Page 30 of Losing Wendy

“I have to say, I wasn’t sure your brother had it in him—the older one, I mean. Seems like the stuffy sort.”

I tense, my head swimming with rage. I can hardly look at the tree stump where John’s severed pinkie remains.

I think I might lose the contents of my stomach.

“I must say, you Darlings are more entertaining than one could ever hope for from a family so terribly sheltered.”

“You’re vile,” I say, but it comes out shaking, pitiful.

Peter flashes me a disarming grin. “Remember that, Wendy Darling, lest you be tempted to forget.”

Then he gestures his head to the side. “Should you go in first, or should I?”

I wish I could say I step forward out of sheer bravery, but the idea of being left behind alone in this forest that seems to breathe villainy has me shivering. Besides, I’ll always go where my brothers go.

So I step toward the awful tree, its lights looking more like the bulbs that hang off an angler fish at the bottom of the ocean, and place my hand against the knot. From deep within the bark comes a thrumming, one that beats like a pulse against my open palm. Hungry, the vines skitter toward my outstretched fingers, diligent ants readying to swarm their prey.

For a moment, I hope that maybe the tree won’t accept me. That like John, there won’t be anything in me that’s missing. Not that I want to cut off my own finger, of course. But just this once, I think I’d like to be told I’m not lacking.

The tree does no such thing, and in an instant it snakes its tendrils around my body, binding me in utter darkness before swallowing me whole.

CHAPTER 12

There’s a moment when I’m being swallowed by the tree where I feel the vines reach down into my throat, and take.

I’m not sure what they’re possibly taking, given they accepted me because of the part of myself that’s missing.

Like Michael, I thrash against the wretched plant as it gags me with its tendrils, but after an agonizing eclipse that threatens to last an eternity, it withdraws, releasing my body like vipers fleeing a den.

Gentle golden faerie light floods my vision, and when my eyes adjust, it’s to a room too spacious for the size of the tree trunk. At first I have the absurd thought that perhaps the tree is larger on the inside—which I suppose can’t be that absurd as the tree did just swallow me and force my brother to slice off a finger. But the walls are made of the tangle of roots and earth, not hollowed bark.

We’re not in the reaping tree. We’re underneath it.

Whispers reach my ears. I spot John in the corner, holding Michael to his chest as he rocks him back and forth, fisting his hands at Michael’s chest to put pressure there the way Michael likes.

Instinctively, perhaps because I’m used to it, I prepare to scold whoever’s whispering and giggling about Michael. But when my eyes find the offenders, no one is staring at my brother.

Nine sets of eyes stare directly at me.

They’re children—all of them boys, most of them looking to be about sixteen. They’re of all heights and builds, their skin colors ranging from pale as the beaches back home to as dark as Neverland’s charcoal sand.

“That boy looks funny,” says the youngest, the only one who looks to be about ten. He points directly toward my breasts, which I realize are showing slightly from how my gown has gone askew during flight. I flush, pulling my neckline up to cover myself, at which point a boy—the one with light brown skin and silky black hair—just chuckles.

“That’s cuz that’s a girl, Smalls.”

Smalls, the youngest boy, whose body is rather cushioned around the edges, opens his mouth wide. “No way, Simon. I thought you were making those up.”

Simon grins, though only he seems at all comfortable with my presence. The rest of the boys are glancing at me shyly. Like they can’t tell whether they should greet me or ignore me.

What kind of life these boys have lived so that the youngest has never seen a girl before, I hesitate to even ponder.

“What’s Peter going to do with you?” asks a redheaded, pale and freckled boy whose frame is slender.

Instantly, John tenses in the corner, still holding Michael.

Heat blotches my cheeks and neck.

“I—” I’m not sure how to answer when a clump of roots from the ceiling drifts downward. They soon retreat, setting Peter on the dirt floor. His wings flutter lightly as he shakes the dirt from them. There’s a cacophony of hoots and hollers from the boys. The youngest, Smalls, runs up to Peter, looks like he’s considering hugging him, then thinks better of it and gives Peter a hearty salute.

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