Thunk, crash, creak, thunk. My heart began to pound. It was do-or-die time.

I was so focused on where the door was about to appear, and what I would do when it did, that I didn’t even notice when the room began to fill with hazy purple smoke until it was so thick I couldn’t see a thing. When it had cleared away, an ancient-looking woman was standing in front of me.

Her nose was big and crooked and bulbous with a big, hairy wart on the very tip. Purple rags barely covered her sagging, wrinkled flesh. And to top it off, she wore a hat. A black one, so weathered it was almost gray, its point standing at attention.

A witch, I thought.

She looked impossibly old, her face one big wrinkle with eyes that were coal black and seemed to go on forever. When I looked into them I somehow knew in one glance that she was as old as Oz itself.

A strong, cold breeze hit me in the face.

I stepped back. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to be frightened or happy. Mostly I was just confused.

“Who are you?” I asked. I could hear the footsteps of the Tin Woodman getting louder. “How did you get in here?”

“I’m Mombi,” she said in a scratchy voice. “And how do you think I got here?”

“What are you, then?” I asked.

She gave me a sly wink. “Another question that you already know the answer to. But I’ll give you a hint anyway: I’m the Wicked kind. Now are you coming with me or not?”

I was happy she wasn’t the Tin Woodman, but, like Pete, I had no idea who this person was. I wasn’t going to just run away with her right off the bat.

“Well?” she asked impatiently, tapping her pointy toes against the floor as I stared at her. “They’re almost here. I can get you out of here, but you have to make up your mind quick. Will you join me? Yes or no?”

Yes or no. This was the kind of thing you read about in fairy tales. What she meant was that if I wanted her help, I would have to agree to something. She just wasn’t going to bother telling me what until it was too late.

Thunk, stomp, thunk, squeak.

“What’s the catch?” I asked. “I’m not giving you my firstborn, if that’s what you want.”

“Oh,” she said. “That won’t be necessary. The second-born will do.”

Seeing me blanch, she let out a long, hearty cackle. “You’re smart,” she said. “I suppose you’re right to ask. There’s always a catch with us wicked witches. But I don’t care much for babies—I’ve already had a few bad experiences with them, if you want the truth. No, you can keep your disgusting spawn. Don’t see how you’ll manage to get any children at all if you stay here, though. Dorothy’ll have you dead before sundown.”

We heard the key begin to turn in the lock outside.

Mombi sighed as the door in the wall began to appear. “Girls your age,” she said, shaking her head. “Always takes you forever to get out of the house. Now we’re going to have to fight.” She backed up into the corner and squeezed her body so tightly against the wall that it almost looked like she was sinking right into it. “At least I see you have a knife already.” She nodded to my hand where I was clutching my weapon so hard that I thought I might be starting to lose circulation. “Let me just give it a tiny little enchantment to make it more useful.”

She wiggled her pinkie and thumb in my direction and clicked her tongue a few times. When I held my knife in front of me, I saw that it was pulsing with a purple glow.

If this was going to make it more useful, it was just in time: the door swung open and the Tin Woodman stepped into the room.

“Amy Gumm,” he announced, “it is time to face your judgment.”

It took him a beat to realize that I wasn’t alone. “Guards!” he shouted. “Seize the girl! And the witch!”

He fanned the blades of his hand out in front of him as he lunged for my new ally, his crew rushing into the cell behind him.

Sword-Arm was in front of me, advancing with sword outstretched, backing me into a corner. I stepped out of her way, ducked under her, and thrust my kitchen knife toward her chest just as she pivoted to face me. I missed, but I was surprised at how close I’d come, at how the weight and heft of the knife felt so natural.

Suddenly I knew exactly when to thrust and when to parry, when to go high and when to go low and when to twist away. I felt like I could do some real damage with this thing.

So I sliced and diced and feinted as the Tin Soldiers all scrambled to grab me. A line of bright red blossomed across Sword-Arm’s cheek as I connected. I pulled back at the sight of it, but the knife urged me forward again. I gave the head on the bicycle two flat tires in no time, sending him sprawling onto his side on the floor, where he struggled to pull himself upright with his weird, handlebar arms.

When the one with the panel covering his mouth—the one who had killed Indigo—grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back, I pushed against him with my free arm and wiggled loose. He put out his arms in an almost shrug, offering himself up for another attempt, like he was daring me to fail at checking him again.

Then he charged at me, this time crouching low to deliver some kind of deadly head butt.

I ducked out of the way at the last moment but he spun quickly around and caught me in the back, slamming me to the ground. I lay motionless for a second, the wind knocked out of me. He nudged me with his foot, roughly rolling me over. Grabbing me by the neck, he hauled me to my feet and pulled me close to him, so close that I could tell by his eyes if not his mouth panel that he was smirking.