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 (41 page)

I thought about running. I could teleport myself to the hedge maze and hide in there. I could make it out before the Tin Soldiers had the chance to grab me.

Or I could summon my knife and fight.

I knew one thing for sure: I wasn’t going back to one of those tiny dungeon cells. And I damn sure wasn’t going to the Scarecrow’s lab for any Attitude Adjustment.

Before I could decide anything for sure, Sindra sidled up next to me.

“I just can’t wait for things to get back to normal,” she said. “You know, I found a metal screw in my bed. The Tin Soldiers must have searched the room. And what if
I’m
the traitor? I mean, I
did
bring up some of those hay bales.”

I shook my head. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I replied, and picked up my pace to get ahead of her.

As we entered the throne room, my eyes came to rest on the Wizard. He observed the crowd with an inscrutable smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stood in the middle of the crowd, but separate, too, as if he were surrounded by an invisible bubble. Really, it was that people were a little afraid of him. They didn’t want to stand too close. I was just surprised that he was down here with all us common servants.

The staff milled about, chatting, some of the maids taking the opportunity to flirt with the guards, but it all came to a halt when the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman entered. The crowd hushed as the two took their places next to the two empty thrones.

Audible gasps and a smattering of clapping rippled through the crowd when Dorothy sashayed into the room. It was the first time I’d seen her since the incident in her chambers a few days ago, and I noticed with disgust that all the beauty sleep seemed to be working—her skin looked perfect, like a doll’s, not a blemish to be seen. The spike heels of her magic shoes—which I pointedly avoided looking at—sparked against the marble with her every step. Dorothy’s hair bounced at her shoulders, even more shiny and perfect today than ever. She wore a leather dress of that familiar blue-and-white pattern that hugged her farm-girl curves before fishtailing out at the bottom.

Dorothy sat on her throne, daintily crossed her legs, and regarded us all with an expression equal parts imperious and murderous. At her side, the second throne—usually reserved for Ozma—remained empty. I guessed that the
actual
princess wasn’t important enough to get invited to this sort of thing.

The Tin Woodman banged the butt of his ax on the floor.

“Attention!” he shouted, as if everyone in the crowd wasn’t already staring at the throne.

Slowly, a thousand-watt grin spread across Dorothy’s face, as insincere as a piranha’s. She cleared her throat and her voice began to echo through the room.

“My aunt Em used to say there wasn’t any such thing as being too generous,” she said. “My dear aunt Em was never a princess, of course, but I still try to live by her words. I like to think I treat you all not just as subjects but as friends.”

She paused, and the crowd responded with clapping and cheering, not all of it entirely forced. I had to say, this wasn’t the Dorothy I’d expected. She might have been a total bitch in private, but she sure knew how to work a room.

“And how am I repaid for my generosity?” Dorothy went on, a hand daintily spread across her cleavage, her tone suddenly wounded. “With betrayal. A betrayal of me, a betrayal of Oz, a betrayal of all of
you
.”

Angry muttering began to spread through the room. They were actually
buying
this crap.

I could practically feel her eyes boring right through the crowd and into my skull. I knew that, at any second, she would be dispatching the Tin Soldiers to push through the audience and drag me up to the throne to be punished in front of everyone. My fists clenched. I was scared, yes, but also felt my anger starting to rise. I must be prepared to draw my dagger and make sure Oz’s benevolent ruler died first.

“We will have our justice!” Dorothy shouted. “The truth always reveals itself.”

Cheering again. They couldn’t make up their minds—were they angry or happy? Were they really clapping for the downfall of a traitor? Or because it wasn’t them being punished today?

“Bravest Lion,” Dorothy said through clenched teeth, “bring me the traitor.”

The Lion loped out from the door behind the throne. A murmur went through the crowd. The Lion’s ferocious figure was always intimidating but the nervousness sweeping the room was also partly owed to the prisoner he dragged behind him.

Jellia Jamb, the head maid and Dorothy’s most trusted lady-in-waiting, her hands bound behind her back.

