Blood Moon (Book Three - The Ravenscliff Series) (29 page)

“Move out of the way, foolish boy!” the Madman commanded. “You dare prevent me from claiming what is rightfully mine?”

Behind him Devon could now feel the demons assembling. Their filthy claws and scaly hands began grabbing at his back, pinching his calves, biting his shoulders.

“You’ll have to kill me first!” Devon shouted.

“My minions will save me that trouble,” Jackson replied, laughing as something behind Devon took a chunk out of his upper arm. Devon bit down on his tongue, drawing blood, to resist screaming out.

This is how it ends
, Devon thought.
This is where I die. Randolph will overpower Jackson, but I will die, here in the Hell Hole.

Something wet and slimy was at his ear.

Move aside, master. You can join us. Isn’t that better than being slowly eaten alive?

Something else took another painful chunk out of his thigh. This time Devon couldn’t help screaming.

“You see?” The Madman’s voice came through from the other side of the portal. “Your death has begun! You will die in there, boy, you will—”

He was cut off in mid sentence. From outside the Hell Hole Devon could hear the sounds of a renewed battle. With Amanda safe once more, Randolph must have leapt back into action.

He knew I’d act
,
Devon realized.
Randolph waited for me to get back before he went into his plan. He knew I’d do what I did. He trusted me—that was why he stepped aside to save his daughter! He trusted me!

And I did it!

Another set of teeth chomped down on Devon’s butt. He took it as a cue to get out of there—fast!

But that was no easy task. The demons clung to him, holding him back.

Take us with you, master!

Don’t leave us behind!

Devon shook them off with all his strength. “Back to your Hell Hole!” he shouted as he rushed forward, breaking free of the suction that held him inside. He fell face first onto the floor.

Montaigne was quick to slam the portal shut and slide the bolt back into place. “Seal it shut!” he yelled to Devon, who with a nod of his hand secured it once again from the hands of the Madman.

But when they turned around they saw Jackson appeared to have gained the upper hand on Randolph. Amanda had disappeared, back to her parallel time by the snap of her father’s fingers, and the demon was gone, too, surely sent back to hell by Randolph. But now the two sorcerers were on the ground. The Madman straddled his brother, his hands squeezing Randolph’s neck.

“You will die for usurping my rightful place,” Jackson told him. “Die!”

Randolph’s face was turning blue. Their powers, so evenly matched, were finally at the breaking point. Only one would survive this assault.

“I am Master of Ravenscliff!” Jackson shouted. His face was twisted with rage and he raised his eyes to look around at all of them. His clown costume was gone. He was once again the Apostate, and it did appear that he had won. Below him his brother had fallen still. Randolph’s struggles had ceased.

“I am lord and master here!” Jackson proclaimed. “No one but me!”

“Not if I have anything to say about it!”

Devon turned. Someone else had suddenly appeared in the room.

Miranda!

She held a dagger in her hand.

Jackson was taken by complete surprise. He had been exulting in his victory, so he had no time to react, no time to stop Miranda from plunging the dagger straight into his heart.

“No,” the Madman gasped. “To die at the hands of such as you—it can’t be!”

“Such as me?” Miranda asked weakly. “You forget, Jackson. I am a Devon.”

Blood spit from his mouth. Jackson’s eyes rolled backward in his head. His moment of triumph had been obliterated. He fell backward.

Montaigne rushed to check his pulse.

“He is dead,” he announced.

Could it be possible?

Devon looked down at the battered body of the Madman.

Sorcerers they might be, but they were still human. A dagger to the heart, not caught in time, could still kill them in one quick shot.

“And Randolph?” Devon asked, kneeling beside the other fallen sorcerer.

Montaigne checked. “Alive,” he breathed with relief. “Thank God.”

Devon turned to thank Miranda, but she was gone. Montaigne helped Randolph to his feet. The great sorcerer looked down at the cold, unmoving body of his brother.

“He was my childhood hero,” he said thickly, with emotion. “We had different mothers but we were brothers in every way. He had greatness in him. He should have been a great and noble Nightwing.”

His eyes moved over to Devon’s.

