2. Wendy

Iopen my eyes and the first thing I see is stars. Distant, blinking, silver stars on a dark sky, forming constellations, weaving the light into the fabric of night.

Wait, did I say night?

I blink, my chest tightening, my next breath cut short. Wasn't it morning just now? Wasn't I on my way to work? When did night fall?

Then I look down and realize that I'm not in my bed. Instead, I'm lying on sand.

A beach.

Shit. Shit! I sit up so quickly my head spins. Panic closes like a fist around my throat as I scramble to get away from the crashing waves, scooting up the beach.

I'm wet, my clothes clinging to my skin, and I've somehow lost my hood and jacket. My black stockings are filthy and get covered in sand as I scoot up the beach, as far away from the water as I can.

This is like one of my nightmares, and I hate how my heart is racing. It's pounding fit to break a rib. I don't want the water to touch me—and yeah, that always makes for a fun experience in the shower, whether the heater works right or not.

Like I said, I never linger under the water.

Not a water fan.

Finally, I get my feet under me and stand shakily up, only to notice a man lying prone on the beach a few feet away from me, hair and clothes wet. Black ink winds over the backs of his hands and up corded forearms.

I know his face.

He's the guy who attacked me, isn't he?

No, wait, this one must be the guy who intervened, right? Dark hair, right, this is the dark-haired guy who… who pulled me away, and then he…?

He stabbed me.

Jesus Christ.

Patting my chest, I stumble back a few steps.

But I'm alive. How can that be? Finally, I look down at myself. He stabbed me, didn't he? I remember it clearly, I remember how it felt—but there's no blood, no tear in my favorite blue sweater.

When I lift the hem, then my shirt, too, I find my skin smooth and unmarred underneath.

Did I imagine it?

Must have.

I grab my own pendant, cradling the silver thimble hanging from the chain in my hand, and I draw a shaky breath.

It doesn't matter. That bastard brought me here. Wherever this is. Even if I don't feel like I'm dying.

Though I do feel a little unsteady. How did we arrive here? And why is he out? Why are we both wet as if we swam to reach this beach?

"Hey!" I call out. "You. Guy."

He doesn't stir, and this time I take a step closer, my curiosity getting the better of me.

My first impression was that he's handsome, and closer inspection confirms it.

Yummy, as Charlie would have said, had she been here. Very yummy.

Tousled, dark hair, light stubble on his square jaw, long lashes resting on broad cheekbones. His mouth has an arrogant tilt, even passed out like he is. He has a thin golden chain around his neck with a small round pendant that looks like an acorn.

And those tats.

Yeah…He's pretty. Charlie wouldn't have just stared, like me. Oh, no, wait. She'd probably have already cuddled the passed-out stranger, wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and asked him to take her to bed.

When his long, dark lashes flutter and those full lips part on an exhale, well, I admit I'm tempted, too.

No, Wendy. Jesus, what are you thinking?

That this is the most exciting thing that's happened to me since I left home?

Christ on a stick.

"Hey!" I call out again, looking around for a rock or something to use as a weapon. "Where's my handbag? What did you do with it? What…?"

I trail off, my breath catching in my throat as from the corner of my eye I see a creature crawling out of the water.

A mermaid.

Wait, what?

It's a monstrous thing, dragging itself up the beach with pale, skeletal arms, pulling a long fishtail behind it, trailing pale green hair, its face like a skull.

Black spots flash in my vision. What in the ever-loving fuck? What…? Is this real? Is it even possible? What's happening?

Dizzy, I stumble backward, then turn to the yummy guy, crouch down and grab his arm. It's thick with muscle and damn heavy. "Come on, wake up. Wake up! Get up, Jesus Christ, move!"

With a groan, he opens his eyes and gives me a bleary glare, then seems to focus on my face. "You," he breathes.

"No!" I yell at him, "not me. That… thing coming from the water. Is this a dream? Is this real? What the hell am I supposed to do?"

Because even in dreams you try to escape, even when you know you can't.

"Real? You're asking me if this place is real?" He gives a raucous laugh, then he coughs. "Holy shit."

"Yeah! Did you give me drugs, is this what this is? Am I seeing things? The beach, you, that… mermaid thing over there—"

"Mermaid. Did you just say mermaid?" His gaze sharpens instantly and he pushes himself off the sand with a grunt. "Fuck."

