Blood Moon (Book Three - The Ravenscliff Series) (22 page)

“Then it’s done. Send for them.” He gripped McNutt’s hand and shook it heartily. “Welcome to Ravenscliff, Ogden McNutt.”

Devon couldn’t help but feel an overriding sadness as he watched the scene. Part of him wanted to warn McNutt against the idea, to tell him to hurry back to his home in England. If he remained here at Ravenscliff, only one destiny awaited him.

The beast.

But for now Devon did heed Randolph’s order to not make any attempts to change the flow of history. For the rest of the day he felt heavy and discouraged—for he had begun to believe that this whole trip back into time would be for nothing. Marcus would still be afflicted by his curse. The Madman would be allowed to return.

And maybe—Devon fought the idea, but it was gaining on him—maybe he was never to go home.

Maybe the future would be destroyed, and the Nightwing fates had sent him back in time to live out his life and avert the tragedy.

No
, Devon thought.
I won’t accept that.

If he did, it meant accepting that all his friends would die.

And it would mean accepting the fact that he’d never learn who his real parents were.

I’ve got to start looking harder for answers
, Devon thought.
I’ve got to find out why the Staircase brought me to this time.

As usual, he turned to the books of the Nightwing for the answers he sought. In this time, they were not kept hidden under lock and key in the West Wing. Here they were proudly displayed in the parlor and in Randolph’s study. Once his chores were done for the day, Devon hurried to peruse the titles of the books. A slim purple volume on the top shelf in the study jumped out at him right away. Enchanters of the Islands. The book seemed to
glow
—always a good sign that something awaited within for Devon to learn.

“Miranda’s family,” he whispered to himself as he opened the book and looked upon the frontispiece. It was an engraving of a map of the Caribbean islands, with Martinique circled in red pen. “
My
family,” Devon added significantly.

The book revealed there were many island families who practiced magic. Nothing so powerful as the elemental sorcery of the Nightwing, but some of the families had achieved reputations of note. Devon flipped through the pages, letting them fall open to reveal what he needed to learn. There, under a drawing of an obelisk—like the one in the cemetery that would bear the name—was an account of the Devons.

Andres Devon, at the cusp of the twentieth century, allied himself with the great Nightwing sorcerer Quentin Muir.

Below these words was a sepia-tinted photograph of the two men. Quentin Muir was fair and tall. Andres Devon was dark and stocky. Quentin boasted a beard and muttonchop sideburns. Andres was clean-shaven.

Does he look like me?
Devon wondered, studying the picture.
Is Andres Devon my ancestor?

But then his eye dropped to the paragraph beneath the photograph.

After a successful alliance of several years, Andres Devon challenged Quentin Muir’s decision to send his son to the Americas. Like many of the lesser wizards, Andres had grown envious of the Nightwing’s exalted position, and he had staked out his own power base in the Western hemisphere. But his power was nothing compared to the Nightwing, and eventually Andres was forced to back down, welcoming young Horatio Muir to the Americas. Still, the alliance between the Nightwing and the Devons was severed, and neither trusted the other again.

“That’s it,” Devon whispered to himself. “That’s what drove Miranda. She is proud like her clan. She cannot face her family’s subordinate status to the Nightwing. By allying with Jackson, she’s hoping to restore her family’s greatness the way Andres Devon once allied with Quentin Muir.”

As he slid the book back onto the shelf, Devon realized that in his veins ran not only the blood of the Nightwing but also the lesser wizards of the islands. Somehow, apparently, a Devon had gotten together with a Nightwing. Perhaps in England? There were no other Nightwing in the Americas except for the Muirs—

No, wait. Devon realized that wasn’t true. There were Native American Nightwing! A rush of excitement suddenly pulsed through his body. Could his real father have been a Native American Nightwing? Could one of them have had a kid with a Devon on the island of Martinique?

