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The Stone Demon: An Iron Witch Novel © 2013 by Karen Mahoney
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For Mum, who was there at the very beginning
and couldn’t wait to see how the story ends.
Donna Underwood’s Final Journal Entry:
They say that the truth sets you free.
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.
And then there’s Demian.
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?
The only problem is, I’m not even sure I know where to begin …
From: Donna Underwood
To: Navin Sharma
Subject: Use The Force
Nav,
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 cozy 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.
I miss you.
Love,
Donna
From: Navin Sharma
To: Donna Underwood
Subject: Trust Your Feelings
Donna,
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 soun-ded 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.
I’m not sure the English laydeez are ready for me.
I’ll Skype you soon.
Your buddy,
Nav
One
The British Museum was on fire.
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.”
“Yes,” Miranda said, her tone bleak. “A new 9/11.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
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.
She swallowed. “I don’t think the Enlightenment Gallery exists any more.”
“No,” Miranda agreed. “I don’t think it does.”
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 herse
lf 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.
This was pathetic. She had to do something.
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.
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