“Maybe the same thing,” Bjorn told him, hammering Devon’s shutters into place. “After all, the demons want nothing more than to give their disgusting kin free rein on the earth once again.”
“But if I didn’t open the portal for them the first time, why would I do it now?” Devon sighed. “Something else must have gotten them riled up. I’ve got to read more of those books Rolfe has.”
Bjorn leveled his small round eyes at him. “Mrs. Crandall has given me strict orders never to take you there.”
“I don’t need a ride,” Devon told him.
“Well, the cliffside staircase is covered in snow and ice. And the road down to the village is slippery and still pretty snow-covered—”
Devon grinned, feeling cocky. “Just watch this.”
He concentrated. He willed himself to disappear and reappear at Rolfe’s house—but nothing happened. He looked up at Bjorn and blushed.
“Well?” the gnome asked. “I’m still watching. What was I supposed to see?”
“It should have worked,” Devon griped.
Bjorn smirked. “I think maybe you were doing a bit of showing off, wouldn’t you say? And from what I know about the Nightwing, the powers won’t work if you use them like that.”
“But I really do need to get to Rolfe’s.”
“Then try it again.”
And this time it came easily for him. He closed his eyes and transported himself to Rolfe’s house. He appeared behind the sofa, where Rolfe and Roxanne were in the midst of an embrace. They pulled apart quickly when they saw the teen appear.
“Yikes,” Devon said. “Guess I should’ve called.”
Rolfe looked at him sternly. “Yes. That would have been considerate.”
Roxanne stood. She was smiling. “Worry not, Devon March. I had a sense you might be stopping by.”
“Strange things keep happening,” he told them both.
Rolfe sighed. “All right. Come on over here and tell me.”
“There was another demon attack,” Devon said, moving around the couch. “More of those strays, as you called them. A whole swarm of things that looked like scorpions. I was able to stop them. I even kept one.”
“You kept one?” Rolfe asked. “Like a pet?”
“I’m hoping to learn something from it, though the thing appeared to be pretty stupid.”
“I suspect it is,” Roxanne said. “Lower-life demonic forms are controlled by forces much greater than themselves.”
This was the first time Roxanne had offered any input on the demons. Devon looked at her significantly.
“I admit to not being an expert on demonic lore,” Roxanne told him, “but I can intuit very well. Something is manipulating the demons. Using them for something.”
“And only the Nightwing can do that,” Devon said. “Right, Rolfe?”
Rolfe was nodding. “So unless it’s you, Devon, then there’s another Nightwing, with his powers intact, making trouble out there.”
Devon swallowed. “Jackson Muir?”
Rolfe looked out over the crashing sea below. “Could it be possible? How could he find his way back? He was sealed in the Hell Hole.”
“There are Nightwing all over the world,” Devon said. “You’ve told me that. Maybe it’s somebody else.”
“No Nightwing of any honor would use the demons in this way,” Rolfe told him. “If it’s a Nightwing behind this, he must be an Apostate. Another renegade sorcerer like the Madman.”
Rolfe stood and walked over to his desk. He pulled open a drawer.
“Here, Devon. Try this again.”
Devon looked. In Rolfe’s hand he held Ted March’s crystal ring. He’d taken it from Devon, trying to figure out if it had been damaged in any way.
“Dad’s ring,” Devon said. “But it’s never told me anything except basic stuff before. I think I need your books…”
“I’ve been through all the books. Every night I read up on them.” Rolfe smiled. “I have some catching up to do if I’m to be an effective Guardian to you.”
“And what have you learned about these stray demons?”
“Nothing specific. I think we need to ask some very specific questions.” He held out the ring once again. “A Guardian’s crystal holds Knowledge, but it works like the Voice you hear in your head. It only shares Knowledge when you are ready to hear and understand it.” He looked down at the ring. “I’ve been studying this ring. There’s nothing wrong with it. I suspect you were simply not ready to learn what it had to tell you.”
