Page 20 of The Last Lost Girl

His rumbling chuckle vibrates into my skin the instant before he splashes into the shallows and carries me to a waiting skiff that bobs in the water. Its bow points out to sea, toward an enormous ship. I study the shape and wonder what she would look like if she unfurled her sails and let the sea wind fill them.

Hook sets me on the nearest bench before climbing aboard and taking the seat across from me. His back is to the shore, so I watch the beach like a hawk, wondering what was in the jungle with us. Would it chase us into the water?

My Chucks sink into a pool of water resting at the skiff’s bottom. Is this thing sinking?

I desperately scan the wooden vessel for oars and find none. My hands grip the sides and scan the water for them.

Hook calmly works at pulling a rope from the swells, then coils it in the water puddled between his feet until the anchor emerges.

“The oars are gone,” I croak.

“We don’t need them,” he tosses back.

“Why wouldn’t we need them?” I try and fail not to shriek.

“Because the skiff is charmed,” he says slowly.

I’m not sure if he thinks I’m stupid or if he’s trying to calm me down, but it pisses me off.

“Charmed?”

“Magic moves it.”

Of course it does. Why wouldn’t it?

I catch a flash of movement over Hook’s shoulder.

“Who…?” My lungs constrict as I see a young man standing at the edge of Neverland, just shy of where tumbling, white-capped waves lap against the sparkling beach.

His golden-brown hair gleams in dawn’s newly spun light. He’s barefoot and shirtless with deeply tanned skin. The shorts clinging to his thighs hang low on his hips. His smile is what truly scares me, though. It’s as bright and punishing as the desert sun, menacing despite its luster.

I can somehow feel his stare and I know that when he tips his chin, it’s to me, not Hook. “Is that…?”

“It is,” Hook answers smoothly.

I stare at Pan, debating whether to ask Hook the question burning through my mind and memory of the story my sister hated with every fiber of her being. It seems illogical, like it would be impossible, and I feel silly considering it, let alone asking it. But Neverland is a literal death trap and the more I know about it, the more likely I am to survive long enough to find Belle. “Can he… can he fly?”

“Not anymore,” he provides.

Not anymore implies that at one point, Pan could.

The story is right about that. Does he need pixie dust to soar?

Someone walks from within the jungle to stand next to Pan. Blood crusts him from his throat to his toes, but his shaggy strawberry blond hair reveals exactly who he is.

Wraith.

I choke. The boat rocks as I lean too far over to see him better. Because there’s no way it’s him.

Even though it is.

At Wraith’s side, Pan’s grin turns cocky. He looks like he’s playing a game he not only excels at, but to which he wrote the rules and has no intention of ever losing. Like he knows we’ve already lost, even though we haven’t admitted it yet.

Wraith braces his hands on his hips and gives an unhinged laugh.

“I watched him die,” I breathe. I look to Hook for an answer, but he’s busy shouting to someone on the ship that we are very fast approaching. “Does this thing have a brake? How does it stop?”

He smiles. “I’ll tell you if you give me your name.”

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