Unhooked (11 page)

Behind him, the Captain stands, his blade coated with the boy's dark blood. His eyes murderously set on me.

“Get her up from there.” The Captain's voice is rough with exhaustion and barely leashed temper.

The battle is already dying down as thin yet strong arms hoist me up from the deck. But I can't take my eyes off the crumpled body of the boy at my feet. It doesn't even matter that he was hurting me, or that he would have tried taking me. . . . I've never seen someone die. And his death was so violent, I can't seem to stop myself from shaking.

“How many did we lose?” The Captain's voice is brutally cold.

“Just four, including Wren,” Will says, nodding toward the small boy who died trying to save me. “Little Davey's injured, but he might pull through.”

A tall dark-skinned boy with hair braided like snakes approaches. He's bleeding from a gash above his eye and seems almost shell-shocked as he takes in the carnage on the deck around him. “Where did they all come from?” he asks, his hand shaking as he wipes at the blood dripping into his eye.

“Where d'you think?” The Captain looks out over the deck, his expression grim. His hair has tumbled free and hangs listlessly over his brow. I'd been wrong—his hair like that doesn't soften his appearance at all. If anything, it makes him look even more dangerous. “Burn their boats. Then we'll deal with those who remain.”

“But why, Cap'n?” another of the boys ask. “Himself's never attacked like that before, not in broad daylight and not in the middle of the sea.”

He glances at Will and then he looks at me, those dark eyes of his as cold and dark as the waiting sea. “That is the question, lads,” he says as he scratches at his chin absently with the edge of his knife, but from the way he's focused on me, I'm afraid he already has his answer.

After the attack, when only a pale gray light filtered over the empty land, nothing moved there. Nothing seemed even to breathe. The boy wished that someone had warned him fear tasted of mustard gas—of lilacs and horseradish. . . .

H
EAVY CLOUDS HAVE ROLLED IN, and the air snaps with a new chill now that we are under sail. The island, once no more than a speck on the horizon, has disappeared in the distance. I've been given new clothes to replace the ones that were splattered with the boy's blood, but they aren't as warm as the heavy sweater I'd been wearing before, and I can't quite keep myself from shivering.

Or maybe it's more than cold that has me shaking. When I changed my clothes, I found the crumpled picture of Olivia and was reminded again about how easily I'd forgotten her. How easy it still is to let the idea of her, and the memory of who I was, slip away.

The Captain is standing close to me, watching the progress his crew is making in scrubbing the blood from the deck and setting his ship to rights. He's exchanged his bloodstained clothing for a clean military-style jacket with a double row of large pockets across the front. It must have faded to that grayish, drab green long ago from the looks of it. Its elbows are worn and patched, and the right epaulet—which has long since lost the button that once held it in place—flops listlessly over his shoulder in the gusty wind.

I pull the folded sheet of paper from my pocket. “Is this the girl you were talking about with Fiona?” I ask, watching for his reaction.

He stiffens when he glances down at the drawing, but then he turns to me after a moment. “You were looking through my effects?”

“You left me alone in your quarters. What did you think I was going to do?”

His mouth goes tight, but he doesn't say anything. He just keeps glaring at me with that indecipherable expression of his.

“Her name's Olivia,” I tell him, concentrating on the way the word feels on my tongue, the way it sounds before it's carried off by the breeze. “She was in London with me, when I was taken. What are you doing with her picture?”

He scratches absently at the dark scruff on his jawline. “This Olivia,” he asks, ignoring my question. “You say she's from your world?”

I nod.

“You're sure about this—you remember it?”

I clench my fists. “I didn't at first. The picture helped.”

His brows draw together, and his dark eyes study me for a long moment before he responds. “I'm surprised you remembered at all, lass. Most of the boys don't remember anything at all of your world—no matter how many tales I tell them of it.” He narrows his eyes at me, but I'm getting so used to his half-threatening looks that it's fairly easy to ignore this one.

“They're all from my world?”

