Before I go inside, I pause and turn, enjoying a brief moment of alone time on the porch. When I look out toward the empty fields, I can feel this energy in the air, this tingle in my fingertips that makes me want to … oh, shit, I don’t know. Dance in the hail? Steal my uncle’s trunk and run away? Run as fast and far as I can with my bare feet digging into the gray mud?
“Dinner’s ready!” Aunt Em calls, and the moment is broken.
But if a cyclone is coming: bring it on.
I’m ready.
Uncle Henry never laughs. Yeah, he works, but he starts drinking in the morning and goes till night, and he most definitely doesn’t know the meaning of joy. He’s as gray as everything else in this forsaken county, from his long beard to his rough boots. He’s stern and solemn, rarely speaks.
I’d say I hated him, but hate isn’t a strong enough word.
When he comes in from the barn—just in time for a hot dinner, god forbid if Aunt Em is late—I’m sitting on the smaller sofa, phone in my hand, scrolling through Instagram posts of places far, far away from here. Toto lifts his head up and growls, lip curling over his teeth.
“Shut that mutt up or I’ll shut him up myself,” Henry grumbles, but he knows better than to get close to Toto. Last time, the dog made him bleed. I curl an arm around Toto’s thick neck and dig my fingers into his ebon fur.
“He’s not a mutt; he’s papered,” I say, which makes Henry’s shit brown eyes widen. That’s about as much sass as I can get away with, without starting a full-blown war between him and Aunt Em. Unfortunately for her, when Henry gets mad at me, he takes it out on his wife, either by hitting or fucking her so hard that the sound of the headboard hitting the wall gives me nightmares.
Dinner is served at the table, no electronics, no music, no background TV noise, just the clatter of hail on the tin roof, and the sound of the whistling wind from outside the old front door.
“Looks like we’re gearing up for a cyclone,” Aunt Em murmurs, rubbing at her sore shoulder and looking up toward the rattling windowpanes. “Might not be a bad idea to turn the radio on for the weather.”
Henry grunts, scooping up a spoonful of casserole and shoving it into his mouth. My toes curl into Toto’s fur, and I have to resist the urge to put in my two cents. Only an idiot forgoes media when there’s a possible storm warning coming. Luckily, I know my cell will go off if we need to take cover.
When Uncle Henry’s finished eating, he just gets up and goes to plop in front of the TV, not bothering to help Aunt Em clean up or put away leftovers. Instead, I get to help her out while we listen to the news blasting in the background—news, that, I might mention is the opposite of all my political views.
“I fucking hate it here, Toto,” I whisper when we’re safely ensconced in the bed upstairs, my gaze focused on the window and the storm beyond. Part of me hopes the cyclone really does come and tear the farmhouse to pieces. Then maybe I could leave sooner, rather than later, and still get access to my trust fund.
The dog looks back at me the way he always does, like he’s somehow more than he seems, an endless well of patience, love, and understanding. He’d give his life for me, I know that for a fact. When the boat started sinking, and the ice-cold water came rushing in, Toto was there for me.
But I was the only member of my family that he could save.
Kicking the wall with my boot, I roll over and grab my sketchpad, intending on drawing for the rest of the night, when I hear Uncle Henry’s booming voice calling my name downstairs.
“What the actual fuck does he want now?” I snap as I push my sketchbook aside and head down the stairs with Toto on my heels. There’s Uncle Henry with my backpack in his hand, holding a baggy of weed in the other.
Oh, crap.
That’s right, marijuana is, like, illegal here or something.
“That’s Yori’s,” I say with a loose shrug of my shoulders, my baggy sweater falling down one shoulder. Uncle Henry drops the backpack and turns toward me as Aunt Em stands stoically to one side, her eyes flashing with fear.
“Henry, don’t,” she starts, but Henry’s eyes are bloodshot, and he’s swaying from the empty bottle of whiskey on the floor near the sofa.
“You bring drugs into my house, and you think I don’t got anything to say about it?” he slurs, stumbling toward me and gesturing with the bag like it’s proof of the darkness inside of me that he’s always known about. He’s hated me from day one. Day one. He never even gave me a chance.
