Blood Moon (Book Three - The Ravenscliff Series) (27 page)

“Yes. I will only disable it, not fatally wound it. A shot to the leg to keep it from walking.”

Montaigne staggered toward the desk, his hand outstretched—

—when suddenly a yellow column of light seared across the room, scalding his hand. Montaigne pulled back in pain, grasping his burned hand with his other.

“You weren’t thinking of shooting my little pet, now were you?”

It was the voice of the Madman. Suddenly Jackson Muir was in the room, in every corner, his essence filling the parlor from floor to ceiling. No matter where Devon looked he saw the face of the renegade sorcerer. It obliterated everything else.

“First you kill my wife,” the Madman growled, “then you would kill my beast!”

“You cannot win, Jackson,” Randolph’s voice boomed out, though Devon could not see him. All he could see now were the Madman’s bloodshot, swollen eyes, filling every inch of Devon’s vision.

“My dear brother,” Jackson said, his voice icy and brittle, “I won the moment you welcomed me back into this house. You with your noble code of honor! You wouldn’t listen to the boy, would you? You wouldn’t listen to his tales of the future. See where it’s gotten you now!”

The terrible, enormous eyes turned their bloodshot gaze to Devon.

“I know all about you now, little sorcerer,” Jackson said. “I know all about your warnings and your pathetic little attempts to change history.”

“Miranda told you!” Devon shouted. “What have you done to her?”

“The time for questioning is over,” Jackson said in a singsong voice not unlike that of the clown he played, pretending to entertain the children. “And the letter for the day is Kayyyyy!”

The Madman now appeared as the clown, his white face and red nose filling the room.

“K for Killing!” He laughed maniacally. “The time for killing has begun!”

Suddenly Devon felt the sting of hot metal.

He looked down at his body. His silver armor was melting.

The beast growled, sensing an opportunity.

I’ll be boiled alive in molten silver if I don’t get out of this thing
, Devon thought, jumping out of his melting armor. He ended up on the ceiling, holding on by his hands and the soles of his feet, as if they were suction coups, as if he were Spider-Man.

In the precious few seconds he had, Devon surveyed the room. He could see Randolph’s armor was also melting, and the older man had likewise jumped out of it. Montaigne had been knocked unconscious by Jackson’s laser, and the Madman stood in the doorway, projecting his image and essence through the room.

Devon leapt.

Jackson didn’t have time to react. Devon’s feet crashed into the sorcerer’s face, sending him sprawling onto his back. When he immediately sat back up—like some terrible, unbeatable, mechanical doll—his face was even bloodier than before.

And he was mad.

Really mad.

“Bring them on,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

For a second all Devon could hear was the rush of wind. Then came the crashing of wood and glass.

Then the high-pitched cries and shrieks of the demons.

The Madman’s minions.

The demons came smashing through the walls of the house. There were dozens of them. Scaly, reptilian things and hairy, lumbering brutes. Some half man, some half animal. Some whose flesh decayed even as they flew through the air.

And if the Madman had his way, if he could make it back to the West Wing and open that Hell Hole, there would soon be hundreds—
thousands
—more of the vile, stinking, filthy things.

In the pandemonium that ensued, in the chaos of claws and reek of decay, Devon lost all sense of where he was or where Randolph might be. He was on his own. Completely and utterly on his own.

“Back to your Hell Hole!” he commanded as first one, then another, and then still another demon lunged at him. They disappeared, one by one, sucked by an invisible vortex back to their otherworldly realm by the power of the sorcerer’s command. But there were so many… and they kept on coming…

The smell in the room threatened to overpower him. The stink of death—like rotten eggs, like raw sewage—made Devon choke. Why did these things have to
smell
so bad on top of
looking
so nasty?

But even as the next one—a skeletal soldier with six arms and the face of a walrus—snarled its way toward him, Devon realized this was just a diversion. Where was Jackson? Where had he gone?

The demons can wreck the house
, Devon realized,
but we can put all that back together again.

If the Madman gets to the Hell Hole, however, there will be nothing we can do to make things right again.

Just as the walrus opened its mouth to chomp down on him, Devon disappeared.

He hoped Randolph wouldn’t feel he was running out on him. But there was a more important place he needed to be at the moment.

The West Wing.

The Hell Hole.

It was quiet when Devon reappeared in Emily’s parlor. Her embroidery still sat in the chair where she had left it.

Devon made his way into the little room where Jackson had constructed the new Hell Hole. The teenager sighed in relief. The portal was still bolted, still secure.

