VERY BAD WIZARDS (The Wicked Wizards of Oz #1)
~a Wizard of Oz RH retelling~
~The Wicked Wizards of Oz~
My little dog, Toto, just shifted into a man. A gorgeous, chiseled beast of a man. That was about thirty seconds before the storm hit and he clutched me against his naked body while wild winds raged all around us.
Yeah, we’re seriously not in fucking Kansas anymore.
There are male witches with toothy smiles, a man with a tin arm, and some wizards. Some very, very bad wizards–and they’re all interested in me. Romantically. How … interesting.
Oh, and then there’s Dorothy, the girl who’s claiming that she’s the good guy, and I’m the bad one, all because the power to control storms sleeps in my fingertips.
My name is Ozora, Oz for short, and I’m a girl from nowhere, destined for somewhere.
Excerpt Very Bad Wizards by CM Stunich
The cyclone cellar is the only place in this damn house I can sit and have a smoke without Auntie Em calling the cops on me.
“There’s no ventilation in here,” my friend, Yori, says, taking a drag on the joint and passing it over to her boyfriend. I can’t remember his name for the life of me, but it doesn’t really matter. Yori jumps between boys the way my Aunt Emily hops political causes. She’s joined three new activist groups just this week, all of them for causes I’m not a fan of. One of them is pro-GMO, you know, Genetically Modified Organisms. Who the hell is pro-GMO?
“Of course there’s no ventilation,” I say, taking the joint from this no-name guy’s tattooed fingers. “It’s a storm cellar. The whole point is to keep air out, not let it in.”
“We’re going to hot box your poor dog,” she says, tucking long blonde hair behind one shoulder and gesturing at the little black Scottish Terrier at my feet with ringed fingers. I drop my gaze to his silky black fur, chest rising and falling in a deep sort of sleep, and then I get up and climb the steps to the cellar door.
“If I let him out, he barks non-stop,” I say, using one of the boxes of canned food to prop the door open. Outside, there’s nothing to look at but gray. Gray grass, gray ground, gray house, gray sky. Everything in Kansas is gray; I hate it here. Maybe there are pretty parts, but all I’ve ever seen of it is this dump. Sometimes there’s corn. Other times, it’s just flat and empty and desolate.
I lived in Oregon before this, and even though pot was legal, I never smoked it.
I smoke it a lot here; I need it here.
“Hopefully this doesn’t draw the Witch’s attention,” I say, turning and slumping down to the step before taking a drag on my joint. My dog, Toto, is sitting there and staring at me with twinkling black eyes, like a cloudless night with no stars. It’s just velvety blackness in his gaze, and almost as profound.
Or maybe that’s just the joint talking?
“Why do you call your mom the Witch?” Yori’s boyfriend asks, his hair slicked back and frozen solid with too much gel. I’m sort of glad I can’t remember his name because clearly, he thinks he’s the shit. My lips crease into a frown as he stands up and takes the joint back from me.
“Emily is not my mom,” I say, leaning back and putting my palms on the rough wooden step. Some people in town–like Yori’s family–have these fancy shelters in their garages, underneath their epoxied floors with fancy logos and comfy couches, electricity, and mini-fridges full of Coca-Cola.
We have this half-assed hole dug in the ground with a rickety wooden door, a rusty handle, an old sofa, and a recliner with the yellow stuffing leaking out of it. If this place is supposed to protect us from a massive cyclone, we’re all screwed. Personally, if a cyclone does show up, I might just lay down in the field and watch it consume the world.