Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series)

by Geoffrey Huntington

  Not a munchkin.

  Gnome.

  Devon had no idea what the Voice meant—or what a gnome was—but he figured he ought to inquire about this man’s business at Ravenscliff. The house had few visitors, and those who did drop by hadn’t always been of this world.

  “I’m Devon March,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Bjorn Forkbeard, at your command, my good sir. Reporting for duty at the great house of Ravenscliff.”

  “Reporting for duty?” Devon stopped walking. “What do you mean?”

  “Why, I’ve been hired as the estate’s new caretaker. I understand your last one met a rather untimely demise.”

  That was one way of putting it. The last caretaker, Simon Gooch, had fallen to his death from the tower of Ravenscliff after trying to kill Devon and unleash the demons from the Hell Hole. Devon still woke up with nightmares remembering what Simon did, reliving in his dreams that terrifying night on the roof of the tower. Was it really such a short time ago? It seemed forever, now that peace and quiet had settled over Ravenscliff and the things from the Hell Hole had ceased their offensives.

  That was, until just a little while ago, when that hand had emerged from the darkness to grab his throat.

  He was certain that Bjorn Forkbeard had not been his unknown aggressor. Not only was he way too short to be the culprit, the Voice would be warning him if Bjorn was some sort of foe. At least, he hoped it would be.

  Devon had known that Mrs. Crandall was considering hiring someone to take Simon’s place, but he wasn’t aware she’d made a decision so quickly. Wasn’t that just like her? Always so secretive and mysterious.

  “Well,” Devon said, resuming his stride, “welcome then.”

  He grinned to himself, recalling his own “welcome” to the great house just a couple of months ago, if “welcome” it could be called. The villagers had tried to warn him away, filling his head with the legends of Ravenscliff and its ghosts—legends he quickly found to be true, even if Mrs. Crandall had tried her best to deny the great house’s legacy of sorcery.

  Now it was Devon’s turn to greet a newcomer, and he decided to use the same words that had been offered him.

  “You know,” he said to Bjorn Forkbeard, “all you’ll find here are ghosts.”

  “Oh, surely, surely,” the little man said. “Why else do you think I have come?”

  They’d reached the front door. Overhead, perched within a gargoyle’s mouth to find sanctuary from the snow, several ravens fluttered their wings.

  “Devon, I’m so glad you’re back. I was looking for you and—”

  Cecily Crandall, having heard them come in, stopped in the doorway between the parlor and the foyer. Her mouth opened but her words faded away as she looked at the little man at Devon’s side.

  “My, my,” Bjorn Forkbeard was saying, his eyes taking in the sight of the foyer, the grand staircase, the dozens of candles flickering everywhere. “It is more than I could have possibly imagined. Long have I heard the tales of this place. To think I, Bjorn Forkbeard, should ever stand in the house built by the great Horatio Muir!”

  “Um, Cecily,” Devon said, hanging up his coat, “this is the new caretaker.”

  “Ah,” said Bjorn. “You must be Miss Cecily. Your mother told me all about you.”

  “Funny,” Cecily said, approaching warily. “She didn’t mention a word to me about you.”

  “May I see the parlor? I’ve heard so much—” He glanced beyond the open doors. “Ah! Horatio Muir’s collection!”

  Bjorn hurried ahead to gaze into the parlor. Even from here, Horatio’s “trinkets”—as Mrs. Crandall called them—were apparent among the bookshelves: shrunken skulls, crystal balls. At the far end of the room, beside the French doors leading out to the terrace over the rocky cliffs, stood a suit of armor.

  “Devon,” Cecily whispered, leaning close, “what’s going on? I mean, why would Mother hire a dwarf as a caretaker? There’s an awful lot of heavy work around here.”

  Not dwarf, the Voice told him again. Gnome.

  “He looked strong enough. Check out those arms.”

  Indeed, now that he’d removed his coat, Bjorn Forkbeard had revealed surprisingly muscled arms and powerful shoulders. He was gazing raptly at the sights of the parlor, making little sounds of wonder.

  “You seem to know a lot about this house and this family,” Devon said, walking up behind him. “I suppose that’s why Mrs. Crandall hired you.”

