Page 79 of The Last Lost Girl

I try to smile and feel my lips flinch.

Pan’s jaw clenches.

The relaxed way his hand rests in the pocket of his rolled-up pants belies the tension coiled in his shoulders, in his abs. He’s like those awful vines. Coiled, barbed, and ready to strike.

Poisonous.

“I’ll change your mind soon enough,” he says with a shrug, his smile tight. “I have a gift for you, Ava. A little something to welcome you home.”

I hear the skiff rise from the sea bottom and listen as the briny water sloshes, then pours, magically forced from its hollow belly. Hook lifts me into the boat before hauling himself in and takes the seat facing the shore, no doubt still looking out for the danger that’s there but hidden from his sight. He gathers me in his arms again.

My head lolls backward as I try to tell Hudson that Pan is here.

Peter withdraws the hand in his pocket. His fingers are clenched as he brings it to his mouth. Only then does he uncurl them. He purses his lips and exhales, blowing something toward me.

I only catch a glimpse of a dark wisp before the skiff races farther into the sea and carries us away from danger. Hudson sees that my head is turned toward the shore and cradles me against his chest, stroking my hair and reassuring me that I’ll be okay. I press my eyes closed, thankful that whatever Pan just sent toward us didn’t reach me.

Until something cold ghosts over my back. It curls up my spine and then sharply cuts between my ribs to impale my heart.

I arch against Hudson and try to scream, but only rusted sounds tear from my throat.

“What’s wrong?” Hudson panics. “Ava?”

Pan’s laughter is the last thing I hear.

Something cool and wet glides over my leg. I smell vinegar. I crack my eyes to see a giant man sitting beside my bed. I raise up onto my elbows and recoil from him as I take in a sharp breath and hold it.

My covered leg tangles in soft blankets that smell like sea salt, cloves, and… metal?

“You’re safe now, Ava.”

The stranger tilts his head so I can see him better. How does he know my name?

Am I in the hospital?

I look down. I’m not in a hospital gown.

My mouth feels like cotton.

I’m in a bed I’ve never seen. In a room I’ve never seen. With a man I don’t know.

My stomach rocks. The man is ready with a bucket.

I retch, then cough until my eyes water. When I catch my breath again, they slide toward him. “Who are you?”

Hands out, he begins to soothe, “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay. The tides are a little uneasy tonight. You’re disoriented from the stings, that’s all.”

Stings? What stings?

He readjusts his grip on the side of the bucket. Not a plastic dollar store trash can, but an ancient-looking thing with thick wooden slats choked in a metal ring, and a thin metal handle clanging against its side.

The room tips and rocks sideways as the structure we’re in lets out a mournful groan. The man braces his foot on the floor beside him to keep his chair.

What the hell is happening?

Glancing around the room, I can see this entire place is just as old as the bucket he’s still holding for me. Wood paneling and warped panes of glass are all around. A scarred desk with a map hangs on the wall behind it. A huge copper tub in the back corner and a… a plank swing in the opposite one.

The room has been trashed. Books are sprawled all over the floor and shards of broken glass and feathers are strewn everywhere.

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