Very Bad Wizards

by Stunich, C. M.

  “What’s the rush?” I ask, rubbing at the sore spot on my head and wiggling my toes in the sparkly shoes. They’re surprisingly comfortable, as light as air on my feet. “It’s not like we have an appointment; we’re just dropping in.”

  “It’s better to travel the Y.B.R during the day. We need every minute of daylight we can get.” Taavi packs up the rest of the food from last night, slipping it into the duffel bag and then waiting expectantly near the door.

  “No breakfast?” I groan, putting my feet on the floor and yawning again. “No shower?”

  “There’s deodorant in the bag,” Taavi tells me, business-oriented as usual. “Let’s go. Each minute we waste gives our adversaries time to track us.”

  “Adversaries?” I ask as Taavi opens the door and heads into the hallway, leaving me little choice but to follow along behind him. It’s eerily quiet in the house, but when we hit the first floor, I see that we’re not the only ones awake. “What the hell?” I whisper as little bark-skinned creatures sweep the floor, polish the stones on the fireplace, and work diligently in the kitchen.

  “Brownies,” Taavi says absently, barely paying the tiny people any mind at all. They’re even shorter than the Munchkins, maybe two feet tall at most, all of them wearing those same blue pointed caps. Their faces are vaguely human, with long noses, sharp elf-like ears, and pointy chins. “Don’t pay them any mind.”

  The creatures watch us with bored expressions as we pass by, heading for the front door.

  “God, this place is weird,” I murmur as soon as the front door is closed behind us.

  “Do not ever thank a brownie, offer them payment of any kind, or give them clothing.” Taavi breezes through the front gate, starting up our way-too-early day with a brisk pace, his bare feet slapping a steady rhythm along the yellow bricks of the road.

  “Why not?” I ask as the sun catches on Taavi’s handsome face, highlighting those full lips of this, those strong cheekbones.

  “They’ll take offense, and it’s always best not to offend the fae.”

  “Aren’t you one yourself?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “A fae, I mean? Bain called that beast form of yours a barghest. I might not be super well-versed in faerie lore, but my older brother played a ton of video games. I most definitely recognize that term.”

  “I am not a member of the fae,” Taavi says, his voice sharp and firm. This is one of those no-nonsense points of his, it seems. “I’m a canid.”

  “Which is …” I start, gesturing in his direction for further explanation.

  “A canid is a shapeshifter,” he says, ever vigilant in his scanning of the horizon. All I see here are corn fields on one side (not all that different from Kansas) and woods on the other. “Specifically, a shapeshifter that lives in the form of canids.”

  “Canids?” I repeat, trying to place the word. I know that I’ve heard it before; the definition is resting on the tip of my tongue.

  “Dog-like carnivorans,” Taavi says, glancing over at me. “Barghest are fae, but they’re also dogs. It wasn’t my intended choice, but your magic overwhelmed me.”

  “Oh, so it’s my fault you slaughtered a man-eating horse faerie?” I quip back, my mouth dropping open when Taavi looks away and refuses to answer. “You know what? I liked you a hell of a lot better when you were a German fucking shepherd.”

  I hang back a bit, swiping my hands over my hair to push it back from my face.

  Taavi’s back muscles are stiff, but he doesn’t reply, continuing our boring ass walk for hours. I miss my phone so damn bad. When I pull it out, I find my battery mostly depleted. Guessing there isn’t anywhere to charge it here either?

  “Fuck.”

  Sweat starts to bead on my forehead and drip down my back, soaking my dress. I’m not in bad shape, but I’m also no athlete. This sucks. That, and it’s boring as hell. There’s nothing here to look at, nobody but stick-up-his-ass Taavi.

  The cornfields go on for miles, this endless blur of gold against a blue-blue sky. After seeing little to nothing for hours, the scarecrow catches my attention.

  Speaking of …

  “Isn’t the scarecrow a major part of Dorothy’s story?” I ask, pointing in the direction of the hay-stuffed figure. It casts a long shadow, its painted maw grinning down at me like something out of a horror movie. If we are destined to meet up with a scarecrow of some sort, I just hope to hell it isn’t this one. The fucker looks like he might eat the flesh off my face.

