Miranda pulled her briefcase onto her lap and began to open it. “Which could be where this comes in.” She produced what looked like a lump of polished black stone. It was flat, and roughly circular in shape, lying in her hands like something innocuous yet potentially filled with dangerous power.
The object looked remarkably like John Dee’s scrying mirror, which Donna had seen photographs of on the British Museum’s website.
“I thought that was destroyed in the fire along with everything else!” She couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice.
Miranda’s lips twisted into a smile. “You don’t really think that the Order of the Crow would leave original alchemical artifacts unprotected in a public museum, do you? Dr. Dee’s work was certainly controversial, but it was also important. We keep his true grimoires safe—along with this.”
Donna nodded. “His scrying mirror.”
Quentin and Simon exchanged glances. It was the Archmaster who spoke. “Donna, it will have to be you who uses the mirror to contact the Otherworld spirits. Since you hold the prima materia, it will make the communication that much easier. None of us here are mediums.”
Donna remembered that John Dee had to work with a medium named Edward Kelley in order to contact the “angels” and spirits whom he sought alchemical knowledge from. Some stories said that Kelley was a fake, nothing more than a charlatan, while others seemed to indicate he was very much the real deal. Donna also recalled reading a theory that while Dee and his medium thought they were contacting angels, they were in fact speaking with demons.
Of course, she had to go and think about something like that right now. She sighed, gazing at the glossy black surface of the scrying mirror where it rested on Miranda’s lap.
Her mentor tucked her blonde hair behind her ears and fixed Donna with a serious expression. “This is a powerful artifact, but only as powerful as the seer who wields it.”
Donna shook her head. “I’m no seer.”
“Although I hate to agree with the Demon King on anything,” Miranda replied with a smile, “I think you’re going to discover that you are capable of far more than you believe.”
Quentin nodded agreement, although his face was filled with concern.
“Okay, hand it over,” Donna said. “I’ll try communicating with the dead while you guys continue your war council.”
The Archmaster pushed himself painfully to his feet, shaking off Simon’s supporting hand. “I’ll get you set up in my study, then leave you some privacy. Spirits are often more inclined to speak when they don’t have an audience.”
“What about all those public séances you see on TV?” Donna asked.
He raised his eyebrows. “What do you think?”
“Ah … ” She joined him at the door.
Quentin turned back to the room’s occupants. “When I return, I suggest we move upstairs, to a larger space. Other alchemists will be arriving soon.”
There was a murmur of agreement behind her, and the sound of people gathering their things together as Donna followed the Archmaster.
This is my life now, Donna thought. She hated it, but maybe if they could get though this—impossible as it seemed—
she could finally be free.
She gripped Dr. Dee’s scrying mirror in her hands, feeling its surprising weight, and let Quentin lead her to a room suitable for a one-girl séance.
Ten
Xan waited in one of the back rooms of Maker’s workshop. The old guy had insisted he hide while he got Paige Underwood to go away. She’d apparently come to collect Maker for a meeting—a meeting he said he couldn’t attend until later. Xan hadn’t exactly wanted to be sneaking around back here, but at the same time … who was he to argue? He didn’t give a crap about Donna’s aunt. Not after everything she’d done to the girl he cared about.
His thoughts were all over the place, contemplating the future … and the potential consequences of his choices. Is this what it was like for Donna, during the days leading up to the procedure that added the magical iron to her flesh and bones?
But no. Donna’s experience was entirely different than his. She’d been a child, near death, in danger of losing her hands even if she did survive. She probably didn’t even remember much of her time with Maker—not in the beginning, at least. And “choice” hadn’t exactly come into it.
“You can come back in now, young man,” Maker called.
Xan saw that the old alchemist was fussing with schematic drawings spread out across a huge table. He was muttering to himself and rubbing gnarled fingers across two-day-old stubble on his chin. Xan tried to push back the doubt that was gnawing at him like a pack of hungry rats. Could this man really do the kind of magic Donna spoke of with such reverence? Was it even possible? Xan had seen a lot of things in his life so far, things that had left him full of pain, nightmares, and shadowy memories of events that might or might not have really happened. Torture. Cruelty. But this? A human who could make metal come alive?
Despite his reservations, he knew he had to try. His world had been empty for so long. And although he was grateful for Donna’s friendship—more than friendship, he hoped—the breathtaking, soul-deep yearning he lived with every day refused to ease up, even when it made him act in ways that cost him Donna’s trust. Xan had tried to stop wanting, but he wasn’t sure it would ever be possible.
How can you give up the very thing that keeps you alive?
In Xan’s case, the dream that he might one day fly.
Sometimes, especially during the summer, he would lie on the grass and stare hard enough at the sky that the sun’s afterimage was still imprinted on his vision hours later. Sometimes he thought the sun might blind him, but he didn’t let that stop him. He couldn’t seem to stop gazing at that blue expanse of freedom, beautiful and cruel in its perfection.
