Very Bad Wizards

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Do we even know where the ballroom is?” I ask, panting, choking for breath and wishing I’d kept up on my swimming. I am way out of shape now.

  “I do,” Stryker confirms, and I start to wonder just, who, exactly he is and what his motivations are. For all I know, Thyer, the Wicked Witch of the West, is just as awful, if not more so, than Dorothy herself. But there isn’t a lot of time to think on my decision to follow him, and I figure if Taavi hasn’t said anything against this course of action, it can’t be all bad.

  We take nearly the same path as yesterday, when I went to meet with Dorothy, but instead of turning left for the throne room, we continue on and into a grand ballroom with curved glass walls on all sides. The only part of the room that isn’t open to the sky is the short hallway we just came down.

  And in the center of it all, there’s a pedestal with a glass dome, a red heart beating inside of it. My stomach roils with nausea as I shift my attention from the heart to the two dead guards on the floor next to the pedestal. There are crows everywhere, watching us from their perches, situated on tabletops and decorative candelabras.

  There are bees, too, big, fuzzy black ones drifting lazily through the air with stingers like small daggers. Two of them lie dead next to the guards on the floor.

  “God, this place is weird,” I groan as I notice Stryker smiling in the direction of the blue, blue sky all around us.

  “Hello Thyer,” he says, and I turn to find a man with a broom clutched in one hand, an umbrella in the other. One of his emerald eyes is covered with an eye patch, his skin a pale mint green, his mouth a thin slash across the bottom of his face.

  One look at him and something strange happens in my stomach, this flip-flopping sensation that I can only blame on magic.

  Thyer, aka the Wicked Witch of the West, moves into the room, dressed in a golden witch’s hat, his dark hair slightly curled and cut just long enough that it brushes his collar in the back. Stryker might know him personally—he has his mark, after all—but it’s me the Wicked Witch is looking at.

  I swallow hard as he puts two fingers to his lips and whistles, calling a winged fucking monkey into the room with him. They’re both standing on a platform with no sides, suspended over the endless sky above the city. There’s a hot air balloon docked their as well, in green and white gingham to match Dorothy’s colors.

  “Taavi,” I murmur, looking over at him, slumped against the pedestal with the heart inside of it, the collar still heavy around his neck.

  “So, this is the great storm wizard stirring up all these rumors of cyclones from another world.” Thyer leans on the end of his umbrella as the monkey—this glittering golden beast that looks very little like any monkey I’ve ever seen—drags three brooms into the room and drops them at Stryker’s feet.

  Like, um, and those are for what, exactly?

  “I don’t know about all that,” I reply cautiously as Taavi growls and the monkey bares his teeth in response. One of the crows—this one with three fucking eyes—lands on Thyer’s shoulder as he looks me over.

  “Oh, but I do. Dorothy is interested in you which means that I am interested in you. Ozora, the Great and Terrible, daughter of Ozma, the Practical and Determined. What an interesting twist of fate.”

  We all pause as heavy footsteps enter the room, and I turn to see General Mannix surrounded by guards. They fan out along the sides of the room as several more of the white and green gingham hot air balloons move into positions outside, near the platform.

  “Mannix,” Thyer says, smiling in a way that truly makes me question whether or not he’s one of the good guys … one of the bad ones … or some sort of chaotic neutral. “How lovely of you to make an appearance.”

  Several of the crows shift their wings, and open their beaks to cackle at the newcomers, while the cloud of fuzzy black bees float like bubbles, lazy and unconcerned with their own massive stingers.

  “Before I kill you,” Mannix begins, lifting his metal hand up and then bracing his wrist with the other. “Why don’t you tell me how you did it, how you got into the city? Maybe if you do, we’ll spare your people some in the invasion?”

  Thyer just smiles and continues to stay hunched over, leaning on his cane.

  “It’s interesting to me that you think, here and now, that you have some sort of advantage. Do tell: you plan to shoot me which, of course, won’t kill me. And then what? My crows will eat your eyes and what’s left of your brain? My bees will sting your soldiers until their corpses are bloated and unrecognizable? Or will you wait to hear how many of your own citizens have been eaten by my wolves?”

  Mannix shows no emotion whatsoever, but as confident as both sides seem, I’m the one who’s nervous. Nervous for me, for Taavi, maybe even Stryker. It feels like we’re caught in the middle of a game that somebody else is playing.

  I eye the pedestal. It buzzes with magic. Even from here, I can feel it dancing across my skin like the wings of a thousand butterflies. I lick my lips and inch toward it.

  “Dorothy will be here shortly,” Mannix replies, his voice an even thread of steel. “And then what? The tides will turn. You have two choices: flee now and save your own skin or fight for this girl.” The general tilts his head in my direction. “See if she turns the tide in this war one way or another. I suggest the former.”

