Page 82 of Losing Wendy

Peter’snot on the cliffside, but there’s an outcropping of rock beyond the shoreline. A boulder amongst the waves. I can see the faintest glimpse of Peter’s outline in the fog as he perches atop it. It’s the type of rock that might be simple to get to, the type I’d be tempted to climb on any day other than today, when the waves warn of an approaching storm, lapping at my feet and begging me to run back to the safety of the Den.

But there Peter is, and I can’t seem to take my eyes off him.

He’s perched atop the rock, and when the wind clears the fog in short bursts, I can see the way the spray of the sea speckles histanned cheeks with droplets. At least, I tell myself I can see that. Perhaps I’m imagining things. With Peter, imagining never seems so far off from reality.

I open my mouth to call to him, but then a large wave crashes against his boulder, and the sound drowns out his name on my lips. I falter, wondering if perhaps I should leave him be, allow him to retreat into his sorrow in his own way.

It must have been difficult for him last night, telling me about the bloated corpses hanging from the juniper tree, about the life he bargained away to save the Lost Boys.

His name is still on my tongue when I go to retreat, all my bravery swallowed up in the deafening echo of the waves that quelled my voice moments ago.

Some people are brave naturally.

Others of us have just enough courage for one shot, and even then our voices shake with trepidation, never quite loud enough to be heard over the bustle of a world that’s bolder than we are.

I turn to go, but then I glimpse something out of the corner of my vision. A shadow. At first, I think it must be Peter shifting into his shadow form, but as I turn to look, I find another silhouette on the rock. This one’s climbing the edge, directly behind Peter. Battering waves obscure the sound that the figure must be making as he breathes heavily with the ascent.

At first, I’m sure the man—I’m certain it’s a man now, though probably fae—will fall on the slick rock, but his ascent is steady, determined.

As he climbs, I feel the wet and jagged surface underneath his hands as if they’re my own.

I scan the man’s features for something familiar. Perhaps one of the Lost Boys come to fetch Peter. My eyes scour the man’s figure, trying to force it into the shape of one of the Lost Boys. I tell myself it could be Victor because of the sturdy build, but I know I’m kidding myself. Even from here, I can tell his hair is cropped shorter than Victor’s, his hair lighter, his skin a shade darker. Besides, he has the bulk of a man, not a boy, and the movements of one too.

Why is a man on this island?

Why is there a man in Neverland?

I know the Lost Boys aren’t the only ones here. Tink, for example. But she came here with Peter originally, though I remember now that he left that part out of his story about the orphanage.

Before I can follow that train of thought, Peter whirls around, like he senses something. I wave at him, and he waves hesitantly back, probably less than thrilled that I’ve come out here to disturb him.

He still doesn’t see the man climbing.

The lump in my throat crawls upward, touching the base of my tongue and making me gag.

Something is very, very wrong.

“Peter, look out!” I call, my tongue finally unfastened from its restraints, but Peter only shakes his head.

I point toward the man, but of course, he’s lower than Peter’s scope of view. Peter must assume that I’m asking him to fly me up there, because he adopts a teasing stance and beckons with his hand for me to come to him.

The man continues to ascend.

“Peter!” I call, tears stinging at my cheeks now, because I know. I know. Something is terribly wrong. That man is not supposed to be here, and Peter doesn’t know what he’s facing. What’s creeping up to meet him from below.

I flail my arms, jumping up and down, hoping that will convey my panic as I point toward the strange man.

Something about Peter’s silhouette stiffens. He must have gotten my message. His shadow widens as he steps forward, craning his head to peek over the rock.

The stranger lunges.

He’s fast. Faster than any human man. He wasn’t yet to the top of the rock, but somehow his agility allows him to fling himself up and into Peter, knocking both figures to the flat plateau of the rock, a tangle of shadows struggling for purchase.

My feet bob in the hard, cold sand as I search for any way tohelp. I can’t reach the rock. Can’t even swim to it, not without the waves beating my body into submission and dragging me into their otherworldly den.

I can’t do anything but watch as the stranger attacks Peter, as a knife flashes above Peter’s chest.

Panic swirls within me, mimicking the waves around my feet, but I back up. The last thing I need to do is get caught in the undercurrent and risk distracting Peter or dying.

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