Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series)

by Geoffrey Huntington

  “Any idea who it is?”

  “None,” Edward said, and Devon believed him.

  The older man swung the beam of the flashlight toward the end of the room. That was when the heat came roaring at them, as if an electric heater had just been turned on full blast. Turning his face away from its intensity, Devon felt sick to his stomach. This is where they live. The things that have haunted me all my life.

  On the far wall was the portal into the world of the demons, a half-size metal door with a solid steel bolt securing it. Devon listened. He could hear the scratching behind the door, the whispers of the demons to be set free.

  “You see?” Edward said, his voice trembling in undisguised terror. “It’s still secure. Let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”

  Devon wanted out, too, and bad—but he forced himself to stay in place. He took the flashlight from Edward’s hand and scanned the room himself. The beam fell across the rolltop desk, the books on the floor, the bookcase filled with Nightwing lore. But he saw none of the scorpion things and no sign of Isobel the Apostate. And he noticed something else. The dust on the floor hadn’t been disturbed.

  “But she was here,” Devon said. “I know it.”

  The Voice confirmed it for him; Isobel the Apostate was here, in this room, desperate to get that portal open to harness the power of the creatures within. But the Voice also corroborated what Devon could already sense: if she was here, she was gone now.

  But where did she go?

  “Let’s get out of here, Devon, please,” Edward said, his voice shaking terribly.

  Devon sighed. The older man snatched the flashlight back from him and headed back out into the sitting room, then hurrying into the corridor beyond without even waiting for Devon.

  “I’m telling you, she was here,” Devon insisted when he caught up with him.

  “It’s still sealed. That’s all that matters.”

  They were heading back down the stairs toward the main part of the house. “Don’t you still wish you had your powers?” Devon asked. “That way you wouldn’t have to be so scared.”

  Edward stopped suddenly and turned to face him. “I am not scared,” he said defensively, and in his eyes Devon could see the same defiance he’d seen in Alexander’s. An overwhelming pride, a stubborn arrogance.

  Devon simply shrugged. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Edward huffed. “You need to understand. I was never into the whole Nightwing tradition the way my father was. Not even as much as Amanda was.” He paused, remembering. “Or Rolfe. Oh, how serious he took it all. How proud he was to be a Guardian-in-training.” He made a sound of distaste. “I just wanted to be a normal kid. Can’t you understand that?”

  “Yeah,” Devon admitted. “I can understand.”

  “I just found all of that Nightwing training to be boring. All that talk of noble deeds. I was just a kid, wanting to have some fun.” He laughed. “My father never let me use my powers the way I would’ve liked to. I would’ve liked to have become my school’s top athlete, but forget that. Or jump off the cliff and fly around to impress my friends. But no. Never anything fun like that.”

  “The powers don’t work unless you really need them. They’re not for show.”

  Edward made a face at him. “Oh, Montaigne has been teaching you well. You sound just like him.” He snarled at the memory. “Rolfe could do no wrong. He was just the perfect young boy in my father’s eyes, because, see, he paid attention. He actually cared about all that Nightwing crap, about all that blather about the power of goodness and light. Sissy stuff, if you ask me. My father acted as if he’d rather Rolfe had been his son, and not me.”

  Devon said nothing. They resumed walking.

  “As a matter of fact,” Edward said, as they locked the door to the East Wing behind them, “I’m not in the least bit sorry we renounced our powers.” He laughed. “I don’t think I would have made a very good sorcerer.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He grinned. “Because I would’ve used my powers for my own gain. Wealth, women, privilege, control. I enjoy all of that enough now—imagine what I would have been like if I’d had the powers of the Nightwing.” He smiled, more to himself than to Devon. “Oh, I definitely would’ve been an Apostate. Maybe not as bad as Uncle Jackson, but an Apostate nevertheless.”

  “Well,” Devon said, “at least you’re honest.”

  “Now, remember. None of this to my sister.”

  Devon promised. Watching the older man walk off, Devon could only think that he was glad, too, that Edward Muir was not a sorcerer. One Apostate in the family was quite enough.

