Demon Witch (Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 8

  “That should stop the bleeding,” he said.

  Devon was watching him with great interest. The treatment will work, the Voice told him. Do not fear it.

  But how much had Bjorn known about the demon’s attack in advance? Could Devon truly trust him?

  He looked toward the doorway. Well, Devon thought to himself, I suppose for the moment I can trust him more than I can Mrs. Crandall or Edward Muir, neither of whom bothered to stick around long enough to make sure I was going to be all right.

  Why was checking on their mother so important? What connection did the senile old woman still have to the demons of the Hell Hole?

  “Somebody needs to get into the East Wing,” Devon said. “If the portal is opened—”

  “Is that where you think it came from?” Cecily asked. “Whatever attacked you?”

  “I don’t think the Hell Hole here at Ravenscliff is open,” Bjorn said, wrapping Devon’s shoulder now in a bandage. “My sense is only that they are restless inside. Something is disturbing them. Perhaps trying to let them out—but it is not yet opened.”

  Cecily was perplexed. “Then where did the thing that attacked Devon come from if not there?”

  “There are many Hell Holes all over the world, and some are open,” Devon explained to her. This was information he’d learned from Rolfe. “Many demons are loose upon the earth, and their goal is to get their filthy brothers and sisters set free. We just happen to live over one of the largest Hell Holes in the world. So they’re particularly interested in getting into this one.”

  They were startled then, not by any horrific cry, but by a small sob. They turned. In the doorway still stood Morgana, her face white. She was crying.

  “I—I didn’t know you were still there,” Devon said.

  “All of this talk,” the pretty woman whimpered. “Hell Holes. Demons. And your shoulder—and those dead birds! What kind of a house have I come to?”

  Devon was immediately on his feet. He was surprised at how much the pain had eased already from Bjorn’s treatment. He took Morgana’s hands in his own. She was small, about his height, and it just broke his heart to see her so scared. What must she think of all this? And how wrong—how very wrong—of Edward Muir to bring her to Ravenscliff without telling her of its sorcery.

  “I know it all sounds bizarre,” Devon said tenderly. “It did to me, too, when I first came here.”

  She looked at him imploringly. “What kind of family am I marrying into?”

  Devon gazed into her dark eyes. How truly beautiful they were. In fact, he’d suddenly become aware that he’d never seen a more gorgeous woman—not any supermodel, not Roxanne, not even… Cecily…

  He felt an immediate twinge of guilt and dropped Morgana’s hands. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “I think you need to talk with Edward,” Devon told her. “He owes you an explanation. It’s not my place.”

  She managed a small smile. “You’re a very decent young man, Devon. Thank you.” She kissed him on the cheek and then walked off down the corridor, presumably in search of her fiance.

  “Well,” Cecily said, her voice icy, “you certainly seem smitten.”

  “Cecily, she was scared! Come on! You’ve been through this before. She hasn’t.”

  “You ought to lie down, Devon,” Bjorn told him. “You’ve lost a good deal of blood.”

  Devon sighed, sitting on the edge of his bed. He was suddenly aware of the blood on the floor and felt slightly nauseous. “I need to talk with Rolfe,” he mumbled.

  “In the morning.” Bjorn helped him remove his bloody shirt. “Cecily, fetch a cloth and some warm water.”

  They cleaned Devon up and got him into bed, Cecily insisting that they should still call Doc Lamb, their family practitioner. Devon assured her that the Voice was telling him he’d be just fine, that Bjorn’s treatment would do the trick. She reluctantly agreed, just as her mother strode back into the room. Devon was suddenly very sleepy, but he managed to answer when Mrs. Crandall asked if he was okay.

  “Fine and dandy,” he whispered. “Thanks for your concern.”

  “I was concerned, Devon, and still am. But once I knew Bjorn could treat you, there were things I needed to do. Important things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like making sure the portal in the East Wing was secure,” she said reluctantly.

  “And is it?”

  “My brother reports it is,” she told him.

  “That’s good.” He started to doze off, then opened his eyes again. “You were smart in hiring Bjorn. You knew we’d need his skills.”

  She didn’t reply. “Just rest, Devon.” She placed her hand on his head. “Sleep well.”

