I could feel the magic coursing all around me and wondered how much of Dorothy’s power was dedicated to running this place. It must’ve been part of the Order’s plan; with all the magic happening here, hopefully no one would notice the witches performing their wards outside the palace. Not until it was too late.
The doors swung open and as the guests began to stream in, the trays we held magically filled themselves with hors d’oeuvres and drinks. The cocktails were garnished with what looked like real emeralds and rubies that floated upon the surface.
My heart fluttered. It had begun—no turning back now. The only way I was going to get through the night was by convincing myself that nothing was out of the ordinary—that killing Dorothy was just another thing to check off my list of duties for the day. No big deal.
“Okay, gals,” Sindra announced, facing the rest of us. “You’ve seen what happens to screwups, right? Let’s, um, do the opposite. Let’s make this ball one they’ll be talking about for years to come!”
Oh, that won’t be a problem, I thought to myself.
The maids dispersed, each of us making our way around the room and presenting the partygoers with their choice of food and drink. I served a group of Flutterbudgets who took forever to decide what to drink, each of them reassuring the next that they were making the right decision, then throwing their selections back like they needed to loosen up more than anything. Next was the stern-looking royal family of Winkie Country, all dressed in sparkling pressed-tin suits that would’ve made the Tin Woodman envious. They barely looked at me when I passed.
As soon as our trays were empty, they filled themselves up again. No one talked to us or paid much attention to us at all. All we had to do was look pretty and not trip.
The whole place thumped with music and all the guests were laughing and chattering. They gathered around Scraps, the Patchwork Girl, and began to cheer as she pranced and pirouetted in an acrobatic routine that was somewhere between break-dancing, voguing, and gymnastics.
When she cartwheeled into a perfect split, a roar went up from the crowd. Scraps stood and bowed for her audience, and then the music shifted to something slower and moodier. All of the disco balls that had been whirling around began drifting toward the highest point in the domed ceiling. There, they merged together and began to pulse in time with the music like a huge ruby heart.
The heart began to descend slowly. The chatter of the room went silent, and everyone stood still watching it. I scanned the crowd, trying to pick out all the important players. Surprisingly, most of them seemed to be missing: I didn’t see the Wizard, or Ozma, or Glinda, or Dorothy. The Scarecrow, the Lion, and the Tin Woodman were missing, too.
For now at least, it was just the B-list.
When the glass heart reached the floor, it exploded in a shower of red glitter. Something landed on my arm and I realized the flashing dots of red light thrown by the disco balls had magically solidified into rose petals. I brushed them off, trying to see through the haze of glitter, confetti, petals, and pink-hued smoke.
She really knew how to make an entrance, I’ll give her that. There, in the center of the room where the glass heart had been just a moment ago, stood Dorothy. Her entourage appeared, too, fanning out behind her—the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman, the Lion, and Glinda—but they dispersed quickly into the party.
Dorothy looked radiant and majestic, every inch a princess. Her lips were glossed but not with PermaSmile—her smile easy and relaxed, and somehow giving off physical warmth if you looked directly at it. Her nails were bedazzled with actual rubies; her hair was pulled up into a spiraling tower of curls, streaks of gold running through it, leading to an ornate emerald hair comb at the pinnacle—the road of yellow brick and the Emerald City, I realized.
She wore a long, formfitting, beaded gown that flared out at the bottom and was corseted so severely that I wondered how she could breathe. Her breasts weren’t the only thing Dorothy was trying to show off: the fishtail was slit up the side, revealing her most important assets.
Her shoes, of course.
The crowd went wild at Dorothy’s entrance. Their cheers and whoops resounded thunderously through the huge room. Dorothy batted her eyelashes and flicked her wrist, all fake-humble like Aw, shucks.
One of the servers scurried over to her and, without looking, she grabbed a cocktail, her lips pouting into a dainty sip. A long sip. Finally, the drink half finished, Dorothy blotted the corner of her lips with a napkin and raised her hand to silence her adoring subjects, as if everyone weren’t already watching her.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice all sugary sweet. “I’m so happy you could all make it here tonight to help me celebrate this wonderful occasion.”
