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 (76 page)
Authors: Danielle Paige
“How would you like to reclaim your throne?” he asked her. “Would you like to be yourself again? Would you like to be my bride, and sit at my side as Oz’s fairy queen?”
Ozma looked confused. But she was already beginning to change. A pair of huge, shimmering, golden butterfly wings—
fairy
wings—had unfolded from her back. Her green eyes were glowing, and her black hair was whipping wildly in every direction. She began to hover a few inches from the ground.
“Ah, yes,” the Wizard mused, looking admiringly at her. “I’ve always wanted to see the true aspect of a fairy. Even in my past dealings with them, I knew that they were only revealing themselves in a form that masked their true selves. I can’t wait to see what you blossom into once the Old Magic is truly unleashed.”
Ozma didn’t say anything. But she looked into the sky, where slowly and then quickly, a whirling, black vortex appeared. As it grew in size, I saw what it was: a tornado. A
cyclone.
Except that it was upside down and inside out, and we were on the other side of the funnel, as if looking down on it from above.
The Wizard was staring at it almost lovingly. “Right on time,” he said. “It’s always so nice when things go as planned. Now, Amy, as someone who hails from the Other Place, from the
very spot where the fountain draws from, and who has learned to channel its Old Magics with such ease, I’ll let you do the honors. It’s time for Dorothy to die.”
I held my knife over my head, and felt power pouring into it from out of the funnel in the sky.
I felt the Wizard’s spell in the back of my mind urging me on. I felt the darkness calling to me, too.
Rise
, the voices seemed to be saying.
Dorothy stood there in front of me, her face frozen into a silly, shy smile, and I almost thought I could see the person she had been: the girl who had come to Oz, stopped the witches, and saved the kingdom. Not because she wanted power, but because of her innocence. Because she was good.
I knew what would happen if I killed her. I would be accepting the mantle I’d been promised. Finally, I would be Wicked. Really Wicked. And there would be no going back.
Rise
, the voice hissed again.
It was time. I drew my knife back to do it. To kill her.
But just as I was about to bring it down, I heard Nox’s voice. “Don’t do it!” he screamed. “It’s a trick! He’s fooling you!”
I spun around to see him pushing out from the hedges.
“Do it!” the Wizard hissed. “Do it now.”
Then Ozma began to scream, her gossamer wings flapping wildly, and Pete burst out of her chest.
It wasn’t like the other times he had transformed. Ozma was still there, still wailing and clutching herself in agony. But Pete was here now, too. He tumbled across the cobblestones, jumped
up, and grabbed the Wizard’s throat.
The maelstrom above us swirled. The Wizard cried out—like that, his spell was broken. I blinked and dropped my knife. It clattered to the cobblestone ground. I wasn’t feeling so calm and contented anymore. I was feeling pretty terrified.
Dorothy emerged from her trance.
“Traitor,” she said. She flung a hand out, and, like she was pulling a marionnette string, Pete flew away from the Wizard. She wanted the Wizard to herself, and now, as she approached him, his face went white. “I should have done this long ago,” she said. “Now, let’s hear you scream.”
She clapped her hands together, and the Wizard
did
scream. His body began to ripple and twitch as Dorothy’s spell moved through it, and then it was like something was eating him from the inside. “No!” he yelled. “Help me! Amy, help!”
But there was nothing I could do. The spell was quick. In an explosion of blood, guts, and glitter, the Wizard was no more.
The sky opened up. And Kansas rained down on us.
Have you ever looked at the American state of Kansas on a map?
The answer, at least for me, was, of course, yes. Obviously. In fourth grade, we’d spent at least a month of social studies on what Mrs. Hooper called our “Kansas Unit.” During which, we’d had to memorize the Kansas state flower (the wild sunflower), the state bird (the western meadowlark), the state song (“Home on the Range”—that one was easy), and stupid trivia like where the name
Kansas
was derived from. (Either Native Americans or French people, or both; I forget).
