Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series)

by Geoffrey Huntington

  “Only what he needed to know to be an effective caretaker.”

  “Mother,” Cecily said, “it’s clear he knows about Horatio Muir and the sorcery. Don’t deny it. You hired him because he has some experience with magic.”

  “Cecily, your imagination is running away with you.”

  “My imagination! You hired a dwarf with the name Bjorn Forkbeard! I don’t need any more imagination than that!”

  “Devon,” Mrs. Crandall said, ignoring her daughter, “he’s waiting for you.”

  Devon and Cecily exchanged an exasperated look.

  “And Cecily, will you please go up to Alexander’s room and bring him down here? I want him to meet Mr. Forkbeard.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Cecily said.

  The mistress of the great house of Ravenscliff looked out the doors to the terrace. “The storm seems to be building,” she said quietly. “I expect the lights will go out soon.”

  They did, only minutes after she’d made the prediction. Power outages were frequent on the isolated rocky point. The electricity sputtered a few times then faded out completely, leaving the house in darkness. If not for the candles kept perpetually lit throughout the parlor and foyer, the shadows that fell over the house would have been even darker and lengthier. But as it was, Devon and Cecily, parting in the corridor that led to the kitchen, saw well enough to give each other a quick kiss.

  They were both fifteen years old, both in the throes of heady first love. At times Devon still thought it was weird to find himself holding hands with a girl, to steal a kiss when no one was looking—especially not her imperious mother. He’d had a girl who was a friend when he lived with his father, before he came to Ravenscliff, but it had been nothing like what he had with Cecily. He was knocked over by his emotions for her, startled by their intensity, and confused by their unpredictability.

  If only Dad was still alive, Devon thought as he turned toward the door. I could have talked to Dad about this stuff. He’d been able to talk to his father about anything.

  But since coming here, he’d learned to find his own way. There had been no one to guide him, no one to offer any advice. Except for Rolfe Montaigne, who was the son of a Guardian himself and who possessed all the Nightwing books—but Rolfe was the first to admit he didn’t have all the answers.

  “Cecily,” Devon called back over his shoulder, “tell Alexander no tricks on Bjorn.”

  Devon remembered all too well the boy’s antics upon his own arrival at Ravenscliff. Neglected by his father, deprived of his mother’s care at an early age, Alexander was a troubled boy, with a mind that could be pretty devious. But since their time together in the Hell Hole, Alexander and Devon had forged a much stronger bond. The younger boy now considered Devon his only true friend in the dark old house.

  “You know Alexander never listens to a word I tell him,” Cecily called down from the top of the stairs. “In fact, he’ll do just the opposite of what I say. I suggest you bring it up with him.” On the landing above, her look changed to one of concern for Devon. “Be careful in there with that dwarf, okay?”

  “Gnome, Cecily. Not dwarf.”

  “Whatever. What else does that Voice thing have to say about him?”

  “Nothing,” Devon said with disappointment. “But I’m sure if Bjorn Forkbeard meant me any harm, the Voice would warn me.”

  “Still. Be careful.” She shivered a little, then turned away from the banister.

  Devon headed through the kitchen toward Bjorn’s room. This was once Simon’s lair, and the place still repelled Devon. Some of the previous caretaker’s stench remained.

  But as Devon turned the corner he was pleased to see that the fragrance of the place has changed. It was sweet, crisp. Devon rapped on the door and Bjorn was quick to open it. Behind him burned a tall, fat candle. A simple bed, a spartan bureau, and Bjorn’s purple sack on the floor.

  “What’s that smell?” Devon asked.

  “Sage,” the gnome told him. “Aromatherapy to cure whatever ails a place.”

  Devon smiled. “And this room sure was ailing.”

  “I always burn a little sage whenever I go to a new place. Drives out the old spirits.”

  “Is that all it takes? Wish I’d known that my first night at Ravenscliff. Would’ve saved me a lot of grief.”

  Bjorn nodded. “You’ve seen your share of them, then. The ghosts.”

