Devon sat up, rubbing his elbow where he’d banged it falling back to the ground. If this was a dream or going on inside his head, it was all too real. He looked over at Sargon.
“Listen, back home I’m fighting off a Nightwing gone bad—what do you call them? An Apostate. Any suggestions on how I might—?”
But Sargon was gone. So was the field, the very ground Devon had been sitting on. All there was left was a strange gray mist, and as it gradually cleared Devon began to make out Rolfe’s room. He realized he was still there, in the same place, holding the crystal.
“Devon, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I—uh—”
But he was falling again. Back through time and space. He flailed his arms wildly, trying to grab onto something, anything. Far below him he could see a gaping hole in the earth, growing wider and larger and more terrifying as he approached. He knew what it was.
A Hell Hole.
“Rolfe!” he screamed. “Get the crystal out of my hands!”
He kept plummeting toward the Hell Hole. He heard a voice, laughing at him.
“Why do you fear the portal, Devon? It is the source of your power.”
Everything went black. Devon was no longer falling, merely floating. The temperature began to rise. Thick humidity pressed in around him.
Am I—am I in the Hell Hole??????
Laughter again. Raspy and insane.
“Didn’t you think you might find me here?”
That voice. Devon knew it.
He was no longer floating, and the heat was gone. He was in a cold, dark, confined place. He tried to look down at his body, but he couldn’t see a thing. The darkness was total. He couldn’t move. He shivered. It was as cold as a tomb—
Devon gasped.
He knew where he was.
“That’s right,” came the voice. It was the gravelly voice of Major Musick. “You’re in my grave. G-R-A-V-E. Can you spell it, boys and girls?”
The chalk-white face of the clown appeared in the dark.
“Yessirree, boys and girls, Devon is in the grave of Jackson Muir, in the cemetery out by the cliff, under the statue of the broken angel! Hee hee heeeeeeee!!!!!”
Mocking laughter filled Devon’s head.
He still could not move. After much struggle, however, he managed to lift his head. His nose touched something solid above him. Wood. He realized he was lying prone.
In a coffin.
I’m buried alive!!
No, he tried to tell himself. I’m standing in Rolfe’s den.
The crystal was meant to give him knowledge of the Nightwing, information on his heritage. Why was he then inside the rotting corpse of Jackson Muir???
“Isn’t that obvious?” rasped the voice of the Madman inside his head. “You want answers as to who you are. You are a Nightwing—like me!”
No, not like you. I am no Apostate!
“How can you be so sure, Devon? You, who know nothing of what you are.”
I know that our power must be used for good. You used it for your own ends and died because of it!
“We are the same, Devon March. The sooner you acknowledge that, the sooner we shall both have the power to rule the world!”
The Madman’s laughter rumbled inside his head. Devon could smell the decay now: a sickening odor that threatened to make him puke.
“Go ahead, try and break free,” Jackson taunted him. “What if you never move from this spot? What if I’ve brought you here forever? What if you can never break free of me?”
Devon felt terror clutch his throat.
The laughter again.
Could it be possible? Devon began to panic. Might I really be trapped here?
“All too possible,” the voice of the Madman replied. “Prepare to spend eternity with me, Devon March—in my grave!”
Halloween
This can’t be happening … can’t be real!
Devon struggled to unclasp the bony rotted fingers from across his—Jackson’s—chest. He moved the hands down the sides of his body—Jackson’s corpse—and felt the edges of the coffin. Moldy, decaying satin. He could hear a sloshing sound as he shifted his rotting limbs.
It can’t be, Devon thought. This can’t be happening.
“Devon March, you are mine now. You thought you had won. That you had defeated me! But you were wrong!”
Devon made a little sound of terror through his rotting skull.
“Wrong!” the Madman exulted. “Can we spell that, boys and girls! W-R-O-N-G! What’s it spell? Wrong!”
His laughter threatened to trip Devon over into insanity.
Your fear was too great. These things feed off fear. They become more powerful the more fearful you are.
