“Lost Boys . . . forward! And remember, we are here for one thing only—if it won’t make you drunk, don’t carry it out! We’ve got plenty of treasure at home!”
The Lost Boys raised their weapons and began rushing toward the mouth of the hideout. Wendy followed behind them, her tiny dagger tucked underneath her shirt, practically useless, just like she felt. She ducked past the jagged wooden teeth that lined the entrance, wincing when she saw the bloodstains that dulled their sharp edges. The air changed, and she felt a shiver of terror run over her skin.
She was inside the Vault.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
INSIDE THE HIDEOUT, the damp walls oozed with the same dark green condensation that dripped from the eyes, the sappy substance pooling with the river that pulled at their feet. The water was icy around Wendy’s ankles, though her forehead dripped with sweat. It was all quite undignified, this adventure. Inside the open mouth, the rocky cavern narrowed, and a branch of the river poured down a slippery slope that hooked to the right.
“Come on!” Peter whispered, and they followed the hill downward, the river still at their ankles. At the bottom of the wet slope, a slight drop off the rocks led the water and the boys over a small waterfall that splashed onto flat rocks below. After the drop, which they all simply flew over, there was a sharp turn that led to an open archway, the walls decorated with tiny bones that made Wendy think of popcorn strings. Over the doorway, marked with a smear of blood that reminded Wendy deep in her brain of a very old story she had heard once, were the words Turn away, turn away. Peter flew underneath the arch, not even noticing the scrawl. Once through, he dropped to the ground.
“Incredible. Hooky, Hooky, what have we here?” Through the archway, an enormous narrow hallway stretched out before them, so deep that Wendy could barely make out the end of it. Dotting the hallway were roughly a dozen or so doors, each one marked with a hook symbol. They creaked and slammed in the warm, wet wind that rushed down from the mouth of the cave. Some doors were closed tight, others were open and slamming back and forth as the river water ran in and out of the rooms, one small wave playfully chasing another. From somewhere deep in the cave, Wendy could hear the faint mumble and laughter of friendly conversation, from pirates who were not yet aware that Peter Pan and his boys were in their midst.
Wendy counted fourteen doors, the hallway ending with one massive circular iron door that had a large metal wheeled lock as well as a dozen smaller ones that lined all sides of its hinges. Ah, she thought. The Vault. Peter looked at the door hungrily before crouching down and closing his eyes, sniffing the air. His fingers trailed in the water. Then he leapt up, his feet twitching, one hand held aloft for silence.
His whisper was sharp.
“Abbott, take your boys and search the back six doors, but go no farther. Listen for the pirates. Kitoko—go back outside to the rock and keep an eye out for any returning watches coming in from the jungle, or, God forbid, ships.”
Kitoko nodded at Peter with a gentle smile. Peter raised his eyebrows.
“Keep your eyes on the sea, yeah? If John did his job, we should never see those ships turn our way.”
Peter glanced over at Wendy with a hopeful look laced with expectations. I hope John doesn’t mess up, Wendy thought.
“The rest of you, come with me, and we will check the first six doors. Wendy, you’re with me.” Wendy quietly walked over to Peter’s side. He took her hand, and her heart skipped a beat.
“Are you feeling better?” he whispered, brushing aside a lock of her hair that was plastered against her forehead.
“Fine.”
She wasn’t, but there was no going back. Peter took her hand and they pushed through the water, a cluster of Lost Boys following behind them. They came up to the first door. It was unlocked, and opened with barely a touch from Peter’s hand, water rushing up to push it open before him. The room was seemingly held up by broken logs and dilapidated pieces of drift-wood. Clumsily arranged logs rose up to the ceiling, holding up a waterlogged set of pallets and branches. Across the logs, shaved-down tree branches functioned as shelves. Overflowing from the shelves and every possible surface were empty chests. Oak chests, with gaping mouths and sawdust handprints. Large chests, half the length of the room, marked by a hundred small drawers and petite maroon knobs. A silver chest that had eight different kinds of locks on it and inlaid rubies in the shape of a sun. There were chests shaped like suitcases. Bobbing up and down on the shallow river was an elaborate mirrored chest with a pale green top, the color of the Neverland Sea at sunrise. Red chests the color of blood, their tops wrenched open, seemed to beckon to the curious, and there were chests covered with pink seashells that flickered in the faint light. Wendy stared at the chests, fascinated, her ankles going numb in the river water that caressed around them. Peter turned away from the strange sight with an exasperated sigh.