Never, Never (29 page)

Then, Hook froze. For there was a tap, and a whoosh of air, and the sickening sound of metal connecting with flesh. He turned to see one of his men with an arrow sticking out of his back.

T
HE MAN FELL FORWARD, BLOOD SEEPING FROM THE
wound out onto his back, and when Hook looked closely at the skinny fellow, he recognized him as Flintwise. Jukes roared and dropped to his knees beside the man.

Hook jumped back, his face a mask of shock. He whirled around, long curls flying past his face, and his gaze fell upon the single bow among them that was raised and readied.

He slowly let his eyes travel from the bow to the fingers clasped around it to the dainty wrist and up the slender arm, lingering for a moment on the neck. He was petrified of seeing the face that sat atop it, for he knew without a doubt to whom it belonged. And when he could stop himself no more, his eyes flicked up, and there she was.

Tiger Lily was trembling, holding the bow. She had already nocked another arrow. He breathed in and out, desperate for air, eyes torrid pools of hurt. Hers mirrored his. Hook stared back at her, unblinking, shaking everywhere. Without breaking the look, he cocked his head, twitched it, really. Starkey appeared instantly at his side.

Hook said, in a voice that was both a growl and a whisper at once, “Kill them.”

Starkey backed away into the crowd of ruffians and a clamor broke out. Jukes let Flintwise's lolling head drop to the ground and stared up at the Indians, murder in his eyes. He screamed out and drew his sword, the size of Jukes himself, then ran and began to carve.

Hook felt a great nausea boiling up in his gut, and he was compelled to cry out, “Leave Tiger Lily! And the Chief!”

The first Indian came at him, brandishing a weapon that was sharp and nicked in several places. It had survived a good number of battles.

Hook struck out with his sword, meeting his attacker across the middle, slicing through his stomach like a hot knife through butter. The man fell to the ground with a guttural cry and Hook shut his eyes. The forest was alive with gunshots and bellows and the clink of metal against metal.

He hacked through the throng of men, slashing at one with his sword and gutting another with his hook, spilling the blood of another with the hook's point across his jugular. He pretended that the warm spray across his face was something other than blood. Pretended that he was back in his room as a boy, playing at battles with no one—that hurt no one, killed no one.

There was no piece of him that desired to be massacring the Indians. And a massacre it was. Several pirates fell in the fray, some of whom Hook knew personally and some of whom he did not. But, the Chief 's tribe was shrinking at a dramatic rate. Hook himself was responsible for the majority of the carnage. He wielded the hook like a piece of him, slicing and stabbing with horrible precision.

He came up from a particularly brutal stroke and drew back his hook, power coursing through his veins, quaking his muscles, and stopped, stumbling back. Tiger Lily was staring back at him, eyes wide, arrow drawn on
her bow. He wondered momentarily if she would shoot at him. There was a horrible, charged silence between them that to Hook lasted for an age. But probably, it was no longer than an instant. And at the end of it, she turned away just a fraction, and he left as well, shaken to his core.

Minutes passed, and more and more of the Chief 's men fell until Hook noticed that the Indians were backing away and starting to run off. Hook raised his sword and yelled out to his men, who were giving them chase, “Stop!”

His crew ended the pursuit in an instant.

“The night is won. Let them be.”

The forest floor was soaked and sticky, coated crimson and black. Hook gagged once, not so much from the carnage or the blood, but from the guilt.

The Chief stared solemnly at Hook, eyes dead with sorrow and disbelief, as he and his tribe turned to leave. This was nothing like the wars the Indians had had with Pan and the Lost Boys so long ago. And neither was the Chief 's face. The lines around his mouth, etched into his forehead, were deeper, his eyes dark and wet, and filled to the brim with regret and surrender.

“After the suns have risen, come back and collect your dead,” Hook said, voice rough and worn from battle. The Chief 's mouth was a thin, grim line, and he gave Hook a single nod, then jerked his head and beckoned his men to follow.

Tiger Lily caught Hook's eye across the way, and the look on her face was one he would never forget. Her lips were parted, her skin so pale it was barely brown. In her eyes was a grave accusation, and a feeling of betrayal, and a deep, bone-chilling sadness.

