Blood Moon (Book Three - The Ravenscliff Series) (17 page)

The little boy toddled back into the other room. Devon watched him, staggered by the thought that someday this boy would be his friend, his mentor, his Guardian.

“He’s the most precious child,” Miranda cooed. “I hope someday to have one just like him.” She smirked. “But not too soon. I want to keep the figure a while longer.”

“Where is his mother?” Devon asked.

A look of sadness passed across Montaigne’s face. “She died when the boy was born. Since then I have been blessed by the Muir family’s kindness. Greta Muir has been as much a mother to him as she has to her own babies.”

“All right,” Miranda said, growing impatient. “Shall we bring down the crystals from the West Wing?”

“No need,” Montaigne told her. “Mr. Muir wanted the ceremony held there, in the large upstairs parlor. He is giving Jackson and his wife that wing of the house.”

“And all of the instructions are in the Book of Ritual, yes?”

Montaigne nodded. “Follow them precisely in setting up the room.”

“And each of us will have a part to play,” Miranda told Devon. “It’s all spelled out in the Book of Ritual.”

“It is the Ritual of Return,” Montaigne explained. “It is held to welcome an errant Nightwing back into the embrace of the order. It is a joyous occasion when a renegade returns and repents.”

Devon wanted to shout:
But he hasn’t repented! It’s a trick! He just wants control over the Hell Hole!

But he couldn’t warn them just yet. Maybe there would come a time, but he knew now to keep his tongue if he wanted to learn the answers that would enable him to save Marcus and keep Jackson from returning, yet again, more than thirty years from now.

They headed back across the estate to start their duties.

“He’s very handsome, Jackson Muir,” Miranda said. “I’ve seen his pictures.”

Devon said nothing.

“I imagine he had quite the good time, carousing through the world,” she mused. “I suppose if I were Nightwing I might go a little wild, too, then repent and everything would be fine. But at least I’d have had my fun.”

“It’s probably a good thing you aren’t Nightwing then,” Devon said.

She laughed. “Like you would be any better, Teddy Bear? Like you would be some great and noble sorcerer?” She laughed even harder.

How Devon ached to tell her a thing or two.

“Wait for me!” a little voice suddenly sounded from behind them.

They turned around. Little Rolfe came running through the grass.

“Now, Rolfe,” Miranda said, “you go back to your father—”

That was when Devon felt it. The tingling sensation. The heat.

“Get back,” he barked at Miranda.

“What?”

The little boy kept running toward them.

“I said,
get back
!” Devon ordered. “Get behind me!”

The girl lifted her chin obstinately. “Who do you think you are, ordering me—?”

Little Rolfe took a flying leap toward them.

Miranda’s eyes followed him as he soared through the air.

And then she screamed.

The child had turned into a giant bat, with huge leathery wings and a mouth full of fangs.

“I was ready for you!” Devon shouted, springing into action himself, his feet out in front of him, making contact with the demon’s furry midsection.

But the thing bit down onto his foot, sending Devon crashing to the ground.

The demon landed on top of him, emitting a long, chittering laugh as it prepared to sink its fangs into his face.

“Not so fast,” Devon said, bringing up his arm to protect his face.

The demon screeched angrily.

That little temper tantrum gave Devon just enough time to ram his knees into the creature’s gut, thrusting it off him. The demon flapped its giant wings as it tried to regain its balance.

“Don’t even think about coming at me again,” Devon said. “You’ve drawn blood, and that always makes me
really
mad!”

The demon’s red eyes glowed.

“Back to your Hell Hole!” Devon ordered. “Back to your stinking pit!”

The thing screeched again, its wings spread wide—but then it was sucked into a vortex backward against its will, drawn up across the sky and disappearing on the horizon.

“Aw, geez,” Devon said, letting out a long breath of relief and sitting down to examine his leg. “I sure wish I had Bjorn’s potions to cure this. Demon infections can be really nasty.”

Miranda was standing in stunned silence staring at him.

“Okay, so you know,” Devon told her. “I’m no Guardian kid. I’m a sorcerer.”

“And Nightwing to boot, it would appear,” she said in a tiny voice.

Devon glanced around. “Do you think anybody saw?” The day seemed as calm as it had been before, and they were still a ways from the house.

“Who are
you
?” Miranda could barely speak. She took a step toward him, then fell back. “Why are you here? Why would they send a Nightwing to work as a Guardian?”

Devon wasn’t listening, keeping all his attention on his leg. His jeans were torn along his right calf and blood was seeping through. “Montaigne must have something for this,” he said. “Maybe it won’t be as good as the potions of the gnomes, but he must have
something
.”

Miranda bent down to examine his wound. “Yes, the Guardians have their own medicine. We can treat injuries caused by demons.” She went pale, almost as if she might have fainted. “A demon! I just saw a demon!”

