When everything was still again, he slowly opened one eye, then the other.

Everything was blindly white.

Peter gulped. "I died," he whispered, terror-stricken. "I died."

But no, he was underneath his bed covers, that's all. He exhaled in relief. He was all right. He swallowed to clear his dry throat, pushed back the folds of the covers, and peeked out.

A huge eye was staring over at him.

"Moira?" he whispered hopefully.

He blinked away what remained of his sleep. The eye was still there. Worse, it was attached to what appeared to be a gigantic crocodile head. He squinted to get a better look. The crocodile head was attached to a crocodile body, and the body seemed to stretch on forever. It was standing directly in front of him.

He took a quick, panicked breath and held it. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the covers back in place. He knew he was dreaming. He just had to find a way to wake up.

Then a sudden movement in the folds of the bed sheet caught his eye. Something was crawling on top of him! He flailed wildly.

"Stop that!" a voice hissed.

A tiny dagger sliced a window through the chute, and the faerie peeked inside.

"Oh, no," Peter groaned. "Not you."

It was coming back to him now-the faerie's appearance at number 14 Kensington, the stuff about Peter Pan, Captain Hook, Neverland, and all that other nonsense.

He rubbed his head. "What's happened to me? Where am I?"

Her smile was dazzling. "You're in Neverland, Peter."

He sighed wearily. "Sure I am."

' 'Come over here.'' She beckoned to the window she had cut. "Take a look."

He did, peering first one way, then the other. Up beside him was the crocodile, its jaws open wide, its teeth gleaming. Between the teeth was a huge alarm clock with its hands askew and its numbered face cracked and broken. The crocodile sat in the center of a square that was settled on a broad stretch of beach. All about was a pirate town composed of the ravaged hulks of old ships. Ribs and struts stuck out everywhere like the bones of a dinosaur's rib cage. Gilt rails lined worn, sagging decks. From masts swayed signs offering services of all sorts in colorful language, dr. chop-limbs fitted while you wait.

WENCHES WINE-SERVED AT YOUR TABLE. ROOMS-

bunk your junk. Shops and living quarters jumbled together in a mix of old wood and garish paint, like ragged cats in a litter, like a junkyard's discarded remains.

And there were pirates at every turn. They swaggered down boardwalks. They hung from doors and windows, calling out boldly. They clung to buxom women and hoisted glasses. They clung to each other. They carried pistols and swords, daggers and cutlasses. They wore tricorne hats and bandanas about their long hair, rings from their ears and on their fingers and through their noses, sashes of fine silk and boots of tough leather, greatcoats and striped shirts and pants as baggy as laundry sacks.

Peter stared, trying to figure it all out.

Then abruptly he did.

Mickey and Minnie!

It was almost more than he could stand. He groped for his cellular, but it wasn't there, of course. He looked down at himself. He was wearing the remains of his tuxedo-his pants, shirt, waistcoat, and bow tie. From last night, he remembered, the tribute to Wendy, the kidnapping, that confounded faerie…

He took a deep breath, righted himself, worked free of the remains of Maggie's parachute (he recognized it now), and staggered to his feet. He was only minimally surprised to find himself standing on a building ledge.

"What are you doing?" he heard the faerie call angrily. "Get back here!"

Peter paid no attention to her. Enough was enough. The crocodile stared over at him, its jaws frozen about the clock, its closest eye fastened on Peter. Peter blinked and shook his head to clear it. He took a couple of tentative steps and almost fell, catching himself at the last moment.

"I've got to get some Advil," he muttered to himself. "Maybe some V-8. Then find a pay phone."

Steadying himself, ignoring the cries of warning from the faerie, he moved toward a ladder leaning against the ledge, climbed carefully down, and stumbled away toward the door of the closest building-another wrecked ship, the back end, called the aft or something, wasn't it? He drew strength from the smell of food cooking and the sound of voices. Pirates wandered past him, a few turning to stare. He didn't notice.

He went through the door of the wreck. Inside, it was dark and smoky and implacably grim. Whoever had decorated it must have spent long hours reading Edgar Allan Poe. Kettles of stew or soup were suspended over open hearths. Pieces of meat and potatoes sat on long wooden tables cluttered with cooking implements. Pots and pans hung from racks. Candles set in sconces and crude chandeliers gave what light there was to the hazy den. Peter blinked. He must have wandered into some sort of low-end kitchen.

He became aware then that a handful of pirates had stopped what they were doing and were staring at him, their tasks forgotten. They did not look friendly. They looked annoyed.

"You don't happen to have… is there any kind of, uh…?" he began, and trailed off.

A ratty toothless pirate came limping across the floor to face him, eyes squinting in a hard glint. Chewing tobacco formed a stain at the corners of his tight mouth, leaking out as his jaws worked diligently. Without a word, he reached up and tore off Peter's bow tie, eyeing it thoughtfully.

"Here, now!" Peter objected.

The pirate's eyes shifted back again. "I fancy them shiny shoes as well, mate."

Peter bristled. "Just a minute!"

Another pirate appeared from the haze and shoved the first aside. This one wore an eye patch and looked twice as mean. He grabbed Peter by his shirt and threw him against the wall. Peter careened into a collection of pots and pans, sent them flying in every direction, and ended up in the grasp of a barrel-chested pirate cook. The cook shoved him away. The pirate who had assaulted him first (Peter had already decided to press charges) came at him again, knocked him flat, reached down, and began pulling off his pants.

Peter kicked and yelled to no avail.

Then suddenly a familiar flash of light appeared, darting out of nowhere to snatch a candle from its sconce, whisk it to where Peter struggled, and shove it down the front of the attacking pirate's baggy trousers. The pirate reared back with a howl, beating at his pants. The light darted instantly to his eye patch, yanked it away from his grizzled face like a bowstring, then let go. The eye patch snapped back into place with a whap and the pirate went tumbling backward into a wall rack of cookware that released on top of him with a crash. He shuddered once and lay still.

Peter scrambled back to his feet, searching for a way out of this madhouse, but now the huge pirate cook was coming at him, wielding a battered butcher's knife. Peter moaned in dismay, backing against the wall. But the light zipped past once more and landed sharply on the curved end of a ladle sticking out of a soup pot. Out flipped the ladle, sending a spray of hot soup into the pirate cook's weathered face. The cook howled and staggered back, clawing at his eyes, then rushed forward blindly, lurched into the pot, knocked it askew, and brought the rest of the soup pouring down atop his head.

The kitchen was in chaos by now. The remaining pirates came at Peter, shouting and cursing, cutlasses drawn. Peter scrambled for the door, still reasonably convinced that he was dreaming, or if not, that this was some sort of movie stunt, but no longer willing to risk being wrong. He stumbled, and the pirates were almost on him. The light flashed by, cutting through a rope that secured the side of ribs curing overhead, and the ribs dropped squarely atop the pirates, knocking them cold.