The Wood Queen (22 page)

Donna leaned on the railing of the old iron bridge and watched the ashes of her mother’s hair fall into the dark water far below. She rubbed her gloved hands together, just to make sure she’d gotten all of it.

Holding her breath, she waited to see if anything would happen—something dramatic, maybe, that would tell her if the Wood Queen’s curse was truly broken.

Nothing
. Just the gray water winding through the city of Ironbridge, taking her hopes along with it. Shouldn’t it have been instantaneous, like magic?

She pushed away from the railing and checked the time on her phone. She needed to get to Ironbridge General and see if the ritual had worked.

Whatever might happen, she wanted to spend the little time she had left in town staying as close to Mom as possible. Donna knew she was running on borrowed time, and couldn’t help but wonder what the alchemists would do to discipline her for this latest incident. They’d already exiled her to London—what more would they dream up to punish her for everything she’d done, everything she’d risked to save Mom? Aunt Paige had barely even been civil to her, though Donna was finding that less upsetting than she would have just a week ago.

She could also visit Robert. He’d spent the past two days close to death in the room next door to her mother’s, in the alchemists’ Special Care Unit at the hospital.

Thanks to her.

The alchemists were waiting for Robert’s condition to stabilize before moving him back to England, where the Order of the Crow could care for him. Swallowing away the sudden pain in her throat, Donna tried to ignore the guilt gnawing at her like a pack of hungry rats. She turned away from the dark water and began to walk across the bridge.

She stopped and stared.

Oh, crap
. That couldn’t be good.

A thick white mist had formed at the very end of the bridge, right where she was headed, like it had sprung up with the single purpose of blocking her exit. But that was crazy, right? Fog didn’t have a mind of its own.

Spinning around, she checked where she’d just come from, only to see more of the swirling mist. It had become impossible to see beyond the very beginning of the relatively short bridge.

Was this some kind of trap?
Aliette would know exactly where Donna had scattered the remains of the elflock.

Maybe she could open a gate—a dimensional doorway—again. Maker was already trying to show her how to control her abilities. If she didn’t get a handle on them soon, the Order would bind her again—she didn’t doubt that for a minute. But if she could try tapping into it now, she might be able to step through the fog and arrive at Ironbridge General.

Taking a moment to compose herself, Donna tried to reach the tiny shard of first matter embedded within her very soul.

But a tall figure in a black suit was already striding toward her, out of mist which seemed to curl away from him as he passed through it.

And then she realized who it was, walking so purposefully in her direction. All she could do was to wait for him to reach her, unless she chose to dive into the river instead. She considered this for one crazy moment, looking into the no-doubt freezing depths flowing fast beneath the bridge, but decided that if she was going to die this day, she’d far rather do it facing down a demon than drowning in winter-cold water.

Maybe she was still in shock—that could be the only explanation for how bizarrely disconnected she felt.

Demian met her in the center of the bridge and bowed slightly, his silver hair shifting around his face. “Donna Underwood, I offer you greetings.”

“Hey,” she muttered. Why was everyone so damn formal?

“Are you … well?”

What do you care?
she wanted to ask. Biting back that less-than-ideal response, she opted for something less inflammatory. “As well as can be expected, under the circumstances.”

The demon’s cruel mouth curved into a smile that made her knees turn as watery as the river rushing below. She hated the effect he had on her, but she knew it wasn’t real. Maker had assured her of that. Powerful demons had the ability to affect human emotions, and Demian seemed able to manipulate hers with ease. Yet she doubted that he even knew what he was doing to her—the books she’d been reading late into the night for the past two days said that some demons gave off pheromones the same way that humans breathed. In any case, Demian seemed to have taken a shine to her and, to be perfectly honest, it gave her the creeps.

He stretched out his hand and plucked a single black rose out of the air. He pressed it into her hand.

