“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Devon told him. “The Madman isn’t through with us. I just know it.”
Roxanne had withdrawn a book from the shelf. “I feel it’s important you read this,” she said, handing the book to Devon.
He glanced down at the cover. Raised gold letters read:
The Nightwing Genealogy of Horatio Muir
“These are Horatio’s ancestors?” Devon asked.
“Yes,” Rolfe said. “And to his credit, he recorded the black sheep of his family along with all the heroes and legends.”
“Wear your father’s ring as you read,” Roxanne said. “It will help you see.”
“No way,” Devon said. “I can’t put that thing on again.”
Roxanne had retrieved the ring from the floor. Devon looked down at it in her hand. There was blood on it. Cecily’s blood.
“Fear is a Nightwing’s greatest weakness, Devon,” Rolfe reminded him.
The boy sighed. “If it means it can help me stop whatever it is that plans to kill Cecily, I’ll do it.” He took the ring and slipped it back on his finger. His mind remained clear as he sat down at the table and opened the book in front of him.
“All hail Sargon! Sargon our leader! Sargon the Great!”
The words on the page came alive in Devon’s mind as he wore his father’s ring. He doesn’t just read about the Nightwing—he saw them, too.
Sargon he’d seen before. Sargon, the guy who started all this. Devon recognized him, with his long red hair and beard, standing there in his tunic and sandals, his sword sheathed at his side. Devon read that Sargon was born nearly three thousand years ago in the land of the Hittites in Asia Minor, now Turkey. At Termessos, the mighty city on the mountainous Mediterranean coast, Sargon set up a fortress of magic. He and his descendants protected the city for generations, with Termessos the only place in that part of the world to be left unconquered by Alexander the Great. Devon saw Sargon now flanked by the mountains of old Termessos and surrounded by a group of people raising their gold goblets in his honor.
“All hail Sargon!”
“It’s some kind of ceremony,” Devon told Rolfe and Roxanne. “I can see Sargon being honored. He’s actually smiling.” Devon laughed. “He didn’t seem in nearly such a good mood when I encountered him.”
In fact, at that time Sargon had given Devon a test—a test Devon had only partially passed. He had let his fear get in the way—fear, which was like a steroid to demons, pumping them up bigger and stronger and more difficult to defeat. That was when Sargon had called Devon “the Abecedarian.” It had annoyed Devon then, and it still rankled him now.
“I hope I get to meet Sargon again sometime,” Devon said. “Tell him how I defeated the Madman and—”
“Read on, Devon,” Rolfe interrupted, a little impatient. “We’re looking for Apostates here. Nightwing who’ve gone bad. That’s not Sargon.”
Devon sighed and turned the page. He’d have to come back and do this again when he had more time. Wearing his father’s ring, scanning the stories of sorcerers past, he was treated to some really awesome visions. On one page he read about Brutus, a Nightwing who flourished in the last century B.C. Devon looked up from the page to see an image of a dragon-headed ship with Brutus at the mast, as a scaly green sea beast roared up at him through the waves. Then there’s Diana, ascending into the night sky, into the outer stratosphere of the earth, with all sorts of creatures made of light following her. Turning the page, Devon almost fell off his chair: a sorcerer named Vortigar, in full armor, was suddenly charging toward him on a white steed, surrounded by an army of other knights. It was like virtual reality gone wild.
Devon laughed out loud, ducking his head as Vortigar’s sword came lashing out—seemingly right at him. But it impaled another knight, who fell off his horse, revealing a demonic face behind the visor.
“Cool,” Devon said. “Vortigar lived in the time of King Arthur, right?”
“Yes, Devon,” Rolfe said.
“Can’t I just watch a little of his fight?”
Rolfe shook his head, smiling. “You can come back to that later.”