He held her gaze for as long as he could, trying to ignore the blood of his men sprayed across her face, knowing that the blood of hers was on his. After what
seemed a terrible, silent age, she left, and Hook turned to his men.

“What are you doing just standing around?” he snarled. “Get back on the trail, men. Pan will not come delivered to us on a platter.”

The men who were still alive hopped up and rambled on down through the forest, tearing a path through the woods, Bill Jukes leading them. Hook, looking horribly fierce and war-torn, stalked on behind them.

Soon, the terrain became familiar, and Hook grinned. They were getting closer; he could feel it. He could feel Peter's life emanating through the trees, illuminating everything, and it drove him onward faster, faster. The leaves on the trees here were nearly glowing, and the taste on the air was sickeningly sweet, mingling with the metallic flavor of blood sprinkled across Hook's lips. He made his way to the front of the wicked crew, trusting himself, now, to lead the onslaught.

Suddenly, he stopped and grabbed the sleeve of the man nearest him, who happened to be Smee.

“This is it, Smee. I can feel it. We're nearly atop it.”

“Indeed, Captain. Pan is right close, to be sure.”

Hook turned slowly around, then dropped to his hands and knees, feeling for fungus of unusual temperatures. It smelled like dirt and moisture and rot down there, but he did not care. It was certainly undignified, the captain rooting around in the soil, mussing up his jacket and pants and scuffing his boots nearly beyond repair. But at this juncture, dignity was not Hook's chief concern.

His slender fingers crept along the ground as he crawled, hook dragging a thin line, splitting the foliage. He held up the hook, signaling his men to stop. Each man in the company froze immediately, even going so far as to halt their breathing. Hook smirked and continued the slow line forward. Then he stopped. Beneath his
hand, he felt a warmth that did not fit with the rest of the earth. He rose just slightly, face to face with a rather large mushroom. This was it.

He mouthed a silent command for the men to stay put, then rose slowly from the ground, pushing his hands out at them. Starkey was the first to interpret the gesture, and he began to back away. The rest of the crew followed his lead, until Hook was satisfied. He stood, walked softly over to his line of fellows, and leaned over to Starkey's ear. He spoke in quick, hushed tones. “We'll take all of them. I want every Lost Boy in our possession. Until I have Peter on my hook, none goes free.”

“And after you have the Pan?”

“I need them no further. We'll let them go.”

Starkey nodded.

“Spread the men out. I want them a meter apart. You see those trees over there? That's where the boys will be coming from. I want no space left unmanned, no chance for escape.”

Starkey stepped back into the crowd and the men dispersed. When they stilled, there was a semi-circle around the trees. For the Lost Boys, there was very little chance of making it out of the night unscathed if they fought. Hook smiled wickedly and drew out his sword, then set his chin upon the round piece of his hook, waiting.

The minutes (or something like minutes) rolled along, the silence threatening to choke him. He cursed it, for the longer they waited, the more he began to doubt himself. But, finally, there was a rustle in one of the trees.

Hook perked up his head and signaled to his men to be silent, and to be ready. Smee shifted his weight nervously, and Jukes lowered his chin, eyes blazing. Then, out of one of the smaller trees, a boy Hook did not recognize descended. He had curly, auburn hair that fairly flashed in the moonlight. Starkey took hold of him, clapping his
huge hand over the child's mouth, and flung him across the circle to Smee, who did the same and held the child captive, but in an almost genial way so that, cushioned against the roundness of the pirate's belly, the child barely looked frightened.

One by one, the children slid out onto the ground, and the second they hit the earth, each of them was snatched up by one pirate or another. Hook was no longer crouching. He was strutting around the circle, menacing from the blood still on his face, dashing from all the rest of him. He was both greatly anticipating and greatly fearing the arrival of Peter Pan, knowing that his own glorious moment would finally come, and almost wishing it wouldn't.

At long last, all the boys had vacated their trees, and there was a break in the commotion. The captain drew nearer to the little grove, brandishing his horribly lustrous hook. And when the last person came from the tree, he smiled and reached out and grabbed the child's arm. But, when he saw the eyes, he drew back.

