He had been a fool. Love had made him a fool.

  James knew better than anyone of the hazard of having Peter running loose in Neverland. By the time James realized how long Peter had gone unchecked, he had already amassed more than a dozen boys and had set up pixie traps that secured him pixies at a terrifying rate. The new information sent James into a deteriorating health spiral that left him refusing to sleep as he frantically tried to correct his months of laxity while trying to hide the emerging side effects from Tinkerbell.

  Now, he and Tink had less time together than ever before as Tinkerbell spent greater amounts of time spying on the Lost Boys, trying to determine their future plans.

  Peter had gotten wiser and must have known that a pixie had infiltrated their hideouts and passed information to James. Now, the Lost Boys plugged up even the tiniest of holes in and out of their hideouts, and Tinkerbell was often exposed to the elements as she stubbornly kept watch from outside. Consequently, the amount and quality of her inside information had dwindled significantly.

  James swore and aimed a ferocious kick at the winged armchair, earning him a throbbing toe and a disapproving frown from Tinkerbell. No matter how hard he fought, Peter always seemed to be one step ahead.

  “How does he do it?” James shouted, pounding his hook onto the desk. The metal tip embedded into the mahogany surface, and James wrenched it free. Splinters tore out as a chunk of the desk clung to James’s hook. “How can he sway these children away from their homes so easily?”

  “That isn’t all.”

  There was more? James’s eyebrows nearly met as his brow knitted, and his entire body vibrated from the compounding stress. “What else?”

  “He…he has…I can tell he has something planned; I just don’t know what.”

  Curse Peter and his infernal ability to achieve all his twisted, convoluted goals, as well as his ability to evade capture. No matter what James tried, the last year had been nothing but a rapid succession of failures, meaning that the boys Peter had captured in the last year of Neverland time could easily have lost ten to twenty years of their lives.

  Several more oaths spilled from James’s mouth as he tore at his hair. “I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.”

  Tinkerbell’s frown deepened. “Don’t say that. You aren’t a murderer like he is.”

  How fervently James wished that to be true. But the longer this battle raged on, the more James regretted his hesitation to kill Peter when the opportunity had presented itself. Then, Neverland would be free of Peter Pan, even if he had to carry the burden of killing a child with him for the rest of his life. At what point was murder justified—when it saved fifty lives? Three hundred? One? How could he ever quantify the value of a soul?

  His delay in answering angered Tink. “You aren’t a murderer, James Hook.” Her wings beat the air as she was lifted out of the hammock, hovering in front of James.

  “You know I am.” The words were whispered so quietly that James wasn’t sure Tink had heard them. “I’m just like Peter Pan.”

  Pleading crept into Tink’s tone. “But you’ve changed, James.”

  James slowly shook his head. Tink had far more faith in him than he deserved, and certainly more than he had in himself. Slowly, he tried to pull oxygen into his fatigued body. No matter how many breaths he took, it never seemed to adequately fill his lungs or reach his brain. Determined to keep this information from Tinkerbell, who would just worry about his health again, he asked, “Do you have any idea what sort of plan he might be working on?”

  “No. He’s been collecting a lot of bottles; that’s all I know. He’s been bringing them back every time he returns with a new boy.”

  Bottles…what would Peter want with bottles? “What sort are they? He wouldn’t put pixies in the bottles, would he? They would suffocate.”

  Tinkerbell scrunched up her face, trying to remember. “They usually aren’t big enough bottles for a pixie, anyway. When I’ve seen him, sometimes the bottles are empty and sometimes they’re filled with a green liquid. Maybe bottle isn’t the right words. They are more like small vials, the sort he used when—” Tinkerbell’s face went ashen.

  James and Tink stared at each other as the weight of her observation sank in. If Jimmy used a green liquid to paint the cages that trapped the pixies, and was amassing a huge collection, possibly large enough to imprison hundreds of pixies at once…

  “You can’t go back there again, Tink.” The horror of what Tinkerbell had confided in him still haunted his dreams. No inside information they may lose out on was worth putting Tinkerbell’s safety in jeopardy.

