Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series)

by Geoffrey Huntington

  Devon glared at him. “Two words you’re not going to ever say again!”

  He lunged, grabbing the filthy clown around his waist and toppling him into the camera. It crashed with shuddering force beneath them. But as soon as they hit the floor there was nothing in Devon’s arms but the clown’s tattered white robe. Devon spun around and looked up.

  Looming over him was Jackson Muir.

  “Such a rash young fellow,” the Madman spoke.

  Devon could not move. It was the first time Jackson had spoken in his own voice. It was a deep, commanding sound, with arrogance dripping like warm syrup from his lips. Jackson towered over Devon’s fallen form, an enormously tall man with blazing black eyes and raven hair. He was dressed all in black, a red carnation in his lapel.

  “Look at you,” Jackson Muir boomed. “Wearing my old clothes. The clothes of the Nightwing. Did you think they would make you more powerful? That somehow they’d frighten me—the most powerful Nightwing of all time?”

  The Madman leaned back and laughed. His laughter echoed throughout the hellish soundstage, rising to the rafters. While Jackson’s chin was raised in his own mirth, Devon took the opportunity to look around. The rope to the frayed red curtain was coiled near his hand. With one nod of his head, Devon pulled the rope, and the heavy velvet curtain came crashing down onto Jackson Muir.

  It surprised him for just an instant, but an instant was all Devon needed to slip out from under him.

  “What a naughty boy you are!” Jackson said, grinning widely, as if he was actually enjoying their encounter.

  Maybe he is, Devon thought. It’s been a long time since he’s tangled with anyone who could give him a real run for his money.

  “I’ve come for Alexander,” Devon told him. “I’m taking him back with me.”

  He could feel the power flowing from his hands. He could almost see it hurl through the air, like a torrent of knives, like the blast of a ray gun, aimed at Jackson Muir.

  But with one casual flick of his wrist, Jackson diverted Devon’s power, sending it cannonballing into a far wall. There it burned a hole into the blackness outside.

  “Really, my boy, your Guardian has not taught you very well,” Jackson said, approaching him now. “If it were up to me, I’d hand him his walking papers.”

  “He taught me enough to know that I was stronger than you,” Devon spit.

  “Stronger than me?” Jackson Muir laughed again. “I thought we’d already moved on from that foolish notion.”

  He raised himself to an enormous height. Eight feet now, then nine, and getting taller. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he bellowed. “What I have done?”

  “I know you killed your own family,” Devon told him. “Starting with your wife!”

  The demon’s face twisted into rage. “How dare you mention my wife?”

  “This is the anniversary of Emily’s death,” Devon shouted up at him.

  “I forbid you to say any more!”

  “You can’t forbid me to do anything! I know you grieved for Emily! I know somewhere down deep you still have a soul! You loved her, Jackson! But you killed her!”

  The demon shrieked in rage.

  “Tell me who Clarissa was, Jackson! Why would Emily cry over her grave?”

  “You know nothing,” Jackson raged down at him.

  “I know you might as well have pushed Emily off Devil’s Rock yourself! You drove her there! You killed her!”

  Jackson Muir roared. Suddenly everything changed: the mirage of the television soundstage was gone, and they were in the center of the Hell Hole. But the darkness had been replaced by a fierce, harsh, cruel, yellow light. Devon could see all of the creatures around him clearly now: filthy, slimy, slithering things, moving like worms over and under and around each other. Their bloodshot eyes blinked against the light. Their skin was pallid from eons spent in the darkness. They were like creatures under a rock suddenly exposed to the sun: terrifying and terrified.

  But the demons’ terror turned to fury as they recognized Devon. Their eyes burned; their yellowed talons clawed the air. One reptilian thing nearby hissed, its forked tongue slapping Devon across his face, its breath reeking like old rotting fish.

  “They will devour you as they devoured my fool brother,” intoned the voice of the unseen Jackson Muir. “They will consume you into the very bowels of hell.”

  The things were pressing against Devon from all sides. With all his might he tried to push them away, but it was useless. Tentacles wrapped around his neck from behind. A talon ripped his shirt and clawed his chest. He could feel sharp teeth puncturing the skin of his thigh.

