Home > The P.A.N.(7)

The P.A.N.(7)
Author: Jenny Hickman

“Airports have too many cameras and security checkpoints. And don’t worry, Cleveland isn’t our final destination.”

At least that was something.

Vivienne stuffed her hands in her pockets, and her fingertips grazed the remaining half of the pixie dust pill. “I didn’t mean fly on a plane.”

He assessed her from the crown of her head to the black Converse on her feet. “You’re not dressed appropriately.”

Her hands smoothed the hem of her ivory sweatshirt. The clothes she wore were now her sole possessions. “Maybe I can find something darker in one of those souvenir booths.” Of course, there was the problem of paying for new clothes. But if Deacon let her borrow some money, she would pay him back . . . eventually. Did Neverland do part-time jobs?

“You’d still be too heavy for me to carry all that way.”

And yet he thought it had been a good idea to jump off a roof with her in his arms. She meandered over to the vending machine. Chocolate sounded really good right now. “Without flying, it feels like I’m just blindly following a cute guy with a copy of Peter Pan to Cleveland.”

He leaned his shoulder against the machine and grinned. “You think I’m cute?”

“Shut up. You know what I mean.” She added that slip to the list of mortifying things that had happened to her this week.

“Look, the fact is, you cannot fly properly yet. And I didn’t save you from HOOK only to watch you break your neck from a fall.” He put some coins in the slot and indicated the keypad.

She caught a glimpse of her frowning reflection in the machine as she pressed A6. The metal bar holding the chocolate in place spiralled until the treat landed with a clunk. She grabbed it from the bottom of the machine and thanked him.

“I still owed you dessert, remember?” he teased, dropping onto one of the metal chairs below a smudged window.

She curled onto the chair beside him and tucked her foot beneath her before opening the chocolate bar. Feeling generous, she offered him some. He shook his head, and she took a bite.

“Tell me all about Neverland. I want to know everything.”

“There’s actually very little I’m allowed to tell you right now,” he said carefully, his brows coming together. “But imagine limitless possibilities and all the necessary resources to help you achieve your dreams.”

Vivienne’s dreams had died a long time ago. But maybe she could get new dreams. Better dreams.

“The rest you’ll have to see for yourself tomorrow, when you become a PAN.”

Two teens stopped to look out the window. When they left, he shifted closer and leaned in—wow, he smelled good. Like expensive cologne and fresh air.

“PAN stands for People with Active Nevergenes.” His whisper raised goosebumps on her arms. “Neverland was created to give us a safe place to hone our skills and to learn how to live without exposing our secrets.”

“No offense, but it kinda sounds like I’m joining a cult.” She took another bite of chocolate. The caramel center stuck to her teeth.

“Did I mention we have human sacrifices every Wednesday?”

Okay. He was funny. And hot. And British. Did he have any flaws?

Stifling a laugh, she shoved his shoulder. “Stay in my room on Wednesdays. Got it.” Wait. Was she going to have a room? What if they all lived in some big communal building like an actual cult? “Assuming I have a room,” she added.

The corner of his mouth lifted, and he rubbed his shoulder like it was sore. “All new recruits are given flats. So, yes. You’ll have a room.”

If she was a recruit then, “Does that make you a recruiter?”

He nodded. “I’m responsible for finding lost children and bringing them to Neverland.”

She imagined Deacon as a dark angel in the night sky, combing the countryside and searching orphanages for lost brethren.

A man called their route over the crackling loudspeaker.

“That’s us,” Deacon said, shooting to his feet and grabbing her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come on.”

She tossed her empty wrapper in the trash and ran with him to the bus. They sat at the back, nearest the window. “Can you tell me anything about the other recruits?”

“The last one I found had been in a foster home in Oklahoma.”

“And did she go along willingly?”

“He was much easier to convince than you were.” Deacon smiled and nodded to an older gentleman. The man tipped his wool hat at them before settling across the aisle and opening a book.

“I would have been a lot easier to convince if you had brought me straight there.”

A woman and her toddler sat in front of them. The boy peered through the gap in the seats, and Deacon waved at him.

“Kidnapping unconscious teenagers is bad for publicity.” There he was again with that grin, stirring up the fireflies. She really needed to get it together. “And when you blacked out at school, you got a pretty bad knock and needed medical attention.”

He touched the hairline above her temple, and suddenly she felt warm and gooey and she hated it. She wasn’t the kind of girl to swoon over some guy. Even if he smelled good and had the bone structure of a movie star.

“And if HOOK had come to my house?”

He draped his arm across the back of the seat. She liked the cocky lift to his chin when he said, “Then I would have saved you a second time.”

It was still hard to fathom someone wanting her dead. She offered him a small, shy smile. Seriously. Those fireflies needed to take a break. “How’d you know where to find me in the first place?”

“We knew your parents, remember?”

The fireflies turned to lead. “And did you know my family died twelve years ago?”

Deacon’s pained expression was the only answer she needed.

They had known.

Known her parents were gone.

Known that she was rotting away in the system.

They had known.

Every inch of her itched and burned, and no matter how hard she scratched, it didn’t relieve the itching—

“Vivienne?”

She shoved her hair back from her shoulders so she could scratch her neck. “They knew what happened—that I was all alone—and they didn’t even bother to come and get me? Why? Why now? Why wouldn’t they just turn a blind eye like they have for the past twelve years?”

The little boy peered through the seats, and his mother snatched him onto her lap.

“Keep your voice down,” Deacon hissed, twisting to block her view of the exit. “This is a lot for you to process and you’re not thinking straight. I know how you feel.”

“Were you in the system too?”

“No, but—”

“Then you don’t know shit about how I’m feeling.” She had been forced from one home to another, lugging everything she owned in a black trash bag. And right when she got settled, made a few friends, she had to do it all over again.

The man across the aisle snapped his book shut and glared at them.

Deacon reached for her arm, but she jerked back.

“Move out of my way, Deacon. I want to get off the bus.”

“There are rules we have to follow,” he rushed. “It’s how we survive. Once you’re there, you’ll understand.”

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