Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 7

  “I can imagine,” Mrs. Crandall said, her voice dripping with disdain. “Well, you can show her the house, Edward. And afterward, I’d like to speak with you. Alone.”

  “What—no pumpkin pie?” Edward asked.

  “Bjorn made candied figs,” Cecily told him.

  “We’ve already had our dinner and now it’s getting late.” Mrs. Crandall looked over at Morgana. “I’m sure you’d like to freshen up and get settled. I’ll have Bjorn bring you up a pot of tea.”

  “Thank you,” Morgana said.

  Devon felt for the young woman. He knew just how cold Mrs. Crandall could be. He was a newcomer to this family once, too, and until he became friends with Cecily, he’d felt very alone here. He decided he’d befriend Morgana. She was only in her early twenties, from the looks of it, and despite the mink, which Devon imagined Edward had bought for her, Morgana seemed unpretentious and sincere. And so pretty. Especially those big dark eyes. Not unlike Devon’s own.

  Edward took Morgana upstairs. Mrs. Crandall moved out of the room after they had left, saying nothing, disappearing to whatever part of the house she went to when she wanted to be alone. It was clear she was not happy with Edward’s return, or his decision to marry Morgana.

  “So,” Devon asked Alexander, “what do you think of your dad’s surprise?”

  “I don’t like her,” he said bitterly.

  Devon scowled. “Alexander. She seems very nice.”

  “No. She’s not nice.” The boy crossed his pudgy little arms over his chest. “Not nice at all. I hate her.”

  “Listen, buddy, I know it must be hard, with your own mother still out there and all. But maybe you ought to give Morgana a chance.”

  “No,” Alexander spat.

  Devon hadn’t seen him so petulant in a while. He was acting mean-spirited and stubborn, like he did in the weeks after Devon first arrived.

  “Well,” Cecily said, “all I can say is that I hope that mink coat is faux fur. I mean, how tacky is that? I hate fur coats. The senseless slaughter of innocent animals for human vanity—”

  “I’m sure your uncle bought it for her.”

  “It doesn’t matter. She’s wearing it.” She huffed. “And what kind of voice was that? That’s no accent I ever heard.”

  “She’s from Europe,” Devon said. “She could be—I don’t know—French.”

  “That was not a French accent. Or an Italian accent. Or Spanish.” Cecily scoffed. “She’s just making it up, trying to sound exotic. When she’s just some low-class stripper.”

  “Why are you so down on her?” Devon looked at Cecily strangely. “Neither one of you is giving her a chance.”

  Cecily scrunched up her face. “You like her, don’t you?”

  Devon felt defensive. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Just because she’s pretty. So a pretty face can just blind you to the fact that she’s some gold digger trying to get my uncle’s money?”

  Devon laughed. “You sound just like your mother, you know that? It’s obvious that’s what she was thinking, too.”

  Cecily just rolled her eyes.

  “I’m going to bed,” Devon told her, fed up with her childishness.

  “Wait.” She stopped him, pressing her hand on his chest. “Let’s not fight on Thanksgiving.”

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t fighting. I just want you to give Morgana a chance. It’s hard being a newcomer in this house. Believe me, I know.”

  Cecily promised she’d try. Alexander, however, made no such vow.

  That night, Devon dreamed about Morgana. It was a dream that seemed to last all night and, even as he was having it, he felt embarrassed about it. Morgana walked into his room and opened up her mink coat, to reveal only a black negligee. She pursed her lips and called his name. Devon woke up flushed and bothered.

  “Man,” he whispered into the night. “She sure is something.”

  He couldn’t get back to sleep. He tossed and turned. The clock beside his bed revealed it was almost one in the morning. He finally decided he needed a glass of water to cool himself down, so he tiptoed out of his room and into the hushed corridor. From the landing at the top of the stairs he saw that the parlor door was ajar. There was a light inside, and people were talking in there. He was pretty sure it was Mrs. Crandall and her brother. He was also pretty sure they were talking about him.

