Page 10 of The First Lost Boy (The Shadows of Neverland Duet #2)

Ava

Convincing Peter not to kill me by kissing him instead backfired in an epic way. That simple press of my lips to his ignited a hunger in him I didn’t want to sate.

I see it in the corner of his mouth as he explains more about this place. It burns in his eyes when they fall to my lips again and again, wanting.

Others notice the change in him, too.

Bones’s gaze darts between us as Peter and I drag a small, deer-like creature into the grassy circle.

Peter, who earlier insisted that I provide dinner for everyone tonight, simply strolled up to the creature as it drank from a stream – if it sensed him in any way, it never showed a sign –straddled its back and twisted its neck, grinning at me as it fell limp between his feet, splashing heavily into the water.

I insisted on helping him carry it back “home”, an endearment that made that sharp-as-knives grin stretch into a brilliant smile.

“You did well, Six ,” Bones says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I don’t even see a wound.”

“Since you’re not busy, you can dress it, Bones ,” Peter retorts, letting his annoyance bleed into his voice.

“I’ll show her how,” he amends, nodding toward me. “She needs to learn how to survive here.”

Peter drops the deer’s forelegs. I let go of the hind ones to find my sweaty palms coated with short hairs. I drag my hands on the dry grass, wiping them as best I can before looking at the stream I know runs behind the homes.

With light steps, Peter crosses to his house, climbs the steps, and disappears inside.

“Meet me by the stream?” Bones nods toward the creek, staring at the door of Peter’s house, which he’d left wide open.

I hurry to the thin vein of water and kneel, leaning over the water to scrub my skin and take advantage of a rare moment alone to calm down. My hands quake as the events of the day flood into my mind. The siren was so close. She spoke to me! But was she calling me into the sea? It didn’t feel like she meant to hurt me. Of course, maybe that’s how all their victims feel before they are drowned and eaten.

I could’ve met the same fate as Wendy Darling if Peter hadn’t turned around and come back for me.

Cupping my hand, I bring water onto my neck and try to erase the feel of Peter’s hands on my throat and the reminder of stupidly kissing him. At the time, I couldn’t think of another way to distract him from his darkness, which I knew was about to crash over us both.

His darkness is far more than the shadows he commands. At times, there’s a glint of something malevolent in him. Whether he doesn’t feel its presence or chooses to give it whatever power it craves, I’m not sure.

I can’t help but wonder what gives him such power. Worse than that… What did the mastery of such a power cost Peter Pan?

I brush wet fingers through my sweat-dampened hair and rake it back from my face, freezing when I hear footsteps approaching from behind. My shoulders relax when I see it’s just Bones, coming to meet me like he said. His brows furrow at the sight of me. I sit up straighter and offer a fake smile.

“You look like you might be sick again,” he says.

I try to smile. “You’re a master at compliments.”

But he’s a thousand percent right. I feel like I might be sick again. And it’s not the faint smell of death wafting from the deer that turns my stomach; it’s the fact that I’m wondering if I’m already dead and don’t realize it. It’s me imagining that the odor is coming from me and not it .

Bones drags the animal past me and through the trickling stream, then ties a rope around one of its hind legs. He tosses the frayed length over a sturdy limb and hoists the deer up before deftly securing its other leg. The cord ominously creaks as the animal limply sways back and forth.

I stand, placing a hand on my stomach.

Bones sighs, but I can tell he’s not really bothered by my weakness. He doesn’t feel put out. If anything, he seems sad.

“I can’t help it,” I grumble quietly, turning away as he takes a blade from his waistband and begins to cut the poor animal’s fur away, skinning it. I look past him to keep from gagging, but it’s not just the sight of what he’s doing that makes me sick. The sound of ripping flesh might be worse.

Wraith starts past us, muttering something in an annoyed tone to Paris, who carries a small bag under his arm made from a repurposed net.

“Where are you two heading?” Bones asks.

Wraith juts his chin at the swinging deer. “Off to harvest some taro to fix with that meat.”

He slips close to Bones and the two talk in hushed tones. I can’t make out what they’re saying. Paris eases nearer to me. “Are you well, mon amie ?”

