He had died so many times, what was one more death? What did it matter?

James stood on the prow of his ship, his hooked hand winking in the sun. His sword was heavy at his side. He was tired, so very tired, but he still had a little self-respect, just a little—enough to stand while he waited for the horde of children to come trampling down the hill and toward the moored ship.

He took a sip from his flask. His hand shaking. It was no longer death that he feared. It was pain.

The man-child had killed him so many times. James had lost count. His favorite was swordplay—stabbing that is. James had been stabbed in the heart, the side, the leg, the kidney, the stomach. Once the boy had put a sword through his boot, pinning him to his own deck. It was humiliating.

But, it wasn’t just the blade. The boy enjoyed killing him in other ways as well.

He had set James’ ship aflame, burning him and his crew to a crisp. He’d drowned him, crushed him in a rocky avalanche, and pushed him off a cliff.

The cocky man-child with his wicked little grin, his army of screaming brats, had come for him time and time again. He never seemed to tire of it. And if he did, well, he’d just start a war with the natives and James would have peace for a month or two.

But the Pan always came back. He had a particular fondness for James. A strong desire to destroy not just his body, but his mind.

He didn’t just beat him physically, he also called him names—“You’re old. You’re ugly. You’re weak.”

He constantly taunted him. “You can’t fly. Can’t crow. Your crew hates you.”

James was strict, but he knew his crew loved him. At least, as best they knew how. James was disciplined, and he disciplined his crew, but he was always fair and never mean. It was the Pan who was cruel. Stealing those children from their families. Filling their heads with lies.

“Your parents hate you. They don’t love you. Don’t want you. Stay here with me and I will show you how to live—how to always have fun and never grow up.”

Those poor children. And when he was done with them, when they weren’t fun anymore, he discarded them. Or he drove them away and blamed them for leaving, even though it was always his fault.

Yes, the Pan hated responsibility. Hated taking responsibility. Nothing was ever his fault. The only one who’d ever been able to reach him was the Wendy girl. Lovely Wendy. But even she couldn’t change him. And eventually she had to leave—to grow up and live her life.

James envied her that. He could never leave. He must stay here on this dratted island—this island that bent its will to that flying scheming imp. He must stay, one-handed, locked in constant battle with a sociopathic demon child who had the gall to call him, Captain James Hook, the villain.

“You’re an evil old man! A villain and a rake!” Pan screamed once, perhaps a century ago. And then, with a mighty swing, he’d cut off James’ hand. As James cradled the stump, unworried about bleeding to death—because at least then he’d get some rest—he watched the pipsqueak toss his hand to the crocodile below, giggling and snorting as he did so.

The croc still followed James wherever he went—waiting, as it were, for the other hand to drop.

“Yes,” James said, rubbing the hook that he was now named for. “I am surely the villain.”

His voice was drowned out as the horde grew louder, drew closer. He could feel Smee, his first mate, trembling beside him. Pan’s angry pixie buzzed around James’ head, whispering obscenities in her tinny voice. He swung his hook at her, wishing he could pin her like a moth to an entomologist’s board.

The wind rose and with it rose Pan, floating in front of the sun as if he were going to eclipse it. His shadow spread across the ship, his sword raised high, its blade seeming to cut across James.

"Proud and insolent youth," said James,"prepare to meet thy doom." He didn’t believe a word of the script, but he hoped it was true.

“Dark and sinister man," Peter answered, "have at thee.”

Again, James thought. Have at thee again, and again, and again . . . He sighed, raised his sword, and swung.