The Stone Demon

The just-unleashed demon hordes have delivered an impossible ultimatum to the Order of the Crow: produce the Philosopher’s Stone, or suffer a deadly reaper storm of retribution. If Donna cannot recreate the mythical artefact, the world will be plunged into a devastating modern-day Dark Age.

Pitting her dangerously unpredictable powers against a vengeful demon king, two maleficent faery queens and an immortal magus with his own shadowy agenda, Donna must be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. But, this time, death may not be enough . . .

Whoever “they” are, they have no idea how far off base that is. Free? I don’t think so.

Now that I know the truth—some of it—my life is more restricted than ever. I want out. Out of the Order of the Dragon. Out of the Order of the Crow. Out of this crazy world of alchemists hidden in the shadows. I feel as though I’m living in a MMORPG, only my character is running low on food, weapons, and life force all at the same time. She’s crashing and burning, and I’m not sure I can save her. Save ME.

Seems like the more I thrash around trying to find some kind of escape from the alchemists, the tighter the threads bind me. I’m stuck in the middle of a web of lies, just waiting for Simon Gaunt, the Magus, to scuttle over and deliver a poisonous bite. He’s the spider at the center of all this crap, but unlike Anansi he is way more than a trickster and teller of tales. He’s dangerous.

I thought I’d stopped believing in “good” and “evil” a long time ago—it’s so reductive and small. But Simon’s immortality has come at a terrible price. Not so much a price exacted on himself, as far as I can figure it, but on way too many other people. Possibly even on Quentin.

He may be a demon—the king of the demons—but at least he’s true to his nature. There are no secrets. He simply is what he is. A force of nature. A vengeful god that I’m responsible for unleashing on the world. Aliette is cunning, but I can’t really blame her for setting me up—I can only blame myself for being stupid enough to trust her. The Wood Queen and I have tangled too many times, now, and somehow she doesn’t scare me. At least, not as much as she used to. But she did trick me into releasing the demons on our world.

Demons … it’s a whole new ball game, one I’m not sure that any of us are ready for. I wish I knew the rules, but every time it feels like I’m finding my footing, somebody pulls the rug out from under me and I have to learn how to stand all over again.

All this, and my dreams are getting more vivid with each night that I spend in London. The pain in my arms from the iron tattoos that used to bind my power grows worse. Some mornings I wake up screaming, and I remember that the Demon King is gathering his army and the whole world is in danger … and I just want to run away and hide. Miranda speaks of the reaper storm of demons as though it’s something that we all face together, even though I know I have to take responsibility for opening the door to Hell. I set things in motion—doesn’t that mean that I should be the one to fix it?

Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
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For Mum, who was there at the very beginning and couldn’t wait to see how the story ends.

I was being serious in that last email. Stop trying to cheer me up with Star Wars quotes.

I wish you would come visit. Didn’t you say your dad was into the idea of you spending some time in London? I’d love to see you. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I don’t have any friends here and I just don’t feel like I fit in—I know it’s only been three weeks, but still. And anyway, I thought you’d want an excuse to skip school! :-)

Everybody in the Order of the Crow is so English. (Yeah, I know, I’m stating the obvious.) I feel like I’m living in a real-life version of Mary Poppins. Only without the singing and dancing. You know, the cool stuff.

Miranda’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but she’s very efficient. Since her promotion she’s pretty senior in the ranks—not quite on the same level as Quentin, but she’s quickly approaching that. I thought I’d have gotten to know her better by now, but she’s only really focused on the task of training me to be an alchemist. Honestly? So far, that mostly involves spending way too much time reading dusty old books. Being stuck in this house is starting to drive me crazy, too, though the upside is that it’s pretty cosy for somewhere so big. Winter in London is colder than I thought it would be, and I miss the open fires at the Frost Estate. Never thought I’d hear myself say that …

Robert’s around more, now that he’s recovered from that demon shadow attack in the Ironwood, but he’s not you. And he’s way too serious about training me!

