Ruler of Beasts (Dorothy Must Die, #0.6)(16)

The Nome King giggled. “Not even close,” he said. “You’re really bad at this, aren’t you? What was Ozma thinking, putting you in a position of responsibility? In my kingdom, only qualified people get to be in charge.”

“I wish you’d stop talking,” the Lion muttered under his breath, trying not to panic. He still had two more guesses. There was still a chance to save Ozma—and Oz. But the Nome King was getting restless. His warriors shifted where they stood, their armor clanking.

“Maybe I should just kill you,” he said thoughtfully.

“You can’t,” the Lion said quickly. “You made a bargain. Ozma sealed it.”

“The deal was that if you recognized Ozma I’d let you both go,” the Nome King said. “I didn’t say anything about not killing you.”

“I can’t recognize Ozma if I’m dead,” the Lion pointed out. “So technically you did agree to keep me alive.”

“An unfortunate technicality,” the Nome King said peevishly, sinking back onto his stool. The Lion was proud of himself. That line of argument had been worthy of the Scarecrow’s brain. Maybe he wasn’t so stupid after all. Maybe that was the secret to finding the real Ozma: using his brain. What would set enchanted Ozma apart from the rest of the silver figurines? She was the Queen of Oz, obviously. Her magic was green. She was young, but somehow also ageless. The Lion was thinking so hard he could practically feel gears turning in his brain. Was this what it felt like to be the Scarecrow? Thinking was exhausting work. He looked up. The Nome King’s soldiers had surrounded him. “You can’t kill me,” he said again, his heart pounding.

“I suppose I can’t,” the Nome King said. “But if they do it . . .” He didn’t have to finish.

“That one!” the Lion yelped in a panic, pointing to another statuette. It disappeared in a flash of silver smoke, and the Nome King leapt to his feet, clapping.

“Never mind!” he exclaimed. “This is rather fun! You’re doing my work for me, you stupid cat. Watching you suffer is almost making up for how boring this whole afternoon has been.” He waved at his soldiers, and they advanced toward the Lion in a terrifying ring.

The Lion’s fear turned to anger. He was still the King of the Beasts of Oz, and he did not appreciate being bullied by this creepy king. The Lion reared back on his hind legs, roaring fiercely. To his satisfaction, the soldiers took a step backward. It was impossible to read their expressions behind the black helmets, but he imagined they looked impressed and a little afraid. “That’s more like it,” he said.

“Oh, whatever,” said the Nome King. “You’ve only got one guess left, anyway, and I’m sure you’ll botch that one, too.” He sat back down, looking sulky.

The Lion’s mind raced. This was it. If he chose wrong, both Oz and its queen were toast. His stomach rumbled loudly. He hadn’t eaten since he and Ozma had had their little snack. He was starving. If he screwed up now, he wouldn’t even get the benefit of a last meal.

Suddenly, he got a whiff of something delicious. His nostrils flared. The Nome King and his army smelled flat and metallic, like hot iron being quenched in water. This was the smell of something living, flesh and bone and blood and edible.

And then in a flash he knew why Ozma had trusted him to choose correctly. Ozma wasn’t human, and she wasn’t mortal, but she was flesh and blood. Under other circumstances, he might have eaten her. Obviously he wouldn’t dream of snacking on the Queen of Oz—and his friend—but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t smell like something delicious, especially if he was hungry. He closed his eyes, letting his hunger overwhelm him. His stomach growled again. He let everything else fall away—the king, the warriors, the cavern, the impossible task at hand. He was back in the Forest of the Beasts, hunting for his prey. He crouched low, lashing his tail, his nose to the ground. There it was again: the faintest scent of breathing, living flesh.

“What do you think you’re doing?” shrieked the Nome King, but the Lion ignored him. He was on the prowl in the forest, ears tuned to the slightest rustle, all his senses on full alert, placing his paws carefully and noiselessly. There, in the bushes ahead, was his target. He gathered his strength, his muscles coiling like springs, and pounced.

He landed with a clatter of pebbles and opened his eyes. He’d dislodged a tarnished silver figurine from the floor of the cavern, where it was mostly hidden by a pile of gravel. It was duller than the other statuettes, and the rough silver face looked nothing like Ozma. He knew without question that this was the one.

“You weren’t supposed to hide her,” he said to the Nome King. “That’s cheating.” He nudged the figurine with his paw. The Nome King leapt to his feet, his white face purple with rage.

“I won’t have this!” he shrieked. “I won’t tolerate you, you fleabag!” But he was too late. At the Lion’s feet, the figurine grew rapidly until it was life-size. The dull silver metal turned iridescent, like oil on the surface of a pond. The multitude of colors swirled together and turned green before dripping away, revealing the queen. She smiled up at the Lion.

“I knew it would work,” she said, flinging her arms around his neck and burying her face in his mane. “I knew. My brave, wonderful Lion!” But she was almost sobbing, and the Lion guessed that she’d been nowhere near as certain she would survive as she insisted. His heart leapt with sympathy and fondness for the brave, beautiful queen. She’d trusted him with her life, and she’d had enough faith in him to believe he could rescue her. Her crazy gamble had paid off—because of him. He felt tremendously close to the queen in that moment. He knew he’d be as willing to risk his life for her as she had for her kingdom.