  This is it, Devon thought, just before he lost consciousness. I really have failed. They are eating me alive.

  The Demon Lives

  You are stronger than any of them.

  “Dad?”

  The Nightwing must believe utterly in his power.

  “But I’ve tried … and failed.” As Devon spoke, the tentacles wrapped around his face, leaving him in blackness. “I tried to stand up to Jackson, but he was stronger.”

  He could feel warm blood on his legs where a demon was eating away his flesh. He felt teeth strike bone.

  Believe, Devon. Believe …

  But now he could no longer see or speak. There was nothing left but blackness.

  “Devon,” came a voice, very small.

  The tentacles began to squeeze his head. My skull will crack; my brains will ooze out …

  “Devon, help me!”

  Alexander. It was Alexander.

  “You must believe, Devon.”

  Dad! I’ve got to help Alexander!

  “Then you must believe you can,” his father’s voice spoke, as clear as if he were there in the slithering, slimy mass with him.

  And maybe he was.

  The very thought sparked the last flickering hope deep within Devon’s soul. He moved his hand down his leg, pushing past the scaly, squirming monsters that had gripped his body. Through his pants he felt the outline of the medal of the owl and the lady. Dad’s medal. His charm.

  Devon opened his mouth, tasting the salty puss of the thing that had wrapped itself around his face, and shouted.

  “Get off of me, you filthy hellspawn!”

  The tentacles disappeared. Devon could see again. He looked down. A stupid-looking creature, hairy with fangs, was gnawing away just above his knee.

  “Hey, you!” Devon hollered. “No more free lunch!”

  And he kicked, sending the thing sprawling into the tangle of beastly bodies around them.

  “All of you—out of my face!” Devon commanded.

  And instantly, they were gone.

  He was alone.

  The pain found him then: everywhere, but especially his leg where the thing had been munching away.

  I can’t give in to it, Devon told himself. I have to find Alexander and get out of here.

  Simply by articulating his goal he found himself back on the soundstage. Major Musick was nowhere to be seen. But the children remained motionless in the bleachers.

  “Alexander!” Devon called.

  He could see the boy now, at the end of the row, beside Frankie Underwood. Devon began to run toward him, his leg burning with pain.

  “Alexander!” he called again.

  But the boy remained impassive, staring straight ahead. Devon stood at the edge of the bleachers. His face was about even with Alexander’s.

  “Alexander, it’s me. Devon. Come on, buddy. We’re blowing this joint.”

  Still no response from Alexander.

  “Come on, kid!” Devon shouted. “We haven’t got much time!”

  He encircled the boy’s waist, attempting to pull him off the bleachers. But suddenly there was a hand stopping him, reaching around from the other side to keep Alexander where he was.

  It was Frankie Underwood.

  “Hey!” Devon barked. “I’m trying to save him!”

  Frankie Underwood’s eyes belied t
he immortal youthfulness of his body. They were old eyes, ancient—weary from decades of staring into space.

  “Look, Frankie,” Devon said. “I know who you are. In fact, you’re kind of my brother. Your father was Thaddeus Underwood, and he was my father, too. Come with us, Frankie. I can save you, too.”

  Something flickered in Frankie’s eyes for a second. Something shone: a tear, maybe? But he only tightened his grip on Alexander’s waist.

  “All right, Frankie. I’m sorry to do this to you, but I have no choice.”

  Devon concentrated. All at once Frankie’s arm released Alexander as he tumbled backward into the girl on the other side of him. They made no sound; the whole row of kids went down like dominoes. Devon grabbed ahold of Alexander and lifted him off the bleachers.

  “Going so soon?” boomed a voice.

  A great torrent blew across the stage, sending both Devon and Alexander facedown onto the floor.

  “I wouldn’t hear of it. Why, my little party has just begun!”

  Jackson Muir, towering now twenty feet tall, lumbered into view. His every footstep quaked the ground.

  “I could crush you like roaches under my foot,” he roared.

