“I feel like we’re in the fucking Middle Ages,” Holt says as we make our way to the fae palace. “No cars? No transportation at all? Neverlanders just walk everywhere on foot? Barbaric.”
Giselle has several folds of her dress in hand, lifting the hem out of the dirt as she walks on her heeled boots.
Beside me, Amara laughs at her brother and sister. “I quite like it,” she says. “Neverland is one of the last wild places in the Seven Isles. Don’t you think?” She turns to me and a lock of her blond hair escapes a pin and curls over her forehead. The late morning light warms my skin and rims her in gold.
“I think anything left to be what it was instead of trying to be something it isn’t should be commended.”
Clasping her hands behind her back, Amara nods. “I suppose I should respect that about Peter Pan and his Neverland.”
His Neverland.
I may be immortal, but even I am not as old as Peter Pan.
When I was just a child in the Darkland highlands, there were whispers even then of the man who might be a god.
Which begs the question—can he be killed? Can he die? Because if he can’t, dealing with him would require finesse and creativity.
Should we come to a crossroads where Peter Pan needs to be dealt with, that is.
The fae palace finally comes into view and Holt grumbles with relief. “Finally.”
“Whoa,” Amara says beneath her breath.
We stop together on the foot path to take in the sight.
The fae palace is one of the most idyllic places in the Isles. Several spires dot the landscape and the stone glitters like an alabaster seashell just beyond a large, arched gate.
I am aware that most people would label the fae palace as “straight out of a storybook” but I can’t help but be reminded of the myth of Hansel & Gretel and the witch’s house made of candy.
That which looks magical and inviting is not always a place you want to be invited to.
When we come to the gate, two fae guards are already waiting for us. Their wings are thick and glistening dark green like algae skimmed off the bottom of a swamp. The man has horns that curl over his forehead.
The woman wears a wide-eyed startled look meant for surprise funerals and planned orgies.
“The queen is expecting us.” Giselle’s smile is carved from impatience.
“State your name,” the man asks.
“State my name?” Giselle huffs.
“Honestly, sister,” Amara says, “would you let in just anyone at the Darkland palace?”
Holt sneers at me. “We let him in.”
“They let me into more than just the palace,” I say back.
“My name is Giselle Remaldi, Royal Queen of Darkland, Duchess of Noir. And as mentioned, the fae queen is expecting us.”
The guards look over our group. The cousins stayed on deck so it’s just Giselle, Holt, Amara and I. We’re all in Remaldi black.
“Weapons are to be surrendered at the gate,” the woman instructs with a wobble to her demands. “You can collect them again when you leave.”
“You must be joking,” Holt says.
“I don’t think the fae joke, Holt,” I tell him.
He scowls at me. It makes his eyes disappear, his nose turn up.
I wonder what face he would make if I cut off his fingers and jammed them up his ass.
I remove the dagger in my boot and the second one attached to my belt. Amara follows my lead and takes the sword from around her waist.
Giselle gives Holt a pointed look and he mutters a string of curse words before removing his own weapons.
When the guards are satisfied, a third man who had been waiting in the watch tower, takes flight from the top deck, presumably to announce our arrival. His wings are silent as they beat at the air.
There are no fae on Darkland. There never have been. So as the fae flies off, Giselle and Holt track his flight with barely restrained awe.
“When we get inside,” Holt says, “let me do the talking.”
Giselle snorts. “You are not the authority here.”
“You don’t know how to deal with other women. You get snippy.”
“I do not get snippy!”
“This is going to go swimmingly,” Amara says.
I dig a handful of peanuts out of the pocket of my trousers and crack one open. Amara laughs.
“Why do you always insist on carrying those around with you?”
“They help stave off my appetite.” I pop a peanut into my mouth and toss the shell.
“And which appetite would that be?” Her expression has turned devious.
“Temper your horniness, princess. Or it’s bound to get you in trouble.”
“I suspect the moment I met you, Roc, I was in trouble.”
I crack another nut. “You aren’t wrong.”
The large, arched doors at the entrance to the palace clank open.
I toss another shell, then return the peanuts to my pocket as the fae queen comes out to greet us.
She is clearly trying to rival Giselle for being the most ravishing royal in a dress that hugs her curves, but doesn’t take away from the beauty of her wings. Hers are a shimmering gossamer with a sensuous curve on the forewing, and a sharp turn on the hindwing.
Unlike Giselle, however, she’s chosen a necklace with a single emerald pendant.
I can’t help but think this was on purpose. As if to say she doesn’t need to glitter with jewels to prove her significance.
It’s always interesting to me to watch how women in places of authority portray themselves, especially when faced with opposition.
Women fascinate me. They are almost always underestimated, which makes them potentially some of the most lethal opponents.
Like walking up to a jungle cat thinking you’re going to give its head a gentle little pat and instead it bites off your whole goddamn arm.
That’s what women in power are like.
Usually.
Sometimes they’re just spoiled brats.
