Devon was stunned. What was that all about? Yes, Devon knew that D.J. once had a crush on Cecily, but he’d seemed to accept the fact that she and Devon were now dating. At least, Devon thought he’d accepted it.
But Morgana? First of all, she was at least six years older than D.J.—and she was Edward Muir’s fiancee!
Devon hurried into the house, closing the door against the rain.
“Look at you, Devon March!” Cecily said, coming out of the parlor and into the foyer. “You look like a drowned rat.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” he said, pulling off his coat and hanging it on the coatrack. He shivered. “Did you see Morgana come in just now?”
Cecily scowled. “Yes. I saw her.”
“Did she say where she was?”
“I don’t engage with her.” Cecily turned, walking back into the parlor. “I figure the less said between us, the better. Otherwise, I’ll tell her I can see right through her dirty little scheme to bilk my uncle of his money.”
Devon felt the need to rise to Morgana’s defense again, but he put it aside. Let Cecily have her childish feelings. “Look,” he said, “I’m just curious because she was out with D.J.”
Cecily spun on him. “D.J.?”
“Yeah. I just saw him drop her off.”
Cecily’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “Wait until I tell Uncle Edward!”
“I’m sure it was harmless, Cecily. D.J. said he just gave her a ride into town.”
“She doesn’t need a ride into town! She has three cars in the garage to choose from! And Bjorn could’ve driven her! Or how about her fiance? If she had wanted to go into town, why not go with Uncle Edward?”
Devon shrugged. “He’s been down at the Muir cannery a lot, going over the books for your mother. Maybe he wasn’t around.”
“You’re always defending her,” Cecily snapped.
“Well, you’re always attacking her.”
She shook her hair the way she always did when she was angry. “Well, I have homework to do. Good night, Devon.”
“Cecily, wait. There’s some stuff I need to talk to you about.”
“Why don’t you talk to Morgana about it?” She turned on her heel and hurried up the stairs.
“Geez,” Devon said, flopping down on the couch. What an immature brat, he thought. I’ve never known Cecily to be so—so—juvenile.
Why did she have such a visceral dislike of Morgana? Come to think of it, so did Natalie. And Mrs. Crandall, too. All the women seemed to hate her and all the guys liked her. Except for Alexander, that was.
Devon looked up into the gray somber eyes of Horatio Muir’s portrait, hanging over the mantel.
I mean, if Morgana really was a conniver, a schemer, a gold digger as Cecily believes, I think I’d know. But everything I sense about her is good. Mysterious maybe, but good.
And beautiful.
So beautiful.
God, Morgana’s beautiful.
“Hello, Devon.”
He jumped. A hand on his shoulder. He turned around.
Morgana, in a pink angora sweater and tight black leather pants.
“Oh, uh, hi,” he stuttered.
“Your hair is soaking wet. You’ll catch cold.”
He smiled as she sat down beside him. “Yeah, I got caught in the rainstorm.”
“It’s quite the storm.”
Devon looked over at her. “I saw D.J. gave you a ride.”
“Yes. What a sweet boy. I happened to run into him when he was here this afternoon and mentioned how I was hoping to get a tour of the village. Edward’s been so busy. And D.J. offered to take me. It was so nice of him.”
Devon smiled. So it was perfectly innocent. At least from Morgana’s perspective.
“Well,” he said, “I think maybe D.J. might have a little crush on you.”
She blushed. “Oh, dear. You think?”
“He’s harmless, don’t worry.”
Morgana smiled. “Oh, he’s very nice. But not nearly as smart as you. I can tell.”
Now it was Devon’s turn to blush.
“Really,” she said. “I am so impressed that you came to this madhouse and found your way on your own. After encountering all those hideous things.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. “I can’t imagine that Amanda was much help to you.”
Devon shrugged. “I guess I did okay.”
