Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series)

by Geoffrey Huntington

  “You think this is the last of the weirdos from hell dropping by this house?” D.J. asked Devon as he headed out the door.

  Devon doubted it. Not with that portal in the East Wing, and the power that lay beyond it.

  Doctor Lamb gave them all a sympathetic face.

  “I suggest at this point that you just try to keep her comfortable,” he said, standing outside Greta Muir’s room. Devon saw Mrs. Crandall’s eyes burn with repressed tears. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do.”

  The family sat up with her through the night. Devon changed out of his fifteenth-century breeches and slipped into a pair of sweat pants. He sat in the hallway outside Mrs. Muir’s room, leaning against the wall.

  “She’s asking for you, Devon,” Cecily said, sometime around one in the morning, coming out of her grandmother’s room.

  “Me?”

  Cecily nodded. “I’m not sure Mother is planning on telling you. But Grandmama keeps saying your name, over and over.”

  “Should I just go in, then?”

  “I would if I were you.”

  “Your mother will be angry.”

  Cecily smirked. “You just fought an undead Nightwing witch, and you’re afraid of my mother?”

  Devon admitted she had a point. He tiptoed into the old woman’s room. She saw him approach.

  “Devon,” she whispered.

  Mrs. Crandall was sitting beside her bed. “Mother,” she said. “Just try to sleep.”

  “I must talk to Devon,” Greta Muir insisted weakly.

  “You mustn’t—”

  “I—must—”

  Devon stood over her bed. “What is it, Mrs. Muir? Why have you been asking for me?”

  “No, Mother,” Mrs. Crandall said, standing now, trying to block Devon from the old woman’s view.

  “He has a right,” Mrs. Muir rasped, her voice weak. “He should know his past.”

  “Mother, you are talking nonsense.” Mrs. Crandall looked over at him. “Devon, really, she is truly mad now. This is no deception. She is confused, incoherent—”

  “Let me—speak—Amanda!”

  Devon leaned in close to Mrs. Muir. The old woman was clearly fading. It wasn’t so much any bruises or broken bones, but her very spirit that had been sapped by the encounter with the Apostate. She seemed spent and broken, a pale shell of the feisty old woman Devon had met just hours ago in the parlor.

  “Do you know my past, Mrs. Muir?” Devon asked. “Do you know who my parents were?”

  “Mother, please, don’t—” Mrs. Crandall cried.

  The old woman gripped Devon’s hand tightly with her knobby, spotted fingers. “You—must—know—”

  “Know what, Mrs. Muir?”

  “That you—you are one of us—”

  “Yes, Mrs. Muir, I am Nightwing. And I am proud of that heritage. As you said before, I respect the power and those who have come before me.”

  “But you, Devon… you… are…”

  She was trying to tell him something.

  “My parents? Do you know them, Mrs. Muir? Why did my father send me here to Ravenscliff?”

  “You—you—are—”

  “Mother, no!”

  The old woman’s hand suddenly fell away from Devon’s. Her eyes remained open, but Devon knew she was dead.

  Mrs. Crandall knelt beside her mother and cried. Devon wasn’t sure if they were tears of grief or relief—relief that the old woman had died just before she could reveal whatever it was that she knew about Devon’s past.

  The Hell Hole

  Greta Thorne Muir was buried beside her husband out in the old windswept cemetery at the edge of the cliff. It was a simple ceremony, with only the immediate family present: Greta’s two children and two grandchildren, and Devon March.

  After the rest had gone back to the house, Devon stayed behind, watching Bjorn shovel the earth back into the grave.

  “Good thing we’ve had this January thaw,” the gnome said, the soil making a sickening thud against the treated wood of Mrs. Muir’s coffin.

  “Oh, come on,” Devon said, smiling a little. “As if a little frozen earth could stop you. I saw that tunnel you made leading from the village to Isobel’s castle. All with your fingernails, huh?”

  “Yes, that is how I did it,” Bjorn said, pausing in his work and to look down at his nails. “My father tunneled all the way from the Arctic circle to Copenhagen. It was the largest gnome mine ever constructed.”

