Yellow Brick War (Dorothy Must Die, #3)(28)
“Let’s do it,” I said with more confidence than I felt. The idea of Mombi using me as a funnel was weird and kind of scary, but at least we were doing something. If Mombi wasn’t ready to give up, neither was I. “No one would go to this much trouble to hide a book if it didn’t hold something important.”
Mombi eyed me appraisingly, and I saw something like respect flicker in her eyes. It was kind of nice. We hadn’t always seen eye to eye, and I still had no idea if she even had my best interests at heart. (Let’s face it: probably not.) But it still meant something to me to have the old witch’s respect. She closed her eyes and began to mouth the words to a spell. Suddenly, I remembered what I’d seen when the Nome King had paralyzed me. The witches, looking out in fear. And Nox, all alone out on the prairie somewhere. Was what I’d seen real? What was he doing out there?
“Wait!” I said. She opened her eyes again, this time looking slightly irritated. Too bad. “How’s Nox? Where is he?” Mombi gave me a look so withering that if she had actually been in the room I probably would have flinched.
“He’s fine, and you don’t need to know anything else,” she said disgustedly. “Are you ready now?”
I wanted to ask more, but I knew better than to push my luck. Wherever Nox was, he either couldn’t or wouldn’t contact me—and neither option was all that appealing. If the witches had sent him on some secret mission, Mombi obviously wasn’t going to tell me. Mombi had already closed her eyes and was going back to her spell. The book in my hands began to radiate heat.
I could feel Mombi’s magic moving through me, but it was strange and alien, not the familiar feeling of sharing power that I’d tapped into before. Like I was just a piece of pipe that her power was pouring through, as unimportant as a lifeless hunk of plastic. I struggled to let go of the feeling of wrongness, to let Mombi work through me.
“Don’t fight me,” she hissed between gritted teeth. The strain of the spell was evident on her face. She was pale, and the deep wrinkles on her seamed old cheeks stood out in harsh relief. The book flapped open in my hands of its own volition, its pages riffling frantically in an invisible breeze. I gasped out loud and nearly dropped it as a tiny black cloud of swirling ink formed over the pages, dripping downward and shaping itself into tiny lines that became letters. The pages whipped faster and faster, filling with words. The book blazed with heat in my hands, its cover smoking. I couldn’t take it anymore; I dropped it on the ground with a yelp and heard its spine crack as it slammed to the floor.
“Amy!” Mombi gasped. “You have to—” But her outline was already fading, and whatever else she had to say was lost as her image flickered and vanished.
“Everything okay in there, honey?” my mom called, rapping lightly on the door.
“Great!” I yelped, kicking the still-smoking book under my bed.
“Were you asking me something?”
“Just talking to myself!” I reassured her. She said good night again and I heard her settle back on the couch with a sigh. I waited long minutes until I heard her soft snores through the door, and then I got out the book. It had cooled enough to touch, but I still handled it gingerly, half expecting it to bite me.
It was still just an ordinary old journal, the leather cover blackened in places where Mombi’s spell had singed it, but now the pages were filled with a cramped, old-fashioned cursive script. I opened it to a random page and, squinting, tried to make out the tiny, elegant letters.
. . . Millie is growing so beautifuly. Every day she lays at least 1 egg. Em says she will be a Prize Layer & maybe I can even entre her in the Fair next summer! I wood be so proud if she won a meddle!
Toto is so cute today. I am teching him to fetch but he only wants to play!
“Holy shit,” I breathed. This was it. It had to be. There was only one kid in Kansas who’d had an aunt named Em and a dog named Toto: Dorothy Gale, the little girl who’d gone to Oz. I turned the pages, skimming Dorothy’s diary entries. More about her chickens, her dog, her farm chores. And then: two blank pages, and after that, in a bolder, more jagged handwriting:
NO ONE BELEVES ME. BUT I WENT. THEY’LL BE SORRY ONE DAY EVERY ONE THAT SAID I LYED.
That was it. The journal ended there. The rest of the pages were blank. Nothing about her shoes, her return to Kansas, or anything that had happened in Oz. If there was any more writing hidden there, Mombi’s spell hadn’t revealed it. I sighed and closed the diary. All I’d discovered was that Dorothy was real—which I really, definitely already knew—and that someone had wanted to hide that fact. Someone with a lot of power. Someone who I was pretty sure wasn’t on my side. I hid Dorothy’s journal under my mattress and closed my eyes. I’d figure something else out in the morning. But for now, I was exhausted.
I tossed and turned for a while on my narrow bed, and when I finally fell asleep, I dreamed terrible dreams, reliving some of the worst moments I’d had in Oz. The spell I’d used to permanently separate Pete and Ozma while Ozma screamed in pain. Beheading the Lion, the fountain of his blood spurting all over me. Polychrome’s broken body. And in the background, Dorothy cackled away, mocking my inability to defeat her, her red shoes pulsing with that awful light.
Everything else faded away, and then I faced her alone on an open, dusty plain that looked strangely familiar. Gray-green lightning struck the barren earth around us, and thunder boomed in the distance. Dorothy’s eyes were crazy, and a hot wind whipped her checked dress and blew dust in my eyes until I could barely see. I reached deep within myself to find the magic to fight her, but there was nothing there. She laughed as she watched me struggle, and then snapped her fingers. Helpless, I watched swirling darkness gather itself over her open palm. She raised one hand to fling it toward me, and I threw up my arms as if that would somehow protect me. I could hear someone shouting my name, but faintly, as if he was far away. Someone familiar. Someone who could protect me. Dorothy advanced toward me, shrieking with laughter, and I knew she was about to kill me.