He clucks his tongue. “Wendy didn’t talk like you.”
“Wendy was from another time, another continent. Wendy thought being a mother to the Lost Boys was a good time.”
“You don’t want to be our mother?” I can feel the smile in his voice.
“Gross.”
His laugh is deep and low, rumbling through me where we’re pressed together. It makes me almost as breathless as the flight does. It’s dumb, and I’m clearly suffering from some sort of Stockholm Syndrome at this point. If I could kick myself, I would, but Peter still has a tight grip on me as he aims for the biggest structure on the golden tree.
A whistle cuts through the air, followed by another, and another. The walkways begin to fill with men, all of them staring out at Peter and me.
“Whoa, so there are more of you.” I try to track all the movement, but I couldn’t possibly do it. There are a couple dozen men. I don’t recall how many Lost Boys Wendy counted in her story, but I feel like it was only a handful. “A lot more.”
“This is actually less than I’d like. Barely enough to hold off attacks from pirates or Neverian raiding parties. Our numbers have stagnated and declined ever since Hook began stealing the island’s magic. Don’t worry. They’re all loyal to me. You havenothing to fear from any Lost Boy. They’ll defend you with their lives if it keeps you out of Hook’s hands.”
“How does that work, exactly? How does someone steal magic from an island?”
We land, my knees a little wobbly as I hold onto a vine that twists up the side of the massive tree.
“Hook began his evil deeds as soon as Wendy left. First, he started with the Neverians.”
“Um, what?” I force myself to keep my eyes on the vines, because if I look down, I might barf, or worse—I might hit the deck and refuse to move. Because even without looking, I know I’m a long way up. “What’s a Neverian?”
“The indigenous peoples of the island. Hook slaughtered them one after another.” Bitterness seeps into his tone. “Eventually, only Tiger Lily and a handful of her warriors remained. She’s a fierce leader. We fought together many times. We fought against each other sometimes, too.” He smiles wistfully, but then his gaze darkens. “Hook is saving her for last. He’ll drain her magic and sever her connection to Neverland if I don’t stop him.”
“You can stop him, Peter. You have to.” My words aren’t enough, not even scratching the surface of how much weight rests on Peter’s shoulders. “I’ve heard of Tiger Lily from Wendy’s stories. She said Tiger Lily tried to kill Hook once, even climbed onto his ship with a blade in her mouth, but she was caught.”
“I saved her that day. On Marooner’s Rock where Hook had sent her to die when the high tide rolled in.” Peter rubs his forehead. “At least I think I did. The island’s magic does strange things to memory. Sometimes I remember. Sometimes I don’t. It’s hard to explain.”
I make the mistake of glancing away. That’s when I see the wisp of a cloudbelowus. Gripping the vines for dear life, I sway on my feet.
“You okay?” Peter places his hand at my lower back.
“It’s just so high, you know?” I clench my eyes shut.
“Let’s go into the house.” He takes my hand and pulls me along.
My instincts yell at me to hang onto the tree and never let go, but Peter’s grip is certain. I go with him, sticking close to his side as we walk along the wooden slats and finally enter a building set into a crook where several branches meet. It may just be optics, but having walls around me relieves some of the anxiety about the long way down.
“Boys, this is Moira.” Peter announces as soon as we get inside.
Several sets of eyes lock onto me as I scoot along the wall, grabbing onto the safety of it. The room is large and rectangular with chairs and tables scattered throughout. It’s like their living room, or more like a hangout, I suppose.
“Hi,” I say, my voice small in the space.
“She’s pretty.” One of the men at a table smiles at me.
“Um, thanks—Oh!” I yelp when Peter lashes out and slaps the man hard in the side of the head.
“Apologize,” Peter growls.
I shrink even further against the wall, and embarrassment makes me wonder if being outside isn’t so bad after all.
“Sorry, Miss Moira,” the man says, one of his hands at his ear.
Peter returns to me. “They aren’t used to having a girl around. I’m sorry if he offended you.”
“Saying I’m pretty isn’t offensive.” I study my filthy shoes, unwilling to meet the gaze of the man who just got smacked on my account.