  Devon frowned. “Look, there’s one thing you need to understand if you’re going to make it here. You can’t talk about the ghosts around Mrs. Crandall. Anything out of the ordinary she’ll deny.”

  “But why should she? The granddaughter of Horatio Muir is hardly an ordinary woman.”

  “Try telling that to her. Even with everything that’s happened in this house, she won’t let anyone talk about it. She’s a very stubborn lady.”

  “Well, I’m sure she has her reasons.” Bjorn pulled open his closet door and pointed up to the shelves inside. “Will you be so kind as to fetch those things for me? Just a few items I’ll be needing.”

  Devon saw bubble bath and shoe polish, bags of microwave popcorn and boxes of raisins, shaving cream and nail clippers—Simon’s things. Devon shuddered.

  “Why don’t we just drive into the village tomorrow and get you some stuff of your own?” Devon asked. “You ought to toss this junk.”

  “Waste not, want not.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Bjorn examined the items as Devon placed them on the bed. He ripped open the box of raisins and knocked back a handful, but when he came to the nail clippers he pushed them aside. “Won’t be needing these.”

  For the first time Devon noticed the little man’s fingernails were long, pointed and very thick. Smiling, the boy shut the closet door. “Won’t it be difficult for you to do your chores without breaking one of those?”

  “You mean my nails? Oh, no, not at all. They’re harder than stone, my boy. They don’t break.”

  Devon sat down on the bed so that he was eye level with the little man. “Okay, so what’s your story? Tell me what exactly a gnome is.”

  Bjorn Forkbeard grinned. “Oh, you are the clever one. I knew it from the moment you saved poor old Bessie and me from a nasty spill over the side of that cliff. Are you some kind of enchanter?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “Well,” Bjorn said, “I was born in the village of Lokka, far in the north of Finland. My parents worked in a mine deep in the earth.”

  “So is it true you guard treasure?”

  Bjorn beamed. “Some of the greatest treasures ever. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds. The shine from the gems was my sun. You see, I didn’t see the light of day until I was seven years old.”

  “No way.”

  “Way,” said Bjorn, nodding.

  “And how old are you now?”

  “Would you believe it if I told you six-hundred-and-sixty-two?”

  “I would.” Devon held his gaze. “You’re a Guardian, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, I wish I were. Guardianship is a noble heritage. But I’m just a caretaker.” Bjorn narrowed his blue eyes at Devon. “But tell me, my boy. What do you know about Guardians?”

  “My father was one. Well, my adopted father was. I don’t know much about my real parents.”

  “From what I’ve seen, they must have been very powerful sorcerers.”

  Devon nodded. “Nightwing.”

  “Of course, if you are living in the house of the great Horatio Muir.”

  Devon looked around suddenly, cautious of the open door. “Mrs. Crandall would probably fire you if she caught you talking about all this with me. Fire you and lock me up in my room.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “But if you’ve got answers, I’ll take that chance.”

  “Me? I know nothing of your parents, my boy.”

  “I want to know what Mrs. Crandall showed you in the tower. Don’t lie to me. I know she took you up there. I saw the lights.”<
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  “Oh, there is no reason to lie. She did indeed take me up there as part of the tour. And she told me no one else was ever to be allowed in the place.”

  “You saw nothing? Nothing unusual there?” Devon leaned in. “No clue that someone may have been living there?”

  A queer little grin crossed the gnome’s face. “What makes you think someone lives in the tower?”

  “I’ve seen a woman there. Once I heard her calling my name.”

  “Ah, but Ravenscliff is the home of many ghosts. You’ve said as much.”

  Devon sighed. “It wasn’t Emily Muir or any of the other ghosts that haunt this house. I’ve heard sobbing, too. Sobbing that was human.”

  “Then maybe Mrs. Crandall’s mother? I met her only briefly on my tour. Poor confused lady. Perhaps she wandered…”

  Devon could see he was getting nowhere. Either Bjorn was colluding with Mrs. Crandall or he was as clueless as Devon. He decided to change course. “Okay, another question then,” Devon said. “You know about the Nightwing. You know about this house’s history of sorcery. Was that why Mrs. Crandall hired you?”

