Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series)

by Geoffrey Huntington

  “Natalie!” Devon shouted—but his voice sounded muffled and distant to his ears.

  The girls began to turn their heads in his direction—he saw everything in slow motion still—and he tried to run toward them. But his feet felt leaden, the gravity underneath magnified a hundredfold.

  Behind the girls, the kid in the lizard mask opened his snout, revealing a mouthful of fangs that were all too real.

  Cecily saw it too. She screamed.

  Devon broke free from whatever force was trying to hold him in place. Cape flying, he lunged at the lizard kid, who now had his arms wrapped around Natalie. She turned and looked up into his face, realizing it was no mask, that the tongue and the teeth were real. She screamed.

  Devon landed a punch into the demon’s side. The thing bellowed, dropping Natalie to the floor. Then it turned savagely to snarl at Devon, its long tongue darting in and out of its mouth.

  “Come on, ugly, come on,” Devon taunted. “Give me your best shot.”

  “Devon!” Cecily shouted. “Behind you!”

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see the kid in the Freddy Krueger makeup. The long, sharp knives in place of his fingers were real. He slashed them against each other, clanging them like swords.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Devon called out, trusting once more that his limbs would respond instinctively. They didn’t fail. His right leg shot up in a swift kick, slamming his polished sorcerer’s boot right under Freddy’s chin and sending him crashing into the sofa. The kids who were making out there yelled out in shock and fear, scrambling to huddle together in a corner of the room.

  The lizard thing, meanwhile, was poised on its haunches, ready to spring. “Think again, Godzilla,” D.J. shouted, tackling the creature before it could strike.

  “Thanks, buddy,” Devon called over to him, whisking the lizard from under his friend and pummeling it into the wall.

  But there were others. The two cowboys now pulled their claws out of their dungarees and made for the girls.

  “Cecily!” Devon shouted. “Just go for it! Believe you can and you will!”

  She looked at him in utter terror, then back at the approaching cowboys, one of whom licked his lips. His hands were like bear paws: furry and enormous, with claws bared.

  “I guess you’re not aware who I am,” Cecily said, her voice trembling. “I’m Cecily Crandall, and no one—I repeat—no one messes with me.”

  Let her do it, Devon thought, concentrating.

  Cecily lunged, crinoline and ruffles flying, kicking up hard with her knee into the cowboy’s groin. He howled in pain and collapsed to the floor.

  “Attagirl!” Devon yelled. “Everybody! Just believe you can fight them off, and you will have the power to do so!”

  The stoned, terrified seniors and their girlfriends didn’t try. They just ran screaming out into the foyer. Looking back, they screamed again and bolted outside. That left only the five friends to fight off the four demons.

  “We’ve still got ‘em outnumbered,” Devon said.

  But the demons had them contained. At that moment the double doors of the parlor slammed shut, and Devon could hear the lock slide into place. The demon in the shape of Freddy Krueger laughed.

  “No one panic,” Devon said. “We can do this.”

  Cecily’s eyes were blazing, but D.J., Marcus and Natalie seemed frozen in fear.

  “If you believe you have the power, you will!” Devon told them.

  The lizard swished its long powerful tail, toppling over a table, smashing an antique lamp to pieces.

  “Hey,” barked Cecily, “that was my mother’s favorite.”

  She was cocky now. With one sudden leap, she swung her leg around like Wonder Woman on a good day and bashed the thing upside its head. It roared as it fell to the floor.

  One of the cowboys hissed, baring his fangs as he prepared to defend his fallen comrade.

  “I don’t think so,” Marcus said, jumping at the creature and landing a swift flat Frankenstein-boot kick against its back, sending it flying towards D.J., who caught it.

  “Hey,” D.J. said. “I recognize you. You’re the creep who stole my car!” He grinned malevolently. “And you’re gonna pay for what you did to Flo!”

  He hauled off and punched the beast so hard it flew backward, crashing up against the fireplace.

  But in all the commotion, Freddy Krueger had grabbed Natalie. He held her in front of him, his long sharp fingers ready to slit her throat. It made all of them pause.

  “I’ll let her go if you open the portal,” it spoke.