In addition to memorizing all that trivia, each one of us had to give an oral report on a famous Kansan in history.
Until now, I had completely forgotten it, but in this moment the memory came back to me fully formed.
I had wanted to do my famous Kansan report on Dorothy from
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
. I’d had my heart set on it, in fact. But Madison Pendleton had gotten to school early and had
called dibs on it before anyone else could even get a chance.
Then, when I’d asked Mrs. Hooper if I could do Mary Ann from
Gilligan’s Island
instead, Mrs. Hooper had told me it wasn’t allowed, because Mary Ann Summers isn’t a real person.
Dorothy Gale from
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
isn’t a real person either, I’d said.
But Mrs. Hooper loved Madison Pendleton. She loved her so much that she would sometimes let her sit next to her at lunch so that they could brush each other’s hair.
Mrs. Hooper hated me. “Dorothy isn’t real, but she’s
important.
She’s one of our most famous Kansans,” she said. “Mary Ann from
Gilligan’s Island
is not important. In fact, Amy, I always thought Mary Ann was from Oklahoma. Are you sure you’re not thinking of the Howells?”
I knew it wasn’t worth arguing, so I asked if I could do Amelia Earhart. If you thought about it, she seemed, at the time at least, to be a little bit like Dorothy, except real. But Mrs. Hooper gave that one to Candy Sinclair, her second favorite fourth grader after Madison Pendleton, and finally assigned me Bob Dole just to be mean.
Kansas had never been particularly kind to me.
And now I was back there. I was back home— if you could still call it that—and I had been brought there the way I’d left it: through a tornado.
The only thing is, it didn’t feel much like Kansas anymore.
And I wasn’t alone.
The two of us stood there, together: me and Dorothy, right
where we had both started. In Kansas. In the Dusty Acres trailer park, to be exact. Not that there was much left of it: I guess when the tornado had taken me to Oz, it had made quick work of this place. Now it was just an empty expanse of gray dust, with a sign:
Dusty Acres
, it read.
If You Lived Here, You’d Be Home Now.
The only other thing that remained of the place I’d once lived was the concrete barbecue that no one ever used except for on the Fourth of July. Only now, it was blazing with fire, and a single dark figure was hunched over it. The figure was both clear and indistinct at the same time—solid, but blurry at the edges. Then the figure broke apart, and I saw that it wasn’t one but three: from out of the darkness, a trio of women emerged, each of them wearing a heavy cloak in a different color: red, gold, and blue. Another cloak, a purple one, was lying in the dirt next to them, without an owner.
Witches. I recognized the one in red. It was Glamora.
In the distance, I thought I heard another voice calling my name—a voice that seemed familiar, but that I couldn’t quite place. It was a boy. A man. It was someone important, someone who mattered to me, but I couldn’t remember why.
“Rise, little witch,” Glamora said. “Take your place among us.”
I stepped forward.
COVER ART AND DESIGN © 2015 BY RAY SHAPPELL
HAND LETTERING BY ERIN FITZSIMMONS
THE WICKED WILL RISE
. Copyright © 2015 by Full Fathom Five, LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ISBN 978-0-06-228070-1 (trade bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-06-240613-2 (special ed.)
ISBN 978-0-06-238221-4 (int. ed.)
EPub Edition © February 2015 ISBN 9780062280725
Hand lettering by Erin Fitzsimmons
15 16 17 18 19
PC
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RRDH
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FIRST EDITION
Thanks to Angela and Darren Croucher for all their help
Contents
They say you can’t go home again. I’m not entirely sure
who
said that, but it’s something they say. I know it because my aunt Em has it embroidered on a throw pillow in the sitting room.
You can’t go home again.
Well, even if they put it on a pillow, whoever said it was wrong. I’m proof alone that it’s not true.
Because, you see, I left home. And I came back. Lickety-split, knock your heels together, and there you are. Oh, it wasn’t quite so simple, of course, but look at me now: I’m still here, same as before, and it’s just as if I was never gone in the first place.