Never, Never (32 page)

S
TARKEY BACKED UP AND LEANED AGAINST THE CABIN
, breathing heavily, clutching his torso, fingers stained red. Hook rose to a kneeling position, hair falling into his face, and pulled his sword slowly up. His hand and hook were covered in Starkey's blood. The visual darkened his eyes until only rage spat out of them.

He took in a deep breath, then bellowed, “Pan!”

His voice echoed across the ship, and Pan turned to look at him and flashed him an arrogant smile. Then, Peter darted down and slit Thatcher across the throat. Hook was overcome with violent, deep, vibrating wrath, and strode toward the child. Waves of malice poured off him as he got closer, clearing a clean path to the boy.

Tootles stepped bravely in front of the captain, holding out his needle of a blade. Usually, this would have stirred something in Hook. But not today. Not now. Hook did not even look the little one in the face. He drew back his sword and smashed it across Tootles's dagger. It was to his credit that he did not injure the child, but the force of the blow was enough to knock the boy on his bottom. Hook continued, without stopping, toward Pan, and he flinched when Peter felled another of his men.

“Twelve!” Slightly called out.

Hook was silent, his brow shadowing his features, and in his eyes was a fierce determination. He brought up his
sword and pointed the tip at Peter. Despite the weight, his hand was steady. The captain did not so much as blink; he simply held out the blade, a dark challenge.

“You,” he said.

Peter floated down, that horrible smirk still marring his face, and he turned to his Lost Boys. “Stand down. This
man
is mine.”

They stared at one another for a long, tense moment, each of them pouring loathing into the other.

“Proud and insolent youth,” said Hook, voice threaded with hate, “prepare to meet thy doom.”

“Dark and sinister man, have at thee.”

Pan struck first, true to form. But the little dagger was no match for Hook's long blade. He parried with ease and counter-struck, throwing all of his weight behind the sword, knocking Pan backward. Pan's eyebrows shot up, and he flew back at Hook.

Hook could feel the Lost Boys' eyes on him, and very few of the pirates'. Most of them were dead or dying now. Pan lunged at him again, and he dodged the blow, then they circled each other. Perhaps it was best not to focus on casualties at that particular moment.

The captain jumped out at Peter, distracting him with the sword, lashing out with the hook. Hook caught him in the cheek. Peter gasped and stepped back, then put a hand to his face. When he pulled it away, his fingers were red. Peter frowned. Hook was filled with a fleeting elation and grinned broadly.

“Ah, so the Pan is not so indestructible after all.”

Peter gritted his teeth, looking like a child who has not gotten his way. He burst toward Hook and slashed at his neck, tearing open his long red coat. The top fell apart, and his throat was bare. Hook could feel the air tingling against his scar, and his cheeks flushed crimson.

When Peter saw it, something flashed in his eyes. Almost recognition, but not exactly.

“How did you get that?”

“A villain gave it to me, long ago.”

Peter smiled. “And I shall give you another.”

He made good on that promise immediately and flew into Hook's rib, knife out, drawing blood. Hook lost his grip on the sword, and it clattered to the ground.

Hook blanched. This was it.

Peter approached him, holding out the little blade. To Hook's surprise, though, rather than stabbing at him, he knelt to pick up the sword. Then, he handed it up to Hook. He wished, in that moment, that Peter had run him through. It would have been preferable to the shame that overwhelmed him.

But he hadn't. The captain shook as he reached for his blade, and then he grabbed hold of it, and Peter returned immediately to the battle.

There were no more interludes after that, no more moments of peaceful introspection or witty banter. There was only the hook and the dagger and the sword, and they beat against one another with a powerful vengeance. Hook swung again and again, trying in vain to so much as nick the boy. Peter flitted back and forth in the air above him effortlessly.

To Hook's utter distress, he found that he was tiring. He was no longer a child, no longer able to move endlessly for days on end and not suffer for it. He was breathing hard and swinging at Pan with all his might. Hadn't he thought less of Blackbeard for fighting in such a way not so long ago? But here was Pan, forcing him into maneuvers he so despised. Pan barely breathed at all, unless he was laughing. The boy struck and struck again, with no effort, and swam through the air above Hook, doing a backstroke, and then breast.

Peter was toying with him.

The second Hook realized it, his energy drained. The child was not even trying. And if that was so, there was no escaping this, not for him. Perhaps for some of his fellows. Starkey hadn't quite died yet, and Smee had a chance; he doubted any of the boys could truly lay a hand on the man. But, for him, this would be the last hurrah. So, in the midst of the little war, he stood up straight and he adjusted his hat, and he stared at Peter so regally, so dashingly, that Peter himself had to stop for a moment and stare.

James drew in a long breath and grinned, the grin of a man who knows he is at his end.

“Forget James, the child I was, and forget your fairies and forget your Lost Boys. Forget everyone you ever knew, Peter Pan. But you will never, never forget me.”

With that, the taste of metal flared through the air, and Peter barreled into him. James was knocked over the edge of the ship.
Bad form
, he thought as he hit the ocean.

The water was like ice, pricking at him everywhere, lapping at his chest, his neck. He treaded water, wondering if he could possibly make it to shore. That question was answered when he turned to find the blasted crocodile behind him. It was curious, he thought, that no
tick-tocking
accompanied the beast this time. The clock in its belly had finally run out, it seemed. Irony of ironies.

