“I so want to be a Nightwing,” she told him dreamily.
He smiled and took the book from her. It might all seem pretty glamorous to Cecily, but Devon knew differently. He had inhaled the stench of the Hell Holes. He’d seen the destruction and the bloodshed caused by demons and renegade sorcerers. The destruction of the Nightwing school might have seemed like the stuff of Arthurian fantasy to Cecily—but Devon knew Wiglaf, and it bothered him to think that he’d had to face such a thing.
Would I give it all up? Devon thought, as Rolfe drove them back to the cliffside staircase. Would I give up all my Nightwing past the way Mrs. Crandall and Edward did, just so that I might try to live an ordinary life?
As if it had worked for them.
Devon knew he’d have no better luck.
He dreamed of Isobel again that night—except now she was Morgana again—and they were sitting in the back of Stormy Harbor, holding hands. He woke up flushed and frightened. Why did he keep dreaming about her if she was gone?
It’s just going to take awhile to forget her, he assured himself. That’s all.
The next day after school he spent time with Alexander, who’d had little to say about his father’s departure, pretending it didn’t bother him. Devon dragged out a couple of sleds from the garage and the two raced each other down the sloping hill behind the mansion, hooting and laughing. Alexander got the sudden idea to build a snowman at the foot of the hill, which they did, rolling three big balls of snow and then placing them one on top of the other. Alexander found one of his father’s old hats from the garage and placed it on the snowman’s head. Then the boy hopped back on his sled and rode smack down the hill into the snowman, obliterating it.
Devon resisted the urge to play child psychologist. He just gave the boy a high five.
For supper, Bjorn made them a terrific meal of what he said was pterodactyl and gravy. Devon thought it tasted like chicken. Mrs. Crandall didn’t join them.
She had avoided them all as much as possible since her mother’s death, taking her meals in her room and barely speaking even to Cecily. She seemed overcome, not just by the loss of her mother, but by Edward’s departure and the sudden realization that she was all alone now, the sole sentinel against Ravenscliff’s supernatural past. Devon wondered if the great lady might have been softening, if she would relent in her steely determination to keep whatever secrets she held deep within herself.
Yet if he dared to hope she’d reveal something—anything—he was quickly proven wrong. The following night, encountering Mrs. Crandall on the stairs as he headed up to sleep, Devon found her pale and shrunken, her eyes lost in deep sockets of sleeplessness. It was the first time she had emerged from her room in days, and she barely acknowledged Devon as she tried to pass him on the stairs.
“Mrs. Crandall,” Devon said, stopping her, “maybe it would be easier on you—on all of us—if you told me what your mother tried to say before she died. I’m not just asking for myself. That way you wouldn’t have to carry this burden alone, whatever it is.” He touched her arm. “Please. Let me help you.”
She looked at him without emotion. “Help me? You? No, Devon. You cannot help me.” Her eyes moved away, seeming to fix on something only she could see. “And I cannot help you.”
She continued on down the stairs like some wandering ghost.
That night Devon didn’t dream of Isobel the Apostate, but of his father.
“Beware, Devon! Beware!”
“Dad? Where are you?”
It was dark. There was no light, only heat and darkness.
“You will open the Hell Hole, Devon! Beware!”
“No, Dad,” Devon cried into the darkness. “I didn’t open it. We defeated her! The vision was wrong! I never opened the Hell Hole!”
“But you will, Devon! You will!”
He bolted upright in bed. Every night another nightmare. He was drenched in sweat. He rubbed his head. Would he ever get a good night’s sleep again?
Kicking off his sheets, he was suddenly aware of how warm he was. But it wasn’t just the aftereffects of the dream, he quickly realized. His room was wickedly hot—and he knew what that meant.
“Oh, no,” he groaned. “Not again. Not so soon!”
But he sensed no demons present. Just the heat and pressure. He concentrated. They had to be in the house somewhere.
In his mind’s eye, he saw the portal in the East Wing. It was thrumming with a high-pitched sound and once more was glowing green.
You will open the Hell Hole, Devon!
“No,” he said, a small voice in the darkness of his room.
What could be causing the disturbance? he asked himself. Isobel is gone.
Wasn’t she?
That was when he heard her laughter.
Gone? But you know that’s impossible, Devon!
“Isobel,” he breathed, gripping his pillow to his chest.
You saw how I transcended even the flames of death!
Fear took him by the throat.
Come to me, Devon. It is time you learned the truth of who you are. I will tell you the truth. I will tell you all you want to know.
“She’s at the Hell Hole,” Devon said.
And this time he was really on his own.
Come to the East Wing, Devon. I await you. I await you with the truth.
“But I can’t,” he said weakly. “I’ve never been able to get in there—”
The old woman is dead. It was her power that stopped you and now her power is ended. You are the Master of Ravenscliff now!
Devon tossed his pillow across the room. “No! You’re trying to trick me!”
I will open this portal, Devon, even if it means destroying this house and everyone in it!
Devon concentrated. And he found Isobel was telling the truth. The way is no longer barred to him.
He disappeared from his bed and reappeared in Emily Muir’s cobwebbed parlor.
