The Stone Demon

Nine





Xan knocked on the heavy door of Maker’s workshop

and waited, shivering in the freezing early morning air. February had not been kind to their little corner of Massachusetts.

He reached out a hesitant hand, wondering whether he should knock again or—

The door opened and the alchemist stood on the other side, leaning on his cane. He looked fairly good, given his advanced years and the fact that he often needed to use his personally designed wheelchair when his legs wouldn’t hold him.

“Well, don’t just stand there, come in,” Maker said, then suddenly glared at Xan. “And put that damn thing out before you do!”

Xan hastily dropped his cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out, making sure to kick it as far away from the door as he could. He watched the old man’s back as he retreated into the workshop. He hesitated. If he went through with this, nothing would ever be the same again. He thought about Donna—and what she would say if she knew that he intended to do this.

Well, he was at least considering it. That was all it was. No guarantees, that’s what Maker had said to him.

Xan was used to a life with “no guarantees.”

He took a deep breath and followed the alchemist inside.



Donna found herself sitting once again in the familiar surroundings of the Frost Estate, less than a month after leaving Ironbridge. She couldn’t believe she was back, curled up in one of the richly upholstered armchairs in the Blue Room—Quentin’s favorite library—with the comforting sound of his polished grandfather clock ticking in the background, soothing her nerves. Even knowing that the clock hid the entrance to Simon Gaunt’s creepy laboratory couldn’t spoil the fact that she was here.

Everything had happened so fast: they’d walked through the door that Demian and his demon shadows had opened in Halfway, and found themselves on the grounds of the Frost Estate. If anybody had seen their arrival, it would have looked like the strange group appeared quite literally out of thin air, the winter trees behind them and the mansion ahead. They’d still been dressed in their masquerade finery, which made it all the weirder.

Luckily, the only possible witnesses to this materialization would have been the Estate groundspeople. But since it was still pretty early in the morning, even they weren’t out and about yet, and there were no awkward questions to answer. Oddly, Donna felt like she’d caught a few hours of sleep, too—she wasn’t sure if that was due to demon magic or the change in time zones, but she wasn’t complaining.

Even Miranda had accompanied them back to Ironbridge, leaving Robert as her liaison in London. Donna sympathized with how mad Robert had been when Miranda called him—he saw it as a point of honor (or something similarly British) that he should be part of the “war council” in Ironbridge. Donna, meanwhile, had put in quick calls to Navin and Xan. Navin’s phone went to voicemail after numerous rings, so she left him a cryptic message. Xan seemed to have his cell switched off. No answer at the Grayson house, either. It was disappointing, but she was hoping to surprise them later. Sure, the world might be ending, but she was back in Ironbridge and she wanted to let them know.

It was good to be home.

Yet it wasn’t possible to enjoy it fully while surrounded by arguing alchemists. Actually it was her mom and Simon doing most of the arguing, while Miranda watched intently and Quentin sat quietly, a pained expression on his lined face, in the chair next to her.

Donna glanced at the golden mask where it lay discarded on the upholstered arm of her chair. Masquerade. She resisted the urge to toss the stupid thing across the room. It had all been a charade. The whole situation was messed up, but as usual there was nothing to do but keep moving forward. Less than two days to save two cities. Two days to save the world! It sounded like the title of a particularly bad summer blockbuster, which made her grimace and wish she could share the joke with Navin.

She reached over and touched the back of Quentin’s age-spotted hand. “Are you okay, Archmaster?”

He nodded, flashing a smile at her and looking more like himself. Well, except for the fact that he’d shaved off his beard and she could see how thin his face had gotten since she’d seen last seen him. He was still dressed impeccably, though, with his head held high and his eyes alert as they took everything in.

“I am quite well.” He moved so that he could take her gloved hand in his. “It’s lovely to see you again, my dear.”

“Where’s Maker?”

“At his workshop, where else?” The old alchemist rolled his eyes. “We have sent someone to pick him up.”

Maker always refused to have a telephone or computer of any kind installed at his workshop, and he wouldn’t be caught dead carrying a cell phone. There was no way around this major inconvenience—nobody could argue with him, not even Quentin.

Donna didn’t really want to ask the next question, but she forced it out. She had to know. “And … Aunt Paige?”

His eyes twinkled. “Who do you think I asked to collect Maker?”

She smiled, but there was no joy in her heart. Not when it came to her aunt. The woman had been a surrogate mother to her for a decade—for all those years while Mom was sick—and just last month, Donna had found out that Paige had betrayed them all. First, she’d betrayed Donna’s parents to Simon, revealing their plans to run away with their seven-year-old daughter to protect her from Simon’s manipulation of her manifesting powers. And when Patrick—Aunt Paige’s own brother—was killed in the Ironwood by the Skriker during the escape attempt, and Rachel was left in a state of magically induced psychosis, Paige had kept silent about her role in what happened while taking the badly injured Donna into her care.

But there had been one other shattering discovery: Aunt Paige had instructed Maker to bind Donna’s growing powers at the same time that he healed her physical injuries—with the iron tattoos. On the one hand, the alchemists had probably saved her life, but on the other, they’d hidden who she really was—even from Donna herself. Paige had taken something fundamental away from her, not allowing Donna the option to choose for herself and take control of her own life.