Anyway, I won’t mention the fact that there’s been news of demon activity up in Scotland. That’s not something I should be bothering you with, and if anybody hacks into my emails they’ll probably have me put away somewhere nice and “safe” …

Could you, possibly, if it’s not too much trouble (!!) check on Xan for me? I guess he might be at Maker’s workshop if he’s not at home. I just want to know he’s okay, that’s all. I haven’t heard from him in ages.

Stop sending me such miserable emails, would you? You’re depressing the crap out of me.

It’s bad enough that you’re not here, but then the only communication I get from you is filled with doom, gloom, and typos. (Wo)man up! What happened to the Donna Underwood who can open inter-dimensional doorways and rescue her mom’s soul from the Wood Queen? Okay, so you probably started the apocalypse while doing that, but we’re focusing on the positive here. And anyway, who says demons always have to be the bad guys?

Oh, and about what you asked me: no, I haven’t seen or heard anything from the Wingless Wonder. (That’s Xan, just in case you were confused.) Sorry, but I don’t expect to. I think the guy was always threatened by my good looks, charm, and manly physique, if you really want the truth. He’s hardly likely to want to hang out with me while you’re not here, you know? I’m surprised he hasn’t visited you yet. Doesn’t his mom live somewhere in England?

Anyway, I’m stuck with school and homework and—ugh—exams. Some of us are destined to save the world, while others have to write essays on Macbeth’s primal wound. Personally, I think you might actually have the best deal. This shit is messed up, yo.

Don, I’m worried about you. You haven’t sounded like your normal self (and I use the word “normal” with caution) in ages. The last couple weeks, I mean. Don’t make me get on a plane just so I can kick your ass.

One

Donna gazed in horror at the television screen, which showed the entire museum complex ablaze. Hungry flames licked the night sky, staining it the color of dried blood. Firefighters were beaten back by a wall of heat, smoke billowed in choking black clouds, and sirens split the air like screams of terror.

She shifted on the couch in Miranda’s den. It was the homiest room in her mentor’s grand old Victorian house, which was serving as a temporary headquarters for the Order of the Crow. Grabbing the TV remote, Donna turned up the sound.

The newscaster’s voice shook as she attempted to report from the scene. Or, at least, from as near to the site of the devastation as the news crews were permitted to get. Donna had never seen so many police in one place; blockades were set up on multiple streets and it was reported that neighboring buildings had been evacuated, with talk of the evacuation zone being moved out to a two-mile radius.

There was chaos on the streets. Panic on the faces of the few people who stopped to be interviewed.

Miranda Backhouse touched Donna’s shoulder, making her jump. The alchemist—Donna’s new mentor—smiled gently. “Sorry, I thought you heard me.”

She sat down on the couch beside her apprentice. The older woman’s eyes reflected the burning buildings. Shadows played across her strained face, both from the television and from the candles that flickered throughout the room.

Donna shivered. “This is messed up. They’re talking about a terrorist attack.”

The alchemist shrugged. “Does that fire look like anything man-made to you?”

Donna remembered the Twin Towers. She’d watched the coverage as a child, from her bed in Ironbridge while recovering from one of the many magical operations that had rebuilt her ruined hands and arms.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I think people can do some pretty terrible things.”

Miranda fixed Donna with her clear blue gaze. “Of course they can. But can they also create flames that fly in the shape of dragons?”

“What?” Donna leaned forward, gazing harder at the ribbons of fire that coiled in the smoke-filled air. She narrowed her eyes, trying to see what Miranda saw.

That curl of smoke, like a tail. Tongues of flame, like giant wings. A column of fire that formed a neck, supporting a burning head with black eyes and nostrils that billowed some sort of noxious gas …

How had she missed it? Donna looked sharply at her mentor, raising her eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.

Miranda didn’t disappoint. “Before, you could only see what everyone else saw. That’s part of the illusion.”