It was an idea that fascinated him, and he thought about it the rest of the day, rolling it around in his mind.
Maybe I’m Cherokee. Or Hopi. Or Sioux.

Whatever his origins, it did seem less and less likely that his mother was Amanda Muir Crandall.

Why had he thought it so? Why had that idea been so compelling? Clarissa had never precisely said so; Devon had simply taken it as her meaning. Cecily pointed out that he was jumping to conclusions. Why had he been so willing to accept the idea as truth—and in the course of doing so, utterly derail his relationship with Cecily?

Wandering through the great house, Devon couldn’t deny how much he missed Cecily. He couldn’t forget the way she had looked at him right before he left Rolfe’s study. Yes, getting to know Natalie had been wonderful, and she had certainly claimed a piece of his heart. But it was
Cecily
he missed most of anybody.

He’d come to realize that more and more. He missed Cecily like mad. Her laugh, her sparkling eyes, the way she tossed her red hair. The way they used to hang out, and talk, and listen to music. The way she kissed him.

Devon scolded himself for feeling like a stupid lovesick puppy. But he really
did
miss her more than he thought could be possible. Maybe it was because there had been so much hostility between them during the last few weeks he’d been there, so many things left unsaid.

And now he might never get home to make it up to her.

The next several days went by in a blur. There was a lot to do, as Devon helped Montaigne and McNutt set up a schedule of lessons that the children would begin in the autumn. With Amanda they would practice levitation, disappearance and mind-over-matter. With Edward it would be mostly exposure to various crystals, allowing the baby to absorb as much fundamental knowledge as possible. Once again, Devon lamented the lack of such instruction in his own childhood, but he realized this teaching process was benefiting him as much as the children.

Sitting with Amanda on the grass, reading the children’s storybooks that related the adventures of the great Nightwing of history—Brutus and Diana and Wilhelm of Holland and Vladmir of Moscow, to name just a few—Devon absorbed their exploits for his own enjoyment and education as well.

Meanwhile, summer finally reached its peak in August, with the crowds of tourists never so great as they were in the last three weeks of the month. Devon found time to occasionally head into the village and sit with a plate of fried clams and a Coke—in its commemorative Olympics bottle—overlooking the beach. He was alone, watching the crowds, the kids his age having fun playing volleyball or tanning on blankets. From boom boxes floated the sounds of Michael Jackson’s
Thriller
.

But for Devon, it was just a reminder of the things he missed from his own time, like his own music, downloaded onto his iPod. He missed his computer games and Instagram and Twitter and texting.

But most of all he missed Cecily.

Heading back up to Ravenscliff from the village, Devon took the steep cliffside staircase that was built into the rocks at Eagle Hill. It wasn’t as crumbling or in as much disrepair as it would be in his own time, but it was still pretty treacherous. At its top the staircase offered a sweeping view of the village below and the sparkling blue-green sea beyond. That always made the climb worthwhile.

The smell of salt water was heavy in the air as Devon trudged through the grass into the Muir family cemetery. Three decades from now the cemetery would be overgrown with weeds and tall grass, but in this time it was still well maintained, fresh and new. The windswept stones that would unnerve him so much in the future were not yet built. There was no monument to Jackson with its broken-winged angel. There was no sad memorial to Emily, proclaiming how she was “lost to the sea.” There was also no obelisk that would bear the name Devon.

In fact, the only monuments in the cemetery were those dedicated to Horatio Muir and his wife, as well as a few other stones marking friends and faithful servants.

The last time I was in this place
,
Devon recalled,
I had a vision of a dead man.
It unnerved him to remember it, so he quickened his pace to get back to Ravenscliff.

He heard a sound. A snap of a branch.

Oh, man, not another zombie, please…

No, not a zombie.

He looked up. The sky had suddenly gone dark. But not a storm …

Birds—ravens!

Hundreds of them! Maybe thousands! The familiars of the Nightwing alit everywhere—in the trees, on the grass, on the stones of the cemetery. They cawed, they cried out, they flapped their wings. One landed on Devon’s shoulder.

