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 (13 page)

I jabbed the blade of Mombi’s knife into the
thing’s
eye socket.

It was for Indigo. It was for me, too.

Blood spurted everywhere as he slumped against the wall and collapsed. I looked down at the knife, at the Rorschach pattern of blood splattered on the ground. I wanted to believe it was the knife that had done that—not me—but I wasn’t so sure.

I felt sick to my stomach, still not quite believing it, but Sword-Arm was on me again, and she was mad. In one swift motion, she knocked my blade from my grip and it went clattering to the ground. I was now defenseless as she shoved me up against the wall.

I punched with my fist, but the hard metal of her arm hurt me more than my punches hurt her and I screamed through clenched teeth. She raised the shiny blade of her deadly arm over her head and I braced myself.

“Mombi!” I yelled.

Without dropping her own attack on the Tin Woodman, Mombi reached her free hand into her robes again and pulled out what looked like a ball of purple yarn. She hurled it in my direction and as it looped through the air it began to unspool, its threads becoming indistinct and unfocused, twisting and curling in a hundred different directions. When the ball hit Sword-Arm, it instantly began to wrap itself around her, covering her in sticky, purple cobwebs. She struggled against it, but her weapon was stuck in midair. Mombi’s magic had bought me some time.

“I can hold them for a few seconds, Amy!” Mombi shrieked from the other side of the room. “Now will you join us or not?”

I knew I had no other choice. “Done,” I cried.

Mombi reached out a hand. I dove across the room for it and grabbed on tight.

As I touched her, the purple rags began to billow out from around her body. The rags curled around the two of us, enveloping us both in a cocoon as the Tin Woodman and his henchmen faded away along with the room itself.

I was smoke now, too.

“Welcome to the Revolutionary Order of the Wicked, Amy,” Mombi hissed as we disappeared.

Mombi let go of my hand as we materialized someplace dark. Someplace so dark I couldn’t see my hands. But even without being able to see, I could still feel the coldness of the knife in my clenched palm.

The darkness washed over me—a darkness like I’d never experienced before.

“Where . . . ,” I started, and then trailed off, feeling a dizzying, spiraling sense of panic. What had I gotten myself into?

My breathing was getting shallower and shallower when a bright spark appeared in the blackness, just inches from my face. When my eyes focused in on it, I saw a tiny, glowing spider crawling through the air. As it moved in a zigzagging spiral, Mombi’s body slowly faded into view next to me. I looked down at myself and saw that I was now illuminated, too. The light was confined to our bodies, though. Everything around us remained as dark as ever.

“Where—where are we?” I asked the witch, the words catching in my throat. What had I gotten myself into?

“You’ll know in good time, my dear,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. “There’s a lot for us to talk about, and I could use a nice, long nap. All that teleportation will take the wind right out of an old girl like me. I’m sure you agree.”

It wasn’t until she said it that I realized I was exhausted, too. My legs were shaky, every bit of my body was sore, and my arm was throbbing with pain. I felt like I could sleep for a thousand years.

Then I started to remember what had happened and my knees began to buckle in on themselves as the memories washed over me. The escape. The fight. The squishy, sick feeling of my knife burying itself in my foe’s eye socket and the thick geyser of blood that had come squirting out.

It couldn’t have been me. It felt more like something I had seen on TV than something that had actually happened to me.

I would never have done that. I
couldn’t
have. The girl who fought Sword-Arm to a standstill had known what she was doing. I’d never hurt another person in my whole life. Well, not with my fists, at least.

I felt the knife in my hand. It felt good. It felt like it was part of me. Suddenly I understood.

“It was the knife, right?” I asked Mombi. “It’s magic. It was telling me what to do.”

Mombi swatted the question away. “Pish tosh,” she said. “The knife’s enchanted, certainly. It will whisper in your ear a little bit—tell you where to move, teach you a few tricks. But it can’t make something out of nothing. It can’t help you if you don’t have it in you somewhere.” Her mouth spread into a wide grin, revealing a jammed-together row of rotting brown teeth. “Good thing you
did
,” she said.

From the way she said it, I knew she meant it as a compliment, and I felt a twisted sense of pride rising in my chest. I tried to shove it back down. The fact that I had what it took to stab someone’s eyes out was nothing to be proud of.

No, I corrected myself. Not
someone
. Some
thing.
And that
thing
had been helping the Tin Woodman. That
thing
had been responsible for killing Indigo. I had nothing to feel guilty about.

Mombi winked at me as if she knew exactly what I had been thinking. She reached out and wrapped her knotted, spindly hands around my closed fist. “Now,” she said. “You won’t be needing that for a bit.”

“No!” I said, more angrily than I meant to, squeezing hard as she tried to pry my fingers open. The knife was mine. I didn’t want to give it back. It could keep me safe.

Mombi clucked her tongue but didn’t really seem to care. “See? That’s the spirit. We’ll make a Wicked one out of you yet, now won’t we?”

I tried to pull my hand away, but she held it tight.

“Don’t worry—you’ll have more weapons than you know what to do with soon enough. But in the meantime . . .” Mombi mumbled a few words under her breath and I felt my fingers unlocking against my will. She took the knife and tucked it into her cloak. “Thattagirl,” she said. “Don’t you worry about a thing. You’re here now, and safe. And you’re free.” Then she chuckled at something. “Well,
sort of
,” she said, before letting out an uproarious cackle. Her laughter was still echoing around me as her body began to curl in on itself, like she was turning herself inside out. Then she was gone, and everything was dark again.

Free
. But was I? In some ways, it felt like I had traded one prison for another.

We’ll make a Wicked one out of you yet.

What had I gotten myself into?