Hope gripped Donna’s chest. “Illusion? You mean, this isn’t real? There aren’t really people who are hurt … or dead?”

“No, no, you misunderstand me. This is completely real. The only illusion is in hiding the true nature of the fire.”

Donna squeezed her iron-clad hands into fists, clenching the soft fabric of the gloves she always wore to cover them. “It’s the demons, isn’t it?” She tried not to think of how beautiful the Demon King’s voice had sounded the last time he’d spoken her name. She remembered the cruel turn of his mouth, and realized that in using dragon-shaped flames in his attack, Demian was mocking the alchemists. All the Orders, not just the Order of the Dragon, held the mythical creature sacred. For the alchemists, the dragon was a symbol of transformation.

“Yes, it seems that Demian has made his first move.” Miranda’s reply was so matter-of-fact, it chilled Donna to the bone. “He’s calling us out. Look—the image is changing.”

Now the flashing flames split off into multiple figures. This time they became smaller, winged creatures, their fiery beaks open as they swooped and soared in a strangely chaotic formation—a murder of crows.

“But why the museum? What the hell does Demian gain by attacking the British Museum, of all places?”

Miranda smiled grimly. “The alchemists have had many artifacts on display there over the years, especially in the Enlightenment Gallery.”

Donna turned back to the TV screen, watching as a wall crumbled and hit the ground in a cloud of dust and flying debris. There was no sound, just shaky camera images filled with a historic landmark’s destruction on a scale that London probably hadn’t seen since the Second World War. The silence made it even creepier.

Banished to her room “for her own safety,” Donna tried not to dwell on how this was all her fault. But how could she not think about the way that the Wood Queen had tricked her into opening the doorway to Hell? She wanted to call her mom, but knew her mother would be part of the emergency meeting that was taking place upstairs.

The conference between the four alchemical Orders—of the Crow, Dragon, Rose, and Lion—was supposedly to figure out what the Demon King’s next move would be. They were communicating via Skype, of all things. Donna would have laughed at that, if she didn’t feel sick every time she thought about the people who’d died in the museum fire. While the news reports said there’d been minimal fatalities because the attack took place after closing, that hadn’t meant the building had been entirely empty; a handful of office workers, night security, and cleaners were still inside. Six human lives had ended. And of course even more people were injured, although those figures hadn’t yet been officially confirmed. Maybe a dozen. Maybe more.

Donna hated that she wasn’t involved in the alchemists’ discussion. Shouldn’t she be part of things? Sure, she knew it wasn’t All About Donna Underwood, but what was she even doing in London if they weren’t going to talk to her when Demian—whom she had released—attacked? It was crazy, although she should hardly be surprised given the super-secretive way the alchemists always acted. She’d just hoped things would be different in London. Even Robert was at the meeting.

Thinking of Robert Lee made Donna remember how lucky they’d both been to escape from the Ironwood last month. They did make it out in one piece, but Robert had been barely hanging on to life when the alchemists admitted him to their super-secret, super-private wing of Ironbridge Hospital, back home in Massachusetts. Her home, that is. Robert was about as American as tea and scones.

It had taken him more than a week to be considered well enough to travel, but now that he was back in London, his recovery had been faster than ever. Once Donna knew he was out of the woods (so to speak), her relief had been overwhelming. Robert had helped her when they’d faced down the demon shadows, after all.

Lying on her bed, Donna wanted to cry, but she found herself unable to squeeze out a single drop of emotion. She was so frustrated it made her jaw ache, and she realized that she’d been grinding her teeth.

Deciding to take some sort of action calmed her down, at least enough for her to sit up and swing her feet off the bed. She sat down at her computer and jiggled the mouse, waiting for the screensaver to clear.

