day job working for Ironbridge’s mayor, had looked shell-shocked.
Her mother sighed, filling the silence between them. “I’m just sorry you’re having to deal with any of this. You’ve already had a decade of secrets and lies to come to terms with. Now this.”
Donna’s fingers tightened on the phone. “I’m not even sure I have come to terms with it.”
“So you don’t want to try?”
“Not really, no.” She lowered her voice. “I want to leave, Mom. You know that, right?”
“I do,” her mother replied steadily. “I’m not surprised, and I certainly don’t blame you.”
“I’m just trying to figure out the best way to … ”
“Make your escape?” There was the hint of a smile in Rachel’s voice.
“Something like that.” Donna blew out a breath, relieved to be having this conversation, while at the same time regretting that it was happening while her mother was so far away. “I’m sorry. Are you mad?”
“Why should I be? I love you, no matter what. I never wanted this life for you.”
It was far too late for that, Donna thought. This was the life she had, and the only thing left was to make the best of it. At least until she turned eighteen this summer. Not long, she thought. Not too long to wait.
She wondered if she would even reach her birthday before the world ended at the hands of a reaper storm of demons. She’d probably die a virgin, knowing her luck; she smiled faintly as she remembered how close she’d come to sleeping with Xan, that night she’d teleported to his house.
Not like she could think about romance when there was a demon king knocking at the door. Pushing images of Alexander Grayson from her mind, Donna pressed the phone against her ear and focused on her mother’s gentle voice again as she recounted what had happened at the alchemists’ meeting. Anything to ground her, to take away the feeling of despair that suddenly hit her in the gut and made her dizzy.
Not many people her age had to worry about stuff like a demonic apocalypse, but it didn’t make Donna feel in any way special. She was tired. She felt old and worn out and cynical. She wanted the chance to be a kid again, before it was too late. She dreamed of traveling the world and going to college and doing normal teenage things. Perhaps those things would always remain just out of reach—more like a cruel mirage than a dream—but if she didn’t hold on to hope, what else was there?
Donna paced up and down the street, just outside the little row of Victorian houses in the heart of Pimlico. The lights of the city still burned, even at this time of night, and the sky was full of stars. Miranda hadn’t wanted her to go out alone, but Donna needed air before she could even think of going to bed. She’d promised to stay within sight of the house, but even this tiny slice of liberation lifted her spirits. She’d declined Robert’s offer to join her for an “early hours” walk around the neighborhood—she was still pissed at him for talking about Demian the way that he had. Sure, he meant well, but that didn’t mean he knew what he was talking about.
Power was the only currency that someone like the Demon King cared about. As Miranda had already indicated, it wasn’t about something as … banal as destruction; there was more to it than that. It wasn’t even about revenge. Donna had felt it that night in the Ironwood, when Demian had first stepped free of his prison—and then once again, that day on the bridge when he’d given her the first of many black roses.
She shivered, remembering once again his gaze and the way he’d spoken to her. As that thought crossed her mind, she saw a pale shape coalesce out of nothing but cool night air.
He stood waiting for her, three doors down from Miranda’s house.
She instantly recognized the tall, slender figure, who was motionless except for his silver hair, which was blowing slightly in the sudden wind. It felt like something out of a movie, and Donna had no doubt that this was the effect Demian was going for.
Donna knew that Robert was watching out for her from one of the top-floor windows, but she wondered how much he would really be able to see. Demons were masters of illusion—more so than the fey with their glamour, and perhaps even possessed a more powerful