Page 17 of Devour the Dark

I open my eyes to find the Captain staring at me.

The anguish has returned, but it’s different now, shadowed by fear.

“I won’t let that happen,” he says, his voice unwavering. “How do we fix it?”

I pull the tangled sheets away from my legs and put my feet to the ship’s floor. I’m naked, apparently. Just as well.

“Clothes?” I ask. The Captain nods at a cabinet and I go to it, finding trousers, a button-up shirt. I start pulling on the pants when the room sways.

I didn’t drink that much. I shouldn’t be drunk already.

My stomach rolls and a shiver crawls up my spine.

“Bloody hell,” the Captain says and staggers back.

I catch my reflection in the mirror over the washbasin.

My edges are fraying to purest black.

CHAPTER SEVEN

WENDY

Peter Pan emergesfrom the market street into the golden light of the docks. People bustle past him, keeping their eyes down, but they make sure to give him a wide berth.

Asha tightens her grip on my hand. “I have your back. No matter what.”

“And if he’s a god like the books say?” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth.

“Then we will go down together trying to kill a god. It will be an epic tale. There will be ballads.”

I chuff out a breath, almost a laugh.

Peter Pan is at the head of the group. The rest of them form behind him, like a V of wolves.

He was always the leader. Everyone was always looking to Peter Pan for permission or acceptance or answers.

They cross the street that runs parallel to the harbor dock.

And then Peter Pan looks up and locks eyes with me. His steps falter.

“Oh,” Asha says beside me. “Do you see that?”

“Is he?—”

“You’ve disarmed him.” Asha gives my hand another squeeze before pulling away. “This is good. Use that.” Her hands go to her hips, where a dagger is strapped on either side.

Peter Pan comes to a stop in the middle of the cross street and the others come to a stop beside him.

And that’s when I see her.

Winnie Darling.

“Wow,” Asha breathes out. “She looks just like you.”

I catch myself tearing up again.

Asha isn’t wrong. Winnie Darling has the same thick, dark hair. Her’s is a little longer than mine, and it’s wild and untamed. Even though we’ve been at sea several days, having escaped a civil war, old habits die hard and I’ve been combing my hair every morning, twisting it into a chignon, careful to get every pin in its perfect place.

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