Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series)

by Geoffrey Huntington

  Demon Witch

  Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series

  Geoffrey Huntington

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2003 by Geoffrey Huntington

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com.

  First Diversion Books edition June 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-626810-74-7

  For Brigid, Liam, Siobhan, Melissa, Matthew, and Dayna

  Prologue

  The Burning of a Witch

  A.​D. 1490

  It took sixteen loads of peat and fifty bundles of fresh green wood to burn a witch.

  “When it’s green,” the Guardian explained to the boy, “it burns longer.”

  Men with shirtsleeves rolled up their hairy arms were laying the wood around the stake. The square was thronged with people cheering them on in their task. The execution of traitors, after all, was always a great public occasion, and a burning at the stake was the most festive of all. All around the bedazzled boy, vendors in silly jester’s hats hawked roasted chestnuts and steaming fried apples. Spider monkeys turned somersaults while their owners played merry little tunes upon their lutes.

  “There!” someone from the crowd called out. “There she comes!”

  A shout rose up as the cart carrying the witch trundled into view over the cobblestone road. “Burn the she-devil! Burn the witch! Burn! Burn! Burn!”

  The boy turned, his eyes wide.

  But Isobel the Apostate looked back at all of them with only a cold, quiet disdain. Her black eyes flashed as the crowd parted to make way for her cart. Strong men fell to the ground at the sight of her, overcome by her terrible beauty. If not for her wrists being bound by that strange golden chain, the boy knew they would all be in great danger. Yet bound as she was, the witch could no longer harm them, no longer summon the demons from the Hell Hole to do her bidding, the demons which would terrorize the villages of northeastern England no more.

  Her green velvet dress was torn and soiled. Her black hair was loose, tumbling down to her waist in great disarray. Once, Isobel the Apostate was a noble lady with a vast estate who claimed descent from the blood royal, who dared to quarter her arms with those of King Henry the Fourth. For such audacity alone, the judges decreed she should die.

  But there were sins far worse than treason.

  “Look, over there,” the boy’s Guardian pointed out to him. “Do you see that man? The one with no legs, propped in the chair? ’Twas under his home that the witch discovered the Hell Hole. Without any regard to him who lived there, she opened the portal between this world and the one below.” The Guardian paused. “You see the result. The man is fortunate. His wife and sons did not survive the cataclysm.”

  “But the golden chain…?”

  “It has the power to keep her from escaping, from turning all of us here into toads and rats and skunks.” The Guardian lifted his eyes to the gray, cloudy sky. “At least, I pray that it does. I pray that the noble Sorcerers of the Nightwing, God be praised, have at last found the means to contain her.”

  The boy watched as the witch was led from her cart to the center of the square. The crowd surged forward. Insults and curses rained down upon the woman, whose neck now began to snap back and forth, finally reacting to the taunts of the crowd. Her teeth gnashed wildly. She growled, hissing like a cat cornered by a pack of angry dogs.

  “Get up there, boy,” the Guardian told him. “You must bear witness.”

  Two platforms stood to the right of the square. They were filled with men from the King’s Court. Statesmen and clerics. The Archbishops of York and Canterbury. The Duke of Norfolk. They had all come to see the destruction of Isobel the Apostate, the most feared sorceress in all of Europe, a lady whose courtiers were not knights and gentlemen but the very beasts of hell.

  Shoved toward the pillory by her guards, Isobel was forced onto her knees to face her judges. A pointed hat was placed on her head, on which is inscribed the words: Heretic, Witch, Apostate. Her death sentence was proclaimed, and a cheer rose from the crowd.

  “Will she be allowed to speak?” the boy asked, looking up at his Guardian.

  “Oh, no. For all that the last words of the condemned have long been a tradition in this realm, Isobel the Apostate is far too dangerous a prisoner. Even secured by the golden chain, what terrible catastrophe might she bring down upon us with her final words?”

  But though she might be denied speech, the witch could still scream.

  It was a horrible sound, and many in the crowd covered their ears. The witch’s screams echoed like those of a banshee off the walls of the square. Forcibly she was led to the pyre, snarling and twisting all the way.

  “It wasn’t supposed to end like this, you see,” the Guardian explained, leaning down and whispering to the boy. “It was supposed to end with Isobel crowned as Queen of England. From there, with the English navy at her command, it would have been an easy step for her to rule the world, the demons of the Hell Hole at her side.”

  The boy watched as the witch was pushed up the steps of the platform to the stake.

  “But twas her own kind who turned her over to the King. Her own Nightwing brethren looked upon her evil and trapped her. It was they, far more than any of the King’s men, who consigned her to this fate. And do you know why it was done so, boy?”

  The boy’s eyes remained riveted on the witch.

  “Because true power can never be found through the pursuit of evil,” the boy replied, never removing his gaze. “True power comes only from good.”

  His Guardian smiled.

  “Yes, boy. You have learned well. You will make a noble sorcerer. Now watch. And learn from the death of the Apostate.”

