“Dude,” D.J. told him, “we’re stationary til you get back. Deal with it.”
Mrs. Crandall loomed over them. “I’m telling you, all of you will have to go home now.”
“Amanda,” Rolfe called over to her. “Your mother is no doubt already getting agitated.”
She looked back over at him significantly.
“And you may want to be with her,” he added.
She seemed to consider something, then turned to Cecily. “You and your friends are not to leave the parlor. Do you understand?”
“They won’t leave this room, Mrs. Crandall,” Devon assured her. “You have my word.”
She looked at him fully for the first time. There was emotion in her face—feelings that had been tightly coiled for decades. They barely broke the surface, but in her eyes Devon could see the pain, the fear, the concern. Mrs. Crandall reached over and cupped Devon’s cheek in her hand. She said nothing, but her eyes held his. Then she turned and swept out of the room.
“So she knows,” Devon asked, as he approached Rolfe. “She knew all along about my powers.”
“I don’t know how long she knew about them,” Rolfe said. “But she asked no questions when I told her that you were the only one who could try to save Alexander.”
“And she wasn’t surprised? She didn’t seem at all surprised that I was Nightwing?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then she has to know who my parents are!”
Yet that mystery faded into the horrifying immediacy of the present. Rolfe held a book open in his palm, and he was reading intently. Devon wasn’t sure what it was, but he recognized it as one of the volumes Rolfe had said belonged to his father.
“Devon,” whispered Cecily’s voice behind him.
He turned to face her. Her mascara was dripping down her face. She stood there in her ancient hoop skirts, like some forlorn belle of the civil war. She couldn’t seem to find the words to fit her feelings. Neither could Devon. He just embraced her. Crinoline crinkled between them.
“Oh, Devon,” Cecily finally said. “Please be careful. Please come back to me.”
“I will,” he said, and they kissed briefly. She was crying too hard to remain in his embrace. Natalie was behind her, gently taking her away.
Devon looked back at his friends. Would he ever see them again?
He remembered the pentagram he saw on Marcus’s face. Would he ever know what it meant? Would he ever know the answers to so many mysteries?
Or was this it? Was this is his destiny—to come to Ravenscliff and to be lost in the Hell Hole forever?
“Devon,” Rolfe said. “Are you ready?”
He nodded. “Let’s go.”
D.J. gave him a high five. “Go whoop some demon butt.”
Devon smiled.
Rolfe had the key to the East Wing door. Apparently Mrs. Crandall had given it to him. He unlocked the door, which creaked open in his grip. They walked past the steps leading up to the tower, Devon wondering for a moment about yet another mystery that was hidden there and whether he’d ever learn the truth.
Silently, he and Rolfe passed down the corridor, finding the dusty old back stairs. Brushing aside cobwebs, they climbed to the top and emerged into the upper corridor of the East Wing, where Devon had explored with Alexander. He looked once more at the dead gas fixtures on the walls, the faded swans of the wallpaper. Ahead, the moonlight barely revealed the stained glass of God casting Lucifer into hell. Devon allowed himself a moment to muse on the irony, then cast the thought away.
“Devon,” Rolfe said huskily, as his flashlight cut a hole through the darkness, “I wouldn’t blame you if you backed out. There’s still time.”
“I wouldn’t be much of a Nightwing then, or you much of a Guardian,” Devon replied.
Rolfe looked down at him. In the glow of the flashlight, Devon could see Rolfe’s powerful green eyes. “We’re both new at these roles, Devon. My father wasn’t able to teach me very much. I’m afraid it’s true that I’m not much of a Guardian. I wish I knew more, that I could you give you advice on what to do or what you might find.”
Devon shrugged. “You’re all I’ve got.”
“And you’re all Alexander has,” Rolfe said seriously.
They’d entered the old upstairs parlor now. They moved stealthily through to the inner chamber. Standing before the door to the windowless room, Devon discovered the heat here was almost unbearable, burning his face like a sunlamp. Devon could see Rolfe recoil from it too.
