Beyond Neverland (sequel to Forever Neverland)

By Heather Killough-Walden

In the wake of Neverland’s destruction, Michael Darling harbors a heart that cannot find its place in the real world. John Darling is haunted by the memories of a native princess’s kiss. Tootles is a Lost Boy well and truly lost. And Wendy Darling writes of longing, and wears a gold button on a chain around her neck that once belonged to a notorious pirate captain.

But the mists are building around Wendy’s world. The storms have returned, and the winds are changing. Strange noises and shifting shadows re-awaken memories of a past they all thought they’d left behind.

Magic is stirring, crossing the boundaries between worlds, opening doors that were never quite locked, and filling the seas with promise – and danger. Something is coming... and it’s not leaving without what it came for.

In this conclusive book in Heather Killough-Walden’s Neverland series, Wendy and her friends face a future none of them ever could have imagined, and learn that everything they can’t find in the real world awaits them once more just past the second star to the right... and straight on ‘til morning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heather Killough-Walden
• Release date: Jan 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310663024

Book preview

Prologue

Captain James Hook slid the dead bolt home on the door to his cabin and then turned to face the room’s emptiness. Upon the desk on the far side rested… the book.

Hook hurriedly took off his hat, tossed it onto his bed, and then began yanking off his rich brocade coat. The red and black material rustled softly in the cabin’s quiet as he shuffled it off and threw it atop the hat. He paid neither garment any heed. His eyes were on the book.

Outside, his men shouted to one another the orders necessary to keep a ship the size of the Jolly Roger in tip-top shape. He ignored the sounds. Along the walls of his cabin were shelves displaying the riches he had collected during the years of his piracy. Among those riches sat a solid gold clock. It ticked and tocked with quiet persistence in the still air.

Hook glanced at it, checking the time. And then his piercing blue eyes were again on the book.

The moment was drawing near. Only a few more seconds, if the clock was right. And it was always right.

With restless anticipation, Hook drew off his gloves one quick finger at a time and made his way across the cabin with long strides. Distractedly, he dropped the gloves onto his desk and then slowly, as if he felt unsure, he picked up the small leather-bound journal.

It was Hook’s journal. He’d owned it for years. At one time, each and every page had been filled with the ink of his quill as he made record of his conquests across the seas of his world. However, once he had been trapped in Neverland, he’d ceased to bother writing in it. And then, a little over two years ago, with the destruction of Neverland and Hook’s eventual release from Peter Pan’s realm, something about the journal had changed.

Something paramount.

Now, once more whole in body, James Hook settled the book on the open palm of one hand, and turned its cover with the fingers of the other. As if it knew where he had left off, the book opened to the proper page.

The clock behind him filled the air with its endless voice.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

And then it chimed.

Right on cue, the words he had scribbled there so long ago began to disappear. One after another, they vanished from the page, as if they’d been written in lemon juice and the candle’s flame were going out. In their place, the weathered parchment of the book became blank.

Hook waited, his breath held. His heart beat steadily, his blue eyes wide.

New words began to form upon the page. The penmanship was different than his own, smaller and perhaps more graceful. The letters wrapped around on themselves with practiced speed and ease, as if their creator had written thousands of them. Millions.

With the hunger of a man who hadn’t eaten in centuries, Hook devoured the words, reading them as if he were fevered. He memorized each letter, digested each word, and found himself falling into his leather-backed chair as the last of it scrolled across the page to be followed by a final period.

Lightning struck on the sea, its thunder rolling heavy over the Jolly Roger. Hook stared at the last line, waiting for more though he knew there would be nothing further. And then he read it all again. By the time he’d finished, his heart was like lead in his chest.

They were her words – the Storyteller’s.

They were Wendy’s.

With a slow heaviness, Captain James Hook closed the book and placed it on his writing desk before he looked up to gaze out the porthole window at the churning sea.

A storm was on its way.

*****

On the sill of the stained glass windows of Hook’s cabin hid a tiny creature, its head ducked behind a wooden latch, its wings hidden in the shadows. Well, it was tiny in stature. On the inside, however, it was quite large. Part of that inside largeness had once housed a heart… but no more. And that otherwise empty space now inside of it was filled with a bitterness so sour, it could foul the oceans.