If she was responsible for letting all the horrors of mankind out of Pandora’s Box, well then … maybe she could find a way to put them back where they belonged—deep beneath the earth, in their Underworld home. Maybe there was a magical method of locking Demian up again. The alchemists had said it was impossible, now that he was free to roam once more, and that it had taken too much power when they’d done it two hundred years ago. But they didn’t know everything. And they didn’t have Donna’s ability to open doors to other realms, or teleport to anywhere in the world.

Of course, she needed to be able to control her new-found powers to be able to use them effectively. And she was learning how, thanks to guidance from Maker back home and intense “training” sessions with Robert. As a new alchemical initiate, Donna had hoped to be casting spells by now or at the very least mixing a few potions, but she’d spent much of her time in London either reading dusty old books with Miranda or locked in martial arts combat with Robert—which involved sweating a lot and falling over at the end of lessons because she was so exhausted. Robert seemed to be on a Mr. Miyagi–style mission to prove that plain old self-defense techniques were somehow going to help her with the wacked-out “Iron Witch” abilities that everybody seemed so afraid of.

Well then, maybe she could learn more about the demons. There were books on demonology in Miranda’s library, although she’d had been forbidden access to the darkest texts.

Donna smiled to herself, remembering the way Miranda had kept her out of the conference earlier. Fine. Let them keep her out of the loop. It seemed they still didn’t trust her, which wasn’t really surprising, considering what she’d done. And of course she’d grown up in the Order of the Dragon, which had been compromised, in the other Orders’ eyes, by Simon Gaunt’s machinations.

So, perhaps if she could get some insight into the nature of demons, she might be able to figure out a way to stop Demian and his hordes. She needed to look for weaknesses … or maybe even something that she could use to negotiate with the demons. It wasn’t like she didn’t have experience making deals with otherworldly creatures, after all.

And if she couldn’t put Demian back in his box, maybe she could figure out a way to kill him.

Donna wanted to be surprised by how easily she was even contemplating such extreme possibilities. She should at least be shocked at herself for wanting to end another being’s life. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t manage to feel guilty. Not when it came to protecting the people she loved. And the Demon King wouldn’t blink when it came to destroying human cities filled with millions of people. Among those people were Rachel Underwood, Navin Sharma, and Alexander Grayson—three lives she would do almost anything to protect.

She focused again on the computer screen in front of her. Another news update was the first thing she saw when she refreshed the BBC page. The fire was finally under control, but it was far too late to save the main buildings of the British Museum. Nobody could understand how the fire had spread so quickly and so totally. There were wild speculations about this in various comment threads and on Twitter, including talk of an “apocalypse,” but mostly people seemed pretty sure it was a terrorist attack. Which, Donna thought, it is. Only carried out by a vengeful Demon King rather than religious fundamentalists or political extremists.

According to the reports, there had definitely been some kind of explosion, but nobody could agree on what exactly could have caused it. There would be all the usual investigations, of course, but while various experts were wheeled out to outline their ideas, not a single one of their theories matched. The explosion—if that’s what it had been—was being classified as “mysterious” and “highly unusual.”

She flipped over to Google, typing in “enlightenment gallery british museum.”

After scrolling past all the news reports about the blast, she came across several sites with information about the gallery Miranda had mentioned. The Enlightenment Gallery was where some of Dr. John Dee’s mystical equipment was displayed. Dr. Dee was the creepy sixteenth-century astrologer, mathematician, and Master Magus who had played a pivotal role—unknown to most academics and historians—in the founding of the current alchemical Orders. One of the collection’s centerpieces was Dee’s famous obsidian scrying mirror. The British Museum also held alchemical grimoires and other manuscripts, all of which would undoubtedly be nothing more than ash by now.

Sighing, Donna decided she’d had enough of staring at a computer screen. It wasn’t like she was learning anything useful. She headed down two flights of stairs to the library, hoping that the alchemists’ conference would last a good while longer. It was unusual for her to have some time to herself, and now she was glad of it.

There had to be some sort of weapon that could be used against Demian and his kind—she just needed to find out what it was.

