Wendy nodded. “Yes, Captain.”
Then he loudly proclaimed, “Get the hell out of here! This is no place for a woman.”
Smith looked over his shoulder, his hand tossing a dagger into the air. Five miniature pirate ships rested on the face of a dusty map in front of him.
“And bring us some bloody damn tea, while you’re at it!”
The fairy door slammed shut in her face. Wendy begrudgingly headed down to the kitchen and fetched peppermint tea for the men, slamming the cups down against the long butcher block. She considered spitting into their cups before she remembered her manners and that her veil of politeness was the only thing standing between her and these barbarians. She placed the tray of tea in front of the captain’s door, knocked, and then ran away, not anxious for another interaction with Smith.
The next day, as she served the men on the deck their dwindling meals of shellfish and apples boiled in cinnamon water, Hook silently passed a note into her hand. Wendy barely made it below deck before she unfolded the paper, her hands shaking with anticipation as she read three small sentences: “John alive. Peter out flying with him often. General again.”
Wendy crumpled the paper against her chest, full of relief that seemed to flutter out from her very pores. He was alive. If he could fly, he was not gravely injured. Peter would not give him flight if he was angry with him. John was alright. She let out the breath that she had been holding for weeks, the fear in her heart uncurling like a fiddle fern in the sun. With this reassurance, she was able to focus more on the question that Hook had asked her, the question that did, indeed, press on her heart.
What is …? What is …?
She was still unable to get more than those words—that were now a voice in her head—while she scrubbed pots or strolled along the deck, breathing in the sea air. Barnaby passed her on his way to the helm, and she figured it was worth a try.
“Barnaby.”
“Yes, my dear.”
“May I ask you something?”
“Anything, my lady.”
Wendy struggled to not roll her eyes. Barnaby, in his compliments and his gaze, was always very direct.
“When you first came here, was there a question on your heart? In the seas and in the sky?”
Barnaby’s bewildered look confirmed just how insane she sounded.
“Well, my dear, I’m not entirely sure what you are talking about. Best to lay off the wine probably.” He chuckled, looking at Wendy for confirmation. She stayed still, a stray strand of hair whipping around her eyes in the strong wind.
Barnaby pushed up his glasses as they stood over the bowsprit. Michael was running circles around them, playing with a paper ship he had folded earlier that day. The robust salty air kept blowing it out of his hands, which sent him scurrying after it, much to the reluctant smiles of the crew working around him. A smile crept across her face. It brought her joy to see Michael playing again, to be able to be a child once more, and though his screaming nightmares woke her each night, he seemed better with each passing day. He missed his mother, and Wendy did as well. She had taken for granted the world in which adults fixed every problem, in which her parents kept her safe. The worries of children were swallowed into the very grownup-ness of their parents, and children were the luckier for it.
“Shall we continue our stroll?” Barnaby offered his arm, interrupting her thoughts. Wendy looked backwards, and seeing the scowl upon Smith’s miserable face, declined.
“I’m sorry. I think I am needed below decks to prepare your dinner.”
Barnaby shook his head. “It’s a shame, a damn shame, that a woman of society like yourself is meant to salt fish and chop carrots!”
Wendy laughed. “I don’t mind it so much. I like Keme’s company, and for the record, we are all out of carrots. Tonight will be squid with stale bread.” The look of devastation on Barnaby’s face made Wendy laugh.
“Michael, are you alright?” He ignored her as he climbed onto the squat base of a cannon, holding his paper ship high in the sky, its sails fluttering along with its behemoth parent’s snapping high above.
That evening, Hook requested her company on deck once again. Wendy headed up once the sunset appeared in her port window, wrapping herself in the same heavy blanket before stopping at the kitchen to make herself a steaming cup of thistle tea, a small reminder of home with each slow, heavenly sip. She followed the stairs up to the deck, barely even noticing the bones now. She relished the tangy scent of the night sea, so sharp and clean in her nostrils. The sky was the color of a blood orange, dripping into the sea, which had taken on a crimson shade in the strange light. Hook stood on the rail, his free hand wrapped around a downed line.
