Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series)

by Geoffrey Huntington

These are books for young kids, he reminded himself. Stories for young Nightwing-in-training. The authors wouldn’t want to scare them with Nightwings gone bad.

  Still, Devon looked through several others, hoping for some clue about Isobel and her times. The Magical Spells of Tristan. Don Carlos and the Spanish Gold. The Secret of Philip of Troy. But nothing about Isobel.

  He picked up Abigail Apple and the Monster of Loch Ness.

  As he read about a kooky Scottish Nightwing who tames a demon from the Hell Hole and turns it into her pet, Devon let out a laugh. “So that’s where the Loch Ness monster comes from!”

  Pulling other books off the pile, he lost himself in their little fables and forgot, for the moment, any pursuit of Isobel. “The Treasure of Childebert,” he read, settling in for another good read.

  But then he heard a sound.

  Low at first, but steady. It built, becoming louder.

  The sobbing.

  Once more, it struck Devon as the most gut-wrenching sound of grief he’d ever heard in his life. Terrible, agonizing weeping—and it was coming from somewhere in the basement.

  It’s the same sound I once heard in the tower, Devon thought. This must be where Bjorn brought whoever it was.

  A woman—that much Devon was sure of.

  Could it be Isobel?

  “Oh oh oh oh,” the voice sobbed.

  The sound echoed through the darkness. Devon stood, moving his flashlight from one corner of the room to the next, searching for its source. Nothing but old boxes.

  “Ohhhhhhhhh,” the voice cried, reaching a new crescendo of anguish.

  Devon followed the sound down a corridor which ended at a cracked plaster wall.

  There was no mistaking it: the sobbing came from behind this wall.

  “Who is there?” Devon asked.

  The sobbing stopped.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Why do you cry?”

  There was silence at first, then the woman behind the wall answered him.

  “I know you,” she said. “You have come at last!”

  Devon said nothing, staring at the wall.

  “Devon! It is you!” The woman was exultant. “You have found me!”

  A Sudden Transformation

  “How do you know me?” Devon asked the unseen woman. “Who are you?”

  Suddenly he was struck by light. He turned, squinting into the glare.

  “Once more, I find you talking to yourself.”

  It was Bjorn Forkbeard, shining his own flashlight into Devon’s face.

  “Who’s behind this wall?” Devon demanded.

  “Not sure,” the gnome replied. “Who’s it sound like?”

  “She knew me!” Devon shouted. He banged on the wall. “Hello? Who are you?”

  But now there was only silence.

  Bjorn put his ear to the wall. “I don’t hear a thing, my friend. Not a thing.”

  “What’s behind here?” Devon felt along the wall. “How do you get in?”

  “It doesn’t appear you can get in,” Bjorn said. “There’s no door, and it’s closed off from end to end. There’s no way anyone could get behind there.”

  Devon spun on him. “Well, there was someone there. I heard her sobbing. It’s the same sobbing I’ve heard for months.”

  “Sobbing.” Bjorn looked up at him with wide eyes. “Ah, but then I’ve heard the sobbing, too. It’s the ghost of Emily Muir, I’m sure of it.”

  “It’s not Emily Muir,” Devon said. “It’s someone else.”

  Bjorn Forkbeard looked at him cagily. “And who do you think it might be then?”

  “This was the same voice I used to hear sobbing from the tower—the same woman who once called my name from the tower window. And I saw you take someone out of the tower. You can’t deny that. You brought her down here.”

  Bjorn looked at him plainly. “There are many things in this house that only appear to be real. You know that, my young Nightwing friend.”

  Devon narrowed his eyes suspiciously down at the gnome. “Am I your friend, Bjorn?”

  “But of course. I owe you my life.”

  “Then tell me what you know of Isobel the Apostate.”

  The little man’s face went white. “Iso—bel—?”

  “Surely you know who she is.”

  Bjorn nodded. “But why do you ask about her?”

  “Don’t you know? Is it Isobel I’ve been hearing? Is it she who’s behind that wall?”

  Bjorn seemed staggered by this new line of questioning. He sat down on a crate and rested his flashlight on his lap. The breath seemed to have been knocked out of him.

