Page 83 of Losing Wendy

I should run back to the Den. Alert the Lost Boys that Neverland has been compromised. I’ve about convinced myself to do it when Peter grabs the other man by the neck, and in a feat I can’t quite make sense of, shoots both men into the air.

Peter’s dark wings flap around him, but the storm has intensified, and the pelting rain seems to be weighing them down. I watch as his wings fight with the howling wind to keep him upright, but even while being held by the throat, the man’s thrashing keeps Peter from being able to maintain control.

I can sense the panic rolling off of Peter, though I can’t explain how—perhaps I’m simply attributing my own state to him. Peter pivots, tightening his wings at his back as he attempts to bring the fight toward the shore. I watch as Peter attempts to drop the man upon the sharp rocks, but the man wrestles for a grip around Peter’s neck and manages to hold on.

I know what Peter’s going to do before he does it.

My heart plummets, ripping a hole in my stomach.

Peter feints, then dives headlong for the patch of jagged rocks below them.

I don’t let myself watch as Peter drives both him and the stranger directly into what might as well be spears sticking up from the ground. There’s a horrible absence of sound, of their bodies landing against the terrain as the storm drowns out all evidence of the fight.

My bare feet pound against the stiff sand as I sprint for them.

By the time I’m able to make out the features of the man, I’m out of breath. Peter is splayed out above the rocks, face-down with hiswings sprawling out behind him. I think I glimpse where the tip of a sharp boulder is protruding through his leathery wing.

I want to retch.

But I don’t have time for that.

Not when the man, who landed several paces away from Peter, is stumbling toward Peter’s limp body, a dagger flashing in his hand.

I don’t have time to think. I just run, urging my body to go faster. I scream, hoping to distract the man from his intentions just long enough for Peter to whirl on him, but my voice is lost to the current.

As I reach the rocks, jagged pebbles splinter into my bare heels, but I hardly feel them. I hardly feel anything except for the urge to push faster. The knowledge that if I don’t reach them in time, that shining dagger will make its way into Peter’s heart.

His heart of flesh. And then Peter will die. Will succumb to the fate he feared so much as a child.

I didn’t think to ask him if he still feared death like he did then.

I might not get the chance.

Thankfully, the man was injured in the fall. He’s stumbling toward Peter, holding a bleeding and crooked leg with one arm. I’m almost in awe of the determination in his movement, when his pain must be intense enough to make most men pass out.

Then again, I don’t much feel the cuts on my feet either.

I suppose that happens when you’re running toward something you crave with all your being.

There’s a moment of hesitation when I don’t know that I can do it. There’s only one path to saving Peter, and I have never been the brave sort. Never been the type who thought I could ever take a life, even in the service of saving another.

Feet slogging into the wet sand, I close the distance between myself and Peter’s assailant, moments from reaching him.

The man readies the dagger over Peter’s back, aiming for his chest.

It’s the minute hand in my lost pocket watch clinking in alignmentwith the hour hand at the stroke of midnight come early. It’s an explosion of blinding light.

It’s everything I’ve ever desired with a blade to his heart.

I don’t get there in time to throw myself between the blade and Peter.

But I don’t have to.

I unsheathe my dagger—the one Peter gifted me to protect myself. And I plunge mine first.

The storm drowns out the sound, but I don’t need it to feel the breaking of flesh against my blade when it makes contact with the man’s back. The man freezes for a moment in surprise, and I realize I didn’t put enough force into the motion. Not with a band of ribs protecting the man’s heart like armor. I want nothing more than to place my fist into my mouth and scream in agony, but I need both hands for what I have to do.

I thrust again, this time throwing all my weight into it.

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