Page 4 of Stalking Wendy Darling

I pulled a black hat over my pinned hair and cast a look over myself in the speckled mirror. My clothes were dark, grimy, and loose enough to disguise the boobage area, and with the hat plus a light smear of dirt on my face, I definitely didn’t look feminine. I didn’t look ultra masculine either, but it would do.

I only needed to look convincing enough to get aboard. After that, the crew’s blood would conceal any feminine curves. A smile pulled at my lips. I was looking forward to it.

I pulled on my long coat and reminded myself of Mama’s words before she put me on the stinky fish trawler that brought me here.

Kill every last one of them and bring back your sister. No one fucks with the Darlings and lives.

We might have been discarded and unwanted by our birth parents, but we were bound as real, true family in Mama’s house. Every one of the children who came through the home was my sibling, and we were raised with fierce, unwavering loyalty. And maybe Mama taught us how to throw a punch and avoid a knife blow. Maybe she taught us how to pick locks, slip a watch from a wrist, and discreetly pilfer goods from a market stall, too, but we were family no matter how unconventional. It came in handy; I’d used all three of those skills today, my new watch ticking quietly on my wrist. I figured I’d sell it once I’d slaughtered Hook’s crew.

“Time to kill a pirate crew,” I said cheerily as I left the room with my knives buckled all over me and a nice new pistol tucked into an inside pocket in my coat.1 “What?” I asked when a tall, grizzled guy exiting the room opposite gave me a strange look. “Like you don’t have hobbies.”

I rolled my eyes and skipped down the stairs and out the tavern, imagining all the ways I’d slice and dice the behemoth.He was massive; there werelotsof places to cut. Working at Tajo’s had given me a skillset I was very proud of, and I planned to put it to good use.

Whistling a jaunty tune, I forced myself to stop skipping, throw my shoulders back, and stride with purpose the way men did, whether their purpose was going to work to provide for their family or going to the pub to drink themselves silly. I thought of how Tajo handled himself and adjusted my body, killing the smile on my face.

I’m grumpy and scowly and I’ll stab anything that gets in my way.

Hey, it worked. As I crossed the tight, cobbled streets of the Swordfish Isle, people took one look at me and got out of my way, avoiding my gaze with ducked heads and feigned interest in the quaint brick shops that lined the street. Hey, this was fun. I knew being a tall girl was going to come in handy one day, even if it made kissing awkward because men had to get on their tiptoes to meet my lips. I’d suggested getting my last fumble a stepping stool. It hadn’t gone over well.

The memory brought a smile to my face, and a woman walking towards me let out aneekof fright and ducked into a toymaker’s shop. My smile spread. It was fun to be feared, even if I did feel atadguilty about frightening the woman. It wasn’t like I was gonna stab an innocent woman.

Like you stabbed the innocent fisherman,the little voice in my mind piped up. A tiny twinge formed behind my ribcage but I stamped it out. I was in a mood; he got in my way. It was his fault, really.

I shook the thoughts away, fixing my attention on the leaning, crooked building at the end of the street, warped windows looking out across the small port. Beams gave it a distinguished look, the windows showing its age, and if not for the company it would have been quite charming. As it was,pirates, smugglers, murderers, and thieves swarmed in and out of the pub.

I preferred to be the most dangerous person in any room, and as much as I loathed to admit it, walking in this place would mean rubbing elbows with people who could overpower me. That little annoyance twisted my mouth as I approached the open door of the Mad Queen and shouldered past a beefy, red-bearded man who gave me a snooty look down his nose.

Inside, the scent of stale, acrid beer hit me like a solid brick wall, and it took literal effort to stop my nose wrinkling.This is normal, I’m completely used to places that smell like a brewery left to wrack, rot, and ruin. This is a home away from home for me, definitely not making my eyes water.The fragrance of aged sweat and unwashed bodies didn’t help, and neither did the odour of salt, sea, and fishorthe humid heat that surrounded me as I squeezed my way through the crush of drunk, rowdy men.

I knew exactly who I was looking for, so it wasn’t hard to find the man with sallow light-brown skin, a maudlin expression, long straight black hair, and round glasses perched on his nose. He wore a grey version of the outfit everyone else adopted—ragged trousers, sturdy coat, and some version of a hat. Proving he was tasteless and dull, he’d foregone the hat.

I was still thinking about that black hat with the blood-red feather the bastard who shot me wore. I planned to take it from his cooling body. But to make that happen, I had to remove this lanky, morose-faced man from the equation. If I wasn’t masquerading as a man, I’d probably seduce him, but there was always option B.

It should only take a few minutes.

I muscled my way into a spot at the bar and bought a pint I would literally rather die than drink. Give me a glass of red wineand I was as happy as a pig in shit, but I would have struggled to part with wine and this beer was a sacrifice.

Don’t smile,I reminded myself, pint in hand as I squeezed through a crush of smugglers talking about golden nuggets.2 Passage onto the Banshee coming in three… two… one…

I bumped into Mr. Maudlin’s shoulder, pouring the entirety of my drink over his head. Honestly, good riddance. The stuffstank.So did the pirate I dumped my drink on, so he probably wouldn’t notice the stench. But he certainly noticed the liquid that deluged his hair, sticking it to the severe lines of his face. His glasses got all fogged up until he couldn’t see; I stifled a snort when he ripped them off his face to properly glare at me.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, his voice surprisingly loud for someone so dull-looking.

“What doyouthink you’re doing?” I retorted, deepening my voice. “You got in my way. If you don’t want to wear beer, don’t stick your fucking elbows out.”

Why was it so hard to keep a straight face when I was trying so hard to be stern and serious? I wanted to giggle and grin my head off at the sight of the man. His hair was flat to his skull, pasted to the lines of his face, and glaring up at me, he looked ridiculous. Like a poodle that got swallowed by a puddle and vowed to murder rainclouds for the insult.

He shot to his feet in a rush, his eyebrows slamming over his eyes when I didn’t apologise. Droplets of beer flicked from him onto the arms of my coat, and I scowled. He’d got it all beer-y and gross.

“Apologise,” he demanded, a gravel to his voice that I might have found sexy in other circumstances.3

I snorted, not having to fake that bit of bravado. “Apologise for you sticking out your bony elbows? I don’t think so.”

He grabbed the lapels of my jacket, wrenching me forward.Yes! Playtime!

I drove my fist into his stomach hard enough that the wound on my shoulder erupted to life. Yeah, shit, I was shot.

When the Banshee crewman shouted a very colourful, impressive insult, falling into his chair so hard it screeched across the sticky floor, a circle of space opened around us, the chatter and drone of twenty different conversations honed into a singular focus. Oh, goody, I did enjoy an audience.

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