Unhooked(27)

“I did try to warn you that you’re not in any bloody story,” he snaps. Then he takes me by the arm and steers me back away from the railing of the upper deck, back from the hungry eyes of the boys below.

I pull away from him. “You told me I’m in Neverland. You said there are fairies, and now you’re telling me Peter Pan attacked your ship. That sounds an awful lot like the story to me.”

His temper is a living thing, but he keeps ahold of its leash. “All of that may be true enough, but whatever you might know of Mr. Barrie’s tale, you’d best forget it, lass,” he says, his eyes as sharp as his voice. “In this world, the story belongs not to Mr. Barrie, but to Pan. The stories you may know have very little bearing on what happens here. Perhaps Mr. Barrie had some way of knowing of this land. Perhaps this world is where his stories came from. But whatever the case, the stories in your world are nothing compared to the truth of this one. Here, Pan uses the tale for his own purposes.”

“Like you haven’t.” I can’t help but think of the boys who bled and died for him today. I think of the boy he killed to save me. To keep me, I realize with a start.

He blinks at me, as though he didn’t expect that reply, but his expression goes flat, unreadable. “As you said yourself, Gwendolyn, I’m the villain.”

Before I can say anything else, the Captain is gone, his long strides taking him across the upper deck and down the steps toward the main mast of the ship. When I go to follow, my two guards pull me back.

“Bring the prisoners forward,” the Captain calls.

All around the deck, the boys shuffle, agitated, like something is about to begin. The Captain turns the frayed collar of his coat up against the wind and watches a few of the older boys lead the group of captives forward on the deck below. Each of the prisoners has his hands bound behind his back. Most of them are sporting blackened and swollen eyes or noses crusted with dried blood.

I can’t get over how young they look beneath their bruised faces. Or how terrified.

Not that I blame them. The Captain’s already severe face seems somehow even more fierce as he looks them over. Many of the swollen eyes follow him as he stalks across the deck, watching his every move, like dogs who have been kicked too many times by their master.

“I’ll give you the same choice I give any taken aboard my ship,” he says loudly enough for all on the ship to hear him. This, I understand implicitly, is a display meant for his crew as well as for the prisoners. “You can join us and pledge your loyalty, and I’ll swear on my life and honor to protect you as my own.” He pauses, eyeing them each and letting his words settle. “Or you can walk the plank.”

Walk the plank? He can’t possibly be serious.

But no one else seems to find what he’s saying funny.

“You, there.” The Captain points his blade at one of the older boys who’s making a point not to pay attention—a stocky guy who’s tall enough and broad enough to play linebacker. He’s the largest and cockiest of the captives, and he doesn’t seem to realize he should be hiding his disdain. The dark-skinned boy with the thick braids pushes the boy forward until he stands in the no-man’s-land in front of the line.

“What shall it be, mate?” the Captain asks. “Will you join us?”

The boy doesn’t hesitate. “Bugger off,” he says, giving the Captain a sharp jerk of his chin. “I ain’t joinin’ nuffin’ of yours. Got it. Mate?”

The Captain cocks his head, examining the boy like he’s no better than a roach in the pantry. The Captain turns on him and, in a motion so swift that the boy could not have predicted it, he rams his glove-covered fist into the boy’s gut. The boy goes down hard, his moan echoing on the winds as he crumples over, unable to clutch his stomach with his hands bound as they are.

Stepping back, the Captain watches with barely concealed disgust as the boy writhes on the floor, desperately trying to catch his breath. When he has almost stilled and when his breathing is more labored than erratic, the boy tries to come to his knees. But as he struggles, the Captain crouches and lifts the boy’s head by his hair. The boy tries to jerk away, but the Captain’s grip is too strong.

“I’ll ask you once again, lad,” he says, his voice carrying over the wind. “Will you join us?”

The boy glares at the Captain, his nostrils flaring in anger or pain or some combination of the two. After a beat, he wrinkles his face and, with some effort, sends a gob of spit directly at the Captain’s face.

The boys on deck shift uneasily as a murmur ripples through the crowd, but the Captain doesn’t react. He lets the boy fall to the deck as he wipes the spittle from his cheek with a handkerchief from his pocket.

“I see,” the Captain says, and I cannot stop the gasp that escapes when he unexpectedly gives the boy a savage kick to the gut. Taking the time to fold the scrap of material into a precise triangle, he places it back into his pocket while the boy writhes in pain at his feet.

With the handkerchief tucked away, he gives a slight nod. Will and the boy with the dreads move forward and flank the prisoner. Together they lift the still-moaning boy back to his knees and jerk his head back, forcing him to look up at the Captain.

“Let’s try this once again, shall we?” The Captain pulls his long triangular blade from its sheath and runs the edge of it along the boy’s throat. “It’s like I’ve told you, lad. You’ve got yourself two choices: you can join with us or you can be leaving.” His tone is calm, almost conversational, as he gestures to the sea.