Page 115 of The Last Lost Girl

“I don’t trust him,” she finally admits. “For a long time, he and Peter were almost inseparable. He played and then mastered all of Peter’s little games. I don’t know what happened to drive a wedge between them because Peter refused to tell me, but I remember when there was no wedge.”

I quirk a brow. “Couldn’t the same be said about you?”

“Yes,” she admits as she picks at her cuticle. “There’s also the fact that he’s become quite notorious. It’s rumored that there is quite a lot of blood on his hands, and not just that of the Lost Boys he enjoys eviscerating every time he has the chance.”

“Have you ever taken a life?” I ask, almost afraid to hear her answer.

Tears sparkle in her swirling eyes. “I have, and I’d rather not speak about it. It wasn’t something I planned or wanted to do, and I’d rather forget the ordeal entirely.”

“Was it here or at home?” My curiosity melds with fear, forming a new substance I can’t name.

She gives a sad smile. “I won’t say any more than this: I regret it wholly, am haunted by it daily, and I’ll live with the remorse the rest of my life. I’ll never forget what happened, but I’m glad you will. When we get your shadow back and go home, you won’t remember anything from Neverland. Not even this conversation, fortunately.” She pokes at my nose. “Not even Hudson.”

I hate even entertaining the idea that I might forget him. “I have part of my shadow. You don’t think I’ll remember at least part of my life here on Neverland?”

“You have a crumb of what’s yours. The rest is… something he made. Something else.” My vines rattle like serpents toward her as her upper lip curls in disdain.

Something has been bothering me since my dream about the night I took Hudson’s hand. “Do you think Pan chose the memories this crumb holds?”

Belle swivels her head toward me. “Of course he did.”

Sydney is the last to enter the room. I’ve managed to return all the crew’s shadows but his and Paris’s. His eager steps slow, then stop as he looks from me, to Belle, to Hudson.

“Uh…if you’re too spent, I can wait until tomorrow,” he says in his Australian accent.

I weakly gesture to the window. “It is tomorrow.”

He retreats a step. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong. You might need some time to rest before–”

“Sydney, just… do it. She refuses to sleep until she’s finished, and you’re the last one,” Hudson grumps. He’s been growling for over an hour about how ridiculous this is, how I’m pushing too hard, how I’m going to burn out entirely.

And Belle has slowly begun to chime her agreement with his complaints.

Good thing I’m more stubborn than either of them. I place a hand on Belle’s stomach where all the shadows seem to be threaded and feel my vines curl toward the shadows until I find one that feels withdrawn. Paranoid. A little sad.

It’s definitely Sydney’s.

I pull it apart from the rest and cup it in my palm, gasping from the wash of memories that race through my mind. I grab my head and hear my screams as I fight to stop the images and sounds that assault me. Everything finally goes dark and silent.

I struggle to breathe. Don’t know what to say. Where to look. Who to avoid. What to do now.

Hudson curses.

Sydney’s jaw slackens and he takes a few measured steps back toward the door.

Belle tells me I’m okay and asks me to calm down. Like that ever works on someone who is absolutely losing it.

“Is it him?” she urges, holding my upper arms. “Look at me, Ava. Do you feel Pan?”

My vines are so long now, they writhe in the scant space between us before settling on my arms, stretching to my wrists and my stomach…

“No,” I choke. I lock eyes with Hudson, then flick them to Sydney. “I need a minute alone with Belle, please.”

“Is something wrong?” Sydney asks, worried.

“No,” I smile. “I just need to catch my breath.”

Hudson and Sydney peel from the room without a word.

---