Very Bad Wizards

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Clumsy me,” he says, his voice chipper and upbeat in a way that makes gooseflesh stand up on my arms and legs. Sure, Stryker was pretty damn cheerful for someone who’d been set on fire and tied to a stake in the middle of a cornfield, but this is next level.

  I narrow my eyes at him and Taavi growls. Just in case we’re being watched, he doesn’t dare shift. If Dorothy and her people find out he’s free to change forms at will before I head into the arena, I’m screwed. Without him, I won’t survive five minutes.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, my mind replaying the moment General Mannix put a gun to his head over and over again. Pink spray, bits of bone and brain, the way his body slumped forward. I back up another step because, no matter how many times I tell myself that this is really, truly happening, it’s a strange pill to swallow. People who die do not get back up. That’s reality.

  “I’ve been sent as a concert,” Stryker says, and then pauses, frowning. He reaches up to rub at his forehead, and I take note of the green star mark located beneath his dark bangs. The sunlight catches it, and for the briefest of seconds, it seems to wink at me. “No, no, wait, that’s not right …” He pauses again, staring at the floor while I stare back at him.

  He really is alive, I think as I fist my fingers in Taavi’s fur. He had his brains blown out and he’s fucking alive.

  “Not a concert,” Stryker says again, moving over to the table full of food and picking through the fruit with matte-black nails. “A convert? No, that’s not it either.”

  “You’re scaring me,” I admit, moving a bit closer to him. His ebon-black hair hangs down on either side of his face, still shiny and sliding like silk over his shoulders. His skin looks good, too, a nice, bright healthy bronze. Still, I can’t get over the look in his eyes, this glassy, almost detached expression at odds with the sharp wit and intelligence I witnessed over the past few days.

  “Consort!” he shouts finally, putting a piece of bright pink fruit in his mouth. “I’ve been sent here to be your consort which might turn out to be a very difficult task seeing as I’ve forgotten how to have sex.”

  “Um … say what?” I ask, trying to blink through my confusion. Taavi and I exchange a look. I’d give fucking anything to hear his commentary on this shit right now. “First off, what do you mean you’re here to be a consort? Second … you’ve forgotten how to have sex?”

  Stryker smiles at me, sliding another piece of fruit into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

  “Consort, consort, consort,” he says, looking up at the ceiling in thought. “My job is to have sex with you, if you want me to. Also, I can give you a baby that you get to keep, no deals, no magic trades. That’s what Dorothy said.”

  My jaw is very likely hanging off the bottom of my face as I gape at him.

  “Dorothy sent you here?” I clarify as Stryker loads a small plate with cakes and then moves over to the window, looking out at the arena with a pinched brow.

  “I was here before, once. I think …” He trails off and then looks over at me, still smiling in this absent, distant sort of way. “Let me know if you want to have sex; I’m sure I’ll remember how if I just try.”

  “You’re under a spell or something, right?” I ask, because I just can’t quite grasp what I’m seeing here. It’s like he’s … brainless or something. Just like the scarecrow in the original book. My jaw clenches and I look down at Taavi again. But without shifting, there’s only so much he can tell me with two swiveling ears and a lowered tail.

  “Well, I was shot in the head,” Stryker says, frowning again. “I think. Anyway, it takes a while for a wizard to regenerate after an accident. I mean, I’ve been told it does. For a few days, I might be a bit slow.”

  The blood drains from my face as the crowd outside the skybox goes wild, cheering and shouting, tossing handfuls of green rice into the arena. Even without the goggles on, much of the shit around here really is green.

  “It’s like my head is filled with straw, instead of brains,” he clarifies, as if I haven’t already gotten the picture. My mouth tightens into a thin line as I look to my right, at the massive green doors with the image of a floating fireball on them, a rectangle of emeralds creating a border around the outside edges.

  They open and Dorothy herself appears, surrounded by little glowing balls that remind me of the fairy Bain keeps in his hat. As she walks, they keep her long hair and the train of her dress from dragging across the ground.

  I turn back to Stryker, but he’s smiling and stuffing his face with cakes like nothing is wrong.

