Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series)

by Geoffrey Huntington

  “Then maybe what I saw was Isobel crying over her son. But I’m certain the woman in the vision was from my own time. She was in the tower at Ravenscliff. What connection is there?”

  “What is Ravenscliff?” Gisele asked.

  He looked at her. “It’s my home.”

  Even with all the horrors he’d had to face since coming there, Ravenscliff had indeed become his home. With his father gone, Ravenscliff and Misery Point and the people who lived there—Cecily, Alexander, Rolfe, D.J., Marcus, Natalie—have become his only family. He felt terribly homesick thinking about them—people who didn’t even exist yet.

  “Stay here with us, Devon,” Gisele said. “You are among your own kind here. You can come back with me to my country. You will like it there, Devon. I promise you.”

  “The assembly adjourns for the moment,” Wiglaf announced. “Even Nightwing need time to heed the call of nature.” He smiled. “Why don’t you walk among them, Devon? Clear your thoughts.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “We reconvene in an hour,” the Guardian told him. “I will look for you inside the hall.”

  Devon agreed, bidding Wiglaf and Gisele farewell for the moment. He wandered off through the garden. Nightwing were everywhere, their capes snapping in the breeze, their rubies and emeralds flickering in the moonlight.

  Stay here, Devon. You are among your own kind.

  My own kind.

  It was true, Devon realized. Back home he was isolated and alone, stumbling through life not fully understanding his Nightwing powers or heritage. In his own time, it was a game of chance, hoping Rolfe could find some answers in his father’s books or that Mrs. Crandall might be forced into revealing some of what she knew. Here, Devon could attend a Nightwing school, grow up with other Nightwing, become a great sorcerer …

  But forget about watching television. Or getting his driver’s license. Or playing basketball. Or posting photos on Facebook or Tumblr.

  Or ever seeing Cecily again.

  But there was Gisele, Cecily’s double—and in this time, Cecily had the same powers as he did. How cool would that be, back at home? There he could only share his powers with his friends in times of crisis. Here he and Gisele were equals.

  And she looked and sounded just like Cecily. And her father looked and sounded like Rolfe. Devon had met Marcus’ double and he suspected he’d meet doubles for D.J. and Natalie and Alexander, too, and maybe other people in his life. It would be like having all his friends with him.

  Except it wasn’t.

  “What’ll it be, man?”

  Devon looked up. Without even being aware of it, he had wandered into a room that looked like a tavern. Many Nightwing were filling their mugs with ale, laughing heartily among themselves. A few spotted Devon and nodded graciously to him.

  “An ale for you, too, young sir?” the man behind the bar asked again.

  “Um, sure,” Devon said.

  “Here you go.” The bartender, a portly, bearded man with muttonchop sideburns, slid over a mug to Devon. “You’re the young Nightwing that battled the Witch, are you not?”

  Devon nodded, leaning against the bar. “Yeah. I had help, though.”

  “Well, of course you did, lad. If not for the ladies, we’d all be sliding down those infernal holes with the devils and the hobgoblins.”

  Devon nodded. The ale was bitter. He set it down, figuring he’d rather keep a clear head. He looked around the room. It could have been a bar anytime, anywhere. It could have been Stormy Harbor. The men drinking beer, carrying on, getting a little too loud.

  “Everything but a jukebox, eh?” the bartender said, leaning in over the counter at him.

  “Yeah. Everything but—” Devon spun around. “Hey! How do you know about jukeboxes?”

  The bartender tapped his head. “I can see things sometimes. I saw what you were thinking. You were thinking about another time.”

  Devon nodded. “Yeah. My own time. Where I want to return.”

  The bartender chuckled. “Well, I’m not sure why, young sir. You’re a hero here in the fifteenth century. You could have quite the glorious future ahead of you.”

  Devon laughed. “I don’t care about that.”

  “Really? Why, every sorcerer dreams of being a great and glorious hero, does he not?”