He was in the East Wing.
From the inner room he could see the green light glowing anew.
Isobel the Apostate waited for him. She was different somehow. She seemed strangely transparent. Moonlight shone through her, and when she turned certain ways she disappeared entirely from view.
But the Hell Hole was clear and solid, pulsating and glowing. From behind, disgusting vermin scratched and howled, frantic to be set free.
“We are evenly matched, the two of us,” Isobel said. “I cannot force you to open this portal against your will.”
Devon faced her. “So why have you called me here?”
“To make a bargain with you.”
“I’m not interested in sharing any kind of power.”
She smiled. Even with all the horror, Devon still found her dazzlingly beautiful. Her black eyes danced.
“Not power, Devon,” she said. “I understand now that’s not what you want. You want knowledge. Truth.”
He said nothing.
“You want to know who you are. Who your parents were. Why you were sent here to Ravenscliff. What is the secret of your past, Devon, and what is your future?”
Still he said nothing.
Isobel smiled cunningly. “I will make an even exchange with you, Devon. The knowledge you seek for your assistance in opening this Hell Hole. If you want to rescue the people in this house once you have done so, so be it. You have the power to do so. I will not stop you. Just give me access to the power of this portal and to the creatures within, and I will give you the knowledge that you seek.”
“So give it now.”
Isobel laughed. “Do you think I’m as gullible as that? That I have spent five centuries observing the foibles of humankind to fall for such a trick? I would tell you what you want to know and then you would back out on your part of the deal.”
Devon didn’t reply.
She shook her head. “No, my boy. The exchange will take place simultaneously. You open the door and the knowledge
will immediately be yours, there in your mind—as if it had always been there.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You know who my parents were?”
She beamed. “You are my blood, Devon. I have watched all my descendants. I know full well the secret Amanda Muir Crandall has been keeping from you.”
Devon hesitated.
I could do it. I could learn the truth. And I’m sure I could save Cecily and Alexander from whatever might come out of that Hell Hole…
But then the demons would be loose… and Isobel free…
I could fight her.
But I might not win…
“The truth, Devon,” Isobel taunted. “Finally the truth.”
“The knowledge I seek,” he said dreamily, “for opening the Hell Hole.”
“That’s all, Devon,” Isobel insisted. “Just a quick and easy exchange. You get what you want, I get what I want.”
“What I want,” he mumbled.
“The name of your father,” Isobel said. “The name of your mother. Your place in the history of the Nightwing.”
“Yes,” Devon said.
“Yes,” Isobel echoed.
He turned from her and concentrated on the portal. He felt no fear, just a calm and certain resolve. He did this once before, when he plunged into the Hell Hole to bring Alexander back. He knew how to do it. He knew how to open the door between this world and the one below.
“Oh, yes, Devon,” Isobel breathes, in near ecstasy as she watched Devon concentrate.
Behind the door, the demons were wild. The portal shuddered under the force of Devon’s mind. The great iron bolt began to tremble.
He felt his awesome power then, raw and mighty. A magical passion consumed him, and he was no longer a fifteen-year-old boy but an ancient wizard—a sorcerer of the noble Order of the Nightwing. He took in a long, deep breath—and the bolt on the door slid easily and smoothly from its place.
“It is mine!” Isobel exulted. “It is mine!”
The metal door creaked open to reveal the blackness within.
And suddenly Devon rushed the Apostate. Her face changed then, realizing how she’d been tricked. All of her centuries caught up to her in that instant. The woman Devon seized and thrust into the throbbing darkness of the Hell Hole was no longer young and beautiful, but rather a wizened, hideous crone.
“You wanted them so bad!” he shouted. “Now you’ll be with them—forever!”
Isobel the Apostate screamed as the portal shut against her.
Devon fell staggering back onto the dusty floor.
He had remembered his lessons from The Book of Englightenment. A sorcerer had the power to open the portal without letting anything out, only letting himself—or someone else—in.
He heard Isobel now behind the door, banging against the other side. Her cries were quickly drowned out by a cacophony of angry, frustrated demons, promised their freedom only to be denied, yet again. Devon heard their struggle. In his mind’s eye he could see them, scaly and putrid, dragging Isobel away from the door deep down into the bowels of the Hell Hole—the only place that would contain her, keep her evil spirit from returning.
“You were wrong, Isobel,” Devon said, staring at the portal, which was once again cool and quiet and still. “We weren’t evenly matched. You forgot just one important little detail.”
He grinned.
“I’m the one-hundredth generation from Sargon the Great.”
He sat up suddenly. He was in his room, in bed. The night was cool.
Was it all a dream?
Yes, he realized, it was a dream. But that didn’t make his triumph over Isobel any less real. Her power had to be ended, and her power came through dreams—so it was fitting that their final battleground was Devon’s mind. Just because he had never left his bed didn’t mean their battle hadn’t taken place, that he hadn’t exiled her to the Hell Hole. A Sorcerer of the Nightwing could pick his battles, and where he fought them.
He slept like a rock the rest of the night.
