Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 5

  “How are you so sure?”

  “The caretaker’s a gnome.”

  “A gnome?” Rolfe scrunched up his face. “What’s a gnome?”

  “I was hoping you’d know.”

  Rolfe shook his head. “Maybe in one of my father’s books back home.”

  “Well, anyway, he’s this little man, and he tricked me into going into a Hell Hole.”

  “What?”

  “I was trying to get information out of him. He knows all about Horatio Muir and the history of the Muir family’s sorcery. When I brought up the tower, he suggested I get there through his bathroom.”

  Rolfe looked bewildered. “Through his bathroom?”

  “I know it’s weird. Just listen, okay? So I opened the door to his bathroom and there were steps leading down. I saw and heard and felt demons, Rolfe. The heat. It was intense.”

  Rolfe stood. “Devon, there is only one way into Ravenscliff’s Hell Hole, and that’s through the portal in the East Wing. I am sure of that. And that portal was sealed by your own powers when you came out of there after rescuing Alexander.”

  “Then what was the staircase I went down? I saw things, Rolfe—”

  Rolfe eyed him. “What kinds of things?”

  “There were people gathered, calling for the burning of the Apostate.” Devon held Rolfe’s gaze significantly. “That’s what they called Jackson Muir, remember? The Apostate. The heretic, the renegade sorcerer. There was a man there, trying to lead me down off the stairs and into the crowd.”

  Rolfe was shaking his head. “That was no Hell Hole. But if it’s what I suspect…”

  “What, Rolfe? What do you suspect?”

  “I need my father’s books.”

  “Then let’s go, Rolfe. Let’s go to your house.”

  The older man sighed. “My car’s in the shop. It’s not ready for another hour or so.”

  Devon knew that hiking to Rolfe’s place, poised far off on the precipice of one of Misery Point’s steepest cliffs, would take far too long.

  “I could try my trick,” Devon offered. “But it doesn’t always work.”

  “I suspect it might this time,” Rolfe said, “since you’d be doing it in the pursuit of knowledge. But whether you can take me with you, I don’t know.”

  “Want to try?” Devon asked.

  Rolfe nodded. He reached over and grasped both of Devon’s hands.

  The boy closed his eyes and thought of Rolfe’s den, its three walls of glass overlooking the white-capped sea, its fourth wall covered from floor to ceiling with books. Books of knowledge. Books of Nightwing history. And when he opened his eyes, he was there, and Rolfe was with him.

  “That is so cool,” Devon said.

  “Yes,” Rolfe admitted, laughing a little, “it sure is.”

  He was already approaching his bookshelves, running his hand along the spines. From the skulls wedged in between the books, black eye sockets stared out at Devon, the ancient Knowledge somewhere within.

  “Here,” Rolfe said, pulling down a book. “An encyclopedia of sorcery, written by the Nightwing Johann the Wise in Holland at the turn of the first millennium. It remains the standard.”

  He blew the dust off the book and began flipping through its pages.

  “What are you looking for?” Devon asked.

  “Gnome,” Rolfe said. “Ah, here it is.” He began reading: “‘A subterranean creature, responsible for guarding the Nightwing’s treasures, be they jewels or knowledge. Clever with potions and remedies. Physically very strong. Can live many hundreds of years. Mostly found in Scandinavia and Russia.’” He held the book open for Devon to see. “Look, here’s a drawing of one.”

  Devon agreed that the gnome etched there did indeed resemble Bjorn Forkbeard, with his powerful shoulders and pointed fingernails.

  “He said he was six-hundred-and-sixty-two years old,” Devon said. “I guess he wasn’t kidding. And he said that he was born in a mine in Finland. This fits, Rolfe.”

  “Curious that Amanda should hire a creature such as this to be Ravenscliff’s caretaker,” Rolfe mused. “It’s similar to how she kept that scoundrel Simon all those years.” He paused. “Of course, I imagine she couldn’t hire just any old caretaker, not for a house like Ravenscliff.”

