Demon Witch

Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series

Geoffrey Huntington

Copyright

Diversion Books

A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

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New York, NY 10016

www.DiversionBooks.com

Copyright © 2003 by Geoffrey Huntington

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com.

First Diversion Books edition June 2013

ISBN: 978-1-626810-74-7

For Brigid, Liam, Siobhan, Melissa, Matthew, and Dayna

Prologue

The Burning of a Witch

A.D. 1490

It took sixteen loads of peat and fifty bundles of fresh green wood to burn a witch.

“When it’s green,” the Guardian explained to the boy, “it burns longer.”

Men with shirtsleeves rolled up their hairy arms were laying the wood around the stake. The square was thronged with people cheering them on in their task. The execution of traitors, after all, was always a great public occasion, and a burning at the stake was the most festive of all. All around the bedazzled boy, vendors in silly jester’s hats hawked roasted chestnuts and steaming fried apples. Spider monkeys turned somersaults while their owners played merry little tunes upon their lutes.

“There!” someone from the crowd called out. “There she comes!”

A shout rose up as the cart carrying the witch trundled into view over the cobblestone road. “Burn the she-devil! Burn the witch! Burn! Burn! Burn!”

The boy turned, his eyes wide.

But Isobel the Apostate looked back at all of them with only a cold, quiet disdain. Her black eyes flashed as the crowd parted to make way for her cart. Strong men fell to the ground at the sight of her, overcome by her terrible beauty. If not for her wrists being bound by that strange golden chain, the boy knew they would all be in great danger. Yet bound as she was, the witch could no longer harm them, no longer summon the demons from the Hell Hole to do her bidding, the demons which would terrorize the villages of northeastern England no more.

Her green velvet dress was torn and soiled. Her black hair was loose, tumbling down to her waist in great disarray. Once, Isobel the Apostate was a noble lady with a vast estate who claimed descent from the blood royal, who dared to quarter her arms with those of King Henry the Fourth. For such audacity alone, the judges decreed she should die.

But there were sins far worse than treason.

“Look, over there,” the boy’s Guardian pointed out to him. “Do you see that man? The one with no legs, propped in the chair? ’Twas under his home that the witch discovered the Hell Hole. Without any regard to him who lived there, she opened the portal between this world and the one below.” The Guardian paused. “You see the result. The man is fortunate. His wife and sons did not survive the cataclysm.”

“But the golden chain…?”

“It has the power to keep her from escaping, from turning all of us here into toads and rats and skunks.” The Guardian lifted his eyes to the gray, cloudy sky. “At least, I pray that it does. I pray that the noble Sorcerers of the Nightwing, God be praised, have at last found the means to contain her.”

The boy watched as the witch was led from her cart to the center of the square. The crowd surged forward. Insults and curses rained down upon the woman, whose neck now began to snap back and forth, finally reacting to the taunts of the crowd. Her teeth gnashed wildly. She growled, hissing like a cat cornered by a pack of angry dogs.

“Get up there, boy,” the Guardian told him. “You must bear witness.”

Two platforms stood to the right of the square. They were filled with men from the King’s Court. Statesmen and clerics. The Archbishops of York and Canterbury. The Duke of Norfolk. They had all come to see the destruction of Isobel the Apostate, the most feared sorceress in all of Europe, a lady whose courtiers were not knights and gentlemen but the very beasts of hell.

Shoved toward the pillory by her guards, Isobel was forced onto her knees to face her judges. A pointed hat was placed on her head, on which is inscribed the words: Heretic, Witch, Apostate. Her death sentence was proclaimed, and a cheer rose from the crowd.

“Will she be allowed to speak?” the boy asked, looking up at his Guardian.

“Oh, no. For all that the last words of the condemned have long been a tradition in this realm, Isobel the Apostate is far too dangerous a prisoner. Even secured by the golden chain, what terrible catastrophe might she bring down upon us with her final words?”

But though she might be denied speech, the witch could still scream.

It was a horrible sound, and many in the crowd covered their ears. The witch’s screams echoed like those of a banshee off the walls of the square. Forcibly she was led to the pyre, snarling and twisting all the way.

“It wasn’t supposed to end like this, you see,” the Guardian explained, leaning down and whispering to the boy. “It was supposed to end with Isobel crowned as Queen of England. From there, with the English navy at her command, it would have been an easy step for her to rule the world, the demons of the Hell Hole at her side.”

The boy watched as the witch was pushed up the steps of the platform to the stake.

“But twas her own kind who turned her over to the King. Her own Nightwing brethren looked upon her evil and trapped her. It was they, far more than any of the King’s men, who consigned her to this fate. And do you know why it was done so, boy?”

The boy’s eyes remained riveted on the witch.

“Because true power can never be found through the pursuit of evil,” the boy replied, never removing his gaze. “True power comes only from good.”

His Guardian smiled.

“Yes, boy. You have learned well. You will make a noble sorcerer. Now watch. And learn from the death of the Apostate.”

Isobel was tied to the stake with the same kind of golden chain that bound her wrists. Her black eyes continued to flash, looking at each and every face in the crowd, as if committing them all to memory.

Her gaze fell upon the boy.

He gasped, pulling back from the power he saw there.

Her eyes danced as she took in the sight of him. She laughed, a cackle the boy would not soon forget. On his shoulder the grip of his Guardian tightened. “Fear her not,” the Guardian whispered. “Her time has come.”

The executioner lit the wood piled up around the base of the stake. Once more, Isobel the Apostate screamed.

“Think not that I perish here!” the witch cried out into the crowd, defying the order against speech. “Think not that you have won!”

The boy felt his Guardian’s hand tremble.

“This is not the end of Isobel!”

The flames sprung into roaring life, caught by the peat. Like malevolent imps, they popped and crackled and jumped upward. A spark ignited the witch’s dress.

“She burns!” someone in the crowd shouted.

The fire below her grew in heat and intensity. It was so strong that even several feet away the boy and his Guardian could feel it on their faces. Thick sheets of pitchy smoke appeared, obscuring their view. Soon the whole square was as black as night, and the crowd began coughing, turning away from the pyre. The foul stench of burning flesh assaulted their senses. From the heart of the darkness the witch screamed again. It was taken by many as her cry of death.

“So must perish all of the King’s enemies!” proclaimed the executioner.

But then the wind shredded the smoke, and there was a glimpse of the witch. The boy could see her, with her arms upstretched, free of her chains, as the flames consumed her body. Her eyes were wide and she was smiling.

“Does she perish?” the boy asked his Guardian, tugging at his robe. “Does she really perish?”

The Guardian did not reply.

Later, when the flames had died down, there was nothing left of the body of Isobel the Apostate. The King’s men declared that so great was the fire that the witch was consumed completely, reduced to mere cinder and ash.

But the Nightwing knew better.

For the boy reported to them that as he watched, the witch transformed herself into a great bird, a creature of gold with a tremendous wingspan that rose majestically above the flames with a resounding call of triumph. Then the bird diffused with the smoke, disappearing into the gray skies over the square.

“Like a phoenix,” the boy’s Guardian said, a great and shattering awe in his voice, “Isobel the Apostate has risen from the flames to live again.”

Nearly Five Hundred Years Later

The New Caretaker

For several seconds Devon March couldn’t breathe. The hand on his throat threatened to choke the life out of him.

The attack had come unexpectedly. Devon had been in the parlor, with only the soft flickering light from the fireplace illuminating the room, when a hand had suddenly reached out from the darkness and taken hold of him. It had happened so quickly that he hadn’t had time to defend himself.

A true Nightwing is always prepared, the Voice chided him.

Devon gripped the hand at his throat and struggled to make out the face of his attacker. But the darkness was too deep. Still, he knew one thing.

This was no demon. There was no heat, no pressure, in the room.

This was a very human assailant.

Just as Devon was about to summon his Nightwing power and thrust the creep across the room, the hand let go. Devon heard footsteps running off across the marble floor of the foyer. By the time he flicked on a light, whoever had assaulted him was gone. The front door stood wide open, rain and snow swirling in from outside.

Devon hurried onto the front steps. He looked around to see if he could spot someone fleeing across the grounds, but the blowing snow obscured his vision. The storm had come upon them very suddenly, an early blast of Arctic air. The wind howled through the trees, sounding very much like a woman in agony.

Why else, as the people of the village liked to say, would the place be called Misery Point?

Devon listened.

There was another sound behind the wind.

A car’s engine. Tires spinning.

Peering off toward the long cliffside driveway that led down to the village, Devon spotted a car—an old black Cadillac by the looks of it. He sprinted across the yard. If that was the guy who’d grabbed him, Devon was not about to let him get away. As he reached the car, he saw that its wheels were caught in a stretch of mud, and it jerked in fits and started precariously close to the edge of the cliff.

The wind hit Devon face-first as he made his way toward the car. The Cadillac was spitting mud and snow from its tires, screeching like some animal with its leg in a trap.

“Stop!” Devon called. “You’re going to go over the edge!”

And just then the car did thrust forward with horrible speed, pitching itself right over the side of the cliff toward the rocky shore two hundred feet below.

“No!” Devon shouted, his eyes wide in horror.

He ran to the cliff, looked down, and concentrated.

The Cadillac stopped in mid-fall, and as if drawn by a giant magnet, it returned to safety along the edge of the cliff. It settled on the road, still dangerously close to the precipice, but safe.

Devon breathed a sigh of relief. Such things shouldn’t have surprised him anymore, but they still did. No matter how often he used his powers, no matter how often he proved to himself that he was a sorcerer, he remained in awe of what he could do when he put his mind to it.

Devon ran up to the driver’s side door. “Are you okay?”

But there was no sign of life behind the blue-tinted windows.

“Hello?” Devon called again, rapping on the glass. Still nothing.

He pulled open the door. He saw no one. Was the car driving itself? It wasn’t such an odd thought, really. Stranger things had happened at Ravenscliff.

“My, my, my,” came a voice. “That sure was close.”

From the floor of the car, under the steering wheel, crept a little man. His small pudgy hands gripped the leather seat as he hoisted himself back up. He looked up at Devon with bright blue eyes. His hair was white; his short beard forked into two small points.

This was clearly not his attacker. The man who had grabbed his throat was at least Devon’s height. This man would barely come to his waist.

“Are you—okay?” Devon asked again.

The little man rubbed his bearded chin, his eyes studying Devon. “Strange how the car stopped like that. As if something just pulled it right back from certain doom.”

“Yeah,” Devon said, uncomfortable about revealing his powers to a stranger. “But you should get out of the car. I’m not sure it’s safe where it is.”

“Oh, I have a feeling it’s perfectly safe now.” The little man’s eyes twinkled. He’ was like a munchkin, Devon thought, dressed entirely in brown suede. “But I doubt I’ll get her started again.” The man reached over to the passenger-side seat and grabbed a purple sack, then hopped down out of the car. “Poor Bessie,” he said, patting the Caddy as he closed the door gently. “I’ll be back for you. I promise.”

Devon looked down at him. He couldn’t be more than three and a half feet tall. His hair was as white as the falling snow, and his skin very pink. He swung the purple burlap sack over his shoulder.

“Do you live up there?” he asked Devon. “At Ravenscliff?”

They both looked off at the great house, standing there at the crest of the hill, black against the swirling snow and rain, the view of its spires obscured but not obliterated by the storm. Ravenscliff. Fifty rooms and countless secret corridors, built of the blackest wood, and covered with the birds from which it took its name, even in the storm.

“I do,” Devon replied. “I live at Ravenscliff.”

“Should’ve guessed,” the little man said. “Shall we walk, then? Or might you be able to fly us there?”

Devon laughed, and they began to trudge through the mud and rain.

Devon March was not like other boys his age. At fifteen, he could claim to have been to hell and back, literally. He had come face-to-face with demons from the other side, and he’d proven himself to be stronger than any of them. Ever since he was six years old, when the first filthy thing had crawled out of his closet, Devon had known his powers were unmatched by any human. That first demon—so blundering, so stupid—had tried to kill Devon’s father. But the six-year-old had stopped the thing in its slimy tracks, sending it spiraling back down its Hell Hole with one word: “No.”

His father had never explained why Devon had these powers—those answers would have to wait until after he’d come here, to Ravenscliff—but Ted March had taught his son that his powers weren’t to be feared. His powers made him stronger than whatever might try to harm him, but only if he used them in the pursuit of good.

“But why do they want me?” Devon had asked his father. “These things from the closet?”

His father had never given him a satisfactory answer. Devon just knew, from the time he was only six, that there were indeed things in this world—and others—that would try to harm him.

His closet had been a Hell Hole—a filthy gateway into the realm of the demons who had been cast there eons ago by the old elemental gods. From these portals the stewing, resentful creatures occasionally escaped, repulsive beasts with fangs and talons that stunk worse than any backed-up septic system or stagnant swamp. Devon had marveled at the strength he had found in fighting the demons, overpowering them, kicking them back to hell. But never was he truly free of them. Even after Dad died and Devon was sent to Ravenscliff to live as the ward of the mysterious Mrs. Crandall, the things still pursued him. Here, in fact, they proved even more numerous.

But no longer was Devon so clueless about why they came for him. Here on the rocky cliffs of Misery Point, Maine, Devon had finally learned the first part of the secret of his past, a secret his father had apparently been unwilling—or unable—to reveal. Ted March was not Devon’s real father. Devon was, in truth, the scion of a long line of sorcerers—a revelation that had seemed extraordinary and uncanny—but also logical, in a strange kind of way. It had finally explained Devon’s powers, as well as offering a reason for why the demons of the Hell Hole had pursued him all his life.

For Devon had learned he was not just any sorcerer, but a sorcerer of the noble Order of the Nightwing, founded some three thousand years ago by Sargon the Great in the land of Asia Minor. No other wizard or warlock has ever had the power of the Nightwing, for their power derived from controlling the portals—Hell Holes, as they were commonly called—between this world and the one below. The demons wanted to open the portals and set their filthy brethren free, and they saw Devon as the key to their success. They know, even by Nightwing standards, that the boy’s powers are awesome. He was the one-hundredth generation since Sargon the Great—long foretold as the mightiest of the mighty.

Trudging up the path, Devon thought of his great lineage. The time comes soon, the Voice in Devon’s head told him, where you will have to live up to such promise.

A trusted oracle ever since Devon was a child, the Voice could nevertheless sometimes remain stubbornly silent—as it did now, telling him nothing about the man who had attacked him in the parlor, or about this munchkin walking beside him in the snow. Except—

Not a munchkin.

Gnome.

Devon had no idea what the Voice meant—or what a gnome was—but he figured he ought to inquire about this man’s business at Ravenscliff. The house had few visitors, and those who did drop by hadn’t always been of this world.

“I’m Devon March,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Bjorn Forkbeard, at your command, my good sir. Reporting for duty at the great house of Ravenscliff.”

“Reporting for duty?” Devon stopped walking. “What do you mean?”

“Why, I’ve been hired as the estate’s new caretaker. I understand your last one met a rather untimely demise.”

That was one way of putting it. The last caretaker, Simon Gooch, had fallen to his death from the tower of Ravenscliff after trying to kill Devon and unleash the demons from the Hell Hole. Devon still woke up with nightmares remembering what Simon did, reliving in his dreams that terrifying night on the roof of the tower. Was it really such a short time ago? It seemed forever, now that peace and quiet had settled over Ravenscliff and the things from the Hell Hole had ceased their offensives.

That was, until just a little while ago, when that hand had emerged from the darkness to grab his throat.

He was certain that Bjorn Forkbeard had not been his unknown aggressor. Not only was he way too short to be the culprit, the Voice would be warning him if Bjorn was some sort of foe. At least, he hoped it would be.

Devon had known that Mrs. Crandall was considering hiring someone to take Simon’s place, but he wasn’t aware she’d made a decision so quickly. Wasn’t that just like her? Always so secretive and mysterious.

“Well,” Devon said, resuming his stride, “welcome then.”

He grinned to himself, recalling his own “welcome” to the great house just a couple of months ago, if “welcome” it could be called. The villagers had tried to warn him away, filling his head with the legends of Ravenscliff and its ghosts—legends he quickly found to be true, even if Mrs. Crandall had tried her best to deny the great house’s legacy of sorcery.

Now it was Devon’s turn to greet a newcomer, and he decided to use the same words that had been offered him.

“You know,” he said to Bjorn Forkbeard, “all you’ll find here are ghosts.”

“Oh, surely, surely,” the little man said. “Why else do you think I have come?”

They’d reached the front door. Overhead, perched within a gargoyle’s mouth to find sanctuary from the snow, several ravens fluttered their wings.

“Devon, I’m so glad you’re back. I was looking for you and—”

Cecily Crandall, having heard them come in, stopped in the doorway between the parlor and the foyer. Her mouth opened but her words faded away as she looked at the little man at Devon’s side.

“My, my,” Bjorn Forkbeard was saying, his eyes taking in the sight of the foyer, the grand staircase, the dozens of candles flickering everywhere. “It is more than I could have possibly imagined. Long have I heard the tales of this place. To think I, Bjorn Forkbeard, should ever stand in the house built by the great Horatio Muir!”

“Um, Cecily,” Devon said, hanging up his coat, “this is the new caretaker.”

“Ah,” said Bjorn. “You must be Miss Cecily. Your mother told me all about you.”

“Funny,” Cecily said, approaching warily. “She didn’t mention a word to me about you.”

“May I see the parlor? I’ve heard so much—” He glanced beyond the open doors. “Ah! Horatio Muir’s collection!”

Bjorn hurried ahead to gaze into the parlor. Even from here, Horatio’s “trinkets”—as Mrs. Crandall called them—were apparent among the bookshelves: shrunken skulls, crystal balls. At the far end of the room, beside the French doors leading out to the terrace over the rocky cliffs, stood a suit of armor.

“Devon,” Cecily whispered, leaning close, “what’s going on? I mean, why would Mother hire a dwarf as a caretaker? There’s an awful lot of heavy work around here.”

Not dwarf, the Voice told him again. Gnome.

“He looked strong enough. Check out those arms.”

Indeed, now that he’d removed his coat, Bjorn Forkbeard had revealed surprisingly muscled arms and powerful shoulders. He was gazing raptly at the sights of the parlor, making little sounds of wonder.

“You seem to know a lot about this house and this family,” Devon said, walking up behind him. “I suppose that’s why Mrs. Crandall hired you.”

“That is not the reason I hired him.”

They all looked around. Mrs. Amanda Muir Crandall was descending the great staircase.

“But if he already has a working knowledge of the house,” she said, “so much the better.”

As usual, she was dressed as if she were planning to attend some affair of state with the President of France, instead of just hanging around the house on a Sunday evening. Her gown of blue satin trailed behind her on the stairs, a strand of pearls was knotted at her bosom, and her golden hair was swept up to reveal a long, slender neck.

“Mrs. Crandall, I am deeply honored to meet such a gracious and noble lady.” Bjorn gave her a little bow. She approached to stand over him, looking down. He barely reached her waist.

“Welcome to Ravenscliff, Mr. Forkbeard,” she said grandly. “I see you have already met Cecily and Devon.”

“Oh, yes, your daughter has certainly inherited your beauty and charm.” Bjorn smiled over at her, then moved his gaze to Devon. “And Mr. March. I think I owe him a great deal.”

“Really?” Mrs. Crandall’s eyebrow arched at Devon. “And why is that?”

Devon braced himself. Mrs. Crandall had forbidden him to use his powers. She blamed him for stirring up the mystical forces that had made for such a bad time here not long ago, when the demons got loose and the Madman tried to destroy them all. Even if Devon explained that he needed to use his powers to save Bjorn’s life, he knew Mrs. Crandall would still be angry, so insistent was she that sorcery remain banned from Ravenscliff.

But the little man saved him, returning the favor. “Oh, yes. When my car couldn’t make it up the driveway, stuck in the mud, it was Devon who led me here, offering me a warm and gracious welcome on such a cold and blustery day.”

Mrs. Crandall gave Devon a look. Then she turned back to Bjorn Forkbeard. “Shall I show you to your room? It’s off in the back of the house, behind the kitchen. You can set your bag there and then I’ll give you a tour.”

“Of course, madam.” He turned to Devon and Cecily. “I am sure we will all be great friends.”

They nod. The little man followed the elegant lady down the corridor, their shadows casting weird shapes upon the walls in the flickering candlelight.

“I suppose,” Devon said, considering, “hiring a gnome as Ravenscliff’s new caretaker shouldn’t be so surprising. Nothing that happens here is ever ordinary.”

“Gnome? What’s a gnome?”

“I’m not sure exactly. But that’s what the Voice told me Bjorn Forkbeard is.”

He held his phone up in a spot where he knew was his best chance to get any kind of reception. Misery Point was really the end of the earth. There were no cell towers for miles, and Mrs. Crandall refused to get a booster. Still, Devon hoped for the best as he typed “gnome” into his Google app. He waited, but the search wouldn’t load.

Cecily had resorted to another idea. In the parlor, she yanked an old dictionary off the shelf. “You can do this manually, too, you know,” she said, flipping through the slightly yellowed pages. “Here it is.” She read out loud. “A legendary dwarfish creature supposed to guard the earth’s treasures underground. Informal, a small ugly person.”

“Hey, now that’s getting personal,” Devon said, laughing.

“Do you think Bjorn Forkbeard guards underground treasure?”

“In this house,” Devon replied, “I’ve learned to not rule out anything.”

The wind roared through the old house at that moment, sounding like a harpy trapped among the eaves. Hanging over the mantel, the portrait of Horatio Muir shuddered from the assault. “Hang in there, Great Granddad,” Cecily called. “If sorcerers and demons haven’t brought down this old mausoleum, I doubt a simple nor’easter will do it.”

Devon looked out the glass terrace doors. Even in the cold and wind, a few ravens were still out there, perched on the railings, big black birds with proud, shining eyes. A couple of them cawed as they sensed Devon watching them. He had come to feel a great deal of affection for the birds in the short while they’d been back roosting on the house. When Horatio Muir had built Ravenscliff a hundred years earlier, the birds were his constant familiars, and their presence was remarked upon far and wide. But after his descendants were nearly wiped out by the malicious power of the Madman, the Muirs had repudiated sorcery, and the ravens had abandoned the house for many years. Only when Devon arrived at Ravenscliff had the ravens returned.

“It’s early for a snowstorm, isn’t it?” Devon asked, watching the snow squall. Not much had collected on the ground yet, but there was enough white to give the trees some icy frosting.

“Not for Maine,” Cecily told him, coming up behind him. “They say the first snow is a magic snow.”

There was a twinkle in Devon’s eye. “Oh, yeah?”

“Devon.” Cecily grinned. “What are you thinking?”

He looked out into the swirling snow and concentrated. With his mind he began to shape the snowflakes, as easily as if he were doing it by hand with fallen snow on the ground. He arranged the flakes into a bird—a raven hovering in the air, made of snow.

“Oh, Devon!” Cecily exclaimed. “That is so cool.” But then she frowned. “Mother said you’re not supposed to do any sorcery. She said it could… stir things up again.” A look of fear crossed her face, reflected in her large doe eyes.

“Well, she’s wrong,” Devon said. “Rolfe Montaigne told me that using my powers is a good thing. Natural. Part of my heritage.”

Cecily looked around to make sure they were alone. “Don’t mention Rolfe’s name. Mother might hear you.”

“I know. But I have to learn more about who and what I am, Cecily. I have to learn more about the Nightwing.”

“Have you read more of the books?”

“No, but I’ve been able to do something else.” He could barely wait to tell her. “My father’s ring has shown me some things. The Nightwing have been around for centuries, and when I wear my father’s ring, I can see how they came to be.”

“What did the ring show you?” Cecily asked.

Devon cleared his throat. He could recite some of it from memory. “‘Once, well before the coming of the Great Ice, the world was inhabited by Creatures of Light and Creatures of Darkness, battling each other for eons for dominion. Their masters were the elemental gods—of fire, of wind, of sea, of earth—omnipotent rulers of nature, neither good nor evil. As the ages passed, and the time of the Creatures faded farther and farther into the dim recesses of time, they came to be known as Angels and Demons.’”

Cecily rolled her eyes. “Yeah, whatever, Devon.” She got impatient with him when he started sounding too lofty about his Nightwing heritage. “What does that have to do with you, and your powers?”

“It’s simple,” he explained. “Many wizards and shamans have come in touch with the old elemental Knowledge. But the most powerful have always been the Nightwing, for only the Nightwing have discovered the secret of how to open the Hell Holes. And it’s been long foretold that the one-hundredth generation—”

“Yes, I know, Devon. Rolfe told you that you’re the one-hundredth generation since Sargon the Great.” She said it kind of sing-songy, as if she was bored by the whole idea, or maybe a little jealous. “You know, I’ve been doing some thinking about that on my own.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you’re the one hundredth generation, then I must be, too.” Cecily smiled. “We’re the same age, you and I. And, after all, my great-grandfather Horatio Muir was a very powerful Nightwing himself, if Rolfe Montaigne is right. Even Mother can’t deny that now.”

“Well, you may be on to something,” Devon acknowledged. “You’re probably one-hundredth generation from Sargon the Great, too.”

But even so, Cecily held no powers of the kind Devon possessed. In the years before either of them were born, a great tragedy happened at Ravenscliff. The Madman—a Nightwing gone bad—killed Mrs. Crandall’s father, Randolph Muir. The Madman kidnapped a young boy, dragged him down the Hell Hole, and threatened to destroy the whole family. Afterward, the family repudiated their Nightwing past. Now they attempted to live out their lives as ordinary people—or at least as ordinary as a life at Ravenscliff could be.

The family included not only Cecily and Mrs. Crandall, but Mrs. Crandall’s senile, bedridden mother Greta Muir, who never left her room in the West Wing. There was also Mrs. Crandall’s brother Edward Muir, a playboy wandering the globe whom Devon had so far never met. Devon had, however, made quite the acquaintance of Edward’s eight-year-old son, Alexander, who lived at Ravenscliff under the guardianship of his aunt. One could have said that Devon and Alexander became very close very quickly. After all, it was Devon who had plunged into the Hell Hole to save Alexander, who’d been taken there by the Madman, back from the grave for yet another assault on Ravenscliff.

Even now, Devon was staggered by the memory. Just thinking of it made his knees go weak. The Hell Hole…. the Madman. He grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself.

“You okay?” Cecily asked.

He nodded. The wound on his leg, obtained in battle in the Hell Hole, tingled just a bit. It was going to take some time to heal completely.

I went into the Hell Hole, Devon said to himself, as if he still needed convincing. I went into the Hell Hole and made it back out alive.

And the Madman, Jackson Muir, wayward son of Horatio, had been defeated.

I defeated him.

Cecily was getting impatient. “But what about your past, Devon? Has Rolfe made any progress in finding out who your real parents were? And what their connection to this house was?”

Devon sighed. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Well, doesn’t your father’s ring tell you anything?”

Devon withdrew the ring from his pocket and held it out in his hand. A gold band with a crystal imbedded in front. It had been Ted March’s ring—Ted March, who Devon discovered was in truth a Guardian named Thaddeus Underwood. Guardians were charged with training and protecting the Nightwing sorcerers, and they possessed crystals that held great knowledge. But so far, while his father’s ring had told him some generic stories of Nightwing history, it had revealed nothing about who Devon was, where he had been born, and who his parents were.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “the ring doesn’t have that information.” He considered something. “Or it doesn’t want to tell me for some reason.”

“Oh, Devon,” Cecily said sympathetically, putting her arms around him. “I’m sure you’ll find out the truth someday.”

They stood quietly gazing out into the snowstorm. Still hovering there was Devon’s snow raven, looking in through the glass at them. Beyond it, they could see the tower of Ravenscliff. In the topmost window a light suddenly appeared.

Devon laughed. “There’s that light again. Ever since I first came here, I’ve seen that light. But if I tell your mother about it, she denies it.”

“Strange, isn’t it? She’s been forced to admit so much, but not that. She refuses to admit there’s a light in the tower—or what she’s hiding there.” Cecily looked over at Devon. “Do you think she’s up there now, showing the new caretaker whatever her secret is?”

Devon considered it. Simon, the old caretaker, had seemed very protective of the tower. Twice Devon had encountered him there. Simon—who had been in league with the Madman and his plan to open the portal of the demons.

“It’s possible,” Devon replied. “Maybe that’s why he was hired.”

“Bjorn clearly knew about this family’s history of sorcery,” Cecily said. “You saw how he admired all of Horatio’s trinkets.”

Devon nodded. Bjorn Forkbeard was certainly no ordinary caretaker. Then again, Ravenscliff was no ordinary house.

The light in the tower disappeared.

“What could be up there?” Devon mused out loud. “Whatever it is, it couldn’t have anything to do with Jackson Muir. It would have disappeared when he was defeated.”

Cecily shrugged. “This house has more secrets than we could probably ever discover.”

“Look,” Devon said, gesturing toward the French doors and smiling. “My raven’s getting bigger.”

Indeed, his snowbird had grown fatter, losing much of its shape, as snow had continued accumulating on top of it. It struggled to keep moving its wings.

Cecily laughed. “Poor little thing. Maybe you ought to turn him into an eagle or something.”

“What are you two looking at?”

They both spun around in surprise. It was Mrs. Crandall, who had returned to the parlor. On the terrace behind them, the snow raven suddenly fell with a thud.

“We were—just—just watching the storm,” Cecily said.

Her mother glared at her.

She knew we saw the light, Devon thought.

“Come away from there,” she said. “There’s a draft.”

Mrs. Crandall settled herself into her wingback chair opposite the fireplace, where her face reflected the glow of the fire. She closed her eyes, lacing the fingers of her hands together in front of her. She was beautiful. Despotic, stubborn, eccentric, but Amanda Muir Crandall was undeniably beautiful.

“Devon,” she said, “I told Mr. Forkbeard that you would help him retrieve some necessary items from some of the higher shelves in his room. He’s waiting for you. Would you attend to him, please?”

He approached her. “Mrs. Crandall, how much does he know about this house?”

“Only what he needed to know to be an effective caretaker.”

“Mother,” Cecily said, “it’s clear he knows about Horatio Muir and the sorcery. Don’t deny it. You hired him because he has some experience with magic.”

“Cecily, your imagination is running away with you.”

“My imagination! You hired a dwarf with the name Bjorn Forkbeard! I don’t need any more imagination than that!”

“Devon,” Mrs. Crandall said, ignoring her daughter, “he’s waiting for you.”

Devon and Cecily exchanged an exasperated look.

“And Cecily, will you please go up to Alexander’s room and bring him down here? I want him to meet Mr. Forkbeard.”

“Yes, Mother,” Cecily said.

The mistress of the great house of Ravenscliff looked out the doors to the terrace. “The storm seems to be building,” she said quietly. “I expect the lights will go out soon.”

They did, only minutes after she’d made the prediction. Power outages were frequent on the isolated rocky point. The electricity sputtered a few times then faded out completely, leaving the house in darkness. If not for the candles kept perpetually lit throughout the parlor and foyer, the shadows that fell over the house would have been even darker and lengthier. But as it was, Devon and Cecily, parting in the corridor that led to the kitchen, saw well enough to give each other a quick kiss.

They were both fifteen years old, both in the throes of heady first love. At times Devon still thought it was weird to find himself holding hands with a girl, to steal a kiss when no one was looking—especially not her imperious mother. He’d had a girl who was a friend when he lived with his father, before he came to Ravenscliff, but it had been nothing like what he had with Cecily. He was knocked over by his emotions for her, startled by their intensity, and confused by their unpredictability.

If only Dad was still alive, Devon thought as he turned toward the door. I could have talked to Dad about this stuff. He’d been able to talk to his father about anything.

But since coming here, he’d learned to find his own way. There had been no one to guide him, no one to offer any advice. Except for Rolfe Montaigne, who was the son of a Guardian himself and who possessed all the Nightwing books—but Rolfe was the first to admit he didn’t have all the answers.

“Cecily,” Devon called back over his shoulder, “tell Alexander no tricks on Bjorn.”

Devon remembered all too well the boy’s antics upon his own arrival at Ravenscliff. Neglected by his father, deprived of his mother’s care at an early age, Alexander was a troubled boy, with a mind that could be pretty devious. But since their time together in the Hell Hole, Alexander and Devon had forged a much stronger bond. The younger boy now considered Devon his only true friend in the dark old house.

“You know Alexander never listens to a word I tell him,” Cecily called down from the top of the stairs. “In fact, he’ll do just the opposite of what I say. I suggest you bring it up with him.” On the landing above, her look changed to one of concern for Devon. “Be careful in there with that dwarf, okay?”

“Gnome, Cecily. Not dwarf.”

“Whatever. What else does that Voice thing have to say about him?”

“Nothing,” Devon said with disappointment. “But I’m sure if Bjorn Forkbeard meant me any harm, the Voice would warn me.”

“Still. Be careful.” She shivered a little, then turned away from the banister.

Devon headed through the kitchen toward Bjorn’s room. This was once Simon’s lair, and the place still repelled Devon. Some of the previous caretaker’s stench remained.

But as Devon turned the corner he was pleased to see that the fragrance of the place has changed. It was sweet, crisp. Devon rapped on the door and Bjorn was quick to open it. Behind him burned a tall, fat candle. A simple bed, a spartan bureau, and Bjorn’s purple sack on the floor.

“What’s that smell?” Devon asked.

“Sage,” the gnome told him. “Aromatherapy to cure whatever ails a place.”

Devon smiled. “And this room sure was ailing.”

“I always burn a little sage whenever I go to a new place. Drives out the old spirits.”

“Is that all it takes? Wish I’d known that my first night at Ravenscliff. Would’ve saved me a lot of grief.”

Bjorn nodded. “You’ve seen your share of them, then. The ghosts.”

Devon frowned. “Look, there’s one thing you need to understand if you’re going to make it here. You can’t talk about the ghosts around Mrs. Crandall. Anything out of the ordinary she’ll deny.”

“But why should she? The granddaughter of Horatio Muir is hardly an ordinary woman.”

“Try telling that to her. Even with everything that’s happened in this house, she won’t let anyone talk about it. She’s a very stubborn lady.”

“Well, I’m sure she has her reasons.” Bjorn pulled open his closet door and pointed up to the shelves inside. “Will you be so kind as to fetch those things for me? Just a few items I’ll be needing.”

Devon saw bubble bath and shoe polish, bags of microwave popcorn and boxes of raisins, shaving cream and nail clippers—Simon’s things. Devon shuddered.

“Why don’t we just drive into the village tomorrow and get you some stuff of your own?” Devon asked. “You ought to toss this junk.”

“Waste not, want not.”

“Suit yourself.”

Bjorn examined the items as Devon placed them on the bed. He ripped open the box of raisins and knocked back a handful, but when he came to the nail clippers he pushed them aside. “Won’t be needing these.”

For the first time Devon noticed the little man’s fingernails were long, pointed and very thick. Smiling, the boy shut the closet door. “Won’t it be difficult for you to do your chores without breaking one of those?”

“You mean my nails? Oh, no, not at all. They’re harder than stone, my boy. They don’t break.”

Devon sat down on the bed so that he was eye level with the little man. “Okay, so what’s your story? Tell me what exactly a gnome is.”

Bjorn Forkbeard grinned. “Oh, you are the clever one. I knew it from the moment you saved poor old Bessie and me from a nasty spill over the side of that cliff. Are you some kind of enchanter?”

“I asked you first.”

“Well,” Bjorn said, “I was born in the village of Lokka, far in the north of Finland. My parents worked in a mine deep in the earth.”

“So is it true you guard treasure?”

Bjorn beamed. “Some of the greatest treasures ever. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds. The shine from the gems was my sun. You see, I didn’t see the light of day until I was seven years old.”

“No way.”

“Way,” said Bjorn, nodding.

“And how old are you now?”

“Would you believe it if I told you six-hundred-and-sixty-two?”

“I would.” Devon held his gaze. “You’re a Guardian, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I wish I were. Guardianship is a noble heritage. But I’m just a caretaker.” Bjorn narrowed his blue eyes at Devon. “But tell me, my boy. What do you know about Guardians?”

“My father was one. Well, my adopted father was. I don’t know much about my real parents.”

“From what I’ve seen, they must have been very powerful sorcerers.”

Devon nodded. “Nightwing.”

“Of course, if you are living in the house of the great Horatio Muir.”

Devon looked around suddenly, cautious of the open door. “Mrs. Crandall would probably fire you if she caught you talking about all this with me. Fire you and lock me up in my room.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “But if you’ve got answers, I’ll take that chance.”

“Me? I know nothing of your parents, my boy.”

“I want to know what Mrs. Crandall showed you in the tower. Don’t lie to me. I know she took you up there. I saw the lights.”

“Oh, there is no reason to lie. She did indeed take me up there as part of the tour. And she told me no one else was ever to be allowed in the place.”

“You saw nothing? Nothing unusual there?” Devon leaned in. “No clue that someone may have been living there?”

A queer little grin crossed the gnome’s face. “What makes you think someone lives in the tower?”

“I’ve seen a woman there. Once I heard her calling my name.”

“Ah, but Ravenscliff is the home of many ghosts. You’ve said as much.”

Devon sighed. “It wasn’t Emily Muir or any of the other ghosts that haunt this house. I’ve heard sobbing, too. Sobbing that was human.”

“Then maybe Mrs. Crandall’s mother? I met her only briefly on my tour. Poor confused lady. Perhaps she wandered…”

Devon could see he was getting nowhere. Either Bjorn was colluding with Mrs. Crandall or he was as clueless as Devon. He decided to change course. “Okay, another question then,” Devon said. “You know about the Nightwing. You know about this house’s history of sorcery. Was that why Mrs. Crandall hired you?”

