Oz Reimagined: New Tales from the Emerald City and Beyond (5 page)

Oz the Triumphant!

He moored to the peak of the Witch’s highest tower and descended a rope ladder to the castle’s courtyard, where the Witch was waiting for him.

She was older than he expected but certainly not much more so than an old maid or two he had courted briefly back in Omaha. She was taller than he was, but some of that was the tall pointed hat she wore. If he could only convince her to ditch the hat and put her hair up in a more practical bun.

“Very bold, coming here,” the Witch said to him when his feet touched ground. “Bold…or foolhardy.”

“Merely the logical thing to do…” Oscar started. He swallowed hard. Though he considered himself an accomplished practitioner of the elocutionary arts, this one would require every bit of his skill. He finished, “since I wanted to prove myself worthy of you.”

“Worthy?” she said, surprised.

“Worthy!” he said confidently.
Witches love confidence.
“The man who could capture your Winged Monkeys and return them to you is the man who can outsmart your enemies just as easily. Who better to be your ally than the man who could outsmart you…but didn’t?”

“What are you getting at?” she said.

He bowed low to her, and when he raised his head again, he smiled. “You have a kingdom without a king. I could be that man. You have a castle without a lord. I could be that man. You have a heart without a helpmeet…I could be that man.”

“Are you suggesting that I need you?”

“I’m suggesting that we need each other. Why, we could be like John Smith and Pocahontas, opening up virgin lands for settlement. We could be like Sacajawea and Lewis—or possibly Clark—expanding territories westward. Isn’t it manifest? Isn’t it destiny?”

She stared at him up and down, and he tried not to pose or preen too much, although he wanted her to notice what a figure he cut. Her glance slipped past his shoulder to the impressive airship moored behind him. A wicked grin played across her lips.

“So is that progress in your pocket,” she said, “or are you just happy to see me?”

The conversation went downhill quickly from there.

H
IS
N
EW
D
IGS

The two witches shared a cup of tea in the gazebo situated in Locasta’s summer garden. Locasta held a cup of tea to her lips and breathed in the minty aroma while her sister
from the East retrieved a small hat from her pocket and set it on the table.

“Here’s the Golden Cap,” she said. “Whoever possesses it can command the Winged Monkeys three times. I’ve used my three commands, so now I pass it on to you. You may need them next if he chooses to come after you.”

“Thank you,” Locasta said. “But I don’t think I need to fear him much, not after what you’ve described.”

“He’ll fool some with his tricks and bluster, like he has the folks in the Emerald City.”

“What else did he say to you, then? After he proposed, I mean. That was a proposal of marriage, wasn’t it?”

“Oh yes, it most definitely was.” She chuckled and tapped her silver shoes in delight. “So then he told me he thought that together, we could unite all four kingdoms into a single country, which, get this, he wanted to name for himself.”

“Oz?” asked Locasta.

“No, that’s just it,” her sister said, pausing to drop in another cube of sugar. “He suggested that we call it
Diggety
.”

“And that’s when—”

“And that’s when I pointed up in the air, to show him the Monkeys had chewed through their ropes and were flying away with my new zeppelin. Smoothest heist ever.”

BY SEANAN MCGUIRE

T
he pillows were cool when I woke up, but they still smelled of Polychrome—fresh ozone and petrichor, sweeter than a thousand flowers. I swore softly as I got out of bed and crossed to the window, opening the curtains to reveal a sky the sunny fuck-you color of a Munchkin swaddling cloth. There was no good reason for the sky to be that violently blue this time of year—no good reason but Ozma, who was clearly getting her pissy bitch on again.

Sometimes I miss the days when all I had to deal with were wicked witches and natural disasters and ravenous beasts who didn’t mean anything personal when they devoured you whole. Embittered fairy princesses are a hell of a lot more complicated.

I showed the sky my middle finger, just in case Ozma was watching—and Ozma’s always watching—before closing the curtains again. I was up, and my girlfriend was once again banished from the Land of Oz by unseasonably good weather, courtesy of my ex. Time to get ready to face whatever stupidity was going to define my day.

As long as it didn’t involve any Ozites, I’d be fine.

The hot water in the shower held out long enough for me to shampoo my hair. That was a rare treat this time of year, and one I could attribute purely to Ozma’s maliciousness: lose a girlfriend, get enough sun to fill the batteries on the solar heater. It was a trade I wouldn’t have needed to make if I’d had any magic of my own, but magical powers aren’t standard issue for little girls from Kansas, and none of the things I’ve managed to pick up since arriving in Oz are designed for something as basic as boiling water. That would be too easy.

I was toweling off when someone banged on the bathroom door—never the safest of prospects, since the hinges, like everything else in the apartment, were threatening to give up the ghost at any moment. “Dot! You done in there? We’ve got trouble!”

“What kind of trouble, Jack?” I kept toweling. My roommate can be a little excitable sometimes. It’s a natural side effect of having a giant pumpkin for a head.

“I don’t know, but Ozma’s here! In person!”