  “If I don’t go back, we won’t have any way of knowing what Peter is planning.”

  “I don’t care about that. I only care about you!”

  Tink’s face turned red. “I know you wouldn’t give up on everyone Peter is holding hostage, James!”

  “If it comes at the cost of your safety, yes, I would. If you go back, you might never return.” To emphasize his point, James shut the bay window that Tinkerbell used as a door.

  Her shade of red deepened. Even though her human size was far shorter than James, she seemed to fill the whole cabin with her anger. “You can’t lock me up! Are you trying to be like Peter?” Tinkerbell shouted.

  Her words stabbed through James’s heart like a knife. For several long moments, they stared at each other. Tinkerbell’s red flush faded as she turned pale and held her hands up to her mouth. “I…I’m sorry, James. I didn’t mean that.”

  “Yes, you did. And you’re right.” James collapsed into his armchair and tried to mask his shaking hand from Tinkerbell. How long would Tinkerbell stay around if she felt like he was becoming the monster they were fighting against? How long before his health broke under the burdens of boys who didn’t want to be saved, a crew who were hungry for success, and a woman he loved, who may decide she didn’t return his feelings?

  James pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to focus on inhaling slowly. In a vain attempt to hide his shaking hand and ragged breathing from Tink, he tapped his hook against the desk in front of him, beating out a tuneless rhythm that matched the rocking of the ship’s deck beneath his boots.

  The harder he fought against Peter Pan, the less he slept, the less time he spent with Tinkerbell, and the quicker his health declined. Anytime he relaxed his efforts, as he had for the first months after returning all the Lost Boys to London last time, Pan’s kidnapping increased sixfold. Tinkerbell deserved more than a pirate who couldn’t give her the attention she warranted. She was in love with the idea of a man stopping Peter Pan, James was sure. But with his recent track record of failures…how could any woman love that? How could a beautiful, driven woman like Tinkerbell ever be happy settling down with a failure who barely ate or slept anymore? She wanted someone who could save her fellow pixies, and he just happened to fit the bill.

  And yet…selfishly, James didn’t care about her reasons for staying with him. Her presence had always been a source of strength and comfort for him. If he lost that, either by Tink leaving him or being gravely injured as she gathered information for him…he knew he would never recover. With each passing day, he fell more in love with her—with her fiery spunk and the way that the intensity of her convictions rivaled his own. He couldn’t imagine life without her, and yet…the possibility of a future with her seemed so far out of reach. His obsessive behavior was the only thing that kept Peter from amassing a veritable army of boys, but it was also the thing that prevented him from spending the time with Tinkerbell that she needed and deserved. But if she had fallen in love with his convictions and purpose…Everything swirled around in James’s head like a hurricane. Nothing was simple anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” Tinkerbell repeated softly. “I really didn’t mean that. I know you aren’t like him.”

  Her soft hands began massaging the knots in James’s neck and shoulders, and he closed his eyes to fully appreciate the sensation of Tink touching him. He needed her more than he could ever say.

  Finally, he turned and buried his face into her side, wrapping his arms around her waist and breathing in her sweet scent. “I can’t lose you, Tink. I can bear anything but that. It would break me.”

  Tinkerbell ran her slender fingers through James’s hair. “I don’t know why you keep thinking I’m going to vanish one day. I’ve always been here for you, and I always will be. But like it or not, if we have any chance of finding out what Peter has planned, we need someone to keep an eye on him.”

  “I’ll go instead,” James offered.

  Tinkerbell let out a soft exhale through her nose, fingers still ruffling his hair. “James, don’t take this the wrong way, but you are much more conspicuous than I am. I’ve never been caught before.”

  “I don’t want that option to even be a possibility. Please, Tink.”

  She huffed, “What am I supposed to do, wait here like some damsel in distress?”