  It’s stuff I need to know, he told himself. So where’s my superhearing now?

  The Voice surprised him by answering: Maybe you have something else instead.

  Devon didn’t know what the Voice meant, but looking down at himself he suddenly understood. He saw his slippers, and the sweatpants and t-shirt he’d been sleeping in—but not himself! It was as if his clothes were walking by themselves.

  I’m invisible!

  “Whoa,” Devon said, and his voice sounded strange to his ears, coming from lips he couldn’t see.

  Okay, he thought, this is absolutely the coolest thing yet. I didn’t even know I did it. It just happened!

  That’s because it will enable you to find out what you need to know, the Voice told him.

  “Duh,” Devon said to the Voice.

  Lately, the Voice had been speaking to him less and less, and sometimes it told him things he already knew, or things that were obvious. Of course Devon knew that being invisible would give him the ability to slip into the parlor undetected and eavesdrop on the conversation. He knew that might be a totally rude thing to do, but he had to discover the truth about his past one way or another.

  So he pulled off his t-shirt and stepped out of his sweats and kicked off his slippers, hiding them behind a curtain. It felt weird to be walking naked down the stairs, because he could still feel his body, just not see it. He could still make sounds, too, he discovered, when one of the steps creaked under his foot. He would have to be careful.

  Mrs. Crandall looked up when he entered the parlor. He had to open the door slightly to fit through. It was clear, though, she didn’t know he was there. She walked right past him and shut the door. Now he was trapped in here with them.

  Naked. That sure felt weird.

  Devon took a deep breath, fearful of letting it out and being heard. As softly as he could, he padded over to the far wall and leaned against it, watching but not being seen.

  “So he’s discovered all about the Nightwing, then?” Edward was asking.

  Mrs. Crandall nodded. “Thanks to Rolfe.”

  “Perhaps we can get him to renounce his powers, like the rest of us.”

  She shook her head. “As ever, you’re a fool, Edward. Don’t you realize that Devon’s sorcery allowed him to save your son from the Madman? If we got rid of his powers now—”

  Edward scoffed. “But Jackson Muir can’t come back again.”

  “That’s what we thought the last time.”

  He shuddered. “We ought to burn this house to the ground.” Then he smiled wickedly. “Better yet. Sell it. We could make a killing.”

  “That’s just like you, Edward. Not caring what might befall new occupants of this house.”

  He laughed. “Better them than us.”

  Mrs. Crandall watched him with contempt as he poured himself another brandy. “And do you really think we could simply be free of our past by leaving this house? It would follow us—just as I’m sure it has followed you, in all your travels around the globe.”

  Devon could tell by Edward Muir’s expression that she was right. Despite his desperate flight from this house, it was obvious that Edward had never been able to put the tragedies far from his mind. He walked over to the French doors and looked out into the night.

  “I notice there’s no light in the tower,” he said.

  “It’s been taken care of.”

  He smirked at his sister. “Oh, really? And how was that accomplished?”

  “Never mind. I’ve seen to it.”

  He held his brandy snifter up to her in mock salute.
“Dear sister, you are the most capable woman I know.”

  “I’ve had to be. Since you walked out and left me with the task of guarding this house entirely on my own.”

  “Has it been that much of a burden?” he asked sarcastically.

  She eyed him coldly. “Are you planning on taking Alexander with you after you marry that woman? I expect you’ll start globetrotting again after the wedding.”

  Edward laughed. “Take Alexander with me? Dear sister, you willingly assumed the boy’s guardianship. I can’t be saddled with an eight-year-old boy.”

  “But now you’ll have a wife. And she seems to want to be involved with Alexander.”

  Edward shook his head. “Alexander will stay here. I don’t want him.”

  Devon’s heart broke for his little friend.

  “How much have you told her about the sorcery?” Mrs. Crandall asked.

  “Nothing at all. Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “Crazy like a fox.” She sighed. “Be careful, Edward. I don’t like her.”