As always, when it came to the Order of the Dragon, secrets were piled upon secrets. Too many lies to forgive.

One of the housekeepers came into the library with refreshments, and when they regrouped, Quentin declared that they needed to begin their battle preparations immediately. War was a terrifying but very real possibility. What had become clear, during their heated debate, was that nobody really wanted to give the Stone to Demian even if they could create it in two days. Or rather, if Donna could create it—since she was the person who would have to bring all the ingredients together and enter the process called “the Blackening.” So the alchemists put the issue of the Philosopher’s Stone on the back burner for a moment; their immediate concern was to come up with a plan to defeat Demian in battle.

The Demon King wanted them to deliver the Stone to him in the Ironwood. So, they would meet him in the Ironwood. It seemed as appropriate a place as any to go to war.

War. Donna’s stomach cramped just thinking about it as she forced a sandwich down. She needed to find Navin and Xan, tell them what was happening. Warn them as soon as possible. Part of her wanted them safely out of the way when the shit hit the fan—which it was absolutely bound to, because this was her life and they were dealing with a demon, after all—but she also knew there was no way they’d leave her to face things alone.

Then again, as much as she hated to even think it, she might need their help as she tried to create the Stone. With the various alchemical Orders trying to make plans across continents, she was pretty much on her own. Robert Lee wouldn’t be able to arrive until Imbolc; other alchemists would join them when they could, but their numbers were severely diminished in these modern times—and too many of them were elderly and unfit for battle. Yet despite the long odds of winning a battle with the demons, the alchemists had given up on trying to create the Stone before they’d even started. They figured that it was impossible.

But Donna had a lot of experience with the “impossible,” and she wasn’t giving up any time soon. Not while there was still a chance to save two cities filled with millions of people. Not while she was still breathing.

She looked around at the gathered alchemists. There was still no sign of Aunt Paige or Maker. As soon as the others paused for breath, she spoke up. “To return to the topic of the Stone for a moment … tell me more about these artifacts that we need and who has what. There are four ingredients total, right?”

Rachel shook her head. “Five, actually—it’s complicated. The fifth ingredient is a problem.”

“Well, what is it?” Donna waited.

Quentin cleared his throat. “Let’s start with the more straightforward items. The Ouroboros Blade is in Faerie. Queen Isolde holds it safely.”

Donna stared at him. That was “straightforward”?

Miranda continued. “And the wood elves are the keepers of the Cup of Hermes. The Philosopher’s Stone is made from a liquid that needs to be drunk from that cup.”

Donna’s mind was already working, trying to figure out how she could possibly bargain these things away from the fey.

Simon wouldn’t meet her eyes when he spoke. “The Underworld protects the Gallows Tree. On that tree grows a silver pear, the only one of its kind—a single piece of fruit untouched by time. The Gallows Tree stands in the Grove of Thorns, which is the one place in Hell that no demon can enter. Even a king. Only one piece of fruit grows at a time, and without it the Philosopher’s Stone can’t be created.”

“So Demian can’t actually get us the fruit himself,” Donna mused. “Convenient.”

Rachel spoke up. “There are legends—different versions, so nobody really knows the true story—as to why the Grove is a sacred space. I don’t think the reasons matter right now. If we even attempt to create the Stone, we’ll need that pear. Yet there’s no easy way to enter a place of death.”

“Not without dying,” Simon muttered. It was a totally unnecessary thing to say, but also totally a Simon thing to say.

Everybody glared at the Magus.

Donna ignored him and counted the items off on her fingers. “We need the blade, the cup, the gallows fruit, and I have the first matter already—the spark that binds it all together.”

Quentin nodded. “The prima materia guides whomever holds it. If you follow your intuition, you should be able to create the Stone on instinct alone. However, the Silent Book also holds the instructions for how to create the Stone—the method for the recipe, if you like. Our copy is right here in the library. You’d better take a look at it, if you’re determined to follow this course of action. You’ve seen it before during your studies. It also has a map of the Ironwood that shows where the most powerful ley line is located.”

“Ley line?”

“You’d need to be standing as close to it as possible when you activate your powers and make the Philosopher’s Stone. The two energies combined trigger the Blackening,” Simon said.

Donna took a steadying breath. It all seemed so far away, almost unreal. She tried to focus on one thing at a time. It was like a math problem. Okay, so she hated math, but she could get by if she concentrated.

“So, just what is the fifth ingredient?” she asked. And how much more complicated could things get? That was the question she really wanted to ask.

Quentin fixed Donna with a serious expression. “The fifth ingredient will prove the most … challenging.”

She laughed, but the sound came out angry rather than amused. “I already have to go to Hell to get the Gallows Fruit. You’re saying there’s something more difficult than going to Hell?”

Miranda joined in, nodding. “The fifth ingredient is a mystery. That’s the point. No living creature knows what it is—every copy of the Silent Book has a blank space where that item should be listed.”

“Or,” Rachel put in, “perhaps it’s been blurred or erased with magic. No alchemist in modern times has been able to figure out what this ingredient is. It’s believed that only the spirits of the dead have the information, and of course not all of them. Only those who reside in the Otherworld, Demian’s realm.”

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.