“Your Majesty,” Giselle says and gives the fae queen a shallow bow. “How good of you to invite us here and into your home.”
“I’m glad you could make it.” Her wings go still and her eyes find me behind the royals.
“Crocodile.” She takes a breath and her tits swell at the plunging neckline of her dress. “I’m so happy to see you.”
Holt’s upper lip curls.
“Likewise.”
She waits, hands clasped behind her back.
I know what she’s waiting for.
In current company, I’m the only non-royal here.
“Don’t just stand there,” Holt says. “Bow to the queen.”
The fae queen lifts an eyebrow.
I know they all think that this is some kind of degradation, the royals putting the peasant in his place. But I fall easily to my knees.
The fae queen is pleased with this, as if by bowing to her, I’ve relinquished something. People like the queen don’t realize that by giving them what they want, I take something in turn.
Pride is most everyone’s greatest weakness. That and fucking. I’ve watched grown men lose their minds over a hole.
I lose my mind over just two things: blood and unshelled peanuts.
Satisfied that I’ve done my duty of being obedient, the queen says, “Rise,” and then, “Come with me.”
The queen leads us to the throne room.
It’s domed and partially below ground. Vines are webbed over the ceiling where lanterns hang from wrought iron chains, the insides glowing with fae magic.
Neverland is vibrant with it. Even more so than when I visited the island last.
A servant—a brownie wearing leather boots and a hat with a brim that curls like an ocean wave, pours us wine into goblets and hands them off.
Holt sniffs his but doesn’t drink. He probably thinks its poisoned or hallucinogenic. I’ve heard the stories about faerie wine. Never stopped me from gorging myself on it.
I take a long drink to show the fae queen I half trust her. If she wants to poison me, I’m not sure why she would have gone to all this trouble of bringing me here. But if that is her plan, I guess I respect her for it.
“Your Majesty, Queen Tilly,” I say, “you promised me secrets. We’re all waiting with bated breath.”
“Yes, of course. But first I need to know that you’ll help me defeat Peter Pan.”
“Defeat him?” Giselle doesn’t bother to hide her incredulity.
“It can be done,” the fae queen argues.
“Debatable,” I say and circle the room.
“Peter Pan has no bearing on us,” Holt says. “Why would we make him an enemy?”
“Because Peter Pan will defend Vane to his last breath. Which means if you want your shadow back, you’ll have to deal with Pan in one way or another.”
Giselle and Holt turn dour. They knew this was a possibility. Even if Vane wasn’t loyal to Peter Pan, Pan would still have a hard time letting anyone come on his island and start taking power away from it.
I drain my glass and suddenly the brownie is there refilling me. I could get used to this.
“What do you propose?” Amara asks. She’s hovering by her sister’s side. She may be least likely to rule, but sometimes she does tend to cram her head up Giselle’s ass to get on her good side.
The fae queen sets her glass down and folds her hands in front of her. I notice she didn’t touch the wine.
Smart girl. Best to keep a clear head when dealing with a Crocodile.
“Peter Pan has two weaknesses,” the queen says. “Vane and his Darling.”
I come to a stop, a sudden chill crawling up my spine. “There’s a new Darling on the island?”
The fae queen regards me with a look that feels like a secret. “Wendy’s great-great granddaughter.”
I am not a man that lives in the past, but hearing Wendy’s name yanks me back anyway by years and years and years and makes me feel things I’d rather not feel.
She’s dead now. Mortals die quickly on mortal soil after all, but even dead, she lifts the hair along the nape of my neck as if she were a ghost in the room, exhaling on my skin.
If I am endlessly fascinated by women, I was in total awe of Wendy Darling.
She is the only person to ever beat me at a game of chess.
In the beginning, I fucked around with her because I knew Peter Pan wouldn’t.
But in the end, I realize she was fucking around with me because she could.
I wanted to hate her. Even more so when she denied me and told Peter Pan to take her back to her insufferable mortal land.
But eventually I came to respect her for the magic she wielded over me.
There are not many people I would allow to put a collar around my neck.
But Wendy Darling would have been an exception.
“So what do you propose?” Giselle asks. “Use the Darling in a hostage scenario?”
“Threaten Vane’s life?” Holt suggests.
The cool fingers of dread claw into my heart.
I had not intended for this island visit to get messy, but if Holt so much as lays a hand on my brother, I swear to fucking god, I will cut off his hand like I did Hook’s. But unlike Hook, I’ll make Holt eat his. One knuckle at a fucking time.
“You won’t be able to get near enough to Vane,” Tilly says and some of the anxiety eases out of my shoulders. “But the Darling…”
“What’s the name of this one?” I ask and keep circling the room.
“Winnie.”
“She anything like Wendy?”
The queen lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “She’s feisty. Smart, too, I suspect. She did help Peter Pan get his shadow back.”
“The fuck?” Holt says. “You could have fucking told us that before we came here.”
