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Chapter Text

Seems that I have been held in some dreaming state
A tourist in the waking world, never quite awake
No kiss, no gentle word could wake me from this slumber
Until I realized that it was you who held me under

Felt it in my fist, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids
Shaking through my skull, through my spine and down through my ribs

No more dreaming of the dead, as if death itself was undone
No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in garden
No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love
No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world

('Blinding', Florence and the Machine)

- Prologue -

"Tell me a story."

The candles by the window flickered brightly in the pooling darkness, dripping hot wax onto the wooden frame stiffened by age and lack of use. It had not been opened in many years.

Crinoline creased between delicate fingers. "What kind of story?"

"You know. The kind you used to tell us."

A reflection wavered in the black glass. A heart-shaped face, framed by looping coils of dark-gold hair, gazed back. Pale and ghostlike that face seemed, dimly illumined by the murky glow from the candles that appeared as two points of light in the dark window. Round white shoulders were framed by paler material of a silken gown that clung like a shroud to the soft figure reclining in the window-seat like a tragic muse, or a painting from a Tennyson poem.

But the ethereal image was only an illusion blurred out of proportion by the frosted glass and the darkness of the winter night that had crept into the nursery. In reality, Wendy Darling's fair complexion was flushed with the warmth of the room's interior, the dress she wore was no shroud, but a fashionable garment of ivory silk and ruffled lace purchased from Oxford Street, and the pearls glowing softly around her throat and in her ears were an extravagance that bespoke of an impending social engagement.

The haughty curve of those lips softened slightly. "A story…" she mused aloud, smoothing the lines of her skirts that glided like water against her skin, silken and cool. The condescending expression in her blue eyes was chased away momentarily by an awakening spirit that glimmered through the fringe of long lashes. "Let me think… yes, I know one…"

And, just as she had done seven years ago, Wendy leaned forward and began to speak in hushed tones, something she had not done since they were children. She was startled at how easily the words came to her, though rusted and long out of use as she traced the sound of them around her tongue. The edges of her heart suddenly stirred with an imagination that had long lain dormant. She spoke until the candle tips had burned to low blue flames on the smouldering wicks and the melted wax hardened on the window frame. She lingered over the words, drawing out the rich syllables and low cadences. Infusing the narrative with all the details to make it deliciously haunting. She had to try harder to make them shiver with fright, to remember those vocal touches that froze the blood and thawed the soul. Michael had always liked the ghost stories. John the adventure stories. And she… oh, it was always the tales of piracy that had stirred her blood…

"… And Bluebeard saw the key that she had dropped in her rush to escape that gruesome chamber, and he knew that she had discovered his secret – the bloody fate that his other wives had met. The key clutched in his ferocious hand and murder flashing like black fire in his wild eyes, he began to climb the stone stairs, up… up… up…"

She saw at once that she had lost her audience. John's dark eyes behind the glasses were absent, his ink-stained fingers drumming idly against the window frame, but he did not interrupt. Michael was less reticent. "It's boring," he said, tossing his auburn hair lazily from his brow. Michael was now a languid, long-boned youth of fifteen with drowsy blue eyes that were already beginning to have a devastating effect on girls. "I have a good story. I heard yesterday that Charlotte Evans kissed Bernard Higgins outside the post office on Fleet Street - can you imagine? Bertie Mason who brings the paper saw them, and he told me they were there for ten minutes. Have you ever been kissed, Wendy?"

"Oh hush," she scolded in irritation, looking away so her brother would not see the heated blood burning beneath her cheeks. In fact she had - last week, at a party, Charles Quiller-Couch - grown bold on a couple of drinks and the loveliness of the night - had had the audacity to kiss her in the hall just before she left. The memory brought a confusing mixture of annoyance and embarrassment. It had been fumbling and awkward, his hands clumsy on her shoulders, the taste of cigarettes and crème de menthe on his mouth. She hadn't liked it at all. But he hadn't managed to steal the kiss that still lay hidden - tantalising yet elusive - on the corner of mouth. It glimmered, out of sight, waiting.

"Have it your way," said Michael carelessly. "You're always so severe, Wendy. I think a little kissing would do you good."

A strict reprimand rose to her lips, but Michael's words had drawn her mind inevitably back to a kiss before that – when she had been little more than a child, infatuated with a boy who neither wanted nor understood what she had so willingly offered in the fleeting press of her lips against his. So vivid still, the taste of salt and youth and fever; his firm, mocking mouth softening beneath her own as she clung to him with all the desperate intensity of love that a girl of thirteen could feel. She had been certain that her kiss would be left eternally on his lips and would have renounced it gladly – but he had not taken it and it remained with her still, locked away in that near-forgotten place with all her other dreams and missed opportunities.

"We should be going." John eased his tall, gangling frame from his cramped position on the floor, sweeping back the dark hair that fell untidily over his brow. He was taking the early train back to Oxford the next morning, and it was evident that he was impatient to return to the hallowed walls of academia at Balliol College. His visits from Oxford were becoming less and less frequent these days, and on the rare occasions he came home, he spent more time buried in Kant and Descartes than in the company of his family. It was with a slight pang of sadness that Wendy recalled the many nights they had curled up together with a novel open between them. Now he retreated to the philosophies of Burke while she delved alone into the adventure stories he had formerly devoured: Journey to the Centre of the Earth, Heart of Darkness, Gulliver's Travels, The Jungle Book and She.

She rose, following her brothers into the hall, when something cold and wet pressed into the palm of her hand. She glanced down. Nana was almost completely blind now, and so unsteady on her legs she spent more time lying down than on her feet. Wendy ruffled the dog's ears, burying her face in that warm, soft fur. "Dear old Nan," she whispered. "I wish things could stay as they were." Nana whined in sympathy and licked her hand.

At twenty, Wendy knew she should be married. She just happened to be fortunate that her mother and father were somewhat subservient to her whims and had not yet forced her into the arms of someone she actively disliked. Men had reckoned little in her life thus far – the bolder lads who followed her with admiring eyes and came up to talk to her at Charing Cross were easily (and disdainfully) ignored. Though that period of grace had come to an end. All would soon change, sooner than she had wanted…

Only one boy had ever left a lasting impression on her mind and heart; a secret, treasured memory of flashing green eyes and mocking laughter. But the stately, well-mannered girl of twenty could not dwell on the childish dreams of her thirteen-year-old self. She was far too sensible, and life was far too busy to indulge in such wistful imaginings beyond the few stolen hours buried in the faded pages of her beloved novels. And even that fleeting pleasure was becoming harder to find time for thanks to the determined force with which her aunt thrust her into society. Wendy told herself firmly that imagination had no place in this age of enlightenment and rationality.

Yet beneath the polished, refined surface, there was always the lingering, unshakeable sense that there was more to life than the pristine etiquette of the Edwardian woman – this stifling existence of tedious social engagements, idle gossip, the stiff and unimaginative books opened by cold-chapped fingers within the narrow, confining walls of the girls' Finishing School. Her life was so placid and smooth, strait-laced and uninspired. Instinct whispered that life should be something imaginative, unbounded, limitless, full of excitement and danger and passion and suffering and meaning -

She envied John and Michael, who were free to engage in social and intellectual pursuits without the dreaded word of husband always hanging over them. It was boy's adventures that she curled up with in the window-seat, daring exploits of explorers and adventurers, not the well-thumbed copies of cheap romances that made their furtive way through the eager hands of the girls at Finishing school. Sometimes she allowed herself briefly to wonder how differently her life might have turned out had she been a boy and able to engage in a world that was not constrained in polite conversation and the stays of a corset.

"You need to be married, Wendy," Aunt Millicent had told the night before, after an evening glass of brandy that always had the unwelcome effect of loosening her tongue and sharpening her eyes. "You're becoming a burden on your parents. It's strange for a girl of your age to be unmarried; people will talk. Girls get queer notions if they're left alone for too long. Though thank goodness you were never one of those women who talked about employment."

Wendy said nothing. She had never confided (not even in John) her secret, barely-acknowledged desire to become a novelist. "Don't look like that, Wendy. There's no use putting on those airs if you end an old maid." Ringed fingers tilted her chin up to the light as her aunt scrutinized her carefully, eyes black and beady as those of a hovering bird of prey. "You're pretty enough, but too choosy, I think. Your father tells me the banker's boy wants you. You should take him. You will only get older and less pretty as time goes on."

Wendy shook away the unpleasant memory, refusing to acknowledge the nagging, persistent truth of it that turned her heart cold. Before going down the stairs after her brothers, she pushed open the door to the first bedroom.

Mary Darling's eyes were languid with the traces of fever, her complexion translucently pale, but still she smiled with serene tenderness at the sight of her daughter glowing with youth and beauty, though the expression was far too dignified and reserved for a girl of twenty. Wendy's unruly waves had been coiled and smoothed to satin curls, a few of which still provokingly fell forward, kissing her brow. The pearls gleamed in her ears. Some traces of girlhood stubbornly remained in that face, refusing to entirely leave her large, soft eyes, the petulant edges of her pouting mouth. That prim mouth and the upturned way of holding her chin gave her a defiant, haughty expression that always made her appear rather spoilt. Yet in unguarded moments, an indefinable blend of resolution and imaginative spirit still glimmered through the faultless demeanor of politeness and decorum that Aunt Millicent had so strongly imposed upon her.

"You look lovely," was all Mary Darling said.

Wendy knelt at her mother's bedside in a rustle of chiffon, white skirts settling around her like an unfolding lily. "I wish you would come."

"It's just a little cold," she said. "It will be gone soon enough. The doctor says just a couple more days in bed and I shall be much better. Now go and enjoy your night. All your father's friends will be there." A pause in which she idly traced her daughter's hair, smoothing back the soft curls. "That Charles Quiller-Couch is a nice boy. Your father says he has the best head for numbers he has ever seen."

"Yes," said Wendy stiffly, maintaining strict discipline over herself, refusing to betray any reaction. "He is perfectly nice." And handsome, in an easy, pleasant-faced way. And perhaps there was something appealing about the way his chestnut curls fell over his brow. But she was unable to regard it in anything other than a detached, dispassionate manner, as one might admire a finely-done painting. All material and no matter.

Her mother looked at her carefully. Her voice was very gentle. "You could do worse, Wendy."

Wendy met her mother's searching gaze with an expression of supreme calmness. Mary Darling sighed."Sometimes I wonder what is going in that head of yours, child. Do you know why I fell in love with your father?"

Wendy shook her head. Her father was dear and awkward and foolish and affectionate; she adored him with all her heart. But he wasn't someone she could imagine a woman falling in love with. He wasn't green-eyed, laughing and daring and brave. He wasn't (cold and cruel and ruthless) –

Mary Darling's mocking mouth softened with reminiscence. "He had kind eyes."

Wendy said nothing. She too was haunted by eyes, eyes green as summer (a piercing blue gaze that cut like ice in the darkest depths of her nightmares) –

Mother's soft hand cupped her face, white fingers cool against her cheek, tilting her head upward. Wendy wondered how she could be so peaceful, so effortlessly content, and suddenly recalled some words spoken in a nursery long ago on a cold winter's night just like this one... A drawer of dreams, she thought sadly.

"I think I have a drawer, too." The words left her before she was aware of it.

Mary Darling's soft, beautiful dark eyes were filled with loving warmth. "Never give up on dreams, Wendy."

She worried the pearls at her throat, dissatisfaction tugging at her prim mouth. The lace confines were constricting on her figure that was full and soft rather than slender. But she never would have revealed her discomfort, carrying herself with the stubborn feminine poise that social etiquette demanded. Her small white hands were folded neatly together. An outward image of perfection, a sensible young English lady engaging in the steady rise and fall of light conversation and delicate laughter, partaking in the champagne drunk from thin-stemmed glasses. All opportunities she could never have dreamed of before her father's promotion, opening doors for her that would make her the envy of any young girl, or so her aunt kept telling her. Effervescent, vacant pleasures so bent on maintaining stability, fearful of shattering that fragile façade of reputation. Smiles veiled by lace, emotions imprisoned in hollow-boned corsets. How light and empty it all was.

Excusing herself politely, Wendy detached herself from the group of people – wives and daughters of her father's associates whose names she kept confusing – and wandered around the drawing room in an attempt to appear occupied without having to engage in conversation. She was already feeling light-headed, whether from the champagne or the tight pressing of laces against the bones of her ribs that made every inhalation a challenge, it was impossible to tell. She was tired, and would much rather have sought out the library where she imagined curling up in a comfortable chair by a glowing fire, a book open in her lap, but this was a party and she was a guest, so she must smile with aching persistence and be polite to everyone.

John seemed to be having a better time than she was. "Of course," he was saying, "If one follows the Rousseauian school of thought, in which Man is an essentially benign creature, entirely opposed at a fundamental naturalistic level to witness the sufferings of others, and then applies those doctrines to -" Wendy smiled slightly and moved on.

Michael was busy regaling the latest exploit that had gotten him suspended again from Eton - something involving sneaking into the Drones club and stealing a policeman's helmet. The group of girls that surrounded him hung on every word, breathless. Wendy tossed her head with preening contempt, light-brown ringlets falling over her ears. Her pearl earrings swung with the movement.

"Wendy."

A barely discernible tremor shivered through the rigid line of her shoulders. She had been anticipating and dreading that voice all evening. Charles had been trying to get her alone as persistently as she had been trying to avoid him. But she knew the moment could not be put off any longer. She met his look with her characteristic gaze of straight, steady dignity that was too direct for politeness. The slightly pursed mouth and haughty curve of her chin only added to the impression of aloofness. But her expression softened at the evident nervousness in his eyes. He was awkward and sweet and earnest, and after all, Wendy thought, she could not cling to a childhood memory forever. Taking her softening as silent affirmation, Charles caught hold of her hand, his tense, eager grip tight on her delicate bones.

"I've been hoping for a chance to speak to you. After what happened last week, I thought you might be angry –"

Wendy felt a moment of shame. She was being perfectly horrid. Had it been her mother here, Mary Darling would have been courteous and gracious, her beauty and softness casting a gentle glow and light over the assembled company. And here she was, being ungrateful and disagreeable, and all because... because…

None of this was his fault. She could not bring herself to reproach him.

"No," she said, though still quietly and firmly trying to ease her hand from his grasp. "No, I am not angry."

"Because I wanted to apologize… it was frightfully bold of me. And I won't do it again – not unless you ask. It's only that… I do like you, Wendy. More than like you. As a matter of fact, I feel –"

Suddenly Wendy wished herself back home, wished herself a hundred miles away. A gathering, secret dread began tying knots inside her abdomen, though her smooth, guileless expression did not betray it for a moment. The breath rattled in her chest, unable to escape the tight pressings of her corset.

"Charles –" she managed at last. She could feel the pressure closing around her like a vice.

"Let me see you," he said quickly. "Tomorrow. I will call round in the evening, at eight."

At that moment, Wendy gave in. She felt the whole thing sliding hopelessly into inevitability; her mother and father's exchanged glances, Aunt Millicent's pointed remarks, Charles' entreating persistence. She saw the rest of her life stretching out interminably before her like a play long-rehearsed: all the dinners and dances, the polite chatter and tedious gossip, the settling into mundane routine. Day after day, year after year. All the while telling herself, this is what I must do. This is what is expected. She took a deep breath and allowed the jaws of society to swallow her whole.

"Tomorrow," she said dully.

And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, she thought wearily. All the tomorrows for the rest of my life.

But she merely allowed herself a gracious smile and allowed him to lead her to his father, Edward Quiller-Couch. After all, it was expected, and she never did anything to step outside the confines of what was right and proper.

The delicate, lacquered shoes were cutting into her feet with every step she took. Wendy removed them carefully, wincing slightly as her toes were freed from the constricting pressure, supporting herself on the beam of the door. The nursery had the sad, neglected air of long disuse. All remained as it had been, the beds aligned along the wall, the white curtains framing the unopened window, but all was too tidy, too ordered. Like her life. Always inside the lines, always conforming to the patterns and plans. So steady and self-conscious, it made her want to –

She started slightly as John appeared before her. It was strange now that both her brothers, at eighteen and fifteen respectively, towered over her. John's collar was loosened, his bow-tie askew. He crumpled her fingers within his own. "Night, Wendy."

She felt a sudden rush of wistful affection towards him. Of her two brothers, she had always been closest to John. And yet… he was so different now, so thoughtful and solemn. She loved the man, just as she had loved him as a boy, yet every time he returned from university he was more and more a stranger to her. And he had found something he loved, made something of his life, while she was bound to obligation and marriage. It was only strong pride that held her back from asking him, Do you remember Neverland? Do you remember the adventures we had, when anything was possible?

Leaps and spirals and flights of imagination. She had written so many stories, pages and pages filled with vivid and colourful characters experiencing wild and magnificent adventures. Heroes with John's intelligence and Michael's streak of rebellion. Heroines as beautiful as mother. Yet the villains had always eluded her. She could never bring them to life. They were always so trite, so lackluster. Merely tired caricatures that she could never seem to imbue with life. She made them coarse, inelegant, blustering (never slender and refined and eloquent) –

She caught sight of her face across the room in the nursery mirror, grave and serious and subdued. A face where mischief and laughter had long been absent. The force of it struck her now more painfully than ever. What was this strange nostalgia that had stolen over her on this winter night? Perhaps it was having them all back together under the same roof, reminding her vividly of the children they had once been. Before dutiful routine. Before polite society. Before marriage. The very word turned her cold inside. It had a terrifying finality to it. No escape. No way out. She had never loved, never would love since –

Her mouth tightened with quiet disdain at her own romanticism. But in spite of herself and the unyielding pragmatism she had grown into, she found herself in the nursery at the chest of drawers, falling to her knees in a billowing movement of white silk, scrabbling for the small key and forcing it into the rusted lock (like everything in here, so neglected, so disused). The drawer opened with surprising smoothness (as though it were meant). Wendy's fingers came across the acorn Peter had given her so long ago in the mistaken belief that it was a kiss. Sudden despair filled her. Despair at her life, at herself, at how easily she had abandoned everything that had once mattered to her and slid so smoothly into the dull role demanded of her. When had she woken up to see this girl in the mirror, so stiff and cold, when she had once been carefree and laughing and happy? (so much like Peter) On a sudden, rebellious impulse, she tugged the string of pearls from her throat, flinging them from her with a contemptuous motion. She picked up the acorn and fastened it around her neck. In after years, she had fashioned it into a locket, a place to store secret memories and treasured dreams that were once so precious to her –

Never give up on dreams, Wendy.

I already have, Wendy thought. The moment I turned my back on Neverland, closed my heart and decided it was time to grow up –

It had been her eighteenth birthday when she had finally closed the drawer for the last time, and turned the key in the lock for good. She had put her stories away, along with other childish things. They remained in the dark, gathering dust. The stories she had written with such meticulous care, lovingly recreating every cherished memory and setting them to words. Her own years were traced in those pages; the scrawled handwriting of her earlier years to the elegant, slanting hand learned with painstaking repetition. She ran a white hand over the papers, slim fingers tracing the scrawled titles with a tender reverence. The Battle of Slightly Gulch, The Tale of the Poisonous Cake, Tinker Bell's Leaf, The Never Bird, The Mermaid's Lagoon…

She curled up in the armchair, the manuscripts scattered across her silken lap, eyes half-closed, lost in memories. Adventure, danger, excitement, fear, love… How bright, how alive Neverland seemed in comparison to this surface existence she dully walked through. Sometimes it seemed this world was a dream and only Neverland was solid and real. She was adrift, afloat, unwilling to resign herself to this shallow, impersonal life with its swarms of cold, lonely people. Yet what other choice awaited her? She was too old to abandon sanity and principles now. I waited too long, she thought. The time for choosing Neverland had come and gone. She would be a stranger to Peter now, one of those dreaded adults that were so laughable to him, and so beyond his understanding. What was it that was lacking inside herself that made him abandon her and never return? Had she not been strong enough, not brave enough, not good enough?

But I never forgot. She was held in stasis, waiting, always waiting. The thought of leaving inhabited and civilized regions to face danger and adventure… But she had never gone back. It was lost to her forever.

What would she be had she stayed in Neverland? Sometimes she thought about that other Wendy, the Wendy that could have been forever young and free. Would she be more alive? Would she love? Would she hurt?

Everything certain blurred away into a mist of imagined longings. Past dreams pushed against her life in the waking world, struggling to be made manifest. Which was the reality? The nursery began to pale and recede. Water surging like billowing clouds in the depths of her mind, she found herself falling into a hazy state of half-consciousness. She shivered, haunted by a half-remembered dream. A nightmare of silver loveliness, of smiles.

The memory was like a hook catching on her skin. Lost in the heady scent of darkness, breathing in the enveloping completeness of it. A tall-masted ship emerging through the gloom. Foam crashing against its sides, an icy sea surging beneath the moon in a steady ebb and flow, salt spray misting the wooden decks and black sails fluttering in the cold wind. Fractured moonlight on the water. A dark presence that reached out and touched her with a pale hand half-covered by the edges of fine lace, and the gleam of metal, its piercing bite startling her into wakefulness –

Wendy's eyes opened.

A cold breeze swept through the nursery, stirring her hair about her shoulders. The papers were lifted from her lap, fluttering across the room and landing in scattered disorder across the floor. She moved across the room, a glimmer of a white dress. Walking through the pages that lay spread around her feet. Waking through her own past that swirled around her in bewildering confusion. A strange, elusive, dreamlike state had descended over her; she moved with the slow, liquid fluidity of a somnambulist. As one entranced, she approached the window. The window that had not been opened in seven years. Ice spiderwebbed across the surface in filigreed traces. The lights twinkled outside like distant stars.

Wendy looked out of the window, her eyes large and grave. A breath, a whisper curled around her shoulders. As though another presence were in the room, soft and deadly sweet. Impelling her to madness.

Slowly, hesitantly, she placed her hands on the frosted glass. The pane of ice burned her palms. Drops of snow pierced the darkness, glinting almost silver. Her eyes fell on the small metallic catch, rust creeping around its edges. Her outstretched fingers trembled.

The curtains caressed her legs in billowing white folds, with the insidious coolness of a lover's touch. An unsteady exhalation escaped her lips.

Here then was a crossroads. A window to her fate.

Did she dare…?

Something held its breath. Something dark and tense and waiting.

And Wendy Darling opened the window.

The air that hit her lungs on that first inhalation was sharp and clear, searing through her chest like a blade (she had been suffocating for so long). The snow on the balcony was crystalline and untouched, cracking slightly beneath her delicate slippers as she stepped outside. Her fingers curled around the ice-tipped railings, the bottom of her gown slithering wetly across the cold stone. Wendy stood under the cold chill of the moon, gazing out at the view that opened beneath her.

London sparkled, a flawed, incandescent diamond. She looked out over the glittering, frost-ridden night. In the far distance she could see the Thames that curled like a black ribbon, threading its way past the bright lights that illuminated the Houses of Parliament. Over the sound of the traffic clattering past in the street below, Big Ben tolled its sonorous announcement of the hour. Above, the clouds floated by, high and icily. The moon glimmered, fleeting and mirror-faint through the veils of mist. It was a night for flying, for dreams. Soaring, tumbling through the icy, star-strewn sky, Peter's hand warm in hers, his wild, joyous laughter ringing in her ears. Taking her back, back to Neverland.

Neverland. That word of mysticism and enchantment. Wendy closed her eyes, her heart aching with the wonder of it that was forever lost to her. If she could only turn back time, to the days when she had lived on dreams, when adventures had been reality…

Where are you, Peter, she wondered sadly.

The longing to see those dappled forest-green eyes was an almost physical ache inside her. His laugh that rang with captured happiness. How earnestly she had tried to recreate those memories in the pages of her beloved stories! Always telling herself, I must remember these things. I must remember them to tell to my children, and my children's children…

He was not perfect; she had known that even as an infatuated girl. He was wild and wayward, and callous with the unconscious narcissism of childhood. But he was also merry and brave and spirited, a bewitching aura of magic and adventure surrounded him. The most vivid, alive person she had ever known. In her dreams they flew over seas in a moment, the isle appearing lush and green in the midst of the dark, swiftly turning ocean. If she could think one happy thought –

I just want to fly, she thought wistfully. One more time -

The white curtains stirred in the breeze. A shadow rippled darkly in those whispering folds, like an arm upraised, sharp and curving –

Wendy shivered. It was cold, much too cold. The clouds hung heavy with ice and snowflakes. Shrouding her in oblivion, all while Neverland receded further and further away with every second that passed, as she grew older with each moment that elapsed… until, perhaps, one day she would forget there ever was a Neverland, and would think of it only as some idle childhood fancy, a mere game… she shivered again… coldness… forgetfulness. Could she ever forget? No, never!

"Never," she whispered aloud. The word was repeated back mockingly. Never… never… never…

Wendy…

Wendy looked up hopefully, but the sky remained vast and remained still, the soft breath of snow wrapping around her shoulders. Ahead in the distance she could see it, Second star on the right and straight on till morning. It glimmered, waiting. In sight, and so unreachable.

No fairy dust would carry her through the air. No Peter would hold her hand. She would not fly tonight. She would never fly again.

With a sigh, she turned back to the nursery.

There was a movement of black in the corner of her eye (a shadow) Wendy turned –

And felt something cold and sharp and hard curve around her bared shoulder, twisting her body painfully. She spun fast, blinded by white and shock, the metal (silver) cutting into her skin. Her back hit the wall painfully and a cry escaped her. The world tilted nauseatingly, and she caught a blurred glimpse of the city opening beneath her feet, dizzyingly close yet terrifyingly distant. The shadow leaned over her, breathing in her ear. An icy hand pressing against the silk that covered her lower back. She wrenched her body, straining to get away from it, him –

"Do cease struggling, you tiresome girl." A light, cultured voice, edged with faint amusement.

A ghost stirred in Wendy's memory. There was something horribly familiar about that odd, almost effeminate grace, the deadly cold aura that chilled her heart, even the decadent scents of closely-pressed tobacco and wine, suffocatingly near. Moonlight glinted off polished buckled boots, high and supple… her eyes travelled upward… a long, tailored coat of claret brocade, the ruffled white shirt beneath… features shrouded by the wide brim of that crimson-plumed hat –

Her lips froze around his name. "Captain Hook."

His perfection was terrible. The sharp jaw, the elegant nose and finely-turned mouth, all devastatingly familiar, all just as she remembered (remembered oh-too-well). Elaborate coils of black hair framing a pale, lean face. But it was the forget-me-not eyes that caught her and held her paralyzed. The bluest eyes she had ever seen. She could never have forgotten those eyes.

Breathless stasis. Both remained still, trapped in frozen solitude. The world receded and there was only him and him alone. White silence.

"Wendy… Darling," he breathed, emphasizing her surname in a way she was not sure she liked.

Wendy tried to speak. Her voice was frozen in her throat. Her mind caught in a blizzard. No… not you not you not you…

She recalled with startling clarity that first sight of him seven years ago at the Black Castle, his face so ruthless, so derangingly handsome. She had been little more than a child then, yet the image was burned indelibly into her memory. A lingering presence, there in the back of her mind, always. A cold, unbreakable cord, he had wrapped himself around her thoughts, calling to her with the drawling command that had almost ensnared her even as a girl…

Dark-gold lashes swept down, brushing her ice-kissed cheeks. When she opened her eyes again, Hook was still there. Frozen in time; he hadn't aged a day. Still so unchanged, even down to the flash of gold in his ear, a rakish touch that belied his affectations of aristocracy. His entire appearance a marvelous deception.

"You – you cannot be here. This is a dream." This is a nightmare. A shadow. A torment of the imagination.

A light, melodious laugh. It sent shivers down her spine. Her heart shuddered in a way it had not done seven years ago. "All evidence to the contrary, my dear girl."

"No," she said, "I watched you die -"

"I haven't forgotten," he retorted coldly, biting out each word. The hook curved into her skin. Her breath came short, teeth gritted against the searing pain of his hold. Sharpness rippling through her. That edge tracing her skin like the thinnest of knives. A silver leash. Wendy inhaled in fright.

"So you have come for revenge."

Those blue eyes, so light and languid, now burned like ice. "Aye, seven years I have waited -"

The wall was hard at her back and shoulders, the frost melting against her flesh, running in icy rivulets down her back, soaking through the satin. She heard its hiss. So cold… A panting breath, the warm mist fogging the window. Dimly through the blurred glass, she could see into the nursery, down along the hall where John and Michael would be sleeping –

Oh God!

John - Michael - she had to warn them –

They had to run. Now –

Wendy tried to tear herself away, but her struggles seemed only to amuse the captain as his grip tightened. Possessing. Her shoulders wrenched. Metal on bone. Once, she might have begged him to release her, but she had changed in the intervening years, become stiffer, haughty, scornful.

"Let go!" she ordered imperiously. Her voice rang out, clear and sharp in the frosty night. The words hung in the air as Hook's expression turned suddenly menacing. An amused, dangerous, predatory look as he regarded her lazily.

"Oh no, my beauty. I think not. Not now that I have you again."

She twisted against him, realizing how hopelessly she was trapped. Her waist a frozen hourglass bound in whale-bone confines and the intricate crossings of lace, the stays of society that had no place in a world of imagination and adventure and terrible, terrible danger –

"I once thought you had a sense of honour –"

"You wish me to be… magnanimous?" His smooth voice was like ice melting down her neck.

"I wish you to be a gentleman. A gentleman would unhand me at once."

"Dear girl, I am no gentleman. I am a pirate."

Wendy swallowed hard, fear sealing her throat. Appealing to any sense of decency he might possess was futile. His heart was cold as ice. He was utterly without pity, utterly without mercy. She had learned that lesson long ago. Never again would she be drawn in by the deceptively polite exterior. Hook was the villain of the story. She had been dazzled by him for a moment perhaps, but it had been Peter. Always Peter.

"I'll scream," she said. "I'll call for help. They'll come running."

His elegant brows arched upward. Ice-blue eyes held her frozen against the wall. "No," he said finally. "No, I think you are above the tedious vulgarity of screams."

"You're right," she replied with more conviction than she felt. "I'm no coward."

Long, elegant fingers gripped her chin in a brutal hold. There was something horrible in the sight of those fingers, so startlingly pale, so slender and refined; the thought that the hand of one who paraded himself as a cavalier could be capable of such villainous horrors. The heavy silver ring on his middle finger was cutting into her skin. Tears stung her vision.

"Let me look at you." The cool sound of his voice, so caressingly familiar with its slight edge of cruelty.

The silver hook curved around her jaw. Her head was forced to one side, breath fogging the space between them. She shuddered in that tight, hurting hold. The blood beating hard in her throat. A hand tangled in her loosened hair, twisting it above her neck. Her world narrowed to the poison-blue of those narrowed eyes. A lowered, scrutinizing gaze stripping away her flesh, the damp silks that clung to her skin. Slowly, his mouth curved beneath the drooping black mustache.

"Such a little doll you've grown up to be. And I thought you were so violently opposed to growing up." He sneered, cutting, treating her like a fool. That and his mocking words stung her strong sense of pride. The first icy intensity of shock over, Wendy met his gaze steadily, determined not to show how afraid she was.

"I had to grow up," she retorted in a clear, cold voice. "Not everyone can keep playing childish games -"

His irises blazed. She sizzled under those blue crescents. She wondered how Peter had ever dared provoke him. No game, this. It had been once. But now –

He pinned her arm behind her back, twisting it cruelly. Dragging her to him like the pull of a drowning current. His closeness was dizzying, cool darkness gathering at the corners of her eyes. His cold breath against her ear.

"Tell me… Wendy. Do you still like stories?"

When she saw the amused, quiet contempt on his face, her hatred overpowered her fear. "Yes," she said shakily. "There is one I distinctly recall… of a pirate who was defeated by Peter Pan… perhaps you've heard of it?"

Hook's anger flashed, steel-bright. But he mastered himself with an effort, his marble face unmoving. "I think you were less tiresome as a child."

"I think you were more frightening when I was a child." It was a lie, but one almost worth telling for the glimpse of raw fury that flashed across his features. She gasped a breath and the silver bit in sharp. Hot blood, cold night air. She winced at the pain and a look of brief satisfaction flared in his agate eyes. Steaming and breathing – piercing cold –

With a burst of savage energy she had not realized she possessed, Wendy tore herself from his grasp and staggered backwards, veering dangerously close to the balcony's edge (a Wendy bird –) Lily-hued silk tangled around her legs. Beneath the hollow-boned constraints of her tight corset, she could not breathe –

She glanced down. The world slanted to one side. Black sky and bright lights. The snow-slicked streets below. A roar of traffic at her feet, churning the dirt-blackened ice. It was a dizzying fall. She could imagine how it would feel; the rush of air, like falling through endless diamonds, the cool blue of his eyes emblazoned across her lids before the sharp pain of darkness swallowed her whole…

The frost stung like needles on her exposed shoulders. Already Hook was coming towards her, approaching with light grace, as though every movement had been meticulously calculated. He moved with the effortless ease of a born gentleman, a hard smile playing around his lips.

The ice cracked beneath her slippers. Wendy inched back another step. Her silk gown whispered in the icy breeze. Her fingers curled around the cold railings behind her.

"Stay back."

He laughed; a deep, throaty sound. His eyes gleamed beneath the hooded lids. Carefully lazy, softly alert. Waiting to see what she would do next.

Her hands braced on the metal. Slid sideways until she felt the frosted urn behind her. A hideous ornament of Aunt Millicent's, but never had she been more grateful for its presence than now. Numbed fingers traced the rounded dome until she had it in a firm grip. Without hesitation, she hurled it across the balcony.

The ceramic splintered into a hundred pieces, the shards quivering across the ground with ringing reverberations that shivered to a halt at the captain's booted feet.

Hook started to laugh, his shoulders shaking beneath the metal-threaded brocade. "Do you really think you can hurt me?" That old, drawling arrogance, familiar as the ache of an old wound.

"No," Wendy said, and waited.

There. Running footsteps. Halting outside the nursery door.

"What now, Captain?" she asked. "Will you fight your way through an entire household?" Her glance went to the edge of the balcony. "Or you can leave that way."

"Wendy?"

That voice, overbearing and querulous, but now achingly welcome. A lifeline. Wendy's heart strained beneath the lace confines. Through the door of the nursery was warmth and safety, the world of tedious prudery and reason that could yet save her from this – him –

So close, reachable… she need only call out a desperate appeal, and Hook would be gone forever –

So why did she hesitate –?

Her lips parted –

The piercing bite of metal at her back, between her shoulder blades stilled her. Deadly cold lancing through her skin. A coil of black hair slid across her cheek. She jumped and felt a soft laugh reverberate through his chest.

"Get rid of her," Hook breathed in her ear. Merciless fingers hooked around her hip, dragging her in deeper. Locked hopelessly against him. "Or I will."

"Wendy, what on earth are you doing in there?"

From outside, Aunt Millicent was rattling the door. The door Wendy had not locked. Breath escaped her cold-stiffened lips in a hiss. Her lungs burned and the silver hurt. She could feel him behind her, pressed close. A magnetic field, a cage around her body.

"I'm fine," her voice trembled. "I just dropped something." The captain crooned a murmur of approval in her ear. It froze her blood.

She heard her aunt's sigh of irritation. "Do be more careful." Then the sound of retreating footsteps. Chill silence descended. Her chest was stinging with the cold sharpness of the night air. She was alone. Alone, with –

Hook. Her villain of ice and iron and dark imagination. A living, breathing contradiction of aristocratic courtesy and murderous intent. She had forced him down into the murky depths of nightmare for so long now, something forbidden and deadly to be forgotten in the glaring light of day. Never to be feared again. She had thought him dead. What kind of watery grave had he crawled up from to return to haunt her now? What kind of being was it that even death had could not hold down?

Do you really think you can hurt me?

She twisted to face him, pressed against his chest, against the heart that would never beat. His ice consumed her very soul. She looked up at him fearfully, all pretense of bravado gone. "What do you want from me?" she whispered at last.

His lips were soft against her ear. A cold thrill passed across her skin. His vice-like hold a piercing blade of silver sliding into her heart. "I told you once. You are my obsession."

"You're lying." She could hear the breath in her ears, thick and heavy. "You would only use me to get to Peter –"

Hook's dark brows lifted in a terrible parody of offence. He pressed a hand to his scarlet breast with an elaborate flourish. "My dear girl. I am a man of feeling."

The cruel mockery of hearing her own words was too much to bear. "I know what you are," she cried, shaking; "You're a liar and a murderer and a villain, and all of Neverland knows it. And if you try to take me, all of London will know it too – my brothers will spread the truth far and wide, and then they will come and rescue me; them, and Peter. Peter will defeat you again, and I'll laugh when he does -"

His blue eyes flared, blood-hot, at the mention of Peter. "I know Pan. He is far crueller than I could ever be."

"He never tried to kill me."

"He never tried to remember you either, did he?" She winced. His voice turned low and callous, the words like jagged edges of ice being dragged over her skin. "Pan no longer cares about you. Did you think you would be any different to those that came before? Oh, yes. There have been others. And more will follow."

"But I -"

"You grew up, my darling girl. You couldn't possibly interest him now. I, on the other hand…" Icy fingers traced her cheek, slow, silken. She tensed all over. Blood pounded under her skin. "He has forgotten you, my beauty. But you have not forgotten him, I think. Which means you should be most useful. And the thought of using Peter's darling Wendy as a means to bring him down is rather fitting… is it not?" He allowed himself a laugh at his own dark humour.

"You've forgotten one thing, haven't you?" said Wendy.

"Which is…?"

She forced her voice to remain calm, swallowing down her hatred and fear. "It's been years since I even set foot in Neverland. What makes you think –"

"I'm aware of that," he hissed. "But the last thing I recall, dear girl, is you. Pan had a Wendy, and he defeated me. It was the one thought I clung to in the depths of that –" he broke off, and an expression crossed his face that frightened her more than anything else she had seen from him that night – "I began to think you would never open the window."

Wendy felt sick with horror. How long had he been planning this? How long had he watched her, in secret, awaiting his chance? Her body sank helplessly into that arctic hold. Black lace on white skin. Touching and melting. His eyes like diamonds. So hard and cold.

"You know his hiding places –"

"No-"

"You know his secrets –"

"No-"

"You will make things a lot easier by being cooperative."

She summoned one last effort. "Kill me now then, because you'll get no secrets from me."

Wendy closed her eyes, dreading what he would do next. His breath was cool against her closed eyelids. She flinched when the hook was raised, but when it touched her skin, the sensation was startling, like a fallen snowflake landing on her upturned face. "Of course…" Hook murmured, his cruel touch turning suddenly languorous. "We need not be enemies in this." His fingers were ice cold. Burning. A chill as severe as the touch of that sharp, silver hook. Wendy stared at him and said nothing. "Pan has abandoned you, my beauty. He has humiliated me, wounded me, killed me… he is the true villain of this story. We should not have to suffer from his cruelty."

The curving hook ran an icy caress down her neck. Sliding along the cool dip of skin offered by her light gown. Wendy drew a quickened breath. There was a strange, sharp, torturing satisfaction in the touch. Curling black hair, damp with sleet, fell down the hollow of her throat as he leaned over her, unbearably close.

"I offer you the chance to join me willingly," the captain breathed in silken tones. "Would you not like to pay him back? Come with me… Wendy."

"Do you mean…" her voice faltered – "becoming a pirate?"

Thin lips twisted in a grin. "Precisely."

Wendy stared at him; at the noble, aquiline features, the mass of dense, dark curls tumbling over his shoulders. Forget-me-not eyes regarding her, desultory and amused. The lazy, long-limbed arrogance as he lounged indolently, gleaming with immaculate cruelty.

"Captain," she said, "You are a fool."

Hook's handsome, effeminate face turned ferocious. Blue eyes flashed like lightning. His hand curled around her bared shoulder, fingers biting into her skin. Pins and needles darted through her veins. That touch drained and burned her. A ruthless smile rose to his lips. "So it's to be the hard way, is it?"

"You cannot take me. You cannot fly. You have no happy thoughts –"

His cadaverous face grew livid with a terrible, pale wrath. "I don't need happiness, girl," he growled. "I need retribution."

Wendy thought quickly, weighing up her chances. She knew that Hook would take her – he had set his mind on her and she did not have the strength to fight him. And better it be her than John or Michael. But she would not betray Peter. John and Michael would discover her absence. And in Neverland, Peter would rescue her as soon as he learnt of her imprisonment; she just needed more time –

"Peter will find me," she said. "And he will kill you. Again."

"Your naivety is charming."

"Do you really think you can do anything in Neverland that he isn't aware of?" She drew herself up. "Especially taking me?"

The press of those fingers, so cold. Her flesh tingled. "You seem very certain, my pretty, spoilt darling."

"I am certain. In fact… if he does not come… I will tell you everything you want to know. Willingly."

"And if he does?"

"You let me go. Unharmed." Untouched.

"A wager?" A light flared in his narrow eyes that fixed on her with a mingled expression of curiosity and greed. "An intriguing proposition, my dear girl. But why should I not just torture the information from you? The end result will be the same."

"You could," Wendy agreed. "And you know I will resist. For as long as it takes. Long enough to make you appear a fool in front of your men. With their mockery and Peter's wrath facing you…" She trailed off, seeing she had his avid attention. "But if Peter does not come to save me, if he abandons me, then I am bound by no loyalty to him." She met his icy gaze. "I will be yours to command."

Delight played across his features. "All right, my beauty. We shall see who has the right of it in the end. If Pan does not come for you in one day –"

"Three days," she said suddenly.

He paused, considering her. "Three days…" he said slowly. "Very well. In that time, I will do nothing to you. I give you my word. But after that…" His smile caught the light, like the glint off the surface of a knife. A chill ran through her veins as she saw how he was relishing this. The chance to shatter her of her last, final illusions. A vindictive game, an old obsession. She braced herself in dreaded anticipation, waiting for the next move.

The captain drew a skull-corked vial from the folds of his claret coat, a viscous liquid swirling inside. The colour of spilled wine. Spilled blood. And Wendy realized what he was about to do a moment before he did it. Too late, she pushed against him. Metallic gold-threaded brocade met her hands. His grip on her steel-tight and unrelenting –

Her head forced back –

Memory flashed through her - take your medicine -

The last thing Wendy remembered was the touch of sweet poison on her lips. As the slow, drugging darkness rolled over her, she reflected dimly that it tasted of vengeance.

Chapter Text

Long lost words whisper slowly to me
Still can't find what keeps me here
When all this time I've been so hollow inside
I know you're still there

Watching me, wanting me
I can feel you pull me down
Fearing you, loving you
I won't let you pull me down

('Haunted', Evanescence)

- Day 1 –

Part I

On the other side of the darkness was water. She swam blindly, soundless and sightless in a sea of somnolence where there was no time or memory, only dreams.

Wendy's eyes opened and liquid light spilled through her vision. She was in the Mermaid's lagoon, a nebulous green glow illuminating the damp stone walls of the cavern. They yawned around her like the jaws of a primordial sea creature. Devouring. She remained still, her eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the strange phosphorescence, shivering in the thin white silks clinging to her body that was as cold as a drowned corpse.

Am I dead, she wondered dimly. But a strange kind of afterlife, where she could see and breathe and feel (and fear…)

A voice echoed in the hollow depths. Deep in sonorous liquid, a slick caress against her pallid skin. Wendy tensed.

Did'st thou ever think you would be free of me, child?

Spectral light rippled on the walls. Slick jet and glittering malachite. Her eyes strained in the dancing gloom, trying to find the source of those soft, damning tones. A rippling blur, a wavering reflection. Skin white and luminescent. A courtly silhouette in elegant profile, the impression of spectral, terrible beauty imprisoned on her eyelids. The chill breath caressed her skin like a thousand knives. Her throat was too tight to scream.

The words left her, hoarse and strangled. Impossible. Impossible. You're dead –

A cadaverous smile, the red cut of his mouth sensual and depraved. Gone, but not forgotten, dear girl.

Closer he came, emerging through the dense, impenetrable shadows. Aquamarine light hovered around his dark shape like a subaqueous halo, the cool glow teasing his features into focus amid the rippling shadows. The angular white face framed by a mass of curling black hair, luminous. The narrow mouth. Dark blue eyes lambent in the tourmaline glow. Before her numbed feet could move, he had pulled her to him in the macabre parody of a waltz; she was pressed against the ragged edges of his torn jacket, the once rich material sodden and waterlogged. Wet, she thought, with a shudder. But why?

Wine-red (blood-red) lips curved in cruel satisfaction. Have you not missed me? Most inconsiderate of you, my Darling girl, when you are all I've thought about in this cursed place. I am so grateful you've deigned to visit me in my subterranean hell.

Hook breathed against her neck, damp and cloying. Tainted with bitter (sweet) poison. Swallowing down her fear and revulsion (the shudder of sensation, a thrill strange and evocative), she found her voice. Her tone would have been petulant, had it not faltered.

If you are in hell, it is of your own making. You brought yourself here, captain.

No, he hissed. You did. You and that wretched boy.

He darted out a hand that curled around the back of her neck, and – Wendy bit down on her lip and tasted blood – the touch seared through her skin and turned her heart to ice. His cool, slender fingers ghosted down the contour of her back that arched shiveringly beneath that spectral touch. Silver trails of water trickling like ice down the curving slope of flesh (drowning…)

Tangled black hair hung wetly over his shoulders. Wendy tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat as he gently brushed a kiss over her cheek. She turned her face away in loathing; feeling her body tense, tighten –

His lips traced the tense line of her jaw. A smile lit his forget-me-not eyes, but the gleaming light within was hollow and cold. You condemned me to this place. And you, dear girl, will share it with me.

Wendy choked as his breath, cold as metal (warm as wine), slid over her lips. She felt sick and faint, as though chains were weighting down her limbs, dragging her down into the slick, swirling depths of abyssal blue. You'll be just as dead, she managed to rasp weakly.

Indeed, he murmured.

She clenched her cold hands into fists. His whisper, cloying, melodious, insinuated into her mind. Still a beauty, Wendy… Darling…

She held herself rigid as his hand glided along her waist. The glint of his teeth sharp and predatory against the vivid red of his parted lips. Fingers skating along her hips, searing through the damp silks. She closed her eyes against the strange flash of uncertain longing, aware of a cold anger rising within her –

Stop, she said through clenched teeth.

Hook tore his hand from the imprisoning grasp on her waist, winding his fingers sharply through her hair, tugging her close enough to feel the silver point of metal pressing on her breast. Hard and cold against the voluptuous warmth of his body, ruffled lace and sumptuous brocade, sensual and decadent and dangerous and maddening –

Stubborn? His grip turned iron, his sensuous face twisting into a grimace of cruelty. You have a predilection for being difficult, my beauty. As you will. There are many ways you can die down here. The sharp edge of silver shall kiss you goodnight…

Metal flashed. Her eyelids flickered and she saw – bone –

Wendy looked at him, really looked. His jaw, his throat, his hand – all gilded by the pale light. His eyes a shade darker than the midnight blue of his coat embroidered with silver. Elegant and mocking and debonair as he had ever been. The aristocratic gentleman, the degenerate rake. Yet behind that, she caught a sudden, fleeting afterimage, of white bones and hollowed eyes and decaying flesh, long strands of ebony hair still clinging to the visible skull, heightening the gruesome contrast. Oily green bubbles formed at the corner of those lips that stretched back over grinning teeth. A skeletal hand outstretched to embrace her while on the other, the silver hook glimmered dully beneath the tarnished surface…

Wendy choked with horror and stumbled back. The mirror-light oozed down the walls. The decaying jaw tightened.

So, this form is less pleasing to you, is it?

Blind fear swallowed her. Her feet slipped on the slick rock. It was dark again and she was falling…the cavern whirling around her…

The water, oh, the water was cold as death, like ice against her skin… her hair floating about her, like a mermaid… black sails waving above her, high enough to block out the moon…

Hook's laughter was around her, fractured into a thousand echoes. Do you think you can escape me, my beauty? You can never escape me. I will haunt you –"

Tinkling laughter, a preternatural lure. Wendy blinked the water from her eyes. Something approached her, disturbing the still, black surface. An arm pale as alabaster and shimmering fish-tail scales. Mermaids. Ethereal eyes staring into her soul. And from behind, clammy hands pulled at her clothing, dragging her into the treacherous depths –

Floundering –

The water closed over her head, the green pool swallowing her whole. Her eyes opened to the lunar glow of gossamer shapes. She could feel the living things that moved, pressing against her. A pale hand entwined in her streaming skirts, sliding along her thigh. Horror rose up in her throat. Hook smiled at her with fiendish delight, liquid black hair streaming around his face like spilled ink. His laughter bubbled against her lips.

Stay with me, beloved, down here… such stories they would tell of us…

She was sinking into him, now straining away, now falling against the hard line of his body…hitting him with a muffled thud as she tore herself from the enveloping folds of his moldering jacket, only to be pulled back by some irresistible tide…

She flayed wildly, beating against him –

Thump… thump… thump…

No – no! she silently screamed and

the bright gold line of daylight fell slanting across her eyelids. There was material, rough and woolen, beneath her prone form. Dry… and warm…

Gradually, she rose from the fogged depths of unconsciousness, slowly gaining awareness of her surroundings. She was lying on a hammock and the dull thudding noise she heard had been the muffled sound of it swaying against the wall with a regular, rocking motion. Wendy sat up at once, swinging her legs onto the wooden floor. Immediately awake and alert in every nerve, she cautiously surveyed her surroundings.

She was in a cabin, small and sparsely furnished. Smooth wood floors and walls, polished with wear. A dresser sat across from her, a heavy oaken piece of furniture, and above it was a tarnished mirror, its dulled surface cracked, the rust casting a bronze sheen across the glass. Lamps hung along an oiled rope, swinging to and fro from the low ceiling with that steady, rhythmic movement. A circle of pale aquamarine caught her gaze; the only source of light in the room. Through the small porthole window, the sea glittered, foaming at the distant shoreline, turquoise slivers of light shivering beneath the surface. She could see the dusky pink coral reefs, the splash of green where the jungle breathed, palpable and mysterious, and could almost imagine she heard the cry of exotic birds, the sonorous drip of malachite stained water in the dark cave that housed the Mermaid's lagoon.

So she was aboard the Jolly Roger and the captain held her captive. She was strangely calm, as though it had been inevitable she would come here, that somewhere in the back of her mind, she had known this was always going to happen. This was the situation and she must face it with as much courage and resolve as she was able, no matter how dire the circumstances appeared. Peter would rescue her, and if he did not – well, she had three days to find a means of escape. The crew could not watch her all the time, and if they drew near enough to the shore, she could always chance a break for freedom and cast herself upon the mercy of the Indians who had long been allies of Peter's. No, she was not beaten yet. She could outwit a group of uneducated pirates, of that she was certain.

It was only when she thought of the captain that Wendy's resolution faltered and her heart sank within her. The memory of that cruel hook curving into her skin and the flash of those ice-blue eyes chilled her to the core, a lingering poison that flared and burned. She feared him because she did not understand him, and was unable to reconcile the charming, debonair gentleman with the vicious and heartless villain she knew he was. Handsome yet dissolute, soft yet treacherous, courteous yet cruel.

Why had he come for her? What did he want?

Pan had a Wendy, and he defeated me.

She was too young, she realized hopelessly, too sheltered and civilized to understand the thoughts that fermented like dark poison in the mind of this man who would stop at nothing to fulfill his dreams of vengeance. Her own experiences were smooth, straight and neat, formed in a rigid pattern of Edwardian refinement. To defeat him, she must first understand him; allow her mind to descend into dangerous and uneasy territory, to places such as she had dreamed about.

Even before she had ever set eyes on him, he had become a part of her, breathed to life through her stories, his voice a silken whisper in the depths of her mind, and always, haunting eyes of the deepest blue. His dark visage emerging through her nightmares that even now lingered ghostlike on the edges of her consciousness. And now, here, his presence pervaded the very walls. Corrupting her dreams like ink bleeding through water. She was trapped in a silver snare and she could feel it slowly tightening. He could never be cut free of her. But she would not stay here and wait for the worst.

Wendy stood up, smoothing down the gossamer-fine creases in her slim, high-waisted gown. The wooden floor dipped and surged beneath her feet, the low rhythm of the sea moving in her ears, a faint, distant roaring like the sound of a conch shell when held against an auricle. Fear was receding and curiosity was taking its place. And, beneath that, a low sense of excitement humming through her veins. She was back – back in Neverland for the first time in years, something she would never have dreamed possible. How different would it be viewed through the cynical gaze of adulthood? Would it be clearer and brighter or more elusive and dreamlike? Or would it be darker and more deadly?

It was this curiosity that prompted her to cross the room and reach for the brass-handled door. To her surprise it opened easily and she stepped into the dimly-lit passage with caution. No one hindered her. She moved warily, half-expecting to see Hook's grinning face leaning over her. Yet in spite of her unease, she felt a sense of humiliation at how she had behaved last night, as though she had somehow shown herself up, been less than what she was. She had probably shivered and swooned just as he had expected. The thought of the captain's quiet contempt made her face burn, made her feel uncommonly clumsy, awkward, childlike. She had not been herself – the true Wendy that peered through her reflections beneath the soft white powder and silk drapings of refined womanhood – the Wendy that had been suppressed since Neverland. The Wendy she must somehow find again if she was to have any chance of surviving.

The sun was shining as she stepped outside, the light falling in a dancing haze of mirrored gold on the surface of the water. The last time she had been outside, it had been a frosty night in midwinter, the stars glittering coldly overhead and snow splintering like diamonds beneath her feet, but here the freshness of spring was in the air, bright and brisk and cloudless. Wendy remained still for some moments, merely savoring the sensation of the warmth beating on the pale skin of her bared arms. It was as though she hadn't felt the sun in years, confined to formal parlors, always so mindful of maintaining the porcelain whiteness of her skin that fashion and class consciousness demanded. Even when the girls at school had been permitted an excursion to Torquay, they had been armed with parasols and respectable bathing suits that concealed far more than they revealed.

She could hear the sails creaking above her. The wind had whipped the waves into turbulent green crests, white foam flying onto the deck, stinging her face and blowing her hair about her shoulders. It brought colour to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes, and she clung to the side of the deck, inhaling deeply. The strong smell of sea air, the tang of salt and rum and oiled leather was sharp and invigorating; it filled Wendy with the heady sense of adventure, called her to answer the challenge set by the sharp and bracing winds. Her heart was beating with a strange excitement. Last night, she had been resigned to the chill domesticity of a dutiful engagement, and now she was a captive held on a ship by an enemy that had haunted her since childhood; there was danger, and there was adventure, there was a wild unpredictability that had been missing from her life for longer than she cared to remember.

Feeling refreshed and emboldened, she set to exploring her surroundings with a new sense of eagerness and resolve. So accustomed to furnished rooms and fine draperies and expensive carpets, her outdoor rambles had been primarily limited to London's enclosed horticultural and botanical parks or the regimented naturalism of Kensington Gardens. Always so perfectly cultivated, never allowed to become wild or untamed or free –

Far away, London was awakening in the chill grey of dawn, her father setting off to work, collars swathed highly around his throat, his top hat pulled low. Mother would be seeing John off at Victoria Station, and Michael… goodness knows what mischief Michael would already have gotten himself into. The thought of John's absence struck a painful chord in her heart and yet it already seemed a part of someone else's life, like looking at the photographs of an old acquaintance. My world was in a dream last night, she thought. And now it has woken up.

It was with some force of will that Wendy reminded herself she was a prisoner and this ship was her cage. She was trapped aboard her very own Flying Dutchman, haunted by a ghost who could not die. For all the deceptive calm, this was a place of evil and cruelty, ruled over by a tyrannical captain who delighted in murder and pillaging and possibly viler crimes she was as yet unaware of. She was alone and friendless, prey to the mercurial whim of a man who possessed no honour to bind him to the promise he had so carelessly made last night.

However, the change of scenery and her own adventurous spirit wakened out of its long torpor made self-pity impossible. In the light of day and under the warmth of the bright sun, the horrors of last night were chased away; even the lingering vestiges of the nightmare that had awoken her was receding to nothing more than a dim, unpleasant memory. Everything seemed fresh and bright and new; and her situation did not seem nearly so daunting as it had only a few hours ago.

It did not take long for her to become accustomed to the motion of the ship on the water. It was a strange feeling, to once again be walking the swaying, salt-drenched boards that had haunted her imagination for so long. Canvas sails billowed wildly overhead in the fresh, sharp, choppy winds. Her skirts of stiff, raw silk rapidly became saturated, dragging heavily with each movement. It would have been far easier to cast them off…

A floorboard creaked behind her. Wendy stilled, hardly breathing. Anticipation tugged at the cords of her beating heart. Dreading (hoping) –

"Come out," she said, determined not to tremble. It took all her strength to resist turning around.

There was a cough and the sound of a low, shuffling gait that made the boards groan. The agonizing tension left her shoulders. Appearing before her was a face semi-hidden beneath a tangled white beard, pale blue eyes creased with friendly welcome through a pair of precariously balanced spectacles.

"Miss Wendy, is it?" he asked, the faintest hint of an Irish brogue discernible in his salt-roughened tones.

She greeted him formally. "Mr Smee."

"How d'ye do, Miss?"

Wendy looked him up and down warily. She could not forget that this man had played a part in deceiving her (oh, what fool she had been back then!) leading her blindly into the captain's insidious trap and standing by while she had been forced to walk the plank. He may not have directly harmed her, but Wendy had a suspicion that there was a shrewd, cunning mind beneath the simple, well-meaning exterior. The past few years had taught her deceptiveness could live within the most guileless faces. She had learned to be cautious of kindness.

"He sent you to watch me," she said. "Didn't he?"

"The Cap'n is busy, that is t'say…"

"And what is the captain doing?"

"Can't really tell ye, Miss."

Wendy examined a dainty white hand, the skin unblemished by any marks of wear or labour. Barely fit for holding a heavy parasol, let alone a pistol or cutlass. She looked at him imperiously, a faintly bitter smile on her pursed lips. "Do you think I need watching, Mr Smee? You cannot tell me that you look at me and consider me a threat?"

The small man twisted his hands in his apron. "It's not my place t'say."

"No," said Wendy. "I don't suppose it is." Adding rather cruelly, "Your place is merely to follow orders."

Smee's face flushed beneath the weathered tan and he made a lot of noise clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry," she said, more gently. I never used to be unkind. "You should learn not to pay too much attention to what I say."

If anything, this seemed to embarrass him even more. He affected not to hear her, instead saying, "Why don't I get ye something to eat, Miss?"

His words made Wendy realize that the exploration had awakened her appetite, so she obediently followed him down into the small, square kitchen, where a great tureen hung suspended over a lowly smoldering fire, the ashes of which blackened the surface of the narrow table and benches aligning the wall. Smoke clouded the porthole windows, turning them grey with years of grime. The floor was filthy with cabbage peelings, scraps of potato and overturned bottles that she stepped over with barely-concealed repugnance. The state of the kitchen appalled her natural instincts for cleanliness, but she said nothing, primly taking a seat and crossing her hands over her lap.

Smee laid a full flagon before her. Wendy stared at him. "That's rum," she said.

"Aye, the finest."

"Haven't you any tea?"

Frightened by the look of icy contempt in her eyes, he hurried to oblige.

Curling her hands around the cup, she took a sip of scalding hot tea that went some way to abating the chill in the brisk air. Wendy could not remember the last time she had tasted tea that wasn't Earl Grey or did not come in little white bone-china cups, but there was a smoky and slightly bitter tang that satisfied her body far more than anything she ever remembered having at home. She felt stronger, strong enough to start asking questions and learn more about her situation (the one who had brought her here).

"It is a strange captain," she mused aloud, "Who does not come out aboard his own ship, but remains shut in his cabin all day."

"He's a strange man, Miss," Smee replied over his shoulder, still clattering over the stove. The faint smell of burning lingered in the smoky air that hung around her in swathes like grey sea mist.

"Yes. Strange enough to fall to his death yet emerge completely unscathed. How does that happen?"

"That's a simple enough story. No crocodile could complete with the likes of James Hook when his blood's up – oh no! He sliced it clean open and climbed right out. He's got the head displayed on his wall."

Wendy stared, for once surprise startling her from her formal restraint. "Do you mean to tell me that he cut his way out of a crocodile?"

"Oh yes," he said lightly, as though such an occurrence were commonplace.

"And that masterful feat took him seven years to accomplish?"

The bo'sun did not reply, but placed a dish before her. A bowl of oatmeal and a thick-cut loaf of bread generously spread with butter. There was no sense in starving, so she quietly thanked him and fell on the meal hungrily. It was plain, but wholesome with that same earthy, vital quality she had tasted in the tea. But still she was curious, insatiable, the captain looming at the back of her memory, piercing deep through her consciousness. She felt him, as though he was there with her, silent and smiling and so very dangerous. His essence clear in the haze of her mind, real yet unreal.

"He's insane," she said at last. "Rational people don't behave as he does; they do not allow themselves to become so consumed by revenge." She set the bowl down, feeling the steam rise against her face, warm and cloying. "What is it that draws a man to the brink of madness? There is more to this story than he has told you, Mr Smee. I would stake my reputation on it."

"Don't let it trouble ye, Miss. He's a difficult man to understand, the Cap'n, and ye'll only drive yerself mad with wonderin'. Best t'just let it be."

Sound advice, thought Wendy. Which I shall not be following. "Perhaps you are right," was all she said aloud, and they spoke no more of it.

The sun had passed its zenith and raced westward in a blazing trail. The ocean waves were as she had seen them many times in her dreams, rolling hills of green light, strewn with wreaths of white foam. Lone rock islets lay in the distance, the cragged grey tops emerging from the deeps like ancient sentinels. The crying of sea-birds and the harsh voices of the crew reached her ears. The pirates were rough and coarse, broad-shouldered and bearded. Used to the men surrounding her to be as immaculately tailored as they were unvaryingly polite – high-collared dinner jackets and folded trousers, shirts of finely-pressed linen – Wendy was momentarily thrown by their lack of manners, appalled by their coarse way of speaking. She was too conscious of the difference in social standing, too conceited to offer the hand of friendship, even though doing so might have been of use. Instead, she ignored them with the effortless disregard that society called good breeding.

And yet…

Without seeming to, Wendy watched them engaged in trimming the sails, raking spars and handling the great wheel as the ship tossed on the high seas. In a strange way, she envied them, their steady sense of purpose. She thought of the duties that she was expected to perform in her own daily life: studying what was permitted just enough to be able to hold an educated conversation, shopping trips to Oxford Street, paying calls on acquaintances, attending society parties. All intended to prepare her for the sole ambition of marriage. Nothing to relieve her from the suffocating inertia, the one dream that she had harboured – to be a writer – deemed improper by her friends. All those long hours when she had been forced to remain seated in drawing rooms, head high, gracious manners, merely a decorative ornament, while her body and soul were being slowly crushed from her and her imagination was dwindling like the light from a dying candle…

She hungered for activity, she realized, not to be sitting around in idleness waiting for a rescue that might never come. Nothing was worse than this dreadful, interminable waiting. If she could only do something –

Her drifting gaze paused, lingering on a cabin larger than the rest and far more grandiose. Hook's quarters. An idea leapt into her head – dangerous, mad, irresistible – and held her in place. The captain had not emerged from his cabin all day and his absence was a great abyss that filled her with dread and a sickening, pervasive curiosity. Reason cautioned her to return to her cabin and not take such a foolish, impudent risk. Had she not been relating the cautionary tale of Bluebeard's wife only last night? But she was too intrigued. She had tasted the bitter edge of danger and had a strange thirst for more. Turning away was impossible. The prospect was too enticing to resist. Her heart thudded under the flesh of her ribcage. The blood beating hotly in her veins. Wendy drew a deep breath – salt and sharp winds and oiled leather – and felt a galvanizing surge of energy. She was young and strong, vital, tough. And he was…

A ghost she was unable to face down; of the deep seas, the abyss, of blue glass and cold iron. Inside her head, in her dreams, slowly taking over her thoughts, draining the life from her. This tearing feeling clawed beneath the strains of her corset, left her unable to breathe at the fear of him that she fought against with raw, animal instinct. She must master it, conquer it, and if he discovered her… well, she would worry about that when the time came. She must and would see him, in the harsh light of day.

She drew nearer until she could feel the rough surface of the wall, the wooden beams warmed by the sun. She avoided the window that was only partly screened by velvet drapes. Movement was visible within. Wendy stood and listened for a moment, at first hearing nothing. She slid the shoes from the feet, holding them in one hand as she crept closer. A board creaked beneath her bare feet and she stilled, tense. Nothing. Then –

Low voices within. She could hear Smee's distinct Irish brogue, rapid and earnest. And in reply –

Her breath stopped. Smooth, fluid tones that she recognized immediately as belonging to the captain. Dark and liquid and daring. Taking her back to last night… his hook at her throat, short white gasps of air against the coldcoldcold –

Her nerves heightened to a painful intensity, Wendy leaned in as far as she dared and listened, her ear pressed against the wood –

"…Become a nuisance ever since they allied themselves with Pan."

Smee cleared his throat. "Perhaps we'd best be cautious, Cap'n –"

"No…" Hook said thoughtfully. "No. Swift action is needed."

"The clouds threaten storms."

"A mere caprice. Pan's moods are changeable; it will clear. Do you have the map?"

There was the faint rustle of parchment and she heard a metallic thud. A hook slamming into the outspread paper.

"There," the captain murmured, "That series of narrow and enclosed coves would hide any approach. That is the weak point, the place to strike. It'll take caution, mind, and care. I'll have no blunders this time. You will inform the crew and make all ready for an attack when I give the word. Do you understand me, Smee? No failures."

So Hook had not been idle in solitude. She should have known he was planning something. The three days he had granted her was not a grace period bestowed from the kindness of his heart (what heart did such a villain possess?) but merely a chance for him to rally his forces and be the first to strike, taking down Peter's allies one by one. Even while her heart and lungs burned with loathing, Wendy could not help but feel a grudging admiration for his cunning. She heard the floorboards creak as someone moved around within. A shadow passed across the window, dimly visible in the space between the partly-drawn curtains. Wendy pressed herself against the wood, not daring to breathe. She caught a glimpse of claret brocade and long dark curls, dressed cavalier-style. There was a momentary flare of amber light. The faint smell of cigar smoke reached her faintly through the wall, cloying and aromatic. Clouding the glass. She leaned forward, desperate to hear more of what he intended, but the captain seemed to have exhausted the subject, swiftly changing the tide of the conversation.

"What of the girl?"

"Still out on the deck," replied Smee promptly.

"You've been watching her, I presume?" The tone was one of polite inquiry.

"Yes… just as you requested, Cap'n. But should we not send her back to her cabin, turn the key on her?"

"Why?" A careless laugh, rich and deep. "Do you fear for your safety, Smee? Or is it mine?" Wendy heard the creak of leather and supposed he had just sat down, long legs stretched out before him. She did not dare betray herself by chancing a look through the window. "Such a precaution is hardly necessary. There is nothing we need fear from Miss Darling. I spoke with her myself last night and found her nothing more than a proud, unpleasant, disagreeable girl."

The bo'sun said something in reply, too low for her to catch the words. The captain laughed again. "Even if she had the wits to suspect something, she has neither the courage nor the resolution – nor the means – to do anything. S'wounds, it's cowardice that makes you speak out, not caution. Only a gutless craven like you could be quaking at the thought of a mere girl. Pour me another drink."

Wendy listened unmoving, white-faced and silent. The only betrayal of emotion was the convulsive movement of the fists clenching at her sides. She vowed to remember those words – remember them so that one day she would make the captain rue the day he ever uttered them.

She heard an exclamation of annoyance and flinched at the sound of breaking glass. "I asked for port, you blithering oaf. What do you mean by giving me brandy?"

The sound of footsteps moved to the left and Wendy followed soundlessly, keeping her back to the wall. From the slow, dragging steps, she surmised it was the bo'sun moving, while the captain remained in place. She would have to pass by the window in order to keep the two men within earshot. Bracing herself, hands pressed against the wood behind her, she moved sidelong, cautiously looking through the narrow space granted by the parted curtains. She caught only the briefest glimpse of vague, shadowy outlines and impressions. A glowing cigar between slender fingers, a leg lazily propped up, recognizable by the languid yet rakish manner he slouched against the chair. That was Hook accounted for and her imagination could supply the rest. Too well she could picture the artistic contours of that hateful face, the plush velvet of his decadent attire. And the slower, clumsy movements of Smee, who continued talking all the while –

"I am only sayin', Cap'n, that it might not hurt to delay a few days. See if the weather changes. Look for signs of Pan. We've heard naught of his movements for weeks. You've waited seven years, Cap'n, a couple more days wouldn't hurt –"

"Are you questioning me?"

Wendy did not dare unclench her jaw. If she did, her teeth would begin to chatter.

The bo'sun, too, must have caught the silver thread of menace in Hook's tone, for he stammered and laughed nervously. "No – no, of course not. I was only thinkin' –"

"Smee…" murmured the captain dangerously, "You are forgetting your place."

That voice. Like a rapier dancing, beautiful, deadly, without mercy. The very sound of it sent uneasy currents surging through her. Wendy rested her head against the cabin, trying to cast off the reminders of her dream that clung to her mind like rigging in a shipwreck. Skin so pale it seemed to glow against the dark, waterlogged fabric. She closed her eyes, feeling sick and faint. Icy fingers dragging her down into the treacherous, murky depths…

A flash of light darted across her closed lids. Wendy started, swallowing down the shocked cry that rose to her lips. Bright as a fallen star, rapid and darting, almost too fast to see – but unmistakable –

"Tinker Bell," she breathed.

The light moved away down the corridor, waxing and waning. The kind of bewitching illumination that once might have led mariners to their doom. Wendy hesitated. The temptation to stay and try to discover what the captain was planning was almost overwhelming, but this might be her only chance to convey a message to Peter. With a sigh of frustration, she quietly pursued Tinker Bell into the sanctuary of her cabin, carefully closing the door behind her. She leaned back against it, eyes following the movements of the fairy that flashed like summer lightning, leaving fiery trails glittering in the room. The dresser. The window. The glass lantern –

Wendy darted forward, slamming the small door shut and fastening the tiny metal catch. A steam of incoherent words echoed against the glass like silver raindrops as the fairy helplessly pounded the door with small fists. She waited patiently until the tirade was over.

"You know me, I think. I am Wendy Darling."

No response, save for the beating of those wings, gossamer thin and filmy, more rapid than the flutter of a butterfly. That face, light and delicate as a flower, ever-changing, a rapid array of emotions passing over those vivid features in constantly varying shades and hues. Wendy sighed hopelessly. The fairy was forgetful as a child, as innocent and narcissistic as Peter himself. How could she have expected any of them to remember?

"You don't remember me."

That beautiful little face contorted in a vicious frown. Wendy was too much of a woman not to recognize the unmistakable flash of jealousy that lit the fairy's tiny form like an electric blaze.

"All right," she said. "So you do remember me. Good. Because I need your help. I want you to deliver a message to Peter for me."

A flash of movement. Haughtiness and fire and impulse. How galling it was, Wendy thought, to beg a favor of this infantile, vindictive creature. But she kept her voice steady and dignified. "I want you to tell him that Hook has Wendy. That Hook is returned – he has Wendy and Peter must rescue me. Once he comes, I can do the rest. I will leave Neverland at once and I'll not return. And believe me, there is nothing here I want to stay for." Those last words caught in her throat slightly but Wendy hardened her heart, indignant that she should even struggle over such a supremely simple decision. A few breaths of fresh air and a taste of self-reliance would not make a fool of her. It would not.

