I glance toward the dark waves and to the island. Peter is there, and I have to believe he’s okay. Even if Coy … No, I can’t go down that road right now. I can’t think about him or the kindness he showed me, because if I do, I’ll crumble. That’s exactly what I don’t need, especially when I’m about to meet the villainous Captain Hook.
Coy would want me to be tough, to hold onto hope and wait for Peter to find a way to come for me. A chill breeze blows off the ocean, reminding me that I’m still soaked, tired, and injured.
Smee taps his polished boot on the deck.
“I’m going.” I ease toward the door, my eyes straining as I try to see what’s inside. The closer I get, the higher my tension rises until I could swear my hair is standing on end. When I pass through and find the captain’s quarters uninhabited, I let out a sigh of relief. He’s not here. I’m safe. For now. I can take a second to regroup, to think of some way out of this. I’m okay.
Some of the tension in me unwinds until Smee closes the door behind me, and I hear the lock click into place.
ChapterThree
With ironical politeness Hook raised his hat to her, and offering her his arm, escorted her to the spot where the others were being gagged.
Two lanterns swing gently back and forth on either side of the room, casting light on a table with chairs, a wall plastered with maps, and a bed half-shrouded by a crimson curtain. A small closet stands along the left wall, and the back of the room is a row of windows looking out on the dark sea beyond. The iron chandelier overhead swings gently with the rocking of the ship, its candles in various stages of drip though none are currently lit.
I grip the door handle behind me and try to turn it, just to see. It’s locked tight. I’m not getting out of this room, but at least Hook isn’t in here … Unless he’s hiding in the closet.
Skirting around the bed, I walk right to the small wooden door and yank it open. Inside are a few coats, shirts, and pants. No feather plume. No spare hook attachment for his hand or anything. Maybe he only has the one.
I close the door and turn to look at the maps on the wall. They’re spread over each other, layers and layers of directions and cursive place names. It’s as if it has its own topography, not reflective of the flat sea depicted in each of the wide drawings. Only, the maps don’t make sense, not all of them, at least. There are some places I recognize—bits of Spain and a particularly detailed rendering of Crete and the surrounding waters. But there are others that make my mouth drop open. A map showing the famed city of Atlantis with a note scrawled along the edge ‘Whirlpool, keep left.’ Another map purports to show the Bermuda Triangle, but there’s no way it’s correct, because this map has at least a hundred islands, all of them in a pinwheel pattern that seem to swirl around a central vortex, one shaped like a … triangle.
I step back and rub my eyes. This is nonsense, all of it. But at the very center of the wall is a map of Neverland, which I know for a fact is very muchnotnonsense. I’m here, after all.
I back up a few steps to take in the entire wall, the parchment curled around the edges and those scrawled notes here, there, everywhere. Captain Hook has spent plenty of time studying this world and many more. He’s been everywhere. So why is he so hellbent on taking over Neverland?
I peer at the Neverland map, the Nevertree in the center reaching out over the island like a golden umbrella. It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. None of this does. Whatdoesmatter is me finding a way to defend myself from the sea captain.
The wall doesn’t offer anything I can use, so I turn to the table. It’s bare, but it has a single drawer. I yank that open. A couple of fountain pens and a roll of parchment later, I still have nothing to fight off Hook. Still, I grab one of the pens and hold onto it.
After another once-over of the room, I find nothing else of use. When I go back to the little closet, I dig around in the top and pull down a simple white shirt, much like the one my pirate was wearing. I give it a test sniff. It actually smells … clean. I sniff it again. Like sea spray and pine tar. Not what I assumed at all. I figured there’d be blood stains and stink on anything worn by Captain Hook.
Now I have a dilemma. Am I bold enough to change out of my wet tunic and wear one of Hook’s shirts while it dries? I don’t need it to survive, but damn, my wet clothes are cold, and I’m probably in the last moments of my life. Why shouldn’t I be comfortable?
That settles it. I glance at the door, then turn my back and quickly strip from the soggy Lost Boys tunic. Sliding the clean shirt over my head, that nice scent envelops me, and I inhale. At least the monster takes care of his laundry. The shirt feels clean and soft—far nicer than the rough clothes favored by the Lost Boys. The fabric swims around me, but it’s warm, and it will do until my tunic dries.
Once I’ve laid the tunic out on the table, I look down at my thin pants. Nope. There’s no way I’m taking those off even though they’re still damp.
I tuck my stolen pen into one of my billowy sleeves and creep toward the door. Pressing my ear to it, I listen for voices over the creaking of the ship and the rustling of the sails.
“—somewhere over on the Cay.” Smee, the accountant, is speaking to someone.
“I don’t mind the Cay. Plenty of entertainment there.” I recognize the posh accent of Starkey. “Widow, too.”
“I’m not interested in theentertainment, thank you very much,” Smee replies haughtily.
“One of these days you’ll find a woman to turn even your pointy head.” Cecco, the Italian from the beach, joins in. “Ass like a ripe tomato. Tits with nipples pointed to the moon. Ah, such a woman.”
Someone clears his throat loudly—I can only assume it’s Smee. For a crew of murderers and monsters, they seem to have a decent camaraderie among them. Maybe working under such a horrible captain has forced them to bond.
Smee clears his throat again. “That’ll be all. You can go below. I believe Cookson’s finished preparing supper.”
“I’d like to speak to the girl.” Starkey’s voice moves closer. “Only for a moment. Take her temperature, you know. It was rather hard to tell how badly she fancied me in the rowboat, but if I could speak to her privately, I could—”
“You could have your guts ripped out by the captain,” Smee retorts.
The other men laugh.
“She’s our boon. Err, I mean ourguest. Until such time as the captain has need of her to do what must be done, she is to be treated with respect from asafedistance.” Smee’s sanctimonious tone is almost amusing, but then I stand up straight when I realize what he just said.