“But of course it is, my boy. Mrs. Crandall is a smart woman. Do you think she would hire just any caretaker to work here? Some ignorant soul oblivious to the workings of worlds other than our own? Oh, no, that would never do. She searched high and low for me, I can tell you that much. She needed someone who knew about these things, someone who would not be frightened away.”

Devon nodded. “So are you really six-hundred-and-sixty-two?”

Bjorn chuckled. “You believe whatever you want. That’s the key, Devon. You have the power.” He tapped his skull. “Up here. You can make things happen.”

“What do you mean?” Devon asked cautiously.

“If you want to find out what’s in that tower, a locked door shouldn’t stop you.”

“You’d think not. But sometimes my powers won’t work. I can prevent cars from falling over cliffs with my mind but I can’t get the tower door to open. Sometimes I can even will myself to disappear and then reappear someplace else, but I can’t do that with the tower. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Then there’s got to be another way.” The little man looked around the room. Suddenly he pointed. “Through that door, for example.”

“Uh, Bjorn. That’s the door to your bathroom.”

The little man shrugged. “So don’t believe me. I just thought you would know there are other ways into the tower than those that are obvious.” He sighed and moved to the door. “Well, thank you for your help, Devon. I must hurry now to begin my first task here as caretaker. That would be shoveling the front walk of all this snow. Then I’ll have to do something about poor old Bessie stuck in the driveway.”

“Listen, there’s one other thing,” Devon said. “Earlier tonight, somebody grabbed me in the parlor. I couldn’t make out who it was.”

“A demon?”

“No. I would have felt the heat. There’s always heat when a demon is around.”

“A ghost, then?”

Devon shrugged. “It felt human to me.”

“But ghosts often feel human. They’re maddening that way.”

Devon sighed. “Well, the point is, you never know at Ravenscliff when something’s going to leap out and grab you. I’m still getting used to that. Just thought I’d warn you.”

“And I thank you for that, kind sir. But I’ve lived a long time. Many things have leapt out and grabbed me. I have learned to always be on my guard.”

“Yeah,” Devon agreed. “I’m learning that, too.”

Bjorn Forkbeard hurried out of his room, through the kitchen and back into the foyer. Devon could hear him putting on his coat and heading outside. For a moment he could hear the wind rushing into the house when Bjorn opened the door.

Devon started to leave the carketaker’s quarters, then suddenly stopped.

I just thought you would know there are other ways into the tower than those that are obvious.

He looked across the room.

Through that door, for example.

“That’s ridiculous,” Devon said softly to himself. “I know what’s behind that door. It’s just a bathroom. I helped clean it out after Simon died.”

You can make things happen.

Devon approached the door and placed his hand on the doorknob. It was hot. That was never a good sign. He turned the knob and opened the door.

He gasped.

It was not a bathroom at all—but a dark set of stairs.

There are other ways into the tower than those that are obvious.

“Could it be true?” Devon wondered aloud. “Could this lead me to the tower?”

But the stairs headed down, not up.

You can make things happen.

Descending the first few steps, he sensed no danger. The heat had dissipated. But the Voice remained stubbornly silent. Devon took a couple more steps, stopped and listened, then took a few steps more.

Only then did he see the yellow eyes at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at him.

Only then did he feel a sudden rush of heat.

Only then did he hear the scuttling and muttering of demons in the dark.

Only then did he realize—too late—

“It’s a Hell Hole!”

The Tower Room

Something leathery brushed by his face. Devon pushed it away, trying to get his bearings.

Below, an image was taking shape. And sounds. Voices. It was a crowd. He was no longer inside the house, but outside somewhere. He was coming down the steps of a building into a square, and hundreds of people were gathering. People dressed in strange clothes.

“Burn the witch!” they were shouting. “Burn the Apostate!”

Devon’s blood turned to ice with fear.

Apostate—that’s what they called Jackson Muir, the Madman. He was a renegade Nightwing, shunned by his brethren for his evil ways. Could he be there, waiting for Devon in the Hell Hole?

No way did Devon want to run into Jackson Muir again. The Madman would do everything in his power to make sure Devon never got out of the Hell Hole again.

“Come,” a man was suddenly saying to him, beckoning with a gnarled old hand, urging Devon to come down the steps. The man was tall and hooded, in a long brown cassock. He looked like a monk, except he had a long white beard.

If I leave these steps, I’m trapped here, Devon told himself, not sure if it was the Voice telling him this or just his own intuition.

“Come, boy,” the hooded man urged him again, crooking a long bony finger. “Come with me.”

“No!” Devon cried.

He turned on the steps. He tried to climb back up, but it was tremendously difficult, each step a willful defiance of the most powerful gravity Devon had ever encountered. It was like swimming against the tide, only a hundred times more strenuous. Devon literally gripped his thigh and forcibly lifted his leg to move up one step, then another.

Behind him the sounds of the crowd faded away. He was back on the dark staircase and he can see the door leading into Bjorn’s room.

He grabbed the knob. The door opened. He was indeed back in Ravenscliff. He slammed the door shut behind him and fell against it, exhausted.

“Well, there you are,” Cecily said, coming around the corner. “What were you doing in Bjorn’s bathroom?”

He smirked at her, unable to resist a little sarcasm. “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

She looked at his face. “Devon, you’re as white as a—”

“That was a Hell Hole, Cecily!” Devon opened the door. It was an ordinary bathroom again. “Bjorn tricked me into going into a Hell Hole.”

“Are you sure, Devon? I thought the only way into the Hell Hole was through that bolted door in the East Wing.”

Devon frowned. He had thought so too, but now he wasn’t so sure. “Maybe gnomes can do some sort of magic. Maybe they can—”

“Shh, my mother’s coming.”

Mrs. Crandall appeared in the doorway. “What are you two doing in here?”

“I was helping Bjorn like you asked,” Devon told her.

Her eyes surveyed the room, coming to rest on the bathroom door. “And did you get him what he needed?”

“Yes.”

She looked sharply at Devon. “So why are you still here?”

Devon gave her a small grin. “Just making sure his bathroom was tidy.”

Mrs. Crandall eyed him coldly. “Come away from here. Both of you.”

She turned quickly, the satin fabric of her gown rustling down the corridor.

“She knows,” Devon said. “She sent me here for a reason. She wanted me to go into that Hell Hole. She and Bjorn planned it!”

“Devon! My mother may be weird, but she would never try to harm you!”

Devon didn’t answer. He just followed Cecily out of the room in silence.

He brooded over the experience for the rest of the night. He fell asleep deeply suspicious of the whole incident He remembered how insistent Mrs. Crandall had been that he go help Bjorn. He’s waiting for you, she had said, just before sending Cecily upstairs, out of harm’s way.

I know too much, Devon told himself. That’s why she wants to get rid of me. After Dad sent me here to live, she tried to keep the secret of my Nightwing past from me. But now that I’ve discovered it, I represent a danger to her. She knows I have the powers that she and her family repudiated. Every day she looks out the windows and sees that the ravens—the signs of Horatio Muir’s sorcery—have returned to the house because of me!

Suddenly the truth seemed clear to Devon.

Mrs. Crandall fears my powers will cause the Madman to return.

Devon knew that had always been her greatest fear. The Madman killed her father, drove her mother insane, and stole little Frankie Underwood into the Hell Hole. She was terrified that he would come back for her and her family. He nearly succeeded last time with Alexander.

So she’ll sacrifice me, if need be.

He’d wondered in the past if Mrs. Crandall might have been his mother. The thought made him laugh bitterly now. It had once seemed logical: Mrs. Crandall had Nightwing blood, after all, and Dad had sent Devon here to live with her. Devon had spent time worrying that such a situation would make Cecily his sister—a repulsive thought, given his budding romantic feelings for her—but now the idea seemed absurd. What mother would knowingly send her son into a Hell Hole?

In the short time since Devon had defeated Jackson Muir, he had begun to feel some degree of safety at Ravenscliff. He had even, for the first time since his father died, begun to feel a sense of home. There was Cecily, and Rolfe, and the good friends he had made at school: D.J., Natalie, Marcus. He and Alexander had become buds, too, despite their initial hostility, and Devon had actually started to feel as if he had a family. After all the terrors of his first weeks at Ravenscliff, he had finally achieved a sense of security.

Not anymore. With the mysterious attack in the parlor, the arrival of the gnome, and Mrs. Crandall’s apparent treachery, Devon decided he would once again have to always be on his guard.

The snowstorm left about four inches on the ground, but by the next morning the roads were all plowed. “Isn’t that always the way?” Cecily asked. “A blizzard on the weekend but all clear by Monday morning. No day off from school.”

D.J. picked them up in his car, an old red Camaro named Flo. He was a year ahead of Devon and Cecily in school, so he had his license. D.J. is seen by most people as a bit of a rebel, a tough guy with his black clothes and piercings, one through his nose and one through his chin. But Devon knew D.J. was a real softie at heart.

“Hey, who’s got the old Caddy?” D.J. asked, noting Bjorn’s car, now safely parked outside the garage.

“It’s our new caretaker,” Cecily told him, climbing into the backseat while Devon slipped in up front. “He’s a dwarf.”

“Gnome,” Devon reminded her. “And he’s six-hundred-and-sixty-two.”

“Get out,” D.J. said.

“That’s what he claims. He spent his childhood in a mine. He’s got long fingernails hard as stone. Guess he used them for digging up diamonds or whatever.”

D.J. shook his head. “The weirdos never quit showing up at that house, do they, dude?”

Devon laughed. His friends had gone through the horrors of the past weeks with him, watching in terror as he had plunged into the Hell Hole to save Alexander. He knew he could trust them. Now that he was with his friends, Devon could relax and enjoy the kind of safety he no longer felt at Ravenscliff.

At school, Natalie and Marcus were waiting for them. Marcus is neatly dressed as always, with a button-down oxford tucked smoothly into khakis. Natalie’s skirt is daringly short, even on such a cold day, and her boots are red vinyl up to the knee. She and Cecily were constantly in competition with each other, though at heart they were close friends and confidantes of each other’s secrets. To most of the kids at school each of the four was a bit of an outsider: D.J. because he dressed to shock and listened to thirty-year-old rock-and-roll; Marcus because he was the only openly gay kid in the entire school; Natalie because she refused to hang out with the cheerleaders, even though she was one of them; and Cecily because she lived at Ravenscliff, the legends of which everyone had heard.

Devon, on the other hand, was a bit of an enigma. He could’ve hung out with anyone he chose, especially after a couple dozen witnesses watched him beat off a demon at Gio’s Pizza with one hand a while back. Of course, only Devon knew it was a demon; the kids just thought it was some punk from the next village making trouble. A group of football players had jumped up from their table and roundly clapped Devon on the back. Even the upperclassmen had hailed Devon in the hallways in the days that had followed. But Devon, while friendly to everybody, chose to stick with Cecily and D.J. and Marcus and Natalie. Now most of the kids at the school eyed him a bit suspiciously, not quite sure just what his story was.

The five friends made an odd group, that’s for sure. But they’d become fiercely loyal to each other since living through the terrors of the Madman. During one fight with the demons from the Hell Hole, Devon was even able to share his powers with his friends. For a brief moment they’d all possessed the powers of the Nightwing. Devon would never forget how awesomely Cecily kicked demon-butt. It was like she’d been born to it. Actually, she was. Like him, it was in her blood.

“Guess what?” Devon whispered to the group as they gathered around his locker before class. “I landed in a Hell Hole again last night.”

“Oh my God!” Natalie cried. “You’ve got to move out of there, Devon. Come stay at my house. My parents won’t mind.”

“Retract your claws, Natalie,” Cecily interjected. “Devon’s not going anywhere. He can take care of himself.”

D.J. was scratching his head. “Dude, I thought you learned your lesson last time. What made you go down one of those things again?”

“The new caretaker tricked me,” Devon said. “He said it was a way into the tower.”

“Are you sure?” Marcus asked. “I thought there was only one way into the Hell Hole that exists under Ravenscliff, and that’s in the East Wing.”

Devon shrugged. “That’s what I thought, too.”

He looked over at Marcus. Once again, he saw a red pentagram hovering over his friend’s face, but it disappeared in seconds. It had been weeks since he last saw the pentagram on Marcus’s face, and he still had no idea what it meant. Devon worried that Marcus might be in danger. He’d have to talk to him about it when they were alone.

“I need to get over to Rolfe Montaigne’s after class,” Devon told them. “I’ve got to read through some more of the Nightwing books. D.J., will you drop me there?”

The bell signaling the first class of the day sounded.

“You got it, my man,” D.J. said, giving him a quick salute as he sauntered off down the hall.

Devon watched him disappear around a corner, then trudged off toward history class.

“Devon March,” Mr. Weatherby was asking, “maybe you can tell me why King Henry the Seventh was so insecure on his throne in the early years of his reign.”

Oh, great. He would have to call on me. With all that happened last night, Devon had given his reading assignment only a cursory glance.

“Well, um, because he had invaded England,” he stammers.

“Yes. Go on.”

“And there were … other guys who had more royal blood than Henry.”

“Precisely.”

Devon breathed a sigh of relief.

“Which is why,” Mr. Weatherby explained, turning to the class, “Henry executed almost all his rivals. There were many people early in his reign who tried to position themselves as more rightful rulers. But the King…”

Mr. Weatherby droned on. Devon liked history, and especially English history, with its knights and kings and castles and high Celtic priests. He suspected his interests in these areas might have had something to do with his Nightwing heritage. But today his mind was preoccupied with what he needed to talk about with Rolfe. Devon was very grateful for Rolfe. He was the one hope Devon had for finally understanding his powers and the Hell Holes.

But even Rolfe could only do so much. Rolfe Montaigne’s father was a Guardian, trained in the special skills of teaching and protecting the sorcerers of the Nightwing. Rolfe had been in line to become a Guardian himself, but his father had been killed when Rolfe was just a young boy, one more victim of the Madman Jackson Muir.

That should have been enough to set up some serious bonding between Rolfe and the Muirs. But instead, Edward Muir had grown up envious of his father’s preference for the stronger, swifter Rolfe. And the young Amanda Muir, before she married Mr. Crandall, had fallen in love with Rolfe, only to turn savagely on him when she caught him with another girl. So bitter was she, Devon had discovered, that she had told the police that she had seen Rolfe behind the wheel—drunk—when his car plunged over the cliff into the ocean several years ago. Rolfe had survived, but two others had drowned. And because of Amanda’s story, Rolfe had spent five years in prison for manslaughter— for a crime he believed he did not commit.

Now his entire being burned with a desire for revenge against the Muir family. If Mrs. Crandall knew Devon had been spending so much time with him, she’d come down hard on him.

Maybe that’s why she set me up. Maybe she knew I’d ally myself with Rolfe…

No matter what his past—manslaughter, prison—Rolfe had become a hero to Devon. Devon firmly believed in Rolfe’s innocence. The only problem was, Rolfe couldn’t say for sure that he wasn’t at the wheel that night, because he was, in fact, drunk. He told Devon that he was haunted by the deaths of the two people in his car. They were both servants at Ravenscliff, a boy and a girl. The girl, Clarissa, had a tombstone out in the cliffside cemetery. Although her body was washed out to sea, somebody evidently thought enough of her to erect a memorial. Rolfe visited her grave regularly, he said, torn with guilt over her death.

At one point Devon had thought Clarissa might have had something to do with the Madman: He could have sworn he’d seen the ghost of the Madman’s wife, Emily Muir, sobbing over Clarissa’s grave. But Rolfe said Clarissa was just a servant girl, born long after Jackson Muir was dead. So Devon had put that theory aside—for now.

The rest of the Muir family history was just as troubled, and Devon wondered what it had to do with his own origins. Amanda Muir went on to marry a man she didn’t love, who left her soon after Cecily’s birth. Devon figured that was another reason to rule her out as his mother. He and Cecily were both fifteen, and there just wasn’t enough time between Devon’s birthday and hers to allow for another birth.

Unless, of course, the birthday Dad had always told him was his is wrong. There was no birth certificate, after all.

Devon shuddered. Whenever he started thinking about his real parents, he became confused and upset. It couldn’t be Mrs. Crandall; it just couldn’t be! He liked Cecily too much to learn that she was his sister. That would just warp his mind. He consoled himself by remembering that they look nothing alike. Both Cecily and her mother were fair-skinned, and Cecily had shiny red hair. Devon was dark, almost olive, with deep brown eyes and nearly black hair.

Although Rolfe had been unable to solve the mystery of Devon’s parentage, he did have his father’s library of books and crystals, all of which had assisted Devon in assembling pieces of his Nightwing heritage. Devon’s father—his adopted father—had lived on the grounds of Ravenscliff before Devon was born. Rolfe knew Dad, and had loved him. That fact—even more than the books and the crystals—made Devon feel a special connection to Rolfe.

“I know my roots are here,” Devon said after classes let out for the day. The five friends were walking toward D.J.’s car. “I just know it.”

“Well, there’s that stone out in the cemetery with the name Devon,” Cecily said as she slipped into the backseat.

“Yeah, there really ought to be a record at the town hall about who’s buried under there,” Marcus said, who was shoved in between Cecily and Natalie.

“We looked,” Devon told him as he slid into the front seat beside D.J. and pulled the door shut. “There was nothing.”

“You know, bro, I think maybe you just dropped out of the sky,” D.J. said, starting the car and squealing out of the parking lot.

“Hey, I have a thought,” Natalie offered.

“This ought to be good,” Cecily said.

Natalie ignored her. “Maybe the Nightwing don’t have babies like regular people. Maybe they hatch out of eggs or something.”

Cecily scowled. “Natalie, you totally got the wrong genes. Instead of a brunette, you should definitely have been born a blonde.”

“Hey,” Natalie said, pouting. “It’s not so weird to imagine. Look at the ravens those Nightwingers always have around them. They come out of eggs.”

“Well, I’m Nightwing, too,” Cecily said. “Everybody seems to forget that. I’m just as much a Nightwing as Devon. And I was certainly not hatched out of any egg.”

“But you got gypped with the power thing, Cess,” D.J. said. “With your mom and uncle renouncing their heritage and everything.”

She just snorted. “Maybe someday I’ll get my rightful powers back. They’re my birthright, after all.”

“Consider it a blessing, Cecily,” Devon said, and he was being serious. “At least you didn’t grow up with the monsters in your closet being real.”

They talked about other things for a while: how Jessica Milardo was breaking up with her boyfriend and the fact that Mr. Weatherby always wore shirts with pit stains. “It’s so gross,” Natalie complained. “Like a fungus or something.”

Devon laughed. He looked out the window as they headed toward the village of Misery Point. The time comes soon, the Voice told him again, when you will need to live up to the promise of your heritage.

They reached Fibber McGee’s, the restaurant Rolfe owned on the craggy point. It was a very popular spot, drawing diners from as far away as New York and Boston. It gave the Muirs’ restaurants a real run for their money, which was precisely the strategy Rolfe Montaigne had in mind when he returned to Misery Point after his five years in prison. Fibber McGee’s is one of the few places open all year; most of the village’s other establishments shut down for the winter. In May the population swells with summer residents and tourists. Now it was mostly a deserted collection of boarded-up white clapboard buildings, braving the fierce Atlantic wind and ice.

“Thanks for the ride,” Devon said, hopping out of the car.

“March on, Ghostbuster,” D.J. said.

Devon peered into the backseat at Cecily. “If your mother asks, say I stayed after school for some extra help in geometry, and that I’ll get a ride with someone else.”

She nodded in agreement.

“And Marcus,” Devon added, remembering the pentagram, “call me later, okay?”

“What about?”

“Just call me.”

“How about me?” Natalie said, batting her eyelashes ridiculously. Devon knew Natalie had a crush on him; she just wouldn’t seem to accept the fact that he and Cecily were an item.

“Yeah, sure,” he told her, shrugging. “You can call me too, if you want.”

“Too bad she’s lost her phone,” Cecily said, grabbing Natalie’s cell out of her bag.

“Hey!”

They laughed. Devon watched as the Camaro roared off. He knew they were heading back to Gio’s for pizza. They’d spend the day like any other group of kids. Once again Devon resented this fate thrust upon him, once again wished he could just be an ordinary boy.

Not that he wasn’t intrigued by his Nightwing blood, and not that he didn’t find his powers awesome at times. But he was tired of living in fear and doubt. Tired of never knowing when some hand might reach out of the dark and grab him, or when Mrs. Crandall might cook up a plot to send him into a Hell Hole.

Devon wished he could do normal things, like joining an intramural basketball team after classes. He didn’t transfer to this school until mid-semester, so it was too late to get on the cross-country team. But in the spring he was thinking of trying out for junior varsity baseball. And maybe the school play.

But he doubted he’d ever have time for any of that. Instead he had to head to Rolfe’s and pore through ancient texts and hold magic crystals in his hand, while his friends got to hang out and eat pizza.

He was greeted by Roxanne, Rolfe’s mysterious lady companion. “Well, good afternoon, Devon March,” she said, her strange golden eyes taking him in. She was strikingly beautiful, tall with deep brown skin and the twist of a Jamaican accent. “I suspected we might see you today.”

“You always seem to know when to expect me, Roxanne.”

“You are hungry. I will have the chef whip you up some food.”

She was right, he was hungry. She must have been clairvoyant—ESP or whatever they called it. Rolfe said Roxanne was very wise. An “intuitive,” he called her.

“Rolfe is in his office,” Roxanne told him. “You go ahead in.”

There were only a few diners in the restaurant, out-of-towners braving the snowy cliffs, probably up from Boston. Devon hoped he might get a chance to go out to Rolfe’s house, where the books and crystals were kept. At the very least, he hoped Rolfe would have the time to listen to his story.

He knocked lightly on the door. “Come in,” Rolfe commanded in his deep, resonant voice.

Devon stepped inside.

“Well, I was wondering when you’d be able to get here.” The older man fixed him with his green eyes. “Any trouble?”

“Well, maybe,” Devon said.

Rolfe rose from behind his desk and gestured for Devon to sit in an easy chair off to the side. He was a tall, dark man somewhere in his mid-thirties, with the swagger of a man who’d made his fortune the hard way and totally on his own. Five years in prison hadn’t broken Rolfe Montaigne: they had merely steeled his resolve to become as successful as he could when he got out. Just how Rolfe had made his fortune was a bit mysterious: he’d regaled Devon and his friends with talks of oil rigs in Saudi Arabia, hidden jewels in the pyramids of Egypt, strange connections in China and Japan.

But all that matters was that Rolfe was here, now, and that he was the only one who could help Devon find any answers.

“Tell me what’s happened,” Rolfe said, sitting opposite Devon.

“Well, to start, I got attacked in the parlor.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry. It wasn’t a demon. I think they’re still pretty securely locked in their Hell Holes. This was a human. Or maybe a ghost that felt like a human. He grabbed my throat then ran off.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“No. It was dark.”

“But there are no men living at Ravenscliff.” Rolfe smiled. “Except you, of course.”

“Ah, but there is now. The new caretaker arrived shortly after the attack. But it wasn’t him.”

“How are you so sure?”

“The caretaker’s a gnome.”

“A gnome?” Rolfe scrunched up his face. “What’s a gnome?”

“I was hoping you’d know.”

Rolfe shook his head. “Maybe in one of my father’s books back home.”

“Well, anyway, he’s this little man, and he tricked me into going into a Hell Hole.”

“What?”

“I was trying to get information out of him. He knows all about Horatio Muir and the history of the Muir family’s sorcery. When I brought up the tower, he suggested I get there through his bathroom.”

Rolfe looked bewildered. “Through his bathroom?”

“I know it’s weird. Just listen, okay? So I opened the door to his bathroom and there were steps leading down. I saw and heard and felt demons, Rolfe. The heat. It was intense.”

Rolfe stood. “Devon, there is only one way into Ravenscliff’s Hell Hole, and that’s through the portal in the East Wing. I am sure of that. And that portal was sealed by your own powers when you came out of there after rescuing Alexander.”

“Then what was the staircase I went down? I saw things, Rolfe—”

Rolfe eyed him. “What kinds of things?”

“There were people gathered, calling for the burning of the Apostate.” Devon held Rolfe’s gaze significantly. “That’s what they called Jackson Muir, remember? The Apostate. The heretic, the renegade sorcerer. There was a man there, trying to lead me down off the stairs and into the crowd.”

Rolfe was shaking his head. “That was no Hell Hole. But if it’s what I suspect…”

“What, Rolfe? What do you suspect?”

“I need my father’s books.”

“Then let’s go, Rolfe. Let’s go to your house.”

The older man sighed. “My car’s in the shop. It’s not ready for another hour or so.”

Devon knew that hiking to Rolfe’s place, poised far off on the precipice of one of Misery Point’s steepest cliffs, would take far too long.

“I could try my trick,” Devon offered. “But it doesn’t always work.”

“I suspect it might this time,” Rolfe said, “since you’d be doing it in the pursuit of knowledge. But whether you can take me with you, I don’t know.”

“Want to try?” Devon asked.

Rolfe nodded. He reached over and grasped both of Devon’s hands.

The boy closed his eyes and thought of Rolfe’s den, its three walls of glass overlooking the white-capped sea, its fourth wall covered from floor to ceiling with books. Books of knowledge. Books of Nightwing history. And when he opened his eyes, he was there, and Rolfe was with him.

“That is so cool,” Devon said.

“Yes,” Rolfe admitted, laughing a little, “it sure is.”

He was already approaching his bookshelves, running his hand along the spines. From the skulls wedged in between the books, black eye sockets stared out at Devon, the ancient Knowledge somewhere within.

“Here,” Rolfe said, pulling down a book. “An encyclopedia of sorcery, written by the Nightwing Johann the Wise in Holland at the turn of the first millennium. It remains the standard.”

He blew the dust off the book and began flipping through its pages.

“What are you looking for?” Devon asked.

“Gnome,” Rolfe said. “Ah, here it is.” He began reading: “‘A subterranean creature, responsible for guarding the Nightwing’s treasures, be they jewels or knowledge. Clever with potions and remedies. Physically very strong. Can live many hundreds of years. Mostly found in Scandinavia and Russia.’” He held the book open for Devon to see. “Look, here’s a drawing of one.”

Devon agreed that the gnome etched there did indeed resemble Bjorn Forkbeard, with his powerful shoulders and pointed fingernails.

“He said he was six-hundred-and-sixty-two years old,” Devon said. “I guess he wasn’t kidding. And he said that he was born in a mine in Finland. This fits, Rolfe.”

“Curious that Amanda should hire a creature such as this to be Ravenscliff’s caretaker,” Rolfe mused. “It’s similar to how she kept that scoundrel Simon all those years.” He paused. “Of course, I imagine she couldn’t hire just any old caretaker, not for a house like Ravenscliff.”

“What do you think she’s hiding in the tower, Rolfe? I’m sure that’s why she brought Bjorn in—to guard whatever it is, just as Simon guarded it.”

“I can’t imagine,” Rolfe said. “But it must be very important. Perhaps dangerous.”

“Do you think it’s another Hell Hole?”

He considered the idea for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I remember the great cataclysm that killed my father and Amanda’s father, too. There is only one way into the Hell Hole, and that’s in the East Wing.”

“Then what was that staircase in Bjorn’s bathroom?”

Rolfe sighed. “The answer to that won’t be found in any of these books.” Rolfe moved away from the bookcase, looking out over the sea. The waves crashed against the rocks below with a ferocity that always seemed to make him melancholy. Devon suspected whenever Rolfe looked down at the rocks he thought of the two young people killed there, in his car, their bodies washed out to sea. Even if he wasn’t driving, he had been drunk—and Devon didn’t think Rolfe would ever fully absolve himself of responsibility for their deaths.

The boy came up and placed his hand on his friend’s back. “Rolfe, what are you thinking about?”

“About all the secrets, all the knowledge, that was lost when the Madman took the lives of my father and Mr. Muir.” He turned around to look at Devon. “Information you need now and answers I can’t give you. There was so much tragedy after that cataclysm. None of us were ever happy again.”

“You would’ve made a great Guardian, I’m sure.”

Rolfe eyed him sadly. “You think? Even though you know what I did?”

“It wasn’t your fault, Rolfe. You weren’t driving.”

“Amanda said I was.”

“She lied. She was angry at you and wanted revenge.”

A small smile crept across Rolfe’s face. “Yes, as I want revenge against her now. I’ll get it too, Devon. I’ll drive them out of business, and you can come live with me.”

Devon struggled with Rolfe’s need for revenge. He could understand his desire to pay back Mrs. Crandall for her lies, but Devon wouldn’t want any harm to come to Cecily or Alexander. Driving the Muirs out of business would no doubt effect them, too. As ever when Rolfe started in about all that stuff, Devon decided to change the subject.

“So tell me about the staircase, Rolfe. What do you think it was, if not a Hell Hole?”

Rolfe sighed. “I remember something—something which fascinated me as a boy.”

“What was that?”

“I remember stories about how Horatio Muir built a Stairway Into Time. It was a magical staircase that appeared and reappeared in various places throughout the house. It was a stunning achievement of Horatio’s master sorcery. It allowed him to go back through time to consult with the great Nightwing of the past. It could also take him into the future.”

“Awesome,” Devon breathed.

“But when sorcery was repudiated at Ravenscliff, the Stairway Into Time was presumably lost forever. But if what you say is true, I suspect it’s back. You’ve allowed it to exist again, Devon, because you are a sorcerer with all your powers intact.”

“So it wasn’t a Hell Hole… it was a staircase through time.”

“That’s my guess,” Rolfe said. He looked back out at the sea. “But I don’t know whether Bjorn knew you would manifest it or whether there was anything specific he wanted you to learn from it.”

“Do you think the attack earlier had anything to do with him?”

“I don’t know. There are ghosts all through that house. You can have just bumped into a particularly grumpy one. But I’d definitely keep an eye on Bjorn until you can be certain whether he’d friend or foe.”

Devon considered something. “Do you think I’m way off base in thinking that Mrs. Crandall wanted to kill me?”

“Devon, my friend,” Rolfe said, resting his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “I’d put nothing past that woman. I advise you to remain on your guard.”

Once more Devon was able to will himself and Rolfe back to the restaurant, where he wolfed down the chicken salad sandwich and French fries Roxanne brought in to him. “One other thing,” Devon asked Rolfe between bites. “Have you figured out why I can’t get my father’s ring to tell me anything other than the most generic Nightwing history?”

Ted March had left behind a crystal ring. Every Guardian held a crystal that contained knowledge needed by the Nightwing. Rolfe had thought the ring should have revealed the secret of Devon’s past. But it’s been silent on the subject.

“No, I’m sorry, Devon,” Rolfe told him. “Possibly it was damaged in some way. Or maybe it’s holding back for some reason. I’ll keep reading up on the crystals.” He smiled at the boy. “But you need to get back here as often as possible. I know it will be hard, sneaking out on Amanda. But if you’re to learn whatever you can about your powers, then the books at my house are your only resource.”

Devon nodded. He wished he had more time, but Mrs. Crandall would get suspicious if he stayed away too long. He bid goodbye to Rolfe and Roxanne and headed outside.

It had gotten quite dark. A sharp cold wind blew in off the harbor. Devon was tired and didn’t feel like making the long hike back up to Ravenscliff. He tried to will himself there, but as ever in cases like this, his sorcery failed him.

It’s not meant to make things easier for no greater purpose, the Voice reminded him. You know that.

Yeah, yeah, Devon answers back. But it sure would be nice once in a while.

So he started up the long trek up the cliffside staircase. In the snow-covered cemetery, he hurried past the angel with the broken wing, which marked the gravesite of the Madman. Devon glanced quickly at the marble obelisk in the center with the name Devon etched into it. What did it mean? Was there any connection to him?

Finally inside the house, he shook the snow off his boots as eight-year-old Alexander Muir came bounding down the stairs. “Devon!” he shouted. “You’re home!”

“Hey, buddy, what’s up?”

“We’re having hábrók for dinner,” he called. “I’ve never had hábrók. Bjorn just shot one out on the grounds.”

Devon laughed. “What the heck is hábrók?”

“It’s like wild turkey,” he said. “You should see it. It had all these cool feathers.”

It was nice to see the boy so animated. When Devon had first arrived at Ravenscliff, Alexander had been gloomy and despondent, a sour-faced puck full of malevolent mischief. But he’d brightened over the last couple of weeks, and Cecily gave Devon most of the credit.

“Have you ever had hábrók?”

Devon gave the boy’s hair a tousle. “Can’t say I ever have.”

“Bjorn seems really cool,” Alexander said.

“You think so?”

Alexander looked up at him. “Yeah. He said he was going to go hunting for devil bird for Thanksgiving.”

“Devil bird?”

“Yeah. He says it tastes awesome.”

“Never heard of that either.”

The little boy had flopped down on the couch opposite the fire in the parlor. “My father said he was going to come home for Thanksgiving.”

“That would be great,” Devon said, sitting beside him.

“Aunt Amanda says we shouldn’t expect him, though.”

Devon felt a wave of compassion for Alexander. Here the kid had been trapped in a Hell Hole while his father was off living the high life traipsing across the Cote d’Azur. Edward Muir rarely wrote or called to check on his son. An occasional postcard or some expensive gift from some exotic place were all that ever arrived for Alexander. Devon didn’t think the boy had seen his father in nearly a year.

“He promised to take me on a safari when I’m ten,” Alexander said. “He’s been on them lots of times. Giraffes and elephants and rhinos—he’s seen them all.”

And you’ve seen a lot more, kiddo, Devon thought. But thankfully, the boy had no memory of his time in the Hell Hole.

Talk of fathers, however, had made Devon think of his own again. This would be his first Thanksgiving—and then his first Christmas—without his father.

“You miss your dad, huh Devon?”

Devon looked at the young boy. It was if Alexander can read his mind.

“Yeah,” Devon said. “I guess I do.”

At the dining table, Bjorn carried in a roasted bird still sizzling on a large silver platter. He needed help getting it up onto the table. The gnome was claiming it was a rare bird of Norse legend—something which Mrs. Crandall just smiled at—but Devon thought it really was just wild turkey. Whatever it was, it was tasty.

And whatever Bjorn was, Devon had to admit he was a good cook.

That night, Devon fell asleep thinking about his father. He had a dream. His father often came to him in dreams. He could hear Dad calling to him through the fog that drifted in from the ocean. Finally he was able to make out Dad on Devil’s Rock, the very edge of the Muir estate, where the land dropped two hundred feet to the sea, where the Madman’s wife, Emily Muir, plunged to her grisly death.

“Devon,” his father was calling. “The tower. The secret is in the tower.”

He sat up in bed. His father’s voice still reverberated in his ears.

“The tower,” someone said. “We’ve got to leave the tower.”

Devon realized the voice was not that of his father. It was coming from far away, a conversation between two people. How he could he hear it so clearly in his bedroom with the door closed, Devon wasn’t sure. It was if he’d suddenly developed super-powered hearing.

“Just come with me. It will be all right.”

“But where? Where are you taking me?”

“Just come along. Trust me. It will be all right.”

Stealthily, Devon crept out of bed and toward his door. He listened. The voices were gone, but he could hear footsteps now, coming downstairs.

I can hear what’s going on in the tower, Devon realized. Somehow I’m tuned in and can hear what’s happening in there.

He snuck out into the corridor. The house was nearly pitch dark. Devon slowly made his way to the landing that overlooked the foyer and the entrance to the tower. Crouched behind the railing in the dark shadows of the night, he saw the door open and two figures emerge. He could barely make them out, but now he was certain that one of the voices he had heard was Bjorn’s. One of the figures was very small. It had to be the gnome.

The other figure was sheathed in white. That was all Devon could discern. He’d seen a figure in white in the tower before, a figure he took to be a woman.

Whoever they were, they disappeared below the landing into another part of the house. Devon’s ability to hear them suddenly faded away. If he tried to pursue them, he ran the risk of being discovered. He felt he should just go back to bed. If Mrs. Crandall caught him—

Then he realized Bjorn had left the door to the tower ajar. Devon knew he had to take the chance. Despite all his sorcery, he was powerless to open the door when it was locked. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He willed himself down to the foyer below, then slipped quickly through the shadows into the tower.

He’d made it this far before. Once, he’d snuck in and made it halfway up the tower’s curving stone stairwell before Simon had stopped him. But the experience had at least given Devon the knowledge that a door existed three flights up. A door to a room he was convinced held a secret into his past.

With every breath he was sure someone would catch him. He tried to will himself to simply appear in the room, but he couldn’t. I have to work for this, he reasoned. I have to work to find out who I am.

Having no light, Devon had to rely on the weak blue moon-glow that filtered in through the tower windows. He felt his way, step-by-step, his hands inching up along the wall, his palms detecting cracks in the stonework and the occasional furry spider.

Finally he arrived at the door to the tower room. Once he had dreamed of finding the Madman in here. Now, instead, he thought he would find something else: the secret of who he was. And, crazy as it sounded, the prospect scared him even more than finding Jackson Muir.

But as he opened the door, Devon realized it was just a room. A small, plain, round room with a bed, a bureau, a table and two chairs. The bed had been stripped and the bureau is empty. Devon looked out the window and could see the terrace off the parlor below. Yes, this was the very window where he’d seen the light so many times, where once he saw a woman—a ghost?—who called his name.

There was nothing in the room to indicate who had lived here—who the woman was that Bjorn had just whisked away. Devon felt some disappointment settling in, then noticed something on the floor.

He stooped down to pick it up.

In the dim moonlight he saw it was a doll. A naked, pink plastic baby doll.

Devon picked it up. As he did so, the head suddenly fell off its body. And a gigantic brown spider crawled out onto Devon’s hand.

That was when the hideous laughter filled the room.

A Homecoming

Devon dropped the doll and shook the spider off his hand. The laughter continued—not laughter he had heard before, not the laughter of the Madman, but rather, from the sound of it, the laughter of a Madwoman. It was high and shrill and cruel.

