Chapter Thirty-Nine. Dorothy
THIRTY-NINE
Dorothy
The flight to the Witch of the West’s castle is brutal. It doesn’t help that minute by minute, mile by mile, I grow more and more enraged at the Tinman for killing Rook. How dare he. Rook is gone and there’s no getting him back, and isn’t this why I don’t ever allow myself to love or be loved?
I barely knew him and yet the loss of him is so visceral, I feel like I might throw up.
But I quickly swallow it back.
I will not allow the Tinman or the monkeys to see any emotion.
Except rage.
In the distance, a castle starts to take shape against the darkened sky, several pointed spires and a tall turret on each wing hinting at its vastness.
We slowly descend, the monkey’s talons digging into my flesh as he fights at a wind current.
There is a brief moment where I hope he’ll drop me, but that will serve no one, least of all me.
The castle looms larger and larger, and then we’re upon it and it’s so big, so fortified, that it doesn’t seem real. None of this seems real.
The monkeys fly over the stone wall and drop us unceremoniously in the courtyard, barely pausing to land before taking flight again and disappearing around the west turret.
I gape at the castle. We’re in front of a set of large double doors, the wood carved to look like the unfolded wings of a monkey.
Iron fastenings and thick iron bolts hold the massive doors to the castle walls.
On either side, lanterns hang from the stone facade, the light inside dancing like flames.
It’s beautiful and terrifying all at the same time.
A strong metal hand wraps around my arm, pulling me forward.
I wrench free of the Tinman’s grip. “Don’t touch me.”
“You think you’re in charge here?”
“You’re certainly not. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”
A low rumble sounds in his throat. The axe is strapped to his back, his hands nowhere near it. But something tells me the Tinman needs only a second to have his beloved weapon in his grip.
I take a step back. He mirrors me like he’s prepared for me to bolt even though the iron gate remains closed and locked behind us.
“You’ll walk into that castle or you’ll be dragged into that castle. The choice is yours,” he says.
“What do you get out of this?”
“I’m counting to three.”
“What, am I a child?”
His nostrils flare. “One.”
“You’ve terrorized me and my friend. You had no right to kill him!”
“Two.”
“Did you even know him? Have you no heart?”
“Three. No and no.”
His shoulder rams into my stomach, his arm curling around the backs of my thighs. Suddenly I’m off my feet, hauled over his shoulder.
“Hey!” I beat at his back, but it’s no use.
He’s clearly corded in muscle, my slaps as annoying as a cattail.
But at this vantage point, I can see the sheath of his axe and the leather strap snapped around its handle, holding it in place.
I open the strap and wrench the axe out.
The obscene weight of the weapon catches me off guard and the axe slips from my grip, ringing out as it hits the stone.
The Tinman pitches me forward. My feet hit the ground, but the force takes me by surprise and I stumble back onto my butt.
“How did you do that?”
“What?” I scramble up.
“How did you take the axe?”
I frown at him. “I … opened the snap?”
He ducks down and scoops the weapon up. In his grip, the axe is tiny. “No one can take my axe.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I take a step forward. “I just did.”
“No. You don’t get it. No one can take—”
A loud clank sounds from the guardhouse.
I turn to the tall double doors that make up the front entrance of the castle and watch them part, a slant of light appearing through the crack.
Somewhere in the recess of the gatehouse, a chain rattles as gears turn, pulling the doors open.
There are no guards here. No more monkeys.
It’s just me and the Tinman.
It takes the doors several long seconds to fully open before they reveal a dark foyer on the other side. Light from the lanterns flickers against the shadows.
And from the darkness, a voice filters out.
“Bring her.”
The Tinman slides his axe back into its strap and then grips me by the arm again.
“Don’t touch my fucking axe,” he mutters to me.
“Maybe ask me nicely,” I mutter back.
With a grumble, he drags me inside.
And this time, I don’t fight him.
For being made entirely of stone, the inside of the West’s castle is almost unbearably warm.
The Tinman leads me up a wide staircase, then down a hall, then another, before it gives way to a cavernous gallery where an arched opening overlooks the winged monkeys’ roost. Several have taken to the air, circling the castle’s many spires.