  On the ride to school the next day, Cecily still wasn’t speaking to him. She sat in the backseat sulking as Bjorn chauffeured them in Bessie, his beloved Cadillac. Devon was too tired to play any games with Cecily, so after a cordial “Good morning” he made no further attempt to win her over. He could tell his indifference just infuriated her more.

  At school, Devon immediately sought out D.J. He needed to clear up what had happened between them.

  “He’s not here,” Marcus told him as they stood at their lockers. “He’s usually here by now, sitting out in his car in the parking lot blaring Aerosmith.”

  Devon admitted it was unusual that D.J. was late. “Has he seemed weird to you lately?”

  Marcus smirked. “With D.J., it’s hard to tell. He listens to 1970s rock, washes his hair only once a week, and his latest piercing is in a place he can’t show us.”

  Devon smiled. “No, not that kind of weird. That’s normal weird. I’m talking like him being—oh, I don’t know, angry or nasty.”

  Marcus nodded. “Yeah, he has seemed moody. Really grouchy.”

  “I ran into him at Ravenscliff. He had been out with Edward Muir’s fiancee.”

  Marcus made a face. “Morgana? What’s up with that?”

  “I don’t know. I talked to her, and she just considered it an innocent little trip into town. But I think it meant a lot more to D.J. He freaked out when I asked him where they’d been. Accused me of being jealous.”

  Marcus leveled his eyes at him. “Were you?”

  Devon was stunned. “What are you, crazy? She’s like eight years older than I am. And besides, she’s going to marry Edward Muir.”

  Marcus folded his arms over his chest. “And then there’s Cecily. You forgot to mention her.”

  Devon blushed. “Of course. Of course, there’s Cecily.”

  “You know, maybe it’s just because I’m gay and I don’t respond to the same stimuli, but I don’t get the effect Morgana has on you guys.”

  “I thought you liked her.”

  “I think she’s sweet. And yes, she’s pretty. But lots of girls are prettier.”

  “Name one,” Devon said automatically.

  “Cecily,” Marcus replied just as quickly.

  “Oh, yeah, of course.” Devon gulped. “But beside Cecily.”

  “Well, lots of girls. Rihanna. Katy Perry. Beyoncé.”

  “No way are any of them prettier than Morgana.”

  Marcus made a face. “It’s like she cast a spell over you guys or something.”

  Devon just laughed.

  He didn’t tell Marcus about his nightly dreams of Morgana. He was embarrassed about the dreams, feeling like a stupid lovestruck kid in awe of an older woman. Here he was, trying to focus on a potential new round of demonic attacks, and he was dreaming about Morgana Green. His dad was right when he had predicted that his teenage hormones were going to make him a little bit crazy.

  Devon was still thinking about his father as he slid behind his desk in history class. Had it really only been a few months since Dad died? So much had happened since, and seeing Dad again by using his ring had left Devon dealing with a whole new rush of grief. If only I could talk with Dad, really talk to him, not just like I did in that vision. I want him here, with me, in the flesh, the way it used to be. There’s so much we u
sed to talk about. Dad could help me understand these stupid feelings I have for Morgana. I could talk to Dad about anything.

  “Mr. March?”

  He looked up quickly.

  Mr. Weatherby was looming over him.

  “I asked you a question.”

  Devon groaned. Once again, he’d been a little too busy to do his homework.

  “I’m sorry. Would you repeat it?”

  “I asked you who was the chief rival claimant to the throne of Henry Tudor.”

  He suddenly remembered what he’d read at Rolfe’s house, and Rolfe’s words: She nearly toppled King Henry the Seventh from his throne.

  “Isobel the Apostate,” Devon blurted out.

  Mr. Weatherby made a sour face. “Isobel the What?”

  “I—I thought I read about her. Somewhere.”

  His teacher arched an eyebrow at him. “Not in this text, you didn’t.”

  Devon shrunk back in his chair a little. “No. I guess not.”

  “Can anyone else tell me? Someone perhaps who did their reading assignment and didn’t sit around all night watching the World Wrestling Entertainment?”

  Devon scowled. Yeah, only if the Dolph Ziggler started wrestling demons.