The fairy tilted her head to one side, considering, her glance full of lightning. Wendy dared not move in case any action would spark a change in that wayward, callous, elemental nature. She continued, quiet and self-assured, "Besides, Peter certainly won't want me around – as you see, I have quite grown up."

Silence. Wendy's expression was bland, serene. She held her breath. Careful, careful. You almost have her.

"And I am sure he'll thank you. Imagine how grateful he will be when I tell him everything you did to help me."

A spark of hope lit the fairy's vivid, intent face. Fleeting, ephemeral, intangible. And finally – yes – a swift nod.

It was all the affirmation she needed. Wendy opened the glass door. Without a moment's hesitation, Tinker Bell disappeared in a tiny supernova of light, leaving behind nothing but a glimmering trail of fairy dust in her wake. It lay scattered across the floor, catching the light like the surface of water under a midday sun, or the glint of the first frost in winter. Wendy did not even observe the departure. Whether the fairy delivered the message was of no matter. She had gotten what she wanted. Her eyes fell on the fairy dust shimmering at her feet. Wendy knelt down and swept the glittering remnants into the palm of her hand and remained still for some moments, lost in thought. Slowly, she began to smile.

It was the revelry that drew her out from her room and onto the deck. The sounds of carousing, the shouting and singing, must have been audible from the distant shore, and the bright lights lit the Jolly Roger like a beacon blazing in the darkness. Wendy blinked under the sudden glare as she emerged outside in the cold night air. A sense of relief filled her. If the pirates had so little care for being seen it meant that they were planning no attack – at least, not tonight – but on the other hand, it also meant they had no fear of being attacked; a sobering realisation that made Wendy aware she was aboard the greatest threat to Neverland. She shivered at the sudden chill that passed through her, and the thrill of adventure dispersed like mist through her fingers.

She leaned over the side of the deck, gazing pensively across the vast stretch of sea inlaid with watercolour swirls. The ocean was dark as black glass, the cosmos reflected in its smooth surface. Infinite and full of possibilities. It was a strange place to find such a sense of harmony, on an enemy ship adrift on the high-turning seas. Diamond bright stars flashed through the gauzy straits of cloud, wheeling nebulae turning over and over the moving seas. Wendy wondered whether she would catch lumen glimpses of mermaids riding the waves, aqua hair streaming in their wake. She imagined what it would be like to see pearls pulled fresh from the sea, gleaming iridescent pink and ivory in their shells, not merely aligned in pristine order in the window of a Bond Street jewellers. Everything here seemed brighter, more real. So far from the light, empty rooms and hollow routines she had lived in, untouchable, every emotion closed from her heart. And to think she might have stayed in Neverland, always at Peter's side…

Then flashed a sudden memory of dancing to the light of fairies and fireflies beneath a canopy of stars. Silently, she smiled. My happy thought. Had Peter's heart really been untouched in that moment? Was that the truth she had to accept? He could so easily forget her, this mocking child of no one, the boy she had carried in her heart for years ever since she kissed him (had she kissed him?), the sensation light and burning as a hummingbird flutter against her mouth. A burst of naive, immature emotion. Playful and teasing and spirited – that was what romance should be. Not the shallow infatuation of Charles, nor the decadent hunger of – Wendy closed her eyes, forcing down the memory of a stirring, an awakening felt in the shadow of a dream. Instead, she thought of John buried in his books, Michael's love affairs, her mother patiently waiting at home for father's return... It is the fate of women, Wendy realised heavily, not to love as men do – easily, fondly – but rather to suffer inwardly, to burn and be crushed beneath its overbearing weight. Men have so many other occupations, so many other lives outside the home, that love is merely a pleasing distraction. It is only to women, who have nothing else to occupy them, that love is an oppression, something we are doomed to suffer and die for. It was better, far better to remain aloof and alone. To spurn admirers and scorn the romances her schoolmates devoured between classes. The idea of an intense, all-consuming passion terrified her. I will never love again, she told herself firmly. Never. Not as I loved Peter.

She had opened her soul to him, and he… he… (Pan has abandoned you, my beauty)

This was the time for her childhood fantasy to materialize and guide her home. Her lips parted, a strange vulnerability wavering across her stiff, inflexible features. Hear me, Peter. Find me.

But this was no story, and she was no fairytale princess to be awoken with a kiss. These things did not happen in real life. There was no happy ending. No fairy godmother. No handsome prince. Love stories, Hook had so contemptuously called them. And perhaps they were. Love stories with eternal youth and beautiful virgins encased in coffins of ice… Skin white as snow, hair black as ebony, lips red as blood…

Her fingers tightened on the acorn around her throat. The locket was empty no longer but now filled with fairy dust, her last resort should Peter not come. And if there was Tinker Bell and fairy dust, there was hope. I know these things are real, that they exist. If Hook is alive, then so must Peter be, for one cannot live without the other…

She sighed, resting her chin in her hand, her expression intent and meditative. What is it you want, Wendy Darling?

I wanted to remain a child. Then I wanted to grow up.

She had wanted to grow up, but not in a world where all the magic had flown away from her, back to Neverland where it belonged, leaving her hollow and empty. Aching for something gone from her that could never be reclaimed. It was heart-breaking, really; so many years gone by, so many things fallen into neglect.

Her mind went back to the nursery and she felt it again as she silently said farewell to her childhood – the overwhelming sorrow – that great weight, the moment of change –

Then he had come.

It seemed she was always doomed to find Hook. A demon who had cast a dark shadow over her existence; they were bound together by a mutual hatred for one another, a mutual obsession. Peter dominated both their lives, twisting them into a strange kind of affinity with one another. Was this what made him so ruthless, so full of hate? She recalled the terrifying bleakness in his expression as he had stood wreathed in snow on the balcony. I don't need happiness. His eyes filled with a drowning loneliness. Perhaps there was more sincerity in his offer than she had dared to admit. He was the shadow of which she could never flee. Wendy thought of his paralyzing touch of cool fire, of burning ice that she was unable to shake herself free of. To be bound to him, to this place, forever…

A roar of merriment jolted her from the unsettling thought. She glanced over at the crew seated together. Until now, she had merely ignored them with a proud, sovereign indifference. She studied their merrymaking through narrowed eyes, wondering at their rough, liberated ease. Something about the uninhibited Dionysian abandon was strangely appealing. Abandoning all duty and being free of all restraint…

Wendy stood and looked at them quietly, her chin slightly raised. Then, coming to a silent decision, she unhesitatingly walked over to the crew. Unconstrained by self-consciousness, it was easy for her to maintain a calm and collected demeanor. A riotous chorus greeted her ears as she approached.

"Charlotte the harlot lay dying –"

"Don't stop on my account," she said pleasantly.

The men looked uneasily at one another. The same expression, thought Wendy, as Michael always wore whenever he had been caught in some misdemeanor. She predicted the stream of excuses that immediately followed (was she always to play the role of mother, even to these great, lumbering brutes?)

"Don't be offended, Miss, we were only –"

"Don't tell the captain –"

"It was just a song –"

"I love a good song," said Wendy, surprising even herself with the unknown impulse that prompted the words.

Bill Jukes hesitated, flushing beneath his tattoos. "It's not really appropriate, Miss, you bein' a lady an' all…"

"And it is bad manners to turn down the request of a lady," she returned coldly.

"But the captain said -"

"Well, I don't see the captain anywhere, do you?" Wendy gave her most implacable smile, one that had been used to devastating effect in London drawing rooms. So unaccustomed to anything feminine aboard their ship, the pirates did not stand a chance against such an appeal.

The Italian Cecco started to laugh, dark eyes and strong white teeth flashing in the gloom. He reminded her of a wolf. A tanned, hungry wolf. "Well, I suppose one wouldn't hurt…"

Someone pushed a cup into her hands, the strong smell of the drink within making her eyes water. Wendy would have deigned not to notice it, but the memory of the captain's mocking face flashed through her mind, and on impulse, she lifted the cup and swallowed the contents. Someone roared in approval, but she was unable to identify who through the stinging tears that blurred her eyes. It tasted nothing like the various spirits adorning her father's liquor cabinet that she had once sampled at a dare from Michael on her fifteenth birthday. Her throat was burning like fire that coursed a blazing trail down to her stomach.

Crossing her legs under her, she sat and listened with reluctantly increasing interest as the men began another song.

"Come, messmates, pass the bottle 'round
Our time is short, remember,
For our grog must stop,
And our spirits drop,
On the first day of September.
For tonight we'll merry, merry be,
For tonight we'll merry, merry be,
For tonight we'll merry, merry be -"

Wendy laughed in spite of herself, surprised by a sudden feeling of recklessness and daring. She stood up, and felt the deck sway alarmingly beneath her, the blood surging swiftly through her veins and dizzyingly to her head. She gripped at the side to keep from falling. The hint of derision that marred her voice came more from habit than genuine feeling: "Are all your songs about drinking?"

"Not all," said Cecco, to a roar of merriment. He winked at her and Wendy foolishly felt her cheeks burn with colour. She looked away quickly, striving to maintain an emotionless façade.

"Roll your leg over
And roll your leg over
And roll your leg over
It's better that way
If all the young lasses were boats on the ocean
Then I'd be the waves and I'd show 'em the motion -"

Wendy's first instinct was to rise in outraged disbelief and be offended at the audacity of it when she wondered, with a sudden rush of vindictive pleasure, what Aunt Millicent would make of the respectable Miss Darling carousing with a group of pirates singing bawdy songs. Purely for the childish sake of being stubborn and contrary, she determined to remain exactly where she was and enjoy herself.

Some of her innate youth and spirits returned, and she found herself losing her customary inhibitions to the gaiety and mood of the company. The dim fog of dread that had been hovering over her all day lifted slightly. Clearly perceiving her as neither a threat nor a hindrance, the pirates went back to ignoring her, regarding her as they might a stray dog that could be thrown a few scraps and then happily overlooked. She, on the other hand, made a deliberate point of learning their names, one of the few talents acquired from the tedious number of formal gatherings she had attended that made having a good memory such an essential part of courtesy. She was almost beginning to forget the gravity of her situation when slowly, one by one, the voices gradually trailed off into uneasy silence. She looked for the source of the disturbance and realized it was the arrival of Mr Smee. His short-sighted eyes sought and found her among the crew, and Wendy thought she could detect a faint flicker of sympathy in those watery blue depths.

"The Cap'n invites you to dine with him."

And with those words, Wendy turned cold and knew what she had been dreading. It was as though that hook had already pierced flesh, twisted deep inside and touched her heart with its point. She glanced at the assembled crew. The air of festivity had fled at the mention of Hook, and she wondered uneasily how it was the captain had such a hold over them. She felt she could face Hook's men, if it came to that, but the captain was an unknown entity that filled her with fear and something else that wasn't fear at all – a strange, disturbing unease beneath the skin that she did not understand. The memory of his Cavalier appearance and erudite tones chilled her far more than the threat of crocodiles and cannon fire. Her tone was haughty and bored, though a barely discernible tremor ran beneath the surface. "Tell the captain I am otherwise engaged."

The bo'sun shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "The captain orders you to dine with him."

Wendy silently reprimanded herself for not having expected this. Did you think you would be so fortunate as to have him forget you entirely? Of course he would do something like this – delude her into thinking he would leave her in peace, only to then summon her to a dinner that would no doubt be a cruelly recreated reminder of her last visit (capture) here, when she had fallen for his well-meaning words and alluring smiles. If this was an attempt to unnerve her, she was determined he would not succeed. She looked across at Mr Smee, affecting a careless, indifferent attitude, though her heart faltered within her. Inside, she felt sick and hopeless.

"Very well."

After all, what choice did she have?

She stood before the mirror in her room, straight and still in her gown of white lace. The sweeping folds of her dress hung stiff and discolored by the persistent lash of salt spray, though a faint hint of white musk perfume remained. Exposed to the elements of air and water, her hair had lost the tightly crimped perfection of sleek ringlets that last night had been so neatly piled in a shining coronet above her head. Now the hazel tresses were loose about her shoulders like Botticelli's Venus, windblown and tangled like snarled threads, with no restraining pins or beribboned hats to hold back its disorder. So far from the sumptuous dresses and heavy, coiled hairstyles that London adorned its women with. A parade of pristine, porcelain dolls, delicate as spun glass.

What would her family say if they could see her now? John would disappear behind his glasses, seeing nothing beyond the dusty pages of his books. Michael would look up, his attention caught briefly until some new amusement diverted him. Both were set on their paths to adulthood, while she… Even though she was the eldest, she was the most undeveloped, the most uncertain. Her future was shrouded in mystery.

Wendy's eyes fell on the love-locket nestled in the hollow of her throat. Her fingers traced the smooth-varnished acorn, flooded with thoughts of Peter. Where was he? Was he even now amassing the Lost Boys and the Indians together, delighting in the chance to wage another attack on Hook and to see her again? Or did he not care at all? Why had he not come already? Would she not, after all, be better to rely on the fairy dust and her own ingenuity? She could not deny that the thought of matching her own wits against the captain's was a strangely intriguing one…

Hook. He was around her, everywhere. His presence trembling through the darkening air, drifting in invisible clouds to form a ghostlike figure behind her own wavering reflection. The flash of lapis lazuli eyes and a vulpine smile turned her cold. It was as though she could already feel the chill of his fingers across the back of her neck, the sinuous silver thread of his voice whispering sweet nothings in her ear. A breath of air, like the touch of a forgotten lover's lips. She dreaded what the night might bring, trying not to think of what terrible things might happen when the blue lantern went out and she was forced from her sanctuary and finally, they would look upon one another, face to face. Wendy shuddered, and turned her face away from the mirror.

Night pressed against the windows like velvet curtains. The wavering lantern over her head was swinging with the ship's motion, a weak, guttering flame casting long shadows across the wall. She suddenly felt very cold and alone. No walls could protect her here.

She cast another gaze over her attire. The armor of a lady. Lace and satin, delicate pale shoes and silk stockings. White, like the snow outside the nursery, or the feathers on Tiger Lily's headdress, or the nightgown she had worn seven years ago. Robed like a sacrificial victim, long hair falling down her back. Wendy smiled, though beneath the scorn was a hint of fear. Glanced at herself in the mirror again, ran stiff fingers down the hard line of her corset and faced her reflection squarely.

"Coward!" she suddenly burst out accusingly. "Weakling! How dare you tremble before him? Do you want to be mocked, ridiculed, derided? Do you want to give him that power over you? If you cannot rise above fear, then hide it. Conceal it as you have concealed everything else."

What would Peter do? She closed her eyes, strained to memorize every line and detail of his laughing, mocking face, the forest-green depths of his eyes –

There was a low tapping on her door. Wendy turned around. This is it, she thought with frightening calmness.

"I am ready," she said.

She ignored Smee's extended arm, walking stiffly past his waiting figure into the dim, narrow corridor, her shoulders erect. The bo'sun's shuffling gait sounded behind her, the lantern held in his raised hand swinging to and fro, casting a weaving path of uneasy light before her feet.

Wendy felt her heart beating faster as they approached, throbbing in tandem with her lungs. Her fingers toyed nervously with the netted lace and threaded ribbon at her chest. She had no idea what reception awaited her. Would the captain be polite or brutal? Courteous or violent? She could not say; all she knew was that hours of anticipation had heightened every nerve in her body to a painful tension, but whatever he was; whatever faced her behind that stylized, embossed door, she must crush the fear, force it down until it choked her. She lifted her head back, her haughty chin raised with a sense of stubborn resolution. Decision and roundness were marked in the outline of her face, her firmly set figure poised and steady. The bo'sun pushed the door open. Sudden memory gripped her, held her in its clutches. Captain Jas. Hook written in gilded letters across the dark wood and seven years had passed like a dream…

A red-cut glass chandelier swung on the ceiling. The light from the candles ebbing, pulsing in a soft glow of dusky gold and shadow. Mist blurred the windows. The air was musky, spicy, thick. Cutlasses, polished and gleaming, hung on the wall above the harpsichord. A small writing-table neatly stacked with reams of paper sat in the corner. Across the room, the crocodile's enormous head grinned at her. That part of Smee's story had been true, at least. The rest of the cabin was filled with all the typical trappings of piracy; piles of books, globes, tobacco pipes and snuff canisters. Reminiscent of the Renaissance galleons, that great age of exploration where peril and danger and treasure were still to be found on the high seas.

The coldly contemptuous expression in Wendy's eyes softened at the stacks of leather-bound tomes that greeted her interested gaze. Rousseau, Voltaire, Diderot… why, his library collection resembled John's, although she was fairly certain that John had never owned a copy of Les Liaisons Dangereuses, Huysmans' Against Nature: A Rebours, or anything written by the Marquis de Sade. The captain clearly had a predilection for French literature, and there was something in his elegantly cultured affectations that was vaguely reminiscent of that country and era.

She gave an involuntary start, the rigid line of her shoulders stiffening as someone cleared their throat behind her. She felt a fixed gaze on her back, stripping the fabric of skin, piercing right through to the bone. Her heart quivered, missed a beat.

Wendy turned, slowly, and her eyes met those of the captain.

Chapter Text

Your silver grin, still sticking it in
The longest kiss, your loaded smiles
Drift madly to you
Pollute my heart drain
You have broken in me
Broken me

All your mental armour drags me down
We can't breathe when you come around
All your mental armour drags me down
Nothing hurts like your mouth

('Mouth', Bush)

- Day 1 –

Part II

He was reclined at ease in a baroque seat that had been pulled up at the lavishly spread table. Deep blue eyes reflected the soft light of the room, narrowed slightly as he regarded her with a deceptive kind of lazy watchfulness. Alabaster skin, shadows deepening the delicate contours of his face. Coils of opulent, midnight black hair smoothly rolled over the shoulders of his wine-coloured coat trimmed with gold thread. There was white lace at his throat and wrists. He was immaculately turned out as ever when she had seen him and would have been at home in the finest parlors were it not for the hook sharpened with deadly precision, glimmering redly under the coloured glass of the chandelier.

"Exquisite." He smiled. The hook glided in a sweeping arc as he gestured to the vacant seat opposite his own. "Sit down."

Wendy hesitated.

The lamps cast a delicate web of soft light over the table, turning the plates the shade of pale coral, glancing off the delicate crystalline curves of the wineglasses, falling on the decanter of ruby-red liquid that glowed like a scarlet flame under the hanging chandelier. As though in apology for the plain fare she had eaten with the bo'sun, the plates and bowls were piled high with delicacies; lobster and mussels, truffles and turtles' eggs, palm hearts and pickled onions, spiced wine, and honey cakes flavored with cane syrup and nutmeg. It seemed the captain hoarded the finer things on the ship for himself. She could not help but feel a reluctant admiration for the effort that had been made (for your benefit, a treacherous inner voice whispered that she willed herself to ignore).

She looked uncertainly at the dishes spread out before her. It was unlikely they were poisoned, something the captain would doubtless regard as bad form. And if he was intending to kill her, he would have done so already. He would have cut her throat on the balcony last night. He almost did, she reminded herself, recalling with a shiver that cold, cold touch of silver. The memory was a chilling one. She sat down without argument.

Hook lazily held out a two-pronged cigar holder, which Smee obligingly lit. Wendy, who hated smoking, looked on the display with resigned disdain. Perhaps, then, this would not be so different from London. Perhaps, after all, she could get through this dinner without screaming or succumbing to the humiliation of hysterics.

The captain exhaled leisurely, settling his gaze on Wendy, blue eyes glittering through a cloud of smoke. "I hope you've been enjoying my hospitality."

"Yes," she said, anxiety making her tones clipped and terse. "It's a very nice prison."

"Surely it is not so terrible? Have you found nothing to please you, nothing to your taste?"

She looked away from his troublingly perceptive gaze, searching for something to say. Speech was less disconcerting than silence. "I noticed your library. You have a fine collection."

"Hmm." He settled back in his seat, regarding her archly. "You like Baudelaire?"

"I admire his interest in moral complexity." Like reading a soul. Not that a soulless being such as he could hope to understand the depths and fascination she found within those pages.

He leaned forward, locks of black hair falling slick around his face. "And what of his thoughts on vice? Decadence?"

His voice… crafted in malevolence, yet sublimely soft, like a cello, or an ocean, or like his eyes – so utterly him. It unnerved and spiraled her into madness, and Wendy's firm accents wavered.

"I think you know more of the subject than I."

"For now."

The silence between them was a taut silver wire. That magnetic force held her captivated, drawn, unwillingly bound to listen to every word that fell from those lips that parted, red and thin as a razor cut, startling against the pallor of his hollowed, drawn cheeks. His curving, elusive smile was filled with hidden meaning, distracting.

The clatter of crockery loudly interrupted the pervasive quiet, startling Wendy, whose nerves were already on edge. She murmured a thanks to Smee, who laid a before her a dish of rich food she doubted she could face with the tightening, twisting feeling in her stomach. She heard Hook hiss an exhalation through his teeth. His head had jerked, as though he too had forgotten the bo'sun's presence. Annoyance flashed across his features. He sharply rapped the table with a metallic clink. "Out, Smee."

Hearing the door quietly close, Wendy swallowed hard. She was left alone with her greatest fear.

Unwillingly, she raised her gaze to where the captain sat before her, still and smooth as an oil painting. Ivory, sapphire and onyx. Studiously aristocratic, lips curved in a line of perfect arrogance. Perfectly at ease in the dissolute surroundings. A decanter of jewel-red wine sat beside him. He gestured at the glass pitcher with a delicate hand, one of those darkly artistic movements that came so naturally to him. "Drink?"

Wendy shook her head, her mind flashing back to whatever grog it was thatshe had swallowed out on the deck (what had she been thinking?)

He lifted a dark brow, the finest sweep of a calligraphic brush. Behind those deceptive forget-me-not eyes, she was certain he was laughing at her, and furthermore, knew exactly what she had been doing before his invitation. She wondered whether anything happened on this ship that he wasn't aware of. Stiffly, Wendy took the proffered glass from him with icy courtesy. His slender fingers slid lightly along her own, lingering just a moment longer than etiquette demanded. That enticing touch froze through her. Soft silk welded to metal. Shaken out of her enforced composure, her trembling hand raised the glass of wine to her lips. Deep and sanguine, it coursed warmth through her veins.

A glimmer of amusement lit Hook's pale features. He raised his own glass to her and followed suit.

"It seems you have been charming my men," he said.

She was not sure whether this was a compliment or insult, so answered cautiously, "They were only singing."

"What fun."

His tone of mockery grated on her highly-strung nerves. "At least they know how to treat a lady," she returned, her tone at its most supercilious. The words left her before she could prevent them, and her eyes flew to his in apprehension, remembering his cold cruelty of the preceding night when she had dared provoke him.

But the captain merely smiled at her momentary flash of spirit. "I would not be so sure."

I would rather take my chances with them than be left alone with you for five minutes, Wendy thought. "Your crew did not manhandle and kidnap me," she pointed out. "Clearly they have more courtesy toward women than you." She squared her shoulders, forcing herself to meet his gaze directly. But the soft white hands held in her lap beneath the table trembled.

"I didn't hurt you last night, did I?" Were it not for the amused irony in his tone, the question could almost have been one of concern.

"No," Wendy conceded reluctantly, silently loathing the way he insisted on treating her as a petulant child. "But I'm not used to being treated in such a manner."

"I suppose you are not." The captain smiled slowly, leaning forward slightly on his chair. A gleam of secret amusement in his eyes. He continued smoothly. "It's not often we entertain a guest on board who makes the crew sit up a little straighter and mind their manners."

"Guest?" she responded quickly, wondering just how far she would chance defying him. "I was under the impression I was your prisoner."

"Were you?" said Hook, putting an opaque veil of cigar smoke between them. "How dramatic."

How I loathe him, thought Wendy. He truly is despicable, with his sneering face and meaning smiles. Even his politeness is a mockery. He seemed to take delight in humiliating her, and she was determined to give him no further opportunity to do so.

The candlelight glinted in his eyes, adding a deceptive warmth to those frozen depths. Looking into them was like being stranded in a sea of ice. Again, that flash of memory – chill fingers entwining in her hair, sharp as ice-tipped needles, and the searing sensation of sweet pain, death and annihilation. Foreboding words breathed against her stinging skin. You are my obsession.

How masterful it was, his acting the part of the bored aristocrat, concealing his dark intentions beneath veils of elaborate courtesy and cleverly disguised audacities. Cool words dripping courteously off the tongue. While Wendy, outwardly composed and unperturbed, toyed with the dishes set before her as though they occupied her full attention. He could not know (would never know) how her heart was palpitating beneath the sheath of fragile lace.

"It is a long time, Wendy Darling, since I have had the pleasure of you dining with me. The company of the crew becomes somewhat… tedious." His voice was a lulling ambience, low and sweet as poison. Heady as the rich wine that coursed through her veins.

"I found them all perfectly good company," she said with a straight face, determined not to be so easily provoked by him.

"Did you indeed?"

Wendy looked at him with dislike. He was reclined like a cat at ease – idle, indolently graceful, voluptuous from warmth and indulgence. She could not deny he held the advantage, here, in his own surroundings, with the mastery of an entire crew and the power he wielded over her fragile, flimsy life. That she could never forget, no matter how smooth and eloquent and courteous he might appear, a virtuoso with his erudite words, savouring art and culture like fine wine. The very grandiosity and lavishness seemed all the more awful in comparison, as it served only in hiding the horror, but the sense of malevolence lingered beneath the surface, prevalent in every shadow.

"You have been aboard this ship for a full day now. You must have questions."

Wendy was immediately suspicious, wondering if this exhibition of direct candor was a means of luring her into a false sense of security. She had thought to drop some innocent questions concerning the vague hints she had overheard in the cabin earlier that afternoon and try to discover more information on this impending raid, but she could not summon the cunning or the craft to do so without betraying what she already knew. Away from him, amid the bracing winds on the clear deck, she had held a mastery over herself, was able to plan and strategize and not succumb to the girlish weakness of terror, but now... her mind felt hazy, disorientated, as much from the potent wine as the dangerous man sitting across from her. Dark, and full of mysterious shadows. It irked and worried her, this loss of her usual self-assurance, and she could not rationalize or justify it to herself. But she was not about to be disarmed by a show of politeness.

And yet, the first words that left her were the ones that had been haunting her, lingering at the back of her mind for the last twenty-four hours. "Why me?"

"I thought that would be apparent."

Despair sank heavily within her. An anchor she had borne her entire life. Her femininity, the reason she was being pressured into an engagement she had no desire for, the reason she had been so easily manipulated because of her feelings for Peter, the reason why Hook had succeeded in taking her once more with such effortlessness. Too stubborn to make friends with young women of her own age, and drawing her experience primarily from the heroines that peopled her novels, Wendy had come to the damning conclusion that all girls were weak, silly, frail creatures, and she herself no different, bound as she was by the frustrating limitations of her sex. The only exception that escaped her harsh condemnation was Mother, Mother who was beautiful and faultless, and carried herself with a refined grace and soft dignity that held her apart as something almost divine. So she answered with weary resignation. "Because I am a girl. Weaker. Easily led. More susceptible to emotion."

Those sea-blue eyes flashed a glance on her – he seemed genuinely surprised by her answer. "Are you always so disparaging of your own sex?"

"You must think so too. Why else would you have taken me instead of my brothers?"

"Why indeed?" he murmured half to himself, dark brows drawing together, a momentary expression of concern clouding his features. It passed at once; he took another long draught of wine and smiled at her disarmingly. Wendy, who was painfully aware of his every movement, watching him with the wary cunning of cornered prey, did not smile back. She was too preoccupied with her thoughts.

What would her brothers do, if they were seated in this cabin instead of her? The answer came at once. John would rely on his intelligence; Michael would brazen out the situation with his careless audacity. And both could, at last resort, turn to violence. She could not hope to… it was impossible… he would overpower her in moments…

Unconsciously, she flexed her wrist. Glanced downwards. The dinner knife she held was light and thin; the smooth, faintly curving blade would barely cut a tear through his brocade jacket, let alone cause any lasting injury. But the silver candlestick at her elbow… It was a heavy and baroque ornament; if swung with enough energy, it could inflict quite a blow… enough perhaps to unsteady him while she fled for the door… but then how to get past the crew and reach the shore? Well, the fairy dust was concealed away in the hollow of her throat. She needed only to reach the deck and she would have the freedom to use it. Wendy set her glass down on the table. She looked somewhat thoughtful and a little pale, but not enough to betray the thoughts running through her mind. A strange, restless excitement set her heart beating faster and faster. The possibility grew in her mind, taking shape and substance. She could do it. Strike him across the temples, hard enough to draw blood. But had she the nerve? Her small, soft hands, unused to any tasks other than embroidery and writing and handling tea-sets were now going to attempt to fight him, of all people...

Her hand inched forward a fraction. She watched the captain warily from the corner of her eye. He was drawing a deep inhalation from a Cuban cigar, his long body reclining languidly in the ornately-backed chair. Relaxed and entirely unprepared. This might be her only chance.

Do it. Now.

Her fingers curled around the candlestick. Adrenaline shivered through her body. Oh, he was going to make her pay for this… her grip tightened – goodbye, captain –

"Try it, dear girl, and you will regret it."

Wendy froze, mid-motion. She did not need to look up to know that those blue eyes were fixed on her with unwavering intensity. Her fingers relaxed their hold and slid, bloodless and trembling, to her lap.

"Oh yes," Hook breathed, "I can see I'm going to have to watch you."

For some minutes there was no sound but the tinkle of glass and silver and porcelain. She could not eat. Her throat was too tight to swallow. Every mouthful choked her. Outwardly, she was able to maintain a semblance of calm and control, but inside –

It would be easy to seek refuge in another glass of wine, merely to calm her agitated nerves, but she had seen too often the effect of strong drink on Michael as he stumbled into the house at an ungodly hour, whispering with clumsy affection beneath her icily scornful gaze, "Keep this one between us, eh, Wendy? I know I can always count on you." No; she must maintain full control over herself. One false move and the captain could end her existence in a moment.

Her eyes fell on the gold laced curlicues at his collar. Drawn unwillingly upwards, past the pale column of his throat to the sloping contours of his face, sensual and cruel. The indulgent, lazy mockery had left his expression; he sat up a little straighter, an alert intelligence lighting his cold, piercing eyes.

"And, in answer to your question, I thought I made it clear on our last meeting. Galling as it was for me to admit, you were instrumental in my defeat. I saw an opportunity for revenge, and a means to turn my enemies against one another." A cool, cruel smile. "And if I recall, you did not seem… unwilling to be taken."

How arrogant he was. Did his conceit know no bounds? Her fingers tightened on her knife, trembling with icy anger. "A preposterous assumption."

"Then what, I wonder, induced Wendy Darling to open the window on such a bleak night?"

Her mind flew back to the nursery. A coldness and despair, deeper than she had ever known, filled with an unnamable desire to cast off all constraining ties and step out of her old self, reaching for something otherworldly and beautiful –

She remembered to breathe and shook her head. "Nothing in particular."

"No?" He glanced at her over the crystal rim of his glass.

Perhaps it was the soft candlelight, or the wine and rich truffles making her drowsy and warm, making her forgetful of the caution she had trained herself to, but Wendy found herself saying truthfully, "I did not wish to be married."

"Quite understandable. Marriage is such a bothersome institution." He smiled in response to her startled look. "Oh, yes. I had four wives, at last count."

"That's quite a number." Her tone deliberately matched his for indifference. "Where are they now?"

He shrugged with elaborate carelessness. "One loses track. And of course it would be quite impossible to keep a woman on board."

"Because it brings ill-fortune?" Wendy made no attempt to conceal the scorn in her voice.

Hook laughed merrily. "A mere fabrication. In truth, having a woman on board has a tendency to distract the crew from their – ah – duties, so it pays to play upon their superstitions. Besides, I've yet to encounter a woman who would take to this kind of life – it's a hard existence, and an unrewarding one at that. And they all seem so squeamish at the idea of piracy."

Wendy said nothing. She busied herself with prying the soft meat from her oyster, annoyed at the shaking of her hands (what was wrong with her fingers?). Her eyes remained concentrated on the dish before her, his words ringing in her ears. The idea of someone like James Hook being married was strange and unsettling. She could not imagine him as a husband. A lover, certainly; his reckless and dissolute mien fitted him for the role perfectly. Such lewd behavior was certainly in keeping with his villainous character. Yes, she could vividly imagine him; depraved and sensual. But beyond that, her sheltered mind could not venture. She was left with nothing but speculation. Would he be cruel or tender? Charming or callous? How many mistresses might he boast of even now?

Well, she did not care; it meant nothing to her. He could do as he pleased; such immoral values perfectly aligned with her view of him. There was no reason for it to bother her. And yet, the discovery was almost a relief. Socially and intellectually he might be her equal; but morally, she was superior to him in every way. Wendy looked at him across the table, her face white and scornful. Her full, prim mouth a curve of quiet disdain. Something in her expression must have irritated him; his ruffled hand clenched perceptibly around the thin-stemmed glass, though he forced a smile, never breaking that thin façade of courtesy.

"And why must you marry?"

"Because it is expected of me. And I do not wish to disappoint my family."

"Why?"

"Because I love them." Wendy immediately flushed, realizing how childishly foolish she had sounded. This man, so cruel and lacking in tenderness, would only laugh at her sentimentality, preying on it as another weakness. She fell silent, refusing to glance at him. She felt sullen and unhappy, and braced herself, waiting for his inevitable mockery.

"Love." Hook exhaled languidly. Clouds of tobacco swirled around her in a scented haze. To her surprise, he did not laugh or ridicule her as she had expected, but instead sounded thoughtful, reflective. "Such an inconvenient emotion. You will find life becomes far easier when you love no one."

"Like you?" she asked, unable to help herself.

He smiled evenly. "Yes, dear girl. Like me."

Her mind worked, summoning an argument against his natural eloquence, but there was a pervasive logic to his smoothly compelling words that was difficult to resist. There was a grim sort of truth in them. To be bound by the expectations of family was a shackle around her ankle. On this ship at least, there was a certain emboldening satisfaction in her struggle with captain as she had the conviction that she would have the better of him in the end, but at home, how could she win a battle in which there were no discernible enemies or villains? Frustration burned within her. Was she always to be curbed and kept down? She was not the pristine, delicate flower everyone thought her back in Bloomsbury, a beautiful, frail creature destined for nothing more than a respectable marriage. She was stronger than she looked; she was certain of that. But she was trapped, like a bird in a cage, beating her wings helplessly against the bars. She just needed a chance, an opportunity to prove that there was more to this – to her – than that stifling, suffocating life back in London, that imminent engagement that would confine and clip her wings forever. Even if she defied her parents' wishes and Aunt Millicent's demands, there would only be another Charles a few months or years later, another potential husband, and she would be older, more worn down, and eventually resign herself to her inevitable fate. Frightened and frustrated, overwhelmed by the events not only of the last twenty-four hours, but also the circumstances that had brought her here in the first place, her carefully constructed barriers broke down, and the words poured from her in a torrent.

"I'm not living my life," she said desperately, the months and years of concealed resentment finally breaking through her guarded exterior, "I am living their life; the one they have planned out for me. I had thought there could be a kind of beauty to growing up – to feel things more fully, to have control over one's destiny. I didn't bargain for this. I don't want it. I cannot look ahead or make plans, because this engagement had closed around me like a trap and my life will be over before it has even begun. There must be more. I am strong – capable, if they will only allow me to show it. I want to experience life fully, to have it mean something. To… travel the world, see and live something beyond London –"

"Then why not leave?" he said simply. "If you are so certain of your own mind?" A dark grin unfurled across his face. "Why not abandon a restrictive life of social tedium and turn instead to piracy?"

The startling question brought Wendy back to herself at once, her eyes drawn almost unwillingly to the magnetic presence of the man opposite her, unnerved by his troubling intimacy. Lulled by the soothing ambience as the wine sank lower in the decanter, the soft rosy light and lavish spread that seemed to invite the gratification of the senses, her guard had momentarily faltered… she had seen for herself the man was a hedonist and was suddenly appalled at the sly expectation that gleamed and glittered in his eyes. She had betrayed too much of herself, sacrificed her caution and reason all because of a melodic voice and drowning gaze. And, as always, when uncomfortable, she became more cold and formal than ever, retreating into herself and seeking refuge in aloofness. Her chin held high and her eyes narrowed, she rallied herself.

"What a ridiculous question."

"You once thought it a generous offer."

Wendy flushed to hear her own words repeated back to her. Something wavered inside her. She wondered with a sinking heart whether he thought her nothing more than a naïve, idealistic socialite, merely bored with the dances and theatres and soirees London had to offer and looking for another idle diversion. He could not hope to understand the things she had once dreamed, the hopes she had cherished and lost, the disappointments suffered and broken hearts survived. She took a steadying breath. The candles burned steadily, their fragrant musk spilling into the heavy air.

"I once thought a lot of things."

"My, how guarded you are. And you were such an impulsive child."

Wendy could hardly suppress the sigh of regret that rose inside her as she realized how far she had strayed from the girl she once was. She could not escape that sense that there was something inside her waiting to be awakened; she was more than the life that had been planned out for her. She needed something beyond marriage and domesticity, hiring servants and planning menus and writing obligatory correspondence. The tedium minutiae of Edwardian life was choking her. And yet… she had allowed herself to be taken over by the suffocating banality of such an existence, had succumbed without a struggle. She had closed the drawer of her own free will. I lost my dreams, she realized forlornly. I lost that little girl.

"Children grow up," she said, hoping the ache of sadness and disappointment did not betray itself in her wistful voice.

"Don't they just."

Though it was hot, she shivered. She felt his prodding attempts at intimacy (finding a weakness) like the insistent press of his hook digging into her skin, prying away her flesh and finding the heart and bone beneath.

Another piercing stab at her soul. "Do you still tell stories?"

"Do you still shoot your crew?" she returned swiftly.

"Only when they bother me. Which is rather frequently."

Wendy sat very still, her hands curled around the sides of her chair. He had just blithely confessed to murder as though it were nothing, no more than a mere inconvenience instead of the taking of another man's life. And he could take hers at any moment – she had witnessed the swift changes of mood before, and for all she knew, this tone of intimate confidence was merely a prelude to something far more deadly.

She folded her hands in her lap. Her voice was still controlled, but barely. "Do you mean to frighten me, by speaking like this?"

"Do you fear me, Wendy?" For once, he looked genuinely curious.

She hesitated a moment, unsure how to answer. A firm and ringing denial was what she wished to respond with, but the words somehow could not reach her lips. The truth was, she did fear him, or rather, something about him - that cruel, cutting quality, sharp as a finely-honed knife, which flashed through the smooth manners and aristocratic gentility. His meticulous politeness would have charmed even Aunt Millicent were it not for that subtle undercurrent of danger that glimmered beneath the polished exterior.

Wendy toyed with the glass in her hand, measuring her words carefully. The wine tilted, dark as blood in its crystal prison.

"I think you're vile," she said at last. "The pirates out there – coarse and unsophisticated they may be - are at least honest about what they are. But this -" she waved a hand at the baroque and ornately furnished cabin – "is all show and pretense. You hide behind your education and your cultured tastes and your adornments of luxury, and you are worse than any of them."

"So villainy and finery are not allowed to go hand in hand, is that it? Would you prefer it if this cabin were a den of smuggled goods and I sullied your honour before forcing you to walk the plank?"

Yes, she almost said, because this grace and delicacy seemed to have a sinister undertone; there was always the latent potential for ruthlessness, the uneasy sense that politeness and charm could turn to violence and murder in a matter of moments. If he had acted with ferocity and brutality, at least she would have known where she stood and could have fought back. But this thin line of courtesy bordering on the edge of cruelty was far more insidious. She couldn't help but feel he was toying with her, straining her nerves to the last limit. A frown furrowed her brow, which did not escape his astute gaze.

"Do you never smile, Wendy Darling? Never mind, I have my answer."

"Not many captors are so interested in the well-being of their captives."

"Not many captives hold such a degree of… leverage."

At his words, awful realization flashed on her. All this time she thought she had succeeded in goading Hook into granting her three days respite, when all the while she had given him exactly what he wanted. Me. How could she have not seen it before? She was to be the means by which he would lure Peter here. Wendy's heart sank hopelessly within her. Speaking with Tinker Bell, asking her to bring Peter to come and save her… like a fool, she had played into the captain's hands. Was there any move she could make that he hadn't already anticipated? Her gaze was accusing. "You think he will come."

"Oh yes, my Darling girl," Hook breathed. That low, rich voice like dark wine. "As a matter of fact, I am counting on it."

Dread ran through her, as deep and primal as the night she had first lain eyes on him at the Black Castle. The same thrill, but maturer, dangerous. She struggled to keep her voice even. "So you will use me to kill Peter. What then?"

"Then I'm going to string him up from the mast. Do try the lobster."

"But why?"

"It was only caught this morning. It's quite delicious."

"No." Her throat was tight. "Why are you going to kill Peter?"

Momentary silence. Thin ribbons of smoke curled around her. She drew an unsteady breath. The air was heavy with perfumes, sweet as opium, and had a soul-intoxicating effect, like the bright wine rolling drop by drop through her body, firing the blood and clouding the mind. His face the clearest thing amid the warm obscurity, glowing palely beneath the dull, soft illumination of the Empire chandelier.

"I dream of vengeance," he murmured. "It warms my heart."

Wendy shivered at the hint of malice in his voice. But curiosity was the prevailing impulse inside her now, as she realized for the first time that she could question the dark figure who had haunted her childhood. Undeterred, and emboldened perhaps by the wine that burned her insides like a low flame, she persisted with steady directness, "I want you to look at me and answer me this. Why are you so half-hearted about it? You say you want Peter dead, and while I am no villain and know nothing of piracy, my imagination could come up with any number of ideas. You could set fires on the island, you could torture any of his friends, you could do almost anything, but you don't. Why?" Caution raged at her to be silent. Why was she telling him these things?

"Why do you think?" His voice was low.

"The game," she whispered, realising. "It would be too easy otherwise. You want the challenge."

His eyes glinted but he said nothing. She took his silence for assent. Her fingers unconsciously drummed a nervous rhythm on the rim of her glass as she continued, beginning to understand, "I think if you actually did kill Peter, you would be bored, without meaning. Without him, there would be no purpose for you here. You need the risk, the danger that piracy brings. You need someone to fight."

"No." Ice-blue eyes burned into her. "I need someone to master."

"Why do you want revenge on him so badly? It's not merely your hand. It runs far deeper; I can see that."

"Come now, surely you must begin to have some idea? Even in your short life, you've experienced the passing of years, how wearing it can be."

"You're jealous of him." It wasn't a question.

"Age brings regrets, weariness, disillusion. Pan is unshackled by such… misfortunes. He lives forever in the careless joys of youth while I am bound by the regrets of maturity. To be an adult in Neverland is such a tragic fate."

"Yes. I rather think it must be." She sighed, thinking of the warm camaraderie between the Lost Boys and how she had always been somehow separate from that easy bond, whether because she was a girl, or because even then she had been more grown-up than any of them. More willing to grow up (but that was before I knew what it meant). She thought of the large rooms and empty spaces that occupied her existence. "It must be awfully lonely."

"A torment," he whispered.

Wendy looked up, and a flash of affinity passed between them, strange and unsettling, and it shook her to the core. His compelling blue stare unfathomable, yet searching (desperate) for something unknowable in her own faltering gaze. He understands, she realized, disturbed. The heartbreaking isolation of adulthood, to be left adrift and abandoned, searching for meaning in a cold, uncaring world, once-cherished dreams turning to mist and falling away into a life forgotten. Crying inwardly, aching for connection and completion, the soul's search for fulfillment. An impossible journey. Wendy broke that empathetic gaze, her mouth tightening. She refused to acknowledge the feeling stirring at the edges of her heart, whispering to her with insidious persuasion. It was too much like pity (too much like longing).

She was relieved when he broke the warm, languid silence. "But in your case, I think it becomes you rather well." The candle flame played shadows across his elusive features. His eyes had darkened to midnight blue. She did not dare ask what he was thinking. To think of him as a man was far more frightening than to think of him as a ghost. She hurriedly searched for a change of subject, grasping at the precious memory of Peter to give her strength, to remind her forcefully why she hated and despised this man with every part of her being (and why she would never, never pity him).

"So you envy him. That is no reason to torture and persecute him."

A spasm of something like pain passed across his face – startling, bleak, terrifying – reminiscent of the expression she had glimpsed that first night, that had filled her with such unnamable fear. "Torture? Careful, my dear girl. You are straying into dangerous waters. You know nothing of torture, what I have endured."

Wendy looked back at him and said nothing. I only hope it hurt, she thought fervently.

Her expression must have betrayed her, for the captain flashed upon it in an instant. "Ah," he said. "Not so indifferent, after all? You'd like to see me at the bottom of the ocean again, wouldn't you? Trapped in the depths with crocodiles devouring my flesh." His eyes hardened to steel edges, his hand clenching convulsively around the crystal stem of his wineglass. "Well not this time, my beauty."

"Is that what happened down there?" The words had been burning within her ever since he had appeared at the nursery window last night. The impossibility of him sitting before her, unharmed, unaltered. Her dream, her nightmare.

He did not answer at once, but regarded her contemplatively, his blue eyes cold and dark. A bitter smile twisted his narrow mouth.

"What have you seen of Neverland?"

"The Mysterious River, the Mermaid's lagoon, Slightly Gulch…" She recited the enchanting names that were stored in her memory like secret treasures. "The Black Castle." (Where I first met you and knew you to be deadly…)

"And beyond the island?"

"Only here."

"Then you are fortunate. There are far darker places that your imagination has not yet discovered. Places where voyagers have gone mad with despair, where you slit an enemy's throat and he rises again as though unharmed. You ask why I want revenge. Suffice it to say if this ship sailed into those unknown sights that you would lose your pretty face, and you would dream of vengeance, as I have dreamed of it these long years."

Her curiosity was roused to a painful intensity, and a thin, intrinsic fear began winding its cold way down her spine. The candles burned lower, shadows of smoke wreathing a thin veil over the table like sea-mist, gathering darkness around the pale, high-boned face of the captain. Ghastly, it seemed, and ghostly in the elusive illumination, as though lit from the blue-green lights that lingered at the bottom of the ocean.

"It was that infernal crocodile that did it for me," he murmured hoarsely. "It dragged me down to the places where dead men dwell with things that move in the deep. Things stranger than mermaids and more deadly. It's no place for the living. I see them even now, looking at me with their white-green faces and hollow eyes and seaweed for hair… brimstone and gall, I've killed men easy as breathing, and the dead can't harm the living… but beneath the water, it's another story…"

He leaned forward, black hair falling darkly around his pallid face. His wine-dark coat glowed like splashes of blood against the lurid paleness of his skin. Those terrible eyes burned colder than anything she had ever seen. "Seven years I endured down there… men speak of hells, but let me tell you something – it's lies, all lies. Hell is not red, Wendy. It's blue. It is the deepest, deepest blue."

Silence. The candles flickered, shrouding his features in obscurity. Wendy suddenly recalled her dream; the image of his dark form rising from the water, macabre, grinning and long-drowned, sodden with decay and reaching out for her with a cold, dead hand. Her clenched knuckles were white against the sides of her chair, frozen with deadly horror. She could hardly move for fear.

"That story you told Smee is complete nonsense, isn't it?" she managed to whisper at last. "Why did you lie? What really happened down there?"

Hook looked across the table at her, his narrow gaze unsmiling. He lowered his glass slowly, carefully placing it down on the polished wood surface. "No, Wendy Darling," he said at length. "I'll not reveal my secrets to you. You'd like to know them, wouldn't you? With your calm, reserved face, you must gather all manner of stories, but you'll not have mine - not tonight, anyway. It is a tale I fear you would not like." His smile was horrible. "And dead men tell no tales."

Wendy felt sick and icy-cold. A clamminess had stolen over her hands and brow. She wanted to run, hard and fast, to escape the terrible nemesis that was Captain James Hook, a haunting presence that even death could not hold down. He had always been with her, always hovered on the fringes of her consciousness, a chilling whisper in the back of her mind that pursued her into sleep and would allow her no rest (why are you haunting me?) How could she have imagined she could stand against him? She wanted to flee to her cabin – go and bar the door and cover her head with the blankets to drown him out. What Devil's bargain had he made to rise from the deeps?

Dead men tell no tales.

She knew only one thing – she could not remain here a moment longer. If she stayed another night on this ship, she would go mad. The fairy dust hung in its casement around her neck. Therein lay her secret weapon, and hope for escape. There was a chance, albeit a slim one. If she could only hold off the captain and break free from the cabin long enough to flee to the deck and think one happy thought harder than she had ever thought of anything in her life... it must be now. If she waited any longer, she would lose her nerve. If she failed, he would probably kill her, but if Peter did not come, her life was forfeit anyway. She knew what Peter would have done. He would have laughed in Hook's face, fearless and mocking, and challenged him – and defeated him, too - his cry of triumph echoing across the seas, over the rocks and into the very heart of the jungle, so all Neverland would know of it. Well, she would prove herself worthy of his memory and the love she once felt for him.

Her decision made, she suddenly felt careless and free, all fear falling from her. The same heady courage that had filled her that morning on the deck possessed her now. Her clear, strongly-molded features hardened. With a steadiness in her gaze, she raised her eyes to the captain, who was regarding her with an indolent amusement. The candlelight was dancing in his eyes. He lounged back with ease in the high-backed chair, long dark curls spilling over his shoulders. The fashionable libertine of high society once more, embellished with all the gaudy and rakish trappings of piracy. But Wendy was not fooled. She had glimpsed the ghost beneath the careless exterior.

She caught sight of the harpsichord across the room. Inspiration struck her. She would defeat him yet.

"You play very well," she said. "I remember from when I was last here."

She was aware of his gaze, curious and amused, not quite knowing what to make of her. But his mouth curved at the compliment and she felt a tiny flare of triumph within her chest. Let him think her a dull, stupid girl, dazzled by pretty things. This was going to be easy; this was just another tedious dinner party where she must lavish flattery and feign interest in mundane affairs, all the while concealing what she was really thinking (or intending) -

She smiled at him charmingly, her body leaning forward across the table. The finely-ribboned silks gathered at her chest dipped slightly. The candlelight glowed soft over her skin, casting a sheen on the dull gold of her hair. "Do you compose your own music?"

"I never knew you had such an… interest."

Wendy remembered the prudery with which she had scorned the girls at the Finishing School who made eyes at the boys and flirted provocatively, and now here she was, flashing glances on the captain with wide blue eyes, softening her well-mannered inflexions and the disapproving edges of her mouth, thinking, this is ridiculous, surely he will not be such a fool as to believe in this ludicrous pantomime for a single moment, but he was smiling across from her, his blue eyes no longer cold, but languid and drowsy while his glass remained half-raised, untouched as he seemed to have completely forgotten about it because his gaze never left hers for a single moment. Wendy was aware of a distinctly feminine touch of pride that she could make him forget himself so entirely, and immediately despised herself for the weakness. She lifted her glass, a graceful curve of a girlish wrist, and took another drink to give herself courage.

One day, she thought, I will tell my grandchildren of the night I charmed a ruthless pirate so I could escape his ship –

She rose from her chair in a rustle and flurry of crinoline, careful to make her movements slow and unhurried. She needed all her strength and concentration, must do nothing to arouse his suspicions –

"May I take a look?"

A delighted quirk of the mouth. "But of course."

She kept her steps deliberate and measured. He rose behind her, following with lithe, long-limbed grace. Wendy could hardly suppress her laughter, though it came more from nerves. Never had she felt so certain of her power. She could feel the distinct fall of his booted feet behind her. The immense chandelier hung above them, its pendant drops of dark red cut glass glimmering with a dull fire.

Wendy ran a hand over the smoothly polished rosewood, the neatly aligned keys. She loved classical music, though she was unable to produce a single note, completely ignorant of how to play. After discovering from an early age that she could not carry a tune, her parents had never pushed her into a musical education, much to the chagrin of her aunt.

"It's a beautiful instrument," she said. "I never learned how to play."

Fingers slid – cool, teasing – lingering like a shadow. Wendy froze in place at the light touch gliding across her wrist and over her fingers until his slender hand lay on hers. She could feel his presence behind her, so magnetic the very air seemed thick with it. He leaned over, his breath cool on her bare skin, where her throat curved into her shoulder. Hands tightened, lips taut. Pulses of sensation sparking across her flesh. She made an effort not to recoil, though his touch killed. She could hear the dark smile in his voice.

"Allow me."

Fingers pressed downwards, playing a thin, lingering note on the harpsichord. Her heart still thudding, Wendy stepped aside, white-faced and determined. Allowed him to slide past her and move towards the instrument, which was exactly what she had intended. With the wall at her back, her hand reached out behind her, grasping at one of the suspended cutlasses, and in a moment held the blade, poised and quivering, at Hook's exposed throat.

The captain did not move, but his eyes flared at the challenge.

"Let me go," Wendy told him, willing her voice not to tremble. "And I will allow you your life."

He smiled without humour. "How magnanimous."

She realised at once the weapon was far too heavy for her; her fists were trembling as she held it with both hands. If she could only make her escape, lock him in the cabin, it could buy her some time… While her mind floundered, confused, she saw he had recovered his equanimity. The old, easy arrogance slid back into place. His eyes glinted, daring her to dance… daring her into madness… She saw he was smiling; a mocking, hateful look of satisfaction, and it was this, more than anything that hardened her resolve. He did not think she would do it. But she had come too far now. He left her no choice. She swung it with all her strength.

His arm flew up to catch the blow. Clang. Metal clashed against the silver hook. The ringing reverberated in shockwaves up her arm.

Before she could swing again, there was a blurring movement of the claret coat. He pulled another blade from the wall. Wendy's eyes widened in fear. Grinning darkly, he advanced on her. She stumbled back a couple of unsteady steps until her legs hit the side of the harpsichord.

She cried out in shock as his blade darted forward, slashing at the sleeves of her dress, tearing the thin material that parted like water under the sharp edge. A long arm thrown out around her waist, dragging her to him roughly, but she dropped to the floor breathlessly and rolled away, the cutlass in her hand slippery against her sweating palms. His blade thudded into the wooden floorboards beside her head and she crawled away in a tangle of torn skirts that clung to her legs. The captain wrenched the blade free and followed, the cutlass moving in a blurring flash of silver, humming in the still air.

She stumbled, her long skirts an impossible hindrance, while he danced around her, black hair flying wildly, laughing at her clumsily unsuccessful attempts to disarm him. Wendy lunged forward again, but her arcing swing was too wide and barely grazed the edges of his long jacket. With a careless shrug of his shoulders, he let the heavy garment fall to the floor and moved in towards her. A gold disc pendant swung across his chest that was just barely exposed by the billowing, high-waisted shirt. The flash of its reflection blinded her momentarily, and it was luck, not skill, that caught his parrying blow. She tried to hold her blade up against his, the tendons in her arms straining at the effort, but she was only a girl, softened with fine living, no match for the strength wielded so effortlessly in his hard, muscular frame.

The unpractised muscles in her arms were burning and the gilded handle was slick against her damp fingers. Her legs were trembling with fear and adrenaline. She was gasping for air, blinking away the perspiration that slid from her forehead into her eyes. This was a battle she could not win, and she felt her arms giving under the inevitable pressure. Hook smiled with gloating triumph as he slowly forced her blade downwards.

So when the cutlass inevitably clattered to the floor, Wendy followed it, dropping to her knees and crawling away. His laughter rang in her ears, booted feet drawing closer, but she did not care because she had reached the table and, pulling herself upright, lunged for the wine decanter and flung it with all her strength at his face. The captain ducked just in time, the red liquid splashing on the wall behind him, streaming downwards like slick paths of blood. The decanter shattered, a thousand raining diamonds scattering in crystalline fragments across the floor. He hissed, eyes darkening.

In those rushed, hasty seconds, her hand reached backwards, fingers closing around the handle of a silver dinner knife, but the movement was slow and fumbling, and he was upon her at once. She fell against the table painfully, glasses and plates crashing to the floor in a cacophony of ringing noise. Breathing hard with the weight of his body upon her, the edge of the table cutting into the curve of her lower spine, nothing in her vision but those narrowed, ice-blue eyes, his face hard with intent –

She made one last effort, her free hand grasping the chair beside her; she drove it forward into his knees, hard enough to make him stumble back. The moment was enough for Wendy to drag herself away, sick with panic and horror, and make one last effort to escape the cabin, before, before…

One hand behind her as she moved backwards, feeling for the door, while the other held the thin knife before her with trembling resolution, bracing herself for the next attack she knew would inevitably come. Sure enough, Hook rose, smooth and fluid, and in a couple of long-limbed strides, he struck. The blade darted forward, quick as lightning, and with a practiced flick of the wrist, he had knocked the knife easily from her shaking hand. It fell to the wooden floor with a loud clatter, and in a few rapid steps he had her backed up, breathless and panting against the door. The blade of his cutlass poised at her chest, pressing a sharp indentation into the flimsy barrier of silk. Never once did his face lose that elegant mask of perfect serenity. Blue eyes dark as ink. Unreadable.

"Foolish, my dear girl. Very foolish." Those cultured tones smooth as quicksilver. "And we had been having such a pleasant evening."

The wood was hard and unyielding at her back. She was breathing hard and furiously, perspiration beading her brow, loosened hair clinging to her face in damp strands. Wendy could see her terrified face reflected in his eyes, clear as water. Then, slowly, the sharp blade was removed from her heart's point. She took advantage of the momentary release, breathing in great gasps of air, the sweat on her forehead cooling to ice. He laid aside the cutlass, but her relief was short-lived as he moved closer, all dark leather and brocade-clad grace. A hand on the curve of her waist, chilling through the thin layer of silk. Sliding. Slowly. Warm skin began to burn.

"Curious…" Hook murmured. "You really would have made a good pirate, my dear. Whoever would have thought you capable of such deception?"

His presence surrounded her. The heady scents of tobacco smoke and wine. Hips and thighs pressing against her through the lavish trappings of elaborate finery, one hand holding her to the door. A cage. Silver. Beautiful. Deadly. She was shaking with fear.

"Now what to do with you?"

Long, agonizing seconds passed in which the captain merely considered her through the dark line of his lashes. Hair falling around his face like black ink.

Then slowly, the hook at her throat, he lifted her chin, raising her face to his. The metal burned cold against her jaw. The candlelight rippled along its sharp edge.

Her heart was pounding in her throat. That cold, cold silver a kiss of ice on her skin. Pressing against her pulse. It throbbed. One movement, and she would be dead.

Her heart thudded.

"If you are going to kill me," she said faintly, and her voice seemed to come from very far away, "At least have the courtesy of doing it quickly."

"Kill you?" Hook responded, delicately carved lips still smiling that treacherous smile. "Oh no, my Darling girl. I'm not going to kill you."

That sharp, silver finger curled around a loose coil of hair, tugging it on just the right side of pain. She inhaled sharply. He looked briefly satisfied.

"But what then, I wonder?" he mused aloud to himself.

The curved blade laced through her hair in a gesture of deadly tenderness, toying with the lustrous fall of light brown curls. She could not breathe. Her hands slid uselessly against the door, grasping at nothing. The slow glide of knuckles along her cheekbone in a lethal caress stilled her futile motions. She stared at him with panic-widened eyes, unable to move.

Blinded by ice blue. Marble fingers traced a line (so cold) from jaw to collarbone. Mindlessly dragging her down with that chilling touch. Again she tried to inch away –

In a flash he had gripped her wrist, trapping it against the doorframe above her head. A dull throb of pain coursed through her arm. Cool fingers languidly entwined with her own. Her mouth fell open, shock freezing her against him. She had expected him to cut her throat, not – not –

His piercing gaze had fallen on her parted lips. The kiss at the corner of her mouth suddenly flared into life, sweet and burning. Aching. And Wendy realised then that death wasn't the worst thing the captain could offer her. Paralyzed against the door, she could only wait in agonized suspense.

Someone was breathing harshly. The blood beat hotly in her veins. She wanted him dead. She wanted him gone. She wanted –

She wanted.

The press of curved silver against her cheek. Sharp. Blood pulsing under the skin. And beneath that, dizzying ecstasy, a kind of sickening thrill.

The whisper of breath against her mouth, cool and metallic.

"Wendy."

Cold fingers on her hands. Cold fingers on her heart. Imprisoned in a blue abyss of frozen diamond. Deadly, sweet paralysis. All her breath, strength, resistance died. She sighed, her body sinking into that silver embrace, and Hook smiled as his head moved towards hers.

There was groan, a great juddering crash that rocked the cabin from stern to fore. Wendy's head flew back, cracking against the door sharply. Dull pain coursed down her spine. She blinked back stinging tears, weak and disorientated.

"What was that?" the captain demanded harshly.

Wendy didn't answer. She realised she was breathing hard and trembling all over. Her legs shook under her. The aftermath of sensation shivering through her body. Ice… metal… his lips closing in on hers…

The rapid knocking on the door made her jump. She winced as the thudding reverberated through her pounding head.

"Damnation," Hook hissed under his breath. Shoving Wendy gracelessly aside, he wrenched the door open. "Smee! What the blazes is happening out there?"

"Nothin' to worry about, Cap'n, merely run aground on Skull Rock. There are whispers of mermaids… far beyond their usual hideout. Word is they're under the orders of Pan. 'Tis best to lay low, especially with a prisoner on board…"

"Thundering hells!" The captain's hook scored a deep line down the length of the wooden door in a fit of ill temper. Wendy watched the display without flinching. This bluster and show was for the benefit of Smee and did not scare her; it was when he was quiet and softly spoken that she knew him to be deadly. When his fingers locked around her like silver manacles, when the chill kiss of metal pressed against her throat, when her name was a venomous caress on his cruel lips –

She shivered again, ripples of heat and cold running through her.

The bo'sun looked curiously from Wendy's white face and blazing eyes to the dark-blooded complexion of the captain. Whatever he saw, he wisely refrained from making any comment. Instead, his gaze went over the cluttered cabin, the wine-splashed wall, the cutlasses on the floor.

"Dinner over then?"

"It is now," gritted Hook.

"I'll take you back to your cabin then, shall I?" Smee asked Wendy kindly.

She nodded, relieved, and followed the bo'sun from the cabin with somewhat less dignity than she had entered it. Her head spun, her pulse beating thickly. She needed to lie down. She needed to think alone in the solitude of her cabin, away from –

She blinked back a haze of darkness and looked over her shoulder at the captain. He was leaning against the door, watching her with long-cut blue eyes and toying idly with the lace at his wrists.

Chapter Text

He walks in the room
Air reaches me
Skin becomes sheets covering me
Fog carves a crack
Cuts open wounds
Veins made of steel feed all this cold

Your words are heavy
But they lack so much substance
To fall is the cure for vertigo

('Sheets', Promise and the Monster)

- Day 2 –

Part I

That interminable thudding woke her again. The weak, grey light of morning crept beneath Wendy's half-closed lids as she reluctantly dragged herself from the depths of oblivion. To her surprise, she had slept long and deep, far deeper than she could have imagined, given the events of last night. Whether from exhaustion or excitement, she had thrown herself onto the hammock and fallen into a death-like slumber. Waking for her was always like pulling herself from the grave (or the bottom of the ocean –)

Her mood on stirring was somber and sullen; there was none of the previous morning's thirst for adventure. Instead, she set about the task of rousing herself with a methodical sense of routine. There was to be no romanticism or flights of fancy. Whatever lingering illusions she might have harbored of this being a thrilling adventure or idealistic fairytale were gone. Instead, she was grimly occupied with the impending duty that she had assigned herself. Last night, she had fallen asleep with the calm and decided resolution of searching the captain's quarters. The return of day had brought back reason and will-power. One day had already been wasted, and her foolishness of the preceding night still haunted her. There was no doubt she had acted recklessly; if Hook had run his cutlass through her for the shocking lapse of judgment, Wendy would hardly have blamed him. Attacking him (attempting to attack him, her mind whispered derisively) had been a serious error and the last time she would attempt to emulate Peter or her brothers. Physical force was impossible. No, she must use her mind to outwit the captain, set her cunning against his. And the night's sleep had done its work, acting as a restorative on her overwrought mind. The new day brought its own possibilities and she felt resolved and heartened, ready for another battle.

She stared at the dress hanging on her door – the dress that two nights ago had been a beautiful garment of smooth watered silk and ruffled lace of delicate pearl-white. Symbolic white, pure white. White that showed every mark and imperfection, as delicate and fragile as the virtue it represented. Aunt Millicent would have fainted at the state of it now, and Wendy herself was vain enough to mourn the ruin of such a beautiful gown. Smudges of dirt stained the gauzy skirts that were creased despite her best efforts to preserve its natural shape. The sleeves were rendered to tattered shreds thanks to Hook's cutlass, and that memory was enough to make her shudder at the prospect of wearing it again or having the material anywhere near her skin. She didn't want to touch it again. She could still smell the lingering aroma of cigar smoke, rich and potent, from where he had drawn so close, and –

With a haughty toss of her head, Wendy buried the recollection, refusing to think of it. Instead, she threw open the cabinet opposite her hammock and tried her luck there. Her lips tightened with feminine distaste at the garments spread before her. Faded and worn, a motley collection of breeches and shirts stiffened with lack of wear, made for figures far larger than her own. She was no waif, yet the high waistband of her trousers had to be folded down several times to stay in place. The loose shirt hung almost to her knees so she tucked it into the high waistband of her breeches. She could find no fitting shoes, so remained barefoot. Her heavy mass of hair was pulled back with a thin strip of black ribbon, a few errant tresses falling over her shoulders. Despite how ridiculous she looked, she moved with an unconscious easy grace, aware of a certain freedom in being unconstrained by crinoline and petticoats, her neck and collarbones liberated from the suffocating confines of the school's starched collars and the modest coverings of gauzy lace. Today she was merely a cabin boy, not a young woman.

Then, as she turned away, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and the illusion shattered. She merely looked like Wendy Darling, wearing ridiculous clothes far too big for her, a grown woman playing at dress-up. She thought herself too much of an adult to realize that flashes of her childhood still lingered in her features, especially in her upturned mouth, which at the moment wore a look of sullen dissatisfaction. Anyone would know at a glance that she was city-bred, despite the nautical clothes she was masquerading in. Her father would have been appalled, her mother quietly disappointed at the picture she made, so incongruous to the future they had planned out for her –

No. Better not to think about that now. It was easier to remain in the present.

There were still some resources left to her. The fairy dust remained safe and was still her best hope in freeing her from this ship. The captain's cabin might yet reveal some secrets and the crew had proven themselves to be more amicable than she had anticipated and could be persuaded to talk, if necessary.

Then there was the captain. He stole insidiously, like a soft forbidden whisper, into her thoughts and she did not want him there. There was menace in his eyes and danger in his mouth, exulting conquest lurking in that cruel smile that had paralyzed her last night. The recollection turned Wendy cold all over and she froze in place before the mirror, her fingers tracing agitated patterns against the glass.

What had happened in that cabin?

The memory lingered like a raw wound. The phantom sensation of cool fingers on her skin would not leave her alone. The terror of the emotions the encounter had evoked in her was frightening, but what was more frightening was that not all the emotions were terrible. She could not recall a time in her life when her body and impulses had been so utterly beyond her control. Every instinct had warned her to flee, but she had remained motionless, locked in place by the touch of metallic flesh and curving fingers. Silver and smiles. Those cool, unhurried tones caressing and cruel in equal measure. Wendy. Never once losing that gentlemanly veneer of formality. And his eyes. Always so cold, crystalline. Like a pool of still water concealed in a dark cave. A hidden part of her wanted to know what would have happened if she had shattered that stillness –

He had crossed a line yesterday evening, and what was worse, she had allowed him to. That scared her. His crew was coarse and rough and uncouth, yet not one of them had made even so much as a leering remark or looked at her in any way that could be construed as offensive. They had treated her with deference and… respect. While their captain – polite, elegant and cultured – had acted like a villainous rake. His utter lack of gentlemanly conduct was appalling, his complete disregard for limits unnerving.

And she had not stopped him.

She realized how frighteningly easy it would be to lose herself entirely, to be drawn in by that deadly charm and captivating grace. There was an unsettling fascination in his effrontery, the lazy air of possession and familiarity, so different to the fumbling manners of the boys who had approached her before, even poor Charles Quiller-Couch with his kind eyes and earnest face, who had stammered an apology after kissing her on a stupid impulse. None of them had even come close. No one ever had – except Peter. And he was as different to Hook as day from night. The one filled her with joy and the other with dread. Peter was merry and daring and wild. Hook was enraged and vicious and ruthless. The very memory of his touch turned her blood to ice, racked her body with convulsive shivers. Try as she might, she could not forget the searing contrast of the claret-scented warmth of his body against the piercing metallic cold seeping through her skin. Ice outside and fire within.

She would plunge into the depths of the sea, she would dash herself to pieces on the rocks, she would walk straight into the jaws of a leviathan… she would do anything so she might erase all traces of Captain James Hook from her flesh.

But she had not stopped him.

If he could only see what a fragile, weak thing he had made her, how he would triumph. He paralyzed her mind and haunted her thoughts, was an ever-present menace in her soul. This was different to the heart-fluttering, breathless excitement that the thought of Peter had always invoked. No, it was fear that made her blood beat hot and her pulse pound fast. For all her bold words last night, she truly was afraid of him.

But in spite of that, she still possessed the resilient, willful, careless quality of youth that had the enviable ability to forget troubles. And she could never resist a challenge. There was no use in forestalling what she had resolved to do.

Wendy opened her door and stole cautiously down the corridor. Almost in a dream, she approached the gilded door, wondering what madness was impelling her back here. Raising a frighteningly steady hand, she knocked, once.

No answer. Silence reigned on the other side of the door.

In that moment, Wendy was almost tempted to turn back and seek refuge in her cabin, but she scornfully overrode the weakness. If she wanted to escape, she must find the means herself. There was no Peter at the window, no childish hand held out offering to take her away from her troubles. With a burst of defiance and despair, she pushed open the door and entered Hook's cabin.

The aroma of spiced cigar smoke lingered heavy in the air, immediately revisiting vivid memories upon her senses, invoking thoughts and sensations she would rather have forgotten. The long dining table stood unadorned, light raying across the polished wood. Dark mahogany and inlaid gold. Mist clouded the porthole window. The cabin still maintained that indefinable atmosphere of subtle ardor and forgotten secrets though now the air was languid and dulled where last night it had been potent and alive. Smoke curled in shadowy corners. Forgotten dreams surrounded her like curling wisps of perfume, slow and drugging. Deceptive warmth and soft, pulsing light, drawing her mind irresistibly back to the night before. Flames dancing, teasing the candle wicks. As the wine swirled in the decanter and the lights burned low…

There was a sort of artistic disorder to the sprawling decadence of the furnished cabin. Draperies of silk hung over mahogany-backed chairs, gold coins spilled from full chests. Slanting beams of light rayed across the wooden floor, distorted in the captured prisms of the chandelier and glass-cased clocks. Clocks with frozen hands that did not make a sound. Gilt-bound books were stacked from table to ceiling. The pervasive quiet seemed a mockery, heightening the beat of her own heart in her ears. She saw another door opposite which could only lead to the captain's sleeping quarters…

A floorboard creaked underfoot. Wendy stilled, hearing the rapid thudding of her heart. Never taking her eyes from the closed door, she made her way slowly across the cabin. The thought of him asleep on the other side made her pulse race. If she was discovered, what would happen? What would he do to her?

Almost unconsciously, her fingers drifted to her cheek, her jaw, following the ghostly line his hook had traced the night before. That sharp, metallic trail so cold against her skin. It was like he had given her a part of himself. And it would remain with her always.