The creature watched with eyes of indigo blue that sparked like flint against steel. And then it lifted away on a warning wind, leaving a trail of shimmering dust behind it.

Chapter One

Kensington Gardens.

Peter stared up at the statue and frowned. Everything about it was wrong. The bronze boy looked like a girl. And it was practically a baby girl at that. And a pan flute? What was that all about? That wasn’t where he’d gotten his name. Is that what people thought? That would be as bad as assuming that Hook’s name was due to his hook….

Peter blinked. He looked way from the statue, memories assaulting him like mermaids after a seaweed-snared victim. They were relentless. Images flashed one after another, combined with sounds and feeling and even smells. They had grown worse over the last few months, stealing into his mind to dance before his inner eyes without warning – while he was eating, reading, working, and even trying to sleep.

They’d cost him his job on the fishing boat. He’d lost track of what he was doing, and a crewmate had been injured. It was one of the worst things you could do on a ship.

Hook probably could have told him that.

Peter’s gaze narrowed as he stared at nothing.

And now he was here, in Kensington Gardens – where it had all begun – because the memories had drawn him here. And because… because he didn’t know where else to go.

Peter shook his head and ran a hand through his dark blonde hair. It’s hot here. His head was beginning to ache. Spring was setting in, and the trees were laden with green and pink, just as they had always been in Neverland. But there was a heaviness to the air here that he wasn’t accustomed to. It had never been anything but comfortable in Neverland. It had never been anything but perfect.

He wasn’t used to this. Two years on a cold sea had worsened the situation by thickening his blood. Now the no doubt mild warmth felt as if it were melting wax inside him that trickled along at a snails pace, sludge-like and wrong.

An arc of pain shot through his right eye and stabbed through to the base of his skull. He winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. The park and its spring sounds of birds, and the distant chatter of visiting families faded behind the sudden sharpness of pain and a ringing in his ears.

At once, he longed for the fortified wine Tinkerbell would sometimes make for him. The pixie dust she placed within it, when ingested, would heal him from the inside out, even going so far as to alleviate headaches. Which was good since he normally needed it for hangovers.

But after a moment, the pain ebbed, and he lowered his hand to look over his shoulder. A river abutted the walk behind him, where earlier, Tink had been feeding a large swan mother and her chicks.

But the blonde human-sized pixie was gone.

Alarm shot through Peter. He looked around. Where is she?

It was distinctly uncomfortable to suddenly find himself alone. In Neverland, he had never been alone. There were the lost boys and the fairies and the natives – and the pirates.

But now he stood amidst a few wandering strangers in a place dedicated to some bizarre rendition of himself, feeling as though there was not a thing in the entire universe that he recognized. It almost felt like… falling.

Memories poured ruthlessly over him again, this time coming at him full throttle and sending his budding headache into agonizing bloom. He closed his eyes.

He heard voices, deep and growling, and recognized them as those of angry men who’d been on the same sea for far too long. He saw and heard the flashing crash of metal on metal, and knew the taste of iron in his mouth as blood poured over a bitten tongue. He caught the whisper suddenness of a black flag parting a cool respite of clouds, and then found himself gazing into a pair of eyes like a troubled sea.

Hook.

Peter!

Peter opened his eyes and spun to find Tinkerbell hurriedly headed his way on the path that had been empty a moment ago. The pain that throbbed behind his right eye ebbed quickly as he took her in. She was wearing a green t-shirt with some kind of pink plush-looking monster with wings drawn on the front, rolled up jeans that hugged every human-like curve she had, and true to fairy form – combat boots. Green ones.

She was also skipping. He hadn’t seen her do that in some time. Of course, it would have made no sense to skip on a boat.

It brought back more memories, and the truth was, Peter wasn’t certain how many more he could hold before bits from the past would begin replacing bits from the present and he would end up traveling back in time.

Would that be so bad?

Peter! Look what I just got! she sing-songed as she sidled up next to him and presented her treasures. Now we can go to the Orangery for tea!