  Alexander pulled himself out of Devon’s grasp and ran toward the demon giant, his arms outstretched.

  “You see?” Jackson laughed. “The boy wants me.”

  “You want to claim him so you’ll finally be master of Ravenscliff,” Devon said.

  “My rightful heritage,” Jackson replied, and without Devon even noticing the change, the Madman became human-sized again, wrapping Alexander in his arms.

  “Come with us, Devon,” Jackson said, his voice eerily warm and almost kind now, as he held out his hand. “It can be your heritage, too.”

  His eyes dazzled. Devon looked away.

  I mustn’t look at him, he told himself. If I don’t look, I will remain stronger … than any of them …

  “Look at me, Devon.” Jackson said softly.

  “No!”

  “Don’t you want it, Devon? It’s your birthright. The power, Devon. Can’t you feel it? Come. Join us—”

  “Alexander!” Devon called, still averting the Madman’s eyes. “Listen to me. It’s up to you. Make the choice. It’s him or me.”

  Jackson Muir laughed. “He’s already made the choice. Now you choose, Devon. Life or death. Power or nothingness. I told you before, Devon. We are the same, you and I.”

  “Alexander!” Devon shouted, ignoring the Madman. “I am not like him! I am your friend! He is not! You know that!”

  Still not looking at Jackson, Devon managed to catch a glimpse of the boy. His passive expression had changed. Devon could see the conflict there.

  “I came here to save you, Alexander. I came into the Hell Hole to find you. To bring you back. He just wants to use you. To keep you here for his own power.”

  The child looked at him. “You forgot me,” he said in a tiny voice. “You forgot a promise to me. You said you wouldn’t go away but you did.”

  “And I am sorry, Alexander,” Devon said. “You will never know how sorry I am. All I can say is—if you come with me now, I will never forget a promise to you ever again.”

  Jackson Muir was chuckling to himself. “Here, Devon. Look. You see?” He opened his arms and allowed Alexander to stand free. “He is free to go, but he stays. It is his decision to stay with me. Now why don’t you join me, too?”

  Devon kept his eyes trained on Alexander. The boy looked over at him, then back up at Jackson.

  “Alexander, it’s up to you,” Devon said softly.

  The boy looked between the two again.

  Then he trembled a little.

  And bolted toward Devon, who was nearly knocked over in the impact.

  “You’ve done it, Alexander!” Devon exulted. “We’ve won!”

  “No!” roared Jackson, who grew to gargantuan size again. He smashed through the roof of the soundstage, and in the resulting chaos, all light ceased. There was an explosion, and debris bombarded Devon as he tried to shield Alexander in his arms. There was the sensation of flying through the air, then a sudden collision with something solid.

  Then there was nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  “Devon?”

  It was Rolfe’s voice.

  “Where—am I?”

  He sat up. He was back in the secret room. Alexander was slumped beside him.

  “You did it, Devon!” Rolfe exclaimed. “You brought him back!”

  Cecily was there, too. “Oh my God! Your leg!” she cried.

  Devon, still breathing heavily, looked down at himself. Above his right knee where the thing had been chewing, there was a large wound. His black pants were soaked with blood. A puddle was collecting on the floor beneath him.

  Cecily immediately tore off her blouse and wrapped it around Devon’s leg, using it to cauterize the wound. All she was wearing underneath was a brassiere. Black.

  “Sexy,” Devon managed to say, smiling.

  “Rolfe, push his eyes back into his head, will you?” she asked.

  Rolfe lifted Alexander. The boy was groggy, but he was waking up. “Hey, kiddo. You okay?”

  Devon turned to look at the metal door. The bolt was secure again.

  And one thing more, he noticed:

  The heat was gone.

  Cecily helped him to bed, and Doc Lamb, the longtime Muir family practitioner, was called. Devon said he was attacked by an animal in the woods—a “vicious dog,” he thought. He clenched his teeth as the wounds on his chest and leg were cleaned and bandaged. The doctor finished up by giving him a tetanus shot. Devon smiled to himself, wondering if antibiotics can protect against viruses spread by demons from Hell Holes.