She explored further, feeling she was entering a Cave of Wonders, moving further and deeper into the luxurious quarters that were so utterly at variance to everything she had seen so far on this ship. A true pirate's hoard met her wondering gaze. Bric-a-brac, wealth and trinkets. Flotsam and jetsam pulled from the tides. Pearls drawn from the depths of the ocean, gemstones garnered from raids beyond count. Wendy was not entirely immune from materialistic weakness; the sight of them captured her fascination, and she stared like one entranced. Many people would sell their souls for such wealth.

But she had a purpose here; and she knew that despite his predilection for fine culture and lavish treasures, the captain possessed a sharp and cunning mind. There had to be some kind of material evidence for his carefully-plotted stratagems. With that thought in mind, and ever-conscious that she might be disturbed at any moment, Wendy turned immediately to the nearest cabinet and tried the first three drawers. Locked. She sighed in frustration. With no clear sense of what she was looking for, and an icy tightness in her heart at the fear of discovery, she was on the brink of abandoning her resolution, but refused to admit defeat so soon.

She tried another chest of drawers – one that opened, but revealed to her disappointed gaze nothing but a collection of minerals and gemstones, all labeled in the same slanting, elegant hand. She turned then to another bureau, trying the drawers again with patient succession, scanning the shelves above. Nothing. A drawer that she suspected held papers from the faint rustling shift she heard within when trying to open it, proved unassailable. She was agonizingly conscious of the minutes passing every time her gaze fell on the still and soundless clocks, the inlaid, glassy faces taunting her with reflections that startled her into thinking the captain had silently returned and discovered her. She could almost feel him watching her. Haunting her as he haunted the dark recesses of her mind, an insidious presence that breathed into every thought she had ever suppressed and every dream she had never dared utter.

The intense silence, the decadent scents of cigar smoke and warm claret were more than her tightly-strained nerves could stand. Wendy looked toward the dining table where last night he had pinned her with the force of his body, and turned away from it, shuddering. She would break down if she thought of it, and think of it she would, if she remained here. She would not stay in this cabin a moment longer.

The whole thing was futile, and she was driving herself mad with fevered imaginings. Another chance tried, she thought hopelessly. And another chance lost. She began to make her way towards the door, when her glance fell once again on the dining table and she paused. The table-drawer, the one place she had not yet looked. Quietly, Wendy pulled it open and looked in eagerly. She pulled out a rolled-up parchment with a sense of growing excitement. It was a map of Neverland, the lines of latitude and longitude chartered along its length, elaborate notes filled in the blank spaces, nautical observations on the weather, wind direction, well-traced courses and trajectories. It seemed the captain was an amateur cartographer among his other interests.

Wendy spread open the map with shaking fingers, eyes rapidly scanning the depiction of the island. Her heart ached at the sight of all those places so dearly familiar to her. To the south lay Marooner's Rock and the Mermaid's Lagoon, where her first great adventure had taken place, and where she had had her first, terrifying glimpse of Hook. The ambush still so vivid in her memory, that crawled into her dreams. The dark-blue clothed pirate, his rifle upraised, lithe and fluid and hunting, hunting. Piercing blue eyes a snare, a trance. Fear gathered tight knots in her throat, impressing on her the utmost urgency of escape.

She knew the Jolly Roger often docked east of the island – far closer to the Lost Boys than the captain had ever realized – but last night Smee had said they were aground on Skull Rock, far further north than she ever remembered Hook being. Given the adverse weather conditions, she doubted they would have moved far from that location. But where were they headed? What and whom was the captain planning to attack?

The paper was worn and creased in places and the top left corner was torn. She had a sudden memory of lingering outside the captain's quarters, hearing his hook thudding into the parchment. Wendy peered closer at the hole in the paper and could discern long-faded, embellished writing that was just barely decipherable. The Indian village.

And so that was whom Hook intended to strike. The Piccaninny tribe and their princess. She recalled Tiger Lily, savage and haughty and imperious with her darkly flashing eyes, a wigwam warrior stained with ageless suns and endless slaughter. The Battle of Slightly Gulch was a distant memory but that hardly mattered; all she knew was that these people had once been allies, and so they were enemies of Hook.

The rapid jump of her heart and the faint stirrings of exhilaration betrayed the resolution already forming in her mind. If she could escape, and somehow warn them and help them, not only for their own sake, but it was a chance of reaching Peter, and – in truth this spurred her on most of all – the opportunity to score a victory against the captain. She had two weapons at her disposal now. If the attack were to happen tonight, all she needed to do was wait until nightfall and steal onto the deck unnoticed – hopefully while the crew was distracted – and use the fairy dust. Then she would finally be free of this place – of him –

She looked again at the map. The river ran to the south of the Indian village, opening out to the sea in a chain of narrow and rocky outlets. It would be a perilous channel to navigate a ship through, but the trees on the north bank would render any approach almost invisible. Dangerous, but the captain was bold enough and mad enough to dare such an endeavor.

But of course, this was simply mere speculation when in fact she was nothing more than a girl with a vivid imagination who had no experience of battle or strategizing and whose talents did not extend much further than holding a polite conversation. Wendy laid the map down with a sigh, the tips of her fingers easing the tense lines of her brow. What was she doing? Did she really think she had a chance of defeating Captain Hook?

With a sigh, she rolled up the map, and was placing it carefully back in the drawer when her fingers brushed against something hard and cold. Her trembling hand drew out a pistol, its polished, metallic edge gleaming in the slanting rays of light. Wendy's heartbeat quickened as she stared at it consideringly. Then, coming to a silent decision, she slid the pistol into the waistband of her trousers, letting her shirt fall loose to her thighs to conceal it. The metal lay caressingly cool against her thigh.

She had everything she needed. Another glance around the cabin to confirm she had left no traces of her presence. She closed the door with painstaking care. Her first priority was to conceal the pistol somewhere out of sight in her cabin; she did not dare wonder what might happen if it was discovered on her person. Better that she leave it in the sanctuary of her room. Yesterday, her cabin had remained untouched; she had not.

Casting a nervous glance over her shoulder, Wendy began to walk rapidly down the corridor and turned the corner –

Straight into the waiting form of the captain.

One leather-clad leg was crossed over the other, a wooden beam supporting the reclining curve of his back. She had not prepared herself for an encounter, and the shock of seeing him so unexpectedly sent her heart slamming into her ribcage, the blood rushing hot colour into her cheeks. The last time she had seen him seared across her mind. Caressing metal. Sharp pain. Sweet ecstasy. Cool breath on her lips as his mouth moved towards hers… With an exertion of will, Wendy forced down the recollection. The pistol was cold and reassuring at her waist but it never occurred to her for a moment to use it.

"Retiring so soon?" He was watching her beneath narrowed lids, the cunning gleam of his eyes startlingly blue in the dim light.

Wendy stood her ground, hoping her expression did not betray her. "I was just taking the air."

"And was it to your liking?"

She nodded, watching him carefully.

Hook's smile was colder than a knife's edge. "There's a rainstorm and a devil's gale blowing outside and your clothes are not soaked in the slightest. Care to try again?"

There was nothing she could say. Even in the dim light, she could see that beads of water still clung in a mist to his black curls, running in silver trails down the velvet of his collar, and like a fool she had been too preoccupied to notice before. She looked at him and did not reply. Her heart beating, beating.

"So," he said, his tones light and melodious which she knew already meant he was deadly, "You refuse to talk. What a pity."

She sought to remain calm and indifferent, concealing the fact that every nerve in her body was tense and thrumming, alive. "Only because there is nothing to tell."

Quicker than thought, he was standing over her, rigid-shouldered and steel-strong. Wrapping her in silver chains, both burning and freezing. His face was hard and intent, and Wendy realized with a flash of fear that he had not forgiven her for the previous night. And he would not forget.

"I do hope," he murmured, "That you are not going to become more trouble than you're worth."

I'll give you trouble, Wendy thought, stubbornly determined not to yield. I'll give you all the trouble that Peter did and more besides -

"We came to an agreement, remember," he breathed against the hollow of her throat. The lacing cold of an arctic wind, stripping away her defenses, leaving her soul exposed and shivering. And yet, her skin was burning. "Three days in which I do nothing to you, so long as you return the favour. But if you wish to test the limits of my patience, you will see just how merciless I can be." He raised his hook to her upturned face, pressing an icy indenture to the skin (as he had last night, right before…) "Or had you forgotten?"

"No," she echoed. "I hadn't forgotten."

He inclined his head in a sardonic imitation of a bow, stretched out his ringed hand with a sweeping gesture of exaggerated mockery. "Then don't let me keep you."

This time he would get no rise out of her. With a show of cold disregard, Wendy turned to the door of her cabin.

"And you are right," he said quietly, stilling her. "For what you attempted to do to me last night – you aren't absolved."

Her hand had closed around the handle when his soft voice spoke again, sending ice prickling along the back of her neck.

"And I'll never let it go."

The captain had been right about the weather. The drear atmosphere echoed her mood. Fog hung in low swathes about the ship and a cold drizzle had set in, casting a filmy grey veil over everything. A raw wind billowed through the sails, making Wendy shiver where she crouched at the base of the mast, chin cradled pensively in her hands as she tried to summon the self-will to chance the next move in this perilous game she was playing. The dense fog clung to her skin, the misty rain soaking through her shirt and chilling her to the bone. Her hair was plastered against her face in soaked, straggling waves, dulled to the color of curled ash bark. She remembered the candlelit warmth of the captain's cabin and shook away the recollection with contempt at herself. She would have sold her soul for a hot bath if it meant she wouldn't have to dwell on those unsettling, pervasive memories.

A grim sense of purpose hung heavy in the air. The men worked silently and with bent backs, full of a rigid tenacity, unwilling to meet her eyes when yesterday they had been all easy frivolity and stumbling gallantry. She wondered if Hook had reprimanded them for indulging her the previous night and felt almost guilty. For however much she convinced herself she disliked the captain, there was no reason for the crew to be punished for her small insurrection.

From her huddled position on the stern of the ship, she could see the outline of him emerge through the clinging mist: cloak and hair and sloping shoulders. The narrow mouth and angular eyes upturned to the rain as he cursed quietly. Wendy shrank back out of sight, dreading another encounter. She could not see him again, did not know herself around him. Her usual calm control fled and she became anxious, uncertain as a child, and inwardly raged over this weakness inside her that she did not understand. Yet against her will, she remained frozen in place, unable to pull herself away.

It was a moment before she caught his words carried on the knifing breeze. "… Become a nuisance ever since they allied themselves with Pan."

"But Captain, the weather… they say there's going to be a fierce storm when we plan to –"

"I don't care about the weather!" roared the captain. "I want them dealt with – without mercy. I've not endured these last seven years being tormented by an ocean of dead faces only to be challenged by a band of savage fools – by thunder! I'll see the world damned to bring down Pan, if that's what it takes." Even from a distance, she saw the furious glint in his eyes, alive with old ghosts. "I want no more of your blithering incompetence."

Wendy did not wait to hear any more. She had not forgotten his haunting tale of the night before. Illuminated by the unhallowed lights, he had looked pale as a corpse, his eyes as wide and wild as one who had just crawled from the depths of a watery grave. Was it truly a drowned wraith she had to contend with? Wendy shivered, unable to forget the hollow, hunted look in his pale eyes. Eyes that had seen sights no man should witness. What could be so awful, so terrible that it had filled Captain James Hook with horror? His words came back to her, an invocation of one long gone. Where dead men dwell with the things that move in deep. What was he? Was he a man? And if so, was he living or dead?

She had seen from his face, rigid with beautiful cruelty, that he would never stop, never give up.

But then, neither would she.

Smee was too close to the captain to attempt to cross-examine without discovery. Gentleman Starkey still had too much of the public school obedience clinging to him to ever contemplate any form of disobedience. But Cecco – large, attractive and sure of himself – could possibly be cajoled into revealing some of the crew's plans. She easily discerned his broad form through the silvery veils of low cloud. His was the most handsome face of the crew's and the only one not worn down with the cowed submission all the other pirates displayed. Wendy approached him with the decided mobile grace that came so naturally to her, the effortless conceit of true breeding. She pulled the threaded ribbon from her hair, conscious of how the damp waves fell over her shoulders and down her back. The cold had brought a flush of color to her cheeks and brightened her eyes. Were I dressed in my finest gown, she thought defiantly, with pearls around my throat, there is not one of these wretches who wouldn't defy the captain to help me –

"A dangerous day to be risking the high seas," she observed aloud.

The dark man laughed without casting so much as a glance on her. "What would you know of it?"

"You are quite right," she agreed evenly. "I talk as if I were a seasoned sea-farer instead of a young lady of family and position. Ridiculous! We know better than that, don't we?"

"The captain says we're not to speak to you. Tradition tells you'll bring misfortune on the ship and all its crew." But the sudden glow in his coal eyes and the wolfish flash of teeth gave her hope.

"Do you always do as the captain says?" she asked innocently.

He shrugged his massive shoulders. "When it suits me."

"Does it suit you now?" She felt a momentary quiver of contempt at herself that she overrode.

Cecco leaned heavily against the drenched wood, watching her sharply beneath his thick black brows. "What is it you want?"

Wendy looked at him appraisingly. "Supposing you tell me our destination and I'll tell you a story."

He laughed aloud. "A story, is it? A long time since one of those has been heard aboard this ship. All right, bellissima – I'll hear your story, and then I might be inclined to start singing."

Wendy was not conceited enough to think his easy compliance was due to any of her own merits. He was bored, she realized, and perhaps idly amused by her. Well, so much the better for her. Without a moment of hesitation or self-consciousness, she threw herself headlong into the first narrative that came to her mind.

And suddenly, it all fell away. Her fears, her worries, her anxieties. She had delved into the world she loved, bringing it to life, losing herself in the imagination, the intrigue, the magnificent richness of it. This was wonderful, this was what she was meant for. The passion brought a flush to her cheeks, an imaginative fire flared in her calm eyes.

Gradually, she realized she was gathering an audience, as more and more of the crew seemed to be working nearby, some had abandoned all pretense and were seated or standing at intervals, listening intently. The thought that she was expressly defying the captain filled Wendy with a mad, reckless sense of purpose and she worked herself up to greater efforts, painting the canvas of her narrative in rich, vivid strokes. All her innate pride and command rose to the surface, that ability to hold and capture a rapt audience. There was not a trace of the former feminine charm in her recital that might have idly passed away the hours in a drawing room on a rainy afternoon. No longer soft and alluring, an angry resolution filled her. She spoke with a wild defiance, her voice raised and trembling, a fevered glow in her cheeks. Her movements were hard and bold, all sense of delicacy and refinement stripped away. She would have shocked and saddened her former acquaintances or an observer with any semblance of breeding. She absolutely electrified the crew. Gentleman Starkey was listening, slack-jawed. Bill Jukes was nodding with approval. Cecco's dark eyes were smoldering. Wendy barely saw it, aware only of the rapt silence, the beating of her pulse in her ears, and –

And –

The metallic fall of booted steps on the wooden boards. The sound rang out, hollow and endlessly magnified. Another shadowed figure, tall and slender and dark-cloaked, appeared on the edge of the deck.

"What the blazes is happening here?"

Wendy's heart splintered in terror, dragged back to reality with brutal force. Unconsciously, she withdrew back into the shadows. Cloaked and hooded in black, the captain looked like the Devil himself. The Devil with deep blue eyes. The crew began muttering among themselves.

"Explain the meaning of this or by thunder, I'll run my hook through you –"

"Leave them alone." The smooth, well-bred tones sounded jarringly out of place amidst the rough and unruly company.

Hook turned rapidly, the dark hood of his cloak falling back, the line of his profile startlingly pale against the deep black of his curling hair. Wendy saw for once that she had shocked him. He hid it well – but there was no concealing the momentary flash of surprise that crossed his features.

"What is she doing here?" he demanded in an undertone to Smee. He paused, staring at her. Then a malicious red smile curved his mouth.

Wendy cried out in startled surprise as he caught her arm, dragging her into the centre of the circle. His expression was impossible to discern, his face shadowed by the dark folds of his hood. Only the glint of his eyes; the colour of dark blue-tinted glass.

"Yes? Something you wish to say?"

She could not back down now, though she had turned pale and her nails dug tense crescents into her palms. The impulsive exclamation had burst from her lips in spite of herself, spurred by the subdued terror of the crew and the terrible memories of Hook's pistol silencing any man who spoke out of turn. The thought of watching another murder take place before her eyes made her faint with sickness, and so she lifted her chin, willing her voice to remain steady.

"Your crew is not to blame. It was my fault; I insisted on distracting them while they were busy working. If anyone is to be punished it is me, and that, Captain, is the truth - so run your hook through me, if you will."

"Well?" he demanded, "Have you all lost your tongues? Is the girl right?"

The men began clamouring in eager assent. It was a rather thankless display of gratitude, thought Wendy scornfully, considering her neck might very well be on the line.

"Very well." Hook exhaled with a show of weary contempt, his narrowed eyes surveying the cowed, submissive crew with barely-concealed impatience. "Get back to work. And if any man of you ever disobeys me again I'll fling your worthless hides over the deck and let the crocodiles make a meal of your flesh. And let me tell you –" His face darkened as he pulled back the lace cuff of his sleeve and – Wendy swallowed back a surge of terror and nausea – exposed the pale skin of his forearm, riddled silver-white with scars from the deep indentations of jagged teeth marks, "Those creatures bite deep, and once they have a taste of you, they won't let go. Now get out of my sight."

There was a bustle and clamour as the men could not be gone fast enough. Work resumed, and Wendy found herself alone on the deck, her presence completely forgotten. The fog slid cool blue fingers across the deck, the chill wind wrapping around her shoulders like a blanket of ice. She had started to shiver with cold and was just wondering drearily whether to return to her cabin when the captain appeared at her side.

"They won't thank you for it," he remarked, displaying that flash of uncanny intuition. His eyes were cool and bright, his mouth smiling. The hooped gold glimmered in his ear, its wink seeming like a mockery.

"Perhaps not," Wendy said uneasily, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around herself. Unwilling to show any vulnerability before him. "But they don't deserve to die merely for listening to a story."

"If you knew what those men had done, you might not be so quick to pardon them. Each of them has more deaths to their hand than you have years to your unspoiled young life."

"Deaths at your order."

There was an edge to his voice, provoked perhaps by her evident disdain. "They hardly needed much convincing. And nor did you, if I recall, when you held a cutlass to my throat last night." She flinched and looked away. He leaned closer, his desultory tones smooth as steel sliding into her heart. "Killing a man – it's the easiest thing in the world, and never so sweet as the first time –" his voice dropped and his slowly unfurling smile chilled her blood – "I wonder if there was enough conviction in your heart to have truly done it, to have ended me. A curious sort of honour it would have been, my blood being the first to stain your innocent hands."

Wendy felt cold and very alone. The mist lay damp, cold fingers on the back of her neck, hauntingly reminiscent of his touch. "It would have been worth it," she managed hoarsely, "To rid Neverland of such a menace."

"Of course. Always so protective. Such a mother. Tell me; are you still as devoted as ever to those thankless brats?"

"If you are referring to my brothers, John and Michael are both grown men now."

"Ah," he said, smiling that silver-edged smile. "So motherhood doesn't fill you with the same delight as it once did? The years have turned you cold, dear girl."

Wendy felt suddenly sick at heart. She closed her eyes, willing herself to disregard his cutting words that were designed only to wound. Lies laced with barbs of truth, enough to make her doubt herself. Is this what she was now? So bitter, so disillusioned of life? Like him? She thought back to a lonely girl in a cold nursery, on the brink of renouncing her dreams. Resigning herself to a life empty and hollow. We both of us are trapped, she realized, disquieted at the revelation. She would almost have pitied him had she not determined to harden her heart against him. And she was still proud enough to scorn him.

"What would you know of it?" she returned wearily. "You have never loved, never cared for anyone."

"Always so quick to depict me the cold and heartless villain, aren't you, my beauty?"

The savagery with which he spoke cut through her like a knife, pulling her startled gaze up to his. In his face was a poignant flicker of emotion that made her heart shudder. The cool, sardonic veneer had been brutally stripped away, and what she saw beneath was desolate, awful. Shaken, Wendy stared at him, suddenly recalling those words spoken in bitterness that she had not dared allowed herself to think on too closely… I have no happy thoughts… I am bound by the regrets of maturity… a torment…

What she had glimpsed in those moments – weariness, resentment, and terrible unhappiness – told her more than she wanted, told her things she refused to let herself believe. She knew, had known even in the confused emotional depths of adolescence, that he had dropped willingly into the jaws of the crocodile. He had accepted – no, embraced – the bleak approach of death. She was looking into the face of a man who had given up. Given up on life, hope, happiness, and resigned himself to the dim future with despairing certainty.

She spoke slowly, her quiet words filling the vast space between them. "Then prove me wrong. For once in your life, show mercy. End this petty feud and release me."

Silence. Only the dull, steady rhythm of the rain falling on the deck and low, mournful billowing of the sails in the chill, icy wind. The air veiled them in a grey mist. He was looking down at her, his eyes very blue, curious and absorbed, and an expression of yearning so intense it seemed almost physical pain flickering across his marble-still features. Wendy remained still under his searching gaze that seemed to hold them together, her heart beating strangely. She hardly dared to breathe. The desire to reach out, to touch him, to discover something real beneath the cruelty and cynicism and deception was almost overwhelming, and she could no longer fight the impulse.

"Captain?" she said, wonderingly.

He sighed heavily, a tremor ran through the hand half-lifted to her face. Hesitant and uncertain, as though he did not know what to do next, a voyager on the brink of abandoning a long and half-desired isolation. Slender fingers lightly traced the line of her jaw, the ephemeral touch like the embrace of the tide, comforting and smooth. His mouth opened as though to speak –

And he laughed. Blood suffused his cheeks, the hateful mockery flashing in his eyes.

"Oh, very good," he whispered. "But unfortunately you will not find me so easily swayed." He smiled with vile derision at the expression on her face that she could not suppress before he read the emotion there. "Really, my dear girl, what did you expect?"

Wendy took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, holding her head up even though her eyes were sore and stinging. The cold air tried to soothe her burning face. She felt a rush of humiliation and overwhelming disappointment. She was a fool to have believed him capable of any form of humanity. How could she have thought, even for a moment, that he might –

"You look pale," he observed casually. "You're not sickening, are you?"

"I have never been seasick in my life."

"Good. Because it'll be a wild night tonight and I cannot spare the men to be catering to feminine sensibilities. They will have a hard enough time of it merely keeping us on course."

"That's true," agreed Wendy, the sudden flash of humiliated anger at his careless words provoking her to recklessness, "Though I thought it was because you intended to attack the Piccaninny warriors tonight."

The instant the words passed her lips, she would have given worlds to recall them.

The captain's hand darted out, fingers biting into her wrist (bringing back memories like a whispered death sentence – kill you? Oh no, my Darling girl, I'm not going to kill you –) and she swallowed down the searing flash of bright pain. Her blood surged, quickening the pulse that throbbed beneath his hold.

"Who told you?" growled Hook. "Out with it – or I'll give you something to sing about when I drag my hook across your throat – "

He was too close. His eyes, too cold. Sapphire and steel. Wendy hid her terror, forcing it down beneath a fragile veneer of detached politeness. "Pirates talk," she said, "And walls are thin."

His grip on her eased a fraction, and suddenly, she found herself facing the cavalier, dissolute libertine once more. He was smiling and smiling, courteous and civilized, yet she could sense his anger beneath, swelling like a storm. "Well, my beauty," he said softly. His tones were caressing as silk but his eyes were ice. "You have been busy, haven't you?"

She shivered at the look he gave her. But there was no use in remaining silent. He knew the worst now, anyway. "So it is true. You mean to attack the Indians."

"You will keep your mouth shut." The polished silver gleamed at his wrist like a warning.

She would have to tread carefully. If the captain had one weakness, it was vanity; she might yet be able to play on it as she had done last night. "I just thought… it's only that it sounds so terribly exciting. May I come along?"

"No."

Her fists clenched at her sides. But she concealed her inner vexation, her expression steady and ingenuous. "I only wanted the chance to see a real pirate raid. I have no intention of interrupting you or your men."

"Don't bat your eyelashes at me. Let you on the shore? I wouldn't trust you out there for five minutes."

"But I –"

"Smee," the captain called over his shoulder carelessly. "See to it that she's kept out of my way. Lock her in her cabin."

Wendy immediately took a step back. But he was too fast for her, one arm locking hard around her waist, dragging her back with a force as irresistible as the tide. Holding her rigid against him, pressed tightly into the plush velvet confines of his cloak. Heart in her throat at the fear of him – his coldness, his anger, his hunger – she momentarily forgot to remain aloof. His clenched hand was so cold, his blood so hot, and she was enmeshed in rippling folds of dark water. Closer than she could stand. Her mind whirled, tried to summon reason, rationality –

Then her old pride reasserted itself. Even if she was his prisoner, she was not an object to be manhandled at his will. She did not know how he treated other women, but she was a respectable lady and would have him remember it.

"I thought you would have considered it the height of bad form to lock up defenseless women," she managed coldly. Her lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure.

He lifted a winged dark brow. "I would hardly call you defenseless."

"No gentleman would ever –"

Hook sneered nastily, a thread of steel in his tone. "Your right to lecture me on courtesy ended when you tried to run me through with my own cutlass. Save the pretensions of virtue, girl. They will do you no good here."

She tried one last appeal. "What am I supposed to do shut away in my cabin?"

He shrugged, waving a slim white hand dismissively. "What do I care?"

"I refuse to be treated like some –" Wendy began to say, and then sternly checked herself. She would not lower herself by making a scene.

The captain's tone was cool when he spoke again. "Kindly do not bother me with any hysterics. I would rather not any trouble."

"You invited trouble the moment you took me aboard this ship. Surely you know such a move would provoke my –"

"Friends?" Hook sneered, his cruel eyes gleaming and narrow. "I'll wager you've not many; your type seldom does. One evening in your company sufficed to convince me of that. In short, my dear girl, you are nothing more than a stiff, spoilt, condescending –"

"Cap'n."

Smee's appearance did not abate the effect of those sharp words that stung like a lash – even more so, given there was enough truth in them to hurt – but Wendy rallied, her eyes meeting the captain's steadily and without flinching as she spoke with a certainty she did not feel. "If you really believed that," she said. "You would not be locking me away."

Hook cocked his pistol at her. She heard the metallic click. "You can go to your cabin," he continued smoothly. "Or… you can lose your kneecaps. I don't recall mentioning them in our little arrangement."

Ice gripped her heart. She felt her body slacken. Something in the captain's hard gaze warned her not to push him any further. His eyes had that glint of familiar steel. Anger as unpredictable as his smiles. She had already challenged him on the deck and instinct told her it would be wise not to provoke him. Not for the time being, anyway. Tightly, she nodded. She felt the bo'sun's hands close around her in a hold that was surprisingly gentle. She could have broken away at any moment, but did not even make the attempt. If the captain could play his own game, then so could she. Let him busy himself with the ship and its crew. When darkness came and they were too busy to remember her, she could break out easily enough. She resolved to run the risk headlong that night. Something of Peter's spirit still lingered within her, hardening her resolve, making her careless of all perils.

"Smee. A moment."

The captain's hand enclosed her wrist like a band of iron. A manacle of ice locking around her skin. A cold shiver raced down her spine, hot blood beating beneath. Eyes narrowed, Hook studied her closely, one of those deep, penetrating gazes that seemed to drag every deeply-buried thought and emotion from the depths of her mind. She could not look away.

"So you've learned sense, after all?" he murmured. A taut smile. Silver wires digging into her flesh. She was spiraling down through cool blue. Eyes into which she could fall and fall forever. That almost made her believe she wanted to. She swayed, on the brink of vertigo.

"No, I think not," he added as an afterthought. His grip on her tightened. "You've a furtive face and a prying mind and you don't scare easily. But understand this, Wendy Darling. You might sneer at me and think you can outwit me, but if you so much as make a move to defy me, it will be the last thing you ever do."

Then I will die happy, she thought, trying (and trying and trying) to summon that old, sustaining hatred of him. But to her absolute despair, she realized it was slipping away from her like water that couldn't be held –

The captain turned away with a movement of casual disregard, the echo of his retreating steps lingering in her mind long after he had disappeared from her sight. She yielded calmly to the bo'sun's appeals and allowed herself to be led away – not like someone conquered, with shoulders bowed and head bent – but with her shoulders straight, her footfalls confident and sure. There would be time enough to fall prey to hopelessness, but she must do so in solitude.

Smee's voice seemed to reach her through a mist. "How about I cook you something nice to eat?"

"No," she responded dully. "I am quite alright." She wanted to be left alone to think; the bo'sun's well-meaning kindness was touching, but could not help her now.

Smee did not insist, and said nothing more until she was back in her own cabin, the metallic grate of the key turning in the lock behind her. He does not like me, Wendy realized, never once thinking that she had given him little reason to do so.

Left alone, her first thought was to check the pistol had remained undiscovered in her absence. She found it where she had hidden it, deep in the confines of her dresser and wrapped in a thick blanket, clearly untouched. And yet… she frowned suddenly. A collection of books had been left on the dresser. On top lay a note in that familiar hand that made her throat tighten. Such fine literature should not go to waste. Drawing closer,Wendy glanced at the titles curiously. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The Tempest, The Count of Monte Cristo, a selection of Petrarch and Baudelaire. The texts were familiar to her; she had spent her adolescence falling into them as a solitary wanderer stumbling across old pathways and the sight of them struck a chord within her… Forcibly wrenching her mind from the past, Wendy sat on the edge of the hammock, turning her thoughts to her current predicament. She could not wait for Peter any longer. Escape was imperative now. Beyond that, she did not dare allow herself to think. She could not. But the heavy, despondent thoughts crept upon her in spite of herself.

Soon she would have to return to the dull regularity of shallow etiquette and the social demands of Edwardian womanhood, that senseless life that was like walking through a waking dream. A bitterness, greater than she could have imagined, filled her. She had tasted adventure again, held freedom within her grasp and she would have to renounce it again. The thought brought with it a dull ache. Adulthood no longer held the same abstract, mysterious, profound quality that had enticed her thirteen year-old self back to London. She knew all too well what was expected of her, the role she must play. Resigned to go through an entirely eventless life, where nothing ever happened.

Only twenty last birthday, she thought. And my whole life is already planned out for me. That night of the party I felt I had lived a hundred years.

"Suppose I do return?" she broke out abruptly to the empty cabin. "Who can impel me to marry if I don't wish to? Can't I say no to Charles? Am I not independent enough to know my own mind? My parents are not tyrants – they would not force me to do anything that I did not want to."

But they would be disappointed, though, another voice whispered. And how much worse that was. To disappoint the parents that had loved and indulged her and given her everything she wished for since childhood. Their sad resignation and quiet reticence entangled her far more tightly in this engagement than any show of force or anger could have.

It unnerved her to realize that she had felt more vividly alive these last twenty-four hours than she could remember feeling in the last seven years. When she was here, everything was unpredictable, uncontrollable, unrestrained. Like the chains of her old life had fallen away from her. She was not ready to renounce that elating sense of freedom and purpose – not yet. She would have one last adventure before returning to the steady, sedate life that awaited her, where she was known only as Miss Darling, firm, sensible and undemonstrative. No one – not even those closest to her – had any comprehension of that inner core of passionate, imaginative essence that lay hidden deep within the outer layers of respectability and reserve that the exposure to danger and exhilaration had awoken. The rebellious spirit for adventure was not yet quenched and Wendy silently vowed she would reach the Indians before Hook, let the consequences fall where they may.

She had not forgotten the warning the captain had given her earlier. If you wish to test the limits of my patience, you will see just how merciless I can be. The thought of him discovering her treachery inspired a silken thread of fear within her. That fear haunted her almost as keenly as he did, drowned her with evocative imaginings. She remembered again that icy stillness in his eyes like the surface of a dark lake, so unbreakable. Her own eyes were steady and grave, a misty cloud-blue that in some lights was almost grey. What was it about his that frightened and fascinated her so? What depths dwelt beneath that visceral mirror of deepest blue? What evocative curse had stolen over her senses that made her forgetful of every rational instinct of self-preservation that society and her own intelligence had instilled in her?

It had become lost under the melodious whisper of a damning voice, enveloping her. The treacherous depths of her mind were possessed by touches of silver and near-kisses that froze her senses. A terrible twist on a familiar fairy tale.

How will it end? she wondered.

She had to leave this ship, leave him, before –

Closing her eyes, Wendy fell back onto the hammock, her fingers clasping the acorn around her throat as though it were a sacred talisman that could protect her from all harm. Never had Peter seemed so far from her, Peter whom she had kissed with all the fatalism of doomed love...

Save me, Peter, she thought fervently. Save me from Hook and most of all, save me from myself –

Suddenly, her eyes flew open.

She listened intently, her formerly weary body tense and alert in every nerve. Footsteps. Approaching the cabin.

The metallic clatter of a key turning in the lock. For a brief instant, Wendy considered making a break for the door, but dismissed the idea immediately. Such a foolhardy venture in broad daylight would only result in her getting caught at once and there was no sense in ruining her chances of escaping tonight by acting too impulsively now. Better that they thought her cowed and beaten, resigned to her imprisonment. With that thought in mind, she closed her eyes again and awaited the intruder, feigning sleep.

She heard the protesting shriek of rusty hinges as the door swung open. Someone – Smee perhaps – was in the cabin with her. There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch on, unbearably long, as she waited with the helpless disadvantage of being unable to see anything. Whoever it was seemed to hesitate, doubtless thrown by the sight of her apparently in a deep sleep. Perhaps it would be enough to make them leave.

Wendy lay still, legs tangled among the sheets in the pretense of slumber. Stasis in the darkness. Trembling hands and beating heart.

Then -

The sound of footsteps drawing closer. Not the slow, shuffling steps of the bo'sun, but firm and deliberate. The distinct, precise click of booted heels against the floorboards. Her pulse thudded. It was him.

No, she could not know that for certain. But who else on this ship moved with such lithe grace? So soft and suave –

Click.

Click.

She waited. Heavy silence through the black of her closed lids. Her nerves vibrated. Tense. The floorboards creaked beside her. Her hands knotted in the sheets slick between her fingers.

Deprived of sight, all of her other senses were painfully enhanced, and her imagination filled the void left by her closed eyes. A spill of ebony curls lost in the depths of the richly embroidered jacket of darkest midnight-blue, gold lining its brocade edges. Pale, gaunt cheeks, forget-me-not eyes that she could feel fixed upon her with unwavering intensity. Their gaze burned cold and yet she was warm, so terribly warm.

The faint musk of wine and cigars, the lingering tang of salt air. It took all her self-will not to tremble with a paroxysm of emotion. The hammock swayed dangerously.

What was he doing?

Wendy bit her tongue in an effort to remain silent. The iron-bitter tang of blood hit her mouth. The metallic taste forcefully bringing to mind the sensation of his touch, like shards of pleasure. Anticipation thudded in her blood.

Closer still. She could feel him standing over her. Adrenaline pulsed through her deliberately still form. She pressed her face harder into the pillow, fearing her expression would betray her. She could hear him breathing, and – she jumped – the brush of his mustache against her throat. Sudden fear lanced through her. If he thought to look more closely at the acorn that hung around her neck…

Her eyelashes fluttered a fraction. Barely. Was that the glint of silver she caught, half-upraised?

For a quivering moment, she was half-inclined to rise in offended feminine pride, but curiosity stilled her. She was too intrigued as to what he would do next. He must have a purpose in coming here; though for the life of her she could not understand what it might be. She alone knew about the fairy dust that lay concealed in the locket nestled between her collarbones; of other communication with Peter, there had been none. There was nothing here for him to find (except the pistol –)

His sudden touch froze her still, flaring in her skin. His fingers were daggers of ice. The ensnaring brand almost dragging a gasp from her tightly pressed lips. She felt those fingers deliberately trace the contours of her profile, exquisitely slow, lacing across her cheek. Jarring force. Lingering at the kiss that was searing at the corner of her mouth. She felt its burn. Was he about to –

If he did, she would have to act, whatever the consequences.

Then the touch slid away, smoothing the damp hair back from her brow, cool on her burning skin, and he sighed – shuddered?

"Damn it to hell," he muttered softly to the silent cabin. "I won't –"

Whatever else he had meant to say remained unuttered. The footsteps retreated. Wendy heard the door closing and the turn of the lock. Empty silence. She sat upright, unable to suppress the shaking of her body.

What was all that about?

The warning, low, sonorous roll of thunder startled her. The hammock swayed unsteadily, following the sudden lurching movement of the ship as it dipped to one side. The captain was right. It would be a wild night.

The lethargy of sleep stole upon her, but she fought it down. These next few hours were a waiting game in which she must discern as much as possible what was happening outside, and choose the right time to act. And sleep was no longer the guarantee of repose it once was. He followed her into the very depths of her dreams.

Wendy gazed out the porthole window, her expression solemn and introspective. Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she stared unseeingly at the rain that blurred the glass in silver trails, resigning herself to sleeplessly await the approach of night. She did not dare close her eyes, dreading the captain's spirit walking through her dreams, the icy touch of his fingers, the whisper of his soft voice, sharp and cold as metal –

Dreams, she thought, could be very dangerous things.

Chapter Text

Your cruel device
Your blood like ice
One look could kill
My pain, your thrill

I wanna love you but I better not touch (don't touch)
I wanna hold you but my senses tell me to stop
I wanna kiss you but I want it too much (too much)
I wanna taste you but your lips are venomous poison

You're poison
Running through my veins
You're poison
I don't wanna break these chains

('Poison', Tarja Turunen)

- Day 2 -

Part II

She must have slept, for when Wendy opened her eyes, the darkness was complete. She sat up on the swaying hammock, wide-awake at once, tense and listening. At first, nothing but the loud thudding of her heart in her ears and the unsteady groan of the lurching ship as it swayed from side to side like a drunken man. Then she realized it was raining – no, pouring – the water lashing in violent torrents against the window, blurring the glass. There was a great rolling of thunder, low and sonorous, now rising and falling over the crashing of the waves. The cabin was black as a pit, and she waited some moments for her eyes to adjust to the intense gloom. She could discern the shadowed outline of the shelf, the lamps swinging above her head with a low, persistent creaking, the round window like an eye gazing into the storm.

Her first instinct was to reach for a light, but it occurred to her that it would not be wise to draw attention to the fact that she was stirring. The crew seemed to have forgotten about her for the time being, and she intended to keep it that way. Instead, she moved barefoot across the cabin to the porthole window, pressing her hands against the cold glass to steady herself, trying to discern what was happening through the black deluge. Through the rattling pane, she could feel the chill draught blowing on her shoulders, whistling through her thin shirt like a blade of ice, and she shivered. But she also noticed how loose the pane was, how easily it could be pried loose, or broken –

Wendy started back in shock. A face was thrust against the window; she caught a glimpse of matted hair and flashing teeth and wide eyes –

She pressed herself back against the wall, out of sight, huddled in the close, musty darkness. She heard a shout from outside, "Storm rose up from nowhere –"

"The captain's mad if he thinks we can –"

The voices moved away and she breathed again. Trembling and alive in every nerve, Wendy's fingers stole to the acorn around her neck, clutching it tightly as she considered her next move. Falling asleep had been a mistake, and a foolish one at that; she had no idea what hour it was or even how near the coast the ship had reached. Time was of the utmost essence. It was a precarious balance. Leave too soon and she would be too far from the shore, and every moment free was to run the risk of discovery, but leave it too long and she would be too late to warn the Indians. And if the storm had come upon them before they had reached the Indian village, there was a strong chance that Hook would have been halted in his enterprise, which meant that for all she knew, they could be miles out on the high seas by now. It seemed folly to chance an escape attempt when she had no idea where they were; but on the other hand, she felt duty-bound to aid the Piccaninny tribe if they were in danger. Furthermore, the storm and general confusion were other factors weighted to her advantage. She might never have such an opportunity again. At the very least, she could slip out unobserved and discover where they were. She was aware too that time was running out, and she no longer had the implicit trust that Peter would come for her before the imminent deadline that loomed before her like a dark cloud. And if he did not…

No, she would think about that when the time came. Wendy drew a deep breath, willing down those weak, debilitating fears. All is lost with me if I look ahead.

She groped her way back to the bed and sat down, mulling over her situation. She was Wendy Moira Angela Darling, a girl of twenty years old, alone and held captive on a ship with a deadly captain, who if he knew what she was intending, would rid himself of her at last with one swift thrust of his hook. She had no weapons save an untried pistol and no certainty of rescue while he had a crew of men to do his bidding and even alone, was three times her strength, as he had proven last night. All she had was the fairy dust and the cover of darkness to aid her.

Well, she had faced danger before now. If she could defy him as a child of thirteen, there was nothing preventing her from doing so now – nothing, except her own fear.

And she would not be afraid of Captain James Hook.

A great, rending crack split the air like a gunshot, the ship tilting alarmingly on its axis. Streaks of white-green lightning illuminated the cabin, throwing everything into brief, hyper-real clarity. Too bright, too heightened. There was something unnatural about the storm. Wendy felt a shiver of trepidation. Peter, she thought suddenly. He's angry. His face flashed vividly in her mind as she remembered it best, full of fire, fancy and mischief – he would have thrown himself into a fight with such impossible odds as these. And once upon a time, she would have followed him anywhere. For him, she would have risked all things, dared all things, defied all things, endured all things. Wendy smiled faintly, though there was little warmth in it. I'm not that little girl any more, she thought. She had changed, the whole world had changed, Peter alone had remained unaltered.

But perhaps she was not so far from that girl yet. She was young and daring and alive. And as for the captain… an elusive whisper stirred in her memory, a youthful face stern with unconscious cruelty… leave Hook to me. But there was no Peter here to fight her battles. All along, she had known it must inevitably come to a confrontation between her and the captain. This was something she had to do alone. And if Hook killed her, it would be her own fault. Her delicate hands, folded neatly in her lap, suddenly clenched into white fists. Let him try.

A pathological addiction to danger, John would have called it, regarding her with narrow criticism through his spectacles with an expression that somehow in the intervening years had become their father's. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was mad. But better mad than the numbed, empty state of existence she had placidly endured for too many years.

There were two methods of escape open to her; the door or the window. The door was a heavy, oaken piece of wood, locked securely from the outside and all but useless to her. The porthole window was small and would be a struggle to get through, but the glass pane was already loose and its breaking could easily be attributed to the violence of the storm. She had come too far now to contemplate turning back on her course, not when escape was so close.

Wendy threw open the dresser, her first thought to retrieve the pistol she had stolen from the captain's cabin. She withdrew the weapon from its hiding place, unwrapping it from the cloak she had tightly bound it in. With a sudden thought, she swathed the heavy garment around her shoulders, drawing the hood up over her head to conceal her features. The cape was made for a taller form than hers, and whispered along the ground as she moved. The pistol she wrapped in the folds of her discarded gown, hoping that by doing so, she would stifle the inevitable sound. Slowly, she approached the window, her heart beating thickly in her ears. She could hear the rattle of glass, thrumming in the wind. It would be easy, the work of seconds if she could only muster her courage. The seconds dragged by and still she hesitated…

"Damnation," she swore under her breath. The act of cursing filled her with a bold, reckless sort of confidence, resolve trembling in every nerve.

And she smashed the pistol through the window.

The sound of splintering glass was immediately lost in the violent roar of the elements. Wendy had the presence of mind to stumble back, wary of any shards being blown back into the cabin, the muffled pistol clenched tightly in her hands. The air howled into the room and she let it lash against her face and arms, careless of the fierce, wet, biting cold. It was sharp, exhilarating, and it drew a breathless, elated laugh from Wendy's lips. The wild spirit of adventure was upon her and she would have dared anything in that moment. The night, the storm, the captain's wrath could not deter her; let them do what they would.

She set about removing any traces of glass that clung to the window frame, near-blinded by the rain that hit her with the monumental force of a crashing wave. The urgency of speed was upon her now; she did not know how long this rush of adrenaline would last and dreaded that at any moment she might lose her nerve.

Leaning through the window, Wendy braced her hands either side of the aperture that was already slippery with rain, giving little grip to her fingers. Slowly, she eased herself up and out, the violence of the wind and blinding rain unsteadying her momentarily, almost making her lose her balance. The wooden frame of the window dragged against the bones of her hips and she gritted her teeth at the pain, hearing the tearing rend of fabric. With a vigorous twist, her upper body came through with an effort, and she braced herself for the fall.

The drop was not severe, but the rush through arctic space seemed to go on forever and the impact of the hard wooden deck slamming into her back knocked the breath from her. Wendy gave herself a moment to recover, lying curled up against the ice-glazed wood that was reeling and unsteady with the powerful motion of the sea.

At last she dragged herself to her feet; one hand making certain the pistol remained at her side and the other touching the fairy-dust that hung around her throat. Then she stepped out into the vacuous black.

She was drenched within moments, the rain running over face in icy streams, falling into her eyes and mouth. Moving through the storm was like falling through dark water as it closed over her head and made her feel as though she was drowning. Wendy shivered and pulled the cloak tighter around her body. Hair streamed down in long soaked strands over her shoulders. The wooden deck was slippery and frosted with the beginnings of ice. A bottle rolled across the floor, narrowly missing her feet. Beyond was a dark void. It took several moments for her to gather her bearings; she could barely see her own hand in front of her. Only the thunder. The stormy winds. The rain.

She moved unsteadily across the deck, her chill breath before her, fanning the ghostly night. The long hair and tender skin had suffered mildly from her ungainly scramble through the window. She had no fixed idea of where she was going, only that she needed to remain undiscovered long enough to use the fairy dust. The pistol was curved intimately against her thigh and it was no small degree of comfort, knowing it was there.

Out in the open, she felt she had entered the very heart of the raging storm. The air was cold and thunderous and static, the rain coming down in black sheets. The drenched sails lashing violently, whipping against the distant mast that thrust upwards into black oblivion. Wendy moved in that direction feeling as though she was travelling through a dark tunnel, the surrounding night starless and fathomless, endless dark water crashing against the sides of the ship. Around her, shadowy figures, cries and shouts. And no sign of the ship's ghostly captain.

Someone staggered past an arm's length away and Wendy pressed herself back into the soaked shelter of the sails, hardly daring to breathe. Not that anyone would hear her in this din…

Then, emerging through the lashing winds, she heard the captain's voice. "Move, you scurvy lubbers!"

Cold, knifing fear lanced through her heart. Even though he was still mercifully distant, she withdrew further out of sight, feeling the heavy sails beating against her back like colossal bird wings. Pushing the soaked lengths of hair back from her face, Wendy struggled to discern his form through the blurring darkness. There – dressed in dark, old-fashioned clothes two centuries out of fashion. The edge of a black cloak that had been carelessly cast aside. She wondered that he did not feel the cold when she was half-dying of it, but then, this was a man who had defied death, what fear would the storm hold for him?

The glint of his hook caught the flare of lightning as he gestured lightly. Cool and methodical amidst the surrounding chaos. Both entrancing and frightening. The men scattered at his command, dispersing like mist into the storm's clutches. Even in their absence, the taste of fear lingered palpable in the air. Wendy wished that she too could flee, but she could only wait, wrapping the folds of her cloak tighter around herself and watching him almost against her will.

Left alone, the captain's stance altered. He leaned heavily against the deck, a distant and pensive expression on his face. Even beneath the lurid flares of lightning, he no longer looked like the fearsome adversary she knew, but only terribly weary. Emotion had etched deep rivets into the lines of his features, dragging the arrogant curve of his mouth downwards.

"Pan will crawl at my feet when all is done," he murmured, so softly that Wendy could hardly hear him. His jaw tightened as he looked away, a bleak look in his cold eyes. "Perhaps then I shall know some measure of peace. Something that can let me find an end to this wretched means of living."

She stared at him because he looked miserable. He looked miserable. Wendy turned away. She could not endure this, the thought of him being a man of feeling. She would not pity him. If he was lonely, he had only himself to blame. His men were little better than cowed dogs lashing out, but his qualities had hinted at a nature that could have been fine and noble, yet instead, he chose to waste his talents on petty raids and schemes. She was too conscious of her own superiority, too aware of his innate cruelty to allow herself to listen to that uncomfortable voice in the back of her mind.

But still that feeling crept in softly like a thief in the night, whispering to her that things could be different, that were she to look past the cold exterior… but Wendy silenced those treacherous thoughts, too fearful to contemplate, instead wrapping herself with the familiar frosted indifference that fell over her like a comforting blanket, the only protection she had against such a man. She would kill him before she would comfort him. Too many times had she fallen for an appearance of his compassion, his humanity. Never again would she be fooled by him.

She felt her way along the deck, staggering now and then as the ship dipped and rose over the tumultuous motion of the rolling waves. She had not yet formed a plan in her mind other than to put as much distance between herself and the captain as possible. She knew it was safer when she kept away from him. That didn't stop her from thinking about him, or from feeling a stirring of empathy for his self-inflicted purgatory. It didn't stop her from being afraid of him, either.

She could almost imagine those eyes on her, drowning, evocative. Haunting every step she took, watching her from the shadows with murderous intent. At every step she fought down the urge to glance over her shoulder, dreading discovery. Nothing but the sails billowing wildly. Shadows. In truth, she was little better than a child stumbling around in the dark. Even now, a part of her was hoping that Peter would come to her rescue. She had never felt so alone.

The straitlaced young lady of London drawing rooms seemed far away, a distant dream, that elusive existence of bone-china and cream, linen and lace. Everything so fragile, so delicate. Universes away from the violence and fury and danger of being flung out on the high seas, the crash of the waves, the salt winds lashing against her face, the sharp, heady tang of oiled tar and leather. This was living, this was life, more fully than she had ever known it. She was no longer an empty doll with heavy, coiled hair and a heartbreakingly weary gaze, a docile automaton reclining on a gilt chair, half-listening to polite conversation, and yet always feeling like she was falling out and away from the world. Never had she felt more truly herself than now.

She was still afraid, yes, but beneath the fear there was a strange, excited feeling in her heart. It took a moment for her to recognize the sensation that had been absent from her soul for so long. That she had felt when rising above the white-plumed clouds all those years ago, casting aside all troubles. That feeling… wild and unpredictable… like she was free. That was what Peter had meant to her, why she had loved him and clung to his memory these long years –

"But what have we here?"

That voice froze her blood.

The first awful thought that flashed upon her was that it was all over, he had found her… but when she dared look up, paralyzed, her heart trapped rigid in her throat, she realized the captain was not looking at her but at the crew. His voice unfurling like a sharp lash.

"Must I press on you the urgency of secrecy and speed? Or do you need another reminder?" The hook flashed with menacing intent.

Wendy drew as far back into the rigging as she was able, stumbling slightly against a pile of crates. Tarred ropes rattled against her arms in the keening wind. She held herself impossibly still, shivering a little on the black ice. Her fingers curled around the handle of her pistol.

Metal-capped boots sounding across the wooden deck. They stopped barely feet from her. The sharp whisper of indrawn breath was lost in the sobbing winds.

Hook cast an eye over the crew, forbidding and silent. Wendy shivered at that aura of danger, like a piece of blown glass with a sharp edge. Impossible that he could not hear the wild bounding of her heart. Over the palpitating spasms, she heard the sullen, resentful grumbling of the men.

Hook regarded them with a curling sneer. "Such a lily-livered brand of cowards I've never before had the misfortune to endure."

"'Tis not cowardice when it's common sense."

Wendy leaned forward, curiosity overriding her caution. She knew that voice, careless, audacious, a note of rebellion coloring the accented tones.

The captain's smile was like a knife cutting through flesh.

"Care to elaborate, Cecco?"

"Look around you, Captain. The storm's thrown us half off-course already. It's suicide to try and get any further inland; we'll be dashed to pieces on the rocks. He controls the weather, they say, and I'm not prepared to find out if it's true. We'll not go any further on this fool's errand with you."

Hook's blue eyes narrowed. "Mutiny, is it?"

The dark-featured Italian shrugged, arms folded across his broad chest. "If that's what it pleases you t'call it."

"It does please me," said the captain, and there was no sardonic mockery in his voice, only a cold and deadly certainty. "You'll not come out and challenge me directly – oh, no, you'll whisper and spread dissension in the hope that one of these cringing fools will eventually summon up the gumption to slide a knife through my ribs and save you the trouble. Be assured – they won't."

"None of us wish for trouble, Captain," said Cecco, though there was still something insolently casual in his tone. "I just wanted to prove my point."

"And what point was that, Cecco?" the captain asked, carefully polite.

"You're out of your depth, Captain. You've gambled too much this time, just as you did before. We sided with you the last time when it cost you your life, and before that, a hand. We had seven years of peace – Pan left us be and we him. This ship was as good as mine until you came back –"

"And there lies your weakness," said Hook softly. "I came back. You underestimate your enemies, just as you overrate your allies. You spend your power and your charm needlessly, thinking sweet words can buy a man's loyalty. Do you think a single one of these curs would stand alongside you and defy me? You're arrogant, and worse than that, you're a fool. And when that compromises me and everything I've worked to achieve – oh, that I don't forgive lightly."

The brawny sailor met Hook's gaze defiantly, flashing a bold grin. "You want a fight, Captain? Once and for all to decide who's really in charge? Choose your weapon – swords or pistols – and we'll settle this now."

The tension hung between them, silent except for the howl of the wind, and lashing of salt-water against the lurching sides of the ship. Two silhouettes standing motionless in the quicksilver rain. The wild night took on an oppressive hush, of held breath, of turning tides, of waiting for something. Something dangerous.

"No," said the captain evenly, at last. "I think not. You're worth neither the time nor the effort."

Wendy almost cried out at the shot that rang out. Through the icy rain, the air hung heavy with gun-smoke and through the haze, someone was huddled on the deck, writhing, moaning –

Cecco was lying across the wooden boards, hands curled around his outstretched leg, fingers black with tar-thick blood pulsing through the open wound. Wendy pressed a hand to her mouth, white and trembling with shock. Her head swam. She had never seen so much blood.

Hook meanwhile had shouldered his rifle effortlessly, standing back carelessly to admire his handiwork. He looked down at the wounded man for some moments, contempt curling around the edges of his mouth. Then he moved forward, leaning in close to speak low and intent in the pirate's ear.

"Take that as a warning," he whispered, "Or next time I'll hurl you overboard and see if you fare any better with the mermaids. I saw a man die that way once; they pulled him under and it was a full half-hour before his corpse bobbed up, bloated and swollen with a smile on his dead lips. That put an end to his dissension once and for all."

At that moment, Wendy's courage almost failed her. She could feel her forehead, chill with perspiration. Her limbs felt heavy, as though weighted down with lead, and she was shivering feverishly. And the darkness… the darkness seemed to gather together in one swirling whole, more deeply black than anything she had known, and she felt her legs weakening, a surge of nausea rising up inside her -

Oh, my God! Am I going to faint?

The terror of falling here and being found by the captain overrode all other fear. Whatever happened, she must not faint and be discovered. A blaze of energy galvanized her sinking form. She raised her heavy, throbbing head… if she lay down now, she would not get up… ignoring the cramping pain in her limbs, she pushed away from the heavy mass of oiled ropes, one thought in her pounding head… I must not faint. I must not faint. I must not faint.

Her cloak was caught, enmeshed in the rigging. Despite all her efforts, Wendy could not pull it free, so abandoned the drenched, cumbersome garment where it lay in a tangled mess, lashed by the winds. Blinking the water from her lashes, she looked out into the blackness, into the screaming winds. It took several deep, steadying breaths before she could trust herself to move without falling.

She placed a cautious foot on the slick planks, groping her way across the deck, almost blinded by the salt-blackened rain that ran cold down her spine. But if she could hardly see, neither could they; and she clung mindlessly to that thought as a kind of grim solace. Out here, in the dark in her shirt and breeches, she could easily pass for a cabin boy. No one would look twice at her. She held the pistol in front of her with a shaking hand. Even if her aim wasn't true, she might at least be able to hold someone off if she were caught. It was only a matter of time now, anyway – if her empty cabin had not already been discovered, someone would inevitably see her out here. It was now or never, and she had come too far now not to see this thing through to the end. Purpose kept her upright and moving. The uncontrollable shuddering in her limbs had abated, and she felt stronger, more herself again. The momentary feeling of faintness had passed and she already despised herself for the weakness.

She moved warily, conscious of the ice lying slick on the deck. Her loose hair kept blowing into her eyes and troubling her. The rocks rose jaggedly in the distance. Further away than they had been. Much further. Wendy shook the hair from her eyes and looked again to make certain she was not mistaken.

She could have laughed in disbelieving relief.

They were retreating.

Somehow – miraculously – the captain had relented. It would be peril to draw close to the shore in this weather and risk being dashed to pieces on the rocks. Even Hook was not mad enough to attempt a raid in such a storm. The weather – Peter, she thought with a sudden rush of conviction – had defeated him. He would go no further tonight. No villages would burn, no men would die. She should have been rejoicing in Peter's triumph, but all she could think of was the fact that the captain's retribution would be swift and terrible. But the Indians were safe for the time being. At the moment, it was only her own well-being she had to be concerned about.

Forked prongs of lightning splayed across the sky, throwing the ship into ghastly illumination. The wind whistling an eerie tune. Memories of the ghost stories that had terrified her brothers in bygone years rose in her mind. How distant it had seemed in the warmth and safety of the nursery, the lights bright and glowing, Nana's head resting in her lap. Not nearly so entertaining now, in the ice and wind-howled night, trapped in the cold wilds with no help in sight.

The rain ran black as she approached the ship's highest point. She braced herself against the mast. Andromeda bound to the rock. Her teeth were chattering. She groped blindly, fumbling for the clasp of fairy dust. The deck creaked dangerously beneath her feet, the warning of falling into darkness and cold, of falling down and down.

As though drawn by a force greater than herself, Wendy found herself moving forward, gazing over the edge with a kind of petrified fascination. The impossible gulf as darkly deep, as blue as his eyes, threatening to swallow her whole –

The tempest roared in her ears. She was lost in the cold vacuum. It seemed everything was shattering into icy whirling fragments – sensation, reality, consciousness –

It was as though she hovered on the brink of two worlds – the familiar world she knew, of reason and responsibility, dreams imprisoned beneath whale-boned corsets, weighed down with endless expectations, desires concealed by light comments of such delicate courtesy – and the Neverworld, where life burst out in sensory, vivid colours, and every emotion was intense, heightened, where each moment was to dance the line of passion and danger –

The weather howled and wept, outraged. For a moment, doubt made her hesitate. To go back to the dull masquerade of London, where she hardly knew herself – was that what she was fighting so hard for?

She had no choice. For what alternative awaited her? It was too terrifying to contemplate.

Lighting flashed, blinding. Her lips turned almost blue with frost, with bone-pale fingers she clung to the mast like a drowned corpse. A strange, phantom Wendy who was pale as death. She shook her head, the salt stinging her eyes. Below her, the sea churned, groaned, waiting to pull her under. It was a terrifying fall. The cold, icy water, the endless, swirling darkness. If she faltered… if she did not believe hard enough…

Her frozen hand clutched at her throat. One happy thought. Just one –

Think of Peter, think of dancing to the light of the fairies under a canopy of trees while the stars burned bright overhead…

She caught the image in her mind, held it captive. The fairy dust tight in her clenched hand. Her cold, stiff fingers reached out to open the varnished locket. Poised, bracing herself, she took a deep breath –

And found herself looking into the terrible face of Captain James Hook.

A thrill of terror pulsed through Wendy's heart. His lean black form rose before her like a creature from the deeps, silhouetted eerily by the wild flares of lightning. His normally tightly coiffed curls were wild and loose, water streaming in torrents through the slick black locks. She could see nothing save the harsh planes of his white face and the lambent gleam of those blue, blue eyes. And he was angry – no, he was furious. More furious than she ever seen him.

The deck suddenly lurched and would have flung her overboard had she not been clinging to the heavy coils of rope wrapped around the mast. She was shivering more violently than she ever had… she was feverish, dying of cold… no, she was burning…

He moved towards her across the black ice. His livid face ghostly pale and cold as ice. The memory of Cecco lying on the deck with the metallic tang of blood in the air rose in her mind and almost unsteadied her. Metal flashed in the flare of lightning. Her heart froze –

The captain smiled frighteningly, the stormy, ruthless expression in his eyes belying the meticulous politeness in his smooth voice.

"Well, what now, my beauty?"

"A fine night to dive overboard. Is that what you intended?"

Wendy stared at him. He was more furious than she had ever seen him and she knew she would have to tread carefully. His eyes were wild and wide, too dark. A flare of lightning suddenly cast its brutal light across his distorted features, and she had seen nothing on earth like the expression on his face.

"Wouldn't that be reneging on the terms of our agreement?"

She found her voice. "Agreements don't mean anything among men with no honour –"

A flash of white as his teeth glinted unpleasantly. "And yet you are the one breaking your word."

His cold voice slid over her like a thousand knives. She thought he really was going to kill her. This was not the mocking, debonair, elegant pirate she had come to know. This was a wild, savage stranger who faced her, and one she did not know how to fight. All her innate powers of articulacy fled. She, to whom words had always been a mastery, such an effortless way of weaving stories, could think of nothing to say, no means to defend herself.

The captain smiled again. Toying with her. Playing with her life like a cruel cat pinning its victim with sharp claws, exquisitely drawing out the moment of delivering that final blow.

"Well, my beauty? Are you going to jump? Or are you going to shoot me with that pistol you stole from my cabin?"

So, he knew. It should not have surprised her, but the realization caused a sinking weight of despair inside her chest, icy and leaden. It was another defeat, and she did not know how much longer she could fight him. All along this twisted game had been on his terms. It was over at last. She had lost and he had won.

"Come now, dear girl. I am waiting." He paused with impeccable courtesy, pale hand extended, a smile playing around his narrow mouth. His eyes blue as the flames that danced along the edge of a burning coal.

The pistol hung uselessly in her hand, numbed fingers frozen around the handle. He was laughing at her. And with a moment of startling clarity, Wendy could read his thoughts, clear as a mirror. He knew she couldn't do it. She was not capable. There wasn't enough hatred in her soul, not enough strength in her feminine frame. She, the spoiled darling plucked from the heart of civilized society, could never summon up the resolution to kill a man. She was too soft, too gentle and restrained to be truly ruthless.

But he had not accounted for that wild, raw instinct beyond rational control, the innate impulse of survival that leapt up like a searing flame in her chest and made her act. That made her point the pistol directly at his blackened heart and pull the trigger.

There was no sound but a faint, hollow click.

For a moment, sheer disbelief rendered her numb. He must be dead – the pistol must have fired, any other alternative was impossible –

The pistol fell from her nerveless fingers. Something like a cry of horror rose and died in her throat. The weapon lay uselessly on the deck. Despairing fury rose inside her, at herself. She had not even thought to check it was loaded, a precaution even a child of ten would have taken. And he had known. Of course he had known. She could never outwit him, never defeat him –

Slowly, Wendy raised her eyes to the captain. He had not moved, had not even flinched when she aimed the pistol at his heart. That deadly stillness had every nerve in her body screaming at her to run. There was no doubt in her mind that he was going to kill her. The cold masked her face and she could not move. There was a low humming in her ears, like static electricity. She was still terrified, but the fear seemed closed away behind a glass wall; she could not touch it. Nothing but the ice lashing over her burning skin, his eyes black and incredulous with disbelief and fury.

"You realize that is twice now you have tried to kill me. It won't happen a third time." His voice deceptively caressing, venom lacing its soft threads. He continued in that same tone of terrible calm, "I'll not ask how you escaped, nor how you managed to get into my cabin earlier. If I find Smee has been remiss in his watch over you, it will be a reckoning for him. And for you as well, I think, since I expressly warned you not to defy me –"

Wendy looked over the deck. It was still not too late… if she was fast – he could not stop her –

"You stupid girl –"

A feral hand shot out, icy fingers deadly around her shoulder, hard enough to break her bones, pushing her back into the mast. Hauled through the air, her back slammed against the wood with painful force, driving the air from her lungs. He's gone mad, was her first thought, and she waited, anticipating the dreaded moment when his irises would flare crimson and the hook would put an end to her defiance forever.

Closer. Pressing against her lungs, stealing her breath. A frisson of energy ran through her at his nearness. His skin glimmered with unearthly pallor. Fingers crept around her throat. A kiss of cool fire on the back of her neck, stroking the numbed flesh to life.

Wendy recoiled. "Don't touch me -"

"No? You hardly seem to be in a position to make demands, dear girl."

Her nails dug into the mast behind her, leaving bloody streaks in the wood. The shirt was plastered to her skin. His tall shadow loomed over her, darker than the night. His hand like a chain around her flesh. Tugging. Wendy stole a breath and pain sliced through her chest.

"You would be killed in an instant," he said grimly.

"Better that than remain here," she returned, and winced again as his grip tightened.

His expression was fierce and rigid. "Have you ever known the cold beneath the water? What lurks in the dark, icy depths? Let me tell you, my beauty, those stories have no happy ending."

Again, she heard those words that were echoing in her head like a constant litany. The places where dead men dwell with things that move in the deep. It had terrified her in the warmth of his cabin, and it scared her even more now, in the cold and the dark, and the water roaring beneath.

Wendy looked up and saw nothing but deep blue eyes. Drowning eyes. She swallowed hard, hiding her terror. Not for anything would she tell him about the fairy dust. The acorn trembled in her clutched hand. It was the one power she held, and she silently vowed he would have to drag it from her dead body before she would confess it –

"I'll take my chances."

A blur of movement and his hook was pressed at her chest. The water caught the flaring light like quicksilver. He hissed, icy breath grazing her wind-burned lips.

"You will do no such thing."

She looked away from the glaring sheen of bright metal. Long, curling hair brushed her throat. Sliding like wet silk over her thudding pulse. So black against her white, white skin. The wind tore at her face, her hair, rain lashing in salty waves of ice over her numbed flesh. Wendy felt none of it. She was aware only his eyes burning into her, blue ice piercing her soul.

She was playing with fire, she realized distantly, with something she did not understand. All she knew was that she was afraid – of the future, of fate, of him – but she could not pull away. Energy shimmered between them like silver lightning. He did not move. She did not move. Her heart throbbed against the deadly point. The deck rolled beneath them, the hard mast at her back and the hook at her breast the sole things tethering her to reality –

"Well, Captain?" she said at last, her breath gusting the cold night air, ripped away from her by the biting wind. "You won't kill me and you can't keep me here –"

"I wouldn't be so certain," Hook growled.

"What does it matter to you, anyway?" she cried, half-blinded by the rain, the wild fall of her hair over her face and shoulders. The elements a howling black fury around them. "Why do you care so much about a foolish wager?"

"Death and damnation!" he swore violently. A flash of silver and the hook slammed into the mast beside her head, quivering. "You know why."

And his mouth descended on hers.

It was the longest kiss she had ever known, if it could even be called a kiss, this dizzying onslaught of the senses, a lancing, torturous thrill that had no beginning or end, only a spiraling, splintering vortex of piercing sensation.

Wendy's first instinct was to struggle. Her hands scraped at the wood. Pushed at him. Wet midnight blue velvet against her palms. He only kissed her harder, gripped her harder, forcing her back into the mast. Wanting beyond all reason. Rain streamed over her shoulders in a shower of ice. The casing of fairy dust slipped through her shaking fingers and clattered onto the deck, forgotten. The kiss at the corner of her mouth withered and died, stolen forever. Then her mind rolled back and darkness overtook her.

She was lost in sensation. Breathless and dizzy and aching. That mouth hard, cold, cruel. It hurt. A silver hook in her soul. Stealing her breath. His moustache was rough against her sensitive skin. His body too forceful. Yet strangely not enough. Long fingers running over the wet planes of her face, her streaming hair, fierce, desperate. Then lower, pressing on the hammering pulse points of her throat, tugging at the openings of her shirt.

She stiffened in outrage, an edge of panic in her voice. "What – what are you doing?"

"Something I should have finished last night," the captain muttered hoarsely, his hook pulling at one of the laces, looking grimly satisfied as the material parted further.

"Stop," she said, and shoved against him.

For a moment, his eyes went wild and dark as the surrounding storm, a great, vacuous void threatening to drag her down into that wailing torrent of emotions… but then he drew himself up with easy grace, and it was the drawling, indifferent libertine that smiled down at her with detestable arrogance.

"Do you really want me to?" he said quietly.

That moment of hesitation was barely a fraction of a second, but it was enough to betray her. She saw it in the gleam of triumph that lit his intense gaze. She started as he placed a kiss against her neck, smiling into the curve of her jaw.

"I thought as much." Icy fingers trailed along her shoulder, lightning crackling in their wake. "Those poor, pitiful, fumbling boys never made you feel this, did they? And if they did, I'd blow their brains out. I said I'd not relinquish you, and I'll be damned before letting you go now –"

A flash of silver arced through the air. Trapped, bruising pressure, and she was shackled to the mast, curved metal catching at her hair, her clothes. There was no escape.

Escape…? Why should she want to escape? Not when – when –

She was in his arms, close enough to breathe him. His eyes hard and hungry on her, and beneath that glacial surface, she saw something else flicker and awaken, something desperate and entreating. Wanting to let her in. Powerful enough to make her catch her breath. It held her in place far more tightly than any force or aggression could ever have hoped to.

A part of her wanted to faint. A part of her was terrified. And yet –

"You're –" The howling wind stole away the rest of her words.

"Yes?"

"An enemy," she answered, quickly.

"Aye," he said softly. "So I am. And you should know better than to expect mercy from an enemy."

"I never asked for mercy," she managed, the words ending on an exhalation as his lips moved down the line of her throat. She could not think. Every touch was singing through her skin. She burned and froze and shivered and felt –

The ship groaned and shuddered. A lashing mist of rain and she could see nothing but his long, dark hair bent over her. Lips trailing across her burning skin. She struggled to breathe, numbed fingers tensing in his thick black hair as his mouth ravaged her throat, branding her. Sinking under the punishing pleasure of it. Her body acted without the authority of her mind, her heart straining wildly against his as though it would fly from her body.

A hand curved around her waist, drawing her fully to him. She could feel his warmth, his breath, and the pulse, pulse, pulse of his unfeeling heart. Blood flushed beneath her skin. She was shaking. Melting. She felt hot and cold, terrified and exhilarated. A buried part of her, suppressed and denied in daylight hours, had awoken, emerging through the pristine surface of delicacy and Edwardian refinement, from beneath the layers of lace and light perfume, she wanted – oh, she wanted – but had no words to express this need, new and burning, that until now had been trapped only in her dreams. A dark longing that had chained her soul to his these long years.

He raised his head. Wendy looked up into diamond blue and the diamonds shattered. His fingers pressing into the hollow spaces of her ribs, making her realize how empty she had been all these years. Her nerve endings ignited. Drowning waves rolled over her. Wants, desires. She was falling, falling through the water. Freefall in the dark.

This was different to the tentative flashes of childhood longing that the thought of Peter had always inspired, the innocent first love that had been alleviated by time and touched with the soft grace note of nostalgia. This stirred something inside her bright and blinding as a slashing blade, deadly every way she turned. All she knew was that whatever was happening was beyond her understanding. It was not normal or sane. Something – some instinct older than civilization – was answering to those seeking touches, impelling her body to obey a force more powerful than her rational mind or the calm, controlled reasoning of her everyday existence.