  Some snot-nosed classmate guessed the right answer—Edward, earl of Warwick—and Devon did his best to listen to the remainder of the lecture. After all, they were studying about a period of time in which Isobel was very much alive. He might actually learn something important for a change.

  After class, he approached Mr. Weatherby. “Are you sure you never heard of Isobel the Apostate? I was sure I read somewhere that she tried to get Henry’s throne.”

  The teacher sighed. “I consider myself an expert on Tudor England, Mr. March. I have never come across that name. But, just to indulge you…” He walked over to his bookshelf and withdrew a large book. “This is a definitive account of the reign of Henry the Seventh. There was much more to his story than simply ending the Wars of the Roses.”

  Devon waited as his teacher consulted the index.

  “The only Isobel I find is Isabella of Castile, who was certainly no Apostate.” Mr. Weatherby slammed the book shut. “She was as good a Catholic as they come, and the very woman who sent Columbus to America. Now, does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  Devon sighed. “Yeah. That should do it.”

  “If you come across a text that said otherwise,” Mr. Weatherby called after Devon as he left the classroom, “I should enjoy seeing it.”

  Devon just smirked. How he’d love to bring in the Nightwing history books and push them into Weatherby’s arrogant face. That would sure shake up his notions of who did what in the past.

  Once more, Cecily cold shouldered him on the ride home. He was really getting annoyed with her now. She could be so spoiled and obstinate when she wanted. Devon had been hoping that D.J. would show up so they could all head over to Gio’s. He wanted to talk to them all about Isobel. But D.J. had been absent all day.

  The mystery of where he’d been was solved when they pulled into the long driveway at Ravenscliff. There, once again, parked just outside the front doors, was D.J.’s red Camaro with the white stripe painted down the side.

  “What is going on with him?” Cecily barked, jumping out of Bjorn’s car and pushing through the front doors. “Is he crazy? D.J.!”

  They spotted him carrying cardboard boxes up the stairs.

  “D.J.!” Cecily called again. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m helping Morgana with some stuff she bought.”

  “You missed school for that?”

  “Yeah,” he said, turning away from her. “What are you gonna do? Tell my mother?”

  Morgana appeared on the landing from the upstairs corridor. “Oh, D.J., you are a doll. Thanks so much for getting all this stuff from town.”

  “No problem,” he said, grinning idiotically up at her.

  “Just put it with the rest of the stuff in my room.”

  “Aye, aye, capitan.” He continued up the stairs, giving Morgana a goofy smile as he passed her, and then disappearing down the corridor.

  Cecily turned to Devon. “Can you believe this?”

  “Oh,” Devon said. “I take it you’re speaking to me now?”

  Morgana had spotted them and was coming down the stairs. “Devon, Cecily,” she called to them. “How was school?”

  Cecily met her at the foot of the stairs. “What are you doing with D.J.?” she demanded.

  Morgana looked surprised. “I’m just—well, he offered—he got some things for me in town.”

  “And why couldn’t you do it on your own?”

  Morgana tried to smile. She was clearly taken aback by Cecily’s aggressive grilling. “I don’t know my way,” she said. “And navigating that steep driveway frightens me.”

  “Does Uncle Edward know you’re spending all this time with a sixteen-year-old boy?”

  “Hey,” Devon said, coming up behind her. “Cool down, Cecily.”

  “I will not cool down!” She spun around to glare at him. “I can see right through this schemer even if you can’t.” She turned back to face Morgana. “I don’t buy your sweet and charming act for one instant, not that fake accent or phony smile. And don’t think I won’t tell my uncle how you’ve been messing around with D.J.”

  With that, she brushed past Morgana and ran up the stairs.

  “She didn’t mean that,” Devon stuttered. “She’s just —”

  Morgana burst into tears.

  “Why do they all hate me?” she asked. “Amanda, Cecily, Alexander. They all hate me!”

  She covered her face with her hands and sobbed into them.

  “Hey, hey,” Devon said, putting his arm around her and escorting her into the parlor. She was still crying uncontrollably as he settled her down onto the couch. He sat beside her. She smelled wonderful: lilacs, Devon thought.