“You guess? Devon, had it been me, with no one to talk to about it, I’d have been on the next bus out of this town.” She looked over at him and her lips were trembling. “I still can’t quite believe all the horror stories Edward has told me. He’s only told me a little bit. He said that’s all I needed to know. But it’s been enough to scare me out of my wits. I feel so confused and frightened.”
She started to cry.
“Oh, hey,” Devon said, reaching over and placing his arm around her shoulder. “It’s okay.”
Touching her, he felt almost overcome. He’d heard about how hormones could go a little wild in teenage boys. Right now he felt they were all shooting around inside him, bumping off each other.
“Sometimes, I’m so frightened in this house,” Morgana was telling him, “I can’t even fall asleep.”
“It’s okay,” he told her again. “We’ve got things under control now.”
Except for those hormones.
But, in fact, Devon knew he wasn’t being honest with her. It was definitely not okay—not with yet another Apostate trying to open the portal and set the demons free. If Edward really loved her, he would take Morgana out of this house. Now. The rest of them here at least had sorcery in their blood: this was their heritage, after all, the legacy with which they had to contend, for good or for bad. Morgana, on the other hand, was a complete innocent, pulled into this house of horrors without any forewarning.
She looked over at Devon with imploring eyes. “How can it be true what Edward tells me? About the door that leads into hell?”
“All I know is that it is true,” Devon told her. “And there is danger here.”
Morgana wiped her eyes. “Edward’s shown me some of the books about these Nightwing sorcerers. He says I need to know about them if I’m to be his wife. But that’s all he’ll tell me. I’m left so unsure of everything, with so many questions and fears.”
“Look,” Devon told her, “I know it’s none of my business, but if you have any doubts about this marriage, you ought to listen to them.”
Her soft brown eyes found his. “You are wise beyond your years, Devon March,” she said, in a low, gentle voice, caressing his face with the back of her hand.
He felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment.
That wasn’t the only thing he felt. He shifted his legs so that Morgana wouldn’t notice.
She smiled. “Sitting here with you, I feel no fear. None at all. Why is that, Devon?”
He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her so bad but he knew he couldn’t. And shouldn’t. And mustn’t.
He struggled to find his voice. “I can’t promise you, Morgana,” he said. “But I will do my best to protect you from anything in this house.”
She looked as if she’d cry again. “Oh, Devon. I believe you will.” She reached over and kissed him quickly on the lips. “Thank you, Devon. Thank you for listening.”
With that she stood and walked out of the room, leaving Devon sitting there, hot and flushed, every fiber of his being on edge. He hurried upstairs to take the coldest shoulder he’d ever had in his life.
He was toweling his hair dry when he heard the scratching from his closet.
That scorpion thing, he remembered.
Devon pulled on a pair of sweats and a shirt. Maybe I can learn something from it. I’ve got it under my power now. Might as well check it out.
It was repulsive. He pulled it out of his laundry bag and held it away from his face. It stunk like rotting eggs. Its black tail quivered.
&nbs
p; “So where is she?” Devon asked the demon. “Where is Isobel the Apostate? She sent you here. You must know where she is.”
But the thing was stupid, one of the Hellhole’s lower life-forms. It just wriggled in his grip.
“Do you have any intelligence at all?” Devon asked.
He studied the thing. He found its tiny little eyes and looked into them. He began to make out something, a tiny speck of light that grew larger as he gazed into it.
“Yes,” he said, understanding. “I can use your eyes to see her.”
He began to discern a vision. Hundreds of scorpion demons, swarming over a floor. Devon tried to pull back, to get a larger view of the scene, but he couldn’t. He was looking into the eyes of the scorpion and out from the eyes of another one like it, someplace else. He had to settle for its vantage point, low and indistinct. It was as if a tiny camera was strapped to the head of one of these things and Devon was watching on a video screen. His vantage point moved as the thing whose eyes he’d hijacked crawled over its stinking brethren to reach a small clearing on the floor.
