Unhooked (28 page)

“My whole life, all I wanted in the world was to be like my older brother, Michael. When the war started, we were both too young to go, but we followed the battles and the news like it was the grandest of adventures.”

His words are not what I expected, and I'm confused. “Which war?” I ask, trying to catch the thread of his tale before it spins away from me in the night.

“The Great War, of course. What other would there be?” he said, his brow creased in confusion.

When I do the math in my head, my vision swims. World War I was a hundred years ago, but Rowan doesn't look older than twenty. I hadn't even considered that time in Neverland could be different than time in my own world. How long had we been gone already? Weeks? Years? The idea sends a shiver of ice through me not even the fire roaring before me can melt.

“There have been plenty,” I say weakly.

“They promised our sacrifice would be the last.” Rowan pauses, as though gathering his courage with his words. “I should have expected that would be a lie as well,” he says darkly. Then he releases me and sets to work adding more debris to the fire. He is careful not to look at me as he speaks.

“The day Michael turned eighteen, he enlisted, of course. I was so bloody jealous of him the day he left. My mam was crying her eyes out, but Michael's smile lit his whole face. I didn't see him again for almost a year, when he was on leave. He looked so completely different—my Michael and yet not. There he was in his starched uniform, all gleaming with the bits and bobs he'd won for doing what soldiers do. When my time with him was over, he put me on the train for home, but I didn't go. I found myself in a recruitment office, telling the man behind the desk I was nineteen years old. I could tell he didn't believe me, but it didn't matter. He took my name, and I signed the paper, and it was done.”

“How old were you really?”

He glances back at me. “That was the spring of '17. I'd just turned sixteen the month before.”

Sixteen—he looked older than that now, but not nearly as old as he should have looked. “And they took you? Without any proof?”

“And why wouldn't they? They needed men, and I was close enough.” His eyes turn back to the fire, and I know he is there, reliving his brother's death again. “I never imagined it could be like that. They'd told us tales of blood and glory, of adventure and honor. And we went willingly, rushing toward our fates.” As he studies the fire, his mouth turns up, a wry smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “You'd think I would have seen Pan's tale for the lie it was sooner.”

I don't know what to say to him, so I don't speak. I simply sit as witness to the story he tells.

“Michael thought he had to take care of me.” He huffs out a rough laugh. “He probably did at that. But it was my fault he went on that patrol the night it happened. I was angry at him for trying to mother me, so I volunteered. I was so convinced I was ready to be a man. So bloody convinced of my own bravery. Of course he volunteered as well.”

He glances up at me again then, his eyes filled with the pain of all that happened. “I was the only one who made it off the field alive that night. And I barely made it at all,” he said, gesturing toward his arm.

“That's what happened to your arm?” I ask, thinking of the scarred skin on his shoulders and back.

He gives me a terse nod, but doesn't say anything more.

He raises the steel hand then and clenches it, watching it move with the kind of terrible wonder he must have had in his eyes the first time he learned that his own arm was missing. Finally his voice comes again, small and broken in the darkness. “I don't know what happened after. I woke in a French hospital without my arm and in more pain than I ever dreamed imaginable. I was in such desperate shape, I'm not sure why they even bothered to try saving me. Just as I'll never be sure of why Fiona brought me here.

“At first I thought I'd died and gone to heaven, save my brother wasn't here, but it wasn't long until I forgot about Michael, about everything before this world. . . . Until I took that first boy's life—that's when the dreams began.

“Now, every time I close my eyes, Michael is there. Laughing. Dying. Over and over, and no matter what I do, I can't change it. I can't stop it.” His breath is ragged. His voice no more than a whisper. “The dreams torture me with what I've done, but they've saved me as well, for without them, I'd have been lost long ago. Without them, I wouldn't be able to stand against Pan or protect the boys from dangers they can't understand.”