He turned around, ready to rejoin the battle downstairs, the sounds of which echoed up through the floorboards.

“So, alone at last,” came a voice.

The door to the small chamber slammed shut, and the Madman materialized in front of Devon, glaring down at him with his black eyes, wearing his black cape. His face was still bloody.

“Who are you, boy?” Jackson asked. “Who sent you here?”

“I came on my own.”

Jackson grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “Look behind me, boy. Look at that portrait. It looks exactly like you. It’s been there since I was a child.
Who are you?
”

Devon remained defiant. “My name is Teddy.”

“Are you from the future as you claim,” the Madman asked, “or the past? What manner of time traveler are you?”

“The time for questioning is over,” Devon replied calmly, pulling back and out of Jackson’s grip. “Didn’t you say the time for killing had begun?”

With one nod of his head, he catapulted Jackson Muir backwards into the wall.

“That’s for what you did to Montaigne,” Devon shouted. “But this will be for what you did to Emily!”

He lunged, preparing to land his feet on the Apostate’s neck, hoping to snap his spinal cord. The only outcome, Randolph had said, would be death.
Better the Madman’s
, Devon thought,
than my own.

But Jackson was too quick. His hand darted up, grabbing Devon’s ankle and toppling the teenager to the floor. He was quickly on top of him, his crazed, bloody face not an inch above Devon’s own.

“You dare to mention my wife’s name? You dare to pretend to avenge her honor when it is all of
you
who bear responsibility for her death?”

He laughed as Devon struggled beneath him.

“So noble,” the Madman hissed. “You and my brother are so upstanding and proud. Never would you think of departing from the Nightwing code of honor.”

He grinned horribly.

“I’ll bet your good Guardian never told you about
this
little trick,” Jackson said, pinning Devon down now by both of his hands, his knees on the teenager’s thighs. “Prepare to welcome me, boy, into your very
mind
.”

The Madman’s face overpowered him. Jackson’s essence—the same that had filled the parlor downstairs—now forced its way within Devon’s very consciousness. The Madman entered his body, smashing its way into the sanctuary of Devon’s mind—

And Devon screamed.

It was the most horrible, excruciating sensation that Devon could possibly ever imagine, the sense of another spirit, another intelligence, invading into the private thoughts and memories of his mind.

No! I won’t let you enter!

But I am here already! You have lost!

You cannot have access to my thoughts!

How you fear exposure! But of course! If I know where you come from, I can see how you can be beaten!

It was as if they were no longer on the floor of the inner chamber, but rather disembodied spirits dueling in a realm that had neither time nor space. Here they had no physical bodies, yet Devon could “see” his nemesis quite clearly. He could see the blackness, the void where there should have been a soul.

That was when he understood how the Madman could be defeated.

I am stronger than anything that comes for me
, Devon remembered.

Invade my thoughts if you will, Jackson, but you cannot take my soul!

Even in their spirit states, Devon could “hear” the Madman’s laughter.

I’ll take your soul, boy, and I’ll eat it for breakfast!

Go ahead and try!
Devon suddenly felt triumphant and unafraid.
And while you’re at it, look around among my memories. See one of them in particular, Jackson! This one I give freely to you. Take it, Jackson! Here it is!

He felt the Madman’s sudden wariness.

Are you looking, Jackson? Are you experiencing it? Do you see how, in my own time, I cast you into the Hell Hole? Made you a prisoner among the very creatures you now want to set free!

No!

Devon felt the Madman’s essence pull back, unwilling to be exposed to such an experience. It made Devon feel even bolder and more confident.

You will spend eternity in there, Jackson! And I sent you there!

Devon could feel the Madman shudder.

Go ahead, look around, Jackson. What else might you find among my thoughts? Go ahead and see if, instead of my defeat, you find your own!

Devon’s newfound strength allowed him to return to his body and shove the dormant sorcerer off of him, sending Jackson tumbling onto his back. Instantly the Madman’s essence was withdrawn from his mind as well—a horrible ripping sensation, like an ear being torn off the side of his head. Devon stood, victorious.

The Madman opened his bloody eyes and looked up at Devon. He snarled once, then disappeared from the room.

Devon shivered. Had the Madman looked around longer in his mind, he might indeed have found ways to combat Devon, maybe even to defeat him. But Devon had wisely thrown at him the one memory that would demoralize him and cause him to withdraw. He had managed to fight him just in time.

For he wasn’t sure he could have survived the Madman’s wholesale plunder of his mind.