“Define well,” I tease.

“It’s just that your pallor is a pale shade of… green,” he gently offers.

I must look horrible, but I feel far worse than they could know.

“Is that a bruise on your neck?” Paris asks, his dark brows slanting. His words draw the eyes of the other two males to my throat.

Bones takes note and studies my skin.

I pretend to brush imaginary dirt off my skin and with it, his comment. “It’s just dirt. I need a swim after carrying that thing so far. I’m covered in grime and hair even after I tried to rinse it off.”

Paris opens his mouth but stops short of pressing the issue when Peter appears out of nowhere, shadows wafting from his form like fog being burnt away by the morning sun. Paris goes still beside me and eases backward in a smooth step.

“Lost Ones,” Pan commands.

Bones stops his ministrations, giving Peter his full attention so quickly it’s not natural. His knife is limp in his hand at his side; it tumbles to the ground beside his feet. He looks like a puppet dangling at the end of strings manipulated by someone who’s mastered the art.

Wraith turns his feverish, glassy stare on Peter.

I’m the only one not under Pan’s thrall… The only one who seems to notice how Peter goes preternaturally still, tilting his head to the side like a bird of prey, staring into the forest like he can see through the trees, all the way to the shore.

A terrifying thought strikes me. Can Peter see through the shadows on this island? Is there anywhere on Neverland he can’t sense and sweep into in seconds?

A slow smile spreads across Peter’s lips. “They’ve ceased their circling and have come ashore. Wraith – take The Lagoon. I’ll go to The Cove. Bones, stay with Six and our new friend. Take them into the circle and make sure neither of them leaves it.”

Bones blinks as if waking from a trance and mutters his agreement.

Wraith races into the Never Wood, leaving Paris behind with Bones and me.

At Peter’s behest, shadows stretch from the trees and plants, even from those cast by the clouds above, and begin to swirl all around us, gathering overhead like a determined typhoon. Peter raises his arms and the dark, twisting mass unfurls, lashing out in every direction.

Peter’s green eyes flash toward mine. “The circle is safe. If I catch either of you outside of it, you will not be.”

My lips part at his threat.

“And when I return, you have some explaining to do, Six,” he adds.

“What did I do?”

Peter doesn’t answer. He steps into the churning vortex and is swallowed by darkness. When the shadows crawling from my wound peel from my skin and reach out for him, I fight an inexplicable and overwhelming urge to step into the dark with Peter. Fight it until my teeth grind and I lift one foot off the ground, ready to leap.

“Six!” A sharp reprimand from Bones, followed by a strong grip on my bicep. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Who is he talking about?” I ask. “Who’s been circling?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bones says dismissively. With a decisive swipe of his blade, Bones severs the rope near one of the deer’s hooves and hoists the beast over his shoulder. I offer to help, but he shakes his head. “Do as he said and get into the circle, right now.” He looks at Paris. “You, too.”

I peer down the path Wraith took toward The Lagoon. The broad leaves that swayed in his wake are still again. It’s like every aspect of the jungle refuses to betray his whereabouts; like it, too, bends to Pan’s will.

I grab Paris’s hand and tug him back to the lawn where the treehouses loom over us.

“What did he mean?” Paris asks, his dark eyes burning with fear. “What must you explain to him?”

My brows kiss as I comb through my memories from today. Nothing stands out. Everything that went awry at The Cove had been righted with the kiss. Or so I thought. “I don’t know.”

Bones hefts the deer carcass behind us. And like a door closing and locking tight, as soon as we’re inside the green circle, a ring of mushrooms with flat broad heads sprouts, encircling the lawn and poking up from beneath the houses, spreading past them toward the trees as if they’re shoving the trees and foliage back where they belong.

“What is this?” I release Paris’s hand to kneel and look at them.

“A safety measure,” Bones offers cryptically.

My head ticks back in surprise. “Mushrooms? He thinks mushrooms can keep us safe?”

Bones scowls. “Don’t pretend you understand how things work here, Six. If Peter wants to use mushrooms as a fence, he certainly can and will.” He crosses the grass, stops just beneath his house, and uses one of the brackets bracing his porch to resume what he started near the stream.