  “No wall could contain Isobel the Apostate,” he said. “Why do you speak of her?”

  Devon studied him. Either Bjorn was a very good actor, or the mention of Isobel truly unnerved him.

  “I believe it’s she who’s been trying to get the portal opened,” Devon said.

  Bjorn looked up at him with terrified eyes. “Then we are doomed. We have not the resources to fight her.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, I’ve been into the Hell Hole and came back out alive. If she’d just show her face, I’m itching to take her on.”

  Bjorn smiled weakly. “The arrogance of youth. My good friend, the spirit of Isobel the Apostate has been loose for five hundred years. She has opened more Hell Holes all over the globe than any other renegade sorcerer, and each time her power has grown greater. Of all the Nightwing, dead or alive, I fear her the most.”

  Devon stared back at the wall in silence.

  “If that was her I sensed trying to unbolt that door in the East Wing,” Bjorn said, “then it is far, far worse than I thought.”

  Devon looked back down at him. “You could just be trying to scare me.”

  “But why would I do that, my boy? Why do you resist trusting me?”

  “I’ve learned that Ravenscliff is a place where trust often gets me in big trouble. And after all, you almost delivered me right into her hands when you sent me down the Stairway Into Time.”

  “That was merely to show you the extent of your powers, Devon.”

  “Oh, yeah? So how come it just so happened to land me in Tudor England, where they were burning Isobel the Apostate?”

  Bjorn seemed anxious, constantly throwing the beam of the flashlight around the basement every time he heard a creak. “The Stairway takes one where one needed to go. I had no idea where it would lead. I couldn’t control it even if I wanted to. It is a brilliant manifestation of Horatio Muir’s master sorcery.”

  Devon sighed. “I wish I could trust you, Bjorn. I need an ally in this house. Somebody with answers. But until you can tell me who’s behind this wall—”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  Devon tried willing himself behind the wall. He wasn’t surprised when it didn’t work. He tried seeing through the wall, but that proved fruitless, too.

  Not yet, the Voice told him, without any explanation. Not yet.

  “I’m going back to bed,” Devon said, frustrated.

  “A good idea. You must be rested and strong, if indeed we face an enemy such as you suggest.” Bjorn followed him as they headed toward the basement steps. “Read all you can, learn all there is to be learned. Isobel will arrive with no warning and grant no mercy. I’ve seen the destruction she’s left behind, villages in ruins, strong men eaten alive—”

  “Okay, already,” Devon griped, annoyed by Bjorn’s prattling. “You trying to give me nightmares?”

  It took Devon a long time to fall asleep. But when he does, instead of nightmares he dreamed of Morgana, the most delicious dream yet that he’d had of her.

  “I love you, too,” he told her, and she moved in for the kiss.

  An uneasy quiet settled over Ravenscliff as Christmas finally arrived. The tree went up in the parlor, skyrocketing a good eight feet toward the vaulted ceiling. Devon chuckled as he watched little Bjorn scampe
r up and down a ladder stringing garlands and hanging ornaments. Nearer to the ground, he, Cecily and Alexander did their part to decorate the tree as well, though none seemed to be enjoying it too much. For Cecily and Alexander it was the presence of Morgana, sitting demurely on the couch beside Edward and watching them with her soft brown eyes, that seemed to depress their spirits. For Devon, it was something else.

  He was missing his father.

  He watched with some sadness as Cecily unpacked the boxes Bjorn had lugged down from the attic, boxes filled with ancient glass ornaments. Devon wondered what became of the little ornaments he and his Dad had made out of pine cones and popcorn, then wrapped carefully and stored in the garage. Dad’s lawyer, Mr. McBride, had cleared all that stuff out. He probably just threw everything away.

  “You miss your dad, huh, Devon?”

  It was Alexander speaking. It was as if the boy could read his mind.

  “Yeah,” Devon said. “I guess I do.”

  Alexander hung a glass icicle on a tree branch. “At least he didn’t take up with a streetwalker like mine has,” he whispered.