  It was the first time that Devon had actually heard a demon speak with a physical voice. It was low, guttural, the sound of stone against stone.

  “Never,” Devon said, facing it. “I’ll never open that door!”

  “Devon!” Natalie screamed. “Do what he says! Please! He’s going to kill me!”

  “No, he won’t.” Devon stood firm in front of them. “He can’t—because I forbid it.”

  How he knew that for sure was as yet unclear. Maybe the Voice had insisted it was so, and in all the fighting he hadn’t consciously heard it. But Devon felt confident that he could claim power over these things.

  I’m stronger than all of them. I am the one-hundredth generation descendant of Sargon the Great.

  His eyes locked onto the eyes of the demon, and he calmly stood his ground.

  “I forbid it,” he repeated.

  The thing let out a long, low growl from deep within its body.

  “Let her go,” Devon commanded.

  The demon suddenly lifted its face to the ceiling and howled in obvious frustration. It thrust Natalie away from its body. She tumbled into Devon’s arms, shaking uncontrollably.

  “Now, all of you,” Devon commanded in a voice barely recognizable as his own. “Back to your Hell Hole! Now!”

  All four of the demons screamed. They were sucked up into the air and disappeared.

  “Holy—crapola,” D.J. breathed.

  “What were they?” Natalie asked, still quaking in Devon’s arms.

  Marcus had walked up to Devon and was staring at him in wonder. “How did you do that? How did we all get so strong?”

  “And what’s a Hell Hole?” Natalie asked.

  “I don’t have time to explain.” Devon turned to Cecily. “We’ve got to go check on Alexander.”

  Her face showed sudden fear. “You think they’ve gone after him?”

  “Not them. The Madman.”

  But just then the doors to the parlor opened. Mrs. Crandall stood there, her eyes wide in outrage.

  “Cecily! Devon! What is going on here?”

  “Mother, we—”

  She was aghast at the sight of the room.

  “All the way up in the West Wing we could hear noise. Your grandmother is very upset. She’s shaking as if—”

  She looked around. Devon sensed that even beyond the loud music and smashed lamp and the books scattered along the floor she could tell what went on here. She turned her eyes to bear down on Devon.

  “I’ve got to go check on Alexander,” he told her forcefully.

  She said nothing.

  He turned to D.J. “Fill in these guys as best as you can for now,” he said, nodding over at Marcus and Natalie, who were still wide-eyed and terrified. “And tell those wimps who ran out of here that it was a Halloween prank. Something we rigged up.”

  “Yeah,” Cecily added. “Like Jessica’s dad did.” She paused. “Only way more realistic.”

  “Way,” Devon agreed.

  D.J. managed a grin. “They were so messed up they’ll believe anything.”

  Devon and Cecily prepared to head upstairs, but Mrs. Crandall stopped them in the foyer.

  “I demand you tell me what went on here tonight,” she said, only the slightest quiver betraying her voice.

  Devon looked at her hard. “I think you know, Mrs. Crandall,” he told her plainly. “I think you know.”

  She said nothi
ng more, just stood there, the terror stark upon her face, as Devon and Cecily raced upstairs.

  Alexander was not in his room.

  “If only I hadn’t forgotten about the trick-or-treating,” Devon said.

  “Let’s look in the playroom,” Cecily suggested.

  Devon felt a terrible sensation deep in his gut. Even before they arrived at the door, he could hear the voice of that insane clown.

  Tinny laughter, a raspy song.

  “Oh, no,” he said, running down the carpeted corridor.

  Blue light and silver shadows danced against the wall of the playroom. There, in front of Alexander’s beanbag chair, sat the old portable TV set from the basement.

  “But that’s impossible,” Devon said, his eyes trailing along its cord. “It was broken.”

  “Not anymore, apparently,” Cecily observed.

  Someone had fixed it. Devon’s eyes latched onto the black electrical tape wrapped around the cord, securing a new plug to its end. It was now firmly attached to the socket on the wall.

  “Alexander!” Devon shouted. “Alexander! Get away from there!”

  But when they ran up in front of the television set, Alexander was not in his beanbag. They turned to anxiously face the TV. On the screen, Major Musick was saying, “The letter for today, boys and girls, is ‘D.’”

