Never, Never (19 page)

“You killed him!” Bobble shrieked, and Simpkins rushed to his side. Bobble was shaking and red, hysterical and out of control.

“I'm sorry,” Hook said, barely able to speak, certain that he was going to be crushed under the weight of his own sadness and disgust.

Simpkins was solemn and angry. He picked up Bibble's ankles and dragged him along the ground, leaving a little trail of blood as he walked.

Hook wondered, briefly, if Simpkins had replaced him as the twins' friend after he'd left. Then he shook his head. None of that mattered. What mattered were the boys he'd known, mourning or frantic or dead.

All the boys turned to Pan, who had utter confusion all over him. Peter hovered just an inch above the ground, face turning from Bibble to pale, bleeding Bobble. “What did you
do
?”

“He didn't, Peter,” said Bobble. “He's fine, he's fine, he's all right—”

Peter grabbed Bobble by the shoulders and shook him. “He
isn't fine
, Bobble.” Bobble froze, and Peter glared darkly at Hook, then back at Bobble. “He's dead.”

Peter grabbed his little dagger and pointed it dangerously at Hook who, at that moment, would not have protested being murdered. Peter's face was awash with bewilderment, and he kept pointing the blade, dropping it, staring at everyone, and picking it up and pointing it again. He looked so young. They all did. Hook wondered if this was the first time Peter had ever been at a loss as to what to do.

Bobble sat, paralyzed, on the ground, and the rest of the boys gathered around him, and Peter looked over his boys. “Let's go,” he said, voice unusually quiet.

The group followed him, and not a pirate tried to stop them. When he passed, Bobble looked at Hook in such a way that Hook felt it in his soul.

Hook watched the group leave, and he swore that both Bobble and Simpkins grew several inches in front of him. Peter hovered just beside them, and there was no denying that he was the shortest of the three. He looked away from the boys, wishing he hadn't seen that, more pain needling into his insides. They were growing up, now. There would be a Thinning soon.

The rest of the pirates shared Hook's daze. He suspected they had never actually killed a Lost Boy. He wished that was still true. Peter, he would destroy gladly now, without a second thought. But the boys. Never the boys. Never his friends.

The walk back to the
Main
was slow and quiet and sober, and no one spoke when they boarded. And Starkey did not invade his quarters this time when he holed himself away, replaying in his head over and over Bibble's final word—Home.

He wondered, as he lay there blanketed in guilt, if Bibble really had gone back to London, if perhaps, he'd freed the boy when he'd murdered him. For a moment, he considered breaking a wine bottle on his desk and slashing his own wrists.

But he was too tired and heavy and muddled, and concerned that perhaps he was making more of it than it was. If death was the key to going home, then Peter was constantly trying to send him back to London—and that couldn't be true, could it?

No. He was exhausted and reading into the confused thoughts of a dying child, and that wasn't something to kill oneself over.

He thought and lay there and wished for wine and to turn back time and in the middle of all that, he fell asleep.
He wasn't sure when. But it was quite a while before he woke, trying not to think of home.

I
T WAS TWO OR THREE
N
EVERDAYS AFTER THE INCIDENT
with the Lost Boys when the island began to darken and grow cold. There was no storm, no mayhem to rock the skies, but it was one of those grey-green days that felt as though the suns had been stuck below the horizon. The light was bright but sterile and cold, and the leaves themselves were dull orange and brown and shades of grey.

Neverland, it appeared, had simply shrunk inside itself, shriveling and inviting the snow that swirled in the air and frosted the earth. Hook paced back and forth on the beach, noting the strangeness inherent in the frozen sand and slushy water, the lack of nymphs in the sea, and the paleness of the sky.

“Starkey!” he called, breath showing itself in a puff.

Starkey came running off the ship and stood at attention in front of the captain.

“What is this? What's going on?” he demanded.

“With the weather, do ye mean?”

Hook gave him a single, curt nod, and hugged his coat around himself.

“Aye, Captain. This weather be strange. It only goes like this when Peter's gone.”

Hook looked up at the sky again, slowly tracking the rolling green clouds as they inched along in the air. “Gone?”

“Aye.”

A shadow fell over Hook's face, and he spat on the deck. Peter was gone. And here he was, stuck in the cold, in a world full of things that wished him dead. A shudder of hatred coursed through his body, along with a note of terrible sadness, and he turned away from Starkey for a moment. Peter was home.
His
home. Probably traipsing around in Kensington, ignoring the fairies. He wondered briefly if Peter could see his house from where he was. He would have given anything at all to be there with him. Or preferably, without him. No, with him, killing him, sticking a hook in his heart before he headed back to his house and dined with his mother and father.

Hook breathed in, shaking a bit, trying to rid himself of the poison that had just exploded into his veins, his heart.

