Chapter 1

I turn off the fan light in my room, the darkness consuming it quickly. The white shag carpet swooshes as I pad over to my bed next to the window and slide between the blue cotton sheets. They are chilly without my body heat to warm them and I shiver a little in the November night.

I was exhausted. I worked a seven hour shift earlier at the bookstore and my eyes felt like sandpaper after flipping through so many pages.

My curly blond hair lay across the pillow and I began to drift off. My eyes were closing and every inch of my bed felt like the comfiest cloud in the sky.

Crash!

I bolted upright and stared at the human form lying in the broken shards of my window.

"Damn it!" the guy on my floor yelled. He was in what looked to be brown animal skin pants, the kind native Americans were always shown wearing in history books, and a modern dark green t-shirt. His red hair was ragged and hanging in his eyes, it looked as if he had cut it himself with the most uneven knife on the earth. From where he lay on the floor, he lifted his eyes to mine and I saw they were a robin's egg blue. He slowly raised himself onto his elbows, scraping himself on the glass with every movement. "Why don't people leave their windows open anymore?" he demanded. The he saw my screen caught on his- well I guess you could call them moccasins. "What is this?"

I found my voice. "What are you doing, throwing yourself through my window? Why are you in my room?"

He stood, grimacing, and blood dripped from several cuts on his arms and face to my white rug. I opened my mouth to scream, for my dad, for my mom, for anyone, but he glanced in my direction and covered my mouth with a bloody hand before I could let out a peep.

Warm blood trickled onto my cheek and down my neck onto my pillow. I stared at the growing stain, trying not to look at the guy in front of me and his gruesome appearance.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But I can't have anyone else waking up."

Yeah, like the sound of a window crashing hadn't gone unnoticed. I could already hear someone running and stopping by the garage door, the place where my brothers' baseball bats had been unceremoniously dropped earlier after their practice.

"Listen," He said. "My name's Peter and I need you to come with me."

I couldn't help myself, I snorted and he dropped his hand. "Peter? Like Peter Pan? Really, that's the story you're going with here? Aren't you a little old to be Peter Pan?"

Feet thundered up the stairs.

"Yes, I am." He said. "And I'm sorry for this."

He reached under my blankets before I could respond. One hand skimmed across my polar-fleece, pajama-pants covered thighs and the other across my tank-topped back and the next thing I knew he threw me out my window.

The night air froze the wind flying past my ears and the breath was stolen from my lungs. My room was only on the second floor but this drop, if landed wrong, would seriously injure me. I squeezed my eyes shut.

I landed in a nest of interlinked arms. Looking around at the male faces staring down at me, I realized I did have the air to scream. They unhooked their arms and I was dropped carelessly onto my front porch, the breath popping out of me and my scream abruptly cut off.

It had yet to snow in our little suburban town in Pennsylvania but the ground was cold enough that it seemed like it already had.

I tried standing on wobbly legs. Dropping out of a window was no joke after all. From my half kneeling position I saw Peter jump out after me, but he landed into a crouch without the help of his followers.

I stood with great difficultly but my success was cut short. Peter came at me from the side and his shoulder caught my waist. I flipped over his wide shoulder like a sack of potatoes, my head slapping against muscle with every running footstep.

The street blurred below me. Where were they running to? My pale arms dangled uselessly over my head; I didn't have the arm strength to lift them. Blood pooled to my brain, the thudding of their synched footsteps matching the beating of my heart. Every part of me was frozen. My breath fogged out and floated down to my hair dangling by the backs of Peter's legs.

"We're far enough." One of the guys told Peter. He slowed and came to a stop. Black spots swirled in my vision; I had been upside down too long. He bent at the waist and touched my feet to the ground, expecting me to stand on my own.

I couldn't. With the blood all in my head, I slumped down and landed on my hip. My cheek touched cool ground and I felt the world spinning.

"Is she dead?" someone slapped my face and my eyes opened in outrage. "Oh good."

