He reached for her, so fast it took her breath away. Too fast. His fist shot through the barrier and clamped in her hair. Damn he’s strong, Donna thought, feeling a vague shock. His arm sticking out of the wall of light had been terrifying enough, but now Demian began dragging her toward him. All his smooth seduction had disappeared. He looked truly awful, like the King of Terror he was.
Donna yelped as some of her hair was pulled out at the root. She felt herself being dragged toward him—it was either that or lose a chunk of hair. The searing pain all along her scalp made her eyes water. How had he broken through the ward? Despite his power, Donna had believed the circle would hold him. It should have worked! Even if it hadn’t contained him for very long, it should have held for more than a few seconds.
“Do you think your little prison can hold me?” Demian growled.
Donna struggled, in too much to pain to respond with anything coherent, but at least the Demon King wasn’t actually free. Not yet. Maybe he’d had enough strength to thrust that one hand through the wall to grab her, but it didn’t look like he could step all the way out. Strain showed on his face, as though breaching the barrier at all was almost too much for him.
Yet he kept hold of her. She was almost standing on the line of salt. If her foot touched it, even for a moment, the circle would collapse and the demon really would be free. Not to mention majorly pissed at her.
“I could tear you into pieces,” he said. Their faces were almost touching, on either side of the wall of light. “I don’t need to be able to destroy cities or worlds to be able to destroy you.”
“You say the sweetest things,” Donna said, the toes of her sneakers inching toward the barrier. She panted with pain, trying desperately to focus on the agony in her scalp so that she would stay conscious and be able to act. She pushed the thought of Maker’s broken body from her mind—at least, for a few more moments.
“There will be no mercy in me if I have to take the Stone from you, Donna Underwood,” the Demon King said. “Only pain. And perhaps death, eventually.”
“And to think,” she gasped, “you wanted me to be your queen at one time.”
“You are unworthy,” he spat. “Once I have the Philosopher’s Stone, I will wipe the memory of every pathetic human from this world.”
“You would have done that anyway.”
“I look forward to crushing you beneath my heel, al-chemist.”
“I think you’ll find it’s too late for that, Majesty,” Donna said, hope suddenly surging through her. “Look!”
Demian raised his head, keeping his brutal grip on her. One of his hands was firmly around her throat—maybe even preparing to snap her neck. Then the demon’s eyes widened.
A shimmering door had opened on the horizon, and the glittering army of Faerie was riding out of the light. The alchemists’ “war council” had clearly been a success; leave it to Quentin and her mother to convince the races to work together. Donna smiled through her pain.
Fey horses spilled out, looking almost as if they were riding the waves; their riders crouched low over their backs, inhuman eyes fixed straight ahead. White, black, chestnut—no matter their color, the steeds were tall and strong and impossibly swift, with shining armor around their fine heads. One of them even had wings, and Donna thought her heart actually skipped a beat as she watched its indigo wings curve up and down in majestic arcs. The faeries who rode the horses all brandished flashing swords and were clothed in the polished silver chainmail she was already growing familiar with. Donna saw that women rode alongside the men, and they were so fierce and beautiful that it hurt her eyes.
And then a new disturbance, on the other side of the clearing, drew Demian’s gaze away from the approaching army. The Wood Queen was coming toward him as well, striding tall and straight and dressed in armor made of polished bark. Her helmet was wreathed with ivy, and, attached to her shoulders, there was a cloak made of leaves and moss. Dozens of elves spread out behind and beside her. They clicked and scraped as they lifted weapons made of wood and thorn, their teeth bared and their black eyes glittering with vicious intent. They bayed for blood, a sound Donna well remembered.
Queen Isolde had reached the edge of the clearing, flanked by her knights, Taran and Cathal. Donna gasped when she saw Xan flying overhead, in the mechanical harness that Maker had fashioned for him.
“No!” Demian cried, finally releasing Donna’s hair. She fell to the ground and lay there, panting but mercifully out of reach. “You will not defeat me, you alchemists, with your arrogance and greed. Not again!”
Donna suddenly realized that there was a demon army gathering in the sky and on the ground. Shadows slid between the trees like silent death, and giant birds with razor-sharp beaks flew above the treetops.
Isolde and Aliette approached one another on the battlefield. Isolde’s hair gleamed under a silver crown threaded with leaves. She wore no helmet, but her armor was so brightly polished that the pale moonlight reflected off it, making Donna squint.
“Cousin.” The Queen of Faerie smiled.
Aliette clasped her cousin’s hand. “Cousin. It has been too long.”
“Yes,” Isolde said. “When this is over, we will be glad to finally see our kin return to Faerie.”
The Wood Queen’s head tilted to one side. “If we survive.”
Isolde’s gaze was fierce. “We will.”
Donna’s heart filled when she saw that the alchemists, led by her mother and Quentin Frost, were taking up positions around the edges of the clearing. Aunt Paige and Simon Gaunt were with them, along with others that Donna was too tired even to register. She saw a few familiar faces—there was Alma Kensington, her tutor, wearing strange purple robes—but many of the alchemist warriors were unknown to her. They looked fierce and battle-ready, with magic crackling around their hands. Some of the men and women looked younger than she would have expected, probably belonging to the mysterious Order of the Lion.
