The Iron Witch (12 page)

He pushed thinning strands of lank brown hair away from his damp forehead. “Well, aren’t you going to get them out, then?”

“What?”

“Your books, Donna. Aren’t you going to get them out of your bag?”

With trembling hands and cursing her nerves, Donna began to undo the fastenings at the top of her backpack. She tried not to feel Simon’s steely eyes on her and just focused on pulling out the first book that her fingers touched.

Almost letting out the sigh of relief that threatened to burst through her chest, Donna gratefully looked down at an ancient copy of
Frenchman’s Creek
.

“Got it,” she said breathlessly. She hoped Simon wouldn’t notice that the book didn’t even belong on Quentin’s shelves.

“Excellent.” Simon rubbed his hands together so that the dry scraping sound they made was audible. Without another word he turned around and left the room.

Donna dropped Du Maurier’s classic work of swashbuckling adventure and romance into her lap and brought shaking hands to her face.
What had
that
been about
? She knew there were secrets upon secrets in the Order—so much that she didn’t know about, and probably never would—but Simon had just treated her like a
criminal
. He had been protecting the clock. But if it was such a big secret, why was it proudly on display in a public room? She’d been reading books in this library for most of her life. Then again, she had never really paid attention to the clock before. It was, after all, only a clock—something that was, as Simon himself had pointed out, just a piece of furniture.

As soon as she thought this, though, the answer came to her:
hiding in plain sight
. This was often the safest way to hide things, since the more important something was, the harder it became to find a foolproof hiding place. Why not just put it where everyone could see it, and where they would never even
imagine
there might be anything unusual?

Still trembling, Donna curled her legs beneath her and waited for her heart to stop pounding. She couldn’t keep her gaze from wandering back to the tall grandfather clock. Her mind whirled with possibilities. What could be so important that the Order’s secretary would yell at her just for laying a hand on it? The more she thought about it, the more she realized that the answers to all her questions might lie right here in the Blue Room—in Quentin’s library.

If Simon Gaunt thought he’d succeeded in scaring her away from investigating further, he was making a big mistake.

Donna Underwood’s Journal:

Being brought up as a child of the alchemists pretty much sucks.

What makes it worse, though, in so many ways is that Mom and Dad are well-known and, even today, remembered as heroes—or so I’m told. The Underwood name is one to be reckoned with. Can you imagine the pressure that puts me under? Seriously, if I told everyone I just wanted to go to a regular college once I’ve graduated, maybe travel for a while and then study literature, or even take some courses in creative writing … yeah, my life wouldn’t be worth living.

The Order has invested in me, you see. These tattoos of mine don’t come cheap.

My childhood has been taken up with training, lessons, operations for my arms, and exercises to control my strength—an “unfortunate side effect” (Maker’s words) of the iron holding me together.

It would be nice just to be a teenager.

But how is it fair that a teenager in the modern world should have to live by outdated rules laid down in dusty old books centuries ago? Rules made by a white, patriarchal system that patronized women and called them stupid things like “Moon Sister.” Ugh.

Men like Quentin Frost. It’s not like he’s a bad person. I don’t believe in things being that black or white; life is rarely that simple. Quentin is a kind enough guy, but that’s just the point. Yet another old white dude telling us what’s best for the alchemists and how they should survive in the New World.

Or men like his creepy partner, Simon. I honestly don’t get what Quentin sees in him. I remember those two always being together, even before the attack in Ironwood Forest.

And then there’s Maker, who I’ve always liked and trusted, but now … now I’m not so sure.

I want out so badly.

But, very occasionally, I wonder what my parents would think of that. Maybe I should stay and try to change things from the inside. Paige is fond of telling me that I’m one of the Next Generation—hope for the future of alchemy is in the hands of the young. As far as I’m aware, I’m the only person under the age of twenty-one from the Order of the Dragon. There are some younger Initiates in a couple of the other Orders, but for some reason ours is aging.

During my recovery—after Maker had branded me with iron and magic, and my arms were like broken wings lying useless and heavy on my bed—Quentin came to visit. I was back home by then. (Our old home, closer to the Frost Estate and farther from the center of Ironbridge.) I didn’t know Navin back then. I was eight years old, in constant pain, and all I could think about was Mom and Dad.

How could Patrick Underwood be dead?

What had happened to Rachel, his beautiful and talented wife?

I couldn’t even comprehend those questions—let alone answer them—and yet there I was, left behind with an aunt I barely knew.

That was when Quentin started coming to Paige’s little house, sitting next to me in the overstuffed purple armchair and reading to me from books like Treasure Island, The Count of Monte Cristo, and Great Expectations. Books his father had read to him, that’s what he told me. They were “boy’s own” tales filled with adventure and hardship, and they showed me that there was a way to escape the pain—both physical and emotional—that I was going through.

He even introduced me to some of Mom’s favorite novels, which launched my lifelong love of Daphne du Maurier. He would smile through his Santa Claus beard as he told me tales of pirates and smugglers and scary housekeepers. He had fewer lines on his face back then. A lot fewer.

I’ve never forgotten how kind Quentin was all those years ago.