  “Is it still there?”

  Bjorn shrugged, getting back to shoveling. “Haven’t been back in a while.”

  “So what have you been doing for the last five centuries?”

  “Oh, this and that.” Bjorn laughed. “Do you want a year-by-year account? We’d be here all week!”

  Devon looked up at the sky. It was clear and blue.

  “Tell me what happened to all of them, Bjorn,” he said softly. “Wiglaf. Arnulf and Sybilla.” He paused. “Gisele.”

  “I’m not sure about the others, but Wiglaf finally died in the seventeenth century, around the time of the Civil War in England. Of course, he was heartbroken when his school was destroyed. It happened not too long after you left. He never quite got over it.”

  “The Nightwing school was destroyed? How?”

  “Oh, I’m fuzzy on the details. It must be in one of the history books.”

  Devon nodded. So much to learn still…

  “There,” Bjorn said, finished with his task, patting the earth with the shovel. “May you rest in peace, great lady.”

  Devon looked down at the grave. “She took the secret of my past with her.”

  Bjorn eyed him craftily. “I told you the day we met that you have the power to find out what you need to know.”

  Devon smirked. “Are you suggesting I try to use the Staircase Into Time again? Because if you are, I’m not sure I’d make it back this time.”

  “I don’t mean just the Staircase, Devon. You are a Sorcerer of the Nightwing. You are the only one left in this house now who has such power. They can’t hide the truth from you forever.”

  Devon narrowed his eyes at him. “So tell me who the woman you took from the tower was. I thought at the time it might have been Isobel. But now that idea seems pretty crazy.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you, Devon, that I might not know the answer to that question? I cannot tell you what I do not know.”

  “So you’re admitting you took someone from the tower and brought her to the basement? You just don’t know who she is.”

  The gnome sighed. “You have powers, Devon. Use them.” He flung the shovel over his shoulder. “Come on back to the house. I’ve got to set out dinner.”

  Devon laughed. “You’re a man of many talents, Bjorn. Tunnel-maker, magical chain welder, gravedigger, chef…”

  “You could name them all, but they’d still not be as many talents as you have, my boy.” They started off back through the field toward Ravenscliff. “No, sirree. Not as many as you.”

  When she came to him, it took him by surprise.

  Devon was walking down a long corridor in some medieval castle. Torches burned along the walls, and in their glow he could see blood, glistening in the firelight as it dripped to the floor. Devon heard her laughter moments before he rounded a corner and saw her standing there.

  Isobel the Apostate.

  “Blood of my blood, flesh of my life,” she said, her arms outstretched. “I knew you would not abandon me.”

  Her eyes were black and as beguiling as ever. Devon fell into her arms and felt her mouth, like a vampire’s, upon his throat…

  “No!”

  He sat up in bed. The dream had left him in a cold sweat.

  She’s gone! So why is she still in my dreams?

  Devon swung his feet out of bed and placed them against the cold hardwood floor. His heart was thudding in his chest. Outside his window he could see it was snow
ing lightly.

  I can just have plain old ordinary nightmares, can’t I? That’s all it was. It’s not Isobel. She’s gone. Mrs. Muir defeated her. I saw her ashes in the East Wing.

  A gust of wind rattled the windows. Devon knew he couldn’t get back to sleep now. He looked over at his clock. 3:15. He let out a long sigh.

  What was Mrs. Muir going to tell him right before she died? Had she really known the truth of his past? Why was Mrs. Crandall so desperate to keep her from talking?

  He had a right. He should know his past.

  That was when Devon heard it: the sobbing.

  He sat in rapt silence. The horrible sound came from far away, creeping around corners and up through floorboards. It was the same sound as ever, coming from that hidden room in the basement.

  Who was it? If not Isobel, if not Mrs. Muir—who was it?

  The ghost of someone who once lived here? Emily Muir?

  But he’d seen Bjorn escort a living, breathing woman.

  And whoever—whatever—was being kept in that basement knew Devon’s name.