“Rolfe,” Devon said, suddenly thinking of something. “What made you come to Ravenscliff tonight? What made you show up when you did?”
Rolfe turned his eyes to him. “I had a visitor,” he said plainly.
“Who?” Devon asked.
“Never mind that now.” He opened the door. Heat rushed out at them as if from an oven. They both cringed but pushed on.
Inside, the flashlight’s beam revealed the room as Devon remembered it: pitch-black and coated in a thick layer of dust. The beam fell upon the books, the rolltop desk, the portrait that looked so much like Devon.
“You see?” he whispered. “It could be me.”
Rolfe studied it, moving the flashlight to illuminate first the face, then the neck, then the hands, and then the face again. “Yes,” he agreed. “It certainly could be.”
“Rolfe,” Devon said, “if I don’t make it out of there, promise me you’ll still try to find out who I was. Where I came from. Somehow, I feel if you find out, I’ll know too.”
Rolfe gazed down sadly at the boy. “I promise, Devon.”
“And tell Cecily …” He choked up. “Tell her that I … that I …”
Rolfe smiled. “I think she already knows, Devon.” He paused. “But I’ll tell her anyway.”
The flashlight beam fell on the bolted door.
There wasn’t much time, but Rolfe slid several old volumes out of the bookcase. He blew off the accumulated dust and held the flashlight over them. He commenced reading:
“And in the beginning there were only the Creatures of Light and Darkness. Their masters were the elemental gods—of Fire, of Wind, of Sea, of Earth—omnipotent rulers of nature, neither good nor evil. It was left to their shifting, roiling, restless creatures to forge the battle lines between what we know today as heaven and hell.”
Devon listened, but it was difficult to concentrate. Was he learning finally about who and what he was—only to march into his doom?
Rolfe had turned several pages and was scanning them with the flashlight. “While the Creatures are immortal, the world around them teemed with mortal life, blooming and fading with the seasons. Such life became the pawns in the struggle between the Creatures. The Demons claimed the plants of poison and thorn, the beasts who ate flesh, and the snakes of the grass; the Angels held sway over the herbivores and the flowers, the birds of the air and the trees of life-giving fruit.”
“Rolfe,” Devon said. “All that, I’m sure, will make for fascinating reading some rainy day when I’ve got a fire going and a cup of Nesquik in my hands. But right now I need some practical how-tos, cuz I’m pretty clueless about jumping into Hell Holes and rescuing little boys.”
Rolfe sighed. He put down the book and looked into the bookcase with his flashlight. “Here,” he said, pulling out another book. “All right, listen to this. ‘A Sorcerer derives his power from the Creatures of the other realms, but the source of their power remains with the neutral gods of the elemental universe. Anything that upsets the balance of the world upsets the distribution of power between good and evil: that is, the selfish claiming of power or the usage of sorcery for one’s own gain. Such action tips the scales away from the universal equilibrium.’”
Devon was getting impatient. “Translation, please, Rolfe.”
“Good is more powerful than evil,” Rolfe told him plainly. “A creature like Jackson Muir disrupts the balance of power that keeps everything ticking.”
Devon remembered his f
ather’s words. All power comes from good, he’d said. All truth. Trust in the truth, Devon, and you will always win.
“The truth,” Devon said dreamily.
“The truth, my friend,” Rolfe echoed, “is that you will return, and you’ll return with Alexander.”
Devon swallowed. Terror had him by the throat now; he could barely breathe. He knew that fear was his downfall, but how could he deny it? Words were impossible. He stared at the steel door in front of him. He could hear them now, scuttering and scampering behind it.
Let us out. Open the door. Let us out.
“But, Rolfe, if I open the door to get in, the demons will get out,” Devon said.
“No. The book explains that the Nightwing can enter a portal without allowing anything to escape. It opens only for you, not for them.”
