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

by Danielle Paige

  Her grip on my jaw was firm, but when I met her eyes again they were full of compassion. “I know,” she said, so quietly I didn’t think the others at the table could hear her. “I know how much you want the real Ozma back. In that, if nothing else, we’re together.”

  I jerked away from her grip, and she let me. She took a few steps backward, put her hands on her broad hips, and stared at me. They were all watching me now.

  “I need some time,” I said.

  “We can give you a few minutes, but that’s all,” Gert said. “We can bewitch the Munchkins who were tasked with taking you back to Dorothy so that they won’t realize you were gone, but the longer you’re here, the harder it will be.”

  “Fine,” I said. Without another word, Gert led me back to the cavern with the healing pool and left me there.

  FIFTEEN

  I sat staring into the pool as the soft slap of Gert’s bare feet on stone faded away. A pale pink mist had formed over the water, which was now an opaque, rich blue and smelled of honeysuckle. I had no idea how long I’d been sitting there when something in the air changed and I realized Nox was sitting beside me. He’d come up behind me and sat down so silently I hadn’t even noticed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice, looking at the water.

  “Why did you join them?”

  He was silent for a long time. “It might not seem like it,” he said at last, “but you’ve been protected in the Emerald City from the truth of how evil Dorothy is. Glinda has been trying to tap into Oz’s magic for a long time, and Dorothy is helping her. It’s not just that machine—Glinda’s been digging mines deep under Oz, looking for ways to pull magic out of the earth. The Tin Woodman’s soldiers have been kidnapping people and using them as slave labor.”

  I thought of the rumors that had swirled around Dorothy’s palace ever since Ozma had changed. The stories of Munchkins going hungry, of the winged monkeys turning evil. They hadn’t just been stories, then. “That still doesn’t explain how you got here,” I said.

  “The Tin Woodman’s soldiers burned my hometown to the ground when I was just a boy,” he said quietly, not looking at me. “They tried to take all of the adults, but everyone fought back. No one was left alive—except me. Mombi rescued me and brought me here. She raised me to be a fighter. I owe the Order my life.” He looked up at me. “But it’s more than that. More than just gratitude. I believe in the possibility of a better Oz, Jellia. I have to. I won’t let Glinda and Dorothy keep destroying our country. And if I can avenge my parents’ deaths—well, so much the better.”

  I searched for the right words. “I’m sorry,” I said simply, though it hardly seemed like enough. “I didn’t realize.”

  He shrugged. “You didn’t know. But now you have to decide, Jellia. Will you help us?”

  “I’ve already made up my mind,” I said, and his face fell. But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, Gert materialized next to me in a little puff of purple smoke.

  “I knew we could count on you, Jellia,” she said, her voice full of pride. She wrapped me up in a big, soft hug, and after a moment I returned the gesture. I could see Nox’s confused expression over her shoulder.

  “You’re not the only one who wants to see the real Oz restored,” I said to him, and his face was transformed by a real, full smile.

  Gert released me from her embrace and I found that I missed her comforting warmth as soon as she did. I hadn’t had much mothering in my life. “Down to business,” she said briskly. “I’m sorry to be curt, my dear, but we haven’t much time. We must return you to the meadow where Glinda left you, and Nox has to get back to Glinda’s before she notices his absence.” She paused, smiling at me. “Welcome to the future of Oz, Jellia. We’re proud to count you among us.” When she put it like that, I couldn’t help but be a little proud of myself, too.

  After that, there wasn’t much else to do. Mombi, Gert, and Glamora assembled in the pool cavern to see me off. Glamora waved her hands, and my soft white robe was replaced with the tattered, bloody dress I’d been wearing when Nox brought me to the cavern. Glamora waved her hands again, and bruises sprang up painlessly across my skin. I poked one cautiously; it didn’t hurt at all, but it sure looked convincingly gory. “Just a glamour,” she said. “They’ll fade eventually, like real bruises.” I looked down at my ruined dress. I was really going to do this. I was really going to spy on Dorothy—and put my life on the line for the future of Oz. What was I thinking? Why had I agreed to this?

  “Because you know Oz needs you, dear,” Gert said. I faced her and opened my mouth, ready to tell her I knew no such thing. But the words didn’t come. Instead, I thought of the tiny girl who washed dishes all day long in Glinda’s kitchen. I thought of Nox’s murdered parents. I thought of poor Astrid—how was she faring, back in the Emerald City without me to look after her? I thought of Glinda’s Munchkin cooks, so afraid of Glinda’s power they were willing to spy on the people who they should have been united with. I thought of Ozma, and how things used to be. I cared about them, all of them. I cared about their chance for a better life. For freedom. I cared because they deserved it. I took a deep breath and adjusted my dress so that it looked even more askew.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I said. Gert smiled.

  “You’re very brave, dear,” she said. “Very, very brave.”

  Hopefully, I wasn’t about to be very, very dead.

  Gert took my hand and put it in Nox’s. His grip was cool and reassuring. Gert took his free hand and Mombi took mine. The last thing I saw before the cavern disappeared was Glamora’s face, a haunting mirror image of Glinda’s, her big blue eyes looking deep into mine.