  Doc Lamb checked out Alexander, too, and proclaimed him fine. The boy seemed to remember nothing after settling down in the playroom to watch the television.

  One by one the crew came up to visit Devon at his bedside. D.J., then Natalie, then Marcus, and finally the whole gang lined the side of his bed. “We’ve called a meeting for after school tomorrow,” Marcus told him. “You and Cecily need to fill us in. On everything, man.”

  “We took a pledge,” D.J. added. “Not to reveal anything about tonight. But we need to know some answers.”

  Devon smiled. “I know about looking for answers, guys. All right. You’ll get them.”

  They left so that Devon could rest. Cecily remained, however, stroking his hair. Rolfe came back into the room.

  “You proved yourself tonight,” he told him.

  Devon smiled. “I guess I did.” He looked up at Cecily, then back at Rolfe. “But there’s still so much I don’t know, Rolfe. Those guys say they want answers. Well, I’m not sure how much I can tell them cuz I still don’t know why I am the way I am.”

  Rolfe shrugged. “I guess that will just have to wait until we can find out more information on your parents. But I can help you with some things right away, Devon. There are books we can read together. And there are other people out there we can find.”

  “Other people?”

  Rolfe nodded. “Guardians. Maybe we can track down some who can give us more of what we need to know.”

  Devon realized the one person who hadn’t come to see him was Mrs. Crandall. “Your mother, Cecily,” he said. “I still think she knows more than she’s letting on.”

  She nodded. “Maybe all this will force her into telling her secrets.”

  Rolfe laughed. “Don’t count on it. Your mother has spent her life safeguarding secrets.” He looked at Devon. “She was relieved to know you and Alexander were all right. She’s with Alexander now. I expect she’ll come in to see you next.”

  Devon could feel sleep overtaking him. He was exhausted beyond words.

  “Rolfe,” he managed to ask, “do you think Jackson Muir is gone for good?”

  “Hard to say. Once before, we thought he was. But you’ve shown you’re stronger than he is. You brought back the boy, which even Rando
lph Muir was unable to do.”

  Devon lifted his heavy lids. “I saw him. Frankie Underwood, I mean.”

  A sad expression clouded Rolfe’s face.

  “I tried to save him,” Devon said. “But he wouldn’t come.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe it’s been too long for him.”

  They were all quiet a moment, thinking of the freckle-faced boy who had once played happily in this house, now forever lost.

  “Rolfe,” Devon said, his voice hoarse. “I’ve been wanting to ask you. I put the question to Jackson, and he became enraged. Who was Clarissa?”

  Rolfe’s reaction surprised him. If the mention of Frankie had made Rolfe sad, this name seemed to unsettle him even more. His face tightened. “Why do you ask about her, Devon?”

  “Because the ghost of Emily Muir led me to her grave. Who was she, Rolfe?”

  The older man’s eyes glistened. “She was the girl in my car, Devon. The girl whose body was washed out to sea.”

  Devon suddenly felt terrible for raising such a memory. “I’m sorry, Rolfe,” he said.

  Rolfe tousled his hair. “It’s okay. You couldn’t have known.”

  “But what connection does she have? Why would Emily—?”

  “No connection that I know of, my friend.” Rolfe took a deep breath. “Clarissa Jones was just a girl who worked at Ravenscliff, the daughter of a servant. A spirited, happy girl.” His voice cracked. “One whose death I carry around with me, every day of my life. Even if I don’t believe I was driving that night, it was still my car. I was still unable to save her.”

  They were quiet. Devon tried to imagine how Clarissa might fit into all of this, but he couldn’t. He was too sleepy to figure out much right now anyway.

  “We’ll talk more in the morning,” Rolfe assured him. “You need to rest now.”

  “Wait, Rolfe,” Devon said, once again fighting back sleep. “Please. One more thing. You said you had a visitor earlier tonight. Someone who told you what was going down here at Ravenscliff.”

  Rolfe brightened, smiling again. “Yes, Devon, I did have a visitor.” He placed his hand on Devon’s shoulder. “It was Thaddeus Underwood. Your father.”