Devon just stood there. He wasn’t sure what to do next. Did he attempt to slide back the bolt? He knew he couldn’t do it with his hands …
“There’s one more thing, Devon,” Rolfe was saying. “Something I remember both my father and yours saying, and saying often. The Nightwing must believe utterly in his power. You must believe, Devon, if you are to succeed. Remember your confidence against the demons. Remember what you did down in the parlor tonight.”
“But that was on my turf,” he croaked, his mouth as dry as the desert. “Now I’m on their side of the fence.”
Rolfe bore down at him. “You must believe, Devon.”
Did he? Devon thought of the way he ordered the demon to release Natalie. The way he’d been able to send each and every one of the things that had attacked him back to their Hell Holes. The way he’d even been able to empower his friends.
But he’d been powerless against Jackson Muir before.
Remember, Devon, you are stronger than any of them.
Any of them.
ANY OF THEM!
He stood tall in his sorcerer’s boots. In his pants pocket he grasped the medal of the owl and the lady, which he’d been sure to bring along.
He turned to Rolfe. “I believe,” he said firmly.
“Then concentrate on the door.” Rolfe pulled back a little. “That’s as far as I can counsel you, my friend. I wish you Godspeed.”
Devon trained his sight on the door. So heavy. Its large bolt seemed so secure. He imagined it had been sealed magically by the benevolent power of Horatio Muir, and then again by his son Randolph. He visualized the demons that lurked behind the door. He could see Alexander among them. And suddenly he remembered the boy’s words.
You’re not going to go away or anything on me—are you?
“I’m coming for you, Alexander!” Devon shouted. “Do you hear me? I’m coming to get you and bring you home!”
The bolt on the door trembled.
This is it, then, Devon thought. What I came to find.
He knew now that his entire life had been pointing toward this moment. Every encounter with the demons in his room, every lesson taught by his father, every flex of his power had been in preparation for this. All those nights lying awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why he was the way he was—here, now, was the answer. This was why. This was the destiny his father had sent him to Ravenscliff to find. Here, behind a locked door in a secret room in a forgotten part of a mysterious old house. After all these years, here was Devon’s answer.
He felt subsumed by his power then, as if his heart had suddenly ceased pumping blood and instead replaced it with raw energy—a passion, a magic, that flowed vigorously through every one of Devon’s veins and arteries. He stood up tall, took in a long, deep breath—and the bolt on the door slid easily and smoothly from its place.
The metal door creaked open to reveal the blackness within.
The heat.
For several seconds that was all Devon was aware of—the staggering heat, like none he’d ever felt before. An old memory resurfaced: as a little boy, opening his closet and tossing in his teddy bear, only to see it disappear into nothingness. Try as he might, Devon couldn’t find Teddy among his shoes and sneakers. Not until several days later did Teddy turn up, far back in the corner of the closet, as if spit up by the demons of the nether regions. Teddy was burnt to a crisp, his fur nearly gone, one scorched button eye staring up at Devon.
“The heat will not burn me,” Devon said now, but his voice sounded odd, displaced.
He tried to look around but saw nothing. The room was gone; Rolfe was gone. There was only darkness, horrible and complete.
He was walking, but there was nothing beneath his feet, nothing solid. For a second Devon recognized panic, brewing somewhere down deep inside him, but he was able to suppress a mutiny over his thoughts. He kept moving forward into the heat.
Now he could hear them. And smell them, too—rancid and rotting. “Take me with you,” something whispered in his ear. “Such power you’ll have then. I can give you so much!”
“No, not him! Me!” came another voice. Devon could feel its slimy body pressing against him, so cold despite the heat. “Take me with you, master!”
He brushed both of them aside. There was a light up ahead. He seemed to make out a door: a door he recognized. He reached it and placed his hand on the knob.
“Devon,” came a voice from the other side.
He opened the door. He was back in his old house in Coles Junction, the house where he grew up. The door led into Dad’s room. He was in bed. Everything was as it was: the bedside table with the pills and the empty bottles of ginger ale; the radio playing classical music softly in the background; Dad propped up with pillows, shirtless and gray.