  “What do you think she’s hiding in the tower, Rolfe? I’m sure that’s why she brought Bjorn in—to guard whatever it is, just as Simon guarded it.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Rolfe said. “But it must be very important. Perhaps dangerous.”

  “Do you think it’s another Hell Hole?”

  He considered the idea for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I remember the great cataclysm that killed my father and Amanda’s father, too. There is only one way into the Hell Hole, and that’s in the East Wing.”

  “Then what was that staircase in Bjorn’s bathroom?”

  Rolfe sighed. “The answer to that won’t be found in any of these books.” Rolfe moved away from the bookcase, looking out over the sea. The waves crashed against the rocks below with a ferocity that always seemed to make him melancholy. Devon suspected whenever Rolfe looked down at the rocks he thought of the two young people killed there, in his car, their bodies washed out to sea. Even if he wasn’t driving, he had been drunk—and Devon didn’t think Rolfe would ever fully absolve himself of responsibility for their deaths.

  The boy came up and placed his hand on his friend’s back. “Rolfe, what are you thinking about?”

  “About all the secrets, all the knowledge, that was lost when the Madman took the lives of my father and Mr. Muir.” He turned around to look at Devon. “Information you need now and answers I can’t give you. There was so much tragedy after that cataclysm. None of us were ever happy again.”

  “You would’ve made a great Guardian, I’m sure.”

  Rolfe eyed him sadly. “You think? Even though you know what I did?”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Rolfe. You weren’t driving.”

  “Amanda said I was.”

  “She lied. She was angry at you and wanted revenge.”

  A small smile crept across Rolfe’s face. “Yes, as I want revenge against her now. I’ll get it too, Devon. I’ll drive them out of business, and you can come live with me.”

  Devon struggled with Rolfe’s need for revenge. He could understand his desire to pay back Mrs. Crandall for her lies, but Devon wouldn’t want any harm to come to Cecily or Alexander. Driving the Muirs out of business would no doubt effect them, too. As ever when Rolfe started in about all that stuff, Devon decided to change the subject.

  “So tell me about the staircase, Rolfe. What do you think it was, if not a Hell Hole?”

  Rolfe sighed. “I remember something—something which fascinated me as a boy.”

  “What was that?”

  “I remember stories about how Horatio Muir built a Stairway Into Time. It was a magical staircase that appeared and reappeared in various places throughout the house. It was a stunning achievement of Horatio’s master sorcery. It allowed him to go back through time to consult with the great Nightwing of the past. It could also take him into the future.”

  “Awesome,” Devon breathed.

  “But when sorcery was repudiated at Ravenscliff, the Stairway Into Time was presumably lost forever. But if what you say is true, I suspect it’s back. You’ve allowed it to exist again, Devon, because you are a sorcerer with all your powers intact.”

  “So it wasn’t a Hell Hole… it was a staircase through time.”

  “That’s my guess,” Rolfe said. He looked back out at the sea. “But I don’t know whether Bjorn knew you would manifest it or whether there was anything specific he wanted you to learn from it.”

  “Do you think the attack earlier had anything to do with him?”

  “I don’t know. There are ghosts all through that house. You can have just bumped into a particularly grumpy one. But I’d definitely keep an eye on Bjorn until
you can be certain whether he’d friend or foe.”

  Devon considered something. “Do you think I’m way off base in thinking that Mrs. Crandall wanted to kill me?”

  “Devon, my friend,” Rolfe said, resting his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “I’d put nothing past that woman. I advise you to remain on your guard.”

  Once more Devon was able to will himself and Rolfe back to the restaurant, where he wolfed down the chicken salad sandwich and French fries Roxanne brought in to him. “One other thing,” Devon asked Rolfe between bites. “Have you figured out why I can’t get my father’s ring to tell me anything other than the most generic Nightwing history?”

  Ted March had left behind a crystal ring. Every Guardian held a crystal that contained knowledge needed by the Nightwing. Rolfe had thought the ring should have revealed the secret of Devon’s past. But it’s been silent on the subject.

