Devourer of Men: A Captain Hook, Crocodile, and Wendy Darling Reimagining
Chapter 22

I wouldn’t call slipping into the king’s bedroom an easy feat, but I manage to bribe one of the nurses with my charm and wit and some of the Captain’s silver. I’m curious about the king, but I’m not curious enough to hand over a fairy bar. My reserves are dwindling and my cache is in a Darkland bank, so I must be selective in my spending.

The darkness in the king’s room is no enemy of mine, but the stench certainly is. I can smell decaying flesh on the air and the rot of magic.

This entire situation is getting more and more interesting by the second.

At the old man’s bedside, I watch him breathe.

His lungs rattle like a Summerland cicada and his mouth is gaping open like a fish.

“Well you are most certainly dying, aren’t you? Do you know how much trouble you’re causing with your inferior mortal body?”

I bend closer, listening for any change in heart rate or breathing to tell me whether or not he’s conscious of my presence.

His patterns remain.

I rip the blanket from his body.

He’s just skin and bones, and barely skin he’s so pale and old.

A shiver runs through me.

Mortality is unfortunate and I’m glad I don’t suffer from its consequences.

There’s nothing about the king’s body that gives me pause. Everything is as it should be for an old dying man.

But still, the reek of magic is there, a scent that I am all too familiar with.

I check the bedside table, the candle burning in its bronze holder, the glass bottles of medicine. Nothing is amiss.

So where is it? Where is the magic coming from?

I take a few steps back and then it comes to me.

The bed.

It’s large, practically an island on its own. Four posters with a thick canopy.

Grabbing it by the post near the king’s head, I give it a yank. The monstrosity moves a few inches and the rug bunches up beneath my feet.

Another yank and there is enough dead space for me to stick my head around the backside, between the bed and the wall.

And there…

There’s where I replace it.

A maker’s mark.

A circle with two wings and two intertwined Ms.

The Myth Makers.

“Well fuck me,” I say on a breath.

Growing up in a secret society had its perks. More for myself than for Vane, who tried to shed the benefits like an insufferable cloak. My baby brother is stubborn like that. And truth be told, he would much rather take a thing than be handed it.

I do admire that about him. Even if I can’t understand it.

The Bone Society and The Myth Makers have, for most of our history, been allies. But that’s because we don’t get in the way of the Myths and they don’t get in ours.

But twice now, on two different islands, I’ve found them meddling, expanding, putting their fingers into things they should not be putting their fingers in.

I shove the bed back into place and make sure to straighten the rug. Then I tuck the dusty king back into his blanket.

There is no saving the man now. No magic, no miracle will bring his corpse back to life. Because I’d put the rest of my fairy gold on the fact that him lying on death’s door has the Myths’ fingerprints all over it.

The only thing to be done now is to rescue Wendy from whatever dark, twisted plot the Myth Makers have running through the Everland Court.

Sooner rather than later.

But first, I need a fucking shower to scrub the stench of death from my skin. Maybe a distraction or two to clear my head.

Then we get to work.