The storm’s fury is such as he’s never seen. The sky roars, lashing the deck with rain—Pan throwing a tantrum, sensing his best enemy about to slip from his grasp. The ship tilts, front end caught by a wave, stern still in a trough, and for a moment, Hook thinks they will capsize. Another storm and another sea superimpose themselves over this one. He remembers a mouth in the waves. Falling past impossible stars. What if they tumble into yet another world, endless new worlds all the way down and never returning to where he started?
But the wave only smashes over them, driving the thought from his mind. His feet slide and it is his hook that saves him, point buried in the wood as another wave hard on the heels of the first drives him to his knees. He tears his hook free as more water swirls across the deck and the ship bucks again. Hook climbs to his feet and sets his stance wide, gritting his teeth.
“Your orders, Captain?” Killdeer’s voice is nearly lost in the storm, but even so, Hook hears the edge of rebellion in it, barely contained.
Perhaps he intends to make a move under cover of the storm—Hook swept overboard and Killdeer and Harrigan sailing away with his ship. Hook holds Killdeer’s gaze, daring him. They are both soaked to the bone, dripping. Killdeer is the first to look away.
“Get the men up on deck. All of them.”
“But—”
“Now!” Hook flings the word with violence, lets the wind snatch it.
Killdeer blanches slightly and goes to carry out the orders. Does he remember his captain’s blade in his gut? The point of his hook opening his throat?
Hook keeps his boots planted firm while the deck sways wildly. He told no one but Samuel of his plan. Let the men think him mad if they will. Let them think him incompetent even. By the time the day is done, he’ll either have saved them all, or doomed them. But at least he will have done something, made a choice, seen it through, rather than hiding in drink and smoke and waiting for Pan to hunt him down again.
As they emerge, his men are smears of blackness against the howling dark. He scans among them for Samuel, but he can barely tell one man from another. Fighting against the tilt of the deck, Hook climbs to the forecastle, nearly losing his footing as he does. The deck is slick with weed churned from the depths and tossed like garlands to tangle the lines and rails.
“Tonight, we leave Neverland!” He shouts to be heard above the wind; if the men make any response, it’s lost in the storm.
Lightning cracks directly overhead. The sky turns to white fire, momentarily burning out his vision. A splintering sound, smaller and more intimate, follows. Hook’s vision clears just as the mizzenmast—split like a felled tree—smashes to the deck. Pan has raised all of Neverland’s might against him, a child shaking a toy ship. Another wave smashes the breath from him. Hook slides, but a hand at his elbow steadies him. Samuel.
“Surely this can’t be all of them?” Hook pushes sopping hair from his face, scanning the men in their huddled knots.
The blade weighs heavy in his pocket. Hook slips his hand inside to grip the hilt. Tiny vibrations sing up his arm and through his bones, reassuring him that he is doing the right thing.
“The men are afraid, sir.” Despite the storm, Hook has no trouble picking out Samuel’s words. His hand remains on Hook’s elbow, and although it’s impossible in all the waves and rain, Hook imagines he feels its warmth. Comforting.
“They should be.” He clenches his jaw. “Where are the rest?”
“Chauncey led a group onto one of the boats and they struck out on their own. Before you even gave the orders to muster on deck.” Samuel looks down. “They would rather take their chances with the storm.”
“And no doubt Killdeer put a word in Chauncey’s ear.” His mouth twists in a frown.
Let them run. Let them drown. He looks past Samuel to Harrigan, and beyond him to Killdeer. Where Harrigan’s eyes betray doubt and fear, in Killdeer, Hook sees simmering rage.
“You.” Hook gestures at the man standing nearest to Killdeer and Harrigan. “You’ve just been volunteered.”
The man glances at Killdeer, and then back to Hook, torn. Killdeer takes a step as if he would intervene, jaw clenched. Hook turns to Harrigan.
“You, bring him here and hold him.”
Samuel’s fingers brush the soaked velvet of his coat. Hook shrugs him off, no time for mercy, no time for doubt. The black blade sings hunger through his blood and his fingers tighten on the hilt.
