“Like what?”
“I don’t care. Tell them I have to—I have detention or something.”
“Detention? For what?”
“Be creative!” Devon looked back at the note. Morgana needed him. Just between us. He liked that. He couldn’t believe how much he liked that.
“What is it about this Morgana chick?” Marcus asked. “You and D.J. are in la-la land whenever she walks by.”
“You wouldn’t understand, Marcus. It’s a heterosexual thing. Imagine she’s—I don’t know—Zac Efron or something.”
“I don’t care who it was. I wouldn’t get like that over anybody.”
“Get like what?” Devon asked, feeling defensive. “I just want to see what’s up. So will you cover for me or what?”
Marcus sighed. “Yeah. I’ll cover for you.”
Devon couldn’t stop staring down at the note for the rest of the day.
Just between us.
Man. He loved that.
After his last class let out, Devon made a wild dash for the bushes behind the gym. “Please let this work,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Please!”
When he opened them, he was behind Stormy Harbor, out near the dumpster.
“Yes!” he shouted, punching the air with his hand. “I’m getting the hang of this!”
The bistro was fairly empty. In the summertime, he’d been told, this place was hopping with tourists from morning until night. But in the cold days of mid-December, it was mostly local fishermen, sitting with their brews and fried clams, swapping tales of the sea under the old nets and life preservers that hung from the ceiling.
“Hey, Devon,” the waitress, Andrea, called out. “Long time no see. Thought maybe the spooks up at Ravenscliff had eaten you alive.”
“Not yet,” he told her, smiling inwardly at how close to the truth Andrea was. He liked her: she was straightforward, down to earth, only a few years older than he was. She’d lived in Misery Point all her life.
“I told you on your very first day in this town to watch out for the ghosts up there,” Andrea said. “So if anything happens, don’t say you weren’t warned.”
“No, I sure won’t say that.” He looked around the place. There, at a table far in the back, he spotted Morgana, alone. Devon looked back at Andrea. “Will you bring a platter of calamari and a large Coke over to that table?”
She lifted an eyebrow and smirked. “Dating older women now, Devon?”
“No.” He could feel himself blush. “She’s Edward Muir’s fiancee. We’re just—talking.”
“Uh-huh.” Andrea moved off to put in his order.
Devon headed over to the table. Morgana stood when she saw him, her eyes brimming with tears. “Oh, Devon. Thank you so much for coming.”
“Sure,” he said. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. He felt his whole body flush as he sat down.
“I didn’t dare approach you at Ravenscliff,” she said, retaking her seat. “I hope it was okay to leave you the note at school.”
“What’s going on? Is anything wrong?”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Oh, Devon. Everything is wrong!”
“What do you mean?”
“Ever since I got here, everyone has been so hostile.” Her eyes found his. “Except for you.”
“That may be changing. Cecily is going to try to be more friendly. And if Edward would just spend more time with Alexander, he’ll lighten up, too. That’s what’s behind Alexander’s moods. He’s afraid you’re taking his father away from him.”
Morgana looked as if she’d cry at any moment. “Last night was a turning point for me. When Edward treated me so roughly—” She couldn’t finish. She looked away, composing herself. When she spoke again, Devon was surprised at the anger in her voice. “I don’t like being treated as a piece of property.”
Devon nodded. “I understand. You have a reason to be angry. Edward was a real jerk.”
She lifted her chin in defiance. “I’m thinking of leaving. Getting out of Misery Point, going back home—far, far away from here.”
Devon looked at her intently. “Where is home, Morgana?”
She seemed not to hear him. “I wouldn’t even tell anyone. I’d just leave. Edward would just find me gone.”
“I can understand your feelings, but—”
“But what, Devon?” she asked, leaning forward. “Do you not want me to go?”
“Me?” He stuttered for words. “Well, I don’t know what I have to do with it—”
“Because, Devon,” Morgana said, her voice becoming tender, “you’re the reason I can’t bring myself to leave.”