I want to tell him that it wasn't his fault, but I know the words are meaningless. Instead, I take his hands and thread my fingers through his, offering what silent comfort I can, but he doesn't speak. We sit in the silence for a moment before I turn his gloved hand over in mine. “May I?” When he doesn't pull away, I carefully peel away its soft leather covering.

The hand beneath is truly a miracle of engineering. Every one of the pieces is decorated with filigreed scrollwork, and it moves with an effortless grace that belies its mechanics.

“It might not be so bad if I didn't have to remember what it was to be whole,” he says softly.

I want to tell him he's still whole, but I don't feel like muddying whatever it is growing between us with lies. “It's part of you now, though.” I turn a bit so I can face him properly, then I open my hand and lay it palm to palm overtop his.

“It's not quite the same as the original, but it serves me well enough for most things.” He pulls away and raises the metal fingers to touch my cheek. “For other things, though, I find it sorely lacking.”

He raises his other hand, then, and frames my face with his hands—metal and flesh, one hard and unfeeling, the other callused from unknown trials. Both equally Rowan.

I force myself to stay completely still, my heart beating wildly in my chest as he sifts his true fingers slowly through my hair, rubbing at the short strands. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Pan saw power. The boys in my own world looked at me next to Olivia and maybe saw a pretty girl, just not pretty enough.

I know he wants to kiss me again, just as I know this hesitation is his way of asking.

Yes,
I think. Because if I have to die here—and I'm beginning to think it's inevitable I will—I want to know him again on my lips. I want him to want me that way, this surly pirate of a boy who would sacrifice anything for those under his protection. Anything, it seems, but me.

But he misreads the hitch in my breath and pulls away abruptly, moving back from me. His blank expression tells me that maybe I've made him dig far deeper into the pain of his past than anyone has a right to, but I can't say I'm exactly sorry for it. I've finally met the person behind the mask of the Captain. The boy who chose to play the villain in order to battle a monster who calls himself a hero.

Rowan unfolds himself from the ground, leaving me cold and alone in the light of the fire. “Get some sleep, if you can, lass. We've a long and trying day ahead of us, if we're to do what must be done,” he tells me. And then he steps away from the glow of the fire and into the darkness beyond.

When he woke, finally, terribly, on something rough against his cheek and reeking of death, he thought he had been delivered to hell. It had been a mistake. All of it. A horrible mistake. But the angel was there, gentle. Or if not gentle, at least sure . . .

I
N THE MORNING, THE AIR between us is charged with an unsettled energy, and I'm not sure what to say to Rowan. We stare at each other for a few moments in the soft light—moments when I think maybe he'll close the distance between us and kiss me—but he turns his back so I can pull on my own clothes instead. When I'm once again dressed, I offer the coat back, and he takes it with a stiff formality that makes everything that happened the night before feel like a long-ago dream.

“The straightest path to where the Queen lies is to follow the water, though to do so, we'd have to venture out into the sea once more, and I'm not all that willing to test the Sisters' mercy a second time.” Rowan points toward the dense green jungle that teems with life beyond the rocky shores. “We'll have to cut through the jungle. Straight north to the heart of the island.” He pulls out the dagger Fiona left us and hands it to me, handle first.

I don't reach for it. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Pray you never need to use it,” he says, offering it again.

I take it finally, weighing its solid body in my hands. It's lighter than Pan's dagger, and in the morning sun, its blade glints silvery instead of the strange dark glow of Pan's. I tuck it into the waistband of my pants and hope I don't skewer myself before I need to use it.

“Ready?” he asks, his expression as sharp and guarded as I've ever seen it.

“Not even a little bit.”

When we step into the lush green of the jungle, the sound of the sea fades away, but the trees aren't silent. As soon as we enter the teeming canopy, I can feel the trees pulse around me in warning.

This is nothing like the dark forest of my childhood. It's like nothing I've ever seen—even flying through the canopy of trees with Pan didn't prepare me for the experience of being
inside
of it. The vegetation around us is wild and unearthly, colored every shade of green imaginable. Some of the plants have leaves as large as my arms stretched wide. Others are spindly, with needlelike outgrowths that look as sharp as razors.

