Dust by Kara Swanson (Heirs of Neverland #1)
English | 2020| YA Fantasy | ePUB | 3.3 MB
The truth about Neverland is far more dangerous than a fairy tale.
Claire Kenton believes the world is too dark for magic to be real—since her twin brother was stolen away as a child. Now Claire’s desperate search points to London… and a boy who shouldn’t exist.
Peter Pan is having a beastly time getting back to Neverland. Grounded in London and hunted by his own Lost Boys, Peter searches for the last hope of restoring his crumbling island: a lass with magic in her veins.
The girl who fears her own destiny is on a collision course with the boy who never wanted to grow up. The truth behind this fairy tale is about to unravel everything Claire thought she knew about Peter Pan—and herself.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I’m still trembling and it isn’t until the last vibration that I manage to dig out the device. I wipe at my face, clearing my vision enough to make out the one-letter name displayed on the cracked screen. N.
N wouldn’t call unless it was important. I take a long, ragged breath. N is a friend. One of the few people I can call that anymore. The outpouring of dust ebbs, and the thundering in my chest starts to diminish as I try to focus on the glint of stability he brings to mind.
N is the computer nerd who befriended me in my search for Connor, and although he’s never gone by anything more than the one-letter name, he’s been there to help in far more ways than my court-assigned foster parents bothered to. The one time he’d visited, it was during my lowest point that landed me in a hospital for two weeks, and the smile that met me on N’s dark face had been just as genuine as I’d always hoped.
I’d only known him for a few weeks, but that cemented our friendship. The reason why over the past several months N became one of the very few people I trust. He’s an ally, and I know how rare those can be.
I hold the phone against my ear and manage a cracked, “Yeah?”
“Claire? Where are you?” The strain in N’s voice sends goosebumps up my arms. But I focus on him, on his words, and watch the dust slowly return to its usual pale color. The flood stops abruptly and starts to fade from my cardigan sleeves.
I force my tone to remain steady. “I’m at work. Why? What’s wrong?”
A computer mouse clicks on the other end. “I’m sending you a link—you’re gonna want to see this.”
I brush away the flecks skimming my palms. The chipped phone shakes beside my ear. “Does this have to do with . . . ?”
“Yes. It’s about Connor,” he says with a hint of excitement. “It’s taken weeks to hunt down, but I found an image cut from a feed at one of the LAX terminals six years ago, just after your brother went missing.”
The clack, clack, clack from N tapping fills the silence, and a few seconds later it pops up on my phone. My hands go numb, but I manage to tap on N’s video, and it fills the screen. The playback is grainy but shows white walls, a security checkpoint, and a smattering of blurry people, most facing away from the camera.
Two people are in the forefront of the image. One a tall, shadowed, masculine silhouette, while the other is as familiar as every tattered pulse of my heart.
My knees almost buckle, and I reach for the edge of the counter, holding myself up as I stare at Connor’s image on my screen.
Tall for his age, shoulders beginning to taper out, wearing his favorite threadbare Captain America shirt. Shaggy, wheat-blond hair falling to his shoulders, a shade darker than mine.