Dorothy Must Die: The Other Side of the Rainbow Collection: No Place Like Oz, Dorothy Must Die, The Witch Must Burn, The Wizard Returns, The Wicked Will Rise (107 page)

Pete seemed unperturbed by the forest’s haunted feel. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing when he’d pulled Hex from the poppy field, though he’d added a coat to stave off the forest’s chill.

“What the hell happened to you?” Hex asked, fury battling out fear in his chest and ultimately winning.

“What do you mean?” Pete asked breezily.

“After the wolves—you just left me there! I was practically attacked by those dreadful monkeys, and nearly taken prisoner—it was only my ability to think on my feet that kept me safe!”

Pete stared at him. “You’re already changing the story to suit yourself,” he said coolly. “Amazing. ‘Think on your feet’? Is that what you call what you did back there?”

Hex faltered. “Well, I—I mean, it’s true the little monkey was the one who helped me expose the chancellor as a charlatan and restore peace to the queendom, but I’m the one who was able to get through to the queen when no one else could. Doesn’t that
count for something?” He resolutely avoided thinking about the hurt on Iris’s face when he’d claimed sole credit for exposing Quentin. He didn’t have time to worry about that now—he had to find out what the next test would be, and fast, before Pete disappeared again. “You yourself basically said I was a con man,” he added. “Maybe I’m just remembering who I am. You’re the one who won’t tell me anything except that I’m from somewhere that isn’t here and that it’s my job to help you save a place I don’t remember anything about. Why should I even want to do anything you ask of me?”

Pete sighed, and his harsh expression softened. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. But Oz has always had a complicated relationship with the Other Place. It took someone from there—Dorothy—to set Oz’s decline in motion. And we think it will take someone else from there to repair what she’s done to our country. Right now, you’re our only hope—assuming you remember who you are in time to stop her. And I know you don’t remember, but I promise, Oz is worth saving.”

“Our?”
Hex asked.

Pete looked at him for a long time, mixed emotions playing on his usually impassive face. Finally, as if making a decision, he nodded. “I’m . . . helping the fairies, let’s just say. We’re fighting to make Oz the place it once was, before you—” He cut himself off. “Before everything changed.”

“Before I what?” Hex asked. “Why can’t you just tell me?”

Pete shook his head. “That’s not how it works. You have to remember—truly remember—who you are.”

Hex looked at the ground, where tiny golden flowers with smiling faces beamed up at him. One of them appeared to be humming some kind of catchy jingle under its breath. “Did I—did I care about Oz?” he asked hesitantly. “Can you at least tell me that much?”

“You cared about yourself,” Pete said. “As for Oz—only you can know that, once your memory has returned.”

“Did it
seem
like I cared about Oz, when you knew me—before?”

“I’ve already told you all I can,” Pete said curtly, and the stony-faced, inscrutable boy was back again. “You can ask me all the questions you want, but that’s not going to get you any real answers. Those you have to find on your own.”

“You’re leaving me again, aren’t you?” Hex said.

Pete smiled, though the grin didn’t quite reach his brilliant emerald eyes. “You catch on quick.”

“I still don’t even know what I’m being tested for.”

“The future of Oz,” Pete said. “No pressure. Like I said, so far, your score is pretty low.”

Hex thought of what he’d done to poor Iris and winced. If he’d known that his time with the monkeys had been a trial of some kind, would he have done anything differently? Iris’s hurt, heartbroken face flashed before him again, and he closed his eyes against the memory. “What happens if I fail?” Hex asked.

Pete shrugged. “We’ll throw you back in the poppy field, I guess. If you fail you’re of no use to anyone, let alone Oz. We don’t need cowards and cheats on our side. Dorothy has plenty
of those if you want to throw your lot in with her.”

That name again.
Dorothy.
It rang the faintest of bells in his subconscious. Blue-and-white checks . . . something silver and glittering.
Shoes
, he thought suddenly.
There had been shoes.

“I liked the poppy field,” Hex admitted. “That doesn’t seem much like punishment.”

“In that case,” Pete said calmly, “I guess we should just kill you.” It was impossible to tell if he was joking.

“Are you a fairy?” Hex asked quickly, hoping to change the subject. But Pete looked troubled.

