“Because of Dorothy,” I said. “She changed them somehow.”
“That would be the obvious answer. Maybe even the right one. But is anything ever that obvious? Haven’t you learned by now that the real story is not always the whole story? Dorothy’s friends didn’t just change because they were her friends. They changed because of the things that they value most. Or . . . the things they value most have been changed.”
“The Scarecrow’s brains,” I said, thinking out loud.
The Wizard twirled an index finger in the air.
“The Tin Man’s heart . . .”
“I think she’s getting it,” he said.
“And the Lion’s courage,” I finished.
“Retrieve them and you’ll be three steps closer to accomplishing your mission.”
I shook my head. It didn’t quite add up.
“You’re the one who gave them those things. And you didn’t even know magic. You were just messing with them. Giving them what they were asking for, whether it worked or not.”
“Very true,” he said. “Funny how even they never seemed to figure that out. You must admit, though, that my gifts did have a certain effect. Would you disagree?”
“How can I when I don’t know what you’re talking about? The only thing I know for sure is that I don’t trust you. At all.”
“As well you shouldn’t,” the Wizard said. “You shouldn’t trust anyone. Yes, I could be lying to you. On the other hand, where’s the risk in ripping out the Tin Woodman’s heart? Just to see what happens. If you don’t, he’ll probably kill you anyway.”
He had a point.
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said, waving the idea away, “I could never stomach violence. And anyway, you’re the one from Kansas. . . .”
The grass around us rustled, blown by a gentle wind. I glanced at Pete and found him staring up into the night sky. Suddenly he flinched, and put one hand on the Wizard’s shoulder.
“She sees us,” he said. “She knows where we are.”
The Wizard nodded, as if he understood Pete’s typically cryptic words. “We have to move. There’s still a battle at the palace, but it won’t last long. If she—”
“She who?” I interrupted, more than tired of being in the dark.
“Glinda,” the Wizard said. “Gazing at us through the damn painting I should’ve destroyed years ago—”
The night flashed suddenly white, the air around us forcefully displaced and filling with the smell of motor oil. Startled, Maude and Ollie took to the air. I shielded my eyes from the bright light as the Tin Woodman materialized in front of me, still shimmering with a pale pink glow from the spell that had sent him here. Glinda. It had to be. I was beginning to see by now that she liked to rely on other people to do her dirty work for her. Instead of facing me on her own, she had sent someone else to deal with me.
His ax was raised, as if he’d just been plucked from the middle of a fight and transplanted here. He looked around, his eyes still adjusting to the darkness. He lowered the ax a fraction, but then spotted the Wizard. “You!” he snarled.
“Hello, old friend,” the Wizard replied sadly. “I’m sorry to see that Glinda’s using you as her little errand boy. It’s really not very dignified, is it?”
“You,” the Tin Woodman cried in outrage. I’d never heard so much raw emotion in his hollow, metallic voice before. “I should have known you were part of this.”
He rounded on me next, that all-too-familiar ax poised to strike.
“And you. What have you done with my princess? Where is she? If you’ve harmed even a hair on her head . . .”
“Whoa,” I replied. Had Dorothy gone missing after she’d teleported away from me? “I don’t have her.”
Obviously, the Tin Woodman didn’t believe me. He pulled his ax from his shoulder and took a lumbering swing at me, but I moved backward easily, feeling stronger and more confident than I had all night, and pulled my knife out. I felt my magic coursing through my body, charging the knife with energy.
The Tin Woodman was alone without his soldiers, without Dorothy and her magic. And he looked weakened: his metal body was battered; several of the frightening instruments that had once tipped his fingers had been snapped off. He had a huge dent in the side of his face, stretching from his cheek to his forehead.
The Order had only charged me with killing Dorothy—there’d been no discussion of the Tin Woodman or any of her other cohorts. But they were all just as evil, weren’t they? I hadn’t been able to kill Dorothy, but if I was able to do away with the Tin Woodman, that would at least weaken her ability to torture some innocent people, right?
I could do this.
“Kill him, Amy,” the Wizard urged me. A wounded, betrayed look scrunched the Tin Woodman’s features at the Wizard’s words. “I’ve told you what you need to do.”
I glanced over at the Wizard and saw him weaving his hands through the air—but not to help me. Instead, he was building what looked like a glowing green force field around himself and Pete. Thanks, guys. Very chivalrous.
The Tin Woodman, though, was focused only on me. He put his head down and charged, his ax extended in front of him. As he plowed forward, the ax transformed into a long, gleaming sword that almost seemed to be an extension of his body.
I was ready for him. Just before he reached me, I blinked myself behind him and he kept going, his momentum carrying him forward. He stumbled for a moment, almost falling, but then he recovered, pivoted, and—in one swift motion—hurled his sword straight for me. As it flew through the air, it transformed again: this time into a flurry of knives.
With a few lightning-fast flicks of my wrist, I was able to deflect most of them, but I felt one graze my cheek. Another plunged into my thigh.