“The Pilvinuvo Indians call this light bomvi-nato’si—sunfire. It’s magnificent.”
Wendy looked out at the water. The color unnerved her—she much preferred the clear blue of the sea to this molten cauldron, but she nodded anyway, able to appreciate the beauty even when it reminded her of the blood that had dripped down Kitoko’s throat. The captain didn’t turn away from the sea of sunfire as he began his tale of the evening, his voice low, exhaustion creeping out from his very bones.
“The last time we spoke, I told you of my history with Peter Pan, how I came to loathe him, and why I have sworn my life to defeating him.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that brings us to the current day, and the climate, my dear, as they say, is a bit tumultuous.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “We are running out of time, all of us. Peter is a ticking time bomb, ticktock. Ticktock.”
He waved his finger back and forth. “One tick too far, and all of this …,” he gestured out in the direction of the island, to the sea, and the bloody sky, “goes away.”
His heels clicked as he leapt down from the side of the ship, reaching for a half-drained glass of wine. He took a long sip and peered over his glass at Wendy.
“Have you never wondered, Miss Darling, why a pirate, and a grown man, would entertain the youthful notions and challenges of a maniacal child?”
Wendy shook her head no, but she had, indeed, wondered this very thing. This was an obsession dark, and from what she could tell, without true reason. Hook had been introduced as Peter’s sworn enemy, his great nemesis, and she had just accepted it straight from Peter’s charming mouth, just like so many things. At that thought, embarrassment crept up her face, and she raised her hands to cover her cheeks.
“Well, he did kill your father, who sounded like a very good man indeed.”
Hook’s blinked twice, and his mouth parted in surprise. It curled back up into a sneer a moment later, but Wendy had seen it.
“Yes, Peter did kill my father, and that is enough to hunt a man for his lifetime. However, what Peter and I do, isn’t a hunt, as much as I would like it to be.” The captain pulled out his sword and ran his hook down it, slowly, the metal grating into a high-pitched whine. He raised an eyebrow at Wendy, eyes simmering with malice.
“Every morning, upon waking, the first thing I imagine is running my sword through his belly, and up into his ribs, watching him flail like a fish on a spear, unable to free himself, unable to fly away.”
Hook paused before a terrible smile stretched across his face.
“I wouldn’t speak to him, but I would watch him watching me watching him die. It would be, in a word, glorious. For my father and for so many others.”
He dropped his scabbard, sheathed it beside him, and looked over at Wendy’s shocked face.
“I’m sorry to be so frank, Miss Darling, but I need you to understand that I want nothing more than the death of Peter Pan. It’s important that you comprehend that fact.”
She nodded.
“I do.” Dear God.
Hook turned and leaned against the railing, his hook clacking out an erratic pattern on the wood.
“You’ve been to my vault, I believe.” Wendy was unsure of what to say. She had more specifically broken into Hook’s fault.
“I, er, Pete
r had …”
“I know you’ve been there, my dear. I saw you, through the lenses of my spyglass. I saw Peter carry you away, your face covered with the blood of that general, your body limp in his arms.”
Hook’s eyes focused on the horizon.
“Seems like Peter goes through generals pretty fast, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would.” Wendy let her thoughts linger on Oxley, Abbott, and John. Always John.
“I know then you’ve seen inside of the vault, the hallways of water, the room with the hanging cage, the music room, among many others.”
Wendy shook her head. “Yes, I’ve seen it and hope to never again. It was a horrible place.”
She shook her head at the terrible memory, of Darby’s screams as he drowned behind a locked door, at Kitoko’s face when Smith had opened his throat in a wide, red grin.
“A horrible place indeed—almost too horrible, would you say?”
Wendy paused, her mind replaying glimpses of the inside of the water-logged vault.
“Whatever do you mean?”
Hook actually smiled at that.