Paris asks, “Is he keeping us in, or keeping someone else out?”

Bones shakes his head, irritated. He doesn’t answer, which infuriates me.

I give a heavy sigh. “Will you at least tell me who’s come ashore?”

Bones flicks a glance at Paris. “If you stay in the circle, you won’t have to worry about it.”

What if you’re not safe in the circle with me?

I imagine the treehouses burning again, and this time, I picture Bones screaming for someone to help him from the window of his home. I watch from the ground as he begs and pleads for me to do something. To bring help. To save him.

I don’t.

Even when I know I can, I do nothing but watch him burn.

I kneel beside Paris in front of the fire pit as he stacks wood into a tower. The glowing embers soon spread flames along the base that lick and char the bottom-most pieces. The Frenchman has been furtively casting glances around the area since the mushroom ring cinched around us.

I’m not sure why, but I know I’ve been doing the same.

How can I possibly know his real name unless I knew him before I fell out of the treehouse? But beyond that, how could I see his memories?

He flashes a charming smile. “Will you remind me of your name? I’m sorry, but I seem to have forgotten it.”

My heart squeezes with empathy.

“I’m Six,” I tell him. Bones carefully watches us, though he tries to hide it.

“Six,” he says, although with his accent, it sounds like he says Sees . He sits back on his haunches. “Can I ask you a question, Six?”

I shrug a shoulder. “Sure.”

“How… How did I get here?” His dark brows slant in confusion. “What is this place?”

I sit down next to him, crossing my legs and picking at the petals of a tiny purple flower. “I wish I could tell you, but I don’t know.” I point up at Peter’s treehouse. “I don’t know much of anything. Peter told me I fell from that window a few weeks ago and hit my head. Since then, things have been blurry. I wish I could help you remember, but the only thing I can say is that you’re not the only one who feels… lost.”

Bones’s hand stills mid-slice. He recovers quickly, moving on about his task.

He’s abandoned teaching me how to fend for myself for the time being, and I’m glad. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t even want to look at him. He’s nothing more than a puppet, and I don’t intend to become one. I don’t want to be like him. Don’t want to be like any of the boys under Peter’s thrall.

Paris’s warm brown eyes are kind as he quietly thanks me for trying to help. He studies Peter’s window for several long minutes as the wood pops, sparks flare, and the flames spread. “How did that fall not kill you?”

I peer up at the dizzying height and shake my head. “I have no idea. It looks like it should have. I guess I just got lucky.”

Bones tosses his head to get his hair out of his eyes, drawing Paris’s gaze.

Paris juts his jaw toward our friend and lowers his voice to ask, “What is his name? I’ve forgotten it too, I’m afraid.”

“He goes by the name Bones,” I tell him quietly.

“ Mon ami ,” Paris calls to Bones. “How did you earn your name?”

Bones wipes the sweat from his brow with his forearm, which is spattered in blood. The effect is gruesome. His freckles, which normally make him look young, are streaked in crimson, and when he smiles, it looks sinister.

I tell myself that Bones has only ever been kind to me. Then I remind myself that I don’t know that for certain. And with him holding an incredibly sharp knife and carving an animal into pieces, the entire scene makes a shiver scuttle up my spine.

“Surviving here is hard, and sometimes you have to be creative in what you use to make weapons and tools,” he answers. “Turns out, I’m good at carving bone.”

He holds up his knife and I see what he means. The handle is bone, which doesn’t surprise me, but then so is the blade. His work on the deer is evidence of how sharp he’s made it.

Paris whistles, his brows raised appreciatively. “Impressive. And creative. I applaud your ingenuity.”

Bones gives a genuine, small but proud smile and thanks Paris, then returns to his work. I stand and start toward Ash’s house where I find all the pots and pans, plates and cups he’d washed after last night’s meal and gather them up, bringing them over to the fire and organizing them into stacks.

The fire takes its time blistering and burning through the wood until a bed of red-hot coals has been made in the pit. I look past Bones and the mushrooms that serve as some magical barrier for us to the trail Wraith took earlier, wondering what’s happening at The Lagoon and The Cove.