  While the two sides are enjoying their penis-measuring contest, Stryker watches as Taavi moves to block me from view. He knows I’m up to something before anyone else does. Note to self: remember to tell Taavi how fucking awesome he is later.

  I press the shackles against the side of the glass, wondering if I can get a reaction, if I can somehow draw the magic in the dome into the horrid manacles on my wrist. Because it’s pretty obvious at this point that that’s what they do, how Mannix and Dorothy control wizards.

  “I think I’d be more interested in trying the latter,” Thyer muses, and the tension in the room amps up a notch. Between the soldiers and the creepy bees, the crows, Mannix, and the Wicked Witch … It’s about to get bloody in here.

  Come on, come on, let this work … I keep my manacles pressed into the glass until it begins to crack. Lifting both hands up, I swing them at the dome and smash the top to pieces. It shatters, falling to the white—guess everything in the palace isn’t green without the glasses—marble beneath my feet.

  Without hesitation, I grab the heart in both hands and Mannix’s gray eyes go wide.

  It’s warm and bloody and it smells like copper, making my stomach churn, but as soon as I get a hold of it, every eye in that room turns to me.

  “We’re going to walk out of here,” I say, and then, when Stryker raises a brow and lifts a broom in my direction, I correct myself. “We’re going to fly out of here, and nobody is going to get hurt.”

  My hands squeeze around the heart and Mannix begins to choke, nearly collapsing to the floor, his gun-hand dropping to catch his fall.

  “With that in your hands,” Thyer murmurs, his voice like silk over ice, sumptuous but cold at the same time. “You can command him however you wish.”

  There’s only a brief second of hesitation before I turn and issue my first order.

  “Mannix, remove the shackles on me and Taavi.” With hatred burning like hot coals in his eyes, he looks up and waves his hand, deactivating the spell. “Now get on one of these brooms and let’s go.”

  “You’re taking him with you?!” Stryker chokes out, but it’s obvious based on the way Thyer stands up and grabs his own broom that we don’t have much time before Dorothy arrives.

  As if summoned by my thoughts, she sweeps into the room with Tuala by her side, already in the hulking form of the barghest. When she sees the heart in my hand, she doesn’t panic. Instead, she smiles at Thyer, inclines her head, and then lifts up a small, green crossbow.

  Dorothy launches a single arrow that embeds itself into the beating heart in my hand, splattering my face with blood. Mannix screams, the sound startling the crows from their perch
es.

  “Apprehend Ozora,” Dorothy commands, and the soldiers in the room move forward, sending Thyer’s menagerie into a frenzy. The two sides clash as Taavi grabs onto my wrist, dragging me toward the open platform with a broom in his hand.

  Thyer is the first to take off, sitting side-saddle on the broom like it’s no big fucking deal, the monkey climbing up beside him. The broom lifts up with them on it, Stryker following close behind.

  And then Taavi yanks me forward, launching us off the platform and into the endless blue of the sky before he whips the broom between his legs and tugs me into his arms.

  For several seconds, we don’t fly. Instead, we fall.

  A scream tears from my throat before our broom lurches upward and zips between the hot air balloons, arrows and spells flying as we pass, painting the sky with color worthy of a fireworks display.

  Looking down, I realize I still have the heart in my hand, but it’s now corrupted by the green arrow, a blackness spreading out from that central point like a plague. As soon as we pass over the city and are soaring above the endless green of the forest, I drop it.

  And that’s the last thing I remember before I wake up in the desert palace of the Wicked Witch.

  To Be Continued…

  Allison's Adventures in Underland

  Academy of Spirits and Shadows, Book #1

  The Family Spells, Book #1

  Rich Boys of Burberry Prep, Book #1

  Flip the page for an excerpt of chapter one.

  Chapter One

  My uniform—and my dignity—are in tatters.

  My eyes scan the gathered crowd, but there are three faces in particular that catch my attention. Cold, cruel, beautiful. An ugly sort of beautiful, I think as I meet a narrowed silver gaze and catch the faintest edges of a smirk. Tristan Vanderbilt thinks he’s beaten me; they all do. But what they don’t understand is that I’m not the nervous, eager little charity case I was when I first started at Burberry Prep.

  Lifting an arm up, I swipe a bit of blood from my mouth. My bra is showing through the torn remnants of my white blouse, and it’s the pretty red one I wore just for Zayd. He made me believe he cared about me. Flicking my eyes in his direction, I can see quite clearly now that he doesn’t. He isn’t smiling, not like Tristan, but the message in his green eyes is clear: you don’t belong here.

  “Had enough yet?” Harper du Pont purrs from behind me. I don’t bother turning to look at her. Instead, I let my attention slide to the last of the three guys. My three biggest mistakes; my three greatest betrayals. Creed is frowning, like this whole confrontation is a necessary evil. Get rid of the lower-class trash, clean up the school.

  The wind picks up, the ragged red pleats of my academy uniform billowing in a salty breeze. In the distance, I can hear the sea. It crashes against the rocks in time to the frantic beating of my heart. A storm is coming.