Harrigan doesn’t move. For a moment, Hook thinks he will spit. A look of triumph shapes Killdeer’s lips, smug, but in the next moment, surprising them both, Samuel takes the man Hook called for by his upper arm, gently moving him closer. Hook remembers the man’s name as Samuel draws him close enough to see, Bartholomew. A carved tooth from some great creature hangs around the man’s neck on a leather cord. He raises it to his lips and kisses it, murmuring words lost to the storm.
“Keep him still.” Hook addresses Samuel.
“What do you mean to do? Whatever rumors you’ve heard, I swear—” Bartholomew trembles, pleading his case, but Hook ignores him.
“Are you sure about this?” Samuel’s look asks him to reconsider, but his grip doesn’t waver.
There is a line drawn through the ship, and it is clear which side Samuel stands upon, regardless, perhaps, of his better judgment. But Hook cannot allow himself the full luxury of appreciating it.
“No,” Hook says.
Samuel grimaces, but he doesn’t flinch or pull Bartholomew away. He holds him firm as Hook studies the shadows writhing in the air around the frightened crewman. Blades are meant to cut.
His arm is up, slashing almost before Hook realizes it. Bartholomew shouts, trying to duck away. The shout cuts off and the ship pitches. When Hook draws back, his hand is slick on the blade’s hilt, but he can’t tell whether its seawater or blood.
“The captain’s gone mad!” Killdeer’s shout is snatched by the wind, circling around the deck, echoed as the other men take up the call.
He has to act fast, before it’s too late. The men blur like ghosts, scrambling for the rails as if they would rather jump. He shoves Bartholomew away. Lunges for the next closest man, dragging him forward. Maitland grabs his arm, pulling him back, surprising Hook. He’d expected Killdeer or Harrigan, but it appears their mutiny has spread. Hook lashes out, bootheel crunching into Maitland’s knee so he goes down with a shout of pain.
Hook leaves the other man to fall on Maitland instead, pinning him with his weight. He brings the knife down. No one moves to intervene, not even Killdeer. The blade meets resistance, but not flesh, Hook thinks. It’s something deeper, the man’s essence, the knife tearing him in two. Under him, the man stills, only his chest moving with shallow breath. At least Hook tells himself it does. He rocks back on his heels and looks up into the stunned faces, around him, his remaining crew now too frightened even to flee.
“Bring the next man.” Hook breathes hard, shaking sodden hair from his face. He’s fairly certain that what’s wetting it now isn’t just seawater, it’s also blood.
He thinks of the memory Samuel shared of Hook stepping from the smoke and the chaos soaked in blood, the Devil himself. The death that passed over him and gave Samuel his hand, setting him aside. Saving him.
Music that isn’t music winds itself beneath Hook’s skin, notes played directly against his bones. The blade sings to him. He’s almost certain now. He’s doing the right thing. He is saving not only Samuel, but himself, and the rest of his crew. He is the storm, the mouth in the sea. He is the blade, and he’s cutting them free.
The ship rises, another wave lifting it, but this time there is no accompanying fall, as if the sea itself is conspiring to push them into the sky. Or as if the storm and the waves are one now, all the world water. He remembers drowning. Hook’s chest constricts, a moment of panic, but he pushes it down. He tilts his head back, the rain washing him, letting the shouts and terror fall away around him to focus on his breath and his pulse.
Through the rain and the clouds he can’t see the stars, but he feels them. He lets himself imagine the points of them in the sky, needing only a line to join the spaces between them to become a door, a way out. His ship lurches and rises again, and he wonders if they are even sailing anymore, if perhaps they’re flying. The thought is absurd, rough laughter he traps behind his teeth. Mad, bad, sad Captain Hook indeed.
He slashes the blade—wet with rain, wet with blood, wet with seawater—across the lines of the imagined pattern in the sky. Desire can be a door. If Pan’s want for the perfect enemy, a fierce pirate captain to be his eternal foil, could pull him here, then surely it can work in reverse. Surely his will is as strong as Pan’s, his wanting tenfold. Hook throws all of himself behind his desire, his desperation becoming belief that he will not let waver. This will work; it must work. He will leave Neverland behind.
He cuts the shape of a door in the air one more time, feeling the sky tear, the motion of it shivering up his arm. It is an impossible thing, but so is this place, so is he. He feels something give, and a cry of triumph breaks from him. The storm continues to batter him, but his ship continues to rise.