  He made a face. “What’s not to like? She’s sweet. Kind.” His lips curled upward. “Not to mention beautiful.”

  Mrs. Crandall sniffed. “In a common sort of way.”

  “You know, Amanda, bitterness does not become you.”

  “Goodnight, Edward.”

  She turned and walked imperiously out of the parlor. Her brother chuckled to himself, refilled his brandy, then sauntered out himself.

  Just in time, too: Devon had become visible again. He wasn’t sure why—maybe because he was concentrating on their conversation and not on staying invisible. Or maybe simply because the need not to be seen had become unnecessary the moment Mrs. Crandall and Edward left the room. But that left Devon standing stark naked in the middle of the parlor with his clothes hidden behind a curtain up on the landing.

  But before he could decide what to do—make a run for it, try his disappearing-reappearing act—he was startled by a voice.

  “You looking for these?”

  In the doorway stood Bjorn Forkbeard, holding Devon’s clothes in one hand.

  Devon lunged at him, snatching his sweatpants and pulling them on as the gnome chortled to himself.

  “How did you know I was here?” Devon asked, now slipping his t-shirt over his head.

  “Because you weren’t in your room when I came looking for you.” Bjorn’s face turned serious. “I was coming to see you because I thought I should tell you something. There’s something you ought to check out.”

  “What’s that?”

  Bjorn leaned in close to him, his little face intent as it looked up at Devon. “There’s some kind of disturbance at the Hell Hole in the East Wing. I can hear it. Trust me, I can hear things like that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Bjorn’s face had gone white with fright. “May the Gods preserve us,” he said, listening to something only he could hear, “but I think something’s trying to get out of the Hell Hole.”

  That’s absurd, Devon kept telling himself, as he headed upstairs. The Hell Hole was sealed. The door was bolted. And if there were some demons about to escape, Devon felt confident the Voice would’ve warned him.

  He tried willing himself into the East Wing to check on things, but nothing happened. Mrs. Crandall’s authority superseded his powers, apparently. But surely if they were in any danger he would have been able to get in there. So Bjorn must be wrong.

  He must be.

  Either that or he was lying—for some devious reason of his own.

  Still, Devon wished he knew of a physical way into the East Wing, just to reassure himself that the door into the Hell Hole was still bolted, still impenetrable. But the East Wing had been sealed off from the rest of the house. Devon had wanted in there as much as he’d wanted to get into the tower. There were books in the East Wing—books he needed to read—and a portrait of a young man in the clothing of the 1930s, who looked just like Devon. For many reasons Devon had wanted to explore the East Wing. The place held many secrets for him, but his powers just couldn’t seem to get him through Mrs. Crandall’s locked doors.

  Walking down the corridor toward his room, he couldn’t deny the gnome’s words had unnerved him. Bjorn knew that Devon was the only person left in the house who could possibly fight off a demonic attack. But maybe his warning was a trap—like the one that had led him onto the Stairway Into Time. Devon still wasn’t sure he could trust Bjorn. He wished the Voice would tell him something more.

  But when he opened the door to his room, he didn’t need the Voice to tell him anything. He felt the sudden blast of heat and the throbbing pressure—a demon was near.

  Devon braced himself. His heart started thudding fast in his chest.

  “Devon?” came a scared little voice.

  He looked down. Crouched beside his bed was Alexander.

  “I’m scared,” Alexander said, near tears. “The bad things that happened before. They’re coming back.”

  Devon knelt beside him. The heat in the room was definitely overpowering. The little boy was sweating and trembling in his pajamas. Devon put his arms around him and pulled him close.

  “I’m going to fight them, Alexander,” Devon promised. “I’m going to send them back to their Hell Hole.”

  “I don’t think so,” Alexander said. “Not this time.”

  Devon stiffened. The boy’s voice—cold, low. Not his own.

  Devon looked down just in time to see Alexander’s lips part, revealing a mouthful of yellow fangs. He sunk them deep into Devon’s left shoulder, hitting bone.

