The Stone Demon

by Karen Mahoney

  Demian narrowed his eyes as he watched them. “Donna Underwood speaks truly—Quentin Frost should be present. Perhaps he is afraid to face me. After all, it was his magic that contributed to the sealing of my realm two centuries ago.”

  Simon’s hands were clenched on the table, his knuckles so white it looked almost as though the bones had burst through his skin. “He paid the price for it, demon. As you well know.”

  Donna was torn between standing up and demanding to know—there and then—what the hell they were talking about, and letting the argument take its course so she could learn more. She opted to keep her mouth shut.

  The Demon King shrugged one shoulder. “He brought it on himself. No alchemist should have been able to wield such power. It is incredible that he even survived.” Demian tilted his head, gazing intently at the Magus. “Though perhaps he has you to thank for that, hmm?”

  Simon’s lips tightened, but he said nothing. Donna could see a muscle flickering in his scrawny cheek.

  “Perhaps,” Demian continued, “your own ill-gained immortality is feeding both of you. Only I am given to understand that you are somewhat … mortal once again. What a pity. I wonder how that affects your beloved Archmaster?”

  Donna’s eyes, by this stage in the verbal sparring, were almost bulging out of her head. She was suddenly glad to have been dragged into these so-called negotiations—especially if it meant she would find out more of Simon Gaunt’s secrets. Was he “mortal” once again because of her? Because she’d destroyed the remains of the elixir of life? Should she feel guilty about that?

  No way. She didn’t feel guilty about doing anything to break Simon’s power, but she did worry about the possible effects on Quentin.

  Demian’s steward continued the introductions, dragging her attention away from her fears for the elderly Archmaster. “From the Elflands, we welcome Aliette Winterthorn, Wood Queen and friend of the Otherworld.”

  Aliette entered the room, her unglamoured face splitting into a nasty grin as her narrow gaze met Donna’s. She stood tall and straight, almost as though carved out of one of the tallest trees in the Ironwood. Her brown skin looked like the bark of an old tree, and her eyes were black slits of malice. She wore a cloak weaved of leaves and ivy, and she leaned on a tall staff made of sturdy-looking wood.

  The Wood Queen was attended by two of her dark elves, hovering behind her as though they’d been left out of a particularly tricky round of musical chairs. The elves were much smaller than their queen, although they looked as much creatures of earth as she did with their tree-bark skin and mossy hair. One of them hissed at Donna when it caught her watching, and she quickly looked away.

  “And from Faerie, it is our pleasure to welcome Queen Isolde’s official representative, Taran, chief knight and advisor.” The goat-faced steward sketched a mocking bow as the first of two tall men strode into the meeting room.

  All heads turned toward them, and Donna caught her breath. She hadn’t expected anyone from Faerie to be here. High-born faery knights—which both of these men clearly were—brought all kinds of thoughts crashing down on her. When had the Queen of Faerie opened their door? Why had she done so? Was it because Demian had demanded it? Perhaps the fey thought their realm would be next on Demian’s destructive agenda … when the Demon King said “jump,” everyone asked “how high?” for fear of being wiped out in a fit of demon rage.

  But experience told Donna that it was unlikely to be something that simple. The fey had been free of Hell’s reign for two centuries, not having to pay their tithe of human sacrifice to the demons while Demian was locked up. They could have just stayed safely in their own realm—the door to Faerie could only be opened from the inside, after all. Donna had found that out the hard way, when Aliette had manipulated her into opening the door to Hell instead.

  Taran, the queen’s advisor, had a long pale face, huge almond-shaped blue eyes, and black hair that reached the middle of his back. His hair was woven into an intricate braid threaded with green twine, and he was dressed in what looked like silver chainmail. But it wasn’t anything like the armor that Donna was familiar with from history books—it might almost have been spun from spider’s silk. It shone with its own inner light, glittering and sliding across the knight’s body when he moved. There was a silver circlet resting on his brow, and he held himself with a stiff sort of arrogance.