She searched the crowd for Miranda and Robert, but if they were here she didn’t see them.
All the alchemists raised their hands. Donna knew they were working together to encompass Ironwood Forest in a cloaking spell, which would hide the battle from mortal senses.
As Demian howled in his cage, human and fey joined together to fight the forces of the Underworld. Demons clashed with elves, and alchemists blasted jagged lightning bolts into demon shadows. Trees burned, and blood spattered the ground below.
Donna looked up into the sky, helpless as she watched Xan fight off a giant black owl with scarlet eyes and talons so long they could probably remove a human’s head from its shoulders. She remembered reading about the demonic Strix and their child-eating ways, and prayed to nothing and nobody in particular that Xan would escape. He was waving a sword around like he knew what he was doing, but when had he had time to train? It was madness. Maybe he thought he was being brave, but Donna just wanted to scream at him to come down before he got himself killed.
Crawling further away from Demian and his fury as he pounded the walls of the circle, she wondered what she could possibly do to help. She felt utterly spent … used up and just about ready to collapse.
Fights were breaking out all around her and overhead. She saw Simon Gaunt firing some kind of glowing crossbow at the demon shadows. As each bolt found its mark, the creature collapsed in on itself and disappeared. Her eyes widened as she watched her mother and her aunt working together to surround more giant birds—those creepy owls, as well as golden eagles with bloodstained beaks—with a ring of silver energy. She finally caught sight of Miranda and Robert, pushing back another group of shadows with the combined force of their magic. Everything was chaos, and the Ironwood was filled with flames and screams and the clash of steel.
Donna watched it all, forcing herself to witness the bravery of her friends and allies. A lump filled her throat and she found her vision misted
over with tears as the battle grew more fierce.
And then more shadows poured out of the ground, a seemingly endless supply of demonic warriors arriving from the Otherworld. Their numbers were overwhelming, and her eyes widened. Perhaps their king was trapped, but he could clearly still command them.
“Donna,” called a frail voice. It was weak, barely audible over the ringing sounds of war, but she recognized it.
“Maker, you’re alive!” She dragged herself across the clearing, still holding the Stone and dodging bolts of fire as she went. Demian raged behind her, but she refused to look back.
Maker had pulled himself up against the trunk of the twisted tree, his face so white that his lined flesh was almost translucent. “We can’t win this battle—not even with Demian contained. There are simply too many demon warriors. You must unleash the dragon.”
“What?” Donna shook her head, trying to understand what he was saying over the sound of fighting. “What are you talking about? I have to get you out of here.”
“No, dear girl,” Maker replied. He touched her cheek. “It is long past time for me to rest. It’s up to you now.”
“No.” She trembled, no longer able to focus on anything except Maker. Interspecies politics, warfare, Faerie, and even the Underworld … it all faded into white noise. “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be okay. I can—”
“Don’t argue,” Maker replied. His voice was strong, his eyes certain. “This is the work that only you can do. The Great Work—that’s the name of true alchemy. You know this. The creation of the Philosopher’s Stone is only the first step. Next comes the Blackening. Facing the dragon.” He began to cough and blood ran down his chin, but he gripped her arm and forced himself to go on. “Accepting the dragon.”
“And then unleashing the dragon,” Donna whispered. “But that’s just symbolic. It’s all symbolic. The books talk about how the Order of the Dragon was named after the creature itself, but only as a myth.”
The old man raised his eyebrows. “Since when did you stop believing in magic, young lady? Especially after what you’ve achieved here today?”
Donna swallowed, only vaguely aware of the smoke that burned the back of her throat. She rubbed her palm across her dirty face, probably smearing ash and making everything worse.
“Maker, you’re not going to die.”
“Of course not, not in the way you mean,” he replied. He coughed, more blood flecking his lips. “But it’s time to move on. Long past, actually. I’m quite looking forward to going home.”
“Home? What are you talking about?”
“Never mind that now,” the old man said, patting her shoulder. “Simon is not the man he once was, and Quentin’s time at the head of the alchemists is over. The Order of the Dragon will pass into new hands—better hands.”
“Who?” Donna shook her head, but she knew exactly what the old man was going to say even before he spoke.
“Rachel Underwood will make a very fine Archmaster.” His lips quirked into a tiny smile. “Archmistress.”
Donna thought of her mother and wondered if the alchemists would really accept a woman as their leader.
Maker shook his head. “We don’t have time for me to explain everything now. You have to use what remains of the prima materia—along with the Philosopher’s Stone—to tap into the ley line beneath the Ironwood. There you will encounter the dragon—that’s where you’ll find the power to defeat the demons and send them back where they belong.”
Donna remembered the Silent Book, and specifically the image of a serpent breathing fire. The Blackening.
She took a shaky breath and patted Maker’s shoulder. “I’ll be back for you. Don’t … don’t go anywhere.”
“Take the Stone.” The old man smiled at her. “I’m proud of you, child. So very proud.”