Peter was embarrassed by how relieved he was that she was there beside him. He forced himself to focus on the paper money in her hands, so very different from the gems and shells they’d used in Neverland. When did you have time to go to a currency changer? he asked as he did the calculations in his head. He’d only turned his back on her for a few minutes at most. They were in the center of the park, and they’d been just about out of British pounds as they’d entered it not more than twenty minutes ago.

Tink gave him that mischievous green-eyed look she was so good at and shook her head. "When will you learn, Peter? I’m a fairy." As if that would explain everything.

Which, in all fairness, it did. Tink was the very essence of magic.

Tinkerbell began humming happily. It was a tune she hummed frequently: You Are My Sunshine. Peter couldn’t stand the song, but just now, as she started humming it with her beautiful, magical voice, he found himself calming a bit, expecting the next note, and even humming it along with her in his head.

Tink was magic… which answered one question, but raised so many others. Why hadn’t she disappeared with the other fairies when Neverland had been destroyed by Wendy? Why had she instead remained with him? And why did she still have her powers? Why was she… real?

Weren’t fairies supposed to be as mythical and make-believe as Neverland had been?

Tinkerbell frowned suddenly, and stopped humming. Clouds flitted through emerald eyes that were so similar to Peter’s own. Peter? she asked softly, her brow furrowed. What were you just thinking?

Peter swallowed hard and schooled his thoughts, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. It was deadly to think fairies didn’t exist. It was almost as deadly as saying it out loud.

I was thinking… he began slowly, and then a wave of honesty hit him, and before he could stop himself, he finished, how happy I am that you’re here, Tink.

The clouds lifted from her gaze, and Tinkerbell smiled a smile as sparkling and brilliant as fairy dust. A blush crept up her neck and into her cheeks, and she averted her gaze. Then she looked at the ground, squared her shoulders, and said, Yes, well, someone has to look after you. She took half the bills in her hand and shoved them into her front jeans pocket. The rest, she folded and thrust at him. Now then. Tea?

Peter’s insides were in turmoil. But he hid it well, and it was actually easier to relax with Tink doing the talking. It always had been. To be honest, that Orange place sounds really boring.

Oh come on, Peter. It’s supposed to be all the rage. And I’m in the mood for cake.

An hour later, Tinkerbell was steadfastly staring ahead and crossing her arms over her chest as she and Peter made their way out of the white-washed building that was the much-famed Orangery.

Not a word, Tink growled.

Peter tried not to smile. He’d been right. The rooms were bare of decoration, the tables were all covered in white tablecloths, and though everyone kept their voice disturbingly low and well-mannered, every single conversation could be heard. It was boring conversation. It was grown up conversation.

Worse, Peter may have been born here in some physical fashion what seemed like forever ago – but he was not of this place any longer. He didn’t have a British accent, he had a Neverland accent. He and Tink were treated as outsiders. He didn’t think everyone who did so was aware of it, but they all reacted differently to him as soon as he opened his mouth.

Of course Tink’s green boots didn’t help.

Let’s go ride the Eye, Peter suggested.

Tinkerbell immediately straightened, uncrossing her arms. He knew she would. She loved flying, but couldn’t do it during the day – not with all the humans around. Riding the London Eye was the closest she could come to rising above the land under the sun and taking it all in from a fairy’s vantage point.

Yeah? she asked, glancing at him sideways.

Yeah, he replied.

Okay! she spun around as they walked. I’ll even get us to the front of the line!

Two hours later, the sun was setting, and they’d ridden the London Eye twice. Peter fell into silence as Tink led them to the alley where she’d hidden their temporary home.

It was good luck to befriend a fairy. Magic healing potions and flying dust aside, with a fairy, you always had enough to eat, enough to drink, and a comfortable place to sleep.

As they reached the end of the alley where a red brick wall blocked off any further progress, Tink glanced quickly over her shoulder. Out of habit, Peter did the same. No one was there; the coast was clear.

So why did he feel as if the shadows had more substance than they should?

Tinkerbell’s human form began to shimmer. The sound of chimes filled the air. A flash of bright, gold light and a rush of warm wind later, a tiny pixie flitted about on dragonfly wings.

Peter’s head started to ache again. A unsettled feeling buzzed heavily through his stomach. He tried to ignore it. He was probably tired, perhaps dehydrated. Everything would be okay once he got back inside, got something to drink, and rested in the safe comfort of home.