Strangely enough, even though the air is close here—almost claustrophobic—I don't feel afraid. Or I suppose I should say that I feel uneasy but not unwelcome. Like the garden within Pan's fortress, the plants of Neverland's jungle twist away as we walk to reveal a winding path through the dense undergrowth. The island itself seems to be directing us, and I can't tell if Neverland is guiding us to the Queen because it wants to be freed or if this is just another one of its traps. I should be terrified of how very
alive
it all feels, but after all I've been through—and after everything I've done—fear seems like a luxury I can't afford.

With each step I take following Rowan up the steep incline toward the very center of the island, my confidence falters, though. We climb and climb through the jungle, but we never seem to get anywhere. All I can do is follow him, step after step, mile after mile, making one twisting turn after another.

Once or twice, fairy lights appear, dodging in and around us as we make our way. Rowan ignores them, but they make me nervous. I don't trust Fiona's loyalty as much as he seems to, and I can't help but think the lights are probably watching us, maybe even reporting to Pan. I almost expect him to be waiting for us around every turn, but he never is.

Eventually we come to a clearing where the path we're on divides into three different trails. The one to our right leads into the undergrowth. To our left, another snakes away through a grove of enormous trees. Ahead, a third, identical path leads in an equally unclear direction.

As Rowan considers which to take, I ease back against the smooth trunk of a tree and let myself slide to the ground. My feet ache from the rocky and uneven climb, and I need a break, even though we can't afford to take one.

Behind my back, the tree I'm propped against moves, rippling into some new shape. All around me the other trees shift and settle, re-forming themselves into new trees and other configurations. The paths disappear as enormous plants sprout up and cover them, and other paths emerge.

Rowan curses at the sight of it. “Bloody stupid—” But he never finishes.

The jungle has gone suddenly and deathly still. His eyes meet mine, the question in them echoing my own.

“What is it?” I ask. All around us, it feels as though Neverland itself is holding its breath, waiting. But it's not an easy silence.

“Come on, lass.” Rowan holds out his hand to pull me up, but before I'm even on my feet, a faint rustling fills the air around us.

The dark undersides of the leaves begin to shift as the shade beneath them starts to move, creeping along the thick green stems like a swarm of ants, collecting and gathering on the loamy jungle floor. The earthy humidity that has been our companion all morning seems to drain from the air as the coolness of night filters into the clearing. And as the chill brushes against my skin, the green-gold scent of the jungle is overwhelmed with a familiar odor that speaks of the sweetness of rot and the dustiness of memory.

The shadows creep along the ground, encircling us like a giant serpent eating its own tail. Then they begin to billow and grow, until we are penned in by them. Until the darkness begins to block our view of the jungle beyond.

When the shadows begin to lick at our feet and ankles, I'm assaulted again by the images from my past.
The forest reaching for me. Calling to me.

I try to shove the images away, but the shadows continue to gather and grow, slowly shaping themselves into the winged creatures built from nightmares. Already I can make out their massive shoulders, the claw-tipped nails of their skeletal fingers.

But when a branch cracks out in the jungle, somewhere to our right, the Dark Ones go still, as though listening for what made the sound. Rowan raises his blade, his eyes narrowed in alertness as he shifts uneasily, watching both the swirling shadows and the jungle beyond.

After a moment, the Dark Ones begin to billow and grow once more. Back to back, we track them as they circle us. I grip the dagger tightly in my sweat-damp fist and take shallow, anxious breaths as I watch the shadows finally begin to coalesce into dark, broad creatures.

Another crack sounds in the jungle—this time from the left.

Rowan glances at me, and the look on his face tells me what I've already realized—it would be impossible for a single creature to have moved that far so quickly. The Dark Ones seem to sense it too. Half-formed, they go still, and their metallic rustling changes—grows sharper. Then, without warning, the Dark Ones shrink, melting onto the ground and flowing like dark water back to the shadowy undersides of the leaves.