  He remembered the vision he’d had using Wiglaf’s crystal. A woman—in the tower—crying out for her baby. A baby that was being taken away from her.

  Devon couldn’t stand it anymore. He pulled on his robe and headed out into the corridor. At the landing he saw a light in the foyer. He peered over the railing. Edward Muir was down there in his coat, wrapping a scarf around his neck.

  Devon came halfway down the stairs.

  “Ah, Devon,” Edward said, looking up at him. “I should’ve suspected you’d be prowling about.”

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly my destination. Somewhere. Anywhere but here.”

  Devon noticed there was a suitcase at his feet.

  “I have a flight to London out of Boston at six-thirty,” Edward Muir told him. “From there I’ll head on to Amsterdam. Then down to Greece, I think, where I can charter a boat to take me out into the Aegean. All I want to do is sleep in the sun and forget this wind, this cold, this—”

  “Sobbing?” Devon asked. “You can hear it, can’t you?”

  “Of course I can hear it. I’ve heard it all my life.”

  “Who is it, Edward?”

  “You have so many questions, and I suppose I can’t blame you for asking them. But I can only give you one answer, Devon.” Edward paused. “As soon as you’re old enough, get out of this house. Go as far away as you can.”

  Devon sighed. “Does Mrs. Crandall know you’re leaving?”

  Edward chuckled. “I’ve learned it’s never prudent to clue Amanda in ahead of time about anything. She’ll just try to stop you. Remember that, too, Devon.” He grinned. “Bid my dear sister goodbye for me, will you?”

  From outside a car honks.

  Edward sighed. “Do you know what I had to promise to pay to get a cabbie up here to Ravenscliff in the middle of the night? Stupid villagers.” He smirked, pulling on his gloves. “They think the place is haunted.”

  “But what about Alexander? You can’t just leave without saying goodbye—”

  “Really, Devon, it’s for the best.” Edward lifted his suitcase and headed toward the door. “The boy always makes such a scene when I leave.”

  Devon watched him go. He thought of the little boy asleep upstairs, the little boy who would once again be disappointed by an uncaring father. Once again Devon considered how fortunate he was to have grown up with Ted March as his dad, who gave him everything Edward Muir had never given Alexander. Maybe Devon never got the kinds of expensive gifts Alexander that received from all over the world—and in the next few days he was certain the boy would find some outrageous toy in the mailbox—but Devon got things like support, constancy, and love from Ted March. Alexander was never going to get that from his father, especially not now, humiliated by Morgana, browbeaten by his sister, and once again bested by Rolfe Montaigne.

  “No,” Devon whispered to himself. “Alexander is never going to get what he needs from his father.” He paused. “He’s going to have to get it from me.”

  The sobbing had stopped. Devon no longer had the heart for exploring anyway, so he just headed back to his room, where he lay awake in bed until it was time to get up for school.

  “And you will see here in these illustrations the extravagance of the Tudor period,” Mr. Weatherby was saying, clicking his remote from the back of the room as a series of slides flashed upon a screen. “It was an extravagance intended to give a message of royal authority and security, especially after the King had vanquished the last of the claimants to his throne.”

  Devon watched with fascination. The paradoxes of time continued to boggle his mind. In this life, he’d never left the United States, but five hundred years ago he was in England.

  Later, in a booth at Gio’s, Devon filled in his friends about his timeslip, as Bjorn called it.

  “So you were really in the year 1490,” Marcus said in astonishment.

  “Yeah,” Cecily said. “So tell me more about this girl who was a double of me.”

  “I met doubles of both you and Marcus, as well as Rolfe and your mother,” Devon told her.

  “What about me?” Natalie whines. “Didn’t you see a double of me?”

  “No, but I’m sure you were there.” Devon sat between Natalie and Cecily looking across the table at D.J. and Marcus. “You too, Deej. See, I have this theory that we all have doubles throughout time. I’m sure that if I’d stuck around longer I would’ve seen doubles of everybody I know. Maybe even a double of myself.”

