Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 6

  But this was a new voice. Devon turned. He didn’t see anyone right away. then he dropped his eyes. Bjorn Forkbeard stood in the doorway, smiling.

  The caretaker ran his little hands together. “Which ghosts are you communicating with, my boy?”

  Devon said nothing. The gnome approached him, smiling in apparent interest.

  “Poor old Emily Muir, perhaps? I read about her just tonight in the family history book. How she jumped to her death from Devil’s Rock—”

  “I’m not sure who I was talking to,” Devon told him, “but it was no one as kind and gentle as Emily Muir, I can tell you that.”

  “Then who?”

  Devon scowled at him. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “But how would I know?”

  Devon drew himself to his full height over the gnome. “I want to know who you just took out of this room.”

  Bjorn’s face registered confusion in the moonlight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, my young Nightwing child. I simply heard all this shouting up here and came to investigate.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Bjorn. I saw you with someone, someone you brought out of the tower. I can see now that you’re hiding things from me, just as Simon did. Who are you in league with, Bjorn? Tell me, because I’ll find out.”

  Bjorn gave him a stricken look. “My boy, I owe you my life. I’m not working against you. Believe me.”

  “Then why not tell me who’s been living in this room.”

  The gnome smiled sadly. “I can’t tell you things I don’t know.”

  “Then tell me what spirit haunts the tower? Whose laughter did I hear? Who is the woman who just spoke to me? She said she’d seen me before. Who is it, Bjorn?”

  The gnome shuddered, looking around. “I truly do not know, my young friend. But if there’s a malevolent ghost in this room, we had best leave. Quickly.”

  Devon sighed, knowing he’d get no more out of Bjorn. And suddenly he did feel the heat in the room rising. There was indeed a hostile entity here—one that he was sure he’d meet again.

  As they were heading out of the room, Devon stopped and picked up the headless doll. “Who did this belong to? Do you know that much at least?”

  Bjorn gazed at it with sad eyes. “Some child from Ravenscliff’s past, I imagine. Just leave it where you found it, Devon. Best not disturb the room further.”

  Devon complied. They headed back down the stairs. Bjorn secured the door with his key and advised Devon to say nothing of this episode to Mrs. Crandall. “I don’t think she’d be very pleased with either of us,” Bjorn said.

  It was the first thing the gnome had said that Devon believed.

  A few days passed. Things seemed to quiet down some. Bjorn settled into his job. Mrs. Crandall remained distant, and Devon remained suspicious. But at least there were no hands grabbing him in the dark, no crazy ghostly laughter and, significantly, no light in the tower.

  Bjorn had been telling them all about the Thanksgiving dinner he was going to prepare. In addition to devil bird in place of turkey, there would be golden apples direct from the garden of the goddess Idun and pomegranates grown by the goddess Demeter. When Devon, who knew a little about mythology, pointed out that Idun was a Norse deity and Demeter was Greek, Bjorn pointed out all of the gods existed.

  “And I suppose you have a direct contact with them all,” Devon replied.

  “Not direct,” the caretaker said. “But I do know how to pull a few strings.”

  Alexander was especially excited about the candied figs, which Bjorn claimed he’d make from a batch harvested in the actual Garden of Eden. He wouldn’t reveal the exact location of said garden, however. “Trade secret,” he said, winking.

  “I’ve never had a candied fig,” Alexander said.

  Cecily shot him a look. “As if you need any more candy, pork chop,” she said.

  Alexander stuck his tongue out at her. The boy was definitely on the chubby side, though Devon thought he looked healthier now that he’d been getting out of his room more. Alexander used to sit and brood in front of the television set all day, but the past couple of days Devon had taken him out dirt bike riding on the estate, over the hills that rolled past the stables and tennis courts.

  The holiday preparations at Ravenscliff did make Devon a little melancholy. Already Cecily was talking about the big blue spruce they planned to chop down for their Christmas tree that year. Devon knew he was going to miss Dad more than ever during the holidays.

  He had gone into the library to study for his upcoming history test when he heard a tap on the door. He looked up, saw no one, then thought to drop his eyes. Bjorn stood in the library doorway.

