Dorothy Must Die
Page 105

Dorothy froze, turning slowly to face me.
“Excuse me?” she said, the words out just as she saw me—Amy, not Astrid—eyes widening, noticing my knife.
“This is for Jellia,” I told her, and slashed my knife in a wide arc across her throat.
Before I could connect, a black ball of snarling fur flew through the air, aiming straight for me.
Toto sunk his teeth into my wrist. I yelped in pain, unthinkingly loosening my grip on my knife, and watched in horror as it went clattering to the ground as if in slow motion.
Dorothy had stumbled backward when I first slashed at her, tangling her feet in the dress she’d just taken off and falling to the floor. Now she screamed, pulling the dress up, quickly covering herself.
“Get her, Toto! Kill her!”
I shoved Toto off me—he was little and his tiny bite had barely broken the skin—and scrambled for my knife. Stupid. I should’ve just stabbed her in the back, but I’d wanted to twist the knife figuratively, too.
Dorothy jabbed a finger at me, her eyes blazing with fury, probably trying to blast me with the same lightning bolt spell she’d slung at Jellia. But that fury changed to confusion and then fear as the spell sparked, sputtered, and died.
I grabbed my knife from the pink carpet but before I could charge Dorothy, Toto latched on to my arm again. He got my free forearm this time, so without really thinking about it, I stabbed at him with my knife. He let go just in time, yelping and barking, dancing around at my ankles. Fresh pinpricks of blood welled up on my arm, but I ignored them.
“Don’t hurt my dog, you bitch!”
I glanced at Dorothy just in time to see the airborne plush, pink ottoman that she’d flung at my head. I ducked out of the way but lost my balance in the process, stumbling against the nearby vanity.
This was going great.
Dorothy, wearing the dress the Tin Woodman had ripped, now all wrinkled and not pulled on quite right, booked for the door.
Shit.
“Guards!” Dorothy screamed as she fled her room. Toto yipped once more at me, then went racing after Dorothy. I chased them, knowing I couldn’t let Dorothy make it back to the party where she could rally her guards. I’d blown my perfect shot—I’d let Nox down, and the Order, and most importantly, Jellia.
As I sprinted into the hall, I heard alarms squealing from all around the palace. The screams of partygoers echoed all the way up here.
The halls were dim—the torches giving off less light than usual, as if even the flames here were augmented with magic. At first I didn’t see Dorothy, but then I spotted the unmistakable dazzle of her shoes as she turned a corner.
I was faster than her. I’d been trained by the Order of the Wicked, and she was lazy, drunk, and used to relying on her magic to protect her.
Dorothy glanced over her shoulder and saw me gaining. Instead of heading for the ballroom, maybe knowing I would’ve caught her before she got there, she suddenly veered left, through a barred door normally forbidden to the maid staff, and up a narrow spiral staircase.
I took the steps two at a time. The spirals of the staircase were so tight that I lost sight of her, but I could hear her shoes clicking, her breath heavy and panicked. I pressed on, getting dizzy. How high was this tower? Where was Dorothy leading me?
Then I felt a breeze on my cheek. I was outside. For a second, the lights from the city below us blinded me and then I could see again. We were on a jacaranda-covered terrace and Dorothy was standing with her back pressed up against the edge of the balcony. Her psycho little dog was trembling in her arms. Not so brave anymore.
I had her trapped. There was nowhere for her to go.
Her shoes weren’t going to help her.
I took a step forward.
With Dorothy helpless in front of me, basically just waiting to die, I hesitated. It was different this way—having time to think about it, not trying to kill her in the heat of the moment. I needed to be cold-blooded, to remember everything that she’d done, to remember that the girl standing in front of me was a monster.
And yet, I found my gaze pulled across the glittering panorama of the Emerald City, the place I’d read about in books my whole life. I was higher up than I’d ever thought it was even possible to go. I wondered what my mom would think if she could see me now, at the top of the tallest tower in the palace of a magical fairyland a million miles from the Dusty Acres trailer park.
About to stab the former heroine of the story.
For some reason, Dorothy didn’t look afraid of me anymore. She just smiled sweetly at me, her eyes wide and glittering.
“Amy, right?” she asked calmly. “The one that got away.”
I didn’t reply. I knew she was buying time, a classic desperation maneuver. I inched closer.
“I suppose I’ll never know what happened to the real Astrid,” Dorothy said, sighing. “My sweet little maid.”
“Like you care,” I replied, not able to help myself.
Dorothy smiled sadly and half turned to gaze out over the skyline.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” she said. “I come up here when I want to think. Sometimes it’s almost like I can see clear on back to Kansas. You know?”
There was a resigned, nostalgic tone in her voice.
This time, I didn’t let her bait me. I wondered if this sudden change in her personality was all a big act, or if maybe, somehow cutting off the flow of magic from her shoes was bringing Dorothy back to her senses.
I took another step forward.
She didn’t flinch. “I think my aunt Em would have liked you,” she said, still smiling, talking casually like I was an old friend. “She’d think you’re awful pretty. She’d want me to give you a second chance. She’d say, ‘Dorothy, there’s no such thing as a bad apple.’ She’d know you’re no killer. That they tricked you. She’d say, ‘You know, Dorothy, maybe you and that Amy have more in common than you realize.’”