Now in her natural form, Tinkerbell hurriedly gathered up as much pixie dust as she could in her small cupped hands, and then placed those cupped hands to her lips. She blew softly, covering the brick wall with sparkling magic. An outline appeared in the wall, just tall enough for Peter’s height. It was the outline of a door.

The glittering yellow line shimmered and pulsed a few times, and then faded into the solidified reality of an actual wooden door, complete with golden knob. Peter reached out and grasped the knob.

A vision assaulted him.

It was a flash of a flag, this one red like blood as it shark-finned through the fog.

Something tinkled and chimed by his ear, and Peter blinked. The vision was gone as quickly as it had come, but was troubling enough that Peter was left wavering, his hand unmoving on the knob.

Beside him, there was a flash, the faint scent of fresh cut grass and lemons, and Tinkerbell was human once more. She reached around Peter, removed his hand from the knob, and opened the door herself.

For a half an instant, Peter experienced a cold panic. He had the craziest notion that they would find something wrong on the other side of that door – something alien and frightening. It felt like opening a door in the midst of a nightmare.

He found himself holding his breath, every muscle in his tall body tensing for a fight.

But the door opened on a familiar and welcoming environment. The cottage defied logic, existing extra-dimensionally within the few sparse inches of the width of a single red brick. The fairy-magicked illusion allowed for the existence of a two-story cottage on the inside of the brick, complete with small kitchen, bathroom, and even the fire place that now burned warm and inviting, with no need of a chimney.

There were no windows in the cottage, but the walls were hung with colorful paintings of forests and ocean coves and massive, winding, knotted trees. The paintings were so detailed and realistic, it felt as if you could step through the images and emerge on the other side amidst the nature.

A bookshelf against the wall was overflowing with Tinkerbell’s romance novels and sea shells they’d found while working on the fishing ship. A round wooden table offered clean empty glasses and decanters filled with fairy dust laced wine, fresh chilled punches, and Peter’s favorite – root beer.

Peter took a deep breath and shook off the remnants of the shroud of doubt that hung over him. The visions were simply messing with him. He had no idea where they were coming from or why, but they were leaving their inky fingerprints all over his entire existence. He needed to deal with them.

Later.

Right now, he just wanted a drink and the cushioned comfort of that couch by the fire. The fire’s flames always flickered the perfect height and never gave off too much heat, always leaving the air inside the cottage a comfortable temperature.

Peter followed Tinkerbell inside, shrugging off his coat to hang it on the coat rack beside the sturdy wooden staircase. The stairs wound to a small loft above which contained a single bed, a dresser, and posters hung haphazardly along the upper walls. Peter glanced up at the loft now and shook his head.

What is your obsession with this Hello Kitty character? he asked as he headed toward the fire.

I can’t get anywhere near real animals, Tink told him blithely. It’s like they can sense that I’m only three inches tall. Even when I’m in my human form, I can tell they look at me and see a snack. She shrugged as she slipped off her green combat boots and kicked them across the room to the wall under the coat rack. But I like cats. She glanced up to the bed on the loft. Nearly every inch of it was covered in plush animals, most of them big white marshmallow-esque feline creations with little red or pink bows. Those ones are safe.

Peter didn’t respond. Instead, he leaned forward from his cushion on the couch, and placed his hands before the fire.

Tink watched him in silence as she headed to the cabinets across the cottage and poured them both a drink. What Peter didn’t know was that she could sense his unease. She could feel it as if he were a pulsing ball of malcontent, radiating uncertainty and fear. What he also didn’t know was that she felt nearly as unsteady as he did.

One of the things about fairies was that once they’d chosen their favorite human, they would do anything to make that human happy. From that moment on, her pixie dust was his. And there was no way that Tink was going to make Peter’s unease worse by telling him that she, too, could sense something was awry.

It felt like listening to ice cream truck music that was a little off key.

Something was definitely not quite right.

Chapter Two

Many millions of miles and exactly nine impossibilities away, one James Hook smiled his most charming smile, sipped from the goblet in his right hand, and eyed the crowd with a gaze the color of a calm sea. It was a deceptive calm, for an undercurrent of growing