He steeled himself. “Show me your face,” he commanded.

“My face?” came a voice as the laughter subsided. “You dare to look upon my face?”

“Yes, I dare.”

“Foolish boy. Once before you looked upon my face. Oh, yes. I remember you. Watching with your bright young eyes…”

“Who are you?” Devon demanded again.

“Are you accustomed to talking to yourself in the middle of the night?”

But this was a new voice. Devon turned. He didn’t see anyone right away. then he dropped his eyes. Bjorn Forkbeard stood in the doorway, smiling.

The caretaker ran his little hands together. “Which ghosts are you communicating with, my boy?”

Devon said nothing. The gnome approached him, smiling in apparent interest.

“Poor old Emily Muir, perhaps? I read about her just tonight in the family history book. How she jumped to her death from Devil’s Rock—”

“I’m not sure who I was talking to,” Devon told him, “but it was no one as kind and gentle as Emily Muir, I can tell you that.”

“Then who?”

Devon scowled at him. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“But how would I know?”

Devon drew himself to his full height over the gnome. “I want to know who you just took out of this room.”

Bjorn’s face registered confusion in the moonlight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, my young Nightwing child. I simply heard all this shouting up here and came to investigate.”

“Don’t lie to me, Bjorn. I saw you with someone, someone you brought out of the tower. I can see now that you’re hiding things from me, just as Simon did. Who are you in league with, Bjorn? Tell me, because I’ll find out.”

Bjorn gave him a stricken look. “My boy, I owe you my life. I’m not working against you. Believe me.”

“Then why not tell me who’s been living in this room.”

The gnome smiled sadly. “I can’t tell you things I don’t know.”

“Then tell me what spirit haunts the tower? Whose laughter did I hear? Who is the woman who just spoke to me? She said she’d seen me before. Who is it, Bjorn?”

The gnome shuddered, looking around. “I truly do not know, my young friend. But if there’s a malevolent ghost in this room, we had best leave. Quickly.”

Devon sighed, knowing he’d get no more out of Bjorn. And suddenly he did feel the heat in the room rising. There was indeed a hostile entity here—one that he was sure he’d meet again.

As they were heading out of the room, Devon stopped and picked up the headless doll. “Who did this belong to? Do you know that much at least?”

Bjorn gazed at it with sad eyes. “Some child from Ravenscliff’s past, I imagine. Just leave it where you found it, Devon. Best not disturb the room further.”

Devon complied. They headed back down the stairs. Bjorn secured the door with his key and advised Devon to say nothing of this episode to Mrs. Crandall. “I don’t think she’d be very pleased with either of us,” Bjorn said.

It was the first thing the gnome had said that Devon believed.

A few days passed. Things seemed to quiet down some. Bjorn settled into his job. Mrs. Crandall remained distant, and Devon remained suspicious. But at least there were no hands grabbing him in the dark, no crazy ghostly laughter and, significantly, no light in the tower.

Bjorn had been telling them all about the Thanksgiving dinner he was going to prepare. In addition to devil bird in place of turkey, there would be golden apples direct from the garden of the goddess Idun and pomegranates grown by the goddess Demeter. When Devon, who knew a little about mythology, pointed out that Idun was a Norse deity and Demeter was Greek, Bjorn pointed out all of the gods existed.

“And I suppose you have a direct contact with them all,” Devon replied.

“Not direct,” the caretaker said. “But I do know how to pull a few strings.”

Alexander was especially excited about the candied figs, which Bjorn claimed he’d make from a batch harvested in the actual Garden of Eden. He wouldn’t reveal the exact location of said garden, however. “Trade secret,” he said, winking.

“I’ve never had a candied fig,” Alexander said.

Cecily shot him a look. “As if you need any more candy, pork chop,” she said.

Alexander stuck his tongue out at her. The boy was definitely on the chubby side, though Devon thought he looked healthier now that he’d been getting out of his room more. Alexander used to sit and brood in front of the television set all day, but the past couple of days Devon had taken him out dirt bike riding on the estate, over the hills that rolled past the stables and tennis courts.

The holiday preparations at Ravenscliff did make Devon a little melancholy. Already Cecily was talking about the big blue spruce they planned to chop down for their Christmas tree that year. Devon knew he was going to miss Dad more than ever during the holidays.

He had gone into the library to study for his upcoming history test when he heard a tap on the door. He looked up, saw no one, then thought to drop his eyes. Bjorn stood in the library doorway.

“Master Devon, you have a visitor,” he said.

“A visitor?”

“Yes.” Bjorn gestured to someone. Marcus appeared then, wrapped up in his parka and scarf.

“Hey!” Devon called, leaping up to greet his friend. “What’s happening?”

“You said you wanted to talk to me,” Marcus said. “And whenever I called, you said you weren’t alone.”

Devon nodded, looking past Marcus to make sure Bjorn had moved out of earshot. “Come on into the library with me, okay?”

They settled down into the dark room, heavy with the musty fragrance of old books. Marcus took off his coat and looked Devon straight in the eyes.

“What’s up?” he asked. “I can tell it’s something bad.”

“Well, not necessarily bad. It’s just something… about you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.” Devon paused, not sure how to put it. “Listen, I have to tell you something. But I don’t want you freaking out.”

“Is this about the demons? The Hell Hole?”

“No.” Devon wasn’t sure about that, actually, but he didn’t want to alarm Marcus. “Look, the very first time I met you I saw something on your face. And lately I’ve seen it again.”

Marcus frowned. “What? Like a zit?”

“No. A pentagram.”

“A pentagram? What’s that?”

“A five-pointed star with a circle around it.”

“Devon, I’ve never put a star on my face. Maybe D.J. would do something weird like that, but not me.”

“It wasn’t actually on your face. It was over your face. Hovering there. It was like a vision.”

Devon saw the realization light in Marcus’s eyes. Too much had happened for anyone to doubt Devon’s ability to see things beyond the scope of an ordinary kid.

“What does it mean?” Marcus asked, a little flicker of fear in his voice.

“I thought maybe you’d have some clue.”

“Clue? Like what?”

“I don’t know. Does your family have any magic in its past?”

Marcus laughed derisively. “My family? I don’t think so. My dad’s a plumber. We’re hardly Nightwing like you, Devon.”

“Well, I just figured I had to tell you. I Googled the meaning of the pentagram. It can mean a lot of things, but basically it’s a good symbol. It’s used for protection against evil spirits. So really it shouldn’t freak you out. Maybe it means you’re somehow protected.”

“And maybe it means I’m marked for something to happen,” Marcus said gloomily.

“So I shouldn’t have told you about it?”

“No, you did the right thing.” Marcus smiled. “You know, I really admire you, Devon. I hope you know that. You’re the bravest kid I know.”

Devon blushed a little.

“And I want to thank you for always being totally accepting of me. You know, you’ve never made me feel different or anything.”

“I could say the exact same thing to you.”

Marcus laughed. “I guess we both know something about what it’s like to grow up feeling different, like there’s nobody else like us in the whole entire world.”

Devon looked at him. “There are a hell of a lot more gay people than there are Nightwing.”

“Not in Misery Point,” Marcus said, smirking.

“I bet there are. They just aren’t out like you are. That’ll change.”

“Is that the Voice telling you so?”

Devon considered it. “Yeah, actually, I think the Voice does confirm that.”

“I’d like to have a boyfriend,” Marcus said. “I’d like to have with somebody what you have with Cecily.”

Devon frowned. “Sometimes I worry…”

“Stop it. She’s not your sister. I thought you gave up on that idea when Mrs. C. tried to snuff you out in the Hell Hole.”

“I don’t think the staircase in Bjorn’s room was a Hell Hole anymore.”

“Then what was it?”

“It could be a—” Devon stopped speaking as he looked at Marcus’s face. The pentagram was back.

“You see it again, don’t you?” Marcus asked, suddenly self-conscious.

Devon nodded. “But the Voice is silent. If you were in danger from it, I’m sure it would tell me.”

They made a vow, then and there, to help each other find out their personal mysteries. What the pentagram meant, and where Devon came from.

Who knew? They might even be connected.

Thanksgiving arrived, and the house smelled wonderful, filled with the aroma of devil bird (Devon thought it was just turkey again, picked up at Stop n’ Save) roasting in the oven.

The meal was undeniably tasty, especially the candied figs, which Alexander devoured ravenously. No one mentioned the obvious fact that, despite his promise to his son, Edward Muir had not come home.

After they’d eaten, Mrs. Crandall had them all up to her mother’s room for a rare visit with Grandmama, who looked at each of them with yellow, rheumy eyes, seeming not to recognize anybody except her daughter.

“Are you my beau come to call?” the bedridden old woman asked Devon.

“No, Mrs. Muir,” he told her. “My name is Devon.” He looked at her intently. The others were fixing a bouquet of flowers on the other side of the room. “Does that name—Devon—mean anything to you?”

“Devon,” she repeated. “Is that the name of my beau?”

He sighed. The old lady’s eyes reflected nothing he could see. It was very sad, actually: if Devon had ever suspected Greta Muir might be the powerful sorceress who saved him from Simon on the roof of the tower, he now considered such a thing impossible.

“Where is my husband?” Greta Muir asked, becoming slightly agitated. “Where is he? Where is Randolph?”

Devon felt tremendously sad for her. Your husband died in the Hell Hole, he thought to himself. That’s why you went mad. That’s why your family renounced its glorious Nightwing past.

Poor Mrs. Muir fell asleep in her chair.

“You children go downstairs,” Mrs. Crandall told them. “I’ll join you momentarily.”

“Grandmama sure is one crazy old bat,” Alexander said as they headed down the corridor.

“Show some respect,” Cecily scolded.

The little boy thumbed his nose at her.

The three young people were coming down the stairs into the foyer when suddenly the front doors of Ravenscliff burst open. A swirl of snowflakes blew in on a gust of wind. A man stepped inside, his arms loaded down with packages.

“Ho-ho-ho,” the man cried. “Meeeeeerrry Christmas!”

Devon had no idea who he was, or why he was announcing Christmas on Thanksgiving.

For a moment none of them moved or said a word. But then suddenly Alexander broke the silence, running down the stairs toward the man and shouting:

“Dad!”

“It’s my Uncle Edward!” Cecily exclaimed to Devon, hurrying down the stairs after Alexander.

Devon followed, much more slowly.

“How’s my boy?” Edward Muir was asking. Having deposited all the brightly colored packages on the floor of the foyer, he’d scooped Alexander up in his arms for a fat kiss. Edward Muir was a big man, tall with broad shoulders, as fair and golden-haired as his sister Amanda. But his eyes danced where hers were cold and guarded, and when he smiled, large dimples indented his rosy cheeks.

“Dad! I knew you’d come!” Alexander cried.

“Did I miss dinner?”

“Yes, but Bjorn can fix you something,” Cecily told him.

Edward set his son down and turned to his niece. “Hello, Kitten. How you’ve grown!”

He embraced her fondly. “It’s so good to see you, Uncle Edward,” she said. “But what’s with all the Christmas presents?”

“Just in case I’m still not here next month,” he told her. “There’s something for everybody.”

“There usually is,” came a voice from the top of the stairs.

They turned to look. Mrs. Crandall was descending into the foyer, her eyes fixed on her brother.

“Welcome home, Edward,” she said, but Devon could sense no sincerity in her voice.

“Dear sister,” Edward said, taking her hand when she reached him and bringing it to his lips.

“Dad, you’ve got to meet Devon,” Alexander said, pulling his father by the hand. “He’s my best friend.”

“Yes, yes,” Edward Muir said, looking down at Devon now. They shook hands. “Amanda wrote me about her new ward.”

“It’s good to meet you, sir,” Devon said.

“Now, now, there will be no ‘sir’ among friends.” He smiled. “Call me Edward. I’m sure we’ll be good pals, Devon.”

Devon smiled in return. He wished Edward Muir had been at Ravenscliff when he’d first arrived here. His warmth and friendliness would have made a marked difference in those first few weeks.

Edward turned back to his sister. “Dear Amanda,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t phone ahead to tell you of my plans, but I wanted to surprise you.” He looked around at all of them. “For I have a big surprise.”

Mrs. Crandall eyed him warily. “What is it now, Edward? Another new business scheme to take the world by storm, only to end up costing the family fortune a few tens of thousands of dollars?”

He laughed, ignoring her. “I note you hired a new caretaker, Amanda. An interesting man. I met him outside. He’s bringing in my bags. So strong for such a little fellow.”

Mrs. Crandall’s expression didn’t change.

“Ah, look,” Edward Muir said, “here he comes now.”

Devon turned. Bjorn was carrying in several bags through the front door. But he wasn’t alone.

Behind him came a beautiful woman dressed in a floor-length mink coat.

“Darling,” Edward Muir said, gesturing for the woman to join him.

Mrs. Crandall’s eyes went wide, her lips pursed tightly.

“I want you all to meet my fiancee,” Edward Muir said. “My son Alexander, my niece Cecily, my new friend Devon, and of course, my dear sister Amanda.” He smiled, gazing at the woman with adoration. “This is the woman I intend to marry. Morgana Green.”

“Hello,” Morgana offered in a quiet, respectful voice.

She was beautiful. Short dark hair and enormous brown eyes. Devon looked quickly from her to Mrs. Crandall, then down at Alexander. Both of them were staring at the woman in shock.

“Might I remind you, Edward,” Mrs. Crandall said, not bothering to welcome Morgana to her home, “that you are already married.”

He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “A technicality. Ingrid is a hopeless case. Her doctors have told me that many times. So I’ve already put the divorce into motion.”

Devon instinctively put an arm around Alexander’s shoulder. This was, after all, his mother they were talking about. Devon knew that Ingrid Muir has been institutionalized in a mental health hospital for years, and that Alexander could barely remember her. But still, it must have been difficult to hear his father describe his mother so callously. Devon began to suspect there was something more, something cruel, behind Edward Muir’s outward charm.

“I hope you will all come to like me,” Morgana said. There was some kind of accent to her voice, but Devon can’t quite place it. “Especially you, Alexander.”

She stooped down to meet the boy at eye level. They shook hands.

“I know I could never replace your real mother,” Morgana said kindly, “but I’d like to be your friend.”

Alexander said nothing. He just stared at her.

Edward had turned to his sister. “And how is our good Mother?”

“The same,” Mrs. Crandall said, her eyes not moving from Morgana.

Edward beamed, dropping an arm around his fiancee. “Nevertheless, I’ll want to introduce Morgana to her.”

“She’s asleep for the night.” Mrs. Crandall gestured toward the parlor. “Shall we all go in and sit down? You both must be tired.”

“Splendid, idea,” Edward declared.

As Bjorn took the bags upstairs, the rest of them moved into the parlor. The gifts Edward had been bearing in his arms remained scattered across the marble floor of the foyer.

“So tell me, Edward,” Mrs. Crandall said, after she had settled herself in her chair. “How long do you intend to stay here this time?”

“Long enough to get the divorce moving.” He grinned. “Of course, I want to come back so we can be married here at Ravenscliff.” He spread his arms wide. “The ancestral home.”

Devon watched as Morgana dropped her eyes demurely, blushing.

Mrs. Crandall stiffened. “Well, if you’re going to be here, you can help me with the ancestral businesses, too,” she said. “You know we have competition now.”

“Oh, yes, you wrote me all about that. Rolfe Montaigne is still causing trouble.”

“There’s talk he’d thinking of opening another restaurant, and sponsoring his own fishing fleet.” Mrs. Crandall sighed, not looking around. “Tell me, Morgana. What line of business are you in?”

“I’m a dancer,” Morgana said.

Devon caught a quick smirk from Cecily.

“Ballet?” Mrs. Crandall asked, but they already knew that wouldn’t be the answer.

Morgana hesitated in her reply, so Edward filled in for her. “I met Morgana in a club in Monte Carlo,” he said. “Her reputation as a performer is celebrated.” He looked over at her fondly. “She has quite the act.”

“I can imagine,” Mrs. Crandall said, her voice dripping with disdain. “Well, you can show her the house, Edward. And afterward, I’d like to speak with you. Alone.”

“What—no pumpkin pie?” Edward asked.

“Bjorn made candied figs,” Cecily told him.

“We’ve already had our dinner and now it’s getting late.” Mrs. Crandall looked over at Morgana. “I’m sure you’d like to freshen up and get settled. I’ll have Bjorn bring you up a pot of tea.”

“Thank you,” Morgana said.

Devon felt for the young woman. He knew just how cold Mrs. Crandall could be. He was a newcomer to this family once, too, and until he became friends with Cecily, he’d felt very alone here. He decided he’d befriend Morgana. She was only in her early twenties, from the looks of it, and despite the mink, which Devon imagined Edward had bought for her, Morgana seemed unpretentious and sincere. And so pretty. Especially those big dark eyes. Not unlike Devon’s own.

Edward took Morgana upstairs. Mrs. Crandall moved out of the room after they had left, saying nothing, disappearing to whatever part of the house she went to when she wanted to be alone. It was clear she was not happy with Edward’s return, or his decision to marry Morgana.

“So,” Devon asked Alexander, “what do you think of your dad’s surprise?”

“I don’t like her,” he said bitterly.

Devon scowled. “Alexander. She seems very nice.”

“No. She’s not nice.” The boy crossed his pudgy little arms over his chest. “Not nice at all. I hate her.”

“Listen, buddy, I know it must be hard, with your own mother still out there and all. But maybe you ought to give Morgana a chance.”

“No,” Alexander spat.

Devon hadn’t seen him so petulant in a while. He was acting mean-spirited and stubborn, like he did in the weeks after Devon first arrived.

“Well,” Cecily said, “all I can say is that I hope that mink coat is faux fur. I mean, how tacky is that? I hate fur coats. The senseless slaughter of innocent animals for human vanity—”

“I’m sure your uncle bought it for her.”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s wearing it.” She huffed. “And what kind of voice was that? That’s no accent I ever heard.”

“She’s from Europe,” Devon said. “She could be—I don’t know—French.”

“That was not a French accent. Or an Italian accent. Or Spanish.” Cecily scoffed. “She’s just making it up, trying to sound exotic. When she’s just some low-class stripper.”

“Why are you so down on her?” Devon looked at Cecily strangely. “Neither one of you is giving her a chance.”

Cecily scrunched up her face. “You like her, don’t you?”

Devon felt defensive. “Yeah, I do.”

“Just because she’s pretty. So a pretty face can just blind you to the fact that she’s some gold digger trying to get my uncle’s money?”

Devon laughed. “You sound just like your mother, you know that? It’s obvious that’s what she was thinking, too.”

Cecily just rolled her eyes.

“I’m going to bed,” Devon told her, fed up with her childishness.

“Wait.” She stopped him, pressing her hand on his chest. “Let’s not fight on Thanksgiving.”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t fighting. I just want you to give Morgana a chance. It’s hard being a newcomer in this house. Believe me, I know.”

Cecily promised she’d try. Alexander, however, made no such vow.

That night, Devon dreamed about Morgana. It was a dream that seemed to last all night and, even as he was having it, he felt embarrassed about it. Morgana walked into his room and opened up her mink coat, to reveal only a black negligee. She pursed her lips and called his name. Devon woke up flushed and bothered.

“Man,” he whispered into the night. “She sure is something.”

He couldn’t get back to sleep. He tossed and turned. The clock beside his bed revealed it was almost one in the morning. He finally decided he needed a glass of water to cool himself down, so he tiptoed out of his room and into the hushed corridor. From the landing at the top of the stairs he saw that the parlor door was ajar. There was a light inside, and people were talking in there. He was pretty sure it was Mrs. Crandall and her brother. He was also pretty sure they were talking about him.

It’s stuff I need to know, he told himself. So where’s my superhearing now?

The Voice surprised him by answering: Maybe you have something else instead.

Devon didn’t know what the Voice meant, but looking down at himself he suddenly understood. He saw his slippers, and the sweatpants and t-shirt he’d been sleeping in—but not himself! It was as if his clothes were walking by themselves.

I’m invisible!

“Whoa,” Devon said, and his voice sounded strange to his ears, coming from lips he couldn’t see.

Okay, he thought, this is absolutely the coolest thing yet. I didn’t even know I did it. It just happened!

That’s because it will enable you to find out what you need to know, the Voice told him.

“Duh,” Devon said to the Voice.

Lately, the Voice had been speaking to him less and less, and sometimes it told him things he already knew, or things that were obvious. Of course Devon knew that being invisible would give him the ability to slip into the parlor undetected and eavesdrop on the conversation. He knew that might be a totally rude thing to do, but he had to discover the truth about his past one way or another.

So he pulled off his t-shirt and stepped out of his sweats and kicked off his slippers, hiding them behind a curtain. It felt weird to be walking naked down the stairs, because he could still feel his body, just not see it. He could still make sounds, too, he discovered, when one of the steps creaked under his foot. He would have to be careful.

Mrs. Crandall looked up when he entered the parlor. He had to open the door slightly to fit through. It was clear, though, she didn’t know he was there. She walked right past him and shut the door. Now he was trapped in here with them.

Naked. That sure felt weird.

Devon took a deep breath, fearful of letting it out and being heard. As softly as he could, he padded over to the far wall and leaned against it, watching but not being seen.

“So he’s discovered all about the Nightwing, then?” Edward was asking.

Mrs. Crandall nodded. “Thanks to Rolfe.”

“Perhaps we can get him to renounce his powers, like the rest of us.”

She shook her head. “As ever, you’re a fool, Edward. Don’t you realize that Devon’s sorcery allowed him to save your son from the Madman? If we got rid of his powers now—”

Edward scoffed. “But Jackson Muir can’t come back again.”

“That’s what we thought the last time.”

He shuddered. “We ought to burn this house to the ground.” Then he smiled wickedly. “Better yet. Sell it. We could make a killing.”

“That’s just like you, Edward. Not caring what might befall new occupants of this house.”

He laughed. “Better them than us.”

Mrs. Crandall watched him with contempt as he poured himself another brandy. “And do you really think we could simply be free of our past by leaving this house? It would follow us—just as I’m sure it has followed you, in all your travels around the globe.”

Devon could tell by Edward Muir’s expression that she was right. Despite his desperate flight from this house, it was obvious that Edward had never been able to put the tragedies far from his mind. He walked over to the French doors and looked out into the night.

“I notice there’s no light in the tower,” he said.

“It’s been taken care of.”

He smirked at his sister. “Oh, really? And how was that accomplished?”

“Never mind. I’ve seen to it.”

He held his brandy snifter up to her in mock salute. “Dear sister, you are the most capable woman I know.”

“I’ve had to be. Since you walked out and left me with the task of guarding this house entirely on my own.”

“Has it been that much of a burden?” he asked sarcastically.

She eyed him coldly. “Are you planning on taking Alexander with you after you marry that woman? I expect you’ll start globetrotting again after the wedding.”

Edward laughed. “Take Alexander with me? Dear sister, you willingly assumed the boy’s guardianship. I can’t be saddled with an eight-year-old boy.”

“But now you’ll have a wife. And she seems to want to be involved with Alexander.”

Edward shook his head. “Alexander will stay here. I don’t want him.”

Devon’s heart broke for his little friend.

“How much have you told her about the sorcery?” Mrs. Crandall asked.

“Nothing at all. Do you think I’m crazy?”

“Crazy like a fox.” She sighed. “Be careful, Edward. I don’t like her.”

He made a face. “What’s not to like? She’s sweet. Kind.” His lips curled upward. “Not to mention beautiful.”

Mrs. Crandall sniffed. “In a common sort of way.”

“You know, Amanda, bitterness does not become you.”

“Goodnight, Edward.”

She turned and walked imperiously out of the parlor. Her brother chuckled to himself, refilled his brandy, then sauntered out himself.

Just in time, too: Devon had become visible again. He wasn’t sure why—maybe because he was concentrating on their conversation and not on staying invisible. Or maybe simply because the need not to be seen had become unnecessary the moment Mrs. Crandall and Edward left the room. But that left Devon standing stark naked in the middle of the parlor with his clothes hidden behind a curtain up on the landing.

But before he could decide what to do—make a run for it, try his disappearing-reappearing act—he was startled by a voice.

“You looking for these?”

In the doorway stood Bjorn Forkbeard, holding Devon’s clothes in one hand.

Devon lunged at him, snatching his sweatpants and pulling them on as the gnome chortled to himself.

“How did you know I was here?” Devon asked, now slipping his t-shirt over his head.

“Because you weren’t in your room when I came looking for you.” Bjorn’s face turned serious. “I was coming to see you because I thought I should tell you something. There’s something you ought to check out.”

“What’s that?”

Bjorn leaned in close to him, his little face intent as it looked up at Devon. “There’s some kind of disturbance at the Hell Hole in the East Wing. I can hear it. Trust me, I can hear things like that.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bjorn’s face had gone white with fright. “May the Gods preserve us,” he said, listening to something only he could hear, “but I think something’s trying to get out of the Hell Hole.”

That’s absurd, Devon kept telling himself, as he headed upstairs. The Hell Hole was sealed. The door was bolted. And if there were some demons about to escape, Devon felt confident the Voice would’ve warned him.

He tried willing himself into the East Wing to check on things, but nothing happened. Mrs. Crandall’s authority superseded his powers, apparently. But surely if they were in any danger he would have been able to get in there. So Bjorn must be wrong.

He must be.

Either that or he was lying—for some devious reason of his own.

Still, Devon wished he knew of a physical way into the East Wing, just to reassure himself that the door into the Hell Hole was still bolted, still impenetrable. But the East Wing had been sealed off from the rest of the house. Devon had wanted in there as much as he’d wanted to get into the tower. There were books in the East Wing—books he needed to read—and a portrait of a young man in the clothing of the 1930s, who looked just like Devon. For many reasons Devon had wanted to explore the East Wing. The place held many secrets for him, but his powers just couldn’t seem to get him through Mrs. Crandall’s locked doors.

Walking down the corridor toward his room, he couldn’t deny the gnome’s words had unnerved him. Bjorn knew that Devon was the only person left in the house who could possibly fight off a demonic attack. But maybe his warning was a trap—like the one that had led him onto the Stairway Into Time. Devon still wasn’t sure he could trust Bjorn. He wished the Voice would tell him something more.

But when he opened the door to his room, he didn’t need the Voice to tell him anything. He felt the sudden blast of heat and the throbbing pressure—a demon was near.

Devon braced himself. His heart started thudding fast in his chest.

“Devon?” came a scared little voice.

He looked down. Crouched beside his bed was Alexander.

“I’m scared,” Alexander said, near tears. “The bad things that happened before. They’re coming back.”

Devon knelt beside him. The heat in the room was definitely overpowering. The little boy was sweating and trembling in his pajamas. Devon put his arms around him and pulled him close.

“I’m going to fight them, Alexander,” Devon promised. “I’m going to send them back to their Hell Hole.”

“I don’t think so,” Alexander said. “Not this time.”

Devon stiffened. The boy’s voice—cold, low. Not his own.

Devon looked down just in time to see Alexander’s lips part, revealing a mouthful of yellow fangs. He sunk them deep into Devon’s left shoulder, hitting bone.

Devon screamed.

A Vision of Blood

The pain was excruciating but Devon managed to push the creature off him. It’s not Alexander. Once more, Devon realized, cursing himself, he’d been tricked by a demon disguised as something else. He watched in horror as the thing shifted its shape, elongating itself like a lizard, its bones pushing out of its flesh. It became a seething, decomposing reptilian corpse, crouched down on all fours as if to spring.

“Back to your Hell Hole!” Devon commanded as best he can, his right hand clutching his shoulder, trying to stop the blood.

“I don’t think so,” the demon said again in its own voice, a deep, scratchy sound.

“I am stronger than you!”

But even as he said it, Devon fell, his head weak from loss of blood.

The thing began to creep toward him. “Are you really so strong? Then prove it. Open the door in the East Wing and let them free. They’re restless behind it. Listen. You can hear them. Set them free, Devon March. Then you will have the power of the world to command!”

“Never,” Devon rasped, but his head is spinning.

The demon loomed over him now, his fangs dripping yellow saliva. “Then I will have you,” it said, and gripped the boy’s arms with its bony talons.

Suddenly the windows of Devon’s room unlatched and swung inward, and the air was filled with the sound of angry flapping wings. Ravens—dozens of them, hundreds even, squawking and shrieking and descending upon the demon. Their beaks pecked at its decaying flesh, and though it tried to fight them off, they were eating the thing alive.

Or dead, whatever the case might be.

“Nooooo!” the demon cried, now entirely covered in a black mass of furiously beating wings.

Devon managed to sit up. “Back to your Hell Hole,” he commanded again, in a far weaker voice. The thing disappeared, and the ravens swarmed back out the window en masse. A few of their brethren lay dead on the floor, legs upraised. Devon picked one raven up and held it gently in his hand. He gazed down in gratitude at the dead bird.

The door to his room suddenly flung open. It was Cecily. “Oh my God!” she screamed. “Devon—you’re bleeding!”

He managed to nod his head. For the first time he realized his shirt was drenched in blood.

“They’re back,” he told her weakly. “The demons are back.”

“Mother!” she shouted. “Mother! Uncle Edward!”

Mrs. Crandall and her brother were soon in the doorway, in their robes, with Morgana peering timidly over Edward’s shoulder.

“Dear God,” Edward said, horrified. “What’s happened?”

“The demons,” Devon whispered.

Edward stooped down to look at him severely. “Are you certain?”

“Look, I’ve had run-ins with them before. I know what I’m talking about. If not for the ravens—”

Edward stood. “Wouldn’t you know it? I come back and this place is still the stinking horror it’s always been.”

“I’ve got to check on Mother,” Mrs. Crandall said.

“Please!” Cecily was furious. “Can’t you people think of something besides yourselves? Devon is bleeding to death! We’ve got to call Doctor Lamb!”

“That won’t be necessary,” came a voice.

They look around. They couldn’t see who was speaking at first until Bjorn Forkbeard appeared, pushing between the legs of Mrs. Crandall and Morgana in the doorway.

“I’ve been trained to deal with this sort of wound,” the gnome said. He carried a little black bag and stood beside Devon to study his shoulder. “First we need a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.”

“I could’ve told you that much,” Devon said.

Cecily yanked the case off Devon’s pillow and handed it to Bjorn, who fastened it around the wounded shoulder.

“Now,” the little man said, opening his bag, “I have certain herbs here—”

“Herbs?” Cecily asked. “Shouldn’t we be taking him down to the emergency room to get stitches? And some kind of tetanus shot?”

“You could, if you want to waste all that time,” Bjorn said. He withdrew a small vial filled with a green powder. “Where I grew up, we were always running into these things. The mines we worked in went right through some major Hell Holes. So we gnomes learned to be prepared.”

He shook a bit of the powder over Devon’s shoulder.

“That should stop the bleeding,” he said.

Devon was watching him with great interest. The treatment will work, the Voice told him. Do not fear it.

But how much had Bjorn known about the demon’s attack in advance? Could Devon truly trust him?

He looked toward the doorway. Well, Devon thought to himself, I suppose for the moment I can trust him more than I can Mrs. Crandall or Edward Muir, neither of whom bothered to stick around long enough to make sure I was going to be all right.

Why was checking on their mother so important? What connection did the senile old woman still have to the demons of the Hell Hole?

“Somebody needs to get into the East Wing,” Devon said. “If the portal is opened—”

“Is that where you think it came from?” Cecily asked. “Whatever attacked you?”

“I don’t think the Hell Hole here at Ravenscliff is open,” Bjorn said, wrapping Devon’s shoulder now in a bandage. “My sense is only that they are restless inside. Something is disturbing them. Perhaps trying to let them out—but it is not yet opened.”

Cecily was perplexed. “Then where did the thing that attacked Devon come from if not there?”

“There are many Hell Holes all over the world, and some are open,” Devon explained to her. This was information he’d learned from Rolfe. “Many demons are loose upon the earth, and their goal is to get their filthy brothers and sisters set free. We just happen to live over one of the largest Hell Holes in the world. So they’re particularly interested in getting into this one.”

They were startled then, not by any horrific cry, but by a small sob. They turned. In the doorway still stood Morgana, her face white. She was crying.

“I—I didn’t know you were still there,” Devon said.

“All of this talk,” the pretty woman whimpered. “Hell Holes. Demons. And your shoulder—and those dead birds! What kind of a house have I come to?”

Devon was immediately on his feet. He was surprised at how much the pain had eased already from Bjorn’s treatment. He took Morgana’s hands in his own. She was small, about his height, and it just broke his heart to see her so scared. What must she think of all this? And how wrong—how very wrong—of Edward Muir to bring her to Ravenscliff without telling her of its sorcery.

“I know it all sounds bizarre,” Devon said tenderly. “It did to me, too, when I first came here.”

She looked at him imploringly. “What kind of family am I marrying into?”

Devon gazed into her dark eyes. How truly beautiful they were. In fact, he’d suddenly become aware that he’d never seen a more gorgeous woman—not any supermodel, not Roxanne, not even… Cecily…

He felt an immediate twinge of guilt and dropped Morgana’s hands. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“I think you need to talk with Edward,” Devon told her. “He owes you an explanation. It’s not my place.”

She managed a small smile. “You’re a very decent young man, Devon. Thank you.” She kissed him on the cheek and then walked off down the corridor, presumably in search of her fiance.

“Well,” Cecily said, her voice icy, “you certainly seem smitten.”

“Cecily, she was scared! Come on! You’ve been through this before. She hasn’t.”

“You ought to lie down, Devon,” Bjorn told him. “You’ve lost a good deal of blood.”

Devon sighed, sitting on the edge of his bed. He was suddenly aware of the blood on the floor and felt slightly nauseous. “I need to talk with Rolfe,” he mumbled.

“In the morning.” Bjorn helped him remove his bloody shirt. “Cecily, fetch a cloth and some warm water.”

They cleaned Devon up and got him into bed, Cecily insisting that they should still call Doc Lamb, their family practitioner. Devon assured her that the Voice was telling him he’d be just fine, that Bjorn’s treatment would do the trick. She reluctantly agreed, just as her mother strode back into the room. Devon was suddenly very sleepy, but he managed to answer when Mrs. Crandall asked if he was okay.

“Fine and dandy,” he whispered. “Thanks for your concern.”

“I was concerned, Devon, and still am. But once I knew Bjorn could treat you, there were things I needed to do. Important things.”

“Like what?”

“Like making sure the portal in the East Wing was secure,” she said reluctantly.

“And is it?”

“My brother reports it is,” she told him.

“That’s good.” He started to doze off, then opened his eyes again. “You were smart in hiring Bjorn. You knew we’d need his skills.”

She didn’t reply. “Just rest, Devon.” She placed her hand on his head. “Sleep well.”

He fell asleep. He dreamed not of demons, but of Morgana, her brown, liquid eyes and soft, inviting lips…

The next day his bed was bouncing with his friends.

“Hey, watch it,” Devon said, laughing. “Remember I’m wounded here.”

Natalie was attempting to fluff his pillows behind him. “Poor baby, bedridden on such a beautiful day. Can I get you anything?”

“He’s fine,” Cecily told her. “I’ve been taking good care of him all day.”

Marcus was sitting on the edge of his bed, studying him. “I don’t like what this suggests, Devon. The demons are restless again. Why?”

D.J. had been leaning up against the bureau, tossing a ball into the air and catching it, not wanting to fuss over Devon like the rest of them. Now he turned his attention to his friend. “Yeah,” he said, agreeing with Marcus’s concern. “That does rattle my brain a bit. Last time it was that crazy Jackson Muir who got ’em all stirred up. What about now?”

“I don’t know,” Devon admitted.

“Maybe it’s that munchkin,” Natalie said, shuddering. “He gave me the creeps.”

“He’s a gnome,” Cecily corrected her. “But I don’t think he’d a bad guy. I’m pretty sure Bjorn is on our side. Look how he treated Devon’s shoulder.”

“He could be pulling a fast one,” D.J. warned. “These things are clever. Remember how one of them disguised itself as me.”

Devon nodded. “Yeah, the one last night disguised itself as Alexander.” He sat up. “That’s why I really need to talk with Rolfe some more. There’s so much about the relationship between the Nightwing and the demons that I still don’t understand.”

Cecily sighed. “Mother and Uncle Edward are worried. I can tell.”

“Well, if anything happens,” Devon promised, “I’ll do what I did before. I’ll give you guys the powers of the Nightwing to fight them off.”

Marcus smiled weakly. Devon knew he was concerned about the pentagram, what it meant. That was one more thing he’d have to bring up with Rolfe.

There was a light tapping at the door. Cecily got up and pulled it open. It was Morgana, carrying a tray with a pot.

“I thought our patient might want a little hot cocoa,” she said.

“Thanks,” Cecily said, “but he’s fine.”

“I’d love some cocoa,” Devon said. “Thanks, Morgana.”

Both Cecily and Natalie shrunk back as the older woman carried the tray over to the side of Devon’s bed. They scrunched up their noses at each other. Morgana didn’t appear to notice. She walked sensuously across the room, her shapely legs encased in black tights, worn under a long, torn sweater that was nearly falling off one shoulder. She set the tray down on a side table and poured Devon a cup of cocoa.

“Tastes excellent,” Devon said, grinning up at her. “Oh, hey. Have you met my friends?”

Morgana flicked her dark eyes up at them. “No. Not yet.”

“This is Natalie Santos,” Devon said. Natalie barely nodded. “And this is Marcus Johnson.” Marcus smiled. “And finally, this is D.J. Kerwinsky.”

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance,” D.J. said, leaping forward, nearly tripping over his feet. He shook her hand, suddenly grinning like a fool, forgetting any of his usual cool reserve.

“And yours, too, D.J.,” Morgana purred. Devon noticed she batted her long eyelashes just a little bit. “And yours, too, Marcus,” she said turning her eyes back to him.

