“After that, the entire Pilvi tribe disappeared, so great was their fear of Hook. I looked for them for weeks, but they haven’t been seen since. They just disappeared.”
The Lost Boys gasped. “And that wasn’t all. The ship that I was forced to leave behind became the Sudden Night, that ship that has since plagued our existence. I had burned the Jolly Rodger to ash, but the Sudden Night rose out of those ashes, a nightmare that would one day appear on the Neverland Sea, a ship built to kill Lost Boys. A ship that can’t be burned, due to some magical gloss that coats its surface. A ship created . . . to kill me.”
There was a heavy silence in the room as the mood dimmed. Peter paused, understanding that this story had ended on a somber note. He stood perfectly still, his eyes lingering on each and every face. When they reached Wendy’s, she found herself mesmerized by his unflinching gaze. Finally, after his long dramatic pause, Peter looked up with a naughty grin, his emerald eyes flashing in the moonlight.
“But at least I know that when Hook comes to take me, he will have to do it with a little bit less.”
He raised one of his arms, his hand pulled back into his shirt-sleeve, leaving nothing there. The room erupted with cheers and fractious laughter. Peter then gave an exaggerated bow, the leaf crown on his head shifting a bit. When he raised his head, his eyes were navy.
“And that, my Lost Boys, is the story of how Hook lost his hand.”
The room erupted with cheers; the lanterns leapt to light with a new, golden energy. The boys swept around Peter, lifting him in the air on their shoulders, someone shoving a goblet of wine into his hand. The crowd carried him out of the door onto the open patio of the Teepee, their vigorous cheers echoing through the night.
That’s when Wendy saw her. Sitting silently in the center of Peter’s throne was a girl.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SHE WAS QUITE PETITE, just a bit shorter than Wendy, as narrow as a reed. A messy tangle of thick white-blond hair, matted at its core, was perched on the top of her head, shoved through with sticks, leaves, and dead flowers. She had very pale skin that stretched over immaculately carved cheekbones, her face perfectly symmetrical, flawless in its ethereal construction. Peachy pink and pearly lips that appeared to be just bitten pursed underneath a narrow nose. There were dark circles under her wide blue eyes, so deep that they appeared as bruises at first glance, giving her a hollowed look. Wendy had seen women who looked like this before, in a narrow alleyway on the dodgy end of her neighborhood, their empty eyes searing as they watched her scurry past. They were regulars in that alley, in that town, of that place, that place she used to live . . . Wendy shook her head and gave two long blinks.
“Trying to remember something?”
Her voice was high, like the tinkling of bells, though the dripping malice behind it was unmistakable. It was the same voice from the bridge, the same voice she had heard crying on the night of their arrival. Wendy was unsure of how to answer, and so she stayed silent, unmoving. The girl uncurled herself from Peter’s chair and stepped toward Wendy, her features becoming sharper as she approached. Her clothes rustled as she walked, so bulky that they seemed to barely touch her frame. A faded brown dress wrapped around her shoulders and cascaded to the floor, strips of fabric sewn together without care—it was lumpy and unattractive. She had cinched the dress at the waist with a vine, but other than that, there was no color visible. Even with her drab clothing, it was impossible not to notice the shawl that was draped across her shoulders, so long that its ends were hooked around her thumbs, pulling the fabric taut across her back. The shawl was meant to conceal whatever massive feature lumped out of her back, a shape so large that she could as well have been concealing another small girl underneath it.