The Stone Demon

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?”

“If you can, yes.”

“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.”

“Why? Because he’s taken a shine to me?”

“Perhaps,” her mentor replied.

“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, al-though 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.”

Robert flashed her a quick grin. “He’d probably enjoy that.”

“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 blanched. “A ball gown?”

“Yes. Never fear, it’s all under control.” Miranda turned on her heel.

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.

“So, what did you mean?” she asked, knowing she’d probably regret asking. “About Demian enjoying it if I kicked his ass?”

Robert rolled his eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? He fancies you.”

Fancies? “Who even says that?”

“Doesn’t change the fact.”

“It’s not a fact. It’s your theory. A very bad one.”

“Well, it’s a theory that Miranda clearly shares. I didn’t hear you arguing with her about it when she said something about how the Demon King has taken a shine to you.”

Donna crossed her arms. “That’s because she’s currently my boss. Sort of. And Miranda’s choice of words was far less annoying.”

“I realize how annoying it must be that I’m right all the time, but I told you as much when you first opened the Gate to Hell,” Robert replied. “The look in Demian’s eyes when he spoke to you was pretty weird. Creepy, even. Like you were a commodity rather than a person.”

Donna knew something about that look, but not from Robert’s description of the demon. She remembered what her mother had written in her journal—about Simon Gaunt’s expression when he noticed the young Donna’s growing power. She shivered.

“We’re not just talking about some guy here, Robert. He’s a demon. The Demon King. Do you honestly think that’s what this is about?” Donna picked up the invitation and tossed it at him.

He ducked as the heavy paper fluttered to the ground like a dead, black thing. “Ah, so serious.” Seeing that she really was mad at him, Robert sobered. “Sorry, Donna. I was just kidding. Trying to take the edge off all this bloody tension.”

Her shoulders were still tight with anger. Or perhaps with fear. “Well, then, you’re doing a shitty job of it.”

He ran his tongue over the silver lip ring that caught the candlelight, a nervous habit. “Right. I got that. Once again, my apologies.”

Donna forced herself to relax. “Demian only cares about power. If he fancies anything, that’s what this is all about.”

“He wants something from you,” Robert said. “That’s certainly true.”

“Yeah,” she snapped. “Maybe he does, but it sure as hell isn’t a date.”



Donna stomped out of the library and ran upstairs to her bedroom. She wanted privacy for the phone call she was about to make.

When her mother picked up on the second ring, Donna’s face broke into a grin of pure relief.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Donna.” The smile was evident in her mother’s voice, although Donna could also detect a note of strain. “It’s good to hear from you.”

The strange bird with its invitation from Demian was the first thing on Donna’s mind, but she tried to wait. At least for a moment. “I miss you.”

“You didn’t call just to catch up.” Rachel Underwood’s tone was suddenly all business. “This is about that so-called ball the Demon King has dreamed up. Any excuse to get us all in one place, I’m sure.”

“So, everybody got invitations?”

“Yes. The Order of the Rose in Prague—they aren’t too happy about it, let me tell you! It takes something special to dig them out of that mausoleum they call a home. Even an alchemist from the Order of the Lion was found by Demian’s messengers. We don’t know how he managed it, but I would imagine that a demon has his ways.”

The Order of the Lion was the most clandestine branch of alchemy; the members were more like spies or super-secret agents. Half the time, nobody was even sure where their latest base of operations was—whether or not they were on covert missions or just sitting around somewhere sipping martinis (shaken, not stirred). Locating one of their members out in the middle of nowhere and deep undercover—to personally deliver an invitation to something as ordinary as a party—was pretty impressive. Demian clearly hadn’t had any trouble finding them, which was just another demonstration of his effortless power.

“At least we’ll find out what he wants—he may be about to offer terms,” Rachel added.

Donna immediately felt shards of ice smash any pleasure she felt at speaking with her mom. “Terms? Maybe he’s just feeling destructive. The British Museum is pretty much gone.”

