Blood Moon (Book Three - The Ravenscliff Series) (8 page)

And maybe I do, too,
Devon thought, an idea suddenly coming to him.

Once, in a test with none other than Sargon the Great, the founder of the Order of the Nightwing, Devon had failed miserably because he had failed to see the obvious, because he had let fear and doubt get in the way.

I am a Sorcerer of the Nightwing
, Devon told himself.
Not only that, I am the one-hundredth generation from Sargon, destined for greatness.

If I can’t find Crazy Lady
, Devon reasoned,
I’ll find everything
else.

He emerged from the secret panel into what had been Emily Muir’s upstairs sitting room. A dust-covered chandelier hung forlornly from the ceiling. Shutters kept out most of the light, with only slivers of the sun’s morning rays slipping through. Devon stood in the middle of the room, trying to empty his mind of all other thoughts than the task at hand.

“Everything in this house,” he said, “wood, glass, marble, furniture, electrical wires, carpet, plumbing, books, appliances, food, portraits, clothing, people—everything
other
than Crazy Lady—fade from my consciousness!”

At first nothing happened. Then, bit by bit, the room around him began to shiver. First a corner off to his right, then a section of the floor beneath him. Then the chandelier trembled and disappeared, and then the ceiling was gone, replaced only by a stark white nothingness. Devon looked down at his feet. The floor was gone. He stood on white air. The rest of the room gave one last shudder, then was gone, too.

The whole house had vanished. Devon was enveloped in a stark white void. No sound, no smell, nothing to see.

“Now,” Devon said, “what can I discern?”

With the distraction of everything else gone, he could concentrate on locating Crazy Lady. She might have been invisible, she might have wrapped herself in a cloak of mystical privacy, but now she did so in a chasm of nothingness.

And Devon immediately detected a clue. A scent, recognizable only to his Nightwing nose.

Hot fudge.

Bjorn had said he’d given her a hot fudge sundae last night. There must have been a slight remnant on her lips or fingers.

Devon honed in on the smell. He couldn’t tell exactly where he was going, as he had no relation to the house around him—which way was the floor and which way was the ceiling. Still, he moved through the whiteness with ease. At first he had the sense that he was descending, but then it changed to a sensation of rising. Up, up, up. The tower? It would make sense. It had been home to Crazy Lady for a long time …

He stopped. The smell was strong here. He reached out his hands and touched flesh. A face. He heard Crazy Lady’s startled shout.

“How did you find me?” she shrieked, and the whiteness suddenly disappeared. They stood facing each other in the tower room. Crazy Lady cradled a headless plastic doll in her arms.

“I’m a sorcerer,” Devon told her. “It was easy.”

She backed away from him, clutching the doll to her breast.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Devon said. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“You’re here to make me a prisoner again, aren’t you?”

She didn’t seem insane now. She seemed merely frightened, and so much younger than ever before, as if she might not be all that much older than Devon. Her gray hair was pulled back into a ponytail; her eyes were cast down at that deformed little doll. Devon’s heart ached for her.

“You tried to burn down the house,” he said. “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t want to be kept prisoner any more,” Crazy Lady told him, still gazing down lovingly at the doll, rocking it back and forth in her arms. “My baby and I want to be free. We want to go back out into the world.”

“I don’t think you’re quite ready to do that yet. But maybe we can get you some help …”

Her eyes reacted, darting up to meet his. The madness was there again, shining through. “I won’t be put in that room again!”

“No, not that one,” Devon said, “a nice one …”

“No!”

“Calm down, please,” Devon said kindly, reaching out for her. “I want to be your friend.”

She eyed him cagily. “My friend?”

“Yes. You know my name, so why don’t you tell me yours?”

Crazy Lady glared at him for several seconds, then suddenly leapt backward, onto the windowsill behind her. She crouched there like a bird.

“I’ve learned how to fly,” she told him, turning the latch on the window. “Do you know how to fly, Devon?”

“Please, don’t try it,” he begged her. “We’re at the top of the tower. It’s a long way to the ground.”

“But I told you,” she said calmly. “I’ve learned how to fly.”

She turned, thrusting her head and shoulder out the window.

Devon made a lunge for her, but she was prepared for him. He was suddenly repelled backward, falling onto his butt.

“Oh, and Devon,” she said, looking back one last time, “my name is Clarissa.”

With that, she flew off into the morning sky.

“Are you sure?” Rolfe asked him after Devon had told him the story. “Are you absolutely sure that’s what she said?”

“She told me her name was Clarissa,” Devon said once again.

