“Are there so many versions of liquor?” she asked innocently.
Peter laughed. “This is but a small selection, my darling. But there . . .” He pointed to a bottle on the highest shelf, enclosed in a wavy glass case with a small lock on the side. “That is Hook’s vice.”
The bottle was thin, clear, and unremarkable in every way, marked only by an upside-down skull etched into the glass. Liquid the color of pure honey sat perfectly still inside of it, no more than would fill two glasses.
“Rum. The purest of its kind. It’s made on one of the outer islands.”
Peter looked at the boys lingering around, each one touching the bottles with a sort of intoxicated glee at their own success. He shook his head and frowned, his clever eyes darting around the room, calculating, measuring.
“This was almost too easy, wasn’t it, Wendy Darling? Hm. Right.” He clapped his hands once, and the boys silenced themselves. “All right, boys, load up! No one touch the rum!”
Everyone began grabbing liquor bottles and stuffing them into large sacks padded with blankets and clothing. Bottles clanged against each other as the boys shoved them roughly into the bags. The sound of chipping glass filled the air, sharp notes against the lulling sound of the lapping water at their feet.
“Careful!” Peter snapped. “Handle them gently!”
He turned to Wendy with a sigh.
“Boys.”
Grinning, he flew up in the air and began rifling through an overflowing shelf, bottles rolling off the shelf and landing with a splash in the river. He pulled out a bottle and looked at the label.
“Aha! Yes!”
He flew back down to her.
“Lovely Wendy, you carry this one. This bottle can be just for you.”
Wendy looked down at the bottle in his hands as guilt welled up inside of her. They were stealing. This was stealing. It was thrilling and terrible and wonderful all at once. She gave a small shake of her head, and Peter tilted his own toward her.
“But Peter—”
“They stole these from other people, you know. It’s not really stealing if they stole it first.” He shoved the bottle toward her, clear glass with a gold foil cap and a rose-colored liquid inside. “You can’t steal from pirates.”
Reluctantly, she took it. It wasn’t just the liquor, it was all of it—the pirate outside, that John and Michael were away from her doing God knew what, how her body betrayed her misgivings by pulsing with excitement at the thrill of it all. Peter grinned at her.
“You have such a pure heart. I admire you for it. I—”
He fell silent, his head turning toward the door ever so slightly.
“Quiet!” Peter held up a finger. No one moved. Wendy’s heart thundered inside of her chest so loud that she feared the other boys could hear it, her own red bird, furious inside of her lungs. Silently, Peter floated up into the air and peeked his head out the top of the doorway. His hand rested on his sword hilt, tracing the lines of the gold handle. Wendy heard nothing at first, but after a few seconds, she heard the faintest sound of a single pair of footsteps echoing down the Vault. Someone was running—and yelling. She heard the shhhhinnnnng of a drawn sword, the splashing of boots in the water, frantic cries, and the clanking of metal against wall—the sounds of men, men coming for them. The pirates had awoken, and they were coming for all of them.
A twisted jolt of fear mixed with delight shot through her fingertips as she reached for Peter.
“Leave them! Let’s go!” Wendy urged.
He looked down at her as if he had never heard anything so ridiculous in his life. “Leave the liquor? Are you serious? This is what we came for.” He laughed. “C’mon boys, pack it up!”
One by one, the boys plunged past Peter, each carrying their heavy bag full of bottles. Once they reached the doorway, they took off into the air, hovering just below the dripping peaked roof of the winding cavern. Peter was still flitting around the room, grabbing bottle after bottle and stuffing them into his pack.
“Peter! Let’s go! Peter!” Wendy hissed, no longer amused. He made a silly face at Wendy in return. She used the stern voice that normally worked with the boys. “Peter Pan!”
He started laughing at her. She looked nervously back toward the door, where most of the Lost Boys were waiting for Peter, floating silently near the ceiling, the bottles in their bags clinking harmlessly together. The voices of the pirates grew louder, climbing ever upward, vibrating off the walls and into the room, into her brain.
“PETER!”
He had just turned to her when a deafening screech silenced them both. As they turned their heads toward the horrible noise, the piercing whine shook the walls, and the bottles began vibrating toward the edge of their shelves before plunging down, one after another. One smashed against Peter’s face, and he tumbled downward to the floor before stopping himself. With an annoyed scowl, he wiped the blood off his face and turned to Wendy.