Tilly grits her teeth. I can hear her molars grinding together from clear across the room. She takes a breath and then says, “He only just now reclaimed it, which means if we are to strike against him, the only time to do so would be now, when he’s still remembering how to harness the magic.”
Giselle clucks her tongue. “Or we can forget about the Darling entirely and use our most potent weapon.” Her greedy gaze lands on me. “This is why you hailed for the Crocodile, is it not?”
I stop when I reach the dais where the throne sits in the center.
“Roc?” Giselle asks. “Let’s hear your contribution to the predicament.”
Without an invitation, I step up on the dais and go to the throne. It has a sunburst at its back with vines twinning around the rays. There are insects and squirrels and other woodland creatures cast around it with the arms curved over to look like talons.
When I go around to the backside, I spot a familiar maker’s mark stamped into the metal—wings with a circle in the center.
The Myth Makers.
There are several societies in the Seven Isles older than the cities and villages themselves.
The Myth Makers.
Death’s Hand.
The Ancient Order of Shadows.
And my favorite, and one I happen to belong to—The Bone Society.
I wonder if the fae queen knows her throne is likely imbued with the supposed dark magic wielded by the secret society.
I could tell her.
But I probably won’t.
“What is the secret?” I ask and come off the dais. “You promised me.”
The queen clasps her hands behind her back. “As you know, I can get inside most mortal minds without much effort at all and up until recently, Peter Pan tasked me with using my power to root around inside a Darling’s head to find the location of his shadow.”
“Yes, yes. This we know.” I pull a peanut out, crack it between my fingers. “Please do get on with it.”
The queen narrows her eyes at me. I suppose I’m pushing her authority with my tone. Sometimes I forget to pretend to be submissive.
“Getting inside the heads of the Darlings has borne fruit,” she says. “Secrets of Peter Pan’s.”
“Go on,” Giselle says.
I pop a peanut into my mouth.
Tilly’s wings shift from green to turquoise and I sense that what she’s about to reveal excites her more than it should.
This better be good or I’m eating the fae queen for wasting my fucking time.
Tilly sucks in a breath and says, “Peter Pan never returned Wendy to the mortal realm.”
I swallow bits of the peanut and look at the fae queen searching her face for a game.
And then the chess pieces start moving in my head.
“If Wendy was never returned, then how did the Darling line continue?”
The queen’s wings buzz back and forth. “That’s where it gets interesting.”
I dust off peanut shell from my hands. “Show me.”
“Excuse me?”
“If you can get inside a head, you can show me the memory. Don’t deny it.”
She clamps her mouth shut, ruby red lips thinning into a frustrated line.
I go to her. She backpedals.
“Show me.”
“I can’t—”
“You want this island, do you not? That’s why you called me here. You need my help. You want my help, you give me proof.”
I reach out for her hand. She tries to snatch hers back, but my fingers circle her wrist and drag her into me. “Show me, little girl.”
She huffs, furrows her brow. The fae live long lives. I’m not entirely sure how old Tilly is, but I guarantee she isn’t as old as me.
“Fine,” she says and then the throne room disappears and I’m suddenly Wendy and I’m being yanked out of Peter Pan’s grip.
“Don’t leave me,” Wendy screams. “Pan! Don’t…please…”
Peter Pan pulls a blade from his side and slits a guard’s throat. Blood geysers. He stabs another.
“Get him!” someone shouts.
Pan backpedals. I get further away, but my arm is outstretched and there’s panic beating at my breastbone.
“Get Roc!” she yells. “Please get Roc and come back for me!”
When I stumble out of the memory, there are tears in my eyes. They aren’t mine exactly. Or maybe they are.
I can still feel Wendy’s panic thumping in my chest.
He left her.
He fucking left her.
And he didn’t tell me even though she begged him to.
Unless…
I blink back to reality and search the queen’s face.
Can the queen make up fake memories? I suppose I couldn’t put it past her.
“Tell me how the Darling line continued.”
“Wendy told Peter Pan she’d already had a child,” Tilly explains. “So he didn’t think anything of leaving her.”
“I noticed.” The words come out through clenched teeth.
“Wendy was lying, of course. She told him she had a child because she had wanted to stay in the Isles with you.” Tilly taps at her chest. “I could feel her desire for that right here. A heaviness I still have a hard time shaking.”
“Then why did she deny me?” I challenge.
“Because of what you did to Hook.”
I tsk. “That was no business of hers.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“He deserved what he got.”
Tilly cants her head. “Did he?”
“Get on with it, queen. How did the line continue if Wendy never returned?”
“Because when Wendy Darling left Neverland, she was pregnant.”
I can hear all of the things the fae queen is not saying.
She left pregnant. She did not arrive pregnant. And what I am…it does not so easily procreate.
Which means…
Heat rises in my throat and for the first time in a long time, the shift threatens to overwhelm me outside of the seconds and the minutes and the hours.
Somehow, I keep it at bay.
I must amend my list. I will lose my mind over three things.
Blood and unshelled peanuts and revenge.