  Devon frowned. “Alexander, that’s not fair. Morgana isn’t—”

  “Oh, I don’t worry about her anymore,” the boy said, giving Devon a wicked little smile.

  What he meant by that, Devon wasn’t sure. But Alexander’s smile made him nervous.

  He didn’t spend much time wondering about it, however. He was too lost in his memories of Dad. When Devon was a kid, his father had always made the most of the Christmas season, with wreaths on the doors and candles in the windows. They’d hike up into the woods near their home in Coles Junction, New York, and chop down a tall pine, bringing it home to decorate with strings of popcorn and those big old-fashioned Christmas bulbs. Dad would make a pot of his cinnamon brew, as he called it, a secret concoction of various syrups and herbs that all the kids in the neighborhood loved. Devon remembered how his friends Tommy and Suze would hang out at Devon’s house at Christmas time, with all its lights and scents. In truth, Dad had kind of looked like Santa Claus, with his round red cheeks and white hair and twinkling blue eyes. He had no beard, but was a rotund, jolly, old fellow all the same. After his death, Devon had been stunned to learn from Rolfe that Dad had in fact been several hundred years old, not an unusual age for a Guardian. Yet as much as Dad looked like Santa Claus, there were never many presents under the tree. Oh, he made sure Devon got something he wanted: a train set one year, a Batman utility belt when he was seven, and an iPad their last Christmas together. They never had a lot of money, which was another reason coming to Ravenscliff had been so staggering for Devon. Here his bedroom was nearly as large as the entire house he and Dad had shared in Coles Junction.

  Still, he would have given anything to be back there right now. He’d have willingly given up these strange powers and his noble Nightwing bloodline just to be an ordinary kid again, back with Dad. The parlor, normally so dark and mysterious, had been transformed. The stockings looked rather incongruous hanging on the mantel under the somber portrait of Horatio Muir.

  Edward and Morgana were canoodling on the couch, which made Devon jealous. What was up with her? The other day she said she was in love with me, he thought bitterly.

  Since that day in Stormy Harbor, Morgana had kept a cordial but safe distance, seemingly embarrassed by what she’d told Devon at Stormy Harbor. Devon was both grateful for and disturbed by the distance. On the one hand, he hadn’t been sure how to handle the situation; having some space made it easier. But on the other, he wanted so much to be with her, to talk to her, to kiss her lips the way he did in his dreams.

  Stop thinking that way, Devon scolded himself.

  That Edward and Morgana were even still at Ravenscliff was surprising. Edward had originally planned to stay just a couple of weeks. But the divorce from his institutionalized wife was proving difficult for some reason Devon didn’t understand. So the couple was stuck here for a while longer.

  Surely that made Morgana unhappy. Though one would never have known it by the way she was snuggled up now in Edward’s arms. Devon burned with jealousy as he watched the older man reach down and kiss his fiancee on the forehead.

  Cecily didn’t like it either. She made a face as if she were going to be sick and left the room. But Alexander watched his father and Morgana with cunning eyes.

  He’s up to something, Devon thought. I’d better keep an eye on him.

  But for the moment, Alexander seemed harmless. He kept busy hanging ornaments on the tree. Bjorn was scuttling up and down the ladder.

  So Devon took the occasion to head up to his room. He needed to check his email. He was hoping maybe Rolfe would try to reach him that way.

  But no. Nothing from Rolfe.

  This was bizarre. Rolfe seemed to have dropped out of sight. When Devon called the restaurant, he was told Mr. Montaigne was “out.” No one had any idea when he’d be back. Emails, texts, psychic messages had gone unanswered. Devon had had D.J. drive him out to Rolfe’s house the day before and he’d noticed Rolfe’s car was gone. Roxanne was there, however, and Devon had told her that he needed to see Rolfe right away. He’d had information to give Devon, and it had seemed important.

  Roxanne had wrung her hands. “I’m troubled,” she admitted to Devon. “It’s not like Rolfe to go away without letting me know more details.”

  Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  Christmas Eve arrived, and a light snowfall delighted Cecily, who’d been hoping for a white Christmas. The house smelled wonderful, with the aroma of cookies baking from the kitchen wafting into the parlor. Bjorn had spent all day in the kitchen preparing an elaborate feast of “roast beast,” as he called it, and lingonberry stuffing.

