Stars (Wendy Darling #1)(70)
“Peter . . . Kitoko.”
“I know,” he said gently. “That went differently than I expected it to.” His face was honest, bewildered, and a bit distraught. He tilted his head as he looked at Wendy with curious eyes. “Was the blood too much?” She nodded weakly, her stomach churning inside of her. She wondered if she was going to be sick. She heard the shouts of voices as hundreds of Lost Boys ran toward Peter, their laughter such a foreign sound after what she had seen. The boys that had been with them began unloading the wine, bags and bags of bottles, giving the bags to the younger boys. Peter leapt up.
“Oy! Take those to the Table and store them in the back. No one opens the wine until we’ve mourned Kitoko and Darby!”
The Lost Boys froze. A skinny boy with caramel skin and tousled brown hair stepped forward.
“Kitoko is . . . dead?”
Peter nodded sadly before climbing up onto the ledge. Wendy remembered the first time she had seen Peter talk to the boys, preening and triumphant. Now he was solemn, his hands crossed in front of him, reverent and sad.
“Kitoko gave his life for the Lost Boys you see beside me. Smith wanted them to return, and Kitoko stood his ground. He died for his brothers. He died being a General, and in his last moments, he confirmed why I picked him for General. Kitoko was brave, intelligent, and selfless. And though he wasn’t the type to share much of anything”—the boys gave a soft, sad chuckle—“I think he wouldn’t mind if I told you that he had become a Swift. Three days ago, Kitoko was given the gift of permanent flight. He wasn’t ready to share yet, being as shy as he was, but we had spoken of it last night, that it was time for him to take his place beside me, publicly.”
Peter’s eyes filled with tears. “Pan Island is not going to be the same place without Kitoko. Or Darby. I grieve alongside my other Generals—Oxley, Abbott, John.”
John. Wendy’s head jerked up and she found her brother, standing smugly at the back of the boys, arms crossed, trying hard to not look pleased at his inclusion in Peter’s speech. Wendy felt a weight lift off her chest. He is safe. Thank God. The little git. From here he looked so much older than the last time she had seen him. Perhaps it was the confidence that radiated out from him, and for a moment she was glad for him. Her brother, finally accepted by his peers, finally proud of something he had done. Perhaps the bitterness would melt from his personality. He looked over at Wendy, and she weakly raised her hand. He rolled his eyes and turned his gaze back to Peter. Perhaps not. Peter was going on about Kitoko now, where he had found him, and his early exploits as a Pip. The crowd was both laughing and crying, except for Oxley, who was sobbing openly into his hands at the back of the room. Michael was holding onto the bottom of his shirt. A blinding pain shot past Wendy’s eyes, and she winced. Peter’s voice carried out over the boys, a wave of comfort, cradling them all in his confidence.
“Where do we go from here? Well, even I’m not sure. From here we mourn our loss, and when we are done mourning, our grief will turn to anger, and soon the tears will be those of Hook’s men, the men who did this. We will have our vengeance, and as we take it, we will whisper their names . . .” Peter’s voice dropped low as he whispered, “Kitoko. Darby.”
The boys joined in, whispering their names again and again. When their whispers grew loud enough, Peter drew his golden sword and pointed through the tree. “Grab your lanterns and head to the beach, to mourn our beloved General and our friend! And then we will feast!” Wendy watched silently as the train of boys began to snake its way down to the beach, a moving cloud of dust that quickly became one with the dark leaves around them. Suddenly, the island felt very empty, and as she looked down from the huts, she was struck by how sinister a place could seem without the laughter of boys. She stepped softly behind them all, lost in her thoughts, ignoring the headache that pressed against her temples. The boys were out of sight now, and she stumbled over her feet, unable to forget what had happened at the Vault. Barely thinking, she made her way to the side of one of the platforms, winding her way through the rope walkways until the sounds of the Lost Boys and Peter’s stirring speech faded into a dull buzz. She stumbled, her mind flitting between Kitoko’s face, Peter’s emerald eyes, and the fountain of impossibly red blood that had sprayed from Kitoko’s throat. Wendy was on her hands and knees now, dry heaving, clutching at wooden planks outside of one of the Lost Boys’ huts until she was finally able to rest, pushing her sweaty head against her hands. There was a soft flutter in the air above her, and then there was the silvery glittering dust falling all around her. She lifted her head up and saw dainty bare feet in front of her.
“Tink? I beg you, please leave me alone. I’m not feeling well.”
“Kitoko’s gone,” Tink whispered. “And you’re to blame.” Her bright blue eyes flared with pure hatred.
Then she kicked Wendy off the walkway.
Wendy felt herself falling, falling over the edge. She saw the great green plume of Centermost poke up far below her, the spindly crossed branches that would not stop her fall as she plummeted to her death. Her hands clutched at the air as her body tightened, her muscles tense and ready to spring to life, ready to fight. She blinked. The branches didn’t rush toward her, their grand arms staying perfectly still where they were. The ground didn’t rush to meet her. She was floating. Relief swept through her. Of course, she still had flight. She turned her head up to look at Tink, a litany of formidable words forming on her tongue, as Tink stared down at her from the bridge.