“What’s going on?” Devon asked as the ravens continued to descend from the sky.

He made eye contact with the bird on his shoulder. In its glassy black eye he could see his reflection.

“It’s beginning,” he whispered, understanding the message of the birds.

The raven flew from his shoulder up into the sky to join the flock. They were heading to Ravenscliff, preparing for the battle. Devon took a long breath to steady himself, and then followed the birds to the great house.

The hundreds of new ravens that had taken up roost at Ravenscliff elicited quite the reaction from the townspeople, of course.

“Ayup, I’ve never seen so many,” said old Mr. Parsons, in typical Maine accent, who worked at the cannery. “Not since my Granddaddy took me up the hill to see the place back in the nineteen twenties, and that was when Mr. Horatio Muir was a young man.”

The board of selectmen even trudged up the hill to visit, worried that the birds might pose a health hazard for the village. But they quickly observed that the big black birds left very few droppings, a fact that surprised the bespectacled ornithologist who accompanied the selectmen. One bird was actually noticed scraping its residue from a perch with its beak—seeming to clean up after itself!

“Truly remarkable,” said the ornithologist, while Randolph and the rest of them simply laughed.

Even Jackson.

Yet the birds’ presence kept Devon on high alert all through the month of September. He knew the final conflict wouldn’t take place until Halloween, but the arrival of the ravens indicated that mystical forces were roiling. How Jackson could think his plotting would go unnoticed by his brother puzzled Devon. Perhaps it was a sign of his arrogance, Devon surmised, or his madness for power.

“There is still hope, always hope,” Randolph told Devon one morning as both walked along the edge of the cliffs overlooking the sea. They were near Devil’s Rock, and Devon couldn’t help but imagine Emily out there, ready to jump. The summer season was over; the sun, still warm upon their faces, could not obscure the hint of autumn chill in the air. Randolph pulled his cloak around himself tighter and said, “My brother may yet validate my belief in him.”

Devon didn’t reply. His silence was not unnoticed by Randolph.

“I have not ended my vigilance,” the older man assured him. “I have read in my father’s books that often a visitor from the future arrives to play devil’s advocate, and perhaps that is your role now. To force me to fully consider my relationship with my brother, and ultimately to affirm my faith in him.” He smiled. “And I have reason to believe I am justified. For Emily is pregnant now, and surely that will keep Jackson on the path of truth and light.”

Devon had stopped in his tracks. “Emily? She’s going to have a baby?”

“Yes. It has brought me such hope …”

“But it’s impossible. She can’t! She’s—”

“Barren? Yes, she thought so, too. Jackson was terribly disappointed when he thought she couldn’t give him a child. But she was wrong. For next year there
will
be a child born to them, and I believe that single miracle is enough to keep my brother on the side of the angels.”

It couldn’t be true. Devon knew history would record Emily as never having a child. But … was history changing? Had his very presence in this time meant the course of history was going to be different?

And if so, what did that mean for his friends in the future?

From that point on, Devon watched Emily carefully, especially on the day that Ogden McNutt’s wife and little daughter arrived from England. How kind Emily was to them, baking them bread and cupcakes, carrying her welcoming gifts to the servants’ quarters wrapped in a large basket with a red bow.

“Mrs. Muir,” said McNutt’s wife, “you are very sweet.”

Never would Greta Muir have condescended to carry baked goods to the servants’ quarters. But Emily embraced McNutt’s wife and stooped down to look into the eyes of the young girl. “What is your name, my little darling?”

“Georgette,” replied the girl.

“What a lovely name.” Emily stood. “How precious she is.” And she hugged the girl to her. “I hope to have a child just as sweet and good as she is.”

How had it happened? Devon was absolutely bewildered. How had Emily become pregnant if she’d been unable to conceive? The Nightwing power did indeed have limits. Jackson couldn’t have made such a thing happen with sorcery. How then? How?