My head snapped up, and I met my own startled eyes in the mirror. The silver kiss the Witch of the North left on my forehead the day I arrived in Oz gleamed dully in the sunlight filtering through the bathroom skylight. “I’ll be right there. Just keep her happy while I get dressed.”

“I’ll try,” he said glumly. His footsteps moved away down the hall. My surprise faded into annoyance, and I glared at my reflection for a moment before I turned and headed for the door to my room. Ozma—fucking
Ozma
—in
my
apartment. She hadn’t been to see me in person since the day she told me we couldn’t be together anymore, that I had
become a “Political liability” thanks to my unavoidable association with the crossovers.

I would always be a Princess of Oz. Nothing could change that, not even the undying will of Her Fairy Highness. But I was no longer beloved of the Empress, and if I wanted to see her, I had to come to the Palace like everybody else. So what the hell could have brought her to the crossover slums at all, let alone to my door?

I wrenched drawers open and grabbed for clothing, only vaguely aware that I was dressing myself for battle: khaki pants, combat boots, and a white tank top—none of which would have been anything special outside of Oz. Here the tank top was a statement of who and what I was, and why I would be listened to even if I were a crossover and not a natural-born citizen. Only one type of person is allowed to wear white in the Land of Oz; it’s the color of witches, and I, Dorothy Gale, Princess of Oz, exile from Kansas, am the Wicked Witch of the West.

Putting in my earrings took a little more care. I would have skipped it if Ozma had sent a representative instead of coming herself, but it was the very fact of her presence that both made me hurry and take my time. Ozma needed to see that I was taking her seriously. So in they went until my ears were a chiming line of dangling silver charms: slippers and umbrellas and field mice and crows. I checked my hair quickly, swiping a finger’s-worth of gel through it with one hand. The tips were dyed blue, purple, red, and green—four of the five colors of Oz. I’m a natural blonde. I didn’t need dye to display the colors of the Winkie Country.

Clapping the diamond bracelet that represented the favor of the Winkies around my left wrist, I gave myself one last look in the mirror and left the room. I could hear voices drifting through the thin curtain that separated the
apartment’s narrow back hallway from the main room: Jack, a high tenor, almost genderless and perpetually a little bit confused; a low tenor that had to belong to one of Ozma’s guards; and Ozma herself, a sweet, piping soprano that I used to find alluring back when it whispered endearments instead of excuses. I stopped at the curtain, taking a breath to bolster myself, and then swept it aside.

“I’m flattered, Ozma,” I said. “I didn’t know you remembered where I lived.”

The main room served as both our living space and the reception area for my duties as the Crossover Ambassador. It was shabby, as befitted both those roles. Ozma stood out against the mended draperies and twice-repaired furniture like an emerald in gravel.

Her back was to me, facing Jack and a guardsman in royal livery. If we could have conducted the entire meeting that way, I would have been thrilled. Sadly it was not to be. Her shoulders tensed, and then the Undying Empress, Princess Ozma, turned to face me.

She was beautiful. I had to give her that, even if I never wanted to give her anything again. Her hair was as black as the midnight sky, and like the midnight sky, it was spangled with countless shining stars, diamonds woven into every curl. Red poppies were tucked behind her ears, their poisonous pollen sacs carefully clipped by the royal florists. It all served to frame a face that couldn’t have been more perfect, from her red cupid’s-bow mouth to her pale brown eyes, the same shade as the sands of the Deadly Desert. Her floor-length green silk dress was more simply cut than her court gowns; I recognized it from garden walks and picnics back in the days when I was in favor. She wore it to throw me off balance. I knew that; I rejected it…and it was working all the same.

“I granted you this space,” she said sweetly. “Of course I remember. How are you, my dear Dorothy?”

“Peachy,” I snapped. “What are you doing here, Ozma?”

“It’s such a beautiful day outside, I thought you might need some company.” A trickle of poison crept into her words. That was all it ever took with Ozma. Just a trace, to remind you how badly she could hurt you if she wanted to. “Don’t you love the sunshine?”

For a moment I just gaped at her, inwardly fumbling for some reply—any reply, as long as it didn’t involve hurling something at her head.

Finally I settled for, “Not really. What do you
want
, Ozma? Because I don’t want you here.”

“Ah. It’s to be like that, is it?” The sweetness vanished from her face in an instant as she straightened, looking coldly down her nose at me. “There’s been a murder. I expect you to deal with it.”

“Uh, maybe you’re confused. I’m not a detective, and I’m not a member of your royal guard. I’m the Crossover Ambassador and the Wicked Witch of the West. Neither of those jobs comes with a ‘solve murders’ requirement.”

“No, but both of those jobs come with a ‘control your people’ requirement, and Dorothy, one of your people is a murderer.” Ozma’s lips curved in a cruel smile. I balled my hands into fists, pushing them behind my back before I could surrender to the urge to slap that smile right off her smug, pretty little face. “The body was found Downtown, in the old Wizard’s Square. My guards are holding it for you. Find the killer, and deliver him to me.”