“Would you say that the vault has a certain theatricality to it?”
Wendy leaned back against a bow chaser that flanked the helm. She thought of the small skeletons that hung from the vault, the red birds that beat in their empty rib cages, of the grinning skull with its dripping green eyes, of the jagged wooden teeth and the rushing river that pounded its surf between them.
“You could say it’s dramatic, I suppose, but you’re pirates. I’ve been on this ship for a while now, and I have heard some stories that I will sadly never forget, stories of murder and ghosts.” She paused. “Pirates are a very dramatic people.”
Hook laughed, deeply. It was a foreign sound and Wendy enjoyed it immensely.
“You’re right, Miss Darling—we are pirates, and we do love an occasional gruesome murder, but we don’t need a skull-shaped cave to murder people. Trust me, you really can do it with anything handy—” He looked directly at her.
“Say, a teacup. A spoon through the eye. The handle of a cannon … a hook.” Wendy’s smile disappeared, and she slowly put her teacup down on the deck.
“The truth is, Miss Darling, is that the vault is purely there for Peter Pan’s entertainment. It drives his imagination and his greed. Its purpose is to give him a goal, to give the Lost Boys something to raid, which happens every few years when they finally gear up to it. The vault, and its treasures and its dangers, are all part of the elaborate game that I am playing with Peter Pan.”
Wendy, forgetting who she was with, leapt to her feet, her face flaming with anger.
“People died there! Children died there!”
“Of course by children you mean Lost Boys. And of course they did. The game is very real, even if it is just a game. People must die, or it ceases to entertain. The stakes must be real. Peter is able to be manipulated by a deft hand, but the boy is not stupid.”
Wendy threw out her hands. “So the vault is just what, a playground for Peter?”
Hook’s voice dropped.
“Have you ever seen a kitten play with a ball of string?”
Hook smiled, large white canines gleaming under the emerging moon.
“The vault is a ball of string for a very strong, very evil little kitten.”
Wendy shook her head.
“But the liquor … it was there. We took it all.”
Hook shook his head, a vein in his temple pulsing.
“Do you really think, Miss Darling, that I would store my treasure in a place that could be so easily found, that was so accessible from above? I’m the richest man in Neverland. I own every building in Port Duette, and a few on the outlying islands. I run a brothel, a tavern, a butcher, a bakery, a bank, and a dozen other, let’s say shadier, side venues. Would it be wise then, that I would keep all my riches in a place where Peter Pan could stroll in with a few Lost Boys and take it?”
Wendy had seen the riches of this ship, stored in quiet corners, chests that overflowed with gold, and smaller signs of wealth here and there: the antiques in Hook’s chambers, the newness of the weaponry, his boots that always reflected the sun. She knew now that the Night and its riches reflected only a snippet of what Hook owned, what the Sudden Night owned. Anger rose inside of her, boiling alongside with the red sea. She took a step towards him, tired of being a polite girl.
“Then why would you risk the life of your own men, and those boys, for a game? They were children, and you killed them! You had no right, you horrid, horrid man! Why not let Peter be, why even tempt him at all?”
She ran her hands angrily through her hair, tears choking her throat, unleashing the horror she had seen.
“Smith slit Kitoko’s throat right before my eyes! Say what you will about Lost Boys, but you plot grown men against children, children who are following a leader that controls their every move, and you take their lives, as part of what, a game?”
She was done being nice, worrying about her every step.
“Peter is a monster, but so are you for engaging him! Their blood is on your hands.”
Hook took one quick step towards Wendy, closing the gap between them.
“Peter killed seven of my men that day, Miss Darling. Seven. One using only his feet. Seven grown men, as you have reminded me, so don’t act like I am killing some innocent lambs.”
He dropped his voice, his dismay obvious.
“If anything, any man sent up against Peter is the lamb to the slaughter.”
Wendy jerked her chin away towards him.
“Why, then? Why?”
Without warning, Hook grabbed the collar of her dress, crumpling it underneath his fingers as he pulled her towards him. His voice dropped as he whispered in her face.