  “Where’s Alexander?” Cecily asked frantically, near tears. “Devon, where could he be?”

  “Deeeee,” Major Musick intoned. “And an Eeeeee, and a Veeeeee, and an Ohhhh, and an ennnnnnnnnnN.”

  The camera moved in for a tight close-up. Devon watched, transfixed.

  “What’s it spell?” the chalk-white face of Jackson Muir asked, a maggot crawling from his between his lips.

  “Devon!” called the children in the bleachers behind them.

  “Devon!” the demon clown repeated, and he laughed.

  Devon watched as the camera moved over to pan across the children. There they sat, in monochrome black-and-white, three rows of vacant-eyed kids. There was poor, freckle-faced Frankie Underwood, who Devon knew was his father’s first son, who’d been sitting there now for decades, staring into eternity.

  And there, beside Frankie, at the very end of the row, his deadened eyes staring out accusingly from the screen, was the boy they sought.

  Jackson Muir had won. He had taken Alexander Muir into the Hell Hole.

  Into the Hell Hole

  “I have to go … in there,” Devon said dazedly.

  “In where, Devon?” Cecily asked.

  He looked at her. “Into the Hell Hole.” He turned his frightened eyes back at the TV screen. “It’s the only way to save Alexander.”

  “Not so fast,” came a new voice.

  They both glanced up. Rolfe Montaigne had entered the playroom. His face was solemn. He looked at Devon intently.

  “Rolfe,” Devon said. “He’s won. Jackson Muir has won.”

  Rolfe joined them to look down at the TV set. His face contorted in grief and horror upon seeing Alexander sitting there, staring blank-eyed out through the screen at them. And Devon knew that beside Alexander sat Frankie, Rolfe’s childhood friend—as young as he was when Rolfe had last seen him, twenty-five years ago.

  “Our new letter, boys and girls, is aaaaR,” Major Musick taunted. “As in Rolfe…”

  “Damn you!” Rolfe shouted, and kicked the TV with his foot, smashing the picture tube and sending the box flying across the floor, smoking and popping.

  Devon looked up at the older man. He glimpsed the fury beneath Rolfe’s suave facade. He’d seen it before, in the rage that had erupted at Mrs. Crandall, the pent-up anger of having lost five years of his life for a crime he didn’t believe he committed. Anger, too, at losing his father to the demons of this house—demons Rolfe failed to distinguish much from Ravenscliff’s living inhabitants.

  “Rolfe,” Devon told him, “I have to try. You said it was the only way. We can’t leave Alexander in there.”

  Rolfe spun on him. “You have no idea what you’re suggesting. You have no idea what going in there entails. I was here when it was tried once before. I saw what happened. I heard! Randolph Muir’s screams echoed throughout this house. We all heard it. We waited and waited and hoped for the best, but neither Frankie Underwood nor Randolph Muir ever emerged from the portal again!”

  Cecily began to cry. Devon just swallowed.

  “If so powerful and experienced a Nightwing as Randolph Muir could not survive the Hell Hole, how can you? A boy who only a few days ago didn’t even know what he was? Who found himself at the mercy of the Madman even when just using the crystal? How can you hope to make it back out alive?”

  Devon felt dizzy. He tried to focus on Rolfe, to listen to his words, but it was difficult. He looked over at the smashed television set, its guts still smoldering. He followed the cord to where it had been plugged into the wall, his eyes coming to rest again on the electrical tape that mended it. Did Jackson do that as well? A ghost who can do electrical work?

  He suspected the evil spirit of the house had some human help.

  Suddenly Devon felt as if he wasn’t in the playroom anymore, and instead of Rolfe and Cecily, with him was Dad—and they were in the garage of their old house back in Coles Junction. Dad was fixing the engine of a neighbor’s Buick; his hands were black and grimy, and across his cheek there was a slash of oil, where he must have wiped his face. Devon was eight, maybe nine—about Alexander’s age, leaning up against the car, peering into the engine to watch his father work.

  “Dad,” he said, “how come you’re fixing Mrs. Williams’s car?”

