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“Kill the gods?” I repeat, buttoning up my pants.

The ache is gone from my joints and my bones, and everything is moving smoothly again. But I feel a little lightheaded, either from being jarred awake or maybe from the lingering withdrawal symptoms. I waited too long to dose. It was reckless.

But fucking Dorothy …

Also reckless.

I am nothing if not a glutton for gluttony.

Drugs and coming are two of so few things that bring me the thing that feels closest to pleasure.

Dorothy stands to the side, waiting patiently, the book open in her hands. She’s dressed too, but her hair is a little mussed, her clothing a little wrinkled.

She doesn’t seem the least bit interested in discussing what we did or why we did it or what it means, and thank fuck for that.

“Here. Look.” Dorothy shoves the book in my face again and forces me to read the section that has given her this wild theory.

I immediately recognize the art featured in the book. It was painted several hundred years ago by a famous painter of the era called Xin Mohr. He had a specific style to his art with paints that were bright for the time period and subjects that weren’t always based in reality.

This set of four matching paintings, each for a Cardinal God, is his most famous work. I think the series was called The Lifeblood of the Cardinal Gods.

But one other thing he was well known for? Using imagery to create metaphor and story.

There’s never been confirmation that the gods bled for Oz.

“Just because a book about myths says that the gods’ power was shared via their blood does not mean my brother plans to kill them to take on their power.”

“But you said yourself he needs to fix his power. Wouldn’t this be the way?”

That draws me to a stop, because yeah, it fucking would.

And proving her theory even more true is that the Wizard has always wanted to be the most powerful in all of Oz. So, really, killing the gods is in his best interest if he wants to preserve his superiority in the hierarchy of power.

My stomach knots. Fuck. I need to think.

I go to the kitchen and bend over the sink, turning the faucet on to cold. Once I’m satisfied with the temperature, I cup both hands and splash the water on my face.

The cold hits me like a thousand ice shards, and some of the fogginess abates. I prop my arms on the edge of the sink, let the water drip off into the basin.

“Let’s pretend this theory is true,” Dorothy says from the other side of the counter. “You all seemed surprised I killed two Cardinal Witches.”

“That’s because they were thought to be unkillable.”

“But I managed it. I’m assuming it’s because of my magic, which…” She shakes her head, sighs. “Not just anyone could kill a Cardinal Witch, right? So the gods must be even harder to dispatch. Is it even possible? If a person with enough power had it in their mind to kill the Cardinal Gods, could they?”

Several droplets of water let out a plink as they hit the hollow drain.

Is it possible to kill the gods?

My gaze strays to the table and the blade gleaming beneath the light.

“Yes,” I answer because I see no reason to lie to her. “The gods can be killed.”

“How?”

“My axe.”

As I pull on my boots and lace them up, Dorothy sits in the chair by the window, her gaze unfocused, the book clutched to her chest.