  So much is.

  I swallow a lump in my throat as two orbs in the front corners of the room light up and Dorothy’s voice fills the space as easily as speakers would back home.

  “Citizens of Oz,” she calls out after taking a front row seat in one of the upper levels of the stadium. General Mannix stands on her right side, wearing the same uniform I saw in the forest, that deadly metal hand of his covered with a white glove. “Today, we commence the two-hundredth session of the Ruby Trials in our desperate search for a champion, one worthy enough to defend the great country of Central against the wickedness of the cardinal witch in the West.”

  “Two-hundredth?!” I choke out, flicking my gaze to Stryker. He doesn’t seem to notice the shakiness of my voice, how my words are edged with fear.

  “Oh, yes,” he says, turning in just such a way that I can see the shiny pinkness of a healing wound on his forehead. If it’s taken his skin several days to heal to this point, no wonder he’s having trouble thinking clearly. “Dorothy has been working to clear the land of sorcerers for a long time now.” He pauses again, squinting his face up. “How many years now, I can’t say. I believe I used to know …”

  “I am so fucked,” I murmur, turning back to the crowd and the arena with its emerald studded walls. As I watch, the doors on both ends of the arena open and a wizard steps out on either side, each one with an animal companion beside them. The girl on the far end has what looks to be a wolf standing next to her while the other places her palm on the flank of a leopard-spotted stallion.

  “I present you this first challenge: Breise, the Calm and Collected, versus Marilyn, the Brash and Impulsive.”

  Dorothy waves her hand and a green shield ripples into place over the arena, its surface thin, shiny, and transparent, like a bubble. I have no idea what it’s for until a bell is rung and Marilyn, the Brash and Impulsive—who the fuck comes up with these names?!—throws a ball of fire at her opponent.

  The other girl, Breise, deflects the magic with a raised hand and sends it crashing into the green shield. The crowd grasps, fluttering fans made of peacock feathers and waving around tiny, roasted bird legs as they cheer for their favorite contender. The Babylonian indolence of the audience is the most terrifying part of the whole scenario. They chat with one another, sip jewel-colored wines, and laugh as if two young girls aren’t fighting to the death for their amusement.

  “They can’t be much older than I am,” I whisper, breath fogging the window.

  My heart begins to beat like a wild thing, sweat soaking my palms. These girls were raised in this world; they know the rules. They know how to control their magic.

  I don’t know shit.

  “I can’t kill a teenage girl.” The words come out so quietly, I don’t expect Stryker to respond, especially not with his, uh, diminished mental capacities.

  “Well, they certainly can’t kill you either,” Stryker says, tapping one finger against his forehead. “We’re blessed, me and you.” He continues feasting on his cakes, licking frosting from his fingers, as unaffected by the violence down below as any other asshole aristocrat in the audience. At least he has an excuse. What’s wrong with the rest of these people? “A witch’s mark is a powerful thing. Did you know they only have the power to give out one in their lifetime? Hopefully they won’t burn you if you win, like they did me.”

  Stryker continues licking his fingers as Taavi nuzzles his face b
eneath my hand, encouraging me to give him a stroke.

  “What can you teach me about magic?” I ask, spinning to face the addled wizard. He pauses in his eating to look at me with dulled golden eyes. “Right now. If you could only teach me one thing, what would it be?”

  “One thing?” Stryker asks, narrowing his eyes in thought. He wipes the remainder of the white frosting on the black slacks he’s wearing. His outfit is a near clone to mine. I hope that doesn’t mean Dorothy is planning on putting him back in the Trials. “I’m not sure that I remember how magic works exactly.”

  He stands up, banding one arm over his midsection and tapping at his lips with a single finger.

  “Anything you can remember would be helpful,” I urge him, trying not to get frustrated.

  “I don’t know how to be a wizard,” Taavi told me last night, taking my hands in his for just a few seconds before releasing them like they were too painful to touch. “But I do know that all your power comes from within. It’s all there, Oz, if only you can find a way to tap into it.”