Hands slid under my arms and I was dragged onto a bench. I couldn't focus on the faces. Behind them was a park, blue slides and teeter-totters and swing sets lined the wood chips. The sight of it abandoned at night caused chills to sweep up my arms. I didn't recognize it from any of the ones in my neighborhood; how far away were we?

"Daphne, that's your name right?" Peter asked, kneeling next to where I sat.

I supposed now would be the time to run away. Any logical person would just up-and bolt, try to find a police man or a phone. My head swam at the thought of even standing.

"Yes, that's my name." I answered quietly and shakily.

"I had wanted to explain to you back there," he pointed to his right, probably indicating the general direction of my house. "I just didn't get enough time. My name's Peter Pan and these are the lost-" he cut off with a strangled sound. He glanced at the men ranging from 13-17 around him, clearly they were not boys. "-men. The lost men."

I looked at each of their solemn faces, wondering if they truly believed they were all imaginary children.

"So what, no Tinkerbell?" I asked. Maybe I still had time to run.

Peter's head ducked and his hair brushed my pajama pants. "Well, you see, that's the problem. She quit."

"She quit." I repeated flatly.

"She was ready to grow up, so she went with me to search for a replacement. That's when we found Wendy." His voice took on a chilling note. "She was perfect, as good a story teller as Tink."

"But Peter loved her." One of the men cut in. Peter shot him a look and then turned back to me.

"But I loved her, and so she had to go."

"Tink had already left by then though, so we were screwed." Another man cut in. Peter stood and faced them.

"Would you all just let me tell the story?" They nodded. Satisfied, Peter resumed his place next to me.

"Tink had left, leaving us with nothing but two recorded stories in case something went wrong. You see, storytelling is a magic all its own. It opens the imagination, opens the possibilities." He turned away. "It's what makes us fly and stay young."

Everything turned silent. Frozen breathes counted the minutes.

"But you're not young." I had to point out.

"Two stories." He reminded me, indicating on his long fingers. "One to help us fly here and one to help us fly back."

He stopped. Eyes pleading, he grabbed my face between his palms and forced me to look at him. "I'm almost eighteen Daphne. An adult. We need a story teller now. We need you. I've been living with them down here for five years, searching for someone like you. Someone with magic."

"Your story's been around a lot longer than five years Peter." I challenged, hoping to catch him in a lie. This was all just a lie, a crazy act made by the drama department or some reality TV show, it had to be.

"The magic, once built up, can last for years. It was only when we started aging that we hurried to begin our search." He let go of my face. "Please Daphne, be our new story teller."

I shook my head. "No."

"It doesn't matter anyway."

I was hefted to my feet and held in place while the sharp cord of rope bit my wrists and was tied off. Peter leaned in close, enough that I could see his heart pulsing fast in his neck.

"If you try to run you will be carried the rest of the way." He warned. One hand death-gripping my arm, he began to walk.

I thought of dragging my feet, running, kicking, biting, everything they taught in self-defense. But my muscles weren't responding. Without gloves, my fingers were prickling lumps of ice and my bare feet on the cold cement sidewalk weren't much better. My cheeks burned with the lack of warmth and I knew my nose was red by now. Peter's arms and face were bare and I could see each of his cuts, now surrounded by dried blood. Yet he looked warm. I could even feel the warmth radiating through him on the hand clenching my arm.

I tripped.

My feet were so numb I didn't even feel the slope upward until my toes smacked the uneven sidewalk square. I began to fall to my knees, Peter's grip ripping my arm upward at a sharp angle. Half in- half out of the fall I dangled, too drained to even try standing again.

"Now what's wrong?" complained one of the men. Peter dropped me and then knelt down. His fingers brushed my cheeks, my nose. I let it happen. He turned to my feet, his face unreadable.

"Ron, give her your shoes." He ordered.

"But-" came a voice from the back of the group.

"Who is the leader here?" Peter demanded, standing and facing them all head-on.

One of the younger men stepped forward. He looked barely thirteen. Head down, he slipped his feet out of his shoes and offered them to Peter.