A Munchkin in a bright-orange tuxedo standing in front of me turned to his companion, a squat, monkish man wearing a patterned kimono and a tentacle-like braid, and whispered, “What is the occasion anyway?”
“She just wanted to have a party,” the other replied.
I’d assumed this was some Oz holiday I didn’t know about. But all this work had just been for a whim.
Meanwhile, Dorothy draped a hand across her forehead.
“As many of you know, the last week has been a difficult one for me. One of my closest confidantes was revealed to be a wicked, nasty traitor, and as you can imagine, I was quite devastated. But I’m overjoyed to say that it’s all been sorted out, and things are better than ever. Now, before we get back to our dancing, I’d like to introduce a very special guest who I’m so thrilled to have here.”
The ballroom grew silent and we heard a rustling from the back of the room. A low murmur rippled through the crowd as it parted to make way for the new arrival. Who could Dorothy be talking about?
Then I saw her, lurching forward in jerky, awkward movements and barely balancing a serving tray full of drinks. Her face was bruised and swollen and her green maid’s uniform was splattered with blood. Where her eyes should have been there were instead just two empty, blackened sockets. Her mouth was hanging open as if it had been frozen in mid-scream.
“Unfortunately there was a bit of a mishap during her interrogation,” Dorothy said, “but luckily the Scarecrow was clever enough to reanimate her corpse so that she could be here tonight. Deceased or not, I wouldn’t want my favorite servant to miss the most fabulous party Oz has ever seen.”
It was Jellia.
The Munchkin in front of me dropped his glass. It didn’t shatter but was instead swallowed into the night sky beneath our feet. I assumed, around the room, other glasses were slipping soundlessly from other shocked hands.
I barely managed to steady my serving tray.
No one seemed to know what to do as Jellia limped forward—everyone’s face seemed to bear the same look of horrified confusion. Even Sindra had stopped dead in her tracks to stare, tears reflecting in her eyes.
“Well, have a drink!” Dorothy urged us all. “Go on. It would disappoint me so much if you didn’t.” Her voice was cheery, but there was something in her eyes, something tantamount to a dare.
The giant frog in the three-piece suit looked hesitantly at Jellia, then back at Dorothy, and finally plucked a glass of pink champagne from the tray.
“Here’s to loyalty,” Dorothy said. Slowly turning in a circle so she could see everyone in the room, she raised an empty glass as if to toast. Everyone followed suit, raising their glasses, too.
“To loyalty!” they cried out. This time, it didn’t sound so enthusiastic, but Dorothy didn’t seem to care.
Suddenly the lights went out. For the briefest moment it was pitch-black. A flapping noise came from overhead, like bats soaring from a cave, and then the room lit back up, now bathed in a dim, warm glow. Several winged monkeys swooped slowly above us, each one with a sparkling chandelier harnessed to its midsection by a dangling chain.
“Now let’s get this party started!” Dorothy howled. She let out a jubilant whoop, and dance music began to blast. Dorothy began to shimmy a
nd shake, and soon the rest of the room was dancing, too.
Jellia continued her march around the room, tottering back and forth, stiff-legged, her empty eye sockets collecting stray pieces of glitter. Everyone she passed reluctantly helped themselves to a drink. It became a secondary sort of dance, watching guests anxiously shift around the room to keep clear of Jellia’s path.
I tasted blood. I’d bitten down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep myself from screaming out loud. I couldn’t believe I’d ever hesitated at the idea of killing Dorothy. Watching Jellia stagger around the room, a mockery of life, it took everything in me not to rush Dorothy right then.
“Ah, Astrid, long time no see.”
The Scarecrow stood next to me, his scratchy hand coming to rest lightly on the small of my back. I’d been so distracted giving Dorothy murder-eyes, I hadn’t noticed him approach. He plucked a flute of champagne from my tray, but didn’t drink it. I wondered if it would soak right through him.
“Aren’t these little gatherings just dreadful?” he asked me idly, his button eyes tracking a pair of fast-dancing Munchkins. “A tremendous waste of resources.”
I didn’t think I could look him in the face, knowing what he’d done to Maude and now Jellia, and not give everything away with my uncensored anger and disgust. I looked down at my feet and hoped it came off as demure.
