Page 108 of Freeing Hook

“Benjamin hasn’t finished his roast,” says Smalls, pointing.

Peter stiffens, almost imperceptibly. “Then Benjamin can finish his, too.”

With a huff, Smalls does as Peter says, putting the onions to his mouth and swallowing them with a grimace.

I don’t miss the way Peter’s gaze bounces across all the other boys’ plates, then lands on mine. I frown, then place the onions in my mouth.

They’re sweet, but strong. Overpowering, almost. Wasn’t that why I’d picked them to hide the taste of rushweed when I’d sought to paralyze Tink? They’re tangy, but with an aftertasteof something sweet. I’ve always thought the onions here tasted different from the ones back home, but I’d assumed they were a different variety.

My mind begins to whirl.

When we first arrived, Simon loved onions. In fact, he’d take Nettle’s. When Simon stopped eating them, I assumed it was because they reminded him of the boy he’d had to kill to save Wendy, Michael, and me.

But Nettle had gone crazy. Something had set him off, started him on this delusion of killing the other Lost Boys. And then Simon had stopped eating the onions. Then he’d gone crazy too.

Or had he?

At first, I’d thought Simon had been talking to himself. Hallucinating. But as I’d tried to stifle his wound, something about it had dawned on me as familiar.

I’d seen Wendy do that. Not talk to the shadows, but look out at the world like there was something else there. Something else the rest of us couldn’t see.

Until Peter had dosed her with the faerie dust. Faerie dust, which tasted of the nectar of honeysuckles.

The onions slide down my throat, and it’s possible I’m imagining the taste of nectar as they do. Possible my mind is playing tricks on me, desperate for a solution and conjuring the taste itself.

But now that I’ve tasted it, I can’t untaste it.

Only when I’ve cleaned them off my plate does Peter push himself from the table.

The next timePeter leaves on a mission from the Sister, I stop eating my onions.

CHAPTER 42

WENDY

The day following our meeting with the Nomad, I slice clean through a pig carcass for the first time.

I’d barely paid attention to Maddox’s instructions. He’d been chattering, asking me to resolve a friendly dispute between him and Charlie. Something about the Nomad’s age. Or perhaps Charlie had wagered the Nomad was an elderly female. I hadn’t really been listening.

I’d just picked my short sword off the rack and pivoted the hilt in my hand, its weight grounding somehow. Then I’d grasped it with my other hand and struck.

The catharsis of hacking the last pig to bits was nothing compared to that of slicing through the carcass in a single clean line. The whir of my sword cleaving through air. The resistance of the pig’s spine unprotected against the quiet rage that’s been aching for release since the moment my mind overlaid Astor’s Mating Mark onto what was supposed to be mine and Peter’s alone.

Maddox whistles behind me, staring at the dangling bits of flesh from the pig’s torso, the severed spine jutting from its center. The bottom half of the pig now rolls across the rocky deck as we traverse the waves.

“Remind me not to mess with you,” Maddox says, arms crossed, glancing at the short sword we’ve been practicing with ever since I graduated from the dagger.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” I say, staring down at the severed carcass with mingled disdain and disappointment.

He quirks a brow at me, his tanned forehead crinkling. “What do you mean you didn’t mean to do that? That was a perfect hit. You couldn’t have been more perfect.”

“Yeah, but now it’s over. That was the last one,” I say, examining the bottom half of the carcass with a quiet numbness that snuck into the space my rage once inhabited, too quick for me to ward myself against. “Maybe we can hang that half up?” I ask, looking at Maddox hopefully.

His eyes go wide, and he swallows. Instead of reaching for the carcass, he reaches for my blade. My fingers grip protectively over the hilt, but he pries it from my hand. “Why don’t we take a break?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, shrugging off my gear. As I wipe down my blade, I sense footsteps on the deck. I glance over my shoulder to find Astor staring at the remainder of the carcass.

“Nice,” he says, nudging me in the shoulder with a playful uptick of his lips. “Though I think you made poor Maddox over there wet his pants.”

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