  “Stay here on the ship and go with the crew. Sail the perimeter of the island to make the Lost Boys think that we are moving positions. I’ll take a rowboat to shore and scout around.”

  “A lot of things could go wrong with that plan,” Tink said hesitantly.

  “But you would stay safe.”

  “I am plenty capable myself.”

  “I know, but…please, Tink. For me.”

  Tinkerbell stayed silent for a long time before she finally said, “I worry that you are pushing yourself too hard, James. Don’t kill yourself trying to prove anything to me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You have to sleep a full night before you try, too. I saw your hand shaking.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Peter Pan already stole your hand and your childhood, James. Don’t let him steal your health and future too.” She slipped her arms around his shoulders and pressed her lips against the side of his neck. “If this is what you really want, we can try it your way. Be safe out there, and good luck.”

  James had none of the luck wished upon him.

  Almost as soon as the Hope of London faded from sight as it turned around Skull Rock, a commotion appeared from out of the trees. Peter Pan had not been tricked in the slightest by the ship’s departure. The slim hope that James’s tiny lifeboat bobbing on the waves would not be spotted from so great a distance was dashed as Pan and a gang of his followers—all sprinkled with pixie dust and floating well above the crashing of the waves—made a beeline for James. How much dust did Peter have if he was willing to squander it so easily?

  “Your ship seems to have shrunk, captain,” Pan mocked. “Did you really think I would fall for that blatantly obvious ploy you just tried to pull?”

  James used his oar to splash water droplets up as high as he could, but Pan and the Lost Boys swerved around them, laughing at his fruitless efforts.

  “So pathetic,” Peter continued. “Now, you’re all alone in the middle of the ocean, far away from land and with none of your little pirate crew to protect you. No pixie either, it looks like.” He let out a soft snicker. “What shall we do with such an opportunity?”

  The red-headed boy glanced around at his comrades, a malicious smile curling his lip. “Now, boys, let this be a lesson in warfare for you. Never pass up an opportunity to strike.”

  James’s heart plummeted as Peter’s face split into an evil grin. “Collect some ammunition, lads. We have some target practice to do!”

  Within minutes, the Lost Boys had flown back to the beach and collected rocks of all shapes and sizes, then returned to drop them on James and his boat. James threw his arms over his head to protect himself, but the raining stones bruised his body badly. He watched in horror as his boat began to splinter all around him, then cast a frantic eye at the distant shore, which suddenly seemed much too far away. His cutlass was no use at this distance. Why had he ever thought that his crew dropping him off alone in the middle of the ocean was a good idea? He was a fool.

  Another rock collided painfully with his shoulder. Anytime he could, James would use the oars to splash more water at the boys, hoping that if the pixie dust washed off, they would fall. He hit several of the boys, and once hit, they would drop a little, then retreat to the safety of the land until only Peter Pan remained. Twice, when a palm-sized stone landed in the boat next to him, James snatched it up and threw it as hard as he could at Peter.

  The younger boy laughed each time, dodged the stone on its flight up, caught it on its return to the ocean, and directed it back at James. Rocks continued to pile up on the floor of the boat, causing it to sink lower in the water, slowly at first, but as more wood splintered and cracked, water began to pour in. Finally, the pirate captain had no choice but to abandon his vessel, and Peter, crowing in triumph, flew back to land, shouting taunts as he did so.

  Cold seawater constricted James’s chest as he plunged into the water, pulling the heat from his body faster than he would have expected for a warm summer afternoon. James struggled to the surface and inhaled deeply as he broke into the fresh air. The shore suddenly looked much farther away, and the distant jeering calls of his former best friend rained like additional physical blows to his body. He struck out for land, kicking rapidly as he propelled himself toward the faraway waving palm trees.

  Each swell of the ocean felt like it was pushing him back out to sea, and the weight of his clothes and weapons was pulling him under as if determined to drown him. James kept pushing through, wishing he at least had his left hand where the iron hook dragged his arm down, forcing him to dig deeper than ever before.

