Their Vicious Darling (Vicious Lost Boys #3)(24)

“Good god.” The man sinks to one knee. “I had no idea you were… Apologies, Never King. What an honor to have you in my shop.”

“My…” Pan looks over at me and a wrinkle appears between his brows. “Darling needs a new pair of shoes. Could you assist her?”

“Of course.” The man stands upright. He eyes the wolf, opens his mouth like he means to protest the big hairy beast and then thinks better of it. “What will the lady desire?”

“Something simple will do.” I look around the shop. It’s small and cozy, but there are displays everywhere on the shelves that line the walls and on the little square tables that dot the room.

I make my way to the shelf on my left and the floor creaks loudly beneath me and then the wolf’s claws click and scrap as he follows.

“What do you think?” I ask him as I pluck a ballet flat from the shelf and hold it out.

The wolf says, No good for running.

I peer down at him. “Who says I need to run?”

You should always be prepared to run.

“I agree with him,” Pan says behind me.

“Fine.” I return the flat to the shelf and then pick up a brown leather boot with laces. “This then?”

“Better,” Pan and the wolf say at once.

“Do you have this in a seven?” I ask and the salesman nods and hurries to the back.

“Why are you both worried about me running?” I ask.

Pan is leaning against one of the floor-to-ceiling shelves on the other side of the shop, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s unmoving, but there is still an aura about him that he could break bones quickly, with barely any effort.

If Peter Pan was intimidating before, now with his shadow, he’s…he’s…

It’s impossible to find the right words to describe how it feels to be near him now.

Like trying to describe the way a hurricane feels two days before it reaches land. The air is different and you can feel the impending destruction maybe in your belly, maybe in your soul. But you can’t touch it with your hands and so it doesn’t feel real until the carnage is lying around your feet.

Peter Pan is like that. Like a hurricane.

The wolf comes around a display to look up at me and he snaps me out of my reverie.

Need shoes to run, he tells me.

The salesman comes barreling through a swinging door, a black box in hand. “Here we go!” He sets the box down and pulls over a chair and gestures for me to sit in it.

“Do you have socks?” I ask.

He yanks a pair off a rack, tears off the tag and hands them to me. They’re made of soft creamy cotton with a little bit of a slouch to them.

With the socks on, I slip on the boots and then tighten up the laces and take a test walk across the store.

“Holy shit. These are amazing.”

The salesman beams. “I only craft the best. I was an apprentice of The Shoemaker.”

“The shoemaker?” I ask.

“Renowned Shoemaker in the Seven Isles,” Pan answers. “Taught by the elves.”

“Right. The elves. Of course.” I will never get used to the absurdity of this place. And I suspect I’ve only just scratched the surface.

I lift up my foot to inspect the boots. “Well The Shoemaker and the elves clearly know how to do what they do. I’m glad he passed on that knowledge to you too,” I tell the salesman.

He nods and clasps his hands together. “I’m so glad you like them.”

“How much do we owe you?” Pan asks.

“Oh no. No.” The salesman shakes his head. “I couldn’t take money from the Never King.”

“You can and you will. How much?”

“I really mustn’t—”

I go over to the older man, grab his hand. The second our skin touches, his expression goes blank and his eyes wide. “Our thanks,” I tell him and drop several coins into his open palm.

He nods numbly and then immediately sinks to his knees.

“Thank you. Thank you to you both. What a blessing tonight has been.”

Peter Pan pushes away from the shelf and frowns down at the man. “Why are you bowing to her?”

I laugh and push Pan toward the door. “Let the man do what he wants, Never King.”

Still he scowls. “Only I will be on my knees for you.” He takes my hand in his and yanks me outside into the warm darkness, the wolf following behind.

“Not just you,” I remind him.

He sighs. “Yes, fine. Vane, the twins, and myself. Better?”

I frown. “I’m not sure. Why don’t you show me what you mean?”

There is a deep rumble in his chest. “Darling, I will not—”

My stomach makes another loud complaint, cutting Pan off. He lets our argument drop and pulls me up the next street, then turns us down a wider thoroughfare where more nightlife abounds.

There is energy here. I’ve never been to New Orleans or Bourbon Street, but I imagine this is what it must feel like surrounded by buildings that feel old while the people and their music fill up the cracks and crevices with laughter and revelry.

Pan nods at a tavern halfway down the street. A sign hangs from the roof ledge that reads OX & MEAD in old English lettering.

Is that the name of the tavern or the food they offer?