  Gio came by for their order. “Pepperoni with a scald?” he asked.

  “You got it, my man,” D.J. said, nodding and licking his lips. “And would you throw some candied apples on that, too?”

  “Eeew, I hate candy apple pizza,” Cecily said, shuddering. “It has got to be the grossest invention of all time.”

  “I can think of a few sicker,” Marcus said, laughing.

  Devon looked over at him. There it was again: the pentagram hovering over Marcus’ face. What did it mean? One more mystery still unsolved.

  “Back to your story, Devon,” Cecily was saying. “My double was a Nightwing, right? With powers.”

  “Oh, yeah. And she was really good, too.”

  Cecily gritted her teeth in determination. “I want my Nightwing heritage restored. My mother had no right to renounce my powers without my consent. Isn’t there some kind of ritual I can do to get them back?”

  “Oh, like your mother would sit back and allow that,” D.J. said.

  “It’s my birthright!”

  “Be careful what you wish for, Cess. It hasn’t always been so great, you know, growing up with things climbing out of my closet trying to drag me down to hell.”

  “As if that hasn’t been happening to me of late, too.” Cecily sulks. “It would just be nice to have my own powers instead of having to rely on you to lend me some. I’m not the kind of girl who likes depending on a man for everything.”

  “I am,” Natalie said, leaning into Devon. “I totally am.”

  Marcus laughed. “Even still,” he said to Natalie, “you handled yourself pretty well against those demons.”

  Natalie grinned. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

  Devon sighed. “Well, I’m heading over to Rolfe’s after this. There’s so much stuff I still need to know. I want to check out his books, since Mrs. Crandall still won’t let me see the ones in the East Wing.”

  “Let me come with you,” Cecily said.

  “If your mother found out…”

  “She won’t!”

  “Okay. It’s your head in the guillotine, not mine,” Devon said.

  So D.J. dropped them both by Rolfe’s after they finished their pizza. Devon had arranged earlier with Rolfe to meet him at the house. Roxanne was nowhere to be seen; Devon still wondered just what power she had that had enabled her to break Isobel’s hold o
ver Rolfe. But right now he was focused on something else.

  “What do you want to look up first?” Rolfe asked.

  “I want to find out what happened to Gisele of Zeeland.”

  “Why are you so interested in her?” Cecily asked, looking over his shoulder as Devon leafed through the first book Rolfe handed to him. “Did something go on between the two of you?”

  Devon smiled. “Why? Are you jealous?”

  “Well, kind of. Even if she did look exactly like me.”

  Rolfe laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about her too much, Cecily,” he said. “Whoever she is, she’s been dead for almost five centuries.”

  It was an observation that still seemed so bizarre to Devon. All of those people, dead. Long dead. Except Bjorn, of course. But for Devon they had been alive just days ago.

  “Here!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Here she is!”

  “Gisele of Zeeland,” Cecily read, taking the book from Devon. “Daughter of Arnulf of Flanders and Sybilla of Ghent. One of the great Nightwing of the sixteenth century. While still in her teens, she helped defeat Isobel the Apostate in England. Returning to her native country, Gisele discovered a pustular break between this world and the next—’ ” She paused, looking up at Devon. “What’s a pustular break?”

  “It’s an emerging Hell Hole,” Rolfe explained. “I’ve been doing a good deal of reading-up on all this. One of the things I’ve learned is that when a Hell Hole first forms, it causes the earth to become contaminated—like pus on a human sore.”

  “Gross,” Cecily said.

  Rolfe winked at her. “Well, what do you expect when you’ve got demons eating through the earth’s crust?”

  “Anyway,” Cecily said, resuming her reading, “ ‘Gisele discovered a pustulous break between this world and the next and did battle with the creatures therein, sealing off the portal. Later, she helped save many Nightwing children from the catastrophic demonic assault on the school of Wiglaf in 1554. Hailed as a hero, Gisele lived to a very old age, dying at 97 in 1572.’ ”

  She looked up from the book into Devon’s eyes.