“I think it’s lovely,” I replied through gritted teeth.
“Yes, well, you would,” he sniffed. “I’ll be ready to resume our nightly meetings soon, dear. I look forward to them.”
I suppressed a shudder.
“I have to go,” I said, and before he could reply, I shouldered my tray and started circulating through the party.
I noticed Glinda seated alone at one of the back tables. She wore a puffy, frilly gown, her red hair pulled into a tight bun and topped with a tall, cylindrical crown. Sindra approached her with a tray of drinks and the so-called good witch waved her off, not interested. Glinda never took her eyes off Dorothy, her expression mired in boredom, looking like one of those parents that begrudgingly attends a school play and then texts the entire way through it.
Meanwhile, Dorothy danced, hopping and shimmying and twirling. Some of the bolder guests—a fine-featured Winkie dignitary, a dashing-looking pirate with a wooden leg—attempted to dance with her, but she warded them off with wild glares, never breaking her motion. She was like a tornado, clearing her own space on the dance floor. It was manic and, in a way I didn’t care to think about, sort of sad.
But then the Lion slunk through my field of vision—licking his chops and eyeing me, because apparently patrolling the outskirts and creeping people out was his preferred party activity—and I realized I’d been standing still for too long. I wished more than anything that Gert had managed to kill him that night in the woods.
I made another circuit of the room and ended up near where the Tin Woodman leaned. He’d stretched a tuxedo over his metallic frame, though it bulged at odd angles and didn’t quite fit him. He wore a red corsage on the lapel, which had already begun to droop.
He looked miserable, staring at Dorothy with a combination of longing and self-pity. He turned something shiny over in his hands nervously and I inched a little closer to get a better look. It was a tin rose, delicately crafted, and shined to perfection. The way the Tin Woodman’s fingers worried at it, clenching and twisting the fragile stem, I figured it would break at any moment.
As I watched, he seemed to come to some huge internal decision. He nodded and thrust his hands up and down, like he was giving a speech to himself, psyching himself up. Then, still clutching his rose, he marched across the dance floor toward Dorothy.
Someone plucked a tumbler of whiskey off my drink tray. I moved to keep circulating, but a hand grasped my elbow.
“It won’t be long now.”
Nox. His hair had changed back to its original color and was slicked back. He was wearing a sharply tailored suit with skinny-legged pants. Otherwise, he was entirely himself, like he wasn’t afraid to be spotted.
“This should be good,” he said to me.
Together, we watched as the Tin Woodman stood before Dorothy, presenting himself with a stiff bow. Dorothy stopped doing the twist to stare at him. He offered her the tin flower and, after a brief moment of consideration, Dorothy took it. Then, after barely looking at it, she placed it on a servant’s passing drink tray.
“Ouch,” I said. Next to me, Nox smirked.
Dorothy spun away from the Tin Woodman, returning to her feverish dancing. For a second, it looked like he would just skulk away. But then he reached out, attempting to pull Dorothy into an awkward embrace or maybe initiate a tango. He was so uncoordinated, it was hard to tell.
What he ended up doing was slicing the strap on Dorothy’s dress.
“You lummox!” she shrieked, loud enough that the entire party stopped. “You rusty, empty-headed beast!”
This was an opportunity.
“Hold this,” I said, my heart pounding, and shoved my drink tray at Nox. He took it, confused, and I pushed my way through the crush of gawking Munchkins, Nomes, talking animals, and other assorted Oz weirdos. I knew what I was doing was risky, but another opening as perfect as this one might not come along. I put myself right at Dorothy’s side as she berated the Tin Woodman. Sindra was two steps behind me, her eyes narrowing into a glare as I spoke directly to Dorothy.
“Princess,” I said, keeping my voice as servile as possible. “Isn’t it time for a wardrobe change?”
Dorothy held up the front of her dress with one hand, the other jabbing a ruby-studded finger at the Tin Woodman, her glare like a death ray leveled on him. Slowly, with an almost physical effort on her part, she turned that gaze to me and forced a smile.
“Yes, Astrid,” Dorothy said. “Wonderful idea.”