Devon recognized the carpet. It was the old oriental rug in the East Wing.
That’s where the scorpion demons are, he thought. The East Wing.
And so Isobel must be there, too.
Yes, he was sure of it: he could see the door to the inner room. It was open, and the scorpion through which Devon could see scuttled quickly inside. Devon recognized the floor of the room. He could never forget it, not after being trapped in there many weeks ago, convinced he would die. He felt the blast of heat against his face. He looked up, as best he could, as the scorpion hurried toward another door.
A metal door. The portal into the world of the demons.
The Hell Hole.
Suddenly Devon’s vantage point was rising. The scorpion was being lifted by someone, who then gazed into the thing’s eyes.
And thus looked directly at Devon.
He gasped.
They were eye to eye. He and Isobel the Apostate. He felt the evil pulsing from her black eyes. She started to laugh.
She’s here, in this house, he realized. At the very opening to the Hell Hole in the East Wing!
A Deadly Duel
“I’ve got to get up there,” Devon said out loud. “I’ve got to get into the East Wing!”
“And just why do you need to go there?”
Devon looked up quickly. Edward Muir stood glaring at him, his arms folded across his chest.
“Excuse me, but haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” Devon asked.
“The door was ajar. Not so smart for a young Nightwing-in-training—especially when he’s got one of those filthy hellspawns in his hands.” Edward made a face of disgust. “Get rid of that thing.”
Devon sighed. He’d gotten all he could from the demon. “Back to your Hell Hole,” he uttered, and the scorpion disappeared from his hand.
He turned back to Edward Muir, who seemed completely unimpressed with Devon’s sorcery.
“I take it Mrs. Crandall has filled you in on everything that happened here,” Devon said, “and all about my powers.”
The older man nodded. Gone was the twinkle in his eyes, the warmth that Devon had seen when he first arrived on Thanksgiving. He loomed over Devon with a dark air.
“She’s also told me she suspects you’ve been sneaking off to meet with Rolfe Montaigne,” Edward remarked.
Devon said nothing to incriminate himself. “I’m sure you can understand my curiosity about who and what I am, and where I come from.”
“I had hoped we could be friends, Devon. But if you’re palling around with Montaigne—” His lips tightened in anger, little white worms of bitterness and resentment. “That murderer wants to destroy this family.”
“That’s not important now.”
Edward became indignant. “Of course it’s important. Montaigne is capable of anything. Poor Clarissa. Whenever I think of her, left to drown—”
“What do you know about Clarissa?”
“She was a sweet, beautiful girl. Rolfe was dallying with her to make Amanda jealous.”
Devon’s jaw dropped. “Rolfe and Clarissa were fooling around?”
Edward snorted. “Why are you so interested in Clarissa?”
“No reason.” Devon figured he’d process all that later. “Right now, the point is that this family faces a much more dangerous threat than Rolfe Montaigne.”
Edward raised an eyebrow, distinctly irritated by such talk. “I suppose you mean the demons.”
“Yes.” Devon looked at him seriously. “That’s why I was saying I need to get into the East Wing. Someone is trying to get that portal open.”
Edward scoffed. “Look, Devon. I checked on the portal after the incident the other night. It’s still bolted.”
Devon was growing impatient. “Just because it’s still bolted doesn’t mean it will remain that way forever. Do you know who Isobel the Apostate is?”
Edward rolled his eyes. “All that Nightwing history bored me.”
“Well, she was one of the worst of them all. Like Jackson, she used the demons of the Hell Hole to make herself very powerful. She was burned as a witch in 1490. And now she’s back.”
Edward Muir laughed. “Is this what Montaigne’s been telling you?”
“No. I saw it myself. I saw her just now—in the East Wing!”
Edward laughed again. “That’s impossible.”
“Why is it impossible?”
His face became serious. “Because we’ve made sure it’s impossible.”
