The Stone Demon - By Karen Mahoney Page 0,1

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

The 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.”

Miranda fixed Donna with her clear blue