“It’s not drugs,” I say, shrugging my shoulders again, one hand on Toto’s collar to keep him from lunging. “It’s pot. No big deal. I’ll give it back to Yori tomorrow.”
Henry stumbles toward me, eyes widening in anger, but the sounds from Toto’s curled lips keep him back. Without warning, he just turns and backhands my aunt across the mouth, making her bleed.
“Don’t touch her!” I scream, but Henry moves in again, grabbing Aunt Em by the throat and throwing her into the wall next to the fireplace. The news reporter on the TV is cut off suddenly by the sound of an alarm, blaring as the ticker across the bottom warns us to take shelter.
The storm is coming.
“This is my house!” Henry is screaming, pressing on Aunt Em’s neck, making her face turn blue as she claws at his arm. “And I demand some goddamn respect.”
I release Toto, who wastes no time in going after my uncle, leaping at his back and biting hard on his neck. With a scream, Henry releases Aunt Em, leaving her to collapse to the floor, choking and coughing.
Man and dog tussle on the floor while I race over to the drawer nearest the door and yank it open, searching for the revolver that Uncle Henry keeps there, always loaded and ready to go.
But it’s missing.
Instead, the sound of the blaring alarm from the TV mixes with the awful popping sound of a gun being fired. My ears ring as I spin around, just in time to see Toto take a hit to the shoulder, blood splattering across the floor. He stumbles, but he doesn’t go down.
There’s no time to react as Henry turns the gun on me, pulling back the hammer, his eyes fogged over with alcohol.
“Good for nothing, drug dealing little bitch,” he snarls.
Time seems to slow around us as Toto stumbles, slipping in his own blood, headed straight for my uncle. But he can’t move faster than a speeding bullet, now can he? Not even Toto is that powerful, no matter how much I wish he was.
My fingers curl into fists as I wish with every beat of my heart that this storm comes and kills the evil man standing in front of me, razes this shitty house to the ground, forces some color into this gray-on-gray landscape.
The storm shutters come loose from the windows, whisked away by the howling winds of the storm. It shatters the glass, spraying the room with shards that spin and swirl, slicing my skin.
The gun in Henry’s hand is ripped away as Auntie Em screams, and a dark howl splits the air around us. Even as the furniture tips over and the wind grabs my clothes, whipping them against my body like sheets in the wind, I can see that something’s happening to Toto.
He contorts his body backward, like he’s having a seizure, bending at the spine in a way no dog should. His dark hair ripples in the wind, and suddenly I can see patches of skin where there shouldn’t be any. Ears sink in, tail disappears, and in less than twenty seconds, there’s a man kneeling on the floor where my dog should be.
He lifts his head up, ebon dark hair fluttering around his face, those brown eyes that I know so well burning with anger.
I sit down hard on the floor, even though I know that logically, I should be grabbing my aunt’s hand and dragging her to the cellar. But would we even make it? Is it too late? Am I going to die in a place I hate, surrounded by people who don’t give a crap whether I live or die?
Toto rises to his full height—several inches taller than Henry’s six-foot form—and makes his way over to my uncle. He moves much like he did as a dog, like he’s made of shadows, like his muscles are liquid
, his joints oiled pistons.
This time, he puts his hand around my uncle’s throat.
“I pray the storm takes you,” he says, his voice cutting through the shriek of wind and the frantic, wild warning from the TV. As easily as I might lift one of Aunt Em’s paperback romances, Toto raises Uncle Henry up from the floor, drags him toward the door, and kicks it open. With a shove, he pushes my uncle out into the storm, and yanks the door closed behind him before turning to me.
Somehow, someway, I manage to find my feet, debris swirling all around me. A mug hits me in the side of the head, and the house shakes so hard that I lose my footing, sitting down hard on the floor again.
Then a strange thing happens.
Toto is there, wrapping me in his strong arms, pulling me close. At least … I think it’s still Toto. He’s naked, and male—very, very male—and most definitely not a dog anymore. But those eyes, those eyes are the same.