  “Mm. Lyman may have … taken some liberties with his fiction,” Taavi says, glancing briefly at the scarecrow and then turning back to the road. I watch it for a while, but, thankfully, it doesn’t move. In fact, neither do the next two dozen scarecrows I see. They’re all creepy though, with sharp, pointed teeth and dark eyes.

  After a while, I stop bothering to look.

  That is, until I catch the eye of one that gives me a long, slow wink.

  “Oh, fuck my life,” I murmur, stopping dead in the middle of the road. Taavi pauses, his body going stiff as he scents the air, and turns to look at the scarecrow in the field nearest us.

  His face is painted like all the rest, but there’s something different about the way he’s hanging, like he’s weighted down in a way the others weren’t.

  “He just winked at me,” I say, a cold chill sliding down my spine. “And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but … none of the scarecrows in Kansas ever wink.”

  “Let’s keep going,” Taavi says, his voice dark and hard as he turns away and continues along the Yellow Brick Road, like a winking scarecrow isn’t worth a second thought. Only the tautness in his shoulders gives him away.

  I glance back at the scarecrow, and the figure nods its head at me in a friendly way. Biting my lower lip, I look at Taavi and then I head toward the fence. This is my delusion, after all, and there’s just … something about the scarecrow. I can’t put my finger on it, but I need to know more.

  Maybe I’m meant to help him in a way I couldn’t help my family?

  That’s it, right? The psychological explanation for how I’m manifesting my trauma?

  Did I ever mention that my father was a psychiatrist? Yeah, I’m used to psychoanalyzing bullshit.

  I hop the fence as Taavi turns around, calling out to me as my Vans hit the dirt on the other side. Shoving golden cornstalks aside, I fight my way over to where the figure hangs from a cross. The closer I get, the worse the smell becomes, like burnt hair and melted flesh.

  “Good day,” says the scarecrow, in a rather husky voice. I’m surprised by how much I like the sound of it.

  “You can talk?” I ask in wonder, circling around the wooden pole as Taavi catches up to me, cursing under his breath.

  “Certainly,” the figure replies, a wet sounding cough following. “But I’d be a much better conversationalist if you were to let me down.”

  “Not a chance in this hell we call Oz,” Taavi snaps, reaching out to grab my arm. “We don’t know why he’s here or who put him there.”

  “All of which I’d be more than happy to answer, provided you get me down from here. It’s quite tedious, being perched up here night and day to scare away the C.R.O.W.S.”

  “What about the C.R.O.W.S?” Taavi asks, perking up. His German shepherd ears—which he seems to be able to shift on and off with ease, along with his tail—swivel in the figure’s direction. The scarecrow laughs, this low, husky sound that promises that maybe, under all that horrid paint on his face, that he might be a bit of a looker.

  “Again, another question I’d be happy to answer as soon as my feet are on the ground.”

  “You’re a harsh negotiator,” I say, planting my hands on my hips. “But it sort of feels like we have the upper hand here. Why don’t you tell us why you’re nailed to the cross like Jesus H. Christ, and we’ll let you down?”

  “Jesus H. Christ?” the figure asks. “Is he a wizard as well?”

  “Poor choice of reference on my part,” I correct as the figur
e’s painted maw curves up into a smile. “Look, just tell us why you’re up there. What’d you do? Murder somebody?”

  “I tried,” he says, with a long sigh of regret. “But I failed. That’s why I’m up here.” I exchange a look with Taavi, but he’s staring at the scarecrow and not at me. “The Munchkin clan who was supposed to help me down were slaughtered by the Witch of the East.”

  “The chick I just killed?” I ask, glancing over at Taavi. He nods brusquely, attention still focused on the scarecrow.

  “You’re the sorceress who finally killed that bitch?” the scarecrow asks, his voice piquing with interest. “Oh, this should be fun. Let me down, so I can properly introduce myself.”

  “He’s not fae, is he?” I ask Taavi, wondering if I’m making a huge mistake here. What if I let this guy down, and he turns into a man-eating horse monster? Or something worse?”

  “He’s a wizard,” Taavi confirms, his face scrunching up as his lip curves up in a snarl. “A very bad wizard.”

  “Oh, I’m no such thing, guardian. Now, if you’d please take me down from here, I’d be very much obliged. You have my sworn word that, for a minimum of three days, I’ll raise neither hand nor spell against you unless you raise them against me first.”