  “But of course it is, my boy. Mrs. Crandall is a smart woman. Do you think she would hire just any caretaker to work here? Some ignorant soul oblivious to the workings of worlds other than our own? Oh, no, that would never do. She searched high and low for me, I can tell you that much. She needed someone who knew about these things, someone who would not be frightened away.”

  Devon nodded. “So are you really six-hundred-and-sixty-two?”

  Bjorn chuckled. “You believe whatever you want. That’s the key, Devon. You have the power.” He tapped his skull. “Up here. You can make things happen.”

  “What do you mean?” Devon asked cautiously.

  “If you want to find out what’s in that tower, a locked door shouldn’t stop you.”

  “You’d think not. But sometimes my powers won’t work. I can prevent cars from falling over cliffs with my mind but I can’t get the tower door to open. Sometimes I can even will myself to disappear and then reappear someplace else, but I can’t do that with the tower. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  “Then there’s got to be another way.” The little man looked around the room. Suddenly he pointed. “Through that door, for example.”

  “Uh, Bjorn. That’s the door to your bathroom.”

  The little man shrugged. “So don’t believe me. I just thought you would know there are other ways into the tower than those that are obvious.” He sighed and moved to the door. “Well, thank you for your help, Devon. I must hurry now to begin my first task here as caretaker. That would be shoveling the front walk of all this snow. Then I’ll have to do something about poor old Bessie stuck in the driveway.”

  “Listen, there’s one other thing,” Devon said. “Earlier tonight, somebody grabbed me in the parlor. I couldn’t make out who it was.”

  “A demon?”

  “No. I would have felt the heat. There’s always heat when a demon is around.”

  “A ghost, then?”

  Devon shrugged. “It felt human to me.”

  “But ghosts often feel human. They’re maddening that way.”

  Devon sighed. “Well, the point is, you never know at Ravenscliff when something’s going to leap out and grab you. I’m still getting used to that. Just thought I’d warn you.”

  “And I thank you for that, kind sir. But I’ve lived a long time. Many things have leapt out and grabbed me. I have learned to always be on my guard.”

  “Yeah,” Devon agreed. “I’m learning that, too.”

  Bjorn Forkbeard hurried out of his room, through the kitchen and back into the foyer. Devon could hear him putting on his coat and heading outside. For a moment he could hear the wind rushing into the house when Bjorn opened the door.

  Devon started to leave the carketaker’s quarters, then suddenly stopped.

  I just thought you would know there are other ways into the tower than those that are obvious.

  He looked across the room.

  Through that door, for example.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Devon said softly to himself. “I know what’s behind that door. It’s just a bathroom. I helped clean it out after Simon died.”

  You can make things happen.

  Devon approached the door and placed his hand on the doorknob. It was hot. That was never a good sign. He turned the knob and opened the door.

  He gasped.

  It was not a bathroom at all—but a dark set of stairs.

  There are other ways into the tower than those that are obvious.

  “Could it be true?” Devon wondered aloud. “Could this lead me to the tower?”

  But the stairs headed down, not up.

  You can make things happen.

  Descending the first few steps, he sensed no danger. The heat had dissipated. But the Voice remained stubbornly silent. Devon took a couple more steps, stopped and listened, then took a few steps more.

  Only then did he see the yellow eyes at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at him.

  Only then did he feel a sudden rush of heat.

  Only then did he hear the scuttling and muttering of demons in the dark.

  Only then did he realize—too late—

  “It’s a Hell Hole!”

  The Tower Room

  Something leathery brushed by his face. Devon pushed it away, trying to get his bearings.

  Below, an image was taking shape. And sounds. Voices. It was a crowd. He was no longer inside the house, but outside somewhere. He was coming down the steps of a building into a square, and hundreds of people were gathering. People dressed in strange clothes.

  “Burn the witch!” they were shouting. “Burn the Apostate!”

  Devon’s blood turned to ice with fear.

  Apostate—that’s what they called Jackson Muir, the Madman. He was a renegade Nightwing, shunned by his brethren for his evil ways. Could he be there, waiting for Devon in the Hell Hole?