Marcus just smiled again.

“Did you talk with Edward?” Devon asked her. “Did he explain about all—this?”

“It’s rather hard to believe,” Morgana said, looking around and her voice trailing off.

“It’s okay,” Devon told her. “My friends know all about the demons.”

Morgana sighed. “Edward said there is some kind of door in the East Wing. A door that leads to…” She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. “I just can’t say it.”

“I know it’s hard,” Devon said. “But if you’re going to marry into this family, you’re going to have to know about the sorcery. The Nightwing and the Hell Holes. Mrs. Crandall tried to keep the secrets from me, but it was impossible to live here and not find out.”

Morgana smiled kindly down at Devon. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, do hurry up and get better, Devon. I have a feeling I’m going to need your friendship desperately in this house.”

Devon promised. She kissed him on the forehead, then hurried out of the room.

After she was gone, the room was quiet for a moment. Then D.J. let out with a whoop. “Oh, baby!”

Cecily made a face over at him. “Okay, so like you only made a total fool of yourself, D.J.”

He ignored her. “That is one hot babe,” he said to Devon.

“Yeah, she sure is,” Devon agreed.

“Well, I didn’t like her the moment I saw her,” Natalie said.

“For once,” Cecily said, looking over at her, “we’re in agreement on something.”

“You two are just jealous,” D.J. said. “Because I’ll tell you. That Morgana is hot. H-O-T.”

“D.J., you surprise me,” Cecily deadpanned. “You can spell.”

Devon looked over at Marcus, still sitting on the edge of the bed. “What did you think of her, Marcus?”

He paused. “Well, she’s certainly beautiful. And she seems very nice.”

“So what’s the problem?” D.J. asked.

“No problem,” Marcus said, but he seemed unsure.

“She’s a gold digger,” Cecily said. “Trying to get my uncle’s money. Mark my words, they’ll be divorced within a year and she’ll have a big fat settlement.”

“She seemed very sweet, Cess,” Marcus said.

“You’re supposed to be gay, Marcus. You’re not supposed to be taken in by her.”

He shrugged. “I’m not taken in by her. I’m just reserving judgment.”

Devon rested his head back into his pillows. Yes, Morgana was sweet. So sweet that he couldn’t seem to get her out of his mind for the rest of the afternoon, and all through the night. When he woke up the next morning, he was still thinking about her. About a dream he had—a dream in which Morgana once again came to him, and this time she kissed him, right on the lips.

It wasn’t something he shared with Cecily. Oh, no, not at all.

The weeks passed. There were no more disturbances. No heat. No strange noises. No hands plunging out of the dark. Devon managed to sneak off to Rolfe’s a couple of times, and learned that he’d have to accept the fact that the occasional stray demon might show up at the house, an inhabitant of some far-flung Hell Hole come to make trouble at Ravenscliff. But for the most part, he’d have the power to dispatch them. And if ever got caught unaware, like what had happened with this last one, he’d have the ravens to pitch in and help.

Morgana settled into the routine of the house, no doubt pleased that after that initial episode, no other sorcery disturbed their sleep. Mrs. Crandall still seemed to disdain her, and Cecily to distrust her, and Alexander to actively despise her. It made for some awkward moments with his father, like when the boy refused to go out walking with the two of them. But Devon really liked the young woman. Morgana was sweet and gentle and unassuming and pleasant. And beautiful. She was definitely beautiful.

As for Bjorn, Devon still eyed him with a bit of suspicion. But the fact that not only his shoulder but also the wound on his leg healed completely in less than forty-eight hours made Devon think that maybe, just maybe, the gnome was okay.

One Friday night, D.J. drove the gang over to Gio’s for pizza. A snowstorm was forecast, and Mrs. Crandall was worried about them being on the road. She insisted that Devon and Cecily be home no later than ten-thirty. That hardly gave them time to wolf down their fourth pepperoni pie.

“I can’t wait until I’m fifteen,” Cecily griped as they came back through the front doors of Ravenscliff, the grandfather clock in the foyer reading 10:29. “I’m going to demand more independence.”

Devon laughed. As if one could demand anything of Amanda Muir Crandall.

He took off his coat and hung it on the rack. There was still a little pain when he lifted his arm, but Bjorn’s cure sure beat having stitches and his arm in a sling for several weeks.

Cecily looked back at him as she started to climb the stairs. “D.J. seemed kind of out of it tonight, didn’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Devon agreed. “Even for D.J., he seemed quiet. Hardly talked at all.”

“Wonder what’s bothering him?”

Devon shrugged. “You never know with Deej. He goes off into his own world sometimes.”

Cecily stopped on the stairs and turned around. “You don’t think—?”

Devon laughed. “What? That some demon’s disguised itself as him again? No, I would’ve felt the heat. Whatever’s bugging D.J. is nothing like that. Maybe he had a fight with his parents.”

Outside, the snow was starting. Devon heard the long, shrill howls of the chill winter wind screeching through the eaves of the house. The shutters outside his window had come loose; Simon was supposed to have fixed them, but he never got around to doing it before taking his swan dive off the roof of the tower. Devon would have to ask Bjorn to attend to it. On nights like this one, the shutters banged and crashed all through the night.

Or maybe I can fix them myself, Devon thought.

In his room, he threw open his window. Sure, I can fix this, he told himself. Aren’t I a sorcerer of the noble Order of the Nightwing? A couple of loose shutters shouldn’t be—

His thoughts suddenly stopped. He made a little sound in his throat as he looked down. There was movement below. A sudden blast of heat hits his face.

“Oh, man—” Devon gasped.

Crawling up the side of the house were scorpions—at least, big, black, purplish things that looked like scorpions. Hundreds of them. Thousands!

Devon instinctively slammed his windows shut and took a step backward. The heat and pressure in the room ratcheted up unbearably. Within moments hundreds of the horrible things were tapping at the glass of his windows, their swishing tails menacing him from the night. They looked in with their tiny, black, beady eyes. They were at least a foot long, and they covered his windows, trying to break in.

“Back, I order you,” he said, but his voice was weak. The things repulsed him: they reminded him of cockroaches. “Back to your Hell Holes.”

But just as it hadn’t worked with that other demon, once again Devon’s command proved ineffectual. He knew why: both times he’d been surprised and scared. He felt fear. That was precisely how they could overcome him. If he was scared, his powers failed him. Sargon the Great himself had warned him against that; he had scornfully called Devon the “Abecedarian.” The beginner. The novice. The amateur.

“Oh yeah?” Devon said to himself, feeling a growing sense of indignation. “I’ve been inside a Hell Hole and back out again, Mr. Sargon I’m-So-Great. Can you say the same?”

Just then the scorpion things broke through his glass. Hundreds of them poured into his room, moving at speeds unimaginable. They were soon spreading out across his floor, climbing the posts of his bed. Devon backed off into a corner, fighting off his fear.

“Did you hear me, you filthy things? I’ve been to hell and back. And that’s precisely where I’m sending you!”

The scorpions stopped in their advance but did not retreat nor disappear. A few were munching through Devon’s backpack on his desk. “Hey!” he shouted. “You can have the geometry book but claws off my iPad!”

With one sweep of his arm he found he could destroy them. The backpack munchers suddenly exploded in clouds of purple dust. “Nice work,” Devon told himself. “Now keep it up.”

The other creatures were beginning to back up slowly, an agitated vibration spreading through them.

“Go on, get out of here!” Devon commanded, full of confidence now. “Go back to hell or you’ll be purple powder like your friends!”

They began scurrying back up the wall and out the window, down the side of the house to wherever they came from. But Devon was on them quickly.

“Not so fast for one of you,” he said, reaching down to grip one of the hideous things by its enlongated abdomen. He lifted it from the ground, its tail coiling defensively. “I order you not to sting,” Devon barked. The thing fell limp in his hand.

“I think I’m going to keep you, study you awhile.” Still holding the demon in his left hand, Devon pulled open his closet door. The thing’s siblings were almost completely gone now, scurrying as fast as they could over the broken panes of glass. The snow was blowing in from outside but Devon paid no heed. He dumped his dirty laundry out of his duffel bag, dropped the scorpion-thing inside, and cinched the top with the drawstring. “I order you to remain in there,” he told his prisoner.

“I’m stronger than they are,” he reminded himself, a little grin spreading across his face. “I’m stronger than they are, and they know it.” He paused. “So long as I am not afraid.”

But just why had they started coming for him again? What did it mean?

A couple of days later, Bjorn was fixing Devon’s window.

“You know, Bjorn, when I first came here,” Devon said, feeling more and more that he can trust the caretaker, “I seemed to have stirred up the demons because they sensed I was Nightwing—that I had the power to open that portal. But I showed them I was stronger than they were—in fact, stronger than the Madman, Jackson Muir himself—and so they went away. Why have they returned? What do they hope to get from me?”

“Maybe the same thing,” Bjorn told him, hammering Devon’s shutters into place. “After all, the demons want nothing more than to give their disgusting kin free rein on the earth once again.”

“But if I didn’t open the portal for them the first time, why would I do it now?” Devon sighed. “Something else must have gotten them riled up. I’ve got to read more of those books Rolfe has.”

Bjorn leveled his small round eyes at him. “Mrs. Crandall has given me strict orders never to take you there.”

“I don’t need a ride,” Devon told him.

“Well, the cliffside staircase is covered in snow and ice. And the road down to the village is slippery and still pretty snow-covered—”

Devon grinned, feeling cocky. “Just watch this.”

He concentrated. He willed himself to disappear and reappear at Rolfe’s house—but nothing happened. He looked up at Bjorn and blushed.

“Well?” the gnome asked. “I’m still watching. What was I supposed to see?”

“It should have worked,” Devon griped.

Bjorn smirked. “I think maybe you were doing a bit of showing off, wouldn’t you say? And from what I know about the Nightwing, the powers won’t work if you use them like that.”

“But I really do need to get to Rolfe’s.”

“Then try it again.”

And this time it came easily for him. He closed his eyes and transported himself to Rolfe’s house. He appeared behind the sofa, where Rolfe and Roxanne were in the midst of an embrace. They pulled apart quickly when they saw the teen appear.

“Yikes,” Devon said. “Guess I should’ve called.”

Rolfe looked at him sternly. “Yes. That would have been considerate.”

Roxanne stood. She was smiling. “Worry not, Devon March. I had a sense you might be stopping by.”

“Strange things keep happening,” he told them both.

Rolfe sighed. “All right. Come on over here and tell me.”

“There was another demon attack,” Devon said, moving around the couch. “More of those strays, as you called them. A whole swarm of things that looked like scorpions. I was able to stop them. I even kept one.”

“You kept one?” Rolfe asked. “Like a pet?”

“I’m hoping to learn something from it, though the thing appeared to be pretty stupid.”

“I suspect it is,” Roxanne said. “Lower-life demonic forms are controlled by forces much greater than themselves.”

This was the first time Roxanne had offered any input on the demons. Devon looked at her significantly.

“I admit to not being an expert on demonic lore,” Roxanne told him, “but I can intuit very well. Something is manipulating the demons. Using them for something.”

“And only the Nightwing can do that,” Devon said. “Right, Rolfe?”

Rolfe was nodding. “So unless it’s you, Devon, then there’s another Nightwing, with his powers intact, making trouble out there.”

Devon swallowed. “Jackson Muir?”

Rolfe looked out over the crashing sea below. “Could it be possible? How could he find his way back? He was sealed in the Hell Hole.”

“There are Nightwing all over the world,” Devon said. “You’ve told me that. Maybe it’s somebody else.”

“No Nightwing of any honor would use the demons in this way,” Rolfe told him. “If it’s a Nightwing behind this, he must be an Apostate. Another renegade sorcerer like the Madman.”

Rolfe stood and walked over to his desk. He pulled open a drawer.

“Here, Devon. Try this again.”

Devon looked. In Rolfe’s hand he held Ted March’s crystal ring. He’d taken it from Devon, trying to figure out if it had been damaged in any way.

“Dad’s ring,” Devon said. “But it’s never told me anything except basic stuff before. I think I need your books…”

“I’ve been through all the books. Every night I read up on them.” Rolfe smiled. “I have some catching up to do if I’m to be an effective Guardian to you.”

“And what have you learned about these stray demons?”

“Nothing specific. I think we need to ask some very specific questions.” He held out the ring once again. “A Guardian’s crystal holds Knowledge, but it works like the Voice you hear in your head. It only shares Knowledge when you are ready to hear and understand it.” He looked down at the ring. “I’ve been studying this ring. There’s nothing wrong with it. I suspect you were simply not ready to learn what it had to tell you.”

“And you think now I am?”

“Roxanne does. She told me so this morning.”

Devon looked over at her.

“Yes, Devon March. I have sensed this. So your appearance tonight is not a surprise.”

Devon let out a long breath. “Okay, then. Let me put on the ring.”

“Just be prepared,” Rolfe said. “For anything. You remember what happened last time.”

Devon did indeed. Using the crystal of Rolfe’s father, Devon had been granted visions of the Nightwing past. He had even met Sargon the Great. But somewhere in the midst of his astral voyage, he was snatched by the Madman and taken down to his grave—right into Jackson Muir’s rotting coffin with the stinking remained of his human body. It was not an experience Devon wanted to ever go through again.

“Pull it off my finger if I seem to be in any trouble, okay, Rolfe?”

The older man nodded, handing Devon the gold band.

This was my father’s, the boy thought to himself.

He slipped the band onto the ring finger of his left hand.

Please, Dad, let it work.

And don’t let the Madman get a hold of me.

“Hello, son.”

Devon spun around. He was not in Rolfe’s den anymore. He was home—back home in the little house in Coles Junction where he grew up. His dog Max was sitting on his hind legs, looking up at him and wagging his tail.

And his father was standing across the room, his arms open wide.

“Dad!”

Devon was about to run toward him, but suddenly he stopped. This could well be a trick. Demons had disguised themselves as Dad before.

But this was a vision given by Dad’s ring. And there was no heat, no pressure, the sure signs of demonic presence. No odor, either: sometimes the craftier ones were able to conceal their heat, but never had they been able to hide their stink.

“Devon, it’s all right,” his father told him. “But you are wise to be cautious.”

“Dad? Is it really you?”

I’m wearing his ring. It’s got to be him. Somehow—Dad is alive!

“Yes, Devon. Oh, son, how brave you have been.”

Casting all doubts aside, Devon ran to his father’s embrace. He was warm and soft, just as Dad always was, and he smelled just the way he always did: slightly of oil and grease and a hint of Old Spice aftershave.

“I have seen the trials you have gone through, Devon, and my soul has cried for you. But you are proving to be a strong and noble Nightwing. I am very proud.”

“Dad, are you alive somewhere? I mean, can we be together again?”

His father looked down at him compassionately. “I will always live in your heart, Devon.”

“But I need more than that. I need you at Ravenscliff. Or let me just stay here with you. In our house. With Max.” He looked over at his dog. How he missed that pup. He’d given Max to his friend Tommy when he left Coles Junction.

His father smiled sadly. “You cannot stay here, Devon. This is but the stuff of memory.”

Devon couldn’t hold back the tears. “I need you, Dad.”

“And I will always be there for you.” He cupped his son’s chin. “Do you still carry my medal of the lady and the owl?”

Devon nodded, patting his pocket where he felt the indentation of the medal. The tears dripped off his chin.

“I have been with you through all your trials,” Dad told him. “You know that, Devon.”

Again the boy nodded. “Why did you never tell me the truth of what I was? Why did you send me to Ravenscliff to live?”

“It is your destiny, Devon, to find out the truth of your past.”

Devon was suddenly aware that they were no longer in their house. Max was gone. They were standing outside Ravenscliff, looking up at the mansion from several yards away.

“This is the hard part, Devon,” his father said, his voice thick and fearful. “I have come to you to show you something. To warn you of the danger that comes.”

“What do you mean, Dad?”

“Look, son. Look up at Ravenscliff.”

Devon obeyed. And what he saw shocked him. The great house was in ruins. The tower was a charred stump pointing brokenly toward the sky. The great stained-glass windows were smashed; the front doors were torn from their hinges. Large sections of the walls had crumbled inward.

Devon began to run toward the house. “Cecily!” he shouted. “Cecily!”

As he neared the ruined mansion, his nostrils caught the acrid odor of smoke. Small fires still burned, sending the occasional burst of flame from the debris. Devon was suddenly startled by a sound overhead: demons like pterodactyls soared over the smoldering house, screeching in triumph.

And inside, as he ran through the gaping, broken front doors, Devon found a sight far more gruesome: Cecily lying dead in a pool of blood at the foot of the stairs.

The Apostate

“Cecily!”

It was no use. He tried to lift her but she was cold and stiff. He backed away in horror, stumbling into the parlor.

And nearly tripped over the body of D.J., sprawled out in his own thickening spill of blood. Beyond him lay Natalie and Marcus, their bodies broken and twisted into unnatural shapes. Devon looked around. The foyer and parlor had been destroyed. Chandeliers were smashed on the floor. Walls were ripped open. The glass face of the old grandfather clock was shattered, its hands stopped forever at a little after nine o’clock.

“No,” Devon cried. “This can’t be! Dad! Where are you?”

Just then a hideous thing leapt from somewhere onto the broken banister of the stairs. It was a horrible ape-like creature, with a mouthful of fangs and blazing yellow eyes.

“We’re free,” the demon spoke, in a voice low and scratchy. “The portal has been opened and now we all are free!”

“Back!” Devon commanded. “Back to your Hell Hole!”

The thing laughed at him. “It is too late for that! We have won!”

The demon was joined in its laughter by a chorus of others, now all appearing from various parts of the ruined house. Skeletal creatures and slimy reptilian things and hairy brutes with claws—all of them gathered to laugh at Devon. The terrible sound echoed through what was left of the great house.

“Who did this?” Devon demanded. “Who had the power to open that door?”

“Why, you did, of course, Great One,” the ape-like demon replied. “Only you have that power!”

“No! I did not! I would never—”

“Yes, Devon, only you have the power to open the door,” came his father’s voice.

Devon turned. His father stood sadly in the doorframe.

“I never did! Dad, I never did—”

“But you will,” his father told him. “You will, and your friends will die.”

“This is a dream! Some crazy hallucination!”

Around him the demons hoot and holler again, like a gang of rowdy bikers.

“Get this ring off my finger!” Devon shouted. “I want to stop this!”

But try as he might he could not budge the ring. He was left surrounded by the beasts staring at Cecily’s cold, lifeless body.

“Please, Dad, make this not be true,” Devon pleaded, still struggling with the ring.

“Only you have that power, Devon. Only you.”

“Join us,” the ape demon urged. “Think of the power you will have. Others of your kind have joined us. You will not be alone.”

The creatures began advancing on him. Slithering, stumbling, dragging their cloven feet and spiked tails, the very stink of them clogging Devon’s nostrils and making him gasp for breath.

“Never!” Devon shouted. “I am not an Apostate. And never will be!”

With those words he was able to pop the ring off his finger. It flew from his hand and rolled across the floor, coming to rest in the pool of Cecily’s blood.

“Devon?”

Rolfe’s voice.

“Devon, are you okay?”

“No,” he said, unable to hold back tears. He staggered over to the couch and sat, covering his eyes. “It’s too much. I can’t deal with all of this.”

Rolfe placed a hand on his shoulder and stooped down so he’d be eye level with the boy. “What did you see, Devon?”

“My father.” Devon lifted his eyes to find Rolfe’s. “I saw my father.”

“Thaddeus?”

Devon nodded. “All I wanted to do was stay with him. But I couldn’t. He showed me—”

His voice caught in his throat and he couldn’t go on.

Roxanne sat beside Devon on the couch. She took his hand in comfort.

“I saw Ravenscliff … it was totally destroyed,” Devon said, composing himself. “Cecily was dead. All my friends, too. The demons were running all over the place. The house was theirs.”

Rolfe said nothing.

“I suppose that would make you happy, huh, Rolfe?” Devon asked, feeling himself suddenly growing angry. “You’d like nothing more than to see Ravenscliff destroyed and that family brought down.”

“No, Devon. I don’t want any harm to come to Cecily or Alexander. You know that.”

Devon fought off the sickest feeling in his stomach that he’d ever had. Worse than any flu. He felt he might vomit all over himself.

Roxanne touched his head. “Let me get you something,” she said, standing and hurrying up the stairs to the kitchen.

“You do look a little green,” Rolfe told him.

“You would too if you’d just seen Cecily lying in a pool of her own blood.” He tried to stand but couldn’t. “I’ve got to get back to Ravenscliff to make sure she’s okay.”

“Take it easy. I’m sure she’s fine. If Thaddeus showed you the vision, it wasn’t to frighten you, but to give you a warning. A heads-up on what could happen if we’re not vigilant.”

“You don’t know the worst of it,” Devon said as Roxanne returned, handing him a glass of ginger ale. He drank it. It did indeed make him feel better. He thanked her, then looked back over at Rolfe. “I’m the problem, as always. It’s me who’s destined to open the portal and let the creatures out of the Hell Hole. Me.”

“That’s what Thaddeus showed you? That it would be you?”

Devon nodded. “I’ve got to leave Misery Point. Get as far away from Ravenscliff as I can.”

“Just slow down. There is no way you would ever willingly open that portal. If Thaddeus showed you that vision, it was to forewarn you that someone would try to force you—or trick you—into doing so.”

“But who could do that? One of the demons?”

“Not likely. You’ve shown you’re smarter and stronger than they are.”

“Then who?”

Rolfe was silent for a moment. “Only another Nightwing could exert that kind of power over you,” he said at last. “An Apostate who needed your help—the help of the one-hundredth generation since Sargon the Great.”

“Then—then you think it’s Jackson Muir, coming back.”

Rolfe shook his head. “Not necessarily Jackson.”

“But you said Apostate. That’s what he was called.”

“Any Nightwing who uses his powers for evil becomes an Apostate. There have been many throughout history. There’s no reason to think that there aren’t others right now.”

Devon felt strong enough to stand. He walked across the room to look down at the crashing waves below. The sun was setting. On the far horizon a lightning storm was starting to ignite.

“If there are bad Nightwing out there,” Devon asked, “isn’t there any way we can find out who they are? Like isn’t there a registry of all the Nightwing in the world or something?”

Rolfe smiled. “Possibly. I’m learning as much as I can, but remember I’ve been out of the loop since my father was killed. I do know, however, that every twenty years there’s a gathering of Nightwing called the Witenagemot. It’s a word taken from old Anglo-Saxon England, where these gatherings first began over a thousand years ago. My father took me to one as a young boy. It was in Madrid, and all of the Guardians sat in awe as Nightwing from all over the world entered the great hall, all of them in their ceremonial dress.”

“Cool,” Devon said, allowing himself to feel a little more relaxed.

“Oh, it was.” Rolfe walked up to join the boy looking out at the sea. “Nightwing from all over Europe, and China, and Africa. And of course, Randolph Muir, Amanda’s father. I remember how resplendent he looked in his cape and medals. How proud my father was to serve as his Guardian.”

“I want to go to one of those things, Rolfe. I need to meet others like me. Other Nightwing.”

“You will. I’ll have to find out when the next Witenagemot is held, and where.” He sighed. “But for the time being, I don’t have any way to know what Nightwing might be out there, or who might have gone astray.”

“Perhaps it is not a living Nightwing,” Roxanne said suddenly. “Perhaps it is one from the past.”

Rolfe studied her. “Are you intuiting that? Is that clear to you?”

She frowned. “Not entirely. But it has come to me. I can’t ignore the idea.”

“When Roxanne got these thoughts, it’s good to listen,” Rolfe explained to Devon. “I suppose it’s possible. After all, Jackson Muir is dead, and he still managed to come back.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Devon told him. “The Madman isn’t through with us. I just know it.”

Roxanne had withdrawn a book from the shelf. “I feel it’s important you read this,” she said, handing the book to Devon.

He glanced down at the cover. Raised gold letters read:

The Nightwing Genealogy of Horatio Muir

“These are Horatio’s ancestors?” Devon asked.

“Yes,” Rolfe said. “And to his credit, he recorded the black sheep of his family along with all the heroes and legends.”

“Wear your father’s ring as you read,” Roxanne said. “It will help you see.”

“No way,” Devon said. “I can’t put that thing on again.”

Roxanne had retrieved the ring from the floor. Devon looked down at it in her hand. There was blood on it. Cecily’s blood.

“Fear is a Nightwing’s greatest weakness, Devon,” Rolfe reminded him.

The boy sighed. “If it means it can help me stop whatever it is that plans to kill Cecily, I’ll do it.” He took the ring and slipped it back on his finger. His mind remained clear as he sat down at the table and opened the book in front of him.

“All hail Sargon! Sargon our leader! Sargon the Great!”

The words on the page came alive in Devon’s mind as he wore his father’s ring. He doesn’t just read about the Nightwing—he saw them, too.

Sargon he’d seen before. Sargon, the guy who started all this. Devon recognized him, with his long red hair and beard, standing there in his tunic and sandals, his sword sheathed at his side. Devon read that Sargon was born nearly three thousand years ago in the land of the Hittites in Asia Minor, now Turkey. At Termessos, the mighty city on the mountainous Mediterranean coast, Sargon set up a fortress of magic. He and his descendants protected the city for generations, with Termessos the only place in that part of the world to be left unconquered by Alexander the Great. Devon saw Sargon now flanked by the mountains of old Termessos and surrounded by a group of people raising their gold goblets in his honor.

“All hail Sargon!”

“It’s some kind of ceremony,” Devon told Rolfe and Roxanne. “I can see Sargon being honored. He’s actually smiling.” Devon laughed. “He didn’t seem in nearly such a good mood when I encountered him.”

In fact, at that time Sargon had given Devon a test—a test Devon had only partially passed. He had let his fear get in the way—fear, which was like a steroid to demons, pumping them up bigger and stronger and more difficult to defeat. That was when Sargon had called Devon “the Abecedarian.” It had annoyed Devon then, and it still rankled him now.

“I hope I get to meet Sargon again sometime,” Devon said. “Tell him how I defeated the Madman and—”

“Read on, Devon,” Rolfe interrupted, a little impatient. “We’re looking for Apostates here. Nightwing who’ve gone bad. That’s not Sargon.”

Devon sighed and turned the page. He’d have to come back and do this again when he had more time. Wearing his father’s ring, scanning the stories of sorcerers past, he was treated to some really awesome visions. On one page he read about Brutus, a Nightwing who flourished in the last century B.C. Devon looked up from the page to see an image of a dragon-headed ship with Brutus at the mast, as a scaly green sea beast roared up at him through the waves. Then there’s Diana, ascending into the night sky, into the outer stratosphere of the earth, with all sorts of creatures made of light following her. Turning the page, Devon almost fell off his chair: a sorcerer named Vortigar, in full armor, was suddenly charging toward him on a white steed, surrounded by an army of other knights. It was like virtual reality gone wild.

Devon laughed out loud, ducking his head as Vortigar’s sword came lashing out—seemingly right at him. But it impaled another knight, who fell off his horse, revealing a demonic face behind the visor.

“Cool,” Devon said. “Vortigar lived in the time of King Arthur, right?”

“Yes, Devon,” Rolfe said.

“Can’t I just watch a little of his fight?”

Rolfe shook his head, smiling. “You can come back to that later.”

Devon returned to the book. He flipped through the next few pages. There was Brunhilde the Wise at the court of Charlemagne; Wilhelm in old Holland, teaching a room full of young Nightwing painters; and then the first Witenagemot, a gathering of Nightwing that stunned Devon with its visuals: a castle draped in cloth of gold, the attendees all in majestic purple robes. Sorcerers of all ages and races presented glowing crystals and magnificent jewels. The meeting was called to order by a white-bearded man named Wiglaf, who Devon thought he’d seen before. But he couldn’t quite place him.

“I’m only finding the good guys,” Devon told Rolfe.

“Keep reading.”

Off the next page Erik Bloodaxe jumped out at him, his weapon held high over his head.

“Whoa!” Devon shouted. “Maybe this one’s an Apostate.”

The sorcerer’s axe dripped with blood as he lifted it from the guts of some guy. Devon understood how Erik, who looked like a Viking, got his name.

“It looks like he just killed a guy,” he said. “He must be an Apostate.”

“Look closer,” Rolfe told him.

Devon did. He peers into the vision as best he could to get a glimpse of Erik’s victim. Talons instead of hands—Devon realized it was a demon in human form. “Nope,” he said, sighing. “Guess Erik’s another one of the good guys.”

But on the next page his vision darkened. “Isobel the Apostate,” Devon read in a low voice. “It says it right here. She’s—”

Laughter. A woman’s laughter.

The whole room went dark. Rolfe and Roxanne looked around in alarm.

The laughter continued.

“I’ve heard that laughter before,” Devon said. “In the tower!”

“Are you sure, Devon?”

“It’s her,” the boy breathed.

Suddenly the room was engulfed in flames. Devon could no longer see Rolfe or Roxanne, only bright dancing orange flames. Devon recoiled from the heat but kept his eyes alert to learn what he could. He began to discern images within the flames: huge flying demons soaring over an old village. People were running out of their homes in fear, stumbling onto cobblestone streets and pointing up at the demons. The creatures dove into their homes, emerging with boxes and chests and even sometimes children in their claws. Devon noted from the architecture that it appeared to be a village from the period he’d been studying in school: Tudor England. But his studies never mentioned anything about Isobel the Apostate or the demons she let loose upon the people.

“Isobel the Apostate,” Devon read, trying to steady himself. “She was born in 1465, the only child of Arthur Plantagenet, a descendant of King Henry the Fourth. Her beauty and magic became legendary. She married a simple squire, Sir Thomas Apple and, after bearing a son, had her husband poisoned. She opened a Hell Hole, seized control of the demons, and directed them to ravage the countryside, making the people dependent on her and thus creating her own loyal army. Isobel’s greed for power grew. She conspired with England’s enemies abroad, promising untold riches if they would help her topple King Henry the Seventh and place herself on the Throne.”

Isobel’s laughter echoed throughout the room, causing Devon to stop reading. He gathered his wits and continued:

“In 1490, the Witenagemot was held in England, and a secret meeting of the Nightwing decided Isobel must be delivered to the King as a traitor. It was largely the female Nightwing who overpowered her and subdued her with a golden magical chain. Isobel was condemned by the King’s court and burned as a witch, but many claimed she rose from the ashes like a phoenix to seek refuge in the Hell Hole.”

Devon heard the evil Nightwing sorceress laugh again, but still he could not see her.

Where is she? I’ve got to see her face.

Finally he made out a figure within the flames. A woman, tied to a stake. She was burning alive, laughing as the flames consumed her. Her skin was blackening and peeling from her face. Devon could smell her burning flesh. Worse, he can taste it.

He slammed the book shut. The room returned to normal.

“It was too much,” he said. “It was just too gross.”

“But you saw enough to convince you that it’s Isobel the Apostate that we’re dealing with?”

Devon made a face. “It’s more like I heard enough. I’ve heard that exact same laughter in the tower at Ravenscliff.”

“Always that tower,” Rolfe observed. “What does Amanda keep there?”

“Nothing anymore. I haven’t seen a light up there in a while.” Devon considered something. “But I did see Bjorn take somebody out of there. He denies it, but I’m sure it was a woman.” Suddenly an idea hit him. “Could it have been her—Isobel?”

Rolfe looked puzzled. “I can’t imagine Isobel the Apostate allowing anyone to keep her locked in a room, or simply going along with some gnome who moved her somewhere else. Isobel was one of the most feared sorceresses of all time. She nearly toppled King Henry the Seventh from his throne. Even burning her at the stake wasn’t enough to stop her evil. There have been legends ever since that her spirit still roams the earth, still trying to gain mastery over the world.”

Devon repressed a shiver. “Sounds like somebody else we know. Jackson Muir.”

Rolfe looked at him seriously. “Are you sure that was the same laughter you heard in the tower?”

“The very same. And the Voice is confirming it for me. I heard Isobel the Apostate. It must have been her in the tower all this time. It must have been her that I heard sobbing.”

Rolfe walked over to stare down at the sea. The waves were growing more fierce, and the lightning on the horizon was becoming more intense. A thunderclap rolled in, louder than any of them expected.

It always storms when I’m here, Devon thought. It’s as if whenever I discover any new truths about my Nightwing past, it stirs up the elements. He kind of liked that.

“I don’t know, Devon,” Rolfe said. “Something must have been happening to Isobel to allow Amanda to keep her prisoner, but I can’t imagine what that could be. Isobel is beyond mere flesh and blood now.”

Devon shrugged. “Maybe there was some sort of spell put on her by Mrs. Crandall’s father, or Horatio Muir, way back when.”

“I suppose it’s possible, but…”

“Well, however it’s been managed, I’m certain that it’s Isobel the Apostate who’s been sending those demons after me, and not Jackson Muir.” Devon smiled. “That much at least is some consolation.”

Roxanne, up until now content to simply sit and listen, stood and approached Devon. She looked down at him, crossing her arms over her chest. “I suppose you feel that a woman cannot possibly be as formidable an adversary as a man. Even if she is an undead Nightwing sorceress.”

He blushed. “No, I didn’t mean that.” He blushed harder. “Really. It’s just that—”

“Isobel the Apostate has five centuries on Jackson Muir,” Roxanne told him. “Five centuries in which she’s been able to perfect her powers. To hone her evil into a sword far sharper than anything the Madman could ever wield.”

Devon swallowed, suitably chagrined. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Rolfe smiled. “The point is, Devon, we have a major problem on our hands. Once again we have a renegade Nightwing trying to open that portal in the East Wing. And clearly Isobel is looking to you to do the job for her.”

“What stopped her from doing it herself?”

“You sealed the door. Only you can open it.”

Devon shuddered. “In the vision my dad showed me, I will open it.”

“Take that merely as a caution. What we need to do now is somehow find Isobel and defeat her.”

“And how do we do that?”

Rolfe gave him a wry smile. “I have no idea.”

“Great.”

“You’ve got to remember, kiddo, I never got the training I was supposed to get as a Guardian. The Madman killed my father before I learned very much. I’ve got to read more of these books. And try to find someone who may know more than I do.”

“Any luck in finding other Guardians?”

Rolfe shook his head. “But I suspect we might have a source of information close by.”

“Who?”

“Your new caretaker. The gnome. He clearly knows a lot, and I’ll bet he could find a Guardian for us.”

“I don’t know,” Devon said. “Every time I start to trust him, something makes me back off. Remember I saw him with the woman from the tower. What if it was Isobel? He could be in league with her.”

Rolfe sighed. “Your Voice tell you anything about him?”

“Well, it told me he was a gnome and that I could trust his healing remedy. But not whether I could trust him.”

“How about you, Roxanne? Any intuition on Bjorn Forkbeard?”

“I’ll have to meet him,” she said. “Perhaps then.”

They agreed that the only course of action for right now was for Devon to return to Ravenscliff and stay on his guard. Rolfe pledged to find some answers and they’d talk the next day. Once again Devon apologized for interrupting them, telling the couple to go back to whatever it was they were doing. He snapped his fingers and disappeared.

But instead of reappearing in his room in Ravenscliff as he intended, Devon made it only as far as the cemetery at the edge of the cliff, at the far end of the Muir estate.

Why did I come here? Devon looked around. The storm was now overhead. Lightning crackled through the dark sky, and a bitterly cold wind whipped his face. He tried willing himself to his room, but he couldn’t. He hated it when his powers didn’t work.

He began trudging through the tall grass. Much of the snow had melted, and the ground is a muddy mess. A particularly loud thunderclap startled him. Devon turned, as lightning illuminated the grave of Jackson Muir. The angel with the broken wing seemed to glow. Devon approached the monument. He’d seen Emily Muir’s spirit before, and she had seemed sympathetic to his cause. Perhaps she could help him. Perhaps she could help them find and defeat Isobel the Apostate.

But Emily was just an ordinary woman. She had no powers in life; why should she have them in death? Still, Devon couldn’t help but feel that she was important to understanding his past. Here, just a few yards away, he once saw the ghost of a woman, crying over the stone marked “Clarissa.” He found the grave again now, gazing down at the single word carved into the granite. Why would Emily cry over the grave of Clarissa Jones? She was the servant girl who died when Rolfe’s car plunged over the side of the cliff. Her body wasn’t even buried here. Like Emily herself, Clarissa had been washed out to sea.

There’s got to be a connection between Clarissa and Emily and Jackson, Devon thought. And a connection to me. Why else would I see the spirit crying over her grave?

He lifted his eyes from Clarissa’s stone to the obelisk standing in the center of the cemetery. The one simply marked “Devon.” No one seemed to know who was buried under there. He was certain Mrs. Crandall was lying when she pleaded ignorance. This, too, was a clue into his past. But what did it mean? How could he find out?

Devon sighed. He had no time to ponder all this now. The mystery of his past would need to take a backseat for a while, until they could figure out how to defeat Isobel the Apostate.

Unless, as he suspected, all of it was somehow intertwined.

Icy rain began to fall, lightly at first, then heavier. Devon hurried out of the cemetery and splashed onto the muddy path that led to the great house. He could barely make out its silhouette against the night sky. There were a few lights glowing from the downstairs windows. But the tower, as he’d come to expect, was dark.

Where was Isobel? Could it be true that Mrs. Crandall had been hiding her? But how—and for what purposes?

Once again all his suspicions about the mistress of Ravenscliff came rushing back to his mind. She did try to kill me, he thought. She and Bjorn did try to send me down into the past—a past he now recognized as Tudor England, the time of Isobel the Apostate. They wanted me to come under her power, so that she could force me to open the Hell Hole!

But why would Mrs. Crandall want that? That was the thing she feared most. It didn’t make sense.

As the rain began to pummel him, Devon ran up the path.

