would be useful later in her studies, but for now she wanted demon intel.
There was a smaller book, at the end of the top shelf, that drew her attention. It had one of those stupid locks holding it shut, like on her very first diary, which you knew was never going to keep anybody out. Not if they really wanted to read it.
This lock had long since worn away and was hanging by a few cotton threads and a thin strip of leather. She fiddled with the rotting metal until she could open the book without tearing the binding.
A handwritten title page declared, Encyclopaedia Demonica. She raised her eyebrows. Interesting title.
She looked for “Shadows,” but there was no entry with that heading. Then she tried “Skriker,” just out of curiosity. Of course, that wasn’t in the book either. The Skriker was a fey creature, not a demon. But a couple pages further on, she found an entry that caught her eye:
“Strix,’” she read. “About the size of an adolescent human, these demonic birds are hunters, just like their counterparts in the animal kingdom. Often seen in folklore as a bad omen, particularly known to foretell death. In Roman mythology they were believed to nest in desolate area, abandoned buildings, and ruins such as castles. In the demon world, they are known to feed on human flesh.’”
Donna shivered and sat down on the floor, pulling the book into her lap and making herself comfortable.
Time slipped away as she read, flipping through various sections with foreboding subheadings and growing increasingly absorbed. No wonder Miranda kept these books locked away. There was some creepy stuff in them. Creepy and fascinating, in a car-crash kind of way. But useful? She wasn’t so sure about that.
Until she came to something marked “Demon Locales.” That sounded like it had some possibilities. Donna rubbed her aching back and shifted position, her eyes scanning pages more quickly. She half-expected Miranda to come bursting in at any moment, eyes filled with reproach for what she would see as her apprentice’s blatant disregard for authority.
“The Otherworld holds an unknown and potentially infinite number of different realms,” she read. “Commonly referred to as the Underworld in many world mythologies, the Land of the Dead is said to be the domain of the Demon King.”
This is it! Donna thought, only just managing to hold back her cry of excitement. It had to be what she was looking for. Well, she didn’t really know what exactly she was looking for—but perhaps she would find something useful here. Something that she could file away and use against Demian when the time came. The alchemists needed weapons, and one of the best weapons was knowledge. Quentin had taught her that. She hastily returned to the page, scanning parts that looked particularly interesting:
The Grove of Thorns:
Recognizable by its protective wall of black roses, the Grove of Thorns is believed to be the one part of the Underworld that even demons may not enter. Alchemical scholars cannot agree on what is hidden at its heart, but some ancient texts display crude drawings of a pear tree. The fruit of this tree is believed to be silver in color, and the tree itself has many names, the most commonly found being—
Crack!
Something sharp tapped at one of the high windows, almost making Donna’s heart burst through her chest. She dropped the book with a clatter as her mind flashed to a not-particularly-comforting image of demon-owls carrying babies in their beaks. Springing to her feet, she half-expected a reaper storm of demon shadows to smash through the glass and fly into the room.
All she could see, however, was a single crow. Or a raven? It stared in at her with coal-black eyes that glittered with disturbing intelligence.
Tap-tap-tap!
Donna jumped again, annoyed with herself for being so nervous about a stupid bird. She pushed aside disturbing thoughts of Edgar Allan Poe and climbed onto the carved wooden bench beneath the window. Her nose was just about level with the bottom of the glass, and she got a close-up view of the creature’s scaly talons as it gripped the ledge outside. What was a crow doing out at night?
Attached to the bird’s ankle was a rolled-up piece of paper or parchment, like a scroll. But the paper was black instead of ivory, or cream, or whatever color those things were supposed to be. Donna wondered if she’d fallen asleep over Miranda’s dusty old books. Was this one of those disturbingly vivid dreams she