“I’ve already told you more than I should,” he said. “The fairies sent me, and that’s all you need to know.”

“But how will I know when I’m being tested?”

Pete smiled like a cat with a cornered mouse. “Oh, believe me,” he said. “You’ll know.”

“How will I know where to go?” Hex asked, but Pete had already vanished in another flash of purple electricity.

Hex looked down at his battered shoes—the only thing, he realized, that he had that was left over from his life before, whatever that life had been. Just beyond his toes, he noticed for the first time a sandy path that led off into the dark woods. He was sure—well, almost sure—that the path hadn’t been there a moment ago. He looked up again; all around him, brambles and bracken had closed in. Their thick, waxy leaves waved eerily even though there was no wind, and huge, glossy black thorns sprouted from the branches, oozing a viscous slime that looked distinctly poisonous.

He had no other option but to follow the path through the thick underbrush. The only way out, it seemed, was forward.

NINE

Hex followed the path through the trees for what could have been hours or days. In the dark, endless forest, he lost all sense of direction and even the time of day. Anytime he so much as thought of stepping off the sandy path or heading in a different direction, the leaves around him rustled menacingly, and the branches clacked their thorns together as if to say, “Don’t even bother.”

Finally, when he felt as though he couldn’t possibly walk any farther, he stumbled into a broad clearing whose ground was covered with the same dry, sandy earth as the path. He sank gratefully to the ground. Pete hadn’t said anything about not stopping for the night—if it was even night. Nothing about the dim woods had changed in any way to indicate whether it was daytime or nighttime, or whether the sun was proceeding across the sky at all. The sinister, diffuse light seemed almost to come from the trees themselves.

Hex was also beginning to wonder what exactly he was supposed to eat or drink, when he spotted a brown knapsack at the far side of the clearing that he could have sworn wasn’t there a second ago. Too hungry and thirsty to be cautious, he got to his feet to investigate. Inside the pack was a rough woolen blanket. Underneath it, there were a few pouches containing some stale bread and hard cheese. He realized the last actual meal he’d eaten had been his oatmeal breakfast with Iris, however long ago that had been, and his stomach grumbled loudly. He had a feeling that if there was anything alive in the woods around him, it would be a lot more likely to make a dinner out of him than to bring him a menu. He washed down the bread and cheeses with water from a bottle he found in the pack. The water, at least, was sweet-tasting and clear, and after another long drink he felt refreshed and clearheaded.

Below the water bottle, he found the clothes he’d been wearing when Pete pulled him out of the poppy field. He took them out and carefully unfolded them, fingering the soft material as though it could tell him who he was: a jacket, vest, spats, a pair of pants, a dapper collared shirt, and a top hat. But as much as he racked his brains, nothing came. If Pete was right, he hadn’t yet passed the test that would unlock his past and show him how to help Oz—assuming he wanted to. But what if he uncovered his memories and discovered he couldn’t stand this country of talking monkeys and flying wolves? What if Pete was right, and his true self was a terrible, selfish person? Wouldn’t it be better to stay as he was, in this state of oblivion? The cheerless forest did
nothing to distract him from these depressing thoughts.

His body was aching, and he was ready for a rest. He unrolled the blanket, stretched out on the ground, and was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the earth. But his dreams were awful: the monkeys battled each other savagely with their miniature swords, hacking at one another until the ground ran red with their blood, screaming in rage and pain—and then he jerked awake and realized the screams were real, and they were coming from somewhere ahead of him in the forest. His heart pounded in his chest. The screams were alarmingly near, and somehow familiar. Someone was in desperate trouble.

“Pete!” Hex shouted. “Help! Pete!” His voice barely carried past the clearing, and there was no response. The screams wavered for a second, and then continued even more awfully. He saw that there were now two paths leading out of the clearing—one toward the source of the noise, and the other away. He groaned aloud. Was this a test, or a trap? Either way, not very subtle.

Abruptly, the screams cut off with an awful gurgling sound. He stood poised in the clearing, listening intently. Perhaps it was too late. Whatever was happening out there, it was over. There was nothing he could do. Far better to protect his own skin; after all, he could hardly recover his memories if he was dead. And then, through the trees, he heard a faint, pleading—and familiar—wail. “Somebody please help me!” The voice sobbed. There was no mistaking it for anyone but Iris.