Why can’t I just have a normal life? Why does it always have to be this way?

As he neared the driveway, he spied D.J.’s car, its windshield wipers frantically swinging back and forth in a fruitless attempt to beat back the downpour. Someone was getting out of the passenger side door. Devon squinted through the rain. Was it Cecily?

Lightning flashed just then, and Devon saw it most certainly was not Cecily.

It was Morgana.

“Thanks so much again, D.J.,” she was saying. “I really appreciate it.”

“Hey, anytime.”

Morgana hurried into the house.

D.J. started to drive off, but Devon ran up into his headlights and flagged him down.

“What’s going on?” Devon asked.

D.J. rolled down his window, but just a bit. “What do you mean, what’s going on?”

Devon made a face, the rain slicking his hair down into his eyes. “I mean, what were you doing with Morgana?”

“She wanted a ride into town.”

“But why did you take her?”

“What’s the matter, Devon? You jealous? First you take Cecily, now you want Morgana, too?”

“What? Where’s that coming from?”

D.J.’s eyes flashed anger through the small opening of the car window. “She’s a real sweet girl, Morgana,” he said. “And she’s my friend. Understand? Mine!”

“You are acting totally weird,” Devon told his friend.

D.J. rolled up his window and screeched out of the driveway.

Devon was stunned. What was that all about? Yes, Devon knew that D.J. once had a crush on Cecily, but he’d seemed to accept the fact that she and Devon were now dating. At least, Devon thought he’d accepted it.

But Morgana? First of all, she was at least six years older than D.J.—and she was Edward Muir’s fiancee!

Devon hurried into the house, closing the door against the rain.

“Look at you, Devon March!” Cecily said, coming out of the parlor and into the foyer. “You look like a drowned rat.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” he said, pulling off his coat and hanging it on the coatrack. He shivered. “Did you see Morgana come in just now?”

Cecily scowled. “Yes. I saw her.”

“Did she say where she was?”

“I don’t engage with her.” Cecily turned, walking back into the parlor. “I figure the less said between us, the better. Otherwise, I’ll tell her I can see right through her dirty little scheme to bilk my uncle of his money.”

Devon felt the need to rise to Morgana’s defense again, but he put it aside. Let Cecily have her childish feelings. “Look,” he said, “I’m just curious because she was out with D.J.”

Cecily spun on him. “D.J.?”

“Yeah. I just saw him drop her off.”

Cecily’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “Wait until I tell Uncle Edward!”

“I’m sure it was harmless, Cecily. D.J. said he just gave her a ride into town.”

“She doesn’t need a ride into town! She has three cars in the garage to choose from! And Bjorn could’ve driven her! Or how about her fiance? If she had wanted to go into town, why not go with Uncle Edward?”

Devon shrugged. “He’s been down at the Muir cannery a lot, going over the books for your mother. Maybe he wasn’t around.”

“You’re always defending her,” Cecily snapped.

“Well, you’re always attacking her.”

She shook her hair the way she always did when she was angry. “Well, I have homework to do. Good night, Devon.”

“Cecily, wait. There’s some stuff I need to talk to you about.”

“Why don’t you talk to Morgana about it?” She turned on her heel and hurried up the stairs.

“Geez,” Devon said, flopping down on the couch. What an immature brat, he thought. I’ve never known Cecily to be so—so—juvenile.

Why did she have such a visceral dislike of Morgana? Come to think of it, so did Natalie. And Mrs. Crandall, too. All the women seemed to hate her and all the guys liked her. Except for Alexander, that was.

Devon looked up into the gray somber eyes of Horatio Muir’s portrait, hanging over the mantel.

I mean, if Morgana really was a conniver, a schemer, a gold digger as Cecily believes, I think I’d know. But everything I sense about her is good. Mysterious maybe, but good.

And beautiful.

So beautiful.

God, Morgana’s beautiful.

“Hello, Devon.”

He jumped. A hand on his shoulder. He turned around.

Morgana, in a pink angora sweater and tight black leather pants.

“Oh, uh, hi,” he stuttered.

“Your hair is soaking wet. You’ll catch cold.”

He smiled as she sat down beside him. “Yeah, I got caught in the rainstorm.”

“It’s quite the storm.”

Devon looked over at her. “I saw D.J. gave you a ride.”

“Yes. What a sweet boy. I happened to run into him when he was here this afternoon and mentioned how I was hoping to get a tour of the village. Edward’s been so busy. And D.J. offered to take me. It was so nice of him.”

Devon smiled. So it was perfectly innocent. At least from Morgana’s perspective.

“Well,” he said, “I think maybe D.J. might have a little crush on you.”

She blushed. “Oh, dear. You think?”

“He’s harmless, don’t worry.”

Morgana smiled. “Oh, he’s very nice. But not nearly as smart as you. I can tell.”

Now it was Devon’s turn to blush.

“Really,” she said. “I am so impressed that you came to this madhouse and found your way on your own. After encountering all those hideous things.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. “I can’t imagine that Amanda was much help to you.”

Devon shrugged. “I guess I did okay.”

“You guess? Devon, had it been me, with no one to talk to about it, I’d have been on the next bus out of this town.” She looked over at him and her lips were trembling. “I still can’t quite believe all the horror stories Edward has told me. He’s only told me a little bit. He said that’s all I needed to know. But it’s been enough to scare me out of my wits. I feel so confused and frightened.”

She started to cry.

“Oh, hey,” Devon said, reaching over and placing his arm around her shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Touching her, he felt almost overcome. He’d heard about how hormones could go a little wild in teenage boys. Right now he felt they were all shooting around inside him, bumping off each other.

“Sometimes, I’m so frightened in this house,” Morgana was telling him, “I can’t even fall asleep.”

“It’s okay,” he told her again. “We’ve got things under control now.”

Except for those hormones.

But, in fact, Devon knew he wasn’t being honest with her. It was definitely not okay—not with yet another Apostate trying to open the portal and set the demons free. If Edward really loved her, he would take Morgana out of this house. Now. The rest of them here at least had sorcery in their blood: this was their heritage, after all, the legacy with which they had to contend, for good or for bad. Morgana, on the other hand, was a complete innocent, pulled into this house of horrors without any forewarning.

She looked over at Devon with imploring eyes. “How can it be true what Edward tells me? About the door that leads into hell?”

“All I know is that it is true,” Devon told her. “And there is danger here.”

Morgana wiped her eyes. “Edward’s shown me some of the books about these Nightwing sorcerers. He says I need to know about them if I’m to be his wife. But that’s all he’ll tell me. I’m left so unsure of everything, with so many questions and fears.”

“Look,” Devon told her, “I know it’s none of my business, but if you have any doubts about this marriage, you ought to listen to them.”

Her soft brown eyes found his. “You are wise beyond your years, Devon March,” she said, in a low, gentle voice, caressing his face with the back of her hand.

He felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

That wasn’t the only thing he felt. He shifted his legs so that Morgana wouldn’t notice.

She smiled. “Sitting here with you, I feel no fear. None at all. Why is that, Devon?”

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her so bad but he knew he couldn’t. And shouldn’t. And mustn’t.

He struggled to find his voice. “I can’t promise you, Morgana,” he said. “But I will do my best to protect you from anything in this house.”

She looked as if she’d cry again. “Oh, Devon. I believe you will.” She reached over and kissed him quickly on the lips. “Thank you, Devon. Thank you for listening.”

With that she stood and walked out of the room, leaving Devon sitting there, hot and flushed, every fiber of his being on edge. He hurried upstairs to take the coldest shoulder he’d ever had in his life.

He was toweling his hair dry when he heard the scratching from his closet.

That scorpion thing, he remembered.

Devon pulled on a pair of sweats and a shirt. Maybe I can learn something from it. I’ve got it under my power now. Might as well check it out.

It was repulsive. He pulled it out of his laundry bag and held it away from his face. It stunk like rotting eggs. Its black tail quivered.

“So where is she?” Devon asked the demon. “Where is Isobel the Apostate? She sent you here. You must know where she is.”

But the thing was stupid, one of the Hellhole’s lower life-forms. It just wriggled in his grip.

“Do you have any intelligence at all?” Devon asked.

He studied the thing. He found its tiny little eyes and looked into them. He began to make out something, a tiny speck of light that grew larger as he gazed into it.

“Yes,” he said, understanding. “I can use your eyes to see her.”

He began to discern a vision. Hundreds of scorpion demons, swarming over a floor. Devon tried to pull back, to get a larger view of the scene, but he couldn’t. He was looking into the eyes of the scorpion and out from the eyes of another one like it, someplace else. He had to settle for its vantage point, low and indistinct. It was as if a tiny camera was strapped to the head of one of these things and Devon was watching on a video screen. His vantage point moved as the thing whose eyes he’d hijacked crawled over its stinking brethren to reach a small clearing on the floor.

Devon recognized the carpet. It was the old oriental rug in the East Wing.

That’s where the scorpion demons are, he thought. The East Wing.

And so Isobel must be there, too.

Yes, he was sure of it: he could see the door to the inner room. It was open, and the scorpion through which Devon could see scuttled quickly inside. Devon recognized the floor of the room. He could never forget it, not after being trapped in there many weeks ago, convinced he would die. He felt the blast of heat against his face. He looked up, as best he could, as the scorpion hurried toward another door.

A metal door. The portal into the world of the demons.

The Hell Hole.

Suddenly Devon’s vantage point was rising. The scorpion was being lifted by someone, who then gazed into the thing’s eyes.

And thus looked directly at Devon.

He gasped.

They were eye to eye. He and Isobel the Apostate. He felt the evil pulsing from her black eyes. She started to laugh.

She’s here, in this house, he realized. At the very opening to the Hell Hole in the East Wing!

A Deadly Duel

“I’ve got to get up there,” Devon said out loud. “I’ve got to get into the East Wing!”

“And just why do you need to go there?”

Devon looked up quickly. Edward Muir stood glaring at him, his arms folded across his chest.

“Excuse me, but haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” Devon asked.

“The door was ajar. Not so smart for a young Nightwing-in-training—especially when he’s got one of those filthy hellspawns in his hands.” Edward made a face of disgust. “Get rid of that thing.”

Devon sighed. He’d gotten all he could from the demon. “Back to your Hell Hole,” he uttered, and the scorpion disappeared from his hand.

He turned back to Edward Muir, who seemed completely unimpressed with Devon’s sorcery.

“I take it Mrs. Crandall has filled you in on everything that happened here,” Devon said, “and all about my powers.”

The older man nodded. Gone was the twinkle in his eyes, the warmth that Devon had seen when he first arrived on Thanksgiving. He loomed over Devon with a dark air.

“She’s also told me she suspects you’ve been sneaking off to meet with Rolfe Montaigne,” Edward remarked.

Devon said nothing to incriminate himself. “I’m sure you can understand my curiosity about who and what I am, and where I come from.”

“I had hoped we could be friends, Devon. But if you’re palling around with Montaigne—” His lips tightened in anger, little white worms of bitterness and resentment. “That murderer wants to destroy this family.”

“That’s not important now.”

Edward became indignant. “Of course it’s important. Montaigne is capable of anything. Poor Clarissa. Whenever I think of her, left to drown—”

“What do you know about Clarissa?”

“She was a sweet, beautiful girl. Rolfe was dallying with her to make Amanda jealous.”

Devon’s jaw dropped. “Rolfe and Clarissa were fooling around?”

Edward snorted. “Why are you so interested in Clarissa?”

“No reason.” Devon figured he’d process all that later. “Right now, the point is that this family faces a much more dangerous threat than Rolfe Montaigne.”

Edward raised an eyebrow, distinctly irritated by such talk. “I suppose you mean the demons.”

“Yes.” Devon looked at him seriously. “That’s why I was saying I need to get into the East Wing. Someone is trying to get that portal open.”

Edward scoffed. “Look, Devon. I checked on the portal after the incident the other night. It’s still bolted.”

Devon was growing impatient. “Just because it’s still bolted doesn’t mean it will remain that way forever. Do you know who Isobel the Apostate is?”

Edward rolled his eyes. “All that Nightwing history bored me.”

“Well, she was one of the worst of them all. Like Jackson, she used the demons of the Hell Hole to make herself very powerful. She was burned as a witch in 1490. And now she’s back.”

Edward Muir laughed. “Is this what Montaigne’s been telling you?”

“No. I saw it myself. I saw her just now—in the East Wing!”

Edward laughed again. “That’s impossible.”

“Why is it impossible?”

His face became serious. “Because we’ve made sure it’s impossible.”

“How? You and Mrs. Crandall keep saying things like that. But you renounced your powers. How can you do anything to prevent Isobel from doing whatever she wants to do?”

“You’ll just have to trust me on this, Devon.”

Devon shook his head. “I don’t think I can do that, Edward. Too often I’ve been told everything here is safe, everything is secure, and then some stinking beastie crawls through my window and grabs me around the throat.”

Edward Muir gave him a reproving look. “Well, there’s a simple explanation for that. You’re still practicing sorcery. That stirs things up. My sister forbade you from doing any of your little magic tricks, but just now I saw you send that scorpion demon back to its Hell Hole. Why not just crush the blasted thing underfoot?”

Devon scowled. “Guess I didn’t want to get the floor messy.”

“You’re a very brash young man.” Edward gave him a small smile. “Rather reminds me of myself at your age.”

“Please, Edward. Take me to the East Wing. Show me the portal is safe.”

Edward sighed.

“You owe me,” Devon said. “I saved your son from the Madman.”

The older man grunted. Devon wasn’t sure whether that made much difference to Edward Muir. His cold “I don’t want him” still haunted Devon’s mind. Poor Alexander, stuck with a father like this.

But Edward gave in. “All right. Just don’t tell Amanda. She’d work herself up into one of her states, and neither one of us wants that.”

They headed silently down the stairs. Thankfully the foyer and parlor were empty, the only sound the heavy ticking of the ancient grandfather clock. Edward paused before the locked door to the East Wing, and fumbled in his pocket for the key.

Devon could see he was trembling.

“This place holds a lot of bad memories for you,” he said softly.

Edward eyed him. “Oh, not really. Just the image of my father being dragged to his death and all of us thinking we were next. That’s all.”

He unlocked the door. With only a flashlight to guide them, they followed the corridor leading into the East Wing, then climbed a set of stairs to the second floor. How well Devon recalled his last walk down this corridor—heading for the same place they were heading for now, except then he wasn’t just going to check on the door. He was planning on opening it—and going inside the Hell Hole.

He felt a little weak, as he always did when he remembered that episode, the most terrifying time of his life. He paused a moment in the corridor, steadying himself against the wall.

Edward swung the flashlight around to find his face. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Devon said, and they resumed walking.

The dust here was more than an inch thick in some places. The East Wing had been closed off for more than two decades, and most of its furnishings had been removed. What was left were a few broken armchairs and dozens of rusty hooks on the walls.

A mouse suddenly scurried by, crossing Edward’s foot. He reacted with a gasp.

“Damn things,” he grumbled. “I’ve told Amanda we ought to call in an exterminator for this place.”

Devon couldn’t help but smile. He wondered what the exterminator would do if he encountered a nest of cretins other than rats and mice—ones with talons, forked tongues and skeletal faces.

They turned into what was once an upstairs sitting room, where a grimy chandelier still hung from the center of the ceiling. Simon had told Devon that this was Emily Muir’s private parlor. How many tears had she shed here over her cruel husband, the Madman? Might it have been here, in this very room, that she made her fateful decision to take that final leap off of Devil’s Rock?

But there was no time to ponder such things now. Just ahead was the place that they sought. A small inner chamber, with no windows, which Devon believed was once Horatio Muir’s private Nightwing library. He longed to read the books that were stored inside, but knew Edward would never permit it. Rolfe had some of the same books, but these were Horatio’s own. Devon could only begin to imagine what Knowledge they might contain.

“Edward,” he said, as they entered the room. “Bring the flashlight over here.”

The older man complied. Devon indicated a portrait on the wall, and the flashlight illuminated the face. It was the spitting image of Devon, dressed in waistcoat and knickers in the style of the 1930s.

“Resemble anyone you know?” Devon asked.

Edward moved the flashlight from the portrait to Devon and then back again. “I remember this portrait. It’s been hanging here as long as I can remember.” He paused. “It does look like you, I admit that.”

“Any idea who it is?”

“None,” Edward said, and Devon believed him.

The older man swung the beam of the flashlight toward the end of the room. That was when the heat came roaring at them, as if an electric heater had just been turned on full blast. Turning his face away from its intensity, Devon felt sick to his stomach. This is where they live. The things that have haunted me all my life.

On the far wall was the portal into the world of the demons, a half-size metal door with a solid steel bolt securing it. Devon listened. He could hear the scratching behind the door, the whispers of the demons to be set free.

“You see?” Edward said, his voice trembling in undisguised terror. “It’s still secure. Let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”

Devon wanted out, too, and bad—but he forced himself to stay in place. He took the flashlight from Edward’s hand and scanned the room himself. The beam fell across the rolltop desk, the books on the floor, the bookcase filled with Nightwing lore. But he saw none of the scorpion things and no sign of Isobel the Apostate. And he noticed something else. The dust on the floor hadn’t been disturbed.

“But she was here,” Devon said. “I know it.”

The Voice confirmed it for him; Isobel the Apostate was here, in this room, desperate to get that portal open to harness the power of the creatures within. But the Voice also corroborated what Devon could already sense: if she was here, she was gone now.

But where did she go?

“Let’s get out of here, Devon, please,” Edward said, his voice shaking terribly.

Devon sighed. The older man snatched the flashlight back from him and headed back out into the sitting room, then hurrying into the corridor beyond without even waiting for Devon.

“I’m telling you, she was here,” Devon insisted when he caught up with him.

“It’s still sealed. That’s all that matters.”

They were heading back down the stairs toward the main part of the house. “Don’t you still wish you had your powers?” Devon asked. “That way you wouldn’t have to be so scared.”

Edward stopped suddenly and turned to face him. “I am not scared,” he said defensively, and in his eyes Devon could see the same defiance he’d seen in Alexander’s. An overwhelming pride, a stubborn arrogance.

Devon simply shrugged. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Edward huffed. “You need to understand. I was never into the whole Nightwing tradition the way my father was. Not even as much as Amanda was.” He paused, remembering. “Or Rolfe. Oh, how serious he took it all. How proud he was to be a Guardian-in-training.” He made a sound of distaste. “I just wanted to be a normal kid. Can’t you understand that?”

“Yeah,” Devon admitted. “I can understand.”

“I just found all of that Nightwing training to be boring. All that talk of noble deeds. I was just a kid, wanting to have some fun.” He laughed. “My father never let me use my powers the way I would’ve liked to. I would’ve liked to have become my school’s top athlete, but forget that. Or jump off the cliff and fly around to impress my friends. But no. Never anything fun like that.”

“The powers don’t work unless you really need them. They’re not for show.”

Edward made a face at him. “Oh, Montaigne has been teaching you well. You sound just like him.” He snarled at the memory. “Rolfe could do no wrong. He was just the perfect young boy in my father’s eyes, because, see, he paid attention. He actually cared about all that Nightwing crap, about all that blather about the power of goodness and light. Sissy stuff, if you ask me. My father acted as if he’d rather Rolfe had been his son, and not me.”

Devon said nothing. They resumed walking.

“As a matter of fact,” Edward said, as they locked the door to the East Wing behind them, “I’m not in the least bit sorry we renounced our powers.” He laughed. “I don’t think I would have made a very good sorcerer.”

“Why’s that?”

He grinned. “Because I would’ve used my powers for my own gain. Wealth, women, privilege, control. I enjoy all of that enough now—imagine what I would have been like if I’d had the powers of the Nightwing.” He smiled, more to himself than to Devon. “Oh, I definitely would’ve been an Apostate. Maybe not as bad as Uncle Jackson, but an Apostate nevertheless.”

“Well,” Devon said, “at least you’re honest.”

“Now, remember. None of this to my sister.”

Devon promised. Watching the older man walk off, Devon could only think that he was glad, too, that Edward Muir was not a sorcerer. One Apostate in the family was quite enough.

On the ride to school the next day, Cecily still wasn’t speaking to him. She sat in the backseat sulking as Bjorn chauffeured them in Bessie, his beloved Cadillac. Devon was too tired to play any games with Cecily, so after a cordial “Good morning” he made no further attempt to win her over. He could tell his indifference just infuriated her more.

At school, Devon immediately sought out D.J. He needed to clear up what had happened between them.

“He’s not here,” Marcus told him as they stood at their lockers. “He’s usually here by now, sitting out in his car in the parking lot blaring Aerosmith.”

Devon admitted it was unusual that D.J. was late. “Has he seemed weird to you lately?”

Marcus smirked. “With D.J., it’s hard to tell. He listens to 1970s rock, washes his hair only once a week, and his latest piercing is in a place he can’t show us.”

Devon smiled. “No, not that kind of weird. That’s normal weird. I’m talking like him being—oh, I don’t know, angry or nasty.”

Marcus nodded. “Yeah, he has seemed moody. Really grouchy.”

“I ran into him at Ravenscliff. He had been out with Edward Muir’s fiancee.”

Marcus made a face. “Morgana? What’s up with that?”

“I don’t know. I talked to her, and she just considered it an innocent little trip into town. But I think it meant a lot more to D.J. He freaked out when I asked him where they’d been. Accused me of being jealous.”

Marcus leveled his eyes at him. “Were you?”

Devon was stunned. “What are you, crazy? She’s like eight years older than I am. And besides, she’s going to marry Edward Muir.”

Marcus folded his arms over his chest. “And then there’s Cecily. You forgot to mention her.”

Devon blushed. “Of course. Of course, there’s Cecily.”

“You know, maybe it’s just because I’m gay and I don’t respond to the same stimuli, but I don’t get the effect Morgana has on you guys.”

“I thought you liked her.”

“I think she’s sweet. And yes, she’s pretty. But lots of girls are prettier.”

“Name one,” Devon said automatically.

“Cecily,” Marcus replied just as quickly.

“Oh, yeah, of course.” Devon gulped. “But beside Cecily.”

“Well, lots of girls. Rihanna. Katy Perry. Beyoncé.”

“No way are any of them prettier than Morgana.”

Marcus made a face. “It’s like she cast a spell over you guys or something.”

Devon just laughed.

He didn’t tell Marcus about his nightly dreams of Morgana. He was embarrassed about the dreams, feeling like a stupid lovestruck kid in awe of an older woman. Here he was, trying to focus on a potential new round of demonic attacks, and he was dreaming about Morgana Green. His dad was right when he had predicted that his teenage hormones were going to make him a little bit crazy.

Devon was still thinking about his father as he slid behind his desk in history class. Had it really only been a few months since Dad died? So much had happened since, and seeing Dad again by using his ring had left Devon dealing with a whole new rush of grief. If only I could talk with Dad, really talk to him, not just like I did in that vision. I want him here, with me, in the flesh, the way it used to be. There’s so much we used to talk about. Dad could help me understand these stupid feelings I have for Morgana. I could talk to Dad about anything.

“Mr. March?”

He looked up quickly.

Mr. Weatherby was looming over him.

“I asked you a question.”

Devon groaned. Once again, he’d been a little too busy to do his homework.

“I’m sorry. Would you repeat it?”

“I asked you who was the chief rival claimant to the throne of Henry Tudor.”

He suddenly remembered what he’d read at Rolfe’s house, and Rolfe’s words: She nearly toppled King Henry the Seventh from his throne.

“Isobel the Apostate,” Devon blurted out.

Mr. Weatherby made a sour face. “Isobel the What?”

“I—I thought I read about her. Somewhere.”

His teacher arched an eyebrow at him. “Not in this text, you didn’t.”

Devon shrunk back in his chair a little. “No. I guess not.”

“Can anyone else tell me? Someone perhaps who did their reading assignment and didn’t sit around all night watching the World Wrestling Entertainment?”

Devon scowled. Yeah, only if the Dolph Ziggler started wrestling demons.

Some snot-nosed classmate guessed the right answer—Edward, earl of Warwick—and Devon did his best to listen to the remainder of the lecture. After all, they were studying about a period of time in which Isobel was very much alive. He might actually learn something important for a change.

After class, he approached Mr. Weatherby. “Are you sure you never heard of Isobel the Apostate? I was sure I read somewhere that she tried to get Henry’s throne.”

The teacher sighed. “I consider myself an expert on Tudor England, Mr. March. I have never come across that name. But, just to indulge you…” He walked over to his bookshelf and withdrew a large book. “This is a definitive account of the reign of Henry the Seventh. There was much more to his story than simply ending the Wars of the Roses.”

Devon waited as his teacher consulted the index.

“The only Isobel I find is Isabella of Castile, who was certainly no Apostate.” Mr. Weatherby slammed the book shut. “She was as good a Catholic as they come, and the very woman who sent Columbus to America. Now, does that satisfy your curiosity?”

Devon sighed. “Yeah. That should do it.”

“If you come across a text that said otherwise,” Mr. Weatherby called after Devon as he left the classroom, “I should enjoy seeing it.”

Devon just smirked. How he’d love to bring in the Nightwing history books and push them into Weatherby’s arrogant face. That would sure shake up his notions of who did what in the past.

Once more, Cecily cold shouldered him on the ride home. He was really getting annoyed with her now. She could be so spoiled and obstinate when she wanted. Devon had been hoping that D.J. would show up so they could all head over to Gio’s. He wanted to talk to them all about Isobel. But D.J. had been absent all day.

The mystery of where he’d been was solved when they pulled into the long driveway at Ravenscliff. There, once again, parked just outside the front doors, was D.J.’s red Camaro with the white stripe painted down the side.

“What is going on with him?” Cecily barked, jumping out of Bjorn’s car and pushing through the front doors. “Is he crazy? D.J.!”

They spotted him carrying cardboard boxes up the stairs.

“D.J.!” Cecily called again. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m helping Morgana with some stuff she bought.”

“You missed school for that?”

“Yeah,” he said, turning away from her. “What are you gonna do? Tell my mother?”

Morgana appeared on the landing from the upstairs corridor. “Oh, D.J., you are a doll. Thanks so much for getting all this stuff from town.”

“No problem,” he said, grinning idiotically up at her.

“Just put it with the rest of the stuff in my room.”

“Aye, aye, capitan.” He continued up the stairs, giving Morgana a goofy smile as he passed her, and then disappearing down the corridor.

Cecily turned to Devon. “Can you believe this?”

“Oh,” Devon said. “I take it you’re speaking to me now?”

Morgana had spotted them and was coming down the stairs. “Devon, Cecily,” she called to them. “How was school?”

Cecily met her at the foot of the stairs. “What are you doing with D.J.?” she demanded.

Morgana looked surprised. “I’m just—well, he offered—he got some things for me in town.”

“And why couldn’t you do it on your own?”

Morgana tried to smile. She was clearly taken aback by Cecily’s aggressive grilling. “I don’t know my way,” she said. “And navigating that steep driveway frightens me.”

“Does Uncle Edward know you’re spending all this time with a sixteen-year-old boy?”

“Hey,” Devon said, coming up behind her. “Cool down, Cecily.”

“I will not cool down!” She spun around to glare at him. “I can see right through this schemer even if you can’t.” She turned back to face Morgana. “I don’t buy your sweet and charming act for one instant, not that fake accent or phony smile. And don’t think I won’t tell my uncle how you’ve been messing around with D.J.”

With that, she brushed past Morgana and ran up the stairs.

“She didn’t mean that,” Devon stuttered. “She’s just —”

Morgana burst into tears.

“Why do they all hate me?” she asked. “Amanda, Cecily, Alexander. They all hate me!”

She covered her face with her hands and sobbed into them.

“Hey, hey,” Devon said, putting his arm around her and escorting her into the parlor. She was still crying uncontrollably as he settled her down onto the couch. He sat beside her. She smelled wonderful: lilacs, Devon thought.

“I came here hoping I could fit in,” Morgana said, struggling to catch her breath. “But everyone hates me. What did I do?”

“I don’t hate you,” Devon told her.

She looked over at him. Her deep brown eyes were red and puffy, her mascara streaked down her cheeks. “Thank God for you, Devon.”

She put her arms around him and pulled him in close. Devon was in bliss.

Until he looked up over Morgana’s shoulder to see D.J. glaring down at them.

“What’s going on?” D.J. asked.

“Cecily just said some stuff that upset her,” Devon said.

Morgana pulled back, wiping her eyes. “Perhaps I was wrong to ask you to help me, D.J. Cecily made is sound so…so…deviant.”

“Deviant? No way.” D.J. hurried to the couch, dropping to his knees in front of Morgana. He took her hands. “Don’t listen to Cecily. She’s a spoiled brat.”

“Uh, hey, D.J.,” Devon said, “there’s no need to start calling Cecily names.”

“You know what, Devon?” D.J.’s voice was mean, condescending. “I can handle this. I’m here now for her. You can just run along.”

Devon felt himself grow indignant. “You? I’ve been the one who’s been comforting her. I’ve been the one to—”

“You’ve been the one to what?” came a new voice.

All three of them looked up. Edward Muir stood in the doorway.

“Oh, darling,” Morgana said, standing and rushing to him. His arms encircled her possessively. “These boys were just reassuring me. They’ve both been so kind.”

Edward looked at them with suspicion. “Reassuring you about what?”

“It’s nothing,” Morgana said. “Some silly misunderstanding with Cecily.”

“Has my niece been giving you any trouble? If she has, by God, I’ll talk to Amanda and—”

“Oh, no, no,” Morgana pleaded. “Don’t do that. I wouldn’t want to get her into trouble. I want her to like me. I want her to accept me.”

“Come on,” Edward said, clearly uncomfortable continuing this conversation in front of Devon and D.J. He ushered her off down the hallway toward the library.

The two boys just looked at each other without saying anything for several seconds.

“I thought we were friends,” Devon finally said.

D.J. sighed. “We are.”

“You haven’t been acting that way. You’ve been acting like I’m some rival for Morgana.”

D.J. walked over to the large glass windows that looked out on the rocky cliffs below. “So I admit I’ve been acting like a jerk. But I’ve got it bad for her, man.” He slammed his fist into his palm. “It killed me to see Mr. Muir walk away with her.”

“D.J., she’s too old for you. And she’s engaged.”

His friend shook his finger at him. “There’s something between us. I know there is. When I look in her eyes, I see it. She has feelings for me.”

Devon felt himself growing absurdly jealous—and then he remembered Marcus’ pointed question this morning, inquiring into that very thing. Why do I feel this way? It’s Cecily I care about—so why do I feel I could become as hooked on Morgana as D.J.?

“Look, Deej,” Devon said, “keep a level head on your shoulders. You never lose your cool. Even when you’ve had demons coming at you, you’ve been steady. This isn’t like you. You’ve got to know what you’re thinking is impossible.”

D.J. grimaced. He put his hands to his ears and seemed to try to crush his head between them.

“I just feel like I’m going crazy sometimes,” D.J. said. “I really like her, Devon. More than I’ve ever liked any girl.”

“Hey, buddy, it’s going to be okay,” Devon said.

D.J. said nothing. He just turned, terribly torn, and ran out of the house. Devon heard his car start and screech out of the driveway.

I’ve got to stay focused here, Devon told himself. I can’t be getting caught up in a soap opera with Morgana. I’ve got a renegade Nightwing to defeat—or else that vision Dad showed me, with Cecily facedown in a pool of blood, might just come true.

Upstairs, he found Alexander in the playroom. His concern for the boy had grown ever since he made the discovery about Isobel. The last time an Apostate tried to open the Hell Hole, Alexander’s life was the first to be put in danger. Devon figured checking in on the boy was a good thing.

“Hey buddy,” Devon said.

Alexander was scrunched down in his beanbag chair reading comic books. “Hey,” he replied, barely lifting his head in greeting.

“Why so glum?”

The boy just shrugged.

“I heard your aunt say she was talking with the school. Looks like you’re going to start in a couple of weeks.”

Once, several months before Devon arrived at Ravenscliff, Alexander had attended a prestigious boarding school in Connecticut. But he was expelled after setting fire to the curtains in the cafeteria. Since then, the boy had just hung around the house, reading comic books, eating too many cupcakes, and getting sucked down the mouths of Hell Holes. Finally Mrs. Crandall decided the best thing was to send him to the local Misery Point public grammar school.

“I’m sure I’ll hate it,” Alexander said.

Devon stooped down beside him. “Not necessarily.”

“I hate being a new kid.”

“I do, too, but it worked out okay for me. Look at the friends I made. D.J., Marcus, Natalie…”

Alexander just shrugged again.

“Something’s bugging you,” Devon said. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on. I thought our days of keeping secrets from each other were over.”

Alexander put down the comic book and looked Devon in the face. “I hate her,” he said plainly.

“Who?” Devon asked. But he was pretty sure he knew.

“Morgana.”

“Why, Alexander? She is so nice. She really wants to be your friend.”

“She’s taking my father away from me.”

Devon shook his head. “No, she’s not. She wants you all to be a family.”

Alexander just flopped back in the beanbag. “I hate her. I wish she was dead.”

“Whoa, that’s pretty intense, dude.”

“Well, I do.”

“What do you have against her?” Devon asked.

The boy said nothing further, as if Devon couldn’t possibly understand.

Only then did Devon consider something. “Hey,” he said. “How often have you seen your Dad since he’s been back?”

Alexander didn’t reply.

“I thought you guys were going to Boston—”

“It’ll never happen.” Alexander sat up. “I hardly see him at all.”

Devon knew this was the real issue—the real reason why the boy resented Morgana so much. After missing his father so fiercely, Alexander had been left out in the cold, ignored by the father he adored. It was easy to blame Morgana, but Devon knew it was Edward Muir’s own selfishness that was the true cause of the boy’s unhappiness.

Alexander stood and walked over to the window. “I wish I knew where my mother was. I’d write to her and tell her not to let my father divorce her. That way he could never marry Morgana.”

Devon came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He really felt for Alexander. He knew how important a father’s love was. Everything Devon was today he directly credited to his dad. His father had been the exact opposite of Alexander’s—devoted, caring, compassionate—even if, as it turned out, Ted March hadn’t been Devon’s biological parent. Still, he had more credibility as a father than Edward Muir could ever attain.

“Hey,” Alexander said, looking out the window to the driveway below. “Isn’t that Rolfe’s car?”

Devon looked. Sure enough, it was Rolfe’s Porsche. What could he be doing there? Devon knew Rolfe was persona non grata at Ravenscliff.

It must be very important, Devon thought. He must be here to give me some information.

But if he hoped to see Rolfe privately, those hopes were quickly dashed. Alexander let out a whoop and ran out of the playroom, heading for the stairs. The boy thought Rolfe was pretty cool, and somewhere, deep down, even if he couldn’t recall all the details, Devon was sure Alexander knew that Rolfe had played a part in saving him from the Madman.

“Hey, wait up,” Devon called after him. “Don’t let everybody know he’s here.”

But it was too late. As soon as they emerged onto the landing overlooking the foyer, they saw Rolfe had already encountered another member of the household.

Edward Muir had a pistol leveled straight at Rolfe’s head, and he was grinning.

“I should have done this years ago,” Edward said, and pulled the trigger.

Devon screamed.

Crying in the Night

“No!” Devon shouted, suddenly leaping like an antelope over the banister and down to the first floor below.

Edward Muir leaned his head back in laughter, cackling wildly. Rolfe still stood glaring at him, arms crossed over his chest.

The gun wasn’t loaded.

“Brave little Nightwing boy to the rescue,” Edward said, laughing. “No need to get your powers all aflutter.”

“You haven’t changed, Edward,” Rolfe said.

Devon caught his breath as Alexander came running down the stairs. “That was cool, Devon. Do it again!”

“Go up to your room, Alexander,” his father ordered.

“No. I want to see Rolfe. Can I go for a ride in your car?”

Rolfe tousled the boy’s hair.

Edward Muir seethed. “The last thing in the world I’d ever permit is for you to get into an automobile with this man. Now, go upstairs, Alexander!”

The boy pouted, but he obeyed.

“Now state your business, Montaigne, and get out of here.”

“I came to see Devon.”

“It’s forbidden,” Edward told him.

“By whom?” Rolfe asked.

“By me.” This was the voice of Amanda Muir Crandall, who, in her usual catlike manner, had appeared without any of them noticing. She stood over them, glaring down from the landing. “Devon is my ward, Rolfe, and you know I have given strict orders that there be no communication between the two of you.”

She came down the stairs, elegant and grand. She wore a black floor-length dress and a long strand of gleaming white pearls. All eyes watched her. Her brother backed off a bit, surrendering to the authority of his sister. Mrs. Crandall held her chin high and gathered herself up imperiously to stand in front of Rolfe.

“As beautiful as ever, Amanda,” Rolfe said, and Devon thought he was being sincere.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Rolfe,” she said.

“Please,” Devon said. “If he came to see me, it must be important. Something about Isobel—”

“Isobel?” Mrs. Crandall asked, looking over at him.

“Isobel the Apostate. She was a Nightwing from the sixteenth century who—”

“I know perfectly well who Isobel the Apostate is,” Mrs. Crandall said, cutting him off. “What possible connection could she have to Mr. Montaigne?”

“Maybe if you let me talk, I’d tell you,” Rolfe said.

Her eyes were cold and full of hatred. There were so many years of bitterness toward this man she once loved. “You will do no such thing,” Mrs. Crandall said. “Once again, I am asking you to leave.”

“I’ve seen a vision of Isobel the Apostate,” Devon blurted out. “She’s trying to open the Hell Hole.”

“Isobel the Apostate has been dead for nearly five hundred years,” Mrs. Crandall snapped.

“Death didn’t stop Jackson Muir from coming back,” Devon reminded her.

“Enough of this. I forbid this kind of talk. Nothing can happen here. The portal cannot be opened. We have seen to that.”