So, she did know my name. The fact that it came out in the heat of anger made me realize that when she’d called me random A names in her chamber she had just been screwing with me.
Dorothy reached out and grasped my shoulder, effortlessly casting a travel spell. The swirling lights and thumping music of the party melted away, replaced by the relative serenity of the deserted hallway outside her quarters.
“Huh,” Dorothy said to herself, looking down at her hands. “Must’ve had too much to drink.”
She’d tried to teleport us directly into her chambers, I realized, but had failed. The witches’ spell was working—they had cut off the palace’s magic supply, just when I needed it. The magic must be leaking out of her. I felt it, too, a strange ebbing sensation; it was like lying in the sun, only to have a huge cloud pass slowly by overhead.
Dorothy flung open the door to her rooms and strode inside, already pulling her dress off. “Hurry up,” she snapped over her shoulder. “I won’t have buffoonery steal any more of this night.”
I followed her, pulling my knife out.
I felt that same stretching and contorting I’d experienced when I was back in the Order’s caves. I was Amy again now, I knew. I hadn’t thought about the fact that the magical barriers the witches had cast would break my disguise. It didn’t matter—there was no time to worry about that now.
And anyway, good. I wanted to be Amy when I did this. I wanted Dorothy to know.
She was still a few paces ahead of me, crossing toward her sprawling closet. I closed the distance.
“Something with sequins,” Dorothy said. “Fancy, sequined, short—that’s what I want, Astrid. Find it. The lower cut, the better.”
“That’s what you want to be buried in?”
Dorothy froze, turning slowly to face me.
“Excuse me?” she said, the words out just as she saw me—Amy, not Astrid—eyes widening, noticing my knife.
“This is for Jellia,” I told her, and slashed my knife in a wide arc across her throat.
Before I could connect, a black ball of snarling fur flew through the air, aiming straight for me.
Toto sunk his te
eth into my wrist. I yelped in pain, unthinkingly loosening my grip on my knife, and watched in horror as it went clattering to the ground as if in slow motion.
Dorothy had stumbled backward when I first slashed at her, tangling her feet in the dress she’d just taken off and falling to the floor. Now she screamed, pulling the dress up, quickly covering herself.
“Get her, Toto! Kill her!”
I shoved Toto off me—he was little and his tiny bite had barely broken the skin—and scrambled for my knife. Stupid. I should’ve just stabbed her in the back, but I’d wanted to twist the knife figuratively, too.
Dorothy jabbed a finger at me, her eyes blazing with fury, probably trying to blast me with the same lightning bolt spell she’d slung at Jellia. But that fury changed to confusion and then fear as the spell sparked, sputtered, and died.
I grabbed my knife from the pink carpet but before I could charge Dorothy, Toto latched on to my arm again. He got my free forearm this time, so without really thinking about it, I stabbed at him with my knife. He let go just in time, yelping and barking, dancing around at my ankles. Fresh pinpricks of blood welled up on my arm, but I ignored them.
“Don’t hurt my dog, you bitch!”
I glanced at Dorothy just in time to see the airborne plush, pink ottoman that she’d flung at my head. I ducked out of the way but lost my balance in the process, stumbling against the nearby vanity.
This was going great.
Dorothy, wearing the dress the Tin Woodman had ripped, now all wrinkled and not pulled on quite right, booked for the door.
Shit.
“Guards!” Dorothy screamed as she fled her room. Toto yipped once more at me, then went racing after Dorothy. I chased them, knowing I couldn’t let Dorothy make it back to the party where she could rally her guards. I’d blown my perfect shot—I’d let Nox down, and the Order, and most importantly, Jellia.
As I sprinted into the hall, I heard alarms squealing from all around the palace. The screams of partygoers echoed all the way up here.
The halls were dim—the torches giving off less light than usual, as if even the flames here were augmented with magic. At first I didn’t see Dorothy, but then I spotted the unmistakable dazzle of her shoes as she turned a corner.
Dorothy Must Die: The Other Side of the Rainbow Collection: No Place Like Oz, Dorothy Must Die, The Witch Must Burn, The Wizard Returns, The Wicked Will Rise Page 32