Devon smirked up at her. “What kind of Guardian are you going to be if you get all freaked out by the sight of a demon?”

She looked at Devon with terror in her eyes. “I have never seen one in actuality. The Hell Hole is closed. At least, I’ve always believed it to be. Mr. Muir has told us all that he made it secure. We have never been threatened by demons here before.”

“The Hell Hole under Ravenscliff is still secure,” Devon assured her. “This demon came from somewhere else. I suspect it followed someone here. Someone it considered a friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was one of Jackson’s creatures, I’m sure of it. And it sensed who I was.” Devon shuddered. “I’m just glad I was able to send it back to its Hell Hole before it had a chance to tell the Madman.”

“The Madman? Is that what you call Jackson Muir?”

“It’s what he’ll come to be known as.”

Miranda knelt beside Devon in the grass. “Who
are
you?” she asked again.

“I’m a sorcerer from the future,” he told her, deciding that was enough information for now. “I’ve come back to find some answers—and maybe, in the process, to prevent some terrible things from happening to the Muir family.”

“You frighten me, Teddy Bear,” Miranda said, then she thought of something. “The child. Little Rolfe …”

“Don’t worry. He’s fine. Demons can take on the appearance of someone to throw us off.” He grinned. “But it didn’t fool me. I sensed it.”

“You know quite a bit for someone so young,” Miranda said.

“Yeah, well,” Devon said, blushing a bit.

“And now I suppose you are going to erase my memory of what happened? So you can keep your identity a secret?”

I can do that?
Devon wondered. But he said, “No, I think I can trust you, Miranda. And you may be helpful to me.”

She smiled, some of her old attitude returning. “Of course. You must have heard of the Devons. My kin has always been eminently resourceful.”

He smiled back at her.
Kin
. It was hard to believe, but he was convinced that Miranda was somehow family to him. Cousin? Aunt? It was an odd feeling, a sense Devon had never really experienced before. He’d never known anyone in his family—even when Dad was alive, it had always been just the two of them—and that had left a hole deep inside him. And now here was someone—
family
—sitting right beside him.

“Come on,” Devon said, getting up off the grass. “We have work to do.”

They hurried back into the great house, rushing quickly up the stairs and off toward the West Wing. In this era, the wing was not abandoned and closed off as it would be in the future. There were no cobwebs. The windows were not yet shuttered to keep out the sun. It was all rather mind-boggling, in fact. According to Devon’s own time continuum, he’d stood in this same place just about an hour ago, and it had been covered in dust and shadows. Now it was bright and sunny, the windows open to let in the morning air. The chandelier that he remembered as broken and faded hung sparkling and new from the ceiling.

“Mrs. Muir fixed this room up so beautifully,” Miranda observed, running her hand along a gold gilt table in the center of the room. “This is where we are to put the crystals.”

But when Devon headed into the small chamber to retrieve the crystals, he stopped suddenly in his tracks. Where were the books of sorcery that were kept here? Even more startling: where was the door to the Hell Hole? In its place was just a normal wall, and instead of books there were just boxes. In the future this would be the chamber of the Muir family secrets; here in the past, it was just a storage room.

It made sense, Devon thought to himself. In the future, the family would want to hide any relics of its sorcery, having repudiated their powers and Nightwing past. But here, in this time, they were proud and open (at least among the family) of their glorious heritage. There was no need to hide anything away.

But the Hell Hole? Where was it?

“In the far reaches of the basement,” Miranda told him. “Why would there be a portal up here, dragging the demons up through the house?” She shuddered, obviously remembering their encounter in the yard. “Keep them sealed off down in the dark where they belong.”

Devon smirked. “You can read thoughts.”

She smirked back. “Sometimes they just jump out at me. At least the ones that are seeking some kind of response.”

Devon looked back into the storage room. “At some point,” he told her, “another portal will be created here, in this very room.
Why
?”

“I have no answer for that one, I’m afraid.”

As he helped Miranda set out the crystals and drape the windows in the ceremonial Nightwing purple, Devon met the rest of the family, who had come upstairs to check on their progress. Accompanying Greta Muir were her two children: the toddler Amanda, her hair as fiery red as her daughter Cecily’s would someday be; and the infant Edward, carried in his mother’s arms. The uncanny family resemblance continued. When a tall, sturdy, fair-haired man followed them into the room, Devon knew him immediately to be Randolph Muir—because he was the exact image of what his son, the adult Edward Muir, would look like.

Except—and this was significant—he was what Edward Muir would look like if Edward had been noble and decent. In Devon’s timeframe, Edward Muir was a good-for-nothing, globetrotting playboy, a coward, a man who shirked his responsibilities, especially where his son, Alexander, was concerned. Randolph Muir, by contrast, was clearly the opposite of his scalawag son: upstanding, solid, dependable.

