He had no other option but to follow the path through the thick underbrush. The only way out, it seemed, was forward.

NINE

Hex followed the path through the trees for what could have been hours or days. In the dark, endless forest, he lost all sense of direction and even the time of day. Anytime he so much as thought of stepping off the sandy path or heading in a different direction, the leaves around him rustled menacingly, and the branches clacked their thorns together as if to say, “Don’t even bother.”

Finally, when he felt as though he couldn’t possibly walk any farther, he stumbled into a broad clearing whose ground was covered with the same dry, sandy earth as the path. He sank gratefully to the ground. Pete hadn’t said anything about not stopping for the night—if it was even night. Nothing about the dim woods had changed in any way to indicate whether it was daytime or nighttime, or whether the sun was proceeding across the sky at all. The sinister, diffuse light seemed almost to come from the trees themselves.

Hex was also beginning to wonder what exactly he was supposed to eat or drink, when he spotted a brown knapsack at the far side of the clearing that he could have sworn wasn’t there a second ago. Too hungry and thirsty to be cautious, he got to his feet to investigate. Inside the pack was a rough woolen blanket. Underneath it, there were a few pouches containing some stale bread and hard cheese. He realized the last actual meal he’d eaten had been his oatmeal breakfast with Iris, however long ago that had been, and his stomach grumbled loudly. He had a feeling that if there was anything alive in the woods around him, it would be a lot more likely to make a dinner out of him than to bring him a menu. He washed down the bread and cheeses with water from a bottle he found in the pack. The water, at least, was sweet-tasting and clear, and after another long drink he felt refreshed and clearheaded.

Below the water bottle, he found the clothes he’d been wearing when Pete pulled him out of the poppy field. He took them out and carefully unfolded them, fingering the soft material as though it could tell him who he was: a jacket, vest, spats, a pair of pants, a dapper collared shirt, and a top hat. But as much as he racked his brains, nothing came. If Pete was right, he hadn’t yet passed the test that would unlock his past and show him how to help Oz—assuming he wanted to. But what if he uncovered his memories and discovered he couldn’t stand this country of talking monkeys and flying wolves? What if Pete was right, and his true self was a terrible, selfish person? Wouldn’t it be better to stay as he was, in this state of oblivion? The cheerless forest did nothing to distract him from these depressing thoughts.

His body was aching, and he was ready for a rest. He unrolled the blanket, stretched out on the ground, and was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the earth. But his dreams were awful: the monkeys battled each other savagely with their miniature swords, hacking at one another until the ground ran red with their blood, screaming in rage and pain—and then he jerked awake and realized the screams were real, and they were coming from somewhere ahead of him in the forest. His heart pounded in his chest. The screams were alarmingly near, and somehow familiar. Someone was in desperate trouble.

“Pete!” Hex shouted. “Help! Pete!” His voice barely carried past the clearing, and there was no response. The screams wavered for a second, and then continued even more awfully. He saw that there were now two paths leading out of the clearing—one toward the source of the noise, and the other away. He groaned aloud. Was this a test, or a trap? Either way, not very subtle.

Abruptly, the screams cut off with an awful gurgling sound. He stood poised in the clearing, listening intently. Perhaps it was too late. Whatever was happening out there, it was over. There was nothing he could do. Far better to protect his own skin; after all, he could hardly recover his memories if he was dead. And then, through the trees, he heard a faint, pleading—and familiar—wail. “Somebody please help me!” The voice sobbed. There was no mistaking it for anyone but Iris.

He stood a second longer, wavering with indecision. He was a bad person. Pete had told him as much. And bad people put themselves first—and came out ahead. No one could possibly fault him for wanting to protect himself. It wasn’t his problem. He thought of the pain and reproach in Iris’s face as he’d betrayed her in front of the queen, and sighed. So far, he’d done nothing but prove Pete right: that he was nothing more than a con man and a coward.

But the feeling of persistent shame kept nagging at him, and he suddenly found himself wanting to do better. Even if it meant putting himself in danger. Even if he was risking his life for a cranky, spear-happy monkey with a persecution complex. He might not go down in the annals of history for trying to rescue Iris from whatever terrible thing was happening to her, but a more noble quest had yet to present itself. Maybe he had been a terrible person in the past, but being a terrible person in the present wasn’t turning out to be very much fun. He took a deep breath, wishing Pete had thought to pack him a weapon of some kind, and took off running on the path that led to Iris.

He didn’t have to go far before he found her. She was in another clearing like the one he’d left, so covered in blood she was almost unrecognizable. She cowered in a heap at the far edge of the clearing; opposite her, a huge, awful lion, spattered with her blood, lounged against a tree picking his teeth with one giant claw. The lion’s mane was filthy and matted, and his huge muscles bulged grotesquely. Iris was sobbing, which at least meant she was still alive. The lion looked up as Hex entered the clearing. He grinned savagely, exposing his terrible, jagged fangs.