  His companion stood slightly behind him, but he was just as tall and dressed in similar armor. This faery’s skin was more golden-hued and his eyes flashed green as he kept a careful watch on everyone in the room. His blond hair swung loosely at his shoulders. Both men wore swords sheathed in beautifully embellished scabbards.

  Both men also had slightly pointed ears, and Donna tried hard not to stare.

  Displeasure flashed across Demian’s face. “Queen Isolde does not see fit to attend these negotiations herself, Taran?”

  The dark-haired faery nodded, tilting his head just far enough to indicate respect. “Queen Isolde is also … unwell, your Majesty.”

  Taran’s companion shifted his stance, resting his right hand on the pommel of the silver sword that hung at his waist.

  The steward stopped reading from the scroll. “Who is this other person with you, Knight of Faerie?”

  “I bring Cathal, a favored knight from the Court of Air who volunteered for this duty.”

  The blond knight bowed, but his eyes were ever watchful. Donna noticed his gaze flicker in the Wood Queen’s direction several times—and then in hers.

  Volunteered? That was interesting. She filed the information away for later.

  Aliette shook her head, spilling leaves onto the table. “Interesting that my cousin sends warriors to a peace negotiation.”

  Donna hated to agree with the Wood Queen on anything, but she couldn’t really argue with her on that. It did seem strange that the monarch of Faerie would shun this gathering and send knights armed with grand swords in her place.

  Taran raised an eyebrow. “Just as the outcast Court of Earth sees fit to send guards with their representative.”

  “My companions are unarmed,” Aliette replied. “You are looking for trouble where none exists, Taran.”

  Everybody took their seats at the table and refreshments were brought by women dressed similarly to those whom Donna had met on her way into the crypt. She watched them, curious about what they looked like beneath their masks.

  “My Lord, His Amaranthine Majesty Demian, King of Terror and of the Otherworld, returned from his exile of two centuries, bids you all welcome,” the steward announced, gesturing to the head of the table. “Who would speak first?”

  Miranda leaned forward. Her face was pale but composed. “I want to know what we’re all here for. Why go through this charade when you could just kill us all with barely a thought?”

  Demian’s lips twisted into something resembling a smile. “You overestimate my power, alchemist.”

  “I don’t think so,” Miranda said. “You demonstrated your power when you destroyed the British Museum.”

  The Demon King waved his hand, dismissing the complete destruction of a British institution as though he’d kicked over a child’s sandcastle. “That was nothing. I merely needed to get your attention.”

  Simon glared at the demon from behind his glasses. They magnified his eyes and made him look like a balding white bug. “You have our attention, demon.”

  Donna didn’t want to be sitting at a table with Simon Gaunt. She didn’t want to be on his “side.” Truth be told, she didn’t want to pick sides—not if it meant more innocent people were going to suffer. Or die.

  She noticed Taran’s companion, Cathal, watching her, and flushed when he didn’t look away. He nodded, very slightly, as though acknowledging her in some way. She frowned at him. What did a faery knight want with her?

  Demian stood up. Demon shadows stirred against t
he wall, their heads turning eerily in his direction.

  “Let me make this simple,” he said. “I want two things and I will get them. If I do not get them, I will grind the human world beneath my heel and turn every human that remains into a shadow, to serve me in my Court of Fire.”

  Simon was squeezing his hand so tightly around his goblet that Donna thought he would smash it, as if he were the one who had the iron tattoos and super-strength. “You cannot threaten us here,” Simon declared. “This realm is neutral territory, and the only reason we agreed to come without a fight was because of your promises. You—”

  “Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do, Magus,” Demian spat. “You are fortunate, indeed, that we are Halfway. I would enjoy removing your head from your shoulders and keeping you alive, as you have done with my people.”