Two

STEPPING QUIETLY INTO Miranda’s impressive library, Donna surveyed the eclectic décor. In the evenings, the room was dimly lit by iron chandeliers that hung from the high ceilings. Paintings adorned the walls—canvases of all sizes, framed prints of esoteric symbols—and gilt mirrors shone with reflected candlelight. The library was one of the grandest spaces, and yet also one of the most intimate, in the impressive old house.

Although Donna had been in London for almost a month, she still hadn’t been shown anything that related to the creation of the Philosopher’s Stone—even though this was, supposedly, the main reason she’d been sent to London in the first place. The alchemists needed the Stone before they could set to work recreating the elixir of life, which Donna had (unfortunately yet necessarily) lost. But beyond the dry alchemical reading she’d been assigned, her so-called apprenticeship seemed to consist mostly of polishing ancient equipment and listening to Miranda’s stories of “English Alchemy Across the Centuries.” Donna was beginning to think that Robert’s lessons on how to control her powers were actually more interesting, even if they didn’t seem to have anything to do with alchemy.

True, it hadn’t been all boring, but she wanted to know when she was actually going to learn the real secrets. Robert had quickly disabused her of that notion when he’d told her, “Alchemy is all about the individual’s journey to transformation. We each find a different path to the truth.”

“But how am I supposed to find that?” After having spent two hours cleaning out a closet of esoteric test tubes, Donna was tired of dust and even more tired of being told what to do.

So here she was, using her initiative. Miranda had given her the keys to the library and told her to shelve books whenever she had spare time. Fine. She would shelve books. She would take great care to examine even the ones that she wasn’t supposed to touch.

There was a locked cabinet of antiquarian books against the north wall. Donna knew it wasn’t just secured with an ordinary key; there were magical wards placed on it so that Miranda would know if anyone had disturbed the Order’s most precious volumes. Donna remembered thinking that that was pretty strange, when Robert gave her a tour of the house on her first full day here. Quentin Frost, the Archmaster back home in Ironbridge, had never forbidden her from touching any of the books in the Blue Room, his own personal library. He’d loved to see her enjoy reading when she was a kid; it was something they shared.

Seeing books under lock and key—and protected by magic—gave Donna an uncomfortable feeling. It was as if they were dangerous in some way … as though, if allowed to go free, they could cause unknowable damage and destruction. Which was a weird thing to think, but nothing was outside the realm of possibility in her experience. Seventeen years on this earth had shown her plenty of danger already, and a whole lot of weird to go with it.

Before she could change her mind, Donna tugged off the black velvet glove that covered the ironwork on her right hand. She turned the small bronze key in the cabinet lock and rested her fingers against the mechanism. She had no idea what she was actually doing, but if she could open doorways between dimensions, surely she could open a freaking cabinet.

She examined her knuckles, willing something to happen. Anything. The iron tattoos that held her together—and which had bound her power for so long, as she’d recently discovered—were at peace for the moment, still and silent against her pale skin. Sometimes the silver swirls and markings would move, winding around her wrists and hands, up her arms to her elbows. Apart from how strange it was to see, the movement hurt her in a bone-deep sort of ache. Maker once told her it was because some of the iron was lacing together her actual bones. His alchemical magic had been the only thing that had saved her, after the Wood Monster’s jaws had almost destroyed her arms and hands.

As she hesitated, the key in the lock, Donna saw her tattoos begin to move. She held her breath—the strange sensation made it feel as though the bones themselves were moving, shifting position and reshaping themselves into something new. It was something that she had no real control over. Watching the tattoos twist and writhe, sort of like soundwaves around the small amount of pale flesh still visible, made her feel nauseated.

She watched in fascination as the shimmering iron across her fingers curled around her hands and seemed to flick toward the lock. Then there was a sharp click and a sudden release of pressure inside her chest, like a balloon had just burst. The cabinet door jumped open.

