Unhooked

by Lisa Maxwell

I force myself to blink the image away. I have to be seeing things. It must be a trick of the light or the fog, because it’s not possible for a beautiful girl to have a grin as sharp and wicked as a shark’s. But if I’m starting to see things . . . I open my eyes, and the girl’s teeth are once again hidden behind her plump lips. She looks normal . . . mostly. Strangely dressed, but normal. I must have imagined it.

all. Olivia

All those times I told my mom that the monsters weren’t real. All those times I thought she was crazy—the times I treated her like she was crazy—for believing something was after us. For trying to protect me. I’d been wrong. The danger was out there. The monsters are real.

Use it for Gwen's character later in review.

He has a long lean face with a straight nose, and his sharp chin is tipped with the barest shadow of a beard. His hair—a black so dark and shiny, it’s almost blue—is longer on top and brushed straight back from his face in an old-fashioned style. It looks like it might fall lazily over his forehead if he ever let it. Somehow, he doesn’t look like the type who ever would.

After what I’ve been through, I can imagine any number of things he might want from me—some more awful than others. The memory of the warm wetness of a tongue tracing the line of my neck rises up in my mind, dark and chilling, and then I’m shaking again.

He finally lets go of my arm. “We all have our scars, lass,” he says softly. But then his expression gets dark and I think maybe I only imagined the words.

As we make our way across the main deck, I can practically feel the wary eyes of the boys follow our procession. Most stand very still, but a few of the smaller ones shift uneasily and adjust their holds on their weapons when we come closer. And all of them have weapons. Some have knives sheathed in leather slings secured to their thighs, while others have primitive-looking slingshots tucked into their pants. A couple of the older boys have long swords hanging from their belts, like Will does. Each and every one of them is watching me warily, like I’m the most fascinating—and possibly the most dangerous—creature they’ve ever seen. The absurdity of it causes a nervous laugh to bubble up in my chest.

Grabbing his shirt, he quickly throws it around his shoulders, but he’s not fast enough to hide what he’s been struggling with. Not fast enough to hide the fact that his left arm ends just above his elbow in a gnarled mass of scar tissue. Where his arm should be is a prosthetic unlike any I’ve seen before—an intricate steel skeleton of a hand attached to what’s left of his arm by a leather harness.

In the dim glow of the lamplight, it is more than anger I see in his expression. For less than the length of a heartbeat, I see something vulnerable there as well. Something like embarrassment or guilt, but thicker than either of those things and more severe. Something, maybe, like shame.

“Gwendolyn,” I say, but my voice breaks, so I try again. “Gwendolyn Allister.”

first glance it looks like any island might, though its topography is extreme for such a small place. Most of the shoreline is nothing but sheer cliffs rising out of the sea. Here and there, tufts of vegetation cling to the craggy bluffs like daredevil climbers, but most of the rock face is flinty and bare. Above the rocky shoreline, the sharp hills and mountainous terrain reaches high toward the ever-darkening sky, and most is covered with a wild green that speaks the hidden dangers of jungles.

Which can’t be right. I know I was unconscious for a while, but we couldn’t possibly be far enough away from England to find jungles. Still, there they are, plain as day.

Then I notice something that makes my stomach feel like I’ve swallowed a ball of lead—the island is moving. It’s not moving in the water or like a ship. Instead, it’s the land itself that is shifting and changing before my eyes. The mountainous terrain ripples in the evening light, the rocks slowly shifting and rear...

The lush green of the jungle, too, looks unbearably alive. It shakes and shifts with a constant, steady movement. Trees melt into the earth only to be replaced by different types of vegetation as the jungle ruffles and shakes itself into a new tangle of overgrowth. The whole island...

“And having seen such wonders, is it so hard to believe that you are no longer in the human world? Is it so impossible, after what you’ve seen through that glass, to believe you’ve found yourself somewhere else entirely?” His mouth goes grim once again. “It may look on the surface like the world you know, lass, but don’t let that be fooling you. Though the sky is broad, there is nothing to this world but the sea and that,” he says, pointing to the island. “And there are dangers on those shores you cannot have imagined.” “There has to be something else,” I said, thinking about how impossible what he’s saying sounds. “You’d think it, wouldn’t you? But I’ve tried myself to escape. I’ve sailed this ship for weeks on end, until my crew was near starvation, and I thought for sure we’d all die from the icy cold that coats the sea beyond. After weeks of sailing, what do you think appeared on the horizon?” He

points toward the island again. “It’s as though this entire world is centered on that one heartless piece of land. All directions lead there.”