  He fell asleep. He dreamed not of demons, but of Morgana, her brown, liquid eyes and soft, inviting lips…

  The next day his bed was bouncing with his friends.

  “Hey, watch it,” Devon said, laughing. “Remember I’m wounded here.”

  Natalie was attempting to fluff his pillows behind him. “Poor baby, bedridden on such a beautiful day. Can I get you anything?”

  “He’s fine,” Cecily told her. “I’ve been taking good care of him all day.”

  Marcus was sitting on the edge of his bed, studying him. “I don’t like what this suggests, Devon. The demons are restless again. Why?”

  D.J. had been leaning up against the bureau, tossing a ball into the air and catching it, not wanting to fuss over Devon like the rest of them. Now he turned his attention to his friend. “Yeah,” he said, agreeing with Marcus’s concern. “That does rattle my brain a bit. Last time it was that crazy Jackson Muir who got ’em all stirred up. What about now?”

  “I don’t know,” Devon admitted.

  “Maybe it’s that munchkin,” Natalie said, shuddering. “He gave me the creeps.”

  “He’s a gnome,” Cecily corrected her. “But I don’t think he’d a bad guy. I’m pretty sure Bjorn is on our side. Look how he treated Devon’s shoulder.”

  “He could be pulling a fast one,” D.J. warned. “These things are clever. Remember how one of them disguised itself as me.”

  Devon nodded. “Yeah, the one last night disguised itself as Alexander.” He sat up. “That’s why I really need to talk with Rolfe some more. There’s so much about the relationship between the Nightwing and the demons that I still don’t understand.”

  Cecily sighed. “Mother and Uncle Edward are worried. I can tell.”

  “Well, if anything happens,” Devon promised, “I’ll do what I did before. I’ll give you guys the powers of the Nightwing to fight them off.”

  Marcus smiled weakly. Devon knew he was concerned about the pentagram, what it meant. That was one more thing he’d have to bring up with Rolfe.

  There was a light tapping at the door. Cecily got up and pulled it open. It was Morgana, carrying a tray with a pot.

  “I thought our patient might want a little hot cocoa,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Cecily said, “but he’s fine.”

  “I’d love some cocoa,” Devon said. “Thanks, Morgana.”

  Both Cecily and Natalie shrunk back as the older woman carried the tray over to the side of Devon’s bed. They scrunched up their noses at each other. Morgana didn’t appear to notice. She walked sensuously across the room, her shapely legs encased in black tights, worn under a long, torn sweater that was nearly falling off one shoulder. She set the tray down on a side table and poured Devon a cup of cocoa.

  “Tastes excellent,” Devon said, grinning up at her. “Oh, hey. Have you met my friends?”

  Morgana flicked her dark eyes up at them. “No. Not yet.”

  “This is Natalie Santos,” Devon said. Natalie barely nodded. “And this is Marcus Johnson.” Marcus smiled. “And finally, this is D.J. Kerwinsky.”

  “Very pleased to make your acquaintance,” D.J. said, leaping forward, nearly tripping over his feet. He shook her hand, suddenly g
rinning like a fool, forgetting any of his usual cool reserve.

  “And yours, too, D.J.,” Morgana purred. Devon noticed she batted her long eyelashes just a little bit. “And yours, too, Marcus,” she said turning her eyes back to him.

  Marcus just smiled again.

  “Did you talk with Edward?” Devon asked her. “Did he explain about all—this?”

  “It’s rather hard to believe,” Morgana said, looking around and her voice trailing off.

  “It’s okay,” Devon told her. “My friends know all about the demons.”

  Morgana sighed. “Edward said there is some kind of door in the East Wing. A door that leads to…” She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. “I just can’t say it.”

  “I know it’s hard,” Devon said. “But if you’re going to marry into this family, you’re going to have to know about the sorcery. The Nightwing and the Hell Holes. Mrs. Crandall tried to keep the secrets from me, but it was impossible to live here and not find out.”

  Morgana smiled kindly down at Devon. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, do hurry up and get better, Devon. I have a feeling I’m going to need your friendship desperately in this house.”

  Devon promised. She kissed him on the forehead, then hurried out of the room.