“Look at him and know the truth, my young comrade. Look at him and see the ways of the Apostate.”

Devon did as he was told. Jackson Muir’s black eyes stared silently up into the void, desire and greed and hatred still etched upon his face.

The death of Jackson Muir was not announced right away. Too many deaths had occurred in such a short span of time that the authorities would grow suspicious. But when word was finally given, Randolph had a memorial built for his brother in the graveyard that read: Master of Ravenscliff.

“Perhaps in death it will give him some peace,” he said sadly, placing his hand on Jackson’s brownstone monument.

An angel, fully winged, stood on top, a symbol of the good that Randolph believed still lived, deep down, within his brother. Devon lifted his eyes to it, knowing that at some point over the next thirty windswept, stormy years, one of the angel’s wings would break off. It would offer a silent statement on just how much good was left inside the Madman.

They headed slowly back to Ravenscliff. Despite the potions and salves of the gnomes, Devon still walked with a little difficulty, the wounds of the Hell Hole still not fully healed. He went directly to the tower room.

“Miranda?”

Devon knocked on the door.

She had refused to leave this place. Even after Randolph praised her for her courage, insisting she had restored the glory of her family, Miranda had not stirred. Her depression worsened every day, and she sat staring out of the window toward the cliffs. Even her final act of courage could not undo the Madman’s invasion of her mind.

“Come on,” Devon said. “We’re going out dancing tonight.”

Miranda smiled sadly at him. “I am never leaving this room,” she said.

“This is ridiculous. You can’t stay here forever.”

“I have but one reason to keep going,” Miranda told him. “The child I carry. I must give her life. Then there is nothing more.”

“You’re young!” Devon protested. “You have your whole life ahead of you!”

“Not while the body of Emily Muir still floats lifelessly in the sea.”

Devon sat back in his chair. “I have something for you,” he told her.

“I don’t want any gifts.”

From his pocket he produced Emily Muir’s prayerbook. “I think she’d want you to have this.”

Miranda accepted it, opening the pages and reading the words. She closed the book and pressed it against her heart. “Thank you, Teddy Bear.”

I’ve done all I can
, Devon thought.
I can’t change the course of history
.

He’d accepted now that it was his fate to live out his life in this time. It had been three months since the Madman was killed. Three months—and still no sign of the Staircase Into Time.
Then this it
, Devon thought.
This is my destiny: to live out my life here.

What else could he believe as the months passed? The winter deepened, grew colder and icier. Devon continued his training with Montaigne, finally receiving the kind of Nightwing education he had dreamed about, apprenticing alongside Randolph Muir.

I really could grow up to be a great sorcerer now
, Devon thought,
if only I had a guarantee that I was going to grow up.

He confided his fears to Randolph. “Since Amanda and Edward won’t remember me when I arrive,” Devon said, “I might die here, and soon.”

Randolph smiled. “Or you might move away, go somewhere else to train among the Nightwing.”

Devon smiled sadly. “But I guess I’ll never go back to my own time. I’ll never play a video game or send a text message again.”

“I’m not sure what those things are,” Randolph said, “but you might yet go back to your own time. Just because McNutt didn’t see you while he was there doesn’t mean you
never
return. Maybe you return the moment he left!”

Devon allowed it was possible, and for the first time in his months he allowed himself to hope.

“Or else,” Randolph said, considering the idea further, “maybe your destiny is to go to
another
time.”

“But I need to go back
home
,” Devon said. “I need to help Marcus. And—”

He stopped. He knew he couldn’t tell Randolph what will happen in the future: that the Madman wasn’t dead forever, that he would return, more than once.

And that his own fate at his brother’s hands still lay in the future.

As the winter melted into spring, Devon concluded he would never return to his own time. He’d never be able to tell Cecily how he felt about her—how sorry he was now that they had broken up, and how much he wished they could start over.

I’ll never see her again
,
Devon thought.

He’d been in the past for eleven months, almost a full year.
I’m almost seventeen now
, he realized.

