Free Unhooked by Lisa Maxwell Page B

the runes she was so obsessed with, and I wonder. . . .
    I hesitate before speaking again, and when I do, my words are slow, careful: “You expect me to believe those things that took me are fairies?”
    â€œThey’re not exactly wee things, are they? But then again, they’re not exactly fairies in the sense that most usually think of them.” His mouth turns down thoughtfully. “And I don’t think they’d particularly enjoy being described as such.”
    â€œOf course they wouldn’t,” I murmur numbly.
    His brows draw together, and his expression almost softens. “I understand, lass. After all, I grew up with all sorts of tales of the wee folk, but even they didn’t prepare me for what I found in this world. Nothing about this world or the creatures that inhabit it is quite what the stories of our world would have us believe.”
    All I can do is stare at him. We are really having this conversation.
    â€œThe Dark Ones that brought you here, for instance,” he continues. “Me mother used to tell me horrible tales of the Slua —the restless souls of the unrepentant dead that flew through the night, without heaven or hell to call their home, looking for children to take with them on their journey. I suppose her stories had to come from somewhere, did they not? Just as Mr. Barrie’s stories must have come from somewhere as well.” He pauses, and again I am struck by how completely serious he seems. “So, yes, the Dark Ones are Fey, just as all the creatures of this world are.”
    I take a shaking breath. “So, what are you—some kind of Lost Boy?” I ask doubtfully. He’s maybe a year or two older than I am, but already there is nothing boyish about him.
    â€œPerhaps, once,” he replies without an ounce of irony. “But I decided there was a more apt part for me to be playing.” With a mirthless smile, he holds up the gloved hand.
    I realize then what I maybe should have seen from the minute he said we were in Neverland. The ship, the missing arm—it all makes a sick sort of sense.
    I take a step back. “You’re Hook?” I say, my voice faltering.
    He gives me a dark and dangerous smile that has something equally dark and dangerous curling in my belly. “The role quite suits me, no?” The mechanism beneath his glove ticks softly as he opens and closes his fist.
    â€œLooks more like Luke Skywalker than Hook to me,” I say, a feeble attempt to disarm the moment.
    â€œAye?” he says finally, and the word carries with it more weariness than any single word should be able to. “Will said as much when he learned of it as well. Though I’ve not been able to discern his meaning, exactly,” he tells me, his expression faltering. And in that moment the Captain does look like a boy—and a lost one at that.
    But I barely blink, and that impression is gone. Wherever we are, whatever is happening to me, the Captain believes every word he’s saying. This isn’t a game for him. This isn’t a joke.
    â€œBut if you’re Hook . . .” I hesitate.
    â€œYes?” He turns his attention to me fully then, his body held as stiff and alert as a soldier’s. His eyes are locked on mine, expectant. Mocking me again. “ If I’m Hook?” he drawls.
    It’s been years since I’ve seen the movie, but even I remember Captain Hook, with his scarlet coat and his villainous mustache. And his insistence on killing the Lost Boys.
    â€œI can almost hear you thinking, Gwendolyn.” The Captain’s clockwork hand balls itself into a fist. “Out with it now, lass.”
    â€œOut with what?” I hedge. I’m suddenly feeling very unprotected, standing with him alone in the moonlight, surrounded by a ship full of dangerous boys and the endless sea.
    He gives me a sour look. “You know well enough what I’m speaking of.