Bones notices my line of sight and tries to refocus my attention. “It might be dawn before they return, so we won’t bother waiting for them. Cook what you think you’ll need for the three of us and when you’re done, I’ll show you how to smoke the rest.”

I nod. “Is there anything in the circle I can prepare to go with it? Do you have any vegetables stored somewhere?”

“Not really,” he mutters. But then he looks around. “How do you feel about mushrooms?”

“They’re not poisonous?” I warily eye the circle of fungi. Their pale, flat caps look smooth to the touch, but I’m not a mushroom expert and certainly can’t tell mushroom friend from mushroom foe.

Bones shrugs one shoulder. “They’re safe. Peter made them.”

That does not inspire confidence.

Bones laughs at my dubious expression. “They’re perfectly safe to eat, Six. We’ve had them many times. They taste really good, as long as Ash isn’t the one cooking them. Harvest what you need, but leave a circle of them around us.”

“Can I borrow one of your knives?” I ask. His back muscles tense like he’s afraid I’ll plant the blade there if I get one in my hands.

“Sure.” He walks toward me and takes one from a pocket I didn’t notice was sewn into his shorts at the thigh. The knife is long and slender, sharp and, of course, made from bone. I don’t want to know what kind of bone he’s given me. Or whose, I should say.

I walk the circle, cutting every third mushroom and preserving the protective sphere while collecting enough to cook with the cuts of meat Bones will provide. By the time I finish foraging and return to the fire, I’m sweating so badly my already too-tight clothes are clinging to my skin. The fire’s warmth makes the afternoon’s humidity a million times worse.

I walk to Peter’s treehouse to get some water, both for cooking and for us to drink, and decide to rummage through the trunk to see if there’s anything lighter to wear. The skirt I’m wearing is short, but the material is thick. Besides, it’s damp with sweat and terribly uncomfortable.

I find a long scrap of thin, black fabric and though I’m not sure what it once was, I know what I can use it as…I peel off my skirt and tie the fabric like a sarong around my hips. Paris whistles appreciatively when I emerge in my bikini and makeshift sarong. The hot breeze toys with the hem at my ankle. I hold up three wooden cups of water and start down the steps, but when my feet touch the grass, I look up and pause.

Bones is staring. The knife he holds has stopped just shy of the meat.

A muscle jumps in his jaw.

His eyes trace the shadowy vines creeping from the wound on my stomach. They climb farther now, around my waist, up and over my breasts, past my shoulders, stretching to my throat. I feel their hairs clinging to my skin but when I move to brush them away, my fingers feel nothing at all.

“When did Peter mark you?” he rasps.

I shrug like I don’t know, which is a lie, but I don’t care. If Bones isn’t willing or able to divulge information I want to know, I don’t plan to share with him, either.

He closes his eyes for a breath like he’s either pushing the knowledge away or trying to cling to it. I can’t tell which. “Last night at The Falls?” he guesses.

“What does it mean?” I look down at the dark vine that shouldn’t be clinging to my skin but very much is.

“I can’t speak of it,” he grits, as if it pains him to even try.

And he said he can’t . Not wouldn’t if he could…

He changes the subject as sweat beads on his lip and forehead, gesturing to my clothes as his eyes plead for me to drop the subject that’s hurting him. “It’s not a good idea for you to dress like that.”

I narrow my eyes and show him mercy as we gracefully tread into calmer waters. “I’m not indecent.”

“You’re playing with fire,” he finally says, his voice gravelly as he turns away. “And you won’t enjoy getting burned in the end.”

I groan. “It’s a swimsuit, for fuck’s sake! It’s a million degrees out here and I’m going to die of heat exhaustion or dehydration if I don’t cool off. And besides, everything is covered.”

He snorts.

I look down to be sure, just in case of an errant wardrobe malfunction, relishing in the fact that I am right. Nothing is out of place and everything is covered.

“It’s not that I mind. It’s that Peter will,” Bones says firmly. Almost as if he’s telling me to go put something else on, but fuck that. I’m melting out here.