He shut his eyes. “Replenishing his stock of Lost Boys, no doubt,” he said, refocusing the conversation.

“Most likely.”

“How long do you expect him gone? A week, two?”

“How long, sir?”

Hook made a frustrated sound and looked away from Starkey. This fool place. Whenever he mentioned time, the most competent men turned to idiots; no one had any notion as to what it was.

“Never mind, Starkey. Leave me.”

Starkey tipped his hat and headed back onto the ship. Hook paced even more feverishly now. Pan was gone. Of course he was. He could feel the island's wickedness soaking into his innards. It made it all the easier to give into that very same wicked streak in himself. He smiled and strode up to the ship. Upon arriving at his cabin, he
reached inside and took up his sword, then closed the door and walked around the deck, twirling it absentmindedly. When Smee saw him, he held up his hands and gave him an appraising look.

The ice had actually warmed Hook up, and he laughed out loud at this. “Not to worry. I've not had a drop of rum.”

The fact that he could once again form coherent words seemed to satisfy Smee, so he tottered off. Hook set his elbows on the ship's edge and continued smiling, looking almost dreamily out over the water and the deep turquoise ice floating in shards atop it. He breathed deeply. The air, for once, tasted like air. Not like vanilla, or the ash of Pan's fear, or the metal he'd tasted the night he'd killed Bibble. He'd known then that Pan was slaughtering his too-tall Lost Boys. Blood and iron in the air. But not today. Today, it tasted, simply, like water and salt and the wind above the sea.

A time without Pan. A time without provocation and flying and arrogance. That ever-present feeling of irritation that was always tickling him under the collar disappeared, and he was free to simply sit and taste the nothingness.

As he gazed out over the ocean, he suddenly stepped back and tilted his head. He squinted and looked again, then knit his eyebrows together and called for Starkey.

“Aye, Captain?”

“Do you see that, over there?”

He pointed out just across the sea at a small island off the coast of the mainland, one he'd somehow never seen. There was something off about it, as though it wasn't fully real. But the longer he stared at it, the harder the lines became, the more vibrant the colors, until within minutes the dream-like peculiarity had worn off.

“Aye,” said Starkey, a wistful smile turning his lips. “Keelhaul Isle.”

Hook tilted his head. “Why have I never seen it before?”

“It only shows up when Pan's gone, Captain, when the darker parts of Neverland show their faces. It's a place built on drunkenness and lechery.”

Hook smiled then, eyes alight. “Drunkenness and lechery? Sounds the ideal place for a pirate ship to make bed.”

“It does indeed, Captain.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? To Keelhaul!”

A hearty cheer rose up from the men, and Hook looked eagerly toward the island. He was more than ready to lose himself in a bit of debauchery.

It did not take long to reach Keelhaul, which was surprising, given the amount of ice floating in the sea. But Peter's absence seemed to give Hook new life, new power, and perhaps it gifted the
Main
as well. It was faster—larger, almost. The dark wood gleamed like he'd never seen it do. Everything else in Neverland was chalky and dulled and pastel, but the
Spanish Main
was vibrant. Without Pan to keep him and his dream in check, Hook could feel it in his bones, as though the muscles in his arms were harder, the blood itself rushing through his veins with more enthusiasm.

When they docked, he stepped off the boat into the darkness. It was night there, though he could look out on the rest of the Never Sea and see that it was bright everywhere else. Perhaps it was always dark on Keelhaul Isle. This suited him just fine.

What wasn't black as night was cast in a glow that was almost red, like an ember, and the place smelled like smoke and heavy perfume. Men laughed loudly, bawdily, and women joined them. It wasn't quiet, like the
Main
often was. But the grimy ruckus gave Hook an odd peace that the mainland never had.

He stood there for a moment, cracking his long fingers with his hook. This place, it seemed, had not fallen under the murky spell that had overtaken the rest of Neverland. It was teeming with raw, dirty color and life. There were women and men alike running along the dimly lit cobblestone streets, some plundering storefronts, some playing raucous instruments (and not very well), some drowning themselves in alcohol.

Hook's crew joined him on the dock, and he smiled widely.

“What will ye have us do, Captain?”

He shrugged. “Whatever you wish.”

The pirates scattered, but Thatcher, Smee, and Cecco remained with Hook. He ignored them, largely, strutting through the black streets, tall and imposing and dreadfully elegant. When he passed, women and men bent and whispered urgently to one another, and stared, wide-eyed, at him. This gave him pause, but he walked on as though he didn't notice.

“Captain?” Thatcher inquired.

“Indeed.”

“That storefront over there, it seems unoccupied.”