  “No, I’m sorry, Devon,” Rolfe told him. “Possibly it was damaged in some way. Or maybe it’s holding back for some reason. I’ll keep reading up on the crystals.” He smiled at the boy. “But you need to get back here as often as possible. I know it will be hard, sneaking out on Amanda. But if you’re to learn whatever you can about your powers, then the books at my house are your only resource.”

  Devon nodded. He wished he had more time, but Mrs. Crandall would get suspicious if he stayed away too long. He bid goodbye to Rolfe and Roxanne and headed outside.

  It had gotten quite dark. A sharp cold wind blew in off the harbor. Devon was tired and didn’t feel like making the long hike back up to Ravenscliff. He tried to will himself there, but as ever in cases like this, his sorcery failed him.

  It’s not meant to make things easier for no greater purpose, the Voice reminded him. You know that.

  Yeah, yeah, Devon answers back. But it sure would be nice once in a while.

  So he started up the long trek up the cliffside staircase. In the snow-covered cemetery, he hurried past the angel with the broken wing, which marked the gravesite of the Madman. Devon glanced quickly at the marble obelisk in the center with the name Devon etched into it. What did it mean? Was there any connection to him?

  Finally inside the house, he shook the snow off his boots as eight-year-old Alexander Muir came bounding down the stairs. “Devon!” he shouted. “You’re home!”

  “Hey, buddy, what’s up?”

  “We’re having hábrók for dinner,” he called. “I’ve never had hábrók. Bjorn just shot one out on the grounds.”

  Devon laughed. “What the heck is hábrók?”

  “It’s like wild turkey,” he said. “You should see it. It had all these cool feathers.”

  It was nice to see the boy so animated. When Devon had first arrived at Ravenscliff, Alexander had been gloomy and despondent, a sour-faced puck full of malevolent mischief. But he’d brightened over the last couple of weeks, and Cecily gave Devon most of the credit.

  “Have you ever had hábrók?”

  Devon gave the boy’s hair a tousle. “Can’t say I ever have.”

  “Bjorn seems really cool,” Alexander said.

  “You think so?”

  Alexander looked up at him. “Yeah. He said he was going to go hunting for devil bird for Thanksgiving.”

  “Devil bird?”

  “Yeah. He says it tastes awesome.”

  “Never heard of that either.”

  The little boy had flopped down on the couch opposite the fire in the parlor. “My father said he was going to come home for Thanksgiving.”

  “That would be great,” Devon said, sitting beside him.

  “Aunt Amanda says we shouldn’t expect him, though.”

  Devon felt a wave of compassion for Alexander. Here the kid had been trapped in a Hell Hole while his father was off living the high life traipsing across the Cote d’Azur. Edward Muir rarely wrote or called to check on his son. An occasional postcard or some expensive gift from some exotic place were all that ever arrived for Alexander. Devon didn’t think the boy had seen his father in nearly a year.

  “He promised to take me on a safari when I’m ten,” Alexander said. “He’s been on them lots of times. Giraffes and elephants and rhinos—he’s seen them all.”

  And you’ve seen a lot more, kiddo, Devon thought. But thankfully, the boy had no memory of his time in the Hell Hole.

  Talk of fathers, however, had made Devon think of his own again. This would be his first Thanksgiving—and then his first Christmas—without his father.

  “You miss your dad, huh Devon?”

  Devon looked at the young boy. It was if Alexander can read his mind.

  “Yeah,” Devon said. “I guess I do.”

  At the dining table, Bjorn carried in a roasted bird still sizzling on a large silver platter. He needed help getting it up onto the table. The gnome was claiming it was a rare bird of Norse legend—something which Mrs. Crandall just smiled at—but Devon thought it really was just wild turkey. Whatever it was, it was tasty.

  And whatever Bjorn was, Devon had to admit he was a good cook.

  That night, Devon fell asleep thinking about his father. He had a dream. His father often came to him in dreams. He could hear Dad calling to him through the fog that drifted in from the ocean. Finally he was able to make out Dad on Devil’s Rock, the very edge of the Muir estate, where the land dropped two hundred feet to the sea, where the Madman’s wife, Emily Muir, plunged to her grisly death.