Hook lowers his gaze to where Bartholomew lies curled in on himself upon the deck. The man shudders, his form blurs, and Hook catches his breath as he sees the man doubled, one self pulling away from the other. Then in a blink, Bartholomew is gone. Gone. Passed through the door. Out of this world and into another one. Hook lets the laughter free now, aware that he sounds mad and not caring. He’s done it. He’s opened a door and he cut them free.
The air continues to shiver and hum where Bartholomew lay. He’s gone, but Hook can almost see him there still as well. An echo. A shape pressed against the skin of the world, screaming.
It’s unsettling, but it must be his imagination. The blade did its work, but there’s more work left to be done. He needs to hurry.
“Bring the rest!” Hook shouts.
Samuel leads Harrigan forward now. In the surgeon’s grip, Harrigan is too stunned to even protest. His eyes are over-large, his mouth slack. As Hook reaches for Harrigan, Killdeer slams into him. They roll together across the swamped deck and fetch up against the rail, Killdeer on top of him, bearing down. The ship tilts, dropping, the blade’s magic faltering. Killdeer will ruin everything.
Hook lashes out at him, missing, leaving himself open for Killdeer to land a blow. Hook’s ears ring. Even in the storm, Killdeer’s face is terribly clear—a snarling dog protecting something precious to him.
“You won’t touch him.” As he spits the threat, Killdeer raises a fist to smash into Hook’s face again, but a fresh wave sweeps the deck, knocking him off balance.
Hook bucks, twisting, and manages to get one arm free. He buries his hook in Killdeer’s shoulder, leaving the other man shouting in pain. Hook rolls free, scrambles up.
The air swarms with shadows, swamping his vision. He swings wildly now, not even looking to see where the blade will bite next, letting the knife itself guide him. He’s running out of time. With every cut, Neverland fights back. More and more ropes of shadow lash the crew, trying to bind them. Hook slashes, panting, trembling. Rough hands grab at his collar. He hears the surgeon’s voice above the fray, calling for him.
Before he can turn to look for Samuel, the ship lurches again. The blade skitters in his hand, sinking into something soft, catching on bone. There’s a tearing, one Hook feels shuddering up his arm and there’s a scream—Killdeer?—an animal sound. Hook yanks backward. His feet slip on the deck, slick with more than water now. A body barrels into him, and this time he crashes to one knee. Pain explodes from the point of impact and jars upward.
“Captain!” He catches sight of Samuel, trying to reach him, but Killdeer is suddenly between them.
Hook blinks. Looks down. The man under him, no longer screaming, is Harrigan. Not Killdeer. His eyes are open, glassy, rain and seawater washing streams of red away from him. Hook’s arm trembles, his whole body trembles, and still the knife keens in his grip, wanting.
For a moment, Hook is outside his body, seeing himself as Killdeer must see him, as Samuel must see him. Drenched in gore and seawater, chest heaving, knife in his hand, eyes burning mad.
Can none of the rest of them feel the door in the sky? Is he mad after all? Has he murdered his crew?
The tension in Killdeer’s jaw, the look in his eyes as he’d spat his threat not to touch Harrigan circles through Hook’s mind. Something flickers in Killdeer’s eyes, dangerous, rage freed from any need to restrain itself. There are no words when Killdeer roars and launches himself forward.
But it isn’t Hook he reaches for this time. Instead he catches the surgeon about the waist—thick to Samuel’s slightness—and slams him to the deck. A cry lodges in Hook’s throat. He tries to stand, but his knee buckles, bringing on a fresh spike of pain. Rain sluices down the collar of his coat, then fingers tangle painfully in his hair, pulling at his scalp as his head is yanked backward.
“You don’t deserve this ship, or these men.” Killdeer’s face is inches from his own. “And I’m going to take them from you. Every single one. Starting with this one.”
He gestures behind him to where Samuel lies wheezing on the deck, then Killdeer smashes a fist into Hook’s face. The world blooms with stars, not in the sea or the sky, but behind Hook’s eyes. Blood nearly chokes him and he spits red onto a deck already slick with it as Killdeer lets go, bootheels pounding as he stalks toward Samuel.