He stole another kiss from her numbed lips, bruising, leaving salt in the wound. Her blood turned to ice. A thrill of pain, biting sharpness. It was dizziness and exhilaration, torture and ecstasy. She was falling, she was drowning, only the force of his body holding her upright… She tried to breathe but there was not enough air in the world. He had stolen her air, stolen her heart, and now he was pulling her down like an anchor into the dark ocean, into the rain, wet and dark and blue, blue, blue –

Her legs were falling beneath her, she could not stand… for a dizzying moment, the ship lurched, the world lurched –

Then suddenly, he had picked her up, arms like steel girders around her, and he was carrying her through the darkness to – oh, but the rain was blinding, she could not see –

Ice flaking off her hair in glittering shards. Her head lay on his shoulder. His skin was cool, cool as in her dreams. Then warmth, light glowing, pulsing… they were inside a cabin – his cabin – and – oh –

His bed –

Was she really contemplating… she had never done anything like this… Everything was moving too fast, yet time seemed drawn out, torturously slow.

Silk beneath her chilled skin. He eased himself over her. Warm weight pinning her down in delirious imprisonment... Breathe. Breathe. The candles were extinguished with a hiss, smoke dissolving in the black air. Thick silence lay over the room. Blue eyes and all around was darkness. He was close, too close, drowning out the world. His touches like cool flames. Pulling the saturated shirt from her bared shoulder. A lithe hand slid under the wet fabric, caressing cold skin. Her senses reeled… she hadn't been wearing anything beneath that shirt… The blood rolled, ebbing through her veins.

A sensual, fluid movement and his dark-blue jacket hit the floor with a thud of metal and brocade. Leaning over her, icy eyes and silver and dark intent. She shuddered, thrills of excitement and need shivering through her with equal force. Everything she had desired and denied herself. But she couldn't… no matter how much she…

With a supreme effort, Wendy drew herself up; trying to summon the indignation she should have been feeling (not the taut thrum of desire, burning low and steady in her blood). Tedious lectures on propriety hovered on the fringes of her clouded mind, seeking entry. She grasped those prudish doctrines with something close to relief. It was easier to be affronted, offended, than to admit to herself that she…

Wanted? Craved?

No, he would never have her so easily. Had he really thought her so effortlessly overcome? A naïve girl immersed in dreams and stories, thrown into a situation utterly beyond her, she must have seemed easy prey to him. Her jaw tightened, her gaze stern and severe. There was an edge of anger in her that had gone beyond the point of being concealed by icy courtesy. He had taken everything else from her. What power was left to her but pride?

"You must be mad if you think I will –"

"My dear girl," the captain murmured distractedly, his unrelenting touch sliding up and along the contours of hips and waist and ribs as though memorizing them, slow and deliberate, "You already have."

Her eyes half-closed at those whisper-light caresses, so at variance to the hard urgency she had felt from him out on the deck. Cold fire danced across her skin. Her show of resistance was for form's sake rather than real conviction and that should have frightened her more than it did. But she was disarmed by smooth smiles, distracted by the sparks of sensation pulsing across her flesh. She, who had always prided herself on her puritanism and strong principles, had been brought down by the very man she loathed more than anyone in the world. It all flashed through her mind with fatalistic inevitability. A shattered reputation, shock and scandal. A family disgraced and a life exposed to gossip and ridicule. She clung to that thought as a last attempt at maintaining her sanity.

"My reputation will be ruined –"

He brushed a wet curl from her cheek, cool fingers tilting her jaw up to look intently into her face. "Do you really care for such things?"

"Of course I do. In fact –" she managed unsteadily, "I am far more traditional than you might think."

That drew a laugh from him. "If that were true you would be putting my own cutlass through me to protect your precious dignity rather than remain here. I think you have more than proven that you're not above killing me, if given the chance." Then Hook rose above her, and she drew an unsteady breath at the sight of the wild dark hair framing his hard face, falling in matted waves over his shoulders. Decadent and dangerous. He reached out a hand to touch her hair and paused, smiling. Wendy realized, startled, that he was giving her a chance to move. To run. "Will you?"

She lay breathless, looking up at him, eyes fever-bright. That space opened like an unbreachable chasm between them. The door seemed a thousand miles away. Her heart thudded. Why couldn't she move? Every rational lesson instilled in her was warning her to run, flee, escape –

But then… his mouth slid open over hers, and the bed, the cabin, the world was spinning… and she could only cling to him, cling to him like a drowning mariner grasping at a lifeline. Bracing herself for the fall. His ruffled shirt fisted in her tense fingers, the hardness of his chest beneath. She could feel the heat coming off his skin. His mouth was metal and ice, and beneath that, the potent aroma of cigar smoke and rich wine. The taste of everything she hated. Everything she wanted.

This was wrong, forbidden. She knew the stories. Had lived them. This was Captain James Hook. The figure breathed from the depths of her darkest nightmares. The man who had tried to kill her. An enemy –

He bit the corner of her mouth, swallowing her breathless gasp –

The words resonated dimly in her mind. Vicious. Cruel. Ruthless. He was the villain –

His lips were at the nape of her neck and she melted into the soldering touch, liquid heat coiling inside her –

He had told her what he wanted without a trace of remorse. Peter gone, Peter dead… I need someone to master.

Only now did she begin to understand the true meaning of those words, too late. He could do anything, say anything, become anything, and she wouldn't leave. She couldn't. He had won at last, but if this was losing, she didn't care… she didn't care…

For the first time in her life, Wendy surrendered her control. She looked up at him, blue reflections through her long, damp lashes. Outside, blackness and chaos. Lightning flared against the windows. Rain lashing in streams down the glass. The cabin rocked, fatally, she would have fallen were she not already lying down…

The world inverted. The Wendy Darling of polite society, so formal and so set in her ways, would never have clutched at marble-hard skin, tasting the deadly flavour of his mouth, closing her eyes at the sensation of sharp metal digging into her waist, dragging along her hips. Feeling herself shivering, pushing, pulling, burning…

The silken shirt slid from his shoulders, his chest pale and bare in the heavy, pulsing darkness. The tension of those corded muscles, so indicative of raw, innate strength, sent a rippling of anticipation through her. She could feel the furious pounding of his heart under her fingertips, and that convinced her more than any show of eloquence could have that he truly was in earnest, that this was not merely some pirate's ruse, he really was half-maddened with longing. Somehow, that frightened her more than anything. Thrilled her more than she could have imagined.

This wasn't how it happened in the stories that were so familiar to her, so safe in their clear-cut boundaries of Good and Evil. This was… oh!… his open mouth blazed a trail along her bare shoulder, agonizingly slow, his lips lingering to taste the rain-soaked skin. Melting the ice in her veins. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to betray any reaction, but her self-control was slipping away at every response coaxed out by his insistent touches.

She was lost in blue velvet and blue brocade. Wet curves and warm skin. A hard hand slid downwards, tracing the contours of her breasts, pulling aside the clinging fabric, a sigh unintentionally escaping her parted lips as she shifted beneath him. Her heart was pulsing wildly against his splayed palm. Her soul searing. Breathing was hard, and his eyes were so hard, blue diamonds.

Cool planes of pale skin rose above her. The hook flashed in the darkness. A moment of fear and Wendy jumped at the piercing bite of silver against her parted lips. Pleasure and pain blurred. She exhaled shakily, breath misting the cool metal. A twist of his wrist and the captain laid it flat against her cheek, an arc of ice on her burning skin. There, on the base of her neck, sweeping her tangled hair over her shoulder. And again there, cold fingers down her back, caressing the sensitive skin from tip to base like a phantom lover's touch. Icy words dripping down her spine and, God… she was so cold…

Metal at her jaw. Forcing her head to the side, just as he had done the other night on the balcony (as he had done seven years ago) but now his lips were besieging the exposed flesh of her bared throat. Her collarbone. Dipping beneath the ragged edges of her clinging shirt. He bent his head over her, waves of black hair spilling damply across her breasts. Slow kisses, lingering, drawing her fully into his mouth. Her body arched up even as she clenched her jaw shut, determined not to utter a sound, as he – he –

She could fight herself no longer. Her shaking hands traced the line of his jaw, tense and hard, and she heard him groan a ragged exhalation against her skin. A strange thrill passed through her at this first sign of his weakness, her grip tightening unconsciously on him, silently willing him to never stop. No battle of smooth, languid, persuasive words was this meaningless series of low gasps and sharp exhalations. Instead, she was fighting for something she did not fully understand, but something he clearly did, because every movement, every graze of his tongue heightened this storm within her, now rising, now falling, intensifying beyond endurance…

Dimly, she was aware of his hand sliding across the plain of her stomach, her hips. Lower. Between –

She inhaled sharply. Arctic heat lanced through her. And the quivering beginnings of… something. Her body trembling like water, tangled silk beneath her and hardness above her. Fingers, so warm. Silver metal everywhere, so cold. Like icy wires. Tugging at places inside her that were hollow, aching, open. Waiting to be filled. Her nerves were afire as his palm ran along the path of her inner thigh, which he must have felt burning through the thin linen, because his thin lips curved in a movement of delicious satisfaction.

"Lost for words, my Darling girl?"

The sound of that melodious voice darkened with raw wanting caused the blood to rush dizzyingly to her head. Fingers moved higher. Harder. She could not speak. Shards of her falling apart, shattering. Sinking into his skin. His leather-clad thigh moved between her legs. Slow. Sliding. It was too much. Not enough. She was convulsing in his arms. Tight pleasurepain coursing through her veins like poison, and she needed more. She needed –

Arching against him, blinded, daring, she pressed her lips to his, hands buried in the curling mass of black hair. A forbidden name whispered, rolling treacherously off the tongue. James.

Hook's blue eyes darkened to black. That cursed silver smile cutting through her. A long arm locked around her waist, he pinned her beneath him, her legs instinctively falling open around his hips. Her head fell back, damp curls spilling over her bare shoulders, and she closed her eyes, her body tight with sensation as she felt him move against her –

The cabin door burst open.

"Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n, I've - oh!"

The snarl that left Hook was barely human.

"What?" he demanded through clenched teeth.

Smee swallowed visibly and it took a few stammering attempts before he could speak. "One of the crew said he saw the young lady out on the deck, and I thought I'd best…"

"Well as you can see, Miss Darling isn't on the deck." The captain's tone could have frozen ice.

"No - no, I s'pose not -"

His embarrassed gaze fell on Wendy, who had retreated across the bed, her face burning, the damp shirt pulled tight around her shivering body. There was no breath in her lungs, no thoughts in her mind… Even now she could feel him on her, all over. Bound by invisible chains. Liquid silver pulsing through her. Throbbing. She did not dare look back at him, at those fatal, forget-me-not eyes. She knew what she would see if she did.

"I'll get the Miss some dry clothes…"

Wendy stood shakily, and it was Smee's arm that held her steady. She clung to it as a cord to her sanity. Blindly, she pushed her way out of the room. To be alone, to be anywhere but here –

The last sound she heard was Hook's cutlass thudding into the door where Smee's head had been a moment before.

Chapter Text

Ridicule they won't allow
Quench abuse and let love flower
Rip the cage out of your chest
Let the chaos rule the rest

Show without showing
What you know without knowing

Only you and me
Alone on the old tea hope sea

Dissolving who we are
Call out for yesterday's destiny come
We're on a foreign shore

('Psyche', Massive Attack)

– Day 3 –

Part I

Cold metal. Smooth skin.  A low voice, melodically eerie.

Lost for words, my Darling girl?

Mist surrounding her. Icy water and hot blood. Clothes sliding down bared skin. Tender kisses along her neck and shoulder blades. She sighed, lost in shadows and longing under the caresses of a phantom lover. Pale flesh pressing into her and metal cutting, severe and exquisite. Engraving himself in silver across her heart. Captain Jas. Hook –

Wendy's eyes opened slowly. She looked around hazily, wondering why the room was still shrouded in semi-darkness when all her instincts told her it should be daylight, and then realized the broken porthole window had been boarded up. Only a thin glimmer of light penetrated the cabin. She didn't care. It was almost a relief. She wanted to sit in the dark forever.

What, oh what, had she done?

A sudden, mindless fear gripped her, icy cold and paralyzing. She pressed her hands over her eyes and saw nothing but deep and endless blue. Oh Wendy. What have you gotten yourself into?

She had been a fool not to expect this. Had she really thought herself unconquerable just because she was well-dressed and her polite mannerisms set her in a class above his common men? Every interaction had been a continued series of clashing opposition; it was inevitable that the captain would have resorted to such… means to bring her down. And if so, he had succeeded utterly.

Wendy unwillingly dragged herself upright from the swaying hammock, fingers tiredly kneading the agitated lines of her brow. Had she slept at all? Or had it just been this series of waking dreams?

One she recalled, more vividly than the rest as she had tossed and turned with restless agitation –

(the door bursting open, white-blue lightning framing his dark silhouette. A smile that curved with salacious intent. Did you really think I would simply… let you go? After that?)

Wendy realized then what she had wanted without knowing it. This wasn't flying, this was drowning, and it would kill her just as surely. He had possessed her completely. Dug his hook into her defenses and ripped them out with ruthless efficiency. His deadly cold piercing her soul. Melting her bones.

She tried to tell herself that this was no different to Charles Quiller-Couch kissing her just before she stepped out into the dusky twilight of a London street, but the reasoning rang hollow. This was no earnest, polite boy courting her. This was Captain James Hook. Someone who would cut out her heart as soon as kiss her. He had no capacity for love, no understanding of compassion. Or, if he did know love, it was only of the darkest kind. Cruel and bloody. Cold and ecstatic.

But those words, those words that haunted her, lingering in the depths of her mind and would not leave her be. That ever-persistent thought beating in tune with her heart. Death and damnation. You know why.

She recalled his expression as he caught her on the deck – wild – almost frantic – as he grasped her, encircled her in his cruel hold while the storm lashed salt and ice over them. His pale face rigid with pure, visceral desire. Crystalline eyes alight with raw hunger.

Death and damnation. You know why.

Could it be possible that she had penetrated the captain's black heart, that there was a man beneath the cold exterior? Or had it all been merely some act of villainous amusement, an unexpected move in this twisted game they were playing? In the harsh light of day, doubt gnawed at her. All she knew was that she could not trust him.

But still she was drawn to him.

She was drawn to him, and it terrified her.

He was cruel and ruthless and utterly without tenderness, he was a liar and a murderer and he stood for everything she feared and hated, yet she wanted him. The heart cared nothing for reason. He was under her skin now, a constant, torturing presence that would not leave her be. She could never escape him.

She wanted to plunge into the churning, icy depths, to wash all traces of him from her flesh. But he had always been a part of her, at first only a dark shadow in her stories, then awakened at her first true glimpse of him – a deadly hunter standing upon the battlements in the storm and the night as she had crouched, a terrified child, hidden out of sight – the thrill of danger his presence evoked had stayed with her always. The thing had been set in motion from that very moment, it had inevitably led to this; there was no fighting it. She was just as caught, just as helpless and entranced as she had been seven years ago – a naïve girl captivated by the shape of a dark figure she did not understand. More real than any story she had brought to life. Until now, her knowledge of romance had been primarily trapped between the pages of books; Shakespeare's sonnets, Dante's verses to Beatrice, (and a copy of Madame Bovary one of the girls from school had pushed into her hands which Wendy had deemed herself too dignified to read).

But there had also been a boy, a boy whom she had loved, because he was so easy to love. Eyes like sunlight slanting through leaves and a merry, mocking spirit. Carefree and willful and so brave, his only fault being his inability to understand the value of the heart she had so eagerly given him. It all seemed a strange dream, a wayward fancy. The girlish flutters of a mind eager for romance, a girl who had fallen in love because she wanted to fall in love.

Nothing like this consuming emotion, raw and visceral, which she fought against with every inch of her being. She didn't want to feel like this. She hated and feared this weakness inside her and wished she hadn't been born a girl, with a girl's emotions. If she had been a man, she could have challenged him with a pistol or cutlass, but she was only a girl who had been undone by a few kisses in the dark. Yesterday, before he had stopped her on the deck, she had been independent and strong, and now she was shackled hopelessly to him. Romance and love were terrible things for a woman. It turned them into either wives or fools. And she would not be made a fool for Captain Hook. She would not act with silly abandon like the girls that flocked around Michael. How loftily she had scorned them! Supreme in her sheltered existence, with only a childhood infatuation had left her heart undamaged and barely touched. She had been so certain that nothing like this could ever happen to her. Well, she was paying for that condescension now.

With a sigh, Wendy wrapped the thin cotton sheet (not plunging silk, decadent and voluptuous) around her bare shoulders and eased herself from the bed. The clothes she had worn yesterday were a damp, sodden mess on the floor. Reluctantly, she picked up her old satin gown, the material as white and delicate as a spider's mesh. If only she had her stockings, her pointed slippers (delicate white silk that pinched at the toes) and elbow gloves, the elaborate apparel that could maintain the illusion she was a lady, at least in appearance. She was not yet prepared to admit that she had abandoned that part of herself entirely (was too terrified of what that might mean). Her fingers were shaking with nervous frustration as she tried to work the complicated fastenings. When she had finished, the dress hung off her like a skin she had half-shed, and she stared at the result, highly dissatisfied. One thing was certain: she was no longer the same young woman that had stepped aboard this ship two nights ago.

She looked more closely still, startled at the Wendy that gazed back at her in the semi-light. She hardly knew herself. Even in the last couple of days, her pale complexion had tanned from the wind, a light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, so far from pressed ivory powder and white squares of linen worn to shield her skin from the weak English sun. Her brassy hair was tangled about her shoulders, falling damply down her back. Her mouth had lost that petulant, dissatisfied quality, and something about her eyes had changed, too –

Then she stopped dead, her heart thudding painfully. A hand rose, trembling to her lips. It could not be… impossible…

The kiss was gone from the corner of her mouth. It could only mean one thing. He had taken it, and he would never give it back. And it was not the only mark he had left on her. A faint line of silver curved down the length of her neck like a river of ice. A sudden memory flashed across her consciousness (like a sweetly forbidden poison) of the captain dragging his hook down her throat, the sharp point following the path of his lips. There had been an ecstatic pain in it, the same kind of lancing satisfaction as biting down on a broken tooth. Metal love carved on her skin. A dark venom in her veins. She had tasted the edge of something forbidden by all convention, wild and liberating and dangerous. Seduction on the edge of pain. On the verge of losing herself completely. If they had not been interrupted… what would have happened?

You know what would have happened.

Wendy thought of what her life had been; dresses and hats and bone china cups. Pristine. Delicate. A façade of gentility, enfolding her secret desires like a veil of fine lace. Only now did she realize how protected she had been, how shielded in her respectable upbringing. She thought she had grown up, but she had barely touched the surface. She had never known… how could she? She had thought growing up was supposed to bring reason and responsibility, not impulse and madness. This was completely irrational. Why, she hardly knew him –

You have known him all your life.

Last night, when the bo'sun had led her back to the cabin, she had wanted to hear the key turn in the lock, not to lock the captain out, but to lock her in. Terrified of this dark feeling that had slept inside her all these years. Wendy felt herself on the brink of an emotional precipice that opened beneath her like a great abysmal sea, a starless chaos threatening to swallow every rational part of herself. She could not guess the origins of this maelstrom beating against the walls of her heart, that for so many years had been lost in the inky recesses of her fevered dreams. Oh, if only it had all been a dream… a fevered result of her nervous imagination…

What on earth did she do now?

If she avoided or fled from him, Hook would know with certainty that he had won, and he would hold the mastery over her forever. No, she must take refuge in aloofness, act with dignity and cool indifference. She knew she had to confront him. He might have a score of mistresses for all she knew, and he could treat them as he pleased, but she was well-bred and respectable, and the liberties he had taken with her were unforgiveable. And she would tell him as much. It must be so, even if the memory of his touch haunted her very skin and would torment her forever.

One hand against the wall, she made her way along the swaying passage with slow reluctance, despising herself for the fevered beating of her heart, so fast she felt she would choke on the constricting spasms. Wendy had always dreaded that her courage would fail her, and that she would be proven a coward. That thought was almost harder to endure than the prospect of what awaited her in the captain's cabin.

She stood hesitantly outside, bracing herself to enter. Just as she was reaching for the brass handle, the door swung open, startling her.

"Something I can help ye with, Miss?" asked Smee, with some surprise.

Recovering her equanimity, Wendy faced him with a charming, conventional smile that cracked slightly at the edges.

"I want to see him," she said.

There was no use in dissembling now; he had seen her last night anyway, and she refused to feel daunted by his opinion of her. But there was no condemnation or mockery in his creased blue eyes. In fact, there was a hint of pity in his concerned gaze, which was almost too much to bear. She could endure condescension and judgment, but kindness would break her down utterly.

"Perhaps ye'd be better resting a little longer…" he suggested hopefully.

"I can't rest," Wendy muttered distractedly. "I have not slept all night."

The bo'sun began to polish his spectacles on a grubby piece of cloth in a nervous gesture. "Miss, I really don't think it's a good idea – the cap'n is –"

"I'm afraid I have to insist."

"But he's –"

"That will be all, Smee," Wendy said coldly, and pushed the door open.

That tinge of incense hung in the air. Languid memories entwined with her thoughts. The air undulated around her, thick with light spice. Deep crimson, misty mauve, swathed in diaphanous black. Candles flickered in the corner, casting shadows over the curtain-hid window. A few golden-hued shafts of sunlight filtered through the spaces in the drapes. Wendy made her way towards the door to his private quarters, forcing down all recollections of the previous night. Past the pianoforte, the polished wood seeming to exhale the sound of those melancholy notes as perfume drifting from a box of sandalwood.

She opened the door to the inner sanctum before she could allow herself to think. There was a brief glimpse of the consumptive decadence of heavy drapes, a mahogany four-poster bed, and within, within –

Wendy's heart almost failed her at the sight of him.

He was sprawled amid a disarrayed pile of silken sheets. The picture of languid elegance. His eyes were half-closed, dark lashes cresting his cheeks. Coal-black hair was a wild disorder over his muscled shoulders. Silver crowned his naked arm. Her gaze moved down past his torso, his hips –

Bare skin.

And –

Wendy swallowed hard.

She had never been more grateful for the presence of a bed sheet in her life.

"About time," Hook snarled in the rasp of his early-morning voice, "Really Smee, your ineptitude would tire the patience of a –" The captain's tirade halted as his startled gaze fell on Wendy.

"Ah," he said.

Dark brows raised ever so slightly in surprise. Humiliation burned in her cheeks as she succumbed to his cool scrutiny. A part of her wanted to make her excuses and leave. The other part had known she had come looking for this. So she stood very still.

If he was disturbed by her abrupt entry, the captain did not betray it for a moment. His lips curled in at the edges, a vivid slant of crimson against the morning pallor of his face. "Now, to what do I owe this pleasure?" His voice was as smooth and silver as the appendage already polished and gleaming on his wrist.

Any evasion or stammering reply would be a triumph for him, so Wendy forced herself to look at him. His torso was fully exposed, curls of raven hair brushing his shoulders, tumbling over his collarbones. She saw the sinuous shift of muscles in his chest and arms that she remembered so vividly (pressed against her so close she could not breathe, a hand travelling up her back that arched into the lancing caress –)

He moved languidly beneath the covers, smooth as silk. Every inch of him as relaxed as she was agitated. She tightened her hands in her skirts so he could not see them shaking. He could not know how her heart was thundering, or how fast the blood beat hotly in her veins. If only she was bold and careless like Michael, or detached and unperturbed like John. If only she wasn't so weak, so much of a girl.

"I wish to speak with you," she said curtly.

"You're doing so," the captain replied evenly, his coolness matching hers.

He leaned back into the opulent depths of the bed, his dark head idly reclining against a long arm. The crimson covers twisted around his lower body slid across his legs in creased dips and folds, plunging and redolent. Blue agate glimmered beneath drowsy lids.

"Do you mind my smoking?"

"No," she lied.

He held out a slim, delicate hand. The sight of it both attracted and repelled her just as much as the silver.

"Come here."

She stared back at him, bewildered. He threw an exasperated glance at the lighter on the mahogany desk.

Of course, Wendy realised, with a burning rush of guilt and embarrassment. He can't do it himself. She shook off the strange, tight sensation that constricted her heart. If she pitied him she would care for him, and that could not be allowed to happen.

She was drawn towards him without hope of resistance as the memory of his touch whispered to her once more. Possessed by the lingering presence of silver and kisses on her burning skin. Her hands lacked their usual steadiness as she picked up the small instrument, holding it towards the proffered cigar. She hesitated, momentarily entranced at the lily-white of her skin against the almost ghostly pallor of his. Then the lighter clicked like the snapping jaw of a crocodile. A tiny flame flaring, jumping onto the cigar's end that pulsed red. Glowing. His eyes azure through the smoke. She drew back as quickly as possible, uncomfortably aware of his gaze on her.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Fine," answered Wendy shortly.

A thread of smoke trailed lazily from the end of the Cuban cigar that dipped between his pale fingers.

"Now, what was it you wanted?" Those lilting cadences were full of hidden meaning, distracting. His voice, velvet and warmth. There was far too much suggestion behind those innocuous words.

She drew a thin breath, reminded herself why she was here. In the harsh light of day, it was easier to reprimand him for his infamous conduct. She must treat him as she would any other man who had dared cross her personal boundaries. Didn't she have the power to daunt him? A measure of her soft, feminine haughtiness returned. She felt master of herself once more, able to dismiss the previous night as a momentary lapse of terror and madness. "You must know I'm here to speak to you about the appalling way you treated me last night. Your behavior was utterly deplorable. It was completely inappropriate and – ungentlemanly."

"You didn't seem to object too strongly."

The colour flamed high in her cheeks. "I was overwhelmed – startled – you gave me no time to –"

Some inner voice whispered she was a coward, a liar. He continued to stare at her impassively. The cigar burned in his mouth, the flare lighting his eyes with a febrile glow.

"And I… do not wish it to happen again," she finished, the end of her carefully-formulated speech weaker than its beginning.

Silence. Wendy curled her hands beneath her elbows, trying to conceal her discomfort. The captain made no movement, but merely released a slow, leisurely exhalation of tobacco-scented air. Her eyes followed the curls of smoke that drifted spectrally, up, up…

Still, he said nothing. If this was his way of attempting to intimidate her, she was determined he wouldn't succeed. She held her head a little higher, steeling herself to condescension. But in the end, she was still a young girl, naïve and inexperienced, in spite of all her pride. For all the aloofness and self-entitled attitude she might display before him, inside she was quaking, shivering.

Beneath lowered brows, his eyes were unfathomable as rolling waves, pooling black and blue ink. His smile hovering like a guillotine blade just before it fell.

"Some school trained you well, didn't they? You might appear the model of decorum to your acquaintances, but you're not good enough to fool me. You've a spirit of rebellion a mile wide. They should have made you a boy, despite your haughty airs."

She didn't know how to reply to that. Probably, like her, he was remembering the bold child that had styled herself Red Handed Jill. He rested his head back against the velvet cushions. The air was dense with spice-tainted tobacco. She fixed her gaze on the red-hot glow at the end of his cigar, refusing to look at him.

"You must be feeling a trifle nervous," he observed.

"Of you?" she interposed proudly. "Not at all."

"No, dear girl," he replied, clearly amused. "We have reached the final day of our delightful wager." He smiled benignly. "Or perhaps you had forgotten?"

Wendy started. She had forgotten. The events of the previous night had almost completely driven it from her mind.

"So, you were preoccupied. After you left me, did you leave your room later in the night?"

Wendy was not daunted by this sudden attack. "No, not at all."

"So, you heard nothing?"

"I was in a very deep sleep."

"Your window was broken – your own handiwork, I presume – did you see anyone outside?"

"Not that I remember."

"And you wouldn't tell me if you did. You've a close tongue, haven't you? Well, it makes no difference. It seems the storm defeated me, after all."

Wendy thought she would chance a question. "What will you do now?"

"Do you really expect me to tell you that?"

"What harm could my knowing do now?" A hint of bitterness clouded her tone.

"Hmm," Hook murmured noncommittally. Even now, he refused to be lured into confidences. His was a coldly methodical nature, ruled by tenacity and pragmatism. He mastered his ship with an iron fist, careful to deal with any glimmers of dissention quickly and ruthlessly, as she had witnessed last night. He was a master of this game, able to turn every event to his advantage, to prise victory from the very jaws of defeat.

"Even if you did tell me," Wendy said slowly, daring to push him a little further, "There's nothing I could do about it."

A cloud of smoke blew in her direction. She could sense his coolly assessing eye on her, every glance an estimation of her strength, every action a calculated move to bring her down. Through the dim haze, she thought she saw him smile.

"You would like me to believe that, wouldn't you? That my finding you last night was a defeat in your eyes and not merely a setback. Do you know how long I've captained this ship? How many times I've destroyed naïve fools like you? Even now, you – for some unfathomable reason – believe you have an advantage. That the birth and breeding you possess set you above a hoard of common pirates. You are, of course, utterly mistaken in thinking so."

Yet I still almost escaped, Wendy thought fervently. But she was unsure of where such a provocation might lead, so she said nothing.

He sighed extravagantly. "Real life is so much crueler than the stories. Yet you still think that because you possess some beauty and a degree of intelligence that in time you will defeat me, even though all evidence points to the contrary."

She thought of his face last night, raw and desperate with need. "You seemed fairly close to defeat last night."

Silence hung over the room, thick and heavy. The captain took a long draw and the cigar's end blazed like a comet. A stream of white smoke pooled around his slightly parted lips.

"A rare kind of arrogance, even from you, my Darling girl. I said you were naïve, and that proves it. While I concede there may have been a certain – shall we say – intriguing novelty about you before, it is hardly anything extraordinary. Why, do you think that even for a moment that I would allow myself to be mastered by anything so trite as sentiment?"

She had expected something of this kind, so his words did not have the power to wound her. But it was a harsh reminder that she would never be any more than a pawn in his eyes, a means to lure Peter here and so destroy them both. Last night had altered nothing; he was still as much her enemy as ever. And she felt a moment of contempt at herself for the pang the realization brought.

His blue eyes were filled with languid morning light, his gaze lazy and calm. "You seem uncomfortable. You needn't worry, I will not touch you." He stretched, lithe and feline, and relaxed again. The sight should have appalled her and the fact that it didn't made her tone even more stiff and imperious.

"Your assurance doesn't mean much, considering you had the audacity to kiss me last night. You have behaved like a complete cad."

He smirked discreetly through a haze of smoke. Wendy, who hated being mocked, felt her blood rise at his provoking smile. "What's so amusing?"

"I was just thinking," he mused, the cigar clamped between his teeth, "How in just over two days, you have twice tried to murder me and in the same breath lecture me on manners."

The thought of what her mother and father would say struck a sudden, lancing pain through Wendy's heart. The events of last night alone had most likely secured her forever in her family's disgraces. She shook the thought away.

"I'm sorry to have disappointed you."

"No, you're not." Hook smiled, an alluring, secretive thing. "And you haven't."

The look he gave her was heavy with promise, of knowledge, of something like temptation, seduction without shame. As though he could show her things, take her places like no one else she'd ever met. Almost like he wanted to. She was apprehensive about that thread of something that lingered between them, and the heaviness of it that shaded their every interaction. She didn't want to feel an affinity with him, a strange kind of kinship, but she did.

A faintly ironic glimmer peered through his lips. He dropped the glowing end of the cigar into the small dish beside his bed, extinguishing it with a hiss.

Then he flung the silken sheets aside and eased himself from the bed.

Wendy turned around hastily, furious colour flushing her cheeks. He was doing this deliberately to unsettle her. She could sense he was laughing at her. She had grown up in a household of brothers and here she was, blushing like some little fool –

He threw a burgundy robe around his shoulders. Beneath, his legs were clad in leather, a relieving distraction to the bare skin of his chest and firm hips. She did not turn to face him until she was certain he was fully covered. With that fluid ease of movement that came from being in his own territory, the captain walked over to the large window and drew aside the drapes. Bright daylight leapt into the cabin. He flung the window open: a torrential wave of wind sliced her shoulders in a whiplash, sea air lifting the limp curls of her hair behind her.

The heavy rustle of brocade sliced through her nerves as he began to move towards her with steady deliberation.

She paled with apprehension. Even bare-footed, his height dominated hers with ease. Wendy swallowed hard, feeling a subtle shift in the balance of power between them, as she realized her recklessness in coming here; she was in his cabin alone, completely at his mercy. Remembering how effortlessly he had handled her last night, something throbbed inside her; the pain of anticipation on the brink of release. He circled her and Wendy turned with him, making certain he was kept within the line of her wary eyesight. Uncertain of what he might do next.

Suddenly, he leaned forward, eyes narrowing beneath the thin black brows. "What's this?" he demanded, sharply.

He was looking intently at her throat. Wendy swallowed hard, hesitating an instant before she replied, without emotion, "I got it last night."

Understanding flashed across his face, followed by an expression she could not name. Coming swiftly towards her, his slender fingers reached out, tracing a soft line down the long scar that disappeared beneath the collar of her shirt. When she winced in pain, he stilled the movement at once, his mouth tight as he looked down at her.

"I had not meant…" he murmured quietly. "I am…"

Then, with an effort, he appeared to master himself; he drew back with the old glitter in his eyes and asked with easy unconcern, "Does it hurt?"

"I felt nothing," she said.

"Is that so?"

And suddenly, she didn't like the look in his eyes, too deep and too knowing. She instinctively took a step back until her shoulders hit a wall. Unperturbed, Hook followed closely, maneuvering her with disturbing ease until every way she turned was him. She could smell tobacco, heavy and mellow-gold, feel the smooth brush of velvet. His unnerving proximity caused the blood to hum in her veins. Aware of every breath and nerve, aware of the way his hips slid easily against hers. The breath latched in her throat as a cool hand slid up her arm. Light, teasing.

Something jumped inside her – pulsed. She could hear her heart beating, louder than a thunderstorm in her ears. His fingers caressed and curved and soothed. The sensation of his touch like needles pressing just beneath the skin.

She looked up at him unwillingly. Past his bare throat, the wine-dashed lips, eyes that could drown her.

"It is."

"Then," he murmured intimately, lips brushing her cheek, breath heavy with the scents of smoke and sweet wine, "We might just have to remedy that."

A lock of coiling black fell forward onto her throat. A corner of his robe slid open, the edge soft and fine as lace. Again, there was that treacherous want, forcing aside all sense of self-preservation. Wendy dared not move, she struggled against it, trying to forget her own flesh and body, her foot digging into the polished floor in a hopeless attempt to brace herself. The dark bloom of his breath unfurling across her lips, the edge of a tantalising promise. Then the warm press of leather and his knee was sliding between hers. The blood rushed through her body at such a speed that coherent thought barely had time to follow. Warmth surging inside her, like a rising tide. She tried to summon her instinctive defenses against him, her hand gripping his wrist to halt the languid, lazy circle of his icy fingers at her shoulder. The captain paused, and something unnamable flared and died in his eyes. A red smile that could cut her to pieces.

"Or," he continued softly, "I could simply rid myself of you now and not wait until tonight."

The breath left her in a rush as his hand slid across her throat, fingers lightly pressing into the strained tendons. Her mind was empty of all rational argument as his grip tightened fractionally, the sharp point of his hook digging into her waist as he anchored her in place. Dimly, she heard the thin material tear and the touch of piercing ice on her skin.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said lightly, with a tone of mocking politeness. "Is it only fair when you try to kill me?"

Her head was thrown back; she saw bursts of color, deep blue stars. Wild and cold, a howling abyss that promised no sympathy, no mercy –

"Yes –" she managed to gasp aloud, her pulse beating hard and furious between his splayed fingers. The rest of the cabin was a dark, inky haze; she felt close to fainting. "You attacked me – threatened and kidnapped me – of course I had a right to defend myself. How dare you exult in the fact that you have no gentleman's honour one moment, then act with moral outrage the next? Until you define by what rules we are playing, Captain, I must and will continue to fight you until my last breath –"

His grip eased, long fingers sliding down the length of her throat and away. Dizzying relief overwhelmed her, rendering her momentarily light-headed. She was flushed and panting, the tips of her fingers still tingling with the wave of uncharacteristic anger that had possessed her. For a brief, fear-stricken moment she wondered whether the captain wasn't going to finish what he had started and put an end to her once and for all. His cerulean gaze had darkened, a flush riding high on his cheekbones, and – oh! – his gaze burning a path across her chest and shoulders. Stained lips parting slightly –

"Fairly said," was all he commented.

Wendy pulled away, clutching at her throat. He hadn't hurt her – his hold hadn't been tight enough for that – but her heart was racing, the blood beating hard in her ears. She felt as though she had been running for miles. The material of her dress was sticking to her thighs, the clinging silk still warmed from the heat of him pressed bodily against her. She trembled with the effort of maintaining a semblance of calm. Keeping her spine straight and her gaze on his. In return, his narrow eyes remained on her, watchful as a sleek cat. We neither of us trust each other, she thought with resignation.

"My, my," he murmured. "You are afraid."

She looked away and said nothing.

"Can this be? That your faith in your beloved Pan is wavering?"

"Of course not." She clung to his sacred memory because she could not bear to let go, to plunge away into the terrifying unknown. What will you do if he does not come? What will happen to me? What will you do to me?

"So in all this time you've been here, you've never once asked yourself why he's not come for you?"

"He will come." He must come.

Her shoulders stiffened in defense at the light touch of his fingers ghosting over her shoulder, stirring her hair. "You see, dear girl?" he whispered, his voice low and sinuous, coiling around her ear. "This is what I tried to warn you of the night I came for you, what I have seen happen time and time again. He has forgotten you." She sensed the threatening promise lingering beneath (but I never will…) It was gone a moment later, and his voice was light and careless once more. "I did tell you not to trust him."

"Then I would be like you. Miserable and alone."

"Is that what you think me?"

"No," she said, "I think you're a coward."

Hook stilled, and she could feel his body, rigid with tension, the dangerous latent power where his hand rested at her hip. His eyes burned like sapphire set in ice. But he did not move. His gaze was fixed on her, frozen, as though he was trapped. Held in place by the harsh reality she forced herself to confront him with.

Wendy placed a soft hand on his forearm, her gaze firm and steady. "You challenge a young boy because it is easier than stepping out into the real world – you have a ship at your disposal, men who will obey your every command – you have the ability to travel between worlds – and yet you satisfy yourself with a conflict that is utterly beneath you, and for what? What will killing Peter achieve?"

"Retribution," he said in a low voice. "Justice. Power over every man, creature and beast on this island."

"A hollow sort of victory, with no one to share it with."

"Better a hollow victory than no victory," he returned hoarsely. And for once, there was no artifice in his voice, no irony. She could almost feel the weight of his misery, draining her energy and swirling around him in dark waves that touched her with their cold.

Did you have a family once, James Hook? A home? What fate brought you to this place?

Wendy felt her heart heave. She could see the pulse beating in his throat, the grim tightness to his lips. She searched his eyes for feeling, compassion, anything. Because, no matter how hard she tried to hide it and deny it to herself, at heart she was still the young girl who wanted to trust and tell frightening tales.

"I think you're lying," she said slowly. "To me – and yourself."

Something haggard and stricken passed across his face. For the first time since she had known him, he looked… old. As though he had seen too much, known too much. She wondered how many years he had been tethered to this ship, trapped in a vicious cycle of vengeance he wouldn't or couldn't break free of. It hurt to even imagine it.

Then the tight cord of tension between them snapped. Hook shrugged carelessly. "Think what you will."

But she had come too far now to let him intimidate her into silence. "Why else would you be filled with such hatred over someone who has everything you lack? Love, friends, loyalty – someone who is only your enemy because you made him that way? Peter is wild, wayward, careless – he would forget you in a moment, if you would only let him. But," she said resignedly, "You can't. Because without him, you're nothing, without purpose."

"Then all the more reason for me to remain a villain," he flashed, with unexpected passion.

"If there is one thing I've learned," Wendy said, before thinking, "It's that there's more to life than what is expected of us."

A muscle – something – jumped in his face. He was gazing at her, pensive and thoughtful, in that ambivalent way that always made her wonder whether he was truly in earnest. But she had seen too much of him now to be wholly convinced by the unfeeling façade. There was more truth than she had realized in those naïve, defiant words that had burst from her seven years ago. I find Captain Hook to be a man of feeling.

Well, she had said it. Let him do with it what he would. There was no space in her heart for fear. She felt only very tired. Exhaustion warring with relief warring with despair.

Then the conflicting emotions in his face were gone. That haunting, elegiac quality in his eyes fled away like a passing dream. His expression was as smooth and cold, betraying nothing beneath the marble surface. Once again, he was the man without mercy who did what he wanted, took what he wanted and cared nothing for the consequences.

"You mistake me, dear girl. What have I shown you to make you believe that the desire for life is stronger in me than the desire for revenge?"

Wendy looked away.

"Ah," he said. "I've disappointed you."

He had disappointed her. She had seen the glimpse of a better man (courteous, cultured and noble) that revealed itself in rare glimmers and fragments. Only last night, gazing fiercely at her, stripped of all refinement, his eyes sharp and clear as glass. Death and damnation. You know why.

Still, if he wanted to damn himself, then who was she to deny him? Sullen resentment filled her. The one bitter consolation she could derive from this farce was that he was just as much in hell as she was. Confined to a futile existence, like her, sighing the days away. But she would not give him the satisfaction of bending first. Even if it meant she would break instead.

He stood negligently, no expression betraying itself in his cool eyes and thin mouth. That lazy ease of self-assurance, velvet with the hard steel of silver beneath. His fingers playing carelessly with the sharp edge of his hook. Perfectly balanced with easy grace, never taking his eyes from her.

Then without ceremony, he began to shrug the robe from his shoulders.

Wendy started back, nails digging into her icy palms. "What are you doing?"

Hook sighed. "My time is not inexhaustible, Wendy. I do have matters to attend to. Unless you had something more agreeable in mind? Or is it only when on the verge of killing yourself that you are in a more yielding frame of mind?"

"I wasn't killing –" she checked herself too late.

"So you did intend something when I discovered you on the deck last night? I suspected as much; you're no fool. You were planning something all day." He fixed his piercing eye upon her. "You're not an innocent child, are you, Wendy Darling? You have sense, and you have cunning, and you weren't going to sit meekly in your cabin all night, not with your damned deceptive face and your pursed mouth. What were you doing?"

Wendy steeled herself and looked him straight in the eye. "I was attempting to communicate with the mermaids," she lied. "I thought they could either help me escape or get a message to Peter on my behalf."

He stared at her for some moments with that unsettling intuition that saw far too much and had a way of perceiving that which she wished to conceal. Then he sighed, flexing his good hand slightly. "Whatever I did to you now, you would tell the same story, wouldn't you? A good storyteller is always a good liar. And I can't prove you're lying, that's the cursed truth of it."

Wendy thought of the vial of fairy dust and said nothing. Then her heart stopped. The fairy dust. Dear God, what had she done with it? She had been holding it on the deck last night, but then he had found her, and –

And –

She must have dropped it; her sole chance of escape. How could she have been so foolish?

She whirled round, facing the door. She had to go at once. She had to find it.

His voice halted her. "You're leaving?"

Wendy replied without turning around, "I've said all I came here to say."

"Stay. Breakfast with me."

She tightened, glancing back at him. His uncoiffed hair tumbled down in dark locks. His face was open and unguarded, a genial smile playing around his lips. Wendy frowned slightly, suspicious still.

"Why?"

A rolling shrug of the shoulder. Fluid and casual, but for the intensity in his eyes. "I enjoy your company."

For a moment, she was almost tempted; the very thought made her hands hot and her blood beat fast. But she was not about to lose her head for the sake of pandering to his vanity. She had firmly laid down the lines of conduct for herself and refused to cross those boundaries. Last night had taken her too far, and she knew already that there would be no returning to her former state of proud indifference. He was an unbreakable chain around her heart now, shackling her soul, a constant, torturing presence that would make her life in Bloomsbury even more hateful to her than before, because he would be so far away. There would be no chance of seeing him again and her very existence would be a prison. His memory would remain with her now, the way a shell tossed up by brine would always carry the haunting echo of the waves and the surf and the distant cry of gulls. But there was no other way. She would not betray herself. Her agonies must be her own.

He would never know what it cost her to say with cold politeness, "I've made enough of a fool of myself."

Even as the words left her, she felt a weight of misery settling in their place. But if she gave him even an inch of herself, there would be no returning. She would have no peace of mind, no independence. He had too much of her already.

"Very well," the captain said. His voice was like cold steel slicing through iron. "There are some books you can amuse yourself with."

Wendy did not allow herself to stop until the door was closed and there was a barrier of solid oak between them. The memory of his blue gaze consumed her. She drew a shuddering breath, smoothing down her skirts with agitated hands. It had been a mistake going to him; she had only ensnared herself deeper in this hopeless attachment.

I had to assure nothing like that would happen again –

No. You just wanted to see him.

She straightened her shoulders, casting one final, fleeting glance at the door. Fixed her resolve squarely in her mind.

It would be the last time.

The sails were blowing and the wind was beating through the rigging, fresh and cold and clear; last night's storm having completely rolled away with the billowing clouds. The sun was bright and warm as though reborn after the tempest, the heat beaming gold along her exposed skin. The light glancing on the water whirled in gigantic, lazy spirals like a great vortex. Opalescent tints of pale azure and darkest midnight blue played across the surface. Wendy leaned over the edge, the wind whipping her hair loose into a banner. Already, her fears were receding, seeming trivial and meaningless in the liberating view that stretched out before her. She had begun to realize that she was not as soft as her acquaintances would believe as a young woman she should be, accustomed to comfort, ease and affluence. No, she wanted to know all these exhilarating sensations, she wanted to feel everything there was to feel, to truly experience her senses... she wanted to savour the way every emotion was heightened. She was alive, but she had never lived. She didn't want to be bound within the four walls of a drawing room, stifled and restrained. Where her only lessons were those of patience and coldness and duty. She wanted to break free of the stifling shackles of Edwardian London and embrace life, whatever the consequences. And she wanted to try everything. Everything.

Out here, among the haphazard melody of rushing water and the wheeling velocity of the wind, the sun's rays glinting along the soft curves of her fair hair, her existence in Bloomsbury seemed like a distant dream. It was as though she had been sleeping in a glass coffin for years, her life waiting to begin, anticipating the moment the captain would appear at her window.

She must fly to someone. Soar over clouds and oceans until the island appeared, a brilliant emerald jewel nestled in the heart of the sea. But it had always been Peter in her dreams, Peter whom she had yearned for to come to the window…

You opened my eyes to the impossible. You gave me wings to fly. You gave me a reality that was more mine than the one I was born into.

She must hold on to those memories. She could not renounce Peter for… for… the very idea was unthinkable. Peter was (is, she told herself forcefully) everything to her. She would have given anything to return to those days. When it had all been so simple. She felt emotion swell from deep within, aching and unreal, out to world's end.

Wendy put her arms out to feel the caress of the wind, shivering a little as her hair brushed against her collarbones and lower back. The great, clear-cut, glass-green waves rolled over and over, white crests sending up frothy plumes as they crashed against the ship. The spray soaked her face and arms as it broke on the deck, but she did not mind it; the sharp, bracing salt winds acted as a stimulant, reviving her spirits. Her heart was pounding with the strange, wild beauty of the scene. She had become accustomed to the surge of the water beneath her feet, the taste of the sea, warm and salt, the heady smells of tarred rope and damp wood. And suddenly, she understood what it was that drew sailors back again and again, the sea-fever that was a constant call in the blood, the realization that a roving, restless spirit could never settle until feeling the thrumming of the deck, the constant litany of the tide close by, a soothing melody. For a brief moment, Wendy wondered what it would be like to stand on the deck, her hands tight upon the spokes of the wheel as she looked out over the endless green waves, the captain standing beside her, his blue eyes reflecting the ocean and ebony locks blown back by the wild breeze (Darling, all ours) –

She shook away the image at once, scornful at her own sentimentality. He was a villain and she was a fool, entranced by a man who cared nothing for her beyond using her as a means to bring down his old enemy. How many times might he have done this before, his hook combing another woman's hair, whispering in her ear, death and damnation. You know why. The thought filled her with a pain sharper than she could have imagined. How he would laugh, cruel and derisive, if he knew the romantic notions she was entertaining… no, he must never find out.

She still belonged to the real world. She had a rational mind. She was not about to lose all that because –

Because of what?

No, she would fight it. She must fight it. She told herself that this feeling would soon pass, and that things would be as they once were.

That last part she didn't believe, simply because she knew better.

Wendy dropped to her knees, lifting the heavy coils of rope. There was no hesitation in her mind, no lingering doubts. She would use the fairy dust now – never mind waiting until the cover of darkness – delaying had cost her too much already. She had to flee this island, flee him –

I can't stay here. I will not let him own me, like some possession he can hoard and lock away… I won't be caged – not here, not in London. Not anywhere.

She would not even put her faith in Peter anymore. No, she could only rely on herself. She had to stand alone and trust no one. The fairy dust was her key to escape, not Tinker Bell, whose capricious narcissism meant that it was quite possible she had said nothing to Peter in a momentary fit of spite… and even that thought was almost easier to endure than the possibility that Peter simply did not care…

On her hands and knees, she searched among the wooden boards, between the tarred ropes and trailing chains, the sails whipping overhead. Nothing. Her dark-gold hair tangled in the wind, the loose tendrils teasing her eyes. Across from her sat the cannon Long Tom, a chilling reminder of the days when the captain had only wanted her dead, when she had been nothing more than a mere nuisance to him. With growing urgency, she scoured every inch of the deck, hands sweat-slick, the metal of blood in her mouth. Too stubborn to confront the growing realization the fairy dust wasn't there. It had to be. She had been certain it was here –

"Lost something?"

A long shadow fell over her. Deadly eyes. Light, piercing blue. Fully dressed, every inch the gentleman pirate she loathed and longed for in equal measure. Fear lanced through her, followed by a rush of anger at her own thoughtlessness. Of course he would be watching her every movement after last night.

"Were you looking for this, by any chance?"

Something swung from the glinting end of his polished hook. Wendy's heart sank within her, but there was the faintest chance that he regarded it a simple child's trinket, and had not thought to look inside -

"You were clutching it last night. A little too tightly for a mere keepsake, I think."

Wendy swallowed. Her mouth had gone completely dry. "It's nothing. Just a silly plaything –"

"Really?" Hook flashed a dangerous smile, his anger clear and sharp as a knife. "Then I suppose you won't object if I just…"

And he flung it overboard.

Wendy could not hold back the involuntary cry that burst from her when she saw her one hope of escape fly over the deck, soaring into the air in a shimmering arc to land with a faint splash in the turbulent green waves. As she instinctively started forward, the captain caught hold of her tightly, his grip like a vice on the curve of her waist. Her heart buckled. Shackled in cords of silver.

"So you would use fairy dust against me?" he said, his voice stinging as the lash of salty waves on her skin. "You would go back on our agreement, make your escape and fly straight to Pan… no… you would have gone to the Indians first and betrayed me, wouldn't you?"

There was no use in lying, so she met his gaze without a tremor. "Yes," she said. "It is true."

Fury cracked the ice in James Hook's eyes. He pulled her after him as though she weighed no more than a child, and there was something frightening in that display of brutal strength, so unconscious, so effortless. She stumbled alongside him, stunned and breathless at this rapid turn of events.

"Let me go – where are you taking me –"

"Somewhere you won't cause any more trouble."

Last night he had carried her in his arms, stealing icy, searing kisses from her numbed lips, but now his movements were swift and aggressive, his shadowed face dark and merciless. He was a stranger to her now, obsessed by some grim purpose as he dragged her roughly in his wake. And with a flash of understanding, Wendy saw then that for all his harsh attitude, that he was, like her, uncertain of what the evening might bring, and it unnerved him. The realization should have brought her satisfaction – after all, he was still the enemy, and she wanted Peter to come and rescue her and free her of the captain's clutches once and for all, but, for whatever reason or madness, she had fallen for him, and the thought of his death struck a deadly cold through her heart. She still distrusted and feared him, but it was no longer enough to erase this strange, fevered ache of yearning that had become an intrinsic part of her. And so, in the weakness of her flesh, she must warn him.

"It's not too late," she said. "You can still prevent all this. If you let me go –"

His dark brows raised in exaggerated surprise, mocking her. "Begging, Wendy? How deliciously novel."

"Peter won't merely be satisfied with taking your hand this time. He will kill you –"

Hook laughed harshly. "I have no fear of Pan, nor ever will."

"Maybe you don't fear dying," she said, watching him carefully, wary of his reaction. "But what about what comes after?"

In a flash, he had pinned her against the wall; the hand that grasped her shuddered with a terrible convulsion. The ruthless parody of the gentleman had fled entirely; he looked as hollow and cold as one dead. "You will never, ever speak of what I told you," he hissed. "Not to me, not to anyone – do you understand?"

She shuddered at the bleak, frightening expression that flickered like a dying candle in his eyes. And she knew it was no longer her he was seeing, but the ghosts that lurked beneath the rippling, mirrored depths of the dangerous seas.

The unasked question hovered on her lips. What happened after you drowned? What happened beneath the water?

"Perhaps I should have let you jump last night," he mused aloud. "And given you a taste of what it is you wish to know… allowed you the chance to indulge your curiosity."

"You could tell me now," she said.

But he only smiled, laying the flat of his hook against her cheek as though he meant to brand her. She felt its deadly imprint, cold as the icy gaze that met hers. "No, my beauty, I think not. No matter how nicely you ask. Do you not remember what I told you?"

He leaned down, black locks rolling down in tumbling disarray, as cool and silken as water on her skin. His breath laced her cheek and she turned away.

"Dead men tell no tales, Wendy," he whispered.

That tone, low and caressing, carrying with it a distressing intimacy. Hinting at the dark corners of his soul. She told herself she didn't want to know this man, did not want to know the secrets that haunted him. But she had come too far now to ever be free of him. They would never be strangers again. And a part of her was drawn to the danger, just as she had been in the shadowed walls of the Black Castle; only back then she had been too much a naïve child to be aware of the strange and terrible hope that he would find her – a secret desire she had never confessed to anyone, not even herself – that she might have a chance to come closer to the man that had captivated and haunted her imagination, who had insinuated his way into the secret places of her soul. And last night she had wanted to fling herself into the blue unknown, into those cold, watery depths that called to her and threatened to sweep her away. She might drown in the swirling, tempestuous darkness, but it had seemed worth the risk…

Without argument, she allowed him to lead her back to her cabin. His hook curved close around her waist, both a familiarity and a warning. When they reached the door, the captain opened it for her and gestured her inside with a show of elaborate gallantry. Wendy walked in past him, the line of her shoulders straight, refusing to engage with him.

"I'm going to lock you in," he said, and she stared back at him without a word. He lingered a moment, gazing down at her, and then with light, delicate fingers, he touched her lips. She closed her eyes, a torturous shudder of longing passing through her at the icy caress. Let him think her trembling came from fear; far better that than have him suspect the truth. His deadly, graceful hand moved to her cheek, brushing a stray curl of hair back from her upturned face.

"There is still some fight left in you, I think," he murmured, more to himself. Wendy did not dare move, wary of what he might do next. Fearing (hoping) that he would –

"If you try to escape, there are other ways to restrain you." His eyes gleamed strangely, some unnamable amusement flickering in the depths of those ice-cold irises. His mouth curved with that familiar devilment, and for once Wendy was grateful she could not read his thoughts. But then perhaps she did not need to, as his fingers played about her waist, lips soft against her ear. His hated, devastating face bent lower over hers, and her heart beat faster, panting blood spilling through her veins as arctic eyes held her captive. Sweet, lancing pain stole through her. Her lips parted, betraying her –

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him, and she heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. Her head rolled back against the wood as she leant heavily against the aged frame, feeling the floor dip and lurch beneath her shaking legs. As her fingers strayed to her cheek (following the ghostly path of his) her limbs gave out beneath her completely, and she sank helpessly to the floor where she huddled oblivious to all around her; a lost, lonely, scared girl, uncertain of what the night would bring.

Chapter Text

Cold, cold, freezing, freezing
Got my heart beating, beating

I'm in love with a zombie
When he put his hands on me
Send chills through my body

And I know that he like me
Cause he chasing me nightly
And I want him to bite me
Cause I know I'm gonna like it, like it, like it, like it

('Zombie', Natalia Kills)

– Day 3 –

Part II

Dantes remained for a short time mute and motionless; at length he said, - "Then you abandon all hope of escape?"

"I perceive its utter impossibility; and I consider it impious to attempt that which the Almighty evidently does not approve."

"Nay, be not discouraged. Would it not be expecting too much to hope to succeed at your first attempt? Why not try to find an opening in another direction from that which has so unfortunately failed?"

The heavy volume slid through Wendy's restless fingers, falling against the thin coverlet. She had discovered The Count of Monte Cristo, an exquisite copy bound in red morocco and edged with gold, among the collection of books the captain had left her. The words blurred across the page; the sharp-cut black letters might as well have been written in another language for all the attention she gave them.

She cast the book to one side. Flaubert had met the same fate. It was impossible for her to concentrate. One single thought occupied her. All else was a distant fog in her soul; he alone stood out sharp and clear. A man she would never let herself consider, a name that lingered on her lips with the taste of his skin, tobacco and spice, the name that she couldn't voice, the name she wouldn't let escape. Awakening feelings inside her that had been lying dormant all her life. She had fought furiously against the rising tide, but knew that in defiance of all her efforts, she was being pulled irresistibly under.

Wendy sank back against the hammock, clutching the metal bookmark tightly in her hand, feeling the sharp edge digging into her palm. Then, on an impulse, she pressed the cool, smooth surface against her cheek, the sensation both an acute pleasure and a torment. This was how it would be always now. He was under her skin. She was marked, branded, never to be free of his touch. When, exactly, had her reason left her? She realized too late that her heart was tender, not the thing of steel she had imagined it to be. Deep down, she was still the girl of thirteen who dreamed too deeply and loved too easily. An influence stronger than any force of rationality had taken hold of her; she could no longer think clearly.

She closed her eyes, momentarily willing to let herself sink into that darkness, lose herself in it. Dark dreams to tantalize, to disturb her conscious mind. The ghost of a touch on the back of her neck. A cultured voice like silk against skin. Blue and blue and blue. Eternal and insatiable desire. Drenching wet, the pouring rain on her shoulders, his grip on her hard and merciless, lightning illuminating his rigid features in silver-bright flashes –

Mother, she thought helplessly, If only I could speak to you now. But Mary Darling, with her gentle serenity and life of simple contentment, could never hope to understand the abyssal depths of a hopeless, uncontrollable passion, or what it was to love unwillingly; something so far beyond the primly respectable upbringing imposed on the women of this civilised age.

Wendy made a strong effort to remain calm. She could feel her nerves straining tighter and tighter. The thought of surrendering to this feeling entirely terrified her. She knew, knew that if she stayed here, it would change her forever. If the captain did not kill her, he would master her, and Wendy didn't know which she feared more.

It was not too late. There was still a chance she could return home, marry Charles Quiller-Couch, have a life that was calm and contained. Safe. And deny everything that I ever was or could hope to be. To forever quash the impulses of that wandering spirit that dwelt within her. Drifting through her busy, careless life with a haunting loneliness, always lost in her own world. What was the use of her existence if she was only meant for that? She was more than that shallow, self-conscious world she inhabited.

A sudden resentment rose up inside her at the futility of it all, those endless suppers, dinners, social parties and ambling walks without direction. The inane chatter that drifted around her as meaningless noise, the tea and cakes that tasted bland and stale. Forced into polite conversation with people for whom she cared nothing. They all seemed to her insufferable, insincere, with no dreams or aspirations beyond the small, claustrophobic world they inhabited. The thought of sitting among that circle, bored and ill at ease while Charles delightedly announced their impending engagement filled Wendy with a sensation of terror and abhorrence. It was unthinkable.

She had allowed herself to become the Wendy the world had demanded - a superficial, serene creature, who walked and talked when required, accepting praise and empty admiration with a gracious smile as a natural homage to her beauty. A polite, pristine, deliberately indifferent product of society. And all the while another Wendy, vivid, passionate, imaginative (a long-ago ghost of a girl with ribbons in her hair) gazed back at her through a dark mirror and wondered how it had come to this.

Where was she now, that girl who had once had dreams and harboured grand visions of the future; had allowed her soul to soar on lofty flights of imagination, her mind taking her to unchartered territories? Too many years had passed. Summer to autumn to winter. And then it seemed there had been nothing but winters. Her heart eroding over time, youthful dreams growing cold and cynical, full of memories that were too bittersweet to dwell on. The ghostly echoes of her stories on faded paper the only memories left to her.

No, she wanted to travel, to experience life, to live the stories she wrote and told, to fly free of all constraints before the sky fell in upon her and she was trapped.

It was escape from herself that she wanted more than anything; from her life in Bloomsbury, to feel the sun and the wind on her shoulders, her bare feet on the warm wood of a ship set on a course for any direction – that, that was freedom. There could be no life like the life of a free wanderer. London was not her home. Always, in her heart, she had been waiting, searching for something more than she was. To drift or drown upon the seas. She felt herself on the brink of something wild and reckless and forbidden, teetering on the edge of the abyss –

Wendy put her hands over her face, instinctively drawing back from the dreadful prospect that her mind and heart whispered to her. She could not afford to lose her head, not now, when freedom was within her grasp.

My God, what is to become of me?

She could imagine the captain's gaze, irises lustrous and cunning as he gloated over her, smiling and triumphant. Such thoughts made Wendy's skin grow cold and her heart quiver with both fear and desire. So she clung to that stubborn, lonely pride, refusing to contemplate what simply could not be. Her thoughts threatened to take her down a dangerous road she would not follow. In truth she was afraid. Of him, of herself –

Peter, please come, she thought fervently. Otherwise I'm not sure what I might do.

She sat with her chin cupped between her hands, pensive, troubled. Never had her chances of escape seemed fainter than now. Ever since the loss of the fairy dust, despair had weighed heavy in her chest; it was only her firm sense of obstinacy that stopped her from giving up completely. She had already spent what seemed like hours trying to pick the lock of the door with her hairpin until she was almost ready to cry with frustration, but then, she considered on gloomy reflection, even if she were to get free of her cabin, without the fairy dust, there was still no way of escaping the ship.

Several other suggestions had crossed her mind. She had considered feigning sickness, but such an act would only result in her being more closely watched than ever. Another possibility was waiting until Smee brought her meal, and overpowering him while she made for the door, but the prospect of using violence against someone who had treated her only with kindness made her inwardly recoil. She could not bring herself to be so ruthless.

No, she must wait, bide her time, and be ready when Peter arrived. She needed to endure only a few more hours to weather this storm she had unconsciously awoken. Once Peter came, her responsibility was over. She could finally rest, knowing that he would defeat Hook and her struggle was done.

And yet, and yet –

The captain's words still burned hot within her. She has neither the courage nor the resolution – nor the means – to do anything. She refused to allow him to maintain that image of her. Whether because of vanity or pride, she wanted him brought down by her own hand. She imagined herself leaning over him, smiling in superb victory. Are you quaking at the thought of mere girl now, she would ask him, and he would know.

She wanted to show him that he'd underestimated her. She wanted him defeated, overcome, powerless. Her heart faltered slightly. No, but that wasn't true; she wanted him as he was, cold and cruel and mercurial –

Why, the captain had already won without knowing it. Wendy threw her reflection a contemptuous glance, white and cold and angry. She smoothed down the creased lines of her dress, the straying waves of her fair hair. An effort to remove all traces of weakness. Bones of steel beneath ivory skin. Her upturned face, with its expression always so firm and decisive, was now troubled with preoccupied thoughts. Betraying her heart's secret for all to see. Wendy's blue-grey eyes hardened with stubborn resistance. It seemed that two extremes lay before her. On the one hand lay boredom and dissatisfaction, on the other, danger and death. Of the two evils, she hardly knew which was worse. But in London at least, she knew that Charles Quiller-Couch could never master her. Perhaps then, it was better to fall prey to cynicism than sentimentality.

Even if it only meant that her death would come later rather than sooner.

The candle burned bright in the corner of her vision, illuminating the headboard of dark wood that crowned the bed. Shadows spread along the pale bones of his hand that lingered on her jaw, turning her face up to his. No sound but her own shaky breathing, clearly audible in the whisper of space that hovered unbreached between them. The silken sheets shifted like cool water beneath her, soothing against her heated skin. Every inch of her was pulsing, burning, but inside there lingered a core of resolve and self-will, cold and hard and untouchable as stone.

"I will escape this place."

"Perhaps," murmured the captain, slender fingers idly trailing down the exposed hollow of her throat, ghosting tantalizingly close to the opening of her bodice, "But the real question, my Darling girl, is do you want to?"

Wendy closed her eyes hard, praying the darkness would act as a barrier between herself and her own desires. "Of course –"

The rest of her reply was cut off as he kissed her with a deliberation that was almost cruel, slow and lingering, his tongue sliding along hers. She pressed her palms hard against the plush velvet covering his shoulders, willing herself not to utter a sound as he moved over her, masculine weight firm and heavy against her pounding heart. His lips trailing threads of cold fire down the curve of her neck as he exhaled against her pulse that was beating with fevered rapidity.

She could hear the curving smile in his voice. "Do you really mean that?"

The clouded scents of tobacco and claret, his mouth teasing her flushed skin, the sharp bite of his teeth like the first lancing touch of winter as he lightly nipped her shoulder – Wendy shuddered against him and her reply came as a shallow intake of breath –

"I do."

Hook lowered his head and laughed softly against her flesh. His hand slid down past her ribs, languid still, and light, stroking over the curve of her waist, when, with searing abruptness, he jerked her body up to his and she felt the rigidity of him pressing against her. He dragged his hips slowly against hers, tones still caressingly at ease as Wendy choked down the instinctive cry caught in her throat.

"Are you still so certain now?"

"I will..." Her voice was faint and she was barely aware of the words she uttered, "I will be free of you –"

"Oh, you'll try," he said in that same, throaty voice. Smooth as velvet. Caressing as steel.

He kissed her deeply, hungrily, a groan trapped low in his throat. Passion danced across the surface of her skin like lightning, flickered and pulsed behind her closed lids. No longer holding up the pretense of resistance, she pulled him down to her, closer, closer, drowning in the feel of him. Silver ice searing her skin, through flesh, into her blood. Fists clenched in brocade, the smooth slide of leather, a tight, sweet agony spreading through her like poison. He stole her breath with lips too hard, touches too soft. The black silk of his hair sliding across her skin as his mouth moved lower, fingers lower still, sparking jolts of sensation at every touch – she twisted beneath him and –

"Captain –"

She was silenced by the bite of metal on her parted lips. Hook paused, regarding her consideringly, his deep blue gaze hooded and dark.

"No…" he said, slowly. "No more talking, I think."

Wendy's eyes flew open abruptly. Something had cut through the clouded depths of her dream like a knife and suddenly she was wide-awake, tense and waiting for a recurrence of the sound that had disturbed her. She sat upright listening carefully, and it came again – a rattling at her boarded window, and a rush of air, the movement passing over her head –

Something was in the cabin with her.

Wendy's hand crept across the coverlet, finding the silver book marker and gripping it tight as she looked around warily. Her heart was beating thick and fast in her throat as she tried to swallow down the tight feeling of apprehension. As a child, I wouldn't have been afraid.

Another rippling of air, raising a chill along her bare arms. But this time her eyes were sharper in the gloom. There. A darker blot against the walls of the cabin, and she knew at once. A shadow. A darting, wayward shadow, quite separated from its owner –

"Peter," she whispered, and her hand fell helplessly to her side.

Painful emotion rushed through her. For a wild, fleeting moment, she wondered whether her brothers had come too, but in her heart she knew that they had long grown past Neverland, that it was little more than a distant memory of a childhood story. Only in her had it remained fresh and bright and real. She, who was still fool enough to cling to such precious dreams, the last remembrance of all that immeasurable vision.

She stared at the dark shape as it danced around her, light and playfully graceful. The sight of such impish, carefree delight was almost a physical pain to watch.

"Is Peter here?" she asked, half-afraid to know the answer, "Is he with you?"

No answer as the shadow capered along the wall, a wiry, boyish shape. One slender arm extended toward the door, gesturing her to follow.

"I can't," Wendy explained patiently. "The captain has locked me in here."

The shadow paused, head tilted to one side in a gesture that was heart-aching in its familiarity. For a moment, it almost seemed she glimpsed a flash of bark-brown skin and hair the color of shifting sunlight, and the vision stopped her breath. Then it flew overhead, pooling in a dark mass at the keyhole. A moment later, there was a sharp click.

And just like that, she was free.

Wendy's blood leapt. She felt that irresistible call, to summons, to adventure. Peter's shadow darted to and fro, trying vainly to push her own shadow towards the open door. But she remained still, running over the plan that had been steadily forming in the back of her mind. A week ago, the only decisions she had been required to make were what dress to wear to dinner and who to talk to over afternoon tea. Now it seemed that every move she made was a calculated risk of life and death. A thrill of something like fear (only so very far from fear) ran through her. She was trembling with excitement and anticipation. The game was not over yet.

"No," she said, slipping the metallic book marker into the folds of her dress. "There's something I have to do first."

Across the deck and down the narrow stairs, over the tangled snarls of netting and wooden crates, past the glint of scorched metal darkened with the black soot of gunpowder, lay the crew's lodgings. Here she could more fully feel the creak and moan of the ship, the boards groaning, guttered lanterns swaying above her head in the dim, narrow passage. Through the clouded haze of cigarette smoke (in the confined space, as potent and drugging as the cloying aroma of burning opium) the sharp tang of rum hit her senses, the interior dark and secret and smoky, worlds away from the lavish grandeur of the captain's quarters. Her years spent immersed in books making her feel as though she were descending into some infernal netherworld.

Her decision momentarily faltered within her, but Wendy hardened her heart. This was exactly the reason she must find herself an ally – someone who would defeat Hook should her resolution fail her at the last moment. She no longer trusted herself, and was terrified to think what she might do should she succumb to sentiment. Then the captain's victory over her would be complete, and she could not allow that to happen. Her mind made up, she moved with firm decision, looking straight before her, and moving with swift, resolute, and light steps. Most of the crew were occupied in games of dice and cards, but Wendy felt the suspicious eyes of Ed Teynte the quartermaster on her as she passed. Something about that gaze filled her with unease.

She held up the hem of her skirt, a curve of supreme derision on her lips as she stepped across the dirt-smeared floor. This was the part of the ship that had been carefully hidden from her, the dark underbelly that lurked beneath the gilded luxury of the captain's finer living. The men were little better than dogs in these conditions, and she could only hope there was enough sullenly brimming resentment in these dank depths to serve her purpose. Eyes narrowed through the murky illumination thrown by the gas lamps, she discerned dimly through the gloom a large, huddled form stretched out on a makeshift bed. One swarthy hand curled around a bottle, the other bracing his head. She recognized that rawness, the wild, animal quality of a snared predator. She leaned in closer, praying that she knew what she was doing.

One languid, dark eye opened. Heavy lethargy sharpened into keen focus as the Italian recognized her. He attempted to raise himself, rasping in heavily accented tones, "Well, look at this. To what do I owe the honour?" He winked slyly and grinned at her, a flash of white teeth. "Normally, I'd offer you a more welcoming reception, but I'm not my best self at the moment." A quick, sharp jerk of his head indicated the swathe of bandages knotted around his leg.

Wendy said nothing, aware of the curious eyes of the crew on her, which she returned with a proud look of offended dignity, appearing more haughty and self-possessed than ever. Her severe calm seemed to daunt some of them slightly.

Not for a moment did the smile leave Cecco's dark face. "Don't mind them. We're unused to female faces on this ship, and yours is a picture." His voice rose to a hoarse shout. "Out, all of you! Can't you see the lady wants you gone?"

