Page 25 of The Last Lost Girl

It doesn’t take long for the water to turn tepid. Soap clouds the water so I can’t see the red tinge of blood or the sand and whatever else has settled on the copper bottom. Hook’s words keep surfacing in my mind. “He won’t stay dead for long, Precious.”

Wraith’s throat had been torn open. His veins, arteries, and possibly even his spine were severed. The only blood that didn’t leak from his prone form onto the ground sprayed all over me like warm water from a water hose someone had capped with their thumb.

But when we sailed away from shore, he was standing with Pan – alive and seemingly well. I saw him.

Peter Pan had resurrected Wraith.

If Pan can do that, if he can bring someone back from the dead, what else can he do?

There is no plug at the tub’s bottom. I pull myself up to sit on the tub’s side, then gingerly swing my legs over the edge until they hit the wooden floor planks. I reach for the towel that Smee tossed behind the screen when he eased into the room with a meaty hand over his eyes, along with a pile of clothes I’m not sure I even know how to wear. The dark linen dress looks like it might be a bit tight, but I can make it work. It’s simple enough, but the corset peeking out from beneath it looks as painful as it does complicated.

I’m not wearing it. It’s not hard to imagine where it might have come from and frankly, I can’t bear it even if it was brand new and I could figure out how to bind myself into it.

I haven’t watched nearly enough Bridgerton for this mess, and I have too many bruises for that boning to dig into.

With a rough linen towel secured around me, I squeeze the excess water from my hair and pull my toes in to feel the wood, worn smooth over time. I grip the edge of the copper tub, still warm under my fingertips and slick with condensation. I breathe in the scent of the salty air I know only the sea can produce and perfect.

This is real. It’s all real.

The ship I stand aboard. The ocean that rocks it. The tub and its gently sloshing water, and the damp towel I’m clutching.

I eyeball the dress again, knowing I need to stop wasting time and get dressed before Hook storms in here and demands to know why I’m taking so long, but I just need a minute to ground my thoughts and center my feelings.

Everything in Neverland feels surreal, like I’m stuck in a dream or dressing for a part in a play based on the story of Peter Pan – one with other players like Hook, Smee and their crewmates, Pan and Wraith, the crocodile – who did not tick tock at all – and Belle.

Belle, my sister, who had always, in large ways and small, shown me who she was, even though she knew I’d never fully believe her – or believe in her.

A gust of wind breaks over the glass and howls around the sides of the sun-warmed room.

I lean forward to peek around the privacy screen and my breath catches.

Hook is still outside the double doors. With his arms folded angrily over his chest, the captain stares at the sea like it’s a book he’s read a thousand times and knows by heart, but he loves every word all the same. I get the sense that the rocking water calms him as much as it can, given the fury that radiates from his form like ripples of heat off fresh asphalt.

From his boots to the dark pants hugging his thighs, from the broad leather belt cinched at his waist to the shirt laced over his tanned chest, and from his dark, salt-kissed hair to the silver scar that streaks through his brow like a meteor across the night sky, Captain Hook looks like he belongs in this world. He looks like he’s as much an heir to Neverland as the famed Pan.

No. He looks like he has this world in his teeth.

One decided chomp and we will all be ended, and whatever is left will ooze from the corners of his pretty lips.

His eyes flick my way and I shrink back, hoping he didn’t catch me staring.

He doesn’t enter the room. Doesn’t make a sound.

My heart crashes like the waves rocking the hull. And in its desperate cadence, I remember some of the last words Belle read to me. Belle – not the shadow.

Hook ou moi cette fois. Hook or me this time.

My stomach sinks…

Why had she chosen to translate only those words? Was she merely reading from the page, or was she trying to tell me something the only way she could?

In the story, Pan spoke that fateful sentence. Words of finality. Words meant for those who belonged to Neverland – a call to alliance, if not allegiance.

I blow out a steadying breath and tell myself to stop worrying and focus on getting out of here because Belle will be fine.

I smile at the irony. For the very first time, I’m actually glad for the cursed shadow that’s sunken its claws into her.

She knows this land and all the threats that lie upon it. She’s the smartest woman I know. Resourceful. Cunning.

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