He looked at her, unable to speak.
“I know it might not be right,” she said, reaching across the table to touch his hand, “but I think I’ve fallen in love with you, Devon.”
“Here’s your calamari,” Andrea suddenly interrupted, placing the greasy little critters on a platter in front of him. “Your Coke’s coming up.”
“Um,” Devon mumbled, not looking up, pushing the plate across the table. “You want some?”
Morgana had withdrawn her hand. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”
“No,” he said. “Probably not.”
“It’s ridiculous. You’re a teenager.”
“Yeah. A teenager.”
“And I’m engaged to Edward.”
“Yeah. Engaged to Edward.”
Devon felt as if he might faint.
“But I can’t help myself,” Morgana said, leaning in again. “Your kindness, your gentleness. You’re so different from Edward, so different from any man I’ve ever known.”
He gulped.
“Devon, tell me. Tell me how you feel.”
“Here’s your Coke,” Andrea said, depositing the beverage between them. “You want anything, ma’am?”
“No,” Morgana said hoarsely, looking away. “Thank you.”
Devon just sat there. He couldn’t move. He might have been a Sorcerer of the noble Order of the Nightwing—but he was also a fifteen-year-old boy, who’d just been told by a gorgeous twenty-two-year-old woman that she was in love with him. He could barely breathe.
He forced himself to look over at her. Her eyes—so dark, like his. So beautiful. More beautiful than anyone in the world. He tried to speak.
“I—”
“Yes, Devon?”
“I—luh—”
“Say it, Devon.”
She had gripped his hand in hers.
“I—lov—”
“Good afternoon,” came a voice, startling him. Devon knocked over his Coke. It spilled across the table, gushing right into Morgana’s lap. She yelped.
“Andrea! Bring a sponge!”
It was Rolfe. He was looking down at Devon with suspicious eyes.
“Rolfe,” Devon muttered. “We were just—”
Andrea was suddenly on the scene, sopping up his spilled Coke. “You want another? I won’t charge you.”
“No,” Devon said. “That’s okay.”
The waitress gave Morgana a towel, who began patting her lap.
Rolfe sat down at the table with them. “You’re usually much more on guard than that, Devon,” the older man observed. He was almost scolding him. “I could have been anyone. Or anything.”
Devon felt suitably chagrined. Rolfe was right. He had lost track of himself there, stunned by what Morgana had just revealed. What if it had been a demon sneaking up behind him, and not Rolfe?
“Ms. Green,” Rolfe said, finally acknowledging her. “What a pleasant surprise to see you again.”
She smiled. “And you, Mr. Montaigne. I apologize for Edward’s behavior last night. And I thank you for your gallantry.”
“Are you all right?” he asked her.
“Fine, now, thank you, other than some slightly damp jeans.”
They all laughed.
“No, really,” Morgana said, smiling ov
er at Devon. “My young friend here has been very supportive.”
Young friend? Devon felt himself growing indignant. A minute ago, she was telling me she loved me. Now I’m just a friend?
“Devon,” Rolfe was saying, “maybe you ought to run along. I’ll pay the tab, and see Ms. Green back to her car.”
“I just got here,” Devon complained. “We were talking.”
“It’s okay, Devon,” Morgana said. “We can finish our talk later.”
Devon reluctantly stood. “I didn’t even get to eat my calamari.”
Rolfe stood, too, putting an arm around his shoulder. “Go on back to Ravenscliff,” he whispered. “Use your father’s ring. It may tell you something interesting that I’ve discovered. If it doesn’t, see me tomorrow.”
“What’s it about, Rolfe? Why did you risk coming to the house last night?”
“It’s about the gnome. Something I’ve discovered.”
“Bjorn? Tell me, Rolfe.”
“Not now. Your father’s ring may tell you the same thing. Now, go.”
He removed his arm and sat back down at the table, turning his attention again to Morgana. Devon wasn’t sure what made him angrier: Rolfe’s refusal to tell him any more of what he knew about Bjorn or the fact that he’d just usurped Devon’s place with Morgana, here in this dark corner in the back of the bistro.
