Read Online The Stone Demon by Karen Mahoney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Mahoney
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walking. Homeless men and women had already settled themselves beneath their cardboard-and-newspaper blankets on the steps of the church.
The entrance to the crypt—or as Demian had referred to it, “Pandemonium Crypt”—was down a spiral staircase enclosed within a separate glass structure that, to Donna, looked exactly like Willy Wonka’s glass elevator. Even though the public café that was situated beneath the church should have closed several hours ago, she wasn’t surprised when the doors to the glass enclosure opened for her.
The St Martin-in-the-Fields crypt wasn’t called “Pandemonium Crypt” at all, of course. It was most likely some kind of sick demon joke. Donna couldn’t say she found it particularly funny.
But it seemed Demian had selected the location for his masquerade with care. The eighteenth-century crypt was more than just a tourist hot spot—it was a historical site of some significance for the alchemists. Miranda had told her that at one time, at least three important alchemists were interred there. When Donna asked where those remains were now, Miranda had simply shrugged, saying that she didn’t know. And then she’d quickly changed the subject.
Yeah, right. It seemed that Miranda wasn’t going to tell her anything about anything.
The staircase wound down and around, the steps narrow and the journey seemingly never-ending. Donna remembered her dream from the night before, with its eternal corridors. She shuddered and walked more quickly. The descent really was taking a long time, which confirmed her suspicions that she wasn’t just heading to the popular café.
She wondered how Demian could mould reality like this, making it be whatever he wanted to be. And, if he could do something like this—shift everything just a little to one side, so that a previously “fixed” spiral staircase now led to his own personal ballroom—then what couldn’t he do? Why did he even need to negotiate with the alchemists?
And what did he truly want with her?
Her stomach fluttered with nervous energy. So many things to think about. Not just where Demian was concerned, but regarding this whole setup in general. Miranda’s warnings still rang in her ears: “Keep your mask on once you’re inside the crypt, try not to talk to anyone until we’re called into the private meeting room, and whatever you do, don’t eat or drink anything, not until we’re all there together.”
Not that Donna felt like eating anything right now. If she was honest, she’d have to admit to feeling pretty sick.
Just as she was wondering whether or not she’d been deceived—yet again—by a maleficent being, and if it really was possible to enter Hell while you were technically still alive, she reached the bottom of the stairs. She took a deep breath to steady herself.
Two silent women, wearing plain black robes and ornate golden masks, stepped forward to greet her. They turned and escorted her through a candlelit tunnel. The ground was made of smooth stone, and Donna, not used to wearing heels, almost slipped over on the polished surface.
“Please,” one of her faceless guides said. “Put on your mask.”
Donna stared at her but kept walking, still trying to catch her breath. “Where are we?”
“Pandemonium,” the same woman replied, as though that explained everything.
“Put on your mask please, Miss Underwood,” the second woman said. She spoke in exactly the same voice as the first. They were like creepy living dolls.
Swallowing more arguments, Donna slipped on her mask and shivered as the cold metal touched her face. Her vision was immediately constricted by the carved eyeholes. She felt both claustrophobic and strangely safe, as though she could hide from anything that might attempt to hurt her down here. The mask was secured to her face with a black satin ribbon that tied at the back of her head, which she tried to disguise by pulling pieces of her freshly curled, chestnut-colored hair over
The entrance to the crypt—or as Demian had referred to it, “Pandemonium Crypt”—was down a spiral staircase enclosed within a separate glass structure that, to Donna, looked exactly like Willy Wonka’s glass elevator. Even though the public café that was situated beneath the church should have closed several hours ago, she wasn’t surprised when the doors to the glass enclosure opened for her.
The St Martin-in-the-Fields crypt wasn’t called “Pandemonium Crypt” at all, of course. It was most likely some kind of sick demon joke. Donna couldn’t say she found it particularly funny.
But it seemed Demian had selected the location for his masquerade with care. The eighteenth-century crypt was more than just a tourist hot spot—it was a historical site of some significance for the alchemists. Miranda had told her that at one time, at least three important alchemists were interred there. When Donna asked where those remains were now, Miranda had simply shrugged, saying that she didn’t know. And then she’d quickly changed the subject.
Yeah, right. It seemed that Miranda wasn’t going to tell her anything about anything.
The staircase wound down and around, the steps narrow and the journey seemingly never-ending. Donna remembered her dream from the night before, with its eternal corridors. She shuddered and walked more quickly. The descent really was taking a long time, which confirmed her suspicions that she wasn’t just heading to the popular café.
She wondered how Demian could mould reality like this, making it be whatever he wanted to be. And, if he could do something like this—shift everything just a little to one side, so that a previously “fixed” spiral staircase now led to his own personal ballroom—then what couldn’t he do? Why did he even need to negotiate with the alchemists?
And what did he truly want with her?
Her stomach fluttered with nervous energy. So many things to think about. Not just where Demian was concerned, but regarding this whole setup in general. Miranda’s warnings still rang in her ears: “Keep your mask on once you’re inside the crypt, try not to talk to anyone until we’re called into the private meeting room, and whatever you do, don’t eat or drink anything, not until we’re all there together.”
Not that Donna felt like eating anything right now. If she was honest, she’d have to admit to feeling pretty sick.
Just as she was wondering whether or not she’d been deceived—yet again—by a maleficent being, and if it really was possible to enter Hell while you were technically still alive, she reached the bottom of the stairs. She took a deep breath to steady herself.
Two silent women, wearing plain black robes and ornate golden masks, stepped forward to greet her. They turned and escorted her through a candlelit tunnel. The ground was made of smooth stone, and Donna, not used to wearing heels, almost slipped over on the polished surface.
“Please,” one of her faceless guides said. “Put on your mask.”
Donna stared at her but kept walking, still trying to catch her breath. “Where are we?”
“Pandemonium,” the same woman replied, as though that explained everything.
“Put on your mask please, Miss Underwood,” the second woman said. She spoke in exactly the same voice as the first. They were like creepy living dolls.
Swallowing more arguments, Donna slipped on her mask and shivered as the cold metal touched her face. Her vision was immediately constricted by the carved eyeholes. She felt both claustrophobic and strangely safe, as though she could hide from anything that might attempt to hurt her down here. The mask was secured to her face with a black satin ribbon that tied at the back of her head, which she tried to disguise by pulling pieces of her freshly curled, chestnut-colored hair over
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