Hook's Pan (6 page)

“Your wig, madam,” he drawled and gestured toward it with cup in hand.

Narrowing flinty gray eyes, she huffed, caught up her hair and marched out, shoving past a curious looking Smee. Dressed in tan breeches and a cream nightshirt, his first mate looked anything but the deadly pirate he actually was.

Smee always had a gentle look about him, with his sandy blond hair and inquisitive blue eyes. The man looked better suited to parliament then aboard the vessel of the most villainous pirate ship Neverland had ever seen. But as innocent as he looked, Smee was as bloodthirsty as the rest, some days, more so.

“Captain,” his slight Irish tinged voice inquired, glancing over his shoulder once more before turning back around, “I was going to ask whether you both wanted to break your fast?”

“As you can see, Smee, she has left. Bring me one tray, toast and tea. That is all.”

“Jam, sir?”

“I’ve no wish for jam. Should I want it, I should ask. No?” He knew he was being gruff, but he felt wretched and hung over. He’d give him a bauble or some other form of trinket later, now he simply wanted his space, waving him off he turned back to his drink when a thought settled in his head.

“Smee,” he said, quickly clearing his throat.

“Yes, captain?” Smee quickly turned back around, clipping his head.

“I’ve grown tired of this village. I wish to set sail at the witching hour. How are the clouds?”

“There’s a fine easterly wind. Any particular destination in mind, sir?” Smee scratched the back of his neck.

James clinked his hook against the glass while tapping a discordant rhythm on the desk with his other hand. Danika had told him to return to Seren, perhaps he should. He hadn’t been there in years. But maybe it was finally time to stop fighting and face the demons. Soul weary, he decided it was now or never.

“The Seren Seas.”

Smee pulled away from the door, a panicked look in his wide blue eyes. “Sir? Are you certain?”

“Go to town, gather our supplies, and then set sail. Do not question me again, lest I forget we are actually friends.”

“Aye, captain,” he said slowly before turning and walking back up the stairs to the deck.

He hadn’t always been a bastard. Not like this. Smee only had his best interest at heart, and while he mentally understood that, it didn’t make James’ surly disposition any sweeter. Throwing back his drink, he poured himself another, his hand shaking slightly. Time to bury the past. Maybe if he did, he could finally let it go. Opening the desk drawer, James pulled out the locket, closing his eyes as he tucked it close to his heart.

A loud crack, as of thunder, rocked the ship, tossing him and the locket to the ground. The movement was so violent; he accidentally sank his teeth deep into the edge of his mouth. All around the cries of his men rained down as his boat listed and heaved on the violently turbulent waters.

“What the devil?” he muttered, crawling to his knees as he licked the blood off.

It took a moment for him to gather his wits. Rubbing the back of his skull, looking around for whatever may have caused the disturbance, he was wholly unprepared for the sight that met him.

Lying in a small heap not a yard back from his desk was a green tangle of spindly legs and arms. A sliver of blue winked out of existence through the air and immediately he knew what it was—the sealing up of a fae portal.

Lip curling with triumph, he shot to his feet, yanked his sword from the wall, and with sharp, precise movements walked up to the blond haired devil, pointing the tip of his broad sword into the base of the bastard’s neck.

Danika had found Pan for him. She’d told him to wait and not to act rash; she’d had a plan. And it was a bloody brilliant one. She must have convinced Tinker to give the hellion up. Tapping his hook onto his pant leg with anticipation, he licked his teeth.

“Move, and I’ll take your head from your neck, Pan.” He spit, and then laughed as the figure froze, attempting to curl in on himself like the coward that he was.

“
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod
!” the voice screeched, drawing his arms over his head as he attempted to curl into an even tighter ball. “This isn’t real, this isn’t really happening. Oh. My. God.”

James’ eyes narrowed because that voice was not Pan’s squeaky blustering. That sound belonged to a woman.

Who would dare trespass in his room? He should ask her, but he found he did not care, because she was dressed as one of Pan’s boys and so therefore was his enemy. Raising his sword, he prepared for the downward swing when a brilliant flash of twinkling magenta floated through the air like millions of lightning bugs.

“Stop!” Danika waved her hands, zipping in front of the huddled mass. “James, no…this is Talia. You must stop, you must!”

Everything inside him stilled, the world shifted on its axis, and the sword clattered to the floor. Heart seizing, he dropped to his knees and scooped the trembling woman into his arms.

“Can this be?”

Danika’s lips compressed. “There’s a wee problem. Well…” she chortled, “a big…big problem. You see, Hook—”

He was not listening, his eyes devoured the form in front of him hungrily. Her body was small, and covered in forest green—Pan colors and she wore legs. Talia had always wished for legs, but could never transform. There were so many questions to ask, so much he had to know, but right now the only thing that mattered was tasting her again. It’d been so long, too long and she looked scrumptious. His body flared to life, ready to claim his mate and finally make her his.

“My Talia, my beloved,” his voice broke as he ran his fingers through her thick, golden hair. Even that was different; when last he’d seen her, her hair had been the green of leafy kelp. “Look at me, loveliest, look at me.”

But when she turned to him, he hissed and scooted back, letting her drop like a stone to the floor.

Her eyes were green.

Talia’s had been blue as the sea she’d hailed from. Everything looked different because this
wasn’t
Talia.

