Peter and the Shadow Thieves (2 page)

CHAPTER 56:
A
Very Strange Business

CHAPTER 57:
At Last

CHAPTER 58:
Visitors

CHAPTER 59:
Something Odd

CHAPTER 60:
Overheard Words

CHAPTER 61:
Footsteps

CHAPTER 62:
Rough Hands

CHAPTER 63:
The Thing on the Stairs

CHAPTER 64:
The Black Pool

CHAPTER 65:
An Urgent Search

CHAPTER 66:
The Envelope

CHAPTER 67:
The Phantom Light

CHAPTER 68:
Conversation in a Tree

CHAPTER 69:
A Cry on the Wind

CHAPTER 70:
Reluctant Allies

CHAPTER 71:
The Secret Place

CHAPTER 72:
The Warder and the Watcher

CHAPTER 73:
The Messenger

CHAPTER 74:
The Ravens’ Cries

CHAPTER 75:
Traitor’s Gate

CHAPTER 76:
McGuinn

CHAPTER 77:
Wolves on the Steps

CHAPTER 78:
A Deadly Fall

CHAPTER 79:
The Silent Struggle

CHAPTER 80:
The Metal Man

CHAPTER 81:
The Secret

CHAPTER 82:
The Keep

CHAPTER 83:
Ombra’s Plan

CHAPTER 84:
A Voice in the Dark

CHAPTER 85:
Dark Kites

CHAPTER 86:
An Offer of Help

CHAPTER 87:
The Golden Weather Vane

CHAPTER 88:
A Good Friend of His

CHAPTER 89:
No Choice

CHAPTER 90:
George’s Thought

CHAPTER 91:
The Destination

CHAPTER 92:
Not Much Time

CHAPTER 93:
A
Raven’s Eye

CHAPTER 94:
The Return

CHAPTER 95:
A
Swift, Sure Shadow

CHAPTER 96:
Over Their Heads

A
MANGO, THOUGHT PETER.
The perfect weapon.

The scrawny, sunburned boy, dressed in a tattered shirt and pants torn off below scabby knees, brushed the unkempt reddish hair out of his face. It fel right back into his eyes as he bent to the sandy soil and scooped up the plump red-and-yel ow fruit sphere, a bit bigger than an orange. The mango was squishy to the touch, too ripe for eating. But it was just the thing to drop on somebody’s head from a great height. And Peter knew precisely whose head he wanted to drop it on.

Holding the sweet-smel ing mango in his left hand, Peter raised his right hand over his head and, pointing his index finger skyward, sprang up and rose swiftly from the earth. It was a dramatic takeoff, and total y unnecessary: Peter—an expert flyer now, after three months’ practice—could float easily upward in any position. But he enjoyed impressing the other boys.

“Peter!” shouted young James as he trotted toward the mango tree. He was fol owed by the rest of the Lost Boys, as they had come to cal themselves—Prentiss, Thomas, and, lagging far behind, Tubby Ted.

“Where are you going?” asked James, his thin voice cracking.

“To pay the pirates a visit,” Peter announced. “I’ve a delivery to make.” He held out the oozing, overripe mango.

“Please, can’t I come?” begged James.

Peter was silent for a long moment. The only noise was the distant sound of surf pounding on the reef outside the lagoon. Then, reluctantly, Peter said, “’Fraid not, James. You can’t…I mean…You know.”

“Right,” said James. “I can’t fly.”

James said it matter-of-factly, but Peter saw the now-familiar look of disappointment in his eyes. He saw it also on the faces of Prentiss and Thomas, though al he saw on Tubby Ted’s face was mango pulp, as Tubby Ted had decided it was time for a snack. (For Tubby Ted, it was
always
time for a snack.) Peter hovered for a moment, feeling a flicker of guilt. It seemed that more and more lately, he’d been having his best adventures alone. He almost decided to return to the earth and to carry out his attack by land, so his mates could join in the fun. Almost…

But walking took so
long,
and if they were on foot, the pirates might catch them. No, flying was the only way to do this.

“You’l be safer here,” he said. “I’l be back soon! We’l have a game, or a snake hunt.”

“But,” said James, “I—”

“Sorry!” interrupted Peter, shooting skyward, not looking back. He soared above the treetops, his pangs of guilt changing to irritation tinged with self-pity.

It’s
not my fault
I
can fly and they can’t,
he thought.
Besides,
they’re safer back there. Can’t they see I’m looking out for them
?

These thoughts were quickly driven from Peter’s mind by the sweeping view that greeted him as he shot into the radiant blue sky between two smal , puffy, bright white clouds.