She’d done it! She’d actually managed to break Miranda’s protective wards. Donna was pretty sure she’d also alerted her mentor to what she was up to. Well, it’s not like Miranda doesn’t have more important things to think about right now, she thought as she carefully opened the door wider to examine the contents of the shelves.

She lifted down one of the heavy volumes. It was bound in cracked leather and the pages were yellow and musty. Flipping through, she was surprised to see that it was hand-lettered in a barely legible script. The ink was a rusty brown, and some of the pages were filled with columns of numbers and unfamiliar equations.

Turning another page, her attention was immediately drawn to a sinister line drawing of some kind of small creature. It was twisted and knobbly, a bit like a wood elf but even more alien. She’d never seen anything like it before, and she traced the word underneath the illustration with her finger.

“Homunculi,” she read aloud. She’d heard that term before, but this was the first time she’d seen an illustration. “Artificial life forms, based on human physiology, created with the aid of the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Donna shivered. Whoever the artist was, he or she hadn’t seemed to believe that homunculi were all that closely based on human physiology. The creature was weird and lumpy, and about as far from a person as it was possible to get while still having a head, a torso, two arms, and two legs. Yet Donna wasn’t surprised that the Philosopher’s Stone was needed to make these beings, just as the stone was necessary in the creation of the elixir of life. She hoped she’d learn more about the Philosopher’s Stone soon.

The book was arranged alphabetically, and she turned to the B section to look for “British Museum.” There was no entry for it, so she tried “Dee.” She found two pages of cramped, spidery text devoted to Dr. John Dee. Scanning the information, she came to a section that made her pause:

Dee’s Mirror:

A polished piece of volcanic glass (obsidian), used by Dr. John Dee to contact spirits and gain knowledge of Other Worlds.

That sounded familiar … she bit her lip and thought for a moment. Oh, right. John Dee’s scrying mirror was one of the alchemical artifacts stored in the British Museum. Did that mean it was gone now, thanks to the fire? She flipped through some more pages before putting the volume aside. It was full of alchemical terms and definitions, and perhaps it would be useful later in her studies, but for now she wanted demon intel.

There was a smaller book, at the end of the top shelf, that drew her attention. It had one of those stupid locks holding it shut, like on her very first diary, which you knew was never going to keep anybody out. Not if they really wanted to read it.

This lock had long since worn away and was hanging by a few cotton threads and a thin strip of leather. She fiddled with the rotting metal until she could open the book without tearing the binding.

A handwritten title page declared, Encyclopaedia Demonica. She raised her eyebrows. Interesting title.

She looked for “Shadows,” but there was no entry with that heading. Then she tried “Skriker,” just out of curiosity. Of course, that wasn’t in the book either. The Skriker was a fey creature, not a demon. But a couple pages further on, she found an entry that caught her eye:

“Strix,’” she read. “About the size of an adolescent human, these demonic birds are hunters, just like their counterparts in the animal kingdom. Often seen in folklore as a bad omen, particularly known to foretell death. In Roman mythology they were believed to nest in desolate area, abandoned buildings, and ruins such as castles. In the demon world, they are known to feed on human flesh.’”

Donna shivered and sat down on the floor, pulling the book into her lap and making herself comfortable.

Time slipped away as she read, flipping through various sections with foreboding subheadings and growing increasingly absorbed. No wonder Miranda kept these books locked away. There was some creepy stuff in them. Creepy and fascinating, in a car-crash kind of way. But useful? She wasn’t so sure about that.

Until she came to something marked “Demon Locales.” That sounded like it had some possibilities. Donna rubbed her aching back and shifted position, her eyes scanning pages more quickly. She half-expected Miranda to come bursting in at any moment, eyes filled with reproach for what she would see as her apprentice’s blatant disregard for authority.

“The Otherworld holds an unknown and potentially infinite number of different realms,” she read. “Commonly referred to as the Underworld in many world mythologies, the Land of the Dead is said to be the domain of the Demon King.”

