The Stone Demon (8 page)

Donna shook her head. “Nobody who’s been bullied would blame you for that.”

He didn’t reply, and she didn’t push him on it.

“So,” she said, poking him playfully in the arm.

He leaned back and stretched his legs out in front of them on the mat.

“So … what?” he asked.

“Considering that your not-so-friendly friend lied to everyone about what happened, why didn’t you just tell them the truth?”

“You think they would have believed me? I doubt they’d even have listened.”

“But you didn’t even try,” Donna repeated. “It wasn’t fair, what they did.”

Robert shook his head, his wide shoulders filled with tension. “You don’t understand. I was different from them, right? Too different.”

“You think I don’t get being
different
?”

He didn’t look at her. “I know you understand that. That’s why I like you.”

“Then, what? Tell me. Please?”

“I don’t even know how to say it. I’m not as good at getting things off my chest as you are.” He smiled sadly. “Maybe it’s my British half.”

Donna touched his hand and was intensely glad when he didn’t move it away.

“I get it,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows, his gaze meeting hers and filling with scepticism.

Donna’s voice was quiet. “You didn’t explain what really happened because you cared about him. Despite what he’d done.”

Robert’s cheeks flushed, and Donna knew she’d hit home. “Maybe I did still care. I’m an idiot, though. Look how well it worked out for me.”

“I think maybe it worked out better than you realize.”

“What does that mean?”

Donna held his hand. “Where’s this guy now? What’s he doing with his life?”

“Honestly? I don’t have the first bloody clue.”

“And what are you doing with
yours
?”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Saving the world?”

She bumped his shoulder with hers. “I rest my case.”

They sat in comfortable silence for another minute before Robert’s voice broke into her thoughts once more. “Hey, listen,” he said. “Maybe we should call it a day—I don’t mind letting you off early for once, considering everything that’s going on. Do you want to get cleaned up before breakfast?”

“Are you kidding?” she replied, jumping up and striking the “ready” pose. “I’m only just getting started.”

Six

S
t. Martin-in-the-Fields stood directly across the busy street that ran past Trafalgar Square. At night, the building seemed even more impressive than usual, but it wasn’t the church itself that Donna needed to enter. Somehow it didn’t seem right to be attending a demon’s party so close to a place devoted to worship. Not because Donna was particularly religious—which she wasn’t, having been brought up as an alchemist—but just …
because
. Wasn’t this sacred ground or something?

She pulled her wrap more tightly around her shoulders as the chauffeur-driven limo, sent by Demian, left her on the sidewalk. As she looked for the entrance to the crypt, the clock, high above her on the church spire, began to strike midnight. Donna felt a bit like a fairy-tale princess. She could even hear Big Ben tolling the hour, just down the road in Westminster.

The ride over had been surreal—the demon driver had kept changing his appearance in a disconcerting display of power. Donna was only able to see the side of his face from where she’d been sitting in the back of the spacious vehicle, but he’d cycled through at least six different personas in the space of the short ride. As his face flickered in the eerie light of the dashboard, it was like watching one of those old-fashioned movie reels.

When the limousine had first arrived at Miranda’s house, with a message from Demian that Donna was his “date” for the night and would therefore be traveling to the ball with his personal chauffeur, nobody had asked the obvious question. Well, nobody except Donna. “What does the king of the demons need with a freaking chauffeur?”

Robert had laughed while Miranda was busy looking for a way out of this particular demand. “Demian is trying to separate us,” she’d said. “I won’t have you going to that place alone. You’re under my protection.”

The driver—who’d looked human to begin with—had spoken up. “Actually, Donna Underwood is under His Majesty’s protection. She is guaranteed safe passage.”

Miranda had tried further delaying tactics, but the tall man was having none of it. He spoke as though controlled from far away, outside of him—as though he was nothing more than a puppet. If that was the case, it was pretty obvious to Donna who was pulling the strings. She wondered if the words he spoke were even his own; it was probably Demian’s voice filtered through another’s mouth. The chauffeur certainly sounded pompous enough.

“Well, I suppose we’ll just see you there,” Miranda had finally said, grimly.

“I’ll be fine,” Donna had replied, wondering if it was true.

Now, following her mentor’s directions, she walked around to the pedestrianized area alongside the main church building, her black satin heels clicking against the pavement. She was usually way more comfortable in sneakers and didn’t feel like herself at all, dressed up like this. The only colors in her ensemble were her long emerald gloves and the red feathers on the mask Robert had given her at the last moment. Not that she was wearing it quite yet. She clutched the exquisitely carved decoration in her hands, wondering whether or not this was the moment she was supposed to put it on.

The golden mask had a sinister sort of beauty. It was a traditional Venetian Carnival mask, which she’d seen in paintings and movies. Hers was apparently called a “Columbina” and would cover only half of her face, which she was glad of—masks that covered the whole face creeped her out and, for some reason, made her think of death. With the bright crimson feathers waving from the top, she expected to look as if she had a plume of fire billowing above her head.

The London streets were still busy, despite the late hour, and many groups of people looked like they were only just getting started on their evening. Black taxis hurtled through the streets, narrowly avoiding the cluster of cycle-rickshaws lining the Square, waiting for Londoners and tourists alike to grow tired of walking. Homeless men and women had already settled themselves beneath their cardboard-and-newspaper blankets on the steps of the church.