Epilogue
Behind the Wall
“But you could have learned the truth from her,” Cecily said the next night, after he’d filled her in on all the details. “You could’ve learned who you really are.”
Outside the wind was howling. The ravens cried, fluttering their wings, as ever guarding the house. There was no snow tonight, but thunder rumbled in the distance. Another Misery Point storm was on its way.
Devon smiled. “Yeah, but the truth at what cost? Isobel and the demons roving the world isn’t something I want to imagine. Besides, who’s to say she wasn’t planning something as devious as I was?”
Cecily grinned. “You really are Johnny-on-the-spot, aren’t you?” She reached over and kissed him. “I’m very proud of you, Devon.”
He blushed. “Well, the Voice is confirming for me that she’s gone. We don’t have to worry about Isobel the Apostate anymore.”
“Mother ought to be more grateful than she is.”
Devon shrugged. “I think she’s starting to realize keeping secrets from me is a losing proposition. But she’s stubborn. She’s not going to give in easily.”
“Yeah,” Cecily agreed. “But then again, neither are you.”
She headed up to bed, leaving Devon to sit in the parlor staring up into the oil paint eyes of Horatio Muir. “Thanks for your help,” he told the portrait. “I guess we’re destined to meet again. Maybe you can fill me in on all the outstanding mysteries of this house. Like who’s buried in the grave marked Devon and where I fit in with all of this.”
From some far corner of the house he heard it then: the sobbing.
He smirked, keeping eye contact with Horatio. “Oh, and how could I forget? Maybe you can tell me who the heck it is who’s hidden away in the basement. Who sobs like she’s carrying the weight of the world?”
He listened. The sound was heart-rending.
“Is it a ghost or is it human?” he asked the portrait. “And how come whatever it is seems to know me?”
You know her name, came a voice in his head.
Whether it’s the Voice or someone’s else’s—Horatio’s, maybe?—Devon couldn’t be sure.
“I know her name?” he asked.
You know her name.
“Who?” Devon asked the portrait, but the face of Horatio Muir remained flat and mute.
Thunder suddenly crashed directly over the house and the lights flickered. Devon stood and lit a few candles, just in case.
It can’t be Isobel. I can rule her out. The Voice said she’s really gone.
Then who could it be?
You know her name.
He took a candle with him as he headed down the stairs into the cold, damp cellar. As he suspected, the lights did go out with the next assault of thunder, and he had to use the candle to guide him to the source of the cries. They were louder down here as usual, and seemed to grow more agitated as he approached.
He approached the wall from where the sound seemed to originate.
“Tell me your name,” he shouted through the wall.
But the sobbing only grew more pitiful.
“Tell me your name and I can help you.”
“Devon?” the crying voice asked. “Devon, is that you?”
“Yes. You know my name, now tell me yours.”
But there was only silence. Devon set the candle down on an old trunk, the light flickering throughout the shadowy basement. He felt along the length of the wall. Nothing. No seam. No panel that he could discern.
“There must be a way out,” he said. “How else did they get you in there?”
He knocked against the wall with his knuckle. It was only drywall, maybe half an inch thick. It was a hastily built room with seemingly no door. Why had the Muirs built it? What was hidden back there? And who were they hiding it from?
From me, Devon told himself.
He tried to will himself behind the
wall, the way he had in the East Wing. But he was met with failure—odd, given that Greta Muir’s sorcery was now gone. What force was still here that was stronger than he was?
More than ever, Devon realized there were answers behind this wall.
Answers to questions about himself.
He glanced around the basement. “Well,” he said, “if my powers won’t do the trick, then I’ll have to do it with my bare hands.”
He spotted what he’d been looking for.
“Stand back,” he called to whoever—or whatever—lived behind that wall. “I’m coming through!”
He raised a sledgehammer over his head.
CONTINUED IN BOOK THREE
More from the Ravenscliff Series...
Blood Moon
Book Three - The Ravenscliff Series
PROLOGUE
Halloween
Nearly 30 Years Ago
The old crones down in the village liked to say that if you made your way out to the farthest crag of Devil’s Rock on a stormy, windy night, you could hear the screams of all those who had lost their lives over the centuries to the furious sea below.
On this night, the young man feared, one more death would be added to the legends.
He ran after the woman, desperate to stop her and bring her back to Ravenscliff. Otherwise, he knew the Madman would enact his revenge. The Madman—the name Jackson Muir was called down in the village, the words that were whispered in fear in the servants’ quarters of the great house. The Madman.
That is what he is.
And he will destroy us all.
But Ogden McNutt would not accept that. He wasn’t willing to accept the idea of destruction, not yet. There was still time. Perhaps he could avert the fate that had been predicted for them, prevent the cataclysm that loomed over everyone at Ravenscliff. If he could prevent the woman from reaching the cliffs, if he could bring her safely back to the dark mansion atop the hill, perhaps all of what they feared could still be avoided.
“Emily!” Ogden shouted into the wind. “Emily!”
He could see her ahead of him, in her long flowing white gown, heading toward Devil’s Rock. Above them a large full moon struggled to break out from the dark clouds that raced against its face, as thunder grumbled on the horizon.
Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 27