“How have you seen to that, Amanda?” Rolfe asked. “How is that possible? You have no powers. Only Devon—”

She steamed. “Do I need to call the police to force you off my property?”

Rolfe sighed. Devon could tell he wasn’t going to press further. There was only so far one could go with Amanda Muir Crandall before she inevitably won. Rolfe turned to leave, but not before making eye contact with Devon. They’d have to meet later, away from these hostile forces.

But just as Rolfe opened the door, he ran almost headfirst into Morgana, who was coming in.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry!”

“Please,” Rolfe said, clearly surprised. He immediately laid on the charm. “The blame is entirely mine, for not seeing such a beautiful lady.”

She blushed. “I’m Morgana Green.”

Edward Muir was suddenly behind Rolfe. “And my fiancee.”

“Oh?” Rolfe looked at him, a wicked little smile playing with his lips. “Does your wife know you have a fiancee?”

Edward grabbed Morgana by the arm and pulled her inside. She seemed frightened and confused, and Devon felt sorry for her, yet again.

“That’s none of your business, Montaigne.”

“Edward, you’re hurting my arm,” Morgana cried.

He ignored her. “Go on, Montaigne. Get out of here.”

“The lady said you were hurting her arm,” Rolfe said, growing angry.

“What I do in my house is my business,” Edward shouted, his face turning red.

“Edward!” Morgana seemed to be in terrible pain as he kept his grip on her arm. “You’re hurting me!”

“Let her go,” Rolfe demanded.

“How dare you give me orders?”

“Edward, please!” Morgana cried.

Devon hardly saw what came next, as it happened so fast: Rolfe hauled off and punched Edward right in the jaw. Edward flew backward, landing hard on his butt.

“I’m calling the police!” Mrs. Crandall shouted.

“What lie will you tell them this time?” Rolfe yelled at her. He turned to Morgana. “I hope your arm is all right, ma’am. I’m sorry to have met you under such circumstances. If ever you need a friend, and in this house I suppose that to be inevitable, please remember that my name is Rolfe Montaigne.”

With that, he was out the door.

Only then did Edward Muir stagger to his feet and make a great show of seeming to run after Rolfe. Morgana was begging him tearfully to stay with her. “Please, Edward, no more fighting,” she cried.

He took her in her arms. “Darling, that man is the personification of evil. He killed two young people from this house, years ago, and spent years in prison for it.”

She looked toward the door. “He seemed so—kind.”

“Devon,” Mrs. Crandall said, “I’m sorry you had to witness that unfortunate incident. But perhaps now you see the kind of a man Rolfe Montaigne really is. Violent, unpredictable.”

“He was defending Morgana,” Devon said.

“She needed no defense against me,” Edward huffed. “Come along, darling.” He escorted Morgana toward the study.

Mrs. Crandall approached Devon. “Rolfe has filled your mind with nonsense. I assure you there is no need for fear in this house. The sorcery is over.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Isn’t it?”

“You know it’s not,” he told her. “You saw the attack in my room. And there have been others.”

“Then you must have been practicing your powers again, Devon, when I have forbidden it. That’s the only thing that would stir up the creatures.”

“I told you. I’ve heard Isobel the Apostate here. And I’ve seen her now, too. In the East Wing.”

He could see that his words troubled her. But she wouldn’t ever give him the satisfaction of admitting that. “Go do your homework, Devon. We’ll talk about this later. Right now I’m too upset about Rolfe.”

She moved off, gathering her long dress in her hands and walking quickly up the stairs.

They’re like ostriches with their heads in the sand, Devon thought, watching her go. What’s it going to take to convince them? A demon sitting down with us for breakfast? The house in flames? Cecily facedown in a pool of her own blood?

Devon just let out a long sigh and headed up to his room.

With his door safely closed, he tried willing himself to disappear and reappear at Rolfe’s. Whatever information Rolfe had tried to deliver must have been very important, given that he risked coming to Ravenscliff in the open. But Devon’s powers didn’t work, and the Voice said simply, Not this night. Devon grumbled. If only there was cell reception out here on the cliffs, he could have called or texted Rolfe. But that line of communication was out. So, for the moment, Devon did what the other boys in his class—the ones who didn’t have to worry about demons and Hell Holes—were surely doing: studying for a history quiz.

That night, he dreamed again of Morgana, as he had every night since she arrived. In this dream, she came to him with tears in her eyes, tears which he kissed off her face, before moving his lips down and finding her lips and kissing her deep. The dream went on this way all night, until he felt her softly stroking his face—

“Devon,” she said.

“Oh,” he moaned, taking her hand and kissing her palm. “You’re… so… beautiful…”

“Oh, Devon, what a sweet thing to say.”

He kept kissing her palm.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so moody.”

He opened his eyes. It was Cecily—sitting on his bed—and Cecily whose palm he’d been kissing.

“Cecily!” he shouted, suddenly self-conscious, sitting up in bed. “Cecily!”

She smiled. “You were dreaming about me. You are so sweet, Devon.”

He gulped. “Yeah. God, what time is it?”

“Time for you to get up if you don’t want to be late for school. I just came in to apologize for the past few days. I’ve been so irrational.”

He sighed. He felt sweaty, and ran his hand through his hair. “It’s okay. It happens.”

“I don’t know what it is about Morgana that just makes me so hostile toward her. She’s really perfectly nice. I don’t know why I feel the way I do.”

Devon was conscious of morning breath. He hopped out of bed, hurrying over to his bathroom where he brushed his teeth. Cecily stood in the doorway watching him.

“Alexander’s been really hostile to her, too,” he said, between spits of toothpaste. “But I figured out why. Edward has barely spent any time at all with the kid since being back, and Alexander blames Morgana.”

Cecily nodded. “Uncle Edward is unusually devoted to her. What is it about her? D.J.’s got that stupid crush, too.”

“Who can explain hormones?” Devon tried to laugh, but his dream remained still too vivid for him. “Hey, Cecily. I’ve got to shower now. I’ll see you downstairs.”

She smiled. “Okay.” She reached over and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for calling me beautiful.”

He managed a small smile in return. If she only knew…

After she was gone, he hopped into the shower. Cecily was right to wonder just what it was about Morgana that had nearly every male who met her worshiping at her feet. Even Rolfe seemed dazzled. She was beautiful, to be sure, but it was more than that. It was as if she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world—the most beautiful woman who had ever lived.

“Not as if,” Devon said dreamily under the shower. “She is.”

“I can’t get her out of mind,” D.J. said at school, leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette.

“You really ought to quit, you know,” Devon told him. “Not to sound parental, but cigarettes are pretty nasty.”

D.J. grunted. “I tried. Then I got caught up with these feelings about Morgana. Dude, she’s all I think about.”

“I know.” Devon noticed Cecily and Natalie approaching. “Don’t bring it up around Cess. It’ll just get her started.”

“Will you give us a ride home after school today, D.J.?” Natalie asked.

“He may have errands to run for his lady love,” Cecily said, rolling her eyes.

“I’ll be glad to drive you all home,” D.J. said, making a face at Cecily. “Flo is at your service.”

“Good,” Natalie said. “Maybe we can go to Gio’s. We haven’t been there in ages.”

“That’s cool, too,” D.J. said, showing Cecily just how agreeable he can be.

The first bell rang. They all headed off to different classes. Devon thought he did very well on his history text, naming all of contenders to the throne of Henry the Seventh. He kept checking his phone to see if Rolfe had replied to his text. As soon as he’d gotten to school and saw he had enough bars, he’d blasted off a message to the older man. what do you have to tell me? he’d asked. But so far, no response from Rolfe.

In the corridor between classes, Devon stopped at his locker to get his geometry book. He was joined by Marcus, who had the locker next to his.

“How’s my face today?” Marcus asked.

Devon looked. “Clean. No pentagram.”

“Why do you think it appears sometimes and not always?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll start keeping a record of when I see it, and see if the dates mean anything.”

“Cool.”

“Excuse me, Devon March?”

Devon turned. It was one of the secretaries from the office.

“Yes?”

“This was just dropped off for you.” The woman handed him a white envelope. “It’s marked Urgent.”

Marcus looked over at it. “What could it be?”

“It must be from Rolfe,” Devon guessed. “It must be about what he came to tell me last night.”

He tore the envelope open. But the note inside was not from Rolfe.

It was from Morgana.

Dear Devon,

Please meet me at Stormy Harbor after you get out of school. It’s very important. Keep this just between us, okay?

Morgana

Marcus had read the note over Devon’s shoulder. “What does she want?”

“I don’t know.” Devon looked up from the note. “Look, Marcus. Don’t tell Cecily or D.J. about this, okay? They’re all heading over to Gio’s after school. Go with them and tell them that I can’t go, that I have to do something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t care. Tell them I have to—I have detention or something.”

“Detention? For what?”

“Be creative!” Devon looked back at the note. Morgana needed him. Just between us. He liked that. He couldn’t believe how much he liked that.

“What is it about this Morgana chick?” Marcus asked. “You and D.J. are in la-la land whenever she walks by.”

“You wouldn’t understand, Marcus. It’s a heterosexual thing. Imagine she’s—I don’t know—Zac Efron or something.”

“I don’t care who it was. I wouldn’t get like that over anybody.”

“Get like what?” Devon asked, feeling defensive. “I just want to see what’s up. So will you cover for me or what?”

Marcus sighed. “Yeah. I’ll cover for you.”

Devon couldn’t stop staring down at the note for the rest of the day.

Just between us.

Man. He loved that.

After his last class let out, Devon made a wild dash for the bushes behind the gym. “Please let this work,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Please!”

When he opened them, he was behind Stormy Harbor, out near the dumpster.

“Yes!” he shouted, punching the air with his hand. “I’m getting the hang of this!”

The bistro was fairly empty. In the summertime, he’d been told, this place was hopping with tourists from morning until night. But in the cold days of mid-December, it was mostly local fishermen, sitting with their brews and fried clams, swapping tales of the sea under the old nets and life preservers that hung from the ceiling.

“Hey, Devon,” the waitress, Andrea, called out. “Long time no see. Thought maybe the spooks up at Ravenscliff had eaten you alive.”

“Not yet,” he told her, smiling inwardly at how close to the truth Andrea was. He liked her: she was straightforward, down to earth, only a few years older than he was. She’d lived in Misery Point all her life.

“I told you on your very first day in this town to watch out for the ghosts up there,” Andrea said. “So if anything happens, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

“No, I sure won’t say that.” He looked around the place. There, at a table far in the back, he spotted Morgana, alone. Devon looked back at Andrea. “Will you bring a platter of calamari and a large Coke over to that table?”

She lifted an eyebrow and smirked. “Dating older women now, Devon?”

“No.” He could feel himself blush. “She’s Edward Muir’s fiancee. We’re just—talking.”

“Uh-huh.” Andrea moved off to put in his order.

Devon headed over to the table. Morgana stood when she saw him, her eyes brimming with tears. “Oh, Devon. Thank you so much for coming.”

“Sure,” he said. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. He felt his whole body flush as he sat down.

“I didn’t dare approach you at Ravenscliff,” she said, retaking her seat. “I hope it was okay to leave you the note at school.”

“What’s going on? Is anything wrong?”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “Oh, Devon. Everything is wrong!”

“What do you mean?”

“Ever since I got here, everyone has been so hostile.” Her eyes found his. “Except for you.”

“That may be changing. Cecily is going to try to be more friendly. And if Edward would just spend more time with Alexander, he’ll lighten up, too. That’s what’s behind Alexander’s moods. He’s afraid you’re taking his father away from him.”

Morgana looked as if she’d cry at any moment. “Last night was a turning point for me. When Edward treated me so roughly—” She couldn’t finish. She looked away, composing herself. When she spoke again, Devon was surprised at the anger in her voice. “I don’t like being treated as a piece of property.”

Devon nodded. “I understand. You have a reason to be angry. Edward was a real jerk.”

She lifted her chin in defiance. “I’m thinking of leaving. Getting out of Misery Point, going back home—far, far away from here.”

Devon looked at her intently. “Where is home, Morgana?”

She seemed not to hear him. “I wouldn’t even tell anyone. I’d just leave. Edward would just find me gone.”

“I can understand your feelings, but—”

“But what, Devon?” she asked, leaning forward. “Do you not want me to go?”

“Me?” He stuttered for words. “Well, I don’t know what I have to do with it—”

“Because, Devon,” Morgana said, her voice becoming tender, “you’re the reason I can’t bring myself to leave.”

He looked at her, unable to speak.

“I know it might not be right,” she said, reaching across the table to touch his hand, “but I think I’ve fallen in love with you, Devon.”

“Here’s your calamari,” Andrea suddenly interrupted, placing the greasy little critters on a platter in front of him. “Your Coke’s coming up.”

“Um,” Devon mumbled, not looking up, pushing the plate across the table. “You want some?”

Morgana had withdrawn her hand. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“No,” he said. “Probably not.”

“It’s ridiculous. You’re a teenager.”

“Yeah. A teenager.”

“And I’m engaged to Edward.”

“Yeah. Engaged to Edward.”

Devon felt as if he might faint.

“But I can’t help myself,” Morgana said, leaning in again. “Your kindness, your gentleness. You’re so different from Edward, so different from any man I’ve ever known.”

He gulped.

“Devon, tell me. Tell me how you feel.”

“Here’s your Coke,” Andrea said, depositing the beverage between them. “You want anything, ma’am?”

“No,” Morgana said hoarsely, looking away. “Thank you.”

Devon just sat there. He couldn’t move. He might have been a Sorcerer of the noble Order of the Nightwing—but he was also a fifteen-year-old boy, who’d just been told by a gorgeous twenty-two-year-old woman that she was in love with him. He could barely breathe.

He forced himself to look over at her. Her eyes—so dark, like his. So beautiful. More beautiful than anyone in the world. He tried to speak.

“I—”

“Yes, Devon?”

“I—luh—”

“Say it, Devon.”

She had gripped his hand in hers.

“I—lov—”

“Good afternoon,” came a voice, startling him. Devon knocked over his Coke. It spilled across the table, gushing right into Morgana’s lap. She yelped.

“Andrea! Bring a sponge!”

It was Rolfe. He was looking down at Devon with suspicious eyes.

“Rolfe,” Devon muttered. “We were just—”

Andrea was suddenly on the scene, sopping up his spilled Coke. “You want another? I won’t charge you.”

“No,” Devon said. “That’s okay.”

The waitress gave Morgana a towel, who began patting her lap.

Rolfe sat down at the table with them. “You’re usually much more on guard than that, Devon,” the older man observed. He was almost scolding him. “I could have been anyone. Or anything.”

Devon felt suitably chagrined. Rolfe was right. He had lost track of himself there, stunned by what Morgana had just revealed. What if it had been a demon sneaking up behind him, and not Rolfe?

“Ms. Green,” Rolfe said, finally acknowledging her. “What a pleasant surprise to see you again.”

She smiled. “And you, Mr. Montaigne. I apologize for Edward’s behavior last night. And I thank you for your gallantry.”

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“Fine, now, thank you, other than some slightly damp jeans.”

They all laughed.

“No, really,” Morgana said, smiling over at Devon. “My young friend here has been very supportive.”

Young friend? Devon felt himself growing indignant. A minute ago, she was telling me she loved me. Now I’m just a friend?

“Devon,” Rolfe was saying, “maybe you ought to run along. I’ll pay the tab, and see Ms. Green back to her car.”

“I just got here,” Devon complained. “We were talking.”

“It’s okay, Devon,” Morgana said. “We can finish our talk later.”

Devon reluctantly stood. “I didn’t even get to eat my calamari.”

Rolfe stood, too, putting an arm around his shoulder. “Go on back to Ravenscliff,” he whispered. “Use your father’s ring. It may tell you something interesting that I’ve discovered. If it doesn’t, see me tomorrow.”

“What’s it about, Rolfe? Why did you risk coming to the house last night?”

“It’s about the gnome. Something I’ve discovered.”

“Bjorn? Tell me, Rolfe.”

“Not now. Your father’s ring may tell you the same thing. Now, go.”

He removed his arm and sat back down at the table, turning his attention again to Morgana. Devon wasn’t sure what made him angrier: Rolfe’s refusal to tell him any more of what he knew about Bjorn or the fact that he’d just usurped Devon’s place with Morgana, here in this dark corner in the back of the bistro.

“That mean old Rolfe Montaigne steal your lady love away from you?” Andrea asked as he trudged toward the door.

Devon just grunted.

“Rolfe thinks he’s God’s gift.” Andrea laughed. “But she’s too old for you, anyway, Devon. Trust me. Stick with Cecily.”

He just pushed outside into the cold late afternoon air. The sun was beginning to set. The sky was aflame with color. A few tiny snowflakes swirled around him. The wind was picking up, salty and sharp, blowing in from the sea. Devon tried his disappearing act but it didn’t work.

Great, he thought sullenly. Now I’ll have to walk all the way up that long cliffside stairway.

What was worse, of course, than the steep, crumbling stairway, was what it led to at the top of the cliff: the cemetery.

The wind smacked him across the face as he stepped off the staircase into the tall, broken grass. Here in the old cemetery, where the Muir ancestors all were laid to rest, Devon had first looked upon the face of the Madman. The beast was standing there, just a few feet from his grave, and the maggots were eating his face. Devon shivered remembering it.

But something disturbed him more at the moment: what Morgana had just told him. Could it be true? Could she really be in love with him?

Devon was fifteen. She was twenty-two. What was so weird was that Devon both wanted it to be true and at the same time prayed that it wasn’t. As if his life wasn’t complicated enough as it was.

He passed the grave with the broken angel, the stone marked Devon, and the crypt that held the remains of Ravenscliff’s founder, the great Horatio Muir. It was getting darker. Devon picked up his pace heading through the cemetery. He was suddenly frightened, but he was not sure why. As he passed a crooked brownstone gravestone, its inscription worn off by decades of sea wind, a seagull called out overhead. The wind began to howl.

And a hand pushed up from the snowy frozen earth, seizing him by the ankle.

Devon screamed.

The ground below him trembled. The hand kept its grip around his ankle despite Devon’s best attempts to struggle free. Soon an arm was revealed and then a shoulder. Mostly bones with some rotting sinew and muscle.

“Let me go! I command you! Let me go!”

But the corpse did not surrender its grip. It sat up now, the frozen earth breaking off its hideous body like clay. Its skeletal jaw opened and closed as if to speak; its pulpy eyes burned in their sockets as it glared at Devon.

“I’m stronger than you!” Devon shouted, but still he couldn’t break free. He stumbled, falling into the snow, landing face to face with the stinking dead man. He hollered out in disgust and fear.

Now, all around him, he could see more hands pushing up from the dirt. The whole cemetery was coming alive! The corpse beside him moved its bony hands to Devon’s neck and began to choke him. As Devon struggled for breath, he spied an army of zombies emerging from the earth, staggering toward him.

And he heard the unmistakable laughter of Isobel the Apostate.

“I have come for you, Devon March! I will triumph! Ravenscliff will be mine!”

The corpse tightened its grip around his throat. Devon passed out.

All was darkness.

He opened his eyes with a start. He leapt to his feet, ready to fight.

But there was no sign of any undead corpses. The ground around him is undisturbed.

Was it only a vision? Another warning?

He spun around, just to make sure no zombie lurked behind him in the shadows. How long had he lain here? He was cold, he realized: chilled to his very core. It was pitch dark, and it was snowing pretty heavily now.

I must have been out for an hour or more, Devon thought, brushing snow off his clothes.

When he got to the house, he realized it was even longer than that. The grandfather clock in the foyer read eleven-thirty. It seemed everyone in the house was asleep.

I could have frozen to death out there, Devon thought, and nobody here would ever have known. Nor did it seem that anyone cared.

Some guardian Mrs. Crandall was. Did she even inquire about his whereabouts when Devon failed to show up for supper? He had a mind to report her to the state authorities for neglect. Yeah, for what? So they could take me away from here and prevent me from ever learning the truth about what I am?

Sometimes he thought he’d trade ever finding that knowledge for simply having a normal life. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be taken away from Ravenscliff, placed with a normal family in a normal house. But the problem with that heartwarming little scenario was simple: Devon would never be a normal boy. Not so long as he had these powers. No matter where he went, his past would follow him. After all, the demons had turned his boyhood closet in Coles Junction into a Hell Hole. Wouldn’t that be a treat for a nice new foster family?

Devon knew there was no escape. This was his destiny. Dad had told him as much. He had to stay here and defend the portal at Ravenscliff, the only Nightwing left to do so.

Walking into the parlor, he stared up into the eyes of Horatio Muir. The patriarch. The founder. The head honcho. The big cheese.

“You wouldn’t have wanted your family to renounce their powers, no matter what,” Devon spoke to the portrait. “I can’t imagine you’re happy with the Hell Hole being left undefended.”

It’s up to you, Devon March.

Whether that was the Voice speaking inside his head or Horatio Muir somehow communicating with him from beyond the grave, Devon wasn’t sure. But he knew, no matter the speaker, the words were true. Especially after that episode in the cemetery, Devon was convinced he would soon be facing a showdown with Isobel the Apostate. It was just a matter of time.

He had to learn more about her. Back in his room, he did as Rolfe suggested: he tried on his father’s ring. But nothing happened. No visions. No words. Devon sighed, replacing the ring in his drawer. He tried to sleep but couldn’t. All sorts of questions were running through his mind: When will Isobel strike? What did Rolfe want to tell me about Bjorn? Were those zombies out in the cemetery real or a vision of what is to come?

And of course, Is Morgana really in love with me?

He sat up in bed.

“The books in the basement,” he whispered.

He might be forbidden access to the volumes in the East Wing, but he’d stumbled upon a stash of books—children’s books—once before. They were picture books about the exploits of the great Nightwing of the past. Perhaps one of them might contain some clue, some bit of useful information, about Isobel.

Finding a flashlight in his desk, he hurried out into the corridor. Walking as quietly as he could through the dark house, Devon headed downstairs, keeping his flashlight unlit until he pulled open the cellar door. Then he flicked on the switch, piercing the darkness below. He swallowed, overcome with a blast of sudden fear. His heart was beginning to pound in his ears.

Stop it, he scolded himself. Your fear makes you weak. You’re strong only when you’re not afraid.

He took the first couple of steps down into the basement. It was cold and damp down there. He descended to the cracked stone floor and swung his flashlight beam across the junk that was piled everywhere. Empty boxes and crates. Old locked trunks with stickers from foreign countries plastered all over them. A dressmaker’s dummy and an ancient sewing machine. And everywhere, dust and spider’s webs.

The books were piled high against the far wall. Just like the last time, the hair on Devon’s arm suddenly stood up, attracted to the books as if by electricity. He sat on the cold damp floor and lifted the first book off the pile, reading with his flashlight. The Adventures of Sargon the Great. “Once upon a time,” Devon read, “many years ago, in the land of the forgotten days, lived a sorcerer named Sargon.”

Having now seen the real Sargon, Devon thought the crude illustration looked nothing like the great sorcerer. He flipped ahead to Sargon’s battle with a two-headed dragon. When he’d first seen this book, Devon had assumed the creature to be some childhood fairy tale character. Now he knew it was a demon from the Hell Hole.

He put the book down. He was looking for one that might be set around the time of Isobel. He lifted another from the pile and glanced down at the title. The Mystical Journey of Diana. This one was an adventure in space, with Diana speaking and breathing outside the earth’s orbit. He had no idea what year it was supposed to be set in. But it was clearly not the time of Isobel.

Other books had dates, but Brutus and the Sea Monster took place too early in British history for there to be any mention of Isobel, and Wilhelm’s Magical Adventures in Old Holland was set in a completely different country. Devon had hopes for Vortigar and the Knights of Britain, but there was no mention of any Apostates.

These are books for young kids, he reminded himself. Stories for young Nightwing-in-training. The authors wouldn’t want to scare them with Nightwings gone bad.

Still, Devon looked through several others, hoping for some clue about Isobel and her times. The Magical Spells of Tristan. Don Carlos and the Spanish Gold. The Secret of Philip of Troy. But nothing about Isobel.

He picked up Abigail Apple and the Monster of Loch Ness.

As he read about a kooky Scottish Nightwing who tames a demon from the Hell Hole and turns it into her pet, Devon let out a laugh. “So that’s where the Loch Ness monster comes from!”

Pulling other books off the pile, he lost himself in their little fables and forgot, for the moment, any pursuit of Isobel. “The Treasure of Childebert,” he read, settling in for another good read.

But then he heard a sound.

Low at first, but steady. It built, becoming louder.

The sobbing.

Once more, it struck Devon as the most gut-wrenching sound of grief he’d ever heard in his life. Terrible, agonizing weeping—and it was coming from somewhere in the basement.

It’s the same sound I once heard in the tower, Devon thought. This must be where Bjorn brought whoever it was.

A woman—that much Devon was sure of.

Could it be Isobel?

“Oh oh oh oh,” the voice sobbed.

The sound echoed through the darkness. Devon stood, moving his flashlight from one corner of the room to the next, searching for its source. Nothing but old boxes.

“Ohhhhhhhhh,” the voice cried, reaching a new crescendo of anguish.

Devon followed the sound down a corridor which ended at a cracked plaster wall.

There was no mistaking it: the sobbing came from behind this wall.

“Who is there?” Devon asked.

The sobbing stopped.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Why do you cry?”

There was silence at first, then the woman behind the wall answered him.

“I know you,” she said. “You have come at last!”

Devon said nothing, staring at the wall.

“Devon! It is you!” The woman was exultant. “You have found me!”

A Sudden Transformation

“How do you know me?” Devon asked the unseen woman. “Who are you?”

Suddenly he was struck by light. He turned, squinting into the glare.

“Once more, I find you talking to yourself.”

It was Bjorn Forkbeard, shining his own flashlight into Devon’s face.

“Who’s behind this wall?” Devon demanded.

“Not sure,” the gnome replied. “Who’s it sound like?”

“She knew me!” Devon shouted. He banged on the wall. “Hello? Who are you?”

But now there was only silence.

Bjorn put his ear to the wall. “I don’t hear a thing, my friend. Not a thing.”

“What’s behind here?” Devon felt along the wall. “How do you get in?”

“It doesn’t appear you can get in,” Bjorn said. “There’s no door, and it’s closed off from end to end. There’s no way anyone could get behind there.”

Devon spun on him. “Well, there was someone there. I heard her sobbing. It’s the same sobbing I’ve heard for months.”

“Sobbing.” Bjorn looked up at him with wide eyes. “Ah, but then I’ve heard the sobbing, too. It’s the ghost of Emily Muir, I’m sure of it.”

“It’s not Emily Muir,” Devon said. “It’s someone else.”

Bjorn Forkbeard looked at him cagily. “And who do you think it might be then?”

“This was the same voice I used to hear sobbing from the tower—the same woman who once called my name from the tower window. And I saw you take someone out of the tower. You can’t deny that. You brought her down here.”

Bjorn looked at him plainly. “There are many things in this house that only appear to be real. You know that, my young Nightwing friend.”

Devon narrowed his eyes suspiciously down at the gnome. “Am I your friend, Bjorn?”

“But of course. I owe you my life.”

“Then tell me what you know of Isobel the Apostate.”

The little man’s face went white. “Iso—bel—?”

“Surely you know who she is.”

Bjorn nodded. “But why do you ask about her?”

“Don’t you know? Is it Isobel I’ve been hearing? Is it she who’s behind that wall?”

Bjorn seemed staggered by this new line of questioning. He sat down on a crate and rested his flashlight on his lap. The breath seemed to have been knocked out of him.

“No wall could contain Isobel the Apostate,” he said. “Why do you speak of her?”

Devon studied him. Either Bjorn was a very good actor, or the mention of Isobel truly unnerved him.

“I believe it’s she who’s been trying to get the portal opened,” Devon said.

Bjorn looked up at him with terrified eyes. “Then we are doomed. We have not the resources to fight her.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’ve been into the Hell Hole and came back out alive. If she’d just show her face, I’m itching to take her on.”

Bjorn smiled weakly. “The arrogance of youth. My good friend, the spirit of Isobel the Apostate has been loose for five hundred years. She has opened more Hell Holes all over the globe than any other renegade sorcerer, and each time her power has grown greater. Of all the Nightwing, dead or alive, I fear her the most.”

Devon stared back at the wall in silence.

“If that was her I sensed trying to unbolt that door in the East Wing,” Bjorn said, “then it is far, far worse than I thought.”

Devon looked back down at him. “You could just be trying to scare me.”

“But why would I do that, my boy? Why do you resist trusting me?”

“I’ve learned that Ravenscliff is a place where trust often gets me in big trouble. And after all, you almost delivered me right into her hands when you sent me down the Stairway Into Time.”

“That was merely to show you the extent of your powers, Devon.”

“Oh, yeah? So how come it just so happened to land me in Tudor England, where they were burning Isobel the Apostate?”

Bjorn seemed anxious, constantly throwing the beam of the flashlight around the basement every time he heard a creak. “The Stairway takes one where one needed to go. I had no idea where it would lead. I couldn’t control it even if I wanted to. It is a brilliant manifestation of Horatio Muir’s master sorcery.”

Devon sighed. “I wish I could trust you, Bjorn. I need an ally in this house. Somebody with answers. But until you can tell me who’s behind this wall—”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

Devon tried willing himself behind the wall. He wasn’t surprised when it didn’t work. He tried seeing through the wall, but that proved fruitless, too.

Not yet, the Voice told him, without any explanation. Not yet.

“I’m going back to bed,” Devon said, frustrated.

“A good idea. You must be rested and strong, if indeed we face an enemy such as you suggest.” Bjorn followed him as they headed toward the basement steps. “Read all you can, learn all there is to be learned. Isobel will arrive with no warning and grant no mercy. I’ve seen the destruction she’s left behind, villages in ruins, strong men eaten alive—”

“Okay, already,” Devon griped, annoyed by Bjorn’s prattling. “You trying to give me nightmares?”

It took Devon a long time to fall asleep. But when he does, instead of nightmares he dreamed of Morgana, the most delicious dream yet that he’d had of her.

“I love you, too,” he told her, and she moved in for the kiss.

An uneasy quiet settled over Ravenscliff as Christmas finally arrived. The tree went up in the parlor, skyrocketing a good eight feet toward the vaulted ceiling. Devon chuckled as he watched little Bjorn scamper up and down a ladder stringing garlands and hanging ornaments. Nearer to the ground, he, Cecily and Alexander did their part to decorate the tree as well, though none seemed to be enjoying it too much. For Cecily and Alexander it was the presence of Morgana, sitting demurely on the couch beside Edward and watching them with her soft brown eyes, that seemed to depress their spirits. For Devon, it was something else.

He was missing his father.

He watched with some sadness as Cecily unpacked the boxes Bjorn had lugged down from the attic, boxes filled with ancient glass ornaments. Devon wondered what became of the little ornaments he and his Dad had made out of pine cones and popcorn, then wrapped carefully and stored in the garage. Dad’s lawyer, Mr. McBride, had cleared all that stuff out. He probably just threw everything away.

“You miss your dad, huh, Devon?”

It was Alexander speaking. It was as if the boy could read his mind.

“Yeah,” Devon said. “I guess I do.”

Alexander hung a glass icicle on a tree branch. “At least he didn’t take up with a streetwalker like mine has,” he whispered.

Devon frowned. “Alexander, that’s not fair. Morgana isn’t—”

“Oh, I don’t worry about her anymore,” the boy said, giving Devon a wicked little smile.

What he meant by that, Devon wasn’t sure. But Alexander’s smile made him nervous.

He didn’t spend much time wondering about it, however. He was too lost in his memories of Dad. When Devon was a kid, his father had always made the most of the Christmas season, with wreaths on the doors and candles in the windows. They’d hike up into the woods near their home in Coles Junction, New York, and chop down a tall pine, bringing it home to decorate with strings of popcorn and those big old-fashioned Christmas bulbs. Dad would make a pot of his cinnamon brew, as he called it, a secret concoction of various syrups and herbs that all the kids in the neighborhood loved. Devon remembered how his friends Tommy and Suze would hang out at Devon’s house at Christmas time, with all its lights and scents. In truth, Dad had kind of looked like Santa Claus, with his round red cheeks and white hair and twinkling blue eyes. He had no beard, but was a rotund, jolly, old fellow all the same. After his death, Devon had been stunned to learn from Rolfe that Dad had in fact been several hundred years old, not an unusual age for a Guardian. Yet as much as Dad looked like Santa Claus, there were never many presents under the tree. Oh, he made sure Devon got something he wanted: a train set one year, a Batman utility belt when he was seven, and an iPad their last Christmas together. They never had a lot of money, which was another reason coming to Ravenscliff had been so staggering for Devon. Here his bedroom was nearly as large as the entire house he and Dad had shared in Coles Junction.

Still, he would have given anything to be back there right now. He’d have willingly given up these strange powers and his noble Nightwing bloodline just to be an ordinary kid again, back with Dad. The parlor, normally so dark and mysterious, had been transformed. The stockings looked rather incongruous hanging on the mantel under the somber portrait of Horatio Muir.

Edward and Morgana were canoodling on the couch, which made Devon jealous. What was up with her? The other day she said she was in love with me, he thought bitterly.

Since that day in Stormy Harbor, Morgana had kept a cordial but safe distance, seemingly embarrassed by what she’d told Devon at Stormy Harbor. Devon was both grateful for and disturbed by the distance. On the one hand, he hadn’t been sure how to handle the situation; having some space made it easier. But on the other, he wanted so much to be with her, to talk to her, to kiss her lips the way he did in his dreams.

Stop thinking that way, Devon scolded himself.

That Edward and Morgana were even still at Ravenscliff was surprising. Edward had originally planned to stay just a couple of weeks. But the divorce from his institutionalized wife was proving difficult for some reason Devon didn’t understand. So the couple was stuck here for a while longer.

Surely that made Morgana unhappy. Though one would never have known it by the way she was snuggled up now in Edward’s arms. Devon burned with jealousy as he watched the older man reach down and kiss his fiancee on the forehead.

Cecily didn’t like it either. She made a face as if she were going to be sick and left the room. But Alexander watched his father and Morgana with cunning eyes.

He’s up to something, Devon thought. I’d better keep an eye on him.

But for the moment, Alexander seemed harmless. He kept busy hanging ornaments on the tree. Bjorn was scuttling up and down the ladder.

So Devon took the occasion to head up to his room. He needed to check his email. He was hoping maybe Rolfe would try to reach him that way.

But no. Nothing from Rolfe.

This was bizarre. Rolfe seemed to have dropped out of sight. When Devon called the restaurant, he was told Mr. Montaigne was “out.” No one had any idea when he’d be back. Emails, texts, psychic messages had gone unanswered. Devon had had D.J. drive him out to Rolfe’s house the day before and he’d noticed Rolfe’s car was gone. Roxanne was there, however, and Devon had told her that he needed to see Rolfe right away. He’d had information to give Devon, and it had seemed important.

Roxanne had wrung her hands. “I’m troubled,” she admitted to Devon. “It’s not like Rolfe to go away without letting me know more details.”

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Christmas Eve arrived, and a light snowfall delighted Cecily, who’d been hoping for a white Christmas. The house smelled wonderful, with the aroma of cookies baking from the kitchen wafting into the parlor. Bjorn had spent all day in the kitchen preparing an elaborate feast of “roast beast,” as he called it, and lingonberry stuffing.

After dinner, Mrs. Crandall had them all up to her mother’s room for another visit with Grandmama, who once again did not recognize anybody except her daughter.

Though her rheumy old eyes did seem to latch on to Devon whenever he came near her.

He watched as the old woman met Morgana. Edward introduced her as his fiancee. Grandmama took the young woman’s hand.

“I’ve seen you before,” she said.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Muir,” Morgana replied, smiling. “This is the first time Edward has brought me up to meet you. I’ve wanted to come before, but Edward said you weren’t well.”

“Did you know Emily?” Grandmama asked.

Edward laughed. “Mother! Morgana is far too young to have known Emily Muir!”

The old woman let her hand go. Her eyes drifted off to some place only she could see.

Mrs. Muir kind of creeped Devon out, truth be told. How he wished she wasn’t so demented. How many answers might she be able to tell him?

Mrs. Crandall handed her mother a couple of brightly wrapped Christmas gifts. Her trembling hands couldn’t figure how to open them. Cecily moved in beside her to unwrap them for her: one was a sweater, the other a shawl.

“Are they from my husband?” Greta Muir asked, once again becoming agitated. “Where is he? Where is Randolph?”

And once again Devon felt sad. In the Hellhole, he thought.

Downstairs in the parlor, the three young people took their places on the floor under the Christmas tree. Mrs. Crandall arrived and agreed that each might open one gift. Alexander got a book, Tom Sawyer; Cecily exulted over a handbag; and Devon found a pair of ice skates in the box marked for him. He’d actually been wanting these, hoping to get a chance to skate on one of the frozen ponds on the estate. He looked over and thanked Mrs. Crandall.

She smiled warmly and said, “Merry Christmas, Devon.”

He looked into her eyes. Was that actually compassion he saw?

Could she have really tried to kill me? Rolfe said not to trust her, not to put anything past her.

But Devon remembered how tenderly she’d treated him when the demons wounded his face, and how she had held him after Simon had tried to kill him. Was she friend or foe? Did she care for him somewhere down deep under her icy exterior? Did she love him…as a mother might a son?

The thought chilled him, given his feelings for Cecily, but its corollary unnerved him even more. Did Mrs. Crandall want him out of the way, because he represented all that she wanted to disown about her family’s history? And did she want him gone enough to resort to murder?

That’s crazy, he thought. She just gave me a pair of ice skates.

But Rolfe had said not trust to her.

