Dorthea might have gasped at my lack of respect, but Oz only tilted his head to the side, like a cat watching will-o’-the-wisps. “I’m intrigued to see what you’ll do.”
“You’re the all-powerful whatever Oz, so haven’t you already written that part? What are we all doing sitting and playing magic tutor if the biggest bad is on the loose? In fact, tell me again why you don’t just grab a pen, lock Blanc back up, and give us all unicorn rides while you’re at it.”
“Rexi!” Dorthea yelled, her hands glowing green.
“That’s enough,” Kato roared at us both.
The old man fluffed his moth-eaten, oversize, tweed jacket. “It’s just Frank now, not Oz. This story is no longer in my hands, and I swore not to meddle and just advise.” He ignored Verte’s disgruntled snort and continued. “My Storymaking days have passed.”
“Very convenient,” I muttered. Storyfaker, I added silently because I didn’t want Dorthea to zap me. “Then how about you advise already? It’s been…” I wasn’t sure how long it had been anymore, so I ignored that part. “Where’s the gloomy ‘the end’ you’ve been moaning about?”
At that, Oz snapped to attention and focused his stare on me—no, more like through me. “That battle is coming, I assure you. Blanc is dangerous because she doesn’t make the same mistakes other villains do. She won’t face you head-on until the last possible moment. She’s not hiding. She’s growing her strength while she lets other pawns do the work for her.”
“I’m no one’s pawn,” I ground out, keeping the sour taste at the back of my throat.
Dorthea reached out to touch my arm but pulled back as green flames licked the edges of her fingers when she got close. With a sigh, she rubbed her temple. There were dark circles under her eyes that weren’t there before I died this last time.
I sensed her blasted concern again, and it only made me feel worse.
Shrugging, I looked away. “Whatever. Sorry dying puts me in a foul mood.”
Kato bridged the gap between us and wrapped his wings around both Dorthea’s and my shoulders. “Fair enough, hearth sister, but remember this: there is a very fine line between strength and stupidity. Don’t confuse the two.”
The aim of Kato’s barbed comment was much better than mine with an arrow. His words hit me right in the heart.
Folding his wings back, he turned to Dorthea. “Now, my lady, if you don’t mind, since I have no more need to fly anywhere, I’d just as soon get back to human form.” A smile crept over her face as Dorthea nodded, taking his furry muzzle in her hands.
I looked away.
At first, the magical malfunction of the “true love’s kiss” rule had been pretty funny to watch. But after a dozen smooches that switched the enchanted prince back and forth between his forms, I was ever after over the show.
Dorthea’s feelings swelled in my chest again, all warm and gooshy. Even with my eyes closed, I had a very clear mental picture of the dark and handsome boy whose auburn hair had grown just long enough to cover the little horned nubs he retained even in human form.
I could hear Dorthea whisper, “Hey, you.”
“Hey back,” Kato answered in his human voice, still almost a purr.
Like the rest of us weren’t even there.
Ech.
Love turned people into utter morons. I didn’t need what they had. Didn’t want it. I’d figure out the minimum I needed to do to trick the Compendium of Storybook Characters into accepting me. Who cared how many times I’d come back from the dead? This time would be the last, and that’s what mattered. I’d get it right this time so I could live a long and uneventful ever after.
Morte was a problem though, and my thoughts circled back to my plotline, the number of dark knots slowly growing in number compared to my untarnished ones. How much of myself had I already forgotten? What would happen if the entire line went black?
“Rexi will cease to exist,” both my shadow and Verte answered in an eerie tandem. “Long live the king.”
“Organization Tip #3: A place for everything and everything in its place. A tidy torture chamber is far more inviting than a sloppy cell. Just because you’re imprisoning someone doesn’t mean it can’t be pleasant.”
—Better Castles and Dungeons
5
You’ve Got Male
“Speaking up!” Hydra said, her head starting to slip off the tip of the bow.
Verte blinked, her eyes regaining focus. The emerald eye in her belt did the same, winking away its cloudiness. “What are you on about? I didn’t say nothing. You’re getting senile, you old bat.”
“Sharper than old, green goat.”
The two bickered back and forth while Oz tried to referee—or more specifically tried to stop Verte from kicking Hydra’s head like a goal between the chicken legs.
Their cranky “look at the harmless ancient hag” routine didn’t fool me for a bit. After years of indentured servitude in the Emerald palace kitchens, I knew one of Verte’s prophecies when I heard one. And this foreshadowing made my feet itch to run as far—and as fast—from here as I possibly could.
“That is one of the few talents you do possess.”
“Grimm, would you mud your mouth already?!” I shouted at Morte, forgetting no one else could hear him.
“Who do you think you’re sassing?” Verte pointed her sharp, poppy-red fingernail at me while the smell of burned bread and magic filled the air. “One set of frog legs fricker fracker coming right up.”
Remembering the last toad-ally awful evening she’d given me, I took a leaping dive for the grass, a tinkle of bells ringing behind me.
tinkle tinkle “You’ve got mail.” tinkle tinkle
Verte’s spell flew over my head.
“You’ve got m-ribbit.”
After rolling onto my back, I looked to where I had been standing. A hot-pink toad with shimmering wings and a messenger pouch hovered there, spitting out ribbit-laced profanities unfit for translating.
I snickered. “Way to turn fair-e-mail into a fairy fail.”
Verte harrumphed and stared indignantly. “Bah. Shows what you know. I clear as murk altered the directional fizzics of my spell to stop the intruder.”
“I would be impressed if I thought you could react that fast. However”—Oz plucked the fairy frog out of the air by its wings—“right now I am more interested in what this message is and how it managed to find us here.”
And when Oz said “interested,” that is precisely what he meant. Not excited. Not concerned. Merely engrossed in the puzzles and paradoxes that seemed to sprout up around us. Including him. The old crank made me twitchy. Oz was twice the trouble of that princess-obsessed Mimicman and half as nice to look at.
Oz tried to take the pouch off the frog, who croaked in protest, shooting out its tongue, which got snarled on the Maker’s mustache, startling him enough to drop the message. The fairy frog flittered about Oz’s facial hair in a sparkly, sneezy cloud of dust.
Picking up the miniature messenger pouch, I squinted so I could read the To line. “G. Pendragon. So is it a wrong address?”
Hydra’s face paled to match her hair. “Ach, nyet.”