Deacon tilted the drink in his hand from side to side; the last ice cube melted into the amber liquid. “I wondered how long it would take you to bring that up.”
“Anything good?”
“He thinks Leadership is too concerned with staying hidden to do something about HOOK.”
“He’s not entirely wrong.” His grandad sighed and settled back against the cushion. “Lee’s always believed we’d get away with an overt attack, but we know from years of experience that dealing with HOOK isn’t a straightforward affair. They have something we need. And until we get it, we have to wait.”
What could HOOK possibly have that the PAN needed? Deacon was about to ask when his grandad stopped him with a hand on his knee. “Your mother seems to be enjoying herself.”
Deacon’s mother laughed at something Curly said and clinked her champagne glass against Slightly’s.
“It seems that way.” But Deacon knew that she had struggled to get out of bed that morning. The holidays weren’t the same since his father had passed.
Bruce Ashford had been the most easygoing human on the planet. Deacon still couldn’t fathom how his tyrannical mother had been compatible with the man for so many years. Unfortunately, their mismatched love story had ended two days after his father’s forty-third birthday.
There was a photo on the mantelpiece from the celebrations. Deacon’s father was front and center with his forever-young wife Mary by his side. Deacon had been fifteen at the time. But he looked nearly the same age as his granddad, mother, and father—thanks to the ageless injection. His aunt Ida, Bruce’s younger sister, was there too, her hair streaked with gray. For them, it was a normal family photo; however, an outsider would have greatly misinterpreted the relationships between the subjects.
There was another framed photo of his grandfather, mother, and Deacon from the day Deacon’s Nevergene activated. It looked like a bunch of friends celebrating instead of three generations of family members welcoming the youngest into the fold.
A four-inch metal statue on the mantelpiece next to the photo caught his attention.
Deacon recognized the shape, and he asked his grandad where he got the statute.
“I imagine it was one of Tootles’ jokes—there’ve been too many to keep track of. You’ve seen my office.”
Deacon chuckled as he lifted the tiny metal carving, a perfect replica of Peter’s statue in Kensington Gardens. “May I have it?”
“I don’t mind. It’s serving no purpose here.”
“Thank you.”
“Consider it an extra Christmas present for my favorite grandson.”
“Peter? Could you come over here and settle an argument between the two Richards?” Curly said from across the room.
A flash of mischief crossed Peter Pan’s face. He smiled at Deacon as he stood from the settee. “My job is never done.”
“Hey handsome.”
Shit.
Deacon twisted toward the familiar blonde and loosened his collar. “What are you doing here, Gwen?” He certainly hadn’t invited her.
Gwen unbuttoned her coat and let it slide down her pale arms. Her tight black dress accentuated her curves—and Deacon knew how dangerous those curves were. She sat next to him on the couch and dragged her nail down the back of his neck. “I wanted to wish you Happy Christmas.” In his ear, she whispered, “And give you your present.”
Bad idea. A very bad idea.
When she reached for his hand, he pulled away.
“What’s wrong?” she whined.
“I can’t go with you.” He never thought he would utter those particular words to this particular woman, but here he was, uttering away.
Her full lower lip jutted forward. “Why not?”
He knew better than to tell her the real reason, so he said, “Peter said he wanted to speak to me when everyone is gone.”
She traced his collarbone over his shirt. “That could take ages.”
“I know.” His mother stared at him from the sideboard. He stood to disengage Gwen’s curious hands.
She rose without teetering on her stilettos and smoothed her hand down his waistcoat. “Will you text me when you’re done?”
He caught her hand before it reached his belt. “I’m wrecked tired.”
“Lucky for me,” Gwen whispered, kissing his jaw, “I know how to wake you up.”
“You should get some rest, Deacon.” Despite the darkness, his mother’s disapproval washed over him from the front stairs of her London townhome. “We’ve had a busy day.”
“I’m not tired.” He wasn’t the first PAN to suffer from insomnia. According to his tests last month, his nGh levels were normal, but his adrenaline was a bit high. He remembered having trouble with his sleep ever since he was a child.
His mother sighed and pulled the neck of her jacket closed. “Be safe, please. And fly low.”
“I know the rules,” he grumbled. As if he needed the reminder. He walked until he grew bored, made his way to an empty alley, and threw himself into the breeze. Upon entering the world of silence that lived above the sleeping city, he realized the historic buildings and landmarks that so many people stopped to photograph had long since lost their magical hold on him. The only attention he paid them was to gauge how far he had flown.
He found himself landing in Kensington Gardens near Peter’s statue. The plaguing mist refreshed him as it drifted over his warm skin.
Being in the gardens made him think of Vivienne, so many miles away, enjoying a white Christmas in a different Kensington. Had she spent the holiday with Alex? The thought made his stomach twist.
He pulled his mobile from his pocket and snapped a photo of the statue. The quality wasn’t great, but the flash helped illuminate the figure dancing with his flute at the top. He sent it to her, along with a text. Guess where I am.
Why did he miss her so much? The usual distractions hadn’t distracted him. And the time had dragged on and on and on, and he honestly didn’t think he would ever get to leave this bloody country.
He was good at leaving women behind. At moving on. But for some reason—
His mobile buzzed. Tell Peter you have to go. It’s my turn now.
Gwen really needed to get the hint. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d avoided her this month. She’d shown up uninvited to his room last week. Telling her to get out was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.
On his flight back to the house, he checked his mobile every two minutes. Vivienne never responded. She could’ve been busy. Or asleep. Or out with Alex facial-hair McGee.
His original plan had been to respond often enough to keep from seeming rude. That way, life could go back to normal—back to when he wasn’t obsessed with a girl he hadn’t even properly kissed.
But the more he tried not to think about Vivienne, the more he thought about her. It made no sense.
Vivienne had texted him regularly at first, but one day she had just . . . stopped. That morning, she had wished him a Merry Christmas in a group text. Like sending him an individual text had been too much effort. Had she decided he wasn’t worth it, or had she found her own distraction?
He had to get back home so he could put himself out of his misery.