In the village, enjoying a few hours off, Devon watched as the local kids headed off to school on their bright yellow school buses, and once more he felt a terrible pang of homesickness. Randolph had warned him that if the local authorities discovered him living on the estate they’d insist he enroll at school.
It might happen
, Devon realized.
If I’m stuck here in the past for much longer, sooner or later I’ll have to go back to school
…

It had now been more than four months that he’d been in the past.
Four months!
Had that much time elapsed in the future too? Had Marcus and Rolfe and Natalie and Cecily and D.J. given up on him?

But then he remembered how relative time was: he hadn’t yet been born, so no one was waiting for him, no one was wondering where he was. He could only hope that when he
did
go back home that he arrived not long after he left, so he wouldn’t have missed much. That was what had happened the last time he went to the past. But that trip had been brief compared to this …

The days continued to go by. By the end of September, Devon was finding himself becoming a true youth of his era, dressing in bolo ties and pirate’s shirts and even, sometimes, a touch of mascara like Adam Ant. It kind of made him feel more like a sorcerer in some ways—but less and less like Devon March, a kid of the twenty-first century.

“So come with me to a rave tonight, will you?” Miranda asked him, just as September shivered into October.

“A rave?”

“A party at a club in the next town over,” she said. “They play a lot of acid house and techno music. You’ll love it.”

“Can I get in? I mean, I don’t have an ID …”

She smirked. “I should think getting in would be very easy for you.”

Devon shrugged. “Only if I’m supposed to. My powers don’t work just for fun.”

Apparently, he was supposed to. Miranda drove them up to a huge warehouse that was vibrating from the music inside. “See you in a bit?” she asked.

Devon said he’d try. And sure enough, he turned invisible and walked right past the big brute at the door.

Wonder what I’m supposed to learn here?
he thought to himself as he rematerialized inside. Some girl with really big teased blond hair saw him and did a double take. She walked away, apparently thinking she’d done too many drugs.

Devon hoped Miranda wasn’t into the drug scene. She was related to him somehow, and he felt protective of her. Like a sister.

He found her off to the side, eyes closed, nodding her head along to The Clash.

“Pretty cool, huh?” she asked, opening her eyes to look at him.

Devon glanced around. The place was packed with young people, some teenagers but mostly early twenties. Guys wore big blue mohawks, girls wore skintight black Lycra. He’d been to hell and back, but he’d never been to a place like this before.

“I guess if I’m going to be in this era, I ought to really see it,” Devon said.

“Do you want to dance?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

Devon felt awkward, but Miranda seemed to get into it. She slithered around the dance floor, closing her eyes, tossing her head back. She really was quite pretty, Devon admitted to himself. But he cautioned himself against thinking any more about her. He’d already experienced the agony of liking a girl who might be related to him.

It took a few minutes for Devon to realize that Miranda was high. On what, he wasn’t sure. But the way she was moving, the way she was talking, she was definitely on something. It worried him.

“Look,” he said, “I think we ought to go …”

“Go? Teddy Bear, you’re no fun.”

“I don’t want anything to happen to you, Miranda.”

She scowled at him. “Nothing can happen to me. Don’t you understand?”

“No, I don’t. Explain it to me, why don’t you?”

She laughed. “Jackson takes good care of me.”

Devon turned around and stalked off the dance floor. Miranda followed.

“I don’t care if you
are
Nightwing,” she seethed. “No one walks away from me!”

He spun on her. “Don’t you get it? In a few weeks, you’re toast. You’re gone. The Madman will see to that. There’s going to be a stone for you out there in the cliffside cemetery!”

Even as the words came out of his mouth, Devon realized his blunder. He was forbidden from telling anyone what the future held.

But his words seemed to have no effect. The music continued on. The walls continued to vibrate, the smell of smoke—cigarette and marijuana—still hung in the air.