He’d have to learn how to prevent such a violation of his thoughts in the future. He could see why mind invasion went against the Nightwing code of honor. There had to be ways to keep renegades from doing so.

When he reappeared downstairs, Devon found that the demons were all gone. Randolph had sent them all back to their Hell Holes, wherever they might be across the globe.

“We can’t be sure if that was the last of Jackson’s army,” the sorcerer said, breathing heavily. “More demons could be lurking in the bushes outside, for feel how hot and sticky the room remains.”

Randolph let out a long sigh and sank into his chair beneath his father’s portrait.

The parlor was in shambles. The western wall had collapsed, and large chunks of the ceiling had fallen to the floor, exposing the rafters above. The windows were all smashed, the French doors torn off their hinges, glass everywhere. Much of the furniture was broken and overturned, and blood and lizard scales were ground into the carpet.

“Want me to clean up this mess?” Devon asked.

“I’d appreciate it, Teddy,” Randolph said. “I’m exhausted, and Greta would have a fit if she got back and saw we’d left it this way.”

Devon waved his hand, willing the room to look the way it did before the demon attack. It took almost a full minute, such was the damage, but when he was done no one would be able to tell what had just happened in this place.

Having finished that task, Devon sat down to tell Randolph about his encounter with Jackson.

“We’ve got to make sure he doesn’t open the Hell Hole,” Devon concluded.

Randolph was shaking his head. “He cannot open the portal,” he explained, “without either forcing me to do so or killing me first. For I am the sorcerer who sealed it shut, and only through my will or my death can it be opened again.”

“So he’ll be back,” Devon said.

Randolph gave him a rueful smile. “Oh, he’s never left. He’s somewhere in the house right now. You must remember that he believes this is rightly
his
house, and that
we
are the trespassers.”

The sorcerer stood.

“Come,” he said, “we need to help Montaigne.”

They helped him walk over to his cottage and got him to lie down. Montaigne insisted he’d be all right, that nothing was broken. But Randolph could see he’d lost some blood and was pretty badly bruised. He told the Guardian he would send someone to tend to his injuries.

Walking back across the grass to Ravenscliff, Devon watched the sun edge the horizon, turning the sky a fiery red. The night was over.

Ahead of them they spied a figure in the grass.

“It’s McNutt!” Randolph shouted.

Ogden lay sprawled on his back, battered and bloody. The sunrise had transformed him back into his human self.

Devon ran to him. The young man groaned as he stirred awake.

“What—what happened to me?” he murmured.

How could Devon tell him? How could he possibly begin to explain what his life had become?

They helped him back to Ravenscliff, where Randolph made a mysterious phone call. Within an hour there arrived a small, blunt, white-haired man knocking at the front door—a gnome, Devon realized, summoned for his medicinal skills.

Just as Bjorn would do in Devon’s own time, this gnome, named Magnus, produced a bag of potions and powders. The bruises and scrapes suffered by McNutt were magically healed within a few minutes. Then he headed down to Montaigne’s cottage to tend to him as well.

If only the rest of it were that easy.

For the moon would be full again tonight, and Ogden McNutt would again transform into the beast. And, according to the newspaper accounts, tonight he would kill someone—and then he would die himself.

How can I live with such knowledge?
Devon asked himself.
Knowing that I can’t prevent it, that I can’t warn anyone?

He was exhausted. A night with no sleep battling demons and crazed renegade sorcerers was bound to leave one a little wasted. Devon closed his eyes sitting in a chair in the parlor, though he never fully went to sleep. By mid-morning he’d gotten a second wind. He’d need it, he knew, for the Madman would strike again. And soon.

Randolph sat in his great chair in a meditation pose: alert yet also conserving his energies for the next battle. He didn’t speak. He sat with his legs folded beneath him, staring straight ahead. Devon tried it for a while but was too anxious. He slipped out of the room, one thought on his mind.

Miranda.

Randolph hadn’t attempted to find her. He’d apparently decided she wasn’t worth pursuing, that her powers were nothing to fear. But Devon wondered. Was she on their side now, or had she returned to Jackson? Better to be prepared, Devon believed, for anything she might spring at them.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to join her wherever she was. He disappeared, then reappeared outside the door to the room at the top of the tower. The same place where someday Clarissa would be held prisoner.

He rapped on the door. “Miranda!” he called. “I know you’re in there!”

“Go away,” came her voice.

“Let me in! I need to talk with you.”