  At least it isn’t storming like it was when Tink washed overboard, he thought ruefully. There was no crocodile this time, either. Every time James looked up for a deep breath of air, the shore never seemed closer. A pox upon tide changes. James rolled over to float as he caught his breath, but waves constantly crashed over him and filled his mouth and nose with stinging saltwater.

  The only measures of time James had to go by were his number of strokes and the sun’s position in the sky. One thousand strokes. James glanced up at the sky, mentally calculating the time of day as he tried to ignore the pain shooting through his limbs.

  Two thousand strokes. Every fiber of his body was screaming in agony from the physical exertion coupled with the blue and purple bruises blossoming all over his skin. As much as he wanted to keep them, he kicked off his boots and unbuckled his sword, letting them spiral to the ocean floor far below him. They would be of no use to him if he drowned. With fresh resolve, he continued to swim, hand over hook.

  Three thousand, four thousand, five thousand strokes. James couldn’t feel his body anymore. The cold ocean water, coupled with the numbness of his muscles, formed a deadened sensation that spread through his entire body. As the afternoon faded, the land finally looked closer. He could make it. Just a little longer.

  When he finally neared the banks, it became more a question of his ability to fight through the seaweed and avoid stepping on the sharp coral than swimming, but at last, as dusk fell, he felt solid ground beneath his feet.

  James dragged his body across the sand. He never wanted to swim again. He collapsed onto all fours in the sand and rolled onto his back. Within moments, James surrendered to his fatigue as tendrils of sleep curled around his mind, pulling him under until he had submerged entirely.

  CHAPTER 24

  The faint sound of laughter coupled with an unearthly shriek woke James. He cracked his sunburned eyes open and squinted at his surroundings, his brain slowly processing that he must have slept all night and well past noon the following day. He groaned as the pain in his body wailed its presence. At least Tink got her wish of him sleeping more. James lifted his left arm to block the sunshine stabbing at his eyes, and the curved leather cuff that housed his hook thudded against his forehead.

  At first, he only saw the waving palm fronds of trees above his head, with the sun’s rays streaming through, but a flurry of movement down the beach quickly caught his eye. Where the water lapped against the sand, a knot of boys were dragging a creature from the surf. Though every inch of his body ached, his clothes were stiff with salt, and his skin was chafed from sand, he found the inner motivation to struggle to his feet. The Lost Boys were attacking a mermaid.

  The hot sand burned his bare feet as he staggered towards the small group, all too engrossed in their activity to pay any attention to the lone pirate approaching. Every step cost James dearly. He could feel the sharp, broken seashells cutting into his burned feet, but when he saw a familiar-looking boy pull out a knife, he sped up, desperate to reach them before they did any harm to the creature.

  “Stop!” he roared, his voice catching in his throat.

  Miraculously, the boys heard him and paused. The whole group looked up. Two boys held each of the mermaid’s arms while three others held tight to its tail, still beating ferociously. The leader of the bunch was none other than Peter Pan himself, who held the knife. He crowed in delight when he saw James and lowered the knife. James saw a glass bottle in Peter’s other hand, filled with the green fluid Tinkerbell had mentioned, then dropped his eyes to the mermaid’s wrists, which were dripping that same jade color. He was collecting mermaid blood.

  “Captain Hook! What a surprise seeing you again so soon. We thought you’d be swimming with the codfish.”

  The mermaid, with panic written all over her face, struggled against the boys’ grasp and looked up at James with pleading eyes. James ignored the scalding sand on his cut and blistered feet and advanced several more paces. “Let her go,” he called, slowly stepping toward the group and refusing to wince at the pain flaring through his feet and over every inch of his tight, sunburned skin.

  Peter Pan held up a hand to his followers and approached his former best friend. “Or what?” he challenged. “Going to take me on all by yourself? No chance of these fellows turning on me, Jimmy Boy.”

 

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