He’d been born to have wings. It sounded like pure fantasy, admitting it to himself, but his scars and fractured memories offered a kind of proof that he found hard to toss aside.
Maker was rapping his knuckles on the counter and brandishing some very ordinary-looking measuring tape. “Are you ready? I need to check my calculations.”
“Again?”
“We can’t afford any mistakes, lad.” The old man’s voice was gruff but not unkind. “We need the prototype to be right. It’ll be ready soon enough.”
Xan’s throat tightened. It had been years since he’d revealed his scars to anyone—and now he’d been regularly showing the second person in as many months. Revealing that part of himself to Donna, when they’d met, had seemed surprisingly natural. But showing evidence of his fey heritage to Maker still filled him with dread. He used to be so careful about sharing anything this personal. So potentially devastating. Yet Xan felt that there had never been any other choice. His scars … the murmur of power that still ran through his veins—weak, yes, but still there … always having to back away from people because they couldn’t possibly understand.
And then he’d met Donna, and his inbuilt sense of self-preservation just … melted away. Or maybe he’d just gotten tired of all the secrecy.
Maybe, just maybe, he believed that this man could really help him.
Taking a deep breath that caught in his throat, Xan turned his back and pulled off his coat before he could change his mind.
Stripping off his sweater and shirt, he stood waiting for Maker’s assessment. There was a long moment of silence. To Xan, it seemed to stretch out into minutes, even hours. His spine tingled and there was a slow, painful pulse beating at the base of his skull. Something cold touched his back, and he realized that Maker was taking the measurements. The plastic coating of the tape was smooth across his shoulder blades.
The cold contact stopped and Xan listened as the alchemist shuffled away. He cautiously turned his head. “Are you done?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Maker repli
ed. “Don’t stand there half-naked. You’ll catch your death in here.” He continued to mumble under this breath, but Xan could make out enough of it to understand the basics—something about “young people today” and “hopeless.”
Xan bit his lip to keep from smiling, but at least he felt a little better. He was immensely relieved to be able to cover up again as he gratefully pulled his clothes back on. If Maker could really help him—if this wasn’t all some sort of elaborate plan against him, considering his faery heritage and the group the old man was a member of—he would be willing to keep his mouth shut for as long as it took. Maker had warned him that there would be consequences, but he hadn’t exactly gone into specifics. Not yet. Xan had told him they could discuss the small print later; he’d only wanted to move forward as quickly as possible, before anything could happen to get in the way.
Xan sat quietly and watched the old alchemist’s gnarled fingers dance across metal that shone with pure iron. He thought about costs, and whether the price could be too high. How much was he willing to go through in order to fly again—to regain his birthright?
How much pain could one man take? As he asked himself that question, Xan was no longer afraid. He knew all about pain.
Eleven
Donna sat at Quentin’s desk, glad to have some time alone and relieved that she had an excuse for avoiding her aunt. They’d met Aunt Paige in the hallway while walking to the study, and Donna sent up a silent thanks that she would not have to be in the same room with her. Part of her knew she should at least try to be the better person and give her aunt another chance. At the very least, couldn’t she be civil? But she couldn’t help feeling resentment. She just wanted to shout at the woman who’d let her down so badly, and maybe use some of Robert’s cool fighting techniques to throw her aunt around. Just a little.
Oh, and Aunt Paige had arrived at the Frost Estate alone: still no Maker. Donna had overheard her aunt tell the others that Maker was acting very strangely, saying that he couldn’t leave a delicate experiment unattended and would call a cab when he could.
There was no moving the man when he refused to oblige. Even though Maker was supposedly part of the Order, and therefore answerable to its hierarchy, he was also … not. Donna had never been able to figure this out before, but from what Quentin had told her about Maker’s role in assigning the various artifacts to the races, the old alchemist apparently had powers she’d never dreamed of. This made his absence at their war council seem especially strange. The world was potentially ending—at the very least, Ironbridge could actually be destroyed in a matter of hours—and Maker was too busy with his latest pet project to come help out?
Unless whatever he was doing was helping. Perhaps he would save the day with an amazing contraption that repelled demons.
Donna took a deep breath and decided there was no more putting off the inevitable. She’d come in here to do a job—converse with the dead about the mysterious fifth ingredient—and that’s what needed to be done. She felt vaguely comforted by the smell of old books and incense, and the eloquent silence of the familiar house. Closing the impenetrable text that Quentin had given her to look through, Communicating with the Otherworld, she placed it to one side. The only useful thing she’d gotten out of it was a page that contained a short list entitled “Instructions on How to Talk to Spirits.” That had seemed clear enough, and it was at least written in a recognizable language—English—rather than Latin. Donna had never done well with Latin.