Rolfe sat down in a state of stunned silence.

“That was the name of the girl in your car,” Devon said. “The one you thought drowned, who has a gravestone in the cemetery on Eagle Hill.”

“It can’t be,” Rolfe muttered.

Devon took the seat next to him. They were in the office of Rolfe’s restaurant, one of several he owned in the area. Devon had come to see him right away, as soon as Crazy Lady had disappeared into the air. He’d just closed his eyes in the tower and reappeared at Rolfe’s. He loved it when his powers worked.

“It can’t be Clarissa,” Rolfe said again.

“You told me her body was never recovered.”

The older man’s eyes grew dark. “I went to prison for her death. Amanda testified—all the while she was keeping the girl hidden away at Ravenscliff!
That’s
why she kept her imprisoned! So she could convince the police that Clarissa was dead and make sure I was locked up in jail!”

Devon held a lot of things against Mrs. Crandall, but this seemed too much even for her. Utterly destroy a girl’s life merely for revenge? Have a gravestone made for her just so it would keep up the illusion of her death and keep Rolfe in jail? Was she really capable of such hatred and viciousness?

“Look,” Devon argued, “Crazy Lady—whatever her real name is—has powers, powers that need to be controlled. Did Clarissa have powers when you knew her?”

“No, of course not. She was just a girl. A servant girl …”

“Who you were fooling around with …”

Rolfe nodded. “It was a stupid thing.” He sighed. “When Amanda discovered what was going on, she was furious. And rightly so. I apologized and promised never to see Clarissa again. I did everything I could to make it up to her. But she was so stubborn, so strong-willed, so determined to hold a grudge …”

“It runs in the family,” Devon said, thinking of Cecily.

“But to do
this
,” Rolfe said, standing up now, slamming his fist into his palm. “It staggers the imagination! She sent me to jail for a death she knew didn’t occur!”

Devon decided against bringing up the fact that there was another person in the car that night—a boy—who, for all they knew, really
did
drown. But everything now seemed open to question, including Clarissa’s identity.

“If this is the same person,” Devon reasoned, “why didn’t she have powers then? Why does she have them now? And when did she go insane?”

“Clarissa Jones was no sorceress. She was not Nightwing. She was just a village girl.” Rolfe looked at Devon intently. “Only Amanda will have the answers to those questions.” He was rubbing his hands together, obviously itching for a showdown. “And I can’t wait to ask her.”

“Not yet, Rolfe,” Devon said. “Let me try to—”

“
Ten years of my life, Devon!
” Rolfe snarled. “That’s what she took away from me! Ten years I sat in that stinking place! I’m going up to that house to demand some answers!”

Rolfe moved as if he meant to leave right away, then stopped. He turned to look at Devon. He seemed to calm down, but Devon could still see the rage in his eyes.

“It’s your birthday today, isn’t it, Devon?” he asked, more softly now.

The teen nodded. “Not so that anybody remembered.”

“I remembered, Devon, and tonight I will bring you a birthday gift.”

Devon smirked. “And that’s when the explosion will take place?”

“After I give you your gift,” Rolfe said, a devious grin stretching across his face, “I’ll take Amanda aside and we’ll have a nice little chat.”

Devon decided to walk back to Ravenscliff. No car, no disappearing-reappearing trick. He needed to clear his head and think about a few things.

The village continued its headlong rush to spring. Green daffodil bulbs sprouted alongside sidewalks. Freshly painted shops boasted signs reading, Opening in 2 weeks! Seasonal workers were arriving, standing in line to apply for jobs at the Clam Shack and Frosty Fingers Creamery. Devon couldn’t imagine sleepy Misery Point as a bustling summer tourist spot, but that was what they all told him it would be, and soon.

Climbing the steep, crumbling staircase that was built into the side of the cliff, Devon got a good view of the village, its sea-washed white clapboard houses and scrubby, gnarled black pines. Dad had sent him to this place without telling him why, but Devon understood now that it was his home—his real home, more than Coles Junction had ever been.
When I lived in Coles Junction, I was just biding my time
, he thought to himself as he climbed
. I was just waiting for my destiny to kick in. Waiting to come here.

At the top of the staircase was Eagle Hill cemetery, the Muirs’ private burial ground. They were all here: Horatio Muir, the founder of Ravenscliff, and Mrs. Crandall’s parents, Randolph and Greta Muir, and others of the family. Overlooking the sea was a memorial to Emily Muir, and—making Devon’s skin crawl every time he saw it—the grave of Jackson Muir himself. Master of Ravenscliff was etched upon its surface, though the title had never been his in life.