Without slowing down, I pulled it out, feeling the warm blood seep down my leg, and tossed it aside. With that and the wound across my abdomen, I was steadily turning into a real mess. My whole body was shooting with a throbbing pain, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t feel weaker, I felt changed. Like I really had become something else—a warrior like Jellia had been when she’d confronted Dorothy—someone capable of taking the worst these assholes had to offer and then dishing it right back to them.
The Tin Woodman was unarmed now. From his posture, it didn’t look like he had much fight left in him.
I launched myself into the air and leaned into a spinning kick that connected with his midsection. The Tin Woodman toppled into the grass and I leapt on top of him.
“His heart, Amy!” the Wizard hissed. “That’s the only way!”
I lifted my knife into the air, letting it fill with heat until the blade glowed white-hot. The magic was rich in this place—I felt supercharged, more powerful than I ever had before, Oz’s natural, mercurial energy flowing like water from the grass and the air and the earth and into my body. Into my knife.
The pain from my injuries was still there, but it was easy to ignore.
“Please!” the Tin Woodman wheezed. He was powerless now—his weapons gone, his arms pinned to his sides. His metal face looked frightened and pathetic. “Please,” he repeated. “I know what I’ve done. I know I’ve betrayed the people of Oz. I only did it for her.”
A single tear rolled down his cheek.
I remembered what the Wizard said earlier. Dorothy’s loyal companions are not quite what they used to be. Whether or not the rest of what he was telling me was a lie, that part was pretty obvious, and now, it seemed oddly relevant. The Tin Woodman’s love had been twisted and perverted. It had turned into something ugly and evil.
That doesn’t just happen. Something had done it to him. I’d assumed it was Dorothy.
But what if it was his heart itself?
Well, maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. It didn’t matter whose fault it was. It didn’t matter about the why of it all. Life isn’t fair. And I wasn’t doing this for myself. I was doing it for Indigo, and fo
r Maude, and for Jellia, and for everyone else who had suffered because of Dorothy. People like Dorothy couldn’t be allowed to run things. They didn’t deserve a place like Oz.
My knife crackled with blue energy as I plunged it down. It sank into the Tin Woodman like a needle puncturing a balloon.
As I did it, his face collapsed in agony. He started to cry in earnest—sobbing really, his body heaving in pain. He began to look strangely human.
“Please,” he managed to spit out. “Please take pity on me.”
It was too late. I sliced diagonally across his chest and then drew the knife out only to plunge it right back in, drawing an X along his left side with the blade. It made a satisfying hissing noise, and met with almost no resistance. It was as simple as popping the top on a can of soda. In the end, he was only made of tin.
His jaw continued to open and close, but he wasn’t speaking anymore.
I reached into the hole I’d just made and found his heart. It was soft and velvety but a little slimy, too. I yanked it, and there was a snapping sound as it came free of the threads of artificial muscle that had held it in place.
The Tin Woodman stopped moving entirely. His eyes were wide and bulging, his face frozen in place, now a record of his fear and pain. It reminded me of the statues in the sculpture garden in the palace.
I held the heart in front of me. I had done it. It was glowing and glittering, pulsing in my palm.
“Give it here, little dear,” a voice said. “Don’t you worry. Everything will be all right as long as you hand it over.”
I spun my head around in surprise and saw Glinda standing right behind me in her frilly pink gown. The only thing that suggested everything was less than perfect was the smeared crimson around her mouth—it could’ve been messily applied lipstick, but it looked an awful lot like blood.
I jumped to my feet, still clutching the heart, and prepared to fight again. But before I could attack, a bolt of green lightning snapped through the air and hit Glinda right in the stomach. As she lurched backward, she pulled a wand tipped with a glowing star from her bodice.
“Amy!” the Wizard shouted. “I’ll hold off Glinda. Take Ozma! Ollie and Maude will take you to the rest of the monkeys.”
I whirled around. Ozma?
And then I saw. The green bubble that the Wizard had built around Pete to protect him was dissolving, and as it did, his body began to dissolve, too. Where the mysterious gardener who was my friend had been just a moment ago, Oz’s One True Princess now stood. She blinked.
“Amy,” she said. “Amy Amy Amy Amy.”
Just like I’d been hiding behind Astrid’s face, Ozma had been hiding behind Pete’s.
“Duck!” the Wizard screamed, and I reflexively followed his instructions just as a neon-pink beam of magical energy crackled above my head.
“How . . . ,” I started to say, staring at Ozma, but then the Wizard sent another one of his bolts shooting for Glinda just as Ollie swooped down from out of the sky and scooped me into his arms, carrying me up and away. I looked over my shoulder and saw Maude, carrying Ozma, right behind us. On the ground, the Wizard was locked in battle with Glinda.
In the distance, the Emerald Palace was burning, alight with flames.
I wondered if Nox was still in there. I wondered where Mombi and Glamora were.