“And you think now I am?”
“Roxanne does. She told me so this morning.”
Devon looked over at her.
“Yes, Devon March. I have sensed this. So your appearance tonight is not a surprise.”
Devon let out a long breath. “Okay, then. Let me put on the ring.”
“Just be prepared,” Rolfe said. “For anything. You remember what happened last time.”
Devon did indeed. Using the crystal of Rolfe’s father, Devon had been granted visions of the Nightwing past. He had even met Sargon the Great. But somewhere in the midst of his astral voyage, he was snatched by the Madman and taken down to his grave—right into Jackson Muir’s rotting coffin with the stinking remained of his human body. It was not an experience Devon wanted to ever go through again.
“Pull it off my finger if I seem to be in any trouble, okay, Rolfe?”
The older man nodded, handing Devon the gold band.
This was my father’s, the boy thought to himself.
He slipped the band onto the ring finger of his left hand.
Please, Dad, let it work.
And don’t let the Madman get a hold of me.
“Hello, son.”
Devon spun around. He was not in Rolfe’s den anymore. He was home—back home in the little house in Coles Junction where he grew up. His dog Max was sitting on his hind legs, looking up at him and wagging his tail.
And his father was standing across the room, his arms open wide.
“Dad!”
Devon was about to run toward him, but suddenly he stopped. This could well be a trick. Demons had disguised themselves as Dad before.
But this was a vision given by Dad’s ring. And there was no heat, no pressure, the sure signs of demonic presence. No odor, either: sometimes the craftier ones were able to conceal their heat, but never had they been able to hide their stink.
“Devon, it’s all right,” his father told him. “But you are wise to be cautious.”
“Dad? Is it really you?”
I’m wearing his ring. It’s got to be him. Somehow—Dad is alive!
“Yes, Devon. Oh, son, how brave you have been.”
Casting all doubts aside, Devon ran to his father’s embrace. He was warm and soft, just as Dad always was, and he smelled just the way he always did: slightly of oil and grease and a hint of Old Spice aftershave.
“I have seen the trials you have gone through, Devon, and my soul has cried for you. But you are proving to be a strong and noble Nightwing. I am very proud.”
“Dad, are you alive somewhere? I mean, can we be together again?”
His father looked down at him compassionately. “I will always live in your heart, Devon.”
“But I need more than that. I need you at Ravenscliff. Or let me just stay here with you. In our house. With Max.” He looked over at his dog. How he missed that pup. He’d given Max to his friend Tommy when he left Coles Junction.
His father smiled sadly. “You cannot stay here, Devon. This is but the stuff of memory.”
Devon couldn’t hold back the tears. “I need you, Dad.”
“And I will always be there for you.” He cupped his son’s chin. “Do you still carry my medal of the lady and the owl?”
Devon nodded, patting his pocket where he felt the indentation of the medal. The tears dripped off his chin.
“I have been with you through all
your trials,” Dad told him. “You know that, Devon.”
Again the boy nodded. “Why did you never tell me the truth of what I was? Why did you send me to Ravenscliff to live?”
“It is your destiny, Devon, to find out the truth of your past.”
Devon was suddenly aware that they were no longer in their house. Max was gone. They were standing outside Ravenscliff, looking up at the mansion from several yards away.
“This is the hard part, Devon,” his father said, his voice thick and fearful. “I have come to you to show you something. To warn you of the danger that comes.”
“What do you mean, Dad?”
“Look, son. Look up at Ravenscliff.”
Devon obeyed. And what he saw shocked him. The great house was in ruins. The tower was a charred stump pointing brokenly toward the sky. The great stained-glass windows were smashed; the front doors were torn from their hinges. Large sections of the walls had crumbled inward.
Devon began to run toward the house. “Cecily!” he shouted. “Cecily!”
