“So it’s about me?”
“It’s about Neverland.” He puts his hand to my forehead, likely out of habit. “But you’re part of Neverland now that Peter’s claimed you as his boon.”
“What does that mean?”
He pulls back, his eyes widening. “Oh, nothing.”
“Huran, please. I’ve been here for days. I’m losing my mind, worried Hook will come and kill me or worse, and—”
“You’re safe.” He rises. “And James isn’t going to kill you.”
I see I can’t convince him. He’s bought into whatever lies Hook’s been selling him about his intentions for me. This is going nowhere.
I lie back and pretend to let it go. “At least tell me what time the meeting is?”
He glances at the moon. “I’ve got an hour or so.” He hurries to the door. “I need to check with Widow. She said she wanted to try to make soufflés, and I have no idea if she can pull it off.” He pauses in the hallway and turns to me. “After the meeting, we’ll talk, all right? I know you have questions. Once Blackbeard decides our safest course of action, I’ll be able to tell you more. Okay?”
I force myself to smile. “Okay.”
He nods and closes the door. Huran’s kind. He’s also an amazing healer. But he’s not too clever when it comes to subterfuge.
I throw off my blanket and get to my feet, then limp to the window. Sally only fluffs her feathers a bit as I stand next to her.
The beach curves away from us, palm trees waving in the breeze, dancing under the starlight. Leaning out the window, I peer along the left side of the house and out toward the pier that juts into the sea. Across the water and beyond the breakers, great ships are anchored and shrouded in mist. I count only three, but I know there are likely more buried in the swirling fog that hovers over the ocean.
Raucous voices pull my attention back to the pier where a rowboat has pulled up onto the beach. A pirate with an almost comically large hat steps into the sand, followed by two others.
“Don’t forget what I told you. Stick to the plan. Bloody hell! Look at this fucking place, lads. Gussied up like a fresh whore. Goddamn Blackbeard reminds me of my grammy, only with more lace and less mustache.” He laughs, the others joining in as he climbs up the beach and disappears under the palm trees.
“He sounds nasty.” I exchange a look with Sally. “But his boat looks promising.” Getting back on the water isn’t something I have any desire to do, but there’s no other way to return to Neverland. As long as I stayinthe boat, it should be okay. That’s what I have to tell myself even as my stomach churns at the thought of rowing through the pearly fog that separates the cay from Neverland. I can still see Hook’s map in my mind, the cay marked in his slanting black ink.
“I don’t know if I can do it, though.” I sigh. “I’m still not 100 percent, you know? Then again, if I stay here, it’s only a matter of time before Hook comes for me.”
Sally ignores me.
Which leads me down another familiar rabbit hole—why isPeterignoring me? Why hasn’t he flown here and taken me back to the cave? When he found Coy … My thoughts stray back to that night, but I shut them off again. I can’t function if I think about Coy.
I reach out and stroke Sally’s back feathers. “Anyway, I’m curious to see what this pirate party is all about.”
“Never you mind that, lass.”
I whirl, losing my balance when I try to put my weight on my bad leg.
Hook catches me, his hands on my upper arms as he sets me back on my feet.
I back away and startle Sally off the windowsill as my back hits the shutter beside it.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” He looks down at me, his gaze on mine.
Now that I know he’s Hook, I look at him with different eyes. No longer a handsome pirate who takes orders from a power-hungry tyrant—heisthe tyrant. A clean-shaven one today. In fact, he looks … Well, I think if I didn’t know who he was, I’d find him handsome in a fierce, sharp sort of way. Dark hair, tan skin, blue eyes. He’s tall and strong, his body well muscled and his gaze sharp. An aristocratic nose with high cheekbones, and a scar along one cheek that ends at his square jaw. His age is a mystery, but if I had to guess, I’d say early thirties. No longer a boy—or a fuckboy for that matter—he’s all man. White shirt open to his lean stomach and black pants with leather boots, he’s dressed the same as always, but his shirt seems to be pressed and his boots have a shine to them instead of bog mud.
Hook is nothing like the dandy Wendy described, and he hasbothhis hands. No wonder I didn’t recognize him.
“Is there at least a crocodile with a clock in its gut?” I blurt.
He cocks his head to the side. “Pardon?”
I throw my hands up. “Lies.” That was one of my favorite parts of her tale. Ofcourseit was bullshit.
