Unhooked(19)

“They never do believe at first,” he says. As he watches me with those hard eyes of his, what’s left of my laughter dies in my throat. “And what you saw through the glass? That wasn’t enough to be convincing you?”

“Even if I believe we’re in some sort of magical otherworld,” I say, “even if I accept that much, you expect me to believe I’m stuck in some kind of fairy tale?”

His mouth turns down. “I never said this was a fairy tale, lass.”

“You said we’re in Neverland!” Saying it out loud only makes it sound more ridiculous. “As in the story? As in Tinker Bell and the Lost Boys and Peter Pan?”

The Captain stiffens, and when he responds, his voice has turned cold and dangerous. “He doesn’t usually call himself Peter. Finds it a bit too human for his tastes.”

I go still at the bitterness in his voice. At the absurdity of what he’s saying. “Right,” I say. Because what else is there to say? Rubbing at my eyes, I will away the headache that’s started to throb. “What’s next?” I ask doubtfully. “Fairies?”

“Well”—he turns and leans his hip on the bulwark so he can face me—“they have been a large part of the mess you’re finding yourself in.”

The sincerity of his tone makes me blink. He didn’t miss a beat. He’s either completely delusional or . . .

“I don’t believe in fairies,” I say firmly, smiling defiantly as I remember the story. “There. One less of them for me to worry about.”

He shakes his head, but the ghost of a grin is teasing at his lips. “If it were as easy as that to kill the bastards, don’t you think I’d have accomplished the task ages ago?” He fixes those dark eyes on me, and the grin falls away. “Besides, I’d think it would be difficult to refuse what your own eyes have seen.”

“I’ve already seen a fairy?” I can’t stop myself from asking.

“Aye. You met the Dark Ones, did you not?”

My mother told me all sorts of wild things about the monsters she thought were chasing us, but nothing she ever said could have prepared me for the dark creatures that took me from London. Still, as I touch the bracelet at my wrist, I think about the iron nails and the runes she was so obsessed with, and I wonder. . . .

I hesitate before speaking again, and when I do, my words are slow, careful: “You expect me to believe those things that took me are fairies?”

“They’re not exactly wee things, are they? But then again, they’re not exactly fairies in the sense that most usually think of them.” His mouth turns down thoughtfully. “And I don’t think they’d particularly enjoy being described as such.”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” I murmur numbly.

His brows draw together, and his expression almost softens. “I understand, lass. After all, I grew up with all sorts of tales of the wee folk, but even they didn’t prepare me for what I found in this world. Nothing about this world or the creatures that inhabit it is quite what the stories of our world would have us believe.”

All I can do is stare at him. We are really having this conversation.

“The Dark Ones that brought you here, for instance,” he continues. “Me mother used to tell me horrible tales of the Slua—the restless souls of the unrepentant dead that flew through the night, without heaven or hell to call their home, looking for children to take with them on their journey. I suppose her stories had to come from somewhere, did they not? Just as Mr. Barrie’s stories must have come from somewhere as well.” He pauses, and again I am struck by how completely serious he seems. “So, yes, the Dark Ones are Fey, just as all the creatures of this world are.”

I take a shaking breath. “So, what are you—some kind of Lost Boy?” I ask doubtfully. He’s maybe a year or two older than I am, but already there is nothing boyish about him.

“Perhaps, once,” he replies without an ounce of irony. “But I decided there was a more apt part for me to be playing.” With a mirthless smile, he holds up the gloved hand.

I realize then what I maybe should have seen from the minute he said we were in Neverland. The ship, the missing arm—it all makes a sick sort of sense.

I take a step back. “You’re Hook?” I say, my voice faltering.

He gives me a dark and dangerous smile that has something equally dark and dangerous curling in my belly. “The role quite suits me, no?” The mechanism beneath his glove ticks softly as he opens and closes his fist.

“Looks more like Luke Skywalker than Hook to me,” I say, a feeble attempt to disarm the moment.

“Aye?” he says finally, and the word carries with it more weariness than any single word should be able to. “Will said as much when he learned of it as well. Though I’ve not been able to discern his meaning, exactly,” he tells me, his expression faltering. And in that moment the Captain does look like a boy—and a lost one at that.

But I barely blink, and that impression is gone. Wherever we are, whatever is happening to me, the Captain believes every word he’s saying. This isn’t a game for him. This isn’t a joke.

“But if you’re Hook . . .” I hesitate.

“Yes?” He turns his attention to me fully then, his body held as stiff and alert as a soldier’s. His eyes are locked on mine, expectant. Mocking me again. “If I’m Hook?” he drawls.