Blood Moon (Book Three - The Ravenscliff Series) (26 page)

“You promised me, you filthy, lying Nightwing!” she screamed.

They were all stunned as they witnessed her assault.

“You lied to me, just as your ancestors lied to mine! I should have known never to trust a Nightwing! Now taste the fury of the Devons!”

Her nails gouged into his eyes as she clung to his back. Blood streamed down his face. He screamed in pain. He was trying to shake her off his back, but the great Nightwing found he was powerless against her. He was at the mercy of this second-rate witch, one whose powers should never have been able to get this far. He had underestimated her. They had all underestimated her.

Underestimated all of the Devons and the enchanters of the islands.

From the shadows staggered McNutt. Devon could see from his eyes that his will was once again his own.

“What have I done?” McNutt cried. “Oh, what have I done?”

“Go after her,” Montaigne told him, pointing behind them in the direction Emily had fled. “The three of us need to try to contain Jackson. But you can go after Emily and bring her back here!”

“No,” Devon told him. “What matters right now is Emily. If we can stop her from jumping off Devil’s Rock, we will be able to deal with Jackson. I suspect he won’t carry out his plan to open the Hell Hole if we can bring Emily back to him.” He looked around at the three men. “But if she dies, he will be out of control.”

“The boy’s right,” Randolph said. “I fear it is futile, but we must try.”

“We must prevent Emily from reaching the cliffs,” Devon said.

They raced down the stairs, leaving Jackson to struggle with Miranda, and flew out the front door.

Through the driving rain and the gusts of wind they ran. Ahead of them was Emily, just a barely glimpsed figure in white. It was like a dream to Devon; it was just as the legends would tell of it, just as the villagers would someday whisper in the taverns of Misery Point. Devon was living the story he had been told on his very first day at Ravenscliff: the night Emily Muir jumped from Devil’s Rock.

As the fog thickened near the cliffs, the sensation of a dream increased. Time slowed down; sound grew dim. Devon became separated from the other three. He tried to find them, to spot them in the mist, but he was alone now. He moved through the fog in a kind of slow motion, utterly by himself.

“Montaigne!” he tried to call. “Randolph!”

But his voice came back at him like a sound underwater. He realized he was no longer on the grounds of Ravenscliff. He was in the air above. His feet didn’t touch the earth.

Devon felt his spirit detach from his body. It was the sensation of a piece of tape, or a Band-Aid, being pulled away from skin. What was happening suddenly became clear to him. He was an observer in this time, that was all. A witness. He was not a participant, and never was.

And then the despair set in.

Randolph Muir was right: history could not be changed. If it could, then time itself would have collapsed. It would have become meaningless. That was why the elemental gods had decreed that it could never happen. What had Devon been thinking? How had he dared to imagine—dared to
presume
—that he could alter the course of history? Arrogant and dangerous dreams, not worthy of a true Nightwing.

Devon became part of the mist. Just a witnessing spirit, as ethereal and disembodied as the wind. But from slightly above he watched as McNutt dashed after Emily. Of the three, McNutt ran the fastest and caught up with her first. Devon watched as he pleaded desperately with her, and he recognized the frantic fear on Emily’s face, the terror of the life Jackson had in store for them. He witnessed what he now understood was inevitable if time—and all of the lives intertwined within it—should be allowed to proceed.

From his vantage point above the scene, Devon watched as Emily jumped. She was like a gazelle leaping into the air, a ballerina in the midst of a grand jeté. He saw her slender form twist in the wind and then corkscrew gracefully down toward the rocks. He watched her plunge. He heard her final scream. Devon watched as Emily’s body sliced into the surface of the roiling water.

He might be only a spirit at the moment, but he felt the tears dropping from his eyes.

And then the storm dissipated. The moon came out above.

Jackson arrived, too late. He stood on the cliff, his grief and rage overwhelming. He turned his bloody eyes to McNutt.