  After she was gone, the room was quiet for a moment. Then D.J. let out with a whoop. “Oh, baby!”

  Cecily made a face over at him. “Okay, so like you only made a total fool of yourself, D.J.”

  He ignored her. “That is one hot babe,” he said to Devon.

  “Yeah, she sure is,” Devon agreed.

  “Well, I didn’t like her the moment I saw her,” Natalie said.

  “For once,” Cecily said, looking over at her, “we’re in agreement on something.”

  “You two are just jealous,” D.J. said. “Because I’ll tell you. That Morgana is hot. H-O-T.”

  “D.J., you surprise me,” Cecily deadpanned. “You can spell.”

  Devon looked over at Marcus, still sitting on the edge of the bed. “What did you think of her, Marcus?”

  He paused. “Well, she’s certainly beautiful. And she seems very nice.”

  “So what’s the problem?” D.J. asked.

  “No problem,” Marcus said, but he seemed unsure.

  “She’s a gold digger,” Cecily said. “Trying to get my uncle’s money. Mark my words, they’ll be divorced within a year and she’ll have a big fat settlement.”

  “She seemed very sweet, Cess,” Marcus said.

  “You’re supposed to be gay, Marcus. You’re not supposed to be taken in by her.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not taken in by her. I’m just reserving judgment.”

  Devon rested his head back into his pillows. Yes, Morgana was sweet. So sweet that he couldn’t seem to get her out of his mind for the rest of the afternoon, and all through the night. When he woke up the next morning, he was still thinking about her. About a dream he had—a dream in which Morgana once again came to him, and this time she kissed him, right on the lips.

  It wasn’t something he shared with Cecily. Oh, no, not at all.

  The weeks passed. There were no more disturbances. No heat. No strange noises. No hands plunging out of the dark. Devon managed to sneak off to Rolfe’s a couple of times, and learned that he’d have to accept the fact that the occasional stray demon might show up at the house, an inhabitant of some far-flung Hell Hole come to make trouble at Ravenscliff. But for the most part, he’d have the power to dispatch them. And if ever got caught unaware, like what had happened with this last one, he’d have the ravens to pitch in and help.

  Morgana settled into the routine of the house, no doubt pleased that after that initial episode, no other sorcery disturbed their sleep. Mrs. Crandall still seemed to disdain her, and Cecily to distrust her, and Alexander to actively despise her. It made for some awkward moments with his father, like when the boy refused to go out walking with the two of them. But Devon really liked the young woman. Morgana was sweet and gentle and unassuming and pleasant. And beautiful. She was definitely beautiful.

  As for Bjorn, Devon still eyed him with a bit of suspicion. But the fact that not only his shoulder but also the wound on his leg healed completely in less than forty-eight hours made Devon think that maybe, just maybe, the gnome was okay.

  One Friday night, D.J. drove the gang over to Gio’s for pizza. A snowstorm was forecast, and Mrs. Crandall was worried about them being on the road. She insisted that Devon and Cecily be home no later than ten-thirty. That hardly gave them time to wolf down their fourth pepperoni pie.

  “I can’t wait until I’m fifteen,” Cecily griped as they came back through the front doors of Ravenscliff, the grandfather clock in the foyer reading 10:29. “I’m going to demand more independence.”

  Devon laughed. As if one could demand anything of Amanda Muir Crandall.

  He took off his coat and hung it on the rack. There was still a little pain when he lifted his arm, but Bjorn’s cure sure beat having stitches and his arm in a sling for several weeks.

  Cecily looked back at him as she started to climb the stairs. “D.J. seemed kind of out of it tonight, didn’t you think?”

  “Yeah,” Devon agreed. “Even for D.J., he seemed quiet. Hardly talked at all.”

  “Wonder what’s bothering him?”

  Devon shrugged. “You never know with Deej. He goes off into his own world sometimes.”

  Cecily stopped on the stairs and turned around. “You don’t think—?”

  Devon laughed. “What? That some demon’s disguised itself as him again? No, I would’ve felt the heat. Whatever’s bugging D.J. is nothing like that. Maybe he had a fight with his parents.”

