The Never King (Vicious Lost Boys #1)(6)

My heart kicks up. There are more?

The footsteps draw closer, the heavy clip of a well-worn sole, the gait of someone who has a mission and will not be swayed from it.

Who is meaner than Pan? My mom never said anything about there being others. I never thought to ask.

When he darkens the doorway, the air gets lodged in my throat.

This one isn’t as muscular as the twins, but there’s something distinctly more sinister about him.

The scar. The eyes.

Three long, jagged scars cut his face in half diagonally from one temple to his jaw.

It’s changed his gaze.

One eye is bright violet. The other pure black.

Goosebumps lift on my arms despite the warm air.

“The Darling is awake,” the newcomer says in a cold, detached tone of voice. He comes over to Bash and steals the last of his cigarette, pinches it between his thumb and forefinger and takes a hit. When he speaks, he hasn’t exhaled yet, so his voice is stilted as he holds the smoke in his lungs. “She started crying yet?”

Kas frowns. “Something tells me this one will be harder to break.”

“They all break eventually,” the mean one says, eyeing me with his unsettling eyes.

I automatically look away, my body singing with a creeping sense of dread. I draw back, try to make myself smaller.

Mom said there was magic here.

What kind of magic is this? I do not shrink. Not usually.

“Vane,” Bash says. “Is that really necessary? She just woke up.”

Sweat beads along my temple and there’s a building terror threatening to spill out my throat.

A scream builds in the base of my throat.

What is happening?

“Don’t be a prick,” Kas says.

The mean one—Vane—finishes the cigarette, narrowing his eyes at me as my heart drums loudly in my head.

My breathing quickens, hands clammy as I claw at the sheet. I can’t sit still. I want to run. Tears blur my vision and then spill out.

“Vane,” Bash says again with more force.

Like a tether cut, the terror is suddenly gone and I gasp out with relief.

“What the hell was that?” I pant.

“Darling,” Kas says, and gestures to Vane with a flourish of his hand, “meet the scary one.”

“What?” I’m still gasping for oxygen, tears streaming down my face. What the fuck?

“I told you they all cry eventually,” Vane says. “Unchain her. Bring her out. I can only take dumb Darlings for so long.”

He disappears out the door.

“Come on,” Kas says. “We’ll fill you in while Bash makes you something to eat. Are you hungry?”

My stomach is queasy from whatever that just was, but it is decidedly empty too.

Maybe food will help.

Will anything help?

Mom warned me and I thought she was crazy and now I’m paying the price.

Kas is gentle as he removes the metal cuff. I see no key. I don’t know how he unlatches it. The chain, with the cuff attached, is tossed to the bed.

The twins make their way to the door and wait for me at the threshold.

“We promise we won’t bite,” Kas says.

“Not yet, anyway,” Bash adds.





4





BASH


How many Darlings have walked through the halls of the treehouse?

I’ve lost track.

We’re on autopilot at this point, all of the steps rote, we’ve stepped so many times. I’ll try to quell her with food. Kas will pretend he’s not like the rest of us. Vane, of course, is about as subtle as a hammer and will terrorize her until she sobs.

It’s a good thing I make damn good cloudberry pancakes.

The Darling’s gaze wanders as we make our way to the kitchen. I’m distantly aware of the crumbling grandeur of the house. It’s several hundred years old now, built by the labor of colonial soldiers we kidnapped back when it was easier to make men disappear.

They’re dead now. Mortals decay. Lost Boys never die.

As we cross through the loft, the Darling gazes up in wonder at the canopy of the Never Tree.

When we built the house, we chopped the tree down, but the following day, it had resprouted, fully grown. Again we chopped it. Again it came back. So we built the house around it. Now it’s home to wild parakeets and pixie bugs but it’s looking worse than it ever has.

The leaves are thinning and the bark is peeling. It’s just another sign that something is wrong with the island, and that something is Peter Pan.

When we reach the kitchen, Kas gestures to one of the stools at the long island in the center of the massive room. Mullioned windows take up one wall with a clear view of the ocean beyond. The kitchen has always been my favorite room. It’s full of light and possibility.

The Darling sits.

Vane comes around the counter and looks menacing just by leaning.

As I collect the pan and bowls, the ingredients I need, I can’t help but scrutinize the Darling.

We’re all aware of the space she takes up.

Kas sits beside the girl. “What’s your name, Darling?” His size dwarfs her. We could all break her.

“Like it fucking matters,” Vane says.

Vane especially.

“Don’t be a dick.” To the Darling, Kas says, “For the most part, you can ignore him. He’s always got a stick up his ass.”