It smiled, and James smiled grimly back. He started to swim away, knowing it was futile, but paddling anyway. It was not dignified to give up all hope, was it? To stop fighting altogether?

In the midst of the swim for his life, he was distracted by a sound. It was far off at first, distant and echoing and quiet. But it got louder as the croc got closer. And then, he realized what it was. It was the sound of the bells, and the chiming of the grand clock that stood in the middle
of London. The chimes were hollow and loud, ringing in his ears, and when he looked up at the purple sky, behind the clouds and the suns, he could nearly see it.

There was Big Ben, face looking right at him, and there was the smell of something burning, something his mother was failing at making edible. Then there was the sea smell of his father, the one that matched his own now. He smiled, and an unexpected peace overtook him. Bibble had been right. The sky did look strange.

Had anyone seen him, they would have thought it odd that, with a crocodile snapping at his heels, he smiled. But James did not care much for what imaginary people would have thought. So, smile he did. For there was a shred of James that would forever be a Lost Boy. And as he paddled in the icy water, that piece grew until Lost Boy was all that was left in the shell of the pirate. The Pan crowed, and the crocodile snapped its awful teeth behind him.

T
O DIE
,
THOUGHT THE
L
OST
B
OY IN PLACE OF
the Captain,
will be an awfully big adventure
.

S
O
, I
THINK WE PRETTY MUCH KNOW THAT GETTING
a book out in the world involves a whole lot more than a solitary, bearded author pounding out a tale on a typewriter in an isolated cabin, swilling some gin, and calling it a day. No, making a whole book takes so much more than that.

First and foremost, I want to thank God, for giving me the opportunity to do something I truly love for a living.

The incredible Bree Ogden, for championing this book and me, and for loving James Hook when he and his story hadn't yet grown up. I am so, so grateful for you. And to her assistant at the time, Maria Vicente, for really loving my story. My editors at Spencer Hill, Danielle Ellison and Patricia Riley, thank you so much for taking a chance on my strange little book, and for pushing it to be so much more than it was. My lovely and tireless publicist Meredith Maresco, for doing so much amazingness. Hafsah, for designing a cover that still makes me want to cry a little when I see it (in happiness, I promise). To the rest of the team at Spencer Hill, THANK YOU for everything you did and continue to do.

My critique partners, some of my closest friends: Tabitha Martin, you are a solid rock of support, and willing to listen to me neurotically freak out over my characters for hours like they're real people, and not hang up on me
when we start into hour number three. Nazarea Andrews, thanks so much for…just, everything. Your insight into my stories, your unwavering belief in them and in me, and your constant preparedness to send me gifs of cute boys and tequila. (Who can write a book without gifs of cute boys and tequila??) Dan Malossi, my New Yorkahhh CP, for always being there to support me, to be a sounding board, and to eye-rollingly tolerate my phone shattering into oblivion every six months. (I know. Six months is generous.)

Thank you so much to everyone who read this book, in any of its ten million incarnations, and loved it, critiqued it, wrote fanfic of it that still makes me cry just a little (*ahem* looking at you, Darci). Rachel O'Laughlin, Darci Cole, and Rachel Solomon, massive group tacklehug because EVERYTHING. You guys are wonderful. James and I love your faces. The fizztacular Summer Heacock, for picking me out of your slush and flailing over James. This book would not be here without you and Brenda Drake. Team Fizzy: Carol Pavliska and Samantha Bohrman, for reading, critiquing, and always being there with a slightly (or not-so-slightly) dirty joke and virtual drink.

To all of my super-awesome online peeps, who make this sometimes lonely profession totally un-lonely for an extrovert. Some writerly friends who have been extra supportive and freaking wonderful: Christine Tyler, Liz Lincoln, and Rachel Simon. All you bloggers and writers and ALL you readers who have spared a thought or a post or a review or some change or anything for my book and me, THANK YOU.

Thanks so much to my wonderful friends, who have been totally cool when I'm all emotional over people I created in my head, when I had to pass on a hangout because I had to write, all of you who have been excited
with me, I love you guys. Special thanks to Nicole Silvano, for being my person for over a decade now, and for reading everything I write, even when it's in its messy awkward phase, and still managing to love it. Rachel Chase, my amazing friend and a shining light of support. Love you, lady. To Luke Chase, for being there, being writerly, being nerd-tastic, being awesome.

My family. Every single one of you (some of you blood, some of you not) has been so supportive and wonderful throughout me pursuing this dream of mine. I am truly blessed to have so many amazing people in my corner. Papa and Nana, thank you for teaching me to love words, and for believing not only in this story, but in me. Mom and Dad, thank you for teaching me that I could do anything, and believing that I really could. Chase, Makenzie, and Taylor…for brainstorming, jumping up and down when you saw my cover, for caring about this and me and all those awesome sibling-y things, thanks, guys. My little boys (one of whom is legit angry-crying and assaulting my shirt as I write these), you guys are everything. You are everything.

And last, thank you to my husband, Harry (and you know I really mean Chrumby Face). Thank you for being willing to stay up with crying kids and clean the kitchen while I was revising into the wee hours of the morning. For listening to every idea I've ever had (in WAY too much detail) ‘til midnight, and staying up even later to play video games with me. For supporting me in this crazy dream. I couldn't have done this if it weren't for you, my Someone.