But at the same time, I remember that Simon Gaunt never once came with him.

Mildred’s was a tiny coffee shop that stayed open from eight ’til eight most days. It was a favorite student haunt, but you could also find yourself rubbing shoulders with somber-suited office workers holding rushed meetings, juggling their laptops and lattes over the small tables. Nobody knew who Mildred actually was, or if indeed there had ever
been
a Mildred, but everyone who frequented the place was guaranteed a warm reception and the best cranberry muffins in New England.

Xan pushed open the brass-handled glass door and ushered Donna ahead of him. She was glad to be out of the cold, gratefully soaking up the atmosphere and warmth as well as the smell of coffee and pastries. While Xan placed their order, she made a beeline for the two-seater couch which was, miraculously, unoccupied. The rest of the coffee shop was full of people, most of whom had shopping bags crammed underneath their tables. She gratefully sank into the squashy brown velvet and wriggled out of her coat.

Her mind had been full of Simon’s strange behavior all afternoon, but she’d had no trouble forgetting it as soon as it was finally time to leave the Frost Estate. She had a date to keep with the mysterious Mr. Grayson.

When Xan arrived, two steaming mugs and the muffins balanced precariously on a blue plastic tray, Donna again marveled at what was happening—at who she was hanging out with. She noticed two girls at a nearby table cast what they thought were surreptitious glances at her undeniably handsome companion, and then put their heads close together to whisper.
Kids
, she thought. And then had to smile at the irony. Wasn’t she acting exactly the same way?

“So.” Xan shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the back of the couch. “Cozy in this corner, isn’t it?” He sat down next to her, his thigh almost touching hers as he made himself comfortable.

How did guys do that—
m
anage to seem so at ease with themselves and the world around them?
She still got so overwhelmed by things, and found it incredibly hard to hide her feelings. Aunt Paige had once accused her of “wearing her heart on her sleeve” too much, although Donna often wondered why that was such a bad thing.

Xan took a sip of his coffee. “I am so sorry about last night, what it must’ve looked like to you. The whole deal with the shirt.” He shook his head with a wry grin. “I came across as pretty crazy.”

“I sort of grew up with crazy, so it’s okay.” Donna broke little pieces off her muffin but didn’t eat any. “I can’t imagine what you must’ve gone through. How you … you know … lost what you did.”

“You can’t?” Xan’s eyes glowed. “After what you showed me, I think you understand only too well.”

She looked down at the table, not sure what to say next.

Xan reached out a tentative hand and touched the back of her emerald glove. When she’d pulled them on this morning before school, the color had reminded her of his eyes.

He cleared his throat, as though uncertain of something. “Can I see them again?”

She looked around the crowded café. “Here?”

“Here.”

Donna surprised herself. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face Xan and, keeping her hands and arms low to hide them from the rest of the patrons, slowly peeled off the beautiful gloves and rolled up the sleeves of her sweater. She glanced nervously at the other people; she hadn’t taken off her gloves in a public place for years. There was something so obviously
alien
about the markings that she was afraid of the reaction she might get. She certainly didn’t want to have to start explaining them—nobody could possibly believe they were just regular tattoos.

But here, sitting next to her, was finally someone who knew something about the way she felt. Xan reached out and gently touched her wrist.

And then he winced and quickly pulled away.

“What happened?” Donna felt her eyes go wide.

Xan shrugged and half-smiled. “It’s okay. I just didn’t realize I could still be affected by iron. It’s been so long.”

Flushing, Donna tried to apologize, but the words stuck in her throat.
I can’t believe this
, she thought.
I finally meet a guy I like and he’s allergic to me.

“It really is all right,” said Xan, placing his hand over hers. “See? It was only for a moment—you must have pure iron in your hands. Star iron.”

“Yeah, I’m practically glowing with the stuff.” Donna couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.

“I’m half-human, so I’m used to living in the iron world. It’s just the ‘hard stuff’ I have a few problems with.” He must have caught the anguished expression on her face because he suddenly grinned. “Hey, don’t worry. They say opposites attract, right?”

Donna smiled, allowing herself to be reassured by his touch. She felt disappointed when he removed his hand.

“Do they hurt?” Xan asked.

“Not
all the time
,” she admitted. “They ache sometimes, and I’ve been getting these shooting pains lately.” She didn’t tell him that those pains had been getting worse, especially each time she’d come into contact with the dark elves. “But it’s a strange feeling, mostly. Like they’re cold, so cold, in a bone-deep kind of way. It’s like they’ll never feel truly warm, you know?”

“They don’t feel cold.”

And then, as he reached out to touch the back of her hand once more, the markings shimmered more brightly and began to
move
, to curl and slide and slither along her flesh, sparkling under the overhead light.

Xan gasped and pulled back his hands. “What—”

Donna stared in shock. “That hasn’t happened for years. I thought it had stopped.” Her mind whirled with crazy thoughts. What the hell was happening? Was this part of the reason for the pain she’d been experiencing lately? Or was it something to do with Xan after all?

“They
move
,” Xan whispered, awe radiating in his voice.

