Never, Never (14 page)

“James?” she asked, and his heart jumped at the movement of her lips against his chest.

“Hmmm?”

“Why did you never battle with me? Or swim or play? All that time, I sometimes wondered if you hated me.”

James's breath hitched, and he ran his fingers over her arms, then back over the goose bumps he was quite certain he'd put there. “I don't know that I can answer that for you. Or that I should.”

She shifted, then, and mumbled something into his shirt.

“I'm sorry?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I only said I'd never been kissed before.”

James moved back, and Tiger Lily sat up.

“Never? Not even by one of your droves of suitors?”

She hit him in the arm. “No, not even by one of them.”

They were both quiet for a minute, each very obviously looking away from the other's face. He slid his fingers over to thread them between hers, over her knuckles on the ground. Then, James looked straight at her and said, in a low voice, “Do you wish to be?”

Tiger Lily's mouth fell open, and she blushed. James held his breath and wondered if he'd been too bold. Perhaps he had. Fool. What was he doing chasing Peter's girl, anyway? He was a dolt, clearly.

“Tiger Lily!” a baritone voice echoed in the clearing.

Tiger Lily leapt up. “Put that fire out. It's my father. I've got to go.”

James tightened his grip on her hand. “Don't go.”

“I have to, James. What are you doing? Put it out.”

He pursed his lips and dropped her hand, then grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it on the barely flickering fire,
though it was really more embers than anything at this point.

“Can you find your way back?” she whispered.

“I'm not an idiot. Of course I can.”

She turned to leave, then looked back at him. “Are you still sticking to that ‘plundering my village' story?”

“Absolutely.”

She pinched her chin between her thumb and forefinger and considered him, then smiled mischievously. “Well, then, as Princess, it's my solemn duty to stop you.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

She grinned. “I suppose I shall have to sneak aboard your ship in the night and kill you. There's no other way.”

James stared at her. “Well, then, I shall be waiting for you.”

And Tiger Lily disappeared into the dark.

T
HE SMOKE DISSIPATED INTO THIN RIBBONS THAT
slithered up into the air, little bits clinging to

James's clothes and skin. The smell was almost enough to overcome the faint aroma that Tiger Lily had left behind on his shirt, but not quite. For that, he was glad.

A tiny light bounced and bobbed beside him, and he smiled at the sounds of tinkling bells as the fairy passed him. Soon, more followed, and he found that the vague irritation he usually harbored toward the fairies wasn't there tonight. They hated him, generally, because Peter hated him, and more often than not, when they saw him, they would take turns doing frustrating little things like pinching him or kicking him or biting him before fluttering off. But, for whatever reason, they let him be tonight, and he was able to simply enjoy the music of their laughter and the beauty of their glow as they flew and swirled and darted and bobbed about, looking an awful lot like the stars overhead.

He allowed himself to watch the little parade for a few moments, then turned to head out of the clearing. But just as he was a step from the edge, he heard a voice. A voice he was loath to hear at this moment, or at any moment.

“Oh, the cleverness of me!” it shouted.

The blood in James's veins turned to ice. No matter how many times he faced the boy, the thought of him would always make him go cold. He shrunk back behind a tree, fingering his sword, holding his breath, waiting for Peter to pass by. But, he did not appear until after the fairies had left. And then came the boy, prancing into the clearing, hopping and flying and tiptoeing in turn, a single fairy fluttering beside him.

James shrunk closer to the tree that was camouflaging him, suddenly conflicted. A piece of him, inexplicably, found the boy endearing and wanted to smile and to ask him what it was that had him so merry. But, the other part of him was filled with a molten hate. The fury was so consuming he could nearly taste it. It overtook the better-natured part of him, and finally, all he could feel was rage. Rage and a desire for blood. Before he knew it, he was creeping out from behind his tree. And there was Peter, laughing and prancing and unsuspecting.

James drew his sword to his waist and clenched his fingers tightly around it, every muscle in his body shaking with anticipation and terror and the feeling of being wound as tightly as a muscle could be. He took a step forward and a leaf crunched beneath his foot. He froze. Peter dropped immediately to the ground and cocked his head in James's direction. James tried not to breathe.

After a tense minute, Peter returned to his bouncing and bobbing, and James crept out again from his hiding spot, trying to channel Tiger Lily's ghostly quiet. He followed Peter silently until the boy was almost at the edge of the clearing. Before Peter made his way into the wood, James leapt out and charged into him, knocking him into the dirt.

