There’s no denying that Oz has magic. Not now. Not after everything I’ve witnessed.
That moment, back in the garden at the provost’s mansion when the wind gusted in, tossing three huge men into the air… that certainly seemed like magic.
Was it the slippers? Maybe they protect the wearer?
If the Witch of the North and the Witch of the West both want the slippers…
I just need to get to the wizard. I’ll give the slippers to him as payment for helping me return to Kansas, and then he can deal with the witches himself. He’s the most powerful in all of Oz. Whatever conflict is brewing between the Cardinal Witches, he can deal with it.
Before redressing, I uncork the bottle of emerald flash. The smell of licorice permeates the air, and beneath that, cinnamon and rose. Putting my finger over the mouth of the bottle, I upend it, coating my fingertip. I dab the oil on the pulse points where Rook instructed.
Beneath my ear. On my wrists. The oil heats up, sending a flush of warmth through my body. Then, in an instant, it’s gone.
I grab my dress from the hook and step into it. As soon as the soft cotton is on my body, I feel some semblance of home again.
The tears return.
I’m coming, Em and Henry. I’m coming home no matter what I have to do to get there.
I leave the ball gown abandoned in the empty bedroom. I have no use for it now.
But before I leave, I decide to grab the book about the Oz gods, slipping it into the pocket of my dress.
THIRTY-TWO
Tinman
With a kitchen blade still sunk into the flesh of my shoulder, I have to brace my boot on the inn’s doorjamb to get enough leverage to pull my axe from the wood.
Except the first wrench on the handle sends a hot wave of pain through my body so acute, I nearly double over and vomit.
A trail of blood runs down my chest, down my stomach, soaking into the thick knit of my shirt.
The wound is going to need stitches and I’m going to need a drink.
The axe can wait.
Behind me, the stairs of the inn creak loudly beneath the weight of several winged monkeys.
Faos appears in the flickering light of the strung lanterns. There’s a scrap of fabric caught in his hand.
“Her scent on it?” I ask him, nodding at the fabric.
His sharp teeth clack together as he nods. “Faint, but I can track it.”
“Good. She can’t have gotten far.”
Faos lets out a shrill cry and his soldiers fall in line behind him. He tears the fabric into several strips and hands them off.
The monkeys bring the remnants to their large, flat noses and inhale.
“Remember, Faos, we need her alive.”
He growls, the animalistic sound rumbling in his chest. “I know the mission, Tinman. I don’t need you to remind me.”
At the counter, I spot an abandoned bottle of West whisky. With a grunt, I reach over, nabbing the liquor, and yanking the cork out with my teeth.
“Question, Faos. Who do you think is in charge here?” I say around the cork. “You or me?”
