Page 6 of Freeing Hook

We’d come so close to getting out of here. I’m not sure what had Wendy waking up to the danger of Peter. What dragged her out of his glamour for long enough to spook her and have her scrambling for a way to get us out of Neverland. But the window of time for escaping closed the moment she told Simon about our plans.

Cold-hearted, the alienist had said.

Unlike her, I’d have left the Lost Boys. Not out of malice. I even like some of them—Benjamin with his bluntness and affinity for whittling, and Smalls in his blustering innocence. But my duty belongs to my siblings first.

There’s no telling what lie Peter has woven to keep Wendy here with him, to keep that ring on her finger, claiming her. But whatever he’s told her, she’s his for good now.

I fear what I’ll have to do to get her out of this place.

I never want to force my sister into anything. Not after all she’s been compelled to do in her life. But Wendy has a tendency of letting others push her into things, and I fear that if I’m not the one to do it, someone else will. Someone who doesn’t have her best interests at heart.

Victor came by and explained the situation to me when I woke in bed an hour ago. After Wendy alerted Simon that we were escaping, he’d told Nettle about our plan to leave Neverland. Nettle, who, as it turns out, was telling the truth about remembering his past, though Victor didn’t know the details regarding how that was possible. Just that his memories had turned him paranoid, convincing him that Thomas, Freckles, Joel, and I were all killers at heart. Nettle had murdered the others. Thomas, Victor’s brother, was his first victim. I was supposed to be his last.

Apparently, Simon killed Nettle to save my life.

I’ll thank him when I’m convinced that’s the entire story.

I hear Michael humming from down the hall. Victor must be bringing him to visit me. That’s unnecessary. With the fluids I’ve been pushing thanks to Smalls keeping the jars of water next to my cot brimming over, my muscles should have recovered enough from the somnium oil to walk by now.

I’m pushing myself out of my cot when Victor reaches the doorway and pulls the leaf curtain aside. Michael rushes to my side and parks himself cross-legged on the bed, rocking back and forth, causing the rickety beams to creak.

Victor’s face is a shade paler than his usual bleached eggshell.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Victor swallows. It annoys me when people do that—pause before they deliver bad news, like they think they’re sparing you.

“Just tell me,” I say, though I have a sneaking suspicion I already know.

“Wendy’s gone.”

My first thoughtis thathekilled her.

That’s the most logical explanation. The story practically writes itself.

Woman who’s only ever been bred to be a wife falls in love with a dangerous fae, thinking she sees the good in him—and she probably does, for what it’s worth. She agrees to marry him, because again, that’s all she’s ever been told that she wanted. Then she gets spooked. Discovers something that frightens her. Tries to run.

Jilted, he makes her disappear.

It’s the type of story that’s easy to paint, but it’s unsupported by evidence as of the moment. So when the fear of what Peter might have done to the one person in the world who’s ever really understood me threatens to eat away at my bones, I tell it to come back later. In case I have use for it.

There’s no use in hurting over something I’m not confident has happened. It won’t help me, and it certainly won’t help Wendy.

“Where was she last seen?” I ask.

Victor shakes his head. “I don’t know. She came to visit you a few times while you were out. She told me goodnight before she went to bed last night.”

Clearly, he’s not going to be of any use. “Where’s Peter?”

Victor blinks, stunned, but not by my question, then nods for me to follow him into the hallway. When I stand, I instinctively reach for Michael with my left hand.

He grabs for my pinkie. When he was young, he used to hold on to it. But of course, it isn’t there. Self-loathing wriggles its way into my chest. I should have considered that too, before I chopped off that finger. Should have remembered it was the finger Michael likes to hold on to.

I don’t like having him on my left side anymore, anyway. Not when I can’t keep a hold of him if I need to. So I maneuver him to my right side and we take off down the hall, following Victor.

Voices clamorthrough the tunnel as Victor, Michael, and I approach the living room of the Den.

As soon as we enter, all noise muffles to silence, the sound absorbed by our presence. Five sets of eyes avert themselves from our general direction and to their plates. This matters little to me. I’ve never kidded myself into thinking the Lost Boys are my friends. Besides, it’s Peter I need to speak with.

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