But what I really wanted to know as we soared into the clouds, the jeweled city burning below us and the Tin Woodman’s evil heart still pulsing in my hand, was where Dorothy was. I didn’t know what was going on or where I was going, but I knew one thing: this wasn’t over. Even if I had failed tonight, at least I was one step closer. No matter how long it took—no matter who I had to destroy first—Dorothy was going to die.
Writing this book, stepping onto the Yellow Brick Road, has been the most incredible of journeys, and one that I could not have walked alone.
Special thanks to my beautiful family. My mom and dad and sister, Andrea, who have taken every step down every road with me, no matter what the color, with unwavering love and support. And who have always dreamed bigger for me than I have for myself. I share this and everything that comes after with them. Mom, you showed me how to love, to read, to write, and to try.
Thanks to my brilliant editor Bennett Madison, without whom Dorothy would not have been possible. His encyclopedic knowledge of all things Oz and his belief in Dorothy and me made him more than an editor—he’s an invaluable creative resource and friend.
James Frey for his amazing support and faith in this book.
To my amazing team at Harper. I am so lucky to have Tara Weikum, Jocelyn Davies, and Chris Hernandez, whose enthusiasm for Dorothy and support for me has made this all a dream, and whose fabulous editorial instincts and insights helped shape Dorothy and bring Oz into focus.
Ray Shappell for the gorgeous cover.
Sandee Roston and the terrific publicity team at Harper. Thanks for educating me and for giving Dorothy such an extraordinary amount of love and attention.
To my friends—
Lauren Dell, my forever friend, for being there from the beginning and still being here now. Annie Kojima Rolland, for saying you should really write a book before anyone else did, and for giving me a second family to love. Paloma Ramirez, for really becoming my friend a million years after we were floormates at Columbia. Leslie Dye, for understanding. Leslie Rider, for listening and for worshipping at the same altar of perseverance and loyalty. Carin Greenberg, for showing me how it’s done and for fancy lunches and Great American ones. Jeanne Marie Hudson for advice and last minute photographers. And Bonnie Datt, for being on call, with empathy and humor, advice and heart . . . who knew that a Nanette Lepore dress could be the start of a beautiful and absolutely essential friendship.
To the rest of my girls’ night girls, Lexi, Lisa, Sarah, Kristin, and Megan. My friends from the soap world, especially Jill Lorie Hurst, who was my very first mentor and is still a constant friend and cheerleader in my life. Claire Labine, Jim Brown, Barbara Esensten, Paul Rauch, and Tina Sloan, who always inspires and advises and shines.
And to the readers, thank you, thank you, thank you for picking up this book. I hope it has what I love in a book—takes you to another place, makes you think, makes you feel, and gives you a touch of magic.
To Josh Willis, Don and Sandy Goodman, Sue and Harry Kojima, Chris Rolland, Kerstin Conrad, Nancy Williams Watt, Jim and David Sarnoff, Josh Sabarra, Paul Ruditis, and to the many friends and family members not included here, but are so loved and appreciated!
And special thanks to Judy Goldschmidt who has been the most generous of friends and has opened countless doors for me. I am forever grateful.
To L. Frank Baum, for creating Dorothy and Oz. I hope he wouldn’t mind too much that I borrowed her for a little while.
CREDITS
COVER ART AND DESIGN © 2014 BY RAY SHAPPELL
HAND LETTERING BY ERIN FITZSIMMONS
COPYRIGHT
DOROTHY MUST DIE
Copyright © 2014 by Full Fathom Five, LLC
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2014930869
ISBN 978-0-06-228067-1 (trade bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-06-234704-6 (int. ed.)
EPub Edition © MARCH 2014 ISBN: 9780062280695
Version 11252014
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FIRST EDITION
CONTENTS
One
Two
&
nbsp; Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Credits
Copyright
ONE
The Emerald City was burning.
As I zoomed away from the smoking chaos and into the moonlit night, carried in the furry, twig-like arms of a monkey, the skyline crackled over my shoulder in a fury of glitter and flames. It looked like a little kid’s birthday party gone horribly wrong, the formerly majestic towers and skyscrapers collapsing in on themselves in confetti-bursts of jewel and glass. It could have been beautiful, except for the dense, black mushroom cloud of smoke that hovered ominously over the skyline.
I was a long-ass way from Kansas.
My feelings about that might surprise you. Unlike some people, I had never been particularly eager to go back there. When it comes to clichés, there’s one that I’m starting to believe might actually be worth repeating. You can’t go home again.
Exhibit A: Dorothy. She tried to go home twice, and see how that turned out?
Exhibit B: the Wizard. He couldn’t even manage to make it home once. (Okay, maybe that had something to do with the fact that he was traveling in a janky old hot air balloon, but still.)
Then there’s me, Amy Gumm, trailer trash nobody from Flat Hill, Kansas. While I liked to think of myself as about as different as you could get from people like them, it was hard to ignore that we had certain things in common.
For one thing, we had all been carried here from the real world by some unknown force, and while I don’t think anyone had yet figured out what that force was, I had my own theories about why we were the ones who had been chosen.
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 34