  “You’re not a member of the fae; you can quite easily lie which, I suspect, you’re doing now. Oz, my recommendation is that we leave this man where he is, to suffer whatever fate he’s brought on himself.” Taavi turns back toward the blue fence and the road, but I hesitate, studying the scarecrow’s ragged face.

  “I see you’re traveling the Y.B.R. Perhaps you’re heading for the City of Emeralds? If so, I might offer some caution. Dorothy is not quite the saint that she pretends to be. She’s the one that had me burned alive, after all.”

  “Burned alive?” I study the blue suit of clothes he’s wearing, very similar to those worn by the Munchkins, the bits of hay sticking out from beneath it, the paint smeared across his face. He doesn’t look like he’s been burnt, but I guess there’s not really any visible skin showing. There is, however, a pungent fucking smell.

  “Dorothy, the Small and Meek?” Taavi asks incredulously, his voice rife with suspicion. “With her morality laws and high ideals?”

  “Like you said to me,” the scarecrow continues, lifting his chin up slightly to look at the slowly setting sun. “She’s not fae, is she? She’s capable of telling lies. If you’re going to Emerald City to register, just remember that if you fight in her tournament and lose, you could very well find yourself staked to a pole in a field of corn. As an aside, I feel I should also warn you that the other scarecrows are as alive as I am, though in a different way. As soon as night falls, they’ll be up and after you. Best you remain on the other side of the blue fence.”

  “Let’s take him down,” I tell Taavi who, I gotta admit, looks like he wants to kill me right about now. “He knows shit that might be helpful to us, doesn’t he?”

  “So he says.” Taavi comes up to stand in front of the scarecrow, the yellow cornstalks waving around him in the breeze. “If you’re so eager to prove your trustworthiness, put your words into magic.”

  “If I could cast from up here, don’t you think I’d have already gotten myself down by now?” The man on the pole seems supremely irritated at this point. I mean, I can’t say I blame him. His arms are nailed to the wood, brown-red stains tainting his long-sleeved jacket, a very clear sign of blood and trauma. “This pole behind me drains my magic into the soil; it was the only way for me to heal after what Dorothy did to me. Every Wizard has their weakness, and mine just so happens to be fire. If you have need to kill me, you know how to go about it.”

  “Oh, come on, Taavi,” I say, gesturing up at the guy. “Get him down and hear what he has to say.”

  With a snarl, Taavi moves over to the wooden pole stuck into the dirt, and I realize that I’ve just given him a direct command without even meaning to. This is, like, some Ella Enchanted type shit. I need to be more careful with my words. What happens if I absently say die mad about it or something?

  See.

  Another life lesson: be careful with your words.

  Taavi digs his bare feet into the dirt, braces his shoulder against the wooden pole, and shoves, muscles rippling beneath his skin. With a groaning creak, the wood shifts in the dirt and the entire structure falls backward.

  “Taavi!” I shout, but he’s way ahead of me, moving with lightning speed to stop the descent of the pole before it crashes into the waving golden arms of the cornfield. He very carefully sets it down and steps back, using two fingers to pull first one nail out of the scarecrow’s arm, and then the other. Fresh blood pools on the dirt as the scarecrow rolls to one side, coughing and choking as Taavi goes about untying his ankles. “Are you okay?” I ask, realizing even as I do that that’s a pretty relative sort of question.

  Is he okay?

  Well, he smells like burnt hair and death, he’s bleeding profusely, and he’s covered in paint and stuck-on hay. My guess is the answer to that question is a resounding no.

  “I will be, shortly,” the scarecrow says, sitting up and leaning over to put his head on his knees. He groans, half in pain, half in pleasure. “It’s been so long since I was able to move like this.”

  Scarecrow Bro (the name works, okay?) sits up and blinks at us, his real eyes a vibrant almost metallic gold color behind the blue paint splotched onto his lids and face. The painted eyes are lopsided, as is the crooked, grinning mouth, but this close up, I can see the wrinkled, ruined skin beneath the color.

  He really is covered in burn scars, isn’t he?

  “Make a pact,” Taavi growls out, nodding to me. “And bind it.”