“That mean old Rolfe Montaigne steal your lady love away from you?” Andrea asked as he trudged toward the door.
Devon just grunted.
“Rolfe thinks he’s God’s gift.” Andrea laughed. “But she’s too old for you, anyway, Devon. Trust me. Stick with Cecily.”
He just pushed outside into the cold late afternoon air. The sun was beginning to set. The sky was aflame with color. A few tiny snowflakes swirled around him. The wind was picking up, salty and sharp, blowing in from the sea. Devon tried his disappearing act but it didn’t work.
Great, he thought sullenly. Now I’ll have to walk all the way up that long cliffside stairway.
What was worse, of course, than the steep, crumbling stairway, was what it led to at the top of the cliff: the cemetery.
The wind smacked him across the face as he stepped off the staircase into the tall, broken grass. Here in the old cemetery, where the Muir ancestors all were laid to rest, Devon had first looked upon the face of the Madman. The beast was standing there, just a few feet from his grave, and the maggots were eating his face. Devon shivered remembering it.
But something disturbed him more at the moment: what Morgana had just told him. Could it be true? Could she really be in love with him?
Devon was fifteen. She was twenty-two. What was so weird was that Devon both wanted it to be true and at the same time prayed that it wasn’t. As if his life wasn’t complicated enough as it was.
He passed the grave with the broken angel, the stone marked Devon, and the crypt that held the remains of Ravenscliff’s founder, the great Horatio Muir. It was getting darker. Devon picked up his pace heading through the cemetery. He was suddenly frightened, but he was not sure why. As he passed a crooked brownstone gravestone, its inscription worn off by decades of sea wind, a seagull called out overhead. The wind began to howl.
And a hand pushed up from the snowy frozen earth, seizing him by the ankle.
Devon screamed.
The ground below him trembled. The hand kept its grip around his ankle despite Devon’s best attempts to struggle free. Soon an arm was revealed and then a shoulder. Mostly bones with some rotting sinew and muscle.
“Let me go! I command you! Let me go!”
But the corpse did not surrender its grip. It sat up now, the frozen earth breaking off its hideous body like clay. Its skeletal jaw opened and closed as if to speak; its pulpy eyes burned in their sockets as it glared at Devon.
“I’m stronger than you!” Devon shouted, but still he couldn’t break free. He stumbled, falling into the snow, landing face to face with the stinking dead man. He hollered out in disgust and fear.
Now, all around him, he could see more hands pushing up from the dirt. The whole cemetery was coming alive! The corpse beside him moved its bony hands to Devon’s neck and began to choke him. As Devon struggled for breath, he spied an army of zombies emerging from the earth, staggering toward him.
And he heard the unmistakable laughter of Isobel the Apostate.
“I have come for you, Devon March! I will triumph! Ravenscliff will be mine!”
The corpse tightened its grip around his throat. Devon passed out.
All was darkness.
He opened his eyes with a start. He leapt to his feet, ready to fight.
But there was no sign of any undead corpses. The ground around him is undisturbed.
Was it only a vision? Another warning?
He spun around, just to make sure no zombie lurked behind him in the shadows. How long had he lain here? He was cold, he realized: chilled to his very core. It was pitch dark, and it was snowing pretty heavily now.
I must have been out for an hour or more, Devon thought, brushing snow off his clothes.
When he got to the house, he realized it was even longer than that. The grandfather clock in the foyer read eleven-thirty. It seemed everyone in the house was asleep.
I could have frozen to death out there, Devon thought, and nobody here would ever have known. Nor did it seem that anyone cared.
Some guardian Mrs. Crandall was. Did she even inquire about his whereabouts when Devon failed to show up for supper? He had a mind to report her to the state authorities for neglect. Yeah, for what? So they could take me away from here and prevent me from ever learning the truth about what I am?