That was right. He was very fearful. Terrified, in fact. But he had to get control of his fear. It was the only way.
For some reason, Devon suddenly saw Roxanne in his mind—Roxanne, Rolfe’s friend. The woman with the golden eyes. He remembered something she had said to him.
“Just click your heels, Devon March. Isn’t that how the fairy tale goes in your culture? Click your heels three times and you will go where you want to go.”
He tried. He managed to move what he knew were the skeletal feet of Jackson Muir. He brought them together once, then twice, then three times.
It will work, he told himself, and he believed it. The fear ratcheted down.
And suddenly he was back, sitting in the chair in Rolfe’s den, holding the crystal in his palms.
“Get this thing away from me!” Devon shouted, thrusting the crystal as far as he could.
Rolfe tried to catch it but missed. He watched helplessly as his father’s prized gem shattered into several pieces on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Devon said. “But I was in Jackson’s grave—I was in his body!”
Rolfe gingerly picked up the pieces. “It’s all right. It retains its power no matter its form.”
Devon was panting for breath. “That was worse than anything I’ve dealt with before,” he said. “I was Jackson. I was his decomposing skeleton!”
“Take it easy, Devon.” Rolfe placed the crystals on the table. “Did the Madman speak to you?”
“Yeah. He wanted me to acknowledge I was like him. But I’m not.” He looked intently at Rolfe. “Right?”
Rolfe tried to smile. “Not if you don’t use the powers you have for evil. But what I don’t understand is why the crystal brought you to him. The goal was to give you knowledge about your heritage as a Nightwing.”
“It started out that way,” Devon said. “I met—Sargon the Great!”
Rolfe’s eyes widened in wonder.
Devon realized he was smiling despite the terror he’d just experienced. “Sargon was testing me. He asked me to find the demon, but I couldn’t see any. So I tackled him.”
Rolfe blinked his eyes. “You tackled Sargon the Great?”
“Yeah. I passed the test. The demon was masquerading as him.” Devon sighed. “But I was unable to defeat him because I was scared. That’s the thing I have to learn to control.”
Devon rubbed his head. He was still a little grossed out by being in that coffin. He could still smell the decay in his nostrils.
“But then I remembered something Roxanne said to me,” he told Rolfe. “Reminded me I had the power to get out of there.”
Rolfe grinned. “You are stronger than any of them.”
“Yeah,” Devon agreed. “That’s what my Dad always said too.”
“But the fact that the Madman came to you,” Rolfe said, clearly alarmed, “merely confirms our fears.”
“He’s still around,” Devon said. “I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him.”
The older man sighed. “If he can appear to you, he may still find a way to appear to Alexander.”
Devon nodded. Thinking of Alexander reminded him of Ravenscliff: he’d better get back soon. Mrs. Crandall would start suspecting something was up if he missed dinner. “Rolfe, thanks for all thi
s. I got a lot out of it. Though I’m sorry about breaking your dad’s crystal.”
“It’s okay, Devon.”
He thought of something. “Hey, Rolfe. Would you give me a ride back to town? Somehow I don’t think my little trick in getting out here will work on the way back. I don’t think the gods care much about things like curfews or being late to dinner.”
“Sure thing, buddy.”
“Oh—and what does Abecedarian mean? Sargon called me that.”
Rolfe suppressed a smile. “It means novice. Amateur.”
“Amateur?” Devon’s blood rose. “I’ll show him.” Then he laughed. “I guess there still is a lot I need to learn.” He sighed, looking over at the pieces of crystal on the table. “Though maybe I’ll wait a while before trying that again. Being trapped in a coffin was a little more than I expected to deal with today.”
They climbed the stairs and headed outside. They were about to get into Rolfe’s car when Devon paused. “Halloween,” he breathed, as if just realizing something.
“What about it?”
“It’s in a couple days,” Devon said. “And it’s the anniversary of Emily Muir’s death.”
Rolfe nodded. “A day to be on guard, I imagine.”
