he replied, his voice becoming implacable. “You are the one person we cannot do without.”
“If I attend.”
“As I have already made clear, you will attend the masquerade or I will make you regret it.”
Donna touched the center of her chest, as she’d frequently done these past months as she connected to the power inside her. “Are you threatening me?”
His expression darkened. “I don’t need to make threats.”
“Because you’re so used to people doing your bidding, your Majesty?”
“They usually do,” he said.
“Well, then, you can expect me to buck that trend,” she said.
Demian’s mouth twitched—with annoyance or amusement, Donna couldn’t decide.
“We’ll see,” was all he said. “I am certainly used to having to convince people that my way is the best way to do things.”
Donna resisted the temptation to punch the Demon King in his perfect face. He was such a psycho. “You mean, the way you convinced the Order of the Crow to take your ‘invitation’ so seriously? By murdering innocent people in London?”
“There are always casualties in war.” His eyes were completely unreadable black spaces. “It is regrettable, but necessary.”
Before she could reply with an appropriate level of contempt, Demian turned and walked away from her. His movements were smooth and sure. Nothing troubled him now—least of all her.
Donna’s heart was pounding so hard it blocked out the distant sounds of the city.
As the king of the demons reached the garden gate of the next house, he stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. It was one of the most incongruous scenes she had ever seen—and it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen a lot of strangeness in her life.
“Until next time, Donna Underwood,” he said.
She shivered as he said her name, hating him for his power. Or maybe she didn’t hate him for that—it was easy to resent power, but she really wasn’t the sort of person who “hated.” No, the thing she disliked in Demian was the way he used his power. The abuse of it.
He disappeared, leaving behind a single black rose on the sidewalk. Of course.
“Show-off,” she muttered, turning on her heel and leaving the flower exactly where it was.
There were several missed calls and a text message from Xan waiting for her when she got back to her room. Cursing herself for being so careless as to leave her phone behind, she scrolled through to the new message. It read:
I heard about what happened. If you get this in the next hour ping me back and I’ll call you.
Worrying that she might have missed her chance to speak to him, Donna fumbled to text back a quick reply and then sat waiting anxiously, her cell phone in her lap. She knew Xan had been hiding something from her these past few weeks—something important—but as usual, she knew not to push him. He would probably talk when he was ready. At least, she hoped he would. He’d been brought up with as many secrets as she had, having to bury his half-fey heritage and practically live a lie. She knew it was a hard habit to break … that natural desire to keep things safely hidden and hold your emotions inside, to fear what might happen if you reached out and trusted someone else.
Maybe hearing from him tonight was a good sign. At the very least, she’d be able to talk to him about everything that had happened in London tonight.
She tried not to think about Demian while she waited, but of course that was impossible. It seemed almost like a dream—a nightmare—that only minutes ago she’d been talking to the king of the demons outside in the street. A regular London street, where passersby had no clue what was going on right under their noses.
The phone rang and she snatched it up, her heart pounding.
“Hey, Donna,” Xan said.
“Xan,” she replied, holding the phone more tightly and savoring the sound of his voice. “How are you?”
Four
Alexander Grayson sat in his beaten up old car on the
edge of the freeway, where he’d pulled over so he could call Donna. He had trouble hearing her to begin with, what with all the traffic zooming past and the low-flying airplane that chose that precise moment to pass overhead.
“What did you say?” He wished the window on the passenger side could actually be closed fully.
“I said,” she repeated, “how are you?”
“Fine. I’m fine. It’s you I was worried about. I miss you.”
“What was that?”
“Wait a sec,” he said, climbing into the back of the car, in hopes of cutting