  Devon screamed.

  A Vision of Blood

  The pain was excruciating but Devon managed to push the creature off him. It’s not Alexander. Once more, Devon realized, cursing himself, he’d been tricked by a demon disguised as something else. He watched in horror as the thing shifted its shape, elongating itself like a lizard, its bones pushing out of its flesh. It became a seething, decomposing reptilian corpse, crouched down on all fours as if to spring.

  “Back to your Hell Hole!” Devon commanded as best he can, his right hand clutching his shoulder, trying to stop the blood.

  “I don’t think so,” the demon said again in its own voice, a deep, scratchy sound.

  “I am stronger than you!”

  But even as he said it, Devon fell, his head weak from loss of blood.

  The thing began to creep toward him. “Are you really so strong? Then prove it. Open the door in the East Wing and let them free. They’re restless behind it. Listen. You can hear them. Set them free, Devon March. Then you will have the power of the world to command!”

  “Never,” Devon rasped, but his head is spinning.

  The demon loomed over him now, his fangs dripping yellow saliva. “Then I will have you,” it said, and gripped the boy’s arms with its bony talons.

  Suddenly the windows of Devon’s room unlatched and swung inward, and the air was filled with the sound of angry flapping wings. Ravens—dozens of them, hundreds even, squawking and shrieking and descending upon the demon. Their beaks pecked at its decaying flesh, and though it tried to fight them off, they were eating the thing alive.

  Or dead, whatever the case might be.

  “Nooooo!” the demon cried, now entirely covered in a black mass of furiously beating wings.

  Devon managed to sit up. “Back to your Hell Hole,” he commanded again, in a far weaker voice. The thing disappeared, and the ravens swarmed back out the window en masse. A few of their brethren lay dead on the floor, legs upraised. Devon picked one raven up and held it gently in his hand. He gazed down in gratitude at the dead bird.

  The door to his room suddenly flung open. It was Cecily. “Oh my God!” she screamed. “Devon—you’re bleeding!”

  He managed to nod his head. For the first time he realized his shirt was drenched in blood.

  “They’re back,” he told her weakly. “The demo
ns are back.”

  “Mother!” she shouted. “Mother! Uncle Edward!”

  Mrs. Crandall and her brother were soon in the doorway, in their robes, with Morgana peering timidly over Edward’s shoulder.

  “Dear God,” Edward said, horrified. “What’s happened?”

  “The demons,” Devon whispered.

  Edward stooped down to look at him severely. “Are you certain?”

  “Look, I’ve had run-ins with them before. I know what I’m talking about. If not for the ravens—”

  Edward stood. “Wouldn’t you know it? I come back and this place is still the stinking horror it’s always been.”

  “I’ve got to check on Mother,” Mrs. Crandall said.

  “Please!” Cecily was furious. “Can’t you people think of something besides yourselves? Devon is bleeding to death! We’ve got to call Doctor Lamb!”

  “That won’t be necessary,” came a voice.

  They look around. They couldn’t see who was speaking at first until Bjorn Forkbeard appeared, pushing between the legs of Mrs. Crandall and Morgana in the doorway.

  “I’ve been trained to deal with this sort of wound,” the gnome said. He carried a little black bag and stood beside Devon to study his shoulder. “First we need a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.”

  “I could’ve told you that much,” Devon said.

  Cecily yanked the case off Devon’s pillow and handed it to Bjorn, who fastened it around the wounded shoulder.

  “Now,” the little man said, opening his bag, “I have certain herbs here—”

  “Herbs?” Cecily asked. “Shouldn’t we be taking him down to the emergency room to get stitches? And some kind of tetanus shot?”

  “You could, if you want to waste all that time,” Bjorn said. He withdrew a small vial filled with a green powder. “Where I grew up, we were always running into these things. The mines we worked in went right through some major Hell Holes. So we gnomes learned to be prepared.”

  He shook a bit of the powder over Devon’s shoulder.