“Yeah,” Devon agreed. “We’d better be. Just in case anything goes wrong.”
The first thing that went wrong on Halloween was that Devon forgot his promise to Alexander.
“Oh, no,” he said, done up in his Nightwing best, scrunched into the backseat of the Camaro between Natalie and Marcus, with Cecily in the passenger seat up front. “I was supposed to take Alexander trick-or-treating in the village.”
“Like, groan,” said Natalie.
“What was he going as, Freddy Krueger’s younger brother?” D.J. asked.
Devon ignored them. “Aw, man, I feel terrible.” He wanted to kick himself. “I didn’t see him all day, so I forgot. He was supposed to tell me what he wanted to go as, but he never did.”
“He’ll get over it,” Cecily said. “That little monster only cares about the candy. So bring him a Hershey bar and he’ll be happy.”
“Besides, Devon,” Natalie added, “you couldn’t do that and go to Jessica’s party. Believe me, this will be much more fun than hanging with Alexander.”
“It’s just that he was starting to trust me,” Devon said.
Marcus looked over sympathetically at him. “Sounds like you feel responsible for him somehow.”
“Yeah, kinda,” Devon admitted. “He’s never really had good role models.”
He actually felt really terrible. He felt as if he’d failed yet another test, that if Sargon the Great were around he’d call him an abecedarian, or worse. A Nightwing shouldn’t forget promises, Devon told himself. And little kids should be out having fun on Halloween, not holed up by themselves reading comic books.
Devon was just glad the TV was still off limits.
As Cecily predicted, the party was a lot of fun. Some of the kids were so done up, they were practically unrecognizable. Jessica herself was an old witch, with a huge putty nose and mounds of warts. Marcus got the lion’s share of applause for his highly detailed Frankenstein’s monster, complete with electrodes, scars, and enormous elevated boots, but Nat’s harem girl got plenty of attention, too—especially with her exposed belly and her heretofore secret navel ring. Cecily, dressed as Little Bo Peep in layers of crinoline and lace, fumed a bit because she didn’t get as much attention, but consoled herself with the fact that Devon rarely left her side.
Jessica was very welcoming of their whole little group, more so than she’d ever been before. In fact, all of the cheerleaders and jocks were really friendly, even to D.J., who they usually called a “loser” under their breaths. But Devon’s derring-do at the pizza joint had turned them all into celebrities.
Cecily didn’t trust these kids, of course, thinking that if they could “steal” Devon away from them, there would be no more invitations to Jessica’s house for parties. Devon thought she might be right. He was constantly being winked at, and girls would try to grab his hand and drag him off to their little groups. But he only went with them if Cecily and his other friends came along too.
The best part of the party was the “haunted house” that Jessica’s dad set up in the garage, with creepy music playing and her father himself costumed as a monster who lunged out at them from behind doors and corners. It was good for a couple scares and a lot of laughs before they headed into the house to wolf down pizza delivered from Gio’s.
But Jessica’s parents had insisted from the start that the party end precisely at ten o’clock. They had been very strict, sniffing everybody’s breath for alcohol. Suddenly, without warning, at 9:59, they begin hauling away the punch bowl and taking down the crepe paper. “Aw, Mom,” Jessica whined. “Daaaaaaaaaddy.”
But it was to no avail. They began wrapping up the brownies and turning on the lights, splitting up couples lip-locked on the couch.
Outside the house, the exiled kids gathered around their cars. Cecily, determined the night would not end so soon, whipped out her phone—reception was much better this far inland—and called her mother. A muttered conversation, and she exulted in triumph. “Mother said I could have a few kids back to Ravenscliff,” she said to D.J. and Devon. “Spread the word.”
Devon saw that she, too, was hoping to impress the A-list crowd.
In all, three cars headed back to the great house on the cliffs of Misery Point. The kids were all psyched; they’d never been up to the old mansion before. They honked and called out from their car windows as they passed each other on the street. Devon suspected the kids in one car—seniors—were passing around some whisky and some reefer, and worried that their impromptu party might get out of hand.