“How? You and Mrs. Crandall keep saying things like that. But you renounced your powers. How can you do anything to prevent Isobel from doing whatever she wants to do?”
“You’ll just have to trust me on this, Devon.”
Devon shook his head. “I don’t think I can do that, Edward. Too often I’ve been told everything here is safe, everything is secure, and then some stinking beastie crawls through my window and grabs me around the throat.”
Edward Muir gave him a reproving look. “Well, there’s a simple explanation for that. You’re still practicing sorcery. That stirs things up. My sister forbade you from doing any of your little magic tricks, but just now I saw you send that scorpion demon back to its Hell Hole. Why not just crush the blasted thing underfoot?”
Devon scowled. “Guess I didn’t want to get the floor messy.”
“You’re a very brash young man.” Edward gave him a small smile. “Rather reminds me of myself at your age.”
“Please, Edward. Take me to the East Wing. Show me the portal is safe.”
Edward sighed.
“You owe me,” Devon said. “I saved your son from the Madman.”
The older man grunted. Devon wasn’t sure whether that made much difference to Edward Muir. His cold “I don’t want him” still haunted Devon’s mind. Poor Alexander, stuck with a father like this.
But Edward gave in. “All right. Just don’t tell Amanda. She’d work herself up into one of her states, and neither one of us wants that.”
They headed silently down the stairs. Thankfully the foyer and parlor were empty, the only sound the heavy ticking of the ancient grandfather clock. Edward paused before the locked door to the East Wing, and fumbled in his pocket for the key.
Devon could see he was trembling.
“This place holds a lot of bad memories for you,” he said softly.
Edward eyed him. “Oh, not really. Just the image of my father being dragged to his death and all of us thinking we were next. That’s all.”
He unlocked the door. With only a flashlight to guide them, they followed the corridor leading into the East Wing, then climbed a set of stairs to the second floor. How well Devon recalled his last walk down this corridor—heading for the same place they were heading for now, except then he wasn’t just going to check on the door. He was planning on opening it—and going inside the Hell Hole.
He felt a little weak, as he always did when he remembered that episode, the most terrifying time of his life. He paused a moment in the corridor, steadying himself against the wall.
Edward swung the flashlight around to find his face. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Devon said, and they resumed walking.
The dust here was more than an inch thick in some places. The East Wing had been closed off for more than two decades, and most of its furnishings had been removed. What was left were a few broken armchairs and dozens of rusty hooks on the walls.
A mouse suddenly scurried by, crossing Edward’s foot. He reacted with a gasp.
“Damn things,” he grumbled. “I’ve told Amanda we ought to call in an exterminator for this place.”
Devon couldn’t help but smile. He wondered what the exterminator would do if he encountered a nest of cretins other than rats and mice—ones with talons, forked tongues and skeletal faces.
They turned into what was once an upstairs sitting room, where a grimy chandelier still hung from the center of the ceiling. Simon had told Devon that this was Emily Muir’s private parlor. How many tears had she shed here over her cruel husband, the Madman? Might it have been here, in this very room, that she made her fateful decision to take that final leap off of Devil’s Rock?
But there was no time to ponder such things now. Just ahead was the place that they sought. A small inner chamber, with no windows, which Devon believed was once Horatio Muir’s private Nightwing library. He longed to read the books that were stored inside, but knew Edward would never permit it. Rolfe had some of the same books, but these were Horatio’s own. Devon could only begin to imagine what Knowledge they might contain.
“Edward,” he said, as they entered the room. “Bring the flashlight over here.”
The older man complied. Devon indicated a portrait on the wall, and the flashlight illuminated the face. It was the spitting image of Devon, dressed in waistcoat and knickers in the style of the 1930s.
“Resemble anyone you know?” Devon asked.
Edward moved the flashlight from the portrait to Devon and then back again. “I remember this portrait. It’s been hanging here as long as I can remember.” He paused. “It does look like you, I admit that.”
Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 11