  After dinner, Mrs. Crandall had them all up to her mother’s room for another visit with Grandmama, who once again did not recognize anybody except her daughter.

  Though her rheumy old eyes did seem to latch on to Devon whenever he came near her.

  He watched as the old woman met Morgana. Edward introduced her as his fiancee. Grandmama took the young woman’s hand.

  “I’ve seen you before,” she said.

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Muir,” Morgana replied, smiling. “This is the first time Edward has brought me up to meet you. I’ve wanted to come before, but Edward said you weren’t well.”

  “Did you know Emily?” Grandmama asked.

  Edward laughed. “Mother! Morgana is far too young to have known Emily Muir!”

  The old woman let her hand go. Her eyes drifted off to some place only she could see.

  Mrs. Muir kind of creeped Devon out, truth be told. How he wished she wasn’t so demented. How many answers might she be able to tell him?

  Mrs. Crandall handed her mother a couple of brightly wrapped Christmas gifts. Her trembling hands couldn’t figure how to open them. Cecily moved in beside her to unwrap them for her: one was a sweater, the other a shawl.

  “Are they from my husband?” Greta Muir asked, once again becoming agitated. “Where is he? Where is Randolph?”

  And once again Devon felt sad. In the Hellhole, he thought.

  Downstairs in the parlor, the three young people took their places on the floor under the Christmas tree. Mrs. Crandall arrived and agreed that each might open one gift. Alexander got a book, Tom Sawyer; Cecily exulted over a handbag; and Devon found a pair of ice skates in the box marked for him. He’d actually been wanting these, hoping to get a chance to skate on one of the frozen ponds on the estate. He looked over and thanked Mrs. Crandall.

  She smiled warmly and said, “Merry Christmas, Devon.”

  He looked into her eyes. Was that actually compassion he saw?

  Could she have really tried to kill me? Rolfe said not to trust her, not to put anything past her.

  But Devon remembered how tenderly she’d treated him when the demons wounded his face, and how she had held him after Simon had tried to kill him. Was she friend or foe?
Did she care for him somewhere down deep under her icy exterior? Did she love him…as a mother might a son?

  The thought chilled him, given his feelings for Cecily, but its corollary unnerved him even more. Did Mrs. Crandall want him out of the way, because he represented all that she wanted to disown about her family’s history? And did she want him gone enough to resort to murder?

  That’s crazy, he thought. She just gave me a pair of ice skates.

  But Rolfe had said not trust to her.

  Rolfe—who had disappeared off the face of the planet.

  Christmas seemed to put everything on hold. Bjorn had made no further mention of his encounter with Devon in the basement. Mrs. Crandall had remained mum about Isobel. But Devon hadn’t forgotten the danger that lurked.

  The image of Cecily in a pool of her own blood was still seared onto his mind.

  That night, once more, he tried wearing his father’s ring, hoping for something, anything—but nothing. He yanked it off his finger. What was the use in having all these magical powers and trinkets if they were so unreliable?

  New Year’s came and went, without incident. Devon hoped that Rolfe would have contacted him by that point, but still nothing.

  The gang spent the early part of New Year’s Eve at Gio’s pizza joint. Devon felt a little guilty about not filling his friends in on all that had been happening. After the last time, when they fought the Madman, they’d made a vow to keep each other informed on such things. But D.J. had been acting so weird, and Cecily had been getting so angry on and off, and Marcus had been so worried about the pentagram, that Devon had kept most of what he knew to himself.

  But that would have to change.

  The pizza joint was packed as all five friends crammed into a booth.

  “Can we get candy apple pizza?” Natalie asked, pointing to one of Gio’s odder menu choices.

  “Yuck,” Cecily said. “Your taste in food is as bad as your taste in clothes.”

  “Uh, I’m not the one still wearing capri pants, and in January, no less.”

  Cecily made a face. They decided on pepperoni when Gio came around to take their order, his stained t-shirt inching up to expose a round hairy belly.