  “Master Devon, you have a visitor,” he said.

  “A visitor?”

  “Yes.” Bjorn gestured to someone. Marcus appeared then, wrapped up in his parka and scarf.

  “Hey!” Devon called, leaping up to greet his friend. “What’s happening?”

  “You said you wanted to talk to me,” Marcus said. “And whenever I called, you said you weren’t alone.”

  Devon nodded, looking past Marcus to make sure Bjorn had moved out of earshot. “Come on into the library with me, okay?”

  They settled down into the dark room, heavy with the musty fragrance of old books. Marcus took off his coat and looked Devon straight in the eyes.

  “What’s up?” he asked. “I can tell it’s something bad.”

  “Well, not necessarily bad. It’s just something… about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.” Devon paused, not sure how to put it. “Listen, I have to tell you something. But I don’t want you freaking out.”

  “Is this about the demons? The Hell Hole?”

  “No.” Devon wasn’t sure about that, actually, but he didn’t want to alarm Marcus. “Look, the very first time I met you I saw something on your face. And lately I’ve seen it again.”

  Marcus frowned. “What? Like a zit?”

  “No. A pentagram.”

  “A pentagram? What’s that?”

  “A five-pointed star with a circle around it.”

  “Devon, I’ve never put a star on my face. Maybe D.J. would do something weird like that, but not me.”

  “It wasn’t actually on your face. It was over your face. Hovering there. It was like a vision.”

  Devon saw the realization light in Marcus’s eyes. Too much had happened for anyone to doubt Devon’s ability to see things beyond the scope of an ordinary kid.

  “What does it mean?” Marcus asked, a little flicker of fear in his voice.

  “I thought maybe you’d have some clue.”

  “Clue? Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Does your family have any magic in its past?”

  Marcus laughed derisively. “My family? I don’t think so. My dad’s a plumber. We’re hardly Nightwing like you, Devon.”

  “Well, I just figured I had to tell you. I Googled the meaning of the pentagram. It can mean a lot of things, but basically it’s a good symbol. It’s used for protection against evil spirits. So really it shouldn’t freak you out. Maybe it means you’re somehow protected.”

  “And maybe it means I’m marked for something to happen,” Marcus said gloomily.

  “So I shouldn’t have told you about it?”

  “No, you did the right thing.” Marcus smiled. “You know, I really admire you, Devon. I hope you know that. You’re the bravest kid I know.”

  Devon blushed a little.

  “And I want to thank you for always being totally accepting of me. You know, you’ve never made me feel different or anything.”

  “I could say the exact same thing to you.”

  Marcus laughed. “I guess we both know something about what it’s like to grow up feeling different, like there’s nobody else like us in the whole entire world.”

  Devon looked at him. “There are a hell of a lot more gay people than there a
re Nightwing.”

  “Not in Misery Point,” Marcus said, smirking.

  “I bet there are. They just aren’t out like you are. That’ll change.”

  “Is that the Voice telling you so?”

  Devon considered it. “Yeah, actually, I think the Voice does confirm that.”

  “I’d like to have a boyfriend,” Marcus said. “I’d like to have with somebody what you have with Cecily.”

  Devon frowned. “Sometimes I worry…”

  “Stop it. She’s not your sister. I thought you gave up on that idea when Mrs. C. tried to snuff you out in the Hell Hole.”

  “I don’t think the staircase in Bjorn’s room was a Hell Hole anymore.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “It could be a—” Devon stopped speaking as he looked at Marcus’s face. The pentagram was back.

  “You see it again, don’t you?” Marcus asked, suddenly self-conscious.

  Devon nodded. “But the Voice is silent. If you were in danger from it, I’m sure it would tell me.”

  They made a vow, then and there, to help each other find out their personal mysteries. What the pentagram meant, and where Devon came from.

  Who knew? They might even be connected.

  Thanksgiving arrived, and the house smelled wonderful, filled with the aroma of devil bird (Devon thought it was just turkey again, picked up at Stop n’ Save) roasting in the oven.

