Dorothy Must Die

Chapter Twelve

I was ready for them when they came for me the next day. I had paced my cell all night making plans, none of them very good. If I was going down, I was going to do it kicking and screaming. Not to mention biting, clawing, and hair-pulling. And, of course, stabbing. My knife—tiny as it was—never left my hand.

I heard them coming long before they reached me. The Tin Woodman and his metal men made a lot of noise descending all those flights of marble stairs.

As they creaked toward me, I crouched in the corner nearest to where I knew the door would appear and waited. I didn’t really know what I was going to do when they got here, but tackling the Tin Woodman as soon as the door opened and then making a break for it would be a start. It wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had, but at least it was something.

Thunk, crash, creak, thunk. My heart began to pound. It was do-or-die time.

I was so focused on where the door was about to appear, and what I would do when it did, that I didn’t even notice when the room began to fill with hazy purple smoke until it was so thick I couldn’t see a thing. When it had cleared away, an ancient-looking woman was standing in front of me.

Her nose was big and crooked and bulbous with a big, hairy wart on the very tip. Purple rags barely covered her sagging, wrinkled flesh. And to top it off, she wore a hat. A black one, so weathered it was almost gray, its point standing at attention.

A witch, I thought.

She looked impossibly old, her face one big wrinkle with eyes that were coal black and seemed to go on forever. When I looked into them I somehow knew in one glance that she was as old as Oz itself.

A strong, cold breeze hit me in the face.

I stepped back. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to be frightened or happy. Mostly I was just confused.

“Who are you?” I asked. I could hear the footsteps of the Tin Woodman getting louder. “How did you get in here?”

“I’m Mombi,” she said in a scratchy voice. “And how do you think I got here?”

“What are you, then?” I asked.

She gave me a sly wink. “Another question that you already know the answer to. But I’ll give you a hint anyway: I’m the Wicked kind. Now are you coming with me or not?”

I was happy she wasn’t the Tin Woodman, but, like Pete, I had no idea who this person was. I wasn’t going to just run away with her right off the bat.

“Well?” she asked impatiently, tapping her pointy toes against the floor as I stared at her. “They’re almost here. I can get you out of here, but you have to make up your mind quick. Will you join me? Yes or no?”

Yes or no. This was the kind of thing you read about in fairy tales. What she meant was that if I wanted her help, I would have to agree to something. She just wasn’t going to bother telling me what until it was too late.

Thunk, stomp, thunk, squeak.

“What’s the catch?” I asked. “I’m not giving you my firstborn, if that’s what you want.”

“Oh,” she said. “That won’t be necessary. The second-born will do.”

Seeing me blanch, she let out a long, hearty cackle. “You’re smart,” she said. “I suppose you’re right to ask. There’s always a catch with us wicked witches. But I don’t care much for babies—I’ve already had a few bad experiences with them, if you want the truth. No, you can keep your disgusting spawn. Don’t see how you’ll manage to get any children at all if you stay here, though. Dorothy’ll have you dead before sundown.”

We heard the key begin to turn in the lock outside.

Mombi sighed as the door in the wall began to appear. “Girls your age,” she said, shaking her head. “Always takes you forever to get out of the house. Now we’re going to have to fight.” She backed up into the corner and squeezed her body so tightly against the wall that it almost looked like she was sinking right into it. “At least I see you have a knife already.” She nodded to my hand where I was clutching my weapon so hard that I thought I might be starting to lose circulation. “Let me just give it a tiny little enchantment to make it more useful.”

She wiggled her pinkie and thumb in my direction and clicked her tongue a few times. When I held my knife in front of me, I saw that it was pulsing with a purple glow.

If this was going to make it more useful, it was just in time: the door swung open and the Tin Woodman stepped into the room.

“Amy Gumm,” he announced, “it is time to face your judgment.”

It took him a beat to realize that I wasn’t alone. “Guards!” he shouted. “Seize the girl! And the witch!”

He fanned the blades of his hand out in front of him as he lunged for my new ally, his crew rushing into the cell behind him.

Sword-Arm was in front of me, advancing with sword outstretched, backing me into a corner. I stepped out of her way, ducked under her, and thrust my kitchen knife toward her chest just as she pivoted to face me. I missed, but I was surprised at how close I’d come, at how the weight and heft of the knife felt so natural.

Suddenly I knew exactly when to thrust and when to parry, when to go high and when to go low and when to twist away. I felt like I could do some real damage with this thing.

So I sliced and diced and feinted as the Tin Soldiers all scrambled to grab me. A line of bright red blossomed across Sword-Arm’s cheek as I connected. I pulled back at the sight of it, but the knife urged me forward again. I gave the head on the bicycle two flat tires in no time, sending him sprawling onto his side on the floor, where he struggled to pull himself upright with his weird, handlebar arms.

When the one with the panel covering his mouth—the one who had killed Indigo—grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back, I pushed against him with my free arm and wiggled loose. He put out his arms in an almost shrug, offering himself up for another attempt, like he was daring me to fail at checking him again.

Then he charged at me, this time crouching low to deliver some kind of deadly head butt.

I ducked out of the way at the last moment but he spun quickly around and caught me in the back, slamming me to the ground. I lay motionless for a second, the wind knocked out of me. He nudged me with his foot, roughly rolling me over. Grabbing me by the neck, he hauled me to my feet and pulled me close to him, so close that I could tell by his eyes if not his mouth panel that he was smirking.

I was over this. I had been through too much. I had seen too much.

I had been angry before. At Madison. At my mom. But I had never felt anything like this. I could feel myself seize up, every muscle contracting at once, gripped by what Dorothy had done to Indigo, by what she had planned for me. But instead of stuffing it down, or blurting out something stupid, I struck.

I jabbed the blade of Mombi’s knife into the thing’s eye socket.

It was for Indigo. It was for me, too.

Blood spurted everywhere as he slumped against the wall and collapsed. I looked down at the knife, at the Rorschach pattern of blood splattered on the ground. I wanted to believe it was the knife that had done that—not me—but I wasn’t so sure.

I felt sick to my stomach, still not quite believing it, but Sword-Arm was on me again, and she was mad. In one swift motion, she knocked my blade from my grip and it went clattering to the ground. I was now defenseless as she shoved me up against the wall.

I punched with my fist, but the hard metal of her arm hurt me more than my punches hurt her and I screamed through clenched teeth. She raised the shiny blade of her deadly arm over her head and I braced myself.

“Mombi!” I yelled.

Without dropping her own attack on the Tin Woodman, Mombi reached her free hand into her robes again and pulled out what looked like a ball of purple yarn. She hurled it in my direction and as it looped through the air it began to unspool, its threads becoming indistinct and unfocused, twisting and curling in a hundred different directions. When the ball hit Sword-Arm, it instantly began to wrap itself around her, covering her in sticky, purple cobwebs. She struggled against it, but her weapon was stuck in midair. Mombi’s magic had bought me some time.

“I can hold them for a few seconds, Amy!” Mombi shrieked from the other side of the room. “Now will you join us or not?”

I knew I had no other choice. “Done,” I cried.

Mombi reached out a hand. I dove across the room for it and grabbed on tight.

As I touched her, the purple rags began to billow out from around her body. The rags curled around the two of us, enveloping us both in a cocoon as the Tin Woodman and his henchmen faded away along with the room itself.

I was smoke now, too.

“Welcome to the Revolutionary Order of the Wicked, Amy,” Mombi hissed as we disappeared.