He ascended at a steep angle, keeping his body paral el to the dark green mountain ridge that rose sharply to form the backbone of the island.

As he cleared the summit, he could see the whole of Mol usk Island. Far below, on the side he’d come from, was the shimmering blue-green expanse of calm, protected water that the boys cal ed Mermaid Lagoon. Peter could see the tiny figures of a half dozen mermaids sunning themselves on the broad, flat rock they favored. One of the figures waved—

probably their leader, the one known as Teacher. She was quite fond of Peter, a fact that both embarrassed and pleased him.

Peter returned the wave, then continued his aerial survey of the island. Curved around the blue-green waters of the lagoon was the island’s widest beach, a semicircle of soft, sugar-white sand, fringed with coconut trees. Behind the beach, in a smal clearing nestled at the base of the mountain slope, was the boys’ home—a dome-shaped driftwood hut, covered with palm thatch, that they’d erected with the help of the Mol usk tribe. A quarter mile from their hut, in a bigger clearing surrounding a massive tree, was the Mol usk vil age itself, where gray smoke was drifting skyward from several cooking fires.

The Mol usks—whose chief, Fighting Prawn, owed Peter his life—had proved to be generous hosts. They’d shown the boys how to spear fish, which fish to spear, how to clean and cook them, where to get fresh water, how to keep a fire going, what to do when a hairy jumping spider the size of a squirrel leaped on your head—al the basic skil s of island survival.

Peter suspected that Fighting Prawn also had men posted in the jungle to keep an eye on the boys’ hut, lest the pirates decided to pay a visit. This had been reassuring at first, but as the weeks and months passed, Peter had become more and more certain that the pirates didn’t dare venture to this side of the island, where they would be greatly outnumbered by the Mol usks. His fear had turned to confidence, then to cockiness. In recent days he’d taken to amusing himself by flying across the island to the pirate encampment and taunting the pirate who had once terrified him and the entire seafaring world—Black Stache.

But Peter had given him a new name.

Peter looked down the other side of the mountain, toward what the boys cal ed Pirate Cove. On a bluff overlooking the cove was the pirates’ fort, a squat structure made of logs that had been laboriously hacked down with swords and bound with thick jungle vines.

Reaching the apex of his ascent, Peter eased to a stop and hovered for a moment. He was about to begin his descent when he heard a sound behind him. To a normal person it would have sounded like bel s—tiny, perfectly pitched, melodious bel s. Peter could hear the bel s, but he also heard words inside his head, and they were not happy words. He sighed and turned slowly to face a most displeased Tinker Bel , her silvery wings buzzing furiously, her tiny face red and pinched with anger.

“I did not run off,” he said, though he knew he had. “It’s not my fault if you don’t keep up.” More bel s. Peter cut them off mid-tinkle.

“Listen, Tink,” Peter said. “You’re not my mother or father. I have no mother or father. I don’t have to answer to you. I don’t have to answer to
anybody.
” The sound of more bel s: musical and quieter now.

“Yes, I
do
know that,” Peter said, also softening. “I understand perfectly wel that Lord Aster left you to look out for me, and I appreciate it. But that was when I was new to…to al this.” He gestured at his airborne body, then the island below. “It’s different now. I’ve learned a lot. I can take care of myself. I don’t need a fairy watching—” He was interrupted by an angry outburst of shril bel s. Tinker Bel disliked the name “fairy,” which she saw as a slight to her heritage.

“Sorry,” said Peter. “I mean, I don’t need a
birdgirl
watching over me.”

More bel s. Instructive.

“What dangers?” said Peter. “There’s nothing on this island for me to worry about except old Captain Hook down there, and he’s too scared to come near our side of the island with the Mol usks about. Even if he does come, how’s he going to catch me if he can’t fly? Face it, Tink, nothing here can hurt me. Nothing.” More bel s.

“Wel , that’s your opinion,” said Peter. “But I don’t agree, and I don’t plan to stay up here al day arguing with a…a birdgirl.” He turned his back on her and angled his body to start his downward swoop. Tinker Bel flew in front of him, stil tinkling.

“Fine,” Peter said, impatient now. “I can’t stop you from coming. Just don’t get in the way, okay?” With that, he gripped the mango, let out a whoop, and began his dive toward the pirate fort, his mind focusing now on his plan of attack. He was so intent on landing the mango on his target that he failed to notice two things: one was a smal human form below, making its way laboriously up to the summit of the mountain. Had Peter looked closely, he would have seen that the form was James, who was determined that, this time, he would not miss out on the adventure.

The other thing Peter missed was a speck on the horizon—a tiny dark shape, far out to sea.

A speck that was, ever so slowly, growing larger.