Devon returned to the book. He flipped through the next few pages. There was Brunhilde the Wise at the court of Charlemagne; Wilhelm in old Holland, teaching a room full of young Nightwing painters; and then the first Witenagemot, a gathering of Nightwing that stunned Devon with its visuals: a castle draped in cloth of gold, the attendees all in majestic purple robes. Sorcerers of all ages and races presented glowing crystals and magnificent jewels. The meeting was called to order by a white-bearded man named Wiglaf, who Devon thought he’d seen before. But he couldn’t quite place him.
“I’m only finding the good guys,” Devon told Rolfe.
“Keep reading.”
Off the next page Erik Bloodaxe jumped out at him, his weapon held high over his head.
“Whoa!” Devon shouted. “Maybe this one’s an Apostate.”
The sorcerer’s axe dripped with blood as he lifted it from the guts of some guy. Devon understood how Erik, who looked like a Viking, got his name.
“It looks like he just killed a guy,” he said. “He must be an Apostate.”
“Look closer,” Rolfe told him.
Devon did. He peers into the vision as best he could to get a glimpse of Erik’s victim. Talons instead of hands—Devon realized it was a demon in human form. “Nope,” he said, sighing. “Guess Erik’s another one of the good guys.”
But on the next page his vision darkened. “Isobel the Apostate,” Devon read in a low voice. “It says it right here. She’s—”
Laughter. A woman’s laughter.
The whole room went dark. Rolfe and Roxanne looked around in alarm.
The laughter continued.
“I’ve heard that laughter before,” Devon said. “In the tower!”
“Are you sure, Devon?”
“It’s her,” the boy breathed.
Suddenly the room was engulfed in flames. Devon could no longer see Rolfe or Roxanne, only bright dancing orange flames. Devon recoiled from the heat but kept his eyes alert to learn what he could. He began to discern images within the flames: huge flying demons soaring over an old village. People were running out of their homes in fear, stumbling onto cobblestone streets and pointing up at the demons. The creatures dove into their homes, emerging with boxes and chests and even sometimes children in their claws. Devon noted from the architecture that it appeared to be a village from the period he’d been studying in school: Tudor England. But his studies never mentioned anything about Isobel the Apostate or the demons she let loose upon the people.
“Isobel the Apostate,” Devon read, trying to steady himself. “She was born in 1465, the only child of Arthur Plantagenet, a descendant of King Henry the Fourth. Her beauty and magic became legendary. She married a simple squire, Sir Thomas Apple and, after bearing a son, had her husband poisoned. She opened a Hell Hole, seized control of the demons, and directed them to ravage the countryside, making the people dependent on her and thus creating her own loyal army. Isobel’s greed for power grew. She conspired with England’s enemies abroad, promising untold riches if they would help her topple King Henry the Seventh and place herself on the Throne.”
Isobel’s laughter echoed throughout the room, causing Devon to stop reading. He gathered his wits and continued:
“In 1490, the Witenagemot was held in England, and a secret meeting of the Nightwing decided Isobel must be delivered to the King as a traitor. It was largely the female Nightwing who overpowered her and subdued her with a golden magical chain. Isobel was condemned by the King’s court and burned as a witch, but many claimed she rose from the ashes like a phoenix to seek refuge in the Hell Hole.”
Devon heard the evil Nightwing sorceress laugh again, but still he could not see her.
Where is she? I’ve got to see her face.
Finally he made out a figure within the flames. A
woman, tied to a stake. She was burning alive, laughing as the flames consumed her. Her skin was blackening and peeling from her face. Devon could smell her burning flesh. Worse, he can taste it.
He slammed the book shut. The room returned to normal.
“It was too much,” he said. “It was just too gross.”
“But you saw enough to convince you that it’s Isobel the Apostate that we’re dealing with?”
Devon made a face. “It’s more like I heard enough. I’ve heard that exact same laughter in the tower at Ravenscliff.”
“Always that tower,” Rolfe observed. “What does Amanda keep there?”
“Nothing anymore. I haven’t seen a light up there in a while.” Devon considered something. “But I did see Bjorn take somebody out of there. He denies it, but I’m sure it was a woman.” Suddenly an idea hit him. “Could it have been her—Isobel?”