  “She asked me to, Devon.”

  “But how come you’re doing it here, not down at the shop?”

  “Because I’m just doing it as a favor for her.”

  “She’s not paying you?”

  His father smiled. “No, I haven’t asked for any payment.”

  “You’re just doin’ it to be nice?”

  His father was tightening a nut and bolt. “Not so much being nice, Devon. Just doing what I feel I should.”

  “But we hardly know her,” Devon said.

  His father straightened up to look him in the eye. “Let me tell you something, Devon. In this world, we’re given gifts. One of mine happens to be fixing cars. Well, I believe if we’re given gifts, they don’t come free. We’re given them not to just hide them to ourselves. With any great gift comes responsibility.”

  Dad reached over a blackened hand to place it on Devon’s shoulder. “You have your own gifts, Devon. Remember, always remember, the responsibility that comes with them.”

  “Devon?”

  He blinked, and it was Rolfe standing in front of him again.

  “Rolfe,” Devon said, “I might not know much about my heritage, but I do know one thing.” He paused, looking up into the older man’s green eyes. “The Nightwing believe that with great power comes great responsibility.”

  “But, Devon—”

  “I can’t just look away from what I’m called to do.” As much as it terrified him. “Maybe,” he said, “maybe that’s my destiny—what I’ve been hoping to find—the reason why my father sent me here.”

  Rolfe said nothing. There was nothing more he could say.

  Cecily just began to cry harder and came around to embrace Devon around his neck. He just held her, saying nothing, thinking nothing—just feeling her warmth and smelling the sweetness of her hair.

  “It can’t be happening,” Mrs. Crandall was saying. “Not again.”

  “It is, Amanda,” Rolfe told her coldly. “I suggest you go sit with your mother for the duration.”

  She bristled. “This is my house, Mr. Montaigne. I’ll not take orders from you.”

  They were in the parlor. Rolfe had informed her of Alexander’s abduction and Devon’s decision. She had yet to look over at Devon, who had gone to sit with his friends by the window overlooking the cliffs. Mrs. Crandall, while disturbed that they were witnessing this, n
onetheless had not yet permitted them to leave the house, apparently fearful of what they might say to others.

  “This can’t be real,” Natalie whispered. “All of this can’t be happening.”

  “It is,” Cecily assured her.

  “How were able to fight like we did?” D.J. asked.

  “A Nightwing can share power with comrades in times of a crisis.” Devon looked at the faces of his friends. “So long as they believe. And all of you did.”

  “What did Rolfe mean that you were going through a door?” Marcus wanted to know.

  “Dude,” D.J. said, a chilling realization hitting him. “You don’t mean that door you told me about—the one that the demons want opened?”

  “Yes, that’s the one,” Devon said, without any emotion.

  As the minutes ticked by, he felt more and more light-headed—as if gravity no longer existed, as if he might have just floated away. He realized he was trembling. Cecily reached over and took his cold hands into hers.

  “This is just too bizarre,” Natalie said, shivering in her harem girl’s costume. “I want to go home.”

  “And you will,” said Mrs. Crandall, approaching them, a forced, artificial smile on her face. “Enough of these Halloween games. My, didn’t Devon and Mr. Montaigne put on quite the show? I think they should win Academy Awards for their performances, don’t you?”

  The teens just looked up at her as if she was certifiably loony. Which a few of them had thought for some time now.

  “Such high-tech gimmicks, too,” she was saying. “I hope you all weren’t too frightened. Now run along home. Cecily, Devon, it’s getting late. You should start getting ready for bed.”

  Cecily stood and smirked at her mother, hands on her hips. “And will we have some milk and cookies before beddy-bye, Mommy?”

  Mrs. Crandall glowered at her.

  “You guys probably should go,” Devon said to his friends.

  “I don’t think so,” Marcus told him. “I’m not leaving you alone for all this.”

  “No way we’re leaving the D-man,” said D.J., echoed by Natalie.

  Devon smiled. “You’re good friends. I never had really close friends before. I feel as if I’ve known you all for a long, long time. And I appreciate you supporting me. But you have no idea what’s going to go down.” He laughed. “Actually, neither do I.”