  “You’re obviously not Nightwing. That’s not what it’s about. If that’s what you’re after, you’re never going to become very powerful.” He sighed. “All power comes from good, and must be used in pursuit of good.”

  “Your Guardian teaches you well,” the bartender said, clearly impressed.

  “Yeah. I guess I’m getting the hang of it.”

  “You will have many friends here, sir. I am certain of it.”

  Devon nodded. “I already do. I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad. It could be a lot worse.” His voice choked. “But I can’t just keep jumping from place to place. My dad died not so long ago, and well, I finally found a place where I feel at home. Where I finally found friends. Even a family. A family that somewhere, in some corner of another time, is in danger. And I want to help them. Not because I want to be a hero, but because I love them.”

  The bartender smiled sympathetically. For the first time Devon thought he’d seen him before, but couldn’t quite place his face.

  “Then you truly are getting the hang of being a Nightwing, good sir,” the bartender said. He gestured to Devon’s mug of ale. “Too bitter for you?”

  “Uh, yeah. But it’s okay.”

  “No, I’ve got another keg in the antechamber across the room. Would you be a good lad and fetch it for me?”

  “Really, you don’t need to on my account,” Devon told him.

  “It would be a grand favor to me if you’d do it.”

  “Okay.” Devon looked at the wooden door toward which the bartender is pointing. “Through there?”

  “Aye, good sir. Many thanks.”

  Devon crossed the room, shouldering past Nightwing who seemed to be growing louder and more tipsy with each ale they consumed. They called after him heartily, clapping him on the back. Devon smiled, but didn’t stop to talk. He reached the door and pulled the iron ring to open it.

  He peered inside. The room was dark. He looked back at the bartender, who smiled and nodded.

  “Go on ahead, young sir. Inside.”

  Where have I seen him? Devon thought, trying to remember. His face—I’ve seen his face…

  Devon moved into the room, only to realize it was a set of stairs leading up into an attic. The itchy odor of dust and mold reached his nostrils as he started up the steps. At the top of the stairs was another door.

  This is strange, Devon said. He said the keg was in an antechamber, not in the attic.

  He pushed open the door.

  At once he was struck by light. Bright, electrical light.

  He was not in any attic.

  He realized—looking around—that he was back at Ravenscliff, in his own time.

  And he realized one thing more: Morgana—Isobel the Apostate—was coming straight at him!

  A Revelation

  “So,” she said. “We meet again.”

  She threw back her hood to reveal her face. She was the cloaked figure he’d seen right before he went down the Staircase Into Time. Isobel’s bewitching eyes ensnared him anew.

  “No,” Devon said, turning from them.

  As he did so, he realized he was in the upstairs corridor of Ravenscliff. How much time had passed since he’d been gone? Was it too late to save Cecily and the others?

  “They are all dead,” Isobel said calmly, almost sympathetically. “There is no point in your fighting any longer. If you learned anything from your little visit to the past it’s that I don’t give up easily. Even burning at the stake couldn’t stop me.”

  He suspected she was lying. From where he was standing, he was able to glance into his room, grateful that he
’d left the door ajar. The digital clock at the side of his bed glowed the time: 9:02. The clock had chimed nine o’clock just before he’d gone down the Staircase. While nearly two days had elapsed during his time in the past, he’d returned just a couple of minutes after he left.

  “You still need me to open the Hell Hole,” Devon said, keeping his eyes averted. “If my friends are dead, you have nothing to bargain with. You may as well kill me, too, because I’m not opening that portal.”

  “Perhaps I no longer need you to help me,” Isobel said. “Perhaps I have discovered someone else who can. Another Nightwing!”

  “I sealed that portal,” Devon said. “Only I can open it.”

  “You silly child. I’ve had five hundred years to observe history.” Her black eyes seemed to pulse with fire. A smile drawn with malice stretched across her face. “You told me in the past that you weren’t sure from which line you sprang. But I know, Devon. I’ve discovered who you are. I watched it all unfold from the world beyond. Do you hear me, Devon March? I know who you are!”

  Without intending to, his eyes shifted back to Isobel’s face.