The entrance to the crypt—or as Demian had referred to it, “Pandemonium Crypt”—was down a spiral staircase enclosed within a separate glass structure that, to Donna, looked exactly like Willy Wonka’s glass elevator. Even though the public café that was situated beneath the church should have closed several hours ago, she wasn’t surprised when the doors to the glass enclosure opened for her.

The St Martin-in-the-Fields crypt wasn’t called “Pandemonium Crypt” at all, of course. It was most likely some kind of sick demon joke. Donna couldn’t say she found it particularly funny.

But it seemed Demian had selected the location for his masquerade with care. The eighteenth-century crypt was more than just a tourist hot spot—it was a historical site of some significance for the alchemists. Miranda had told her that at one time, at least three important alchemists were interred there. When Donna asked where those remains were now, Miranda had simply shrugged, saying that she didn’t know. And then she’d quickly changed the subject.

Yeah, right.
It seemed that Miranda wasn’t going to tell her anything about anything.

The staircase wound down and around, the steps narrow and the journey seemingly never-ending. Donna remembered her dream from the night before, with its eternal corridors. She shuddered and walked more quickly. The descent really was taking a long time, which confirmed her suspicions that she wasn’t just heading to the popular café.

She wondered how Demian could mould reality like this, making it be whatever he wanted to be. And, if he could do something like this—shift everything just a little to one side, so that a previously “fixed” spiral staircase now led to his own personal ballroom—then what
couldn’t
he do? Why did he even need to negotiate with the alchemists?

And what did he truly want with her?

Her stomach fluttered with nervous energy. So many things to think about. Not just where Demian was concerned, but regarding this whole setup in general. Miranda’s warnings still rang in her ears:
“Keep your mask on once you’re inside the crypt, try not to talk to anyone until we’re called into the private meeting room, and whatever you do, don’t eat or drink anything,
not until we’re all there together.”

Not that Donna felt like eating anything right now. If she was honest, she’d have to admit to feeling pretty sick.

Just as she was wondering whether or not she’d been deceived—yet again—by a maleficent being, and if it really was possible to enter Hell while you were technically still alive, she reached the bottom of the stairs. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

Two silent women, wearing plain black robes and ornate golden masks, stepped forward to greet her. They turned and escorted her through a candlelit tunnel. The ground was made of smooth stone, and Donna, not used to wearing heels, almost slipped over on the polished surface.

“Please,” one of her faceless guides said. “Put on your mask.”

Donna stared at her but kept walking, still trying to catch her breath. “Where are we?”

“Pandemonium,” the same woman replied, as though that explained everything.

“Put on your mask please, Miss Underwood,” the second woman said. She spoke in exactly the same voice as the first. They were like creepy living dolls.

Swallowing more arguments, Donna slipped on her mask and shivered as the cold metal touched her face. Her vision was immediately constricted by the carved eyeholes. She felt both claustrophobic and strangely safe, as though she could hide from anything that might attempt to hurt her down here. The mask was secured to her face with a black satin ribbon that tied at the back of her head, which she tried to disguise by pulling pieces of her freshly curled, chestnut-colored hair over it.

The distant sound of music reached her as they finally stopped at a pair of huge double doors.

“Welcome to Pandemonium Crypt,” both women intoned. “Enjoy the masquerade and let yourself be seduced … ” They bowed in unison, gesturing that Donna should enter.

The great black doors swung open and she walked through, alone.

As she stepped into the room, Donna immediately forgot how much her shoes pinched her toes. She decided this must have been how Alice felt when she first set eyes on Wonderland.

The air was thick with a cloying sweetness that almost made her choke. The ceiling swept far above her head, much of its wide expanse lost in shadows cast by flickering candles and the chandeliers that seemed to float suspended in the air. The ballroom seemed endless, in all directions, as if she could get lost if she wasn’t careful.

There were floor-to-ceiling ivory pillars lining each wall. The floor was decorated with a mosaic in every shade of red that Donna could think of—and a few she’d never seen before. It looked as though someone had spilled blood across the entire space and then frozen it in place. The parts of the ceiling that
were
visible were midnight blue, and studded with tiny stars.

It was stunning and macabre, and just a little overwhelming.

The room was full of revelers of the sort she’d never even imagined. Donna had seen strange—she’d seen magical. But this … this was something else. Alien, twisted, and yet beautiful in spite of its strangeness. Perhaps even
because
of it. It was like walking into a storybook, where monsters really did exist and, if you looked hard enough, you might find a beanstalk.

As that thought crossed her mind, Donna felt her gaze drawn to what looked like tree roots climbing the walls and spreading across the dome ceiling. She hoped there weren’t any giants around.

Some of the people who filled the ballroom were dancing, whirling and spinning on the crowded floor. Others stood at the edges of the room, their masked faces close together as they shared secrets and laughed behind their hands. It was impossible to recognize anybody, but that was the point of a masquerade. Mystery. Magic.

The masks took the shapes of wolves and goblins, bears and eagles, stags and foxes and dragons. But many of the masks depicted beings that Donna had never seen before, and she wasn’t sure these creatures actually existed—perhaps only in her nightmares. Some of them were so bizarre, she hoped she’d never come across them whether waking
or
sleeping.

She walked cautiously in the direction of a small raised dais against one wall, waving away the servers, all dressed in black, as she remembered Miranda’s warning about not eating or drinking anything. The smell of sweet pastries and sticky-red wine was intoxicating, and she wished she could taste something, but the thought of being enchanted by demon curses was enough to squash that visceral urge. Donna knew that this kind of hunger wasn’t real; it was a hunger for oblivion rather than sustenance.