I lurched forward in surprise, bumping shoulders with one of the guards. He glared at me, but I hardly noticed. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Jellia. This wasn’t right. Not at all.

The Lion held her with one paw digging into her arm through the puffy sleeves of her uniform. Her hair was disheveled, her face ashen and quivering. The PermaSmile had been wiped from her face. Her uniform was all torn up.

My mind raced. Was this a trap? Was Jellia going to inform against me? Or was she going to take the fall?

Her keys. Oh no. I’d stolen her keys, they’d figured it out, and now she was to blame.

My fault. This was my fault.

“Come forward,” Dorothy demanded, curling a finger at Jellia.

The Lion released her and Jellia stepped forward, righting herself quickly when she stumbled for a moment.

Dorothy looked her up and down, clucking her tongue. Then she stood up and straightened the crooked flaps of Jellia’s collar.

“There,” Dorothy said, almost intimately, almost like she was just speaking to Jellia. If I didn’t know better, I’d think there was something tender about it.

I held my breath. What was she going to do to her? And, more importantly, what was I going to do about it? I couldn’t just stand here while someone else got blamed for my crimes against Dorothy.

“Jellia,” Dorothy said, sitting back onto her throne and crossing her legs casually. “You stand accused of freeing the monkey, Maude, from the Scarecrow’s private medical facility where she was being kept for her own good. How do you plead?”

Jellia’s chin trembled as she opened her mouth to speak. “Guilty, Your Highness,” she said.

The room gasped, no one louder than me. Jellia hadn’t done it—so why was she confessing to the crime?

“Additionally,” Dorothy continued, “we discovered several pieces of evidence in your room suggesting that you have been in regular contact with a ragtag band of magic-using malcontents and usurpers operating out of Gillikin Country.”

The Order
. She meant the Order.

Jellia was my handler. How could I not have seen it? Getting me close to Dorothy. Letting me check my room this morning. Hell, she’d probably allowed me to pickpocket her keys. Tears welled up in my eyes—tears of belated gratitude, frustration, futility. I fought them back.

Jellia didn’t reply to Dorothy’s accusation.

The Lion twitched and pawed impatiently at the ground. He growled, baring his teeth, and Jellia flinched away from him. Dorothy stroked his back, calming him.

“Well?” she asked Jellia. “What do you say to that?”

Jellia looked around the room. I tried to catch her eyes, but it was almost as if she refused to look at me. She raised her chin high.

“That accusation is true,” she said, her eyes blazing. “I am a member of the Revolutionary Order of the Wi—”

Dorothy lunged forward and slapped her before Jellia could finish. To my ears at least, the slap echoed like a thunderclap. The room, which had started to buzz during Jellia’s second confession, went completely quiet.

To even Dorothy’s surprise, Jellia didn’t look at all cowed. Instead, she raised her head even higher, looking out on the crowd once again. It was like she was shaking off the meek, PermaSmiling, and servile creature we’d all known. Her spine stiffened and her shoulders rose up, like her false persona was an actual weight she’d been carrying. Gone was the woman who’d chastised me for not starching my pleats, the woman who’d carried around a dead mouse for days on Dorothy’s orders. Suddenly she looked like a warrior.

I should’ve known. Should’ve thanked her for wiping what must’ve been blood off me. For protecting me.

Dorothy recoiled from Jellia, as if scalded by the brazen impertinence. She gathered herself and shouted, struggling to be heard over the increasingly buzzing crowd.

“Treason! Sass! Unsanctioned magic!” Dorothy shrieked out the charges. “I sentence you to—!”

The ropes binding Jellia’s hands burned away with a puff of smoke. The crowd gasped as Jellia cut off the princess, her voice rising louder.

“People of Oz!” she yelled. “Dorothy’s tyranny has lasted long enough! It is time for us to rise up! It is time for us to reclaim the magic that is rightfully ours! My fellow Ozians—in times like these, the Wicked will rise!”

