“Likely, they’re full of his magic,” Taavi spits out, looking toward the toilet where I hid the candies. “As much as I don’t like it, as much as I’m loath to accept his help, I don’t see how to get you out of this without it.”
“Stryker’s still alive,” I say, just to test Taavi’s reaction. He turns to look at me, the expression on his face grim, the emotions in his brown eyes swirling like the storm that carried us here.
“Probably,” he agrees, but then he glances toward the doors, frowning. “But I bet he wishes he wasn’t.”The Ruby Trials, Because Emeralds Are Not the Color of BloodThe Ruby Trials are being held in an emerald-shaped arena that used to be a courtyard. At least, according to the girl with the winged monkey clip in her hair. She’s the only servant I’ve seen, bringing me and Taavi our breakfast and a fresh pair of clothes for me to wear to the event.
I adjust the green military jacket draped over my shoulders, the front lined with dark buttons and gold stripes. I’ve got on black slacks and, of course, the sparkling silver Vans on my feet. The servant girl brought Tuala to my room after I was dressed, the gold skeleton key swinging from her neck. She removed the glasses, but did nothing about the emerald tag on Taavi’s collar. As soon as she left, I snapped it off and tucked it into my pocket.
One of Bain’s candies sits on the back of my tongue, buzzing and fizzing like a live thing. It tastes like honey and coconuts, and when I exhale, I smell gardenias on my breath.
My fingers crackle as I squeeze my hands into fists at my sides, magic zinging across my skin like static electricity. When I touch my hand to Taavi’s ruff, his fur sticks up, clinging to my fingertips.
“This is insane,” I whisper, trying to swallow back a cold lump of fear. Last night, Taavi and I sat up until a dawn blush colored the sky and discussed what I should expect today.
None of it was comforting.
Taavi turns his dark head my direction, brown eyes sparkling with limitless intelligence. I keep expecting someone to grab his collar and shout out a warning to Dorothy’s soldiers, to let them know what Bain and his little fairy friend did to release him from his bonds. How anyone could look at him and not realize that he’s no longer bound in the brain of a canine is beyond me.
“Wait here, miss,” the servant girl—who, surprisingly, even without the glasses still has green skin—says as she shows me to a glass skybox overlooking the stadium. The green-whiskered guard with her closes the door and locks it, leaving me alone in a sea of gold furniture with green cushions. There’s a table laden with strange fruits and wine, but I’m not about to touch any of it.
Even if it wasn’t poisoned—that doesn’t seem to be the goal of my captors—I’m too nervous. I’d just throw it all up.
I move toward the front of the box, putting my palms up against the glass. Down below, the emerald-shaped arena sits empty, the soft grass cover at the bottom of it swaying gently in the breeze. It’s bright and sunny today, golden light glinting off the green lenses of the gathered crowd, but there’s a dangerous edge in the air that makes me nervous.
I’m supposed to fight other wizards today.
With magic.
And since I’ve had exactly zero lessons on how to do that, I don’t see how I’m supposed to survive this.
“Each battle is to the death,” Taavi told me last night, his brown eyes dark with worry. “Dorothy doesn’t just want to find someone to battle the Witch of the West; she wants to see the population of wizards in Oz reduced to nothing.”
To the death.
I have to kill or be killed. As much as I’ve always disliked humanity in general, the thought of murdering someone doesn’t exactly sit high on my bucket list. On the other hand, I like the idea of dying even less.
There’s a knock on the door, but clearly I have no choice in whether it’s opened or not. It’s just pretend courtesy. Propriety theater, if you will.
The door swings open … and in walks Stryker, the Vain and Arrogant.
My eyes widen as he smiles dopily in my direction, his own golden gaze dim and glassy as he stumbles into the room and trips over a fancy tufted footstool.
“Clumsy me,” he says, his voice chipper and upbeat in a way that makes gooseflesh stand up on my arms and legs. Sure, Stryker was pretty damn cheerful for someone who’d been set on fire and tied to a stake in the middle of a cornfield, but this is next level.
I narrow my eyes at him and Taavi growls. Just in case we’re being watched, he doesn’t dare shift. If Dorothy and her people find out he’s free to change forms at will before I head into the arena, I’m screwed. Without him, I won’t survive five minutes.
