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Authors: Karen Mahoney
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across the busy street that ran past Trafalgar Square. At night, the building seemed even more impressive than usual, but it wasn’t the church itself that Donna needed to enter. Somehow it didn’t seem right to be attending a demon’s party so close to a place devoted to worship. Not because Donna was particularly religious—which she wasn’t, having been brought up as an alchemist—but just … because . Wasn’t this sacred ground or something?
She pulled her wrap more tightly around her shoulders as the chauffeur-driven limo, sent by Demian, left her on the sidewalk. As she looked for the entrance to the crypt, the clock, high above her on the church spire, began to strike midnight. Donna felt a bit like a fairy-tale princess. She could even hear Big Ben tolling the hour, just down the road in Westminster.
The ride over had been surreal—the demon driver had kept changing his appearance in a disconcerting display of power. Donna was only able to see the side of his face from where she’d been sitting in the back of the spacious vehicle, but he’d cycled through at least six different personas in the space of the short ride. As his face flickered in the eerie light of the dashboard, it was like watching one of those old-fashioned movie reels.
When the limousine had first arrived at Miranda’s house, with a message from Demian that Donna was his “date” for the night and would therefore be traveling to the ball with his personal chauffeur, nobody had asked the obvious question. Well, nobody except Donna. “What does the king of the demons need with a freaking chauffeur?”
Robert had laughed while Miranda was busy looking for a way out of this particular demand. “Demian is trying to separate us,” she’d said. “I won’t have you going to that place alone. You’re under my protection.”
The driver—who’d looked human to begin with—had spoken up. “Actually, Donna Underwood is under His Majesty’s protection. She is guaranteed safe passage.”
Miranda had tried further delaying tactics, but the tall man was having none of it. He spoke as though controlled from far away, outside of him—as though he was nothing more than a puppet. If that was the case, it was pretty obvious to Donna who was pulling the strings. She wondered if the words he spoke were even his own; it was probably Demian’s voice filtered through another’s mouth. The chauffeur certainly sounded pompous enough.
“Well, I suppose we’ll just see you there,” Miranda had finally said, grimly.
“I’ll be fine,” Donna had replied, wondering if it was true.
Now, following her mentor’s directions, she walked around to the pedestrianized area alongside the main church building, her black satin heels clicking against the pavement. She was usually way more comfortable in sneakers and didn’t feel like herself at all, dressed up like this. The only colors in her ensemble were her long emerald gloves and the red feathers on the mask Robert had given her at the last moment. Not that she was wearing it quite yet. She clutched the exquisitely carved decoration in her hands, wondering whether or not this was the moment she was supposed to put it on.
The golden mask had a sinister sort of beauty. It was a traditional Venetian Carnival mask, which she’d seen in paintings and movies. Hers was apparently called a “Columbina” and would cover only half of her face, which she was glad of—masks that covered the whole face creeped her out and, for some reason, made her think of death. With the bright crimson feathers waving from the top, she expected to look as if she had a plume of fire billowing above her head.
The London streets were still busy, despite the late hour, and many groups of people looked like they were only just getting started on their evening. Black taxis hurtled through the streets, narrowly avoiding the cluster of cycle-rickshaws lining the Square, waiting for Londoners and tourists alike to grow tired of
She pulled her wrap more tightly around her shoulders as the chauffeur-driven limo, sent by Demian, left her on the sidewalk. As she looked for the entrance to the crypt, the clock, high above her on the church spire, began to strike midnight. Donna felt a bit like a fairy-tale princess. She could even hear Big Ben tolling the hour, just down the road in Westminster.
The ride over had been surreal—the demon driver had kept changing his appearance in a disconcerting display of power. Donna was only able to see the side of his face from where she’d been sitting in the back of the spacious vehicle, but he’d cycled through at least six different personas in the space of the short ride. As his face flickered in the eerie light of the dashboard, it was like watching one of those old-fashioned movie reels.
When the limousine had first arrived at Miranda’s house, with a message from Demian that Donna was his “date” for the night and would therefore be traveling to the ball with his personal chauffeur, nobody had asked the obvious question. Well, nobody except Donna. “What does the king of the demons need with a freaking chauffeur?”
Robert had laughed while Miranda was busy looking for a way out of this particular demand. “Demian is trying to separate us,” she’d said. “I won’t have you going to that place alone. You’re under my protection.”
The driver—who’d looked human to begin with—had spoken up. “Actually, Donna Underwood is under His Majesty’s protection. She is guaranteed safe passage.”
Miranda had tried further delaying tactics, but the tall man was having none of it. He spoke as though controlled from far away, outside of him—as though he was nothing more than a puppet. If that was the case, it was pretty obvious to Donna who was pulling the strings. She wondered if the words he spoke were even his own; it was probably Demian’s voice filtered through another’s mouth. The chauffeur certainly sounded pompous enough.
“Well, I suppose we’ll just see you there,” Miranda had finally said, grimly.
“I’ll be fine,” Donna had replied, wondering if it was true.
Now, following her mentor’s directions, she walked around to the pedestrianized area alongside the main church building, her black satin heels clicking against the pavement. She was usually way more comfortable in sneakers and didn’t feel like herself at all, dressed up like this. The only colors in her ensemble were her long emerald gloves and the red feathers on the mask Robert had given her at the last moment. Not that she was wearing it quite yet. She clutched the exquisitely carved decoration in her hands, wondering whether or not this was the moment she was supposed to put it on.
The golden mask had a sinister sort of beauty. It was a traditional Venetian Carnival mask, which she’d seen in paintings and movies. Hers was apparently called a “Columbina” and would cover only half of her face, which she was glad of—masks that covered the whole face creeped her out and, for some reason, made her think of death. With the bright crimson feathers waving from the top, she expected to look as if she had a plume of fire billowing above her head.
The London streets were still busy, despite the late hour, and many groups of people looked like they were only just getting started on their evening. Black taxis hurtled through the streets, narrowly avoiding the cluster of cycle-rickshaws lining the Square, waiting for Londoners and tourists alike to grow tired of
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