I stood there, waiting for my eyes to adjust, but they didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t even dark at all: maybe it was just like outer space, where it’s only dark because there’s nothing to see.

I was alone.

I had been lonely a lot in my life—enough to know that there are different kinds of lonely. There’s the lonely I had felt at school, surrounded by people who only paid attention to me long enough to remind me that they didn’t like me. There was the lonely I felt when I was with my mother, which was different from the lonely that I felt when I watched her leaving just before the tornado hit, and different from the lonely that I felt when my trailer was being whisked away from everything I’d ever known.

Then there was the bottomless loneliness that I’d felt in Dorothy’s sick, white dungeon, the kind of loneliness that had made me feel like I was running through an endless maze.

Standing there in the dark, it was like all those alones had just been tiny, interlocking pieces of a picture so big that you could only see the whole thing from a mile away. Now it was clear: I had nothing except myself. No matter what happened, it would always be that way.

And yet: I took a step forward and was surprised to feel solid ground underneath my feet. I took another. I stumbled on something and caught myself before I hit the ground.

I was just about to move forward again when I heard a voice echoing all around me. It belonged to a woman, and it was kind and gentle and strangely familiar. “I think you’re starting to understand,” she said. “It will take a while, but you’re getting there.”

I stopped in my tracks and jerked my head up. “Who’s there?” I called out to the emptiness. “What do you want from me?”

Instead of an answer I heard the sound of fingers snapping. Just like that, the world returned to me. It was less like a light being turned on and more a blindness being suddenly lifted.

I was standing in a huge cave, the rocky walls pulsing eerily with a dim purple phosphorescence. High above my head, clusters of stalactites dangled perilously from the rocky ceiling.

In the center of the cavern a massive tree loomed, its trunk as thick around as five people, overgrown with vines and moss and tiny flowers. Hundreds of limbs curled upward until they merged with the rock formations on the ceiling; a tangle of roots covered the ground before disappearing into the walls.

The longer I looked at the tree, the more I couldn’t decide where it ended and the cave began.

“Why does there have to be a beginning and an ending?” the voice asked. “If you ask me, it’s all middle.”

I spun around, trying to figure out where it was coming from, and saw nothing.

“Who are you?”

And from out of the tree, a squat, round old woman in a shapeless white dress and a pointy white hat emerged like she was walking through an open door. Except there was no door. There was no opening in the tree at all.

“People have called me lots of things over the years,” the woman said. “It happens when you get old. But
you
can call me Grandma Gert.” She brushed a stray flower from her silvery-white cloud of hair.

Her face was old and wrinkled but it was nothing like Mombi’s. It was round and kind and so chubby that she had at least three chins. Maybe four. Her eyes twinkled as she smiled at me.

Grandma Gert
. I liked the sound of that. There was something about her that I trusted.

It was all so strange. I should have been afraid. Or angry. Or at least startled or confused. I felt none of those things. When Gert reached out for my hand, I let her take it and clasp it between her own, squeezing tenderly, and I realized what I
did
feel. It was a warm sense of peacefulness starting in my chest and spreading through my body.

“Welcome home, dear,” she said.

“Home?” The word startled me, and when I repeated it, it caught in the back of my throat. I had no idea where I was, except that it was about as far away from
home
as I could possibly get. And yet . . .

“You’re a long way from Kansas, I know,” she said. “But there’s more than one kind of home. And you’re right. You
are
on your own. We all are, and we all have to learn it sooner or later. If you have to be alone, though, wouldn’t you rather be alone among friends?”

Alone.
I looked up, startled. How had she known what I had been thinking, back there in the darkness?

Grandma Gert’s face flushed with embarrassment. “Oh dear,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry, Amy. Sometimes I forget how strange it can be at first. I don’t do it on purpose—but when someone’s thoughts are as loud as yours it can be hard to know the difference.”

It took a moment for me to understand what she was saying.

“You can read my mind,” I said. Or maybe I just thought it.

The old woman nodded. “Something like that. Please don’t be afraid—it’s almost always what’s right there on the surface. I try not to go too much deeper than that. Not without permission.”

I didn’t know what to say and then I realized I didn’t have to say anything at all. Anything I could say, Grandma Gert already knew.

There was actually something comforting about that.

She was staring deep into my eyes. “Thank you,” she said. At first I didn’t know what she was thanking me for and then I did. It was for understanding. For not being afraid.

Then she gathered herself up, dropped my hand, and squared her shoulders.

“There will be plenty of time to talk about all of this later. First we need to get you cleaned up.” Her eyes drifted down to my scratched, bruised arms and bloody T-shirt. “Mombi certainly does know how to start a fight.”

Gert waved her hand, and the tree at the center of the cavern began to transform before my eyes. The roots swirled at my feet, the branches drew themselves down from the ceiling, the trunk began to melt like tar into the ground.

When it was done, she and I were standing next to a deep pool where the tree had stood before. Foamy white water bubbled up from somewhere beneath the ground, and steam wafted off the surface. It smelled clean and fresh.

“Go ahead,” Gert said, placing a hand on the small of my back and nudging me forward. “It will heal you.”

She didn’t have to tell me twice—I stepped right into the spring, not even bothering to take my clothes off. I didn’t need to: they began to disintegrate as soon as they touched the water.

I didn’t care that they were gone, and I didn’t care that I was naked in front of an old woman I’d just met. The minute the warm, clear water touched my bare skin, I felt my muscles melting as bubbles spun around me. I looked down at myself and watched, astonished, as days’ worth of dirt slid right off my body. But I was also surprised to see exactly how hurt I really was. Bruises peppered my arms and legs. Thick red tendrils of blood slipped from a gash across my abdomen that I didn’t remember getting in the first place.