  Isobel was tied to the stake with the same kind of golden chain that bound her wrists. Her black eyes continued to flash, looking at each and every face in the crowd, as if committing them all to memory.

  Her gaze fell upon the boy.

  He gasped, pulling back from the power he saw there.

  Her eyes danced as she took in the sight of him. She laughed, a cackle the boy would not soon forget. On his shoulder the grip of his Guardian tightened. “Fear her not,” the Guardian whispered. “Her time has come.”

  The executioner lit the wood piled up around the base of the stake. Once more, Isobel the Apostate screamed.

  “Think not that I perish here!” the witch cried out into the crowd, defying the order against speech. “Think not that you have won!”

  The boy felt his Guardian’s hand tremble.

  “This is not the end of Isobel!”

  The flames sprung into roaring life, caught by the peat. Like malevolent imps, they popped and crackled and jumped upward. A spark ignited the witch’s dress.

  “She burns!” someone in the crowd shouted.

  The fire below her grew in heat and intensity. It was so strong that even several feet away the boy and his Guardian could feel it on their faces. Thick sheets of pitchy smoke appeared, obscuring their view. Soon the whole square was as black as night, and the crowd began coughing, turning away from the pyre. The foul stench of burning flesh assaulted their senses. From the heart of the darkness the witch screamed again. It was taken by many as her cry of death.

  “So must perish all of the Kin
g’s enemies!” proclaimed the executioner.

  But then the wind shredded the smoke, and there was a glimpse of the witch. The boy could see her, with her arms upstretched, free of her chains, as the flames consumed her body. Her eyes were wide and she was smiling.

  “Does she perish?” the boy asked his Guardian, tugging at his robe. “Does she really perish?”

  The Guardian did not reply.

  Later, when the flames had died down, there was nothing left of the body of Isobel the Apostate. The King’s men declared that so great was the fire that the witch was consumed completely, reduced to mere cinder and ash.

  But the Nightwing knew better.

  For the boy reported to them that as he watched, the witch transformed herself into a great bird, a creature of gold with a tremendous wingspan that rose majestically above the flames with a resounding call of triumph. Then the bird diffused with the smoke, disappearing into the gray skies over the square.

  “Like a phoenix,” the boy’s Guardian said, a great and shattering awe in his voice, “Isobel the Apostate has risen from the flames to live again.”

  Nearly Five Hundred Years Later

  The New Caretaker

  For several seconds Devon March couldn’t breathe. The hand on his throat threatened to choke the life out of him.

  The attack had come unexpectedly. Devon had been in the parlor, with only the soft flickering light from the fireplace illuminating the room, when a hand had suddenly reached out from the darkness and taken hold of him. It had happened so quickly that he hadn’t had time to defend himself.

  A true Nightwing is always prepared, the Voice chided him.

  Devon gripped the hand at his throat and struggled to make out the face of his attacker. But the darkness was too deep. Still, he knew one thing.

  This was no demon. There was no heat, no pressure, in the room.

  This was a very human assailant.

  Just as Devon was about to summon his Nightwing power and thrust the creep across the room, the hand let go. Devon heard footsteps running off across the marble floor of the foyer. By the time he flicked on a light, whoever had assaulted him was gone. The front door stood wide open, rain and snow swirling in from outside.

  Devon hurried onto the front steps. He looked around to see if he could spot someone fleeing across the grounds, but the blowing snow obscured his vision. The storm had come upon them very suddenly, an early blast of Arctic air. The wind howled through the trees, sounding very much like a woman in agony.

  Why else, as the people of the village liked to say, would the place be called Misery Point?

  Devon listened.

  There was another sound behind the wind.

  A car’s engine. Tires spinning.

  Peering off toward the long cliffside driveway that led down to the village, Devon spotted a car—an old black Cadillac by the looks of it. He sprinted across the yard. If that was the guy who’d grabbed him, Devon was not about to let him get away. As he reached the car, he saw that its wheels were caught in a stretch of mud, and it jerked in fits and started precariously close to the edge of the cliff.

  The wind hit Devon face-first as he made his way toward the car. The Cadillac was spitting mud and snow from its tires, screeching like some animal with its leg in a trap.

  “Stop!” Devon called. “You’re going to go over the edge!”

  And just then the car did thrust forward with horrible speed, pitching itself right over the side of the cliff toward the rocky shore two hundred feet below.

  “No!” Devon shouted, his eyes wide in horror.

  He ran to the cliff, looked down, and concentrated.

  The Cadillac stopped in mid-fall, and as if drawn by a giant magnet, it returned to safety along the edge of the cliff. It settled on the road, still dangerously close to the precipice, but safe.

  Devon breathed a sigh of relief. Such things shouldn’t have surprised him anymore, but they still did. No matter how often he used his powers, no matter how often he proved to himself that he was a sorcerer, he remained in awe of what he could do when he put his mind to it.

  Devon ran up to the driver’s side door. “Are you okay?”

  But there was no sign of life behind the blue-tinted windows.

  “Hello?” Devon called again, rapping on the glass. Still nothing.