As he neared the ruined mansion, his nostrils caught the acrid odor of smoke. Small fires still burned, sending the occasional burst of flame from the debris. Devon was suddenly startled by a sound overhead: demons like pterodactyls soared over the smoldering house, screeching in triumph.
And inside, as he ran through the gaping, broken front doors, Devon found a sight far more gruesome: Cecily lying dead in a pool of blood at the foot of the stairs.
The Apostate
“Cecily!”
It was no use. He tried to lift her but she was cold and stiff. He backed away in horror, stumbling into the parlor.
And nearly tripped over the body of D.J., sprawled out in his own thickening spill of blood. Beyond him lay Natalie and Marcus, their bodies broken and twisted into unnatural shapes. Devon looked around. The foyer and parlor had been destroyed. Chandeliers were smashed on the floor. Walls were ripped open. The glass face of the old grandfather clock was shattered, its hands stopped forever at a little after nine o’clock.
“No,” Devon cried. “This can’t be! Dad! Where are you?”
Just then a hideous thing leapt from somewhere onto the broken banister of the stairs. It was a horrible ape-like creature, with a mouthful of fangs and blazing yellow eyes.
“We’re free,” the demon spoke, in a voice low and scratchy. “The portal has been opened and now we all are free!”
“Back!” Devon commanded. “Back to your Hell Hole!”
The thing laughed at him. “It is too late for that! We have won!”
The demon was joined in its laughter by a chorus of others, now all appearing from various parts of the ruined house. Skeletal creatures and slimy reptilian things and hairy brutes with claws—all of them gathered to laugh at Devon. The terrible sound echoed through what was left of the great house.
“Who did this?” Devon demanded. “Who had the power to open that door?”
“Why, you did, of course, Great One,” the ape-like demon replied. “Only you have that power!”
“No! I did not! I would never—”
“Yes, Devon, only you have the power to open the door,” came his father’s voice.
Devon turned. His father stood sadly in the doorframe.
“I never did! Dad, I never did—”
“But you will,” his father told him. “You will, and your friends will die.”
“This is a dream! Some crazy hallucination!”
Around him the demons hoot and holler again, like a gang of rowdy bikers.
“Get this ring off my finger!” Devon shouted. “I want to stop this!”
But try as he might he could not budge the ring. He was left surrounded by the beasts staring at Cecily’s cold, lifeless body.
“Please, Dad, make this not be true,” Devon pleaded, still struggling with the ring.
“Only you have that power, Devon. Only you.”
“Join us,” the ape demon urged. “Think of the power you will have. Others of your kind have joined us. You will not be alone.”
The creatures began advancing on him. Slithering, stumbling, dragging their cloven feet and spiked tails, the very stink of them clogging Devon’s nostrils and making him gasp for breath.
“Never!” Devon shouted. “I am not an Apostate. And never will be!”
With those words he was able to pop the ring off his finger. It flew from his hand and rolled across the floor, coming to rest in the pool of Cecily’s blood.
“Devon?”
Rolfe’s voice.
“Devon, are you okay?”
“No,” he said, unable to hold back tears. He staggered over to the couch and sat, covering his eyes. “It’s too much. I can’t deal with all of this.”
Rolfe placed a hand on his shoulder and stooped down so he’d be eye level with the boy. “What did you see, Devon?”
“My father.” Devon lifted his eyes to find Rolfe’s. “I saw my father.”
“Thaddeus?”
Devon nodded. “All I wanted to do was stay with him. But I couldn’t. He showed me—”
His voice caught in his throat and he couldn’t go on.
Roxanne sat beside Devon on the couch. She took his hand in comfort.
“I saw Ravenscliff … it was totally destroyed,” Devon said, composing himself. “Cecily was dead. All my friends, too. The demons were running all over the place. The house was theirs.”
Rolfe said nothing.
“I suppose that would make you happy, huh, Rolfe?” Devon asked, feeling himself suddenly growing angry. “You’d like nothing more than to see Ravenscliff destroyed and that family brought down.”