The Captain's mouth goes tight as he gives a terse nod and confirms my fears. “Not that it's anything more than a story to them now. All they are is who they've become.”

I think about Owen and how confused he was when I asked where his parents were, and I wonder if it's possible to forget that completely. Could I really become like the boys on this ship, all thinking that Neverland—or whatever this strange world might be—is the only home I've ever known?

“I won't forget Olivia again—I won't forget any of it,” I say, determined. Even as I struggle to hold on to the wisps of memory I've managed to grab hold of.

“As you'll soon learn, Gwendolyn, everything about this world inspires forgetting. If you survive long enough, Neverland will tempt you to abandon the life you knew before, to betray everything you believed you were.”

“Is that what happened to you?” I wonder.

But his expression goes stony, and he turns away, dismissing the question and me all at once.

“Wait! What about the girl—Olivia?”

He turns back. “What about her?”

“Can you help me find her?”

He shakes his head slightly. “I'm afraid not, lass. I won't risk any more of my lads. We're heading out to sea, beyond the range of more attacks.”

“But Fiona said—”

“The game has changed,” he says simply. “Pan has never risked such a brazen attack before. And if he has your friend, as Fiona believes, she's already lost.” His words are so blunt, so absolute, I have no doubt they are final.

“Pan?” I ask, and I cannot stop myself from looking at what remains of the battle's carnage. Dark spots still stain the decks. Boys still trickle blood from seeping wounds or peer out of swollen eyes. “But in the story—”

“I did try to warn you that you're not in any bloody story,” he snaps. Then he takes me by the arm and steers me back away from the railing of the upper deck, back from the hungry eyes of the boys below.

I pull away from him. “You told me I'm in Neverland. You said there are fairies, and now you're telling me Peter Pan attacked your ship. That sounds an awful lot like the story to me.”

His temper is a living thing, but he keeps ahold of its leash. “All of that may be true enough, but whatever you might know of Mr. Barrie's tale, you'd best forget it, lass,” he says, his eyes as sharp as his voice. “In this world, the story belongs not to Mr. Barrie, but to Pan. The stories you may know have very little bearing on what happens here. Perhaps Mr. Barrie had some way of knowing of this land. Perhaps this world is where his stories came from. But whatever the case, the stories in your world are nothing compared to the truth of
this
one. Here, Pan uses the tale for his own purposes.”

“Like you haven't.” I can't help but think of the boys who bled and died for him today. I think of the boy he killed to save me.
To keep me,
I realize with a start.

He blinks at me, as though he didn't expect that reply, but his expression goes flat, unreadable. “As you said yourself, Gwendolyn, I'm the villain.”

Before I can say anything else, the Captain is gone, his long strides taking him across the upper deck and down the steps toward the main mast of the ship. When I go to follow, my two guards pull me back.

“Bring the prisoners forward,” the Captain calls.

All around the deck, the boys shuffle, agitated, like something is about to begin. The Captain turns the frayed collar of his coat up against the wind and watches a few of the older boys lead the group of captives forward on the deck below. Each of the prisoners has his hands bound behind his back. Most of them are sporting blackened and swollen eyes or noses crusted with dried blood.

I can't get over how young they look beneath their bruised faces. Or how terrified.

Not that I blame them. The Captain's already severe face seems somehow even more fierce as he looks them over. Many of the swollen eyes follow him as he stalks across the deck, watching his every move, like dogs who have been kicked too many times by their master.

“I'll give you the same choice I give any taken aboard my ship,” he says loudly enough for all on the ship to hear him. This, I understand implicitly, is a display meant for his crew as well as for the prisoners. “You can join us and pledge your loyalty, and I'll swear on my life and honor to protect you as my own.” He pauses, eyeing them each and letting his words settle. “Or you can walk the plank.”

Walk the plank?
He can't possibly be serious.

But no one else seems to find what he's saying funny.

