Devourer of Men: A Captain Hook, Crocodile, and Wendy Darling Reimagining

I have been in the Seven Isles for a very long time—perhaps longer than I dare to count. And yet it’s been many, many years since I set foot on the island known as Everland.

Everland sits in the island chain between Pleasureland and Darkland, with Neverland to its north.

As far as islands go, it has always struggled with its identity. It wants to be respectable and powerful, but beneath the surface, it struggles to keep up with its own expectations.

In all the years since I’ve been here, it seems to have surrendered to its more deplorable urges.

The air stinks of soot and piss and the energy is just off.

I’ve been so consumed by my war with Peter Pan that I’ve barely looked up to notice how the Seven Isles might have changed.

“Aye?” the dockmaster says and peers up at me. Her eyebrows are thin and arching over her wide eyes in a perpetual state of alarm. Several tears in her tweed jacket have been stitched over in crimson thread, likely to match the shade of her bright red hair. There is a scent swirling around her that reminds me of burning sage and spiced tea.

“Beg your pardon?” I say because I’m not entirely sure where we were in the conversation.

“How long?” she repeats, her logbook open in hand, pen poised over the paper.

I glance at my ship tied halfway down the dock. My little sister Cherry and a handful of my men are staying over with it. I told Cherry I wanted her to watch out for the only place we have to call home, but really, I’m more worried for my sister’s safety on land than I am on sea.

“A week to start,” I answer.

“Very well.” On the next dock over, two men shout at one another, then a pistol is drawn, a bullet fired. The dockmaster ignores it and makes a note in her ledger.

“What’s become of this place?” I mutter.

The woman looks up at me through the fringe of her red hair. “You want the truth or you want my opinion?”

“Is there a difference?”

“The monarchy,” she says and slams the book shut. “Overrun by malum vermes.” She makes a spatting sound aimed at the weathered dock.

Malum vermes. Evil worms. Everland has never liked calling a witch a witch. Probably because their monarchy was founded by witches and so they have to twist their own history to make themselves feel better about it.

Of all the islands in the island chain, Everland has the most superstition about evil. Last time I was here, they hung parcels of milk-soaked thistle over their windows, hoping to confuse the vermes.

“Evil worms, you say? So which one is it?”

“Huh?” Her brows sink just a fraction over her eyes.

“Your opinion or the truth?”

She shrugs and licks the end of her pen, wetting the ink again. “It’ll be a hundred frongs for the week.”

“A hundred! You must be joking.”

“You don’t like it, you can sail to another island.”

“Bloody hell.” I dig into the pocket of my jacket and produce the required fee. “For a hundred pieces, these docks should be paved in gold.”

She snorts and takes the money. “Take it up with the queen, aye?”

I give her a tight smile. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

Someone calls her name and she hurries off, muttering about velveteen dandies.

I glance down at my velvet frock coat and start to question the choice to wear it. It’s fine Winterland velvet that cost me more than I’d like to admit. It was meant to make a statement. One that says I am respectable and always in good form.

My father beat that sentiment into me at a young age.

We must always be perceived as superior.

But that only works if there is anyone to impress. Here it just shouts, “Hello. I am easy to rob.”

With a grumble, I give the lapels a yank to straighten the jacket and start off down the dock.

No. 3 Harbor is for travelers, so those milling about are in no rush, many of them drunk.

I make my way into the heart of the city of South Avis. Avis is just on the edge of the Everland castle’s curtain wall and from the right vantage point, you can see the castle’s many turrets jutting up from the horizon line. Approaching dusk, it’s too dark and too cloudy to see much, but it’s not like I’m here for the monarchy anyway.

Smee confirmed that Wendy was last in the Everland High Tower Prison on the eastern edge of Avis, where the rocky shore and salty sea waves make it almost inhospitable. With all of the years that have passed since Peter Pan abandoned Wendy on Everland, I’m doubtful she’s still there. There’s no way anyone would survive the Tower for that long.

But it begs the question: if she is no longer a prisoner, then why didn’t she send word? Why didn’t she return to Neverland?

I’m not sure I want those answers yet. Best to leave those questions buried. I do, however, need some information before I can formulate a plan.

On the main road away from the docks, there’s a cacophony of clacking horses’ hooves and newspaper boys and street vendors calling out their wares. The air smells of roasted peanuts and horse shit.

The peanuts immediately make me think of him, my mortal enemy, and I move away from the scent as quickly as I can.

A carriage clatters past and I wait on the street corner for it to move along. Here the road forks in three directions. It’s Second Street I want, where the road rises upward to the part of town known as UpHill. There should be plenty of rooms for rent there, and lots of drunks in taverns with loose lips.

When the hill crests and the street plateaus, I spot an overhanging sign for an inn called The Royal Suit. A red heart is hand painted at the top of the sign with thorny vines twining around the script lettering. I find the inside packed. Laughter and revelry and drinking and cavorting fills the smoky space. No one gives me a second glance. I make my way to the counter and am greeted by a woman half my age wearing a high-collared jacket with a red heart sewn over the chest.

“Greetings,” the woman says a little distracted. There’s a towel slung over her shoulder and an empty tray caught beneath her arm. “Something I can get for you?”

“A room, if you have one available.”

“Of course.” She sets the tray aside and wrestles out a thick tome to a bookmarked page in the center. It’s a log of guests and rooms. “Name, sir?”

“Captain James Hook.”

She writes in my name, then fetches an iron key and hands it over. “The room is around back. Number 11, sir. Dinner is served at half past six. You’ve already missed it tonight but I can put together a cold dish for you if you’re hungry. It’s venison stew. I’m Mills by the way. The cook and the innkeeper.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m happy to wait for dinner tomorrow but thank you for the offer.”

A man shouts the woman’s name and she huffs out an exasperated breath. “If that’ll be all?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

There is a side door on the tavern that leads me to the alley and around back, away from the busier, noisier street. I find room number 11 and turn the key in the lock and hear the bolt thunk open inside.

The door creaks when I give it a push. It’s not as big as my room at home and the first pang of longing takes me by surprise.

I cannot go home.

I have no home other than my ship.

Peter Pan made that clear enough.

There are three windows—two in front, and one on the west side of the room facing a scant back garden. The bed is a double with a lumpy mattress and threadbare quilt. It sits between two end tables with a lamp on each.

Water drips from a faucet in the washroom.

Beneath one of the windows, I pull out a rickety wooden chair at a round table and sit. Now that I’m at rest, I can feel the echoing sway of the ocean waves in my legs.

I lean against the chair and close my eyes and take in a deep breath.

What if I can’t find Wendy Darling?

What if she doesn’t want to be found?

Or worse—what if he finds her first?

Impossible. I left him unconscious on Neverland and got plenty of a head start.

The Crocodile couldn’t possibly have beat me here.

Maybe he won’t come at all.

Maybe I’ll never see him again.

My gut clenches at the thought.