I was down there
, Devon thought, shuddering, as he stood looking at the grave.
I was down there with Jackson’s skeleton, trapped in his coffin.

The Madman had put him there. Sometimes Devon still woke up at night in a panic and a cold sweat, imagining himself back in that terrible place.

But I got out
, Devon reminded himself.
I got out because I was stronger than he was.

Stepping past the hideous marker, he cleared away some dried leaves with his foot. He peered down at the simple, flat marker bearing just one word: Clarissa.

“Why?” he asked out loud. “Why did Mrs. Crandall pretend Clarissa was killed in the car accident? Why did she go to the trouble of having this stone placed here? Was it really just to have revenge on Rolfe?”

He turned. His eyes were drawn, as ever, to the obelisk in the center of the cemetery. On its base was carved the single most enticing clue to his past. His name, Devon, in bold, raised letters.

No record of who’s buried there
, Devon thought, staring down at the name. At least, none that Mrs. Crandall was willing to share.

Is it my father? Is that who it is? My real, blood, Nightwing father?

“And who might you think that would be?”

Devon spun around.

“Who said that?” he called out. “Who’s here?”

A low, mocking laughter drifted over the gravestones.

“Do you want to look upon his face? The face of your father?”

The voice terrified him. Who was it? Devon couldn’t even tell if it was male or female.

“Yes,” Devon said. “Yes, I want to see him!”

“Very well,” came the voice, deep and gravelly, as if it came from the earth itself.

Devon braced himself. No one appeared. But then he heard a sound, a stirring at his feet. He jumped back in horror.

A hand was pushing up from the ground.

The hand of his dead father!

This has happened before
, Devon thought.
An army of zombies attacked me here once …

But this time it was just one dead man sitting up in the soil. A horrible, stinking dead man, with holes where his eyes once were.

Decomposing corpses—they freaked Devon out more than just about anything else. More than demons, more than renegade sorcerers, more than were-beasts. Devon recoiled as the dead man staggered to his feet.

“Back off,” he commanded, his heart thudding in his chest. “Back off!”

But the zombie lumbered blindly forward, its decaying hands flailing about in an attempt to grab the teen. Devon managed to evade its grasp but got a whiff of its rotting flesh. That was the worst thing about zombies: they
reeked
.

“Back to your grave!” Devon shouted, but still the thing staggered on, grossing him out more with every step it took. Devon considered just disappearing to get away from it, but figured leaving a zombie to roam the grounds of Ravenscliff wasn’t such a good idea. Besides, it would be cowardly—

That’s when it hit Devon—why he couldn’t overpower the dead man.
I’m scared
, he said.
I’m freaked out by it. I’m freaked out that this stinking, rotting corpse might be my father—and that’s why my powers aren’t working.

Fear, he had been taught many, many times, was the only thing that could incapacitate him, render his Nightwing powers useless.

He heard Dad’s voice: “You are stronger than anything out there. Always remember that, Devon.”

“Yeah,” he shouted now, standing in place against the encroaching zombie, no longer backing up out of fear. “I’m stronger than you, mush-face!”

The dead man’s hands made contact with the teenager’s flesh. Devon choked back his revulsion and stared defiantly into the empty black eye sockets, trying to disregard the maggots that crawled through the dead flesh.

“Back to your grave!” Devon commanded again, and this time the thing disappeared. The earth at his feet looked as if it had not been disturbed. Devon let out a long sigh of relief.

I was being tested
, the teenager realized.
And I passed the test
.

But who was doing the testing?

Trudging through the woods back to Ravenscliff, he realized he was going to have to explain to Mrs. Crandall that Crazy Lady had gotten away from him. He wasn’t sure if he’d reveal that other bit of information—that she had told him her name was Clarissa. He might wait for Rolfe to do that tonight, because after that, his whole world was going to fall apart.

Mrs. Crandall might well kick him out of Ravenscliff for defying her order about not seeing Rolfe Montaigne. Where Devon would be sent then, he wasn’t sure. He had to be prepared for anything.

It was mid-afternoon. He’d missed lunch, but he didn’t have much of an appetite after seeing—and
smelling
—that dead thing. He just felt like taking a nap.

As he crossed the driveway toward the front doors of the mansion, a car’s horn honked at him. “Yo, Devon!”

It was D.J. He screeched the Camaro up the driveway and stopped right in front of the house. He hopped out of the car while Natalie, Marcus and Cecily stepped out the other side.

“Happy b-day, dude!” D.J. said, slapping him on the back. “We had a cake and everything waiting for you at school, but you never showed up!”

