Page 3 of Ozma

Mombi stepped over the broken pieces of the jar and held her arm out toward him. She tightened an invisible hand around his throat, her magic biting in, cutting off his air supply.

The magic continued to squeeze, and he clawed at the air, trying to get out of its wicked grasp.Air.He couldn’t get any in, and he could feel his face turning red, his lips blue.

Tip was going to die. Mombi was going to kill him. He wouldn’t be able to tell Jack goodbye. The last thing he’d told Jack was that he loved him. At least Jack knew Tip’s feelings.

Something pulsed through Tip then. Love. More than love. A thrum of power he’d never felt. Tip’s body shook, his skin glowing.Glowing? It was glittering with blue flecks, like stardust.

Mombi’s eyes widened, her lips parting, and her grip on his throat dropped. She twirled her hand in the air, drawing up her magic, and shooting sparks of various colors at him. But none of it connected with his body.

An itch tore at his back, then built into something else, as though his skin were painlessly spreading. They broke from his flesh, ripping his tunic, freeing themselves.Wings. Bright blue, feathery wings. It didn’t stop there. His body startedchanging. His black locks of hair grew long, to his waist, lightening to bright golden hues. Tip’s body seemed to stretch, as if he were growing taller, the sleeves of his tunic and ends of his pants becoming shorter. At his chest, breasts formed beneath his shirt, and he gasped. His body shook and his eyes widened with fear, not understanding what in all of Oz was happening.

Mombi covered her mouth and hissed as she stared at him in horror. “Ozma,” she growled. The horrified look on her face turned to rage and she jolted forward, knocking Tip to the floor.

Tip wrestled out from under her and stood back up. He’d lost hold of whatever power was there, his body weakening. A rush of magic came from Mombi as she rose, barreling straight for Tip’s back, severing his wings. Pain rocketed through him and he let out a high-pitched cry.

That wasn’t his voice at all, but a female’s. Behind him hung a large oval mirror, and he took a glance at himself, while straining to breathe. Higher cheekbones, plumper lips. Nothing about himself looked like Tip at all, except the color of his irises. He was truly female.

Mombi hurled a ball of orange magic at the severed wings, burning them to ash. Tip didn’t have time to mourn what had just happened, when the front door burst open.Jack. He was back. And he’d come to save him. But it wasn’t his beloved. It was Oz. The only other individual who could cross Mombi’s barrier.

“What have you done?” The Wizard seethed.

“What are you doing here?” Mombi snapped back.

“The slippers felt her curse break and whirled me here with their magic.” He jabbed a finger in Tip’s direction. “Now, explain!”

“You knew she couldn’t be hidden forever,” Mombi screeched. “With both Pastoria and Lurline dead, you should have killed her.”

“You know I can’t do that. Has her magic returned yet?” Oz moved toward them, his lips curled to show blackened teeth.

“Not all of it.”

“Good.” Oz shifted his cape to the side, revealing the silver slippers—flat and glistening—on his feet. “I suppose I should tell you that you’re Ozma, born of Pastoria and Lurline. You’re the true queen of Oz, but it will remain our little secret.”

“Wh—what?” Tip croaked. Shock left him rooted in place. “I’m who?”

“No one … anymore,” the Wizard answered.

With those words, Tip—Ozma—froze as a blast of coldness exploded around her. It was as if ice were slowly encasing her body. But it wasn’t. Instead, she was falling through the floor of the hut. Falling and falling through wintry coldness, until she collapsed onto a hard surface. She was not in pain. The only thing that ached was her back, where her wings had lived for a few brief moments.

But that wasn’t completely true. Because so did her heart. That ached even worse.

Chapter Two

Jack

Two years later

The sun beat on Jack’s bare back, sending rivulets of sweat down his spine. He did his best to ignore the heat as he cleared weeds from between pumpkins. His bucket was nearly full with invasive sprouts and he still had half a field to clear.

Jack leaned back on his heels, his knees digging into the soft dirt, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. This had been much faster when Tip was there to help. Or maybe it only seemed to be faster because of the company. The conversation. The stolen heated looks when Mombi was certain not to see. A promise of more when they were finished with their chores. His gaze traveled across the field to where a crystal-clear pond was hidden among the trees. Mombi had refused to let Tip into her hut until he washed the dirt off, which had given them both the perfect excuse for privacy every night.

Running a hand down his face, smearing dirt over his freckles, he choked back a wave of tears. It had been two years since Tip had died. No amount of crying would bring him back, but theywouldbring Mombi’s wrath down on him. She could smell the grief on him, smell the salt of his sorrow, and he was supposed to have gotten over Tip.Shit—he was never supposed to have mourned in the first place.

If only it were that easy. If only he hadn’t been about to ask Tip to marry him. If only he hadn’t planned his entire future around the male he’d loved so much. Tip had been his first lover—the only true one of his life. But, when given the choice to leave, he’d run so recklessly that he was torn apart and eaten in the Shifting Sands. Jack rubbed at the ache in his chest. Why hadn’t Tip said goodbye?Why?Tip could’ve at least given himthat… He would’ve fought for him to stay, would’ve done anything. Or maybe he would’ve helped him figure out a way to get around the Sands because Tip deserved his freedom—even if it was without Jack. His goodbye wouldn’t have made a difference in the long run either way, but at least he could’ve asked Tip why he didn’t love him anymore.

Jack stood slowly and carried the bucket toward the magical barrier. When he was close enough, he chucked the contents to the other side and swiveled toward his small hut instead of going straight back to work. He couldn’t drown his heartache with tears, so he would drown it with something else.

Jars of pumpkin ale lined more shelves in his pitifully small pantry than food did. There was a wedge of cheese from his last trip to the market and half a loaf of bread, along with a couple glass jars filled with vegetables. Meat was a rare pleasure and he’d eaten so much pumpkin that the thought of eating more made him want to vomit—though he had to force it down to survive.Tip would want me to live, he thought. Even if he chose not to live alongside him. Besides, the ale distracted him from his hunger most of the time.

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