  “Anything I can remember …” Stryker begins as a huge gasp from the crowd draws my attention back to the arena. Marilyn, the girl with fireball, has created what looks like a lasso made of flames. Flames that, currently, are wrapped around the other girl’s neck.

  I’m just glad I can’t hear her screams through the orb-like speakers.

  As if he can sense my thoughts, Stryker taps one and sound explodes through the room. I will never forget the sound of that scream.

  “Turn it off, you idiot!” I snap back, and he cringes, hitting the orb with his hand and then dropping his head in shame. Stryker, the Vain and Arrogant, my ass. The man before me hardly resembles the person he was on the Y.B.R. “Now, I want you to think really fucking hard about my question. If you can only remember one thing about magic, I want you to tell me.”

  He lifts his head up, and there’s a spark in his eyes. It’s a small one, but I’ll take it. At this point, I’m getting desperate. Glancing down at the arena, I see that Breise is lying on the ground, her skin puckered with burns, her hair melted to her scalp. Bile rises into my throat and I turn away, looking back at Stryker. Guess this battle’s over. That was quick.

  I wonder if I’m up next?

  “One thing, Stryker, come on …” I trail off, wringing my hands and wondering if this is going to be one of the last conversations I ever have. I mean, I get that Bain’s mark on my forehead is supposed to keep me alive, no matter what, but that didn’t stop Dorothy from having Stryker set on fire.

  I don’t want to be set on fire.

  I don’t want to be imprisoned until they find and kill Bain then come after me next.

  And I thought living in Kansas sucked.

  Oz is so much worse.

  “I … I don’t remember,” he breathes again, a sense of desperation coloring his voice as he looks over at me. “To be quite honest, I’m not even sure who you are or if I should know your name.”

  Cursing under my breath, I step forward and grab Stryker’s face between my hands, pressing our mouths together with a zing of magic. I figure the kiss thing has worked more than once before, so why the hell not? I don’t quite expect him to return the kiss, wrapping an arm around my waist and pushing my back into the glass. Stryker’s hot tongue sweeps against my own, and a groan escapes me, embarrassingly loud in the small room.

  Both my hair and Stryker’s lifts up in a supernatural breeze. It sweeps around us, rustling our clothing, knocking the cakes off Stryker’s plate, and knocking over a gilded chair in the corner. My eyes close as our kiss deepens, but even then, I don’t miss the flash of light in the room, like a bolt of lightning.

  One of Stryker’s hands slides just a bit lower, heading south, right toward my ass.

  Taavi snarls and grabs the edge of my jacket, tugging on it and snapping me out of the moment. My eyes fly open and I push Stryker back just a bit, but not before I miss the arrogant smirk crawling across his lips.

  “Ah, I think I’ve just remembered how to have sex,” he murmurs, rubbing his chin with a hand as I glare at him. To be fair, I was the one that started that. I can almost forgive Bain for kissing me the way he did. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

  “That’s fantastic, but I need you to—”

  “Magic, yes,” Stryker murmurs, reaching up and rubbing at his forehead. I notice that the pink scar is gone. He lifts his golden eyes to me, and I take a small step back in surprise. The glassiness has faded a bit, and some of that spark is back. His mouth curves to one side as he straightens up and then looks down at the frosting on his pants with a small frown. Swiping it away, Stryker lifts his gaze to Taavi, nods briefly and then turns back to me. “Okay, Oz, the Great and Terrible.” He taps the side of his head. “That power of yours is incredible. I’ve not only just remembered how to fuck properly, but I think I can pass on a few tips and tricks.”

  He moves over to one of the orbs and very lightly skims a finger across it, introducing sound back to the room. Just … not quite so much of it.

  I turn around to see the burnt girl on her feet, slicing her arm from elbow to wrist and then drawing what looks like metal from her blood.

  “Uh.” I’m temporarily rendered speechless as Stryker steps up to stand beside me. I notice that Taavi very purposely positions himself between us.

  “You thought she was down and out, did you?” he asks, giving me a tight-lipped smile. “I guess she isn’t afraid of a lit match, now is she?”

