I inspect the sleeve further. Blood gushes through a gaping hole.
“You’ve been shot! We have to stop the bleeding,” I say. Doc reaches for his bag, but I snatch it out of his hand, rip it open, and grab scraps of fabric from inside. Slipping my fingers through the tear in Pete’s jacket, I rip his sleeve off. Although my heart is racing already, it skips a beat as my gaze falls on his tattooed arm. The inked wheels, cogs, and chains almost seem lifelike. Resisting the temptation to run my fingers over them, I wrap a bandage around the wound instead.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Pete says gruffly as he watches me tie a knot in the fabric.
“Where’s Jack?” Mole asks, sniffing the air. “He isn’t with you.”
Pickpocket and Pete glance at each other before looking back at us. “He took a shot and fell. The Marauders have him,” Pickpocket says with an exasperated sigh.
“You didn’t go after him?” Doc asks.
“We ran after the gunfire started,” Pickpocket says. “When he went down, we tried to carry him, but he insisted that we run and he’d cover for us. I would have argued with him, but we were taking fire and there was no time. It took a while to get here with the Marauders out on the streets as it is. They’re everywhere!”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Doc asks.
“I don’t know,” Pickpocket says, shrugging. “Maybe an hour ago.”
“We have to go back and find Jack,” I insist.
No one speaks. They exchange worried glances with one another and then fix their gazes on Pete, waiting for him to make the final call.
“He’s a brave Lost Boy. One of the finest we have. But he’s made a sacrifice for all of us,” Pete says, throwing his rucksack to the ground.
Pickpocket and Doc stare uneasily at Pete. Mole shuffles. I feel his small hand on my arm as he hides behind me. Their silence is palpable, leaving only the sound of the crackling fire.
Pete kicks at the pile of wood, sending boards scattering across the room. “Hook, that bloody codfish! I’m going to kill him. First Pyro. Now Jack.”
Pickpocket cautiously steps toward Pete and rests a hand on his shoulder. “You doing okay, Pete?”
“Blimey, it’s freezing in here,” Pete grumbles, sounding irritated as he brushes Pickpocket’s hand away. He steps into an adjoining room and rustles around in it. When he returns, he is carrying a large framed painting. Before I can object, he throws it onto the flames.
“What are you doing?” I ask with outrage. “Those paintings are irreplaceable.”
He runs into the other room again, ignoring me, and returns with another piece of art.
“Stop it!” I say, trying to take the artwork from his hands. He tugs it from my grip and tosses it into the flames.
“That was van Gogh’s Sunflowers painting,” Doc says, incredulous.
“Who’s van Gogh?” Pete asks, warming his hands in the fire, ignoring our indignation.
“Who’s van Gogh?” Mole asks, a renewed boldness in the tone of his voice. “I can’t see, but even I know who he is.”
“He’s only one of the most inspirational nineteenth-century painters in the whole world. The picture you burned is a priceless work of art!” Doc exclaims.
Pete chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, it sure is priceless. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but there is no one around to buy it!”
“So that’s it?” Doc says, his voice rising. “We lose a couple of Lost Boys and you’re going to destroy valuable art in a temper tantrum? What are you, two years old?”
Pete’s face creases into a snarl. “Don’t you dare talk about them as if they were nothing! Pyro was one of the best Scavengers we had. And Jack … Jack’s not just any Lost Boy. He knew every entrance into the palace. He understood the ins and outs of those Marauders better than any of us. You’ve seen what those Marauders do with kids. Once they go into the palace, they never come out. Hook won’t have an ounce of mercy on him, especially because he’s a Lost Boy. And without him, we’re not getting into Hook’s headquarters, we’re not saving Joanna, and more than likely, if Bella made it to the palace, we’ll never see her again either. They’re all as good as dead,” he says, pulling another painting from the wall and throwing it across the room.
Pete grabs another picture, but before he can hurl it into the fire, Doc snatches it from his hands and sets it against the wall.
Pete’s anger fades as suddenly as it arrived. “I should have gone back for him,” he says quietly.
I take a step toward him, but he sees me and takes a step back, keeping the distance. His lips press into a thin line before he speaks. “It’s freezing in here. Pickpocket and I are soaked to the bone. If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit by this fire and warm up before we return to the Lost City.”