So I wasn’t dead. Score one for Dorothy the Witchslayer: survived Armageddon. (With help.) (But still.) I was obviously in the Nome King’s guest bedroom—at least, I could only hope I wasn’t in his actual bedroom.
Some fresh air would’ve been nice, but the whole “windowless underground lair” situation suggested I’d have to pass on that particular luxury. And I had to admit, although the Nome King’s style was not entirely to my taste, the place was beautiful. Crystals spiked downward from the ceiling, a black fountain burbled black water in one corner, and now I noticed that a huge black wardrobe was tantalizingly half open, revealing a delectable selection of—you guessed it—black-and-red dresses. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about whether I matched. I looked down. Someone—I could only hope not the Nome King himself, because that would be a little forward of him—had gently bathed the dust from my skin and dressed me in a scanty negligee made of black lace and silk. A matching robe lay across the end of the bed and I threw it over my shoulders, feeling suddenly vulnerable. I wanted to wear something else, something of my own choosing, so I snapped my fingers to summon a nightgown with a little more coverage.
Nothing happened. I must still be tired from my giant ordeal and the shock of losing my crown. I snapped my fingers again and waited for the answering feeling of magic to flare up within me.
Instead I got what felt like faint, magical heartburn. I tried again. And again. Each time, the response was stronger. But it was nowhere near strong enough.
Was it possible Ev was interfering with my magic? That I was going to have to outwit the Nome King without my power to help me?
Ooooookay. That was a problem. And it was a problem I was going to have to solve very, very soon.
I threw off the covers, staring down at my glittering red heels. Was it something to do with the shoes themselves? That dimwit Amy Gumm had tried to imply that the shoes might be bad for me, but that couldn’t possibly be the case. The shoes were what had brought me back to Oz. The shoes were a gift from—
Glinda. Who, as it turned out, might not have entirely had my best interests at heart. It’s not as though I hadn’t had my suspicions at times. After all, she was still a witch underneath all that pink and glitter.
But I didn’t care. I wanted the shoes working again the way they were supposed to. The way you wanted to keep drowning in the poppy field after the first time you’d passed out there. The way you kept craving more and more power once you’d had your first taste of it. The way some things just got under your skin. Without them I was nothing. Without them I was just little Dorothy Gale, farm girl, eyes on the horizon and up to her ankles in cow shit. I never wanted to be that girl again. And I wasn’t going to be.
What was wrong with my magic? And did it have anything to do with the Nome King?
I needed some food and a manicure before I could do any serious thinking. At least, for the time being, I seemed to be safe. Even if I was no closer to figuring out what the Nome King’s plan was for me.
I wondered briefly if the Nome King had a handy Jellia Jamb type around; he didn’t seem like the kind of fellow who’d be much use in that department. Oh, Jellia. Do you know, after everything she did to me, I sometimes almost miss her? Nobody could apply a topcoat like Jellia. If only she hadn’t betrayed me. If only I hadn’t had to punish her. I sighed. It’s so hard to get good help these days.
So here I was, in the bowels of the Nome King’s underground lair. No magic. No way back to Oz. Not even a throne. I was Dorothy Gale, Witchslayer. I had an endless supply of gumption. I could survive this. But how?
And then a soft rap sounded at my door. I brightened. Hopefully, this was breakfast. I was starving. I sat up expectantly and called, “Yes?”
The door swung open soundlessly to reveal the Nome King.
“You’re awake,” he said in that smooth, sinister voice. It wasn’t entirely his fault that everything he said came out of his mouth sounding like he was trying to summon a demon from the far reaches of Hell.
From behind him scuttled a stooped, wrinkled servant in a shapeless, sack-like dress that hid everything about her except her earthworm-pale, nearly bald head. She looked like a Munchkin, sort of; the world’s saddest, shabbiest Munchkin, anyway. In Oz, the Munchkins were always very chipper. Perhaps the Munchkins of Ev were a different breed.
She was holding a silver tray covered with an assortment of cups and plates and steaming dishes. She placed the tray on the bedside table and scooted back into a corner, where she kept her eyes on the intricate red carpet that covered the stone floor. The Nome King beamed downward at me.
“You slept well, I trust? I know it was a difficult journey.”
“Great,” I said briskly, eyeballing the food. I was starving. And I definitely wasn’t going up against Ev’s biggest evil on an empty stomach.
“Please, help yourself,” he purred.
I was hoping for a singing pastry or two, but Ev’s typical fare was not quite up to Oz’s standards. There was an inky black soup, a little loaf of bread that was distinctly on the dry side, and a big plate of what looked suspiciously like mushrooms. But I was determined to be on my best behavior until I figured out what was going on. Like, for example, whether or not I was an honored guest—or a well-treated prisoner. I nibbled daintily on the loaf of bread, trying not to tear into it the way I wanted to.
“I have left you a servant, as is, I believe, the custom among your kind.” He pointed to the scrubby, bald little thing who still waited patiently in the corner, not looking at either of us. “She is a Munchkin,” he added. “I thought you might like a touch of home while you stayed with us.”
On the one hand, I was touched.
On the other—well, if he wanted me to feel at home, that didn’t suggest he had any intention of letting me go anytime soon. I didn’t want to be at home in Ev. I wanted to go back to Oz. He’d said he could help me. But so far, he hadn’t done anything except give me breakfast and a few things to think about.
“That’s not a Munchkin,” I said before I could stop myself. If I knew anything about Munchkins, it was that they had round, dimpled faces that I alternately wanted to pinch or slap depending on my mood. This creature’s face was thin and gaunt. She certainly did not look like she was about to break into song, as Munchkins were annoyingly known to do.
“I assure you she is. I obtained her myself many years ago from Munchkin Country.” The Nome King glanced pointedly at the Munchkin, who curtsied several times in a rather frantic manner.
If he was kidnapping Munchkins and rescuing me from crumbling palaces, he could go back and forth between Oz and Ev. Which meant he was the key to my getting home. Or perhaps—even better—the little Munchkin was. If she knew how he’d done it . . .