  The meal was undeniably tasty, especially the candied figs, which Alexander devoured ravenously. No one mentioned the obvious fact that, despite his promise to his son, Edward Muir had not come home.

  After they’d eaten, Mrs. Crandall had them all up to her mother’s room for a rare visit with Grandmama, who looked at each of them with yellow, rheumy eyes, seeming not to recognize anybody except her daughter.

  “Are you my beau come to call?” the bedridden old woman asked Devon.

  “No, Mrs. Muir,” he told her. “My name is Devon.” He looked at her intently. The others were fixing a bouquet of flowers on the other side of the room. “Does that name—Devon—mean anything to you?”

  “Devon,” she repeated. “Is that the name of my beau?”

  He sighed. The old lady’s eyes reflected nothing he could see. It was very sad, actually: if Devon had ever suspected Greta Muir might be the powerful sorceress who saved him from Simon on the roof of the tower, he now considered such a thing impossible.

  “Where is my husband?” Greta Muir asked, becoming slightly agitated. “Where is he? Where is Randolph?”

  Devon felt tremendously sad for her. Your husband died in the Hell Hole, he thought to himself. That’s why you went mad. That’s why your family renounced its glorious Nightwing past.

  Poor Mrs. Muir fell asleep in her chair.

  “You children go downstairs,” Mrs. Crandall told them. “I’ll join you momentarily.”

  “Grandmama sure is one crazy old bat,” Alexander said as they headed down the corridor.

  “Show some respect,” Cecily scolded.

  The little boy thumbed his nose at her.

  The three young people were coming down the stairs into the foyer when suddenly the front doors of Ravenscliff burst open. A swirl of snowflakes blew in on a gust of wind. A man stepped inside, his arms loaded down with packages.

  “Ho-ho-ho,” the man cried. “Meeeeeerrry Christmas!”

  Devon had no idea who he was, or why he was announcing Christmas on Thanksgiving.

  For a moment none of them moved or said a word. But then suddenly Alexander broke the silence, running down the stairs toward the man and shouting:

  “Dad!”

  “It’s my Uncle Edward!” Cecily exclaimed to Devon, hurrying down the stairs after Alexander.

  Devon followed, much more slowly.

  “How’s my boy?” Edward Muir was asking. Having deposited all the brightly colored packages on the floor of the foyer, he’d scooped Alexander up in his arms for a fat kiss. Edward Muir was a big man, tall with broad shoulders, as fair and golden-haired as his sister Amanda. But his eyes danced where hers were cold and guarded, and when he smiled, large dimples indented his rosy cheeks.

  “Dad! I knew you’d come!” Alexander cried.

  “Did I miss dinner?”

  “Yes, but Bjorn can fix you something,” Cecily told him.

  Edward set his son down and turned to his niece. “Hello, Kitten. How you’ve grown!”

  He embraced her fondly. “It’s so good to see you, Uncle Edward,” she said. “But what’s with all the Christmas presents?”

  “Just in case I’m still not here next month,” he told her. “There’s something for everybody.”

  “There usually is,” came a voice from the top of the stairs.

  They turned to look. Mrs. Crandall was descending into the foyer, her eyes fixed on her brother.

  “Welcome home, Edward,” she said, but Devon could sense no sincerity in her voice.

  “Dear sister,” Edward said, taking her hand when she reached him and bringing it to his lips.

  “Dad, you’ve got to meet Devon,” Alexander said, pulling his father by the hand. “He’s my best friend.”

  “Yes, yes,” Edward Muir said, looking down at Devon now. They shook hands. “Amanda wrote me about her new ward.”

  “It’s good to meet you, sir,” Devon said.

  “Now, now, there will be no ‘sir’ among friends.” He smiled. “Call me Edward. I’m sure we’ll be good pals, Devon.”

  Devon smiled in return. He wished Edward Muir had been at Ravenscliff when he’d first arrived here. His warmth and friendliness would have made a marked difference in those first few weeks.

  Edward turned back to his sister. “Dear Amanda,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t phone ahead to tell you of my plans, but I wanted to surprise you.” He looked around at all of them. “For I have a big surprise.”