“It’s terrible, of course, but this is exactly the kind of behavior we expect from a creature like that. Why do you think the alchemists worked so hard to lock him away for two centuries?”

Which made Donna feel guilty all over again for letting such a potentially powerful being loose on the world. She guessed it was a feeling that wasn’t going to disappear any time soon.

“So, Mom, how are you feeling?” If the change of subject was unsubtle, her mother didn’t call her on it.

“Better. Much better.”

“Are you sure?” Donna couldn’t help her constant anxiety about her mom’s illness and recovery. She wished she could have stayed with her in Ironbridge, just to keep an eye on her, but here she was stuck in England serving out her “sentence” for all the mistakes she’d made. It didn’t help any that her mom had a tendency to brush her sickness aside as though it had been a minor thing, rather than a ten-year trip around the bend to Crazy. Half the time, Donna wondered whether her mother’s recovery was yet another of the Wood Queen’s tricks, but so far things seemed to be moving in the right direction.

“You worry too much,” Rachel said. “I’m feeling almost back to my old self. I’ve been spending a lot of time with Quentin.”

“That’s great,” Donna replied. “I bet he’s happy to see you back.”

Her mother laughed. “He’s the only one.”

Donna couldn’t help her own snort of laughter. Aunt Paige and Simon Gaunt had been shocked to witness Rachel’s magical recovery. They’d tried to look and sound pleased, but neither of them did a very good job of it. Even Aunt Paige, who was experienced at putting a positive spin on things in her day job working for Ironbridge’s mayor, had looked shell-shocked.

Her mother sighed, filling the silence between them. “I’m just sorry you’re having to deal with any of this. You’ve already had a decade of secrets and lies to come to terms with. Now this.”

Donna’s fingers tightened on the phone. “I’m not even sure I have come to terms with it.”

“So you don’t want to try?”

“Not really, no.” She lowered her voice. “I want to leave, Mom. You know that, right?”

“I do,” her mother replied steadily. “I’m not surprised, and I certainly don’t blame you.”

“I’m just trying to figure out the best way to … ”

“Make your escape?” There was the hint of a smile in Rachel’s voice.

“Something like that.” Donna blew out a breath, relieved to be having this conversation, while at the same time regretting that it was happening while her mother was so far away. “I’m sorry. Are you mad?”

“Why should I be? I love you, no matter what. I never wanted this life for you.”

It was far too late for that, Donna thought. This was the life she had, and the only thing left was to make the best of it. At least until she turned eighteen this summer. Not long, she thought. Not too long to wait.

She wondered if she would even reach her birthday before the world ended at the hands of a reaper storm of demons. She’d probably die a virgin, knowing her luck; she smiled faintly as she remembered how close she’d come to sleeping with Xan, that night she’d teleported to his house.

Not like she could think about romance when there was a demon king knocking at the door. Pushing images of Alexander Grayson from her mind, Donna pressed the phone against her ear and focused on her mother’s gentle voice again as she recounted what had happened at the alchemists’ meeting. Anything to ground her, to take away the feeling of despair that suddenly hit her in the gut and made her dizzy.

Not many people her age had to worry about stuff like a demonic apocalypse, but it didn’t make Donna feel in any way special. She was tired. She felt old and worn out and cynical. She wanted the chance to be a kid again, before it was too late. She dreamed of traveling the world and going to college and doing normal teenage things. Perhaps those things would always remain just out of reach—more like a cruel mirage than a dream—but if she didn’t hold on to hope, what else was there?



Donna paced up and down the street, just outside the little row of Victorian houses in the heart of Pimlico. The lights of the city still burned, even at this time of night, and the sky was full of stars. Miranda hadn’t wanted her to go out alone, but Donna needed air before she could even think of going to bed. She’d promised to stay within sight of the house, but even this tiny slice of liberation lifted her spirits. She’d declined Robert’s offer to join her for an “early hours” walk around the neighborhood—she was still pissed at him for talking about Demian the way that he had. Sure, he meant well, but that didn’t mean he knew what he was talking about.