“It’s too late for talking,” she said, opening the door a crack. Her dark eyes made contact with Devon’s own. “The Madman will destroy us all.”

“I’ve told you that’s not what happens,” Devon insisted. “Now let me in.”

She stepped aside, allowing Devon to push his way into the room. She looked behind him. After determining no one had followed him, she closed the door.

“I have shamed the name of Devon,” Miranda said, tears rolling down her lovely face. “I caused the death of an innocent woman.”

“You played a part, Miranda, I can’t deny that. But it’s the Madman who is ultimately responsible for Emily’s death.”

She moved over to the window and looked over the estate. The day was foggy and damp. The smell of seawater wafted through the air.

“I should never have come here,” Miranda said. “I had hoped it would mean the restoration of my family. I had hoped that the Devons might once again become trusted partners of the Nightwing. That is what my father wanted when he came to this country. That is why I accepted the role of Guardian to little Amanda.”

She turned from the window to look at Devon.

“I had such dreams, such hopes! But he lied! He seduced me, Teddy! I have had enough of Nightwing lies!”

Devon approached her. “I may be Nightwing, Miranda, but I am Devon as well. Look at me. Can’t you see it? That’s the bond between us, Miranda. I am your family. In my own time, my name is Devon—given to me, I’m sure, in honor of my family.”

She blinked a couple of times, as if finally seeing him as he really was.

“You … are a Devon?”

“Yes. As much as I am Nightwing.”

She began to cry again. “But I can do nothing now, Teddy Bear. My will is gone. He took it from me. He invaded my mind—” She cried harder, cringing at the memory. “It was horrible. He forced his way inside my mind, reading all my thoughts, all my secret hopes and dreams and fears—”

Devon took her in his arms. How his heart broke for her. She was so young, only a few years older than he was. She was still just a girl, a girl who once laughed and danced, a girl who had been used and hurt by a cruel older man. Now Miranda felt as weary and dispirited as an old, old woman.

“He tried to do it to me, too,” Devon told her. “I know how awful it feels.”

“He took everything from me. All my memories. My dreams. All my energy and passion. I am just a shell now. Just a shell.” Miranda flopped down in a chair, seemingly too weak to stand for long. She lifted her dark eyes to Devon’s. “That’s how he found out about you. He read my mind. I didn’t tell him. I kept your secret to the end.”

Devon smiled. It made him glad to know that. He stooped down beside her. “Then will you help us, Miranda? Help us defeat the Madman?”

She shook her head. “I cannot. I’ve told you. He took everything. I am now just an empty body. My soul is gone.”

“No,” Devon protested. “You can win back that soul.”

She closed her eyes, as if the exertion of keeping them open was too much.

“You carry his child,” Devon argued. “He’ll need you—”

Miranda laughed weakly. “On top of everything else, Jackson is a male chauvinist pig. He saw in my mind that my child would be a girl, and he has no use for girls as his heirs. He told me so. He said he will find another woman who will give him a son.”

“He lies,” Devon said. “He’s trying to demoralize you, to neutralize you against him. He fears you, Miranda! He fears the Devon power!”

“It is no use, Teddy Bear. My spirit is broken. I cannot help you.”

With great effort, she pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

“It is no use,” she repeated. “Randolph may win as you claim he will. Jackson may yet be defeated, but I am forever lost. All that is left to me is to give birth to my daughter, and then my life is over. He has taken it from me.” She began to cry. “Which is perhaps my punishment for disgracing the name of Devon.”

Devon left the tower with a heavy heart.

The day moved slowly, as every tick of the grandfather’s clock in the foyer seemed to foretell the next strike of the Madman. How long would they have to wait? Was Jackson replenishing his army of demons? How would he attack next?

In the parlor Randolph still sat, deep in meditation.

When the front door opened, Devon jumped.

“Montaigne!” he cried as he recognized the figure entering the house. “I thought you were still recovering.”

“The gnome’s medicine worked wonders,” the Guardian told him. “I’m raring to go. Have you had any rest?”

“I can’t seem to,” Devon said. “I keep thinking about things … Ogden, for one.”

Montaigne nodded. “I’ve just come from drawing a pentagram on the floor of the garage,” he said. “A pentagram is a five-pointed star …”

“Yes, I know what a pentagram is. It’s used for protection.”

“Precisely. We will place McNutt inside the pentagram tonight. It will keep him from hurting himself or others when he changes tonight under the full moon. And hopefully in the next lunar cycle we will discover a more permanent cure.”

Devon said nothing, just looked away toward the parlor.