Randolph’s eyes caught Devon looking at him. They remained trained on him, watching the teenager precisely as he moved about the room. The sorcerer’s eagle eye made Devon anxious, and he dropped a crystal.

“Careful there, young man,” Randolph Muir called over to him, taking a few steps in Devon’s direction. He picked the crystal up from the floor and set it on the table. “Montaigne told me you’re from England. Whereabouts?”

“Um, Yorkshire,” Devon said, recalling his time travel to the York of the fifteenth century.

The older man narrowed his eyes at him. “Yet no trace of a Yorkshire accent.”

“Well, my mother—”

Randolph Muir was nodding. “Was American. Yes, Montaigne told me.”

He doesn’t believe me
, Devon thought, as the master of the great house moved away.

It was only then that Devon realized that the heat he was feeling wasn’t just his nerves. It was the heat of being in the presence of a fellow sorcerer—and a very good one at that. Randolph Muir.

At the designated time, a black limousine pulled up the long driveway outside Ravenscliff. From an upstairs window, Devon watched as the uniformed driver stepped out of the limo and opened the door to the backseat.

“It’s him,” Devon whispered, his eyes riveted to the Madman as he emerged from the automobile in his long black cape.

He looked different. Of course he did; he was
alive
in this time. He was an ordinary human being, albeit a sorcerer, flesh and blood instead of a disembodied spirit. Jackson was dark where his brother Randolph was fair. As he stepped out of the vehicle and looked up at the great house, he gave off a commanding presence. Yet he was the picture of gentility as he offered his hand to his wife, who alit now from the car herself.

She was beautiful. More beautiful than her portrait would reveal. Soft, delicate and blonde, Emily Muir looked up at the great house with wide, curious eyes. And in that second, she made eye contact with Devon as he stared down from above. With a start, he quickly let the curtain fall back over the window.

From the landing overlooking the foyer, Devon and Miranda watched the warm embraces. Greta, tall and robust, graciously welcomed Emily, so small and frail and ethereal. Little Amanda, in a long white lacy dress, curtsied to her uncle and aunt. Randolph shook his brother’s hand heartily.

“Welcome to Ravenscliff,” Randolph said.

“It is good to be home,” Jackson replied, his eyes surveying the room. A chill ran down Devon’s spine.

It was time for the Guardians to be presented. Montaigne took Jackson’s hand in both of his, pumping it enthusiastically. “I always knew you would come back to us, Jackson,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Jackson impulsively threw aside their handshake to embrace his Guardian, the man who had taught him so much of his sorcery. His black cape swirled around both of them, for a moment obliterating the sight of Montaigne.

“Your son?” Jackson asked, noticing the little boy standing timidly behind his father.

“Yes. This is Rolfe.”

Jackson stooped down so that he was eye level with the child. “May we always be friends,” he said, offering his hand to the little boy.

You’d almost think he’s sincere
, Devon thought, watching him.
You’d almost think he’s truly repentant.

But that demon attack earlier today put any such notions to rest.

Now it was Devon’s turn. He was nudged forward by Montaigne. “This is Teddy, our apprentice from England.”

Devon braced himself. But instead of the look of malevolence he was accustomed to seeing in the Madman’s eyes, Devon saw nothing there. Just weariness. Jackson Muir shook Devon’s hand politely but with disinterest.

I’m just an apprentice
,
Devon realized.
No one to concern himself with.

Suddenly he flashed on a lesson that had been taught to him by the great Nightwing instructor Wiglaf.
Our time continuums are different
,
he remembered Wiglaf telling him.
Here, in this time, Jackson has never met me, though I have met him. I have defeated him, cast him into the Hell Hole, but he does not yet know that. When I met him for the first time at Ravenscliff, he had the advantage; he knew who I was. No wonder he had known so much about me, for he had met me here, in the past.

But now I hold the upper hand …

Much more interest was expressed by Jackson in meeting Miranda: he was gallant, kissing her hand, charming the girl and the whole room. But not Devon. Devon was not fooled by his gestures of civility.

He is here to destroy this family.

Devon knew the heartbreaking history of what was to come. So many of the people who were standing in that room at that very moment would die because of the Madman’s evil ambitions. And the rest would live with the terrible memory of what would come to be called the Cataclysm.

The ceremony, conducted in the parlor, was simple and went according to plan. Randolph read from the Book of Return: “And I say to you, the errors of judgment are forgotten and the ties of family are restored. We welcome you back unto our bosom and restore to you your place in the noble Order of the Nightwing.”

Emily, dressed all in white, began to cry with joy.

Jackson stepped forward, bending down on one knee in front of his brother. As he had practiced, Devon stepped forward with the sword of Quentin Muir, a shiny golden weapon laid upon a purple velvet pillow.

Randolph lifted the sword and brought it down gently upon Jackson’s shoulder, as if he were knighting him. “Herewith you are restored,” Randolph intoned.