  “Yes, Devon. Don’t you want to know?”

  He gulped. He tried to look away but cannot.

  “Don’t you want to know from which line you come? From which line of Nightwing you can claim descent?”

  He said nothing as she approached. Her laughter, low and mocking, started deep in her throat.

  “You come from my line, Devon March. Mine! In your blood runs my blood! We are the same, you and I!”

  “No!” he shouted, just as she closed in, arms outstretched.

  He disappeared from her grasp, leaving her hands clenching only air.

  He reappeared downstairs, just in time to slug a demon in the face that was looming over Cecily, ready to bite off her head.

  “Back to your Hell Hole!” he commanded, and the thing was gone.

  He was furious, outraged.

  It can’t be true! I am not like her!

  “Back to your Hell Holes!” he shouted, louder and deeper than he’d ever shouted before. “All of you!”

  He realized suddenly that he was growing—bigger, taller. He was a giant, ten feet or more, and his voice reverberated like deep thunder. He lorded over the beasts, who suddenly cowered in awe. The lights in the house dimmed as a great wind spiraled through the house. The marauding demons shouted in pain and surprise, and within seconds all of them were gone.

  Devon shrunk back to his normal size.

  He rushed to Cecily, who was slumped at the foot of the stairs covering her head. “You okay?” he asked.

  She nodded, realizing it was safe to look up. “I think so.” She squinted at him. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  He realized he was still in fifteenth-century clothes.

  “Is that real fur?” she asked. “It better not be.”

  “Never mind now,” Devon told her, hurrying into the parlor. The place was in shambles. Books were strewn all over the floor, the suit of armor was smashed. Shards of glass from the window crunched underfoot as Devon made his way to check on his friends. D.J. and Marcus, scratched and bleeding and with their clothing torn, were helping Natalie to the couch.

  “Is she okay?” Devon asked.

  “Not sure,” D.J. said. “She took a pretty bad hit.” He made a face at Devon. “Dude, what’s with those clothes?”

  “Never mind that for now,” Devon said. “Where are you hurt, Natalie?”

  “I think I broke my ankle,” she said. “Got carried away with my kicks, I guess.”

  “An ankle can be fixed,” Devon said.

  “Yes, it can.” They look around. Bjorn had come into the room carrying his purple sack. “May I look at it?”

  Natalie nodded. She winced as the little man removed her shoe and examined her ankle. Bjorn fumbled through his bag and produced a salve. He rubbed it over the swollen area, then bound the ankle with a green bandage. “Give it an hour or so,” he told her. “Don’t put any pressure on it until then.”

  “An hour?” Natalie asked. “Shouldn’t I go down to the clinic and get a cast or something?”

  The gnome shrugged, standing. “If you prefer.”

  “Trust him, Natalie,” Devon told her.

  Bjorn looked up at him. “If only you thought the same.”

  “I’m sorry, Bjorn. I really am. I should’ve trusted you.”

  The gnome eyed him with interest. “Your clothes suggest you have made the timeslip and returned.”

  “I’ve been to the past, if that’s what you mean.”

  Bjorn grinned. “I was wondering when it would happen. I never got the chance to thank you, my friend, for rescuing me that day in the witch’s castle. I’ve been waiting some five hundred years to thank you.” He laughed. “It seemed you’ve made a habit of saving me. I am truly grateful.”

  “And I to you.” Devon smiled. “Is that why you came here to Ravenscliff? Because you knew me in the past?”

  “No, ’twas but a happy coincidence. I recognized you that first day, knew you were a great Nightwing. But it was clear you had not yet lived our first meeting, that your own time continuum had yet to catch up with mine. After you told me you feared Isobel the Apostate was coming, I suspected it would be soon that you would make your timeslip. And I hoped that when you returned, you might trust me finally.”

  “I do.” Devon looked around. “Now we have to work together to stop her. She’s in the house, and she’ll attack again soon.”