  Mrs. Crandall eyed him warily. “What is it now, Edward? Another new business scheme to take the world by storm, only to end up costing the family fortune a few tens of thousands of dollars?”

  He laughed, ignoring her. “I note you hired a new caretaker, Amanda. An interesting man. I met him outside. He’s bringing in my bags. So strong for such a little fellow.”

  Mrs. Crandall’s expression didn’t change.

  “Ah, look,” Edward Muir said, “here he comes now.”

  Devon turned. Bjorn was carrying in several bags through the front door. But he wasn’t alone.

  Behind him came a beautiful woman dressed in a floor-length mink coat.

  “Darling,” Edward Muir said, gesturing for the woman to join him.

  Mrs. Crandall’s eyes went wide, her lips pursed tightly.

  “I want you all to meet my fiancee,” Edward Muir said. “My son Alexander, my niece Cecily, my new friend Devon, and of course, my dear sister Amanda.” He smiled, gazing at the woman with adoration. “This is the woman I intend to marry. Morgana Green.”

  “Hello,” Morgana offered in a quiet, respectful voice.

  She was beautiful. Short dark hair and enormous brown eyes. Devon looked quickly from her to Mrs. Crandall, then down at Alexander. Both of them were staring at the woman in shock.

  “Might I remind you, Edward,” Mrs. Crandall said, not bothering to welcome Morgana to her home, “that you are already married.”

  He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “A technicality. Ingrid is a hopeless case. Her doctors have told me that many times. So I’ve already put the divorce into motion.”

  Devon instinctively put an arm around Alexander’s shoulder. This was, after all, his mother they were talking about. Devon knew that Ingrid Muir has been institutionalized in a mental health hospital for years, and that Alexander could barely remember her. But still, it must have been difficult to hear his father describe his mother so callously. Devon began to suspect there was something more, something cruel, behind Edward Muir’s outward charm.<
br />
  “I hope you will all come to like me,” Morgana said. There was some kind of accent to her voice, but Devon can’t quite place it. “Especially you, Alexander.”

  She stooped down to meet the boy at eye level. They shook hands.

  “I know I could never replace your real mother,” Morgana said kindly, “but I’d like to be your friend.”

  Alexander said nothing. He just stared at her.

  Edward had turned to his sister. “And how is our good Mother?”

  “The same,” Mrs. Crandall said, her eyes not moving from Morgana.

  Edward beamed, dropping an arm around his fiancee. “Nevertheless, I’ll want to introduce Morgana to her.”

  “She’s asleep for the night.” Mrs. Crandall gestured toward the parlor. “Shall we all go in and sit down? You both must be tired.”

  “Splendid, idea,” Edward declared.

  As Bjorn took the bags upstairs, the rest of them moved into the parlor. The gifts Edward had been bearing in his arms remained scattered across the marble floor of the foyer.

  “So tell me, Edward,” Mrs. Crandall said, after she had settled herself in her chair. “How long do you intend to stay here this time?”

  “Long enough to get the divorce moving.” He grinned. “Of course, I want to come back so we can be married here at Ravenscliff.” He spread his arms wide. “The ancestral home.”

  Devon watched as Morgana dropped her eyes demurely, blushing.

  Mrs. Crandall stiffened. “Well, if you’re going to be here, you can help me with the ancestral businesses, too,” she said. “You know we have competition now.”

  “Oh, yes, you wrote me all about that. Rolfe Montaigne is still causing trouble.”

  “There’s talk he’d thinking of opening another restaurant, and sponsoring his own fishing fleet.” Mrs. Crandall sighed, not looking around. “Tell me, Morgana. What line of business are you in?”

  “I’m a dancer,” Morgana said.

  Devon caught a quick smirk from Cecily.

  “Ballet?” Mrs. Crandall asked, but they already knew that wouldn’t be the answer.

  Morgana hesitated in her reply, so Edward filled in for her. “I met Morgana in a club in Monte Carlo,” he said. “Her reputation as a performer is celebrated.” He looked over at her fondly. “She has quite the act.”