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It was the boy who’d never told me his name. The one who’d saved my life back at the pit.
One of the birds cocked its head. The thing had ears—human ears, grafted awkwardly to either side of its head. A second passed, and the crow next to the first one cawed loudly, staring at me. It blinked, once, twice, with big human eyelids.
Well hello night mare that I will be having tonight
“Just tell me,” I said. “Maybe there’s some trick to it. Things like that always work in fairy tales.” “Do you honestly think this is a fairy tale?” Pete asked.
At least she is thinking outside the box
The darkness washed over me—a darkness like I’d never experienced before.
The knife was mine. I didn’t want to give it back. It could keep me safe. Mombi clucked her tongue but didn’t really seem to care. “See? That’s the spirit. We’ll make a Wicked one out of you yet, now won’t we?”
It like she born as Wicked one
We’ll make a Wicked one out of you yet. What had I gotten myself into?
Just beware of water, i heard Wickes don't mix well with Water
“Why does there have to be a beginning and an ending?” the voice asked. “If you ask me, it’s all middle.”
“No rest for the Wicked, is there, Amy?”
Glamora’s voice was glittering mischievously. “Down is up, up is down. Good is Wicked, Wicked is Good. The times are changing. This is what Oz has come to.”
“Simple. You’re going to kill her.” She looked right at me and said, “Dorothy must die.”
Roll credits
“You want me to kill Dorothy,” I said. It was so ridiculous that I didn’t even know where to start. “That’s the idea,” Glamora said. The look in her eyes said she didn’t think it was very funny at all.
The story was true. The Wizard of Oz had been real. Dorothy Gale had really been swept up by a tornado and brought to the Land of Oz. True, what I was living now didn’t seem like the kind of storybook tale I was used to. But it didn’t mean they didn’t exist.
Say what you will about these witches, but they valued style.
At least we know when you are wicked, there is style to the title
“There’s just something about her,” I said. “Something that creeps me out.” “She’s Glinda’s twin,” he replied. “What do you expect? Imagine having your other half turn on you, and knowing that one day you’ll have to face her in battle.”
Disappointed this isn’t Glinda. Double agent would have been more interesting.
“You don’t have to know every turn of the road in order to walk down it.”
“Welcome to your first official dinner with the Revolutionary Order of the Wicked.” And with that, he led me into the dining room. The dining room was formal like Glamora. But spooky, too.
“What happened to you?” I asked, horrified. “Family can hurt us better than anyone.”
Beautiful was in the way that she moved and spoke. Beautiful was an action as well as a description.
twin, you’re connected. I used to be able to see what she was doing, I could feel when she was in pain. But since she did this, I don’t feel her anymore. I don’t see her anymore. There’s a chance that if the knife went all the way through me, then it would go all the way through her as well. Killing me could very well end her own life.”
When I first saw Glamora just a few days ago, I thought she was the scariest thing in the world because I had thought she was Glinda. But now that I’d seen the real Glamora, I wondered if maybe she was scarier than Glinda after all.
I stifled a laugh, not sure which was funnier: the idea of me being a lady or him being a gentleman.
Forgiveness can get you places, I guess. But sometimes you need to light a fire.
helpful hints about meeting new people was to tell them something you know about them.
Mombi wouldn’t listen. The Lion’s no joke. You have to promise me you won’t do anything stupid. I—we need you too much. You’re too valuable.” For a second, I’d thought he’d been saying something different. But now his jaw was set, and I remembered again.
“The Lion spent so long afraid of every creature in the forest. Now he commands them,”
I saw the Lion himself for the first time in the flesh. He had been a vague, hazy shadow in Glamora’s scrying pool, but now, in person, I realized exactly how terrifying he really was. Really, he was barely recognizable as a lion at all. He looked like a monster, like some warped nightmare version of the king of the jungle. He was huge and golden, with bulging, grotesque muscles and a filthy, snarled mane. His lips were curled back, baring a mouth crowded with sharp, long, crooked fangs.
“Do what?” I asked, somehow believing that as long as I held on to her gaze then she would hold on to me. “You have to kill Dorothy, Amy.”