  The burnt girl—her name was Breise, right?—creates a metal spear that looks like it’s made of iron. When she hurls it, it’s very clearly propelled by magic, travelling the entire length of the arena before plunging into the throat of her opponent.

  Blood blooms on Marilyn’s throat as her eyes widen and she claws at the iron pole briefly before falling to her knees and collapsing into the singed grass beneath her feet.

  My mouth drops open as the audience roars their approval and Dorothy, ever the prim and proper little tyrant, claps her hands delicately.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  I turn back to Stryker, and he must sense the raw desperation in my gaze because he turns and takes my hands in his.

  “The way you stood up for me against Isaac? The way you kissed me just now?” His mouth twitches slightly as I swallow past a lump of fear in my throat. “That lack of hesitation, that confidence … that’s what you need out there. As wizards, we’re in a unique position, one that no other sorcerer could ever truly understand. Our power is wholly and truly ours; it comes from inside. Whatever you need it to do, it will do. Just as you can’t hold your breath forever, because your body won’t allow you to die … neither will your magic.” Stryker pauses and we both look out the window.

  Even though Dorothy’s seated quite far from the skybox, I swear I can feel her eyes on us.

  Stryker turns my face back to his with a single finger, eyes shining with hope. He really thinks I can do this, doesn’t he?

  If only I were as confident as he seems to be. Maybe he just hasn’t finished growing all of his fucking brains back?

  “You can do this,” he says, giving my hands a squeeze. “Just remember: Dorothy gifted me to you as a consort. My life is in your hands.” He leans forward and kisses the corner of my mouth as Taavi growls and the door swings open, revealing the guard with the green whiskers and the servant girl with the winged monkey clip.

  “Ozora, the Great and Terrible,” she says, her face drawn and grim.

  Stryker drops my hands and steps back, but my feet are rooted to the spot, and I start to wonder if I’m going to be able to take a single step, let alone make it all the way down the winding staircases to the arena.

  “You’re wearing a wicked witch’s shoes, a good witch’s mark, and a wizard’s courage,” Stryker whispers, leaning down so his lips are near my ear. “You can do this, Ozora. For yourself, for Taavi, for the land your mother named you after.”

  He
puts a gentle hand on my lower back and pushes me forward.

  I put a hand on Taavi’s head and take one shaky step after another, the sound of the skybox door closing with an ominous ring of finality.

  I have a feeling that even if I survive this, I won’t be the same after.

  No, after what I’ve experienced these last few days in the land of Oz, I’ll never be the same again.

  The Wicked Witch of the West

  I can barely breathe as I stand at the edge of the arena, looking up at the rows of colorful courtiers in their green-lensed goggles, staring down at me like an insect pinned inside a shadow box.

  My breath comes out in a rush as I look across the expanse of emerald green grass—it’s somehow been rejuvenated in the interim between contestants—and find the winner, Breise, staring back at me. She’s fully healed, her blond hair braided into long plaits that nearly touch the floor.

  She isn’t smiling. Neither am I.

  But she doesn’t look at me like she hates me either. Pretty sure neither of us wants to be here.

  It seems that even the wind can’t penetrate the strange shield around the arena, so it’s eerily still inside that green bubble. Still and quiet. I can’t hear the sounds of the crowd either.

  I know I’ve only been standing here for a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. At some point, that gong is going to ring, and I’m going to have to fight. The girl across from me, a trained wizard, can pull iron spears from her fucking blood.

  “I never thought I’d miss lying in bed, listening to Uncle Henry scream at the news with a drunken slur,” I whisper, my hands shaking by my sides. Taavi shifts into his human form and my eyes flick up to Dorothy. It’s too late for her to stop this now, to put that horrible curse or charm or what the fuck ever back on my guardian. I can’t exactly see her expression from all the way down here, but I hope it’s terrible.

  Across from us, Breise’s guardian takes on the form of something I’ve never seen before, this cougar-sized beast with visible rib bones on its sides, its furless skin so thin that I can see its muscles underneath.