If she hadn’t been wearing gloves, the wicked-sharp thorns would have drawn blood. Donna wondered if Demian realized that; she had the feeling that he wasn’t used to interacting with humans. Well, he
had
said the
demons had been locked away in their realm for two hundred years.

She tried not to show how afraid she really was. “A flower? For
me
? I don’t think you should be giving me roses.”

His face tightened, whether in confusion or anger she couldn’t say. He shrugged in a disturbingly human gesture. “It is just a flower.”

“But aren’t we at war?”

His face relaxed. “We’re demons, not savages.”

She nibbled her lower lip, wishing she knew what to say to end this—all of it. “What are you going to do?”

He blinked his eyes, the flickering blackness making her feel vaguely sick. He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. “Do? We will take back this world, when the time is right.”

She began to tremble. “And when will that be?”

“When it is.” He smiled enigmatically.

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

“I have work to do; many of my people are scattered throughout this realm.”

Donna thought of Newton trapped in the bronze statue of a head, rotting forever in Simon’s laboratory. She swallowed. “Will you … rescue them?”

Demian’s pale eyebrows lifted. “You know something of this?”

Oops.
“Not really. Just something I heard.” She said it too quickly, and she was sure he must have noticed.

He moved toward her until she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Demian was totally invading her space, but she refused to step back.

“You are lying. I can smell it on you,” he said.

Donna made herself stand still, although every instinct screamed at her to run. “I’m a child of the alchemists—I’ve read about demons before. That’s all.”

Should she tell him about Newton?
What would that mean for Simon? Not that she cared about the Magus, of course. But perhaps it would bring worse repercussions for Quentin.

Demian either believed her or decided to let it go. He shifted his stance to something less deadly.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said. “Go and visit with your mother—she is waiting for you.”

How did he—?
Donna stopped herself from asking the question. What would be the point? Demian spoke in riddles.

She turned her back on the king of the demons and ran all the way to Ironbridge Hospital. Nobody stopped her when she got there; everybody knew who she was, and word had come down from Quentin himself that Donna was to be admitted to her mother’s room any time, day or night.

Nurse Valderrama greeted her and ushered her into the waiting room, a wide smile spread across her pretty face. Her brown eyes were sparkling under the bright hospital lights.

Donna tried to catch her breath, holding on to the edge of the tall desk at the nurses’ station. “Is she—?”

“Go see for yourself.”

Rachel Underwood opened her eyes and smiled at her daughter.

The bed sheets were crisp and white, and for once Mom’s face didn’t look like it was blending into the pillows—there was a faint glow of color in her cheeks.

“Hey, Mom.” Tears streaked Donna’s face, but she didn’t wipe them away. She was too busy holding her mother’s hands.

“Darling, it’s so good to see you again—to
really
see you.”

Mom still looked like she’d been very sick, but there was a definite improvement. A few good meals would help, Donna thought, as would coming home for the first time in years.

But what she noticed most was her mother’s hair. It had been brushed until it shone, and now lay in a single red braid almost the entire length of her back. The white streak in front had disappeared.

Donna swallowed, feeling as though her heart might burst with happiness. “You’re okay? You really are okay?” She had to know for sure; there had been too much disappointment and false hope over the years.

Rachel’s smile was gentle. “I really think I am. Thanks to you.”

No mention was made of what Donna had done to get this far—what she had sacrificed in order to bring her mother back from the very edge of madness—but the
knowledge passed between mother and daughter in a silent communication. The look they shared, in that fleeting moment, held no judgment.

Light glinted on her mom’s wrist, and Donna saw that she was still wearing the charm bracelet. Seeing it there made her throat tighten all over again, though she wasn’t entirely sure she could say why.

“I think,” Rachel said, “it might be a good Christmas.”

“And a Happy New Year?”

“I hope so.”

And maybe it really would be. At least, in this one infinitely precious thing.

My mom is okay
, Donna thought.
The world might be going to Hell and I’m being exiled, but Mom’s okay
.

That counted for something, didn’t it?