  Bjorn shuddered. “You have humiliated her once more by overpowering her demons,” he said. “She will lick her wounds for a bit now, so we have some time to prepare. But not much.”

  Devon was confused about something. “How did you know I’d return to this time, Bjorn? You had no way of being sure I’d make it back here.”

  “True enough. I wasn’t positive. But I suspected you would. For you became quite the legend in the fifteenth century—the young Nightwing hero who disappeared forever from Witenagemot, never heard nor seen from again.”

  “Really? Awesome.”

  “Wiglaf said he felt certain you’d gone back to your own time. I only had to wait half a millennium to find out for sure.”

  Devon smiled. “It’s so weird. For me, it’s been only a matter of minutes.”

  “You’ve been to the past?” Marcus asked. “That’s why you’re dressed like that?”

  “But, dude,” D.J. added. “When did you go there? I mean, we’ve all been right here…”

  “I’m not quite sure how I got back here,” Devon admitted. “There was this guy, at a pub, and he led me to Horatio’s Staircase—”

  He stopped speaking suddenly, glancing up at the portrait that hung over the mantel. Somehow, even with all the commotion caused by the demons, the portrait of Horatio Muir remained intact. It hung there still, its eyes glaring into Devon’s soul.

  “It was him!” Devon shouted. “It was Horatio Muir!”

  “Ah,” Bjorn said, nodding. “The great Master of Time himself.”

  “Wait a minute,” Cecily said. “You actually went back into the past, Devon? How is that possible? When did you have the time? One minute you were over there in the corridor and the next you were on the stairs, wearing those silly clothes, helping me.” She eyed the trim of his doublet disapprovingly. “Please tell me that’s not real fur.”

  “I spent two days in the past, but only missed minutes here.”

  “Two days?” Marcus asked. “That’s impossible!”

  “No, it’s not,” Devon assured him. “And it gave me plenty of time to learn about Isobel.” He glanced up toward the stairs. “We have no time to talk. She’s here. She’s still determined to open the portal.”

  “But you’ve showed her you’re stronger than she is,” D.J. said. “Look at how, when you got mad enough, you just sent all those nasties right back to their Hell Holes.”

  Devo
n sighed. “That might not matter now. She said she’s found another Nightwing to help her.”

  He noticed Bjorn shudder.

  “You know who she means, don’t you?” he asked the gnome.

  “I—I can’t—”

  Devon grabbed him by the front of his shirt and lifted him a couple inches off the ground. “Yes, you can! We’re equal now, Bjorn! Our time continuums or whatever they are have caught up to each other! I suggest you tell me what you know. Finally!”

  “I suggest you put him down,” came a voice from the landing at the top of the stairs.

  Looking up, they all gasped.

  “Grandmama!” Cecily shouted.

  Old Mrs. Muir, fully poised and sane, began descending the stairs.

  “What a mess,” said Greta Muir, looking around the parlor. With a wave of her hand, she fixed everything: the shattered windows, the broken chandeliers, the scattered books, the smashed suit of armor. In an instant the room looked as if nothing had ever happened.

  No one could manage to utter a word.

  “Really, Mother,” Mrs. Crandall said, following her now into the room with Edward coming up behind. “Such ostentatious displays of power—”

  “Oh, hush, Amanda,” the old woman told her impatiently. “You know I can’t think with such clutter.”

  “But there are others present.”

  Mrs. Muir eyed D.J. and Natalie and Marcus, then turned her gaze upon Devon.

  “They are not others, Amanda,” she said. “They are the comrades of a sorcerer.”

  Devon was staggered. “How—I mean—you were—”

  The old woman smiled. “Before I married my husband, I was an actress. Did you know that? They were small parts, mostly B-pictures, but the reviewers said I had ‘spunk.’” She laughed. “It would seem that I still have a gift. I could have won an Oscar for that crazy old lady routine, eh, Edward?”

  “Yes, Mother,” her son obediently agreed.

  “You were acting?” Devon was stunned. “You were never—crazy?”

  “There were reasons for the deception, Devon,” Mrs. Crandall insists.