regret the path I’ve chosen,” he says, his words tumbling before me, like he’s trying to get everything out before he loses his nerve.

  He holds himself stiff and his face purposely free of emotion as he waits for my judgment. I can sense it in the air between us—his expectation that I will turn away from him now.

  But I find I can’t. I’ve only been in this world a short time, and how many of my own choices have I come to regret?

  I stand slowly, careful to keep his coat pulled around me, and make my way
to his side of the fire. He doesn’t so much as move or blink. He simply stands and waits. The pain and regret and dread in his eyes are so clear, it brings tears to my own.

  Gently, I twine my fingers through his, feeling both the warmth of his true hand and the soft leather of the glove covering the metal one brush against my skin. Surprise lights his eyes, but he still doesn’t move. He doesn’t tighten his fingers around mine or even breathe.

  I tilt my head up to him and quickly, before I can think better of it or lose my nerve, I rise up on my toes and press my lips against his. His mouth is warm and firm beneath mine but it is also immoveable.

  That doesn’t matter.

  This isn’t a seduction. This isn’t me throwing myself at him or trying to stoke some passion deep inside his stoic reserve. This kiss is simply a choice.

  For days I have been tossed from one danger to the next. Misled, tempted, tricked. Used. For days I have not known which way to turn, what the truth was, or who to trust. But the ragged emotion in Rowan’s voice, the calm resolve and unadorned words he used to tell me his story, felt more honest and more real than anything has felt yet in this world. So I give him a single kiss, lips pressed simply against lips, with no expectation and no purpose other than to show him my choice.

  I let go of his hands and look up at him. His arms are still at his sides, but I see his fists are clenched, as though in an effort not to touch me, and I can’t help but smile.

  The boy was stuck in that vast landscape of wire and bone. He could not go on without his brother. But he also could not go back. Then his brother was there—just off to the left, running with his arms out. And for a moment, relief washed over the boy, because he could see the field ahead, dark and clear, and the safety of the land just beyond. . . .