Marcus, looking a little more like his old self, presented him with what was left of it. A slice of Sara Lee chocolate cake on a paper plate, one candle lopsidedly stuck on top.

Devon smiled. “Thanks, guys.”

Natalie came up beside him. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

Devon removed his phone from his jacket pocket and saw he had a mess of texts from her, and from D.J. and Marcus. “I had it on silent,” he said, kind of chagrined that he’d been feeling sorry for himself that no one remembered. “I was doing some investigating and figured I shouldn’t be distracted.”

“Well, I hope you didn’t think we’d forgotten,” Natalie said.

Devon looked over into her dark eyes. How pretty they were. “Naw,” he said. “I knew you would remember.”

They held each other’s smiles for several seconds.

“Well, if you want to eat your cake, then come inside,” Cecily said coldly, and marched in through the front door of the old mansion. The rest of them followed.

At the enormous mahogany dining room table, Marcus lit the candle. “Go ahead,” he told Devon, “make a wish and blow it out.”

“Before he does that,” came another voice, “maybe he ought to save his breath for this.”

It was Bjorn. The little man waddled into the room carrying a gigantic chocolate cake on a silver platter, so wide and high it was practically bigger than the gnome himself. He eased it onto the table. It was loaded with flickering candles.

“Sixteen candles,” said Alexander, rushing in behind Bjorn. “I lit ’em all myself.”

“Sixteen, huh?” Devon asked. He looked over at Cecily, who leaned uncomfortably against the far wall. She alone had failed to say “Happy Birthday” to him.

Devon reached over and plucked the lone candle out of the Sara Lee cake. He stuck it onto the cake that Bjorn had brought out.

“Maybe we ought to make it seventeen,” he said, and proceeded to blow them all out.

Cecily turned her face away.

“Did you make a wish?” Natalie asked, keeping close to Devon’s side.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Bet it’s to find out who your real parents are,” D.J. said.

Devon smiled. “If I tell you what it was, it won’t come true.”

He caught a quick glimpse of Cecily looking at him, but once again, she turned away.

“Old superstitions,” Bjorn intoned. “There’s something to them. I take them very seriously.”

“Well, let’s chow down,” D.J. said. “Cut me a big slice, Devon, my man.”

For a while that afternoon, it was just a teenager’s birthday party. Chocolate cake and Coca-Cola—Diet Coke for the girls—and silly, sugar-buzz laughter. There was no talk of sorcery or demons or beasts or zombies. Instead D.J. promised to take them all to Florida this summer. His parents were buying a condo, he said, to get away from the misery of Misery Point winters, but it would be empty and available for their use in the summer. “The demons will never find you in West Palm Beach,” D.J. laughed.

Devon laughed, too. His appetite returned, and he devoured three slices of cake. Sitting against the wall on the floor next to Natalie, he felt high and happy, and when he noticed she had frosting on her upper lip he reached over and kissed it off.

“Devon!” Natalie giggled and kissed him back.

“Okay, you two,” Marcus said, pointing his fork at them. “No PDAs.”

Devon grinned, looking up. He saw Cecily walk out of the room, D.J. following after her. For a moment, he felt guilty. But then he figured it was for the best; they had to forget about each other. Besides, he couldn’t deny how nice it was to be with Natalie, who was so much calmer, so much sweeter than the volatile Cecily Crandall …

But thoughts of love and romance were quickly displaced by alarm when he noticed, once again, the pentagram floating in front of Marcus’s face.

“Hey,” Devon said to his friend. “You still wearing that star chain I gave you?”

Marcus smiled, patting his chest through his sweatshirt. “I never take it off.”

“Good,” Devon said.

“But whatever that was, it’s over,” Marcus insisted. “It was just the flu or something. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Whatever,” Devon said. “Just keep wearing that pendant.”

Marcus held his gaze. “I promise, Devon.”

The reality of his life came flooding back to him then, and he stood up, breaking contact with Natalie. “Listen, you guys, this was all really cool and everything,” he said. “But maybe you all ought get going. Rolfe is going to be here soon, and stuff is going to happen. Things might get nasty.”

“All the more reason to stick around and watch,” Marcus said, grinning.

“No, it wouldn’t be cool,” Devon said. He turned and faced Natalie. “Thanks for my birthday cake. Why do I figure it was you who brought it to school?”

She smiled. “I was hoping maybe you could come over to my house tonight and I’d bake you a real one.”

“More cake?” Devon laughed. “After all this?”