Rolfe looked puzzled. “I can’t imagine Isobel the Apostate allowing anyone to keep her locked in a room, or simply going along with some gnome who moved her somewhere else. Isobel was one of the most feared sorceresses of all time. She nearly toppled King Henry the Seventh from his throne. Even burning her at the stake wasn’t enough to stop her evil. There have been legends ever since that her spirit still roams the earth, still trying to gain mastery over the world.”
Devon repressed a shiver. “Sounds like somebody else we know. Jackson Muir.”
Rolfe looked at him seriously. “Are you sure that was the same laughter you heard in the tower?”
“The very same. And the Voice is confirming it for me. I heard Isobel the Apostate. It must have been her in the tower all this time. It must have been her that I heard sobbing.”
Rolfe walked over to stare down at the sea. The waves were growing more fierce, and the lightning on the horizon was becoming more intense. A thunderclap rolled in, louder than any of them expected.
It always storms when I’m here, Devon thought. It’s as if whenever I discover any new truths about my Nightwing past, it stirs up the elements. He kind of liked that.
“I don’t know, Devon,” Rolfe said. “Something must have been happening to Isobel to allow Amanda to keep her prisoner, but I can’t imagine what that could be. Isobel is beyond mere flesh and blood now.”
Devon shrugged. “Maybe there was some sort of spell put on her by Mrs. Crandall’s father, or Horatio Muir, way back when.”
“I suppose it’s possible, but…”
“Well, however it’s been managed, I’m certain that it’s Isobel the Apostate who’s been sending those demons after me, and not Jackson Muir.” Devon smiled. “That much at least is some consolation.”
Roxanne, up until now content to simply sit and listen, stood and approached Devon. She looked down at him, crossing her arms over her chest. “I suppose you feel that a woman cannot possibly be as formidable an adversary as a man. Even if she is an undead Nightwing sorceress.”
He blushed. “No, I didn’t mean that.” He blushed harder. “Really. It’s just that—”
“Isobel the Apostate has five centuries on Jackson Muir,” Roxanne told him. “Five centuries in which she’s been able to perfect her powers. To hone her evil into a sword far sharper than anything the Madman could ever wield.”
Devon swallowed, suitably chagrined. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
Rolfe smiled. “The point is, Devon, we have a major problem on our hands. Once again we have a renegade Nightwing trying to open that portal in the East Wing. And clearly Isobel is looking to you to do the job for her.”
“What stopped her from doing it herself?”
“You sealed the door. Only you can open it.”
Devon shuddered. “In the vision my dad showed me, I will open it.”
“Take that merely as a caution. What we need to do now is somehow find Isobel and defeat her.”
“And how do we do that?”
Rolfe gave him a wry smile. “I have no idea.”
“Great.”
“You’ve got to remember, kiddo, I never got the training I was supposed to get as a Guardian. The Madman killed my father before I learned very much. I’ve got to read more of these books. And try to find someone who may know more than I do.”
“Any luck in finding other Guardians?”
Rolfe shook his head. “But I suspect we might have a source of information close by.”
“Who?”
“Your new caretaker. The gnome. He clearly knows a lot, and I’ll bet he could find a Guardian for us.”
“I don’t know,” Devon said. “Every time I start to trust him, something makes me back off. Remember I saw him with the woman from the tower. What if it was Isobel? He could be in league with her.”
Rolfe sighed. “Your Voice tell you anything about him?”
“Well, it told me he was a gnome and that I could trust his healing remedy. But not whether I could trust him.”
“How about you, Roxanne? Any intuition on Bjorn Forkbeard?”
“I’ll have to meet him,” she said. “Perhaps then.”
They agreed that the only course of action for right now was for Devon to return to Ravenscliff and stay on his guard. Rolfe pledged to find some answers and they’d talk the next day. Once again Devon apologized for interrupting them, telling the couple to go back to whatever it was they were doing. He snapped his fingers and disappeared.
But instead of reappearing in his room in Ravenscliff as he intended, Devon made it only as far as the cemetery at the edge of the cliff, at the far end of the Muir estate.