“Who the devil are you?” He swore and yanking up his sword, brought it once more to her neck, then eyed Danika hard. “Tell me who she is, or I’ll kill her, I swear it.”

First thing Trisha noticed was the eyes. So dark they appeared like liquid ink in the candlelit room. Flecks of silver, like stardust, rimmed the irises. She’d never seen eyes like his before, but beyond their color was their shape and the length of his lashes. Lashes a woman would envy, long and curled at the tips and a shade of black that she could only achieve with mascara.

The second was the set of his broad lips. They weren’t full, or too thin, but just right as Goldilocks might have said.

And the third was that he had a sword pointed at her neck and was pushing in hard enough that she knew blood would spill if she even breathed too hard.

Heart hammering a wild and painful tattoo in her chest, Trisha could hardly think, let alone speak. What had just happened?

Where was she?

Who was he?

And oh my God, he had a hook. A silver, wickedly curved honest-to-goodness hook.

She blinked.

“James, blast and damnation, man,” devil-bug growled, and then shot a spray of pulsing pink energy from the tip of her itty-bitty wand directly over her head—the power that flowed off it rippled like a shimmering heat wave on asphalt.

For the love of all that was holy, this couldn’t be really happening. She must have slipped and fallen, bumped her head. Inhaled too many fumes in the fire. But then again, believing there’d been a fire would also necessitate the belief that there’d been a devil-bug flitting with her tiny devilish wings in front of her and yeah… She licked her lips, pulse throbbing when James/Hook (she bit her tongue to stop the crazy giggle from spilling out) stared down at her with the type of intensity she’d only ever imagined in the millions of bodice rippers she kept stashed around her house.

If it weren’t for the fact that she was currently being held at sword point, she’d be tempted to use her best Southern Belle voice and whisper “I do believe I’m about to swoon.”

“Danika, who is she?” he snapped, his breathing hard but even, eyes never wavering from her face.

Beads of sweat gathered behind her collar and rolled down her back, making her aware all over again of the itchy material on her legs.

“She dresses like
him
,” he spat, upper lip curling into a most delicious snarl.

Good grief, she was even starting to think like a heroine from those books. Most delicious? Hell, she was losing her mind.

She bug
flitted in front of Trisha, holding out her small arms in front of her face. As if that was going to stop him, all he’d have to do was flick her away like the pesky gnat she reminded Trisha of.

“Will you listen?” The little fairy sighed. And Trisha had to admit, even if only to herself, she could be nothing other than a fairy. Which meant by these rules, she was really in Neverland, in Captain Hook’s cabin, probably aboard his ship…smack dab in the middle of an existential nightmare.

She laughed, ignoring his glacial stare.

“Then tell me quickly, for I tire of this game, Danika.” He grabbed his forehead and rubbed and in that moment, Trisha felt pity for him.

That or the fish she’d eaten at lunch wasn’t sitting right. She wasn’t sure which.

Whatever it was, he looked different than the towering and imposing male who’d all but mauled her one second and tried to decapitate her the next. He now seemed deflated. Sitting down, he hunched over his desk with the sword lying on his lap.

Only now did Trisha notice the half-drunk glass of amber liquid on the desk. He picked it up and took it to his lips.

Danika flitted to his ear. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she leaned in and began whispering, giving Trisha time to think and study.

Her brain was still blank. Numb. Because this was almost too ridiculous to take in. To believe that the man in that chair, dressed in a tan shirt that opened at the collar with laces dangling down and black pants that clung like a second skin to the thickness of his thighs was the villain Captain James Hook. Where was the absurd wig Dustin Hoffman had worn in the movie? This man didn’t have a black mop of curls hanging around his head, a thick handle bar mustache pomaded to within an inch of its life, twisted at the ends into a funky curly-q. If he weren’t wearing the hook she’d have thought him just another actor.

But his shirt was loose, and there was nothing tied to his wrist except for the leather straps holding his hook in place. The hook itself also looked more real and lifelike than the one Remy had worn. His had been dull looking, not gleaming like polished silver and glinting wicked in the low light.

The room was full of the masculine, rich scent of wood and smoke and liquor. Everything screamed fine living, even the rug she was sprawled on. It almost appeared Turkish by design, but the feel of it was a whole ‘nother level of rich. The bold red and cream colored patterns were exquisitely soft to the touch.

Betty had told her over and over it was real. Gerard had been handsomely stoic, looking at her as if she was too stupid to understand, because she didn’t come from a world where magic was real. In her world magic was an illusion, a show…elaborate sometimes, but never real.

And if Trisha hadn’t fallen through a dizzying tunnel of stars, if she weren’t touching and seeing and hearing…maybe she could still convince herself this wasn’t real.

But if it looked like a duck and quacked like a duck…

So why was she here?

That was really the only thing that mattered at this point. Why? The ramifications of what all this meant were more than she wanted to consider right now. The only thing she could focus on was that she needed to know why she was here, so she could go home. And maybe like Dorothy she’d wake up and think of this as just a nice dream.

Decided, she cleared her throat and stood.

James/Hook (Jeez, this was really weird) whipped around and glared at her. His silver dusted eyes narrowed into slits as they roamed slowly up, and then down the length of her body, causing her to shiver from the intensity of his gaze. Like she was the cream and he was the hungry cat.