Stars (Wendy Darling #1)(97)

“MICHAEL!” She screamed his name and slapped his face, pressing her mouth against his own, thinking she could pour all her breath, all her life into him. “MICHAEL, PLEASE!” She blew into his mouth, pushing the air into his lungs, slapping his back, beating her hands at his heart, breathing, breathing, and sobbing as she cradled him, pressing him against her, breathing into his mouth, praying for his lungs to rise, crying and screaming, vaguely aware that they were no longer in the air but being settled onto a hard wooden surface. There was the sound of boots around her, the sound of shouts, and then an eerie quiet as she stared down at her brother, so blue and so cold. She began shaking him, desperately slapping and pounding on his chest as she cried his name.

“MICHAEL! MICHAEL! Please, oh, God, please, I’ll do anything, please, take me instead . . .” She held his body curled into her chest, his still face against her own, her cries raking the air around her as she prayed that death would be quick because Michael was gone. Michael was gone, and there was nothing else.

She thought of her mother and father, how they had cradled his tiny body at birth, how they had handed him to her, wrapped in a soft blue blanket. “This is your brother Michael. You’re going to take care of him, aren’t you?” Wendy had been afraid to touch him at first, so tiny and so weak, and yet, when she had held him, she knew he would be a part of her forever. “Yes, Mama, always,” Wendy had said.

She held his lifeless body against her own now, a whisper escaping her lips. “Oh, God . . .” she cried. “Please . . . forgive me, Mama.” She touched his face softly, taking in his still eyelashes, his perfect blue lips, his pale chubby cheeks, the limp legs that splayed out on her lap. She had leaned her cheeks against his own, trying to pour her own life into his, her tears splashing over his face, when her brother sputtered and coughed. Wendy let out of cry and flipped him over, hitting him hard on the back until water poured out of his mouth, dark and green, splashing over her nightgown and feet.

Michael took a few deep breaths and began wailing, the happiest sound Wendy had ever heard. He clutched Wendy, his voice hysterical. “I want to go HOME!” She sobbed happy tears as she pulled Michael against her, noticing for the first time that they were on a deck, a black deck, with a black net settled all around them, gathered in folds. Wendy looked up to the sky as her arms tightened around Michael’s shivering form. There, silhouetted against the white moon, she saw Peter’s shape, watching, waiting, and then he was gone, out into the dark night, once a prince, now a creature of her nightmares. Wendy shivered and pulled Michael close to her, burying her face in his wet hair. She was afraid, she was hunted, and yet this was all she could do—hold onto the only family she had left and pray that someday the Darlings would all be together again, one family among these unflinching stars.

Wendy closed her eyes, Michael clutched to her, when she heard the click of boots, the sharp sound of leather and heel making its way to her, each practical step hard and unforgiving. The boots came to rest in front of her face: black leather, etched with swirls of smoke and water and tiny skulls. The voice rang out over the storm, the outer fringes of adulthood captured in its deep clip. Wendy raised her head, unable to see the figure clearly through the now-battering rain.

A large silver hook reached out and caressed its way across her cheek, the metal bone cold.

“Welcome aboard the Sudden Night, Miss Darling.”





Wendy’s story will continue in Volume Two:





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.

—J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

THERE ARE SO MANY INDIVIDUALS that made this magical little novel possible, without whom it would not be the same, nor would my career be where it is without them. I am indebted to you. Thank you.

To my beloved, Ryan Oakes, who not only believes in me, as a writer, as a wife, and a mother, but who always has just the right ideas when plot holes present themselves: Thank you for your masterful theological brain, which lent itself to this novel and the ones that will follow, very heavily.

To Maine, thank you for being the joy that propelled me to write a book overflowing with the wonder of childhood. I am privileged to surrender my adult years into your tiny hands. I love who you are.

To Mom, Dad, and Denise McCulley: Thank you for your support, your time, and your many hours of babysitting. Your overflowing love for your grandchild reminds me that you still have things to teach me.

To Cynthia, thank you for making my heart light.

Thank you to my dear friends and family, who smiles and encouragement are the ideal sustenance of writers: Kimberly Stein, Cassandra Splittgerber, Nicole London, Elizabeth Wagner, Karen Groves, Katie Hall, Sarah Glover, Katie Blumhorst, Butch and Lynette Oakes, Emily Kiebel, Terri Miller, Amanda Sanders, Wendy Marie, Erin Burt, and Erin Chan.

To Mason: I’m eternally grateful for our writing partnership and our friendship. My words are infinitely better because of you. O Captain, my captain?

Thank you to my remarkable test readers, who brought me so many important questions, their suggestions like flashes of stars: Heather Erickson, Amanda Sanders, Jen Lehmann, Patty Jones, Jenna Czaplewski, and Katie Hall.

To Erin, my story editor: At this point, you know my writing better than maybe anyone. My work loves snuggling into your capable hands.

To my Sparkpress Team: The incredible Crystal Patriarche, whose name conveys the power she wields, whose unstinting enthusiasm for my work still bewilders me. Janay Lampkin, Christelle Lujan, Julie Metz, Brooke Warner, Lauren Wise, and Megan Connor—what a brilliant group you are. To my agent, Jen Unter—I’m so glad you are on my team. We’re going to do big things. Thank you to the editors: Wayne Parrish, Lauren Wise, Barrett Briske, and Pamela Long, for their hard work and keen eyes.