The breath fled Peter's body, citrus flavor flaring into the air, and James drove his shoulder into his back. Peter flung his small body weight back up against James and
wriggled out from under him. James tumbled backward, leaves and sticks cracking beneath him. But, everything in him needed Peter's blood. So, with impossible quickness, James leapt back up and forced his head into Peter's stomach. The boy cried out, and James only pushed harder. He barely had to exert force, he found. Peter was so much smaller than he, so much skinnier now. So a breath of extra energy sent Peter tumbling through the air. Peter frantically grabbed at James's long hair as he flew, yanking at it, bringing tears to James's eyes.

James called out in a mixture of fury and pain and threw his arm around Peter's little waist. The boy was light as a fairy. He mustered all the strength in himself and jerked backward, a snap coming from somewhere on Peter he couldn't pinpoint. Peter yelled and once again took a handful of James's hair and flew back, then looked, shocked, at James. There was utter confusion in his eyes as James reached out and grabbed his neck with one hand and his sword with the other. Allowing cold wrath to decide every move for him, he tightened his grip on Peter's neck, fingers almost able to touch in a perfect circle.

He wanted to crush it, wanted, with everything in him, to see Peter writhing on the ground, gasping for breath, and then lying dead still. But somehow he was unable to. Instead, when his mind commanded him to squeeze, he threw the boy down onto the ground. Peter landed with a thud and a strangled string of grunts. Then, James brought out his sword, pupils darkening and growing as the moonlight glistened off the steel. He dropped to the ground, knees on either side of Peter's chest. Peter just gaped up at him, that horrible confusion and denial staring at James, threatening to evoke pity in him. It would not work; it would not, he swore to himself. His heart pounded furiously, his skin flashing hot, heart
warring with his mind over what he wished to feel versus what he actually, truly, in the darkest depths of him,
did
.

As his adrenaline wore slightly down, he began to notice little fairies biting at him and pinching at him. He shook his head, grit his teeth, trying his best to ignore them altogether.

James dragged the tip of his sword to Peter's throat, almost feeling the boy's pulse beat against the blade's edge. The sword shook violently with James. And he let out a cry of pure anguish. It was a sob and a growl and a scream all rolled into one. He was still trembling everywhere as he bellowed, “You took everything from me!”

Peter blinked and stared up at him, wondering, perplexed. Then, he frowned. “James Hook?”

“Yes, Pan. James Hook.”

“You promised to kill me once,” said Peter.

So,
that
he remembered.

Peter looked suddenly, terribly afraid, and the air tasted abruptly of coal and ash. His lower lip began to tremble, and he started to thrash beneath James's greater weight. Pieces of him threatened to float up from the earth, but James was older and much larger and forced him to remain on the ground.

“I will kill you, Pan. I've no choice.”

The fairies strengthened their assault, and James could feel little bubbles of blood popping up on his arms, his neck, his thighs.

The blade pressed a little further into Pan's throat. Pan swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing against the metal.

The trees shriveled into themselves, and the sticks on the ground clawed at James's legs.

“Strike, then,” Pan said. “Kill me now, and put an end to this adventure. I do not like it anyhow.”

The look on his face tore into James's heart. It was the confusion that hurt him so. That, and the profound
misunderstanding Pan had regarding death, as though it was nothing, temporary. Hate him though he might, James knew that he was readying himself to kill a child. A child who deserved nothing less than death, but a child nonetheless. Like Peter had killed the child in him so long ago.

That, in truth, was all Peter was—a wicked, selfish boy who thrived on play and imagination and youth and understood nothing of the real world. James's arm shook more and more violently, as did the blade, and he felt a helplessness welling up in him. Though everything in his heart told him to gut the boy and be done with it, he could not. He could not kill Peter Pan.

With his free hand, he reached up and felt the scar on his neck and moved the sword a bit lower. Without letting himself think much on it, he drove the sword's edge past Pan's flesh and flicked, drawing blood and leaving a line across Peter's collarbone that was dripping with blood.

Peter screamed out and arched his back. Then, all the coldness was back in James, and he clapped a hand over Pan's mouth and came close to his face, close enough that he could feel the moisture from the cold sweat on Peter's cheek.

