Page 147 of Losing Wendy

My stomach twists over, but then the hand contracts, gripping me tightly and pulling me backward. I go to scream, but the sound gets caught in my throat.

There’s a moment when my body betrays me—when it interprets the feel of his arms clasped around me as finally being safe.

Then his hand clamps over my mouth, and the illusion bursts.

“I knew you were a Darling little liar,” he whispers, the prickle of his beard scraping against my ear. “Worried I was dead? Worried you’d forgotten about me and let me drown? You are a forgetful little thing. I suppose I should count myself lucky that it slipped your mind to dose me last night.”

A pit forms in my stomach. The captain’s prediction still stings against my ear.I’ll see you when the winged boy has his claws in you again. I’d left in a rage, which is exactly what he’d wanted, what he’d been trying to accomplish every time he provoked me—to rile me until I lost my wits, until I forgot to feed him his dose of rushweed.

“It’s a good thing you did, too. Water was up to my mouth by the time I got enough strength back to claw myself up the side of that boulder you propped me against.” His lips brush my ear, and my entire body shivers, but he only clutches me tighter, pulling me flush against his chest, my back turned to him.

I summon the courage to scream, but it’s no good. Not with his fingers curved over my lips. Not with the wind howling. Not with the Den too far away for anyone to hear.

“Now’s when you’re supposed to fight back, Darling.” The captain’s voice is so silky that in any other context, I might have assumed he was speaking to a lover.

I kick and flail at him, but his grip holds steady, my human strength no match for him.

“I told you to fight back,” he says, slipping his hand from my mouth, stroking my cheek like a dare.

Dread lances through me at the malice in his voice. “We both know it’s not any use,” I say, choking back tears.

“That does seem to be your anthem, doesn’t it?” says the captain, but there’s no amusement in his voice. “I’ve been waiting, you know. For you to slip up.”

“I offered you a way out. I would have freed you,” I say.

“Why make a bargain when I knew I could win my freedommyself? Besides, Darling. Tell me, what were you coming back for? I thought you were going to get yourself and your brothers off this island.”

My breath catches in my throat. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“No, you certainly do not. Not when I already know you, your type. You’re weak, always have been. How close did you get to your escape before he reeled you back in with pretty words? Tell me, Darling, could you taste the freedom on your lips, feel the sun of the real world painting your skin? Were you soaring when he shot you down? Or did you even make it that far?”

“Please. Please let me go,” I say, my voice warbling, tears stinging at my eyes. I hate myself for crying, for melting in his arms, my limbs going as weak as his accusations suggest.

But I’m just so very tired.

“Please?” He spews the word like it disgusts him.

Then he throws me over his shoulder and carries me away.

CHAPTER 52

Water sloshes against the captain’s boots as he carries me out of the cave and across the beach. I bounce against his back, watching where his boots leave prints in the black sand.

Not that it matters. Once we slip through whatever gap in the Fabric Captain Astor entered through, it’s not as if his footprints will do Peter much good. I struggle and wriggle against the captain’s grip, his fae body hardly affected by the time I spent subtly starving him. Even beating against his firm back ends up being more humiliating than helpful. I’m like an infant, balling my fists in a struggle for power I’m years away from attaining.

So I stop.

I suppose that makes me weak, like the captain often accuses me of, but if these are to be my last moments in Neverland, I’d like to take the time to appreciate my home.

So I steady my labored, panicked breaths with the salty tang of the ocean air. Close my eyes and fill my lungs with its scent, make myself memorize the way it tingles in my nostrils and fills my exhausted body with life.

Then I open my eyes and start counting the pebbles, focusing inon their glossy sheen. My toes long to feel the weight of them pushing up against the soles of my feet, and I mourn the fact that I didn’t linger to teeter on their unsteady surface before. Even the disgusting kelp with their glossy bulbs and monstrous tendrils catch my attention, beg me to mourn them.

Last of all, I crane my neck and glance toward the center of the island, where high above the canopy, one massive tree grows taller than the rest. I know I’m only fooling myself, but I try to imagine John and Michael racing to the top of it, waving to me from its branches, Michael chanting, “Last one to the top’s dead meat.”

I close my eyes again and imagine the earth beneath my racing feet. Let Michael’s laughter echo through my skull. Soak in John’s competitive grin, taunting me as we race through the woods. Just one last time.

And then I let myself think of Peter. Let myself wonder how long it will take him to find me, if there will be any of me left.

---