All I can do is stare at him. We are really having this conversation.
“The Dark Ones that brought you here, for instance,” he continues. “Me mother used to tell me horrible tales of the Slua—the restless souls of the unrepentant dead that flew through the night, without heaven or hell to call their home, looking for children to take with them on their journey. I suppose her stories had to come from somewhere, did they not? Just as Mr. Barrie’s stories must have come from somewhere as well.” He pauses, and again I am struck by how completely serious he seems. “So, yes, the Dark Ones are Fey, just as all the creatures of this world are.”
I take a shaking breath. “So, what are you—some kind of Lost Boy?” I ask doubtfully. He’s maybe a year or two older than I am, but already there is nothing boyish about him.
“Perhaps, once,” he replies without an ounce of irony. “But I decided there was a more apt part for me to be playing.” With a mirthless smile, he holds up the gloved hand.
I realize then what I maybe should have seen from the minute he said we were in Neverland. The ship, the missing arm—it all makes a sick sort of sense.
I take a step back. “You’re Hook?” I say, my voice faltering.
He gives me a dark and dangerous smile that has something equally dark and dangerous curling in my belly. “The role quite suits me, no?” The mechanism beneath his glove ticks softly as he opens and closes his fist.
“Looks more like Luke Skywalker than Hook to me,” I say, a feeble attempt to disarm the moment.
“Aye?” he says finally, and the word carries with it more weariness than any single word should be able to. “Will said as much when he learned of it as well. Though I’ve not been able to discern his meaning, exactly,” he tells me, his expression faltering. And in that moment the Captain does look like a boy—and a lost one at that.
But I barely blink, and that impression is gone. Wherever we are, whatever is happening to me, the Captain believes every word he’s saying. This isn’t a game for him. This isn’t a joke.
“But if you’re Hook . . .” I hesitate.
“Yes?” He turns his attention to me fully then, his body held as stiff and alert as a soldier’s. His eyes are locked on mine, expectant. Mocking me again. “If I’m Hook?” he drawls.
It’s been years since I’ve seen the movie, but even I remember Captain Hook, with his scarlet coat and his villainous mustache. And his insistence on killing the Lost Boys.
“I can almost hear you thinking, Gwendolyn.” The Captain’s clockwork hand balls itself into a fist. “Out with it now, lass.”
“Out with what?” I hedge. I’m suddenly feeling very unprotected, standing with him alone in the moonlight, surrounded by a ship full of dangerous boys and the endless sea.
He gives me a sour look. “You know well enough what I’m speaking of. You’re thinking of the story, aren’t you? I can see it on your face, clear as the sea on a calm day.” He leans forward a bit, challenging me. “Say what you mean to say, so we can be done with it.”
I’d rather not, but he’s not going to let this go. I lick my lips and collect what courage I can find. “If you’re Hook . . . ,” I start again.
“Yes?” he says, mocking me yet again. Amusement dances in his eyes.
“That would make you the bad guy,” I say softly.
He doesn’t react immediately, but after a long, silent moment, he inclines his head slightly in what might have been agreement. “So it would.”
He backs away then, giving me enough space so I finally feel like I can breathe again. “And there are many who would agree, Gwendolyn. In time, perhaps you’ll count yourself among them.” He turns then to signal to his crew. “Though some would say there are many sides to a story.”
Two boys notice his call and begin to make their way up to the top deck where we’re standing. One is Will, the glaring, russet-haired boy who doesn’t seem to like me much. The other is taller and looks just as angry and severe. His face is marred by a dark tattoo—a jagged black line that crosses the bridge of his nose, bisecting his face top from bottom. Another dark tattoo winds itself around his bare bicep.
I don’t have much time, and I don’t understand nearly enough yet. Not thinking of the danger, I snag the Captain’s arm. Beneath my hand, the hard rods that make up his forearm feel as solid and unyielding as the metal they are. Whatever words I was going to say die in my throat.
“Yes?” The Captain glares down at me, his lip curled in irritation at my insolence, and something dark, something cold and dangerous, moves behind his eyes. In that moment, I do not doubt him. In that moment, I believe wholeheartedly that he is who he claims to be. “Well?”
“Why me?” I choke out. “Why did those creatures bring me here? What can they possibly want?” And what do you want with me? I’m too afraid to ask.
“I haven’t the slightest idea, lass,” he says as he shakes off my hand.