Hook looked in the direction Thatcher was speaking of. It was dark, and the door was closed. Through the dimness, however, he could make out the jewelry glimmering gaudily in the windows. He raised an eyebrow at Thatcher. “Observant.”

“It's a jewelry store, Captain,” the man continued. “Full of gold.”

“Get to it, man.”

Smee and Cecco and Thatcher bounded off for it, and Hook stopped in the middle of the street, arms folded across his chest, grinning smugly as his boys slammed down the door and raided the place. Within minutes, they were heading toward him, arms full of treasure.
True delight warmed him and he laughed. Keelhaul was a pirate's paradise. He wished for a moment that Peter was dead (which was not a new sentiment) or stuck in London (which
was
new) so that they could make port here instead of the child's island.

Hook walked on across Keelhaul, casually taking note of the landscape and inhabitants thereof, seeing more and more awed onlookers. The stars here were clouded by the smoke and dirt that lifted into the air, and the scent of alcohol and unwashed bodies lingered in the darker, dirtier corners of the place. The taste of spice melted on his tongue when he breathed in, and every now and then, he caught the distinct aroma of heavy incense.

There was a definite spring in his step as he and his followers made their way through the dark streets, candlelit lamps flickering and casting shadows on their faces.

Hook stopped when he reached a particularly dilapidated and wholly unimpressive little wooden building. It was glowing from the inside, and a little light just barely illuminated a crooked, rotting sign that hung over the doorway. It read “The Crow's Nest.”

Hook pushed the door open with a slow creak and walked inside, enjoying the hushed silence that fell over the occupants when he did. There was an old piano in the corner that no one was playing, and a barkeep with a salt-and-pepper beard who was sloshing alcohol over the mugs he handled. Hook first wandered to the bar.

“What'll you have?” said the barkeep in a voice that suggested that he'd sampled more rum that night than he should've.

The captain brought his hook to his face, considering, a force of habit from when it had been a hand. The barkeep's eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped.

“Hook? Are you—Captain Hook?”

“I am.”

The barkeep leaned just slightly backward, but Hook did not miss it.

“Drink's on me, Captain,” he said, and he handed him a glass of rum.

Hook brought it to his lips and leaned back against the bar, eyeing the room. The only men from his crew there were Jukes and Flintwise, so the tavern was comprised largely of strangers. Strangers who stared at him and whispered.

It was strange, he thought. He hadn't done much in the way of sea exploits, but, perhaps he had by Neverland terms. Or perhaps it was only that he'd always imagined himself to be the fiercest pirate in the sea, and so here, now, that was reality. Either way, he did not complain, for it stroked his ego vigorously.

He tipped his head back and drained the glass of every drop, then stood from the bar, noting that several of his crewmates were now seated in the tavern. He walked quietly over to the piano, touching a single ivory key with his hook, and it made a hollow sound. The instrument had the sort of tinny timbre one expected from a tavern's piano. He slid his hook gently down several more keys, and sat at the bench.

He'd played the piano a long, long time ago. He'd always hated it, he remembered. Mother forced him to play the thing, day in, day out. And, once upon a time, he could make it sing. He wasn't entirely sure if he could anymore, what with his hook replacing his hand. Hands, it turned out, were particularly important things when it came to playing instruments.

When he played the first bar, it was slow and awkward. Strange playing with just six fingers (or fingerlike things.) But he played another quiet, hesitant measure. And he kept playing, until the music was neither stilted nor
awkward. It was beautiful, at least in his mind. James and Chopin had not always gotten along, but he and
Nocturne in C# Minor
played well together. So, the pirate allowed the haunting melody to sweep him away.

It was not a piece that was fitting for the place, but Hook did not care. He was far away; sweaty, sour bar smell replaced with the smell of home and London— sweet and clean and damp. He was small, sitting in a tiny living room, fingers melting across the old piano keys as the church bells rang out in the night, a strange harmony. His mother sat beside him on the bench, soft and smelling like flowers, pretty pale wrists laid over the edge of the keys, not playing, just listening and smiling softly.

Finally, the memory died out, and he reached a point in the song he'd not yet mastered. And he never would. He opened his eyes and stared around the room at the dirty men who were drunk and mesmerized.

There was not a sound in the place. But then, one of the men began to clap, and several others joined in, and the place was filled with noise, all directed at him.

“Hook!” someone chanted. And another, and another, until the entire patronage was chanting his name and clapping and whistling. Hook stood, trying to camouflage the smile that was popping up on his lips. He made his way back to a secluded table, grabbing more rum on the way.

The corner was dark, and Hook found himself enjoying the solitude and simply observing.

“Captain Hook?” a sultry voice intoned.

“Aye.”

He stared at the woman over his stein. She was lovely, tempting, all curves and softness. Long red hair and bright green eyes and a full mouth that said his name beautifully.