This is it! Donna thought, only just managing to hold back her cry of excitement. It had to be what she was looking for. Well, she didn’t really know what exactly she was looking for—but perhaps she would find something useful here. Something that she could file away and use against Demian when the time came. The alchemists needed weapons, and one of the best weapons was knowledge. Quentin had taught her that. She hastily returned to the page, scanning parts that looked particularly interesting:

The Grove of Thorns:

Recognizable by its protective wall of black roses, the Grove of Thorns is believed to be the one part of the Underworld that even demons may not enter. Alchemical scholars cannot agree on what is hidden at its heart, but some ancient texts display crude drawings of a pear tree. The fruit of this tree is believed to be silver in color, and the tree itself has many names, the most commonly found being—

Something sharp tapped at one of the high windows, almost making Donna’s heart burst through her chest. She dropped the book with a clatter as her mind flashed to a not-particularly-comforting image of demon-owls carrying babies in their beaks. Springing to her feet, she half-expected a reaper storm of demon shadows to smash through the glass and fly into the room.

All she could see, however, was a single crow. Or a raven? It stared in at her with coal-black eyes that glittered with disturbing intelligence.

Donna jumped again, annoyed with herself for being so nervous about a stupid bird. She pushed aside disturbing thoughts of Edgar Allan Poe and climbed onto the carved wooden bench beneath the window. Her nose was just about level with the bottom of the glass, and she got a close-up view of the creature’s scaly talons as it gripped the ledge outside. What was a crow doing out at night?

Attached to the bird’s ankle was a rolled-up piece of paper or parchment, like a scroll. But the paper was black instead of ivory, or cream, or whatever color those things were supposed to be. Donna wondered if she’d fallen asleep over Miranda’s dusty old books. Was this one of those disturbingly vivid dreams she sometimes found herself having? Maybe the crow was a messenger from her subconscious. Or maybe she was just hallucinating.

The “hallucination” squawked loudly and almost seemed to glare at her through the lightly frosted glass.

“You’re not dreaming, Underwood,” Donna told herself. “You’re just going crazy.”

She rolled her eyes. Definitely crazy. Not that she’d admit it to Nav when she told him about this.

Telling herself to get a grip, she opened the window and tentatively removed the paper on the crow’s leg from its bindings. Her hand accidently brushed warm feathers. The moment the scroll was in her hand, the bird blinked once and then flew back up into the indigo sky.

Donna watched its inky wings blot out a section of stars for a moment, and then it was gone.

She unrolled the ebony parchment, but froze when footsteps sounded outside the library. Great. Either the meeting was already over, or Miranda was about to kick her ass for breaking into her secret book stash.

The scroll contained a simple but elegant invitation, and Donna quickly read it before her mentor entered the room. She could practically feel her face drain of color as she wordlessly handed the paper to Miranda. At least now, she was less likely to get into trouble for touching those forbidden texts.

It seemed that the crow-messenger had brought something far more important for the alchemists to worry about.

Three

I’M NOT GOING,” Donna said, standing tall in the center of the library and glaring at Miranda as though it were her fault.

The heavy black paper in her mentor’s hand looked like a shadow that didn’t belong, almost appearing to mock her as the silver lettering shimmered in the candlelight.

Miranda placed the invitation on the nearby long wooden table. She blinked at Donna’s outburst, but that was her only outward reaction. “This isn’t the only communication that was delivered tonight. Other alchemists have already received their own invitations.”

Miranda closed the book that Donna had dropped and slid it back into its rightful place on the shelf.

Donna snorted, for once not caring about being unladylike in front of Miranda. “Why am I not surprised?”

Her mentor shook her head, as though disappointed. “I’m just thinking about what’s best for everybody.”

“I believe,” Miranda said dryly, “that I was including you when I said ‘everybody.’”