  We rematerialized in the meadow where Glinda had left me, next to the Scarecrow’s machine. It was night, just before dawn; overhead, the constellations of Oz gleamed like gems in the lightening sky. A handful of astounded Munchkins huddled around the machine, gaping at our unexpected arrival. Gert marched over to them briskly; I could see the air shimmering with magic around her upraised hands.

  “Listen, Jellia,” Nox said, and stopped, searching for the right words. “Good luck,” he said finally. “Be careful.”

  “You too,” I said. He nodded again and then, to my surprise, he gave me a brief, fierce hug. Without another word, he turned his back on us and loped off into the darkness.

  Gert walked back toward us with the Munchkins trailing after her, blinking and dazed. “It’s time,” she said. “Be strong, Jellia. We have faith in you. We chose you because we knew you could do what we asked of you. Not many people are that brave.”

  “Or that stupid,” I said.

  Mombi grinned and patted me on the back. “Don’t get killed, kiddo.”

  Gert turned to the Munchkins. “You remember nothing,” she said gently, and they nodded as one with their mouths open. She smiled at me. “Good-bye, dear. And good luck.” The witches’ outlines wavered, and I watched as they shimmered and then disappeared with a pop, like a bubble bursting. That was it: I was on my own.

  The Munchkins were looking around them as though they’d just woken up from a dream. One of them caught sight of me and stood up a little straighter. “You’re alive,” he said slowly. “We’re to take you back to Dorothy, if you’re alive. To the Emerald City.”

  I took a deep breath. “What are we waiting for then?” I said. “It’s time to go home.”

  COPYRIGHT

  THE WITCH MUST BURN. Copyright © 2014 by Full Fathom Five, LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins
e-books.

  EPub Edition © October 2014 ISBN 9780062280770

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  FIRST EDITION

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Copyright

  ONE

  Sometimes you just have to cut your losses, the Wizard thought, as the rolling green fields of Oz dropped away below his balloon. It had been a decent run: parties in the palace, everyone scampering to and fro at his command, all the banquets. One merged into the other now in his memory: the smeary blur of china platters and singing toast, pastries bursting into flames, wine pouring in waves down the sparkling white tablecloths without leaving a stain and hurling itself into goblets. But in the end none of it had ever been enough. There had been too many late nights in the dark of his vast chambers, staring down the bleak interminable chasm of the future; day after day, never changing, all the sycophants and toadies, the yammering masses, the damn monkeys—he shuddered, and closed his eyes against the memory. Never another monkey. The best thing he’d ever done in his entire tenure in Oz was sell them out to the Wicked Witch.

  He closed his eyes. Who was he fooling? He didn’t want to go back to the Other Place. It was a hard step in the wrong direction, going from Wizard of Oz to the tired sidewalk con artist he’d been before he came here. The dusty streets of Omaha, that tired blue sky. The circus he had traveled with—its dispirited, jaundiced elephant; the aging aerialists in their shabby old costumes; the strongman, who could only manage barbells made of tin painted to look like iron. He might have detested Oz, but it had been a vast improvement over his old life. Its people, fools that they were, had thought he was a magician capable of anything. They had rushed to do his bidding. He’d been a king—and now he was nothing.

  And he had the girl to thank for it.

  That awful girl in her awful checkered dress and her whining, high-pitched voice. He had been quite content to rule the childlike citizenry of Oz until she came along with her little dog and revealed him for what he truly was: only a man like any other, though perhaps a little less kind and a little more clever than most. He’d left her standing in the courtyard of his palace, her mouth a round, astonished O as his balloon rose into the sky. He’d promised her a way home, but he’d never been one to keep his promises.

  Now he leaned his head against the ropes of the hot air balloon, rough hemp scratchy against his ear, and looked carelessly out at the horizon. The Emerald City still sparkled on the horizon like a cheap necklace in the distance; far below, a golden plain gave way to a vast red field of poppies. But what caught his gaze were the storm clouds massing in heavy gray drifts. Even at this distance he could see their unnatural—though everything in this disgusting country was unnatural—sheen. Their staticky haze of magic, real magic, sparking across the roiling surface of the storm.

  The clouds moved closer at a surreal pace, swelling like ink spreading through water, rolling across the sky until the clear summery blue was swallowed up in darkness. The cool breeze that had carried the balloon at a brisk clip away from the Emerald City picked up, gusts howling past his ears and jerking the balloon wildly until the basket swung madly below it like a yo-yo on a string and he was thrown against the ropes. A menacing rumble of thunder was followed by an earsplitting crack of white-purple lightning so close to the basket that he could feel his hair standing on end. The wind whipped at his clothes. In its fury he thought he could almost make out a taunting chorus of voices—but what words they snarled, or in what language they spoke, he could not have said.

  Holding fast to one of the ropes, he struggled grimly to lower the burner, thinking he might try and safely land the balloon. Lightning snapped furiously and the wind swirled around in a terrifying vortex with the balloon at its heart, spinning him faster and faster like a top—but when he looked up from the burner he saw that the clouds that had streaked across the sky were gathered directly overhead. Past their edges, the sky was as clear and calm as it had been only moments earlier. Whatever this storm was, it wasn’t ordinary.

