The Stone Demon (3 page)

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.

Thinking about it still made her shudder, even after all these years.

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.

Donna’s ears popped and the tattoos stopped moving.

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—

Crack!

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.

Tap-tap-tap!

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.”

And now I’m talking to myself.

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.

INVITATION

To: Donna Underwood, member of the Order
of the Dragon, care of the Order of the Crow
(London, United Kingdom—Human Realm)

His Highness Demian, King of the Demon Realm
invites you to a
Masquerade Ball
at
Pandemonium Crypt
(Beneath St Martin-in-the-Fields Church)

Time: Midnight. Tomorrow.

Dress: Formal. Masks must be worn.

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.”

Donna raised her eyebrows. Waiting.

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

“Nobody said you have to attend,” Miranda said in her typically mild tone.

“Good.”

“You might want to
consider
it, though.”

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.”

“What about what’s best for
me
?”

“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.”

“On humanity, yes. Not on the alchemists themselves.”

“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?”