He stood a second longer, wavering with indecision. He was
a bad person. Pete had told him as much. And bad people put themselves first—and came out ahead. No one could possibly fault him for wanting to protect himself. It wasn’t his problem. He thought of the pain and reproach in Iris’s face as he’d betrayed her in front of the queen, and sighed. So far, he’d done nothing but prove Pete right: that he was nothing more than a con man and a coward.

But the feeling of persistent shame kept nagging at him, and he suddenly found himself wanting to do better. Even if it meant putting himself in danger. Even if he was risking his life for a cranky, spear-happy monkey with a persecution complex. He might not go down in the annals of history for trying to rescue Iris from whatever terrible thing was happening to her, but a more noble quest had yet to present itself. Maybe he had been a terrible person in the past, but being a terrible person in the present wasn’t turning out to be very much fun. He took a deep breath, wishing Pete had thought to pack him a weapon of some kind, and took off running on the path that led to Iris.

He didn’t have to go far before he found her. She was in another clearing like the one he’d left, so covered in blood she was almost unrecognizable. She cowered in a heap at the far edge of the clearing; opposite her, a huge, awful lion, spattered with her blood, lounged against a tree picking his teeth with one giant claw. The lion’s mane was filthy and matted, and his huge muscles bulged grotesquely. Iris was sobbing, which at least meant she was still alive. The lion looked up as Hex entered the clearing. He grinned savagely, exposing his terrible, jagged fangs.

“Two for the price of one,” he growled. “It’s my lucky day: dinner buffet special.”

“Leave her alone!” Hex said faintly, and the lion laughed.

“I don’t think so, little man,” he said, sneering. “I’m hungry. And when the Lion is hungry, the Lion gets his meal . . . or else.” The Lion? Something about the horrible animal sparked at Hex’s memory as fear flooded through him. The Lion’s voice had a terrible power; across the clearing, Iris whimpered, even though the Lion hadn’t been speaking to her. Hex’s chest flooded with a sick, nameless dread. It was as if the Lion was fear itself, formed into the body of a terrible, powerful creature. “That’s right,” the Lion sneered, gloating. “Now you understand why I rule the forests of Oz. No one can withstand their fear of me. And now, little man, I’ll feed on your terror—and then I’ll feed on
you
.”

The Lion rose to his feet, lashing his long, sinuous tail like a whip as he advanced toward Hex. His tail. Something about his tail. And then a whole memory came back to Hex, sudden as a tidal wave: a different Lion, a real one, cowering before him, begging for the gift of courage.
“Only you can help me,” it cried, its golden fur gleaming in the warm Oz sun. “Please, Wizard! If only I had the courage of a real lion, I could stop being ashamed of myself—I could be free.”
So Hex
had
been a wizard, then—but what kind? Had he somehow created this awful monster out of an ordinary beast? Would he have done something like that? Once, long ago, the Lion had wanted to be braver—but this perversion wasn’t just a creature filled with ordinary courage. Pete
had said Oz was changing, its very magic twisted. Was the Lion a part of that? Was this transformation somehow Hex’s fault—or was he a victim of it, too?

He’d deliberated too long, and the Lion had crossed the clearing and was standing in front of him, leering at him. Up close, the Lion’s breath smelled like a slaughterhouse crossed with a sewer.

“Don’t they teach you to brush your teeth in this crazy country?” Hex said, and suddenly he found that his fear had fallen away from him. He
remembered
: not everything, and not enough, but he knew this terrifying creature had once been something else. Something desperate and even more cowardly than he was. Something ordinary and cowering and meek. And without fear, the Lion had no power over him.

The Lion halted in mid-pounce, rearing back so quickly that he almost fell over backward. “You fool,” he snarled, a menacing growl so deep it almost seemed to come from the very earth itself. “Do you really think you can challenge me and win?”

Hex wasn’t swayed. “Be strong,” he called to Iris. “I’ll be there to help you as soon as I can.”

“Oh-ho!” the Lion chortled, leaping away from Hex and toward Iris. “Have I found your weakness, human? It’s all well and good for you to think I can’t hurt you, but your monkey friend here is a different story.” The Lion stood over Iris, one enormous paw upraised, as though he meant to disembowel her.