“Water kills the witch.” The Tinman—Silas, apparently—whispers the words. But his whisper is loud and rough around the edges as if he has never known a quiet moment in his life.
“Really? I thought she was unkillable?”
Gabriel is frowning at his brother now, as if this is news to him too. “Everyone knows the Witch of the West suffers two weaknesses, but no one knows the second. If it was water, that would explain why she’s never given me any, not even a bowl to wash my hands.”
“Does magic run in your family?” the Tinman asks me.
“What? No. I’m not from here. There is no magic where I live.”
“Which is where?”
“Kansas. That’s why I’m trying to get to the wizard so he can help get me home.”
Both men go still and though the light is faint with the torches at the Tinman’s back, I catch the way his brows sink into a deep scowl.
“The wizard, you say?” The words come out like wheat ground beneath stone.
“Do you know him?”
Gabriel snorts and turns away.
“So you do know him? Can you take me to him?”
“I would sooner feed myself to a dragon.”
“Wait… are there dragons to feed yourself to?”
“Never mind. Back to the water.”
“Tin,” Gabriel calls. We both follow his line of sight to a large basin in the stone floor where water has puddled. “Maybe there’s enough here.”
“How would I gather it though? My bare fucking hands?”
“Isn’t that a canteen?” I point at the metal container strapped around his body. “Is there not water in there?”
He lifts it as if remembering it’s there. “No. Not water.”
“So empty it out.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a drug,” Gabriel answers. “One that he needs.”
The way the Tinman casts his gaze aside, his jaw flexing with a grit of his teeth, tells me this is a detail he does not want to discuss. But he’s the one who is demanding I make water to kill the witch.
“What happens if you don’t have it?”
“I’ll lock up.” He inhales through his nose and trudges on. “Without a heart, blood doesn’t run through my body like it should. I nearly died… after I was cursed. The Oil thins my blood and keeps it pumping through my veins. Without it, I’m useless and then shortly after I’m useless, I’m dead.”
“Oh.” I swallow, embarrassment pinking my cheeks. I didn’t mean to pry. “I’m sorry. That must be horrible.”
“I would think so, if I cared.”
Because he doesn’t have a heart.
He’s an addict by necessity. He can’t quit even if he wanted to, and how can you want something when you can’t care about a single thing?
