Shadow (Wendy Darling #3)(93)
“Tonight.” She turned to him. “Tonight. Meet me by the branch that holds the lantern, long after the boys have gone to sleep. I’ll be waiting for you.” Peter was so excited by this that he fumbled, dropping the musket, for once out of control, belying the maniacal god-child she knew he was. But then he was back, calmly picking up the musket and walking up to Wendy. The smell of him, once so seductive, was now repulsive. Instead of leaves and spice, he smelled now like muddy earth, decay, and death.
She raised her eyes to meet his. “Tonight. And make yourself ready for me as well.” She could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t sure what that meant. Good. She reached up, kissing his cheek softly, her teeth clenched so hard that she felt a shot of pain bounce off her jaw. “Everything must be perfect.”
“I will. It will be perfect.” He kissed her hard on the lips, and she stayed perfectly still, furious at the way her lips rose underneath his, the way her skin tingled with fire. Booth. Booth. She repeated the words in her mind as Peter kissed her. Finally, he pulled away, his boyish face elated. She bit her tongue to keep from crying and clutched her shaking fists. “I’ll go. And I’ll be waiting for you. My darling. I can’t wait for you to be all mine.” He turned away from her. “And it looks like there will be a storm. I’ll bring extra blankets.”
“Thank you.”
He soared up and away from her, and soon she heard the happy notes of his pan pipe flitting through the tree. Wendy began making her way back to her hut. She had much to do and very little time to do it in.
Dusk came quickly, as if it were also trying to outrun the storm that courted its nightly turn-in. Wendy’s body shuddered as a huge thunderclap shook the leaves above her. She peeked her head out of her hut to look up toward the sky. Huge heavy clouds, their billowy breasts flashing with green bursts of lightning, were rolling toward Pan Island. Rain clouds. Her father had not taught her as much about the weather as he had John, but she knew this: those clouds held rain, and lots of it. Perfect. The gray sky above her was thick with moisture, and she felt the first drop of light drizzling rain upon her cheek.
For a moment, she stood, looking out at the sea, and then her head turned west, toward the main island. How far could it be? Peter had said eighteen miles, but was that true? Was anything he ever said true? The sky answered with a clap of thunder so loud that it seemed to echo and bounce around inside her bones. The rain began to pour, warm and wet and drenching. Two Lost Boys ran past her hut, holding giant leaves over their heads for shelter. “Big storm! Get inside!” one of them shouted at Wendy before disappearing into the shady grove beyond. She nodded silently. These boys. She looked down at the tiny boy footprints they had left in the muddy ground, now filling with rainwater, now drowned out and disappearing under a small puddle that turned their footprints into a widening lake. It wasn’t a question anymore. It was time to act.
Hours later, she stood up and forced herself to take a jagged breath. She had rested an d planned, until her path lay clear before her. She had tried to channel the strength of her mother, her strong hands and unwavering protectiveness. She had tried to channel the intelligence of her father, of his steady heart and quick mind, and finally Booth: his compassion, his kindness, and what he believed she was—brave. Wendy turned and went back into her hut, which she had totally ransacked. The small overturned table had been broken. The linen curtains were shredded. Food and ribbons were strewn everywhere. The water basin dripped over the floor. There were deep grooves in the wall where Wendy had raked a table leg with violent, heavy slashes. Wendy reached down, grabbing the burlap sack that she had packed earlier with a few dresses, shoes, apples, and her small dagger. For her last step, she turned over the small wooden chair that Michael was fond of, and with a careful stomp of her foot, she broke off one of the legs. She held up the jagged end, turning it over in the waning light of the storm. Yes, that would work just dandy.
Wendy stood up to survey the room, to take it in one last time. She watched the hammock rock in the wind, the way that the ribbons draped across the floor, a shuffling melody filling the space, a room she had once loved. She watched her shredded curtains blowing in the quickening breeze. It was the loveliest of prisons. Wendy pulled a single lavender ribbon off the hammock and tied it around her ponytail, smoothing the hair away from her flushed cheeks. She straightened her blue dress and slipped on her sensible black shoes. Through her window, she could see the mainlaind, a slumbering, green leviathan, lit up with jagged, angry bursts of heat lightning that peppered the island like an attack.
Wendy tightened her fists and recalled the memory of falling, of twisting and plummeting, of her panicked thoughts. She remembered the way Peter had drawn the line in the sand around her, the way he had kissed her as if she were his to claim. She let the memories rise up inside her like bile, filling her body with potent fear. Her breaths became ragged as she remembered it all. She turned to the small mirror hanging above the broken table. She looked back at herself, her hazel eyes rimmed with red. Her lips parted as she spoke quietly to herself. “Be brave, Wendy.” The wind roared its approval outside.
Moving quickly now, she grabbed the wooden leg of the chair and shoved the tip of it into the burning torch outside her hut. She watched as the fire seduced its way into the wood, lighting it from within until the piece flared and sparked. Wendy ran back inside with the flaming stick and laid it down, ever so gently, on the hammock. Within seconds, it caught fire. She sprinted to the doorway, kicking over another torch on her way out. Smoke began to fill the hut. Without stopping, Wendy leapt out onto the tree, wrapping her legs around it the way Oxley had taught her.