“I see no problem with your attire, ma chère ,” Paris purrs, moving to sit next to me.

“Bad idea,” Bones warns. “Peter will lose his mind if he sees you sitting together half-naked.”

“ You’re shirtless, Bones,” I point out. “You have been as long as I can remember.” Which admittedly isn’t long, but still… “Is he offended by your nakedness?”

He mutters a curse and I laugh. “I am not naked.”

I quirk a brow. “Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe.”

Bones rolls his eyes. “All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

It’s my turn to change the subject – and I would prefer one that doesn’t focus solely on me or my body.

“We need a name for you,” I tell Paris, offering him a friendly smile. It’s the perfect opportunity to take advantage of our time and name him what I’m already calling him in my mind. My eyes drift to Paris’s bicep, where a pattern of scars form a word: P-A-R-I-S. I slice the mushrooms into quarters, then pause to point at it. “That’ll work.”

“Paris,” he quietly says. His brows furrow like he’s trying to remember how the mark got on his skin.

Bones is trying to ignore us, so I raise my voice. “Don’t you think ‘Paris’ suits him, Bones?”

“As much as anything, I guess,” he answers dryly, bringing me a large wooden bowl filled with cuts of deer meat. “This’ll be plenty for dinner. I’ll start making thinner strips for smoking.”

After placing two large pans in the coals to warm, I dice the deer meat, then divide the meat and mushrooms between them, constantly stirring the mixture so no one can compare my cooking to Ash’s. When it’s properly cooked, the three of us eat. Paris notices the treehouses and asks who, other than me, Peter, Bones, and Wraith live here. I try to fill him in on everyone but require some help from Bones who will barely look at me, let alone join in the conversation.

Paris tries to hang onto the names and facts, but I can tell the moment when he finally gives up trying and everything I told him flutters from his mind like ashes from the flame.

It’s what I must have been like these past days and weeks, or however long it’s been since I fell out of the treehouse.

Fireflies flare and dim in the canopy all around us as the sky darkens and the stars begin to shine, two shining brighter than all the rest. With a start, I realize their light doesn’t flicker like all the others. They burn so steadily, they don’t even wink.

It’s like they’re dead.

Which is ridiculous. Stars can’t die and still burn.

But as I stare at them, that’s what they feel like. Empty, while the ones sparkling around them feel full. Like nothing, when the rest feel like everything.

A steady, cool breeze slithers through our camp and rattles the leaves and underbrush. I smell the sea on it despite the acrid wood smoke. The fire Bones bolstered to smoke the thin cuts of meat settles as Paris asks Bones questions about the noises we hear beyond camp.

Most are made by creatures that don’t bother me in the least. But then one particularly loud shriek gives me goosebumps so bad, they won’t go away even when I rub my forearms.

“Neverbird!” I whisper-shriek, twisting to see if I can catch sight of the horrific beast. Bones gives me an approving smile that also seems sad. I nearly ask him why when Paris swears.

“ Mon Dieu ! That was a bird?”

“Not the cute little kind you’re likely thinking of.” I shudder. “Neverbirds are the things nightmares are made of.” Still scanning the forest around us, I turn to Bones. “That’s the closest one’s come to me.”

Bones doesn’t appear to be worried in the least. “It’s likely feasting on the entrails we left near the stream.”

“Wonderful,” I whisper, drawing my knees to my chest. What if it gobbles all the little deer’s innards up and decides it’s still not full?

As if the Neverbird kicked off a chorus of animal shrieks, a high-pitched, human-like shrill comes from deeper within the trees, somewhere behind Bones’s treehouse. I stand, unsure what to do or how to help whoever made that sound.

Paris looks like he’s about to run for the coast and take his chances with the crocs before Bones tells us, “Settle down. It’s nothing you haven’t heard before. You’ll get used to all these noises soon enough.”

“What was that?” I whisper.

“It was a bobcat.” Bones sighs and tosses two pieces of cut, weathered wood on the fire. “We’re safe in the circle.”

He can say it as often as he likes, but I still think Bones is wrong.