The trouble is, I don’t know how she fared after the fight with Peter Pan and his Lost Boys and his scary Darling girl.
Maybe the fae queen is dead. Maybe the secrets have been lost.
But if a beast has a checklist, the list must be followed, and oh look, the fae queen is next on the list.
I decide to stop off in town before making my way to the fae territory. The Captain’s house sits at the top of the hill so he can look down over his territory. From this vantage point, it’s clear that Neverland’s weather is having a shit fit today. Nevertheless, town is still bustling. People have goods to hawk and bread to bake, whether it’s snowing or not.
I follow the scent of freshly roasted peanuts to a town square by the bay. In the center of the square is a little park with a fountain installed at its heart. The fountain is a stone statue of the Captain in all his finery, his gaze trained on the horizon.
In all my years, I’ve found a common trait among men who erect statues in their likeness: fragility.
Ironic, really.
Dotted around the square are portable carts selling bread and jewelry and fairy wine. Shouting and laughter and some speculation fill the air. A great many eyes are trained on the dark sky.
I spot the peanut cart immediately and make my way to it. A stooped old man stands beside it. There is a tray on the end, stocked full of paper cups overflowing with freshly roasted peanuts.
“Old man, you have delighted this old man.” I snatch a cup.
The purveyor of peanuts looks me up and down. “You’re not old.”
I crack a shell between thumb and forefinger. “You flatter me.” I pop the innards into my mouth and smash it between my molars and practically orgasm right here in the town square. “Bloody fucking hell. You know how to roast a nut.”
He narrows his gaze from beneath the wide brim of a newsboy cap. It’s smudged with peanut oil and dirt. His shirt is denim, which is an odd thing, considering denim only exists in the mortal world. Of course, bits and bobs and trinkets and whores make their way to the island chain from many realms, and I suppose a denim shirt has just as much chance as a naughty slut.
Though I do prefer the slut over the denim. I am happy to stick my cock into a wet, warm hole. Not so much into hard pants.
I crack another shell. “Do you happen to know where I can find Wendy Darling?”
“Who?” The old man shifts his weight, his broken-in boots scraping the pebbles on the cobblestone.
“Wendy Darling,” I say louder.
He shakes his head.
“Pity.”
Snow falls harder, coating the cobblestones.
“That’s some weather, huh?” I crack another shell and the pieces join the snow at my feet.
“Never snows on Neverland,” he reports.
“What do you suppose is the reason?”
The old man shuffles his weight again and the cart groans as he leans into it, using it for support. “My granddad used to say that bad weather was god trying to tell us something.”
“And what do you think he’s trying to tell us?”
“That we’re fucked.”
I laugh and pat the old man’s head. “You’re a delight.”
“You going to pay for those?” He gestures at the bag of peanuts in my grip.
“You going to make me?”
A tremor comes to his right hand. He quickly hides it behind his back. He couldn’t make me if he wanted to.
I dig into my pocket and pull out a coin and flip it to him. He may be old, but he catches it easily, though the motion nearly throws him off balance. He holds out his palm to inspect the currency. It’s twice the rate he has painted on the side of his peanut cart in chipped white paint. Right next to Potter’s Peanuts. And then, Best Nuts in Neverland.
I don’t disagree.
“That work for you?” I ask him.
“That works just fine.”
Thick clouds roll in, stealing the light from the town square. I turn back for the road.
“I hope god spares you, old man. It would be a shame to lose these tasty nuts.”
The guards at the gate to the fae palace let me through with no trouble at all. In fact, they seem rather despondent.
I suppose it’s not entirely unexpected, considering how inept they are at their jobs.
But when I walk into the palace at the southern gate, I get a better sense of why they may be misfiring on their duties.
The palace is in chaos.
Not the kind of chaos you can see, like a tornado or a severed head. The quieter kind. Like the buzzing energy of a crowd gathered round a bomb waiting for it to go off.
No one is shouting, but I get the distinct impression everyone is silently screaming.
Cup of nuts still in hand, I make my way to the throne room, passing clusters of fae as I go. Most are in their regal daywear—coats embroidered with gold thread or dresses sewn with jewels.
Also not unusual in and of itself. I’ve spent a lot of time in royal courts and some are always dressed to dazzle. The Remaldis never went anywhere looking less than filthy rich.
The last time I was in the fae palace, there was more restraint, as if they were accustomed to dressing casually on a daily basis and only brought out their finest when they needed to impress or celebrate.
And if they were not interested in impressing a visiting island court, then what are they dressed for now?
I stop a passing fae with wings the color of pearls and a dark emerald dress stitched with thread to match. “Where is your queen?” I ask her.
The girl is in a rush somewhere and the first emotion to hit her face is annoyance. And then she takes in my bloody and tattered shirt and clenches her teeth into a deep grimace.
And then her eyes catch my face.
On a good day, my face can open doors and legs.
A startled breath escapes the girl’s throat, and her feet try to carry her away.
I snatch her by the wrist and drag her back to me, and the startled breath turns into a loud gasp.
“Not so fast, little faeling.”
I don’t know how old she actually is. The fae age in mysterious ways, just the same as me. She could be seventeen or half past seven hundred.
But I’m guessing closer to the former by the way her body trembles in my grip.
She’s old enough to have heard of me, young enough to fear me.
“Where is your queen?” I repeat.
“I believe she’s in the throne room, my lord.”
My lord. Good god. So old-fashioned. Technically, I am a baron on Winterland because I ate the enemies of the king and he gave me the title as a gift. But this little faeling doesn’t know that.
“Crocodile is fine,” I tell her and then lean in and lower my voice. “Or Beast.”
Several servants rush past, arms burdened with baskets of fruit. I look past the girl to take in the rest of the activity filling the great hall. Everyone is doing. Hardly anyone is gossiping, the true currency of any court.
“Are you preparing for a celebration?” I ask.
The girl nods and her wings flutter quickly behind her. “Tonight. Yes, my…I mean…Crocodile, sir.”
I let up my grip. “Carry on, then. Perhaps I will see you tonight.” I flash her my teeth, and she squeaks and darts away.
A celebration explains the finer clothing, but what the fuck are they celebrating?
Nothing has changed in the great hall. The tapestries are the same—several depicting their fae gods in various vignettes. Battles and feasts and revelry. The carpet lining the hall is the same as it was when I visited with the Remaldis.