Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series)

by Geoffrey Huntington

  D.J. shouted out suddenly as if in pain. He gripped Devon around the throat. His eyes glazed over as he throttled Devon.

  “I’m sorry to do this to you, buddy,” Devon said, choking for breath, “but you really give me no choice.”

  All at once D.J. was yanked away from Devon, as if pulled by some gigantic magnet, and flung across the yard into a snow bank.

  Devon walked over to him and helped him to his feet. “You okay?”

  D.J. stood, shaken but unhurt. “What came over me, man?”

  “I don’t know.” Devon looked at his friend. “Go home, D.J. I promise I’ll get to the bottom of this and defeat whatever’s gotten ahold of your mind.”

  “Thanks, man,” D.J. said, grimacing as he brushed snow off his body. “Sorry for the freak-out back there.”

  “No problem.”

  “It just got into my head. I don’t know why—”

  “Go home, D.J. It’s not safe for you here.” He looked up at the dark mansion. “I don’t think it’s safe for anyone.”

  All the strange behavior people have been exhibiting in this house—it’s got to be because of Isobel, Devon thought. D.J., Alexander, Bjorn, even Morgana—Isobel’s using them, making them act in ways contrary to their own natures.

  But why? He saw no purpose in what she was doing. Why send D.J. to break into the East Wing when she knew only Devon can open the Hell Hole? Why make Alexander try to kill Morgana? And what did Rolfe want to tell him about Bjorn?

  And where in the world was Rolfe?

  Once Devon was sure that D.J. had driven off in his Camaro, he returned to the house for his coat. Sorcerer he might have been, but that didn’t ward off the cold on brisk January mornings. He wondered if Horatio Muir or Sargon the Great could withstand the elements. He suspected there must have been ways; in fact, he had a sense that he’d only begun to tap the potential of his powers. New ones—like his super-hearing and invisibility—kept popping up all the time.

  How leisurely it would have been to simply read the books and use the crystals to learn all about his Nightwing heritage, without having to worry about Apostates like Jackson Muir or Isobel. Would he ever have that freedom? How awesome it must have been for Nightwing kids whose pasts weren’t kept from them: they got to grow up with a proud Nightwing childhood, trained by their Guardian in the use of their powers, encouraged to learn about their history from their parents and family. For Devon, everything was difficult.

  “Why can’t it ever just be easy?” he mumbled to himself, as he closed his eyes and willed himself across town. Opening them to see that he was standing out on the precipice near Rolfe’s house, he laughed. “Well, I guess some things are pretty easy.”

  He was relieved to see that Rolfe’s Porsche was in the garage. He was home! Where could he have been all this time? There was just so much they need to discuss.

  Remembering how he’d interrupted Rolfe and Roxanne last time in the midst of a rather intimate moment, Devon chose to disappear and reappear in Rolfe’s kitchen, where a spiral staircase led down to his study. That way he could give them a little notice.

  He could hear Rolfe below.

  “Oh, my darling, how beautiful you are,” Rolfe was saying.

  Great. Just great. Devon sighed. Once again my timing is exactly wrong. He and Roxanne are making out again.

  But as he peered over the railing to look down into the room below, he saw the woman in Rolfe’s arms was not the mysterious golden-eyed Roxanne but rather—

  Morgana.

  Devon backed away and covered his mouth to suppress a sound.

  Morgana—in Rolfe’s arms!

  Part of Devon wanted to leap down there and punch Rolfe in the gut. Part of him was so angry and so jealous that he didn’t care suddenly whether Isobel the Apostate is back at Ravenscliff at this very minute, opening the Hell Hole.

  Morgana told me she loved me! But now she’s with him! This is why she’s been so distant! This is what has been occupying Rolfe’s time!

  They’ve been together!

  But another part of Devon strained for some logic. Something is wrong here, he thought. Something is very wrong.

  “Devon!”

  He jumped.

  Alexander’s voice, inside his head.

  “Help me, Devon!”

  He heard the boy as if he were in the next room. But Devon knew Alexander was at Ravenscliff.

  And he was in danger.