Devon witnessed the poor man’s flight through the woods, his battle with the Madman, and then, finally and most awfully, his transformation into the beast.

McNutt howled up at the moon.

So it was the Madman who turned McNutt into the beast, the Madman who was behind the curse that would afflict Marcus three decades from now. Devon wasn’t surprised. So much of the pain and tragedy of Ravenscliff could be traced to Jackson Muir’s lust for power. Poor McNutt—how terrible was his transformation, twisting and contorting into that horrible creature. Devon watched from the mist as the beast howled at the moon, then lumbered off into the night.

And suddenly the teenager was himself again, standing in the wet grass, breathing heavily, his heart thudding.

“Return to the house.” A comforting hand was placed on his shoulder. It was Montaigne. “There is nothing more we can do here.”

“But what about Jackson?” Devon asked as they began to walk. “Where is he?”

“Everywhere and anywhere,” Montaigne said. “Now the battle begins.”

“Look,” Randolph said, motioning for them to join him in the small room off the upstairs parlor in the West Wing. Devon and Montaigne had just arrived. The house was eerily quiet. Neither Jackson nor Miranda was anywhere to be seen. “Now we can see what my brother was doing in here.”

Devon gasped. Built into the far wall was a door into the world of the demons—the very same portal Devon would know in his own time.

“Jackson tore open another Hell Hole once I prevented access to the one in the basement,” Randolph said. “He reached down through space and matter and ripped open a passageway right through the house.”

“Have you sealed it?” Montaigne asked.

“Of course.” Randolph rested his hand against the iron door. “It was why I did not continue on to the cliffs. This had to be done.” He shook his head sadly. “Not that I would have been able to prevent a tragedy that has already been foretold.”

The master of the house dropped down into a chair and held his face in his hands.

“I called my brother an Apostate,” he said thickly, “for that is what he is.”

Montaigne, too, dropped his eyes in regret. He had known both these men as young boys, when they had their entire futures spread out ahead of them, when both were shining stars of promise in their father’s eyes. The sadness of these two men was palpable.

Devon, too, fought off his own grief—not for Jackson, but for Emily. He’d come to like Emily a great deal. Just a few hours ago, she’d been downstairs, sharing a toast for a joyous future. Tomorrow she was to have been Gifted with the power of the Nightwing. How happy she was. She had believed herself pregnant. She had believed in her husband’s goodness and fidelity. Now she was a rapidly bloating corpse, tossed about and claimed by the unrelenting sea.

All because of the Madman.

No, not all because of him.

Miranda—Devon’s friend—who’d first befriended him in this time—bore responsibility for Emily’s death as well. How had such a sweet, fun-loving girl become such a destructive monster?

“Where is Miranda?” Devon asked.

“Somewhere in the night, I assume, planning her next move.” Randolph looked up at them both. “Just as Jackson is. My friends, prepare yourselves for a long night. And perhaps a long several days before a victor in this battle emerges.”

Devon didn’t try to offer what he knew to be the course of history: that the Madman
would
be defeated, although Randolph and Montaigne would die in the process. Devon had given up hoping he could change history. All he could do was witness it.

Yet there was one big unknown still left.

Would Devon survive the night?

Or was it his fate to die here, in the past, never to return to his friends and his own time? After all, McNutt had not seen Devon during his trip to the future. Devon had not returned, Rolfe had told him. He had left to seek a cure for Marcus, but he had not come back. That was the last Devon’s friends would apparently know of him.

Plus—and this fact startled Devon even more—Amanda and Edward Muir would grow up with no memory of Devon from their childhood. Neither would know him when he first showed up at Ravenscliff. That fact fit with the idea that he would die here in this time, and
soon
—while they were still too young to retain a memory of him.

Then Devon’s fate had also been foretold, and there was no way to change it.

