Page 2 of Stalking Wendy Darling

“Not the vibe, bell,” I snapped, not bothering to close the door behind myself. “Not the damn vibe.”

The air of the Silver Isle always smelled the same—like sweaty bodies, the fresh tang of a storm, and a crate of fish left in the sun all day. Unpleasant but familiar. Home. I gulped it down as I launched into a pursuit.

Cobbles were a hell of a bitch to run on, and the behemoth already had a head start. By the time I burst onto the street, he’d disappeared down one of the smaller alleyways that led to the docks. The bastard was taking Joanna, stealing her like Hook’s crew had stolen so many innocent women. I hoped she kicked him hard enough that he’d never sire a child in his life.

No, I hoped she kicked him hard enough that his balls wentinsidehis body.

Shit, focus, Wendy.

I swore as I collided with Ma Peggy, knocking a bundle of bread loaves from her arms even if nothing ever managed to dislodge the children clinging to her ankles.

“Sorry,” I yelled over my shoulder, pushing my body as fast as it could go. “Gotta thwart a kidnapping, you know how it is.”

Where the fuck did they go? I scanned every alleyway I passed, searching for a glimpse of rage in purple silk ribbons, but all I found were crates piled to the rooftops, salt-stained cobbles, and an abandoned boat with a hole in the hull.

“Fuck!”

“Language,” a stooped old man with a cloud of white hair barked at me as I took an alley at random and exploded onto the broad street that ran the length of the docks.

“We live in a port town,” I huffed, racing past the man. “Our first words are fuck and shit and—thereyou are, you giant bastard.”

Down the street, weaving around crab boxes, mouldering nets piled on the side of the road, and fishermen trudging from boats to the row of storehouses that lined the docks, the behemoth carried my sister, unmoved by her kicking andscreaming. His destination was undeniable: at the end of the docks a ship five times bigger than any other hulked over the leaning buildings and unimpressive vessels of the Silver Isle.

Its sails were in the process of unfurling, as black as the dead of night, marked by no symbol or sigil. Its wood gleamed deep mahogany, clearly well loved, and the rigging looked newer than most ships in the bays around it. It was annoyingly beautiful for a ship whose crew was kidnapping my sister.

Death’s Right Hand was its name, but almost everyone called it the Banshee because the screams it caused heralded death. For the same reason, other islands called it the Harbinger.

Hardened sailors continued their work, but as I raced toward the Banshee most people ducked their heads and quick-walked down the street, decidedlyawayfrom the ship. Probably because they had a dash of common sense, where I lacked it the second someone decided to hurt my family.

“Get back here, you weak-chinned giant fucker!” I yelled, but the bastard didn’t turn even to clarify if he was giant andalsoa fucker or someone in the habit offuckinggiants.

I pushed myself faster, a gasp ripped from me when my feet slipped on the slick cobbles. Rage seethed behind my ribs, coalescing in my heart until it burned like a hot coal, devouring my panic at falling. I hit the ground on my ass, because of course I did. But it took me seconds to get my feet under me and propel myself back into a sprint.

“Joanna!” I screamed. “Kick him, bite him, keep fighting!”

Like she heard me even though the distance between us grew bigger and bigger, she renewed her struggles, driving a boot into his gut. I was gratified to hear him let out a deep curse.

“Mad girl,” a skinny man ferrying boxes of iced fish from his small boat said, shaking his head as I raced past him, the dark shadow cast by the Banshee growing bigger the closer I got. “No one can be saved from the black sails.”

“I donotneed your defeatist attitude right now,” I panted, my teeth bared as I ran full-out, a chill of goosebumps going down my arms as the behemoth reached the ship and walked with expert balance up the precarious gangway. Joanna wriggled over his shoulder, throwing fists and kicks at him, to no effect.

My heart squeezed. I was losing her. The slip had cost me the seconds I needed to catch up with them. I’d been raised on this island, surrounded by salt, sea, and sails; I knew exactly what a ship preparing to sail looked like, and the Banshee displayed every intention of leaving.

I ran faster, breathing hard, my chest a pinched knot like a crab had its nasty little pincers around me.3

“Joanna!” I screamed, catching myself against a pile of junk and pushing off hard, as if the extra momentum would carry me to my sister, as if she hadn’t already been hauled aboard the huge ship.

I reached the gangway just as a black-bearded man grabbed the top of it, hauling the plank of wood aboard. With a scream of rage, I stumbled back to the cobbles, so furious I was shaking. I scanned the ship, searching for a ladder, a rung, another way aboard, but fire and light streaked towards me on the heels of a crack, and I jumped aside a split second before the bullet would have blast a hole in my shoulder.

“Saggy assholes!” I screamed, panting for breath, my ears ringing from how damnloudthe shot was. For a split second, the heavy fog of gunpowder overpowered the rotting fish stink of the harbour.

I sheltered behind a barrel almost as big as me, my eyes narrowed on the beautiful mahogany curves of the Banshee, calculating how fast I’d have to run.

“Okay, Wendy, on three. One. Two—”

I exploded out from behind the barrel before I could reach three, because I was a surprise even to myself and being predictable was tedious.

I ran in a zigzag, my eyes on the deck, fixing on the tall, lithe bastard leaning casually against the railing in a brown, sea-stained coat and a jaunty hat. It had a blood-red feather in it that I instantly coveted.

---