  “Devon!!!”

  He transported himself to the foyer at Ravenscliff. Cecily was just then heading up the stairs, loaded down with packages from the mall. She let out a yelp when Devon suddenly appeared out of thin air.

  “You’ve got to quit that, Devon!” she shouted. “Scared me half to death!”

  “Where’s Alexander?” he asked. “Something’s wrong!”

  It was clear she recognized the urgency in his voice. She set her bags down and quickly followed Devon up the stairs and across the landing into the upstairs corridor. “Alexander!” Devon was shouting. “Where are you?”

  He threw open the door to the boy’s room. It was quiet. Empty.

  “Alexander?”

  Cecily looked around. “He’s not here.”

  “We’ve got to search the house.”

  Cecily looked at him with concern. “What’s happened? Tell me, Devon.”

  “I don’t know. I just know that he’s in danger. I heard him call—”

  They were suddenly distracted by movement from under Alexander’s bed. The blankets draped over the side rose and fell, as if something were moving behind them, under the bed.

  Cecily gripped Devon’s arm. Devon took hold of the blankets in his right hand.

  “Be careful,” Cecily whispered. “It might be a demon!”

  He whisked the blankets away.

  From under the bed doddered an enormous skunk, its black-and-white tail held high in the air.

  The Assault

  Cecily screamed.

  “Get it, Devon! Before it sprays!”

  Devon could only stand there, staring at the animal.

  “What’s the matter?” Cecily shrieked. “Zap it away with your powers or something.”

  “I—I can’t do that.”

  She clutched onto his arm tightly. “And why not?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “Because—” Devon gulped. “Because I think it’s Alexander.”

  She looked at him as if he’d gone completely insane on her. But then she moved her eyes back to the skunk, now busily nosing through Alexander’s dirty laundry on the floor. It lifted a pair of his undershorts on its snout.

  “Alexander?” Cecily asked quietly.

  The skunk went about its business, sniffing around Alexander’s bureau.

  “How is it possible?” Cecily asked Devon. “How do you know? Are you sure?”

  Devon’s head was spinning. Yes, the Voice confirms for him. Trust your instincts.

  “I’m certain,” he told her.

  “But how? Who did this to him? And why?”

  Devon hesitated. “I—I can’t say for sure.”

  Cecily looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes. “But you’ll be able to change him back, right?”

  Devon swallowed. “I hope so. For now, we need to put the skunk somewhere and keep it safe.”

  Cecily was squatting now, beckoning the skunk toward her. “I have to admit,” she said, suppressing a small smile, “it does kind of look like the little monster.”

  Devon looked around the room. “What can we put him in?”

  “We have a dog crate in the basement. I had a fox terrier once before Mother made me give him away. She complained he barked too much and kept her up at night.” She scowled. “As if we didn’t already have enough ghosts doing the same thing.”

  “You had barking ghosts?”

  She smirked. “How am I supposed to take you seriously about this skunk bein
g my little cousin if you start cracking jokes?”

  “Sorry.” He smiled. “Go fetch the dog crate for me.”

  In truth, finding humor in the situation merely belied the true terror Devon felt. Once Cecily was gone, he looked down at the skunk still scuttering through the mess of Alexander’s room. Morgana had called him a little skunk. She’d threatened him.

  And Alexander had said she put a curse on him.

  “No,” Devon said, not wanting to believe the idea that was suddenly forcing its way through his consciousness. “Morgana has no powers—she wouldn’t do anything evil—if anything, it’s Isobel who—”

  He closed his eyes and Morgana was kissing him again, coming to him just as she had all these many nights, telling him she loves him—

  “Here’s the crate,” Cecily announced, startling him back to reality.

  “Okay,” Devon said, collecting himself. “Put him in there.”

  She recoiled. “Why do I have to do it?”

  “He’s your cousin.”

  Cecily frowned. “If I get sprayed, buddy, you’re in big trouble. You’d better know some spell to counteract skunk stink.”