  “I came here hoping I could fit in,” Morgana said, struggling to catch her breath. “But everyone hates me. What did I do?”

  “I don’t hate you,” Devon told her.

  She looked over at him. Her deep brown eyes were red and puffy, her mascara streaked down her cheeks. “Thank God for you, Devon.”

  She put her arms around him and pulled him in close. Devon was in bliss.

  Until he looked up over Morgana’s shoulder to see D.J. glaring down at them.

  “What’s going on?” D.J. asked.

  “Cecily just said some stuff that upset her,” Devon said.

  Morgana pulled back, wiping her eyes. “Perhaps I was wrong to ask you to help me, D.J. Cecily made is sound so…so…deviant.”

  “Deviant? No way.” D.J. hurried to the couch, dropping to his knees in front of Morgana. He took her hands. “Don’t listen to Cecily. She’s a spoiled brat.”

  “Uh, hey, D.J.,” Devon said, “there’s no need to start calling Cecily names.”

  “You know what, Devon?” D.J.’s voice was mean, condescending. “I can handle this. I’m here now for her. You can just run along.”

  Devon felt himself grow indignant. “You? I’ve been the one who’s been comforting her. I’ve been the one to—”

  “You’ve been the one to what?” came a new voice.

  All three of them looked up. Edward Muir stood in the doorway.

  “Oh, darling,” Morgana said, standing and rushing to him. His arms encircled her possessively. “These boys were just reassuring me. They’ve both been so kind.”

  Edward looked at them with suspicion. “Reassuring you about what?”

  “It’s nothing,” Morgana said. “Some silly misunderstanding with Cecily.”

  “Has my niece been giving you any trouble? If she has, by God, I’ll talk to Amanda and—”

  “Oh, no, no,” Morgana pleaded. “Don’t do that. I wouldn’t want to get her into trouble. I want her to like me. I want her to accept me.”

  “Come on,�
�� Edward said, clearly uncomfortable continuing this conversation in front of Devon and D.J. He ushered her off down the hallway toward the library.

  The two boys just looked at each other without saying anything for several seconds.

  “I thought we were friends,” Devon finally said.

  D.J. sighed. “We are.”

  “You haven’t been acting that way. You’ve been acting like I’m some rival for Morgana.”

  D.J. walked over to the large glass windows that looked out on the rocky cliffs below. “So I admit I’ve been acting like a jerk. But I’ve got it bad for her, man.” He slammed his fist into his palm. “It killed me to see Mr. Muir walk away with her.”

  “D.J., she’s too old for you. And she’s engaged.”

  His friend shook his finger at him. “There’s something between us. I know there is. When I look in her eyes, I see it. She has feelings for me.”

  Devon felt himself growing absurdly jealous—and then he remembered Marcus’ pointed question this morning, inquiring into that very thing. Why do I feel this way? It’s Cecily I care about—so why do I feel I could become as hooked on Morgana as D.J.?

  “Look, Deej,” Devon said, “keep a level head on your shoulders. You never lose your cool. Even when you’ve had demons coming at you, you’ve been steady. This isn’t like you. You’ve got to know what you’re thinking is impossible.”

  D.J. grimaced. He put his hands to his ears and seemed to try to crush his head between them.

  “I just feel like I’m going crazy sometimes,” D.J. said. “I really like her, Devon. More than I’ve ever liked any girl.”

  “Hey, buddy, it’s going to be okay,” Devon said.

  D.J. said nothing. He just turned, terribly torn, and ran out of the house. Devon heard his car start and screech out of the driveway.

  I’ve got to stay focused here, Devon told himself. I can’t be getting caught up in a soap opera with Morgana. I’ve got a renegade Nightwing to defeat—or else that vision Dad showed me, with Cecily facedown in a pool of blood, might just come true.

  Upstairs, he found Alexander in the playroom. His concern for the boy had grown ever since he made the discovery about Isobel. The last time an Apostate tried to open the Hell Hole, Alexander’s life was the first to be put in danger. Devon figured checking in on the boy was a good thing.