boundaries between your world and this one,

“But if you’re Hook . . .” I hesitate. “Yes?” He turns his attention to me fully then, his body held as stiff and alert as a soldier’s. His eyes are locked on mine, expectant. Mocking me again. “If I’m Hook?” he drawls. It’s been years since I’ve seen the movie, but even I remember Captain Hook, with his scarlet coat and his villainous mustache. And his insistence on killing the Lost Boys. “I can almost hear you thinking, Gwendolyn.” The Captain’s clockwork hand balls itself into a fist. “Out with it now, lass.” “Out with what?” I hedge. I’m suddenly feeling very unprotected, standing with him alone in the moonlight, surrounded by a ship full of dangerous boys and the endless sea. He gives me a sour look. “You know well enough what I’m speaking of. You’re thinking of the story, aren’t you? I can see it on your face, clear as the sea on a calm day.” He leans forward a bit, challenging me. “Say

what you mean to say, so we can be done with it.” I’d rather not, but he’s not going to let this go. I lick my lips and collect what courage I can find. “If you’re Hook . . . ,” I start again. “Yes?” he says, mocking me yet again. Amusement dances in his eyes. “That would make you the bad guy,” I say softly. He doesn’t react immediately, but after a long, silent moment, he inclines his head slightly in what might have been agreement. “So it would.” He backs away then, giving me enough space so I finally feel like I can breathe again. “And there are many who would agree, Gwendolyn. In time, perhaps you’ll count yourself among them.” He turns then to signal to his crew. “Though some would say there are many sides to a story.”

“Oh.” My breath rushes out of me. I haven’t thought about Olivia since I first woke up on this ship and got distracted by the Captain’s tales of Neverland. How is that even possible? How could I have sat in that lonely little cabin for days and never once wondered whether she was kidnapped too? Whether she

was in danger or whether she was even alive?

“I’m surprised you remembered at all, lass. Most of the boys don’t remember anything at all of your world—no matter how many tales I tell them of it.”

touch my neck then,

Memories bubble up to the surface of my mind. The details are indistinct, but the emotions behind them are potent. My whole life, I’ve felt like this—trapped, powerless. I moved because my mom said we had to,

held our lives together when she was falling apart, because the alternative—telling someone, getting help—meant risking everything. But my mom’s a world away now. That life is gone. Even now I can barely bring up the details of it, and I don’t feel like there’s much left to lose.

I am sure now that I hadn’t been imagining what I saw through the spyglass on the Captain’s ship. Up close, it’s clear the island is moving as though it’s alive. Sharp corners of rose-colored rocks flatten to smooth planes as it continues to move and transform itself.

Safe on the ground and with the morning sun finally lighting the world, I take my first real look at him. He certainly doesn’t seem like any Peter Pan I’ve ever seen. He’s no child, for one. He’s taller than the Captain, but he looks about the same age—Pan, too, is maybe a couple of years older than I am. Though the barest hint of light stubble lines his jaw, his face is missing the worn, exhausted quality I now realize was the Captain’s defining feature. His white-blond hair stands on end in an artful disarray that gives the impression he’s constantly in flight, like the wind itself can’t keep its greedy fingers out of those unruly locks. Just as I’d suspected back on the ship, he’s beautiful. But I see now that he has a hint of darkness to him, a suggestion of danger that doesn’t so much warn you away as make you want to lean closer,

to learn his secrets. He’s wearing the same tight, jaggedly stitched pants as Fiona and a high-necked vest that exposes the well-defined muscles in his bare arms and chest. The pale skin over his collarbone and around each bicep and wrist is adorned with bloodred tattoos that remind me of something.

It takes a second for the memory to bubble up, murky and indistinct as all the others, and then I realize where I’ve seen markings like Pan’s tattoos before—they’re similar to the rune stones my mom has always made and collected. That recognition helps me remember her a little more clearly—every time we moved, she would take her collection of small, smooth pebbles and line our new windowsills with them. In every new place we went, she found another stone and painstakingly carved a crooked symbol into its surface. She’d wrap each stone carefully and keep them with her until she could set them out on the next window. My mom...

Pan’s collarbone. The red lines aren’t smooth like a tattoo should be. They’re raised, ever so slightly. They’re not just tattoos, I realize. They’re scars. Someone carved these symbols into his skin. The warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips brings me back to myself and, embarrassed, I pull my hand away like I’ve been burned. My cheeks are hot with the awareness of how strangely forward it was to touch him like that, but even in my embarrassment, something makes me want to reach out again, something pulls me toward him. I clench my hands into fists at my sides instead. “What are they?” I ask. “They were a gift from my mother,” he replies with a small smile. “Your mother did that to you?” I say, horrified. “She did it for me, Gwendolyn,” he says. His face is still serene, pleasant even, as he takes my hand and brings it up...

leave...

“In this world, power requires sacrifice, Gwendolyn. The Queen sacrificed some of her power to bestow these gifts onto me. I accepted the pain, and in return, I received the power they give me. Some allow me to break free from the earth—flight, as you’ve seen. Others give me the power to speak t...

