“Did I stutter? You certainly ask some stupid questions,” he says, sighing as he looks over at me with those slanted lavender eyes of his. “Shouldn’t you be skipping down the Y.B.R. with a basket full of bread in your hand? That’s what Dorothy did, you know, when she arrived in Oz.”
“Well, I’m not Dorothy,” I grind out, desperate to show this asshole what I can do with my fists. When I first moved to Kansas, the local farm boys thought I’d be easy picking. I very quickly showed them how a Seattle girl can fight. “What’s the Y.B.R. anyway?”
“Yellow Brick Road,” Toto says softly, lifting his head up, his expression tight with frustration. “We’ll be leaving shortly.” He pushes up to his feet, grabs the discarded and dented bucket, and fills it with water from the creek, like he didn’t just change into a monster and kill a kelpie.
Speaking of, I look back over at the creature, but its still form hasn’t moved.
“Toto, what the hell just happened here?” I ask, and Bain laughs, touching those glittery gold fingers of his to his chest.
“Did you just call him Toto?” he asks incredulously, ignoring the little fairy woman on his shoulder as she slaps at his face with hands the size of pencil erasers.
“That’s his name,” I snap back, gritting my teeth and fantasizing about murdering this good witch motherfucker.
“Toto means slave in the language of the Munchkins,” he tells me, leaning in close, and then throwing his head back with howling laughter. “Ooooh, you’ve been calling your guardian ‘slave’ all these years?! That’s priceless!”
“That’s enough, Bain,” Toto snaps, turning to look at him with a murderous expression that sure as hell would get me to shut up if I were the good witch. Did this idiot not just see what Toto did to the kelpie? Or … what he looked like he might do to me? Whether that was screw me or kill me, I’m not exactly sure, and that freaks me the fuck out. “Ozora can call me whatever the hell she wants.”
“His name is Taavi,” Bain tells me, leaning over conspiratorially. “It means beloved in his people’s language. Though I imagine his parents must’ve named him before they got to know his personality. Surely, it’s some sort of ironic twist of fate that he turned into such a monster?”
“Tah-vee?” I ask, sounding out the name.
“The Munchkins call him Taavi Toto, or beloved slave. Fitting, isn’t it?”
The two men study each other before Bain flicks his hat off, covering up the fairy girl. He scoops her into it and puts the hat back on his head.
“You are not needed here, Good Witch,” Toto … or is it Taavi? … says as he stalks toward us with the bucket clenched in his right hand, his erect cock standing at attention between us.
Well.
Guess that answers my question. If this were a game of fuck, marry, kill, I know which one he’d pick.
“I’m not? You almost bred your mistress. Isn’t that a death sentence among your people? You’d be drawn and quartered, your head put on a pike for all the rest of your useless race to see. Shifting into a barghest to kill a kelpie seems like a bit of overkill, don’t you agree?” Bain lifts his chin up in a haughty manner, and smirks. “I—obviously—would never make such a mistake.”
“Get out of my way, witch, before I make you,” Toto—err, Taavi, this is going to take some getting used to—snarls.
“Gladly,” Bain says, stepping back, turning three times on his left heel, and disappearing again.
“Can you please explain how you know that guy?!” I snap, because even though there are about a million things I’d like to know right now, this is the first question that pops up in the frenzied race of thoughts flying through my addled brain.
“He’s been the Witch of the North for quite some time,” Toto—Taavi—says, scowling as he starts up the gentle sloping hill toward the house. He doesn’t even bother glancing in the direction of the dead kelpie. Frankly, I’ve been friends with death for long enough. I have no interest in looking at the corpse again.
“He’s been the Witch of the North, and where the hell have you been? By my family’s side, if I remember correctly.” My face scrunches up as I think about Toto’s presence in my life. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t around, meaning he’s at least as old as I am. Pretty old for a dog, huh?
This must be my unconscious mind trying to protect me from Toto’s inevitable passing. Dogs don’t often live longer than seventeen years, right?
“Your mother selected which of my people would breed, to produce the perfect pup to be your guardian,” he says, exhaling sharply and pausing at the top of the hill. It takes a considerable amount of effort not to look at his dick, but I manage alright, focusing instead on the pained expression on his face instead. “So, yes, I’ve spent my life where I was intended to: by your side.”
