Hook was still watching Wendy. Finally, he turned back to Smee and leaned in to speak covertly to his first mate. “Have Mr. Starkey retrieve anything she might need to bed down for the night; tell him that Miss Darling’s comfort is his top priority.”
Smee smiled a genuinely happy smile and bobbed up on his toes. “Aye, aye, Cap’n. Will do.” He nodded once at Wendy and then left.
Hook closed the door after him.
When he turned to face Wendy again, he held out his good hand palm up. “I must insist you shed that horrifically heavy coat, my dear. You’ll find that you will not need such a thing aboard my ship.”
Wendy wanted to ask why, but even as he mentioned it, she noticed that she was uncomfortably warm inside of the coat, which made no sense. On an October night and as high up as the Jolly Roger was, it should have been near freezing. Yet, she was anything but.
With a shrug of serenity, she slid the coat off of her shoulders and then held it out for Hook. He strode forward, gently took the coat, and hung it next to his own on the coat rack. When he turned back around, his gaze locked on the front of Wendy’s clothes. He gazed, unblinking, and self-consciously, Wendy looked down. She realized that he was staring at the shirt that was peeking out from beneath her gray zip-up hoodie.
It was an old X-Men t-shirt that she’d had since the first movie had come out years ago. A giant red X on a yellow background dominated most of the design and the rest of it was fading rapidly.
She glanced back up at Hook to find the strangest expression on his handsome face.
She blinked. Handsome? Oh no, she thought. He really is handsome. How did I not notice that before?
And then, just like that, the captain was again expertly composed and Wendy once more had no idea what was going on behind his fathomless blue eyes.
“Your accent is different,” Hook moved past her and sat down on the edge of his bed, gesturing for her to take the large chair he had previously occupied. “You must have spent some time in another land. Tell me,” he looked thoughtful. “What was that place?” With his hook, he gestured to the world that must have been below them.
Still standing, Wendy blinked. “You mean. . . ..”
“I mean, what was that world? It wasn’t London, was it. No. From the map alone, I could tell as much. But I’d never have expected those lights,” He seemed genuinely impressed and Wendy was struck by the curiosity in his eyes. She’d be damned if it didn’t almost seem – innocent. And she had certainly never noticed it there before.
He looked back up at her. “Tell me about it.”
“About the United States?” she asked, moving to sit in the oversized chair.
Hook’s eyebrows arched. “United States, indeed! Well, that would be something.” He paused, his gaze one of a man lost in thought. “I can’t imagine any of the pirate states joining with each other.” He shook his head, and then, as if speaking to himself, he added, “No, that would take a bloody miracle.”
“Pirate states?” Wendy asked.
Hook’s brow arched. “Of course. The thirteen pirate factions of the thirteen seas.”
It was Wendy’s turn to look surprised. “You don’t say,” she uttered. “There were thirteen original states in the U.S. as well.”
There was a knock on Hook’s door. The pirate captain rolled his eyes. “Enter!”
It was Smee. “I apologize for the intrusion, Cap’n,” he said with a slight bow. “It’s only that the men want to know where we be headin’ next.”
Hook’s jaw clenched. “Well, Smee, where does the Jolly Roger want to go?”
Smee looked sheepish. “Er. . . .Well, she only seems to want to go back the way we came,, Cap’n.”
“Then we’ll head back the way we came, Mr. Smee.”
Smee nodded quickly. “Aye, aye, Cap’n.” He backed out and closed the door behind him.
Hook glanced at Wendy. Her eyes were wide.
“Are we going to. . . .”
“Neverland? I’m afraid so.”
Chapter Eleven
. . . .The taste of metal in your mouth. Crossing blades with a pirate . . . .
Peter . . . .
Know what it means to die . . . .
Peter, wake up.
Metal. Metal in your mouth . . . .Means to die . . .
“Peter!”
Peter opened his eyes. It took a good deal more effort than he was used to; even worse than those mornings after drinking too much pixie dust wine.
“Peter! Oh, thank goodness. I didn’t know if I was going to be able to help you this time. . . .” Peter felt small hands under his arms, trying to pull him into a sitting position. He realized that he was lying on the ground and that it was snowing. The cold of the concrete was seeping in through his clothes. He shivered.