No one knew what to do—the idea of a royal decree being interrupted was so preposterous that even Dorothy had frozen, her face bright red. I heard some boos from the crowd, but a larger part was silent, some leaning intently forward, whispering among themselves. Others edged toward the exits, not wanting to be involved in whatever came next.

I looked over to where the Wizard had been standing and saw that he was gone. But where?

Dorothy stomped her ruby-wrapped feet, more like a spoiled child than a regal princess. “Stop it! I trusted you!”

Jellia turned toward her and, as she did, Dorothy pointed an angry finger at her. It began to glow.

My knife suddenly appeared in my hand, almost without me realizing it, but no one else noticed—everyone’s attention was firmly on Jellia and Dorothy.

A crackling bolt of electricity shot from Dorothy’s finger, straight toward her former maid. Jellia raised a palm as if to say
Stop
, and it bounced right off her, curling back in Dorothy’s direction. Dorothy gasped, but the Tin Woodman flung himself in front of her just in time to absorb the spell, sparks hopping across his metal body.

“Kill her!” Dorothy screamed.

Jellia’s outstretched hand began to glow. But before whatever spell she was casting could fully coalesce, the Lion bounded forward and sunk his teeth into Jellia’s shoulder. She screamed as the Lion tore into her, shaking her back and forth until her arm came completely off with a sick tearing sound. Those closest to the thrones, including Dorothy, were sprayed with Jellia’s blood.

Now people were screaming, running toward the exits. Others remained, too scared to even flee without official dismissal from Dorothy. I stood, frozen, in the midst of the chaos.

The Lion flung his head back—for a moment Jellia’s hand was visible between his teeth, then it disappeared down his throat.

“Stay and watch!” the Lion bellowed at the crowd. “See what happens when you raise a hand against the princess!”

Released from the Lion’s maw, Jellia crumpled to the floor. Her face was deathly pale, but her eyes finally met mine, her wide eyes serene and unwavering. I felt my knife charging with magical energy. I wasn’t sure if it was me doing it or the weapon itself—I didn’t care. I couldn’t let her suffer for what I’d done.

I took a step forward, but someone grabbed me by the shoulder.

“No,” a voice whispered in my ear. I sucked in my breath. “She knew the risks. She knows what she’s doing. She was willing to sacrifice herself for you. Don’t make it for nothing.”

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. I knew that voice. It was Nox.

The Lion loomed over Jellia, one mammoth paw poised to open her throat. The Scarecrow stepped forward suddenly, putting himself between the Lion and Jellia, his stitched mouth crooked into a smooth smile.

“I want her alive,” he said. “I can devise a more appropriate punishment than this barbarism.”

The Lion roared, not lowering his claws. He glanced over at Dorothy.

She stood looking down at Jellia, her cold expression in stark contrast to the atomic glow emanating from her red shoes. The crowd went quiet again, collectively inching backward, as if preparing for her wrath. At her feet, the Tin Woodman had managed to pull himself onto his knees, still smarting from Jellia’s spell. He grasped the hem of Dorothy’s dress and tried to thumb away a spattering of Jellia’s blood. Dorothy slapped his hand away.

“Scarecrow, take her away,” Dorothy said quietly.

As the Lion and the Scarecrow yanked Jellia to her feet, Dorothy swung her gaze over the crowd. Her cheek was mottled with pinpricks of Jellia’s blood.

“Let this be a lesson to all of you,” she said quietly, although her voice carried through the throne room. “This is where revolution will get you. In Dorothy’s Oz, there is no room for the Wicked.”

“Nox?” I whispered urgently, caught up in the rush of the crowd leaving the throne room. I wasn’t sure where he was, or even who he was. I was certain he’d be wearing someone else’s face, like me. I didn’t want to lose him, not now.

A guy in front of me in a pointed hat with little bells on the brim—part of a juggling troupe, I think—looked over his shoulder at me. He had blond hair and pale skin and a face I didn’t recognize.