He leaned down until his breath was brushing Peter's ear, and whispered, “I could kill you now, Peter Pan. I could kill you now and not a soul would hear you. You stole my life from me. I could do it.”

He pulled back and looked away, into the night sky. Then, back at Peter's wide eyes. And then, more to himself than anyone, “But I won't. I am no brute. I will spare you.”

He leaned back, weight off the boy, and Peter scrambled to get up, shooting into the air in a cloud of sticks and leaves and dust. He touched his collarbone and brought his hand away. Bright blood stuck to his fingers.

He looked at James, fear and anger darkening his features. “You cut me.”

“I could have killed you,” James spat.

Peter smirked. “You didn't. No one wishes to kill the Pan.”

“I do,” James said, mercy gone again, filled with trembling, pulsating hate.

“Well then, why didn't you? Are you a coward? Yes? None can kill me!”

And Peter spiraled into the air, fairies spiraling below him, and crowed, as though this was a victory for him somehow. James clenched his hand into a fist. He wished he
had
killed him, then. When Peter came back down, he flitted behind and in front of and beside James.

“The pirate captain cannot kill Peter Pan, can he? He couldn't if he tried.”

When he came too close, James reached out and grabbed his collar. He drew Peter so close that he could feel the child's breathing on his face.

“I could have easily gutted you tonight, boy. If I'd cut you a centimeter higher, you'd be bleeding out on the leaves.”

Peter started to laugh, and that black anger fell again over James. He drew the arm that was not holding Peter across his body and released it like a spring, slamming it into Peter's face, knocking him to the ground in a black cloud of dirt. When Peter floated back up, his features were darkened with rage, fists trembling at his side. Salted licorice flooded in around James's tongue.

“Do not touch me again, pirate,” he hissed.

James said nothing.

Peter floated higher into the air. “You will regret this night, James Hook. Mark my words.” And he sprung off the air and flew away over the treetops.

James stood there in the clearing, shaking for a while. He dropped his sword, feeling the fullness of the cold in his bone marrow. The darkness curled around him like a blanket, willing him to stay a while, whispering things to him that were at once comforting and terrible. When he could stand no longer, he covered his face with his hands. Then, he dropped to his knees in the dirt and wept.

T
HE WATER WAS BARELY WARMER THAN ICE, AND THAT
suited James just fine. It had been four or five particularly long Neverdays since the incident in the clearing, and James was still reeling from the aftereffects. He'd been doing very little since, apart from contemplating—trying and failing to work up the nerve to go find Tiger Lily, singing quietly to himself when he thought the crew wouldn't hear. Mostly, he was sullen and isolated from the men, though that wasn't particularly out of the ordinary, still kicking himself for not carving the boy up when he'd had the chance, still unable to imagine actually killing him. It was an unfortunate place to be.

James floated in the salt water, the ship's shadow still quite visible. Part of that was because he didn't have the energy for swimming a great distance, and part of it was because, deep in his mind, he heard constantly the taunting voice of Peter, saying, “You will regret this night.” And he believed, with every bit of him, that Peter would fulfill the threat. So, he didn't desire to find himself too far from the
Main
. But, he did feel that he needed to get out of his cabin. Swimming in the sea seemed a good decision, in light of this.

He flapped his arms slowly through the glittering nymphs, moving centimeters at a time, relishing the numbing feeling of the water as it prickled against his
bare chest and drenched his hair. The only sound in his ears was the sea as it moved in gentle waves to the shore.

That peace was interrupted by a soft splash near the beach.

James sent his feet shooting down into the water, scattering the nymphs, and he peered over the surface. Scrutinizing, searching. There was a dark shadow beneath the water swimming toward him, and he was filled with an overwhelming dread. He knew that it could only be Peter. Heart pounding, anger and fear running together in his veins, he dove under the waves and propelled himself toward the figure, determined that, this time, he would kill Peter if he caught him.

Salt water poured off his muscles and shone in the red-gold light of the setting suns as he came up for breath. He dove beneath the water again, seeing that the shadow was moving closer, determined to reach it before it reached him. Finally, his legs bumped into a body, and he grabbed it with his powerful arms, pulling it up, breaking the surface of the sea.

His eyebrows shot up when he saw that it was not Peter, but Tiger Lily. She coughed and shook her head fiercely, spraying water everywhere.

“Is there a time you're not going to assault me upon meeting me?” she yelled.

