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

It’s been seven days and I’ve visited a half dozen taverns and spent countless coin greasing the lips of locals trying to get a morsel of information.

Any morsel.

And what do I have to show for it?

Nothing.

No one has heard of Wendy Darling.

No one has a contact within the Tower or within the prison guard.

I’m running into walls.

“Evening, Captain,” Mills calls as I bypass the tavern’s entrance and head around to the back. She’s at one of the fence posts beating out a rug with a fluted cane. Dust clouds in the air. Sweat clings to several strands of her dark brown hair.

“Evening, ma’am.”

“Mills,” she corrects.

“Of course.” I smile at her and keep walking. Despite it not even being suppertime, my head is pounding and my vision unsteady after consuming three full glasses of Everland wine at the behest of Big Billy Green.

Despite his name, Big Billy was shorter than me by a full hand, but he drank like he was twice my size.

Big Billy Green may not be seeing over tall ledges, but he can drink the bottles off of each and every one of them.

I had heard he knew of Smee, which lead me to believe he might know Wendy.

But he was a dead end too.

Trudging up to my door, I yank the iron key from my pocket and loop the ring around the end of my hook, then twirl it as I think.

Perhaps I’m going about this wrong.

How many years has it been since I last saw Wendy? How old would she be now? No one ages the way mortals do in the island chain, but every island’s magic is a little different. No one aged at all on Neverland. If I remember correctly, Everland’s aging isn’t too far off mortal aging.

The thought makes my stomach knot.

What if Wendy is already dead?

What if⁠—

On my stoop, something crunches on the stone beneath my step.

I lift my boot and find a scattering of broken peanut shells.

The air freezes in my lungs and ice fills my veins.

No.

I whirl around, my heart thumping in my ears.

But no one is there.

Just Mills down the way beating her rug.

Whack. Whack.

The echo of horses’ hooves from the street down the hill mingles with the voices filtering out of open windows in the back of the tavern.

Where are you, Crocodile?

A breeze shifts through the courtyard and a skittering of leaves tumbles over the cobblestone.

Is he waiting for me inside the tavern?

Shadows move past the open windows, but I can’t make out any of the faces.

I feel exposed, vulnerable. Which was exactly his intention, wasn’t it?

My face flames, thinking of him watching me.

Fuck this and fuck him. He’s taunting me. I won’t fall for it.

I jam my key into the lock and push inside my room before thinking better of my haste.

What if he’s waiting inside?

I brandish my hook like a weapon, my other hand on the butt of my pistol, just in case.

I check behind the door, and then edge into the washroom.

There’s no one there.

A riot of laughter sounds from the tavern, causing me to jump. It’s followed by the thumping of ale cups against solid wood tables.

With the toe of my boot, I slam the door shut and slide the bolt home, then pull one of the chairs into the center of the room and sit in it, facing the door, my pistol drawn in my lap.

When he comes, I will put a fucking bullet right between his eyes.

It feels like I’ve been sitting in this fucking chair for hours, but I have no way of knowing for sure. I tossed the clock out the window when I got here. All I know is there is darkness beyond my room and the revelry of the tavern has waned.

Minutes, hours, and no Crocodile.

I pace my room for a bit, trying to piece together my strategy while guessing at his.

What if he’s already found Wendy and has gone to her? What if the peanut shells were just a ploy to keep me put?

I pour a drink after my back aches from the incessant pacing.

Glass in hand, I sit again and take a long pull. The alcohol helps drive away the chill in my gut, but it does nothing for the knotted tangle of nerves.

I’m exhausted, eyes heavy. But I’ll stay up all night if I have to.

I drain the glass and then set it on the floor beside me and pull the pistol out again.

I feel better when the trigger is close at hand.

My eyes slip closed and I jolt awake a second later.

“Look alive,” I mutter to myself, as if the sound of my own voice might break some of the tension threatening to close in.

How much longer until dawn? Four hours? Six?

Bloody hell, if only I didn’t hate clocks so damn much.

I blink again as the exhaustion threatens to pull me under.

I can make it. I have to make it.

But I’m a fool for thinking so.