“Well, then we can just hang out,” Natalie said. “Watch TV …”

Devon sighed. “I’d like to. I really, really would. But this stuff between Rolfe and Mrs. Crandall … it could get pretty intense. I need to be here.”

She smiled. How understanding she was. She reached up and gave Devon a quick kiss on cheek. “Okay. Then maybe tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Devon promised. “Let’s plan on tomorrow.”

D.J. and Cecily were already in the car. “Tell Mother that D.J. is taking me to the movies,” the red-haired girl shouted from the car window as Devon, Natalie and Marcus walked outside. “I’ll be home later.”

“Yeah, okay,” Devon said, figuring the less people in the house the better.

“Oh, and happy birthday, Devon,” Cecily said.

“Thanks, Cess.”

Their eyes held. Devon felt terribly confused. What were his feelings toward her? Toward Natalie? He was a Sorcerer of the Nightwing. But he had no powers over teenage hormones.

“Oh, and did you deal with Crazy Lady?” Cecily asked. “I really don’t feel like getting burned in my bed tonight.”

Devon sighed. “We’re safe for now, I guess.”

“Good.” She nodded crisply, then rolled up the window.

He waved goodbye to his friends before turning and walking forlornly back inside.

Maybe he’d get to move in with Rolfe if Mrs. Crandall threw him out. That would be cool, and it would make sense, Devon figured, if Rolfe was seriously going to be his Guardian. But would Mrs. Crandall ever sign over legal rights to Rolfe Montaigne? Devon doubted it. Dad had left him in Mrs. Crandall’s care. It would be up to her to determine where he would go if she decided to kick him out of Ravenscliff. And Rolfe was the last person she’d send him to.

Truth was, Devon didn’t want to leave. As freaky as this place could get, it was home now. This was where Devon’s past lay, and his future, too. He was sure of it.

Of course, if Mrs. Crandall went to jail—and she just might, if Rolfe could prove she perjured herself and then kept Clarissa a prisoner all those years—then there would be no telling what would become of Devon. Or Cecily. Or Alexander.

Or Ravenscliff.

But the fact was, Clarissa was gone. Devon could feel it, and his Nightwing intuition confirmed it. She was free. Finally and truly free. Flying on her own. What he just told Cecily was true. They were safe, until Clarissa decided to come back.

And without Clarissa around, Rolfe would have a hard time proving that her body wasn’t washed out to sea. No charges against Mrs. Crandall would stick.

That wouldn’t stop Rolfe, however, from making them.

“How
dare
you walk into this house?”

Mrs. Crandall was on the landing on the top of the stairs, looking down with wide, outraged eyes at Rolfe Montaigne, who was standing with Devon in the foyer.

Devon had answered the door when he heard Rolfe knock, hoping to ease into the clash he knew was inevitable. But Mrs. Crandall had apparently seen his Porsche from her window upstairs, and she was not pleased by his arrival, to say the least.

“As ever, Amanda,” Rolfe said, looking up at her, “you’re especially beautiful when you’re angry.”

His flattery only ratcheted up her rage. She moved down the stairs, her voice icy but her eyes filled with fire. “The last time you were here,” she seethed, “I told you never to come back.”

“But I had to bring Devon a birthday present,” Rolfe said innocently.

She stood in front of him. “I suppose it will be some magical trinket that will only encourage him in practicing what I have forbidden.”

“Now, now, Amanda,” Rolfe said. “Can we all just be civil for the boy’s sake? I mean, it is his birthday.”

Mrs. Crandall’s lips tightened as she looked from Rolfe to Devon. “Give him the gift and then go.”

“May we go into the parlor, at least? Standing here in the foyer seems so formal.”

She just sighed. They all proceeded into the parlor, Devon’s heart pounding in his chest. He wished Rolfe would cut the act and just get to it.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“By the way, Amanda,” Rolfe said as the mistress of the house sat down in her wingback chair, “have you heard from Clarissa?”

Devon watched the expression on Mrs. Crandall’s face. She was emotionless, just staring at Rolfe coldly. She betrayed nothing.

“Clarissa is dead,” she finally said, “and you of all people should know that.”

“So it’s been her ghost banging on the walls these past few weeks?” Rolfe asked.

Mrs. Crandall’s eyes shifted over to Devon.

“I’m sorry,” the teenager said. “I had to tell him. I saw her again today, Mrs. Crandall. And she told me her name.”

“She is insane,” she said calmly. “You know that, Devon.”

Rolfe was standing over her, glaring down. “So you’re denying that your mystery lady is in fact Clarissa Jones?”