“I have a list of Dorothy’s likes and dislikes and schedule. Memorize it and then destroy it.” He held the list out toward me. When my hand grazed his, he grabbed on tight.
If I learn anything by spy movies, she will have to eat the list than
He closed the gap between us without taking a step and his mouth closed over mine before I could speak. He was kissing me. I closed my eyes and let go of everything except him for a few seconds. I had never kissed a boy before so I had nothing to compare it to. But I was sure that whatever it was like, kissing Nox had to be different.
So much for my plan to pass the time by staring at fire. I sighed. “Boredom,” I said aloud, “thy name is assassin-ing.”
“It’s exhausting,” he continued, “but it’s the price they must pay to have the finest brain in all of Oz.” “Yes, sir,” I mumbled.
“Today is a beautiful day to be in Oz!” The lilting, sweet voice wafted across the crowded table in the servants’ mess hall where I was eating breakfast with the rest of the maids.
It was all about how beautiful Dorothy was, or how kind she was, or how lucky we were to be working for the greatest person in all of Oz. It was weird. They were like a creepy, overeager maid sorority. By the end of breakfast, I found my fork moving in time with the other maids.
Was it magic? I wondered. A spell to make us as orderly as possible? Did Dorothy have some kind of charm working to keep us from eating like slobs or tapping our forks? Or was the clockwork perkiness machine just the maids’ way of dealing with the constant fear of living under Dorothy?
“You know using magic would be wasteful, Astrid. Dorothy needs it, every drop. Besides, doing the work the old-fashioned way is comforting to Dorothy. It reminds her of how she used to clean the farm back in the Other Place.”
For a snack, Jellia brought out an array of stale muffin bottoms. Apparently, Dorothy ate only the tops. While the other girls ate with a chorus of “oohs” and “aahs”—I guess muffin butts were a treat around here—
Muffin butt are the best part if you ask me
So she spent her days entertaining the important people of Oz she hadn’t yet executed or driven into hiding.
didn’t see how screwed up everything was. But they went cheerfully along. Or, at least, they pretended to. Never for a moment did they doubt Dorothy’s magnificence and kindness and perfection. It was like they were brainwashed. Either that or scared out of their minds.
So this was what I was up against. A psychotic midwesterner with a reservoir of magic who was never alone, surrounded by loyal killers that would disfigure one of their own without a second thought.
Sure. This whole assassination thing would be a piece of cake.
“The Scarecrow is so brilliant,” I finally said. “Without him, we wouldn’t have so many of the advances in magical technology that make Oz the place it is now.” The Wizard smiled sadly and fiddled with his boutonniere. “Of course,” he said. “Where would Oz be if not for the Scarecrow’s great experiments? Ravens with human ears; men with bicycle wheels instead of legs—it’s a glorious world we live in now, isn’t it? It almost reminds me of the one I came from.”
Who could I trust? It was almost like the universe wanted to provide me with an answer when I opened my door to find Pete sitting on my bed.
“It’s possible,” he said. “The Wizard always seems to know more than everyone else. It has something to do with the kind of magic he uses. It’s different from the usual Oz magic. He’s a real wizard now. The question is what kind of wizard he is.” Exactly. The usual question: Good or Wicked?
“How about you carry a poison capsule in your little jaws and drop it into her mint julep? Think you could pull that off?” Star stared at me, then scratched my chest with her tiny claws and went back to sleep. I guess she wasn’t into my idea.
“Whatever you do,” she said, “don’t touch the shoes.” Dorothy’s room was wall-to-wall pink. Pepto-Bismol pink, cotton-candy pink, sunset pink, and every nauseating shade in between. A canopied bed was encircled with pink silken drapes; the floor was wall-to-wall pink shag carpet; and the ceiling overhead was covered in what looked like pink rhinestones that would probably make you go blind if you stared at them too long.
Inside it, a little black terrier was racing around in excitement, chasing his own tail. I knew exactly who that was. Toto.
Besides Her Royal Awfulness, there was something else that was conspicuously absent amidst the rows and rows of clothes: there wasn’t a single pair of shoes.
Power that came from those shoes. I want them, I thought. I need them. I should just take them.
Those who have sacrificed always have the most to lose,”
