Unhooked (8 page)

But his words don't make me feel any better. “Things like that—they don't . . . It's not possible,” I tell him.

“Maybe not in the world you were taken from. In this one, though”—he gives a shrug that looks more tired than careless—“I've seen more than most would care to, and I learned well enough that nothing's impossible.”

Unease trickles down my spine. He spoke so casually, that I know I can't be hearing him right. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself for the question I can't believe I'm about to ask.

“What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?” I say slowly.

“I thought I spoke clearly enough.” He glances at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Have you seen or heard of many islands, then, that move and dance to their own heartbeat in your world?” He takes a step closer, and I resist the urge to back away. “Have you seen a forest rise and fall with its own will and of its own wanting?”

I swallow hard and, unable to form the words, shake my head. Of course I haven't, because such things do not exist. They
cannot
exist.

“And having seen such wonders, is it so hard to believe that you are no longer in the human world? Is it so impossible, after what you've seen through that glass, to believe you've found yourself somewhere else entirely?” His mouth goes grim once again. “It may look on the surface like the world you know, lass, but don't let that be fooling you. Though the sky is broad, there is nothing to this world but the sea and that,” he says, pointing to the island. “And there are dangers on those shores you cannot have imagined.”

“There has to be something else,” I said, thinking about how impossible what he's saying sounds.

“You'd think it, wouldn't you? But I've tried myself to escape. I've sailed this ship for weeks on end, until my crew was near starvation, and I thought for sure we'd all die from the icy cold that coats the sea beyond. After weeks of sailing, what do you think appeared on the horizon?” He points toward the island again. “It's as though this entire world is centered on that one heartless piece of land. All directions lead there.”

“That's impossible,” I say, wondering how bad of a Captain you have to be to sail in circles like that without realizing it.

“Perhaps in the world you're from,” he tells me, and his voice is so rough and worn, I almost believe he's telling me the truth.

“But even if I believe you, even if I accept we are in another world, it can't just be the sea and that island,” I tell him. “There has to be a way out.”

“There are boundaries between your world and this one, to be sure, but I've no idea where they're hidden. And I've no power to breach them.” His dark eyes are serious and steady on mine. “Think of how you came to be here, lass. It wasn't a ship that brought you, now was it?”

“The monsters,” I whisper, remembering the strange pressure, the dizzying flight.

“Aye,” he said darkly.

I grip the railing so tightly, my fingertips ache, and I close my eyes against the sea and the island and a truth too terrible to accept. “What is this place?” I ask, my voice shaking. When he doesn't immediately answer, I open my eyes again to find him watching me. “Where am I?”

He studies me for a moment longer, and when he does finally speak, his voice sounds haunted and very, very far away. “That bit of land is known now by only one name, lass. You've no doubt heard of it,” he says, his serious eyes turning again to the sea, to the tiny speck of land in the distance. “In the world you came from, they tell tales of this place.”

His voice has gone so grave that I'm almost afraid to ask, but I force myself to release the railing. “They do?”

“Aye, they do.” His dark eyes glitter as he leans in close. “Let me be the first to welcome you to Neverland.”

The ship rolled, angry, on the unsettled sea, bearing them onward toward those fabled shores. The boy knew death was a possibility there, yet he could not help but be tempted. For that land held the promise of living only for the present moment—without care for past or future, for who he might have once been.

There, he could become anything.

I
PULL BACK, MY HEARTBEAT thundering in my ears, and wait for the mocking curve of his mouth to break into a laugh. Because this has to be a joke. A hugely unfunny and terrible one . . . But the Captain's expression remains impassive, not playful.

A nervous laugh bubbles up in my throat, and I cannot stop it from escaping. The Captain sighs then, a weary exhalation of breath that has me choking back another nervous, completely panicked giggle as he draws away from me.

“They never do believe at first,” he says. As he watches me with those hard eyes of his, what's left of my laughter dies in my throat. “And what you saw through the glass? That wasn't enough to be convincing you?”

“Even if I believe we're in some sort of magical otherworld,” I say, “even if I accept that much, you expect me to believe I'm stuck in some kind of fairy tale?”

His mouth turns down. “I never said this was a fairy tale, lass.”

“You said we're in
Neverland
!” Saying it out loud only makes it sound more ridiculous. “As in the story? As in Tinker Bell and the Lost Boys and Peter Pan?”

The Captain stiffens, and when he responds, his voice has turned cold and dangerous. “He doesn't usually call himself Peter. Finds it a bit too
human
for his tastes.”

I go still at the bitterness in his voice. At the absurdity of what he's saying. “Right,” I say. Because what else is there to say? Rubbing at my eyes, I will away the headache that's started to throb. “What's next?” I ask doubtfully. “Fairies?”

“Well”—he turns and leans his hip on the bulwark so he can face me—“they have been a large part of the mess you're finding yourself in.”

The sincerity of his tone makes me blink. He didn't miss a beat. He's either completely delusional or . . .

“I don't believe in fairies,” I say firmly, smiling defiantly as I remember the story. “There. One less of them for me to worry about.”

He shakes his head, but the ghost of a grin is teasing at his lips. “If it were as easy as that to kill the bastards, don't you think I'd have accomplished the task ages ago?” He fixes those dark eyes on me, and the grin falls away. “Besides, I'd think it would be difficult to refuse what your own eyes have seen.”

“I've already seen a fairy?” I can't stop myself from asking.

“Aye. You met the Dark Ones, did you not?”

My mother told me all sorts of wild things about the monsters she thought were chasing us, but nothing she ever said could have prepared me for the dark creatures that took me from London. Still, as I touch the bracelet at my wrist, I think about the iron nails and the runes she was so obsessed with, and I wonder. . . .

I hesitate before speaking again, and when I do, my words are slow, careful: “You expect me to believe those things that took me are fairies?”

“They're not exactly wee things, are they? But then again, they're not exactly fairies in the sense that most usually think of them.” His mouth turns down thoughtfully. “And I don't think they'd particularly enjoy being described as such.”

“Of course they wouldn't,” I murmur numbly.

His brows draw together, and his expression almost softens. “I understand, lass. After all, I grew up with all sorts of tales of the wee folk, but even they didn't prepare me for what I found in this world. Nothing about this world or the creatures that inhabit it is quite what the stories of our world would have us believe.”

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.

But I won't be dismissed just yet. Not until I've asked the one question that matters: “Are you going to kill me?”

His eyes are shadowed, but I can feel his gaze moving slowly down my body, taking in the too-large sweater, the cuffed legs of my pants, and then up again before he finally meets my eyes. “It's not I who will kill you, lass,” he says softly. “Neverland will do that well enough on its own.”

He steps back abruptly then and turns to face the sea. I'm surprisingly aware of the loss. His attention was like a flame, warming me, even as it threatened to burn. His dismissal makes the night feel that much colder, that much more dangerously empty.

“But in the story—”

“Were I you,” he says, turning back almost viciously, cutting off my words, “I'd not put my trust in stories. They tend to pass off lies as the truth and hide the truth in their lies.”

The two boys—William and the one with the tattooed face—are waiting a few feet from us now. They're here for me, but I'm not ready to be taken belowdecks again.

“And Peter Pan,” I whisper, a spark of hope flaring in my chest at the thought of a possible hero. “Is he a lie too?”