“We each belong somewhere, Gwendolyn,” Pan finally says, examining the fish. “This creature belonged to the water. . . .” The fish’s scales are a brilliant sapphire-blue and startling purple, too vibrant and bright to belong in the seas of my own world. But as I watch, the colors fade and tiny black lines begin to snake themselves across the surface of its body. The lines remind me of

the cracks that appeared in Davey when the Captain drank in his life. “But when a creature ventures beyond the safety of its own world, often it can’t survive.” Pan flicks the body of the fish from his fingertip, and it falls to the ground, where it crumbles on impact into brittle shards that look like bits of broken glass. Dark blood begins to well from Pan’s finger, but he ignores it. “Your Captain doesn’t belong in this world, Gwendolyn, and so he depends upon the Dark Ones for his life.”

“You see, my dear, children do well enough here in Neverland. This world is a place for the wild, unruly desires of innocence. But your Captain is no longer a child, and he’s certainly no innocent. Without what he takes from those boys, his body would become as fragile as this poor creature’s.” With a deft flick of his wrist, he brushes the shards of the fish back into the water. The other fish immediately swarm, darting in and

out to scavenge the remains of their friend. “As all human bodies become here as they age.”

“Well . . . perhaps not all,” Pan concedes. “As you saw in the hold of the ship, your Captain has found a way to avoid such an unfortunate end. When he accepts what the Dark Ones offer, he takes for himself his victim’s innocence and youth. The younger the child, the more power it contains, the more time it buys him.” His cool eyes bore into mine as his expression goes coldly dangerous. A moment before, the valley had felt like a peaceful, welcoming place, but now there is a dangerous tension radiating from Pan.

“But it will never be enough for him. This world will never be a place where he belongs.” Pan’s features soften, and his mouth curls into a

slow, satisfied smile. “Not as I belo...

brushing his hand over the soft grassy ground cover between us. Tiny white flowers appear at his touch. “And not as you could belong, Gwendolyn.” His cool eyes meet mine, but he...

“In this world, you could do anything. Become anything.”

“No, but the Queen of this world was the only mother I ever knew, and because of my mother’s gifts, I am as close to Fey as any mortal has ever been.” He plucks one of the tiny blossoms, and as he holds it, the petals turn from red to pink and then to blue. “For some, Neverland can be paradise. I can give you that, Gwendolyn.”

“Listen to Neverland, Gwendolyn. Can you

feel it calling to you?” His voice is soft and urgent, coaxing me again to believe that what he’s saying might be true. I want to pull my hand away and rub the heat of his skin from mine, but I can’t. Because it would be a lie. The ground does pulse beneath me, like a heartbeat. And there’s more—something warm growing beneath my palms. Something comforting and welcoming.

I glance away, uncomfortable. There’s something about the way he looks at me that makes me think he sees something in me that no one else ever has. Like I am something whole and strong and important. Being looked at like that—being seen—is something completely new and absolutely intoxicating.

“Where did they all come from?” I wonder, struck by the number of them. “The Dark Ones steal them from your world,” Pan tells me. “I bring them here and give them a

home,” he says, throwing his arms wide.

“This all belonged to my mother.” He takes a step into the chaos. “When I was a small boy, the Queen and her people filled these halls with light and merriment, and every day was an adventure. Now these walls offer me and my boys protection—from the Dark Ones, from the pirate, often from the other creatures of this land.” “Where’s the Queen now?” I ask, moving closer to Pan to avoid being hit by a boy careening after a friend. “The Dark Ones rose up and overthrew her some time ago,” he says, his voice dark and his jaw tight. I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. “Come. I’ll take you to Olivia.”

“It’s where we’re headed, a place called the End,” Pan says darkly. “Once, the Dark Ones were banished there by the Queen. Though they escaped long ago, that part of Neverland has never quite recovered. I don’t usually allow my boys to go so far—it’s impossible to know what dangers await.”

“This is really all it takes to scare one of those things?” I ask, glancing up at him doubtfully. The metal feels warm in my hand. “That’s not just any knife, Gwendolyn. It belonged to my mother, the Queen,” he explains. “Long ago the Queen traveled across the boundaries into the human world to find something to defeat the Dark Fey, who so often attacked her court in their attempt to take over this world. She brought back this—a dagger forged in iron and human blood and silver. Together they are deadly to the Dark Ones. To all Fey,” he said, nodding into the mist and taking the dagger back from me. “She used that blade to kill the King of the Dark Ones and to banish what remained of his court to the far ends of this land so her people could live here in safety. They know well enough what this is capable of,” he tells me as he tucks the dagger securely back into the sheath at his side. “And they’re smart enough to avoid it.” “Why don’t you just kill them all with it, then?” I ask.