The Never King (Vicious Lost Boys Book 1)

I’m in a room I don’t recognize, but the woman in front of me seems familiar. She’s got thick auburn hair pulled back into a barrette.

My great-grandmother Wendy’s trunk is in front of us and the woman is holding a box in her hands.

“Who are you?” I ask, but she doesn’t hear me and my voice floats around the room like I’m under water.

She ducks down, unlatches the trunk and pushes the lid back. It’s lined the same as it is now with creamy paper printed with little orange flowers.

Setting her smaller box aside, she reaches into the trunk, knocks on the side and then a drawer pops open.

“I didn’t know that was there.”

She scoops up the smaller box, places it into the drawer and presses it closed.

When she stands up, she dusts her hands off like it’s a job well done.

“He can never have it back,” a voice says behind us.

I turn with the auburn-haired woman as a figure steps out of the shadows.

A woman with gossamer wings and sharp, bright eyes. If the wings weren’t shocking enough, the soft, golden glow surrounding her would be. She’s lit up almost like a night star.

She looks like Tilly but different.

The auburn-haired woman stands frozen, eyes glossy and far away.

She reminds me of my mother in that way.

The winged-woman steps closer and puts her hand to the woman’s head.

The light pulses around the room, blinding me and I turn away from it.

And as I do, I see the face of a child peering out from a closet.

When the light fades away and I look again, the auburn-haired woman is lying on the floor, unmoving, unblinking. Not breathing.

Before the winged woman leaves, she adds, almost under her breath, “And he’ll certainly never have his Darling.”

I lurch awake.

The bed is empty and I’m disoriented for a second trying to remember where I am.

“Vane?” I call.

There’s no answer.

I throw the sheet back and leave the room. Daylight shines beyond the darkened bedroom. Kas and Bash are in the loft with Vane at the bar.

“Darling,” Kas says as he lurches upright to meet me halfway. “How are you feeling?”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Peter Pan.”

“It’s daytime,” Vane says, a little bored. “He’s in his tomb.”

“Where?”

“In the bottom of the tower.”

“Where?”

They just stare at me.

“Fine. I’ll find it myself.”

I start back the way I came. From the outside of the house, there’s only the one tower on the north side so I go there and find a door easily enough.

“You won’t get far,” Vane says suddenly behind me.

I ignore him, yank the door back and peer down the darkened tower. The shuffling of my feet echoes in the vast, dark space.

“You need a key to get into the tomb,” Vane says.

“Then give me the key.”

“Why?” He’s behind me now, towering over me.

“I need to ask him something.”

“What?”

“Come down with me and you’ll find out.”

“If you wake him in the daytime, he could very well kill you.”

I square my shoulders, fold my arms over my chest, and wait him out.

His curiosity gets the better of him. He goes down first and I trail behind him, hand close on the metal banister.

Soft inset lighting keeps me from falling off the winding stairwell and when we reach the bottom, I shiver at the chill in the air. We’re far below ground now.

Vane unlocks the door and pulls it open to reveal an empty annex and a second door.

“After you,” he says.

On the second door, I lift up the handle and pull it open.

The room really is a tomb. It’s pitch black.

I grope around inside. “Where’s the light switch?”

Vane grumbles and edges past me. A second later, a lamp flicks on and golden light spills over the room.

There’s a giant four-poster bed in the center of the room, a dresser, a wingback chair and stacks and stacks of what look like leather-bound journals.

The bed is empty.

“Where—”

“What is it?”

His voice slithers out from the shadows. He’s barely a shape in a darkened doorway and it reminds me of the first time I laid eyes on him in our old Victorian. Back then I was afraid of what he symbolized.

I’m not afraid anymore.

I cross the room and stop a foot from him.

“Who had glowing skin and wings and looked like Tilly?”

His face darkens. “Why?” There is a noticeable growl in the back of his throat.

“Just tell me.”

“Tink,” Vane answers. “It was Tinker Bell.”

I look at him over his shoulder. “What happened to her?”

“I killed her,” Pan says. He sighs and rubs at his eyes. “What is this about? I’m very tired, Darling.”

“This is about your shadow.”

That gets his attention.

He comes over to the edge of the bed and sits down like standing takes too much effort. He’s shirtless, in nothing but loose pajama pants. I’m realizing this is the first time I’ve seen him unclothed, the first time I’m getting a good look at the tattoos that are inked between the scars.

He’s covered in them.

“It might have been a Darling that took my shadow, but it was Tink who masterminded the entire thing with the help of one of the Lost Boys. With Tootles.”

“Tootles.” What an odd name. “Why would Tink do that?”

“Because Tinker Bell was in love with Peter,” Vane answers.

“That makes no sense. If she loved you—”

“She may have loved me,” he says, “but she hated Darlings more.”

“So?”

“So…I just happened to love one. I was in love with the original Darling.”

All of the air is knocked out of my chest and I collapse on the bed beside Pan.

When I decided to barrel down here, I didn’t expect this was the answer I would get. But it makes sense now.

In the dream, Tinker Bell said, “…he’ll never have his Darling back.”

“She killed the original Darling,” I say.

Peter exhales beside me.

“So you killed her.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight,” he admits. “Sometimes I act before I think. Once Tink and the original Darling were dead, it made it much harder to track down my shadow. But memories can be inherited in blood and the original Darling had a little sister. It was improbable, but I’d hoped that any sort of knowledge might have been passed down through her lineage.”

The little girl in the closet. She must have been the sister.

“So that’s why you take us, trying to find any shred of information about your shadow.”

He nods.

“I think I know where it is.”

He looks over at me, his hair mussed with sleep, but his eyes wide with anticipation. “Tell me.”

“In my great-grandmother Wendy’s trunk.”