Straight On Till Morning (Disney Twisted Tales) - Liz Braswell Page 0,106

of his sword, almost thoughtlessly. That’s…new. And disturbing. Hook really is out of control. Peter may be a nuisance at times, but he’s no blackguard. At times he has even done favors for us. All right, Tinker Bell, and Madam—

“Miss,” Wendy interrupted. “But you can call me Wendy.”

Wendy, then, although it is a meaningless name, he said, bowing. Better you were named Windy, Mistress of the Winds. And what in blazes happened to you? Since I last caught sight of you—yes, I saw you hiding in the bushes—it looks like you’ve been through hell.

She helped me escape a trap of the First, Tinker Bell said proudly. And fought off an entire colony of thysolits.

Wendy was gratified to see his honey-brown eyes widen in surprise.

I knew you had the bearing of a warrior, but…the First captured you? And you escaped? Truly?

Wendy gave a slightly ironic curtsy.

“Aww, quit all your palavering and chitchat,” Peter moaned. His complexion had brightened a little and his whole countenance had improved—whether it was the rubyfruit, moving to the jungle, something finally happening, or all three, it was hard to say. “When do my boys come? Is there any sign of them yet?”

They should be here soon, Tinker Bell promised, fluttering over to soothe him. She even made little jingly cooing noises.

Thorn watched this, then sighed and looked over at Wendy: what can you do? Wendy couldn’t help smiling. She didn’t feel like she was betraying her friend; the boy fairy wasn’t being snarky or obnoxious. More resigned, like a big brother. And she was relieved to see someone shared her feelings about Tinker Bell’s obsessive relationship with Peter.

“Do you know, there’s a rather popular—though scandalous—story called ‘The Great God Pan,’” she ventured, desperate to keep their conversation going, “by a fellow named Arthur Machen. His Pan is an actual blackguard.…”

I’d rather hear the stories of your escape from the First and then the thysolits, Windy.

“Quiet!” the less godly Pan ordered.

Wendy turned, about to give him a piece of her mind—then saw the expression on his face. He was serious for once. The the tips of his ears twitched, like a dog’s in its sleep or a cat’s when it isn’t paying attention to you. Thorn frowned, also listening.

I hear it, too.

Wendy, the only one without pixie hearing, turned and cocked her head and strained.

After a few moments she finally caught the faintest sound of twigs cracking and something crashing through the underbrush. She grabbed her dagger.

“It’s the Lost Boys!” Peter cried with delight. He leapt up, his cheeks growing rosy with excitement. “They’ve come!”

Luna came crashing through the underbrush first, leaping exultantly into Wendy.

“Good girl. How are you, girl?” Wendy hugged the wolf, wondering who was getting more dirt and mud on whom.

Now even she could hear the Lost Boys’ approach: they were marching, singing some sort of military song—familiar in tune, the original lyrics replaced with something rude and unrepeatable. When they broke into the small clearing where Wendy, Thorn, Tink, and Peter waited, it was with glad eyes and weary triumph.

They were all streaked with blood and makeup. Skipper made for a particularly scary whatever rodent she was with dark blue woad streaks above her eyes and on each cheekbone. Slightly’s jacket was stained with unsettlingly large dark brown splotches and his arm was bandaged with a strip of leather over gauze. But he also had a new necklace with the face of a hideous demon or god on it. The twins had new weapons to go with their slings: short, elaborately carved batons. Cubby and Tootles alone looked more or less the same, with just a few rips in their outfits and blue dots on their faces.

Wendy made a mental note to ask them about their adventures later. When she had tossed around bloody and blood and terrible wound in her stories (or, say, the idea of losing a hand in battle), she hadn’t really thought about it. She had even basked in the praise when Michael and John said she could tell a good story “unlike most girls”—one full of violence and victory. But now that she was viewing the real thing and had experienced some fighting herself she found her zeal for the lurid somewhat tempered. She wondered about the strange wound on Slightly’s arm.

“Well then, Slightly,” Peter said, straightening himself up and regarding the other boy gravely.

“Well then, Peter,” Slightly said back, trying not to sound wary.

The tension between the two of them was more palpable—and uncomfortable—than the humidity in