  Donna stifled a gasp, her mind flashing to Newton. Trapping demons in the human realm … was this something that other alchemists had done, too? She clenched her hands in her lap and stayed silent, thinking about the creepy head carved out of bronze that served as a half-alive security system in Simon Gaunt’s laboratory. She’d first encountered Newton with Xan, when all the statue had done was scream to alert the Magus to their unauthorized entry into the lab. But then, during her trial, Donna and Navin had actually spoken with the statue, and discovered that a demon’s essence was trapped inside—summoned and then snared by Simon, who used the demon to serve him and provide him with knowledge of the Otherworld.

  Demian’s steward slipped quietly away, and returned moments later.

  “It seems we have a late arrival,” he declared, sounding excited, bored, and put out all at the same time. Which was no mean feat, Donna thought.

  Demian sighed. “Fine. Admit him.”

  “Her, My Lord.”

  The wall shimmered and the door appeared, allowing the newest member of the gathering to walk serenely into the room.

  Rachel Underwood lowered the hood of her emerald cloak and shook out her unbound red hair. The strange lighting above her head made it look as though fire cascaded down her back.

  “Mom!” Donna didn’t give a damn about ceremony. Just let Miranda—or Simon—try to stop her.

  She ran to her mother and the two women embraced. Rachel pressed a kiss to Donna’s forehead and then another on her cheek, before they finally pulled apart and regarded one another. It had only been a month, but to Donna it seemed so much longer.

  Her mother smiled, ignoring the irritated expression on Simon’s face. “You look beautiful.”

  Donna shook her head. “No way, you’re the one who looks beautiful. I see you got your dress back.”

  Rachel shrugged, still smiling. She’d unclasped her long cloak to reveal the forest-green dress that Donna had found in the chest in Aunt Paige’s study.

  “This is all very touching,” the steward finally said, sounding anything but touched, “but can we proceed? You are late.”

  Rachel raised her eyebrows, full of a haughty grandeur that surprised Donna. “Please accept my apologies—I had some difficulties with my transportation.” Donna couldn’t miss the look in her mother’s eyes when she glanced at Simon.

  Simon, for his part, looked as though he were about to explode. His forehead had gone shiny and his cheeks were almost purple.

  Miranda leaned toward him. “Is there a problem, Magus?”

  Her tone was deferential, but Donna was pretty sure she caught a hint of amusement.

  The Magus seemed to have gotten himself back under control. “Rachel, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “Surely not a surprise, Simon,” she replied, making no attempt to disguise her disdain. “I was scheduled to accompany you in Quentin’s place, after all.”

  “I was unaware of that,” Simon replied smoothly. “How fortunate that you were able to make alternative travel arrangements.”

  “Yes,” Rachel said, glancing at Demian, who must surely have provided her “alternative travel.” “Very fortunate.”

  Donna looked around the table, taking in the strange gathering and trying to keep calm. There was her mother, sitting with Simon and Miranda; Aliette and her wood elves watching her back; the two hot fey guys sent on behalf of the Queen of Faerie, casting furtive glances around them; and Demian sitting majestically at the head of the table, his demon shadows drifting close by like guttering candles in the nonexistent breeze. His steward stood calmly behind his chair.

  It was Demian who broke the silence.

  “I want the Philosopher’s Stone,” the Demon King an-

  nounced. “Give it to me, and humanity will not suffer any further at my hands.”

  Eight

  Everything clicked into place. Fear tightened Donna’s chest, making it momentarily hard to breathe. A demon king in possession of the Philosopher’s Stone? She couldn’t bear to imagine that—not considering the power the Stone supposedly possessed. Apart from the obvious things—riches beyond imagining, immortality, its crucial role in creating the elixir of life—there was also the not-insignificant legend that whomever held the Philosopher’s Stone could reshape reality. Manipulate matter … maybe even change history itself. Of course, these were stories that she had read in books, but that didn’t mean there might not be some truth in them.

  From the look on the Demon King’s face, maybe a lot of truth.

  Miranda had visibly paled, but her voice was steady. “I expected threats from you, especially after the destruction you caused in London.”