“You, there.” The Captain points his blade at one of the older boys who's making a point not to pay attention—a stocky guy who's tall enough and broad enough to play linebacker. He's the largest and cockiest of the captives, and he doesn't seem to realize he should be hiding his disdain. The dark-skinned boy with the thick braids pushes the boy forward until he stands in the no-man's-land in front of the line.

“What shall it be, mate?” the Captain asks. “Will you join us?”

The boy doesn't hesitate. “Bugger off,” he says, giving the Captain a sharp jerk of his chin. “I ain't joinin' nuffin' of yours. Got it.
Mate?
”

The Captain cocks his head, examining the boy like he's no better than a roach in the pantry. The Captain turns on him and, in a motion so swift that the boy could not have predicted it, he rams his glove-covered fist into the boy's gut. The boy goes down hard, his moan echoing on the winds as he crumples over, unable to clutch his stomach with his hands bound as they are.

Stepping back, the Captain watches with barely concealed disgust as the boy writhes on the floor, desperately trying to catch his breath. When he has almost stilled and when his breathing is more labored than erratic, the boy tries to come to his knees. But as he struggles, the Captain crouches and lifts the boy's head by his hair. The boy tries to jerk away, but the Captain's grip is too strong.

“I'll ask you once again, lad,” he says, his voice carrying over the wind. “Will you join us?”

The boy glares at the Captain, his nostrils flaring in anger or pain or some combination of the two. After a beat, he wrinkles his face and, with some effort, sends a gob of spit directly at the Captain's face.

The boys on deck shift uneasily as a murmur ripples through the crowd, but the Captain doesn't react. He lets the boy fall to the deck as he wipes the spittle from his cheek with a handkerchief from his pocket.

“I see,” the Captain says, and I cannot stop the gasp that escapes when he unexpectedly gives the boy a savage kick to the gut. Taking the time to fold the scrap of material into a precise triangle, he places it back into his pocket while the boy writhes in pain at his feet.

With the handkerchief tucked away, he gives a slight nod. Will and the boy with the dreads move forward and flank the prisoner. Together they lift the still-moaning boy back to his knees and jerk his head back, forcing him to look up at the Captain.

“Let's try this once again, shall we?” The Captain pulls his long triangular blade from its sheath and runs the edge of it along the boy's throat. “It's like I've told you, lad. You've got yourself two choices: you can join with us or you can be leaving.” His tone is calm, almost conversational, as he gestures to the sea.

A few of the other prisoners in the line whimper, but the Captain doesn't spare them a glance. The defiant boy jerks his head away from the two holding him and glares at the Captain with a cold fury. “And it's like I told you,” he sneers,
“sod off.”

The Captain studies him for a moment, his back stiff and straight. “Your choice, lad.” He looks to the two boys holding the prisoner. “Gareth, Will, perhaps you could escort our guest off the ship?”

The two holding the boy nod, almost in unison, and start to drag the prisoner to the bulwark of the lower deck. As they pull the stocky boy along, the Captain glances up at me. I can't read the emotion in his features. I can't tell if it's exhaustion from the battle or regret for what he's just done that makes him look so drained. He doesn't bother to watch the progress of the boys or to offer assistance, though. Instead, he climbs the steps back to his perch next to me on the higher deck.

The boy doesn't go easily. At first he collapses onto the deck, making himself into a dead weight, but it doesn't work. Little by little, Will and Gareth drag him to the bulwark of the ship. The closer the boy gets, the more he begins to panic—his legs jerking out desperately to find a foothold, his face turning as white as the sails that flap above us.

I understand his panic. I know too well what's it like to be dragged away against your will. What it's like to feel fear closing up your throat. And I know just how cold and dark and deadly that water can be.

“Captain!” the boy's voice cracks. His eyes are wild with fear now. “Captain, please! I've reconsidered.”

I let out a breath when I hear his words, relieved that he has finally decided to save himself. But the Captain doesn't move. Not a muscle in his face shows any signs of softening.

“Please!” The boy is practically squealing now, sobbing, and his screams grow more desperate with each inch he is pulled closer to the railing. Beyond, the sea is quiet. Waiting.