Page 100 of Losing Wendy

As I slogmy boots through damp sand on the way out, hoping the tide will come in and fill the cave and drown that horrid man in its wake, his last words pound at my skull.

“Wendy Darling, always letting life happen to her, never brave enough to take the helm.”

CHAPTER 37

Iintend to tell Peter about capturing the captain as soon as he returns from whatever mission the Sister has him conducting in the other realms.

A week goes by before he gets back, and after several trips to the cave to force-feed Captain Astor more rushweed, as well as offer him actual food I sneak from the kitchens, I decide I won’t tell Peter.

I saw what Peter did to the nightstalker that dared to hunt me on the cliffs that one night. I can’t imagine what he’d do to the man who killed my parents. Though part of me welcomes such violence, I’m not ready for the captain to die. Yet.

I want answers. The fact that Peter puts more value in protecting the Lost Boys than restoring their memories has me inclined to believe he won’t hesitate to usher the captain and his secrets to the grave. And later, when I weep over never uncovering the truth behind my parents’ deaths, he’ll tell me I’m probably happier not knowing.

I am not happier not knowing.

When I first arrived on the island, I managed well enough by pushing queries about my parents aside. It seemed the reasonable thing to do, aware that, cut off from our home realm, there was nochance of discovering why the captain held such a grudge against them. Why whatever they did caused him to hate me.

I want to believe John’s theory, that my father simply sent the captain on a dangerous expedition that resulted in his wife’s death. It’s not a flattering theory, but it’s the kindest we can come up with. It could very well be that my father was misinformed by an expert in sailing conditions. My father never sailed in these expeditions himself, after all, only funded them. Maybe forcing the boat out under poor conditions was a misguided mistake rather than a greedy attempt to stuff his coffers at the risk of the crew’s life.

Still, I need to know this is the case.

Something tells me it is. But perhaps that’s just my heart wanting it to be so.

Funny how gut feelings have a tendency to tell us the kinds of things we want to hear. Some people’s do, at least. They talk to them like they’re oily merchants trying to sidle up and earn their favor with flattery.

My gut feelings are generally not so complimentary.

They prefer the blunt approach. The panicked what-ifs of the worst-case scenario. The scenario where the captain took revenge on my parents because of a cruelty for which they truly deserved their fates. A cruelty that has something to do with me.

My stomach turns over with anxiety when I think of it. It consumes my every thought, stealing me away. At breakfast this morning, Simon had to poke me in the shoulder to get my attention after calling my name several times.

John is getting suspicious that something is off. If I don’t want Peter knowing about the captain, I want John knowing about him even less. Peter would kill the captain to protect the Lost Boys and would walk away from the murder, soul and conscience unscathed, believing he was only fulfilling his duty.

John would not be so lucky. The scent of blood would wake him in the middle of the night, the sound of the captain gurgling on his own lifeblood. Hatred and revenge might be rotting John’s bones, but at least his soul isn’t yet broken.

Then there’s the problem of my cravings.

They’re worse at night, exacerbated by the lack of sleep I’m getting. Though, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t fixated on the storehouse all hours of the day. I worry that the shadows—the Wraiths—will return before Peter does and that this time I’ll have no armor against them.

There’s only one activity that provides me any relief.

I can only visit the captain at night when I’m sure everyone else is asleep. This proves to be problematic, but I make it work.

He’s yet to answer questions about my parents. He’s yet to answer any questions, really, but I still feel as though we’re making progress. Each time he scalds me with his words, the pain sears my heart a little less. I become a tad more numb to the insults, the slights on my character.

I have a feeling that by the time this is over, I won’t hurt at all.

I’m collectingrushweed along the beach near the cliffs when a dark figure forms in the sky. As he approaches, limbs and wings come to focus in my vision, along with a smile that knocks my breath from me.

“Hello, Wendy Darling.” Peter sweeps to the ground in front of me. He’s in his solid form, though he allows his shadows to nip at the waistband of my pants and curl around my shoulders, making me slip off my feet and into his arms.

“Hello, Peter,” I say. The grin that tugs at my lips comes without forethought, a smile I don’t have to practice like the ones I used to offer to my countless suitors.

“Where’s my favorite Darling running off to?” he asks, though I don’t think he intends for me to answer, given the way he pulls me into his kiss, pressing his lips to mine until I’m lost in the feel of him.

It’s a good thing, too, because I’m not keen on answering his question.

When Peter pulls away, he seems to have forgotten he asked anything. He wheels me forward by my hand, twirling me in circles.

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