  Demian tilted his head to one side. “Human beings are quite capable of inflicting all kinds of creative forms of suffering on one another. They do not need the help of demons. However, we are perfectly … willing to provide that help, should I not get what I desire.”

  Rachel and Miranda exchanged a look, but it was Simon who spoke for the alchemists. “That’s what all this is about? The Stone has been missing for centuries, presumably destroyed long ago by our ancestors. And even if we did have it, we would never give it to you.”

  Demian narrowed his abyss-black eyes. “Then make another.”

  Simon nodded sardonically. “Oh yes, because it is so very easy to do … ”

  Rachel leaned forward, resting her hands on the table. “We can’t do what you’re asking, Your Majesty. The alchemists no longer possess all of the ingredients needed to create the Stone.”

  Donna’s head jerked up at this proclamation. She turned to Miranda and whispered, “I thought part of the reason for my being here was to help the Order of the Crow create a new Philosopher’s Stone.”

  Miranda shook her head. “We’ll discuss this later, Donna,” she said in a low voice. “Now is not the time.”

  Demian steepled his white hands in front of him, clearly able to hear every word. “No,” he said, “let Donna Underwood speak. I would like to hear what she has to say.”

  His steward turned his goat face in Donna’s direction and gestured with one long-fingered hand. “Speak up, girl.”

  Rachel pursed her lips and looked away, and Miranda shrugged. Simon huffed.

  Donna cleared her throat, suddenly nervous. She didn’t want to make another mistake—she knew what those could cost the alchemists. What it could cost many other people. “It’s nothing.”

  She looked away from all of the stares, wishing that the floor would swallow her up. She was confused. Wasn’t her original “sentence,” handed down at the tribunal in Ironbridge, to go to London as Miranda’s apprentice for one year—to help in the creation of a new Philosopher’s Stone? There hadn’t been much evidence of that so far, of course, but then again, she’d only been here a few weeks. She’d figured that her newly awakened power to open doors between realms was something the alchemists might draw upon, when working to replace the elixir she’d lost in her first skirmish with the Wood Queen.

  Simon’s face was set in rigid lines, his shoul
ders tense as he leaned back in his chair and glared at Demian. “We will never help you regain your strength, not when we were the ones to lock you away in the first place. You ask too much of us. You ask the impossible.”

  Demian raised his eyebrows. “I am not asking.”

  Simon muttered something, but he seemed surprisingly powerless. He glanced at Rachel who looked away, trying to hide her anger.

  Demian swept his black gaze across the table. “This debate is pointless when the matter is so simple. You will deliver a new Philosopher’s Stone to me, in the Ironwood, at a time of my choosing.”

  “Or what?” Simon asked, his voice filled with hate.

  “Or I will raze both your cities to the ground.” Demian smiled. “You may choose the first location to be destroyed: London or Ironbridge.”

  Donna tried to imagine a world without London, or without Ironbridge. What would happen? Would the world powers believe it was some sort of nuclear attack? What other option would there be? The governments of the U.K. and the U.S. surely weren’t aware of the existence of other realms, of demons and faeries and elves, of alchemists who were supposed to be the keepers of a magical Stone that could bestow all kinds of power and riches on ordinary humans.

  Miranda closed her eyes briefly. “What does that achieve, apart from mindless destruction and the death of innocents?”

  “On the contrary,” the demon replied, “it is very far from mindless. If I reduce both cities to rubble, we can be sure that you will take me seriously when I tell you that I will have the Stone. I am willing to destroy your world one city at a time until you agree to create a new one for me.”

  Donna’s heart beat so fast she imagined her ribs actually hurt. “How can we do that, Majesty, if we’re all dead?”

  “I will of course transport the alchemists I need to this realm, first. I need to protect my assets.” He leaned forward and pinned her with his gaze. “Perhaps I will even bring you to the Otherworld. You may find it more comfortable there with me.”