  But the fat little fellow simply tottered obediently into the crate when Cecily opened the door, tapping her fingers and calling, “Here, Alexander! Here, you little skunk!” Once she latched the door behind the animal, she looked up at Devon and grinned. “First time I ever got to call Alexander a skunk without him finding some way of getting back at me.”

  Precisely at that moment, the skunk let out its stink.

  “You spoke too soon!” Devon shouted.

  They both ran yelping from the room, Cecily screaming about a bath in tomato soup, the only supposed cure. For Devon’s part, he seemed to have avoided a direct hit, and after changing his clothes, he was fine.

  Except, of course, he wasn’t.

  Morgana.

  What was happening to the people in this house? Was Isobel the Apostate behind all of this?

  Devon hated to admit it, especially with his little friend turned into a skunk and locked up in a dog crate. But the worst part of it all was knowing that Morgana was with Rolfe instead of him.

  The day passed in a quiet funk. The calm before the storm, Devon suspected. Edward and Mrs. Crandall were out of the house all morning and by mid-afternoon were still not back. Devon sat alone in the library, reading through the official texts on the Muir family history, hoping to find something—anything—to help Alexander. He’d been through these many times before, and once again they proved to be of no help. Just the same old story of Horatio Muir founding the house and the wonder felt by the villagers when all the ravens took up roost there to live. But there was nothing about Apostates or Hell Holes or counteracting magic spells. Devon slammed the book shut in his lap.

  He’s tried, of course, to change the skunk back into Alexander, but nothing had worked. He’d even sought out Bjorn, deciding to trust the caretaker enough to inquire if any of those powders in his bag of tricks might help the poor kid. But Bjorn, too, was nowhere to be found. Devon felt lost. It ripped a hole in his gut to know that he couldn’t go to Rolfe about this—Rolfe, his mentor, the man who was supposed to help him understand his powers and make sense of all the sorcery. Rolfe—who had Morgana in his arms—Morgana, who should belong to me—

  Stop it, that’s crazy, Devon scolded himself. I’ve got to knock off these stupid feelings for her! They’re not letting me think straight!

  He stood, shaking his head in frustration and confusion. What connection might there be between Morgana and Isobel the Apostate? Might Isobel have placed Morgana under her power the way she did D.J.? Devon felt like tearing the hair out of his head. He couldn’t stay here in the house any longer. He had to do something. He had to confront Rolfe—and Morgana. He had to go back over there.

  But—of all the luck—his transporting power failed him.

  Consider your state of mind, the Voice told him. You are frustrated. Frightened.

  “Well, yeah, maybe I am.” He was angry, too. “Like Sargon-I’m-So-Great was never scared in his whole entire life?”

  Devon grabbed his coat and hurried outside.

  So I’ll walk. I don’t care. I still have legs like any other kid. I’ll walk—even if Rolfe’s house is several miles away and it’s getting dark and beginning to snow.

  Devon pulled the collar of his coat more tightly around his neck.

  As he trudged across the estate, the winds picked up. Devon thought he heard something. He paused, heard nothing more, and continued walking. But then he heard something again.

  “…beseech the elemental gods…”

  Devon listened. There were voices in the swirling snow.

  “…unleash your power…”

  From the edge of the cliffs a thin curl of blue smoke rose among the falling white snowflakes.

  Devon made out a figure at Devil’s Rock. A small figure. As he approached, he saw it was Bjorn.

  “I call upon the power of the old Knowledge,” the gnome was chanting.

  He was stirring a big black cauldron with a broken tree branch, and the smoke was rising from whatever brew he’d concocted. It was just like a cheesy Halloween cartoon, with a witch boiling bat wings.

  “What is this?” Devon asked, startling the gnome. “If it’s tonight’s dinner, I think I’ll pick up Burger King.”

  “Come no further, my young Nightwing friend,” Bjorn said. “Do not pass through the smoke of my enchantment.”

  “I thought you had no powers.”

  “I myself do not. But I know spells and potions that may protect us from the Evil One you suspect draws near.”

  Devon folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t believe you, Bjorn. I think you’re in league with Isobel. You and Mrs. Crandall are keeping her down in the basement, for whatever reason. I’ve heard her. I know the truth!”