James's mouth fell open. Perhaps it was time he stop assuming that everyone in the vicinity was looking to murder him. In all fairness, that was hard to do when he was the only sworn enemy of Peter Pan in a world that loved the boy.

“I'm sorry; I thought you were…” He paused. “… someone else.”

Tiger Lily pursed her lips and lowered her voice. “Are you going to let me go, then?”

James realized then that Tiger Lily was pressed very tightly against him—and, being that he was wearing no shirt and very thin pants and she was soaked and every piece of her clothing was clinging to her, he could feel all of her on his skin. He pushed her away with much more force than he intended.

Tiger Lily frowned.

“What are you doing out here, anyway?” he asked her.

She pursed her lips. “Well, I was going to sneak into your quarters and kill you like I promised, but then I saw your boots and shirt on the shore, and there you were, splashing about. I figured heading into your room wasn't a good mode of assassination if you weren't there.”

James smirked.

“Don't worry,” she said. “I'll get you yet.” And she smiled wickedly back at him.

They floated in the water for a bit before Tiger Lily shivered.

“It's frigid out here, you know. It wasn't nice of you to entice me into the ocean and fool me into thinking it warm.”

James scoffed. “I don't remember inviting you in.”

“Even so.”

“So you're angry with me because
you
stalked
me
all the way out here and jumped in the sea in the middle of the cold?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Yes.”

James swam a bit closer to her until he was much nearer than he'd ever been to her face. The sky lit it up in such a way that she was even more breathtaking than he remembered, streaks of glittering gold and bright pink and deep crimson playing on her eyelashes, her high cheekbones. Without thinking, he slid his arms around her through the water and pressed her close to him again. The chattering of her teeth came to an abrupt halt.

“And now?”

Her breathing was ragged, and he could feel her pulse racing at his touch, which sent his heart pounding even faster than it had been.

“I…” She looked away, and he could see the conflict written plainly across her face. He let go of her then, not wishing to be a part of her inner turmoil, and started to swim back to shore.

“Where are you going?”

“To my ship.”

“And what am I supposed to do?”

He hesitated. Then: “Come with me. The men are below deck now anyway. No one will see you.”

Tiger Lily treaded water for a moment, then followed him back to shore. James deliberately did not look back as she followed him, fearing he would do something stupid if he saw her as he imagined she looked—dripping, fabric sticking to her everywhere, lit up by the sunsets.

They both slogged across the sand in silence, James unable to banter wittily, too focused on not looking back at her. Tiger Lily was mimicking the silence, so the walk was uneventful. When they got to the ship, James held his hand out behind him, still focused on looking straight ahead, and Tiger Lily took it. Her hand was cold and delicate, and James found himself wanting to grasp it and pull her closer to him, but at the same time not wanting to break it.

They climbed on board with no real incident, and, upon reaching his cabin, James gently pulled her in front of him, so as to retain gentleman status and allow the lady to pass through the door ahead of him. He pushed open the door and she walked past him, and it was at this point that he lost the battle with his eyes altogether.

He had been right; that dress clung to her in a way that accentuated everything, silhouetting her in the most
distracting way. His mouth went dry as he took in the soft shape of her breasts, her stomach, her legs. She brushed against him as she passed, and that sent a flare of heat up his body and a chill down his back. He looked away, focusing very intently on his dresser.

“Do you want something dry?” he asked, voice rough as he pulled the door closed.

“Please.”

James rummaged through his drawers and pulled out a long white shirt. Everything in his wardrobe looked the same, so it matched the one he chose for himself. Credit that to the creativity of a twelve-year-old. He held it out to her and she took it from him, touch lingering on his fingertips. He turned away from her and walked to the other end of the cabin.

James pulled a clean shirt over his torso, deciding to keep his wet pants on. It seemed indecent to strip in front of her. So, half-dry, half-soaked, he stood in the corner of the room. James stared, unblinking, at the wooden walls as he heard her wet clothes drop to the floor and his bed creak lightly. He brought his fist to his mouth and tried to think of anything but the fact that Tiger Lily was sitting naked on his bed.

“You're quite the gentleman,” Tiger Lily said.

James took this as an invitation to turn around. He wished immediately that he'd let her stay in the wet clothes. Watching her sit there in his oversized and threadbare shirt, big enough to make her look small, small enough that it barely covered her thighs, was infinitely worse.

“Sit with me,” Tiger Lily prompted.

“I'd rather not, I think.”

