The Stone Demon

Woodbury, Minnesota

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The Stone Demon: An Iron Witch Novel
© 2013 by Karen Mahoney

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First e-book edition © 2013

E-book ISBN: 9780738734736

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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

T
he 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.”