Power was the only currency that someone like the Demon King cared about. As Miranda had already indicated, it wasn’t about something as … banal as destruction; there was more to it than that. It wasn’t even about revenge. Donna had felt it that night in the Ironwood, when Demian had first stepped free of his prison—and then once again, that day on the bridge when he’d given her the first of many black roses.

She shivered, remembering once again his gaze and the way he’d spoken to her. As that thought crossed her mind, she saw a pale shape coalesce out of nothing but cool night air.

He stood waiting for her, three doors down from Miranda’s house.

She instantly recognized the tall, slender figure, who was motionless except for his silver hair, which was blowing slightly in the sudden wind. It felt like something out of a movie, and Donna had no doubt that this was the effect Demian was going for.

Donna knew that Robert was watching out for her from one of the top-floor windows, but she wondered how much he would really be able to see. Demons were masters of illusion—more so than the fey with their glamour, and perhaps even possessed a more powerful kind of magic than the alchemists. At least, once they were at full strength again.

Demian was beautiful, as before. But it was a dangerous beauty. The sort of beauty that you could cut yourself on if you weren’t careful. He stood with his shoulders back, in the black suit that matched his glittering eyes. His skin was very pale, his features all sharp planes beneath the shadows cast by the silver hair sweeping back from his face.

The Demon King smiled as she watched him. Somehow, his smile was more terrifying than any other expression he might have chosen to wear on his wicked face.

“What are you doing here?” Donna managed to say.

“Am I not free to visit my subjects when it pleases me?”

Subjects? Donna clenched her jaw and gave him the most scary look she could. “You are beyond arrogant.”

His eyes flashed. “And you are beyond discourteous.”

Her stomach dropped to somewhere down near her knees, but she stood her ground. “We got your invitation, if that’s what you’re here to check up on.”

He shrugged one shoulder, a gesture she was already familiar with from their previous meetings. “Indeed. I have received a reply from your Archmaster and the Order of the Dragon, as well as from the alchemists here.”

“Oh. Right.” Donna wondered how the alchemists man-

aged to RSVP when there hadn’t been a return address included with the invite. “I’m going back inside,” she added. “So you might as well leave.”

“Won’t you stay and talk for a few moments?”

“It’s cold.”

The air around her instantly heated. For some reason, that made her shiver even more. Demian was powerful—exactly how powerful was anybody’s guess. Two hundred years of incarceration didn’t seem to have slowed him down too much.

“Better?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

Donna glared at him. “Please, just leave me alone.”

She felt for the elusive shard of first matter—alchemical prima materia—that lived within her, just in case. Catching the very edge of the unpredictable power she had yet to fully understand, she prepared to tug on it, to use it if the Demon King attacked. Her own personal brand of magic was her only defense against him. Donna wasn’t sure what she could really do with it, but at the very least she might be able to escape. The enhanced physical strength of her arms would be pretty much useless against a demon.

“I’ll leave you alone,” Demian said, “when I get what I want.”

Donna crossed her arms. “Which is?”

His lips widened in a sensual smile. “You, Donna Underwood. I will have you for my own. You … interest me.”

Her legs went weak, but she managed to remain upright. What was he talking about? “I’m not a belonging,” she ground out. “I am not your pet. You can’t talk about human beings like that.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, “I’ll make you mine and you will thank me for it.”

Donna dug her nails into her palms. “What do you mean, ‘have’ me? In what way?”

“In every way.” His eyes glinted.

Crap. She had to stop baiting him. Up until now, he’d seemed civil enough, but that could change at any moment. He was a demon, after all. What was to stop him from just taking her into the Underworld by force, Persephone-style?

Demian bowed. “I look forward to seeing you at the masquerade.”