The men obeyed at once, though not without some grumblings, particularly from Cookson and Mullins. But it was clearly not the first time Cecco had given orders, and the realization encouraged her, fixed her more firmly in her purpose.

"Can you stand?" Wendy asked, casting an uneasy glance behind her. If there were any prying eyes remaining in the gloom, it was too dark to tell.

"With a little assistance."

Cautiously, she put out a hand, offering a soft, girlish arm for support. She winced slightly as the pirate leaned his full weight on her, raising himself with a muttered curse. Recalling her moment of shameful faintness on the deck the night before, Wendy decided it was wiser not to look at the wound, instead keeping her gaze firmly on his face, too conceited and too desperate to feel daunted, though he was a head taller than her and near twice as broad across the shoulders. She led him a little unsteadily over to one of the upturned crates where he eased himself down with a faint expression of pain creasing his dark features. Wendy remained standing, holding herself very erect as she watched him carefully. She was badly in need of an ally, and reassured herself with the fact that here too was an enemy of the captain. And if he does decide to betray me, she reflected wearily, It would only mean the captain killing me sooner than expected.

But she had openly defied the captain twice now and so far emerged unscathed. Perhaps her luck would hold out a little longer yet.

"I wanted to speak to you –" she began with quiet authority, but he held up a large hand.

"Bring the bottle of brandy first."

Wendy hesitated, looking down at him, her lips tight with disapproval.

"Drink'll be the death of me one of these days," the Italian observed carelessly. "But not yet."

While she would have preferred to converse with him while he possessed a clear head, there was no time to argue over trifling matters. Her absence could be discovered at any moment, and who knew what damage the loose tongues of the crew could inflict? She found the clouded bottle and held it out with an icy disdain he did not even glance at. He leaned forward and grasped it from her hands, downing the contents in a single gulp. The liquid clung to his lips in gleaming droplets and she was struck again by the fact he was a handsome man. Much of his attraction lay in the physical exuberance he radiated, the fiercely mobile features, and satirical expression that made him look as though he were laughing all the time. Yes, she could see how such a man might command loyalty, not through fear, but rather through the sheer force of his personality.

Cecco set the bottle down with an easy motion, strong and broad-shouldered. Eyes black and shadowed under the smoky lamp. Wendy was aware of some degree of caution and unease, but it was of a safer, more visceral kind than that which the captain inspired. The Italian was quite possibly five times her strength, but at least it was only physical harm she had to fear from him. Whatever threat he presented, her heart and her mind remained her own. Frustration simmered just beneath her skin. Why could she not maintain such indifference around his captain?

"The Captain does not know I am here," she said quietly. That cool, imperious voice she used with everyone deemed to be her subordinate.

"Is that right? And what is it that brings you down among us lowlifes?"

His deep tones of drawling mockery did not stir the faintest reaction in Wendy. She held his gaze evenly until his own lowered slightly.

"Can I trust you?"

"That depends on what you're asking."

Wendy took a deep breath and committed herself. There was no going back now.

"We haven't much time," she said. "Peter Pan is coming, if he is not here already. There's a chance he can defeat Hook, and you can help him. That's what you want, isn't it? The captain gone, and you to take charge of his ship?"

Cecco said nothing, but a dark flame flared and died in his eyes. Only the slight clenching of his large hand betrayed his interest. His handsome face was suddenly alive with greed and hunger, and again, Wendy was forcefully reminded of a savage wolf, feeling herself momentarily trapped by that prowling expectancy. She swallowed hard, realizing, perhaps for the first time, that she was dealing with someone dangerous. Something warned her that she could not treat him with the cold disdain she had shown the rest of the crew. Low as he was, remorseless and base as he was, he had sharp mind and that alone set him apart from the other pirates on this ship. Faint misgiving stirred within her. Had she merely traded one villain for another?

The Italian leaned forward, his voice low and intent. "Oh, I want more than that. I want his ship, I want his men, I want his gold – I want the whole God damn lot of it – heaven and hell and everything in between –"

"Then take it," she said. "When the time comes. But promise me that when Peter comes, you will take his side. That you will help him with all the men you can."

Cecco rubbed a swift hand across his chin, charcoal eyes narrowed. "There's a few men loyal to me – a word and they'll pitch in once they see Pan has an advantage." He laughed suddenly, bold and insolent. "And why not? If there's to be a scrap, better sooner rather than later. As for that cringing rat Starkey, I'll be glad to cut down his sanctimonious face. Jukes as well."

His easy acquiescence did nothing to comfort her. He was driven by pride and personal ambition, and something more – a lean, hungry hatred for the captain, sly and prowling as he had watched with slumberous black eyes, waiting long years to cast off the show of outward compliance. She saw it in the shadow of treachery that darkened his expression. Wendy looked into his face, steadily and without compromise.

"Then I have your word? That you will help us?"

"Aye – but when I decide the time is right. I'll be risking none of my men's lives needlessly."

She added, unable to help herself, "And if you think for a moment to betray me, then I assure you that Peter will take more than just your hand."

Cecco only laughed away the threat, careless and self-assured once more. "Oh, you're perfectly safe with me, bellissima. Stiff and joyless women never did appeal much to me. And we're after the same thing, aren't we?"

Wendy looked sternly at him, but his something about his rough directness (his utter lack of subtle, menacing grace) eased her nerves slightly, made her more certain of herself. She had thought herself strong enough to stand alone, and only now realized how much she needed an ally at her side.

"The captain defeated," she said.

"Aye – to put a bullet between his eyes."

"That won't be necessary," interposed Wendy hastily. "If he were to leave Neverland, never to return –"

The words faltered as Cecco's gaze locked on hers, swift and dark and predatory. Cutthroat and prisoner caught in tandem.

"No," he said grimly, "I'll strike the blow myself this time. I've gone against him; I'll not trust to the ocean to keep him down this time. He warned me once and I laughed at him. I didn't listen, and now I'll carry a scar for the rest of my days for that mistake. So I'll play the gallant hero and see you break free for a guarantee this ship will be mine at the end of it. But I'll take no half-measures – no, not for all the hot blood and ambition in the world. So tell me; are you sure your heart's really in this?"

No answer for a moment as her heart seemed frozen. Then Wendy forced out an icy, "Of course."

"Has the captain hurt you?"

Wendy started. There was no kindness or sympathy in his tone, only blunt curiosity. She could see he cared for no other reason than idle interest as to why she would seek him out. And how to answer such a question? Her mind was drawn back to that first night in the captain's quarters, his cutlass at her breast, eyes cold with fury. The image stood dark and strong in her memory.

"He attacked me once," was all she said.

"I thought as much."

Cecco gripped her wrist, dusky, calloused fingers rough and strong against the delicacy of her pale-boned hand. Reluctantly, she found herself looking into that feral, wolfish face, finally stripped bare of all indulgence and mockery.

"Fine words are all well and good, but this is man's work we're dealing with here – matters of war and life and death. Are you certain you've stomach enough for that?"

"Yes," said Wendy.

"A pirate's den is no place for a lady. Women aren't made for these kinds of dangers, for all their courage. You'll see that soon enough. And when that happens, don't lose your nerve."

Something like a laugh escaped her. Dry and bitter, catching low in her throat. "I think," she said, "I have none left to lose."

She emerged in the grey haze of encroaching twilight, moving quiet and cautiously from the lower deck. The certainty of having done something had heartened her, filled her with the renewed vigor and fire of resolve that losing the fairy dust had almost taken out of her. Even the ghostly touch of cold air cheered her young blood as she paused to appreciate being outside and away from the prison of her cabin. The question was, did she return? If the captain had not discovered her absence, she could slip back in with him none the wiser, and wait for the right time to emerge.

Wendy hesitated, her figure hidden amid the threading wisps of fog, chill and specter-grey. The somber atmosphere expectant and waiting. She wondered whether the Lost Boys were there, shrouded in the obscurity, about to appear like wraiths through the mist. One way or another, an ending was imminent.

Loathe as she was to return to the cabin, it was the safer and wiser choice than risking detection by remaining out in the open. There was nothing more she could do now but wait. But even as she turned her step in that direction, the hollow ring of booted footsteps set every nerve in her body on a razor-sharp edge. Wendy had just the presence of mind to slip down among the stairs of the crew's lodging, where she crouched uncomfortably, looking out and waiting hopelessly for the man she dreaded (wanted) to see above all others.

His angular silhouette emerged through the ambiguity, and she wondered whether this was how he looked when he had first risen from the depths in an ethereal haze after seven years a dead man – thin streams of water trailing over his shoulders, looping in silver threads through the ebony waves of his hair, his eyes cold as ice. The sight of him struck her with a kind of thrilling agony, her self-possessed, resolute manner deserting her at once. She felt her heart thud beneath her flesh's armor. Feelings, treacherous and pervasive, stirring beneath the skin. Awoken by a primal vibrancy, every nerve in her body agonizingly aware of his presence.

Wendy blinked water out of her eyes – it was raining and she had not even noticed. He had passed by in a moment – not even so much as glancing in her direction – and something deep in Wendy's unconscious took over. In one direction lay the warmth and safety of her cabin. In the other – the captain's quarters. Without hesitation, she girded her nerves and followed. She could no longer avoid or ignore him – the match could not be resisted. Trying to resist him was like trying to swim against the current. It exhausted her.

What she was doing was foolish and reckless, and she knew it – but didn't let it stop her. Perhaps a part of her wanted to be discovered. She was beginning to like the biting thrill of danger (perverse, delicious, addictive) more than she should have, and the realization unnerved her. Something fleeting and ephemeral. The craving for the chase and flight, that endless push and pull, the tug of power. For the first time, she felt challenged, awake, alive. Hook might be the predator, but she refused to be the prey.

This time she would not cower and hide. As she approached the outer window of his cabin, she gazed fearlessly through the clouded glass. The irony of her actions was not lost on her. The first afternoon she had crouched here, almost in this exact same position, but how different things had been then, when Hook was only an enemy to be vanquished. The need to defeat him was as strong as ever, but it was no longer hatred that drove her to flee from his presence and fear his touches.

Smee was busily employed filling a decanter when the captain entered the cabin. She watched as he moved with effortless grace and refined ease, a gentleman's courtesy hovering in the careless wave of his hand (so very misleading). Some supernatural force drew Wendy's eyes to his face. That curving and elusive smile drawing the self-control from her like a fine silver wire. Always so fascinating in manners, clearly-cut features set in arrogant complacency. Lashes resting like black lace against his cheek. A look of such latent passion in his eyes that Wendy was almost afraid.

"Enough, Smee!" His voice was muted by the barrier of glass between them. "Do you expect me to be sitting here idly sampling Muscat while Pan brings my entire ship down around me? Go and do something of use." The tones were clear and soft, but there was the laced undercurrent of a threat beneath. Anger clouded and veiled beneath a layer of deadly hubris.

The captain wound his wet hair into a thick rope and heaved it over one shoulder. He shrugged the sodden jacket from his shoulders, the blood-red velvet slithering to the floor. The careless motion revealed a complex system of buckles and straps that formed a leather armor beneath his heavy outer garments. It seemed that for all his careless dismissal of any threat, he had secretly taken precautions. So he was afraid of Peter, Wendy thought with grim satisfaction.

He threw himself into a chair, lounging in it like a throne, limbs draped over the arms and booted legs spread wide. Indolent, handsome and indifferent, as she knew him best. He unfurled a hand, a gesture the bo'sun seemed to understand at once, as a moment later, a lit cigar was dispelling perfumed smoke between his long fingers.

The sight of his lavish quarters and the casual arrogance of his actions brought back too many memories (the brush of his teeth against the soft hollow of her throat, the press of cool fingers on her waist, low words murmured into her hair –) Wendy closed her eyes. Forcing down images of his bare skin, the long strands of black hair sticking wetly against muscular curves, leather clinging to his thighs, that ever-present scent of claret and spice – just the recollection brought a near-physical ache.

The captain leaned forward, a mist of tobacco swathing his lower features. "Is everything made ready?"

"Aye, Cap'n."

"And the men called to muster, at command?"

"They await the order."

"Good," Hook muttered distractedly. "Good." He was frowning slightly, not with anger, but a distant contemplation, staring unseeingly at the red sparks that leapt from the smoldering end of his cigar. As though his mind was somewhere distant, lost in the depths of his own preoccupied thoughts. Smee seemed to sense that his presence was undesirable and was moving towards the door when the captain looked up sharply.

"Smee," he said suddenly. "Stay a moment." His expression had darkened, the tips of his fingers extinguishing the cigar with a hiss, watching the thin trails of smoke spiral upward. He paused a moment, deep and considering. "If Pan should come –"

"A ridiculous notion, Cap'n, you said so yourself."

"Can't you discern the difference between posturing and sense, you cretinous fool?" the captain muttered viciously. "He'll come, damn him – I'm certain of it."

"And if he does, we'll pull through, like we always do," said Smee reassuringly.

"And what then, Smee? These last hours I've been maddened by my own thoughts, words that were said to me… what is my purpose if I'm bound only to remain here?"

"T'defeat Pan, as always."

"To try, you mean. Caught in this grim, eternal stasis, neither one of us able to die, yet unable to truly live…"

Hook raised his head. His eyes were like jewels – fine, blue and translucent as water. Wide and haunted, seeing something far beyond the room, far beyond the material world. His entire countenance bleak with misery, grave and melancholy lines etched into his carven features.

"Just end it," he muttered hoarsely, "End this wretched waste of an existence, this bitter farce of life – life! Was I ever happy, Smee? I'm certain I must have been, though too many years gone by to remember. It's been bled out of me, like ink from a manuscript and all the world's empty. And I'm tormented – haunted – by that foul place beneath the waves. Nights where I've not closed my eyes for fear of finding myself back there. Gods save me, I can already feel the depths calling, whispering in my blood. Dragging me down to that watery grave. It'll claim me soon enough. But I'll take him with me before it does – that I swear. I would have thought myself dead already were it not for the bloom of life I've felt in me since –"

But he broke off with a muttered curse, shaking his head and falling into grim contemplation. His hook slowly scored a line into the table, over the layers of smooth hard varnish, dark with age. The action was one that had been repeated many times, judging by the deep rivets in the wood.

"Do you believe in affinity, Smee?" the captain asked after a few moments, without lifting his eyes.

"What's that, now?"

"Affinity, kinship – a strange likeness, some kind of queer sympathy that binds us to someone? I find myself aware of a new sensation, a ghost or peculiar wraith stirring in me, awakening emotions that were better left to rest. I thought myself on the brink of death, Smee – had resigned myself to it with a grim kind of pleasure. My future path was clear – victory, or annihilation. And now – now, I'm plagued by uncertainties, possibilities that drive me mad with fevered yearnings for something more… can you explain it?" His hook slammed into the table with ringing force. "Speak, damn you – that's an order."

"I never was much of one for philosophizing, Cap'n. Can't your books give you some answer?"

"Aye… though not one I want to hear, I'd wager. Curse it all, I'd as soon cut my own throat this instant than acknowledge that such a thing exists. Enough already. I'll do what must be done, let the end come when it may. I'm tired of drawing out this doom. If this is to come to an end, then by heaven and hell, let me go down fighting. Death and glory, Smee. What else is there in this blighted world?"

Wendy drew back, her heart pounding hard and fierce in her throat. She felt a brief, momentary agony – what have I done? – as she was forced once again to confront his humanity, was paralyzed by it. She was haunted by the enigma he offered. Who was this man, this mortal ghost who would not die? He was so beyond her, she could not hope to (did not want to) understand the things that drove and moved him. A mind utterly unreadable in its complexity, the myriad channels of intertwining thoughts like a river, carrying feelings too heavy, too bitter, too painful not to drown him in the flood. She knew he bore his demons, as did all men, but he had been careless and cruel enough to almost convince her that he was utterly indifferent to everything. Lonely, certainly, but he had always possessed a vicious streak of survival. Nothing in his ghostly heart but the thirst for revenge.

"Leave me now," said the captain wearily. He passed a pale hand through his curling mass of dark hair, his blue gaze suddenly flashing sharp and fierce on the departing bo'sun.

"And Smee?"

"Aye, Cap'n?"

"Speak a word of this to anyone and I'll murder you myself."

There was a numbness in Wendy's body. She needed – she needed air. She needed time to think. She leaned her head back against the wood, closing her eyes and breathing hard. It was dangerous to pity him as she did, to want him as she did. She would convince herself that she hated him, despised him, loathed everything he stood for, but then she would have these poignant glimpses of him that shattered all her fortified resolve; hatred blown away like breath. She could feel her heart burning with unexpressed sympathy. That wearying pain, so akin to her own – could she so callously cast it aside?

She was caught already in the maelstrom his physical presence inspired. But even that was endurable in comparison to the memory of his loneliness, his despair at life, all illusions shattered and trapped in an existence he could not escape. What ghosts haunted him in the long night hours?

Moving away from his cabin, and careless now of whether or not she was seen, Wendy walked slowly back and forth across the length of the stern, the sails beating overhead. It seemed forever that she restlessly paced the wooden boards, trying to calm her disordered thoughts. She drew a deep, steadying breath, pausing momentarily to look around her.

The rain had passed and the evening was clear and beautiful, drawing her mind back to a starry waltz beneath a canopy of trees where the heavens had opened above her. It had possibly been the most perfect moment of her existence. The promise of all the tantalizing beauty and mystery in the world. In those days after Neverland, she had spent night after night sitting beside the nursery window (always looking out and dreaming, never truly living) full of sea-dreams, her imagination taking her in leaps and bounds to strange islands and unchartered skies, her thoughts threatening to wander off the edge of the world.

Will I ever find a place more beautiful than Neverland? she wondered sadly.

All the parties, glamour and materialism of London was not a way of life for her. All empty diversions, bright and hollow, never truly touching her soul. Neverland had changed her, and changed her conception of the world. She had always been a young girl yearning for the stars. The drawer had never been fully closed, just put aside for a while. In her heart, she had always been waiting. But she had been waiting for a boy, and now –

She gazed up at the clustered constellations, distant and radiant in the wide expanse of the heavens. Dusted swirls of green and blue and icy white, a silver-tailed comet piercing the black curve of the stratosphere. Vast and infinite. Like her dreams, they eluded her, always shimmering just out of reach. And yet here they appeared closer than she had ever seen them. It almost seemed she could clasp her hand around them, draw those shining lights down into her hold and keep them forever.

As she contemplated those stars, brilliant and pulsing through the chaos, Wendy realized that her visions and imagination had shifted so entirely that she had no words to express them (did not dare to) –

I no longer know my own dreams anymore.

She shook her head, dispelling the lie before it had taken form. There was no room left in her heart for self-deception. She knew her dreams – held deep and close and secret –only she was too afraid to grasp them. Because in truth, she was living out the stories she had always yearned for, enacting those emotions buried deep within her stubborn, wayward heart; of great adventures and tragic loves and terrible betrayals.

I know what it is I truly want, she realized, with a yearning sigh. But was she brave enough to seize it?

She closed her eyes, breathing hard, then with a flash of determined impulse turned around, back in the direction from which she had come, when –

Wendy put out a hand in front of her. The cool mist was dispersing, parting like water through her fingers. The wind had picked up, scouring the back of her neck with shards of ice.

She looked up. The sky had darkened; the atmosphere carried a low thrum that made the deck tremor beneath her feet. A strange, electric humming. A salt sheet broke over the ship, sails drinking the turbulent air. The stars were fading, red bleeding across the horizon. Around her, she could hear the faint howl of the wind –

No, not the wind, but battle cries.

Fighting, she thought, and the realization turned her cold. I can hear fighting.

How long had she been standing here dreaming, while the world was falling apart around her?

Everything was happening too fast. She tried to think, to formulate a plan. Back in Bloomsbury she had been a lady, untouchable with her armor of silks and pearls and cool disdain. Here, she was merely a girl who could not fight, whose only weapons were her wits and her social training that was utterly meaningless in this dangerous new world. Still, she must do what she could. She had thrown her faith in Cecco and whatever men he commanded. She could only hope it was enough.

With no clear idea of where she was going, Wendy started forward. And there, standing in front of her, was a boy. Knife unsheathed, watching her with a kind of awed curiosity.

"Hello there," said Wendy, startled.

"Hello," said the boy.

She knelt down beside him, touching his face with cool, light fingers. "What's your name, child?"

"Whiskers," he said proudly, gesturing to the streaks of daubed black paint on his cheeks. War paint on the face of a child playing at being a soldier. A sudden fear rose up inside Wendy as she realized all too fully the danger of their situation. All she knew was that she had to get this child out of harm's way – at once. Seven years ago, this had all been a game to her, a dashing, thrilling adventure, and she had given no thought to the very real consequences of their actions – the men killed, the hearts broken and lives forever changed. Through the eyes of an adult, it was terribly real.

Standing up, one protective hand on his shoulder, she began to usher the boy towards a less open area of the ship, talking to him reassuringly all the while. "Haven't you a mother, Whiskers?"

"Peter says when we rescue Wendy she'll be our mother again, and tell us – oh, the best stories you ever heard –"

Wendy felt a dull pain in her heart. Those days had come and gone. She closed her eyes, forcing down that brief surge of guilt. There had been no choice. I had to grow up. I had to choose the world.

"Stop right there, stranger," a high, youthful voice commanded, "And wait to be recognized."

Wendy turned around, instinctively shielding the child behind her. She found herself under the scrutiny of a dozen eyes, all looking out through the same dirt-streaked faces. The boys were unfamiliar to her, dressed in a motley collection of leaves and rags and furs, all of them with painted faces and long hair. There was a heart-breaking, incomplete quality in each of those children, something lonely and helpless, something missing that no adventure or excitement could hope to satiate.

"She looks like a mother," said one.

"She looks awfully grave and stern."

"She's a pirate," said another, a dark-faced, wary child who looked at her with suspicion.

"She's Wendy," said a voice suddenly, musical and clear and commanding.

Wendy's breath stopped, stranded in her chest.

Magic danced along the skin of her bare arms and caught in her throat. The scent of fresh leaves and wood-smoke and enchantment. The Lost Boys drew apart, suddenly awkward. A group of dirty, bedraggled children. And there, in the center, emerged –

Peter.

Wendy stood motionless, stricken by memory. She stared at him, unable to speak. Doubting the evidence of her own senses. She had dreamed of this moment for so long, envisioned it so many times and in such infinite ways, that the reality of it overwhelmed her. She could not comprehend it. He stood before her exactly as she remembered; elfish features and wind-swept golden hair and lithe muscles. Bright eyes and a mocking mouth that laughed at her, laughed at everything around him.

She put out a hand blindly. Can he be here, she wondered. Can he be real?

"Tink told me –" he began, but was silenced when, in a moment, Wendy's arms were around him as she lost herself in the evocative scent of grass and sunlight and fairy dust. It made her ache. She clung tightly to that youthful warmth, feeling his breath, the beat of his heart fast and fevered as the wing of a hummingbird, the rustling brush of leaves against her skin. There was life in his touch, magic, and impossible wonder.

At last, she thought, as the years blew away like ashes in the wind. At last, I have come home.

Then there were fingers curling around her arms, pushing her away. The boy drew back, looking at her in dismay.

"But you look – you look – horrible."

The illusion shattered. His words struck her like a blow to the heart, the unconscious cruelty of them almost a physical pain.

Even now, the force of her upbringing reasserted itself in Wendy's mind. The moment of agony was brief and quickly suppressed. The veneer of courtesy came down again, and she forced herself to ask calmly (the wistful depths of sadness buried deep in her tone), "Am I so very changed, Peter?"

He was backing away, staring at her with accusation and horror burning in his eyes. "What did you do?" he whispered. "Wendy, what did you do?"

"I grew up, Peter," she said, a little sadly. She felt the ridiculous, urgent need to justify herself to this child, feeling somehow as though she had committed some great betrayal. "I had to. And more than that, I wanted to."

His bewitching, crooked mouth tilted down at the sides. His mind, so straight with its bright clarity of purpose, seemed unable to comprehend the ideas she laid before him. His upturned face was a hopeless appeal, and she realized then he would not understand anything she said. "Why, Wendy? I taught you to fly, we had fun. What more is there? We had everything – "

The condemnation in his eyes was more than she could stand. All her innate pride rose against it. "You seem to be rather an authority on growing up considering you have never experienced it yourself," she returned with supreme condescension, and realized the moment the words passed her lips that she probably sounded like every adult he despised.

"If it is so wonderful to grow up," Peter demanded swiftly, "Then why did you come back?"

"I didn't come back; I was taken. You don't understand; he came for me – there was no way I could have stood against him. And every hour since I've been trying to get free of this ship, before it drives me mad –" She broke off and coloured. There were parts of her story she could never tell, and to him least of all.

"I don't understand you," he said. "I don't want to understand you. You look so strange now, like – like you've forgotten how to fly." There was an unsettlingly perceptive expression in his young eyes, the awakening flicker of something dangerous. "You look like him."

"Peter, that is cruel."

"And so are you!" he burst out, his entire form blazing with the force of his passion. "You were better than any of them – I can always find new boys, but you – there was only ever one Wendy." In a flash, he had unsheathed his curved knife. "And she's gone."

She stared unmoving at the blade in his small hand. There was only a great weariness in her heart. "You can't bring her back, Peter. There is no magic in the world that can do that."

Peter flung the knife down, where it embedded itself into the wooden floor. He put his hands over his face and began to cry stormily, tears flashing like fallen stars between his fingers. Wendy could not help but feel a stirring of empathy for him, her mind flashing irresistibly back to an image of a boy weeping on her nursery floor. Reminding her forcefully that beneath the bravado and supreme arrogance, he was simply a poor, lonely, lost child.

Oh Peter, she thought. Why could you not have grown up with me? Why did you choose to stay here and forget?

She looked at him, all the refinement of her grand illusions stripped away, at the figure who had brightened her childhood, haunted her adolescence, and defined her world ever since she could remember. She stood taller than him now, and was aware, as never before, of how young he was. The sheer futility of her situation struck her fully then. She had placed the foundation of all her hopes on a child.

But he is the same - exactly the same. It is I who am altered beyond all recognition.

Yes, he was the same as he had always been. He still possessed that irresistible quality of brimming excitement hovering close by – darting through his bright eyes and passionate mouth, only to be chased away by the next adventure that whispered irresistibly to his quick, restless mind. His face was sad and lovely, but it was the face of a child whose passions were fleeting and shallow. His burst of grief would pass like a summer shower, and Wendy realized he would forget her again, as he had before. The heaviness of it weighed on her heart as she wondered how many years had been wasted in this hopeless, dreaming pursuit of him.

She had been chasing something that was forever gone, a past that could not be reclaimed. He was young; it was his nature, and she had been a fool to imagine she could change that. He would forever embody the sparkling joys of childhood, the wide-eyed wonder and glorious indifference to any external pain. How could she hope to make an impression on this creature of pure impulse? She felt a strange reluctance to even try. His eternal innocence was something rare and precious in a world where illusions faded all too fast. Perhaps he possessed enough arrogance to be aware of his own greatness, how unique he was in defiance of nature, but he still embodied the ultimate tragedy of youth, that he could not understand the true value of it.

"You were dearer to me than anything," Wendy said slowly, as though confessing those deep and earnest feelings in her heart was something long-forgotten, "And you never once offered to return to London. Why did I have to be the one to choose?"

"You left," he said fiercely, looking at her accusingly through his fingers. "And you'll leave again now, and have a house, and a – a husband, and all those grown-up things you said you never wanted –"

"You forgot me first, Peter. I waited seven years, but in the end, it was Hook who came to the window."

"Hook." His expression darkened, the tears drying in glittering tracks on his cheeks as a new fire seemed to emanate through his being. And it seemed the entire ship was alive with his presence, the air vibrating with a wild magic, whispering with excitement and agitation.

"He is dangerous. More dangerous than you can understand –"

Peter's laughter rang in her ears, silver and musical. His face was glowing, all traces of tears gone. Mischief danced his eyes, alive with that strange, eternal alchemy. His eyes she recalled vividly. His eyes are the colour of laughter –

"Hook, dangerous?" His voice was bubbling with merriment. "He wasn't so dangerous when I left him!"

"He's dead?" Wendy echoed hoarsely, and the world seemed to darken at the edges.

"Not yet. But I showed him, all right." His mouth curved upwards in a mischievous smile. That irresistible audacity was flashing through his eyes. Wendy noted, with slight envy, that he didn't feel a trace of fear. But of course, he was a child and all children thought themselves invincible.

"Where is he?" Peter glanced around with impatience, dancing on the edge of his toes. With a flourish, he had swept his knife up and into the twist of vines around his waist. Already, she could sense his fading interest in her, that sudden, reckless thirst for action in his blood. She had been a fleeting impression, a momentary diversion in the vibrant, ceaseless adventure that was his life.

It was with resignation that Wendy realized she had to let him go.

"Promise me that you will be careful," she said.

Leaning forward, she kissed him on the cheek, and it felt like a goodbye. She almost told him to turn around, to abandon the ship and leave her to her fate, but the words caught in her throat. The current she was caught up in had moved too fast and she was helpless against the tide. They will kill one another, she thought. And every dream I ever had will die with them both.

Watching him rise effortlessly into the air, light and free, unbound by all burdens, she realized that in his shrewd moment of passion, that Peter had been right. She had forgotten how to fly. Her heart felt as though it were breaking. It was another chapter of her life gone, something lost that could never be reclaimed. His very presence was a reminder of all she had renounced, and she wanted nothing more than to never see him again .

"Go," she said, and as he disappeared from her sight (never once looking back), continued in an undertone, "And for God's sake, take care –"

But the words froze around her throat because there, staring down at her from across the length of the deck, was the dark figure of Captain James Hook. His hook was stained with crimson; there was a gash across his face and a cutlass in his hand.

The silence was endless. Drawn out between them, taut and agonizingly intense. There was only the distant sound of the waves heaving against the sides of the ship, and beyond, the ringing clash of metal and the euphoric battle cries of the Lost Boys. The sails billowed like primordial wings in the savagely beating wind, the blood-hued rays of the setting sun slanting through the canvas and across his face, lighting it with unearthly fires.

Slowly, never taking her eyes off him all the while, Wendy began to back away, putting a hand out to the side of the deck to steady herself. All her instincts were alerting her to imminent danger, her nerves thrumming with the beginnings of fear. The blind impulse to call out Peter's name seized her, was almost formed on her lips, but she conquered it. She dreaded panic, above all else, when she needed her senses about her now more than ever.

"So," the captain said, and this, the meticulous politeness in his voice, warned her more than any violence could have, that she was in real danger, "I see that once again you ignored my orders to remain in your cabin."

Wendy said nothing. The first move must be his, and with him so deadly quiet, so unpredictable, any word or action could provoke him. In the meantime, she must find a way to defend herself, for she did not know when he might strike, only that he would and she must be ready.

Deathly still he remained, crowned in shadow, dark blood staining his white, white face. His slanting smile was almost courteous, but there was veiled menace in the way he held himself, languid grace turned to threatening intent. And his eyes – smooth as water, cold as ice, yet lit from within by a faint crimson glow. She realized now that there had always been that latent animal quality in him – the potential to be ruthless, something so carefully concealed beneath all the delicate courtesy and elegant mannerisms.

"Nothing to say for once, my beauty?" He had moved closer. "No lectures on my villainous conduct or sneering remarks with your prim mouth and disapproving looks?"

Her mind had gone blank. Still she could not speak. There was blood on his shirt and a dark, feral look in his eyes. That unsmiling mouth was hard and set. The one thought that emerged through the dense fog circling her mind was that the captain who faced her now was not the man who had kissed and held her last night. This man was someone entirely beyond her experience or understanding, cold and wild and utterly merciless. This man was an enemy.

The chill wind cut through her like a knife. She looked out toward the deck, but all was concealed by the wildly beating sails.

But Hook had seen her glance, and an expression of jealousy and rage flashed across his features. His brilliant eyes were narrowed, cruel, hating. She could feel the dance of static between them, that pull of torturous electricity.

"Even now," he murmured softly. "Always Peter."

Wendy remained silent. His pale-boned hand that gripped the cutlass shuddered with a terrible convulsion.

"And I thought –" he whispered – "I thought it was me –"

Her heart constricted. A part of her wanted to cry out her secret, to confess everything and throw aside all caution and restraint with the same wild abandon with which she had kissed Peter seven years ago (I have lived for twenty years and never felt more alive than I have these last few days) – but either stubborn pride or the stern discipline of her upbringing held her back.

So she only met his gaze with an unwavering steadiness. The constricting spasms of her heart threatened to choke her, but the expression that met his was as calm and correct as she could muster.

"Did you?" she said quietly, and he would never know what it cost her to speak so evenly.

Hook reeled back as though she had struck him; his blue eyes shards of ice. She could see the blood rising slowly in his face. "All this time… when I thought perhaps you… but it was only ever Pan…" His low voice was raw, scarcely above a whisper, and it was then she knew him to be deadly.

Wendy cast another look across the deck. They were completely alone. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears and the wash of the sea, surging against the ship, and rolling back, endless.

"What are you going to do, James?" she whispered.

His face had turned deathly pale. A muscle jumped in his alabaster cheek. The rest of him, so frozen. For a moment he remained like this, rigid, unmoving, looking at her ruminatively while the fate of everything hung in the balance.

Then, for the first time that night, he smiled.

"I do believe," he said quietly, "That I am going to kill you."

Wendy could hear nothing over the distant roaring in her ears, the rapid thud-thud of her pulse and the groan of the deck beneath her feet. It could have been a thousand miles away and part of another life. Her hands were cold, her lips numb. Nothing and no one existed beyond the captain standing before her, his face a cold mask and blood staining his chest.

The icy wind whipped Wendy's hair around her face. The vast black sails straining hard against their shackled chains. Concealing them from all sight of the Lost Boys, whose distant cries were becoming fainter by the moment.

She stood very still, thinking fast. It would be futile to run; this was his territory, and if he had set his mind on hunting her, he would find her eventually. It would only buy her a few minutes, at most. And beyond that, she was sick, sick in her heart of always running from him.

So Wendy did the only thing she could. She remained where she was. This time she would not give him the satisfaction of the chase. It was time for this to come to an end.

"Then kill me," she said. "This is your chance. Peter is not here. I am unarmed, defenceless, as you see me. Strike me now, if you can."

Hook measured her with his cold, calculating gaze, as though he would read her thoughts. "Yes, I thought you might say something of the kind. You think you're not afraid of me, aye, that you're a match for me –"

"I know it," she said steadily.

But it seemed her survival instincts were stronger than her flimsily fractured show of courage, as she found herself taking one step back, then another.

But the captain was not to be evaded so easily. Mirroring her with perfect synchronicity, he guided her back, slow and unresistingly toward the edge of the ship. Steering her with light steps, almost as though they were dancing, ever balancing that knife-edge of deadliness and grace. The wood knocked painfully against her spine and Wendy knew there was nowhere left to run. Where is Cecco, she thought, with a sudden stab of panic. Peter she had sent away, but there had been no word from the pirate since all this had started. Though, she reflected dimly, if he had betrayed her, it hardly mattered now, as Hook was likely to kill her before she would ever know –

She jumped at the sharp point of metal at her throat, cold steel where soft flesh should be. The biting indentation awakening shivers of a half-familiar sensation, caught tight with the fear in her chest. Each slow movement dragging the blood through her veins. If she had thought that the presence of Peter would banish the feelings that Hook had stirred within her, then she was gravely mistaken. Every nerve in her body thrilled at his closeness, resonated with tightly-strung vibrations of imminent danger and passion, passion, passion –

As though aware of the threat of demise, her body seemed more agonizingly alive than ever, every sensation as intense as the blade pressed against her ribs, cold as ice through the filmy material of her dress. Aware of the maddening proximity of his presence as he leaned in with red lips and frozen eyes. Her vision narrowed down to his intent face, awash with the infernal glow of a dying sun.

"Very well, dear girl," he said coldly. "The choice is yours. If you won't stay here for me, then you can die for him. You know perfectly well that I had no intention of letting you go, and I'll see us both in hell before resigning you to Pan's paltry affections –"

Locked under that paralyzing gaze, Wendy couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe. If he touched her now, she would surely shatter.

"And as for trying to turn my own men against me –" There was a melody rising in his voice, outraged and astounded, but he still managed the cruel hint of a smile at her startled expression. "No, my beauty, I didn't need to listen at keyholes to glean the details; I knew you would betray me at the first opportunity, and Ed Teynte was more than willing to give me the finer points of what he overheard."

Her heart thudded sickeningly, her skin damp with the icy chill of unease (he knows – how does he know – how can he predict every move before I've even made it?)

It should not have surprised her, and once again, Wendy felt a rush of anger toward herself. While she had been stumbling around blindly, congratulating herself on her ingenuity, he had been calmly watching from the sidelines, not interfering, but simply giving her enough rope to hang herself. Merely laying the trap and letting the iron teeth close around her. All along, he had been the one in control, holding utter mastery in his domain. She was out of her depth and she had been since all this began.

It seemed to take forever to meet his eyes. His gaze cold and brilliantly unforgiving, with all the hardness of a cut diamond. Piercing her to the bone. That look told her all she needed to know. The battle lines had been drawn, and she could expect no mercy from him. The most she could do now was try to stand firm as her life hung on the thread of his capricious whims.

The hook's silver caress slid down her artery, tracing the thin scar he had left the night before, marking her, carving his presence into her very bloodstream (amid sighs, gasps, moans). Watching her all the while, savoring every involuntary reaction that betrayed her. Every tremor of her shaking shoulders and stifled breath that escaped her tightly compressed lungs. Cool fingertips touched her throat, lingering on the throb of her pulse. She could not think. He had robbed her mind, taken her breath, possessed her heart. And he kept smiling, because he knew she was trapped.

Wendy was unable to move as the captain carelessly let the cutlass fall to the deck with a ringing clang of metal. The sound echoed with jarring dissonance in her ears. It was no act of mercy, however. She saw that as soon as his hook settled over the cage of her ribs, the sharp indentation counting every beat of her racing heart.

The unyielding wood pressed hard against the curve of her lower back. She was helpless, entirely in his power. And somehow, the very realization managed to restore a measure of icy calm. There was nothing more she could do. Deprived of allies or weapons, there was nothing left to fight him with but herself. Stripping away everything but a core of steel. Seeing that all was lost, Wendy had recovered her coolness and was prepared to dare anything. She was beyond all reach now of the fear that had once mastered her. Slowly, her hand slid down to her skirts, fingers seeking the final defense left to her, as she tried to distract him under the guise of reason.

"Is a band of cutthroats really worth fighting for?" she demanded, with a note of the old condescending impatience in her voice. "Isn't there a battle out there more worthy of you? If Cecco wants to be captain of this ship, then let him –"

"Oh, it's far too late for that," he said lightly.

And all at once, there was something too complacent, too knowing in his tone. Wendy felt her heart beat. Once. Twice. Her fingers halted their downward motion as she could only look at him uncomprehendingly. Unable (unwilling) to grasp the meaning in his words. There was a message in his eyes she feared to read.

Her voice, when she found it, was strange, unlike her own. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that he's dead. Stabbed through the back. Terrible form."

A dizzying moment, and the deck seemed to sway beneath her. Wendy put out an unsteady hand. Just about able to grip the side of the deck for support. Slowly, she lifted her incredulous gaze to his coldly remorseless one. "You –" It took a moment for the words to come, "You killed him –"

"No, not I. It seems that someone else saw to him before I had the chance."

Wendy understood now what he would have her know; but still she clung to denial, refusing to contemplate, refusing to believe –

"I don't understand you, captain," she said slowly.

He let out a dark smile across the deck, fingers caressing the sharp silver end of his hook. Savoring his moment of triumph, the final blow.

"Why, yes, you certainly do. Who else, of course, but your beloved Peter?"

Chapter Text

I look and stare so deep in your eyes
I touch on you more and more every time
Such a funny thing for me to try to explain
How I'm feeling and my pride is the one to blame
Yeah, cause I know I don't understand
Just how your love can do what no one else can

Got me looking so crazy right now
Your love's got me looking so crazy right now
Got me looking so crazy right now
Your touch's g ot me looking so crazy right now
Your kiss got me hoping you save me right now

('Crazy in Love', Kadebostany)

– Culmination –

Part I

Wendy looked across at the captain as he leaned against the side of the ship in a swathe cut of crimson, undaunted by the swaying motion that seemed to increase with every passing moment. He had recovered all his former equanimity; it could have been the dissolute rake of old that faced her but for the malevolence burning low in his eyes that belied the attitude of careless indifference. Her fingers tightened around the metallic marker hidden in her skirts, aware of a distant, cold anger. This was all a part of his plan, to shaken her faith in Peter, let them tear one another apart while he stood victorious.

"You're lying," she said.

Cruel, the way he smiled at her, sharp-edged and gleaming. "Am I? Oh, I don't deny that I would have killed Cecco myself for his mutiny, but it seems Pan got there first. I have that to thank him for, at least. I may even kill him a little quicker for it."

"No," she said, with the stubborn insistence of a child repeating a lesson long-learned. "No, Cecco would have helped him –"

"And we all know that Pan is so willing to work with adults. Now, I wonder, how did he feel about seeing you so changed?"

Wendy winced at the undercurrent of malice in his tone. He must have known how Peter had reacted to her appearance, had probably even witnessed the scene himself. It would have come as no surprise to him; no, he would have reveled in such a sight. Watching as that intrinsic bond was shattered, altered, broken. She could not bring herself to think of the expression of hurt bewilderment on Peter's face when he had seen her so changed. As though she had betrayed herself. Blindly, Wendy touched the lines of her profile in which barely any traces of childhood remained, her fingers lingering on the lost kiss. Was she really so different to the girl she had once been?

Peter, she thought helplessly, I need you now more than ever –

"Come closer. See for yourself." The captain's voice pulled, that low magnetism drawing her forward almost against her will.

She moved as one in a dream. Neverland was a fantasy, a realm of delights, of possibilities… death had no place here. It was wrong, against everything she had imagined. I didn't come here for this.

A violent gust of wind parted the sails in great, rippling folds, the canvas shifting like dark waves, and there – there –

Wendy forced herself to look. The blood mixed with water, making long red ribbons on the deck, flowing slowly along the wood. Those teeth gleamed, white and terrible in the rictus of his face. He was even laughing as he died. Those insidiously whispered words returned to haunt her. Stabbed through the back. Terrible form.

"It almost saddens me," the captain mused aloud. "That he should have died by another's hand. I had rather longed to do it myself."

Blood was clotting beneath her satin slippers, and Wendy wanted to kneel down and scour it from her feet, scour it from the deck. It seemed wrong. They needed to cover him – it – the body. How long had he been lying there like this? Cecco had been overconfident and brutal, but he hadn't deserved such an ugly death. His capacity for violence had been all hot blood and passion – unlike the captain, he did not possess the sharp precision of cruelty, the cold deliberation of forethought that brooded over old wrongs and meticulously plotted vengeance. Wendy stared with frightening detachment at the tousled thatch of black hair, the grey pallor of his skin that had been swarthy and rich-blooded in life. She wondered at her lack of reaction. Only the night before, she had almost fainted at a mere gunshot wound, and yet now she felt nothing. Perhaps, when she began to feel again, she would scream or fall into hysterics. But she noticed only the mundane details of the dead man lying before her. Perhaps she had become numbed to all fear after the near-perpetual strain of the last few days, or perhaps it was the captain's quiet presence beside her that made her act in kind. Unwillingly, she looked up at his shadowed profile, marked his still, unreadable countenance. He was taking it so calmly that it seemed inevitable that he was responsible. He must have killed Cecco – she could not think of the alternative. I will not believe this of Peter. I can't. And suddenly proving Peter's innocence became something of vital importance.

"This doesn't prove anything," she said, speaking more to convince herself than for his sake. "For all I know, you could have done this yourself. Why should I believe Peter capable of this, after everything I've seen of you?"

"Your ability to lie to yourself never ceases to astound me. But I can tell you in truth – I've killed many a man before, but to put a knife in one's back? No… I think even you would not think me capable of such low form."

She said nothing. If this was his way of trying to make her doubt Peter, she vowed he would not succeed. After all, what right had he to fall back on the manners of a gentleman when she had seen the way he treated his own crew? He made a mockery of honor, killed without remorse and shielded his atrocities behind a detestable façade of courtesy. She would be mad to trust his word.

"You were a fool to trust him," Hook said, unnervingly echoing her thoughts. "You would as well have thrown yourself into the jaws of a hungry wolf than expected Cecco to have honored a bargain. Yes, he was my enemy, but he was no friend of yours, for all that. He would have betrayed you in an instant if it gave him a moment's advancement."

Wendy looked at him. "And you wouldn't?" she said quietly.

He sighed, a shadow of frustration flickering in his deeply hooded eyes. "So untrusting still. I gave you your three days, didn't I? I never so much as laid a hand on you in violence. Whereas you, dear girl, you have stolen from me, schemed against me, tried to kill me – several times, I might add – so really, which one of us should distrust the other?"

Sudden pain bit into her palm. Wendy glanced down. She had been holding the bookmark so tightly that its sharp edge had cut into her skin. She relaxed her stiffened fingers slightly and realized they were slick with blood. Quickly, she moved her hand behind her back. But the captain's discerning gaze was sharper than she had given him credit for, and he was before her at once, capturing her slender hand in his.

"Now… what is this?"

He twisted her wrist back painfully, but she stubbornly maintained her grip on the silver marker, her last means of defense.

"So you come armed again, my beauty? You truly must despise me to want to be rid of me so badly." Then to her shock, he released his merciless hold on her wrist, tilting his throat to the side, exposing a line of pale flesh over the lace of his collar. She could see the gleam in his eye, the derisive curl of his mouth. "Then give into that hatred, if you can. Finish me."

Wendy's breaths came, harder and harder. She could do it; she just needed more time. A moment to steady herself. Hadn't she possessed the strength and will to hold a pistol to his chest only the night before? An image flashed in her mind; a thin trail of crimson marring that white skin; she could imagine the sickening pierce of metal through bone (and yet she would be free of him, once and for all). His words hung in the air; a challenge or a threat. Even now, with him at her mercy, allowing her all the power, it felt like defeat. Her hand rose, trembling. The silver glinted in the air, and she could feel his gaze on her, dark and promising, as he waited, still and taut and expectant –

Every nerve in her body was strung tight with painful tension. Blood rushing through her veins. The fear was almost paralyzing.

That didn't stop the hunger that caught in her throat, nor the sudden thrill she felt under his stare, cold as sleet.

Wendy flung the marker from her with a cry.

She stumbled back, blinded with terror and despair (and a latent, burning passion), knowing only that she had to get far, far away from him –

The captain's grip on her shoulder halted her, cruel and biting, covetously pulling her closer. Wendy resisted, though less than she should have, all her wanting flesh her enemy. Imprinted with the memory of old touches and the searing press of his mouth on her skin. He was inside her now as deeply as a hook embedded in her heart, bleeding away all ability and will to scorn him and run from his presence.

"Oh, no," Hook said quietly, hard-faced and unrelenting, "You had your chance. Now I have mine."

His closeness, the sheer claustrophobic proximity of him had her torn between panic and euphoria, relentless longing and mindless fear, swallowed up in her pride that refused to reflect her true feelings in the paralyzing blue depths of his eyes –

"You promised that no harm would come to me," Wendy said firmly, though her heart was racing wildly. His touch sent shivers down her spine.

"You broke your word long before I did." But strangely there was no condemnation in his tone as he stared down at her; his eyes blue as ice-crystals, seeking out some truth she would never give. "And, if I recall, you said you would come to me willingly."

"I never promised that." But the words died away; there was no tone in her shaking voice.

Long, pale fingers coiled around her shoulder, tightened. For a moment Wendy wondered whether he had abandoned his former resolve and was merely consumed with the thought of kissing her senseless, but then she saw the thinnest circle of crimson in his menacing gaze and realized that she could not hope to compete with years of rage and feuds and oaths of vengeance. A bloody history she could not bear to contemplate.

"A final lesson, dear girl. Never underestimate a desperate man. Let this ship go down in majesty and burning. What is it to me, so long as I bring down my enemies with me?"

She stared up into his haunting face, wanting him desperately, bound to him hopelessly. He could have entreated her, touched her, caressed her, made her forever his. Perhaps he wanted to. But he would never stop hunting Peter and she would never stop trying to protect him.

Wendy thought of what she might say carefully. Trying, one last time, to reason with him. But her heart betrayed her at the last moment, a hand curving around his face as she impelled him to meet her earnest gaze; the words burst from her passionately – "Why must the choice fall between being Hook and death? No one is compelling you but yourself. This childish feud has gone on long enough. You have another choice. Leave – go somewhere, far away from here, make a life for yourself, stop with this ridiculous, endless war, and allow yourself to be James."

She wished it was only self-preservation that was making her speak in this way, but she was too deeply enmeshed in this snare now, her vulnerable, tender heart exposed for him to cut open if he so wished it. But he didn't say anything. Neither did he pull away from her touch. She felt the tightening of muscle beneath his marble-hard skin. She wished she could know what he was really thinking. The cold steel of his gaze betrayed nothing.

Her hand fell away, and she saw that her grazed fingers had left a streak of blood across his colorless cheek. Careless, the captain began to walk her slowly backward, talking all the while as the vast sails billowed around them in a violent clanking of chains, throwing his lean shadow into huge proportions.

"You expect me to give up all the power, authority, everything I have worked for – you're a fool if you think I will admit defeat now. And if you believe I will feel anything other than pleasure in killing you, then you're sadly mistaken. Did you delude yourself into thinking you were the means to my reformation? That I would – even for a moment – consider such a thing? Because in truth, dear girl, I have no secret longing to be saved from myself."

The heartless clarity of his words was the last thing Wendy wanted to hear, but exactly what she needed. She had to make a choice. Either to renounce him entirely, or to accept him and everything that would entail. But she could not continue in this torturing wilderness any longer. She would not allow this feeling to consume her. It would be madness to let him wield such control over her. Her pride would never tolerate it. If there was any shadow of love in his heart for her, it was love only as he knew it – dark and violent and absolute, and not enough to steer him from the path he had laid out for himself. She realized he was set on a course for destruction and nothing she could say or do would make him turn aside. She wondered if he believed half the terrible things he said, compelling the hateful lies to dictation until they rang as unassailable truth in his mind. Though he was ever in her thoughts and would cast a shadow over all her future existence, she was not here to save him. She had to save herself, but whether that meant the captain living or dying, to her despair, she no longer knew.

He pinned her entire body with his weight. Pressed against the side of the ship, breathing hard. His frame rigid against hers, fierce and unrelenting as frost, immovable. Wendy twisted, locked against lithe muscle and strained tendons. His fingers were sparking trails of ice across her skin, drawing her flush against him, into that treacherous, decadent warmth, the blood surging in her veins as she saw the red line of a smile curl over his face. A rush of hopeless frustration filled her as she felt her strength to fight him slowly ebbing away. She had tried and tried to resist falling for him, to no avail. How many times had they been in this position? Drawn back over and over, like a tide against the shore.

He leaned in, and there was nothing in the world separating them. The biting cold of his hook ghosting over her prickling flesh, like he knew her far too intimately. His eyes were vibrant as a glacial sky, coveting every inch of skin, her uneven breaths, the disordered fall of her hair –

His head fell back, that smile small and condemning, cutting sharp across his cheeks. Gratified by her racing pulse, the fear that betrayed itself in her eyes. The surging rise and fall of the waves was the only sound that could be heard as they stared at one another.

"In another life," he said musingly, "I believe I would have courted you."

"Don't –" Wendy began, her hands trembling unseen at her sides.

Hook's eyes gleamed dangerously, and in a moment, he had a hand pressed at her lower back, searing through thin silk, while a steel vice grip curved around her throat.

"Yes, Wendy Darling," he went on, "I would have courted you, and won you –for all your paltry insistences to the contrary – seduced you, made you mine, and led you to adventure and glory. Oh, you may smile and shake your head, but you're not such a good liar as you think."

So close, her eyes could not evade his. She was breathing quickly, and realized an instant later that he was, too. Her breath clouded the metal slanted across her throat. Her heart was beating too hard, too fast. Every action belied her cold words.

She could not withhold a shiver when he leaned down to speak low in her ear. "As a courtesy for you, dear girl, I'll make it as quick and painless as possible."

It was almost laughable, a murderer remembering his courtesies.

"Maybe you will," Wendy managed to say, keeping her gaze fixed steadily over his shoulder, "But he won't."

Hook laughed contemptuously, not even sparing a glance at the direction she looked in. "Do you think I can't guess you're lying to save your own skin?"

She only smiled, but he understood at once. A hiss escaped through his teeth – he only turned for a moment, but it was enough for Wendy, who used the distraction to shove him away from her with all her strength. He staggered, throwing his good hand out against the side of the ship, a curse escaping his lips as his eyes fell on his nemesis.

Stepping forward, Wendy straightened her shoulders, head flung back, and her tone was as gracious and self-possessed as though she stood at the entrance of a London drawing room.

"Hello, Peter," she said.

"Pan," Hook said through gritted teeth. There was a wild look about him as he stood across the foredeck. Blood-hued garments draped around his shoulders, close as a lover's embrace. His upheld hook glittered bright as a scythe under the red sunset. But Wendy was looking past him. All she saw was Peter.

At the sight of him, all the past joys of Neverland flashed before her, all the childish memories as bright and real as they had been seven years ago. An elegy of innocence. Until with a sinking heart, she remembered what he had done. If it was true… if Hook was right, then Peter would be irrevocably changed in her eyes. She looked at him, alight with youth and joy, and she saw the man he could have been; golden, green-eyed and strong. Someone she could have loved. A road not taken, an opportunity forever lost.

He took the kiss that should have been yours –

Painful emotion surged up inside her, all the remembrance of lost love. She had needed something from him that he hadn't been able to give. For him it had all been make-believe, just another game to play. And for her… had she been in love? As a girl of thirteen, she had certainly believed it. Even now, the memory of the waltz under starlight had taken on a significance that was almost sacred. She was almost afraid to be near him, afraid to speak to him, in case the enchantment should be lost.

Do you remember when you showed me the fairies dancing by moonlight? Do you remember when we danced in the air?

She tried to separate the vision of him from the reality. Watching him as he stood before her, simply a child – a magnificent child, full of delight and mystery and wonder – but a child, nonetheless. Yes, he could be careless and forgetful, but a murderer? No – it was unthinkable. Everything inside her revolted against it. Surely her instincts could not be so wrong.

"Tell me the captain is lying," she said. "That you didn't kill Cecco. You couldn't have."

Peter laughed merrily, and for the first time, she could not laugh with him. "He was a pirate!"

Wendy turned very white and trembled all over. At his careless words, all her arrogant assumptions and prejudices were exposed before her. All this time she had claimed moral superiority by aligning herself with someone who no more cared for such things than the man she had condemned as her greatest enemy. No, she thought. Peter, you were supposed to be brave and noble and good. Not a killer. She had thought him the innocence of youth in its purest form. How could he not understand? But she knew in her heart that he was capable of this. She knew he could be ruthless – not from conscious cruelty – but in his inability to distinguish reality from make-believe. It hurt more than she could have imagined. She looked across at Hook. No, he had not been lying. Why would he, when the truth was so much crueler?

She had meant to be stern, but her voice faltered. "He was a man. Just the same as you or I."

Peter turned his brilliant gaze on her; the wonderfully alive expressions of his mouth momentarily clouded over with faint confusion. Fair hair fell curling over his brow with a childish softness. He looked so young, brimming all with the mischievous impetuosity of a boy, yet there was blood on his knife. "Why do you look so serious, Wendy? You never cared before."

Because I was a child and I didn't want to see the truth. I saw only the glamour, the adventure – none of the cruelty or darkness beneath. As she stood silent and glowing with indignation, eyes burning, Hook appeared at her side. Marble fingers locked around her arm as he strode forward, his possessive grip leaving her no choice but to stumble alongside him. He moved swiftly behind her, tall and slender and imposing, pressing her close. A harsh exhalation of breath against the base of her neck.

"Look at her, boy. Look. See how far beyond you she is." His voice was persuasive and cool, savoring a victory he hadn't needed to draw a sword to achieve. "Such a tragedy. Finding her after all these years, only to have lost her again."

"No –"

"She sees you for what you really are. Vain, selfish, cruel." A ghost of a smile flickered over his pale features. "A villain – just like me."

"I'll never be like you!"

"Don't you see, Pan? She despises you."

"It's not true," he said fiercely. He turned to her with a heartbreaking appeal in his eyes that almost unsteadied her. Even now, he possessed the strange power to make her almost forgive him anything. "Wendy, tell him – it's not true."

"I don't despise you, Peter," she said, with that softness in her voice reserved only for him. "But I admit I had thought you better than this – my own fault, I suppose."

He turned to Hook, wild-eyed and passionate with anger. "This is your doing! You've turned her against me -"

"Your own actions have done that. I merely opened her eyes to the truth."

The truth was a bitter thing to accept, and Wendy sadly acknowledged her own folly in all this. She had been living in the past, dreaming and yearning for something that was already far gone, if it had even existed outside her own imagination. The spell was broken. Peter had been illumined by the aura of nostalgia, his memory recalled with unfaded tenderness, his presence lingering in her thoughts with an undimmed shine. Now it had fallen away as though she had been holding onto a dream that faded with the first light of morning. And yet even now she could not condemn him – it was not his fault he fell short of her impossible vision. He was as he had always been, and she had been too blind to see it. He would dance through life, daring and adventurous, indifferent to pain or consequence. It was for her to feel the burden of his crimes. She could see now why Hook hated and despised him. Peter, to whom time was nothing but a foolish fancy, glowed with life and youth and vitality. Laughing and careless, so utterly free of doubts; was it any wonder he could fly? How heavy we all are, she thought, us sad, lonely adults, struggling under the burden of so many cares and worries.

She felt the captain's grip tighten fractionally on her shoulder. For a moment, she discerned what looked almost like compassion in his narrow gaze. That innate sympathetic consciousness flashed across her, as though he understood everything she had longed for and renounced. He pities me, Wendy realized. It was worse than if he had laughed in her face. Yet he had tried to warn her, in his own merciless way, the words returning like an echoing in her head. I know Pan. He is far crueler than I could ever be. Wendy looked out over the water, eyes stinging against the spray of emerald waves and sharp wind. I should never have come back here. Not to learn that the first love that had changed and transformed her had been built on nothing but an illusion.

I wish I was a girl again; young and careless and free. That I didn't have to learn these things or make such impossible choices. Peter had the right of it, after all. What is the use in growing up if all the things that brought us happiness are just stripped away?

The captain's voice was like the ghost of a lingering hand on her spine. "And so here is your beloved Pan. Just as much a villain as I."

"Enough of this," said Wendy, turning a coldly indignant look on him. She would not endure his triumphing over her.

"You are right, dear girl," he said. "It is time we brought this farce to a close." The sunset bled red light into his hair and leathers. There was a pause before he looked down at her with those piercing blue eyes.

"Would you like that, Darling Wendy? To die side by side?" And he burst into a high, terrible laugh.

"You don't frighten me." She had intended to be commanding, but her voice was too faint, like an echo from the shores of a remote island. How she envied Peter's careless audacity, his ability to stand immune from all fears. His green eyes were dancing as he looked insolently at the captain, as though this were all just another game to him. His favorite game of all – flying side by side with death.

"Hiding behind a girl?" he crowed mockingly.

Hook had turned still with rage, glinting raw and cold. Wendy, who knew the captain well enough to realize this unnerving quiet was a prelude to imminent danger, had the sense to throw herself out of harm's way before the shot of a pistol rang out. Her hands slammed into the side of the deck, jarring the breath from her body. The ship ploughed on, plunging and piercing its course through the rock-chested sea. She glanced back and saw even the crew had halted their individual battles, irresistibly drawn to watch the deadly altercation that would decide their fates. Cecco's body was lying mere feet away, and the very thought made her faint and ill.

Peter was hovering in the air, unscathed by the bullet that had gone wide, embedding itself into the gunwale. "Is that all you've got, old man?"

"Oh no," said Hook, "I'm just getting started." And he cast the pistol aside, letting it clatter carelessly to the floor of the deck. He moved forward with a lithe, feline grace, dark intent shadowing his features.

He was entirely preoccupied with his foe, and Wendy began to see how she might use the distraction to her advantage when he suddenly spoke again, stilling her attempts to steal away unnoticed.

"Not a man of you is to intervene," he said in a low voice, never taking his eyes from Peter all the while, "But if Miss Darling makes any move towards those children, shoot her."

Her gaze alternated between the two, wondering whether to put herself between them or to simply let nature take its course. Her belief in Peter's intrinsic goodness might have faltered, but her belief in his strength was unwavering. She could stand back and this would all be over. The captain would be dead, and she would be free of him forever. Her heart turned cold at the thought. Would she let him die? Could she let him die?

He died once before, she reminded herself with a shiver. And suddenly, Peter's victory didn't seem quite so certain.

Every man watched the captain as he stood there smiling, balancing the cutlass in his hand. The ocean churned far away, the wind as cold and keen as a knife. The very world seemed to be holding its breath.

Peter rose above the captain, above all the silent tableau, his knife upraised. "This is your end, James Hook."

The captain extended his cutlass with a flourish. "Then have at it."

"Peter –"

Wendy could not have said what prompted the warning to burst from her. But something was instinctively wrong; it wasn't supposed to happen like this, it was all too easy –

But Peter, arrogant and impulsive, had already flown forward. Again, she felt the subtle magic of his presence, the sweetness like a perfume spilled in the air, allowing her to be momentarily swept away by the allure of his easy confidence. There he stood, chest thrust out, throwing a delightfully careless expression her way, his slender frame shaking with laughter –

The laughter remained trapped in his throat. A sudden convulsion shook the ship and the air rocked with cannon fire, smoke swirling about them in ghostly clouds. The roar of sound was thunderous.

Wendy's hands rose to her face in horror and she remained motionless, too shocked to even cry out. Peter was gone. The musket ball had caught him straight in the chest, sending him spiraling into the air.

"Ah," said Hook, turning with a satisfied expression to Cookson and Mullins who stood behind the great cannon, looking dazed from the impact of the blast, the atmosphere still ringing with residual sound. "Long Tom. Finally."

The air cleared slowly. Peter was nowhere to be seen. In vain Wendy waited for him to return, merry and audacious, prepared for another fight. But the horizon showed only the lowering crimson sky, the clouds rending themselves violently in the oncoming storm. The temperature had turned icy cold, a chill breeze whipping around her shoulders. Wendy wondered whether a shout or a wild cry would help her, but her voice and will were gone. She had never felt so alone.

Her voice was a faint tremor as she turned to the captain accusingly. "You said that no one was to intervene –"

He smiled, softly. "And Pan believed me."

Wendy stumbled back a step, feeling the fight within her die.

"Oh no," Hook said, "We're not finished, you and I."

But even as victory gleamed in his eyes, the captain turned deathly still, a hand outstretched, silently listening, waiting –

A damp mist was rising from the water, a great wall of fog slowly infiltrating the ship. A strange, unearthly chill that frosted the air. Wendy shivered suddenly, as though touched by a cold, inhuman hand. Beside her, Hook remained utterly motionless, frozen like marble. Moisture glistened in his dark hair and clung to his heavy garments.

Wendy followed the direction of his gaze, filled with a pervading sense of horror and fear. She could only watch helplessly as a slender, clammy hand crawled over the stern of the ship, bone-white fingers curling over the varnished wood, seeking and reaching for a hold. Gleaming hair and pale eyes appeared over the deck, a head turning with blind, reptilian sightlessness, a strange clacking sound emerging from those distorted lips.

All the colour drained from the captain's face. He looked haggard, stricken, great shadows hollowed beneath his eyes. His hook dug into the wood paneling as he stared fixedly ahead, as though unable to drag his gaze away. "Mermaids," he said hoarsely.

"What of it?" Wendy said, watching him warily, unnerved by the wildness in his eyes. "They're only mermaids. Surely you can fight them off –"

"Did Pan teach you nothing? You don't fight mermaids – you run from them. I've lost more men to those creatures than to any of Pan's brigade." He gripped her wrist, tight enough to bruise the tender skin. "Get back," he commanded, low and swift. "Down the stairs, onto the lower decks, if you value your skin. Mermaids like pretty things; things to torment and tear apart."

But Wendy tore herself from his grasp, a new fear possessing her. "My God!" she said. "The children –"

Perhaps there was a chance they might be safe. Peter himself may have summoned the mermaids, Peter –the only one able to control them (instinctively, she glanced up at the empty sky. Where, oh where was he?) –

With an icy resolve, the captain strode out onto the center of the deck, his tall figure enveloped in a ghostly shroud of fog. Pale and drenched in icy water, a bloom of blood staining his chest, he looked almost like a dead creature himself, were it not for the deep blue of his eyes, dark and sharp-edged. His expression was hard and grimly determined. "Men!" he roared through the low wreathes of mist curtaining the ship, "Keep the helm straight! Steer out of their territory – curse them," he muttered suddenly, "Those weak-willed fools will get us all killed –" turning to Wendy, his fingers cut into her arm like slender blades. There was something close to savage elation in his face. "Staying, are you? Very well; friend or foe, we'll die together –"

The ship lurched suddenly on its axis and Wendy staggered, throwing an arm out against the mast to steady herself. There was a clamoring in her ears, shrill and terrible. Cold, knifing fear bit into her heart. More of the creatures were struggling to come aboard, barely visible through the heavy fog that clung to the ship. Then the captain appeared at her side, the familiar weight of him a warm, solid presence, strangely comforting under the circumstances.

"My cutlass," he muttered through pale lips, "Take it."

Wendy stared at the weapon he thrust into her cold hands. He was already pulling a rifle from the cinched leather of his belt. He caught the expression on her face and laughed. "So, which form of murder is it that appalls you more? Death by sword, or gunshot wound?"

"I'll take the cutlass," she said. "If I am forced to commit violence, I won't hide behind the barrel of a gun while doing it."

If the captain sensed a reproach behind her words, he made no comment on it. His pale face was drawn in hard lines as he cocked his rifle, assessing the aim with narrowed eyes. "Whatever you do, don't let them pull you below the water."

"What happens below the water?"

"Believe me, drowning would be a mercy."

She remembered Peter's warning all those years ago. They'll sweetly drown you if you get too close. But drowning alone could not account for the captain, who looked half-dead with fear, a strange wildness in his countenance.

Wendy shook her head, half afraid to know the answer. But this vague, uneasy fear of the unknown was surely worse than anything he could tell her. "What could be more terrible than drowning?" she demanded, with an air of command, "I have never seen you like this. Tell me what I should be afraid of."

Hook turned and pinned her against the panelled wall of a cabin, undaunted by her stern gaze or lofty mannerisms. One arm was braced above her head and the barrel of his rifle pressed intimately between them, close enough that she could feel his fingers tense around the trigger. His voice was like unsheathed steel against her throat. "You must be mad to provoke me like this – but then, why not? You said you wanted my story. Very well; now you'll have it. Do you believe in ghosts, Wendy Darling?" His gaze was as bleak and annihilating as an abyss as he stared at her unseeingly, momentarily lost in the dark recesses of memory. "I saw the men I'd killed, dead men who had been waiting for their chance to enact vengeance. The flesh was hanging from their bones, their eyes hollowed into holes, but I knew them all, every miserable one. I wonder, how long do you think hate can keep a spirit alive?"

The eerie song of the mermaids rose and fell in a haunting litany around them. The sound of men's cries and running footfalls seemed to reach her from very far away. There was only the captain's hook on her waist, trapping her flesh under lock and vice. No, Wendy thought, I don't want to hear these things, I don't want to know. Not when she had just convinced herself there was no shred of feeling left in him. He would throw her resigned certainty to the winds once more and she could not endure this wrestling internal conflict any longer -

But already, she had pushed him beyond the threshold of sanity. In a sea of mist, his face was something terrible, all former trace of beauty fled as he faced her with hollow cheeks and eyes blue as death. "Did you truly think I would have allowed myself to die while he still lived? And so I lingered. Bound in some interminable stasis between life and death, neither body nor soul nor ghost. There are mysteries in Neverland that even Pan hasn't fathomed yet. So much the better for him. I've seen things no man should ever see, things I've never breathed to a living soul, and if those creatures dragged you down to the depths, then you too would pass your nights awake and reliving horrors that are not of this world, and all your carefree, unspoiled youth would die, as mine has done."

She looked up at him, horror in her eyes. "How did you escape?" she asked again.

A harsh laugh escaped him, a bitter, jagged edge of sound that caught in his throat. "Do you want the truth? The amusing irony of it? I didn't. Oh, no doubt you assumed I made a bargain, bartered my soul or something equally prosaic? Nothing of the kind." The weight of despair in his voice shook her to the core. His pale face was riven with old, deep lines and traces of past suffering. "I awoke and found myself on the shore, half-dead and choking on seawater, sand spilling between my fingers. To this day I've no notion of what brought me back, though I suspect – I have a lingering fear it was him. Only Pan has the power to communicate with what moves below the water. Boredom, aye, with no one to fight, and a wish to torment me further and give me no rest – to owe my existence to him? Curse him! I would rather be dead." His face, contorted with rage, was ghostly pale.

"Then what of the crocodile? In your cabin, I saw –"

"A mere whelp I shot on the shoreline. The other – the one that dragged me down to that infernal place – it's still out there, somewhere. Do you think it would want a taste of me now? I'm blighted – damned, something unnatural."

Wendy could not meet his tortured eyes that were haunted by memories of bloodshed and despair. Neverland had always been a place of escape for her, an infinite world of dreams and possibilities. It captured the essence of magic and mystery and freedom. But for him, it was a prison. A soul-struggle with evil and destiny. She was still convinced he was more than half-mad, but then she saw her own life in ten years, twenty years' time, and could imagine all too well the bitterness of a long and meaningless existence. She remembered again the fleeting look of sympathy he had given her, that unspoken affinity, and hated that she understood him in spite of herself.

His cutting hold on her loosened a fraction, a faint, mocking smile lurking in the sharp edges of his mouth.

"So now you know my secret, Wendy Darling, the reason why revenge is all that sustains me, why no matter where I sail, I'm endlessly bound to this wretched place. They followed me up here; the ghosts – in here." He tapped the muzzle of his rifle against his pallid brow and his voice sank to a hoarse whisper. "At night, dreaming or waking, they haunt me with the things I've done, determined to torment me until my last breath. This ship, this crew, all that I have bled and died for – what's the use of riches when the moment I close my eyes, I'm dragged back to the same hell I came from? I already feel I'm more there than here, my very existence hovering just above the grave. No one can linger between two worlds and find any form of contentment - you know that well enough yourself. I remember the night you told me how you really felt about your life; I believe the one time you were ever truly honest with me. It seems we are both of us trapped in worlds we despise, slowly maddening under its constraints. And that's the thing that wearies me most, after all. The truth is, I'm tired – tired of this misery, tired of being alone. Isn't it the most peculiar thing? But I want only to be done with it all. I have to kill Pan and end this – this wretched cycle. And that was why I needed you. There is magic in you, my Darling girl – oh, not in the way you think – but something about your presence inspired Pan, filled him with enough drive and passion to destroy me. You gave him a purpose, something to fight for. You made him feel."

Memory flashed across her vision, the words of seven years ago rising up in her mind's eye. The captain's face bathed in an infernal crimson hue, eyes gleaming with fierce exultation as he realized he held the means to destroy his enemy. He does feel. He feels about you.

"And… you think I will do the same for you?"

