We take nearly the same path as yesterday, when I went to meet with Dorothy, but instead of turning left for the throne room, we continue on and into a grand ballroom with curved glass walls on all sides. The only part of the room that isn’t open to the sky is the short hallway we just came down.
And in the center of it all, there’s a pedestal with a glass dome, a red heart beating inside of it. My stomach roils with nausea as I shift my attention from the heart to the two dead guards on the floor next to the pedestal. There are crows everywhere, watching us from their perches, situated on tabletops and decorative candelabras.
There are bees, too, big, fuzzy black ones drifting lazily through the air with stingers like small daggers. Two of them lie dead next to the guards on the floor.
“God, this place is weird,” I groan as I notice Stryker smiling in the direction of the blue, blue sky all around us.
“Hello Thyer,” he says, and I turn to find a man with a broom clutched in one hand, an umbrella in the other. One of his emerald eyes is covered with an eye patch, his skin a pale mint green, his mouth a thin slash across the bottom of his face.
One look at him and something strange happens in my stomach, this flip-flopping sensation that I can only blame on magic.
Thyer, aka the Wicked Witch of the West, moves into the room, dressed in a golden witch’s hat, his dark hair slightly curled and cut just long enough that it brushes his collar in the back. Stryker might know him personally—he has his mark, after all—but it’s me the Wicked Witch is looking at.
I swallow hard as he puts two fingers to his lips and whistles, calling a winged fucking monkey into the room with him. They’re both standing on a platform with no sides, suspended over the endless sky above the city. There’s a hot air balloon docked their as well, in green and white gingham to match Dorothy’s colors.
“Taavi,” I murmur, looking over at him, slumped against the pedestal with the heart inside of it, the collar still heavy around his neck.
“So, this is the great storm wizard stirring up all these rumors of cyclones from another world.” Thyer leans on the end of his umbrella as the monkey—this glittering golden beast that looks very little like any monkey I’ve ever seen—drags three brooms into the room and drops them at Stryker’s feet.
Like, um, and those are for what, exactly?
“I don’t know about all that,” I reply cautiously as Taavi growls and the monkey bares his teeth in response. One of the crows—this one with three fucking eyes—lands on Thyer’s shoulder as he looks me over.
“Oh, but I do. Dorothy is interested in you which means that I am interested in you. Ozora, the Great and Terrible, daughter of Ozma, the Practical and Determined. What an interesting twist of fate.”
We all pause as heavy footsteps enter the room, and I turn to see General Mannix surrounded by guards. They fan out along the sides of the room as several more of the white and green gingham hot air balloons move into positions outside, near the platform.
“Mannix,” Thyer says, smiling in a way that truly makes me question whether or not he’s one of the good guys … one of the bad ones … or some sort of chaotic neutral. “How lovely of you to make an appearance.”
Several of the crows shift their wings, and open their beaks to cackle at the newcomers, while the cloud of fuzzy black bees float like bubbles, lazy and unconcerned with their own massive stingers.
“Before I kill you,” Mannix begins, lifting his metal hand up and then bracing his wrist with the other. “Why don’t you tell me how you did it, how you got into the city? Maybe if you do, we’ll spare your people some in the invasion?”
Thyer just smiles and continues to stay hunched over, leaning on his cane.
“It’s interesting to me that you think, here and now, that you have some sort of advantage. Do tell: you plan to shoot me which, of course, won’t kill me. And then what? My crows will eat your eyes and what’s left of your brain? My bees will sting your soldiers until their corpses are bloated and unrecognizable? Or will you wait to hear how many of your own citizens have been eaten by my wolves?”
Mannix shows no emotion whatsoever, but as confident as both sides seem, I’m the one who’s nervous. Nervous for me, for Taavi, maybe even Stryker. It feels like we’re caught in the middle of a game that somebody else is playing.
I eye the pedestal. It buzzes with magic. Even from here, I can feel it dancing across my skin like the wings of a thousand butterflies. I lick my lips and inch toward it.