  Outside, the snow was starting. Devon heard the long, shrill howls of the chill winter wind screeching through the eaves of the house. The shutters outside his window had come loose; Simon was supposed to have fixed them, but he never got around to doing it before taking his swan dive off the roof of the tower. Devon would have to ask Bjorn to attend to it. On nights like this one, the shutters banged and crashed all through the night.

  Or maybe I can fix them myself, Devon thought.

  In his room, he threw open his window. Sure, I can fix this, he told himself. Aren’t I a sorcerer of the noble Order of the Nightwing? A couple of loose shutters shouldn’t be—

  His thoughts suddenly stopped. He made a little sound in his throat as he looked down. There was movement below. A sudden blast of heat hits his face.

  “Oh, man—” Devon gasped.

  Crawling up the side of the house were scorpions—at least, big, black, purplish things that looked like scorpions. Hundreds of them. Thousands!

  Devon instinctively slammed his windows shut and took a step backward. The heat and pressure in the room ratcheted up unbearably. Within moments hundreds of the horrible things were tapping at the glass of his windows, their swishing tails menacing him from the night. They looked in with their tiny, black, beady eyes. They were at least a foot long, and they covered his windows, trying to break in.

  “Back, I order you,” he said, but his voice was weak. The things repulsed him: they reminded him of cockroaches. “Back to your Hell Holes.”

  But just as it hadn’t worked with that other demon, once again Devon’s command proved ineffectual. He knew why: both times he’d been surprised and scared. He felt fear. That was precisely how they could overcome him. If he was scared, his powers failed him. Sargon the Great himself had warned him against that; he had scornfully called Devon the “Abecedarian.” The beginner. The novice. The amateur.

  “Oh yeah?” Devon said to himself, feeling a growing sense of indignation. “I’ve been inside a Hell Hole and back out again, Mr. Sargon I’m-So-Great. Can you say the same?”

  Just then the scorpion things broke through his glass. Hundreds of them poured into his room, moving at speeds unimaginable. They were soon spreading out across his floor, climbing the
posts of his bed. Devon backed off into a corner, fighting off his fear.

  “Did you hear me, you filthy things? I’ve been to hell and back. And that’s precisely where I’m sending you!”

  The scorpions stopped in their advance but did not retreat nor disappear. A few were munching through Devon’s backpack on his desk. “Hey!” he shouted. “You can have the geometry book but claws off my iPad!”

  With one sweep of his arm he found he could destroy them. The backpack munchers suddenly exploded in clouds of purple dust. “Nice work,” Devon told himself. “Now keep it up.”

  The other creatures were beginning to back up slowly, an agitated vibration spreading through them.

  “Go on, get out of here!” Devon commanded, full of confidence now. “Go back to hell or you’ll be purple powder like your friends!”

  They began scurrying back up the wall and out the window, down the side of the house to wherever they came from. But Devon was on them quickly.

  “Not so fast for one of you,” he said, reaching down to grip one of the hideous things by its enlongated abdomen. He lifted it from the ground, its tail coiling defensively. “I order you not to sting,” Devon barked. The thing fell limp in his hand.

  “I think I’m going to keep you, study you awhile.” Still holding the demon in his left hand, Devon pulled open his closet door. The thing’s siblings were almost completely gone now, scurrying as fast as they could over the broken panes of glass. The snow was blowing in from outside but Devon paid no heed. He dumped his dirty laundry out of his duffel bag, dropped the scorpion-thing inside, and cinched the top with the drawstring. “I order you to remain in there,” he told his prisoner.

  “I’m stronger than they are,” he reminded himself, a little grin spreading across his face. “I’m stronger than they are, and they know it.” He paused. “So long as I am not afraid.”

  But just why had they started coming for him again? What did it mean?

  A couple of days later, Bjorn was fixing Devon’s window.

  “You know, Bjorn, when I first came here,” Devon said, feeling more and more that he can trust the caretaker, “I seemed to have stirred up the demons because they sensed I was Nightwing—that I had the power to open that portal. But I showed them I was stronger than they were—in fact, stronger than the Madman, Jackson Muir himself—and so they went away. Why have they returned? What do they hope to get from me?”