Hook shouldered his rifle, his eyes on her dark and drowning. "You already have."

Without another word, he had moved away from her and stepped boldly out onto the deck, to where the mermaids pushed back their hair and waited. Her lips parted foolishly – to shout out a warning, something – but the impulse was silenced. Bound helpless by a shivering that froze her spine. She had fired a pistol at the captain's heart without a moment's hesitation, but now here she stood, paralyzed with fear against a far greater threat. As a young girl, she had wielded a cutlass on this very deck – and she would not have it said that she lacked bravery. That would be unendurable.

She could not let him go out there alone. He had been driven to extreme measures and she did not know what he might do. Despair had burrowed its way into his soul and he was willing to throw his life away, and in doing so, he would take her heart with him. All her innermost longings, hopes, dreams – they would die on this ship. Reason told her that she should go below deck as she had been commanded and merely let the captain destroy himself, but it was far, far too late for that. Friend or foe, we'll die together.

Wendy looked around wildly. There was no trace of the Lost Boys. And Peter, where was Peter?

Figures began to emerge through the chill fog. Smee was stumbling forward, a blind, glazed look in his eyes. A mermaid hung over the deck's edge, silvery water streaming from the dark hair that hung wetly over her bare shoulders. Hands like claws were outstretched, nails sharp as talons scraping across the wood as the creature dragged itself forward. Wendy saw the inevitable conclusion; he was drawn in, enraptured, unable to save himself from blissfully wandering into his own doom –

Instinct took over. It was more madness than courage, Wendy thought to herself, as she started forward.

The deck was slick with water as she moved toward the bo'sun, her hand curled tight around the gilded handle of the cutlass. The mist whirled and eddied, momentarily blinding her. If she had thought her sex would be a protection against these creatures, she was mistaken. There was a haunting beauty in those cries, a beauty that men would willingly drown themselves for. She wondered vaguely what other perils existed in Neverland that Peter's presence had shielded her from.

Somewhere in the distance came the report of gunfire and Wendy momentarily regretted taking the cutlass until she sternly reminded herself she had no idea how to use a rifle. She had learned her lesson after the foolhardiness of stealing the pistol from the captain's cabin. Had it not been for that failure, she might have been safely back in Bloomsbury by now and all this nothing more than a dim memory… only, the problem was she had never been able to forget. Wasn't that what had brought her here in the first place? An image of the nursery on a winter's night flashed before her, echoing with dreams and memories and faded illusions as she stood at the window, chilled by the white wind, wishing with all her heart only to escape –

Another gunshot awoke her as though from the paralysis of a dream. She saw the world through a veil, the fog passing ghost-like through the sails. The luminescent tendrils parted a fraction and she managed to regain her bearings, a hand brushing against the spokes of the great wheel as she tried to discern what was happening. There – up ahead – Smee leaning over the ship's edge, being pulled further and further into the mermaid's insidious embrace –

She pulled him back, the weight of his near-insensible form making her stagger, almost bringing her to her knees. The ice that blackened the deck unsteadied her, and the bo'sun slipped from her hold. The sharp brunt of the fall seemed to galvanize him, however, as he looked up, some of the deathly pallor leaving his features. Pale blue eyes focused on her unsteadily, confusion creasing his brow. He looked as though he were waking from the horror of a vaguely-remembered dream.

"Go," Wendy said, her voice high and sharp with agitation. "Go below deck, or if you must stay, tie yourself to the mast – do something –"

She had forgotten the mermaid. A hand darted out, slick and pallid, curling lovingly around her forearm. With a cry of revulsion, Wendy sought to shake it off, to free herself, but the grip only tightened, sharp as daggers and cold, so deathly cold –

Fool! an inner voice reprimanded her. Your sword – use it. The cutlass felt like a leaden weight in her hand, but she raised it high enough to slash the creature, the sharp edge of the blade parting scaled skin like paper, spilling silvery blood. Sickness rose up inside her, the hideous screech the mermaid let out sending a convulsive shudder through her body. How could she have ever thought these creatures beautiful?

She tried to speak, to say that she was a friend of Peter's, but the words died on her lips. Fingers were clinging to the fabric of her dress, enmeshed in the long folds, creeping upward and entwining in the thick coils of hair that fell over her shoulders, dragging her slowly down. A touch, moist and cold, settled against her face.

She looked into those pale eyes, and the outside world receded to a distant void. The cutlass fell out of her shaking hand. There was a clamoring in her ears, wild and terrible. A coldness, darker than death, rolled over her. She put out a hand, groping blindly. She couldn't see… she couldn't see…

Wendy realized, with a dim feeling of resignation, that she was going to faint at any moment. She recognized that same sensation from the other night on the deck; the damp fingers on her brow, chill and cloying, the stabbing darkness, the water rising up from the depths to engulf her…

Faintly, somewhere in the distance, she heard the captain's voice shouting over the din of battle, but he was too far away, everything was receding into a cold void –

Wendy crumpled into a heap of merciful unconsciousness.

When she came to herself, hazy eyes opening onto the dimly lit glow of the captain's quarters, memory rushed upon her at once and she sat upright with a start, the abrupt movement causing the blood to rush dizzyingly to her head. She reached out shakily, finding a surface of varnished wood against which to steady herself.

"So," said a voice, those smooth and compelling tones leaving her in no doubt as to its owner, "You've returned to us, I see."

"Why am I here?" asked Wendy, looking around her warily. She was seated at the long table, the captain reclining across from her, regarding her with unnerving intensity. The brass candlesticks on the mantel emanated warmth in the nocturnal gloom, casting a golden aureole of light over the blue glass of the windows. The musk-scented air was rich and inviting, but she shivered in spite of herself, her dress clinging damply to her skin that was still chilled from the mist outside.

Hook leaned forward, loosened hair spilling in inky locks around his face which had lost the ghastly paleness she had glimpsed on the deck. The conceited ease of old had resumed its accustomed place on his features, the reflections cast by the dark crystal from the chandelier adding a vaguely sinister hue to the red-cut smile that balanced on his fine lips.

"I was not about to leave you as fodder for the mermaids to play with – no, Wendy Darling, if anyone is to make an end of you, then I'll be the one to have the honour."

Wendy stared at him, uncomprehending. Her mind was still dim, torpid, struggling to understand. Yet beneath the callous veneer of his words slowly emerged one startling realization. He had saved her life. The very man who had tried to kill her himself, vowed time and time again that he would (and yet I am still here). She could not comprehend what that meant. It was something she could not even begin to contemplate. The contradiction he set before her was impossible to understand. He scorned all appeals to his compassion, and yet in the next breath exposed the deepest secrets of his soul.

Time enough to think of that later, if she made it through the night. Wendy put a hand over her heart that was beating hatefully as though to still it.

"And the mermaids?" she asked, realizing suddenly that they were here alone – no pirates, no Lost Boys, only this unsettling silence surrounding them. She raised her heavy, aching head. Wreathes of mist clouded the great circular windows; it was impossible to see what was taking place outside. War or truce? Victory or defeat?

"Pan's boys scattered the moment the mermaids started to board the ship – as did my crew. Without Pan, those children pose no threat to me. They'll be doing what my own men are at this moment, I imagine – re-gathering and smarting from their wounds. The mermaids have earned us a brief respite, at least."

"If that's so, then why are you down here?" With me, she silently added, in thought if not in speech.

Hook did not answer at once, but instead poured a glass of claret from the crystal decanter and handed it to her. Wendy took the proffered glass willingly. Humiliating as it was to admit, she needed something to act as a restorative. She felt faint and feverish, the contrast from deathly cold to the drugging heat of the cabin almost more than her battered nerves could stand. But there was little use in condemning herself for having fainted – the thing was done now, and useless reproaches would achieve nothing. So she drank deep, tasting a vintage that was rich and potent, almost too full-bodied for her to handle.

"Finish it," he commanded softly.

For once, she obeyed without question. Gradually, she felt a measure of strength returning, flushing heat through her body and bringing renewed color to her face. The captain was watching her, eyes warm with languid indulgence. His long legs were crossed with careless ease, a pale hand open on the surface of the table in a disarming gesture. The betrayal of fear he had shown out on the deck had passed; he moved with cool and calm deliberation, possessed of those cavalier graces she knew so well. "Perhaps it's time we talked reasonably, you and I."

Setting her glass down, Wendy merely nodded, too tired to argue. She had thrown in her lot with Peter, what more was there to discuss? She had come too far now in this game of chance, and had no choice but to see it through to the end. Soon enough, it would be over – one way or another. She swallowed down her unease. It was clear that Peter had not returned. The captain would not be down here with her if he had. Unless Peter was –

No, he is not dead. I would know. I would feel it.

Hook leaned back in his chair, one of his leather-clad legs sprawled out, a lounging elegance that masterfully concealed the tension beneath. Arrogant, intelligent, sophisticated and utterly cold-hearted. She tried to remind herself that there was no feeling in his heart for her but frozen indifference. If I allow myself to believe otherwise, even for a moment, then I am lost. He would seize on any moment of softness and devour her. Misery sank heavily within her. Why must they be on different sides?

Her nerves were strung taut with expectation. Even as she sat facing him with apparent composure, she was ever braced for an attack, her hands unclasping themselves from the fragile folds of her skirts and clenching into cold fists beneath the table. It was quite probable that this show of reasonable calm was all an elaborate pretense, and the captain merely had a fondness for toying with what he would inevitably destroy.

"We had an agreement," Wendy began, as steady and possessed as she could muster. "Three days. And if Peter came –"

"Our agreement ended the moment you held a cutlass to my throat. When you pointed a pistol at my heart and pulled the trigger. Do you really expect me to show you mercy when you have displayed none?"

"Then why didn't you let the mermaids kill me when you had the chance?"

The captain settled further back in his chair, nothing but ease and assurance in his voice. "Because I still have use for you."

She faced him across the table, desperation breaking through her quiet coolness of demeanor. "What is it you want from me? The only way to hurt Peter through me would be by my death, and he would forget that, too, in time." Sadness overwhelmed her at the words. It was a cruel thing, to realize she could be so easily forgotten by the one person she had loved more than anything in the world. The scene out on the deck was a wound she couldn't bear to touch. She still could not bring herself to think that Peter might not be so different from the man sitting opposite her. The man she had spent so much of her life despising. How she wished she could return to that state of cold indifference, when the boundaries between good and evil had been so clear.

"He remembered you well enough just now. Which is all for the better." The captain's lips curled into a hateful smile. "Yes, I intended to use you. I still intend it, and were you not so preoccupied in your conceited delusions to outwit me, you would have realized it sooner."

"If I've been a fool, then your delusions are no less than mine. Your revenge has blinded you. Kill me or release me, because we both know there is nothing more you can hope to gain by keeping me here. I can't give you what you want."

"Don't act coy; it doesn't sit well on you." Dark lashes lowered over his eyes as he contemplated her. "You have proven to be a dangerous opponent, and one I prefer at my side. Take that as a compliment, if you will."

"And if I don't wish to be –" Wendy swallowed in apprehension – "at your side?"

"And return to that pretty prison you call home?" he returned cruelly, a biting edge to his voice. "Though I'll admit your cage is more gilded than mine." His mouth twisted in a thin line at the surprise that betrayed itself in her expression. "What, you think I too didn't once have dreams? But this storm-troubled ship is bound to me, whether I will or no." A deep sigh escaped him, an ocean of despair lingering in its depths.

"You had a choice," she objected. "When you came back you didn't have to return here. You could have ended all this simply by leaving." Then Cecco would still be alive, and who knows how many others? "You might be determined to keep yourself here, captain, but you cannot expect to keep me."

"Do you truly think I couldn't detain you by force, if I wished it? But no," he mused softly, the stroke of metallic flesh raising the nerves along her wrist. Wendy stiffened her shoulders, determined to feel nothing but disdain. "I would far rather you be persuaded."

It took all her strength to keep her voice steady. "Persuaded to do what?"

His sharp blue gaze cut through her like a blade. "Stay," he said. "And make this place bearable."

There was a world of pain and longing trapped in his eyes. An unspoken eloquence that made her heart shudder, weakening her will. He was so close she could almost reach out and touch the sore places he showed her. Haunted by ghosts, locked away in a terrible loneliness. Wendy stared down at the table unseeingly. No, he was not capable of feeling or tenderness; she would not believe it, could not believe it. He had immersed himself in villainy for so long there was nothing else left. Not a trace of compassion stirred within him. Remember, remember what he is. I must remember what he is. Every rational thought sought to banish those feelings, but the very vehemence of her denial merely affirmed their existence.

She saw the flex of muscles in his jaw as it tightened. He smiled grimly, bitterness tainting his melodic voice. "No, but you would only run, wouldn't you? I've not hurt you, nor spoilt your pretty face, even though you have defied me, opposed me and gone back on your word."

Wendy rolled her skirts into a silken ball between her cold palms. She vowed he would not see her tremble. "What you say is impossible. Knowing what I know of you – a liar, a murderer –"

"You will have forgotten it in time."

"Forgotten that you are my enemy?"

"You're doing an admirable job of that already. Oh, don't frown. I know your thoughts better than you realise."

Wendy opened her mouth to frame a denial but he only smiled, blue-shadowed eyes glinting as he looked down at her with supreme knowing. As though it were an illicit secret between the two of them. She inwardly shuddered at that terrible perception. She had set her resolve in unflinching stone, armored herself in pride and steely courtesy, yet in a moment, she had fallen into the depths of a drowning gaze, was lost in a caressing smile. Why did he compel her so? What was it about him that made her unable or unwilling to break free of his pervasive influence?

Every shadowed look, every near-touch sent a frisson across her skin. That lightning attraction rendered her helpless to stand against him. Her heart beat faster and faster. Her mind a whirling vortex around the kiss that should never have happened. I was out of my mind, irrational, she told herself firmly, but the insistence rang hollow. Once again she bitterly resented that feminine weakness she had thought herself immune to. If she could have cut out her own heart and cast it from her body in that moment, Wendy would have done it without hesitation.

She could sense his deepening gaze lingering on the smooth ripple of her hair, the rounded dome of her shoulder, the delicate whiteness of her hands where they lay crossed on the table. There was a tightness in her chest, longing gathered so thick in her throat she could hardly breathe. She found herself looking at the rich curve of his mouth, the corners set with wine-deep shadows. Her own lips parted, trembling –

No. She could not go on like this. Surely she was in control of herself enough to master this wild, strange anguish that had taken hold of her.

She turned away from him with a disdainful movement of her head, the way she would scorn any man audacious enough to demand her attention. Straightly proud and remote, she ignored the fact that every word she uttered was a laceration beneath the skin. "I think," she said slowly, "That you have lost your mind."

In a moment the captain was across the room, breaching the frozen distance between them, and the breath left Wendy's body in a rush as he lifted her up against the table, sending a candelabra clattering the floor, the extinguished tapers sending up spiralling threads of smoke. Before she could react or utter a word, curving silver locked around her waist, the deadly cold piercing her to the bone. His tall form leaning in close with dangerous intent. A vibrant blue gaze seared into hers, his mouth lingering over her own, sharp and red and predatory.

"You think yourself too good for me," he said quietly, "Too good for anyone, I imagine. But like it or not, you're a woman, Wendy Darling, and I'll have you feeling like one before this night is over."

Chapter Text

It's my own desire
It's my own remorse
Help me to decide
Help me make the most of freedom
And of pleasure
Nothing ever lasts forever

Everybody wants to rule the world

('Everybody wants to rule the world', Lorde)

– Culmination –

Part II

Slender fingers caught her chin in an uncompromising hold as his mouth melded over hers with enough force to steal her breath. Wendy had to grip the embroidered lapels of his coat to keep from falling. Beneath the barrier of heavy brocade, she could feel the press of iron-studded leather through the outer trappings of respectability, a chilling reminder of the danger she was courting every moment she remained here. Her mind froze, unable to comprehend the dizzying turn of events. Only days ago, she had fought him, here, at this very table, and now, now –

His mouth was cold, with an iciness that burned through and through her. Hot, wet sounds, his lips languidly caressing her own, soft and insistent, until she felt the sharp edge of his teeth, a brief, painful warning that he was not about to be merciful. This could not be happening, not when the world hovered on the brink of destruction outside. Peter – the Lost Boys – the mermaids – all the reasons why this was madness rushed upon her, and her fingers tightened on his shoulders in a silent protest, but she could no more fight him than she could fight an oncoming storm. Frighteningly, Wendy realized she no longer wanted to. His proximity sent the blood in her veins to a frenzy; all rational thought had fled. It was simpler, far simpler for once to just lose herself. Every fibre of her being was clamoring to give in, to end this elaborate pretence and for once just cast trouble and responsibility to the winds. The thrill of surrendering to that exhilarating state of endless vertigo was beyond her power to resist.

Magnetism in his kiss, in his touch. She could not have broken free even if she wished to. His thumb bruising on the hollow of her throat as he held her inflexibly in place, leaving imprints on her skin, as blue and dark as his eyes. The restrictive nature of the society she had been raised in and her own sense of self-preservation warned her that she could not let this happen, not again. She knew he was dangerous, knew he wasn't the sort of man she should want, but her body didn't care.

Neither did her heart.

Already, her hands were moving over his chest and shoulders with tentative, fevered touches, seeking bare skin (seeking the heart beneath). The agonizing, drawn-out fear, the danger she had faced and the death she had just escaped had heightened every nerve in her body to a painful intensity, rendering her acutely alive to every sensation. And somewhere deep in her mind was the consciousness that this must be the last time – the very last. There was a fierce tugging at her heart at the awful finality of it all. An intrinsic, soul-aching loneliness she had felt ever since she had left Neverland. So why not abandon herself to that final thrill of danger and passion before she would inevitably have to return to the cold, staid life that awaited her back home?

Her lips opened under his, tasting spice and rich wine underlain with the tang of metallic sharpness. In response, Hook deepened the kiss, all pretence of persuasive seduction gone. It was an exorcising of fear and loneliness she felt from the very core of his being, a despair that went far deeper than anything she could have imagined. The passionate pain and hungry yearning expressing itself in every searing touch he branded on her skin, pulling her closer, ever closer. Desperate for a connection, a meaning –

A dull thud of metal and Wendy dimly realized he had dug his hook into the table, pressing her back harder against the edge of the mahogany surface, trapping her against his hips. The force of his lean, muscled frame sent bolts of pain flashing across her skin, a raw urgency that made her wonder if he, too, sensed that this could never happen again. He was too forceful, too violent, and it should have given her cause for fear, but instead she found herself craving that dominance, longing for the hardness of his body moving over her own. In the heavy folds of his coat, she inhaled the dark tang of gunpowder lingering over the refined scents of cologne and tobacco, something bitter and smoky, an underlying heady thrill of danger. Beneath the carefully corseted exterior and refined mannerisms, her innermost core, that secret part of her that was drawn to the wild liberation of adventure and the unknown, had been awoken, straining against her ribs and seeking release. As though in response, the tips of his long fingers traced a line downward, pressing through the delicate material that clung to her chest, finding bare skin and awakening nerve endings that thrilled with sensation. She could not stifle an urgent sound of longing against his mouth when his hand curved around her breast, caging every rapid beat of her heart, possessing each one, making it his.

He broke away to take a breath, looking almost vindictively satisfied that she hadn't pulled away or made a show of resistance. The glinting edge of his hook ran a smooth caress along her cheek, though it seemed there was more cruelty than affection in the gesture.

But then she met his deep gaze, the cool blueness troubled by a sudden intensity. Earlier, out on the deck, he would have killed her, and yet how could she believe it with the way he was looking at her now –

Blinded by ice, Wendy put out a hand which the captain effortlessly caught in his own, trapping it against his chest where she could feel the strenuous beat of his heart beneath the layers of leather and metal and cold indifference. The light brush of his fingers over her wrist, tracing her thudding pulse, was a revelation. The gesture was so soft, so reminiscent of tenderness that she shuddered. She could not allow him to be so close. This had to end, before she fell too far, too deep –

He leaned forward, ghosting a kiss over her parted lips. His brow pressed against hers, and she felt a sigh emanate from the very depths of his being. Wendy was shaking with tremors of extreme emotion, a weakness she could no longer conceal. She felt her heart pulse, and ache. Feelings this fervent, both consoling and devastating, could not exist, should not exist, not when they stripped her of all authority. Not when he was still everything she knew him to be – ruthless and cold and half-maddened with vengeance. Yet, by some cruel twist of fate, the only man in the world who could understand her. He consumed her. She could no longer lie to herself, and very soon she would no longer be able to lie to him.

"You've maddened me," he breathed, a soft, smoky exhale against her skin. "With your damned provoking insistence; made me weak, that never before knew weakness." The deliberate press of cold steel at her neck froze the breath in Wendy's lungs; and for a moment she feared he had resolved to kill her rather than give in to this… this… But then, with a vigorous twist of his hook, he had lifted the tangled mass of hair from her flushed face, leaning down to roughly whisper in her ear, "Let me touch you."

His low voice, darkened with sensual intent, sent a violent tremor coursing through her body, but she had no words to express her desire. She was beginning to feel delirious as his mouth sought hers again; she felt the slow caress of his tongue and shivered at the unwanted pleasure of it. The scent of sweet wine on his breath made her head spin, and unconsciously she leaned in towards him, desperate to feel him more fully against her, so close to giving herself to him completely.

Incense-laden air caressed her shoulders and she jumped at the whisper of metal against her spine. Only then did she realize that he was unfastening the laces at the back of her gown, using the sharp edge of his hook to ease the fragile material apart. The sensation of those deadly fingers tracing the wings of her shoulder blades with no barrier of clothing between them, was almost enough to make her cry out; the sound remained trapped behind the cage of her ribs. Hook pulled aside the clinging edges of her dress, baring her shoulders, and put his mouth to skin. Lips brushed her pulse and she was lost. Wendy could only hold his head to her as he kissed his way down her throat and chest with lingering slowness, cool silk sliding down her arms, following the path of his mouth. Her face and shoulders had been burnt brown by the sun, but when the dress fell open to her waist, revealing a valley of pale skin, she heard him groan low and deep in his throat. A strange thrill shuddered through her and for a moment she was dangerously close to following this through to its end, to watch the captain lose all control, to wield that victory over him. But he was too adept at this, too masterful at coaxing her body into trembling submission; she would lose herself long before he did. She shivered and burned under every reverent movement of his fingers that dipped between the shadows of her waist. His caresses mirrored his kisses, slow and languid and sensual, and Wendy kept her gaze determinedly upward, unable to endure the thought of him seeing the intense need on her face. She dragged in a breath, the perfumed air as potent and drowning as the wine that coursed through her system. The ruby chandelier seemed to spin above her, following the bewildered eddying of her mind as she sank further and further into blissful oblivion.

She closed her eyes, the afterimage of crimson glowing behind her lids. The curve of metal pressed intimately into her waist, a sharp edge of pain to cut through the fog of pleasure. His flesh was warm, the silver cold. Forcing her further back onto the smooth surface of the table as a leather-clad thigh pushed between her skirts, a pressure that had her convulsively tighten her grip in the wave of dark curls that spilled between her fingers. Breaths ragged and hushed in the atmosphere that suddenly seemed unbearably heavy and stifling, the thick incense closing around her like a dream. Everything else was distant and dark; she could see and feel nothing but him. Clenched hands. Panting breaths. The slide of his fingers across every inch of her bare skin that trembled beneath the friction of his touch, achingly sensitive. She was awake, alive, feeling more than she could endure. Her hands ran over the broad line of his shoulders, wanting to cast off the intricate coverings of heavy velvet, to be rid of all barriers between them. She was so close to tearing the coat from his body, breath hitching in her throat at the thought of exploring the hard muscles of his chest, pressing her lips to that firm flesh. He was real, feeling, a man within her grasp. She wanted him. She wanted him. Overcome by a wave of yearning, of indescribable longing –

Through half-closed eyes, she saw the captain sink down with a fluid motion until he was kneeling on the panelled floor, long brocade coat pooling around him, dark as spilled wine. A soft sound of protest escaped her at the loss of heated contact, and Wendy felt her cheeks burn at the momentary betrayal of weakness. Hook lifted his head and smiled. Looking up at her through the shadow of his lashes, still unpredictable and dangerous, still unnervingly holding the balance of power between them. The momentary relief of cold air and the distance between them was almost enough to make her start returning to her senses, but he wasn't nearly done with her yet. She felt his hook lock itself onto her flesh, a chill manacle around the curve of her waist, while pale fingers slid the gossamer-thin material of her skirts upward with slow deliberation. She felt her muscles tighten. Her heart was thudding with fear, with anticipation, with –

Wendy felt the warmth of his exhalation on her thighs and stiffened, suddenly vulnerable with inexperience.

"Wait – what are you –?"

"My dear girl," Hook murmured, lost in distraction as he traced intimate caresses on her skin, "I'm going to make you fly."

Her mind could not move fast enough to comprehend what he intended. But her fingers wove through the curling black locks of his hair, some instinct warning her to find a hold before – before he –

When he lowered his head to her, she stifled a cry, unwilling to even give him that much of herself. But he was relentless and implacable, an arm tight and rigid around her waist, anchoring her in place. She was frozen against him, completely disarmed. This – this could not be happening. She could never have imagined letting him see her so intimately, never imagined that her innate modesty would allow him to… His tongue slid across her and soft flesh trembled and flushed. She should have been offended, outraged, but all those principles her upbringing had instilled in her as a mode of decorum seemed like a distant dream. She felt her skin prickle with cold, cold heat. There was something quivering, alert, stirring within her. She felt again the beginnings of that agonizing tension she had felt the night before in his cabin, that tightening sensation that threatened to undo her. Her lips were pressed tightly together – she didn't utter a sound. She didn't tell him to stop, either.

The red and blue-veined lamps blurred before her gaze. No sounds but the rustling shift of silk, the slick movement of his mouth over her, breathing fogged and heavy in her ears. She seemed to exist in a strange state beyond pain. The blood was boiling in her veins, warmth spilling down her legs. Her head fell back, and with flushed cheeks and parted lips, she could only let him do what he wanted. She had lost all will to fight against the treacherous pulsing pleasure that gripped her. But if this was surrender, it didn't feel anything like she had imagined. The pain of not surrendering would have been far greater. Wendy closed her eyes, losing herself in the scented darkness, and gave herself up entirely to feeling; the cold air against her bare skin, the wet heat of his mouth, the pressing curl of his fingers – she jolted (there – just there) –

Her breaths came short and shallow. One hand was buried in the ebony mass of his hair, the other gripping the edge of the table, nails scoring the smooth mahogany. Silently willing him, don't stop, don't stop. She would die if he stopped. Her body thrummed with frustrated desire. He toyed with her mercilessly, promising fulfilment to this tormented wanting, and yet, yet...

She felt herself balancing on a knife-edge of pleasure. It was too intense, she couldn't stand it –

"Oh - please -" The words left her before she was aware of uttering them.

He murmured something unintelligible, soft reassurances she was in no state to hear. She was arching, arching upward, moving against her will, careless now of trying to maintain any semblance of pride. Possessed by some inexorable force stronger than herself. It was no use trying to hold back. She felt too much, wanted too much –

At the icy touch of metal, she splintered apart, bringing a hand to her mouth with a smothered cry as she shuddered out her pleasure.

Through an ebbing wave of delirium, she felt her legs trembling beneath her. The mist over her eyes seemed to disperse as clarity slowly returned; the heavy silence of the cabin, the languid, drugged sensation in her body, the solidity and warmth of his arm braced against her waist. It was only then that she realized he had held her through it all.

Shakily, half-afraid, Wendy looked down. Had she seen a flash of the tenderness she had glimpsed earlier in his expression, she would have willingly remained where she was, would have freely acknowledged that something profound had just passed between them. But she only saw the supreme arrogance carved in every line of his features. Sable locks curled wildly over his shoulders, a slow, exultant smile raised to her as he remained unmoving from his kneeling position on the floor.

Wendy started to her feet. The raggedly filthy dress fell down around her legs, all her feminine pride reduced to ruins. He had stripped it from her. Her knees were weak, her muscles slack as though he had drained her of all the strength she might once have summoned against him. She could still feel him beneath her skin, all her body burning till the ivory of her gown glowed against it. Brassy strands of hair clung to her flushed chest. Her breaths came short and fast as she struggled to gather her incoherent thoughts.

What did you do?

She faced him with all the highly-strung anger of offended dignity, despising herself for the hot colour that flooded her cheeks, for allowing him to see her in such a vulnerable state. She should have pushed him away with contempt, cowed him with sharp, cutting speeches of icy reproach, but no words would come.

Hook's pale face was burning as he rose slowly, tall figure looming over her like a shadow. Blue eyes were filled with a wild, reckless abandon, as dark and turbulent as storm-chased waves. She had never seen such a look of desperation, not even that night out on the deck, a need fiercer and more intense than life itself. Love, revenge, and a desire for conquest. All the refined and cultured affectations had left his voice, tones low and hoarse while his hand clenched at his side, white to the bone.

"I've waited long enough. I must have you, my darling – completely – body, heart and mind."

Wendy forced herself to move, move until she had placed the long table between them. Only then did she have the courage to face him in the old manner of carrying herself, with its unconscious hints of pride and defiance. Never again, she told herself, never again. If he had her now, he would have her forever. The thought was too terrifying for her to contemplate.

Malevolence overshadowed his pale features. A cold, clear stare as the barriers fell between them once more. There was no hint of mercy in his icy gaze. No, he would not stop until he had utterly possessed her.

She was painfully aware of the silence as he stepped back, toying carelessly with the cuff of his brocade jacket, penetrating eyes never leaving hers all the while.

"So, it's to be war between us, is it?"

Wendy lifted her head with a coldly serene look, utterly determined to conquer this foolish passion on her part. "You wish to humiliate me."

He exhaled sharply, throwing out his hand in frustration. "I wish to love you, you damned fool, if you would only see it –"

"Then you shouldn't," she returned in a voice that trembled in spite of all her efforts, "Because I don't care for you."

"Won't, you mean." His hooded gaze ran lingeringly over the length of her, the corner of his sensual mouth curving slightly at her evident flushed and dishevelled state. Her throat constricted with something close to tears when she realized he hadn't so much as removed his outer coat; throughout it all, he had remained the collected and immaculate gentleman. "Stay here tonight and I assure you by morning, you'll care for me as much as you ever did Pan."

She knew it; and that was precisely why she could not stay. He might be able to dismiss the experience the next morning with a careless smile and a shrug but she would be hopelessly bound to him. Women weren't made like men. She knew how it would be. He would be arrogant and full of triumph, regarding her with cruel mockery in his lazy eyes while she would be cast aside, merely another victim of his vindictive schemes. Something to be discarded and destroyed when he was done with her. With unsteady fingers, she began to work on the loosened fastenings at her back. She felt sick with misery.

The captain turned to the decanter and poured himself a glass of wine. Wendy could not help but notice how his hand shook with the simple action, so lacking in his usual careless grace, and that one small gesture went to her heart more than anything else he had said or done that night. It was almost enough to make her move forward, to seek the solace of his arms and abandon all else. Yet she did not move.

"How is it," he muttered through his teeth, "That one moment your body is so soft and willing, and the next you are as hard as steel?"

The dim, intimate light cast a tint over his features, softening the hard plain of his brow and the bladed curve of his cheek. For an instant, he looked disturbingly sincere. If only she could trust him. Wendy remembered then that he had saved her from certain death by the mermaids. He had told her of the ghosts that haunted and hurt him, had entreated her to stay. While she… she had said nothing. She wondered again why he had chosen to make her the confidant of his dark secrets. Was it merely to bring her to this point? To lower her defenses, soften her until she was willing to –?

She could not shake off the words he had spoken earlier, that even after everything, made her doubt his sincerity. I intended to use you. I still intend it, and were you not so preoccupied in your conceited delusions to outwit me, you would have realized it sooner.

Wendy hesitated, caught in indecision. The captain was seated at the long table, the glass of wine untouched before him. His head was bowed as though in grim contemplation, an elegant disorder of dark curls falling over his shoulders. The lamps burned faintly in their glass cages, a play of gold and shadow sliding over the pallor of his profile. The stillness was so heavy she could not breathe. Conflicted with fears and desires, overwhelmed by an intensity of emotion that frightened her. It was becoming harder and harder with each passing moment to fight her feelings. She wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him, to strip aside everything else until they lay together, heartbeat to heartbeat. It unnerved her, this warm flash of feminine tenderness, never expressed toward a living creature outside her family (save Peter, always Peter). What had happened to the Wendy Darling who had scorned all such sentimentality in her classmates or fired up at any unwelcome impertinence aimed in her direction? Only a few short days ago, her romantic heart had been deeply concealed beneath a veneer of calm reason and polite courtesies. And now, all her Aunt Millicent's strict teachings lay forgotten as though the last seven years had never happened.

There is no rationality left in me. You have stolen it. I am all feeling.

Yet, hadn't he opened himself up to her first? He had betrayed his deepest fears, exposed the depths of his blackened soul. Perhaps it was time for them both to exorcise their demons. But how to express the emotions that had been burning within her for so long, unspoken? Feelings that simmered beneath the façade of a ladylike demeanor, trapped in a whalebone cage, straining against a gilded prison of ribbon and lace. Something has gone wrong inside me. I am not living the life I was meant for. Somewhere along the way, I lost myself in that petty, shallow world. I need to find it again – that dream, the hope, that spark – the belief that life was an adventure, a horizon of endless possibilities, not the narrow, constrained existence of tedious monotony that passes for living in London.

There had been a strange, unsatisfied void in her heart for the last seven years. For a moment, Wendy allowed herself to envision that yearning deep within her. A cabin hung with her own colours, filled with her own books, the deck gleaming beneath the sun as the ship moved through southern seas on a spice-scented breeze. Then, dropping anchor to stroll through strange cities, gathering stories and returning at night to write while the harbor slept and the moonlight gleamed on the silver waters. And a companion to share it all with; a mind with dreams and aspirations akin to her own, an intelligence sharp and disillusioned and wayward. The freedom, the emotion, the vague danger, the lure of the unknown, the old wanderlust stirring in her heart…

I have found all the magic, adventure and wonder my heart could ever wish for. But why did I have to find it with you?

She had already had her heart broken once, when she had been merely a girl, too careless with her affections. Had she really been so deeply hurt by Peter? For ever since then, no one had tapped into those deeper feelings of which she was capable. She had never allowed it. And now, this unstoppable force had swept away all her cold reserve with frightening ease. Wendy did not love easily, but when she did, it was passionate and deep and lasting.

How she wished she could ignore it; that strange understanding they seemed to share. But stronger still was the desire to see more fully into his heart and mind, to chase away the bitter memories and regrets that haunted him. They both had locked themselves away in solitude. The eloquence in his blue eyes expressed something deeper than his cold words, a yearning that went beyond riches or power or revenge. I wish to love you, you damned fool, if you would only see it. Wendy pressed her hands against her burning brow, trying to rationalize her disordered thoughts. If only she could know whether it was the right decision, and not merely the blind impulse of a weak womanly heart.

The captain looked up and smiled, his teeth very white against the black of his moustache. "I believe you're frightened of me," he said thoughtfully. "You think I'll have my way with you, then cut your throat. You've seen my hoard of treasures, become privy to my plans and done your utmost to destroy me, and now I'll have to silence you for good. Am I far from the truth?"

Expressed in such a way, it sounded wild and irrational, and Wendy laughed in spite of herself.

"That's better," he said. The richness and warmth had returned to his cadences, and for once, he spoke without artifice. Wendy wondered if she had ever seen him look so young. He had not always been as he was now. What dark course had his life taken to render him so heartless and bitter?

She looked at him carefully, forming a decision. At the very least, she would know. Either way she would be better off, freed of this awful uncertainty. She might be weak with fear, she might be sorry for it later, but rather that than be haunted by regret the rest of her life, and wondering what if…?

The rustle of crinoline skirts across the wooden floorboards sounded startlingly loud as she moved hesitantly forward. A trembling hand rose, half-outstretched towards him.

Hook said nothing, but his eyes blazed with sudden intensity, deep and piercing as ice-crystals. There was both fear and wonder in his face.

"Wendy…" he said hoarsely – and his face suddenly hardened. "Get down."

Her body obeyed on instinct, faster than her mind could rationalize. As she threw herself down, skirts brushing the dark-varnished floor, a blur of silver flashed through the air and a dagger thudded into the wall, missing the captain's head by inches.

Even before the residual tremors of the blade had stilled, Hook had recovered in an instant, drawing himself up in full regalia, a cruel smile playing around his lips.

"It seems we have a visitor," he remarked, the drawling, desultory quality in his voice that of the Captain Hook she had loathed so fiercely in her childhood.

Wendy knew already what she would see, and the relief was almost blinding. A rush of warmth filled her heart when she glimpsed the slender, boyish figure hovering in the doorway, but a moment later she saw, with an icy stab of panic, that he was injured. His tunic was ragged and rent with cuts, dark smudges of gunpowder clung to his pallid skin. His eyes looked strangely enormous in his white face. Careless, happy-go-lucky Peter, who was never in pain, never had anything wrong with him… he seemed so vulnerable suddenly, so painfully young. A child, thought Wendy. A child playing at war.

"Peter darling," she said, making an instinctive motion forward. "Thank God you're safe. I was so worried…"

She remembered then that he had killed Cecco and felt suddenly ill. It seemed that a darkness moved behind those green eyes, that something of diabolical intent lurked beneath the mocking, pixyish features. Life and death were a mere game to him, a game where arrows were toys and shedding blood was simply a way of winning. She realised suddenly how dangerous Neverland was, a danger that had nothing to do with mermaids or crocodiles or pirates lurking in the shadows, but in youthful minds and innocent souls left to run free without restrictions. How could a child distinguish good from evil, reality from make-believe, when he had grown up with only images of his own creation, lord and master over his changeless fabricated world where truth and consequence had no matter?

"Wendy! Tink said Hook had taken you –"

"Not quite," the captain muttered resentfully.

Wendy felt her face redden and was furious with herself in consequence. Peter was too intent on his enemy to notice, and would not have understood the cause of her discomfort if he had. His eyes danced, wild and wicked and irreverent as he faced the dark, brooding figure of the captain.

"Game's over, Hook. I win."

"This is no game," Hook vowed quietly. "And your luck is at an end." He rose, tall and fluid, a hand extended behind him, closing around one of the gilt-handled cutlasses that hung upon the cabin wall. For a man taken by surprise, his utter lack of fear was unnerving. Clearly, he too had seen that for all Peter's seeming bravado, the boy was trembling where he stood, hands open and unarmed, for his one knife remained embedded in the wall.

The captain advanced, hook and cutlass upraised, doubly armed while Peter remained helpless, his only weapon that boundless, easy confidence that could never be shaken or made to falter.

In a moment Wendy stood between them, but it was Peter whom she protectively shielded with her arms flung outwards, Peter for whom she faced the finely-honed edge of the captain's blade. In the past, it had always been Peter protecting her, but he was merely a child, and a fire of righteous indignation rose inside her that Hook could – and indeed, was ruthlessly determined to – inflict violence on this boy. Any deeper feelings towards the captain were momentarily swept away as she faced him with glowering reproach, unconscious of Peter's impatient attempts to push her aside.

"Wendy – let me at him – he's mine to kill –"

"This has to stop, before you both destroy one another."

"No," said Hook, with a shrug of his elegant shoulders. "Let him make his threats. He'll be just as dead in the end."

Wendy turned to the boy, resting her hands gently on his shoulders as she looked down intently into his vivid, animated face. "Peter," she said earnestly, "You must listen to me –"

The captain's derisive laugh cut through her like a blade. He was leaning against the table, one long leg crossed over the other as he watched her efforts with amused indulgence. "Oh, by all means, try and reason with him. But surely you know one of us will inevitably have to kill the other?"

Wendy ignored his words, her white face set in stubborn lines. No. I will not believe it. One of them must have a better nature in there somewhere, buried deep within. She truly believed in her heart that Peter's cruelty was not borne of conscious malice, but merely a lack of understanding; no one had taught him any better. Surely his warm, impulsive nature was one that leaned towards good and not evil?

"Peter," she said, "I know this seems nothing more than an adventure to you, just like the stories you once listened to. But these are real people – people who feel and hurt and love. You must leave them be. Your choices have unimaginable consequences." She drew a shuddering breath, and forced down the choking emotion that rose in her throat – neither one in the room would consider her any more kindly for it – "I know that it – that it's hard to understand, but I'm saying this for your own good. You have an entire world at your feet. Do what you like with it. But please, for my sake, end this bloodshed and violence. You told me once that you didn't remember love. Perhaps it's time you forgot how to hate, too."

Peter considered her solemnly, brow furrowed in faint lines as he struggled to understand her calm reasoning. Then, slowly, he smiled, white teeth flashing against the bark-brown of his skin, and the smile turned to a laugh. It was the golden purity of a child's laugh.

"Wendy," he said, "When did you become such a girl?"

Silence had fallen over the cabin. Even the captain uttered no disdainful remark, but remained in his indolent position against the table, though a steady watchfulness had crept into his gaze that fixed unceasingly upon her.

Wendy dropped her hands from Peter's shoulders. Her cheeks burned with humiliated anger. She, who had always despised others for showing strong emotion, thinking it showed a contemptible lack of self-control, was on the verge of succumbing to the weakness of tears. It seemed all the folly of her childhood stood exposed before her. Peter, her champion, the hero of her girlhood, was no more deserving of her faith than the man she had defied for his sake. Had she ever known him, truly? Or had she merely breathed into him all her secret hopes and longings, formed a vision of him against which the living, breathing boy could never hope to compare?

Very well, she thought, with resignation. Do what you must.

It was then that the captain finally made his move. He cast a momentary glance on her, and facing her was the cold, heartless stranger she despised. "If you don't wish to see your beloved Pan being butchered, I suggest you go above decks."

"I will never forgive you for this," said Wendy.

"Go," he said, the edge of a warning in his voice, "Now."

For once, Wendy did not argue. In part because she saw there was nothing more she could do here, neither one could be reasoned with and she had sense and self-preservation enough not to be caught in the crossfire. And another part of her had glimpsed the tightness of his lips, the unspoken appeal that flashed through his eyes. In spite of his remorseless determination to kill Peter and pursue this war until its bitter end, it seemed he really did want her out of harm's way.

She backed away to the door, heart thudding in her ears, watching them both until she was outside the cabin. The dank, musty air of the passage settled damply over her lungs as she drew deep, steadying breaths, trying her utmost not to think about what might be taking place on the other side of the wall. That was the way to break-down, to hysteria; and if she at twenty – young and strong – gave way, what hope was there for Peter? Perhaps it was cowardice, but she could not watch one kill the other.

But still, inactivity was impossible. She was too full of energy, too breathlessly alive in every nerve to allow her fate to rest upon the two figures in the cabin. She had started to discover her own strength, the stirring challenge that lay in overcoming adversity. There was still work to be done, and she would do it while Peter and the captain were otherwise distracted. There were the Lost Boys to be sought after – had they escaped or were they held captive aboard this ship, at the mercy of Hook's men? Had they drawn near enough the shore that an escape attempt might be possible? Or was there hope of her finding fairy dust to carry her away?

With a vigor borne of desperation, Wendy made her way rapidly down the swaying passage towards the ladders above deck, wondering what she would see outside. How much time had passed since the mermaids had attacked the ship? It could have been hours; her falling into unconsciousness, the… the encounter with the captain –

No. Those memories must never be revisited. She sought to maintain the firm sense that had guided her these past seven years, but strength of will was no power against the illicit stirrings of desire that whispered beneath her skin. Alone now, she could not help but think of it. She was haunted by his touch, the shadow of caresses that stirred her sleeping blood. He was inside her like a slow poison, rendering her body a slave to something beyond her control. There was no escaping him.

The fresh air came as a relief when she emerged above decks. Wendy was startled to realize how near the shore they were; the promontory stood vast and silent, stately rocks towering high, the ragged walls disappearing into blackness. It was the closest she had come to setting foot on Neverland since she had arrived here. But standing between her and freedom lay a wild stretch of water; the dark, enormous waves rose, hovering, and then fell with a deafening thunder, sending great plumes over the deck. The mist that had hung in a ghostly pall over the ship had long since dispersed, and great veils of nocturnal hues swathed the heavens from horizon to zenith. Cascading sheets of mauve and emerald green to deepest indigo and midnight blue. The air was cold and salt-sharp, borne straight from the northern seas. The wind blew in Wendy's face, stinging her eyes. It invigorated her in body and spirit, and filled her with an exhilarating sense of freedom, in spite – or perhaps because of – the danger she faced. She lifted her head, hair blowing back over her shoulders, and gazed up at the far-eyed constellations glimmering overhead. The wild beauty of the scene caught her breath. She had never felt more alive. How could she return to normalcy after this? Would she even recognize the quietly demure, well-mannered young woman she had been only a few short days ago?

She thought suddenly of Charles Quiller-Couch, foolishly handsome, so earnestly, unfailingly polite. She could abide by the wishes of her parents and her Aunt Millicent, marry him and never have to think or worry about anything again. Charles would make a fuss of her, spoil her, introduce her with a show of pride to his acquaintances as his new young bride. Lunches, society parties, all arranged by other people, a life that was safe and with no responsibility other than looking her best and doing her husband proud. So she would drag herself through the years, silent and hiding her secret bitterness. Immersing herself in a cold solitude of feeling as she had these past years, reading and dreaming far into the night.

It was the great tragedy of women living in this age. For men – for her brothers – life could still be a grand adventure, even beyond childhood – with places to visit, things to do, great projects to be pursued. Men built cathedrals, invented machines, wrote philosophies. And women, even her, were little more than dolls. Pretty pieces on a board. Things to be moved around by men. Imprisoned in frail bodies and corsets, petted and patronized and cosseted with endless courtesies. Most of them fortunate enough to overlook the utter triviality of life, not possessing the awareness to realize that once the glitter and glamour disappeared, nothing remained but an empty shell. Had she not discovered Neverland, she too would have been one of those laughing, careless girls, and would never have entered the pain that the knowledge of deeper things brought. Ignorance and innocence were things to be envied. It was far better to be a pretty, foolish creature of society than to understand the harshness and cruelty of the world they lived in. Because sometimes hope was hopeless and childhood love wasn't enough. No, better to be shallow and satisfied with the trappings of society than to harbor illusions and dreams only to see them crushed by a cold, indifferent world.

Wendy realized her eyes were burning. Impatiently, she brushed a hand across them. She would not indulge in self-pity. The only thing to be done about harsh realities was to face them. The wind tugged at her hair and skirts as she navigated the deck, careful to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Hook's men seemed engaged in the usual labors of sailing, but she could sense an air of expectation pervading the deceptively clear night. The sails swung heavily overhead in vast, rippling sheets, conjuring shadows and movement. Magic glimmered in every corner, darting, fleeting –

"Tinker Bell," she exclaimed, startled.

The fairy paused, mid-flight, wings beating fast and fierce as a hummingbird. That bewitching, feminine face showed a flash of wary recognition.

"Tell me," said Wendy quickly, "The boys – are they here?"

The fairy nodded with evident impatience. A slender white arm thrown out in the direction of the foredeck as she darted to and fro, streams of glittering dust raining from her agitated form. Wendy immediately sensed the cause of her distraction.

"If you are looking for Peter, he's below with the captain."

She watched as a sudden flame seemed to leap within Tinker Bell's frame, bright and vivid as a sunburst. For the first time, Wendy felt a stirring of pity for the creature, which eradicated the secret dislike – and jealousy – she had once harbored. Looking at that poor, thin body with its translucent sheath of skin, beneath which glowed a frail light that ebbed and eddied, she realized that the fairy was too pulsing and transient, too brilliantly living in the present to comprehend the tragedy that she was loving someone – with all the force and fire she was capable of – who would never understand or have the capacity to return even a spark of such passion. It was a lesson Wendy had bitterly learned, but in learning it, she had been able to let go. Peter was hers no longer. She wondered if he ever had been.

She could sense Tinker Bell's suspicious gaze on her still, the silently brimming resentment that was on the brink of spilling forth.

"Don't worry," she said dully, "Soon I'll be gone and all this will be over."

Yes, soon she would be safe. And with safety came comfort and complacency – no struggle, no endeavors to rouse her from the torpor of luxurious living. Wendy feared that she would once again become accustomed to the effortless ease of London life, that it would deaden her into forgetfulness and she would become again the soft insipid creature she had sought so hard to escape.

She watched the fairy fly away (straight to Peter), and a sigh caught in her chest. It was all too late. She had forged her own chains, made herself a slave to convention. She would return to the vain show of life in Bloomsbury and be left only with this weary aching. My life has been one of lost dreams, she thought. Weighed down by exquisite finery, pearls spilling through her fingers, moving through life only half-awake, and wondering why all those trivial day-to-day occupations never seemed to complete her. Misery, loneliness and a certain future awaited her.

It wasn't enough. The call of the road was upon her, some harbor of cherished dreams. An unimaginable vastness of a world waiting to be discovered. I want to do something great and wondrous, to have a life that means something –

The wind howled in a lashing torrent, salt spray drenching her skin. The sharpness of it, the wet, biting pain awoke her body and stirred her mind from its dull apathy. Unable to resist the challenge, Wendy felt her heart beat fast at the prospect of action. Why, if these were to be her last few hours aboard this ship, then she would make them count for something. Her last call to adventure, to embrace the wild, heady rush of freedom and purpose, let the consequences fall where they may.

Heavy clouds billowed and roiled, searing arrows of lightning flashing from the tumultuous depths. She wondered how many hours it was until dawn. The day had been endless, yet she was far from fatigued. Adventure and excitement had filled her with a restless, burning energy that needed to be satiated. Keeping her gaze fixed on the bent backs of the men as they steered the ship on its tempestuous course, Wendy made her way towards the foredeck. Every now and then, she caught sight of glimmering trails of fairy dust on the wooden boards and tried to gather as much as she could. It was barely a handful, but if she could get even one child to safety, it would be worth something.

They were huddled in a disheveled group, no more than half a dozen boys, bound together by a twisted length of salt-stiffened rope. It seemed that some of them at least had been able to escape before the mermaids had boarded the ship. A motley collection of children, small faces dirt-streaked and hair plastered down with seawater. She saw Whiskers among them, who grinned and gave her a nod of recognition.

"You're Wendy, aren't you?" he said. "The Wendy?"

She knelt swiftly beside him, brushing the fine, glittering powder into his bound hands. He was the oldest of the assembled boys, and there was an intelligence in his quick, dark eyes that she liked. "Here – each of you – share the fairy dust among yourselves. Use it the moment you're free, do you understand me? Make for the shore at once, and don't look back."

"Are you going to stay with us?" one of the children asked shyly.

"I'm afraid it's too late for me," Wendy said, but she was able to smile without bitterness. "Now hold still."

Her fingers struggled with the complicated knots, the pressing urgency of time causing her heart to pound unsteadily in her chest. Whoever had bound the children knew something about ropework, and Wendy silently cursed herself for discarding the sharp silver marker earlier, but following that line of thought led inevitably to the captain, and that she would not allow herself to do. I will not think of him. I must not think of him.

"What are you doing?"

Wendy did not flinch at the suddenness of the coarse, roughened tones at her shoulder. Discovery had been inevitable, and so long as she was not found by the captain, she trusted to her own wits to get herself out of any situation relatively unscathed. She turned and saw the tattooed form of Bill Jukes hovering threateningly over her.

"Captain's orders," she lied calmly. "He says they're to walk the plank."

His inked face registered deep mistrust, and Wendy gazed back, her own expression bland and inscrutable. Fortunately, the quicker-minded of the children came to her assistance, starting up a clamoring chorus.

"Oh, please no!"

"Not the plank –"

"Anything but the plank!"

That drew a callous laugh from the pirate. "Aye, the plank it is for you vermin –" He turned to Wendy with a gesture of impatience. "Hurry it along, then."

Wendy kept her head down, struggling to keep her mirth in check as Jukes moved toward the stern of the ship, shouting a command over his shoulder. Something of that high, willful, adventurous spirit she possessed must have shown itself in her face, for Whiskers grinned, and a flash of camaraderie passed between them. A lightness filled her heart that was reminiscent of the Neverland of old, and she tugged at the ropes around his wrists, suddenly careless of all troubles.

"Didn't I tell you she was one of us?" said a voice. Arrogant and sweet-tongued, arresting enough that he immediately commanded attention through the sheer force of his confidence.

"Peter!" The name became a chant as the boys turned to him as one, delight and worship shining through their thin faces. Wendy recognized that expression all too well, had worn it herself once upon a time when she too had shared that blind faith. His very presence had the power to chase all their fears away. Happy these children might be, but the world they lived in was unreal, a world of fantasy. This was simply a game to them, and none of them even considered the possibility that they might suffer the consequences. Yet who was she to pull them out of that illusion? Was there anything crueler than to force a child to grow up before their time? No, let them enjoy the dreams and beauties of youth; that transient time was more precious than anything in this world. The years went by so fast… here she was, twenty years old, with nothing to show for it. How little she had accomplished, save for a few scraps of novels hidden away in the dark out of sight, along with all her other buried dreams and aspirations.

She remained outside that bright circle, unable to share in the simplicity of their joy. She could not so easily forget their danger. A faint unease stirred beneath her skin. Because if Peter was here, then it meant that Hook –

Even as the thought fluttered uneasily through her mind, the quicksilver touch of metal across the back of her neck silenced her like the kiss of death.

Cold emanating from ice, travelling down the length of her spine (a ghostly mockery of the path his fingers had taken, those slow, sweeping caresses burning the blood). The rope fell from her shaking hands, where it lay coiled, snake-like on the deck. A shiver of apprehension seemed to run through the group of children as they huddled closer together. Wendy closed her eyes, frustration burning within her. She had been too late. Another failure that he could hold against her. In a single glance, the captain discerned what she had been doing and made no reaction, save for a slight raising of his dark brows. He leaned forward in a creaking of leather, close enough to murmur in her ear, "You have a unique propensity for trouble, dear girl."

Wendy merely shrugged her shoulders. He knew her well enough by now and they had both chosen their sides. But it was difficult to maintain a façade of indifference when he dragged a hand down the filmy layers of silk covering the curve of her waist, the searing warmth of his touch a sharp contrast to the bright cold of steel at her throat.

She jumped as Peter's laugh shattered the narrow space between them. "Haven't had enough yet?"

The captain's hand tensed momentarily on her waist, before he mercifully released his hold, allowing her to step aside with an outward show of contempt. Pale fingers curled around the gilded handle of the cutlass thrust into his belt, and he drew the blade with an elaborate flourish, aware perhaps of the crew slowly gathering to watch. "Not for an instant. I want every man aboard this ship to watch as I make an end of you."

Peter rose upwards, his figure light and glowing with the golden shimmer of fairy dust, while Hook remained hopelessly earthbound, a dark and menacing figure in his crimson garments, prowling the deck like a caged animal, awaiting the moment to strike.

Wendy wrapped her arms around her tense frame, nails digging white crescents into her skin. Her heart was pounding fiercely, caught between the conflicting desires to see Peter win and the captain survive.

Peter glanced fearlessly at her, his face glowing with the excitement of battle. Boy and shadow reunited once more, he spun, he soared, gloriously free… how small the rest of them must have seemed to him. He had no weapons, but it seemed he didn't need them, as gifted with the power of flight, he could use everything around him to his advantage. Darting lightly between the black shade of the sails, he gathered a handful of chains and flung them down with all his strength. The captain staggered back, rendered breathless by the impact as he thudded into the heavy canvass. But he had righted himself in a moment, black hair tumbling wildly over the dented metal of his armour. The blue ice of his eyes flashed beneath dark brows that were narrowed in an expression of such hatred that it stole her breath.

"Coward," he hissed, "Come down and face me like a man –"

"I'm no man!" sang Peter joyously.

"Aye," returned Hook, "Not yet perhaps; but you kill me – the boy becomes a man. Once you've had that first taste of blood, you'll never be a boy again. And so, dead or alive, Hook wins."

Peter merely laughed away the threat, unshackled by the fears and doubts that bound the rest of them to the ship. But Wendy thought of Cecco and felt sick to her heart. The captain at least was haunted by the men he had killed; dreaming or waking the ghosts visited him – to his constant torment. But Peter… she shuddered, pushing away the treacherous thought, and concentrated on the scene unfolding before her.

There was a deadly kind of beauty in the sight, both moving with the fluid grace of music. The blur of icy steel whistling through the chill air. Like two wraiths spinning around one another. Hook's laughter, echoing and metallic. She saw too how well they knew one another, the symmetry in each parry and thrust that only came from years of observation and obsession, after endless conflicts and thwarted attempts to bring the other down. The captain's inability to fly made no matter as he seized every opportunity to attack that came his way, careless as one damned, love crossed long ago. The cutlass sang in his closed fist. She glimpsed again that quality of innate greatness he possessed that had been misused, twisted, bent in a direction he should never have taken. He smiled and moved about with skilled elegance, striking and retreating, turning and evading, on and on it went, this endless, eternal dance. Wendy realised despairingly that the captain had been right. It would only end with one of them destroying the other.

Then a spark leapt out of the darkness, streaming through the air in a blazing arc of gold. Curling around the captain's hook, the fairy extended her arms around the curved edge like a bird unfurling its wings, struggling to hold back its insatiable progress. Hook attempted to brush her aside like she was nothing more than a mere nuisance to him, but Tinker Bell stubbornly maintained her grip on the sharpened point, her anger glowing hot and fierce. He looked down on her with a sigh, the expression on his pale features one of mingled pity and exasperation. "Believe me, my dear, I am doing us both a favour." Wendy swallowed hard as his gaze fell upon her. "Will you women never learn? No matter how you might delude yourselves into thinking otherwise, Pan is not capable of love."

And you are? thought Wendy. But the cruelty of the captain's words hit their intended mark; something of the light seemed to leave Tinker Bell's bright form as she bowed over like a wilted flower. With a careless flick of the wrist, Hook flung her away, and even as her frail body collided with the mast, one of the pirates acted. A dagger pierced one of the filmy wings, trapping the fairy against the wood. Pinned to the mast, like a butterfly on a board.

Peter's wounded howl was that of an animal, full of blood and rage. The sight of the fairy's struggles seemed to fill him with a kind of madness. He descended, faster than a green comet streaking through the sky. The captain spun, long coat flaring around his lean frame as he eluded the collision. Hair lashing in the wind like long coils of black leather. No sound but the steely whisper of his cutlass cutting an icy swathe through the nocturnal air. The sharp edge missed Peter's bare feet by inches, and the boy rose higher, hovering tauntingly just out of reach. Always prey to the caprice of his moods, he gave a cry, a glorious cry of liberty. He was wild, he was free… nothing could touch him. The cheers of the Lost Boys spurred him on to greater feats. He was becoming bolder now, more reckless. His shadow danced around, first here, then there, too fast to be caught or struck. The captain following mere seconds behind. His hook shredded through the sail, metal-capped heel slamming down, almost splintering the wooden platform of the deck as the silver blade carved through nothing but air. Mocking laughter followed him at every turn.

And then Peter was standing before the captain, bold, unarmed, smiling with irresistible, delighted mirth.

Hook didn't hesitate for a moment. Wendy's heart stopped as he swung his cutlass straight towards Peter, but instead of striking, the blade continued its trajectory, slicing cleanly through the ropes bound to the sails. Canvas rippled and parted and a great mass of ropes spun and uncoiled, descending rapidly, and suddenly Peter was enmeshed in the depths, trapped in a net that rose and hung suspended over the rigging.

Wendy started forward, but steady hands on her shoulders restrained her. Turning forcefully in an attempt to throw off her assailant, she saw that it was only Mr Smee, who had her in a hold that was firm, but not at all fierce. The momentary glimmer of kindness in his faded blue eyes showed her that he had not forgotten her saving his life earlier. "There's nothin' you can do now, Miss," he said gently. "Leave it be."

I can't, thought Wendy. But she was merely a girl with no strength against a crew of armed men. Bound by the frustrating constraints of her sex, she could only watch as Peter struggled helplessly, spurred on by the jeers and laughter of the pirates. Her hands clenched at her sides. This was making a sport of cruelty, a humiliation, and she knew exactly why the captain had done this. It was designed to shed Peter of his pride, his arrogance, that very image of untouchable audacity that made the boys follow him.

The captain by contrast exuded a lithe, deadly grace as he slowly paced the deck, head tilted upwards, gratified by the sight of his enemy caught at last. His distinct, melodious tones were laced with mockery, further fuel for the pirates' pointing fingers and derisive curses.

"My, my, such temper. Someone really ought to have raised you better."

"You'll pay for this, Hook –" the boy cried, struggling uselessly – "I swear it – Neverland will never rest easy until you're gone!"

"Foolish child," the captain hissed. "I am Neverland. I have had seven years to plan this moment. Do you really think I haven't considered every detail and eventuality? Counting down the years, the hours, the minutes to your destruction?"

Peter's distant face was fierce with anger, and as though in answer, a crimson-veiled haze drifted over the sails, descending slowly, purpling all the ocean and spreading like the spill of blood. Hook, careless, lifted his face to the infernal light, undeterred by the display of power. His cutlass fell to the deck with a resounding clang. His solitary figure stood alone in a sea of mist, tall and straight, master in his own domain. Every eye was upon him. This is why, thought Wendy, this is why men will follow him blindly, no matter how harsh and cruel and ruthless he might be, no matter how low he will cast them or treat them – they follow him because he is utterly unstoppable. She wondered at her own naivety in thinking she could ever defeat him. Cecco had never stood a chance.

"Behold!" he said, "The great, wonderful Peter Pan. Not such a hero now, are you boy?"

A ripple of laughter ran through the crew. The men greedily hung on every word, blood fired up with conquest and the animal craving for violence. Wendy thought how little gratification they must encounter in the miserable grind of their day-to-day existence to derive such satisfaction from Peter's suffering. There was a vicious tang of anticipation in the air, reflected in those shining eyes and grinning mouths. Gentleman Starkey was the first to break the fervent silence in an attempt to ingratiate himself with his master.

"Victory is yours, Cap'n."

The wind careered mournfully through the sails, salt spray dripping onto the slick wood of the deck. The red light flickered and wavered, casting distorted shadows across the assembled men.

"Then why does it feel so empty?" Hook whispered, and it was her gaze that he found and held. An impulse seemed to seize him, as he strode forward, the metal of his steel-capped boots echoing off the deck as he approached her with forbidding intent, silver hook curving beneath her chin as he lifted her head, forcing her to face him.

"You always have an answer for everything. Tell me why it is that I've been so wretchedly hollow, unable to feel since the day that cursed crocodile dragged me beneath the waves? Victory within my grasp and I can taste nothing but the ashes. Even revenge can't satisfy me. After everything I've done to bring him down – none of it means anything if I can't glory in his destruction. I've renounced my soul, but my heart – ah, my heart – you would know something about that, wouldn't you?"

Wendy looked at him and said nothing. She read his face with an almost cruel steadiness. If he wanted pity – well, he had forfeited his right to that the moment he chose to follow his revenge above all else. And yet she did pity him, for all that his misery was self-inflicted. She knew what it was to choose the wrong path in life.

His hand was caressingly cool against the side of her face, fingers tangling absently through the fair hair that clung to her throat in wayward strands, and for a moment he was simply the man who had touched and held her, declared that he wished only to love her. It seemed to her that he was two different people; the smiling, contemptuous Hook, a cold and heartless villain to the core, and James, the man of feeling, wearied by the long bitterness of life. It was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. She only knew that she wanted him in spite of everything, and the knowledge was a heavy weight in her chest.

She turned her head to one side. The battle lines had been drawn. This was how it would end, with them both refusing to back down. He gazed at her a moment longer, his mouth tight, before releasing her with an outward show of disregard. "I'll not be made to look a fool," he muttered venomously. "Better death than despair."

Circling the length of the deck, he cast his dark head back, gazing up at the trapped boy with cool contemplation. The old, vindictive malice shadowed his pale eyes as he stood there, brilliant and dangerous, balancing the fate of life and death on a knife's point. "My men say you can't be killed. But I'll be rid of you, one way or another. And if you can't die, then I'll merely have to satisfy myself with destroying your world, piece by piece. Starting with your precious Wendy."

His words came as no surprise. She was calm with despair. Could she ever have believed that he would choose her over power and revenge? Whatever professions of love he might proclaim when they were alone would never measure up to his ferocious desire for vengeance.

She felt the bo'sun's gentle push at her back, urging her forward. He had probably never liked her, but his innate kindly nature seemed to recoil at sending an innocent woman to her death. "Sorry, Miss. But orders are orders…"

"It's all right, Smee," Wendy said graciously. Strange, how even after everything that had happened, her manners still remained. She seemed to be observing herself from a great distance, far, far removed from the reality of what was taking place around her. Perhaps it was better this way. She would, at the very least, hold aloof. She did not waste her time on futile pleas for help. These men had laughed and drank with her on that first night aboard this ship, but they were Hook's men, and if Hook wanted her dead, then they would kill her without a second thought. Cecco was the only one who might have hesitated – not from any affection towards her, she was not so naive as to believe that– but because there was profit to be had in an alliance. But he was dead, and… no, it was better not to think about that…

One stumbling step after another and she stood before the captain, silently waiting to see what he would do next. His eyes were cold as he looked on her. She was pushed against his rapidly beating heart, a hard arm around her shoulders, locking her to him. He flung her down on the salt-beaten deck, a booted heel poised above her chest. The world turned. The sea shattered in her vision, and there was salt in her throat. Breathless. For a fleeting moment, the mists dispersed, and Wendy saw the constellations spinning overhead in a glorious array, high as her deepest aspirations, those remote, endless lights glowing with magnificence. So close she could almost reach out and touch them. Then there was only him gazing down at her, blue eyes burning hotter than molten silver, colder than an arctic storm, and suddenly, the dreams and the reality coalesced and became one and the same. The captain leaned down, dark locks falling over his shoulders. His hand was on her cheek, long, lithe fingers cold against her jaw. A silent entreaty.

His voice was hoarse, too low for anyone else to hear as his lips moved a breath above hers. "I repeat my offer, one last time. There is always a place for a storyteller."

Wendy looked into his face, and laughed. With that final, desperate appeal, he had just damned himself, and with a sudden, piercing clarity, she read in his eyes what she had been too blind to see before, what had been there perhaps ever since she had held his own cutlass to his throat and challenged him that night in the cabin. In that moment, everything turned bright and sharp and real. It was as though the last seven years had been a dream, and she was leaving behind the dreary path of her old life.

She was so close. She was on the brink of stripping her heart and soul bare, confessing all and revealing the hidden essence of herself. The words hovered on her lips, those words that would forever change the course of her future –

But she realized that he had only heard her careless laugh.

"That damned pride," he muttered. "I thought I had knocked that from you. So, stubborn to the last, is it?"

Wendy almost laughed again; her soft eyes kindled at last, filled with the wild passion and spirit for adventure. The deck thrummed beneath her and she inhaled the lashing salt, the sea-roaring of the wind. It was a fatal game she was chancing; she was gambling with her very life, but she had seen the expression on his face, heard the words which had betrayed him. Death and damnation. You know why. And because of it, she feared him no longer; she would never fear him again. She might only be a girl, with a girl's weaknesses, but she was a match for him in spite of that. Let him threaten her, if he could. He could no more destroy her than bring about his own destruction.

So she rose to her feet unaided and swept him a flourishing bow, mocking. Her calm white face must have angered him, for he gripped her shoulders hard, face twisted with bitter condemnation. With an effort, he forced himself to indifference, lifting a cynical dark brow, allowing himself a laugh clouded with spite.

"So, you are determined to return to a life unworthy of you, a life you despise, and for what? Let me tell you, dear girl. You think yourself a free spirit, wanting to live on your own terms, but in truth, you're nothing more than a coward, after all. Your sense of liberty is an illusion. Pride and fear have made a slave of you. You won't even bring yourself to be honest about what it is you truly want."

Wendy flinched as the force of his words struck her, sharp as a lash. But still she wouldn't say it. She was too strong. Or too weak. Her pride silenced her. The declaration was more than her reserved nature would allow her to express. Some lingering fear held her back; fear of losing herself beyond all control.

The red curve of his mouth came down at one side. A stirring of compassion and furious despair. Twisting the knife in deeper, opening and salting old wounds. "So, you choose to return to your bonds over your own happiness? It really is better that I let you die and put you out of your misery. Very well. I've endured your scorn, your defiance, your meddling in my affairs long enough."

The silver edge of the hook touched her throat, lingering over her artery. Hot blood pounded beneath the skin and the metal pressed deeper. Wendy was forced to move. Back and back and back. The plank groaned unsteadily beneath her feet. She willed herself not to look down, resisting that deadly lure of vertigo.

Somewhere, far away, Peter was calling her name, a child's plaintive cry of desperation. But the time when Peter could help her was long gone. In her own mind and heart, she had let him go. Already, he was in the past. Her future loomed on the horizon, black and bleak, a howling wilderness.

The roar of the crew was a distant echo. She couldn't see beyond the captain. Aware only of the wet, salt-stung air, the creaking wood, the billowing sails. The very air trembling with potent rage. Unwillingly, she glanced down. The sea below her was a wild abyss of great curling crests whipped into turbulence by a bitter northerly wind. Slate grey and Aegean blue and turquoise deepening into black. Jagged rocks broke the waterline, rising in the distance. Only a thin strip of wood stood between her and that rolling darkness. A world terrifying and strange and merciless.

Wendy was calm. The roaring of the sea, the howling wind lashing stinging spray against her skin – none of it could touch her. Her hands and her will and her spirit were free and beyond all reach of fear. She halted, staring at Hook, waiting for the inevitable. Lost in the depths of those eyes, as though she were already drowning in the dark floodwaters…

An echo of memory stirred within her. The captain rising upwards, his hook held aloft, face twisted in ferocious exultation as he made to deliver the killing blow –

She frowned. But… his eyes…

Something was missing.

His eyes are supposed to turn red –

Understanding slowly dawned on her. Wendy looked down at her hands, hands that seven years ago the captain had made certain to bind, just as he had ensured her eyes were covered, with no means of escape, no chance to swim for the shore…

"Goodbye, Wendy Darling," he whispered hoarsely.

A leather-booted heel descended on the plank.

"James –"

The water rose up to meet her.

Chapter Text

You have lost (too much love)
To fear, doubt and distrust (it's not enough)
You just threw away the key
To your heart

You don't get burned
'Cause nothing gets through
It makes it easier, easier on you
But that much more difficult for me
To make you see

Your heart's a mess
You won't admit to it
It makes no sense
But I'm desperate to connect
And you, you can't live like this

('Heart's a Mess', Gotye)

– Completion –

Part I

Cold –

A whirling of noise and confusion and pain. Someone was screaming. Battered and bruised, turning over and over with a sickening feeling of spinning, endlessly falling. There was only cold darkness. The water was so deep, a crushing weight pressing on her lungs like a band of iron. And she couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe.

Then Wendy broke the surface of the water, eyes burning, choking on salt, the paralyzing shock of intense cold a physical pain that lanced through her. The water closed over her head again with a deadly, fatal slowness, and for a moment she could hear nothing but the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears, but this time she knew which way was up, and kicked her legs hard, pushing her body to the surface.

The world dipped and turned around her. She could hear the sea on all sides. She struggled to get her bearings amid the surging waves, the vaulted breakers arching high and dark, blocking out the world. Then the convulsion, the crash, the shatter of spray. The swirling current sought to pull her under once more, but Wendy's mind was her own again, and her legs thrashed within the drenched confines of her clinging dress as she gasped in raw, urgent breaths.

