Chapter Twenty-One. Cleo
TWENTY-ONE
Cleo
Despite the late hour, there is a buoyancy to Cleo’s steps as she follows the Yellow Brick Road away from Delphine’s castle.
It’s darker than dark outside, but the lampposts cast a halo of light over the road.
She doesn’t look back and the farther she gets, the better she feels.
She can go anywhere. Do anything.
She doesn’t know where she’s going. And she doesn’t know what she wants to do. But at least she has the choice now.
The road bends around a copse of eastern red oak and when Cleo comes around the other side, she’s at the foot of the snowdrop field.
Cleo stops.
She didn’t intend to return to the farmhouse, but unless she wanted to wander off the brick road, it was impossible to miss.
And yet …
A shiver rolls through her.
You are a murderer, a voice says in the back of her mind.
Guilt knots in her gut.
Should she feel remorse for opening her hand and showing Delphine the oil-slick feather of the winged monkey?
If she should, she doesn’t, and she’s not entirely sure what that says about her.
She follows the road, intending to continue on past the house, but something pulls her to a stop. She leaves the road, crossing over the field until the house is in front of her and the pile of ash is at her feet.
Cleo raises her foot and slams it down. Ash plumes in the air and when the breeze shifts, it carries Delphine away.
It’s almost sad seeing a woman with magic in her veins be reduced to something this irrelevant. Cleo was terrified of Delphine and now look at her.
Within minutes, whatever is left of the witch disappears on the wind, swirling behind the pitched roof of Dorothy’s house.
Cleo steps back, intending to return to the Yellow Brick Road, when a movement of shadow inside the house catches her attention.
Is it Dorothy? Is she still here?
Cleo is moving before she considers what else might be lingering in the house. She bursts in through the front door and two Enders yelp in surprise. The men are rummaging through the cupboards looking for things to steal.
“This isn’t your house.”
The words are out, hanging like the jagged glass in the windows. Her consonants are too harsh, her Os too long.
The men frown at one another. There’s the taller one with buzzed black hair and hazel eyes. And the shorter one with a thick red beard and ears that stick out like tree mushrooms.
Beard is holding a frying pan. Buzz is holding a bag of onions and a copper spoon.
“It’s not yours either,” Beard says.
“Put it back,” Cleo says.
“And what are you going to do if we don’t?” Buzz counters.
Why does it matter what they take? Why does she feel a sudden desire to protect Dorothy’s belongings?
“I … I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Beard takes a step toward her, the frying pan cocked over his shoulder like a weapon.
“I’ll…”
There’s a whistle to the left, a cutting of air. Something flies through one of the broken windows.
Beard staggers to the side, his eyes bulging.
An axe is now stuck in his neck.
“Ozaaak!” Buzz yells just as Beard’s head slides off his body, the head hitting the floor a second before the axe.
Buzz drops the onions. They spill from the bag and roll across the floor not unlike the head.
Cleo can’t seem to move. She should move. She should be terrified into moving.
But she can’t.
The floor creaks behind her and a shadow stretches over the piled debris.
“Ahhh!” Buzz turns around and runs down the hall.
The footsteps are heavy now. Closer.
Cleo clamps her teeth together as the Tin Woodman comes into view. He bends down and scoops up his axe with metallic fingers.
Cleo has heard the stories about his arm made of metal and cogs, but hearing about it is not the same as seeing it, and the cold glint of the metal only makes him more terrifying.
Buzz is still screaming, moving through the house from room to room, looking for another exit.
She can’t blame him for forgetting a window is just as good as a door. She can’t even move.
Finding no escape, Buzz comes running back out to the kitchen. The Tinman straightens his arm, stretching out the axe directly in Buzz’s path, and Buzz, driven by panic, slams right into the blade.
It hits him square in the chest.
Blood burbles from his mouth. He gasps out one long, wet breath before sinking to his knees.
The Tinman plants his boot on Buzz’s shoulder and uses the leverage to yank the axe out.
Buzz tilts over dead.
Cleo still hasn’t moved.
She swallows.
Maybe if she doesn’t move, doesn’t talk or sneeze or breathe, he’ll look right past her.
The Tinman grabs the leg of an overturned chair. He rights it, sits down. He pulls a rag from his pocket and wipes the blood from the blade. Slowly. Carefully.
Cleo’s heart drums against her ribs.
“You run, you die,” the Tinman says. Swipe. “You scream, you die.” Swipe, swipe. “You lie to me, you die.” Swipe. “Do you understand?”
A breath stutters out through Cleo’s nostrils. She nods. He meets her eyes. His are a stormy shade of gray, tinged in blue. Not unlike the ominous clouds outside.
Panic is burbling up her throat and she’s not sure if it’s a scream or vomit, but neither seems like a good option. She swallows it down.
“Did you see the girl?” he asks.
Cleo nods.
Easy question. Easy answer.
“Is she here now?”
“I … I … no.”
He rests the axe over his thighs and leans back into the chair. “What happened here?”
“The house. Fell. The sky. On the witch. The girl. She. Dead. Killed, I mean. Killed the witch.”
The Tinman frowns. “What witch?”
“The Witch of the East.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “The girl killed a Cardinal Witch?”
His voice, deep and husky, drips with disbelief.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I mean. A kitchen knife.”
“Was it magical?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Cursed?”
“I don’t know.”
He stands up and paces the room. When he comes back around he drops the axe, letting the blade rest on the floor by his boot. “Where is the girl now?”
Every Ender grows up hearing stories about the Tin Woodman. His brother cursed him and stole his heart. The why is unknown. What he was like before he lost his heart? Also unknown. Without one, he is merciless. Terrifying. Singularly focused. And most of all, competent.
Being in the same cardinal territory as him is bad enough. In the same house? Cleo wants to melt into the floorboards and never resolidify.
“The girl … Dorothy … I—” Cleo takes a breath. She thinks she knows the words. She can say them. She can get them out and then he’ll go and she’ll be free to carry on to wherever it is she ends up.
“The road,” she says. “Girl. On the. The road. To the wizard.” She swallows again. Harder.
“She’s going to see the wizard?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Witch of the North.”
The Tinman tilts his head, regarding her like a field mouse. Cleo shivers. Like his axe, everything about the Tinman feels honed. He is a capable killer, but more than that, he is a presence that cannot be ignored, much like the building energy right before a storm.
“Do you know what the girl looks like?” he asks.
“Yes.”
Another easy question.
He twirls the axe up and over his shoulder, sliding the handle into a leather sheath on his back. His metal arm moves fast, making the movement appear effortless, like the axe weighs nothing at all.
He crosses the room.
Cleo stumbles back.
He’s tall. Taller than an Ender. Much taller than her. Broad shoulders, strong jaw, a narrow nose with nostrils that flare like an arrow. Everything about him is sharp and cutting.
“Are there people who will notice you gone?” he asks.
“No.”
An easy question. An easy answer. But one that is hard to give.
She is alone. Achingly alone.
The Tinman takes two giant steps toward her, grabs hold of her jacket with the cuff of his metal hand, and yanks her out the door. “Then you’re coming with me.”