“Oz,” she whispered, almost dropping the rifle. “No, no. That can’t be it.” Aunt Em would be ashamed if Dorothy chose to believe, if she slipped down that yellow brick road of insanity again. After all the work Aunt Em had put in to reversing Dorothy’s delusions.
Aunt Em was no longer there to make Dorothy think she could be wrong.
I could be right. I could have always been right.
Heart galloping in her chest, she took off toward the field, skirting around stalks of wheat, like she was eleven years old once again. Except the last time there was emerald illumination, she’d been inside of her house within a tornado. But that light had been there, too.
Right then, she would do anything for the yellow brick road to lead her anywhere else but here—instead of remaining in a world with nothing. She was supposed to be out of the house in two days’ time, but if she could find a way back to Oz—a place where no one thought of her as Crazy Dorothy—she would take the opportunity and not look back.
Pushing away tall and thin stalks of wheat, while avoiding the scurrying of mice feet, Dorothy followed the flickering light until, in front of her, there stood a green outline shimmering in the air, resembling a doorway.
“Dorothy,” a male’s deep voice called—one that was all-too familiar. “Dorothy, you need to come back. Now.”
It was real. It was real. It was real. She wished Aunt Em and Uncle Henry were alive to see this, to believe her. And she wished Toto was by her side, as he’d been the last time. But even her little dog had passed on to a new life.
Breathing in the night air and the heavy scent of her farm, she pressed her hand into the doorway and wiggled her fingers. She tugged her arm back and peered down at her palm. To see the land of Oz in all its glory, all she had to do was step through. With a smile she couldn’t contain, Dorothy pressed her hand into the flickering green once more. Something roughly grasped her palm and yanked her within the portal, not leaving her enough time to scream or even yelp as she dropped her rifle in the dirt.
Chapter Three
Tin
The moment a delicate hand came through the portal, Tin snatched the wrist and hauled the rest of the human into Oz. A human that was supposed to be Dorothy. Had he gotten the location wrong? He’d traveled far to reach the same dwarf-infested village she’d dropped into ten years ago, but this was distinctly not a little girl.
This was … a woman. Wearing tight striped overalls that accentuated her curves and a white collared shirt that barely contained what was underneath. Her hair was dreadfully tousled and sopping wet from the shoulders down, but the wonder filling her eyes made something crack deep inside him. Tin threw her arm from his grasp, his lip curling in disgust at the thought.
“Oz.” Her voice was barely audible as she slowly turned away from him, taking in the dwarf village.
He followed the mortal woman’s eyes as they took in the decrepit town. Dozens of fire-lit posts highlighted the short, white buildings with round straw roofs. All the color in town came from the broken shutters, paint-chipped doors, and crooked flowerboxes, though it was difficult to see any of it at night. Stone paths led from each doorstep to the main square, which butted against the swirled end of the yellow and red brick roads. Where Dorothy’s house had fallen on the Wicked Witch of the East stood a golden statue of the girl with a braid over each shoulder and, beside her, that wiry, four-legged creature she was so attached to.
“This is Oz,” Dorothy said a bit louder.
“Where the hell else would it be?” Tin stepped in front of her, jaw clenched. “Who are you?”
“My name’s—” Her eyes fell on his face for the first time and she gasped.
Tin grabbed the woman by the upper arms before she could run, screaming, and alert every fae in town. The iron tips of his gloves pricked her skin when he squeezed. “Who. Are. You?”
“Dorothy.” She struggled to free herself but he held firm. “It’s me, Tin. Dorothy. Now let go.”
He scowled at her, and she scowled right back. There was no way this was the same human who’d destroyed the Wicked Witch of the West—Reva. The real Dorothy was at least a foot shorter with a rounder face and an overall naivety about her. The statue directly behind this fraud was a perfect likeness, from the ribbons holding her braided hair, right down to the ruffled socks on her feet.
“Imposter,” Tin snarled.
“Of course it’s me!” She fought against his grip again but only managed to dig the iron tips on his gloves deeper into her arms.
Tin glared menacingly. Mortals aged faster than the fae, but this progression seemed extreme. “That’s Dorothy.” He spun her around to face the dulled statue and pointed. “See the difference?”
She wrinkled her nose. “They made me into a monument?”
“Stop lying!” he roared.
“It’s been ten years, you oaf!” she snapped. “I grew up. And speaking of looking differently, what happened to your face?” Her lips parted as she studied him, seeming to grow concerned.
Tin released her as fast as one would drop a red-hot ember. Everyone knew what happened to his face—he had become a story parents told offspring to make them behave. Do as I say or the Tin Man will snatch you from your bed. It made sense this woman didn’t know specifics, but she wouldn’t ask what happened if she hadn’t seen him before the branding.
“If you’re Dorothy,” he said carefully, “Where’s your little rat, Tutu?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Toto.”
“That’s what I said.”
“My dog died, not that it’s any of your business.” She crossed her arms, the movement pushing up her cleavage. Tin couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking downward. “You are Tin, aren’t you?”
He held out his arms as if to say who else would I be? They were both quiet for a long moment before Dorothy broke the silence.
“That’s impossible. The Tin I knew wasn’t a self-righteous prick.”
A surprised laugh burst from his chest. Tin leaned in closer, smelling the light scent of her soap, and cocked an eyebrow. “The fae you knew ten years ago wanted to be good.”
“Which is why the Wizard broke the curse on your heart.”
“An entirely useless organ. I’m glad it turned back to stone.” He took in the statue of Dorothy again and considered the drastic change. Lion better not try to weasel out of payment, especially if Tin had to put up with her shit for very long. Lion’s macabre lover wanted to wear Dorothy’s head? Well, this was the only one Dorothy had. His gaze flicked back to the grown woman to find her staring, lips parted in horror at his revelation—an expression he was used to—and sighed.
“Your heart is stone again?” She gripped her chest as though he would rip her heart from beneath her ribcage to replace it with his.
There was nothing for her to worry about. He wouldn’t touch her fragile mortal organ. The Gnome King had done him a favor when he’d cursed Tin’s parents—the Heartless Curse had turned his heart to stone in retaliation for the lack of mercy they’d shown the Gnome Queen. The queen had begged for their help to hide her from gremlin marauders but, understandably, his parents bolted their door shut instead. When the queen was cut down on the doorstep of Tin’s childhood home, the king had needed someone to punish. Perhaps the avenging king wouldn’t have cursed Tin’s mother if he’d known Tin grew in her womb—damning an innocent child to the same fate—or if he’d found the gremlins responsible. He was grateful the Gnome King hadn’t known because if the few short years with a beating heart had taught Tin anything, it was that emotions made a mess of everything. It was a welcomed event when Oz’s magic wore off and his heart solidified again. Dorothy could keep her wretched thing thumping in her chest.