In some ways, this era had become as much his own time as the one from which he came. He’d gotten used to the lack of computers and cell phones. He liked the music. And he reveled in his lessons in sorcery from Montaigne. Randolph had even talked of enrolling him in a special summer program for young Nightwing, held in England. That would be freaking awesome.

“But I miss my friends,” Devon admitted to Montaigne.

“You’ll make new ones here,” his Guardian assured him. “We’ve been so busy staying alive you haven’t had a normal life. We’ll get you back to school. You’ll meet lots of friends. Is it really so bad to think of staying with us?”

“Of course it isn’t,” Devon said. “I just don’t know what else I have to learn in this time, aside from my lessons with you. What more was this trip into the past meant to teach me?”

A few weeks later he got the answer to that, when Miranda gave birth to her daughter in the confines of her tower room.

“What will you name her?” asked the little gnome Gertrud, who’d been called in to act as midwife.

“I will name her for my mother,” said Miranda. “Her name will be Clarissa.”

Devon was staggered.

So Clarissa was—
is
—Jackson’s daughter!

His surprise faded as he considered the idea fully, however. It made sense.

I had thought so once, and now I can understand why Mrs. Crandall had been so fearful of Clarissa.

She gets her powers from the Madman, and if she were to follow in her father’s footsteps …

Would Clarissa know who her father was? Or had she just been instinctively drawn to the Hell Hole, sensing her destiny—and her father—was there?

Devon wondered if he ever got to return to his own time, would he find Clarissa friend or foe?

“We will raise her with our own children,” Randolph promised Miranda as he stood, holding the baby Clarissa, looking down at the frail, emaciated girl in the bed.

A day later, Miranda was dead.

It was just as she told them. Having given birth to Clarissa, Miranda found no reason to go on living. Assured of her daughter’s care and protection, Miranda closed her eyes and slipped away, as if simply willing herself to die.

One more death. One more farewell to his youth. Devon shed tears as Miranda was buried—tears for his kinswoman, for a girl who had once been so filled with life. Wiping his eyes, he watched as the obelisk rose over her grave. It was a symbol of the magic of the enchanters of the islands. As was Miranda’s wish, only the name Devon—the name of which she had been so proud—was etched upon the surface.

Later that night, Devon stood looking down at Clarissa in the crib.

So now I know who you are
, he thought.
You’ll grow up to be Crazy Lady, kept prisoner in this house once your powers assert themselves. But I’ll break you free—and I hope you end up finding a life somewhere away from the evil legacy of your father.

He reached in and stroked the baby’s soft, fine hair. She cooed.

Devon headed out of her room, down the corridor and through the foyer, heading up the stairs to his own room. He was tired. More tired than he’d been since fighting off the Madman. All he wanted to do was fall asleep and have no dreams. He was all cried out—for Emily, for Ogden, for Miranda, for the friends he missed so much but whose faces he found it increasingly difficult to recall.

Except Cecily’s. All Devon had to do was his close his eyes and he could see Cecily, the way he last saw her in his own time.

He continued heading up the stairs.

It took a moment for him to realize that something was different. The stairs were going on far longer, far higher, than they should have been.

Suddenly the light in the room had gotten very low. Looking up ahead of him, Devon couldn’t see the top of the stairs.

It’s here! At last! I’m on the Staircase Into Time!

He was exultant. Bursting into happy laughter, he started to run, taking two steps at a time. He could see the top of the staircase now.

I’m going home! I’m going home!

Devon reached the top. He looked around. Yes, he was home! The telephone on the hall table had
push buttons
! No more dials!

I’m home, I’m home, I’m home!

He looked around.

Aren’t I?

Something seemed different.

The curtains … the light fixtures …

He heard a sound. Ahead of him, someone came through the door.

“You!” Devon shouted as his eyes opened wide. “It can’t be!”

CONTINUED IN BOOK FOUR

Thanks to everyone at Diversion Books for bringing the stories of Devon March and the Nightwing back to life. Thanks also to Malaga Baldi and Tara Hart. And thanks to all the readers who have waited so long for this series to continue. I want to hear from you. Write to me at
[email protected]
.

@HuntingtonGeoff

www.Facebook.com/Geoffrey.Huntington