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Blood and Pixie Dust

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The thing is, his kind don't exist in Neverland, and in Europe most of her kind want to pull her wings off for being attached to Peter, never mind that Neverland can give her everything she needs and more.

Except him. He can't make it to Neverland. His belief is different-- sharper, flinted, and heavy with blood. It doesn't mean he can't fly, because he can, but it's different. He can shapeshift-- into a bat, but shapeshift nevertheless, and that's not a skill she had ever inherited.

The first night she finds him, they end up sitting on the clockface of Big Ben's tower. Where Peter used to take her, when she was his only real attachment here.

Her father had been Sidhe, and her mother Xana, and though she takes after the latter, she still hunts like the former. There had been power in blood, and spirit, and the stranger had offered up some of the former in silent apology for having gave chase. From his own wrist, the blood of the hunter, not the hunted. It's flattering.

They meet up again the next week, and this time, she's brought something of her own. Not that he has much use for mayflowers, with his size; but she hasn't bribed enough bees yet to have brought any honey. And his own blood had merited a trade.

“I never learned your name, frumos,” His words have a curl to them, something from outside of Europe. It's pretty. Rolling.

“Tinkerbell.” Her father had named her. Elegant and Irish, the Sidhe roots. It sounded silly, to Europeans. Even Peter had laughed. But it's meaning had held sway among her father's people. None of them ever refuted her claim on the Lost Boys. None of them ever tried to get their hooks into Peter. And the Xana still didn't know why she hadn't really been named Lily.

Gold dust fell on his fingers as she tipped her head, perched where she was on his knee. His humanoid form was one of a grown man with dark eyes and dark hair, and wraith-pale skin. By all rights, he shouldn't have seen her on that first night. People who didn't believe didn't see.

But his kind were different.

“And yours?”

Her stranger hesitated. “Vlad Dracul Tepes.”

When they parted that night, she went to the Court of the Sidhe and held conversation with her father. She did not tell him of the stranger. But she had heard rumors of the name before, and now she wondered.

“He is a hunter of flesh, my daughter. Be leery of him, should you meet. One such as he who holds your claim may be threatened. The Nosferatu are not native here. They will take what is ours, sure as any mortal man may.”

Despite it all, she went back to the tower the next week anyway.