The witch stands at that opening, her back to us.
The Tinman leads me forward, stopping us in the middle of the room just beneath a circular wrought-iron chandelier where a hundred white candles are lit, wicks snapping as a breeze kicks in from the balcony.
We wait.
I glance over at the Tinman, looking for any clues as to what we’re expected to do. His hands are clasped behind his back. On the surface, it looks like a formal way to receive the witch, but I think he just wants his hands near his axe. Just in case.
When the witch turns to us, the Tinman straightens his spine and for some reason, I find myself echoing his movements, taking his cues.
Hands clasped in front of me, I stand up straight.
The witch steps out of the shadows of the balcony and into the dancing candlelight.
But her face …
She’s wearing a golden mask, the mouth pulled back in a grin revealing sharp incisors. It’s a replica of a winged monkey.
It’s so unexpected that I gasp in shock.
A hundred questions loom in my mind, but the biggest one is, what is she hiding behind that mask?
“Lon,” she calls. “Show Dorothy to her cell.”
A monkey marches forward from an alcove and takes me in her grip.
“Wait,” I start. “This is a mistake. I don’t belong here.”
“We had a deal,” the Tinman says.
“Of course,” the witch answers. “But first, we need to talk.”
“Wait!” I shout as Lon pulls me toward a stone staircase that winds belowground.
“Best you go,” the monkey whispers from the corner of her mouth. “You don’t want to anger the witch.”
We hit the staircase and Lon lets me get my bearings before guiding me down.
“What do you mean?” I say back.
“How do you think we came under her command? It wasn’t by choice.”
We go deeper and deeper into the castle’s footings.
“Then how?”
“Magic,” Lon answers. “And unless you want to serve her too, you’d do well not to draw too much attention to yourself.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
This might be the best advice anyone has been willing to give me.
But I’m not surrendering.
Not even close.
I’m escorted into a cell surrounded on three sides by rough-cut stone and fronted by iron bars. Lon closes the gate behind me and turns the bolt, locking me inside. “I’m sorry,” she says and then hurries away.
Lon wasn’t as big as Faos and Tark, but in the narrow hall of the dungeon, she took up most of the open space. And now that she’s gone, I realize I’m across the hall from a second cell.
And there’s someone inside.
It’s a man. He’s pale, dirty, and unkempt, like he’s been down here a really long time.
“Hello,” he calls.
“Hi.”
“Who are you?”
“I … my friend called me Kansas.” Saying the nickname makes my voice catch. Rook didn’t deserve to die. I should have left him in Glimming Hollow where he would have been safe. It’s my fault he’s dead.
“What kind of name is Kansas?”
“A nickname.”
“Ahhh.” He presses his forehead into the bars. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“Not really. The Tinman dragged me here.”
“The Woodman?”
“Is there another?”
“Is he here?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I do.”
“He’s an asshole.”
The man chuckles and the sound echoes down the stone hall. “Yes. Yes he is. He wasn’t always like that though.”
I frown and step into a cast of light. “When was he not?”
“Oh … a long time ago. Let’s see … how long have I been here? I think two years now or maybe three and—”
“Wait.” I swallow, my heart kicking up in my chest. “Did you say you’ve been here for years?”
“Yes. Somewhere around that, I think.”
Two or three years?
My breathing quickens.
I stumble back and slam into the wall.
Oh god.
Years.
Aunt Em. Uncle Henry. I can’t … I have to get out of here.
The panic crawls up my throat. I’m flushed in an instant, my vision going white on the edges.
No home for three years.
My legs cramp up. I can’t breathe. I slump into the wall and slide down it, tears filling my eyes.
I have to run. I can’t move. I can’t think. I can’t breathe.
“Kansas,” the man calls. “Are you okay?”
I hear wind. It whistles through the cracks in the stone.
I slam my hands over my eyes trying to focus, to breathe, to do anything other than give in to the anxiety.
Not now. Not here. I thought I was over panic attacks.
The wind is joined by the sound of dripping water plinking against the stone.
I can’t control it.
I can’t stop.
I squeeze my eyes shut and descend into panic.