Darling - K. Ancrum Page 0,75

walked more tonight than I have in the past month.”

Tinkerbelle smiled softly and closed her eyes. “I know we might not, but I hope we see you again. Even if it’s just in passing or on the train.”

Beside her, Curly began rebraiding his hair, pulling tightly so his braids were stiff and shiny.

Wendy wondered how they got ready for bed normally, if they spent some time together as a family and watched TV, or read books out loud so the younger boys could listen. If Peter had never entered their lives but they’d all found themselves living under the same roof, Wendy believed they could have survived without him. They would have been much happier, too.

When their bus stopped at the corner of Clark and Albion, Nibs shook Tinkerbelle to wake her up. Curly pulled the string to stop the bus, hopped out the back door, and held it open for them. When the bus pulled off, Peter was there, standing across the street.

He was stock-still, watching them with his hands tucked in his pockets. They waited for the traffic light to change, then crossed the street to meet him on the other side.

Peter looked them up and down. “It’s been an interesting night, hasn’t it?” he asked, without any inflection whatsoever in his voice.

Curly and Nibs didn’t say anything. They waited as if in military rest for Peter to say or do something instead.

Peter’s golden eyes were fixed on Tinkerbelle as he stared her down in suspicion. “Go home,” he said.

Curly and Nibs turned and began walking down the sidewalk without a second glance at the girls they were leaving behind. Tinkerbelle watched them leave, then met Peter’s gaze.

“I’m taking Wendy back,” Peter said quietly. “Then, when we get home, you and I are going to have a talk.”

Tinkerbelle flinched like he’d hit her, hands visibly shaking.

Wendy’s heart was pounding in her chest. Only the scratch of the wire’s tape against her skin and the knowledge of what was at stake gave her the bravery to speak. She stepped closer to Tinkerbelle, edging herself into Peter’s line of sight to hopefully break his focus and resettle it on herself. “Tonight had nothing to do with her,” Wendy said firmly.

Peter’s gaze flickered in Wendy’s direction for a second, but then resettled onto Tinkerbelle. A predator rarely gets distracted.

Wendy steeled herself and tried again. “Stop scaring her. You don’t do anything to girls. You never have and never will.”

Peter’s neck snapped so fast in Wendy’s direction there was an audible crack. For one incredibly horrifying second, an expression shifted over his face that was so full of the promise of violence, Wendy almost stepped back.

But she didn’t. She filled herself with the last shreds she could reach of Ominotago’s boldness and said, “Do you know who I am? I know who you are. I’ve always known.” By the grace of God keep my voice still, keep my knees steady, keep my face blank, Wendy chanted silently.

Peter’s golden eyes shifted back and forth as he clawed through his memory, Tinkerbelle almost entirely forgotten.

Wendy tilted her head to the side and looked at Peter like he was being amusing. There was such a thin line between throwing him off guard enough to trick him and saying something that would make him react as quickly and dangerously as she’d seem him already tonight.

“Wendy, no,” Tinkerbelle whispered.

“Wendy, yes!” Wendy exclaimed, grinning at Peter. “Only my last name is probably throwing you off. God, if she knew how easily she’d slipped your mind, she wouldn’t have stayed away from this city for almost twenty years.”

Peter’s arm shot out so fast it was a blur, grabbing Wendy’s forearm with crushing pressure. He swung her around and slammed her so hard against the brick wall of the building behind them that stars danced across her eyes. Tinkerbelle screamed, but there was no one on the street to hear her. It was too late at night, but also too early in the morning.

In spite of the pain, Wendy giggled and bared her teeth in her closest approximation of the feral smile Peter had given Detective Hook earlier. “I’ve been told I look like her,” she said.

“Mary Moira,” Peter replied roughly, ghosts swimming across his vision. He looked more haggard and more his age than Wendy had ever seen him—auburn curls finger-combed and frizzed, lack of sleep, setting spray for his makeup letting the circles beneath his eyes show through.

Wendy ignored the throbbing in her upper arm and the scrape