The scrying mirror was cold and heavy where it rested on her lap. About the size of both her hands cupped together, it was made of highly polished obsidian—a kind of volcanic glass. All she could do was stare at the surface and try to reach out from that now-familiar focal point of power in the region of her chest. Miranda had instructed her to keep her breathing slow and steady while concentrating on her desire to make contact with another world. She said that there were always spirits willing to talk, but that it might take some time.
Donna had no idea how long it took, but the minutes slipped by peacefully until something happened. The smooth surface of the scrying stone was opaque to begin with, but the more she focused the more that changed. She blinked as the inky depths cleared.
A strange-looking girl smiled at her from the mist in the mirror. “Hello,” the girl said.
Donna was so surprised that she just sat there for a minute with her mouth hanging open. She hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this. And it had happened so easily, too. The others had told her that the first matter made her a seer, but she wasn’t sure she’d believed it. Until now.
The girl’s voice turned mildly petulant. “Are you still there?”
“Yes.” Donna shifted the scrying mirror to a more comfortable position on her lap. “I’m here. What’s your name?”
“Miya. Who are you? Why did you call me?”
Donna licked her lips, glancing nervously at the door. She absolutely couldn’t afford for anyone to come in and mess this up. Interruptions could ruin everything and too much was at stake.
“I’m Paige.” It was the first thing that jumped into her head. Don’t give them your true name, that’s what the book about contacting spirits had said. “I’m looking for something.”
Miya’s face floated closer to the surface of the glass. “Someone called.”
Donna frowned. “I used the scrying mirror. That’s what called you, I think.”
The girl narrowed her eyes. She no longer looked quite so pretty—or benign. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What mirror? What do you want?” It sounded like she didn’t fully understand where they were in relation to one another, or how they were communicating, and there was a hollow quality to her voice that sent shivers up Donna’s spine.
She tried not to think about it. She couldn’t worry about the how of the situation, she just had to use the resource in front of her and figure out whether or not to follow any information she got later.
“I’m sorry if I’ve confused you,” Donna began. She forced a smile. “Do you mind telling me where you are?” The “Instructions on How to Talk to Spirits” came to mind: Always be polite to unknown spirits.
“I’m in the Otherworld,” came the reply.
Of course you are, Donna thought. The demon realm. Hell. She tried to remember to breathe.
Miya pressed against the glassy surface almost eagerly. “Where are you?” she asked.
Give information in return, but not too much. Nothing that could lead a spirit to you later.
“I’m in … Massachusetts.”
“Is that your home?”
Donna only hesitated for a moment. “Yes. It is.”
“Oh.” The girl seemed to think about that for a moment. Donna could tell she wanted to ask more, but perhaps she wasn’t allowed to.
“I need to know something important,” Donna continued. “I’ve been told that only someone very knowledgeable will have this information. You look like you might be the right person for that.”
Use flattery.
Miya visibly preened. Her eyes shone. “I can help you! I know many things.”
Donna bit back a smile. “I need to know what the fifth ingredient for making the Philosopher’s Stone is—the one that is kept secret from all but … those such as yourself.” She didn’t know if she should actually use the word “dead.” Maybe that was an insult.
“Oh,” Miya said, delight practically radiating off her. “You’re an alchemist.”
“Yes.”
“You seem young to be an alchemist.”
“I’m still training,” Donna admitted.
“And yet you’re trying to make the Stone? Already?” Miya’s expression turned sly. “You’re just a girl, like me.”
“That’s true, but why should that mean we can’t seek power?”
Appeal to its desire to be more than
it is. Many spirits want to be human. Some used to be human.
Donna pulled herself up straight. Her back was aching and she felt so tired, but she couldn’t stop now. Her eyes felt full of grit and a heavy pounding had started in her temples. Its slow beat seemed to match the pulse of power buried in her chest.
Miya seemed to be considering. She tapped her finger against the glass, and it was almost as though Donna could feel the vibration in her palms. It took her by surprise and she only just managed to keep hold of the obsidian mirror.
“If I tell you,” the girl said, speaking slowly, weighing her words, “what will you give me in return?”
“What do you want?”
Be prepared to bargain. Be prepared to give more than you want to, but less than you can afford.
“I want to be able to see the human world again—I’ll never play again, not the way I used to. I’ve been asleep for so long.” She bowed her head. “So very long.”
Donna swallowed a sudden tightness in her throat. She realized that the girl could be manipulating her emotions, playing for sympathy—she probably was—but that didn’t mean Miya was any less sincere in her desire for freedom. For life. That, at least, was something that Donna understood.
“How would you do that?” she asked the spirit-girl.
Eagerly, Miya pressed herself against the glass. “Using this! The scrying stone. I could watch the children in the park. In your home of … Massachusetts.” She suddenly hesitated, looking uncertain. “There are still parks, aren’t there?”
“Yes,” Donna said, a slight smile touching her lips. “Things don’t change all that much.”
“Ah,” Miya replied, “but at least they do change.”
“You’ll only watch? You won’t try to escape or do anything to hurt people?”
The Stone Demon Page 11