“I’m not going,” Donna said. The treacherous words were out before she could drag them back and lock them away.

“You will attend.”

“I’m busy tomorrow night.”

He showed her the edge of his teeth. “Change your plans, or I’ll be forced to change them for you. This ball is more than a social event. It is not a trifle. Negotiations will take place there.”

“At a masquerade ball? Really? Is that how demons do business these days?”

He moved so quickly, she didn’t even realize it until he was almost on top of her. She felt the heat radiating from his body. “Demons always mix business with pleasure. Haven’t your little books told you that?”

Donna tried to hide the shudder that ran through her at just having him so close. It was a strange and sickening mixture of disgust and desire. She knew the pleasure wasn’t real; Maker and Quentin had told her it came from Demian’s natural pheromones and that all she could do was fight against it. So she tried to focus on a thread of fear instead, her pure terror that she was nothing more than prey.

His head tilted to one side as he examined her. “You are … afraid.”

She didn’t have the energy to laugh. “You think?”

“You freed me. You gave my people—what remains of them—hope. Why would I hurt you?”

Donna clenched her hands. “Maybe because I didn’t mean to set you free. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. Aliette tricked me. I never meant to open the door to your realm.”

“Accident or not, the door opened, and you were the one responsible. Therefore, I owe you a great debt.”

Her throat felt impossibly dry. “You owe me nothing. I intend to put you back where you belong.” If I can, she added to herself.

His lips curved into a wicked smile. “You will fail.”

“But at least I’ll have tried.”

Demian grabbed her hands and pulled her toward him so that they were standing face to face. “I won’t allow you to send us back. Not after two centuries. Not after I have tasted freedom again.”

“Then kill me,” she said, amazed that her voice remained steady.

“No,” he said, his own voice like stone.

Donna looked Demian right in the eye and summoned defiance—she was her father’s daughter, after all, heir to Patrick Underwood, a legend in his time. “So, what is it about me that keeps you from just … snuffing me out?” she asked.

“Do not presume to question me.”

All his charm had disappeared—Demian was as changeable as the night sky above London. It was terrifying, but she wouldn’t let him intimidate her. Donna hated bullies, even Otherworldly bullies who were simply being who they were. Demian only knew how to throw his weight around because he was born a king. And although she couldn’t beat him in any kind of direct confrontation, Donna still had a few surprises up her sleeve. Or, more precisely, hidden beneath her gloves.

She let her whole body go limp, hoping to sucker him into a mistake. As she relaxed, the only thing keeping her upright was Demian’s hold on her.

He reacted to her “fall” instantly, releasing her hands and wrapping his arms around her body in a lightning-fast movement that took her breath away. Donna placed her now free hands against his chest and pushed, with all of the iron-clad strength in her arms. She gritted her teeth and put everything she had into it, gasping with the effort of trying to move what seemed to be an immoveable object.

Releasing her, Demian rocked backward, stumbled on the edge of the sidewalk, and adjusted his balance all in one fluid move. His expression was almost comically shocked.

Donna pulled herself upright. “Don’t touch me again, Majesty.”

“I do as I like,” he said, clearly shaken. “I could destroy your whole pathetic race. Every human being would serve me. I could rule this world!”

All his courtly manners were gone. Fury remained, sharp-edged like a blade.

“You could rule,” Donna replied, feeling the color drain from her face. “But you would be a lonely king. A heartless, pathetic dictator.”

“You will not speak to me this way,” he snarled.

“Why not? What have I got to lose? If you’re going to kill everyone on this planet, there’s not a lot I can do about it. You’ve already made that pretty clear.” She took a step forward, pressing on despite the numb terror that hovered on the edge of her awareness. “And I’m not sure you’ll do it, anyway.”

“And what makes you think you know me so well, young alchemist?”

“I don’t know you. Not even a little.” She took a deep breath. “But if you really were going to destroy everything in a fit of demonic rage—just to get your revenge—I think you would already have done it.”