Think – reason –

The cold, clear light of dawn broke over the surface of the water, the current chilled by the early morning winds that swept across the sea from the east. The mist that had brought the mermaids had lifted, so that at least was one danger she did not have to fear. The wind veering in her face, Wendy blinked water from her streaming eyes and tried to focus on the near horizon. There – the tall-masted ship swaying in the turbulent seas, the smooth curved sides rising upward, daunting her with its threatening size. She could dimly hear cheering from the men aboard, see the dark figures patrolling the deck. Instinctively, she moved away from the dangerous motion of the churning rudder as it whipped up clouds of white water, trying to put as much distance between herself and the Jolly Roger as possible. But she was close to the shore, she had seen that from the deck, she need only –

Then Wendy's heart sank within her.

She gazed up at the windy, seaward heights with something close to despair. It was high tide and there was no beach, no cove to cast her ashore. Only the tall cliffs frowning over the water, vast and high and impenetrable. The realization turned her cold. She was stranded, abandoned on the high seas without hope of sanctuary. Wendy tried to think calmly, and not succumb to panic. There must be an inlet or bay further along the coast. So long as she was free of the ship, it mattered little where she washed ashore. The coastline – her freedom – was so close, she could not give up now. As she wavered, hesitating, she could feel the irresistible pull of the undertow, dark and deep and swirling. Her imagination began to play hazardous tricks on her, suggesting any number of gruesome possibilities. Who knew what warped, primordial creatures might be gliding beneath the treacherous surface? A shiver passed through her, violent and painful.

Move, she willed herself, Swim.

She was a passable swimmer at best, and she had never been thrown into a situation where she might one day have to test her skills. But the trembling aftermath of shock was passing, and the iciness of the water had abated to a cold burning against her skin that warned her she was probably safer moving than not. The fall, though jarring, had not robbed her of her strength. Between her and the coast lay a stretch of deep, thunderous water, and she suspected all too well what lay beneath. The ship, though a prison, had at least been familiar, and had shielded her from other possibly worse dangers. But she could not go back. Her life as she had known it was gone. If she could adapt, she would live. If not, she was going to die out here.

Wendy started to swim, trying to follow the motion of waves rather than fight against the current. Her skirts tangled heavily around her legs, dragging her down, but she fought on stubbornly, the effort bringing tears to her eyes. Every inhalation was a burning pain. Distantly, she was aware of shouts and coarse exclamations from behind. Was she to be a spectacle, then? Mocked and derided, as Peter had been? Very well. She would give them something to watch.

Just let me get the shore, she prayed silently. Just get me to the shore, and I can do the rest. Gather the Indians and the rest of the Lost Boys, rescue Peter… If it was war the captain wanted, then she would give it to him.

Suddenly, she became aware of a disturbance aboard the ship. The raucous sound of cheering had entirely died away. Men were gathered at the deck, running to and fro. Shouts, cries of alarm that rose above the violent crash of the sea. Wendy stopped uncertainly, struggling to remain afloat. What new danger had come to threaten them?

She turned, chancing a glance over her shoulder, and saw –

Only the vast sea surrounding her, glittering green and white-flecked, but no, there –

Something dark and impossibly vast moving just beneath the surface of the water with blurring speed. A flash of grey-green through the waves; dirty, old scales, dulled as copper, thick and scarred from countless wounds.

And, over all, the sound of a ticking clock.

Wendy felt her consciousness begin to recede, first slowly, then dizzyingly fast, slanting far away. Darkness rose up, spreading and tightening around her throat. There was a roaring in her ears, a howling white noise of vague sounds and sensations. She could not move. Everything had narrowed to the stretch of white-crested waves unfurling before her, still and silent.

Then a great spray of water shot up from the sea, frothing and foaming furiously, and through the glass-green depths emerged a cavernous jaw extended wide, rows upon rows of blood-stained teeth dripping inside the gaping maw –

Wendy gave a loud cry that she never heard. She stared uselessly, blind and frozen with terror. Close enough now to catch the assailing stench of death. Close enough to glimpse an eye, sickly yellow split with black, reptilian and utterly inhuman –

The crocodile had come for her.

The world slowed and stilled. Her heart thrashed madly inside her chest, as though clinging to those last precious seconds of life. But all her fight, all her instincts of self-preservation failed her. Even her legs stopped their rhythmic motion beneath the waves. Through the whirling mist of fear, a sudden idea, like a shadow, darted through her mind – the sea could take her before the crocodile. The faintest possible chance of ultimate escape. Almost in a dream, she let her gaze fall to the unplumbed depths tugging at her hair and clothes. Better to drown than be devoured. After the first struggle, drowning was supposed to be painless, wasn't it?

In that moment of crisis, she felt the imagination becoming reality; the dizzying faintness, those last struggling moments, the awning wave of unconsciousness, and the final bitterness of the rushing and headlong descent. There was a ringing in her ears, her mind spinning, and she could no longer resist the pull of the unfathomable depths. With a feeling of half-horror, half-relieved oppression, Wendy let herself sink down beneath the waves, salt spray washing against her lips. Blackness pressed around her and heavy, heart-pounding silence. The total darkness which enveloped her, the terrific compression of her lungs was more awful than anything she had imagined, but still the horror was less than the alternative that awaited her. The beating of blood in her ears, thick and heavy, seemed a steady countdown to her destruction, the knell of her death. She could feel her hair floating around her face. It wouldn't be long now. She waited until her chest started to burn.

There was a low rumbling, deep as thunder, and a roar of deafening sound split the grey skies. A volley of gunfire swiftly followed. Wendy came up gasping and opened her eyes. A haze of white smoke drifted along the surface of the sea. She drew in a sharp breath, at once tasting the oily tang of gunpowder and smelling the acrid sharpness of cannon fire. The waves surged and fell around her. She was alone in the water.

More shouts, further away now, but it was impossible to see through the cloud of smoke –

Slowly, the fading wisps cleared and the Jolly Roger rose clear in her vision as it ploughed through the rolling breakers. Then a foaming mass of red, the tearing splinter of wood as the creature – the crocodile – collided with the ship. There was a shuddering groan, twisting, breaking timber. The sea hissed against the lurching vessel, red-hued eddies of white water frothing and surging over the fractured planks.

Madness, motion on the decks. Shouting fiendish curses and commands, and over all the same cry of the cannons! The cannons! Those that had pistols were firing at will. Most of the shots fell wide, stubbing ineffectually amid the waves, but there were streams of red floating in the water from those rare hits. The atmosphere had turned dark as a thundercloud, flashes of vivid fire flaring in bursts through the mass of smoke. The heaving, shuddering creature moved swiftly through the waves. A bunched coiling of scales and there was another sickening thud. Splintered wood stuck out sharply from the sides of the ship, jagged edges swiftly submerged in a rush of green water that bounded over the widening cracks and rushed into the gunwale.

But by now the men were thirsty and aflame for battle. Hanging over the sides of the deck, rifle barrels gleaming in the cold clear morning light, they waited upon command. The water had fallen deceptively still, but there remained the horrible presence of a massive, live thing. Then a flare of light, swift as the burst of a comet, and a cannon fired again. Something splashed into the water with an explosion of white foam, the spray soaring high over the wild chaos of wood and scales and gunfire.

Wendy felt a deadly sickness; stranded in the water, she could do nothing to save herself. She felt that threatening wave of blackness rising up inside her again and fought it down with sheer force of will. Dimly, her reason struggled to reassert itself. She had to get away from here. If the crocodile didn't kill her, the musket fire certainly would. Yet somehow, she could not move. Her body refused to obey her mind. She was dulled and slow with shock.

She looked up at the smoke-plumed sky. Now would be the time for Peter to fly free and rescue her, appearing in a flash of brimming colour and laughing away her fears. But no one was coming for her; she had no choice but to swim or perish. Her legs were tiring, every surging motion of the waves threatening to pull her under. The cries from the ship seemed dimmer now, more distant. Shards of splintered wood floated around her and Wendy instinctively caught hold of one of the broken pieces of timber, clutching it tightly in her numbed fist. The wind was blowing more violently now, scattering the drifting billows of vapour and gusting into her face, a wet, salt smell. The sharpness of it had a reviving effect and she inhaled deeply, steeling herself for the exertion ahead.

Another explosion rocked the skies, vivid red light illuminating the dawn, swiftly flaring and dying. The horizon glowed bright as an inferno. Through the billowing cloud of black smoke, Wendy saw someone dive down into the tumultuous depths. She looked distractedly from side to side, eyes streaming from the haze. Impossible. She had lost her mind. Her senses were deceiving her. Who would be mad enough to cast themselves willingly into the sea? Who would dare? She strained to discern the figure through the grey-green surf. Someone fleeing perhaps? Chancing their luck on the tide rather than go down with a doomed ship? The white foam flew as the deserter cut through the waves nearer and nearer with a continued grim persistence. The pounding of her heart quickened. There was such a single-minded determination in the approach that Wendy became more and more certain that she was the intended target of the swimmer. The wild instinct to flee seized her, but she remained where she was. She was almost completely numbed in every limb to the point of being unconscious of all sensation. Her breathing came in short, sharp gasps. How could she fight someone out here, alone? The splinter of wood trembled in her white-boned hand. One swift thrust through the neck, use the sharp edge… she would have no second chances –

The spray rose again with the cresting waves, settling upon her face. When her vision cleared, a lithe, dripping figure had emerged from the depths, a wet hand outstretched.

"Move," the captain snarled, "Unless you want us both to perish here –"

Still half out of her mind with terror, Wendy could only stare at him. His face was paler than marble, his extended hand shaking excessively with agitation. It was the crocodile, Wendy realized distantly. The only thing he had ever feared.

Cursing furiously, he pulled her towards him, heaving her limp form over his shoulder. The effort sent him under the water, and he emerged moments later, coughing; black hair glistening with salt spray and streaming like ink down his pallid cheeks. Wendy's head rested across his shoulder, the grey light of dawn slanting across her vision almost unbearably bright. The gulls wheeled and cried overhead, far above the troubled world of storm and madness. Her arms hung lifelessly at her sides, but she willed herself to an effort, pushing at him and straining to disengage herself.

"It's alright," she protested. "I can swim –"

"You'll do no such thing," Hook retorted, carelessly ignoring her struggles. "Do you think I've taken such a risk for you to drown yourself out of stubbornness?"

The strain of lifting her head was almost blinding as she cast her gaze around wildly. She couldn't see the crocodile, but she could see the ship, partly-submerged, hear the groaning of splintered wood – "Where are we going?" she asked faintly, "The ship –"

"That blasted creature will bring it down around us if we stay. Now hold on to me, if you can endure it."

His arm pressed into her waist, cutting painfully into her ribs. She caught the flash of silver as he started to swim, the hook now rising, now falling beneath the surf. She felt herself pulled along in a haze of exhaustion, dimly aware of the violent, buffeting motion of the waves, the dull, repetitive pain of the water beating against her sides, but it was something distant and outside herself. The cold had numbed her to almost all bodily aches, for which she was vaguely thankful, but she could not hold her thoughts together; they strayed, unconnected, and she no longer had the energy to try and rationalize her situation. Fatigue overcame her, and she resigned herself to the swaying, jolting movement, longing only for the darkness of oblivion. Where she was being taken and by whom no longer mattered. Her body was limp and weightless, something that did not belong to her. It was only the cold damp air blowing upon her face and the sharp tang of salt that kept complete unconsciousness at bay.

Gradually, she felt the vast space around them narrowing, the great land masses ahead rising upward to impossible heights, a wall of great dark rock frowning over the water. Driftwood and seaweed and loose shingle floated past. Darker still, they passed under the shadow of the cliff. She heard the captain hiss a curse, her own body a hopelessly cumbersome burden over his shoulder. She glimpsed an iron grate, heavily rusted and slick with lichen, which he was wrestling with, until with a protesting groan of metal, the gate lifted slightly. He pulled her through with him into the blackness, the water trembling dark and cool, and she heard the gate close behind them with a resounding clang. Slowly, her senses started returning to her. Flickering, luminous lights passed over the cavernous ceiling in varying hues of blue and green, evanescent, ever-changing. The drip and echo of a hollow place. They were in a subterranean tunnel, the realization bringing with it a flicker of apprehensive fear, but to struggle or resist would be all but useless. Where else was left for her to run to? All the fight and energy within her had died. Wendy stared blankly at the shard of wood in her hand, then painfully unfurled her frozen fingers, watching as it drifted away.

She barely noticed when the tight pressure of the captain's arm around her eased and he gently set her down in the shallow water. Hard stone was beneath her feet, the lower half of her body still submerged in the chill depths, but it was possible to wade ashore – they were only in a narrow channel that disappeared into the darkness of the caves beyond. Dimly from outside, she could hear the steady, rhythmic sound of the sea crashing against the high, impassable headland.

Wendy was shivering, wet hair hanging in a curtain over her bare shoulders, the dark water lapping around her waist. She could barely stand, and when she lifted her hands to brush the dripping strands from her face, she realized her arms were trembling violently. She let them fall to her sides, unnerved by this uncharacteristic weakness in her body. She felt ashamed now, and angered, once again feeling that this feminine frame had betrayed her. Frailty, faintness – these were the burdens of womanhood she must bear, to be treated like a child when any man thrust into such a situation would have fought fiercely, proving himself an ally instead of a hindrance. Even the captain, insisting on carrying her himself, had taken her loss of strength and spirit without any show of surprise, and that perhaps hurt most of all. With a sigh, she started towards the embankment of tumbled rock that led upward to the relief of solid ground in the cavern beyond.

A shadow darkened her vision, and she realized that Hook had stepped in front of her with alarming swiftness. Droplets of water clung to his hair and ran in quicksilver trails down his throat, streaming from his heavy clothing. Wendy felt her pulse jump as he caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to the unsteady light as he examined her carefully.

"Are you hurt?" he asked in a low voice.

She shook her head, feeling at once vulnerable and exposed under his intense scrutiny. There had been no artifice or irony in the question; his face was serious and contemplative, as though he could see through her tattered façade into the very depths of her being. Wendy swallowed hard. She realized then how close he was standing, knew with a trembling rush of anticipation what was about to happen. His gaze had fallen to her lips, his eyes suddenly alight with the cold brilliance of a northern sky. The silver of his rings seared cold against her jaw, but she could feel the hot beat of blood in his fingers that lingered on her skin, the faintest hint of a caress in their slight movement. His thumb ran over the swell of her lower lip. It took everything she had not to lean into that touch. Then his face was drawing impossibly close to hers, so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her lips that parted instinctively for him. A shuddering sigh escaped her, her mouth barely a whisper away from his. Her expression was almost pleading, silently entreating mercy from a man who professed to have none. He couldn't kiss her again. Because if he did, she would no longer have the will to stop him.

As though he sensed her thoughts, the captain released her and moved away. He was breathing hard, his good hand thrown against the wall as he pulled himself out of the water with a visible effort. The pallor of his face was almost unearthly in the ghostly light, blue eyes burning bright in contrast. His coat hung loosely from his shoulders, the deep ruby red brocade drenched almost to black, and he shrugged the cumbersome garment off with a wearied motion. Only then did she realise the exertion he had undergone in rescuing her. Wendy opened her mouth to thank him, but closed it on the realisation that he had thrown her into this situation in the first place. Never mind that he had saved her from mermaids and crocodiles – she would not be bound under obligation to him.

She struggled with some confusion to climb the stony bank, taking particular care over the slippery rocks and dank seaweed and felt an overwhelming sense of relief when she stood on dry land once more. She examined her surroundings more closely. The rock she stood upon was slick with a cool dampness that had never known sunlight. Chains hung from the ledge, trailing into the water. Vast pillars stretched upward to a stone archway that yawned overhead. Abandoned stairwells started and finished nowhere, the rock disintegrated and slowly gathering dust. The immense structure of the edifice hinted at higher levels dimly visible in the deceptive aquamarine light, rendered forever inaccessible. Metal brackets were set deeply in the walls, once intended to hold candelabras, but had crumbled into ruin and disuse long ago. That gave her pause. Could things decay in Neverland? Or had it always been this way, a fortress conjured from an irresistible imagination that had wanted to add just the right dash of fear to his adventures? There was a haunting familiarity about the place, an echo of stories from long ago.

Wendy looked at the captain and tried to speak through the rawness of her throat - the first words she had uttered since they had arrived here. "Where are we?"

"The Black Castle," he said.

Of course. She should have known it at once. The flash of recognition must have shown in her face, for it seemed to stir a memory in the captain. His eyes narrowed slightly. "You told me you had been here before. When?"

Wendy hesitated. "A long time ago," she said, evasively. "With Peter." When you took my brothers and left them as bait for the crocodile that should have taken you. Of course, he did not know she had been there that night. He had passed within a hairsbreadth of her as she had crouched among the battlements – a terrified child, then – he, the figure of nightmares, breathed into life from her darkest imaginings. She remembered it as clearly as though it had been yesterday; his sharp features illumined in a wreath of pale green light, midnight blue garments swallowing his deadly form in darkness. Ruthless and unrelenting, and even then, impossibly beautiful. A unique combination of grace and danger.

Wendy stole a glance at him, unnerved slightly by his unaltered appearance. The years had glided off him, leaving no permanent trace – outwardly, at least – of the suffering he had endured. He had not aged a day. Even after the struggle of rescuing her, there was a deceptive strength in that graceful, lounging body. Yet beneath the cultured ease, there was something metallic and strangely disconcerting, the hint of cruelty. A hardness in those aquiline features, the cast of his countenance arrogant and disdainful. A face that had little patience for fools and no mercy when it came to enemies. She wondered which he considered her.

"If that beast destroys my ship, I'll finish it off once and for all." He cursed imperceptibly under his breath. "A hellish unfortunate thing to happen; as though Pan and the mermaids were not trouble enough."

"Did –" Wendy's voice was unsteady as she asked the question, a sudden, awful fear suddenly seizing her – "Did you know it was there when you –?"

He cast her a look of such evident surprise that the words died on her lips.

"My dear girl," he said, forcing himself to lightness. "If I wanted you dead, I would have cut your throat your first night here and saved myself half the trouble. Not that you've especially made it worth my while," he added darkly. "Since I've had you aboard my ship it's been one misfortune after another. Mayhap there is some truth to old superstitions after all."

Misfortune that he had brought upon himself. But for the moment, Wendy did not have the daring to see where voicing such an observation might lead, so she said nothing.

The captain ran a hand through his wet hair. Slicked back, without the heavy frame of black curls over his cheeks, his face seemed leaner and sharper than ever. "I know these caves," he said, a hoarseness marring his usual melodic tones. "We can't leave; the tide is too high. The underground channels that lead to the surface of the island will be flooded; at best we'd be dashed to pieces on the rocks if we didn't drown first. There is nothing more we can do than wait for low tide."

He cast himself down with a sigh, reclining against the slick stone, his dark head braced against the cavern wall. One long leg drawn up, the other stretched out before him, metal-capped boots catching the gleam of shivering light.

Wendy stared at him, silently doubting the sight before her. She had expected him to be decisive and forceful, to take command, not this calm acceptance. She was not nearly so willing to remain here. To leave the way they had entered and chance the fury of the sea again was madness, but not every eventuality had been exhausted. Movement at least would be a means of fighting against the biting cold that wracked her body, forcing shudders out of her, setting her teeth chattering painfully against one another.

The captain had said there was no way out, and it seemed futile to doubt a man as masterfully clever as he was. Save perhaps for Peter himself, Hook knew the island better than any creature living, but that did not mean she wouldn't look for a chance to escape him if she could. Wendy moved with an unsteadiness in her limbs, leaving slick trails of water in her wake. Curling tentacles of fog clung to her clothing and her hair in chill droplets. She tried to wring the excess moisture from her sodden gown, the skirts stiffened with salt, but it was a rather hopeless effort. The sensation of being on solid ground after days at sea had a vaguely unreal quality. After the turbulent, ever-changing motion of the sea, there was a disconcerting stillness to the slab of rock beneath her feet, an ageless silence that seemed to hide foreboding secrets.

She wandered around the castle, following the narrow passage entrances that led away from the vast hall. She had hoped to find some way of gaining access to the exterior ramparts but the tunnels were flooded ground to ceiling. The black waters stretched away into further darkness, deep and silent. The crumbling staircases were perilous; even placing the weight of her hand on one of the stone steps dislodged a shower of dust and small pebbles. Monstrous stone gargoyles leered down at her, and Wendy recalled how much this place had frightened her as a child. How thrilling that feeling had been – fear and exhilaration living in tandem, keeping her heart beating at an ever accelerated rate. Perhaps then she was not so changed from the girl she once was.

She looked around the immense interior, unease transforming to reluctant interest. Her innate love of adventure was stirred by the gothic surroundings that were evocative of a time long before the lightness and ease of the modern age they now lived in, where life could be lived more intensely, more fully. It would have been reasonable to imagine that after her close deliverance, her passion for excitement would have cooled, but never had she experienced a more ardent longing for exploration. There was a vivid beauty to Neverland, wild and clear, a beauty that caught her heart and lost her in wonder. It would never stop fascinating her. Here she could walk enchanted, dreaming with no cruel chain of reality to pull her back. But those were thoughts to be closed away in the glass room that was her life. There was family, reality and responsibility. What call had she to dream of anything? She would have to return. Back to the world again, the pattern of her existence laid out with perfect precision. Letters to write, engagements to be met, flowers to be arranged. The little rituals of domesticity. And those formal gatherings, so heavy with constraint, the empty compliments on her dress that had to be worn in the latest fashion, the whispers of idle gossip in her ear that spoke of scandals or social faux pas. The triviality of it all filled her with despair. When had the light gone out of ordinary life? Had it always been this way, this feeling lingering just beneath the surface? The intensity of her secret life burned within her, demanded expression. Just a few hours more, Wendy thought. Give me that at least. Let me feel the wind on my face. Let me hear the cry of gulls and see the crests of the waves, white-tipped and wild, beating against the shingle. I want to feel rocks and sand beneath my feet. I am so tired – so tired of a life that is changeless, where no choice is truly my own. I am trapped in a torment of inertia and my heart is dying.

She walked up and down in distraction, no longer preoccupied with escape but simply lost in thought, rubbing her chilled hands together to ease the numbing pain. The captain watching her all the while with a curious, secret smile, a glimmer of amusement in his hard blue eyes. She supposed he thought her merely stubborn and childish, and flushed in the darkness. Her emotions had not been her own ever since the night he had come to her window. Love was the death of sanity and composure. Whatever will or courage or intelligence she might have possessed meant nothing now, as all would be cast aside for a man that even now might care nothing for her. At least, not enough to abandon his sworn path of vengeance. Gone was that calm surety she had felt out on the deck, that bold lightness of heart and spirit. Those unsettling doubts had crept in again, turning him once more into her foe, a danger to be avoided. She would not remain here alone with him. She was not afraid that he would touch her – he could have done that long ago, had that been his sole intention – she was afraid of the idea that she wanted him to. She no longer trusted herself. It was not the captain she feared, but herself.

Wendy shivered suddenly, and when she glanced down, she saw her bare arms had turned pallid, the tracery of blue veins weaving startlingly close beneath the surface of the skin. Hook had not lied, and now she was trapped here with him. She flung herself down wearily, fighting off the insidious chill of despair. The saturated dress clung to her like a second skin, the sheer material translucent against her prickling flesh. She could sense his gaze on her body, remorseless and daring, lingering on the swell of her breasts visible above the damp bodice, and a sudden flush of heat warmed her through and through, a low flame that sparked to life in her chest. But the cold had crawled too deeply inside her, settling around her bones until she could concentrate on nothing else. Wendy drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them, shivering. Her fingers were numb, and when she flexed them slowly, the rush of returning blood caused her to wince in pain.

"You're wet through to the skin and half-frozen," the captain observed, with an appearance of courteous disinterest. "You would do better to come closer."

"No," said Wendy stubbornly. "No, I am not cold."

He smiled thinly at the obvious falsehood, and Wendy was consciously aware of her weakness; loathed that he could make her feel so unsure of herself. She was certain he was inwardly laughing at her.

"Try to imagine yourself in love with me. You would have no such maidenly reservations then. I'm inclined to be generous."

"All the more reason not to."

He said nothing, but it seemed to her that suddenly he was the Hook of old again, with his pointed, malicious smiles and disdainful looks. His detestable self-assurance should have angered and appalled her, not set her heart beating fast with challenge and excitement. She thought of the young men she encountered among polite society; never a flirtatious word or a look that might be misconstrued, their manner always so deferential and restrained. Even Charles Quiller-Couch, inexperienced and eager-to-please; his kissing her had been a thing of clumsy impulse, and he had been blushing all the while. Why then, must she be drawn to a man that acted like a dissolute libertine, who had brought her down with all the ease of a practised seducer? Treacherously, she was reminded of the heat of his body, the hardness of his muscles, the strength of his arms around her. Every convulsive shudder that passed through her frame impelled her to go to him, to seek that warmth and comfort, but Wendy did not move. She couldn't trust herself; were it just her body she had to fight, she might hold the mastery, but she could not fight her heart. She almost wished he would do something violent or vindictive or cruel, so as to give her justifiable reason to flee from him.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against her drawn-up knees. The cold enveloped her, and she sank unresisting into its chill folds. The fear of what was yet to come was a distant thing, and insignificant. This waiting was the worst, and yet waiting was all she could do. She thought of Peter and the Lost Boys and hoped that they were safe. Far better, perhaps, that they stayed away. But she knew Peter too well; knew that it was the risk that fascinated him, the infinite possibilities dancing before him that he was powerless to resist. The last time he had been here, it had almost been his undoing. It had been the first fight she had ever witnessed; Peter blazing larger than life, and Hook, his head cast back, arms thrown out in dark triumph. This is your requiem mass, boy!

She was constantly aware of his presence, how far they were from any other life, flung together in this cold sphere of eternity. There was no sound but the sigh of water in its rocky channel, cast against the stones, bound for no shore. And outside, the inevitable monotony of the sea breaking against the slick stone promontory. In her mind's eye, she could see the tide rising higher and higher, engulfing them both in that insidious dark embrace, binding them together as water rushed into her throat and lungs.

Other times, she heard the drip and echo from the hollow walls. The mournful sound seemed to come from the stones themselves, deep in the crevices of the rock, like the footsteps of the dead. A sightless, faceless multitude trapped in these caves for years without number, silently waiting. The chill clamminess of fog sharpened to the ghost of a breath on her face and a hand creeping around her shoulder, cold and intimate. A shapeless form emerging through the phosphorescent lustre. Then Hook laughed lightly, touching the nape of her neck with thrilling, icy fingers, even as his eyes degraded her. Then she saw that he had not one hand, but two, and both were encircling her throat. Cold and brittle against her skin, dry as old bones, and his laughter was the rattle of the grave.

I do believe, he said lightly, just as he had earlier on the deck, That I am going to kill you.

Wendy started forward with a cry, her body still trembling and fighting off this non-existent being, and she realised that perhaps only a minute had passed in time, that she was still in the Black Castle, her back stiff against the dark and immobile wall of rock, the captain across from her several metres distant, watching her with an arm resting behind his head.

"You fell asleep," he said calmly, and she shook her head in useless denial, staring at him in confusion. He was reclining with a graceful ease as though he were in the refined grandeur of his own quarters and the hard stones beneath them were the finest of silks. Wendy pressed her cold hands against her brow, the memory of the dream still strong and vivid in her mind, the blood pounding hard against her temples.

"Your dreams might not be pleasant, but you had best try and sleep," he said. "You've not rested all night. And you should save your strength."

She lifted her head. "For what?"

"Once the tide allows it, every living creature in Neverland will be making for these caves."

Her heart jumped with a sudden, frenzied bound. Peter. But Wendy crossed her hands over her lap, so as to hide the excitement that trembled to her very fingertips, and asked with an appearance of outward composure, "And what will you do?"

"That all depends on who reaches us first."

Several thoughts darted through her mind. The Jolly Roger under attack – the Lost Boys scattered – Peter trapped – the mermaids possibly lying in wait. For the captain, stranded and unarmed, it was a perilous game of chance. She looked at him, shaking her head at his apparent calm. "You have no weapons."

In response, Hook merely raised a leather-clad arm, the flash of silver ever-present at the end of his sleeve a chilling reminder that he always carried with him the power to kill. He examined the sharply-honed edge, turning it this way and that under the luminously shifting lights with a look of dark gratification. "I assure you, this is all the weapon I need. Moreover, a pistol would be useless after the cursed mess that brought us here; there would be no keeping the powder dry." A hint of mockery crept into his deceptively courteous voice as he regarded her with a shadow of amusement. "Not that I expect you to have a working knowledge of firearms, as I think you've already demonstrated."

A rush of embarrassment and anger flared up hot inside her. Would he never let her forget that failure on the deck? "I should have used that pistol on you when I had the chance," she said with a flash of bitterness.

"I thought you might come to regret that. Not that it matters now. Whatever happens, this all works out rather well for you, doesn't it?" His tone was lilting and light, but she could sense the darkness beneath, heavy as a gathering storm.

"What do you mean?"

"You know by now that I cannot kill you, nor is it within my power to lay a hand on you in violence. You realised that the moment I cast you from my ship, your hands unbound, well within striking distance of the shore. Captain James Hook, unstoppable by death, the terror of the high seas, no more able to stand against an untried girl than the weakest child. How you must have triumphed over me in your contempt. But enough. You give yourself enough airs without my adding to them."

Wendy swallowed down the tightness in her throat, unwilling to face the implication behind his words. "So you choose to be cruel instead."

"A poor thanks for a man who saved your life not an hour ago."

"Only because you were the one who put it in danger to begin with," Wendy returned swiftly, goaded into a passionate response.

"You seem fairly adept at doing that yourself. Was there any specific reason you chose to throw yourself headlong into a mermaid attack earlier? Or do you simply disobey my orders as a matter of course?"

"I couldn't watch your men die and do nothing."

The captain lightly ran the tips of his fingers along the edge of his hook, allowing himself the dark gleam of a smile, but there wasn't the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. "Only my men?"

Her throat burned with unspoken words. I disobeyed your orders because I couldn't stand the thought that you might be hurt or killed, or worse. Yes, for that I risked my life without a second's thought, and I would do it again without question, if in doing so you might live. I need you to live. This, then, was the agony that came with love, the sorrow and the pain and the torment beyond all enduring, all the deeper for the necessity of keeping it hidden. She had surrendered enough of herself already; if he was trying to draw a confession from her, she would not oblige him. The thought of revealing something so deep and intimate, so close to her heart, was unthinkable. She was bound by a strange determination to conceal her love forever. Wendy felt that she would resign herself to a lifetime of misery rather than give him the power to break her. Hadn't she humiliated herself enough for his sake? She had not resisted for even a moment the last time they had been together, and he probably detested her for the weakness more than she did herself. Didn't all men secretly despise the women that gave themselves? What a young, graceless fool he must regard her, how feminine. Wasn't it enough that she was already possessed and haunted by him so fully she no longer knew herself? Without the strictest discipline over herself, her mind would inevitably stray towards the memory of his lips trailing cold fire over her skin, the insidious endearments whispered in her ear, his slender fingers stroking an exquisite rhythm between her legs. She felt the colour rising again in her cheeks. And yet he remained polite and unmoved, a smooth courtesy overlying all his words and actions.

How strange it is, Wendy thought, this elaborate performance of formality after such intimacy. How one can fall back into ritual to bury the desire that burns beneath, the necessity of concealing passions that would otherwise consume us. Only a thin sheath of silk and lace, light, delicate, that preserved her modesty. Without that, she would be open, exposed, with nothing to protect herself. Where was she now, the lady adorned with pearls and long white gloves, so coolly undisturbed by sentiment? This deep, soft femininity had been awakened in spite of herself; she could only cling to the pretence of indifference as a comfort. Her heart might have lost the battle against him, but her dignity still remained. It was the only thing left to her.

The hint of a smile remained on the edges of his sensuous mouth. It was strange seeing him stripped of all finery, deprived of his adornments: the rare vintages and exquisitely cut clothing. It was a reminder that beneath the cultured veneer there was something ruthless and wild in his nature, a spirit that turned to the thrill of piracy to satiate that ceaseless craving. His countenance was strangely elusive in the mist of mirrored blue light, somehow even more dangerous like this, when cornered. "You needn't trouble yourself over me for much longer. I'll die standing, for what little it might be worth. And then you, I imagine, will return to your life."

"I believe so."

But even as the words left her, Wendy felt an inexorable sadness, a heaviness in her heart. She regretted more than anything else that she had wasted her life. Her will and her thoughts had been bent and twisted to suit the needs of the world around her and never once obeying her own desires. Less free in speech, less demonstrative in action than her younger self had been, that passion and impulse overwritten by the polish of society. John, with his passion for scholarly pursuits, and Michael with his passion for mischief had been left free to do as they pleased; it was only she, a daughter, who was to be restrained and tied down. If I live through this night, through these next few hours, Wendy vowed silently, I will be true to myself. I will not be caged and restrained. I will not be a slave to fear.

Already, the horrors out on the water had faded to little more than a faint recollection of unease, akin to the aftermath of an unpleasant dream. She was young, with that vigour of spirit that could banish all apprehensions that were not immediately before her. Cannons and crocodiles did not daunt her imagination. Wendy feared only one thing; that dreaded future of dull monotony, where all hopes were banished and dreams long dead. Then all her fortitude would leave her, and she shrank from that awful vision as she would from a spectre hovering over her grave.

It was impossible to tell how much the captain guessed of her thoughts, but it was evident he had discerned enough. His expression would have almost been pitying, were it not so set with scorn. It was clear that he had not believed her little show of indifference for a moment. How was it that he could see right through her? He knew her far too well. She could hide nothing from him. "So you will leave this place without a single regret?"

"I abandoned a world of imagination once; I can do so again."

"Yes, I believe you would. How disappointing." He regarded her with more than a hint of malice. "I thought you had spirit, a sense of grandeur. It certainly seemed so that first night you dined with me."

If the captain was trying to get a rise from her, he had succeeded. His casual dismissal of her was more than her strong sense of pride could tolerate. Why was it that she cared what he thought of her, in spite of all her dignity and endeavours to recall her own superiority? She had borne enough for his sake, and Wendy felt her cheeks flush hot with indignation at this final humiliation. "My leaving is no more cowardly than your determination to stay. And for what? To prove yourself cleverer than a child? Is that how you convince yourself of your strength, your cunning? This entire charade is beneath you. I think it's become an indulgence for you, to satisfy yourself that you can fall no lower, that there are no further depths of degradation to which you can sink. There is almost a pleasure to wallowing in the darkness, far simpler than stepping out to embrace the world. You are a coward. Because if you allowed Peter to forget you for even a moment, then who else would remember you? Isn't this what you believe? That you have nothing, and so you try to destroy anything that matters? You speak as though you are fated, doomed to remain here, but you're not. It is simply a matter of choice."

Wendy laid her head back against the cold stone, exhausted by her outburst. The torrent of words had left her before she had given them any thought, but she knew them to be true. And Hook did not laugh, as he had at her other endeavours to appeal to his better nature. Instead, he inclined his head with a hint of bitter mockery, extending a long white hand. "Touché."

The silence between them was heavy with unspoken emotions. She could have endured ridicule, summoned eloquence against arguments, but this desolate acceptance unsteadied her. Wendy couldn't confront that nihilistic despair, didn't want to touch it. Every moment he seemed to want to share with her how cold and harsh his existence was, how fervently he wished for a way out. The loneliness and horror had become too much to endure, the pain of it like drowning in a deep dark sea. It was a suicide mission. First, to destroy Peter, and then himself. She recalled the words she had overheard in his cabin. Death and glory. What else is left in this blighted world?

He was contemplating the very real possibility of his own destruction and he seemed entirely undisturbed by the prospect. Try as she might, it was beyond her power to feel indifferent towards a man so hopeless. She truly was warm-hearted, for all her appearances to the contrary, and could not hold back the tide of feeling towards him, a kind of compassionate understanding. Pity overriding the brief flare of anger in her heart. Her low voice was very soft. "When did you decide that you have nothing left to live for?"

Hook was silent a moment. She had thought him unchanged by his experiences, but that wasn't fully true. Suffering had deepened him, brought an eloquence and richness to his expression that would have been elevated by nobility were it not being eroded by despair. He raised a thin dark brow, regarding her curiously. "Did you feel it, I wonder, when the crocodile appeared? That sense of resignation? Would you have died calmly, and with a smile on your face? Seven years ago I faced that same grim prospect. I would have allowed that creature to devour me without a moment's thought. But fate had reserved for me something far crueller. The things I have seen, the torments I was forced to endure – horrors, threats, inexplicable mysteries… Oh yes, death would have been sweet compared to that. I might live and breathe, but in truth, I am a haunted man. A ghost with a beating heart."

"So you simply choose to give up."

He flashed upon her a look so fierce that she was immediately silenced. The chill light hardened his features as he leaned forward, his voice cold and sinister. "You speak to me of giving up? You had given up the moment I found you. Tell me; how will you enjoy your dull marriage in ten years? Will you have resigned yourself to a state of domestic bliss? With children pulling at your skirts, clamouring for your attention while your husband drinks away his boredom? What of your happiness then, my dear girl?"

Wendy's grave expression did not falter. Nothing he said was worse than what she had already envisioned for herself. There was a distant wistfulness in her look, resignation in her tone. "It might not be exactly the life I want, but at least I am choosing to live it. You should do the same."

"Then what would you have me do, Wendy Darling?"

I want you to leave Peter. I want you to leave this place. I want you to love me, and most of all, I want you to live.

"I want –" she closed her eyes. "I want you gone." Out of Neverland, out of my life, out of my heart. But no, that wasn't true anymore. She no longer wanted to fight her feelings; she wanted to lose herself in them. It wasn't simply his appearance or his character that mesmerized her, but his tragedies blended with the hints of nobility, the shadows that lingered just beneath the surface. Had he been truly the image of perfection he appeared on the surface, she would have had no interest in him. As it was, she was bound to him, body, heart and soul. She could no longer look ahead, no longer envision what might yet come. All her future, all her fate, rested with him.

She stared entranced at his fingers; long, white, delicate, trailing in idle patterns along the ground. There was something darkly sensual in all his movements that captivated as much as disturbed. Too vividly she recalled taste of him; wine and musk and smoke, distinctly masculine. Wendy quickly glanced away, fearful that her face would betray her thoughts. He was inside her, beneath her very skin. Like a dark poison in the blood. She was almost faint with forbidden desire. How could she live like this? Wanting him so much that she could scarcely breathe with it? She slid further down the wall, knees drawn up protectively to her chest. Every shuddering breath she took was far too loud. She heard him shift slightly, but mercifully, he maintained his distance. Unwillingly, she looked up into those blue, blue eyes.

"So you wish me to live, but far away from you, is that it? So you can triumph over my humiliating retreat while priding yourself on a dishonour averted? Well, my lovely, perverse girl, I have no desire to make things so easy for you. You still mistakenly believe that my life is something infinitely precious to me. Let me assure you that there is nothing I care for in this world, that if it comes to my life or my vengeance, I made that choice a long time ago."

"I don't believe you. Do you think I don't know what pretending not to feel looks like? I have spent the last seven years suppressing every true thought and impulse I had, doing what others expected of me." There was real anger in her voice now. The overwhelming sense of betrayal that adulthood had not given her everything it promised, the despairing realization that cataclysms as great as fallen empires could reside in the breast of an outwardly commonplace woman. "You might feel miserable, but at least you feel something. Why won't you admit it? I would have given anything for just a moment, a flash of real emotion, for any sign that I was alive – even pain is better than apathy."

"You want me to admit that I feel? Very well. I feel, Wendy Darling. Oh, I feel – fear, madness, violence, hatred. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that worth living for? All is over with me. I played the game to its end, threw in my lot and lost. Now, to be trapped here – condemned to wait for my enemy to cast me down! One whom I would have killed in a heartbeat, were it not for –" He broke off abruptly, cold fury in the hard lines of his face.

Wendy found herself on her feet, shock almost trapping the words behind the tightness of her throat. "You found your conscience."

"No – something infinitely more humiliating."

The captain drew himself up with a slow, feline elegance. Subaqueous lights slid silver along the line of his exposed throat, glinting upon his buckled boots. There was something sinister about the way he stood in such silence, brimming with murder in the shadow of his clinging garments, his hook held aloft as though he intended to strike her down. The tints of azure illumined the cold gleam in his eyes and there was a hint of venom in his caressing voice.

"You, dear girl, have brought me to this. Dealt me the killing blow without so much as a stain on your pretty white hands. Would you like me to enlighten you?" He took a purposeful step forward, stopping just short of touching her. Wendy felt a spark of dread, a low, pulsing thrill that set her heart pounding wildly out of control. His expression was accusing, tortured, without hope, eyes deep and blue and fathomless as the darkest ocean. "This revenge had become a burning fire in my blood, and I gloried in the pursuit of it; nursed it like a blade to my heart when those cursed nightmares of the netherworld would have made an end of me. I expected to rejoice in my vengeance, and now, on the brink of its fulfillment, I find it hollow. I had him – precisely where I wanted him, had him by the sword and the heart – and then you, my beauty, must come stumbling onto my ship with your notions of conscience; prying into my doings and casting judgment and reproach on me from every direction. How you angered me with your courage and your contempt, and how I admired you for it! I was in the depths of obsession before I knew I had begun. I no longer knew which idea possessed me more – that of killing you, or claiming you. And now that I have you, do you think there is anything I wouldn't do to possess you?"

Curving metal pressed into the stone above her head, his proximity causing the blood to surge in her veins. Coldness and anger, yet there was a fierce heat radiating from his body, bound in muscle and leather, strong as steel. Her back trapped against the unyielding slab of rock, Wendy could not move. The surrounding air was heavy and charged as an oncoming storm, vibrant with static. She could hardly breathe through the thickness of it, as though she was under the water again, drowning. He was bearing down on her like a hail of ice, a wild, unstoppable force, and she found herself terribly afraid of what he was going to say. It would destroy her.

"Upon my soul, I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep; nor – what's infinitely more contemptible – think of any woman in the world but you. Yes, low as you have brought me, I love you – I'm maddened with love for you; I'm cursed – damned – to want you as I do, to adoration. I believe that even now, I would stay my hand for your sake – even at the cost of my own existence! But you, in your indifference! You would, in a moment, cast me aside for the sake of Pan, sacrifice me to the malice of my enemies without hesitation! So tell me again that I am a devil, that I'm detestable to you. Curse me, rail against me if you dare. Tell me how wicked I am."

Chapter Text

Sweet-blooded and I'm stranded
See if I can stand it
Drinking in the shallow water

Magnetic everything about you
You've really got me now

You do it to me so well
Hypnotic, taking over me
Make me feel like someone else
You got me talking in my sleep
I don't wanna come back down
I don't wanna touch the ground
Pacific ocean dug so deep
Hypnotic, taking over me

('Hypnotic', Zella Day)

- Completion -

Part II

The frozen silence sharpened to ice. Impossible aeons of time seemed to have passed in the castle, though in reality barely a moment had gone by. It could have been a lifetime. Wendy stood still as though she were carved in marble. His words had stolen the air from her lungs. Her legs trembled, a great weakness spreading throughout her body. And she was cold, so cold.

The captain's grip branded her wrist and she almost cried out at the sudden contact. His fingers were warm and hard where they clasped her, a bruising pressure. The touch seemed to resonate with an electric charge, a heavy sulphurous crackle like that she had felt the night of the storm out on the deck. Wendy could not help but imagine such a touch over the rest of her body. She realised suddenly with a thrill of apprehension how tall he was, how easily his strength could overpower hers, and her body tensed with something that wasn't quite fear.

A wreath of shadow fell momentarily over his face, then was chased away by the flickering light. His skin was so transparently pale it was almost possible to see his moods beneath. Fury and despair and a passion so deep it shook her to the core. She couldn't bear to look at him, instead staring blindly at the luminous gleams of azure and turquoise on the spiral stone staircase winding upwards, a hollow mockery of escape. Frantic thoughts whirled so quickly through her mind it was impossible to grasp any one clearly.

Low as you have brought me, I love you – I'm maddened with love for you –

Cursed… damned…

Still the echo of his words remained, resounding in the hollow silence. She couldn't listen to these things. As though loving her had trapped him in a worse hell than that which he had escaped. He was already half-maddened with torment and this last revelation seemed to have driven him to the very edge of his sanity. Far less dangerous to be hated by him than loved by him. Beneath the courtly veneer lurked a wildness, something dark and violent that could master her inner will without any resistance. Was she brave enough to confront the demons that lay within him?

Wendy pulled herself from his grasp. She folded her arms around her chilled frame, as though by doing so, she might somehow protect herself. Perhaps she truly was what she feared most – a coward – but all she knew was that she would willingly chance the depths of the sea again rather than listen to another word he had to say. Even now, with him stripped of all pride, his face frozen, paler and paler, he frightened her. He was overcome, humbled, brought low, all that Wendy had told herself she wanted. She should have been condescending, imperious, aloof in her moment of triumph, but instead she was more afraid than she had ever been in her life. She had almost comforted herself with the idea that all along he had been toying with her, manipulating her to suit his own dark ends. The reality was more than she had the strength to bear. Suddenly, she saw it all with painful clarity, everything that had happened over the last few days thrown into sharp, blinding relief. Beneath the ruthless and hard-hearted exterior, not once had he hurt her, not once had he truly punished her for defying him, even when she had tried to kill him… instead, he had cast himself as her protector, had saved her life twice… and through it all, she had remained stubbornly, wilfully blind to his actions. But he was so cold, so cruel – he kept threatening me and yet he did nothing – his words said one thing and his actions another – why didn't I see it before? I didn't want to… I couldn't bear it, because…

She knew why she had refused to see it. If she allowed herself to surrender – even for a moment – there would be no going back. She saw it all too clearly; the violence of love, the pain of it. She clung to the last remnants of her self-control. It was all she had left. She tried to say something, to find a rational answer to his irrational words. But her mind was in a fog, a howling wilderness. Wendy could not recall a single line or speech that had been taught her, the manner in which to respond to such a situation (for what guide of courtship or deportment could ever have anticipated this?)

With an effort, she summoned a sense of command over herself. When she finally trusted herself to speak, her tone was calm, but the words faltered.

"You shouldn't – you cannot say these things to me –"

"Cannot?" His eyes were pale with ice and fury. Wendy's spirit almost failed her at the flash of the pirate of old in his gaze, this ruthless man who took what he wanted, careless of the lives that stood in his way. "You dare stand before me and say that now? I warn you not to make the mistake of thinking you can treat me like another one of your flattering fools, to be placated with pretty words and demure glances. Remember who you are talking to, Wendy Darling, unless you need me to remind you. I'm not so far softened with sentiment yet."

Wendy's stately, finely-made figure shivered as though struck by a blast of arctic wind. Drawn up to her full height, standing on her dignity, it all meant nothing. It was as though she finally realised the magnitude of her feelings and all that it would entail. All her courage, all her resolution had blown away like ashes in the wind. How weak she was, how afraid. If he had looked into her eyes, he would have seen her shivering soul. She pushed away from him, the ground hard as iron beneath her feet as she moved blindly to the water's edge. The dark current passed swiftly by, rushing, rushing, yet not loud enough to drown out the clamouring voices in her head. She needed space. She needed to think. A mournful wind from the sea wandered in and out of the tunnels, reverberating around the high castle. The chill air ghosted across her bare arms and she shuddered violently. She wanted to run, hard and fast; she wanted to cry out for help, but who would hear her? Peter was far away.

Hook laughed, the sound magnified endlessly off the hollowed walls. "So that's your plan, is it? To wait me out? Even now you would put your faith in Pan and seek to be rid of me forever? How neatly that must fit your notions of justice. Yes, my dear girl, I know you well enough now, perhaps better than you know yourself. Bold you might be, with a resolution to rival any man's, but it doesn't make you any less of a cold, abrasive horror of a woman. You would see me cast back into the depths rather than confess a shred of true feeling. As for me, I may be heartless, but at least I have the candour to admit it and never pretended otherwise."

Wendy couldn't argue with him. Reason she could have fought with reason, but emotion rendered her powerless. It countered all her understanding of him. Her mind insisted that he was the enemy, that he had expressed no repentance, no remorse for all his acts of villainy. And yet he had a heart. Bitter, blackened, but still it beat beneath that hardened exterior. For you, whispered an inner voice wonderingly. It beats for you. Even the last few days had been enough to allow her to glimpse the terrible capacity for feeling within him. He was drowning in despair, in the depths of his own loneliness. It was too heavy, too dark. Awful, that she could not go to him, not even to offer some bitter consolation. But how could she? Even the softest touch was deadly. She would drown at the faintest sensation of his skin against hers. Was it such a crime that she sought only to protect her heart? His accusation of indifference cut her to the core. Had she truly been so cruel? And could she maintain that cruelty now, in the face of the dangers he had endured for her sake and the confessions he had made?

She turned back to look at him, her face very white under the spectral beams that flickered overhead. "It's not heartlessness," she said softly, "You know it's not –" She couldn't go on. It's the fear of losing myself, of surrendering all reason and rationality to a force I can't control –

And the captain moved, fast and sleek as a hunting cat. That lithe, graceful quality of an idling aristocrat, but she could sense the tension behind his narrow, elegant features. The light moved around him, ghostly and pale green. He was far too close, but she could not move away. A rocky channel of water lay behind her, cutting off all hope of escape. The sea was roaring hollowly in the distance.

Her throat was too constricted to form words. At his side, she could see the bright glimmer of silver. His eyes were half closed, but beneath the lowered lids she could feel his blue gaze on her, unrelenting. His head tilted to one side as he regarded her contemplatively, as though silently appreciating every inch of her. Closer still he moved, slow, deliberate, all the while never touching her. Wendy could only watch, bound in some terrible stasis before his approach. She braced her hands shakily against his chest. Leather, slick and smooth to the touch. Cool and damp, silvery trails of water slid along the tips of her fingers that seemed to move against him beyond her will. She felt his sharp inhalation. His mouth hovered a breath away. That uncertain, vast abyss that hung before a kiss. An ache of desire swept through her body. Her damp gown was terribly thin and the cold clung to her, luring her into the warmth of his presence. All she need do was lean forward –

Hook lifted a hand, slender fingers hovering a hairsbreadth from her face. Wendy flinched. Holding herself apart from that slow killing embrace. She would die if he touched her. One kiss, and she would be lost. Both fear and craving possessed her in equal force.

"Don't –" she gasped, "Don't come any closer. Otherwise I'll –"

"You'll what?" he asked quietly. His angular face was all she could see, his eyes full of cold light. A challenge in his smiling mouth. "Fight me off? I've no doubt of it. But you needn't fear for your precious virtue. I'll not give you what you want."

"I don't want –"

"No? Isn't this precisely what you wanted? To be forced against your will? To be coerced over the line and have the responsibility taken from your hands? Unfortunately, my dear girl, I am not inclined to be so obliging. I won't take the decision away from you. Not when there is something so infinitely delightful in watching your struggles. If you are determined to choose safety, then by all means…"

Wendy felt her breath come faster and faster. Her hands were gripping the silver clasps at his chest, torn between pushing him away and pulling him towards her. Her ribs seemed to ache with the effort of keeping her heart inside her chest. She had not planned for this. She had never wanted it. But in spite of all her efforts, he had stolen upon her, his tainted heart laying claim to hers, and now she was unable to shake herself free of him. She felt a deep and soulful longing, an emotion so intense there were no words to express it. She only knew that he touched something deep inside her, awakening a part of herself she didn't understand.

And this, thought Wendy, is what love is. When the heart moves too fast for the mind to follow –

A sigh unintentionally escaped her as the captain traced the line of her jaw with cool fingers. The caress softly travelling down her arched throat, lingering on the faint scar his hook had made as though in silent apology. "Even now," he murmured, "You cannot trust me."

Cannot? "I dare not," she answered.

She closed her eyes, silently battling with herself. Caught in the grips of this strange, tormented feeling. The dark intensity of his voice seemed to pull at her, down and down. And still his fingers continued to play about her throat, as though distracted.

"The strange thing about desire…" he continued, low and elegant and dangerous, "It always far outweighs the consequences."

She was almost beyond fearing the consequences. She was drawn to him like a tide that couldn't be stilled, even as she told herself she was betraying Peter and all that she had believed in so fervently as a child. Everything she thought she knew about herself. When had the boundaries between good and evil become so uncertain? How much simpler things had been when the name of Hook had been only a dark shadow in a nursery, when he had been nothing more than an enemy seeking to destroy her. Had she forgotten the great evil of which he was capable?

And yet – and yet – Peter had killed a man, left him bleeding on the deck, while the captain had saved her life. He had caught Peter, imprisoned him, and at the very moment of his victory, he had chosen to rescue her instead of carrying out his revenge.

He had chosen her.

Wendy's eyes opened, wide and clear. She had almost died, out there on the water. She had never before imagined dying, she in whom health and vitality had bloomed so naturally all her life. The idea of death had been a shadowy, distant thing, gruesome and nameless. And yet, out there amid the dark waves… she shivered. Were it not for him, she would have met her end. Alone and unloved. But another way lay before her. All that held her back was this stubborn, foolish pride. How long would she go on denying herself? No feeling could be worse than this wild force of misery tearing inside her. Was this the future she had envisioned for herself? Doomed to loneliness, her soul calling out to his across the long nights?

Enough, she thought. Enough of this silent torture, enough of my mad, miserable self –

She did love him. Deeply. Terribly. It was impossible to fight herself any longer. Let her to borne out to sea, let her be flung against the jagged rocks. She could endure anything but this awful stasis. Yes, she was afraid. But she was more afraid of turning away and never feeling anything again. She would not be that woman, harbouring bitterness and regret all her life. And so Wendy let herself go. For the first time in her life, she allowed herself to be swept away by desire. She moved closer. The captain said nothing, did nothing, simply waited. Waited as her hands traced the sides of his face, slowly drawing his head down to her. Then gently, tentatively, she pressed her lips to his.

Sudden energy leapt into his frame, like a swift flash of lightning. He buried a hand in her hair, his tongue brushing hers as he held her forcefully in place, sinking into the deepening kiss. His passion claimed her, became a part of her. Fingers touching bared skin, the bruising pressure of lips. She felt the sharp thrust of his hips against hers and cried out against his mouth, feeling his unrepentant smile. Then he had gathered her in his arms, lifting her up fully against him. He held her as though she weighed nothing, and the evidence of his strength, the coiled deadliness there, sent shivers dancing through her. Her arms went around his neck as she could only cling to him helplessly. Possessed with that feeling of wild madness that had overwhelmed her the night of the storm, an awakening, blood-pounding want that no reason could ever hope to suppress.

They spun fast. Her back came up against the wall with a faint thud. She saw the captain's gaze fall on the chains that trailed to the ground and a faint glimmer of amusement lit his eyes. Then the hard pressure of his hips pushing her back into the cold stone, wet skirts tangled high around her legs that clung to his waist, careless now of any semblance of propriety. She only gripped him tighter, wanting deeper, wanting more. Her hands caressing the sides of his face, tangling in his black hair. The taste of him like a full-bodied red wine, rich and potent. Deep and drowning, enveloping her in a warmth that heated her blood, melting away all her reserve. Every resonating touch thawing the cold that had soaked into her skin. Her heart strained in her chest, shackled to his.

Wendy swayed slightly as he lifted his mouth off hers. Laboured breath fogging the space between them. The shadows had lifted from his face; his eyes deeper and more darkly blue than she had ever seen, dark enough to drown out the world. And there, too, unmistakeable was the triumph and exultation of conquest. He knew she could not refuse his touch, knew that he had her entirely, that he could do as he wanted and she would not resist. Every inch of him alive and fatal, but she had thrown herself headlong into the path of fatality these last few days and knew the consequences. She had no illusions that he would be merciful, play the gentleman and respectfully retreat, leaving her uncompromised. This was to be a claiming. She also knew that had she been less proud, less resistant, he would not have been so relentless in his pursuit of her.

She could not endure the intensity in his gaze. Even as the captain set her down, he seemed unable to stop caressing her, slender fingers tracing cool trajectories across the sheath of satin gathered at her waist, sliding upward with tantalising slowness to the underside of her breast, and he smiled when he heard her breath catch. As he mercilessly held her gaze, refusing to allow her the modesty of looking away, Wendy was reminded again that his years of experience were worlds apart from her own and she was hopelessly out of her depth. She knew he was dangerous. And yet that very sense of danger was a heady thrill that held her in place. She had grown so tired of boys with their bashful glances and earnest, well-meaning courtesies. It was something darker her soul craved.

Her mind was cast back to that fateful night seven years ago, in the walls of this very castle, when she had looked on him for the first time with both dread and a strange sense of captivated longing. Had it always been there, this fascination, hiding secret and silent within her? All these years he had been in the back of her thoughts, a whisper, a dark promise, a delicious threat. Awakening every dream she had never dared to utter. And now his hook parting the stray damp strands of her hair, feeling his lips on the hollow of her throat as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along her skin, hot as liquid mercury. Through her wet clothing, it seemed there was no barrier between his fingers and her bare skin, and the sensitivity of her awakening flesh was almost more than she could stand. Her head fell back, unresisting, as he slid a hand inside the bodice of her gown. She was drowning under the melodic rhythm of those touches, cool and silken as water. When his mouth slid hotly over the tips of her breasts, she shuddered against him. Reflexively, her hands tightened in his dark curls, and he accepted the unspoken invitation willingly.

But still some lingering fear held her back. She was frightened by the depth of her feelings, a wild, unstoppable force that threatened to overwhelm her beyond all hope of return. He had awoken something inside her, something that once released could never be undone. She knew that he would never harm her, but she was afraid of losing herself, the independent strength she prided herself on. Wendy knew that the moment she gave herself to him, that all would be over for her. She would never be the same again. He held her fragile heart in his hand and this might break it entirely.

The captain seemed to sense her hesitance. He sighed softly, fingers lacing through hers. The depth of emotion in his blue gaze made her soul ache. "What is it you are afraid of?" he murmured, lips moving against her brow. "And no empty mouthings of morals or respectability. Is it me? Or yourself? Come now, where is that courage you have shown, that spirit for adventure?"

His words soothed her slightly. He had confessed he loved her, against his pride, against his will. In the face of all that, what had she to lose? I have been waiting twenty years for my life to begin, Wendy thought. A lonely girl at a window, watching the years drift by. She had grown up, seen what kind of future her country and age had to offer, but it hadn't been enough to fill the void, the emptiness in her heart. Neverland had returned, and given her a second chance to leave behind a life that was unsatisfying to her. Struggling to follow the constraints of propriety had led to nothing but dissatisfaction and heartache. Was she to remain trapped in that dull existence, miserable and resentful, afraid of what tomorrow would bring? To live in fear was to live in a cage, to be a slave. She would no longer be weak and frightened. No, she would rush headlong to meet life and all it could offer, whether it brought passion or danger or wild, impossible joy. She wanted to live, to grasp the world in both hands, let the consequences fall where they may.

Then Wendy laughed with relief, all fear falling from her. She felt light and careless and free. All her apprehensions had fled. When she lifted her proud head to meet his glance, her eyes were bright, her face flushed with a fever of exhilaration. It was the same wild, reckless look she had worn the night she confronted the captain in the storm and held a pistol to his heart.

She could feel his breath on her upturned face. Then his open mouth lingering tenderly over hers, his teeth pulling lightly at her lower lip, waiting for her to finish what she had started. She leaned in and kissed him deeper, tasting the sweetness of tobacco on his tongue. Passion resurfacing after weary years of superficial smiles and polite remarks. What a relief it was, Wendy thought, to stop fighting, no longer having to pretend to herself that she didn't want this, want him, more deeply and fiercely than she had wanted anything in her life. All the emotions she had felt in the past, all her childish loves and longings, seemed faint and shallow by comparison. His hand slid over her shoulders, down the arching curve of her back, pushing her harder against him so she could feel the full length of his body, the sharp angle of his hips a delicious, bruising pressure. Wendy was agonisingly aware of the separateness of their bodies, needing to close that space between them, to sink into his skin. She needed more – more of his kisses, more of those soldering touches –

His hand fell to her hip, steadying her against him. The contours of his body were tantalisingly hard beneath the layers of stiff clothing. But he was holding her at a frustrating distance, resisting her attempts to lean more fully into him. Wendy opened her eyes and caught a dizzying glimpse of midnight blue as he regarded the glow of colour in her cheeks, her heaving chest, the trembling of her arms thrown around his neck. His voice richer than velvet. "So you do want me?"

"Yes," she said, with no thought of denying it any longer, "Yes, you know I do."

Hook seemed almost amused by her entreating urgency. His cool control distantly angered her – somehow their roles had reversed. She had been dignified and remote when he had been the one in pursuit, and now, at the moment of surrender, she was breathless with need, reaching for him with open desperation, her body speaking for her in a way that her mind should never have permitted. Wendy had a feeling – gleaned from the tomes of moralistic texts and stern lectures – that it was somehow indecent to show too much eagerness, that a lady of her class should always hold something back, but Wendy was far less conventional than even she herself realised, and no one had told her how this would feel, so deep and all-consuming that she no longer felt the boundary where pain and pleasure blurred. It was both torture and rapture.

"Turn around," he said in that same low voice, and she obeyed without question.

She was trembling when his hand went to the laces at her back, incapable of rational thought or even drawing breath. Already she could feel his hardness pressing against the base of her spine, barely concealed through the thin sheath of damp silk that covered her. With a sigh, she allowed her body to arch mindlessly into his, silently marvelling at the sensation of hard and unyielding muscle, so different from the softness and trembling vulnerability she felt in her own body under his tender ministrations. The sharp blade of his hook braced against her side sent a chill through her, but her skin was burning beneath the artfully deliberate movement of his mouth over her arched throat. He scraped his teeth lightly across her skin, just enough to hurt, and Wendy's lips parted in shock at the sheer pleasure of it. This couldn't go on… he was expertly annihilating every defence and semblance of composure she had crafted against him, slowly undoing her touch by touch.

She felt the constricting pressure of the corset ease slightly as those aristocratic fingers worked at the intricate fastenings, and she felt a fierce impatience to cast the garment from her entirely, to be rid of these intolerable barriers. But the captain didn't appear to share her desire for urgency; his hook settled at the base of her spine, finishing the frustrating task of unfastening her laces, while his hand slid up and around her waist, teasing at her breasts through the drenched silk, the quicksilver heat of his kisses sending a dizzying wave of blood down to her lower body. Soon her legs would be unable to support her. The innate sensuality that lingered beneath his every action was drawing out the sense of anticipation to an agonizing torment. It dimly occurred to Wendy that he could simply have slashed through her laces with the sharp edge of his hook, but whether it was for her sake or his own, he was deliberately delaying that moment of gratification, rendering her almost delirious with wanting. She reached back blindly, hands restlessly clutching at his thighs, the surface of damp leather that met her fingers far from the bare skin she so desperately wanted to touch.

When he finally turned her to face him, the dress slid wetly from her shoulders, the chill fabric pooling around her waist. The lace trimmings, the tiny pearl buttons, all discarded. She eased her arms out of the delicate sleeves that hung in satin shreds – the deft handiwork of his cutlass, from that first night in his cabin (unimaginable, that she had not known where all this was leading then). Cold air hit her bare skin, sending a prickling over her entire body. Her breaths came fast and shallow, her chest rising and falling beneath his darkly appreciative gaze. Her hair, wet and heavy, slid over her shoulders. A flush crept over her pale skin as she stood before him, half-exposed. She had never seen his eyes so dark, the pupils drowned out by deepest violet-blue. It seemed to take the captain a moment to gather himself before he could finally speak.

"Wendy..."

She shivered uncontrollably. His voice, the way he said her name, as though he were caressing her soul. It called to her like a summons, and there was no fighting him. She had tried so hard to resist him, but now she could no longer remember why.

Instinct drew her to him, her hands settling on his shoulders as she examined the complex series of buckles and straps over his chest. She silently cursed the clumsiness of her fingers as she struggled to disengage him from the leather garment. A cold clink of metal as his belt fell away. The undershirt swiftly followed. His skin was cool beneath the slick wetness of his clothes; he felt hard and smooth under her tentative fingers. Wendy felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight of him, bare from the waist up, tall and muscled and lean-hipped. Beads of water still clung to the dark hairs on his chest. An interplay of light and shadow across his exposed skin. She had to touch all of him. The firm flesh. The cold metal.

She ran her hands over the solid planes of muscle in his chest and shoulders. Melting the ice in his veins. The captain held himself deliberately still, allowing her slow exploration. Only the rapid beat of the pulse in his throat betrayed any sign of emotion, blood pounding hot and insistent. Then the taste of him, salt and wetness, impossibly hard beneath her lips. How could she have ever thought him cold? Every inch of him was magnificent, fierce, vital. His strength fascinated her. The black hair falling wildly over his shoulders, the tattoo inked into his arm, the leather straps that bound his hook in place. She wanted to discover it all, never before so desperate to touch, to taste, to hold. Wendy felt a shudder pass through his frame when her fingers brushed the waistband of his trousers, lingering uncertainly at his hips, caught between desire and fear of the unknown.

Then he gripped her hand, placing it over his straining length, her reflexive grasp causing a groan to escape his throat. Her pulse and senses electrified as she cautiously traced the shape of him through the barrier of leather. Her breathing quickened as she looked up at him. His head was thrown back, eyes closed in abandon. A low thrill ignited within her. Had she the power to weaken him as he had her? She realised then that perhaps all was not lost, that there was still victory to be found in surrender.

She tightened her hold. The cold touch of silver suddenly halted her actions, gently drawing her hand away from him. "Not yet," he breathed hoarsely.

She felt almost delirious when he sank to his knees, long fingers braced at her hip, his hook leaving an icy indentation against the curve of her spine. He gathered her skirts in one hand, twisting the sheer fabric into a silken ball, leaving her legs exposed to the chill air. The searing press of his lips against her inner thigh sent a violent tremor through her body and Wendy clutched his shoulders, remembering the last time he had done this.

"Don't –" she said suddenly.

The captain looked up, a silent question in his eyes.

Her voice was barely a whisper, fainter than she had ever heard it. "I don't think I can stand."

In the darkness, there was a gleam of fierce exultation in his eyes that made her almost afraid. "Very well." And it wasn't the words she heard so much as the sound they made, like the brush of quiet velvet against her skin.

He pulled her down with him into the icy dark and Wendy allowed herself to follow, unresisting. There was something damp and soft at her back – his coat, a spill of claret brocade against the cold grey stone. Mirrored reflections shivered on the vast cavernous ceiling, silver and blue, flickering and iridescent, sliding over the softly shadowed walls. Then he was leaning over her, at last shed of all finery, white skin almost luminous under the ethereal lights. She could feel the hardness of him pressing against the flat plain of her stomach. Here? Wendy thought, in a moment of startled panic. That old sense of propriety stirred within her again, made her falter. Of all places, he couldn't possibly imagine… The last time, in his quarters, she had stopped him, but there was no stopping this… it had swept them both beyond all control. In spite of her faint reservations, she was trembling in anticipation. There was something thrilling and liberating at the idea of doing this outside the staid and proper conventions of marriage, a thought that set a flutter of delicious fear in her heart.

The captain sighed, smoothing his hand through her hair, the damp strands curling like silk threads between his fingers as he drew them softly away from her face. Echoing her earlier thoughts, he mused aloud, "I had thought to do this somewhere more seemly, but you weren't quite so receptive in my quarters. No matter."

Then the curving edge of metal was at her skirts, pulling the translucent satin down her legs in slow inches, gradually revealing her to him. She shifted uneasily beneath him, feeling a sudden urge to cover herself.

Hook laughed softly. "A little late to stand on ceremony now, my darling."

She felt the intensity of his gaze as he lingeringly took in every inch of her, something dark and primitive awakening beneath the glacial surface of his eyes, something so inescapably male that she shivered. Wendy felt her face warm with feeling and was grateful for the cape of shadow offered by the evanescent lights. No one had ever looked at her in such a way, with such immoveable fascination. She had always been a temporary amusement to Peter, a passing interest until his fleeting, wayward attention was caught by some new diversion. Never had she held anyone so rapt, so completely trapped in allurement. And now the captain was looking at her like a man in a dream. All irony and languid disdain had fled from his features; he was spellbound.

"Exquisite," he murmured. "You are…"

Wendy pushed a hand against his chest, struggling to master herself. The enormity of what she was about to do seized her. "Wait –" she said, breathless. "Will it – will it be safe? What if I –?"

He discerned her fear at once. "My dear girl," he said softly, "Neverland cannot create life. It can preserve it, prolong that which already exists… but beyond? Elsewhere I cannot answer for, but here at least you need have no fears."

When she finally nodded her consent, his mouth captured hers again and she sank willingly into the paralyzing depths of his kiss. Already her body was moving urgently beneath his, seeking completion. His caresses were an echo of hers, achingly tender. Moving over her skin like a soundless melody. Then lower, lower to where she was burning for him, lower before she could even find the words to beg. Sparking cold lightning in her veins. Fingers slid deeper. She melted, languid with longing. She was aching, pulsing, opening to that sweet stroking pressure. It was exquisite and it wasn't enough.

"James," she heard herself say distantly, "James, please –"

"Oh, I intend to. Do you think I don't know how to please a woman?"

Wendy's head fell back, her vision blurring to the great domed ceiling where the lights flickered with a galactic strangeness. She felt her mind spinning, falling away from reality. There was a roaring in her ears. Was there a storm outside? Or was it only her pulse, pounding, pounding…

Wendy covered her face with her hands, smothering the sighs that fell from her against her will. A moment later she felt the icy touch of his hook as he deliberately drew her hands away from her mouth, breath ghosting the metal as he trapped her wrists above her head.

"No, my love," he said, "No modesty now. I want to hear this entire castle resound with your cries."

She twisted the rich brocade between her fingers. She was aching, aching. So hot and so cold. He seemed determined to force from her every gasp, every cry and moan. All swallowed by the mist. Just when it seemed to reach that point beyond endurance, he withdrew, slick fingers tracing idle patterns along the silk of her inner thigh. A soft, urgent sound escaped her when she felt the hard line of him between her legs, pressing against her. Then so, so slow, he eased himself in, inch by torturous inch, groaning deeply as though he had been yearning for this for centuries. If there was pain, Wendy was barely aware of it. She could feel the tremors of barely-there control in his arms that were braced either side of her head, the deadly gleam of metal unnervingly close. His breathing was hard and laboured, his face contorted with something close to agony. Deeper still, and she drew a sharp breath.

Hook went still. "Have I hurt you?" he whispered against her mouth.

"It's alright," she said. "Go on – I want you to."

He started to move, slow and careful at first, allowing her body to attune to the overwhelming strangeness of it. Like softness melded to steel, unlike anything she had ever felt before. She was gradually losing all sense of herself, becoming an ethereal part of him. She kissed the pulse that beat hard in his throat, kissed the damp ringlets of black hair that fell over her face, kissed the sharp line of his jaw. The taste of salt and musk and tobacco, decadent and dangerous. Instinctively her body rose to meet the smooth motion of his hips, bracing her leg against his waist to better accommodate that feeling of fullness on the edge of sharpness, almost too much to bear.