“Cecily, get real, okay?” he said, turning to her as some guy mooned them from another car. “How many kids did your mother say you could have over?”
“A few.”
“How many’s a few?”
“Look, Devon. She’s up with Grandmama. She won’t even hear us if we stay in the parlor.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “She said like no more than five or six, right?”
Cecily smirked. “Try four or five.”
“Oh, great, Cecily. We’ve got two whole cars following us, and some of them we don’t even know. A few of the seniors are pretty messed up, too.”
“Stop worrying, Devon.”
Devon sighed. He didn’t want to come off as a drag, but something didn’t feel right in his gut. This was, after all, the anniversary of Emily Muir’s death, and a bunch of messed-up kids were coming to party at Ravenscliff—where there was only a mad ghost and a Hell Hole full of demons to worry about.
Why can’t I just have a normal life? Devon wished, not for the first time.
Inside the house, they were greeted by a giant jack-o’-lantern placed on a table in the foyer, a candle flickering inside. Cecily insisted that everyone keep their voices down, but most of the kids couldn’t help whooping over the exotic trinkets in the parlor. “Check out this suit of armor,” gushed one of the seniors, his eyes spacey and bloodshot. “Awesome …” He lifted the visor. “Can I try it on?”
“No,” Devon said forcefully, shutting the visor. “Why don’t you just go sit down on the sofa? Take a load off your feet.”
“Not a bad idea, man,” he agreed, shuffling off.
“Look at those dudes,” D.J. said. “They’re already higher than King Kong on the Empire State.”
That was for sure. Devon watched as two seniors, both dressed as vampires, made out with two junior girls dressed as Barbie dolls. Most of the kids he recognized from school, even if he didn’t know their names. Only two were completely unfamiliar to him. One was wearing a lizard mask and the other sported Freddy Krueger makeup. They were raptly inspecting the shrunken heads in the bookcases.
A couple of guys dressed as cowboys, who Devon recognized from biology class, were lighting up cigarettes and usi
ng the eye sockets of a skull as their ashtray.
“No smoking in the house,” Devon told them, pushing them out onto the terrace.
He turned to see Cecily and Marcus dancing—a freaky sight, given that they were dressed as Bo Peep and Frankenstein’s monster. Natalie jacked up the volume; rap music incongruously filled the parlor—a place where Devon imagines Horatio Muir once sat languidly listening to Mendelssohn and Wagner.
How he even knew who those composers were, Devon wasn’t sure. But he did, and he knew something else. This was not the kind of activity that should be taking place in the great parlor of Ravenscliff.
He stalked over to Cecily, his sorcerer’s cape swinging majestically around his legs. “Excuse me, but don’t you think this is getting the least bit out of control?”
“Devon, can’t we just be shiny, happy people for a change?” Cecily replied, dismissing him with her hand. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to have a party here? How awesome it is to hear music—real music—in this stuffy old house?”
“Cecily, if your mother comes down here—”
“Eeeeeewwwwww!”
They turned. Even over the thud-thud-thud of the music, they could hear Natalie’s cry of revulsion. She was standing in front of the bookcase, scrunching her face as the kid in the lizard mask next to her stuck out his tongue.
“That was so gross,” Nat was saying. “Do it again.”
The kid complied, sticking out a long, slithery, pointed pink tongue from the snout of his mask. “Eeeewww,” Natalie said again, laughing and recoiling at the same time.
Another girl had walked up to see it too. “How do you do that?” she asked. “Is it curled up inside there?” She tapped the mask.
Out darted the tongue again.
“Who is he?” the girl asked Natalie, cracking up.
Natalie giggled, looking up at the lizard. “Do we even know you?”
Devon was watching them intently. It was like a movie in slow motion, the rap music soundtrack fading off in his mind. It was replaced with a high-pitched vibration, matched at that very moment with an overpowering gust of heat.
Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 24