  “Devon,” his father was calling. “The tower. The secret is in the tower.”

  He sat up in bed. His father’s voice still reverberated in his ears.

  “The tower,” someone said. “We’ve got to leave the tower.”

  Devon realized the voice was not that of his father. It was coming from far away, a conversation between two people. How he could he hear it so clearly in his bedroom with the door closed, Devon wasn’t sure. It was if he’d suddenly developed super-powered hearing.

  “Just come with me. It will be all right.”

  “But where? Where are you taking me?”

  “Just come along. Trust me. It will be all right.”

  Stealthily, Devon crept out of bed and toward his door. He listened. The voices were gone, but he could hear footsteps now, coming downstairs.

  I can hear what’s going on in the tower, Devon realized. Somehow I’m tuned in and can hear what’s happening in there.

  He snuck out into the corridor. The house was nearly pitch dark. Devon slowly made his way to the landing that overlooked the foyer and the entrance to the tower. Crouched behind the railing in the dark shadows of the night, he saw the door open and two figures emerge. He could barely make them out, but now he was certain that one of the voices he had heard was Bjorn’s. One of the figures was very small. It had to be the gnome.

  The other figure was sheathed in white. That was all Devon could discern. He’d seen a figure in white in the tower before, a figure he took to be a woman.

  Whoever they were, they disappeared below the landing into another part of the house. Devon’s ability to hear them suddenly faded away. If he tried to pursue them, he ran the risk of being discovered. He felt he should just go back to bed. If Mrs. Crandall caught him—

  Then he realized Bjorn had left the door to the tower ajar. Devon knew he had to take the chance. Despite all his sorcery, he was powerless to open the door when it was locked. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He willed himself down to the foyer below, then slipped quickly through the shadows into the tower.

  He’d made it this far before. Once, he’d snuck in and made it halfway up the tower’s curving stone stairwell before Simon had stopped him. But the experience had at least given Devon the knowledge that a door existed three flights up. A door to a room he was convinced held a secret into his past.

  With every breath he was sure someone would catch him. He tried to will himself to simply appear in the room, but he couldn’t. I have to work for t
his, he reasoned. I have to work to find out who I am.

  Having no light, Devon had to rely on the weak blue moon-glow that filtered in through the tower windows. He felt his way, step-by-step, his hands inching up along the wall, his palms detecting cracks in the stonework and the occasional furry spider.

  Finally he arrived at the door to the tower room. Once he had dreamed of finding the Madman in here. Now, instead, he thought he would find something else: the secret of who he was. And, crazy as it sounded, the prospect scared him even more than finding Jackson Muir.

  But as he opened the door, Devon realized it was just a room. A small, plain, round room with a bed, a bureau, a table and two chairs. The bed had been stripped and the bureau is empty. Devon looked out the window and could see the terrace off the parlor below. Yes, this was the very window where he’d seen the light so many times, where once he saw a woman—a ghost?—who called his name.

  There was nothing in the room to indicate who had lived here—who the woman was that Bjorn had just whisked away. Devon felt some disappointment settling in, then noticed something on the floor.

  He stooped down to pick it up.

  In the dim moonlight he saw it was a doll. A naked, pink plastic baby doll.

  Devon picked it up. As he did so, the head suddenly fell off its body. And a gigantic brown spider crawled out onto Devon’s hand.

  That was when the hideous laughter filled the room.

  A Homecoming

  Devon dropped the doll and shook the spider off his hand. The laughter continued—not laughter he had heard before, not the laughter of the Madman, but rather, from the sound of it, the laughter of a Madwoman. It was high and shrill and cruel.

  He steeled himself. “Show me your face,” he commanded.

  “My face?” came a voice as the laughter subsided. “You dare to look upon my face?”

  “Yes, I dare.”

  “Foolish boy. Once before you looked upon my face. Oh, yes. I remember you. Watching with your bright young eyes…”

  “Who are you?” Devon demanded again.

  “Are you accustomed to talking to yourself in the middle of the night?”