“A girl,” he said, only just now remembering the girl he had seen at the lagoon.

She stared up at him, eyes wide and unblinking and astonishingly blue. There was a light spray of freckles across her cream face, and her mouth hung open. She was mesmerized by him, just as Tiger Lily had been mesmerized by Peter when she was little, so long ago.

“Who are you, girl?”

The girl just kept staring at his eyes, blonde curls shrinking against her chest.

Smee tossed his boy to another pirate and scampered over.

“It's his Wendy, Captain.”

He frowned. “His what?”

Smee flashed a somewhat embarrassed smile at the girl, then turned back to Hook. “His Wendy.”

“
His
Wendy?” Wendy huffed.

Hook ignored her. “Explain to me, Smee.”

“Well, I've heard tell that Peter Pan had got himself a mother, called a Wendy. He's terribly attached to her, I believe.”

Wendy turned up a corner of her mouth at that.

“Is he?” Hook said, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Indeed.”

At this point, Hook was satisfied that Peter would not be vacating the house. He looked back at Wendy and released her arm, taking her by her tiny hand instead. He was resolved to be a gentleman to the lady, even under these circumstances.

“Tie the boys,” he said, and the pirates hopped to, tying rope around each of the boy's arms and faces and midsections. “Leave the Wendy. She shall remain unharmed.”

The tying went smoothly, he suspected, because Wendy was not putting up much of a fight; she was too intent on staring at him. So the boys were surprisingly unresisting. When it came to Slightly, however, the plan hitched a bit. He was a rotund sort of boy, just as he'd always been, and there was barely enough rope to go around him. Hook pursed his lips. How on earth could a boy get so round when Pan never fed them anything but make-believe food?

Hook narrowed his eyes and looked back at Slightly's tree. It was decidedly larger than all the rest; it had to be. In fact, the tree was nearly man-sized. Hook whipped his face back to eye Slightly. The boy caught his gaze and paled, eyes as wide as dinner plates.

Hook handed Wendy to Smee without a word and returned to examining Slightly's tree. None of the others
was close to large enough for the captain, but this one, this was no twig. This particular entrance to Pan's hideout, Hook could almost certainly fit through. Herein was the way to the Pan.

“Take them back to the ship, and leave me be.”

His tone of voice was such that none of his men dared question him. They simply took the strange order and, boys (and girl) in hand, they left. And Captain Hook was alone with the trees and the aggressive blackness in his heart.

W
HEN THE NIGHT WAS STILL
, H
OOK REMOVED HIS
jacket and hat, leaving himself in nothing but his boots and pants and threadbare linen shirt. His skin was chilled, and so was his blood, but he doubted that came from the weather.

Hook approached Slightly's tree and ran his fingers over the rough edges, fingernails scraping against the glimmering bark. He stepped with one foot into the tree, crouched, and smiled. It was indeed large enough to accommodate him, though barely so. He shimmied down the hollow trunk, glad that he'd chosen to abandon his hat and jacket aboveground. The splinters in the wood tore at his pants and shirt, fraying them and ripping small holes in the fabric. He continued his decidedly uncomfortable descent, until he landed with a muffled
thump
on the ground. Hook drew his sword immediately upon exiting the trunk and his eyes darted around the room. He gripped the handle harder and his heart began to crash wildly against his ribcage. Pan was in the room.

There was a small creak from one of the house's shadowy recesses, and he jumped and held the blade out in front of him. Then, Hook saw him. Peter was lying there, in bed, defenseless, asleep. The candles glowing softly beside the bed gave him a kind of unearthly glow, and Hook's heart jumped up into his windpipe. The
picture of Peter, mouth open, hair frayed and mussed on the pillow, was disgustingly idyllic.

He took a step toward Peter, holding his hook in front of his face, hiding behind it. The closer he got, the more the doubt in him took over, until he was right at the boy's face, and the uncertainty was overwhelming. He had some difficult breathing as he stared at Peter, taking in the peace on his face, his small relaxed body, and the hint of sweetness buried beneath the wickedness.