  He pulled open the door. He saw no one. Was the car driving itself? It wasn’t such an odd thought, really. Stranger things had happened at Ravenscliff.

  “My, my, my,” came a voice. “That sure was close.”

  From the floor of the car, under the steering wheel, crept a little man. His small pudgy hands gripped the leather seat as he hoisted himself back up. He looked up at Devon with bright blue eyes. His hair was white; his short beard forked into two small points.

  This was clearly not his attacker. The man who had grabbed his throat was at least Devon’s height. This man would barely come to his waist.

  “Are you—okay?” Devon asked again.

  The little man rubbed his bearded chin, his eyes studying Devon. “Strange how the car stopped like that. As if something just pulled it right back from certain doom.”

  “Yeah,” Devon said, uncomfortable about revealing his powers to a stranger. “But you should get out of the car. I’m not sure it’s safe where it is.”

  “Oh, I have a feeling it’s perfectly safe now.” The little man’s eyes twinkled. He’ was like a munchkin, Devon thought, dressed entirely in brown suede. “But I doubt I’ll get her started again.” The man reached over to the passenger-side seat and grabbed a purple sack, then hopped down out of the car. “Poor Bessie,” he said, patting the Caddy as he closed the door gently. “I’ll be back for you. I promise.”

  Devon looked down at him. He couldn’t be more than three and a half feet tall. His hair was as white as the falling snow, and his skin very pink. He swung the purple burlap sack over his shoulder.

  “Do you live up there?” he asked Devon. “At Ravenscliff?”

  They both looked off at the great house, standing there at the crest of the hill, black against the swirling snow and rain, the view of its spires obscured but not obliterated by the storm. Ravenscliff. Fifty rooms and countless secret corridors, built of the blackest wood, and covered with the birds from which it took its name, even in the storm.

  “I do,” Devon replied. “I live at Ravenscliff.”

  “Should’ve guessed,” the little man said. “Shall we walk, then? Or might you be able to fly us there?”

  Devon laughed, and they began to trudge through the mud and rain.

  Devon March was not like other boys his age. At fifteen, he could claim to have been to hell and back, literally. He had come face-to-face with demons from the other side, and he’d proven himself to be stronger than any of them. Ever since he was six years old, when the first filthy thing had crawled out of his closet, Devon had known his powers were unmatched by any human. That first demon—so blundering, so stupid—had tried to kill Devon’s father. But the six-year-old had stopped the thing in its slimy tracks, sending it spiraling back down its Hell Hole with one word: “No.”

  His father had never explained why Devon had these powers—those answers would have to wait until after he’d come here, to Ravenscliff—but Ted March had taught his son that his powers weren’t to be feared. His powers made him stronger than whatever might try to harm him, but only if he used them in the pursuit of good.

  “But why do they want me?” Devon had asked his father. “These things from the closet?”

  His father had never given him a satisfactory answer. Devon just knew, from the time he was only six, that there were indeed things in this world—and others—that would try to harm him.

  His closet had been a Hell Hole—a filthy gateway into the realm of the demons who had been cast there eons ago by the old elemental gods. From these portals the stewing, resentful creatures occasionally escaped, repulsive beas
ts with fangs and talons that stunk worse than any backed-up septic system or stagnant swamp. Devon had marveled at the strength he had found in fighting the demons, overpowering them, kicking them back to hell. But never was he truly free of them. Even after Dad died and Devon was sent to Ravenscliff to live as the ward of the mysterious Mrs. Crandall, the things still pursued him. Here, in fact, they proved even more numerous.

  But no longer was Devon so clueless about why they came for him. Here on the rocky cliffs of Misery Point, Maine, Devon had finally learned the first part of the secret of his past, a secret his father had apparently been unwilling—or unable—to reveal. Ted March was not Devon’s real father. Devon was, in truth, the scion of a long line of sorcerers—a revelation that had seemed extraordinary and uncanny—but also logical, in a strange kind of way. It had finally explained Devon’s powers, as well as offering a reason for why the demons of the Hell Hole had pursued him all his life.

  For Devon had learned he was not just any sorcerer, but a sorcerer of the noble Order of the Nightwing, founded some three thousand years ago by Sargon the Great in the land of Asia Minor. No other wizard or warlock has ever had the power of the Nightwing, for their power derived from controlling the portals—Hell Holes, as they were commonly called—between this world and the one below. The demons wanted to open the portals and set their filthy brethren free, and they saw Devon as the key to their success. They know, even by Nightwing standards, that the boy’s powers are awesome. He was the one-hundredth generation since Sargon the Great—long foretold as the mightiest of the mighty.

  Trudging up the path, Devon thought of his great lineage. The time comes soon, the Voice in Devon’s head told him, where you will have to live up to such promise.

  A trusted oracle ever since Devon was a child, the Voice could nevertheless sometimes remain stubbornly silent—as it did now, telling him nothing about the man who had attacked him in the parlor, or about this munchkin walking beside him in the snow. Except—