Page 54 of Losing Wendy
I have to know. If only for the peace of mind that whatever happened to him won’t befall John and Michael.
People have a tendency to blame the victim when calamity befalls them. When I was young, I thought it a by-product of some innate cruelty, but when I matured, I recognized it for what it was—a symptom of fear.
We like to think victims had something to do with their own pain, fault to take in their own misfortune. Because if that is true, then, so long as we avoid walking the same path, we need not worry about suffering the same fate.
Perhaps that’s what I’m looking for. Reassurance that there’s something I can do to keep John and Michael from turning up on acharcoal parchment, their lopsided smiles smudged in the crease of its folds, collecting dust.
Peter’s roomis the only one that actually has the luxury of a door. It’s wooden, as opposed to the leafy curtains that separate the rest of the rooms from the outside tunnels.
At first, I worry it may be locked. It’s not that I’m concerned about my ability to pick it, but last time I was that focused on an activity in the dark, I had an episode. And with my shadow playing tricks on me, it’s not as if this is the optimum environment for things to go any better. Except that this time I’m pretty sure I’m not being stalked by a wild animal, so that’s a mild comfort.
As it turns out, my apprehensions are for naught. A gentle push on the door knob results in a creak as the door opens up for me. Peter’s room is…well, cluttered. It’s the neat sort of clutter. The type where no one can accuse you of being a hoarder, because at least everything has its preordained place and there’s nothing in the walkway. But it’s cluttered all the same.
Trinkets line the walls, decorate the tables. Silver candlesticks, wax still dripping down their sleek bodies. Pocket watches, much like mine and John’s, though varying in color and size. Saucers, painted with cherry blossoms and tigers and everything in between. They’re all organized about the room in clusters. There’s even a book on etiquette sitting atop Peter’s bedside table. It’s not even collecting dust because of course it’s not. He probably only keeps it to maintain his aura of being unpredictable.
Unfortunately, I have the feeling Peter will notice if one of his many trinkets goes out of place. This might be more difficult than I thought. Oh well. I’ll just have to be careful to put everything back where I found it.
As I rummage through Peter’s belongings, I realize I’m not sure what exactly I’m looking for. Another likeness of the Lost Boy, perhaps? Or maybe I’m looking for some type of journal that mightexplain the circumstances surrounding the boy’s disappearance. A token of Thomas’s that Peter keeps to remember him by?
There’s also the possibility I discover something explaining why the Lost Boys are in Neverland. The idea of uncovering such information fills me with as much trepidation as it does a thrill.
As I’m searching, a shadow flickers in the corner. I jump, but I’m pretty sure it’s just my own shadow, bouncing back and forth against the undulations of the candlelight. Still, my imagination warps the shadow into that of a tattered wing.
I need to stop. Spooking myself isn’t going to help anything. And I certainly don’t want to have another episode like the one at the warehouse.
I return to examining the chipped teacup in my hand, but for the second time, something shifts in my vision.
When I turn around, I’m too late to avoid the flashing, bared teeth.
CHAPTER 21
Whoever’s with me in this room is obscured by the shadows, but that doesn’t dampen the pain as fingers wrap through the hair lining my skull and twist. Hard.
Teeth gnash before my vision, glinting in the eerie glow of the lichen.
Again, my tongue gets trapped in my throat.
I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.
And then I’m seeing them again, my parents falling to the floor, blood streaking their throats, Michael being taken by the burly henchman, but I still can’t get any sound out, can’t get my voice to obey.
Sparks erupt in my skull as I’m knocked over the head, but my assailant doesn’t stop there. Pain needles my face as talons, long and sharp, scrape across my cheek, digging into my skin. Blood dribbles down my face, but my attacker doesn’t seem satisfied.
In a dizzying haze, my eyes adjust. In front of me, dragonfly wings begin to glow, lighting up their owner. She’s relented for a moment, pleasure cutting across her lips as she examines the damage she’s done to my face.
She’s a faerie, her insect-like wings betraying as much. UnlikePeter’s leathery wings, hers are see-through, little veins glowing as they course through delicate skin. Strange, they couldn’t have been glowing when she approached me from behind, or I would have seen her coming.
The faerie’s hair is golden, cut close to her scalp, long enough to dip down over her pointed ears. She has a slender face, one that looks narrower than her bone structure might prefer, and dazzling blue eyes. She’s dressed in frayed sacks, perhaps the very type the Lost Boys store food in.
That’s not the only thing that’s frayed. Her wings look as though they’ve been shredded at the bottoms by a wild beast, bits of them hanging loose at her back.
My only advantage is that I’m slightly taller than she is.
Blood drips from her sharp fingernails. She slowly brings the blood to her lips, then smiles.
My stomach turns over.
Move, Wendy, I tell myself, but my limbs are sutured in place, frozen in terror. A possum rolling over and playing dead as its predator stalks.