Had that been the meaning behind the Madman’s taunts when Devon fought him in his own time? Jackson had said then that he—Jackson Muir—was Devon’s destiny. Would Jackson carry a memory with him of killing Devon in the past? Devon might have defeated Jackson in the future, but perhaps the ultimate irony was that Jackson would get to kill him here, in this time.

It was all so confusing. The time paradoxes left Devon reeling.

I’ve got to concentrate
, he told himself
. I cannot become discouraged. I cannot give in to my fear.

“First,” Randolph said, standing from the chair and steeling himself for war, “we must remove Rolfe, the servants, and McNutt’s wife and daughter from the house. They must be given safe haven.” He placed his hand on Montaigne’s shoulder. “I’ll have a car take them to where I’ve secured Greta and the children.”

“Where
is
that, sir?” Devon asked.

“Never mind, Teddy. The fewer who know the better. Even you, my friend.”

“But we may need Mrs. Muir’s help,” Montaigne said. “Two Nightwing against one would give us the upper hand.”

“No.” Randolph was adamant. “Jackson will be gunning for her. My brother has lost his wife tonight. He’ll make mine his particular target.” The master of Ravenscliff smiled, turning to Devon. “Besides, we already have two Nightwing.”

He placed his arm around Devon’s shoulder.

“I’ve beaten him before, sir,” the teenaged sorcerer said, careful not to reveal more details than that. “I can do it again.”

“Good boy.” Randolph looked over at Montaigne. “Break the news gently to Mrs. McNutt. We may yet be able to save poor Ogden. Tell her not to give up hope.”

Once again Devon stayed silent about what he knew from the future.

From somewhere near the cliffs, the beast howled, sending shivers through Devon’s entire body.

A short time later, the McNutts, little Rolfe, and the servants filed into Randolph’s long black car. The chauffeur drove off down the driveway, and once again the car disappeared before it rounded the bend. Devon wondered just where Randolph sent them, where anyone could find refuge from the Madman’s wrath.

Outside the windows of the parlor, the cries of the beast grew ever louder and closer. Devon stared up at the moon, a cruel, unblinking eye.

“There will be no reasoning with my brother,” Randolph said. “There is only one outcome that can result from our battle.”

“Jackson’s death,” Montaigne said, his voice choking with emotion.

“Or mine,” Randolph said.

Or mine
, Devon told himself.

“But as for McNutt,” Randolph added, “my hope is if we capture the beast—”

As if on cue, the thing howled. It was on the grounds of Ravenscliff now.

“We have no power over it,” Devon told them. “Its only weakness is silver.”

“Like the werewolf,” Montaigne said.

Randolph nodded. “It makes sense. It is a creature of the moon.”

“In my own time, I made silver armor for myself—”

But there was no time. Devon barely knew what happened. The large French doors overlooking the terrace were suddenly blown inward, glass shattering everywhere. The roar of the beast filled the room.

“Montaigne!” Devon shouted.

The beast had the Guardian in its hairy paw, lifting the man up by his shoulder. Too fast for anyone to interfere, it flung Montaigne across the room, sending him crashing into the far wall. A table and lamp were knocked over as Montaigne slid to the floor.

“Silver armor!” Devon called out.

Instantly he was protected in a suit of shining silver. Just as the beast was about to pounce on Randolph, he, too, was shielded by his own armor. The creature recoiled, hissing.

“Remember it is McNutt,” Randolph said. “We mustn’t kill it. We must simply contain it. Get behind it now, Teddy. Block it from leaving the way it came.”

The beast stood between them, hissing and spitting. Its wolf-like mouth of teeth dripped saliva as its bearish arms swung wildly but futilely through the air. From Devon back to Randolph it looked, the silver of their armor hurting its eyes.

Montaigne was dragging himself slowly to his feet.

“In the drawer of my desk, Montaigne,” Randolph said, not removing his eyes from the beast, “there is a pistol equipped for just such an emergency.”

“Silver bullets?” Devon asked.