Miranda was glaring at him. “I was warned that I’d hear such lies,” she said, her voice barely audible over the thumping music.

“Believe what you want,” Devon said. “But I can’t go on pretending the Madman isn’t going to attack. I’m going to stop him! If I have to change history to do so, I will.”

“You’re so infuriating, Teddy Bear! You just refuse to see Jackson for how he really is!”

Devon knew arguing with her was pointless, so he pushed through the crowd and left the hot, stinking club. The night air was cool and smelled fragrant. He walked back to Miranda’s car and leaned against it, staring up at the purple sky.

“When the time comes and Jackson regains his rightful place at Ravenscliff,” Miranda whispered, coming up behind him, “you’ll be sorry you were on the other side.”

Devon turned his eyes to her. “You really think he’d settle just for Ravenscliff? You really think, if Jackson had his way, Misery Point would go on like it always has? You think kids will still be able to come to this warehouse and smoke pot and dance? Listen, Miranda, I’ve seen a village terrorized by demons. It was in England in the fifteenth century. People lived in fear. Demons smashed into their homes and bit off their legs and stole their children. That’s what will happen to Misery Point if Jackson Muir gets control of the Hell Hole.”

She scrunched up her face. “You are
such
a downer, Teddy Bear.”

“Well, I don’t know how you can carry on with him.”

Miranda smiled. “When you’re a little older, you’ll understand. When I was your age, I didn’t understand love either. But Jackson and I love each other.”

Devon pulled away from her. “How can you say that? Especially now that his wife is going to have a baby!”

Miranda smirked. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Devon said nothing. He just looked at her.

“Emily can’t have children.” Miranda sighed. “Poor sad Emily! Don’t you see, Teddy Bear? Jackson’s only made her
think
she’s going to have a baby.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because there
will
be a baby born next year,” Miranda said. “Except that Emily won’t be its mother.”

Devon stared at her. “You?” he managed to say.

Miranda nodded. “Of course, I understand the necessity of making Emily
think
it’s her child. The baby must not be born in scandal. I’ll have the baby, but Emily will believe it’s hers. I am willing to make that sacrifice so that my beloved can claim his rightful place as Master of Ravenscliff.”

“Your
beloved
?” Devon was disgusted. “You’re pathetic! So clueless! He doesn’t love you! He’s just using you. He loves
Emily
!”

Miranda frowned. “Teddy Bear, my patience with you is growing thin. You need to decide to come over to our side, and you need to decide
soon
.”

Devon faced her. “And if I don’t, you’ll tell Jackson all about me?”

“I should. You’re threatening to fight him.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You have the ability to erase my memory of your Nightwing powers. So why don’t you?”

“Because I have faith in you, Miranda. I know you will see the Madman for what he is and come around. I know you will!”

She just made a sound in exasperation and stormed off back into the club.

Really smart choice for a pregnant woman.

So that was it. That was how he had it planned. Emily would be mesmerized into thinking Miranda’s baby was her own. So would everyone else at Ravenscliff.

But history had already recorded that Jackson never had a child. At least not one that was ever known …

Once again Devon feared for Miranda. Once again he vowed he would change history. He couldn’t let the only blood family he’d ever known die at the hands of the Madman.

He dematerialized in the parking lot and intended to reappear in his room at Ravenscliff.

But, in fact, he ended up someplace else.

Someplace he didn’t recognize.

It was dark. Very dark. And all he could hear was breathing.

The breathing of an animal.

Or a beast.

The thing’s yellow eyes opened in the darkness and then roared.

Lights came on. Devon was back inside the club, and the rave was still going strong, and the beast was suddenly in the midst of the dance floor. It let out a howl and the kids all around it went scattering in terror. It leapt after them, grabbing one by the shoulders.

Devon realized it was Miranda.

“Let her go!” he shouted, lunging for the creature.

But it was too late.

The thing ripped Miranda’s head off her shoulders as easily as he might behead a daisy.