Page 65 of Caging Darling

“Do you think he can see me?” Michael repeats back.

A sob escapes my throat, sounding more like a cough from the exertion. John’s wraith makes an incoherent sound and moves his hand toward Michael’s as we run.

Michael shouldn’t be able to feel him, but he keeps his hand close to John’s all the same.

As we race across Neverland, Tink leading the way, taking a blade to the brush in our path, the forest sings to us, the birds waking for our flight. The leaves rustle, even the ones we don’t touch. It’s as if even the trees are clapping for us.

And, one last time, because my heart is racing with the toxic high of hope, I let myself imagine who I’m running toward. I don’t think about the fact that he’s not waiting for me on the other side of this realm. Don’t let myself consider that he’s on the other side of the world, indifferent to my suffering.

As I run, I run toward Nolan Astor. I run toward his invisible arms, his sturdy embrace. I run like I’m racing across a crumbling cliff side, his arms waiting to catch me, to pull me in and never let me go.

I’m getting out of here. I’m getting out of here, and I’ll chase him to the ends of the earth if I have to. Even if it’s to beat on his chest and scream at him for leaving me to rot. Even if it’s to break down and weep into his arms.

I’m going to see him again.

And that gives my heart wings.

He meets me on the beach. Not him, but his wraith. “Goodbye, Darling,” he says to me, his shadowed hand brushing my cheek, though I can’t feel his touch.

I shake my head. “Not goodbye.”

He pauses. “You’ll see me again.” The next half of his sentence remains unspoken. But I won’t see you.

“Thanks for letting me pretend for a while,” I choke out.

“Thank you, for making me feel real.”

I swallow the splinter lodging in my throat. But then Astor’s wraith is gone, along with John’s, and it’s just the beach before us, the black sand sparkling green underneath the glow of the aurora.

The waters are peaceful tonight, the black tide gentler than usual. As if the sea has been waiting for us. Tidied itself up for its dinner guests.

Tink goes on ahead, searching the shoreline. As we follow her, a boat comes into view, just far enough from the waters that the tide won’t get it for another few hours. Tink spins around, searching. When we make eye contact, she doesn’t need tiles to express the question in her eyes.

Because I’m already thinking the same thing.

Where is Victor?

Tink getsto the boat first, aided by her fae speed and the fact that she’s not clinging to Michael’s hand. She plucks a torn piece of parchment out of the boat before I get there, but unable to read all of it other than the words she has tiles for, hands it straight to me.

Winds, go on ahead. Tell Michael I’ll be right behind you. Don’t worry, there was a second boat in the storehouse. There’s something I need to do first.

My chest goes hollow, my eyes going in and out of focus as I read the parchment over and over.

Tink jabs me in the arm with her sharp fingernail.

“He found a second boat and told us to go on ahead of him,” I explain.

Tink’s tanned cheeks go white. She presses a tile into my hand.

“PETER.”

I nod, the pain in my throat threatening to close it off. My stomach cramps, and all I can see is a body hanging from the end of a noose, swaying underneath the reaping tree. The face changes every time it passes underneath the shadow of the branch. John, Victor, John, Victor.

“He’s going to try to kill him,” I whisper. “Stupid, stupid kid.”

Tink’s touch against my palm again. “NEED TO LEAVE.”

I think of Victor, tending to Michael when I was too high to remember I had a brother who needed me. Victor, who stayed at my bedside, placing himself between me and Peter when Peter wanted to give me more faerie dust. Victor, who sat with me by John’s grave. Victor, who made sure I bathed.

---