  Tristan moves toward me with predatory grace, his expensive loafers picking up droplets of dew as he comes to stand toe-to-toe with me, as close as he was that first day when he insulted me and then laid out the challenge: how long do you think you’ll last? Well. It’s the final day of freshman year, and I’m still standing here, aren’t I? Tristan, though, he thinks that while I’ve won the battle, he’s going to win the war.

  I stay stone-still as he lifts his fingers and tangles strands of my paint-splattered hair through them, giving the short rose gold locks a light tug. Red paint smears across his perfect skin as I meet those gray eyes of his with a defiant glimmer in my own.

  “I take it you won’t be coming back next year, will you, Marnye?” he whispers, his voice like whiskey over ice. Tristan thinks he’s the master of this school, a veritable god. The other boys think of themselves like that, too. I’d like to be a fly on the wall when a confrontation finally comes. They think their money will buy them the world. Maybe, in a way, it will.

  But it won’t buy them true friendship, and it won’t buy them love. It definitely won’t buy them me.

  I glance past Tristan to Zayd and Creed, and then I refocus my attention back on the asshole that started it all. From day one, he went out of his way to make my life a living hell. He succeeded. And Zayd and Creed, they loved every horrible, filthy second of it.

  “Just go home, Marnye, and it’ll all be over,” Tristan says, the softness in his voice edged with cruelty. He’s like a predator who’s too cute to be afraid of. I made the mistake of letting him get too close, and now I’m cut and bleeding—physically and emotionally. I’m fucking shattered. “You don’t belong here.”

  Zayd listens to the whole conversation, and then slides his tattooed arm around Becky Platter, putting the final nail in my coffin. He’s chosen her over me. He’s chosen her and her cruelty and her mocking laughter over me. My hands curl into fists so tight that my nails dig crescents into my palms.

  I meet Tristan’s haughty, self-assured stare. There are tears on my face, and when he removes his fingers from my hair, he touches one with his knuckles, bringing it to his lips for a lick. It’s a derisive, awful move, like a knife in the back. I can feel the blade beside my heart, but it’s just missed. I’m not broken yet.

  “I’ve already enrolled in my classes,” I state, and the entire courtyard goes silent. Nobody is expecting this, the poor girl, the lamb in a pack of wolves, standing up for herself. What they don’t know is that the hardest hearts are forged in fire. With their cruelty and their jokes and their laughter, they’ve forged me into something spectacular. “Come September, I’ll be the first in line for orientation.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Tristan says, still cold as ice, still full of wicked triumph for what he thinks he’s done. His dark hair flutters in the breeze, softening some of his hard lines. It’s all an illusion though. I know that now, and I won’t make that same mistake again. “I’ll make your life a living hell.”

  “You can try,” I retort, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my registration form. I’ll be back at Burberry Prep come hell or high water. This is my opportunity, and I won’t let three handsome faces, three pairs of hot hands, three sets of ardent lips destroy that. “Because what you don’t know …” I take a deep breath, and then bend down to grab the handle on my ratty, old duffle bag. Everybody else here has hired help to carry their luggage. Not me. Straightening up, I lift my chin in defiance and Tristan scowls. “Is that my life outside of these walls was already a living hell. This is just another level of Dante’s inferno, and I’m not afraid.” My gaze flicks past Tristan and back to Zayd and Creed. “Not of any of you.”

  I move around Tristan, intent on the school gates and three months of freedom from these jerks, but he puts his hand around my arm and holds me back. Glancing down, I stare at his fingers pressed against my flesh, and then look back up at his face. He’s smiling, but it’s not a pretty smile.

  “Challenge accepted,” he purrs, and then he releases me.

  As I head down the path in my torn uniform, I keep my chin up and my fears pushed back.

  Challenge accepted is right. I won’t be driven away from the best opportunity in my life. Not by Tristan, not by anyone.

  As I walk, I can feel three sets of eyes on my back, watching, waiting, plotting.

  I’ll have to make sure I stay one step ahead.

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  About the Author

  C.M. Stunich is a self-admitted bibliophile with a love for exotic teas and a whole host of characters who live full time inside the strange, swirling vortex of her thoughts. Some folks might call this crazy, but Caitlin Morgan doesn't mind - especially considering she has to write biographies in the third person. Oh, and half the host of characters in her head are searing hot bad boys with dirty mouths and skillful hands (among other things). If being crazy means hanging out with them everyday, C.M. has decided to have herself committed.

  She hates tapioca pudding, loves to binge on cheesy horror movies, and is a slave to many cats. When she's not vacuuming fur off of her couch, C.M. can be found with her nose buried in a book or her eyes glued to a computer screen. She's the author of over 100 novels - romance, new adult, fantasy, and young adult included. Please, come and join her inside her crazy. There's a heck of a lot to do there.

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