Unhooked(71)

I don’t reach for it. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Pray you never need to use it,” he says, offering it again.

I take it finally, weighing its solid body in my hands. It’s lighter than Pan’s dagger, and in the morning sun, its blade glints silvery instead of the strange dark glow of Pan’s. I tuck it into the waistband of my pants and hope I don’t skewer myself before I need to use it.

“Ready?” he asks, his expression as sharp and guarded as I’ve ever seen it.

“Not even a little bit.”

When we step into the lush green of the jungle, the sound of the sea fades away, but the trees aren’t silent. As soon as we enter the teeming canopy, I can feel the trees pulse around me in warning.

This is nothing like the dark forest of my childhood. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen—even flying through the canopy of trees with Pan didn’t prepare me for the experience of being inside of it. The vegetation around us is wild and unearthly, colored every shade of green imaginable. Some of the plants have leaves as large as my arms stretched wide. Others are spindly, with needlelike outgrowths that look as sharp as razors.

Strangely enough, even though the air is close here—almost claustrophobic—I don’t feel afraid. Or I suppose I should say that I feel uneasy but not unwelcome. Like the garden within Pan’s fortress, the plants of Neverland’s jungle twist away as we walk to reveal a winding path through the dense undergrowth. The island itself seems to be directing us, and I can’t tell if Neverland is guiding us to the Queen because it wants to be freed or if this is just another one of its traps. I should be terrified of how very alive it all feels, but after all I’ve been through—and after everything I’ve done—fear seems like a luxury I can’t afford.

With each step I take following Rowan up the steep incline toward the very center of the island, my confidence falters, though. We climb and climb through the jungle, but we never seem to get anywhere. All I can do is follow him, step after step, mile after mile, making one twisting turn after another.

Once or twice, fairy lights appear, dodging in and around us as we make our way. Rowan ignores them, but they make me nervous. I don’t trust Fiona’s loyalty as much as he seems to, and I can’t help but think the lights are probably watching us, maybe even reporting to Pan. I almost expect him to be waiting for us around every turn, but he never is.

Eventually we come to a clearing where the path we’re on divides into three different trails. The one to our right leads into the undergrowth. To our left, another snakes away through a grove of enormous trees. Ahead, a third, identical path leads in an equally unclear direction.

As Rowan considers which to take, I ease back against the smooth trunk of a tree and let myself slide to the ground. My feet ache from the rocky and uneven climb, and I need a break, even though we can’t afford to take one.

Behind my back, the tree I’m propped against moves, rippling into some new shape. All around me the other trees shift and settle, re-forming themselves into new trees and other configurations. The paths disappear as enormous plants sprout up and cover them, and other paths emerge.

Rowan curses at the sight of it. “Bloody stupid—” But he never finishes.

The jungle has gone suddenly and deathly still. His eyes meet mine, the question in them echoing my own.

“What is it?” I ask. All around us, it feels as though Neverland itself is holding its breath, waiting. But it’s not an easy silence.

“Come on, lass.” Rowan holds out his hand to pull me up, but before I’m even on my feet, a faint rustling fills the air around us.

The dark undersides of the leaves begin to shift as the shade beneath them starts to move, creeping along the thick green stems like a swarm of ants, collecting and gathering on the loamy jungle floor. The earthy humidity that has been our companion all morning seems to drain from the air as the coolness of night filters into the clearing. And as the chill brushes against my skin, the green-gold scent of the jungle is overwhelmed with a familiar odor that speaks of the sweetness of rot and the dustiness of memory.

The shadows creep along the ground, encircling us like a giant serpent eating its own tail. Then they begin to billow and grow, until we are penned in by them. Until the darkness begins to block our view of the jungle beyond.

When the shadows begin to lick at our feet and ankles, I’m assaulted again by the images from my past. The forest reaching for me. Calling to me.

I try to shove the images away, but the shadows continue to gather and grow, slowly shaping themselves into the winged creatures built from nightmares. Already I can make out their massive shoulders, the claw-tipped nails of their skeletal fingers.

But when a branch cracks out in the jungle, somewhere to our right, the Dark Ones go still, as though listening for what made the sound. Rowan raises his blade, his eyes narrowed in alertness as he shifts uneasily, watching both the swirling shadows and the jungle beyond.

After a moment, the Dark Ones begin to billow and grow once more. Back to back, we track them as they circle us. I grip the dagger tightly in my sweat-damp fist and take shallow, anxious breaths as I watch the shadows finally begin to coalesce into dark, broad creatures.

Another crack sounds in the jungle—this time from the left.

Rowan glances at me, and the look on his face tells me what I’ve already realized—it would be impossible for a single creature to have moved that far so quickly. The Dark Ones seem to sense it too. Half-formed, they go still, and their metallic rustling changes—grows sharper. Then, without warning, the Dark Ones shrink, melting onto the ground and flowing like dark water back to the shadowy undersides of the leaves.