Rolfe—who had disappeared off the face of the planet.

Christmas seemed to put everything on hold. Bjorn had made no further mention of his encounter with Devon in the basement. Mrs. Crandall had remained mum about Isobel. But Devon hadn’t forgotten the danger that lurked.

The image of Cecily in a pool of her own blood was still seared onto his mind.

That night, once more, he tried wearing his father’s ring, hoping for something, anything—but nothing. He yanked it off his finger. What was the use in having all these magical powers and trinkets if they were so unreliable?

New Year’s came and went, without incident. Devon hoped that Rolfe would have contacted him by that point, but still nothing.

The gang spent the early part of New Year’s Eve at Gio’s pizza joint. Devon felt a little guilty about not filling his friends in on all that had been happening. After the last time, when they fought the Madman, they’d made a vow to keep each other informed on such things. But D.J. had been acting so weird, and Cecily had been getting so angry on and off, and Marcus had been so worried about the pentagram, that Devon had kept most of what he knew to himself.

But that would have to change.

The pizza joint was packed as all five friends crammed into a booth.

“Can we get candy apple pizza?” Natalie asked, pointing to one of Gio’s odder menu choices.

“Yuck,” Cecily said. “Your taste in food is as bad as your taste in clothes.”

“Uh, I’m not the one still wearing capri pants, and in January, no less.”

Cecily made a face. They decided on pepperoni when Gio came around to take their order, his stained t-shirt inching up to expose a round hairy belly.

“And put a scald on that, okay, Gio?” D.J. called out.

“Extra crispy on the pepperoni,” the pizzamaker said, jotting it down in his book.

“Listen, you guys,” Devon said. “I’ve got to talk to you about something.”

“Uh oh,” Natalie said. “Please don’t let it be about monsters or going to hell.”

Devon smiled wanly. “Well, if you don’t want to hear…”

“What is it, Devon?” Cecily asked. “And why haven’t you shared it with me?”

“Well, for six out of the past ten days, you haven’t been speaking to me.”

She pouted. “I said I was sorry.”

“Will you all just let him talk?” Marcus asked.

Devon settled back in the booth. “I might as well just lay it on the line. Something’s trying to open the Hell Hole.”

“Is it Jackson Muir?” Cecily asked, suddenly terrified.

“No,” Devon told her. “It’s the spirit of a Nightwing from the sixteenth century. Isobel the Apostate.”

“Isobel?” Natalie asked.

“A woman?” Cecily seemed fascinated, almost excited by the idea. “Well, cool.”

“Cool?” Devon leaned across the table at her. “This isn’t fun and games, Cecily. We’re talking major destruction here.”

“You can handle the situation,” she said. “You did last time. I have complete confidence in you.”

“Thank you most kindly. However, may I point out that Isobel has been around for five hundred years? I think she may know a few tricks I don’t.”

“Why do you think it’s her?” D.J. asked.

“There’s been a lot of different clues. Rolfe’s confirmed it.”

“Have you seen her?” Marcus asked.

“Sort of. I sensed she was in the East Wing.”

“Did you check the portal?” Natalie asked.

“Yes,” Devon said. “It was still bolted.”

D.J. leaned his head on his elbow looking up at Devon. “And no sign of this Isobel?”

Devon had to admit there wasn’t. “But I know it’s Isobel that we’re dealing with. I’ve heard her laughter, several times.”

“So what do we do?” Cecily asked.

“I’m not sure. Just be on guard for now. But I wanted to let all of you know.”

Marcus let out a long sigh. “Feels pretty frustrating knowing someone is going to try to open the Hell Hole and not being able to do anything about it.”

Devon nodded. “As soon as Rolfe gets back, I need to talk with him. I can only imagine he’s gone off in search of someone who could help. A Guardian perhaps, or maybe even another Nightwing.”

“Another Nightwing?” D.J. asked, his eyes lighting up.

“Yeah.” Devon smiled. “It would be so cool to learn from somebody who actually knows all about sorcery and who isn’t afraid to talk about it.”

Natalie shuddered. “I just never want to see another one of those demons as long as I live. I still have nightmares from the last time.”

Gio arrived with their pizza and they devoured it in less than ten minutes, so they ordered another. D.J. got cheese on his gold chin piercing and Cecily told him he was gross. They complained about the unfairness of Mr. Weatherby’s grading system and gossiped about Jessica Milardo and her new boyfriend Justin O’Leary, who were caught making out in the girls’ lav. D.J. told them he was thinking of giving Flo a new paint job in the spring, and Natalie announced she couldn’t decide whether or not she wanted to go out for cheerleading again after this year.

It was in moments like these that Devon could forget, for a little while, about the things that had haunted him ever since he was six years old, forget that he was a Sorcerer of the ancient and noble Order of the Nightwing, the one-hundredth generation from Sargon the Great. For just a few, fleeting moments, he could pretend he was just an ordinary kid, with ordinary problems like grades and teachers. But then something always happened to jog his mind back, and he remembered the truth.

There are demons out there that want to force me to do their bidding.

“Listen, man,” D.J. said, as they were heading back to his car. Unfortunately their New Year’s celebration had to end well before midnight. Mrs. Crandall had insisted they be home by ten o’clock. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Whoa,” Devon said, smirking. “One never knows where that might lead.”

D.J. laughed. “I’m serious. I think you ought to take me in to check out that portal in the East Wing.”

Devon stopped in his tracks. “What for?”

“Just to see if I can pick up any clues you haven’t.”

Devon frowned. “Deej, I’m not sure it would do any good. What could you see that I didn’t?”

“Who knows?” D.J. leaned into him, stopping him from following the rest of the group to the car. “Come on. How about it? Let me see the Hell Hole, okay?”

“D.J., even I can’t get in there without a key. How am I supposed to let you in?”

D.J.’s face was intense. “I want to see it. Come on, Devon! After all we’ve been through together, after all I had to deal with while Jackson Muir was on the loose, I would think you’d trust me enough—”

“It’s not a matter of trust,” Devon said. “I just can’t get in there—”

“We can break in.” D.J.’s eyes danced. “Believe me, I could do it. In junior high, I broke into more places than I’d ever own up to.”

“No, D.J.” Devon pushed around him to join the others at the car. “It’s too dangerous. There’s no reason for you to go in there.”

On the way back to Ravenscliff, D.J. was quiet. No one noticed but Devon, as D.J. was often quiet while the girls and Marcus yapped on and on. But Devon detected a dark cloud hanging over his friend’s head, a roiling, angry energy exuding from his body.

What is going on? Devon asked himself. Is this a side to D.J. I’ve never seen, part and parcel with his crazy crush on Morgana?

Or is it, Devon feared, something else—something far more sinister than the swing of a teenaged boy’s mood?

That night, just as the old year turned into the new, Devon had his most intense dream yet about Morgana.

“Oh, my love,” she said, covering his face with kisses. “How much I want you. Need you.”

She was so breathtakingly beautiful. She wore a sheer black lace nightgown. Devon was aroused in a way he’d never been before. He felt at the peak of some high precipice, waiting to jump into the darkness of her eyes.

“Come away with me, Devon! Leave this place! Come with me! Come!”

“Yes—oh, yes, I will—yes—yes—yes!”

He sat up in bed with a shout. His whole body was shuddering.

“Man oh man,” he muttered. “What just happened?”

Sweat dripped from his brow.

“Oh, man,” he said.

He sat there for several minutes, just panting.

Then he got up and took a shower.

A few days later, a Saturday, Devon got up early. The house was quiet and still, draped in the blue shadows of early morning, a few highlights of pink reflecting on the walls. No one else was awake yet.

Or so Devon thought.

“Hey,” he said, starting down the stairs and spying Alexander hiding in the shadows of the foyer. “What are you doing down there?”

The boy suddenly ran to the foot of the stairs. “Devon, stop! Don’t go any further!”

“Why?”

“Just wait,” the boy shouted frantically. He bent down quickly over the bottom step and seemed to retrieve something. “Okay, now you can walk down the rest of the way.”

Devon did, coming to stand over the boy. “What did you just do, Alexander?”

“Nothing. I just thought—thought I saw something on the stairs.”

“Saw something? Like what?”

“I don’t know.” The boy hesitated. “I thought it was a mouse, but I was wrong.”

“A mouse?”

“So I was wrong!” Alexander seemed anxious to move off the subject. “How come you’re up so early? Usually the only one who gets up this early is Morgana.”

“I’ve got a better question,” Devon said. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Alexander. If you’re going to lie to me, you can do better than that.”

“I’m not lying.” The boy folded his chubby little arms over his chest. “So are you staying down here or going back up to your room?”

Devon eyed the boy slyly. “You don’t want me down here, do you, Alexander? What are you up to?”

“I told you. Nothing.”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m going into the kitchen to get some cereal. Want to join me?”

Alexander shook his head. “No. I’m gonna—I’m gonna go back upstairs.”

Devon smirked. “Good idea.”

He watched as the boy started slowly up the stairs. Devon had no idea what the boy is up to, but he had that old malicious look in his eyes, the look that Devon had become so wary of in his first days in this house.

Is everyone freaking out around here? Alexander? D.J.?

Me?

In the kitchen, Devon poured some milk over a bowl of Frosted Flakes and settled down at the table. He was glad no one else is up yet. He’d had yet another dream about Morgana. Dad had told him that his hormones would start kicking in around now, as they did for all boys, and that they could make you think and act crazy at times. That was all this was: he had a stupid crush on an older woman who—

Who said she loved me.

Devon put his spoon down. Suddenly his throat was tight and he couldn’t swallow his Frosted Flakes.

That was when he heard the crash from the foyer and someone shout out in pain.

He dashed out there as quickly as he can. He found Morgana sprawled face first on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Alexander was scampering down from the landing.

“She fell, Devon!” the boy shouted. “She might be dead!”

Devon was at Morgana’s side. “She’s not dead,” he said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

But her face was banged up, and her lip was bleeding. She seemed to be in shock as Devon helped her to her feet.

“Morgana,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“I—I think so,” she said.

He led her into the parlor and helped her sit on the couch. “Stay here. Let me go get some ice.”

Alexander was in the doorway. “Is she going to be scarred for life?”

Devon grabbed the boy’s ear. “You come with me.”

“Ow, you’re hurting me.”

He pulled the boy into the kitchen. While popping ice cubes out of the tray into a dishcloth, Devon grilled Alexander. “Did you push her? Don’t lie to me, Alexander. I’ll know if you’re lying. You were up to something when I saw you.”

“I did not push her,” Alexander insists, folding those chubby arms over his chest again.

Devon moved past him and hurried back to the parlor. “Here,” he said, pressing the ice gently against Morgana’s cheek. “Hold this so we can keep down the swelling.”

“Oh, Devon, you’re so kind.”

“Are you okay otherwise? Looks like you have a scrape on your elbow. Any pain anywhere?”

She managed a smile. “I think I’m going to be fine. I was more in shock than pain.”

Devon sighed, looking down at her. “Did you lose your footing? Is that how you fell?”

She looked at him deliberately. “It felt as if I tripped over something.”

Devon turned around to glare again at Alexander, who looked up at him with angelically innocent eyes.

“I suppose I should go find Edward, and let him know what’s happened,” Devon said.

“No,” Alexander said quickly. “She’s okay. Why do you have to go get my father?”

“Yes, Devon,” Morgana said. “I’d appreciate it if you did go find Edward. Bring him here.”

Devon nodded. He hated getting his little friend in trouble, but he was convinced Alexander had something to do with Morgana’s accident. And seeing her in pain had made Devon angry. He shook his head at the young boy as he walked past him and hurried up the stairs.

But Edward Muir was not in his room. Devon couldn’t find him anywhere, and concluded he must either be out or in his mother’s room, where Devon was forbidden to enter unless invited. So he just headed back down to the parlor, concerned that Morgana’s injuries might have gotten worse while he was away from her.

He was on the landing overlooking the foyer when he heard her voice from the parlor. And Alexander’s, too.

“I hate you!” the boy was saying. “I’m going to tell my father not to marry you! I’m going to tell him that I’ll run away if he does!”

Devon paused on the stairs, listening.

“You little skunk,” Morgana said, her voice low and mean. “You tried to kill me, and I won’t forget that.”

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

“I hate you, too, you little skunk!”

Devon figured he’d better get in there. He hurried back into the parlor and seemed to surprise both of them. Morgana, still sitting on the couch, looked away. Alexander ran to Devon and threw his arms around his waist. “She put a curse on me! She’s a witch!”

“Stop that, Alexander,” Devon said, though he had to admit he was taken somewhat aback by the ferocity he heard in Morgana’s voice. He looked at her. “Edward’s not in his room.”

She smiled. She was her soft, gentle self again. “I’m fine now, Devon.” Her eyes found his. “Thanks to you.”

He managed a small smile in return.

“Edward must be with his mother,” Morgana said, standing. “I’ll go upstairs.”

“Are you okay to walk?”

She nodded. “I’m fine, Devon. Really. Your concern means the world to me.” She kissed him on the cheek on her way out.

“Ewww,” Alexander said. “Wipe your cheek.”

“Why do you hate her so much?”

“She put a curse on me. You should’ve heard her yelling at me.”

“I did.” Devon looked down at the boy. “Empty your pockets. Let me see what you have in there.”

Whether it was the Voice telling him to look or merely a hunch of his own—and maybe, after all, there wasn’t much difference between the two—Devon felt the boy’s pockets would produce something interesting. Alexander resisted at first, but Devon told him he’d look himself if he had to. Finally the boy reached down inside and pulled out a length of fishing line. Clear, strong, and nearly invisible.

Devon snatched it from his hand. “You strung this across the step, didn’t you? That’s what you removed when you saw me coming downstairs. Then you put it back so Morgana would trip.”

“Okay, so I did. And go ahead—tell my father! She’s a witch! And if I don’t stop her, nobody will!”

The boy rushed out of the room. Devon just stood there, staring down at the fishing line in his hand.

Cecily wanted him to go shopping with her at the mall near Bangor, but Devon was in no frame of mind to go trekking through Sephora and Abercrombie & Fitch. So Cecily called Marcus and Natalie instead, knowing full well that D.J. would refuse, and got Bjorn to drive them. “Try to stall any demon invasion until we get back, okay?” she asked. “I don’t want to miss out on any action.”

“You’re taking this far too lightly,” Devon told her.

“If I walked around here so serious all the time the way you do, I’d go crazy. So we live in a haunted house. Deal with it.” She hurried outside as Bjorn honked the Cadillac’s horn.

Devon wished he could pretend to be light and carefree the way Cecily did. But ever since the encounter with Alexander that morning, he’d felt the temperature rising in the house and the pressure starting to close in from the walls. Something’s happening, he thought. Whether it has to do with Isobel or whoever it is that’s locked in the basement, I don’t know. Maybe it’s all part of the same thing. Whatever it is, I’ve got to talk with Rolfe.

He hoped that Rolfe was back from wherever he’d gone.

He was getting dressed when he heard a sound. But it wasn’t a sound from anywhere nearby. Devon listened intently. Scratching, banging—and it was coming from the tower. Just as before, his ears had suddenly become super-attuned to noises from great distances, even through brick walls. He looked quickly out of his window. It was shaping up to be a beautiful winter day, with a sharp, crisp, clear blue sky. But the sunlight revealed no sign of any motion in the tower windows. Still, Devon was certain: the sounds he heard are coming from somewhere inside that crenellated structure.

It was the first time he’d heard or seen anything suspicious in the tower since Bjorn had taken whoever had been living there down into the basement. Devon tensed: the tower was where he’d first heard the mocking laughter of Isobel the Apostate. Could this have been it? His showdown with her over the Hell Hole?

But as he concentrated, he began to make out an image of something far less formidable.

“D.J.,” he whispered, and willed himself to disappear.

He reappeared in a thicket of evergreen bushes surrounding the base of the tower. D.J. was jostling a window, trying to break in.

“Uh, excuse me,” Devon said, tapping his friend on the shoulder.

D.J. gasped and spun around. “Dude! You scared the smoke right outta my nostrils!”

“What are you doing?”

“Devon, you wouldn’t help me. I had to try. I have to get into the East Wing!”

“Why?”

D.J. gripped him by his shoulders. His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. “I’ve got to see the Hell Hole!”

“What is wrong with you?”

“Devon, we’ve got to check the Hell Hole! I’ve got to see it!”

“I told you, no, D.J.!”

“Let me inside!” The teenager’s voice was low and raspy, nothing like his own. “I’ve got to get in there!”

“No!”

D.J. shouted out suddenly as if in pain. He gripped Devon around the throat. His eyes glazed over as he throttled Devon.

“I’m sorry to do this to you, buddy,” Devon said, choking for breath, “but you really give me no choice.”

All at once D.J. was yanked away from Devon, as if pulled by some gigantic magnet, and flung across the yard into a snow bank.

Devon walked over to him and helped him to his feet. “You okay?”

D.J. stood, shaken but unhurt. “What came over me, man?”

“I don’t know.” Devon looked at his friend. “Go home, D.J. I promise I’ll get to the bottom of this and defeat whatever’s gotten ahold of your mind.”

“Thanks, man,” D.J. said, grimacing as he brushed snow off his body. “Sorry for the freak-out back there.”

“No problem.”

“It just got into my head. I don’t know why—”

“Go home, D.J. It’s not safe for you here.” He looked up at the dark mansion. “I don’t think it’s safe for anyone.”

All the strange behavior people have been exhibiting in this house—it’s got to be because of Isobel, Devon thought. D.J., Alexander, Bjorn, even Morgana—Isobel’s using them, making them act in ways contrary to their own natures.

But why? He saw no purpose in what she was doing. Why send D.J. to break into the East Wing when she knew only Devon can open the Hell Hole? Why make Alexander try to kill Morgana? And what did Rolfe want to tell him about Bjorn?

And where in the world was Rolfe?

Once Devon was sure that D.J. had driven off in his Camaro, he returned to the house for his coat. Sorcerer he might have been, but that didn’t ward off the cold on brisk January mornings. He wondered if Horatio Muir or Sargon the Great could withstand the elements. He suspected there must have been ways; in fact, he had a sense that he’d only begun to tap the potential of his powers. New ones—like his super-hearing and invisibility—kept popping up all the time.

How leisurely it would have been to simply read the books and use the crystals to learn all about his Nightwing heritage, without having to worry about Apostates like Jackson Muir or Isobel. Would he ever have that freedom? How awesome it must have been for Nightwing kids whose pasts weren’t kept from them: they got to grow up with a proud Nightwing childhood, trained by their Guardian in the use of their powers, encouraged to learn about their history from their parents and family. For Devon, everything was difficult.

“Why can’t it ever just be easy?” he mumbled to himself, as he closed his eyes and willed himself across town. Opening them to see that he was standing out on the precipice near Rolfe’s house, he laughed. “Well, I guess some things are pretty easy.”

He was relieved to see that Rolfe’s Porsche was in the garage. He was home! Where could he have been all this time? There was just so much they need to discuss.

Remembering how he’d interrupted Rolfe and Roxanne last time in the midst of a rather intimate moment, Devon chose to disappear and reappear in Rolfe’s kitchen, where a spiral staircase led down to his study. That way he could give them a little notice.

He could hear Rolfe below.

“Oh, my darling, how beautiful you are,” Rolfe was saying.

Great. Just great. Devon sighed. Once again my timing is exactly wrong. He and Roxanne are making out again.

But as he peered over the railing to look down into the room below, he saw the woman in Rolfe’s arms was not the mysterious golden-eyed Roxanne but rather—

Morgana.

Devon backed away and covered his mouth to suppress a sound.

Morgana—in Rolfe’s arms!

Part of Devon wanted to leap down there and punch Rolfe in the gut. Part of him was so angry and so jealous that he didn’t care suddenly whether Isobel the Apostate is back at Ravenscliff at this very minute, opening the Hell Hole.

Morgana told me she loved me! But now she’s with him! This is why she’s been so distant! This is what has been occupying Rolfe’s time!

They’ve been together!

But another part of Devon strained for some logic. Something is wrong here, he thought. Something is very wrong.

“Devon!”

He jumped.

Alexander’s voice, inside his head.

“Help me, Devon!”

He heard the boy as if he were in the next room. But Devon knew Alexander was at Ravenscliff.

And he was in danger.

“Devon!!!”

He transported himself to the foyer at Ravenscliff. Cecily was just then heading up the stairs, loaded down with packages from the mall. She let out a yelp when Devon suddenly appeared out of thin air.

“You’ve got to quit that, Devon!” she shouted. “Scared me half to death!”

“Where’s Alexander?” he asked. “Something’s wrong!”

It was clear she recognized the urgency in his voice. She set her bags down and quickly followed Devon up the stairs and across the landing into the upstairs corridor. “Alexander!” Devon was shouting. “Where are you?”

He threw open the door to the boy’s room. It was quiet. Empty.

“Alexander?”

Cecily looked around. “He’s not here.”

“We’ve got to search the house.”

Cecily looked at him with concern. “What’s happened? Tell me, Devon.”

“I don’t know. I just know that he’s in danger. I heard him call—”

They were suddenly distracted by movement from under Alexander’s bed. The blankets draped over the side rose and fell, as if something were moving behind them, under the bed.

Cecily gripped Devon’s arm. Devon took hold of the blankets in his right hand.

“Be careful,” Cecily whispered. “It might be a demon!”

He whisked the blankets away.

From under the bed doddered an enormous skunk, its black-and-white tail held high in the air.

The Assault

Cecily screamed.

“Get it, Devon! Before it sprays!”

Devon could only stand there, staring at the animal.

“What’s the matter?” Cecily shrieked. “Zap it away with your powers or something.”

“I—I can’t do that.”

She clutched onto his arm tightly. “And why not?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“Because—” Devon gulped. “Because I think it’s Alexander.”

She looked at him as if he’d gone completely insane on her. But then she moved her eyes back to the skunk, now busily nosing through Alexander’s dirty laundry on the floor. It lifted a pair of his undershorts on its snout.

“Alexander?” Cecily asked quietly.

The skunk went about its business, sniffing around Alexander’s bureau.

“How is it possible?” Cecily asked Devon. “How do you know? Are you sure?”

Devon’s head was spinning. Yes, the Voice confirms for him. Trust your instincts.

“I’m certain,” he told her.

“But how? Who did this to him? And why?”

Devon hesitated. “I—I can’t say for sure.”

Cecily looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes. “But you’ll be able to change him back, right?”

Devon swallowed. “I hope so. For now, we need to put the skunk somewhere and keep it safe.”

Cecily was squatting now, beckoning the skunk toward her. “I have to admit,” she said, suppressing a small smile, “it does kind of look like the little monster.”

Devon looked around the room. “What can we put him in?”

“We have a dog crate in the basement. I had a fox terrier once before Mother made me give him away. She complained he barked too much and kept her up at night.” She scowled. “As if we didn’t already have enough ghosts doing the same thing.”

“You had barking ghosts?”

She smirked. “How am I supposed to take you seriously about this skunk being my little cousin if you start cracking jokes?”

“Sorry.” He smiled. “Go fetch the dog crate for me.”

In truth, finding humor in the situation merely belied the true terror Devon felt. Once Cecily was gone, he looked down at the skunk still scuttering through the mess of Alexander’s room. Morgana had called him a little skunk. She’d threatened him.

And Alexander had said she put a curse on him.

“No,” Devon said, not wanting to believe the idea that was suddenly forcing its way through his consciousness. “Morgana has no powers—she wouldn’t do anything evil—if anything, it’s Isobel who—”

He closed his eyes and Morgana was kissing him again, coming to him just as she had all these many nights, telling him she loves him—

“Here’s the crate,” Cecily announced, startling him back to reality.

“Okay,” Devon said, collecting himself. “Put him in there.”

She recoiled. “Why do I have to do it?”

“He’s your cousin.”

Cecily frowned. “If I get sprayed, buddy, you’re in big trouble. You’d better know some spell to counteract skunk stink.”

But the fat little fellow simply tottered obediently into the crate when Cecily opened the door, tapping her fingers and calling, “Here, Alexander! Here, you little skunk!” Once she latched the door behind the animal, she looked up at Devon and grinned. “First time I ever got to call Alexander a skunk without him finding some way of getting back at me.”

Precisely at that moment, the skunk let out its stink.

“You spoke too soon!” Devon shouted.

They both ran yelping from the room, Cecily screaming about a bath in tomato soup, the only supposed cure. For Devon’s part, he seemed to have avoided a direct hit, and after changing his clothes, he was fine.

Except, of course, he wasn’t.

Morgana.

What was happening to the people in this house? Was Isobel the Apostate behind all of this?

Devon hated to admit it, especially with his little friend turned into a skunk and locked up in a dog crate. But the worst part of it all was knowing that Morgana was with Rolfe instead of him.

The day passed in a quiet funk. The calm before the storm, Devon suspected. Edward and Mrs. Crandall were out of the house all morning and by mid-afternoon were still not back. Devon sat alone in the library, reading through the official texts on the Muir family history, hoping to find something—anything—to help Alexander. He’d been through these many times before, and once again they proved to be of no help. Just the same old story of Horatio Muir founding the house and the wonder felt by the villagers when all the ravens took up roost there to live. But there was nothing about Apostates or Hell Holes or counteracting magic spells. Devon slammed the book shut in his lap.

He’s tried, of course, to change the skunk back into Alexander, but nothing had worked. He’d even sought out Bjorn, deciding to trust the caretaker enough to inquire if any of those powders in his bag of tricks might help the poor kid. But Bjorn, too, was nowhere to be found. Devon felt lost. It ripped a hole in his gut to know that he couldn’t go to Rolfe about this—Rolfe, his mentor, the man who was supposed to help him understand his powers and make sense of all the sorcery. Rolfe—who had Morgana in his arms—Morgana, who should belong to me—

Stop it, that’s crazy, Devon scolded himself. I’ve got to knock off these stupid feelings for her! They’re not letting me think straight!

He stood, shaking his head in frustration and confusion. What connection might there be between Morgana and Isobel the Apostate? Might Isobel have placed Morgana under her power the way she did D.J.? Devon felt like tearing the hair out of his head. He couldn’t stay here in the house any longer. He had to do something. He had to confront Rolfe—and Morgana. He had to go back over there.

But—of all the luck—his transporting power failed him.

Consider your state of mind, the Voice told him. You are frustrated. Frightened.

“Well, yeah, maybe I am.” He was angry, too. “Like Sargon-I’m-So-Great was never scared in his whole entire life?”

Devon grabbed his coat and hurried outside.

So I’ll walk. I don’t care. I still have legs like any other kid. I’ll walk—even if Rolfe’s house is several miles away and it’s getting dark and beginning to snow.

Devon pulled the collar of his coat more tightly around his neck.

As he trudged across the estate, the winds picked up. Devon thought he heard something. He paused, heard nothing more, and continued walking. But then he heard something again.

“…beseech the elemental gods…”

Devon listened. There were voices in the swirling snow.

“…unleash your power…”

From the edge of the cliffs a thin curl of blue smoke rose among the falling white snowflakes.

Devon made out a figure at Devil’s Rock. A small figure. As he approached, he saw it was Bjorn.

“I call upon the power of the old Knowledge,” the gnome was chanting.

He was stirring a big black cauldron with a broken tree branch, and the smoke was rising from whatever brew he’d concocted. It was just like a cheesy Halloween cartoon, with a witch boiling bat wings.

“What is this?” Devon asked, startling the gnome. “If it’s tonight’s dinner, I think I’ll pick up Burger King.”

“Come no further, my young Nightwing friend,” Bjorn said. “Do not pass through the smoke of my enchantment.”

“I thought you had no powers.”

“I myself do not. But I know spells and potions that may protect us from the Evil One you suspect draws near.”

Devon folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t believe you, Bjorn. I think you’re in league with Isobel. You and Mrs. Crandall are keeping her down in the basement, for whatever reason. I’ve heard her. I know the truth!”

“Back away, boy!”

“No,” Devon said, and with a wave of his hand levitates the bubbling cauldron and tips it over the cliff. Its steaming blue soup empties into the waves hundreds of feet below.

“Foolish one!” Bjorn shouted, his face turning red with anger. He shook his little fist at Devon in a rage. “You will be sorry you did that!”

“I’ve had enough of threats and lies,” Devon told him.

Just then he spotted headlights swinging up the long driveway. It was Mrs. Crandall’s Jaguar. The automatic garage door opened and the car glided inside.

“And it’s time I started demanding the truth,” Devon said, turning on his heel and running across the estate, leaving the gnome to fret over his inverted cauldron. Devon reached the garage and flung open its back door.

“Devon!” Mrs. Crandall cried, startled. She had just gotten out of the car. Her brother was emerging from the passenger’s side door.

Devon strode up to her and looked Mrs. Crandall straight in the eye. “My father sent me here because he hoped you’d protect me. He hoped you’d teach me, guide me.”

She made a face. “What ever are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the danger I find around every corner in this house. A danger you refuse to admit, or let me try to defeat.”

Edward slammed his car door shut. “You’re not starting that again, are you?”

Devon ignored him. “Who’s in the basement, Mrs. Crandall?”

She drew herself up, chin in the air. “I have no idea what you’re going on about.”

“Is it Isobel the Apostate?”

She looked at him with contempt. “This is all too absurd. I’m going in the house.” She brushed past him toward the corridor that led into Ravenscliff.

Devon followed. “I’ve heard her down there. And in the tower, too.”

Edward Muir was behind him. “You can be very irritating, you know that, Devon?”

Devon spun on him. “By the way, if you go looking for your son—not that it’s something you do very often—you might want to be careful.”

Edward lifted an eyebrow at him. “Careful?”

“Yeah. You wouldn’t want to get sprayed like Cecily did.”

Mrs. Crandall stopped as they entered the kitchen of the great house. “Sprayed?”

Devon faced them both. “Alexander has been turned into a skunk.”

“What?” Edward shouted.

“Oh, Devon, really,” Mrs. Crandall said, turning away.

Devon nodded. “Oh, yes. And guess who I suspect did it?”

“Isobel the Apostate,” Edward said, rolling his eyes.

“No.” Devon allowed for a dramatic pause. “Your fiancee.”

He watched both of their faces. Edward reacted as Devon expected: with outrage. But Mrs. Crandall’s face went white.

“How dare you?” Edward charged. “You stop this nonsense right now—”

“Listen to me,” Devon said. “We face a real danger. Isobel the Apostate wants to open the Hell Hole, and she’s manipulating people here. I believe she may be using Morgana in the same way she used D.J.”

“Edward,” Mrs. Crandall said, her voice suddenly serious. “Go upstairs and check on Alexander.”

Her brother flustered a bit but obeyed his sister’s order. When he was gone, Mrs. Crandall looked Devon carefully in the eye. For all her obstinacy, she was a smart woman. She had survived the cataclysm that had killed her father and remembered the days when sorcery was practiced openly at Ravenscliff.

“Are you saying,” Mrs. Crandall asked, “that you suspect Morgana is in league with Isobel the Apostate?”

“Not wittingly.” Devon still couldn’t believe that Morgana would do anything evil of her own accord. “But how else can I explain what she did to Alexander?”

“The boy… he was really changed into a… a…?”

“Skunk, Mrs. Crandall. Alexander is a skunk. And this whole house is going to be destroyed if we don’t act to save ourselves.”

“Isobel the Apostate… can it be true?”

“I want the truth,” Devon said to her, seeing the change in her eyes. “I know you hired Bjorn to watch over the woman in the tower, and now he’s transported her into the basement. I don’t know if I can trust Bjorn or not, but I want to trust you, Mrs. Crandall. My father sent me to you. I have to believe that he trusted you.”

She said nothing, but Devon could see she was considering his words.

He pressed on. “If you’re keeping Isobel prisoner somehow, perhaps in hopes that you’ll contain her power, you need to understand that she’s free. She’s found a way out.”

Mrs. Crandall closed her eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Devon.”

“Don’t lie to me anymore!”

“I’m not lying to you!” She was angry now. “If you say we face a threat from Isobel the Apostate, I believe you.”

Edward Muir rejoined them. “Okay,” he said, clearly annoyed. “So there’s a skunk in a crate in the boy’s room. That doesn’t prove anything.”

Mrs. Crandall eyed him coldly. “Will you always forfeit responsibility, Edward? Will you never face up to what you must do?”

He was taken back by her change in tone. He said nothing in response.

Mrs. Crandall turned back to Devon. “I will take care of this. I assure you of that.”

“You always say that. What can you possibly do without powers?”

“Please, Devon. Trust me. Go stay with Cecily.”

Edward glared down at him. “Where’s Morgana?”

Devon smiled, only too glad to tell him. “Let’s see. Last time I saw her, she was with Rolfe Montaigne. In his arms, actually. Looking quite cozy.”

Edward looked as if he’d have a coronary. His face turned purple, the veins in his forehead popped out and pulsated wildly. “How dare he —?”

“Edward!” Mrs. Crandall took hold of her brother’s arm. “There’s no time for that. We need to go upstairs and check on Mother.”

What do they do up there? Devon wondered. Whenever there was a crisis, they ran to Mother—a senile, bedridden old lady. Every time Mrs. Crandall had vowed she’d take care of things, she headed up there to check on Mother. What did she really do? What went on in the old lady’s room?

Whatever it was, Devon put no faith in it. Mrs. Crandall’s efforts had done little against the Madman; Devon held out no hope for a better result this time.

I’ve got to go back to my original plan. I’ve got to confront Rolfe and Morgana.

This time, his transporting power worked just fine. No longer caring whether he interrupted a lovers’ nest, he popped into view right in front of them, as they sat together in each other’s arms in front of a blazing fireplace.

“Devon!” Rolfe shouted, clearly startled.

“We need to talk,” the boy told him.

“I’m—I’m busy right now.”

“Yeah.” Devon glared at him. “I can see that.” He moved his eyes over to Morgana, who peered up at him sheepishly from under her long lashes. “Hello, Morgana.”

“Hello, Devon,” she said quietly.

Rolfe stood and approached the boy. “You need to leave. I can’t have you just popping in here without any notice whenever you feel like it—”

“I needed to, Rolfe! Things are happening! I just caught Bjorn conjuring up some spell on Devil’s Rock. Tell me what you found out about him! ”

Rolfe’s eyes were empty. “It’s nothing important. It doesn’t matter now.”

“Doesn’t matter? We’re in the midst of a crisis here!”

Rolfe looked at him coldly. “You’ll have to deal with it on your own.”

His words nearly toppled Devon over. “On my own? Rolfe, what’s happened to you?”

Rolfe moved his eyes away from Devon, gazing back at Morgana. He was like all the others, Devon realized—like Devon himself—completely spellbound by her. This was not Devon’s mentor, the one person he’d come to rely on, the only hope he had for ever understanding his past. Devon felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He watched as Rolfe turned away from him and sat back down with Morgana, pulling her close.

He couldn’t bear to watch. He closed his eyes. When he opened them he was outside Rolfe’s house. The snow was heavier now and the wind whipped angrily up from the sea, slashing against his face. He felt ridiculous, but he couldn’t help shedding a couple of tears.

“It’s just the wind, that’s all,” he said, wiping his face.

He looked up to see Roxanne walking toward him. She seemed to emerge from the snowy air, wearing no coat.

“Hello, Devon March.”

“Roxanne.” He composed himself. “Listen, you can’t go inside right now.”

She smiled at him sadly. “I know what I would find. Rolfe with Morgana.”

“You know?”

Roxanne nodded.

“I don’t know what’s come over him,” Devon said, surprised by how thick with emotion his voice sounded. “He’s changed. He’s not himself. I think a strike by Isobel the Apostate is going to happen any minute, and Rolfe doesn’t seem to care.”

“No, he doesn’t care. You’re right, Devon. Something has come over him. Something that has made him cold and distant and consumed by only one thing.” Roxanne looked off toward the house, her golden eyes shining with emotion. “That’s what happens when one is seduced by a succubus.”

“A—a what?”

“A succubus. A demon in the form of a woman.” Roxanne sighed. “She comes in the night, seducing mortal men, taking control of them.”

Devon was stunned. “But it can’t be. Morgana—she’s no demon.”

Roxanne said nothing, just held his gaze.

He wouldn’t believe it. “Look, here’s what I think. She’s being manipulated by Isobel the Apostate—”

“She is a succubus, Devon.” Roxanne placed her hands on Devon’s shoulders. “And she’s very dangerous. She will get inside your mind, cloud your thoughts, your reason.” She looked with concern over toward the house. “As she has done with Rolfe.”

Devon tried to resist the idea, but it made sense. Everything suddenly made sense: Rolfe’s behavior, D.J.’s infatuation, his own erotic dreams…

“What are we going to do?” Devon asked. “We need to help Rolfe.”

“Yes. I have come to do what I can.” She frowned. “But she is powerful, Devon.”

“I’ll help you,” he promised.

Roxanne shook her head. “Your powers will not work against her. The hold she has over you is too great. Only those who find no allure in her sensual charms can defeat her.”

Devon realized she was right. “But Isobel the Apostate is going to try to make me open the Hell Hole. Today! I can feel it. I need Rolfe—I can’t have him here, trapped by some—some succubus.”

“Go back to Ravenscliff, then. I will do what I can here. But remember this, Devon March.” She looked at him intently. “Your fear will cripple your power. Be not afraid, and you will be strong.”

He tried keeping her words in his head, but they did little good: he remained frightened, so frightened that he couldn’t make his powers work, and he has to hitchhike a ride back into town and, from there, climb the steep cliffside staircase to Ravenscliff.

When he staggered inside, shivering from the cold, he was surprised to see Marcus and Natalie sitting in the parlor with Cecily.

“What’s going on?” he asked, hanging up his coat.

“I asked them to come over,” Cecily said. “I called D.J. too, but he hasn’t shown up yet. I was getting worried about you. Bjorn said you’d gone a little mad.”