"Yeah, that's exactly what I said. Fuck. Mermaid. Not the prettiest of creatures. I…" I turn to look at the thing crawling up the beach at a good speed and shiver. "She's… real, isn't she? I'm not hallucinating, am I?"

"The mermaid is real," he growls, an honest-to-God growl—an echo from my latest nightmare—and then he's on his feet and hauling me up, too.

Whoa, he's tall, like, really tall, six feet four or something, solidly built and frigging gorgeous, though the white sand pressed to one side of his face is kind of funny.

Apart from the pale blue wolf-eyes, the square jaw and soft lips, he has ink all over him. Looks like he has full sleeves on his arms, ink on the back and sides of his neck, too, at least as much as I can see inside his unzipped black hoodie, as well as on the backs of his hands.

Hands that are currently grabbing me, breaking me out of my stupor, and lifting me easily, slinging me over one of his shoulders like a bag of potatoes.

"Hey. Hey!" I beat at his muscular back with my fists as he starts moving. "What are you doing? Put me down!"

"Shut up," he snarls, slaps my ass and climbs up the beach toward tall dunes. "Or I drop you on the sand for the fucking mermaid to snack on."

I gape. He wouldn't! I hang on his shoulder like a limp noodle, and then think to turn my head sideways to take another look at the mermaid, and…

Yep. Still crawling toward us.

Holy crap.

God, that thing is ugly.

"Aren't mermaids supposed to be small and cute?" I mutter, give his back another hit with my fist. "Like Ariel. Curled up on rocks. Singing to the moon. This one is like a… a dead thing. Drowned and rotten. I'm Wendy by the way. Wendy—"

"Darling," he rumbles. "I know."

"You do?" I breathe.

"Oh, yeah."

"You know my name! What the hell, are you a creep? Who are you? Put me down!"

"I'm Peter," he says, not making any move to grant my wish, still marching up the beach, never breaking stride.

"Peter. Peter who? The Apostle? Peter Parker? Peter Jackson? Peter Rabbit? I don't know any Peters. Not in real life anyway. Charlie would know." I frown. "But wait, no, she wouldn't, because we don't know you. Get it?"

"You talk too much," he says, his voice flat.

"I talk too much? Jesus. Are you for real? Wait, don't answer that. I think… I think I'm in shock," I whisper. "Do you think I'm in shock?"

He says nothing and keeps going, between the dunes and out onto an overgrown path that runs through abandoned fields and scraggly trees, leading toward some ruins. His scent fills my senses, dark and musky with a hint of sea salt and engine oil.

I fist my hands in his soaked shirt and struggle to breathe around the scent, through it; through this stunning turn of events.

What is this place?

The ruins gleam in the light, pale and jagged. I only see them when the path twists and turns, and I catch glimpses of run-down buildings among trees, crumbling concrete walls covered in graffiti and abandoned cars.

Wait… why does it look familiar? Have I been here before? Or…

"I've dreamed of this," I whisper as the realization hits me. "Of dark water and horrible creatures living in it, chasing me. Of a town like this." I swallow hard as more things surface in my mind. "I dreamed of your eyes. How is that possible? I'm losing it, that's it, I'm losing it—"

"That's because this is your dream," he says, or at least that's what I think he says.

"What are you talking about? Who did you say you are? Peter? Peter who? What do you want with me? Where are we?"

No reply.

He's quiet for a long while, keeping a good pace toward the ruined city, his hold on my legs like steel—he remains quiet for so long, in fact, that I'm starting to think he won't ever speak to me again, just kill me and dump me in some ditch.

Maybe I talked too much and annoyed him. Who knows with psycho kidnappers, right?

Oh God, I really am going to die.

I start to hyperventilate, my grip on his wet shirt so tight my knuckles ache.

At some point, I realize that we have turned away from the ruins and are walking among trees. I can't take this suspense anymore. If he's going to end me, he'd better do it soon, or else my heart might give out.

I think I make a noise of despair, a suffocating noise, and he slows down. He doesn't ask if I'm okay, if I'm freaking out or having a heart attack.

Instead, he says, "I'm Peter Pan. But in this place, they call me King."

"This place?" I manage, still hanging upside down, still panicking. "What place is this?"

He gives a dark chuckle. "Welcome to Neverland."