Hook’s skull rings with the aftershock of the blow. But somehow, he’s still holding the blade and he swings it before Killdeer moves beyond reach. The point catches. He twists and there’s a howl. The world stutters, black and red, a smear like blood across his sight. Hook loses sense of what is here, what is now, time slipping and shattering, a seam somewhere ripping and everything coming apart.
When his vision clears, Samuel crawls across the deck toward him, still wheezing. He half collapses into Hook as Hook reaches for him. Samuel’s fingers tangle in Hook’s shirt and the lapels of his coat, trying to hold himself upright or trying to keep Hook from falling.
A thin line of blood traces from a cut above Samuel’s eye, washing to pink in the rain. All at once, Hook finds his body incredibly heavy. He wants nothing more than to sleep. Only Samuel’s body, propped against his, holds him up. Shadows swarm around them, flickering in and out of focus. The ship is too empty and too full, occupied by ghosts. Did he set them free? Or is his crew dead by his own hand?
“Samuel?” Hook’s voice is raw, his throat bruised. His face aches where Killdeer struck him.
A low note thrums up his spine, making it hard to concentrate. He can’t remember. Who—what—he is. What he meant to do. Samuel’s expression is haunted, eyes wide and luminous. Stars. There were stars in the water. He remembers that and nothing else.
“I have to…” Hook raises the hand still clutching the blade as though the metal is seared to his skin.
Bedraggled. Blood-smeared. A true monster. He holds the blade between them, point wavering. Samuel’s fingers are still tangled in the fabric of his shirt, the only thing holding him up. Samuel’s face is very close to his own.
“I have to finish it,” Hook says.
“I trust you.” Samuel licks his lips, meets Hook’s gaze—steady, determined, afraid. “Captain.”
He means to say thank you. Instead, he plunges the blade down. Into shadow, he hopes, not flesh. Samuel’s eyes widen further, stars blooming in them, his mouth opened. Blood, red as a poppy, spreads petals across his chest. No. Not blood, Hook thinks, something else. Life. Hook catches Samuel’s hand, brings it to the hilt of the blade and wraps his fingers around it before wrapping his own overtop.
They’re falling. Rising, the storm and waves catching them up, pulling them into the sky. With his hand wrapped atop Samuel’s he turns the blade on himself and plunges it down again.
Pain, such as he’s never felt, even dying a thousand times before. Numb fingers slip, ready to let go. Hook cants sideways, still holding blade, his weight still behind it. The final cut, the last tether of shadow holding the ship in Neverland and keeping it from rising through the hole cut in the sky. When it strikes the deck, the blade shatters. Fragments of pitted iron, ancient stone, as cold as stars, bury themselves in the meat of Hook’s leg as he collapses atop them.
But they’re rising. Flying. They’re free.
The wood of the ship screams, the knife and the storm both working to rip it apart.
Hook grabs at Samuel, clutching on to him. It’s not just the storm howling. It’s Pan, the voice of Neverland itself, raging against its loss. Hook shouts right back, a raw and wordless sound amidst the snap of timbers.
Hook wraps both arms around Samuel, as if after everything, he could shelter him from the storm.
“It’s over now,” he says. “It’s done.”
Hook buries his face against Samuel’s shoulder. Under the blood and the damp, the smell of leather and tobacco still clings to the surgeon. He feels foolish, small, like a child. His breath hitches, everything hurts. He’s afraid.
But if he is going to die, truly this time, he will not do it lying down like a dog. He forces himself to a sitting position, biting down on a cry of pain. He manages to get upright, leaning back against the shattered mast. He pulls Samuel into his lap, and tilts his head back, letting the rain run into his eyes and his open mouth.
The world explodes, green and white and blue. The stars yawn in a terrible whirlpool; the sky is a mouth, and those points of silver are teeth. Hook laughs, a terrible, bubbling sound. A hand grips his. He looks down. Samuel’s eyes are open, and they find Hook’s.
“I trust you, Captain,” he says again.
The ship shudders and blurs and splinters around them. The sky is white and the stars are black and everything is inside out. And then the entire world tears itself apart.