The house seems to whirl around me, like it’s not just the winds spinning outside, but like we’re spinning, too.
“You’re a very powerful wizard, Ozora. Just like I always knew you would be.”
The deep male voice whispering in my ear makes me shiver, but my head is spinning, blood dripping down my temple and across my lips. I can taste it, as metallic as the ringing in my head, the screaming of the winds.
The house tips, like it’s not quite stable on the ground anymore, and I can tell right away that Toto doesn’t like it. It’s dark, and the sound of the wind is horrible, like it was that night, when the boat sank and everyone I ever loved drowned just a few feet away from me.
Hour after hour passes, and slowly, I find that paralyzing fear in my limbs fading away. Looking up, I find Toto’s face, stoic but strong, as if he’s oblivious to the feeling of floating, of spinning, of the storm that seems like it’ll never stop.
When I move to push away from him, he resists, banding those strong arms around me.
“Come with me,” I whisper, searching for Auntie Em, but finding no sign of her. Instead, I crawl and sway my way over to the steps, with Toto’s right arm around my waist. At last, we get to the bed, collapsing down on top of it with this naked beast of a man behind me.
In spite of the swaying of the house and the wailing of the wind, I soon close my eyes and fall fast asleep.
The last thing I hear before I drift off is Toto’s strong, deep voice rumbling through me.
“It’s a bad storm, Oz, a bad storm, but that’s only because you’re a powerful wizard. A very powerful wizard.”
The Council with the Munchkins and a Douchebag Witch
I’m awakened by a shock so sudden and severe that if I hadn’t passed out on my bed, I might’ve broken some goddamn bones. Oh, and also, there’s a naked man passed out and pressed tight against me; when he breathes, his warm breath tickles my hair around my face.
I shove him back and fall off the edge of the bed with a curse, ignoring the dismal groaning he’s making in his sleep. There’s blood everywhere, and it’s quite clear that he’s hurt, but I’m too disoriented to make much sense of that.
Instead, I spring to my feet and open the front door—or what’s left of it.
“What in the ever-loving hell?” I breathe, my heart thundering with a mix of shock and excitement. I have no idea where I am, but one thing’s for sure: we are not in fucking Kansas anymore.
Instead of gray muck and cracked, dead earth, there are thick, lush patches of green grass billowing in the wind, shining in the sun. Stately trees tower above us, their limbs locked like skeletal fingers, strange, fat fruits dangling. Bright yellow sunshine sparkles from above, reflecting off the surface of a meandering brook that bubbles and breaks gently across smooth stones that glimmer and sparkle like jewels. Banks of gorgeous flowers color the landscape with vibrant ruby reds, rich-hued purples, and deeply saturated oranges while birds with rare and brilliant plumage sing and flutter in the trees and bushes.
“I’m on an acid trip,” I murmur, stumbling back and putting myself against the wall under the coat rack, the one item in this whole house that seems to have stayed where it was put. My breath comes in violent panting heaves as I look around for my aunt. “Aunt Em!” I call out, but there’s no reply.
At least, not from inside the house.
“Welcome, most noble Sorceress,” a voice calls blandly from just beyond the door. I push up off the wall, head spinning, and peer out into the endless sunshine to find a group of people approaching the house. There’s a man leading them, slow-clapping in dramatic fashion as he rolls his lavender eyes at me. “Welcome to the land of the Munchkins.”
The … fucking what?
I blink at him in shock as my eyes stray from his admittedly handsome face and down to the group surrounding him. They’re all men, all short, about the same size as my little sister was before she died. Four and a half feet tall, at most.
Oh, and they all have gossamer fucking wings on their backs. My eyes scan across the crowd, each of them dressed in blue hats with little bells that tinkle when they move.
This isn’t fucking happening to me, I think, realizing that this could all very well be a delusion brought on by the mug that smashed me upside the head.
The man in front, the only one who’s not significantly shorter than me—he’s taller, actually—yawns and reaches up to adjust the white witch hat on his head.
“We’re so very grateful to you”—just to be clear, he doesn’t sound grateful in the least, more like bored out of his mind—”for having killed the Wicked Witch of the East, and for setting our people free from bondage, yada, yada, yada, so on and so forth.”