Donna dug the toe of her sneaker into the floor, wishing she could gouge a big-enough hole to escape through. “How could attending this thing possibly be good for me?”

“Because the Demon King seems to have taken rather a shine to you, and if he wants you to attend his masquerade, there must be a reason. We want to know what that reason is.”

Donna picked up the invitation again. “But this … why would Demian’s party have anything to do with me? And why is he even holding a masquerade ball? It seems kind of trivial for someone who supposedly has revenge on his mind.”

“The intelligence we’ve gathered indicates that the demons are maneuvering for something specific—why do you think they haven’t attacked the alchemists directly yet?”

Donna stared at Miranda for a beat. “Um … what do you call burning down the British Museum? I’d call that a direct attack.”

“But there are alchemical artifacts in the museum. Maybe they were going after those.”

Miranda waved her hand, irritation passing briefly across her face. “Either way, we have reason to believe there’s a lot more going on here. We just don’t know exactly what that might be. Not yet, anyway.”

“The demons are probably still gathering their forces,” Donna said. “That’s got to take a while, after being trapped for two centuries.”

Miranda frowned. “The demons are powerful—Demian is powerful—you really think he wouldn’t have everything settled by now? No. Whatever it is they want, there’s more to it than war. More even than simple revenge.”

Simple? Donna didn’t think there was anything “simple” about revenge, but she chose not to argue the point.

She forced out a breath. “Right. And you want me to find out what he’s really up to?”

“I’ll just dance with him at some stupid ball, ask him all about his demonic plans, and he’ll tell me … just like that. That’s what you think?” Donna shook her head. “Somehow I don’t think it’s going to work.”

Miranda shrugged. “It’s worth a try. You may have more influence with him than you want to believe.”

“You’re telling me that the Order of the Crow is willingly sending me to hang out with a demon king? You’re quite happy to use me as bait?” Not that Donna was surprised, she just wanted to make sure she knew exactly where she stood.

Miranda tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. A vaguely guilty expression crossed her face. “There will be other alchemists present, keeping watch over you. We’re treating it as a diplomatic event—possibly even an opportunity to divert a war. At the very least, we can gather important information.”

Robert chose that moment to enter the library, catching the tail end of their conversation. “Miranda’s right,” he said. “All of the alchemists received a similar messenger.”

He looked more well-groomed tonight than usual, although for Robert that wasn’t saying much considering his general Goth appearance. He was tall and willowy, his half-Chinese heritage evident in his dark eyes and glossy black hair, which tonight was tied back into a partial ponytail—all the better to show off his cobalt-blue highlights. He actually looked like he might have been out for the evening before getting called to the meeting upstairs, and Donna remembered that it had been his night off. Maybe Robert had had a date with a cute guy—he totally deserved some fun, given how close to death he’d come just weeks ago.

Donna immediately latched onto a hope she hadn’t dared to believe might come true this soon. “Quentin and my mom—will they be at this ball?”

“Well, the Order of the Dragon has been invited to send representatives,” Robert replied. “As have the other Orders.”

“How are they going to get here in time for tomorrow night?” Donna had visions of them using her wildly untested abilities to somehow transport people, and her stomach tightened.

Miranda smiled grimly. “Demian says that arrangements for that will be made. I don’t doubt that our colleagues will be there.”

Donna scowled at the invitation. “Part of me doesn’t want to go, but the other part … well, she wants to kick Demian’s ass.”

“What are you talking about?” Donna snapped, annoyed at the flush of warmth in her cheeks.

He ignored her, then turned to Miranda. “Don’t you think you should get some rest? It’s already gone midnight and there will be a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

Miranda checked her watch. “There’s no time for me to sleep yet. I have to start getting things organized. Not the least of which is finding a ball gown for you, Donna.”

Donna watched the petite woman stride from the room before turning on the tall alchemist standing in front of her. A slow smile was spreading across Robert’s face. Despite how irritating he could be, Donna couldn’t help liking him.

About the Book

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