“Maker created them, so they have life in them. He works magically with metal. Iron and silver are his speciality, though, and he bonded the two together to, you know … fix me. Pure iron is soft and malleable.” She looked at Xan, absurdly grateful to be talking to someone who understood this stuff without her having to explain every little thing. “You already know that the purest iron on our planet comes from space—”

“Right,” he replied. “Meteorites.”

“And then the silver was mixed with it, for its antibacterial qualities. Otherwise I might’ve died from iron poisoning when I was first tattooed.”

Xan reached for her hands again and turned them palm-up. “There’s hardly anything on your palms.”

Donna nodded. “Never has been.”

On the underside of her arms, the markings that began at the wrist were swirling up to the elbow crease. The movement gradually slowed down; the symbols lazily meandered along her skin as if deciding where and how to settle, what patterns to make. Donna was relieved for the dim lighting in this corner of the café, and she was mostly shielded from view by Xan as he moved closer to get a good look at her hands.

Picking up the discarded gloves, Donna began to pull them back on again. “Show’s over.” She tried to smile as she rolled the sleeves of her black sweater back down. Her jaw ached.

Xan pushed hair back from his face, his golden cheeks flushed with more than just the heat of his coffee. “Why do you hide them? You can see why I wouldn’t want to advertise
my
scars. But yours? They’re beautiful.”

Shocked, Donna pulled away and tried to hide her hands. “They’re not beautiful. Don’t ever say that.”

“Why not? This … Maker of yours has done an incredible job.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “How can I possibly see something as beautiful when, every time I look at them … every single time … they remind me of what I’ve lost. Not just what happened to my hands, but to my family. To my parents.”

Xan’s expression was somber as he listened. He took a sip of his coffee and Donna couldn’t help noticing that his hand trembled. “So, what happened to you?” he finally asked.

Donna took a deep breath and began to tell him the fairy-tale horror of her life. No Disney gloss for her; just the cold darkness of Grimm. “My parents belonged to the Order of the Dragon, an ancient alchemical secret society charged with many responsibilities, some of which I have no idea about. I don’t even
want
to know, most of the time. Legend tells stories of the alchemists, but I can only tell you what
I
know. The Order has two main tasks: to guard the secret of immortality, and to protect humans from the
otherworld
. Which, of course, includes the inhabitants of Faerie.”

Xan tucked one long leg under him, giving her all of his attention. “I know of the Order.”

“Really? That’s … unusual.”

“You forget what I am.”

“No.” Her eyes locked with his. “No, I can never forget that.”

He spoke as though he hadn’t heard her. “You said your parents ‘belonged’ to the Order—past tense. What happened?”

“My father died protecting me from the wood elves when I was seven. My mother is in a secure medical facility. She was … damaged in some way. I don’t know what happened to her; not exactly.” Donna shook off his comforting hand. “Don’t pity me, Xan, I can’t stand it.”

She took a slow, trembling breath. This was so much harder than she’d thought it would be. She usually tried hard to keep moving forward, to not dwell on the things she couldn’t change, but meeting Xan had brought it all back again.

“Please,” she said, desperation echoing in her voice. “Talk to me about something for a minute. Can you tell me about
your
parents?”

“All right.” Xan shifted on the couch and rubbed his hands together. He looked nervous. “My father is from Faerie—a fey warrior of some kind. I never knew him, apart from what I found out years later. My human mother died in childbirth.”

Donna tried to focus on
his
pain rather than her own, yet tears still threatened to break through at any moment. “Your father is still alive, then?”

“Perhaps. The faeries live long lives, though they are not quite immortal. For all I know, maybe he’s not even aware I exist. He’s no doubt living quite happily in Faerie, unhindered by a moment of weakness with a human woman.” His eyes were far away.

Donna felt tired all of a sudden, as though a heavy weight was resting on her chest and her heart had turned to stone. “Xan, it’s so hard, isn’t it? Knowing these things. Having them be a part of our lives, but trying to pretend that everything is normal. Despite having Navin, I feel so alone. And then I feel guilty for even
thinking
that.” She had so much else she wanted to say, but her throat felt tight and she couldn’t continue.

“Guilty?” Xan leaned toward her. “For what?”

“For being disloyal to Navin, hiding so much from him over the years I’ve known him. We’ve shared a lot—lived next door to each other and spent so many evenings together. And how do I repay him? By lying to him the whole time we’ve known each other.”

“Sometimes it’s better to protect the ones you love.”

“Said like a man who knows what he’s talking about.” Donna’s voice held a lighter note, but it was forced and they both knew it.

“Well, I’m only talking from limited experience. My human parents adopted me despite my scars, but they obviously never knew what they were; what they meant about who and what I am. There are things about my life from before the adoption that even
I
can’t face, let alone try to share them with anyone else.” Xan stopped for a moment, letting the irony of his words hang in the charged air between them. He rushed on. “And, honestly? They didn’t really care. I was just another possession to them, rather than a person they truly wanted.”

Donna frowned. “A
possession
? What do you mean?” She couldn’t imagine not being wanted. Even though her memories of life before the attack were vague, they were all happy. She knew she’d been loved by Patrick and Rachel Underwood, and that had kept her going through the long years of mourning and confusion.