Taavi doesn’t answer me, approaching only once with a bar of soap he removes from the duffel bag. I notice he doesn’t put it—or the shoes—down. He keeps the bag over his shoulder, and the sparkly silver shoes under his arm.
I use the soap as best I can to wash my body, and then my hair. It’s not ideal, to wash one’s hair with a bar of Irish Spring, but I don’t have a lot of good choices at the moment.
At least when I climb out, there’s a fresh towel waiting for me. It has a monogrammed logo on one corner with the school mascot from my high school back in Seattle, along with my initials. It was a gift from my swim coach, and even though I’ve only had it for two years, it feels like I got it a lifetime ago.
“It’s okay to cry, you know that, don’t you?” Taavi says, the softness in his voice reminding me of the gentle brown eyes of the dog that used to help soothe my emotional aches with just a kiss and a furry hug.
“And what could I possibly have to cry about? I mean, there’s a hunky wizard who wants to make a baby with me on our second day together. Am I lucky or what?”
“Don’t deflect, Oz,” Taavi says, giving me a reproachful look. “Your mother had meant to bring you here someday. Remembering her while you’re here, that’s what she would’ve wanted.”
“Really?” I snap, throwing the towel at him. He doesn’t deserve my anger, but he’s going to get it anyway because there’s nobody else here. It’s just me and him, like it was that day the boat sank. Me, struggling to swim even though I was the captain of the team. Me, sinking into the darkness with a rope wrapped around my leg, instead of rescuing my sister. I saw her face just after we hit the water, panicked and white with fear.
If I hadn’t gotten my leg stuck, I could’ve saved her.
Taavi could’ve saved her.
And instead … he saved me.
Why?
“Because if Mom wanted me to know about this,” I throw my hand out to indicate the whole of this weird as fuck world. “Then maybe she should’ve said something sooner, instead of living a lie with every breath she took, and every word she spoke.”
I storm past Taavi, heading back toward the smoke that marks the location of the cabin. Stryker’s managed to get the birds prepped for roasting, but I notice he doesn’t go anywhere near the flames.
“You can teach me to control my magic?” I ask, pausing in front of him. He smiles at me, but I don’t have the patience right now for games. “Yes or no?”
“By the time you reach Emerald City, you’ll be a force to be reckoned with—even against seasoned wizards. You’ll fare better than me in the trials, that much I’m certain of.”
“It’s a deal then.” I hold my hand out, and Stryker grins, reaching to take it. At the last second, I draw my hand back and give him a look. “Just the teaching thing though. The baby is an absolute no.”
“At least for now,” Stryker murmurs as he reaches out and grabs my hand in a firm shake.
“Not for now, forever,” I correct, but he doesn’t seem deterred in the slightest.
“No to the baby for now, fine, but about hooking up …” he starts, but I ignore him, shaking his hand and then releasing it.
I didn’t say no to that part, now did I?The woods seem to go on forever. As beautiful as the trees and the multi-colored ferns are, there’s always this sense that something is watching us. My skin prickles with unease, and I can’t stop checking over my shoulder.
Taavi isn’t much of a talker, but at least Stryker’s here to help pass the time. As strange as he is, he’s a fount of information.
“The Ruby Trials have been ongoing for over a hundred years now,” he says, more than happy to fill the stilted, creepy silence of the dark forest. It may as well be night in here; the sun very rarely manages to find a spot in the trees to peek through at us. “Dorothy, the Small and Meek, began them shortly after she arrived in Oz. She’s like you, you know, not of this country. I hear she was raw in her magic when she arrived in Emerald City, looking for a way home.”
“So why didn’t she leave then?” I ask, my hands in the pockets of the dress, the mark on my forehead burning. I’d all but forgotten about it until Stryker brought it up. A witch’s mark. It grants me protection, so both he and Taavi have said, but I have yet to see what it can really do.
“A question I ask myself every day,” Stryker says, pausing as a family of tiny fae creatures crosses the road in front of us, the smallest of them about the size of an acorn and tucked in her father’s arm. They have no wings, but their hair is made up of long, gossamer-like headdresses.