  “Back away, boy!”

  “No,” Devon said, and with a wave of his hand levitates the bubbling cauldron and tips it over the cliff. Its steaming blue soup empties into the waves hundreds of feet below.

  “Foolish one!” Bjorn shouted, his face turning red with anger. He shook his little fist at Devon in a rage. “You will be sorry you did that!”

  “I’ve had enough of threats and lies,” Devon told him.

  Just then he spotted headlights swinging up the long driveway. It was Mrs. Crandall’s Jaguar. The automatic garage door opened and the car glided inside.

  “And it’s time I started demanding the truth,” Devon said, turning on his heel and running across the estate, leaving the gnome to fret over his inverted cauldron. Devon reached the garage and flung open its back door.

  “Devon!” Mrs. Crandall cried, startled. She had just gotten out of the car. Her brother was emerging from the passenger’s side door.

  Devon strode up to her and looked Mrs. Crandall straight in the eye. “My father sent me here because he hoped you’d protect me. He hoped you’d teach me, guide me.”

  She made a face. “What ever are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the danger I find around every corner in this house. A danger you refuse to admit, or let me try to defeat.”

  Edward slammed his car door shut. “You’re not starting that again, are you?”

  Devon ignored him. “Who’s in the basement, Mrs. Crandall?”

  She drew herself up, chin in the air. “I have no idea what you’re going on about.”

  “Is it Isobel the Apostate?”

  She looked at him with contempt. “This is all too absurd. I’m going in the house.” She brushed past him toward the corridor that led into Ravenscliff.

  Devon followed. “I’ve heard her down there. And in the tower, too.”

  Edward Muir was behind him. “You can be very irritating, you know that, Devon?”

  Devon spun on him. “By the way, if you go looking for your son—not that it’s something you
do very often—you might want to be careful.”

  Edward lifted an eyebrow at him. “Careful?”

  “Yeah. You wouldn’t want to get sprayed like Cecily did.”

  Mrs. Crandall stopped as they entered the kitchen of the great house. “Sprayed?”

  Devon faced them both. “Alexander has been turned into a skunk.”

  “What?” Edward shouted.

  “Oh, Devon, really,” Mrs. Crandall said, turning away.

  Devon nodded. “Oh, yes. And guess who I suspect did it?”

  “Isobel the Apostate,” Edward said, rolling his eyes.

  “No.” Devon allowed for a dramatic pause. “Your fiancee.”

  He watched both of their faces. Edward reacted as Devon expected: with outrage. But Mrs. Crandall’s face went white.

  “How dare you?” Edward charged. “You stop this nonsense right now—”

  “Listen to me,” Devon said. “We face a real danger. Isobel the Apostate wants to open the Hell Hole, and she’s manipulating people here. I believe she may be using Morgana in the same way she used D.J.”

  “Edward,” Mrs. Crandall said, her voice suddenly serious. “Go upstairs and check on Alexander.”

  Her brother flustered a bit but obeyed his sister’s order. When he was gone, Mrs. Crandall looked Devon carefully in the eye. For all her obstinacy, she was a smart woman. She had survived the cataclysm that had killed her father and remembered the days when sorcery was practiced openly at Ravenscliff.

  “Are you saying,” Mrs. Crandall asked, “that you suspect Morgana is in league with Isobel the Apostate?”

  “Not wittingly.” Devon still couldn’t believe that Morgana would do anything evil of her own accord. “But how else can I explain what she did to Alexander?”

  “The boy… he was really changed into a… a…?”

  “Skunk, Mrs. Crandall. Alexander is a skunk. And this whole house is going to be destroyed if we don’t act to save ourselves.”

  “Isobel the Apostate… can it be true?”

  “I want the truth,” Devon said to her, seeing the change in her eyes. “I know you hired Bjorn to watch over the woman in the tower, and now he’s transported her into the basement. I don’t know if I can trust Bjorn or not, but I want to trust you, Mrs. Crandall. My father sent me to you. I have to believe that he trusted you.”