Then, Hook noted the mouth, which was twitched up in a smirk and laced with arrogance. He narrowed his eyes and looked over the rest of the boy once more, the cocky smirk tainting his view. Peter was relaxed, arm and leg both bent in such a way that even his body exuded conceit. That hardened the captain.

It was that easy pride, the unthinking narcissism that had caused Hook to lose everything. The self-centered arrogance had caused Peter to forget that the boy James had wished to go home, had taken his parents, his life, the only woman he'd ever loved.

He drew back his hook, gazing intently at the pulse in the boy's throat. But his eyes forced him to stop. They would not allow him to pierce the skin or the veins of Peter Pan. It was too brutal, too inhuman, too intentional. And, most of all, he heard his father's voice admonishing him.

“Bad form, James.”

Hook bit his lower lip, teeth raking over it harshly. The incarnation of his father was right, though he hated to admit it. Killing a boy or a man while he was sleeping was the epitome of bad form.

It was a quandary, to be sure. He could not slay the boy while he was unconscious. If he did that, he would be letting go of every thread of Eton man left in him, and he was unwilling to kill that man completely.

The obvious solution, then, was to wake Pan and then duel him. But in his heart he knew that if he chose to do the honorable thing and wake him, it would be no different from committing suicide.

Suicide
. Hook cocked his head, and his thoughts turned to a third option, one he could not believe he hadn't thought of already. He set his sword down gently and reached into his jacket pocket, closing his fingers around the vial. This was it, the way to marry his honor with his desire to live.

There was a little cup on Peter's bedside table, and it was filled with something Hook did not recognize. He left the cup on the table then knelt beside it, jumping when Pan jerked in his sleep. Hook held his breath. After several seconds, he let it out again and returned to the task at hand.

He held the vial in one hand, and with his hook, he pierced the cork in the top of it and slid it out. He felt uneasy just being this close to the open vessel, and his hand trembled just a bit. Despite the heat that scattered from his cheeks to his neck, begging for him to stop, he pressed forward and tipped the glass. Five fat drops fell from the vial into the cup, spreading out, discoloring the liquid just slightly.

He was sure, despite the attempt not to think about it, that he'd just descended into a level of villainy he'd never wanted to know, at least not so intimately. But the deed was done.

He clawed his way up the tree, and reached the top, skin burning from splinters, conscience burning from something else entirely. The cold did nothing to soothe either. He draped his jacket across his back and set his hat atop his head, brim shadowing his brooding face, and he walked off into the night.

Neverland seemed less confused, now, less frenetic. The leaves were slow, along with the stars. And the forest was dark, but at least now it was committed to it—deep and black and decisive. The world was just sort of holding its breath.

Alone with his thoughts, he wondered if Pan would drink the poison upon waking, or if he would disregard it entirely. And if he did drink it at all, would he even die, or would Neverland cook him up an antidote? Could Peter even
be
killed?

As was nearly always the case with Hook, there were two sides of him dueling on the issue. One said that no, Neverland belonged to Peter and loved him, and Peter was the beating heart of the place. Since Neverland could never really be destroyed, neither could its heart. But, the other side concluded that Peter, though certainly fantastical and imbued with defense beyond reason, was but a boy, and could be killed like any other boy. Somehow, Hook believed both.

When he came to the clearing he and Tiger Lily had claimed for their own, he lost his breath instantly. He hadn't intended to go there.

He snarled and pressed on through the meadow without bothering to stop.

“Will he drink that poison? Will he die tonight?” Hook muttered aloud, evidence that he was beginning to lose it completely. No sooner had he said it than he heard a faint tinkling of bells. He stopped and looked up.

There was a little light bobbing overhead, and it tinkled again. Blasted fairies; he never had been able to interpret the language. He shooed the thing away and continued on toward the
Main
, keeping his mumblings to himself.

When the ship entered his view, no smile played on his lips. Aboard the vessel, he knew, was a group of children.
A group he'd no idea how to handle. It depended greatly on Pan, whether he was alive or dead. He supposed he had no choice but to wait it out.

Tonight sometime, or tomorrow morning, all of Neverland would be in its usual state, or it would be mourning the death of Peter Pan.