Sometimes he thought he’d trade ever finding that knowledge for simply having a normal life. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be taken away from Ravenscliff, placed with a normal family in a normal house. But the problem with that heartwarming little scenario was simple: Devon would never be a normal boy. Not so long as he had these powers. No matter where he went, his past would follow him. After all, the demons had turned his boyhood closet in Coles Junction into a Hell Hole. Wouldn’t that be a treat for a nice new foster family?
Devon knew there was no escape. This was his destiny. Dad had told him as much. He had to stay here and defend the portal at Ravenscliff, the only Nightwing left to do so.
Walking into the parlor, he stared up into the eyes of Horatio Muir. The patriarch. The founder. The head honcho. The big cheese.
“You wouldn’t have wanted your family to renounce their powers, no matter what,” Devon spoke to the portrait. “I can’t imagine you’re happy with the Hell Hole being left undefended.”
It’s up to you, Devon March.
Whether that was the Voice speaking inside his head or Horatio Muir somehow communicating with him from beyond the grave, Devon wasn’t sure. But he knew, no matter the speaker, the words were true. Especially after that episode in the cemetery, Devon was convinced he would soon be facing a showdown with Isobel the Apostate. It was just a matter of time.
He had to learn more about her. Back in his room, he did as Rolfe suggested: he tried on his father’s ring. But nothing happened. No visions. No words. Devon sighed, replacing the ring in his drawer. He tried to sleep but couldn’t. All sorts of questions were running through his mind: When will Isobel strike? What did Rolfe want to tell me about Bjorn? Were those zombies out in the cemetery real or a vision of what is to come?
And of course, Is Morgana really in love with me?
He sat up in bed.
“The books in the basement,” he whispered.
He might be forbidden access to the volumes in the East Wing, but he’d stumbled upon a stash of books—children’s books—once before. They were picture books about the exploits of the great Nightwing of the past. Perhaps one of them might contain some clue, some bit of useful information, about Isobel.
Finding a flashlight in his desk, he hurried out into th
e corridor. Walking as quietly as he could through the dark house, Devon headed downstairs, keeping his flashlight unlit until he pulled open the cellar door. Then he flicked on the switch, piercing the darkness below. He swallowed, overcome with a blast of sudden fear. His heart was beginning to pound in his ears.
Stop it, he scolded himself. Your fear makes you weak. You’re strong only when you’re not afraid.
He took the first couple of steps down into the basement. It was cold and damp down there. He descended to the cracked stone floor and swung his flashlight beam across the junk that was piled everywhere. Empty boxes and crates. Old locked trunks with stickers from foreign countries plastered all over them. A dressmaker’s dummy and an ancient sewing machine. And everywhere, dust and spider’s webs.
The books were piled high against the far wall. Just like the last time, the hair on Devon’s arm suddenly stood up, attracted to the books as if by electricity. He sat on the cold damp floor and lifted the first book off the pile, reading with his flashlight. The Adventures of Sargon the Great. “Once upon a time,” Devon read, “many years ago, in the land of the forgotten days, lived a sorcerer named Sargon.”
Having now seen the real Sargon, Devon thought the crude illustration looked nothing like the great sorcerer. He flipped ahead to Sargon’s battle with a two-headed dragon. When he’d first seen this book, Devon had assumed the creature to be some childhood fairy tale character. Now he knew it was a demon from the Hell Hole.
He put the book down. He was looking for one that might be set around the time of Isobel. He lifted another from the pile and glanced down at the title. The Mystical Journey of Diana. This one was an adventure in space, with Diana speaking and breathing outside the earth’s orbit. He had no idea what year it was supposed to be set in. But it was clearly not the time of Isobel.
Other books had dates, but Brutus and the Sea Monster took place too early in British history for there to be any mention of Isobel, and Wilhelm’s Magical Adventures in Old Holland was set in a completely different country. Devon had hopes for Vortigar and the Knights of Britain, but there was no mention of any Apostates.
Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 14