Why did I come here? Devon looked around. The storm was now overhead. Lightning crackled through the dark sky, and a bitterly cold wind whipped his face. He tried willing himself to his room, but he couldn’t. He hated it when his powers didn’t work.
He began trudging through the tall grass. Much of the snow had melted, and the ground is a muddy mess. A particularly loud thunderclap startled him. Devon turned, as lightning illuminated the grave of Jackson Muir. The angel with the broken wing seemed to glow. Devon approached the monument. He’d seen Emily Muir’s spirit before, and she had seemed sympathetic to his cause. Perhaps she could help him. Perhaps she could help them find and defeat Isobel the Apostate.
But Emily was just an ordinary woman. She had no powers in life; why should she have them in death? Still, Devon couldn’t help but feel that she was important to understanding his past. Here, just a few yards away, he once saw the ghost of a woman, crying over the stone marked “Clarissa.” He found the grave again now, gazing down at the single word carved into the granite. Why would Emily cry over the grave of Clarissa Jones? She was the servant girl who died when Rolfe’s car plunged over the side of the cliff. Her body wasn’t even buried here. Like Emily herself, Clarissa had been washed out to sea.
There’s got to be a connection between Clarissa and Emily and Jackson, Devon thought. And a connection to me. Why else would I see the spirit crying over her grave?
He lifted his eyes from Clarissa’s stone to the obelisk standing in the center of the cemetery. The one simply marked “Devon.” No one seemed to know who was buried under there. He was certain Mrs. Crandall was lying when she pleaded ignorance. This, too, was a clue into his past. But what did it mean? How could he find out?
Devon sighed. He had no time to ponder all this now. The mystery of his past would need to take a backseat for a while, until they could figure out how to defeat Isobel the Apostate.
Unless, as he suspected, all of it was somehow intertwined.
Icy rain began to fall, lightly at first, then heavier. Devon hurried out of the cemetery and splashed onto the muddy path that led to the great house. He could barely make out its silhouette against the night sky. There were a few lights glowing from the downstairs windows. But the tower, as he’d come to expect, was dark.
Where was Isobel? Could it be true that Mrs. Crandall had been hiding her? But how—and for what purposes?
&nb
sp; Once again all his suspicions about the mistress of Ravenscliff came rushing back to his mind. She did try to kill me, he thought. She and Bjorn did try to send me down into the past—a past he now recognized as Tudor England, the time of Isobel the Apostate. They wanted me to come under her power, so that she could force me to open the Hell Hole!
But why would Mrs. Crandall want that? That was the thing she feared most. It didn’t make sense.
As the rain began to pummel him, Devon ran up the path.
Why can’t I just have a normal life? Why does it always have to be this way?
As he neared the driveway, he spied D.J.’s car, its windshield wipers frantically swinging back and forth in a fruitless attempt to beat back the downpour. Someone was getting out of the passenger side door. Devon squinted through the rain. Was it Cecily?
Lightning flashed just then, and Devon saw it most certainly was not Cecily.
It was Morgana.
“Thanks so much again, D.J.,” she was saying. “I really appreciate it.”
“Hey, anytime.”
Morgana hurried into the house.
D.J. started to drive off, but Devon ran up into his headlights and flagged him down.
“What’s going on?” Devon asked.
D.J. rolled down his window, but just a bit. “What do you mean, what’s going on?”
Devon made a face, the rain slicking his hair down into his eyes. “I mean, what were you doing with Morgana?”
“She wanted a ride into town.”
“But why did you take her?”
“What’s the matter, Devon? You jealous? First you take Cecily, now you want Morgana, too?”
“What? Where’s that coming from?”
D.J.’s eyes flashed anger through the small opening of the car window. “She’s a real sweet girl, Morgana,” he said. “And she’s my friend. Understand? Mine!”
“You are acting totally weird,” Devon told his friend.
D.J. rolled up his window and screeched out of the driveway.
Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 10