“Uh, say what?” I ask, blinking back at him in shock. “I haven’t killed anyone.”
“Your house did anyway,” he replies, gesturing at me with pale skin that glints with a hint of gold in the sunshine, like he’s covered in glitter or something. “And that’s the same damn thing. Don’t believe me? Look for yourself.” He nods in the direction of the house, and even though I’m pretty sure I’m hallucinating things, I step outside and glance over to find a pair of legs sticking out from beneath the gray-painted walls of Aunt Em’s cottage.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” I clamp both hands over my mouth as I stare at the mangled legs, the shimmer of white bone, and the wash of blood staining the green grass beneath them. “What the fuck am I supposed to do about that?!”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done. Ding dong, the bitch is dead.” The man pauses beside me, smelling like my favorite body spray from Victoria’s Secret, this coconut and gardenia mix called Bronzed Coconut. Swear to god, that freaks me out almost as much as the corpse.
Sliding away from door, I put my back to the wall to keep some distance between myself and the weird little fae men as I sidle along toward the legs protruding from underneath my goddamn house. It’s a long shot, but I should at least see if the person is still alive, right?
As I get a little closer though, I can already tell there’s about as much chance of this person still being alive as there is that I’m not hallucinating. As in, none at all. None.
“Who … who is this?” I whisper, choking on bile as the sharp smell of copper stings my nostrils. I hate the smell of blood. Hate it. It reminds me that we’re all mortal, that my family was mortal, that they’re no longer here.
Although, to be fair, when they died, there wasn’t any blood at all, just cold water and an endless darkness spiraling in.
“Like I said, the Wicked Witch of the East,” the man with the lavender eyes repeats, looking like he’d very much enjoy slapping some sense into me. That is, if he could bother working up the energy to do so in the first place. “Are you deaf or something? She held the Munchkins in bondage for years, made them her slaves day and night. They’re free now. It’s a blessing to see her bloodied corpse.” He moves forward and kicks one of the sparkly silver shoes on the dead person’s feet.
“The … Munchkins?” I ask, turning my wide-eyed gaze bac
k to the group of winged men. They’ve all got a bluish tint to their skins, from a pale robin’s egg blue to a navy and everything in between. I swallow hard and turn back to the tall man, finding his narrowed eyes watching me with undisguised irritation.
“The people who live in this land—obviously.”
“Are you a Munchkin?” I ask, still trying to figure out why my brain is hallucinating some fucked-up version of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Heh. I saw Wicked at the theater once and liked it, so maybe that’s what this is? Some delusion brought on by head trauma.
Yep, yep, that has to be it. That makes sense, right? I mean, my dog didn’t turn into a hot dude and get shot by my crazy uncle. Never happened. Just a dream.
“Are you blind and deaf? Do I look like a fucking Munchkin to you?” The man facepalms into his glittering fingers and curses under his breath in another language before looking back up at me. “I’m the Witch of the North—obviously.”
“A … witch?” I echo, before looking back down at the supposed dead witch on the ground beneath my house, ragged bone sticking up and gleaming in the sun from the ruined flesh of her legs.
“Yes, indeed,” he says, still sounding like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. Sentiment noted, taken, and reciprocated, bro. “But I,” he says haughtily, touching long, elegant fingers to his chest, “am a good witch. And the people love me.” He pauses a moment to frown, his face darkening in a way that’s almost scary. “I’m, unfortunately, not as powerful as the Wicked Witch was who ruled here, or else I’d have set the Munchkins free myself.”
“How many of you are there?” I ask, hating the way the Munchkins are staring at me, like I’m some sort of savior or something. One of them flutters his translucent wings, and I jump.
“Witches?” the man asks, like I’m too stupid to live. “There were only four witches in the Land of Oz. Two good witches in the North and South—I know this is true because, obviously, I am one myself and cannot be mistaken—and two wicked witches, in the East and West. But now that you’ve brutally murdered one, there’s only one wicked witch left—that dickhead from the West.”
Very Bad Wizards Page 2