  No way did Devon want to run into Jackson Muir again. The Madman would do everything in his power to make sure Devon never got out of the Hell Hole again.

  “Come,” a man was suddenly saying to him, beckoning with a gnarled old hand, urging Devon to come down the steps. The man was tall and hooded, in a long brown cassock. He looked like a monk, except he had a long white beard.

  If I leave these steps, I’m trapped here, Devon told himself, not sure if it was the Voice telling him this or just his own intuition.

  “Come, boy,” the hooded man urged him again, crooking a long bony finger. “Come with me.”

  “No!” Devon cried.

  He turned on the steps. He tried to climb back up, but it was tremendously difficult, each step a willful defiance of the most powerful gravity Devon had ever encountered. It was like swimming against the tide, only a hundred times more strenuous. Devon literally gripped his thigh and forcibly lifted his leg to move up one step, then another.

  Behind him the sounds of the crowd faded away. He was back on the dark staircase and he can see the door leading into Bjorn’s room.

  He grabbed the knob. The door opened. He was indeed back in Ravenscliff. He slammed the door shut behind him and fell against it, exhausted.

  “Well, there you are,” Cecily said, coming around the corner. “What were you doing in Bjorn’s bathroom?”

  He smirked at her, unable to resist a little sarcasm. “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

  She looked at his face. “Devon, you’re as white as a—”

  “That was a Hell Hole, Cecily!” Devon opened the door. It was an ordinary bathroom again. “Bjorn tricked me into going into a Hell Hole.”

  “Are you sure, Devon? I thought the only way into the Hell Hole was through that bolted door in the East Wing.”

  Devon frowned. He had thought so too, but now he wasn’t so sure. “Maybe gnomes can do some sort of magic. Maybe they can�
�”

  “Shh, my mother’s coming.”

  Mrs. Crandall appeared in the doorway. “What are you two doing in here?”

  “I was helping Bjorn like you asked,” Devon told her.

  Her eyes surveyed the room, coming to rest on the bathroom door. “And did you get him what he needed?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked sharply at Devon. “So why are you still here?”

  Devon gave her a small grin. “Just making sure his bathroom was tidy.”

  Mrs. Crandall eyed him coldly. “Come away from here. Both of you.”

  She turned quickly, the satin fabric of her gown rustling down the corridor.

  “She knows,” Devon said. “She sent me here for a reason. She wanted me to go into that Hell Hole. She and Bjorn planned it!”

  “Devon! My mother may be weird, but she would never try to harm you!”

  Devon didn’t answer. He just followed Cecily out of the room in silence.

  He brooded over the experience for the rest of the night. He fell asleep deeply suspicious of the whole incident He remembered how insistent Mrs. Crandall had been that he go help Bjorn. He’s waiting for you, she had said, just before sending Cecily upstairs, out of harm’s way.

  I know too much, Devon told himself. That’s why she wants to get rid of me. After Dad sent me here to live, she tried to keep the secret of my Nightwing past from me. But now that I’ve discovered it, I represent a danger to her. She knows I have the powers that she and her family repudiated. Every day she looks out the windows and sees that the ravens—the signs of Horatio Muir’s sorcery—have returned to the house because of me!

  Suddenly the truth seemed clear to Devon.

  Mrs. Crandall fears my powers will cause the Madman to return.

  Devon knew that had always been her greatest fear. The Madman killed her father, drove her mother insane, and stole little Frankie Underwood into the Hell Hole. She was terrified that he would come back for her and her family. He nearly succeeded last time with Alexander.

  So she’ll sacrifice me, if need be.

  He’d wondered in the past if Mrs. Crandall might have been his mother. The thought made him laugh bitterly now. It had once seemed logical: Mrs. Crandall had Nightwing blood, after all, and Dad had sent Devon here to live with her. Devon had spent time worrying that such a situation would make Cecily his sister—a repulsive thought, given his budding romantic feelings for her—but now the idea seemed absurd. What mother would knowingly send her son into a Hell Hole?