I began to protest but Peter kicked me in the arm, cutting it off. Carefully, he knelt down and slipped the moccasins like his own onto my feet. Gripping my hand, he pulled me up and I immediately knew they were too big. He took a step and I moved to follow, my foot slipping right out of the soft leather.

One man laughed. We stopped, Peter noticing the discarded shoe. He sighed and I slipped my foot back in. I waited for him to move but he stood staring at my feet.

He reached down and gripped my waist between his two hands, his fingers almost meeting in the back, and lifted me. Both shoes stayed on the ground. He set me down.

"Anyone got small lady feet?" He asked. The guys laugh, shaking their heads, too embarrassed to fess up now even if they did.

I slide my feet back in, enjoying the slightest bit of warmth they afford. Peter sighs and sweeps my legs out from underneath me.

"You said I could walk." I protest. He shrugs.

"If you could walk I'd let you, it's no picnic carrying someone, you know."

I want to ask him to put me down, but then I realize. He's warm. Every part of him is burning with its own heat. I press my cheek to his chest and my cold forehead touches his collar bone.

Poked, prodded, and shook, I open my eyes.

I stare directly into the brown ones above me.

"Miss? Peter says I have to wake you. It's time to go."

It is only then that I notice I'm lying on the top of a hill. The stars stretch above me, clearer than I've ever seen them. And Ron, the young boy who woke me, isn't touching the ground.

He's floating above me, parallel to the ground, the wind swaying his lazy flight.

I shriek loud enough to make banshees proud and spring to my feet, almost smacking heads with him.

They're all flying in the sky above me. A dozen teenagers moving with the wind as easily as they walk on the ground. Stars sprinkle the backdrop, illuminating the dives and twists, while the night sky hides those higher up from view, causing surprise when the suddenly appear below.

It's real.

The spectacle is beautiful; my eyes can't be pulled away.

I hear someone crow and though it's beautiful and unearthly, my feet send me skidding backwards.

I have to leave.

I force my head downward, searching for the least steep side of the hill to descend.

Someone crows again, this time right above me, and I jump and slip. My heels scrape hard dirt, finding no purchase, and my body flips to the side, beginning to roll.

Hands grab the tops of my arms and suddenly I'm dangling at least fifteen feet above the ground.

"Cool isn't it?" Peter's voice comes from above. A tingling sensation starts in my legs and moves to my arms. The sound of wind rushes through my ears. I close my eyes. "Daphne?"

"I'm afraid of heights." I admit.

He laughs. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of." And then, as if my comment was never said, he tosses me away.

I searched for any place to break my fall, eyes streaming from shock as well as the crisp night air. A pair of arms encircled my waist a foot from the ground and dragged me back towards the sky.

Peter flew below, grinning up at my tears. "See, not that bad, right?"

"Put me down!" I sobbed.

His grin faded. "I can't, you have to come with us." He flew up higher than everyone else and the guy holding me twisted us to watch. "All right men, are you ready to go?"

Cheers and shouts erupted.

Peter came down towards me and I was passed into his arms. He leaned in close, lips brushing my ear and his cheek resting on my temple.

"If you're scared of heights, you'd better hold on tight." He whispered. Then he pulled back. "All right men, off to NeverLand!"

More shouts exploded out. I waited for anyone to move and then like a firework we were speeding straight upwards. I curled myself around Peter, holding on for dear life as we sped forward faster than my car on the expressway.

Through my closed eyes, I glimpsed red as though the sun was burning right in front of me. Soon, everything turned white. My eyes burned with the sudden intensity, a pain that made me want to scream at Peter to turn around. Finally it ended, but my eyes remained closed.

Peter moved to unhook my arms from around his neck and I scratched at his hands. He wouldn't drop me again if I could help it. A hand forced my head up.

"Daphne, open your eyes."

With my head still squashed against his chest, my legs wrapped around his waist, and my arms around his neck, I opened my eyes.

And I nearly let go.

I looked up at Peter.

He quirked his eyebrows and gave me a knowing smirk. "Daphne, welcome to NeverLand."