But the boy never had to know. If he dragged Blackbeard with him down to the depths, the secret would die there too. He’dwasted his chance to hook the foul man in his cabin, if he’d had one at all.
The door creaked open.
Perhaps his chance was closer than he thought.
Hook lay on the floor, waiting for a glimmer of lantern light, jeering laughter, the thump of boots, anything.
He imagined it. Just like he imagined Tink’s face. Already her spirit came back from Davy Jones’s locker to haunt him, just as it had in life. He saw her face in every shadow, heard the whisper of her voice in every sway of the ship. And each one sliced him open anew. She was dead because of him. To never see her again, never kiss her lips—
Someone struck a match.
Hook jolted upright as an oil lamp blazed to life. He shielded his eyes and blinked against the glare.
A young, beardless, redheaded Blackbeard stared at him through the iron bars—Peter. The boy’s nose wrinkled as he took in Hook where he sat on the floor.
“You look terrible.”
Hook groaned. Why’d the boy have to remind him of himself too? “Why are you here?”
“Tootles and Curly worried about you.”
Tootles and Curly. He barely stifled an eye roll. Two of the other kids, no doubt. No pirate would go by such a name. “Aye, and why’s that?”
Peter shrugged and shoved a flask through the bars. “Here.”
With a dubious glare, Hook slid forward and took the offered item. His mouth was dry. They’d barely given him any water or food, and he couldn’t die yet, not without his revenge.
“You know what happened to my crew?” If Peter did, he was just as heartless as Blackbeard, standing there all stern and stone-faced. He’d delivered his gift. Why linger?
“Left at an island,” he said, too quick to be anything but what he thought was the truth. “It’s what Tinker Bell said.”
Breath left him in a whoosh. Peter might as well have punched him in the chest. Something skittered and scraped in the shadows, causing Peter to jump and his lantern to swing. He barely noticed, didn’t care. It was probably a rat.
“Who?” he gasped.
“The pixie. Tinker Bell.”
He’d seen her fall. Heard the splash. Unless… “Describe her.”
“Wings. Blonde hair.” He looked away, a touch of color on his cheeks. “Pretty.”
“How’d she wear it? Her hair,” he asked urgently.
Peter glanced back at him, recovering his wits. “Like a ball behind her head.”
Hook’s shoulders dropped. His chest loosened. Relief and sorrow warred together within him. Lily. She was using Tink’s name. But why he couldn’t say. Did that bitch even know what happened to her cousin? After all she’d done, she probably didn’t care.
The rat, maybe more than one by the sound, knocked into something. Leave it to a cocksure fool like Blackbeard to let his ship get infested.
“Why’d they keep you?”
Hook unscrewed the top on the flask. The sweet, familiar caramel of good rum tickled his nose.
“Rum?” He raised a brow at the kid.
He shrugged again, looking back toward the sound. “It’s what the men were drinking before they passed out.”
Figures. He grunted. Still celebrating the end of theJolly Rogerand her crew. A wave of sickness washed over him that he hurriedly tried to block out. He should down the rum and pray it was strong enough for him to pass out. He squinted at theflask. It’d take more than this though. “Think you could get me a second?” he asked.