She furrowed her brow and looked away from him, at everything in his room. Within seconds, his resolve weakened. His feet were stubbornly pulling him toward her, despite his protests, and he found himself sitting on
the bed then, much closer than he wanted to be. Heat radiated off her, pricking his skin. His gaze was pulled to her bare collarbone, exposed from beneath the undone laces of his shirt. And then, it trailed lower.

“James?”

James jumped. “Yes?”

“You haven't heard a word I've said.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You're distracted.”

He swallowed hard. “Somewhat.”

She bit her lip. “Perhaps I should go.”

Tiger Lily stood from the bed. James grabbed her wrist.

“Please. Don't.”

She pursed her lips and looked down at him. Eventually, she consented and sat.

“What's got you so distracted?”

He paused. He couldn't very well say it was the transparent spot her wet hair was forming in the shirt, or the fact that, inexplicably, despite just having had a swim in the ocean, she still managed to smell like flowers. So, he said something else inappropriate.

“Peter.”

He regretted the word as it left his lips.

Tiger Lily raised her eyebrows. “Peter?”

James sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Always Peter. Have you seen him lately?”

She was quiet when she said, “Yes. You have as well?”

“Oh yes. I have.”

Tiger Lily furrowed her brow.

“You needn't worry,” James said, lips twisting. “I didn't hurt him. Much.”

Tiger Lily glared at him and shrunk back. “What does that mean?”

“It means I chose not to kill him, which is rather a large thing for me.”

“What did you do?” She jumped up from the bed, anger emanating from her, wet hair sticking to her face. James rose with her.

“I encountered him. In the woods. I could have killed him in an instant. But I chose not to, and that's the end of it.”

She set her jaw. “You're lying.”

James looked away from her eyes, voice still hard and cold. “I may have sliced him up a bit.”

Tears sprung to Tiger Lily's eyes, and James wished deeply that he hadn't said anything.

“You hurt him? How could you?”

James's mouth fell open. “How could I? What I did to him will barely leave a scar, Tiger Lily. What he did to me, what he took…”

Tiger Lily shook her head and bent to gather up her sopping mess of clothes from the floor. James reached for her arms. “You don't understand.”

Tiger Lily jerked her arms away and met his eyes with defiance. “Then explain to me, James Hook.”

“You were
there
, woman. Don't you remember the night we met? The night you found me crying in the forest?”

Tiger Lily's eyes flicked to the ground. “Yes.”

“Did you suppose that was for nothing? It was him. That wretched boy. He took me away from London—” when he said “London,” his voice cracked horribly, “— and promised me he would take me home. He swore it to me. He swore.” With that, he broke down. The emotion was too raw and overpowering for him to feel anything else; he was unable even to feel self-conscious for losing control in front of this woman.

Tiger Lily softened and sat back on the bed, and James fell into her, sobs wracking his body. He clung to her like a lifeline, fingers digging into her shoulders, inhaling that lily-sweet smell that was thrilling and soothing all at once. Tiger Lily ran her fingers through his hair and down his back, whispering over and over small sounds that meant nothing to him, a language he did not understand. But her touch was comforting, and eventually, the anguish inside him cooled and he laid his head in her lap.

She didn't recoil; she only kept her fingers playing at his scalp and the nape of his neck. A peace he hadn't known since he'd been spirited away to Neverland fell over him, and every muscle in his body relaxed. His mind cleared and he could only feel the calming warmth of her legs against his cheek, the softness of her fingertips. And Pan, for once, meant little.

He lay there with her like that for a while, and he did not know how long it had been when she moved just slightly under the weight of him.

“I have to go,” she said softly.

He did not argue, for he knew she could not stay.

“Thank you,” he whispered, throat raw from crying.

“You need not thank me,” she said, and she bent over and kissed him on the cheek, her lips feather-light and soft and sweet. He sat up from her lap and stared at her for a moment. Then he grabbed her hand as she made a move to leave.

“Come find me again,” he whispered.

“I told you I would.”

Wearing his shirt and holding her clothes, Tiger Lily left the ship. James lay back on the mattress, utterly exhausted, sleep refusing to acquiesce him. And so, for quite a while, or it seemed that way, he lay there and thought of Tiger Lily, until slumber finally made its bed with him. When he woke, for the first time, it was not to
the ghost of Peter Pan. For once, when he woke, he was completely alone.