  Perhaps this unexpected development was the chance he was hoping for: Oz wasn’t ready to let him go. Someone had sent the storm to keep him here.

  Resigned, he settled back into the heaving basket, concentrating firmly on not being sick over its edge, and waited for the inevitable. It was only a matter of time before the balloon went down. With a grim sense of satisfaction, he watched as one particularly spectacular streak of lightning tore through the silk of his balloon, leaving a smoking rent that only widened as the wind pulled at it. With a slow, majestic shudder the balloon held for a moment, caught in an updraft, and then it began to plummet toward the sea of poppies below. As quickly as it had come upon him, the storm blew itself out like a birthday candle: the wind died, the lightning popped and vanished, and the clouds dissipated into faint gray wisps that dawdled off toward the horizon. One last gust cupped the balloon, buffering its fall to earth. “Please,” he said aloud, in the event he was being watched by whatever entity had sent the storm. “Just no more monkeys. It’s all I ask.” He could have sworn the gust snorted.

  With a bone-jarring thud, the balloon hit the ground and bounced into the air once—sending poppies flying—before thumping down again. The Wizard was flung from the basket and went head over heels into the poppy field, tumbling through a rich red cloud of petals and at last coming to rest in a drift of seed heads and silvery-green leaves. He lay there for a moment, stunned, and then took stock of all his limbs. Nothing seemed to be broken, or even bruised. Whatever magical force had brought down the balloon had apparently had no intention of harming him. He sat up, and found that the heady smell of the poppies had induced a wonderful languor; his limbs seemed deliciously heavy. The golden sunlight poured over him like butter and his eyelids began to drift closed. He sank back into the poppies as if into the most decadent and luxurious of feather beds.

  “I really should have tried this sooner,” he murmured, and then darkness took him.

  TWO

  “Wake up,” said an insistent voice in his ear. “It’s time.” He had no interest in doing so. He’d been having the most lovely dream, floating in a warm honey-scented bath while colorful balloons sailed by overhead and a beautiful talking lion sang lullabies in a voice that rivaled the great blues singers of his homeland. But the voice would not let him sink back into glorious oblivion. “I mean it,” it said, more firmly this time. “Wake up.”

  He opened his eyes and found himself staring into a pair of uncanny emerald ones. Emerald. There was something about the color that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. His own eyes refused to focus properly, and he only wanted to go back to sleep, but the person in front of him was now tugging fiercely at his shoulder. “We have to get you out of here,” Emerald Eyes said. “You’re high as a kite.”

  “Balloon,” he mumbled, allowing himself to be dragged along as the young man hoisted one arm over his shoulder and towed him through—where was he? His vision was improving a little; there was more color all around him, red and green, and overhead a lot of blue. A sky, he remembered. The thing overhead was a sky. He protested feebly as he was pulled away from the last of the huge red flowers, and dumped, unceremoniously, onto a grassy hillock. Emerald Eyes smacked him briskly on the cheeks, but when this did nothing to wake him up, heaved a sigh of disgust and let him go. “Nighty night,” he murmured, and drifted off into sleep again.

  The next time he woke up, it was early in the morning, and the pleasant fuzziness had faded to a dull buzz. He was in a cornflower-blue field, under a bright blue sky. He sat up and looked around. A patch of fat pink flowers next to him was singing a cheerful high-pitched ditty. Two huge yellow-and-black butterflies fluttered lazily through the air, arguing halfh
eartedly about who was better-looking. Emerald Eyes was stretched out with his back against a nearby tree, watching him. “Good,” he said. “You’re awake. The poppies should be wearing off now that you’re out of the field. Do you know where you are?” Emerald Eyes cocked his head. “Do you know who you are?”

  He considered the questions. There was the dream about the lion—but before that, everything was a hazy blur. He had a vague sense that flowers did not ordinarily sing and butterflies were not meant to talk, but that was it. “Not really,” he admitted.

  Emerald Eyes looked at him for a long time. “You’re the Wizard,” he said finally. “Not that you were ever very good at being one. But we can’t call you that on the journey we’re about to take. You really don’t remember, do you?”

  Wizard? He didn’t know anything about being a wizard. Something stirred in his memory. A card table—he’d sat at a card table and done sleight-of-hand tricks, and passed a battered top hat. A shabby one-room apartment that smelled of cabbages. His face in the mirror, sallow and pale, with dark circles under the eyes. A young face, but hardened and cynical. A brown suit with fraying cuffs, worn shiny at the elbows, and underneath it a stained white shirt with a collar that had long since lost its crispness. He shook his head violently, and the images dissipated into wisps of smoke. “I played tricks,” he said uncertainly.

  Emerald Eyes laughed, and there was something in the sound that was almost bitter. Or cruel. “That you certainly did,” he said. “For the time being, let’s call you . . .” He trailed off, thinking, and then smiled. “Let’s call you Hex,” he said with a grin. “And you can call me Pete, though you used to know me as something else.”