Donna covered him with the blanket from his wrecked wheelchair, trying her best to make him comfortable. He nodded his thanks and she forced herself to walk away. If she didn’t do it now, she never would. Everything was crazy. Chaos was raining down on them all. The Ironwood was on fire, and the night sky was streaked with smoke and flames. The Strix flew overhead as Demian’s army punished the alchemists and the fey for daring to join forces against him. The King of Terror might be trapped within her circle, but his power reached way beyond his cage. She might have weakened him, but perhaps he was strong enough to destroy everything anyway.
Maker was right. She needed to find a way to stop the war before Demian took everybody with him. She hated that it all rested on her shoulders. She hated that she was alone. Xan was out there, with this father, fighting a battle that they most likely couldn’t win. And he’d never trained with that stupid sword. What if he was injured, even now? What if he was killed ? She’d already lost Navin.
No. Donna forced her mind away from terrifying possibilities. If she even allowed herself to think that way, then Demian would have already won. She still had some strength left. She just hoped that it was enough.
She ducked a flying blast of energy and limped further into the Ironwood. The ley line was close, she knew that much. It had been marked in the Silent Book, and she was surprised to find that she could recall the hand-drawn map almost perfectly. She just had to find it, walk into it, and then … activate her powers.
It sounded easy.
It was the hardest thing Donna had ever done.
Call the dragon? How did you even do something like that?
The Blackening, Donna thought, dizzy with pain and power. This was what her mother had feared, when she and Miranda had tried to protect her during the negotiations. The air around her burned, buffeting her as she held the Philosopher’s Stone in both hands and focused all of her energy on it.
The sound of screaming forced her to her knees. She wondered if it was her screaming or something else. She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything anymore, only that she felt like she might be dying for real this time. Her chest hurt, she knew that much—almost as if she could feel the shining piece of first matter inside her soul pushing itself out like a living splinter.
Pressing her hands to her chest, Donna tried to hold back the pressure and pain. Terror threatened to take away her reason—whip it up and carry it away in the howling maelstrom that surrounded her.
“Accept the dragon,” Maker had said. But how was she supposed to do that? How did you accept something that hurt so much? She couldn’t even see what she was supposed to be accepting.
She crawled through the fiery air, clutching the Philosopher’s Stone tightly in one fist, until her other hand came to rest on the trunk of a tree, the feel of the bark rough against her palm.
It felt like … scales. Donna swung around and touched the tree with both hands. Scales. The bark of a tree felt just like scales. She looked at the ground—it was churned-up dried mud, as if giant claws had gouged out a path of their own. Lightning flashed in the sky—like the forked tongue of a great serpent—and the booming thunder sounded like a dragon’s roar. The wind, perhaps, resulted from the flapping of monstrous leathery wings.
And Donna understood what all the alchemical texts had been trying to tell her, throughout her life—the dragon was in everything. Just as the first matter was everywhere and nowhere, so was the dragon.
Blackness filled her eyes and her mouth, and Donna collapsed onto the ground.
Twenty-six
The presence spoke, inside her head and all around her: Donna Underwood of the Alchemists, Daughter of the Dragon, thank you for awakening me.
Donna gasped, trying to push down the visceral urge to heave.
“Are you in pain?” asked the voice.
“It’s … ” She licked her lips, trying to form the words
in her head but still having to whisper them aloud. “It feels like too much. Too … loud.” She pressed her hands over her ears and crouched on the flo
or of a shadowy version of the Ironwood, keeping as low as she could, somehow figuring that might protect her. It was pure instinct to make herself small against the sheer power of that voice. A voice that belonged to a creature as old as the stars.
“Is that better?”
The voice still vibrated through her body, making her bones ache, but her ears no longer felt like they were going to start bleeding.
She peeked out from behind her hair and gave a tentative thumbs-up. “Better.”
The dragon—oh god, the dragon—took a gliding step toward her. It moved with the fluidity of water, its wings iridescent in the dawn light and its sinuous body reminding her of a giant snake. Where its tail flicked back and forth, trees fell and small animals ran for new cover. It was magnificent and just so, so big, its beautiful scales the color of silver and gold, each one as large as her hand.
The battle seemed to have disappeared, but Donna knew that wasn’t possible. Somehow, her own power combined with that of the Philosopher’s Stone had transported her into a pocket of existence one step removed from reality. Maybe they were somewhere like Halfway, although she could still recognize her surroundings. It was like a mirror image or something; the ley line had been a doorway of sorts. Despite the fact that she was talking to a freaking dragon, Donna had to admit that she preferred this absence of blood and thunder, away from the alchemists, demons, and fey clashing in the real Ironwood Forest.
Adrenaline made her heart race, and her vision narrowed until all she could see was the majestic creature in front of her. Donna concluded that she might really be losing it. She could handle almost anything: iron tattoos, alchemy, the existence of Faerie and all kinds of fey creatures, even demons. All of these things—and more—she could somehow adjust to. Her mind would stretch and stretch, like a rubber band put under the worst kind of pressure but which would eventually snap back into shape and let her move into her new understanding of reality. Each time that Donna’s world became just a little bigger, she had handled it.
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