  “That is not the reason I hired him.”

  They all looked around. Mrs. Amanda Muir Crandall was descending the great staircase.

  “But if he already has a working knowledge of the house,” she said, “so much the better.”

  As usual, she was dressed as if she were planning to attend some affair of state with the President of France, instead of just hanging around the house on a Sunday evening. Her gown of blue satin trailed behind her on the stairs, a strand of pearls was knotted at her bosom, and her golden hair was swept up to reveal a long, slender neck.

  “Mrs. Crandall, I am deeply honored to meet such a gracious and noble lady.” Bjorn gave her a little bow. She approached to stand over him, looking down. He barely reached her waist.

  “Welcome to Ravenscliff, Mr. Forkbeard,” she said grandly. “I see you have already met Cecily and Devon.”

  “Oh, yes, your daughter has certainly inherited your beauty and charm.” Bjorn smiled over at her, then moved his gaze to Devon. “And Mr. March. I think I owe him a great deal.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Crandall’s eyebrow arched at Devon. “And why is that?”

  Devon braced himself. Mrs. Crandall had forbidden him to use his powers. She blamed him for stirring up the mystical forces that had made for such a bad time here not long ago, when the demons got loose and the Madman tried to destroy them all. Even if Devon explained that he needed to use his powers to save Bjorn’s life, he knew Mrs. Crandall would still be angry, so insistent was she that sorcery remain banned from Ravenscliff.

  But the little man saved him, returning the favor. “Oh, yes. When my car couldn’t make it up the driveway, stuck in the mud, it was Devon who led me here, offering me a warm and gracious welcome on such a cold and blustery day.”

  Mrs. Crandall gave Devon a look. Then she turned back to Bjorn Forkbeard. “Shall I show you to your room? It’s off in the back of the house, behind the kitchen. You can set your bag there and then I’ll give you a tour.”

  “Of course, madam.” He turned to Devon and Cecily. “I am sure we will all be great friends.”

  They nod. The little man followed the elegant lady down the corridor, their shadows casting weird shapes upon the walls in the flickering candlelight.

  “I suppose,” Devon said, considering, “hiring a gnome as Ravenscliff’s new caretaker shouldn’t be so surprising. Nothing that happens here is ever ordinary.”

  “Gnome? What’s a gnome?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. But that’s what the Voice told me Bjorn Forkbeard is.”

  He held his phone up in a spot where he knew was his best chance to get any kind of reception. Misery Point was really the end of the earth. There were no cell towers for miles, and Mrs. Crandall refused to get a booster. Still, Devon hoped for the best as he typed “gnome” into his Google app. He waited, but the search wouldn’t load.

  Cecily had resorted to another idea. In the parlor, she yanked an old dictionary off the shelf. “You can do this manually, too, you know,” she said, flipping through the slightly yellowed pages. “Here it is.” She read out loud. “A legendary dwarfish creature supposed to guard the earth’s treasures underground. Informal, a small ugly person.”

  “Hey, now that’s getting personal,” Devon said, laughing.

  “Do you think Bjorn Forkbeard guards underground treasure?”

  “In this house,” Devon replied, “I’ve learned to not rule out anything.”

  The wind roared th
rough the old house at that moment, sounding like a harpy trapped among the eaves. Hanging over the mantel, the portrait of Horatio Muir shuddered from the assault. “Hang in there, Great Granddad,” Cecily called. “If sorcerers and demons haven’t brought down this old mausoleum, I doubt a simple nor’easter will do it.”

  Devon looked out the glass terrace doors. Even in the cold and wind, a few ravens were still out there, perched on the railings, big black birds with proud, shining eyes. A couple of them cawed as they sensed Devon watching them. He had come to feel a great deal of affection for the birds in the short while they’d been back roosting on the house. When Horatio Muir had built Ravenscliff a hundred years earlier, the birds were his constant familiars, and their presence was remarked upon far and wide. But after his descendants were nearly wiped out by the malicious power of the Madman, the Muirs had repudiated sorcery, and the ravens had abandoned the house for many years. Only when Devon arrived at Ravenscliff had the ravens returned.