Demian smiled, but it was a terrible expression. “You have no idea what I’m capable of. Your tiny mind would break under the weight of all I have done. If I told you … ”

He let his voice trail off suggestively, but Donna was getting the picture. Demian might be quick to lose his temper, but he was still a manipulative control freak. She recognized all the signs, after spending a lifetime around creeps like Simon Gaunt.

“Yeah,” she heard herself say in a bored voice she almost didn’t recognize as her own. “I’m so impressed by you. Wow, you’re amazing.”

His lip curled. “Hide behind your human sarcasm if it pleases you. I will see you at the ball, and after we have danced and celebrated my freedom, then we will speak of the future. What remains of it, at least. There is much to be discussed after all these years.”

“You don’t need me for negotiations.”

“On the contrary,” he replied, his voice becoming implacable. “You are the one person we cannot do without.”

“If I attend.”

“As I have already made clear, you will attend the masquerade or I will make you regret it.”

Donna touched the center of her chest, as she’d frequently done these past months as she connected to the power inside her. “Are you threatening me?”

His expression darkened. “I don’t need to make threats.”

“Because you’re so used to people doing your bidding, your Majesty?”

“They usually do,” he said.

“Well, then, you can expect me to buck that trend,” she said.

Demian’s mouth twitched—with annoyance or amusement, Donna couldn’t decide.

“We’ll see,” was all he said. “I am certainly used to having to convince people that my way is the best way to do things.”

Donna resisted the temptation to punch the Demon King in his perfect face. He was such a psycho. “You mean, the way you convinced the Order of the Crow to take your ‘invitation’ so seriously? By murdering innocent people in London?”

“There are always casualties in war.” His eyes were completely unreadable black spaces. “It is regrettable, but necessary.”

Before she could reply with an appropriate level of contempt, Demian turned and walked away from her. His movements were smooth and sure. Nothing troubled him now—least of all her.

Donna’s heart was pounding so hard it blocked out the distant sounds of the city.

As the king of the demons reached the garden gate of the next house, he stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. It was one of the most incongruous scenes she had ever seen—and it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen a lot of strangeness in her life.

“Until next time, Donna Underwood,” he said.

She shivered as he said her name, hating him for his power. Or maybe she didn’t hate him for that—it was easy to resent power, but she really wasn’t the sort of person who “hated.” No, the thing she disliked in Demian was the way he used his power. The abuse of it.

He disappeared, leaving behind a single black rose on the sidewalk. Of course.

“Show-off,” she muttered, turning on her heel and leaving the flower exactly where it was.



There were several missed calls and a text message from Xan waiting for her when she got back to her room. Cursing herself for being so careless as to leave her phone behind, she scrolled through to the new message. It read:

I heard about what happened. If you get this in the next hour ping me back and I’ll call you.

Worrying that she might have missed her chance to speak to him, Donna fumbled to text back a quick reply and then sat waiting anxiously, her cell phone in her lap. She knew Xan had been hiding something from her these past few weeks—something important—but as usual, she knew not to push him. He would probably talk when he was ready. At least, she hoped he would. He’d been brought up with as many secrets as she had, having to bury his half-fey heritage and practically live a lie. She knew it was a hard habit to break … that natural desire to keep things safely hidden and hold your emotions inside, to fear what might happen if you reached out and trusted someone else.

Maybe hearing from him tonight was a good sign. At the very least, she’d be able to talk to him about everything that had happened in London tonight.

She tried not to think about Demian while she waited, but of course that was impossible. It seemed almost like a dream—a nightmare—that only minutes ago she’d been talking to the king of the demons outside in the street. A regular London street, where passersby had no clue what was going on right under their noses.

The phone rang and she snatched it up, her heart pounding.

“Hey, Donna,” Xan said.

“Xan,” she replied, holding the phone more tightly and savoring the sound of his voice. “How are you?”