  “I’ve only just gotten down and you’re after me?” Scarecrow Bro says, turning that disturbing visage of his towards Taavi. “Awfully bossy, for a guardian.” Brushing his hands off on his pants, he turns those gold eyes up to mine, and I feel my heart skip a few beats.

  Whoa.

  “On my word, I swear not to raise hand nor spell at you and yours for at least three days, provided you don’t raise either toward me first. Do we have a deal?”

  “Deal,” I say, reaching out to shake his hand. Scarecrow Bro very carefully pulls the fingers of one glove until it’s resting in his palm. He extends a ruined, scarred hand toward me.

  Swallowing down a lump, I reach out and take it, feeling this surge of power pass between us, just like it did when Bain kissed me, or when I kissed Taavi. Magic. Fingers tingling, I draw my hand back to my chest as the scarecrow sits back up again, examining his own hand with a shrewd expression.

  “We’ve done as you asked. Now, talk.” Taavi steps forward, arms crossed over his bare chest.

  Scarecrow Bro sighs heavily and gives the dog-man a look.

  “In due time, my friend. In due time.”

  He reaches up with his gloved right hand, pulling at the ends of his fingers, as if he were still wearing a glove on the left hand. I give Taavi a look, but he isn’t paying me any attention, his brown-eyed gaze focused solely on the scarecrow.

  The skin at the tips of his fingers comes loose, and I choke back a sound of surprise, stepping back into the cornstalks as he moves down the row of digits. When he peels his wrinkled skin off of his hand, I almost puke, snapping my lids closed until I hear him let out a blissful sigh.

  “Much better,” he murmurs, more to himself than to either of us. When I open my eyes back up, I find him staring at an unblemished hand with bronze skin and long, matte black fingernails. He reaches up to his head, pulling off his straw hat and tossing it aside before stands up in front of me.

  He’s a lot taller than he looked when he was strung up there, almost as tall as Taavi.

  His scalp is a ragged mess of burn scars, hairless and pink-tinged. I imagine that under all that paint, his face looks much the same. Without skipping a beat, the scarecrow reaches up and digs his fingernails into the skin on the side of his face.

  As Taavi and
I watch, he peels that away, too, over his lids and nose and lips, tossing the ruined skin aside like a mask.

  What’s underneath it takes my breath away.

  “Ahh, much better,” he purrs in that husky voice, reaching up to ruffle his shiny dark hair with the fingers of his gloved hand. “So much better. I feel like a new man.”

  He smiles at me, and I gape, staring at one of the most handsome faces I’ve ever seen, with a full mouth set in an infuriating smirk, long lashes, and a face that’s half-covered in the swirling black lines of tattoos.

  Taavi growls and steps close to me as the scarecrow walks in a small circle around us.

  “Don’t mind Taavi,” I tell the scarecrow with a shrug of my shoulders. “He only bites when I tell him to.”

  “Oh, I’m not scared of him,” the scarecrow says in that husky voice of his. “There’s only one thing in all of Oz that I’m afraid of.”

  “And that is?” I ask as the man stops in front of me, and very carefully reaches down to unbutton his blue jacket. He tosses it aside to reveal a scarred chest underneath, digging at his skin near his abs with his nails, and then peeling that away to reveal a body worthy of a Men’s Health cover shoot. “Dorothy?”

  “Fuck no,” he snorts with a laugh, dropping the thin sheet of scarred flesh to the ground like a snake shedding its skin. The man leans in close to me, his breath warm against my ear. “I’ll let you in on a little secret: the only thing I’m scared of … is a lit match.”

  The Creepy Road Through the Even Creepier Forest

  “What’s your name, anyway?” I ask as we hop the blue fence back to the Y.B.R. just as the sun dips beneath the horizon. Within seconds—seconds—the other scarecrows are at the fence, watching us. Scares the ever-living shit out of me, I won’t lie, but other than a low growl from Taavi, neither he nor our new friend pay them any mind. Their eyes, however, these glowing blue orbs, are likely to haunt me until the end of my days.

  “Stryker, the Vain and Arrogant,” he says, without a shred of humility or shame. He smooths his hands down the wrinkled, bloodied blue coat with the bits of straw stuck to it. The way his mouth wrinkles up in distaste tells me one, that his name is likely pretty damn accurate, and two, that he’d much rather be wearing something—anything—else.