“No, Devon. I don’t want any harm to come to Cecily or Alexander. You know that.”
Devon fought off the sickest feeling in his stomach that he’d ever had. Worse than any flu. He felt he might vomit all over himself.
Roxanne touched his head. “Let me get you something,” she said, standing and hurrying up the stairs to the kitchen.
“You do look a little green,” Rolfe told him.
“You would too if you’d just seen Cecily lying in a pool of her own blood.” He tried to stand but couldn’t. “I’ve got to get back to Ravenscliff to make sure she’s okay.”
“Take it easy. I’m sure she’s fine. If Thaddeus showed you the vision, it wasn’t to frighten you, but to give you a warning. A heads-up on what could happen if we’re not vigilant.”
“You don’t know the worst of it,” Devon said as Roxanne returned, handing him a glass of ginger ale. He drank it. It did indeed make him feel better. He thanked her, then looked back over at Rolfe. “I’m the problem, as always. It’s me who’s destined to open the portal and let the creatures out of the Hell Hole. Me.”
“That’s what Thaddeus showed you? That it would be you?”
Devon nodded. “I’ve got to leave Misery Point. Get as far away from Ravenscliff as I can.”
“Just slow down. There is no way you would ever willingly open that portal. If Thaddeus showed you that vision, it was to forewarn you that someone would try to force you—or trick you—into doing so.”
“But who could do that? One of the demons?”
“Not likely. You’ve shown you’re smarter and stronger than they are.”
“Then who?”
Rolfe was silent for a moment. “Only another Nightwing could exert that kind of power over you,” he said at last. “An Apostate who needed your help—the help of the one-hundredth generation since Sargon the Great.”
“Then—then you think it’s Jackson Muir, coming back.”
Rolfe shook his head. “Not necessarily Jackson.”
“But you said Apostate. That’s what he was called.”
“Any Nightwing who uses his powers for evil becomes an Apostate. There have been many throughout history. There’s no reason to think that there aren’t others right now.”
Devon f
elt strong enough to stand. He walked across the room to look down at the crashing waves below. The sun was setting. On the far horizon a lightning storm was starting to ignite.
“If there are bad Nightwing out there,” Devon asked, “isn’t there any way we can find out who they are? Like isn’t there a registry of all the Nightwing in the world or something?”
Rolfe smiled. “Possibly. I’m learning as much as I can, but remember I’ve been out of the loop since my father was killed. I do know, however, that every twenty years there’s a gathering of Nightwing called the Witenagemot. It’s a word taken from old Anglo-Saxon England, where these gatherings first began over a thousand years ago. My father took me to one as a young boy. It was in Madrid, and all of the Guardians sat in awe as Nightwing from all over the world entered the great hall, all of them in their ceremonial dress.”
“Cool,” Devon said, allowing himself to feel a little more relaxed.
“Oh, it was.” Rolfe walked up to join the boy looking out at the sea. “Nightwing from all over Europe, and China, and Africa. And of course, Randolph Muir, Amanda’s father. I remember how resplendent he looked in his cape and medals. How proud my father was to serve as his Guardian.”
“I want to go to one of those things, Rolfe. I need to meet others like me. Other Nightwing.”
“You will. I’ll have to find out when the next Witenagemot is held, and where.” He sighed. “But for the time being, I don’t have any way to know what Nightwing might be out there, or who might have gone astray.”
“Perhaps it is not a living Nightwing,” Roxanne said suddenly. “Perhaps it is one from the past.”
Rolfe studied her. “Are you intuiting that? Is that clear to you?”
She frowned. “Not entirely. But it has come to me. I can’t ignore the idea.”
“When Roxanne got these thoughts, it’s good to listen,” Rolfe explained to Devon. “I suppose it’s possible. After all, Jackson Muir is dead, and he still managed to come back.”
Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 9