“Dad,” Devon said in a small voice.
“Devon,” his father rasped. “Devon, come to me.”
He obeyed. He nearly fell at his father’s bedside, grabbing the old man’s hands in his own and staring up into his eyes.
“Why are you here, Dad? Why are you in the Hell Hole?”
“Oh, Devon,” his father said. “How disappointed I am in you.”
The words stabbed him as surely as a knife in his gut. “Why, Dad? Why? I’ve tried so hard …”
“But you’ve failed, Devon. You failed me. The boy … the little boy … the Madman has taken him. You should have prevented it.”
Devon looked pleadingly at his father. “I’m trying to, Dad! I’m trying to save Alexander.”
“Bah!” His father withdrew his hand. “You are a failure, Devon. Your powers are nothing.”
Devon began to tremble. This was his worst fear, always lurking down deep in his thoughts. I won’t live up to what Dad hoped. I won’t discover what he sent me here to find.
“Dad, please. I’m trying …”
His father scowled. “How you’ve disappointed me, Devon. I had hoped for so much more from you. But you are not nearly as strong as Jackson Muir.”
Devon felt the tears well in his eyes. What point was there in going on now? If even Dad felt he wasn’t strong enough …
He suddenly looked up at his father. “Dad, you always said I was stronger than any of them …”
“You’re not, Devon! He’s stronger than you!”
His voice. Something about Dad’s voice.
Devon stood up. “You’re not my father!” he charged.
The eyes of the sick old man in the bed began to glow.
“You’re not my father!” Devon shouted. “My father always believed in me! He still does! He still does!”
The creature in the bed began to transform. He threw his head back, laughing, revealing his fangs. Devon watched as the room around him dissolved. The floor beneath him disappeared, and he found himself falling, his cape billowing up around him. He dropped through a burning nothingness, the velocity of his fall increasing. If he hit anything solid, he’d die—splattered to bits on the surface of this Hell Hole.
But there was no surface here—it was all an illusion, he told himself. Even this fall …
“You need to believe in yourself,” he heard Rolfe say.
&nb
sp; I am not falling, Devon said. I am stable, strong. In control.
Immediately the sensation of falling was gone. Devon stood on what seemed to be solid ground. But it was still dark, utterly black. He felt the medal in his pocket through his pants.
Give me light, Devon commanded.
All at once he could see. There were giant arc lamps hanging above him. Devon glanced around. He appeared to be on a soundstage of sorts; there were cameras and monitors and electrical wires. A frayed red velvet curtain separated the backstage area, where he appeared to be, from someplace else.
A place he suspected he’d seen before.
He heard the music then, indistinct at first, but gradually becoming more familiar.
The theme from The Major Musick Show.
“Welcome, boys and girls,” came the raspy voice of the unseen clown as Devon stepped through the curtain onto a wooden floor. He looked around. An unmanned television camera rolled threateningly towards him, as if to record a close-up. Above, the arc lamps hummed as they pulsated near blinding light onto the set.
Devon’s eyes scanned the room. He saw the bleachers, with their rows of blank-eyed children. Devon tried to make out Alexander, but he was suddenly distracted by a hand on his shoulder. A hand cracking with cakey white makeup.
He turned to stare face to face with Major Musick.
“Today’s guest star is Devon March,” the creature croaked. “Won’t you all join me in welcoming him?”
The boys in the bleachers began to clap their hands emotionlessly, like windup toys. Devon looked up into the two television monitors overhead. In one, he could see himself standing with the clown on the set. In the second, he saw Rolfe, Cecily, D.J., Marcus, and Natalie, all huddled together, looking in.
They’re watching me, Devon realized. On one of the TV sets Mrs. Crandall had hidden from Alexander.
The clown’s repulsive breath was in Devon’s face.
“The word for today, boys and girls, is Devon’s death!” He cackled wildly. “Oh! That’s two words, isn’t it! Silly old clown am I!”
Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 26