“Well, that is the question, isn’t it? Why do I play this game with this boy, this Peter Pan? Why bother with the blood, the calculating, the vault, the constant need to make sure that our rivalry stays strong?”
The ship rocked underneath them, the figurehead of Queen Eryne pointing to the sky for a moment before slapping the ship down upon rough, hard waves. Hook released her as they both flew sideways and Wendy grabbed onto one of the rope ladders leading up to the mast to steady her balance. Hook took a moment before smoothing out his jacket, once again in control.
“Do you not think I could kill Peter Pan if I wanted to? Why not just send my best men up the wild tangles of Pan Island to slit his throat while he sleeps? Why didn’t Smith shoot his pistol directly at Peter while he was on the vault?”
When the captain turned back to her, his eyes were glowing. “Why haven’t I loosed my cannons on Pan Island and burned that godforsaken island to the ground? I could do that in the morning and be having wine and cheese by noon.” His voice grew louder, more agitated. “Why, if Peter were standing here now, would I not kill him? Why has an entire people fled from his emerald gaze? Why, why, why? Look at me child, and tell me why. Why, God damn it!?”
Wendy shook her head.
“Answer the question!”
It was there, it was in the back of her throat, and the tip of her tongue and yet, nothing. It was infuriating, chasing this question around like a fictional rabbit. Wendy’s voice exploded from the place she knew the answer should be.
“Argh! I don’t know, I’m sorry! Just tell me! I’m tired of these questions!”
Hook gave a disappointed shake of his head.
“As am I. I cannot tell you the answer, for if you do not know the question, I cannot explain the answer. It will come. It took me years to ask the question, and I saw the Sunned Shore, upended, the blood of pirates on the trees. I am sad to say that we do not have years. We may not even have months,” he sighed.
“I am tired of this game with Peter Pan. I grow weary for hope. I have lost almost all, and I stand to lose even more.”
He faced her, reached out his hook, and traced it silently across her hairline, the edge of it skipping over her skin,
its blade sharp, but never cutting.
“I pulled you out of the sea that day because I believe you are our last hope. You must be.”
He closed his eyes and stepped back.
“Good night, Miss Darling. You may return to your quarters.”
“Please, no! Let me stay. Tell me more and perhaps the question will come to me.”
Hook rested his hand on the deck of the ship, his thumb tracing small circles.
“The question must be asked by you, and only you.”
“This game,” Wendy snapped, “is just as foolish as your other one.”
Hook moved so fast that she didn’t even have time to react, for one moment he was turned away from her, looking out at the sea, and the other he was leaning her over the edge of the ship, his hook pressing hard into her collarbone, her face looking out to sea.
“You don’t make demands on my ship, Miss Darling, do you understand?”
Fear raced through her chest as she realized just how close she was to the water, how she could see a silent, watery death from here.
“Yes, Captain.”
She swallowed, her heart thumping wildly against the inside of her chest. He stepped back, brushing his navy jacket with his hand, straightening his sun-shaped medals.
“My apologies. Please see if Keme needs any help in the kitchen before you go to bed and give him my regards.”
Wendy swallowed, hoping to find her way back to normal conversation.
“You seem quite fond of him and yet, you never seem to visit the kitchen.”
Hook’s eyes met her own and he stared unsteadily into them.
“Because Keme reminds me of what I have lost.” With a sigh, he turned away from her, his voice resuming its normal commanding cadence.
“We arrive early tomorrow in Port Duette. I will have clothes set out for you in the morning, for you will be joining me for our venture into town. Port Duette is a ruthless place, and I dare say that Michael leaving the boat would be terribly unwise. Children are ripe for the plucking in Port Duette, and I can’t promise his safety, in fact I could almost promise the opposite. There are much worse fates in Neverland for Michael than being a guest on the Sudden Night. With only a handful of crew, he’ll practically have the ship to himself—as long as he doesn’t break anything.”