  “It’s early for a snowstorm, isn’t it?” Devon asked, watching the snow squall. Not much had collected on the ground yet, but there was enough white to give the trees some icy frosting.

  “Not for Maine,” Cecily told him, coming up behind him. “They say the first snow is a magic snow.”

  There was a twinkle in Devon’s eye. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Devon.” Cecily grinned. “What are you thinking?”

  He looked out into the swirling snow and concentrated. With his mind he began to shape the snowflakes, as easily as if he were doing it by hand with fallen snow on the ground. He arranged the flakes into a bird—a raven hovering in the air, made of snow.

  “Oh, Devon!” Cecily exclaimed. “That is so cool.” But then she frowned. “Mother said you’re not supposed to do any sorcery. She said it could… stir things up again.” A look of fear crossed her face, reflected in her large doe eyes.

  “Well, she’s wrong,” Devon said. “Rolfe Montaigne told me that using my powers is a good thing. Natural. Part of my heritage.”

  Cecily looked around to make sure they were alone. “Don’t mention Rolfe’s name. Mother might hear you.”

  “I know. But I have to learn more about who and what I am, Cecily. I have to learn more about the Nightwing.”

  “Have you read more of the books?”

  “No, but I’ve been able to do something else.” He could barely wait to tell her. “My father’s ring has shown me some things. The Nightwing have been around for centuries, and when I wear my father’s ring, I can see how they came to be.”

  “What did the ring show you?” Cecily asked.

  Devon cleared his throat. He could recite some of it from memory. “‘Once, well before the coming of the Great Ice, the world was inhabited by Creatures of Light and Creatures of Darkness, battling each other for eons for dominion. Their masters were the elemental gods—of fire, of wind, of sea, of earth—omnipotent rulers of nature, neither good nor evil. As the ages passed, and the time of the Creatures faded farther and farther into the dim recesses of time, they came to be known as Angels and Demons.’”

  Cecily rolled her eyes. “Yeah, whatever, Devon.” She got impatient with him when he started sounding too lofty about his Nightwing heritage. “What does that have to do with you, and your powers?”

  “It’s simple,” he explained. “Many wizards and shamans have come in touch with the old elemental Knowledge. But the most powerful have always been the Nightwing, for only the Nightwing have discovered the secret of how to open the Hell Holes. And it’s been long foretold that the one-hundredth generation—”

  “Yes, I know, Devon. Rolfe told you that you’re the one-hundredth generation since Sargon the Great.” She said it kind of sing-songy, as if she was bored by the whole idea, or maybe a little jealous. “You know, I’ve been doing some thinking about that on my own.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you’re the one hundredth generation, then I must be, too.” Cecily smiled. “We’re the same age, you and I. And, after all, my great-grandfather Horatio Muir was a very powerful Nightwing himself, if Rolfe Montaigne is right. Even Mother can’t deny that now.”

  “Well, you may be on to something,” Devon acknowledged. “You’re probably one-hundredth generation from Sargon the Great, too.”

  But even so, Cecily held no powers of the kind Devon possessed. In the years before either of them were born, a great tragedy happened at Ravenscliff. The Madman—a Nightwing gone bad—killed Mrs. Crandall’s father, Randolph Muir. The Madman kidnapped a young boy, dragged him down the Hell Hole, and threatened to destroy the whole family. Afterward, the family repudiated their Nightwing past. Now they attempted to live out their lives as ordinary people—or at least as ordinary as a life at Ravenscliff could be.

  The family included not only Cecily and Mrs. Crandall, but Mrs. Crandall’s senile, bedridden mother Greta Muir, who never left her room in the West Wing. There was also Mrs. Crandall’s brother Edward Muir, a playboy wandering the globe whom Devon had so far never met. Devon had, however, made quite the acquaintance of Edward’s eight-year-old son, Alexander, who lived at Ravenscliff under the guardianship of his aunt. One could have said that Devon and Alexander became very close very quickly. After all, it was Devon who had plunged into the Hell Hole to save Alexander, who’d been taken there by the Madman, back from the grave for yet another assault on Ravenscliff.