But still he was holding something back. Wendy realised that there had always been this part of him, cool and quiet and controlled, that no passion or emotion had ever been able to touch. That sense of still, dark water in a silent cave, waiting to be stirred. His essence, his soul. She had to see him, truly, for who he was. With an effort, she dragged her mind away from the haze of purely physical sensations – the silken feel of his skin, the taut shift of muscles in his back beneath her hands, the delicious masculine weight of him bearing down on her at every thrust – and lifted her gaze to meet his piercing eyes. Finding that connection she had denied the existence of for so long. I love you –

Perhaps she said the words aloud, or perhaps her expression spoke for her, for a sudden ferocity convulsed the captain's features. His hook slammed into the fabric beside her head, dug in deep as he found a hold, his hand sliding down to lift her body against his hips. Her lips parted on a silent cry – the angle had him buried so deeply inside her that Wendy could no longer tell where she ended and he began. Each hard movement driving her down onto the ground, only a layer of damp brocade between her and the cold stone. He lowered his head and kissed her masterfully, never slowing, never stilling the demanding pace, and soon she could only cling to him, unable to concentrate on anything but the feeling of him inside her. Perspiration slid down her skin. Needles of heat shivered through her body and she felt the stirring of something, like the slow, deep build of thunder. She opened her eyes, determined to strip away all barriers between them. His face was rigid with need, his movements becoming more frenzied and out of control.

But still, he did not leave her. Reaching down, his fingers slid between her legs. It was as though he had touched the spark of lightning her body had been waiting for. The frantic beat of her heart raced faster and faster. The movements outside mirroring those within. Her chest was straining with passion, the breaths forced from her body; she was panting too hard to plead. That annihilating exhilaration rising inside her, a shimmering, distant point of light. She felt herself falling into the diamond blue abyss of his eyes. Then like ice, she shattered. She lay beneath him, shuddering and spent as she felt his body stiffen and convulse. His lips parted, eyes closed as his fingers tightened around her shoulder – blue and bruising – then he had collapsed bodily against her, breathing harsh, heart beating against her chest.

The aftermath now, and no sound but the murmur of distant waves breaking against the rocks, the occasional drip of moisture that fell from the damp walls. The water lay still as a sheet of silver. Wendy stared at the aquamarine light, enrapt by the way the rays slanted through the high-vaulted ceiling onto the reclining form of the captain, making the plain of his cheek glow. Even now, lying at ease, a touch of cruelty still lingered in the curve of his mouth, but the eyes beneath the sweep of dark lashes glimmered with an eloquence of deep feeling. He had fallen into a deep, cool stillness. She could hear the hypnotic rhythm of his heart, a pulsing melody like the sea. Wendy closed her eyes, recalling promises whispered in the dark and sealed with the touch of lips and the slide of skin against skin.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

She shook her head. He had found his discarded undershirt, draping it around her bare shoulders. The silk was blissfully cool against her flushed skin, almost as soft as the stray fingers weaving idly through her hair. This perhaps surprised her more than anything. Violence and passion she had come to expect from him, but this show of tenderness was startling, the idea that he could be gentle something she had never truly contemplated. She did not want to speak, fearful of shattering the peaceful silence. The serene quiet seemed to express more emotion than any words she had said so far.

"The tide has receded," the captain observed quietly.

Wendy sat upright, at once acutely aware of the ache between her legs. She glanced around the deceptively silent cavern, feeling a chill of disquiet. Reality threatened to intrude, grim and dark and foreboding. The dream had passed. Now it was back to uncertainty and danger, and she must be prepared. An attack could come from any direction. The retreating tide had left silver puddles on the ground, the hollow channels revealing secret passages that led into the dark interior walls of the castle. Wendy drew the captain's shirt tighter around her shoulders, looking at the owner as he lay back, his arms resting behind his head. His apparent unconcern only made her more uneasy, and it was no longer fear for herself that made her speak.

"What do you intend to do?"

"Nothing, for now."

"You know you're in danger. You have to go –"

"So eager to be rid of me? How merciless."

Wendy frowned, undeterred by the careless irony in his tone. "Peter will be coming for you."

"And so will my men. Indeed, they might summon up a marginal degree of competence and reach us first. And if they do, that will alter things considerably. Oh, the game isn't over yet, my beauty."

"A game?" she repeated disbelievingly. One of those long-subdued bursts of passion flashed upon her as she turned to him with real anger, anger at the realisation that even after what had passed between them, nothing had changed, that he was still hell-bent on destroying his foe. This dual personality lived within him; the fact that he could be tender and courteous with her did not mean that he was no longer violent and murderous towards those he considered his enemies. "This isn't a game, this is a matter of life and death. Do you know how exactly alike you and Peter are? Blinded by your obsessions to anything else that might bring you happiness. What is the matter with you men? Is everything just blood and sport to you? You will seize any excuse to go out and kill while your women sit patiently at home, waiting to wash the blood out of your shirts! And – you! You who should know better. Do you not remember where this particular game got you the last time? When you first brought me here, I thought I was dealing with a man who pursued Peter because he was heartless and cruel, and sought only to satisfy a deranged sadism. Now I see that I am simply dealing with another child who refuses to grow up."

The captain waited for her finish with perfect courtesy. His look had flashed from surprised to livid at the beginning of her speech, but by its end he had recovered something of that languid indulgence she had witnessed before. She caught the white gleam of his teeth as he smiled slightly. "I suppose it would have been terribly conceited to imagine that I had tamed and conquered you quite so easily. But I had hoped for a few brief moments of respite before the inevitable skirmish began again."

"Then you shouldn't provoke me," Wendy returned swiftly, but his evident amusement had awoken that rare sense of humour in her, and already she could feel the beginning of a smile forming in response to his. Yet she was almost annoyed at how easily he could turn the tide of her emotions. Had she truly forgiven him for all the terrible things he had done? She had steeled herself so firmly against him, looked on him with contempt, secure in her own pride and superiority, and now here she lay with her head on his shoulder, a dreaming softness in her eyes and lips.

It is one of those things, thought Wendy, that can never be explained. Something in the blood that draws one soul to another. Why it should be him beyond all other men was a mystery that likely she would never fathom.

"I was to be engaged," she said thoughtfully. How distant it seemed now. With what bitterness she had been resigned to her future, submitting with barely a struggle to what might have been a lifetime of misery.

"I'm well aware." The old, cruel malevolence turned the corner of his mouth upward. "I'm sure young Master Quiller-Couch would have proven to be an… adequate husband."

"Take care," said Wendy, with a note of displeasure in her voice. The old perversity and pride had not entirely left her, and whatever her own opinions of lovelorn swains might be, she was not prepared to indulge his. But his words had stirred a sudden memory, that first night he had come for her (I began to think you would never open the window...) She faced him almost accusingly. "How long were you watching me before you came to my window?"

"Never raise a woman to be intelligent," Hook muttered to himself. "There's no end of trouble that comes with it. Yes, I watched you, far more than you know. Watched, and waited. I thought perhaps you had forgotten Neverland, grown up and turned away from those dreams of childhood altogether. It was strangely gratifying to see that you were just as wretched as I. Had I not needed you for my own purposes, it would almost have been revenge enough to leave you to a life devoid of all meaning, where happiness would ever elude you."

Wendy silently thanked God that he had not done so. She had finally found what she had been looking for all these years, and the thought of going back to the vain, sullen, idle creature she had been before filled her with a sensation akin to horror. How could she return to the dull mundanity of convention after this? She would never stop yearning for something beyond herself. She was curious to see the world, to study it, to know it. Her eyes had been opened, her spirit given wings to fly, her heart unlocked from its cold prison. For the first time in seven years, she had tasted freedom, breathed it, being bound to follow no expectations beyond her own desires. She was weary of always having to say and do the right thing, of requiring permission to express even the smallest thought or feeling. Wasn't that where the delicious thrill of writing came from? That it allowed her to soar above the mundane, the practical, to a way of living where anything was possible?

Now, there was no pride, no shame. She felt at last that she could speak openly, without that constant restraint hovering over her. She didn't truly know who she was without that compulsion to curb her natural impulses, but she was curious to find out. "I don't simply want to be happy or content," she said slowly. "What I mean is that I don't want that weak, passive sort of happiness where life simply passes one by. Where's the satisfaction in that? I want to be active and alive; to have struggle and danger and excitement, to live life to its fullest. Do you understand that? There's a whole world that I want, and I'm not going to find it in Bloomsbury."

"My offer still stands. I could use a mind like yours. You would benefit me as much as it would benefit you."

Wendy regarded him with faint scorn. "Bloodshed and pillaging? You have little understanding of me if you think that to be type of adventure I crave."

"You are mistaken. The mentality of piracy suits your way of thinking. You think it all violence and mayhem, when in fact it requires a degree of intricate planning. Hours of assessing weather conditions, tracing navigational courses, planning landings and carefully timing how long one can afford to spend on a raid, knowing how to always stay one step ahead of the authorities, or where to carefully make your alliances… yes, there is the excitement, the danger, the thrill of winning, but it stirs the brain as much as the blood."

"We disagree on almost everything – fundamentally, I am against all that you claim to stand for –"

"So we are in conflict on many points. What of it? You might sway me to see the validity of some ideas, and I can convince you on the merit of others. You want activity and purpose – I can promise you that. Deep down, you know perfectly well that you and I are far better suited to one another than the passing fancy you held for Pan. We simply understand each other by nature."

She could not argue with him, and moreover, had no wish to. She was so warm, so comfortable, effortlessly content to remain in the present. They were, what they were meant then and always to be. Shared reflections glimmering opaline on the dark surface of the water. The shifting light like a whirl of galaxies, spreading out softly into the blackness. If we could stay like this for always, Wendy thought, and not go forward…

She felt them, twin souls intermingling, coalescing seamlessly... the interior of the castle faded to a watercolour blur of inky hues… His voice soothing through the drowsing darkness. "Sleep if you wish it."

She stirred faintly. "And you?"

"Sleep does not come so easily to me, Wendy. And when it does, the dreams it brings are no thing to be spoken of in the light of day. Yours are still the dreams of youth – cherish them, mundane, simple dreams though they might be. Not some haunted sphere of horror, a place hovering between the living and the dead. They come in flashes; drowned men and ghosts and demons of the deep, all mocking me with fixed, ghastly eyes, waiting to see if I'll reveal their presence in my waking hours. And I dare not – poor coward that I am! Foes I would boldly face if they confronted me in the flesh have me cowed and gibbering when they creep through my dreams at night, destroying my peace of mind until I know no rest."

"Then perhaps you have slept alone long enough," said Wendy.

"Indeed," he said quietly. "And I have no intention of doing so just now…"

The look in his eyes was unmistakable. As was the slow, red upward curve of his mouth. Her heart leapt, blood igniting as she read his intention. He is mad, thought Wendy, Mad, and reckless with the audacity of the devil himself –

"James –"

She was silenced by the tip of his hook against her lips. "Oh no, my dear girl. I've heard enough harsh words and condemnation from you for the moment." The blade traced a slow, cold line, following the path of his gaze. "Good God, was there ever such a mouth?" he breathed hoarsely, before leaning in and covering it with his own.

There was none of the urgency she had felt from him before; this was slow and pure languor, the self-assurance of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. She felt it should have made her indignant, this casual acceptance of her willingness, but his lips were trailing along the line of her collarbone, down to the shadow between her breasts, and she could only sigh with longing. The ease of the way his hand ghosted over her waist, too slow, too delicate, lifting her body to meet his, and Wendy found she no longer cared about anything else, sinking into a delirium of sensation. An irresistible yearning coursing through her veins, sweet as his fingers caressing softly. Hook regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes, taking in her arched torso and parted lips, and the sight seemed to gratify him.

"Lovely as you are, this time I'll not demand that you relinquish that control you seem to value so highly." Before she could question him, he had pulled her over the hard line of his body with a swift movement, her legs falling either side of his waist. She shivered at the chill touch of metal gliding across her ribs and leaned down, her soft light brown hair falling forward over his face. Marble fingers slid beneath the faded lace undershirt, stroking warmth into her chilled skin. Every touch promising an agony of bliss. Wendy was shaken by the depths of feeling stirred within her, placing her hands on his chest to steady herself. Did it ever stop? This wanting? The very sight of him was enough to unsteady her; lying in sinful decadence, coal-black hair dishevelled, the hypnotizing power of his blue gaze raised languidly to hers. She wanted him desperately, and what was the use of pretending otherwise? She reached down to caress his face.

He gripped her wrist hard. Wendy felt a moment of perplexity before she followed his gaze and realised what had disturbed him. The still black waters becoming troubled, dark ripples eddying outward. She knew what it was without asking. She could hear it for herself. Distant cries, echoing down the winding maze of tunnels. High voices. Young.

The captain's senses were immediately heightened, a bitter smile twisting his pale features. "It seems that fate is against us after all, my beauty." Ever prepared for action, he was already rising, easing the leather boots over his long legs. Shirtless, weaponless, he seemed more dangerous than ever as he stood there smiling, lips curled back from his white teeth.

"Well, what now, Wendy Darling? How do you intend to emerge from this unscathed, with a pirate captain at your side? Will you plead for me? But no, you do not care for me so much as all that. Betrayal is it then, to be left at Pan's mercy?"

"You know I would not do that."

"Do I? You've gone against me before without a moment's hesitation. I don't recall any qualms of conscience then."

"That was before. Now I have no intention of letting you die." The uneasy stasis of waiting had passed; she felt calm and decisive at the prospect of action. "There is still time," she said quickly, "The water has gone down – you can escape through the tunnels."

"You would have me run like a coward?"

"Yes, if it keeps you alive. Or does that not matter to you anymore now that you got what you wanted?" With shaking hands, she pulled the damp gown towards herself, stepping into the cold, clinging fabric. "You have another chance at life. And you would prefer to ruin it because of – what? Vanity? Pride? Be a man and leave the child behind. There is entire world waiting for you if you would only take it." Her slender fingers fumbled with the stays at her back, the regiment of tight laces fastening her back into those linen constraints that, for a short time, she had been blissfully free of – "What is it that frightens you more? Staying and dying? Or leaving and being forgotten?"

The shirt hung loosely from the captain's shoulders as he held his hook up to the failing light as though ascertaining its sharpness. The eyes that met hers over the glint of metal were cold and unforgiving. "You are asking me to give up my sworn vengeance, everything I have dedicated my life towards –"

"I am asking you to show that my desire for you to live is worth more to you than revenge. And if you do insist on having your revenge, leaving will ensure you the longest and most enduring form of vengeance there is."

"Oh? And what might that be?"

"Living," she said. "And finding happiness. Nothing causes our enemies greater pain. "

He laughed derisively. "Come, my dear girl, you're far too sensible for this. You know me well enough to have no illusions of what I am. Don't expect repentance or reformation from me. I'm not made to feel remorse for what I've done. Only for what I've wasted. I've been in tighter spots than this, and made it out in one piece – more or less." He grimaced slightly and Wendy could not withhold a shudder. She wondered if he thought his life had been worth the price.

"And what of Peter?"

"The devil can take Pan."

"He'll keep looking for you. He won't stop, unless –" Tendrils of cold closed around her heart and it was a struggle even to say the words aloud – "Unless you're dead."

Hook lifted a dark brow, contemplating her. "And you think you're the one to do it?"

"I can save your life," she said insistently, "If you promise me you will go –"

"Listen!" he said hoarsely.

She knew that sound. Deep and sonorous, the brassy, rhythmic strokes echoing off the very walls, clanging in time to the beating of her heart. Wendy felt herself turn faint and cold with sickness, and suddenly, she was back there again (alone, alone in the water and about to die), no, she didn't want to remember –

She pressed her hands against her pallid brow, trying to push away the memories, but even in the midst of fear her resourcefulness did not leave her. Perhaps this horror could yet be turned to their advantage. Instinctively, she stepped away from the water and closer to the captain, expecting any moment to see the ripple of green scales emerging through the waves. A powerful draft, bone-chilling and dank, rushed upward through the dark, and the monstrous gargoyles' leers seemed almost alive.

"Give me your arm," she said.

To her surprise, he did so without argument. Perhaps he already had a suspicion of what she intended. She began unfastening the leather straps, pulling the cords away from the tense muscle of his arm, bracing herself for the sight she had known was there all along. The steel was a part of him and she could hardly imagine him without it. The metal came away in her hands, and for the first time, she saw what lay beneath.

The scarred flesh had long since healed, sliced through as cleanly as a cauterized wound, but it didn't make the sight any less horrifying. In a way, it was worse than seeing Cecco's dead body, as this disfigurement was attached to the flesh of a living, breathing man. Wendy found herself staring against her will, caught between pity and revulsion. What must he have suffered with an injury such as this? Peter… Peter did this…

The captain remained unmoving. In the dim glow, the ripple of his hair was black as oil, casting a deep shadow over his face. He raised his head with the slow elegance of a bow, the latent gleam in his eyes daring her to look away.

"Do you think now that I'm not dangerous?"

Wendy said nothing. She didn't tell him what she was truly thinking – that having him cornered like this, so deliberately still, made him even more deadly and unpredictable. She shifted the hook between her hands, hefting its weight. An instrument he had used to maim, to kill, countless times. And now she was going to use it to save his life.

She pulled the shirt-sleeve back over the elbow of his good arm, holding the hook tightly in the other hand. The pale strip of skin was marked by bites that gleamed silver in the hollow gloom, and the thought of scarring him yet further stung her conscience. But there was nothing for it. Wendy pressed the point of the metal into his flesh, until a glowing bead of red appeared in a faint trickle. She heard the sharp hiss of breath as she slowly ran the hook in a deep gash along the width of his inner arm. His jaw tightened, but he gave no other visible reaction. She pressed the silk lining of his coat tightly against the blood welling from the cut, as though she were staunching the wound. Then she hurled it all; hook, jacket and leathern vest into the water. They watched silently as the garments floated away. She wondered how long it would take for the scent of blood to be detected, how much time they had before the crocodile's predatory instincts would be guided here. It did not matter. They would both be long gone.

"There," she said finally. "Captain Hook is dead. The crocodile had him at last. Peter will never look for you. You're free."

"Free?" The captain breathed a faintly bitter laugh. "Understand this when it comes to vengeance – one is never free of it. Only this level of mercy I will allow for your sake; I'll make for the tunnels that come out at Cannibal Cove, and if Pan is fortunate, our paths won't cross. But if I see him – if I even glimpse him – then down he goes."

She did not doubt for a moment that he was in earnest, but there was no time to argue with him. The cries were becoming louder; she could feel the reverberation through the very stones. Wendy cast a fearful glance at the iron grille that signalled the entrance of the castle. It remained closed, sealing them in, but such barriers meant little to Peter. He had overcome greater obstacles to rescue her before.

With a light bound, the captain had cleared the shallows, and stood at the threshold of one of the tunnels. He lingered at the entrance, a pale hand extended. Something close to desperation in his face, in his eyes.

"If you intend on joining me, now is the time. Will you be a fugitive as well? Shrug your shoulders at the future and prosperity, and cast all to fate and chance?"

Wendy did not move. She knew then, with an awful sense of inevitability, what she had to do. If she simply disappeared, she knew with a heavy feeling of despair that Peter would keep looking for her, he would not stop until he found her. It then occurred to her that one time she would have given anything for a sign of such devotion. This realisation made her so sad that she would have wept had she not grown up and left all childish things behind.

"I'm going to give Peter what he wants. The chance to rescue me."

"You'll go to hell first. I've lost my youth. I'll be damned if I let you lose yours as well."

And so it would go on, this vicious, unbreakable cycle. Even now, he was prepared to go down fighting. Vain and mad and proud enough to die. Something inside her faltered at the icy determination in his gaze. There was no time for this. Any moment now and they would be discovered. The Lost Boys were close enough now that she could hear the faint patter of footsteps. The echoes were thrown around; they seemed to be coming from all directions. Without thinking, she waded into the shallows, swiftly covering the distance between them, the water tugging at her skirts.

Before she could even find the words, Hook seized her hands and crushed them against his chest. His heart was beating like an iron fist. He looked intently into her face. There was a shade of reckless laughter in his eyes. "Be a stubborn fool then, but remember, dear girl, that you are a pirate at heart, and you'll realise it soon enough." He kissed her, hard and fiercely, cutting off her breath. She clung to the shirt collars that hung loose around his throat. I love you – I love you –

Wendy pulled herself away, shaking her head. "You must go –"

His hand tightened on her waist. "I'm already a condemned man," he breathed hoarsely, "Better to die with a blessing on my lips –"

He captured her in another kiss that was like dying. She momentarily lost herself in the sensual warmth of his body, the burning ice of his skin. His mouth, his hips, his arms wrapped around her, hard, deliciously hard. She could live on the rich taste of him forever. Time was passing too fast… she was not ready…

Then he was gone from her. She felt the cold rush of air filling the space between them, and a heavy weight settled over her heart. Wendy gazed after him, a fierce, tight burning in her throat as she watched him disappear into the darkness of the caves beyond. The urge to call out, to follow him, was so overwhelming it almost unsteadied her. It is over. The thing is done. There is no changing it.

She turned, facing the rocky channel of water that led out to the sea, and waited. A howling marine wind swept in from the tunnels, carrying with it the smell of salt and brine. She gazed down at the clear and immensely luminous water rushing by at her feet, and then above, at the dark solid walls, the great stone ceiling arching overhead. Even the damp chill of the air seemed somehow immeasurably dear to her, every place an infinitely precious memory.

"Wendy?"

Wendy. The childish whisper echoed around the cavern. All the years of her childhood were held in those two notes. Wendy.

He came drifting down from the high outer windows, the glimmer of fairy dust still clinging to his slender frame. She looked at him, this boy she could have loved, had he only made a different choice seven years ago, and grown into manhood. How different things might have been. She had thought that he would remember her forever. But she had grown up. The Wendy that had first come to Neverland with wide-eyed expectancy was gone beyond recall.

She had never imagined that there would come a time in her life when she didn't think of him – didn't relive all of their adventures, didn't tenderly recall every word and look that had passed between them, didn't long for the sound of his irresistible laugh or the touch of his childish hand in hers. Just a boy. Perhaps the only thing more painful than loving someone was the realisation that the love had faded. Why was it that things were so much sweeter when they remained lost? Had she never seen Peter again, her image of him would have remained faultless and unbroken. The reality of him lost in the wanting. But she had not the heart to shatter his illusions along with her own.

"Peter," she said. "Thank goodness you're here. You saved me."

"Where's Hook?" he demanded.

"See for yourself," she said, and was amazed at the calmness with which she spoke. Again, she heard that melodious whisper like a caress in her thoughts (a good storyteller is always a good liar…) No. She would not dwell on memories. The thought that memories might be all she had left made her feel like she was drowning again, the dark floodwaters closing over her head. Wendy shook away those morbid thoughts. He had simply escaped. Escape was infinitely better than death. Cannibal Cove, he had said. And beyond that? To his ship? And where to then? But she could not think that far ahead now. There is still time yet. Wait.

Peter silently took in the torn scraps of clothing drifting on the surface of the water. His bewitching eyes – impish green with flecks of gold – narrowed as he seemed to be listening intently for something. His tongue clicked to and fro, side to side, steadily as the ticking of a clock. "It's here," he whispered. And the face that lifted up to hers was full of disappointment.

"Dead?"

"Dead," she replied.

He threw his knife down with annoyance. Wendy realised then that rescuing her had been only half the adventure for him – his true desire had always been to destroy Hook. She wondered how she appeared to him now; no longer a playfellow or companion in imagination, but a woman for whom he retained perhaps a touch of fondness but was now and forever beyond his interest. She was not the Wendy he wanted; a young girl living on dreams, with a head full of romance, whose desires went no further than a waltz under the stars. And when he had appeared, a golden youth, every sweet quality and charm painfully heightened with the power of idealism, was it any wonder she had fallen for him? Her imagination of fevered fancy; uncertain and wayward, had attached itself to him like a falling star. Was she sad now, that she could not see him as she once had? Would she return to those blissful, heady days, if given the chance?

No. Cherished those memories would always be, held deep and dear in her heart, but that door was forever closed to her. Much of the unhappiness in this world came from trying to hold onto those transient things. She would never be the child she once was, and even in her girlhood, Peter had not been able to fulfill the unspoken longing within her. Emotions were fleeting and ephemeral, and love was something to be laughed at with scorn. He was a creature of pure impulse. Sweet and carefree, but the capacity for deep feeling would be ever denied him.

Tears blurred her eyes like the mists of the past. She had lost that unconscious ideal of him, that elevated image she had held in her heart for seven years, untarnished by time or memory. He could never live up to that grand illusion she had of him, and Wendy felt the long-harbored dream turn to mist, dispelling through her fingertips, and with it, the last of her youth. Some great shift had taken place inside herself, as though she had been living in an enchanted world from the moment she first met him, and now the veils of illusion had been stripped away, leaving nothing but clarity behind. A feeling of having lost something she had never possessed.

Wendy was aware of relief and a tremendous sadness. She had, at last, let go of her childhood.

Chapter Text

Two ships are sailing, the wind is wailing
An ocean awaits

Captured, this moment inspires us
To unlock the latches that bind us

Oh, and we will leave behind these fallen tears
For two will sail tonight
And here, here in this humble ship
I will make my home

('Albatross', Sarah Blasko)

– Epilogue –

Cannibal Cove, in spite of its name, was not threatening in appearance. Perhaps under the cover of darkness, there would be reason to fear the shadowy figures that slipped out from among the trees, but under the drowsy midday heat, all was stillness. The only disturbance was the sound of trickling water, where Crocodile Creek threaded its way out of the mountains and dense forest, winding down a steep channel of rock to finally join the sea. There was the pungent smell of dead crabs baking under the hot sun. No stretch of shade to provide any relief as the sands curved in a wide arc, finally culminating in great masses of black rock rising up sharply against the horizon, concealing the cove from any prying eyes.

The peace was disturbed by a solitary stray figure in white picking her way down the cove barefoot, tasselled skirts blowing out behind her. She held a hand over her eyes and squinted against the glare of sunlight. The bright heat warmed her back, dry seaweed cracking beneath her feet. The wind was fresh, blowing strong and steadily in bursts of energy and calm. The bright blue line of the sky occasionally broken by scudding clouds of the kind she never saw brooding over London – brilliant and white and billowing, casting moving shadows on the sea below.

The last few days had done wonders. It was no corseted model of feminine delicacy that trod with such firm and sure steps across the sands, careless of whether or not she was observed. She was freckled from brow to shoulder, a ruddy glow of colour in her cheeks. Dull brown hair was streaked with threads of bright gold, twisted in a heavy braid around the uplifted head, the bright red feathers adding a rakish gypsy touch to the ensemble. The disdainful curve of her mouth had softened, and even something of a smile lingered in the upturned corner where the kiss had once been. Seven years of isolation in herself had made Wendy proud, but the lively, expressive sweetness of childhood was revealing itself more and more by the day, and her imagination that had formerly been concealed behind the cold and haughty set of her features now appeared through the glimmers and brightness in her eyes.

There had been feasting and revelry for two days. Peter seemed to have forgotten what they were even celebrating as he threw himself into the heart and soul of the festivities, the brilliant force of his nature stirring everyone around him into a frenzy of irrepressible mirth. Looking at him, so lively and joyful, the glow of youth shining through his features, it was hard to believe that this very same boy had killed a man. But it was another instance of the darker side of Neverland that had been shielded from her childish eyes. Wendy knew him well enough by now not be to be too saddened at his frequently forgetting her existence. He would chance a passing remark her way, occasionally throw her name carelessly into his stories of how he had defeated Hook, but more often than not, she was a momentary diversion to be picked up and discarded at will. Having his attention was like being under the welcoming beam of the sun, and when he withdrew it, the clouds rolled over once more. She would no longer depend on him for her happiness. Both the Lost Boys and the Indians had taken her in as one of their own, lavishing her with kindness and gifts, and she knew she could have stayed with them as long as she wanted.

And yet… the peace she had experienced over the last couple of days had abandoned her, to be replaced with a low, anxious excitement thrumming beneath the skin, the expectancy of something about to happen. She had lain awake all night, breathless and fevered while Neverland slept, her imagination disturbed by the desire for action and images of a dangerous smiling face. Keeping a silent vigil, watching over the children in peaceful slumber, Wendy realised how separate she was from them now, how changed. The dreams that stirred deep in her body and soul had no place among such innocence. Welcoming as they were, that was not where she belonged. She had given up that vision long ago, and there was no use in chasing shadows. And though it galled her to admit it, Hook had seen the truth in his unique, discerning way. So motherhood doesn't fill you with the same delight as it once did? The children could be endearing, affectionate and playful, but just as often were loud, tiresome and violent towards one another. Wendy was fond of them, felt protective towards them – but she did not love them. To spend too long in their company was a strain on her nerves and her patience. Terrible as it was to acknowledge – hadn't she always been led to believe that the supreme purpose of a woman was to be a mother? – Wendy knew in her heart that it was not what she wanted. At least not now. Perhaps not ever. She was twenty years old. Her own life had barely begun – was she supposed to sacrifice it altogether in the interests of raising another? To bury her dreams and lock the drawer as her own parents had done?

She thought of her mother – whom she loved and idealized – Mother, with her silk-gloved hands crossed over the lap of her gown, a diamond broach fastened on the lace collar, shining tender eyes looking steadily out, so perfectly able to fill the domestic sphere assigned for her, with no doubts or hesitation –

Did she too harbor lonely desires in that serene quiet, never to be fulfilled? If so, not a word of complaint had ever slipped from her lips. She had been the perfect wife and mother, fulfilling every duty with impeccable courtesy. She would expect nothing less of her own child.

And this was what awaited her. Whether in Neverland among the eternally motherless children, or in London in the wake of an inevitable marriage. To be a woman in this world meant never to have a life of one's own. Thus far in Bloomsbury she had lived according to the expectations of others, yet in doing so, had disappointed herself. For years, she had carried that lingering sense that she was less than what she should be. It was only in these last days had she started to feel at last, truly herself. Perhaps that was why, even though two days had already passed, she still had not asked Peter to take her back to London. She knew that she would have to do it soon; that she could not remain in this stasis forever. Her place was not here – the last couple of days among the Lost Boys had shown her that – so to resume her former life was the only choice she had. It is over, she told herself sternly. You have had your escape, your moment of temporary release. Now you must return to reality and all that it entails.

The lofty ambitions that stirred her soul had no place in the real world. Besides, with whom would she share her visions? Aunt Millicent would never accept the possibility of a writer in the family, and her parents were too easily swayed by her strong opinions. Her brothers were at school. She had no real friends, only acquaintances.

Yet it was not loneliness that Wendy feared – her imagination had always been a worthy companion, more tolerable by far than the people that surrounded her – no, it was that feeling of inactivity she dreaded, that stifling, useless apathy. To have no labour, no task of any meaning to occupy her idle hours save to be decorative and pleasant to those who addressed her. To be confined to the household, with only wifely duties to satisfy her soul and all it yearned for… no, it was unendurable! She did not want her life to stand still, but to be moving, always moving.

But in the meantime, the warmth of the sun on her skin was agreeable, the sound of the waves soothing in their regularity, and she would not feel guilty for wishing to draw out the experience just a little longer. In spite of her dissatisfaction with her way of life in London, it was not Wendy's natural state to be melancholy, and just being at liberty among these scenes of nature was enough to restore her high spirits. Light-hearted and careless as a child, she capered along the shore, laughing at the delicious shock of cold as she ventured into the sea, hopelessly trying to keep pace with the tide. The water surged and eddied, rushing into the furrows of sand between her feet. She watched as the sun drew swirling reflections in the wet sand, the glittering light catching off –

Wendy looked closer, amazement catching in her throat.

It cannot be…

Sudden tears stung her eyes as she bent down and picked up the tiny object, wiping away the sand that covered its hard casing. The acorn she had thought she would never see again. Wendy pressed the keepsake to her heart, filled with both painful and longing memories. Hardly daring to breathe, she opened the locket and her eyes fell on the gold brightness of fairy dust encased within.

With a sudden rush, she realised that she could fly again. That she had happy thoughts once more. After long years of harbouring only misery and regret, slowly wasting away in bitterness, these past few days had brought her to life. The wild exhilaration of adventure, the joy of knowing what it was to rely on herself, breathing the fresh air and feeling herself at last, truly free –

(And deeper still, held close in her heart, the memory of a hidden place, caresses on her skin in the dark, gazing into eyes of the deepest and most soulful blue…)

She held the key to her return in her hand. Yes, she could go home.

The question was, did she want to? She felt restless and excited; her heart beat strangely and her hands trembled. She had the lingering, unshakeable sense that there was something unfinished, as though she knew that she was waiting for something. It trembled in the very air, through the soles of her feet, in the hush of the tides. Was she really ready to renounce all this? She had finally started to live again. What was the meaning of any of it, if she merely turned her back once more, resigning herself to that silly, frivolous butterfly existence when she knew there was so much more out there?

Her fingers tightened around the acorn. She could pretend she had never seen it, fling it back into the sea and no one would be any the wiser.

But no. A decision had to be made. Her footsteps left prints in the sand as she wandered distractedly up and down the narrow strip of beach. This would be her last time walking these shores, for she would never set foot in Neverland again. A part of her would linger, certainly; the child running barefoot through the forest, crouching behind the trees as she watched the fairies dance, or placing a cautious toe in the aquamarine waters that bordered the Mermaid's Lagoon. And later memories of a girl – still not quite a woman – standing on the deck of a ship, feeling the morning sun upon her face and shoulders, breathing in the freshness of sea air for the first time in years. Swiftly come and gone, those fleeting memories, ephemeral as the lights flickering inside the walls of a castle, falling on the bodies of two entwined figures in a stolen moment. The time had not been wasted, for she had known herself to be happy, and there was nothing to regret. Her only fear now lay in looking forward, though she rationally told herself that all women must submit to such a lot, and indeed, many did so far more stoically and gracefully than herself. And had she not in these last few days experienced more than many had the opportunity to feel in a lifetime? It still did not ease the ache of longing in her heart, though she must turn with all her strength to face the life ahead of her, and see that she could not strive and make the best of it. Her future might not be a happy one, but she determined to keep misery at bay as much as she could. It was not necessarily a great comfort, though the waves surging against the pebbled shore brought their own kind of calm, and the sparkle of the sea against the sky in the distance suggested that things as yet unimagined lay over the horizon, and not to despair.

Her roaming feet had brought her almost to the end of the cove. The uneven wall of stone rose threateningly above her. Even under the bright midday sun, there was a hint of danger in the sea; mountains of green ice at a distance, crashing in great white plumes against the surf-worn boulders. Wendy made her way closer with a sense of fascination, skirts gathered in her hand as she began to climb over the slippery tumble of rocks. The sea surged in eddying channels, a rush of white foam settling salt spray in her hair. She blinked through the haze, standing on a smooth ledge, and when her vision cleared, she saw a ship lying at anchor, almost fully concealed by the rugged wall of rock on the edge of the cove.

Wendy felt no surprise on seeing the Jolly Roger. In her heart, she knew she had secretly come here expecting or hoping for this very outcome. Through the rippling of the distinctive black flag, she could discern a tall, dark figure standing on the deck. The sunlight caught the silver in his ear. His arm hung over the side of the ship, a glint of cold steel peering beneath the lace at his sleeve.

Wendy felt her heart banging in her side. A hand went to her braided hair, as she felt self-conscious suddenly. Then her mouth came down at the side with determination. She made her way forward, knowing full well he had seen her long before she had been aware of the ship's presence.

If she had surprised him with her boldness, the captain made no sign of it. He waited until she had drawn close enough that the shadow of the vessel's domed side fell across her, then observed calmly, "You must have taken leave of your senses to come back here."

"Perhaps," agreed Wendy, lifting her head to meet his inquiring look as he gazed down at her from the distance of the deck. "But I might say the same about you. I wonder that you've not put a thousand miles between yourself and Peter by now."

"Oh, I intend to. And if that infernal crocodile hadn't rendered my ship nigh unseaworthy, we would have made off sooner." He continued to watch her, indolent and amused, while Wendy's fingers began to thread nervously through her tasselled skirts. He had not lost the ability to make her feel utterly disarmed in his presence.

"Are you simply planning to stand there? Or are you coming aboard?"

The rope ladder tumbled over the side of the ship, disturbing a couple of gulls that took off with a wailing cry, wheeling and circling overhead. Wendy looked contemplatively at the ladder a moment as it swayed slightly in the breeze. Was she afraid? No, only this feeling of breathless expectancy that set the pulse dancing in her neck and wrists. She caught the rope in both hands, tossing her straying curls of hair over her shoulder, and set about the ascent without hesitation.

She managed the climb with ease, stopping only briefly to pause for breath, and jumped lightly from the rope ladder and landed aboard as though she had done this many times before. But in fact this was the first time she had boarded the ship as anything other than a prisoner. The realisation was a strange one, and it brought with it a rush of exhilaration and happiness, for it seemed as though she belonged and had somehow earned her place here among these men, who were scarred and battle-hardened and unafraid of hard toil. She was a different creature to the cold, stiff girl that had come here only a handful of days before. Wendy shuddered to think what might have become of her had the captain never come to the window.

The sun streamed brightly onto the deck, the wooden boards newly-polished. She could hear the wash of white foam against the stern. The air was fresher up here, brisker, the keen smell of salt stinging the senses. Mr Smee was on hands and knees scrubbing the floor of the deck, but rose to greet her, wiping his hands on his stained apron as he came forward. His face had reddened slightly behind the beard.

"I meant t'thank ye, Miss. Nasty business that with the mermaids. Would've made an end of me if ye hadn't -"

Wendy smiled. "Think nothing of it."

The rest of the crew paid her little mind, other than a few curious glances. But there was an air of excitement pervading the deck, the expectation of new waters about to be chartered and realms to be discovered. She wondered how long they too had felt imprisoned here, bound by the venomous whims of their captain. Perhaps Cecco would have had more luck in stirring up a mutiny than Hook was willing to admit. But thinking of Cecco brought back too many painful memories. She had not liked him, so that was not the reason why the image of his body brought with it rising tears and an aching head, and she drearily wondered whether it was the fate of all women to be so weakened by such sights while men could look upon a corpse and shrug their shoulders at the necessity of the deed and move on without sentiment. Perhaps, she thought with a sigh, London truly was where she belonged and anything otherwise was merely self-delusion.

She found the captain gazing out to sea, leaning against the side of the deck with an aristocrat's confident grace. He was dressed in a loose white shirt, a touch of lace at the open collar and billowing sleeves. His black hair fell loose and curling over his shoulders. He had been smoking, for the faint scent of tobacco clung to his hair and garments, spicy and aromatic.

And, because he did not seem inclined to speak, she broke the silence. "I've been among the Indians."

"I can see that. You look utterly ridiculous in those clothes. I rather think I preferred you roaming my decks in scraps of pirate garb and your hair over your face." His gaze moved over her in that old, lingering manner and Wendy felt a rush of shivering heat. She should have known that the awakening of her body and soul in the Black Castle had not been the end of something, but only the beginning. The mocking disdain in his face when he spoke of Charles Quiller-Couch had been a clear warning that she should not expect such pleasures from her marital life should she choose to the pursue the course of a dutiful engagement. And in truth, looking at the captain, she could never imagine wanting anyone else so deeply or intensely that her entire body trembled with the force of it. She could still recall the feel of him under her hands, the tensing of his muscled shoulders, the taut power in his lean frame, the languid slide of his hips against hers… and, most stirringly of all, the sensation of him coming utterly undone. All those elaborate courtesies and smooth irony stripped away, rendering him raw and fierce with need –

Hold on to those memories. She would have need of them in the long years to come. I have been alive, she thought. Nothing and no one can take that from me. Yet it did not ease of the pain of what she had to say.

"I came to say goodbye."

"Did you?" His refined, courteous tones betrayed nothing.

"You know I can't stay here. I have to go back."

"Back to London?" he said, and her cheeks burned with humiliation at the faintest hint of scorn in his voice.

"I must." Wendy knew it was true, but she was no longer sure why. "In spite of everything I might have said, it doesn't alter the fact that it is still my world, my life. There are people expecting me. My family are there, my –"

"Fiancé?" Hook responded sneeringly, with a derisive curl of the lip.

"He's not my fiancé," she said in a low voice. Hurriedly, she went on, "What could I expect if remained here? Every moment since I arrived, there has been nothing but violence and danger –"

"You didn't seem to mind not so long ago. Are you so easily daunted, Wendy Darling?"

She felt her blood rise at the provocation. So, he thought her a coward. Or worse. And sudden humiliation and anguish flushed through her that he must consider her a mere child at play, that all this had been little more than a game to her, a silly escapade that once over could be happily forgotten as she returned the safety and comfort of her normal life. Did he truly believe that all this had meant nothing to her, that all those things she had yearned for and discovered could be so easily cast aside?

Hook had turned away, resting an arm idly against the polished lip of the deck, his gaze falling indifferently on the far horizon, where freedom glimmered, waiting expectantly. "Then again, perhaps it is for the best. After all, you do have a remarkable instinct for trouble."

He fell into a brooding silence. Wendy looked out across the vast expanse of water to where the cliffs rose high, obsidian stone glittering in the midday sun. The keening wind beat about her hair and shoulders, stirring the waves into white-tipped crests. The air was all alive, trembling and rippling in visible folds, the scent of it sharp and unforgettable, carrying the trace of salt and gun-smoke and fresh forests. It was not the world, but enchantment, and she wanted it all. To feel the sea-air on her skin and watch the world spread out below her. She wanted to breathe life in – to embrace it – rejoice in it. She wondered when it was that civilization had first intruded on happiness, when simply to love and know freedom had no longer been enough.

And what of the humdrum world of London, with its smoke and its noise and its endless swarms of people, all lost in loneliness? That was not her home, nor ever had been. She wondered how she could have borne it these long years; the suffocating cloak of grey air, the roar of omnibuses and coarse shouts amid the smog-filled streets – or worse still, the idle, frivolous chatter of drawing room gossip, the whalebone confines of a pearl-studded corset pressing against her lungs and the bright, ornate, unbearably empty rooms. Let others be burdened with the trivialities, the mundanity and superficial nature of society. Such worldly things did not touch her soul. No, it was passion, excitement and certain danger that she thrilled to. This place, Neverland, it was a part of her. How could she leave it? Something inside her had never forgotten. She felt a sudden, convulsive pain in her chest. I cannot do this… I must be mad to let him go… Her heart was being torn in two. How was she ready to make such a choice? She would never be ready to turn her back on him. She would give up all her former life if he asked it of her. The realisation was a terrifying one, but worse still was the knowledge that he would never ask. I won't take the decision away from you. Not when there is something so infinitely delightful in watching your struggles.

Her heart and her mind were telling her two different things. Rationally, she knew what must be done. Perhaps if she had been born a boy, things would have been different. She could have rolled up her sleeves, thrown herself in with a hearty laugh, and washed up on the shores of England years later having merely run away to sea during a wild and rebellious youth. But women did not do these things. They had reputations to consider, and the door of society once closed was closed forever. This has been a dream – a beautiful dream – but now I must wake up and return to reality. She thought of the expensive town house in Bloomsbury, all of those things that were known and familiar. The household objects, the little day-to-day rituals. She had a place there. People who would miss her. She felt a pang at the thought of John and Michael. And Mother, dear Mother whom she could never bear to disappoint. They all had such expectations of her. It was the right, the sensible thing to do.

Then why is my heart telling me I am wrong?

On the one hand lay duty and obligation, on the other…?

She felt a longing to open her arms wide, to be possessed by that wild, mad exhilaration that would envelop her like the eye of a storm. Perhaps this was the greatest mistake she would ever make. Yet was it not better to regret the deed rather than merely the empty longing of it? Even if it came to grief, at least she would have the satisfaction of having known the experience rather than suffered the dull agony of forever wondering. Her mind was drawn inevitably back to the Black Castle, when she had cast aside all lingering doubts and thrown herself into the passion that awaited. Would she go back and change what had followed then? Not for the world. I would far rather regret the things I do – foolhardy, rash and reckless though they might be – than the things I could only wish I had possessed the courage to do.

Wendy glanced down and realized she was gripping the side of the deck with white-knuckled hands. Her body was seized by a tightness – in her hands, in her throat –

The captain sighed, seeming to stir himself from his own private reverie. "You'd better step down before we start to move."

"Then you are leaving?"

"Oh, yes."

Wendy was silent for a moment. The warmth of the deck under her bare feet was pleasant, the caressing breeze stirring her errant tendrils of hair about her shoulders. She lifted her head to the bright sky and felt the heat of the sun on her face. She had the overwhelming sense that this was contentment, this was life as it should be lived, that everything one needed was aboard this ship.

She turned to him, keeping her voice deliberately light. "What direction are you headed?"

"Wherever the winds take us. Perhaps south to the West Indies, stopping to make port at Jamaica; perhaps swept north, over the edges of the world into new and undiscovered oceans waiting to be chartered. But I'll not take you back to London, if that's what you're thinking. I do have a reputation to maintain. I only capture maids; I don't return them afterwards."

"I'm not exactly a maid," she told him. "And I have no intention of going to London."

The captain's hand clenched with a sudden, violent convulsion. He flashed one of those piercing looks on her, the force of which almost unsteadied her. A glimmer of something hard and bright and real. He was stripped down to the bone, raw with emotion. She wondered how long he had been alone, how long since anyone had tried to penetrate that wall of ice and discover the man beneath. Then he appeared to master himself slightly as he drew a breath, never taking his eyes from her all the while. His voice was carefully casual. "There's no peace, no familiar ties, no comfort in the life I'm intending to lead. You'll have no security from one day to the next. You would be expected to work as hard as any of my men, whether it be labouring on the ship or putting that mind of yours to good use. I told you that piracy is a hard existence, one that offers up far more dangers than rewards, and I imagine it's doubly so if you're accustomed to the soft living of the city."

Wendy laughed. "I'm not one to be cossetted, if that's what you mean. I can handle myself perfectly well without your pandering to my needs. "

"Will you still be so certain when my moods threaten to blacken me, when I give you gifts of stolen goods, or when I kill the man that provokes me to violence?"

"I'm willing to take that chance, if you are."

"Careful, dear girl. I'm almost beginning to believe you might love me."

"I do love you," she said, and wondered why she had agonised over this declaration for so long. Of all the risks she had taken, all the times she had recklessly chanced her life and flung herself into danger, nothing had daunted her as much as the prospect of saying those three simple words. And, as with all fears when they were confronted, she felt a lightness within her, as though some great burden had been lifted. The weight of secrecy that had been a constant trouble and torment now gone, scattered to the four winds.

Her declaration had silenced him momentarily. His eyes were cold as a frozen sea as they narrowed on her closely, as though his gaze could prise out all her innermost thoughts. His hand made a half-motion towards her, when an impulse seemed to hold him still. His voice was low; a disinterested observer would never have guessed the weight of emotion that lay beneath.

"And what of Pan?"

"I have said my goodbyes to Peter. He'll neither care nor remember before long. He can move on from the past; I think it's time I did the same." If she sounded callous, it was only because she could not put into words how much Peter had meant to her – not only Peter, but all that he had embodied. It was her own childhood she was saying farewell to. All of those former dreams and longings faded to the distant recesses of memory, to be dwelt on with an odd, nostalgic tenderness in those rare private moments. But she also knew the reason she had clung so fiercely to the past – she had believed that she had no future. How much easier it had been to look back when the prospect of looking forward had filled her only with dread. But now, life had opened in a myriad of endless possibilities, new dreams unfolding in her vision, unbounded save only by the limits of her own imagination.

Hook did smile then, slow and triumphant, and she knew why. He had won at last. Could she begrudge him his moment of victory in the face of all he had sacrificed for her sake? "I have given you fair warning. But no, I can see you are in earnest. You have that damned stubborn look on your face."

"My life is my own, and I am determined to start living it."

"Very well; come with me and you'll find stories enough to your heart's content, you may be certain of that."

Wendy only smiled, for this thought had occurred to her already. Her smile brought forth an awakening gleam in those ice-blue irises and his features hardened with intent. That one look stole her breath. The surrounding world seemed to recede into a howling void. All her complacency fled as the captain took a step forward, placing an arm either side of her, trapping her against the side of the ship. Her heart had frozen, thunder and lightning crashing distantly in her ears – then he was gone, only a breath of air whispering against her parted lips.

There was a hard shudder of movement, and suddenly around her all was action. Cries, men running to and fro, the flapping of ropes in the strong wind. Hook was calling out orders as he strode back and forth across the deck, master of his domain. The great wheel spun, its spokes glittering in the afternoon sunlight. Below, the waters met and surged in a frothing of surf and foam, the spray rising thirty feet into the air before streaming out behind in a furious channel of white as the ship cut through the sea. The great wall of black rock was receding as they started to move away, out into the open waters.

Wendy leaned her elbows on the side of the deck, watching the majestic departure. Above, the sky scudded with white clouds was of a pure and a brighter blue than she had ever seen. And below lay the great, tumultuous motion of the sea, a light immensely luminous aquamarine that reflected darker shadows beneath its surface. The sails whipped and billowed in a clanking of chains that anchored the ropes in place, high winds stirring the surge that raised the frigate high, its ploughing progress parting the waves in great crests that stretched out immeasurably, far back to the shingled shore.

Neverland was disappearing, yet for the first time, she could leave it behind without grief. There was such a lightness in her heart and body that it almost seemed she truly had taken flight. A sudden thought struck her, and slowly, Wendy drew out the acorn on its chain, holding it out in the palm of her hand. Carefully, she opened the locket, watching as the golden stream of fairy dust was released into the air, stirred and eddied around in the breeze before disappearing in a glittering trail into the far beyond. Some other girl would have need of it now; another lost child leaning out of a window, longing for something beyond the mundanity of ordinary life. Peter would appear to her, offering a hand, a dream, an adventure. Her own childhood was over, and she would no longer stand in the way of others experiencing all the excitement and joy of Neverland. So she pocketed the empty locket, yet resolving always to keep it close and dear to her heart.

There was not a trace of regret in her eyes when the captain returned with a lightness of step and vigour that seemed to be youth reanimated within him. "Here," he said, and slid the cold barrel of a pistol into her hand. "If I am to make you a member of my crew, you will need this. You might not use it today, nor tomorrow, but one day you will."

"Are you not afraid I'll use it on you?" she asked archly.

"The thought had crossed my mind. But a man risks his life to know that he is alive. And that, my dear girl, is the allure of piracy, simply put."

Wendy tucked the pistol into the waistband of her skirt, the new and unfamiliar weight one she would have to get used to. She had seen enough to know that he had not lied about the dangers that awaited. Every time he ventured abroad, the captain was armed to the teeth; cutlasses and rifles and pistols, and this from a man who had defied death. Beneath the languid, careless exterior, he was ever tense and expectant, ready for an assault at any moment. And equally prepared to be the aggressor and take his enemies by surprise.

"And so you truly have turned your back on Peter," she said wonderingly.

"For the time, though do not expect such acts of mercy to be commonplace. The first thing you need to learn is that a pirate deals in death, makes it his art. It might be riches and adventure that impel us, but murder is always a viable means to an end. The only difference between Pan and I is that I understand this game has consequences. I'll not kill a man unnecessarily, but neither will I held be held back by sentiment." There was a cold light in his eyes and his mouth thinned with derision. "Have I appalled you? No, but you have shown yourself be fairly ruthless, though only against me, it seems."

"I sought only to protect myself."

Hook smiled, a cunning, callous thing. "And are you in danger now?"

Was she? Certainly not from him. He had not lied to her, nor forced her to do anything against her will. For all the darkness that lay within him, the merciless pragmatism, the contemptuous disregard for compassion, she could not truly say that she feared him. Be that as it may, she thought, I will not give up my conscience for you, James Hook.

A hand under her chin. Cool fingers lingered on her jaw as he looked earnestly into her face. "I will not hurt you," he said quietly. "But I will hurt those that would."

Wendy did not doubt him. She had loved blindly and naively before – she would not do so again. The lesson had been a painful one, but once learnt, could never be forgotten. It would not be easy – but then, where was the satisfaction without the struggle? Weren't all the best things worth fighting for? Her morals would clash against his, undoubtedly. She would defy him, betray him, scheme against him… and sometimes perhaps even acknowledge when there was sense in the things he said and did. She was confident enough in her power to believe that her will was more than a match for his. Had she not challenged him ever since she had come aboard his ship? And still he wanted her. Twice she had tried to kill him, and twice now he had saved her life. This man who had given up his life's ambition of revenge simply because it did not please her.

His would never be a face that showed tenderness naturally, formed of sharp bones and forbidding lines, an expression of complacency set on his haughty features. The nose was thin, with curved nostrils, his eyes gleaming and narrow. And yet in those blue depths stirred a longing for understanding, for the recognition of a kindred soul in a lost world. It was that strange likeness which bound her to him. She had not come here to save him or redeem him. She had fallen in love with him as he was, and she was here simply because she wanted to be here, to take life into her own hands. Unknown to herself, the old look of superiority had returned to her calm face, the set of her strong jaw firm and decisive. "Here is where I can find my freedom."

"I wouldn't count on it. I intend to take you to my cabin for the next twenty-four hours and have my way with you."

He snaked an arm around her waist, drawing her irresistibly towards him. Wendy braced her hands against his shoulders, feeling the tendons rigid as steel in his neck. She could feel his passion, like a rising dark tide, and shivered in anticipation. Her heart beating wildly, she held his gaze, silently willing him to kiss her. The chill touch of silver at her jaw, tilting her head up, closer, closer, yet still he would not give her what she wanted. Instead, his hand fell to her waist, fingers entwining in her skirts, gathering the material between her legs. A sigh escaped her, and Wendy realised how tightly she was gripping the watered silk at his throat. His eyes had darkened, turned challenging, stormy, dangerous. Piercing cold on her burning cheek, turning her head to the side as his lips found the curve of her throat. Her eyes fluttered shut with something close to delirium. Was this torture? Punishment? Or seduction of the most exquisite kind? Her mind fled back to the darkness of the Black Castle, recalling how slowly he had drawn out each sensation, awakening feelings within her she had not known she possessed. The heat of his mouth melting into her skin. His fingers were stroking a slow rhythm that set her breathing ragged, clutching his upper arms as she sought to draw him closer to her. She needed the heat of his body, the strength, the hardness. The pleasure that bordered on pain –

With a suddenness that both startled and thrilled her, the captain had backed her up until she felt her spine collide sharply with the mast, the breath forced from her body in a rush (just like that very first night he had kissed her under the howling elements and wild black rain). He caught her questing hands, pinning them above her head, and she saw the red flicker of a smile when her wrists writhed half-heartedly in that enchaining hold. The helplessness still made her shiver slightly, the idea of surrendering all control, but she had made that decision to let go – to step into the blue. And she was not alone. She saw through the languid cavalier exterior, right through the ice to the flame that burned within. His mouth covered hers before a word of protest could escape. Possessing, claiming, marking her as his. Wild and furious, the beating of his heart against her own. Overpowering as a fierce undertow, one she willingly surrendered to, allowing herself to drown in the dark, evocative waters. She felt her body sink into his hold, submitting without resistance as he kissed her slowly. "I want…"

Hook pressed his forehead down, pale eyes locked on hers but lips too distant to kiss, as he whispered, "Tell me, my darling. Tell me what you want."

"I want you more than I can imagine. More than I ever thought possible –"

She arched into the sudden metallic grip on her thigh as he braced her leg against his hip. Cold and sharp against her bare skin, it drew her into the inviting warmth of his body. Rich scents of tobacco and wine drowning her senses. The press of a leather-booted leg between her own, the exquisite pressure of it, caused his name to escape her lips in a sigh of longing. It was branded on her soul. James. Her trapped hands ached to touch him, twisting within his unrelenting fingers.

The captain paused, drawing back slightly to look at her intently. "Say it again," he commanded quietly. "Give me the satisfaction of hearing those words once more."

Wendy knew at once what he meant. Still somewhat unwilling to let him assume all mastery over her, she toyed briefly with the idea of resisting until she saw the entreating flash in his eyes, of fathomless yearning. Then his leg moved, cool leather sliding between her thighs in an agonisingly slow rhythm. Heat spread across her cheeks and her lower body, and the words left her in a rush –

"I love you."

It was all he needed, releasing her hands from his icy hold and pushing her back harder into the mast. He groaned and buried his face between her breasts, his cold burning lips pressing against the thin barrier of material. Her hands came down to his head, sinking into his mass of dark curls, holding him to her. Pride was still strong enough within Wendy to feel a thrill at the realisation that a word, a mere touch from her could render him wild with need. The steel-sharp edge of his hook pushed the sleeve of her garment aside, baring her shoulder, more bare skin for his seeking lips. "I ache for you," Hook whispered, deep accents hoarse and ragged against her flesh.

Wendy could not deny she felt the same way, but still she cast an anxious glance around the deck. This time, there was no cover of night and storm to hide them. "Your men –"

"The men have gone below. Now we have set a steady course, they will sleep the afternoon away. Hang them all to hell, you are the only thing I care about."

Wendy met his searing blue gaze. "Then take me to your quarters and show me."

Later, much later, as the sun was blazing in a fiery descent over the horizon, Wendy opened her eyes drowsily, content for a moment to lie against the warmth of his chest, secure with the weight of his arm flung possessively across her waist. The porthole window was a glow of red and gold, illuminating the dust motes that danced within the cabin. It was smaller in here, more intimate than the grandeur of his living and dining quarters, yet his taste for finery was still apparent. Polished dark wooden paneling curved around the walls on which rested shelves heavy with books. A miniature dressing table sat beside the bed, while an elegantly carven writing desk dominated the opposite wall. Plush crimson carpet covered the floor, and above, the delicate crystal-wrought chandelier swung over the bed. The creak and surge of the ship was soothing, and she let her fingers trail idly across the silk coverlet, never before so willing to appreciate her own senses.

Beside her the captain lay still, and it seemed impossible to imagine that amid the strength and menace in his muscled form that was evident even in repose, he could be capable of sympathy and affection in loving. Here, he could be selfless in a way that was never shown above decks. Every murmured word, every kiss, every touch a melodic symphony of understanding. In those moments when it seemed his passion was too fierce, his need too violent, his midnight blue gaze would meet hers, silently entreating her trust. And she had given it absolutely. Still some of the old constraints of her former life clung to her, impelling her to wonder whether there was something unseemly in wanting him as deeply and fervently as she did. But when the alternative was to feel nothing at all? The regular sound of his breathing, the wild disorder of his black hair across the pillows… these were things to be treasured. Was love like this for all people, she wondered, and if it were not, what a sad state for the women who would never know there was something better out there, the unique combination of wild exhilaration and utter peace. Wendy tried to reconcile the conflicting feelings within her. Half of her felt as though she were on the edge of a terrifying precipice, yet the other half was as calm as though she drifted in still waters, gently soothed by the ripple of the waves.

And only a few short days ago, she had been cold and alone. It is not living to feel only regret, always looking back. She was tired of only reading the stories of others and not living her own. She wanted to experience everything, to not lose a single moment. With that thought in mind, Wendy rose, wrapping the bedsheet around her, silently appreciating the sight of the captain as he lay sprawled across the bed, and made her way over to the writing desk. The first drawer revealed stacks of paper and calligraphy pens, and she felt a surge of pure satisfaction. Here she could write to her heart's content, and she intended to. Her words a voice for all the disenchanted souls out there, a chance to live a hundred lives and set them all to paper. Every adventure and discovery to be immortalized, because to capture a moment of happiness meant that one would never forget it. Returning to each page like uncorking a bottle of perfume, the memory rising up like a scent that evoked a moment of childhood.

She curiously opened the second drawer, pulling out a leather-bound notebook, smooth with wear, its plain and unremarkable appearance at odds with the rest of the exquisitely furnished cabin. It was the captain's log. Wendy flicked through the pages idly. Notes on the wind direction and sailing conditions… until she turned to the most recent entries.

An irksome child would have been far preferable to this haughty, spoilt creature that sits aboard my ship. Was there ever a more unlikable specimen of womanhood in existence? Cold and condescending, she never opens her mouth but to utter a criticism or some further unpleasantness on my character. I find myself quite loathing her. Would that these three days were past and my foe was before me! I taste his blood in my pleasanter dreams and his death cries serenade my imaginings like the sweetest of music. Yet in the meantime, I must sit, and wait, bound by the terms of this frustrating wager. Oh, I intend to abide by it. A gentleman's word once given should not be so lightly cast aside. I would not have it said that James Hook is a man entirely without honour. I will tolerate her trying presence, though there is little pleasure in it.

And yet there is, it seems at times, a certain – grandeur about her. That she despises me is quite apparent, yet she appears unable to resist engaging me. Very well, I'll accept your challenge, my beauty. Should you wish to cross your wits with mine, we'll soon see which of us will emerge the victor. What say you? Shall we see what your naïve, persistent, gallant courage can do against a mind black with cunning and ingenuity, a vengeance that knows no bounds, and an experience that stretches lifetimes? And you still claim you do not fear me? Then do your worst, dear girl, and we shall see how it fares against mine.

Some further unrelated notes followed, then several pages later:

Does she not know that defiance and resisting my orders will merely provoke me to greater extremes? I would call it insanity but for the calm way she sets about her counter-attack, meddling in my affairs with methodical diligence. I shall have to watch her more closely. Not an entirely unpleasing thought, as she is lovely, certainly, in a cool, serene way that almost goads me into breaking down that barrier of aggravating stillness. And for all her disparagement of her own sex, there is something exquisitely feminine about her. How it would offend her delicate sensibilities to learn of the licentious thoughts her presence inspires! Yet I am not so weak as to become distracted by such worldly charms. Indeed, she is so cold I hardly imagine the conquest would be worth the effort.

Then, why this restless, persistent craving that burns the blood? It is not sentiment – perish the thought. I have been a wedded man several times – once for curiosity, once to help the girl escape her tyrant of a father, once after aspirations for a title and the last time out of mere boredom. I believe love played little part in any of those ventures. And this time, it is vengeance, a chance to utterly destroy the one thing that Pan ever cared for. There is no other reason why I would consider… but then, why not? Is she not beautiful, utterly within my power, and – dare I believe – not entirely unwilling? And no, it is not mere vanity that prompts such an observation. For all their arts in dissembling, there are few women who can truly hide their evidence of desire – often because it is so rarely aroused. Those little flutters, the exquisite bodily tremors, the following of the eyes and revealing flush of the skin… all those physical betrayals so reminiscent of fear. And so she is a woman, after all! How appallingly inconvenient for her. And what a stroke of fortune for me. That inner struggle is a delight to behold. And I cannot deny there is something deliciously untouchable about her. She possesses a world of knowledge – and no experience. How I shall relish changing that. What a triumph, to have her begging at my feet – not as a prisoner entreating release, but as a woman willing to do anything for my favour. I am quite determined to have her.

There were several paragraphs that followed, scratched out and indecipherable. Then –

And yet she is clever – confoundedly clever. I find myself almost afraid of her. That she dares look at me with that damned composed face, while I know full well her mind is forming schemes against me is enough to drive me to madness. Her body might yield to mine without much resistance – lovely as it might be, it truly is the weakest part of her – but it is no longer enough. It is her soul I want – her proud, stubborn, reckless soul – and I almost believe I would let the world drown to possess it. What last, bitter irony is this! I have come too far now to risk all my carefully-laid plans coming to naught. And yet some treacherous inner demon whispers it would be almost worth it to – but no, by thunder! No woman will be the undoing of me. Nothing will turn me aside from this course. Whatever chance of life I might once have had passed long ago, and revenge is now my sole master. All else is a shadow to me.

By the time she reached the final entry, that slanting, elegant hand had become disordered and at times, close to illegible, seemingly reflecting the state of mind of the writer.

What hold has this woman over me? I – to whom love had never been more than an idle amusement, to be thus brought down, and at such a time of crisis? My traps are laid, the snares all in place for Pan to fall into – and for what? By all the furies of Hell! Better to have cut her throat at once and had done with it before she ever set foot on this wretched island. But I'll not see her harmed – that's the devil of it. In truth, she is safer aboard my ship than anywhere else in Neverland, not that she'll ever know it – nor would she appreciate it even if she did. Blind ingratitude! Is it possible to hate as equally as one loves? Her resistance only hardens my resolve, for I am forced to resort to such stratagems and contrivance, because now to win her, in spite of all obstacles – what a victory it would be! A victory over myself, is the cursed reality of it. She has me conquered, for I see her miseries as though they were my own, and it brings me no joy. My heart – my heart beats for the first time in years, has turned traitor on me. Would that this hook could cut it from my chest and fling its blackened remains into the deeps! What dreadful things emotions are. Why must they insist on hurting one – and torturing me with that cruelest thing of all – hope.

"See something of interest?"

Her heart thudded in shock and she spun round a little guiltily. The captain was lounging against the pillows, stretching out his legs as he watched her lazily. "I see you've not lost your propensity for going through my possessions. Must I hoard all my secrets under lock and key?"

Wendy came over to the bed, laying the journal between them as she sat down beside him, neck arching slightly as his hook toyed with the loose waves of her hair. She sighed with pleasure.

"I was not deliberately prying."

"No?" The hook slid downward, curved metal tugging the silken sheet away from her chest.

"I saw your desk and thought to write something, as you were sleeping."

His jaw suddenly clenched as a shadow passed across his face. "Believe me, when I sleep, you'll know of it. I imagine Smee could regale you a tale or two of his unrewarding watch. Steelier nerves than his would baulk at such a duty. Sometimes I'll sleep as one dead, but there will be nights when you'll have to drag me from the darkest hells, when I curse and damn you and all creation, when I'll not recognise your face and naught but a bottle of brandy will restore my senses and sanity. Many a night I've woken up holding a pistol to my heart, the desire to end it all stilled only by the fear that in death, I would be flung back into that netherworld for eternity. Be under no illusions; leaving this place might diminish the horrors, but the things I saw will haunt me to the end of my days."

A convulsive shudder went through him, then he turned still, still as death. There was that bleak, far-away expression on his face that appeared whenever he spoke of those seven years, as his mind went back, gone to a place she could not follow. A tortured, lonely, haunted soul. Wendy saw the ache in his heart and silently vowed that if she could not exorcise the ghosts that possessed him, she would be damned if she didn't try. It was still strange to hear these confessions from a man who had spent so long denying all claims to sentiment. He had fooled the world, and yet...

She took his hand in both of hers and gripped it tightly. "I have faced real monsters since I set foot on this island. I am more than willing to wrestle with phantasms. Your ghosts and spirits cannot hurt me."

For a moment his unseeing eyes remained vacant, terrifying. Then he shook his head, as though by doing so he could cast off the thoughts that tormented him. "Enough of such dreary musings. There will be time enough to dwell in such places. Come above decks and see the last of the sun."

"I have no shoes." Then she smiled slightly for caring about such things. "But then I suppose I'll have to abandon such luxuries for the foreseeable future."

"Not entirely. I'll have you dining on the richest foods and drinking the best wine, give you books as rare as priceless jewels if you wish it." The captain offered her his hand with a show of exquisite courtesy, an ironic smile playing about his lips. "Did I not tell you that villainy and finery could go hand in hand?"

The ship moved as silent and gracefully as a shadow through the dark waters. The deck was streaked in fiery hues from the setting sun that slanted through the sails, an energetic wind casting lashes of spray on the billowing canvas sheets. There were a few men engaged in duties when they emerged; on becoming aware of her presence, they saluted her awkwardly, behaving with an odd sort of gallantry, self-conscious under the eyes of a woman.

"I believe they are afraid of you," observed the captain. "Not that I blame them. I believe their own mothers could not have instilled such a sense of fear in them. How stern you were that first night. I'll never forget the way you looked at me over dinner, as though you had never seen such a low, contemptible creature. Tell me truthfully, did you despise me then as strongly as you made it appear?"

"I was afraid of you and I did not like you. But it was contempt for myself I felt most strongly. That I really was as vain and selfish and useless as I had always feared. I thought you must despise me."

"Oh, I did. But not nearly as much as I wanted you. Whether it was revenge, gratification or anger that drove me blindly onwards, I determined to have you. But I had not counted on the feelings that would follow, that secret, furtive sympathy that fuelled my obsession. You have proven to be my weakness – just as you were Pan's. That alone is the reason while he regales in blissful ignorance, and I am here – sailing away from him."

Wendy rested a soft white hand against his face. "Sometimes there is strength in walking away. If neither of us can find happiness in the worlds we left, then we must create our own."

"So my being here is not merely incidental, a way for you to see the world?"

"I cannot have one without the other. Both are equally essential to my life."

"Life," he whispered, as though the word were something strange and unknown to him. "I had forgotten that such a thing existed."

"If that were true, you would still be in Neverland."

"Aye, hurtling onwards to my own doom. Misery has been my long companion, and death would have been a boon, had you not..." he sighed, and she felt his jaw turn rigid beneath her fingers. "I have lived on revenge and starved my soul for it, a part of me still that dark, dead thing beneath the water. Is it possible, I wonder? That after so many years, you could drown my demons? Strange as it is, I believe you capable of almost anything."

He looked at her and there was something in his glance; the power of it almost frightened her. It was that emotion that had been steadily building between them ever since the night he had appeared at her window. A feeling beyond love, beyond passion. It seemed to lay its fingers on her very soul, causing her to shiver with breathless delight. Wendy still did not fully understand that part of herself he had awoken. It was too vast and dizzying to contemplate. The depth of her feelings towards him was boundless, unrestrained, almost terrifying in its disregard for limits.

She leaned over the edge of the deck, fingers running over the smooth, varnished wood. The black sails whipped and sang overhead, the rigging blowing about in frenzied delight. The wooden boards were warm underfoot from the hours of afternoon sunlight, cooled only by the plumes of salt spray tossed upon the deck. She inhaled the heady scent of tar and leather, and from the kitchens below rose the aroma of cooking, meat stew and vegetables and freshly baked bread, things that were hot and vital and wholesome. This, this was living, this embracing of the present and anticipation for the future, to feel strong in herself and loved, to have a purpose. And all this, she thought, belongs to me, for I have claimed it and made it a part of me, whatever may come.

And the captain, she had claimed him too. Perhaps they had always belonged to one another, both adventurers and fugitives in their own way, seeking to escape the constraints that bound them. She had felt it even when she loathed him, that flicker, an awakening glimmer of kinship, of understanding. Finding another spirit disillusioned with the world, the joys of youth having passed by, bitter at life and trapped in an existence from which it seemed there was no escape. Denying all true feeling, consumed by loneliness, by the conviction that there was no one in the world that understood. She had prided herself on her independence, on her self-enforced solitude, all the while denying the truth that her entire being was crying out to her. That life without a soulmate was tragic and empty. Her hands wanted to reach out, as though to prove he really was there, that this wasn't a dream. But more than anything, she wanted to thank him from rescuing her from the utter stagnation of her soul.

She could feel his gaze on her, eyes deep as the stillness of a tranquil sea. "Is it everything you hoped for?"

"More than I dared allowed myself to imagine," replied Wendy, entranced by the sound of the white billows crashing against the helm of the ship.

"And you have no regrets?"

"Only that I allowed myself to wait for so many years instead of listening to my heart and taking what I wanted."

"As I thought," Hook murmured, voice rich and deep with gratification, "You do have the right temperament for piracy, after all."

"Then allow me to have been right about you also. You are a man of feeling, however you might wish to deny it."

She felt his hand descend, a grip tightening around her waist as he leaned down and whispered darkly in her ear, "Only for you, dear girl. Only for you."

The sunset cast its blood-hued rays far out on the wine dark sea. His arm settled comfortably against her side, her head coming naturally to rest on his shoulder. She could smell the salt spray, feel the force of the wind. Turning her face away from Neverland that lay behind, and facing the unknown shores yet to come, it seemed that she felt the warmth of a southern breeze on her skin, could taste the tang of rum and hot sands. Her heart leapt with the stirring of adventure, breathless and exhilarating, and Wendy smiled as the ship plunged into the blue beyond.

Fin.