  Even now, Devon was staggered by the memory. Just thinking of it made his knees go weak. The Hell Hole…. the Madman. He grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself.

  “You okay?” Cecily asked.

  He nodded. The wound on his leg, obtained in battle in the Hell Hole, tingled just a bit. It was going to take some time to heal completely.

  I went into the Hell Hole, Devon said to himself, as if he still needed convincing. I went into the Hell Hole and made it back out alive.

  And the Madman, Jackson Muir, wayward son of Horatio, had been defeated.

  I defeated him.

  Cecily was getting impatient. “But what about your past, Devon? Has Rolfe made any progress in finding out who your real parents were? And what their connection to this house was?”

  Devon sighed. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Well, doesn’t your father’s ring tell you anything?”

  Devon withdrew the ring from his pocket and held it out in his hand. A gold band with a crystal imbedded in front. It had been Ted March’s ring—Ted March, who Devon discovered was in truth a Guardian named Thaddeus Underwood. Guardians were charged with training and protecting the Nightwing sorcerers, and they possessed crystals that held great knowledge. But so far, while his father’s ring had told him some generic stories of Nightwing history, it had revealed nothing about who Devon was, where he had been born, and who his parents were.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, “the ring doesn’t have that information.” He considered something. “Or it doesn’t want to tell me for some reason.”

  “Oh, Devon,” Cecily said sympathetically, putting her arms around him. “I’m sure you’ll find out the truth someday.”

  They stood quietly gazing out into the snowstorm. Still hovering there was Devon’s snow raven, looking in through the glass at them. Beyond it, they could see the tower of Ravenscliff. In the topmost window a light suddenly appeared.

  Devon laughed. “There’s that light again. Ever since I first came here, I’ve seen that light. But if I tell your mother about it, she denies it.”

  “Strange, isn’t it? She’s been forced to admit so much, but not that. She refuses to admit there’s a light in the tower—or what she’s hiding there.” Cecily looked over at Devon. “Do you think she’s up there now, showing the new caretaker whatever her secret is?”

  Devon considered it. Simon, the old caretaker, had seemed very protective of the tower. Twice Devon had encountered him there. Simon—who had been in league with the Madman and his plan to open the portal of the
demons.

  “It’s possible,” Devon replied. “Maybe that’s why he was hired.”

  “Bjorn clearly knew about this family’s history of sorcery,” Cecily said. “You saw how he admired all of Horatio’s trinkets.”

  Devon nodded. Bjorn Forkbeard was certainly no ordinary caretaker. Then again, Ravenscliff was no ordinary house.

  The light in the tower disappeared.

  “What could be up there?” Devon mused out loud. “Whatever it is, it couldn’t have anything to do with Jackson Muir. It would have disappeared when he was defeated.”

  Cecily shrugged. “This house has more secrets than we could probably ever discover.”

  “Look,” Devon said, gesturing toward the French doors and smiling. “My raven’s getting bigger.”

  Indeed, his snowbird had grown fatter, losing much of its shape, as snow had continued accumulating on top of it. It struggled to keep moving its wings.

  Cecily laughed. “Poor little thing. Maybe you ought to turn him into an eagle or something.”

  “What are you two looking at?”

  They both spun around in surprise. It was Mrs. Crandall, who had returned to the parlor. On the terrace behind them, the snow raven suddenly fell with a thud.

  “We were—just—just watching the storm,” Cecily said.

  Her mother glared at her.

  She knew we saw the light, Devon thought.

  “Come away from there,” she said. “There’s a draft.”

  Mrs. Crandall settled herself into her wingback chair opposite the fireplace, where her face reflected the glow of the fire. She closed her eyes, lacing the fingers of her hands together in front of her. She was beautiful. Despotic, stubborn, eccentric, but Amanda Muir Crandall was undeniably beautiful.

  “Devon,” she said, “I told Mr. Forkbeard that you would help him retrieve some necessary items from some of the higher shelves in his room. He’s waiting for you. Would you attend to him, please?”

  He approached her. “Mrs. Crandall, how much does he know about this house?”