“Bjorn’s the one who’s mad,” Devon said, walking into the parlor. “I found him trying to conjure up the spirit of Isobel the Apostate. I’m sure of it.”

Cecily embraced him quickly, then looked into his eyes. “Mother said you told her it was Morgana who turned Alexander into a skunk.”

Devon looked around. “Where’s your mother now? And Edward?”

“With Grandmama.”

He shook his head. “Still up there, huh? What do they do up there?”

“Devon,” Marcus asked, “why do you think it was Morgana who did that to Alexander?”

“I heard her call him a skunk this morning.”

“That doesn’t mean she has any supernatural powers.”

Devon felt something twist down in his gut. He felt as if he was being disloyal to Morgana. He fought back the urge to protect her. “Well, she does,” he said. “I’ve just talked with Roxanne. Morgana’s got Rolfe under some kind of spell now. She’s a—” Devon could barely speak the word. “She’s a succubus.”

“A what?” Cecily asked.

“Nasty,” Natalie said. “Whatever it is, it sounds nasty.”

“It’s a demon in the form of a woman,” Devon said.

Cecily snorted. “And this is news? Maybe next time you’ll listen to me, Devon. I might not have powers or Voices in my head, but I know a few things.”

Marcus was nodding. “It made sense. Since our last go-round at the Hell Hole, I’ve been reading up on demonology at the library. A succubus takes the form of a woman. An incubus takes the shape of a man. That way they divide and conquer. But see, a succubus has no power over women. In fact, women can have an instinctive distrust.”

“That explains our feelings toward her,” Natalie said.

Marcus laughed. “Well, she didn’t count on one thing. See, I’ve been having these dreams about her, ever since I met her. Morgana slipped into my room at night and tried to seduce me in my dreams.”

“Yeah,” Devon admitted, not looking at Cecily. “Me, too.”

“But I’m gay,” Marcus said. “She didn’t know that, of course, so she was trying to get me under her spell just like she had you, D.J., Edward, and now Rolfe. But with me she failed.” Marcus seemed rather pleased with himself. “My lack of response was making her angry. Night after night, my dreams of her got worse. I started seeing her vent her frustration. I saw the evil behind those gentle eyes.”

The front doorbell chimed. They all jumped. Cecily peered through the window and announced D.J. had arrived. She opened the door and their pierced, wiry friend shambled into the foyer, looking as if he’d had no sleep for days.

Devon approached him. “You okay, buddy?”

“My butt’s still a little sore from where I came down hard in that snow,” he said.

They all headed into the parlor to sit in front of the fireplace and make some plans. No one had any great ideas, truth be told, and Devon was getting edgier by the minute. The heat and the pressure was building at a rapid rate now, and the Voice kept telling him over and over, like that dumb old Lost in Space robot, Danger! Danger! Danger!

“Okay,” Devon finally said, trying to get a grip on his fear, “here’s the situation we’re facing. Rolfe is out of commission. He can’t help us. Alexander has been turned into a skunk, and I’m not sure how we’re going to turn him back. Mrs. Crandall and her brother are upstairs with their mother, doing God knows what. I believe Bjorn is working in league with Isobel the Apostate. That leaves us here, by ourselves, to defend the Hell Hole.”

“I think I hear my mother calling,” Natalie said in a small voice.

Devon looked at her. “You should go now. All of you. There’s no reason for you all to be put in danger, not again.”

“We’re in this together, man,” Marcus told him. “Right, D.J.?”

D.J. hesitated, then nodded.

Cecily was near tears. “I’m so sorry my crazy family has such awful skeletons in its closet.”

“Look,” Devon said. “Before you all decide anything definite, I need to tell you about a vision I had. My father showed it to me when I used his ring.”

They all looked at Devon with wide eyes.

“In the vision, I opened the Hell Hole. I was forced into it somehow. And the demons took over this house, destroying it.” His voice cracked. “And they killed all of you.”

“All of us?” Natalie asked.

Devon nodded. “I saw you all. Dead.”

The friends were quiet. D.J. stood and walked over to the window, looking out onto the cliffs below. They could hear the surf from where they were, crashing and violent.

“I wouldn’t blame any of you for leaving,” Devon said.

Marcus looked at him intently, his eyes aglow. “I’m not leaving you, Devon.”

Natalie was trembling. Cecily put her arm around her.

D.J. turned to them. He was crying. Devon was stunned. D.J.—stoic, cynical D.J., shedding tears?

“I’m sorry,” D.J. said. “I didn’t want to do it. But she was inside my head. She made me do it.”

Devon stood, walking over to him. “Made you do what, D.J.? And who? Who are you talking about?”

“Dude, I’m so sorry.” D.J. grabbed ahold of Devon’s hands. “Please forgive me! I love all you guys. I’d never want to do anything to hurt you—”

“Tell me what you did, D.J.!” Devon shouted.

“I led them here! Led them here and now it’s too late!”

All at once the windows blew inward, raining shards of glass all over the room. The five friends dove for cover behind couches and chairs but none of them escaped some injury. The shattering of the glass was followed by a horrible screech, loud enough to topple the suit of armor standing in the corner.

But then the worst terror of all: an enormous black demon, with the head of a dragon and a wingspan of at least ten feet, flew into the room, its giant claws clutching for anything it can grasp.

“Remember!” Devon shouted to his friends. “You share my powers! Don’t be afraid! Fight as you’ve done before! Just trust your body to know what to do!”

The screeching demon was followed by dozens of ravens, tiny and insignificant compared to its monstrous size. But the dark-winged protectors of the great house were fearless, flying at the beast, their little beaks pecking at its hard, reptilian skin, even if most of them were swatted away like so many flies.

The demon landed on its back two feet, folding in its terrible wings. It twisted its hideous neck this way and that, its gigantic glassy eyes searching the room for prey.

And it spotted him.

“It’s me you want,” Devon shouted. “Not the others!”

The thing screeched.

“Come on, ugly,” Devon said. “I’ve taken on far worse than you. Come on!”

Just then the doors to the parlor swung open behind him. Natalie screamed. There stood two more demons, identical to each other, skeletal humanoids rubbing their rotting hands eagerly together.

“Fight!” Devon commanded.

And his friends obeyed. Marcus was first, springing at the winged demon as if he had rockets in his shoes, landing a hefty elbow punch right in the thing’s eye. The beast screamed, extending its wings, knocking dozens of books from the shelves and sending them scattering to the floor.

Devon meanwhile lunged at the two creatures behind him, landing a powerful double blow across both of their chins, sending them staggering backwards. Cecily quickly moved in to assist, disappearing and then rematerializing behind the demons, where she landed a swift roundhouse kick to the backbone of the first one. It fell to the ground but its mate, enraged, charged at her.

“Prepare to meet your doom,” the demon rasped, raising its arms.

Cecily smirked at the thing. “Excuse me a minute while I pat down my goosebumps, okay?” Then she lashed out with one—two—three—swift karate chops, leaving the demon in a clump on the floor.

“See?” she said. “I knew I’d be a natural at this Nightwing stuff.”

The winged demon, its eye gouged out and dripping red pus onto the floor, was emitting a horrible shrill call. Natalie crippled one of its legs with a cheerleading kick that suddenly took on superhuman force. The beast was furious, raging in pain around the room, knocking aside everything in its path.

One of the humanoids had recovered enough to come back at Devon. But it was knocked down before Devon even had a chance to defend himself—by D.J., leaping through the air and slamming both feet against the beast’s chest. The thing went down, sliding across the floor through the foyer to come to a crashing stop against the front doors.

“Thanks,” Devon told him.

“This is only the beginning,” D.J. said.” There are more, lots more. We’ve got to be strong.”

The wounded demon in the center of the room was still making that terrible sound. “It’s a distress call,” Devon realized. “Get ready!”

At that very moment, dozens of the beasts flew through the window—so many that it was hard to make them all out. The room reeked with their filthy odor. Bug-eyed flying things that looked like huge, hideous insects. Scaly snakelike things that came slithering over the broken glass of the window. Hairy pig-like creatures with mouths full of fangs. Lizards that walked like men. Humanoids with glassy eyes and bones sticking through their flesh.

“There are too many!” Natalie cried out.

Devon was in the foyer, fighting off some shrieking, furry thing, so he couldn’t see her. But he heard Natalie’s scream—a scream that was quickly silenced.

“She’s down!” he heard Marcus cry in panic. “Natalie is down!”

“That’s my best friend you just hit,” Cecily shouted. Devon watched as she leapt to Natalie’s defense toward some hulking, hairy thing. “You big brute! Haven’t you ever heard it’s not good form to hit a lady?”

“Cecily!” Devon called out. “Be careful!”

She landed a solid blow against the demon’s head, but now Devon felt tentacles wrap around him from behind, squeezing the breath out of him. He broke free, but his heart was pounding high in his chest.

Don’t be afraid, he told himself. Your fear is your downfall. You can’t be afraid.

But it’s my vision—it’s coming true. The destruction of the house, my friends being killed—

No! It can’t happen!

He saw D.J. bravely throw himself against a reptilian demon three times his size, only to be batted away, slammed against the wall.

“You see? It is happening.”

Devon spun around.

A cloaked and hooded figure stood behind him.

“Open the portal, Devon,” the figure told him in a whispered voice. “Open the portal or watch your friends die, one by one.”

“No!”

The cloaked figure drew closer. Devon couldn’t see its face. He couldn’t tell who—or what—it was. A demon—or something else?

“Open the portal, Devon. It is your destiny. Your path to true power. Ultimate power. Beyond anything that’s been promised you so far.”

Why did this figure terrify him so?

“Who—who are you?” he asked.

“You know who I am, Devon.”

The voice. He’d heard it before.

“Isobel?” he asked in a tiny voice.

He heard Marcus scream. He turned, but couldn’t spot him in the midst of all the screeching, flying demons.

“Your friends are falling,” the cloaked figure told him. “Come with me, Devon. Open the portal!”

“Don’t do it, Devon!” It was Cecily. He saw her on the stairs, battling a beast with six arms. She stood in the exact spot where his vision had showed him she would die, in a pool of blood at the foot of the stairs.

“We can still win, Devon!” Cecily told him. “Don’t open the Hell Hole! No matter what happens, don’t open the Hell Hole!”

She’s going to die! Devon thought, his greatest fear coming true. The vision was right! This is how it will end!

The cloaked figure was nearly upon him. “Open the portal, Devon! Now!”

The grandfather clock chimed nine o’clock.

“No!” Devon shouted—and turned, running down the corridor toward the library, away from the door to the East Wing.

I’ll draw them away from Cecily and the others! It’s me they want!

Indeed the beasts followed, and Devon’s fear mounted.

There’s no way out! Natalie and Marcus may already be dead. D.J., too. And Cecily—

He heard her scream.

A beast was upon him, sharp talons gouging into his throat. He struggled to fight it off, but he couldn’t. It was too strong—or he was suddenly too weak. Devon grabbed onto the nearest thing he could find to steady himself—the doorknob of a linen closet. The door swung open under his grip.

He gasped, the talons slicing into his throat. He saw that the door revealed not a linen closet, but a staircase, leading down.

Devon stumbled onto the stairs as he finally shook the demon from his back. He began to run down the steps as the thing pursued him, snarling and spitting at his neck.

Only then did Devon fully understand that he was descending the Stairway Into Time.

The Dark Tunnel

“Here, Devon! This way!”

A man was calling to him, and taking hold of his arm, trying to pull him from the stairs. With the demon breathing down his back, Devon wasn’t fully aware of who the guy was, and the sounds around him made no sense at first. There was light—bright, eye-squinting light. It occurred to Devon that, just like his first trip down this staircase, he found himself no longer inside the farther he went down the stairs, but outdoors. Bright sunlight dappled the last few remaining steps of the Staircase Into Time, which ended at a dusty cobblestone road.

The demon lunged again, landing on Devon’s back. Its talons gripped him around the waist. Devon swung back with a fierce elbow thrust and the beast howled in pain.

“Send it away, Devon,” the man was shouting. “You can do it!”

Devon threw the brute off his back, spinning around to face it. The thing gnashed its yellow teeth, dripping great gobs of green saliva all over the cobblestones.

“You have the power,” the man was urging. “You are Nightwing!”

For the first time Devon realized who this observer was: the same man in the brown hooded robe and long white beard he’d seen on his first, aborted trip down the Staircase.

“Banish it, Devon!” the man was telling him. “Before it attacks again!”

Devon turned his attention back to the demon. It was about to spring, its hideous yellow eyes flashing.

You have the power, Devon. You are Nightwing!

“Back to where you came,” Devon called out. “I command you! Go back to hell!”

The thing howled, its ugly snout lifted to the sky. Then it was sucked up into the air, rocketed away into nothingness.

“You did it!” the bearded man exclaimed.

Devon leaned against a building for support, breathing heavily. His eyes scanned his surroundings. A small crowd had gathered to watch the battle between the boy and the demon. Devon realized he was standing in a village square, and more people were gazing down at him from second-floor windows. From the architecture of the buildings—half-timbered black-and-white houses, flattened arches, checkerboard chimneys clustered in groups—Devon realized he was in Tudor England.

I’ve gone back in time, he said to himself, awed. Back to the time of Isobel the Apostate.

“The boy must be a sorcerer to do what he did,” one man shouted from the crowd. “He must be in league with the witch!”

“You are fools to think such,” the bearded man told them. “You witnessed what he did here. He sent the filthy demon back to hell—the same kind of demon that has been plaguing your homes and families lo these many months. He can help you! He can stop the witch!”

The crowd murmured to itself, still looking at Devon with disbelief.

“I—I need to go,” Devon managed to say.

“Yes, you have important business to attend to,” the man said, taking his arm. “My good people, what you witnessed here today marks the end of your suffering. From all over the world the great Nightwing are arriving in England, and they will be told of the devilry of the Witch of York.”

Devon looked up at the man. He’d seen him before, and not just during his earlier trip down the stairs. Somewhere else, too…

But there was no time to figure it out. “Look,” Devon told the man, “what I meant was that I’ve got to go. Back up the staircase. Back to my own time. My friends are in danger.”

“But you have come to defeat the witch, have you not?”

Devon managed a small smile. “I’m doing my best to accomplish that in my own time. Really, I’ve got to go.”

The man released his grip on Devon’s arm. The teen took a deep breath and started across the square, heading back to the staircase. It was now just a series of stone steps that led up the side of a building to a wooden door.

“Please!” an old woman cried, rushing out of the crowd. She was dressed in rags and her face was dirty. She grabbed Devon by the hand. “Do not leave us! She has killed my whole family! Save us from the witch!”

“Save us!” someone else called out.

Devon looked back at them uncomfortably. “Um, look, I’m really sorry and all—”

“Burn the witch!” the crowd began to chant. “You must burn the witch!”

“I—I don’t have time,” Devon protested, feeling ridiculously guilty. But then he remembered his friends: Cecily, D.J., Marcus, and Natalie might have been dead already. He’d left them right in the middle of battle, and every second he delayed made it more likely they would be killed. “Look,” Devon said, “I can tell you this much. She will burn. I know. I’m from the future. I read all about it. She’ll burn and you’ll all be safe.”

He turned quickly, not wanting to see their dazed, pitiful faces anymore. He hurried up the stairs but paused outside the door to look back.

“This is the door to the future,” he shouted down to them. “Please believe me that everything is going to work out all right for you.”

The crowd remained silent, looking up at him with bewilderment.

He opened the door.

A woman screamed.

“Help!” she called. “Thomas, help me!”

She was taking a bath in a big round wooden tub.

Devon gulped, looking around the room. This wasn’t Ravenscliff. This was a fifteenth-century inn. Thomas—Devon quickly pegged him as the woman’s husband—came barging through another door, his eyes bugging out of his head.

“My mistake!” Devon shouted. “I’m sorry!”

He rushed back out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

The crowd below was laughing at him.

“The door to the future?” one man shouted out. “The door to Mistress Bessie’s inn, I do think.”

Devon felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment. The crowd was dispersing, laughing, shaking their heads, their belief in him gone.

“Hey,” Devon called after them. “I still managed to kick that demon butt back to hell for you.”

“And they are grateful for it,” the bearded man told him from the foot of the stairs. “But they are looking for a savior. Not a boy who bungles his way into a lady’s bath.”

“But these are the stairs, aren’t they? The ones I came down when I arrived from the future?”

“They are indeed,” the man said as Devon descended, scratching his head. “But the Staircase Into Time appears and disappears of its own accord. Who knows where it may appear next—if anywhere at all.”

“But it’s got to,” Devon said, desperate now. “I’ve got to get back. I’ve got to save my friends. They’re this close to getting killed.”

The bearded man in the hooded robe looked down at him with wise old eyes. “My boy, your friends are in no danger.”

“How can you say that? I just left them—the demons are loose and I know Natalie and Marcus are already down—Cecily was near to being taken out, too.”

The man laughed. “My boy, it is the year fourteen-hundred-and-ninety, year five of our great lord King Henry. Your friends are in no danger. They will not even be born for more than five hundred years.”

Devon looked into the man’s deep blue eyes. “Now I remember where I’ve seen you,” he said at last. “In my visions, when I’ve read The Book of Enlightenment. Except then you were always wearing a purple robe with stars on it.”

“Ah, yes, my ceremonial garb. Which I will don tomorrow, for the opening day of Witenagemot.” He smiled. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Wiglaf, a teacher at the great school of the Nightwing in the southwest of England. I am a Guardian, and I have been waiting for you, Devon March.”

Devon considered him a little suspiciously. “How do you know who I am?”

“I was asked to meet you here at this spot. I was given specific instructions, and details about your situation. I was told you’d probably be a bit disoriented.”

“Who asked you to meet me?”

“There’s time for talk later,” Wiglaf told him, dropping his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “First we need to get you into proper clothing.” The Guardian shuddered. “Is this the costume to which we must look forward, half a millennium hence?”

“Hey, these chucks cost me eighty bucks.”

Wiglaf was reading Devon’s sweatshirt. “And who are Abercrombie and Fitch? Are they sorcerers in your time?”

Devon laughed. “Only to teenage consumers.”

The Guardian clearly had no clue what he was talking about. “Come with me. I have arranged for a proper doublet and a pair of boots for you. If you are going to attend the Witenagemot, you must not arrive in—” He hesitated, trying to remember the distasteful name. “Chucks.”

They traveled about half a mile along the dusty cobblestone road. The gutters of the street stunk with rotting pig and chicken flesh, mixed with moldy human waste. Rats swarmed everywhere. A woman dumped a bucket of brown slop from an upper window as they passed. It splashed into the gutter, causing Devon to jump back.

“Sewers haven’t been invented yet, I guess,” Devon said, holding his nose.

“Sewers?” Wiglaf asked. “What are sewers?”

“Oh, believe me. You’ll appreciate them.” He shuddered. “I’ll never take them for granted again.”

“They must be very wondrous indeed.”

“That’s not the word usually used in connection with sewers, but you’ve got a point.” They turned down a narrow alleyway. “So tell me about Witenagemot.”

“No,” Wiglaf whispered. “Too many ears everywhere. And already news of your little exhibition earlier is spreading like wildfire throughout the town.”

The Voice was telling Devon that he could trust Wiglaf. But as fascinating as he found the prospect of attending a Witenagemot, he remained uneasy about slipping out in the middle of a fight, leaving Cecily and the others on their own. And poor Alexander was still a skunk, trapped in a dog crate.

But Alexander isn’t born yet, Devon reminded himself. Neither is Cecily, or any of them. So how can they be in danger? It boggled his mind. He just hoped he could get back in time to help his friends finish the battle.

He followed Wiglaf through a small door of a wooden house at the end of the alleyway. Blackened oak timbers supported whitewashed plaster walls, with the second story of the house projecting out over the first. They climbed steep, narrow steps and emerged into a small room, unfurnished except for a wooden table and two chairs near the window overlooking the street. There was also an ornately carved wooden chest in the center of the room. Devon made out the engraving to be a sorcerer battling a dragon.

“Sargon?” he asked Wiglaf. “Looks like pictures I’ve seen of him.”

“Yes, indeed. The chest depicts the great Sargon slaying the dragon.”

“None of the pictures of him resemble what he really looked like.” Devon smiled, a little smugly. “I know. I’ve met him in person.”

“You’re his hundredth-generation descendant,” Wiglaf said as he opened the lid of the chest. “I’m sure he found a way of meeting you. Tell me, was he impressed?”

Devon just grunted and looked away. When he looked back at Wiglaf, the Guardian was smiling. He seemed to know all about Devon’s less-than-satisfactory encounter with his famous ancestor.

“How do you know so much about me?” Devon asked. “How’d you even know that I’m hundredth generation?”

“Never mind that now. Put these on.”

He handed Devon a pair of padded breeches, a tight-fitting doublet of satin brocade trimmed in fur, and a hat made out of fur, too. Ermine, Devon thought.

He looked down at the clothes with a pained expression. “I’m supposed to wear this stuff?”

“Well, you’re not supposed to eat it.” Wiglaf folded his arms across his chest. “Please, Devon. Don’t tarry. Just put them on.”

Devon obliged. “I look like Little Lord Fauntleroy,” he griped, placing the mink hat on his head at a jaunty angle. “Cecily would so hate that this is real fur. She’s big into animal rights and all that.”

“You look like a proper English squire, and that’s precisely what is necessary for you to move about with ease.”

“So why am I here? I thought I just blundered my way down the Staircase Into Time. But you were expecting me.”

“Yes, I was.” Wiglaf motioned for him to sit with him at the table. They looked out onto the street below. “You see, Devon, it grows dark. Look at the fear on the faces of the villagers. Watch how they pull their shutters inward, bolt them against the witch.”

“Isobel the Apostate,” Devon said.

“Yes. I have been told that is how she will be remembered in the Nightwing history. But now she is known simply as Lady Isobel Plantagenet, the Witch of York.”

“She claims royal blood,” Devon said. “She’s trying to overthrow Henry the Seventh.”

Wiglaf nodded. “And there are many, both here and on the Continent, who would like nothing more than to see the King usurped. She has made allies. Important allies who protect her. Meanwhile, she ravages the villages and the countryside, building her own army with the aid of her creatures from hell.”

“So what am I supposed to do about it?”

“That much I do not know. I was simply told that you would be arriving on this particular day from the future, and that you had a destiny with the witch.” Wiglaf smiled. “For a moment earlier today I thought my instructions might have been wrong. For you appeared but turned around and went back up the stairs, disappearing back to your own time.”

Devon laughed. “That wasn’t today. That was weeks ago.”

Again Wiglaf smiled. “My boy, you need to surrender your concepts of time. Once one begins to travel through it, time is no longer linear. What was to you weeks ago was naught but a few hours for me.”

“That’s freaky.”

“I assume you mean that it is bewildering. Yes, it is. I had a difficult time grasping the concept myself at first. But, of course, I had the advantage of having it explained to me by one of the great Nightwing masters of time.” Wiglaf paused. “The very man, in fact, who instructed me, nearly two hundred years ago, to wait for you today.”

“Who, Wiglaf? Who told you to meet me?”

“His name is Horatio Muir.”

Devon was stunned. “Horatio Muir? But that’s impossible! Horatio Muir isn’t even born yet. Just like my friends!”

“What did I just explain to you? Horatio Muir built the Staircase Into Time. He has traveled both far into the past and well into the future.”

“But I’ve never met him. He died long before I came to Ravenscliff.”

Wiglaf gently knocked his fist against the side of Devon’s head. “Is your head made of wood, boy? Have you been absorbing anything I’ve said? Time is not the orderly progression you have always assumed it to be. You will meet Horatio Muir at some point. It hasn’t happened yet along your own particular time continuum, but it has along his. When he made his journey to the year 1304—when I was just a young lad of ninety-nine years old—he had already met you, and he knew of the battle you would wage against Isobel the Apostate in the early part of the third millennium. He also knew that you would arrive here in the year 1490—on today’s exact date—and he asked me to wait for you.” Wiglaf grinned. “He knew you would be a little confused.”

“Confused doesn’t begin to cut it,” Devon said, rubbing his temples. “This is wigging me out, Wiglaf.”

“Just keep your mind on the present. That’s all there is.”

“But Cecily—”

He wasn’t able to finish, because they were distracted by a loud noise on the street below. A man was shouting, pointing up at the sky. An enormous demon dropped into view—an apelike creature with reptilian wings on its back. Devon couldn’t help but think of the winged monkeys from The Wizard of Oz.

“It would appear that your services are needed below,” Wiglaf said dryly.

“Superman to the rescue,” Devon said, a little wearily. He snapped his fingers and he was outside on the street. The flying monkey had attached itself to the window of a second story and the man was throwing stones at it.

“It’s going to take my children!” the man shouted in terror.

“Hey, man, take it easy,” Devon called up to him. “I can handle this.”

The demon turned and hissed, spotting Devon down in the street. It leapt from the building at him. Devon braced himself for the impact.

But it didn’t come. The demon stopped in mid-air, a look of surprise on its ugly face. Something had caught it from behind. Devon watched as the beast was suddenly swung around by its wings—by a girl who looked exactly like Cecily!

“To your stinking netherworld!” the girl cried, and with one fling of her arm, sent the creature hurtling through the sky over the rooftops of the village.

“The Nightwing have arrived!” the man in the window was shouting. “The Nightwing have come to save us!”

The girl who looked like Cecily landed beside Devon and smiled. “You must be quick, my friend. You mustn’t tarry so long as you did just now. It gave them too much opportunity. Take them from behind, when they are unawares.”

“Cecily?” he stammered.

“My name is Gisele.”

Devon couldn’t speak momentarily, stunned by the resemblance. This girl—this Nightwing—was the exact image of Cecily: red hair, green eyes, the same saucy lift to her chin.

“I hail from Zeeland and the court of the Count of Flanders,” Gisele was saying. “I am here for Witenagemot. And you?”

It was clear that she recognized Devon as a fellow Nightwing. He tried to stammer out a reply. “I am… Devon March.”

“A curious name. Is it English?”

He considered how much to reveal, and decided on caution. “Uh, yes. Yes, it is.” He considered her accent. It was different than the old English that Wiglaf speaks. “But you’re not from here, are you?”

“I am from Flanders. My father is Arnulf, my mother Sybilla of Ghent, and we come from the line of Wilhelm of Holland, the great Nightwing artist.” She smiled, evidently proud of her lineage. “And from which line do you descend, Devon March?”

“Uh, I’m—um—well, I descend from Sargon the Great.”

Gisele raised her eyebrows. “But we all do. Who is your father?”

“I don’t know.” Devon swallowed. “I’m Nightwing. That’s all I know.”

She gave him a bemused look. “A captivating tale, I would think. You have no knowledge, none at all, of your parentage?”

“None at all.” This was a new voice. Devon turned. It was Wiglaf, coming up behind them. “The boy is under my guardianship for the moment, Gisele.”

“Wiglaf!” The girl hurried to him, embracing him warmly. “I was so looking forward to seeing you.”

“You know each other?” Devon asked.

Gisele turned to him. “Wiglaf was my teacher for several years when I attended the school in the southwest of England. Did you not attend there as well, Devon March? I thought all Nightwing children were trained there.”

“Not for this young master, I regret to say,” Wiglaf told her. “Devon was not told of his heritage until very recently.”

“Yeah,” Devon admitted. “I have a lot of catching up to do.”

Gisele seemed puzzled. “But you are here for Witenagemot, just as my parents and I are?”

Devon shrugged. “So Wiglaf told me.”

“It’s my first,” Gisele said, batting her lashes a bit and smiling at him. “I should enjoy being with someone for whom it will also be the first time.”

Devon blushed. Was she flirting with him? She looked so much like Cecily that he definitely felt drawn to her. It was weird: he felt both a little guilty and completely natural when he smiled back at her.

“My father says there is to be a secret meeting tomorrow, before the official ceremony began,” Gisele told Wiglaf.

“You must be quiet about that,” Wiglaf chastised her. “You must say nothing too loudly, for the Witch has ears everywhere.”

Devon drew close to them. “The secret meeting. It’s about Isobel, right?”

Wiglaf nodded. “The Nightwing have determined something must be done. She is to be officially named an Apostate.”

Gisele shivered. “I’ve heard of Apostates before. So she is the one who sent the demon I vanquished.”

“Lady Isobel has set many demons free upon this land,” Wiglaf explained. “She must be destroyed.”

“But how?” Gisele asked.

“That is for the Nightwing to decide, not me.” Wiglaf sighed. “I am just a Guardian.” He put his arms around the shoulders of both young people. “Now take us to your parents, Gisele. I suspect my young ward would enjoy meeting them.”

That he certainly did. To Devon’s astonishment, Gisele’s mother looked exactly like Mrs. Crandall—except that Sybilla of Ghent is warm and inviting, offering him a cup of hot broth as he sat in front of the fire. For the moment, Gisele’s father was not in their suite of rooms at Kelvedon House, loaned to them by an English Nightwing for the duration of Witenagemot. Devon wondered if Arnulf will look like Cecily’s father. Of course, Devon would have no way of judging, as he’d never seen Peter Crandall. Not even a picture.

But when Gisele’s father walked through the door, Devon was stunned.

Arnulf of Zeeland was the spitting image of Rolfe Montaigne!

“Devon March, this is my father,” Gisele said.

Arnulf stood tall over him, looking down with Rolfe’s piercing green eyes. “Welcome to you, my young friend. Wiglaf tells me you know not your father. It is a pitiful thing, and a condition I hope you can remedy.”

“I intend to,” Devon told him. “I am determined to discover the truth of who I am.”

It was uncanny, watching these people. Devon could swear they were Rolfe, Cecily and Mrs. Crandall dressed up for some costume party. But the warm embrace exchanged between Arnulf and Sybilla, husband and wife, convinced Devon that these were very different people from the two foes of the twenty-first century. Yet it gave Devon a little glimpse into the affection once shared between Amanda Muir Crandall and Rolfe Montaigne, a love that had now turned into hatred and resentment.

Now turned into? Sipping his ale at the long wooden table, Devon reminded himself yet again that time was no longer linear. There was no “now” but the present—and the present was 1490. Not only had Rolfe and Mrs. Crandall yet to begin their feud, they had yet to even be born. Their grandparents, their great-grandparents—even their great-great-great-great-great-grandparents—had yet to be born!

But Devon had to find a way to return to his own time. As much as he wanted to attend the Witangemot, he’d rather be back with his friends, making sure they were safe. What if he was trapped here? What if that had been Isobel’s plan all along? To send him back here so she could have free rein at Ravenscliff in the future. Maybe she knew she’d defeat him here and, armed with that knowledge, had dispatched him from the twenty-first century to meet his destiny here. It suddenly all started to make sickening sense to him.

“More ale, my young friend?” Arnulf asked him.

“Sure,” Devon said. Back home, he wasn’t old enough to drink beer. But here in the sixteenth century, he was already a man. Fifteen-year-olds got married, owned property, marched off to war. He’d learned that in Mr. Weatherby’s class—or, rather, he would learn that, five centuries from now.

He couldn’t help grinning wryly to himself. If I am trapped here, I’ll be the first person in history to have the dates on my tombstone in reverse. My birth year will be later than my death year.

“Devon March,” Gisele said, coming around to the end of the table where Devon sat, “care you to walk with me outside? There is a full moon.”

The ale had made him a little heady. “Sure,” he said. He noticed the small smile Wiglaf gave him. Then the Guardian returned to the discussion he was having with Arnuf and Sybilla about the secret Nightwing convocation to be held the next day.

Outdoors the village was quiet, seemingly deserted. “They are all afraid,” Gisele said. “This Witch—she has control of a very large portal, I would assume.”

Devon looked at her. “You ever been down a Hell Hole?”

Her eyes widened. “Of course not. Have you?”

“Yeah,” he said nonchalantly. “I went down there to rescue a kid. Didn’t take all that long.”

Gisele seemed stunned. “You went into a Hell Hole to rescue a goat?”

Devon laughed. “No, a human kid. A child. A little boy.”

Her eyes danced in wonder. “And you made it out alive? Oh, Devon March, how brave of you.”

He smiled. He liked impressing her, especially after she beat him to the punch in defeating that demon earlier.

“You know,” he said, “it must be pretty awesome growing up with Nightwing parents, going to a Nightwing school. All my life I’ve just had to wonder what my powers were, why I could do things other kids—other children—could not.”

“I expect that would have been very difficult for you.” Gisele smiled up at him, the moonlight reflecting off her face. “Tell me, Devon March. Are you betrothed?”

“Betrothed? You mean, like, engaged to be married?”

She nodded.

“Well, where I come from fifteen is a little young to be thinking about that. But I do have a girlfriend.” He grinned. “You remind me an awful lot of her.”

Gisele seemed to consider the word. “Are you planning on going back to this place where you come from? To this girl-friend?”

He sighed. “I hope so. But I’m not sure I know how.”

Gisele took his hand in hers. “Perhaps you will come back to my country with me. It is beautiful this time of year. The tulips are growing. There are boats we can take, on the canals…”

Devon began to blush a bit, and tried to change the subject. “So, what did they teach in Nightwing school? Did you learn about—?”

But his eyes caught something moving across the street. Something small, lurking in the shadows. A patch of moonlight suddenly reveals what it was—or, rather, who.

It is Bjorn Forkbeard.

Devon took off after him.

“Devon!” Gisele cried. “It is just a gnome!”

But he kept chasing the little man down the street. Despite Devon’s cries to stop, Bjorn continued on his way, scurrying through the shadows.

Gisele caught up with Devon. “What do you want from him?”

“I know him,” Devon told her.

At first glance, Devon had been inclined to chalk it up to yet another extraordinary resemblance. After all, everyone else from Ravenscliff seemed to have a double in this time. Why not Bjorn?

Until Devon suddenly remembered that Bjorn was six-hundred-and-sixty-two years old in the twenty-first century. Meaning that he would be alive now, in 1490. The gnome Devon saw wasn’t Bjorn’s double: it was Bjorn himself.

“I have reason to suspect he’s allied with Isobel,” Devon told Gisele. “I’ve seen him calling on the spirits, stirring a witch’s cauldron. He’s in league with her. I know it.”

“Then we should tell my parents, and the other Nightwing,” Gisele suggested, pulling on Devon’s doublet to make him stop.

He leaned in close to her. “What’s the matter? You can swing flying monkeys around by their wings but you’re afraid of a little gnome?”

Gisele huffed. “I am not afraid, Devon March.”

“Then come with me.”

“I shall.”

“Good.”

They resumed their pursuit. Devon suspected that seeing Bjorn here was no mere coincidence: he was meant to discover him here and his connection to Isobel. In fact, Devon was starting to believe, Bjorn was probably the one who brought Isobel to Ravenscliff, just as Simon had once done with the Madman. Bjorn wanted power in the same desperate way Simon had wanted it—the kind of power he could only get by assisting an Apostate in opening the Hell Hole.

“He’s gone in there,” Gisele said. “That door behind the tavern.”

Devon saw him too. He strained to pull open the heavy oaken door that Bjorn had just so effortlessly moved through. “They’re strong, these little guys,” Devon told Gisele. “But we have sorcery. Gnomes don’t. Stand back, please.”

He waved his hand majestically, willing the door to open. It didn’t budge. The powers don’t work merely to impress, the Voice reminded him. Devon realized he was still smarting a little over the fact that Gisele had showed him up in the battle with the demon, and he was hoping to dazzle her a bit with his own sorcery.

“Shall I try?” she asked.

“No,” he grunted, managing to yank the door open with his own muscle power. “There are some things better done without any magic.” It creaked open and they slipped into the darkened room.

“How cold it is,” Gisele said, shivering.

Devon tried to look around. “Wish I had a flashlight.”

“You need light?” Gisele asked. “So be it.”

She snapped her fingers and the room was suddenly filled with a hundred candles, each offering flickering golden light.

Devon looked back at her. “So how come you can just do that? My powers aren’t nearly so reliable.”

“You must practice, Devon March. Now be vigilant.”

The candlelight revealed only wooden kegs of ale. Only the one door led into the room, so Bjorn couldn’t have gone out another way.

“He’s a crafty one,” Devon said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was hiding in one of these kegs.”

“He’d emerge quite drunk if he were,” Gisele said.

Devon concentrated. Maybe it was easy for Gisele to just snap her fingers and suddenly bring forth light, but there was more to being a Nightwing than magic tricks. There was what Dad used to call sensitivity. You got ideas, thoughts, impulses. Yes, the Voice told him. See with your mind, not just your eyes.

“Under there,” Devon said suddenly, pointing to a couple of overturned kegs. “Roll them away.”

Gisele obeyed. On the earthen floor behind the kegs was revealed a small wooden trapdoor with a bronze ring attached.

“A portal,” Gisele breathed.

“But I feel no heat, no pressure,” Devon said. “It can’t be a Hell Hole.”

“Then what might it be?”

“Only one way to find out,” Devon said.

He curled several fingers through the bronze ring and yanked at the door. Once again it was very heavy. He dared not try his powers again just in case they failed, so Gisele leaned in to help him. Together they managed to lift it, revealing a dark hole—a tunnel—below.

“Did the gnome go down there?”

“Yes,” Devon told her, the Voice confirming it for him. “And I’ve got to follow.”

“Not alone you won’t.”

“Gisele, I don’t know what’s down there. I have nothing to lose. I’m not from this place. I don’t belong here. But you do—you have parents, friends, a whole life here.”

She stiffened. “I am a Sorcerer of the Order of the Nightwing.”

Devon couldn’t hold back a smile. “Yes, you are.” She was just like Cecily. Exactly. Stubborn and proud. And it reminded Devon that, powers or not, Cecily descended from Nightwing stock, too.

So both of them started down the tunnel. It bore through the earth at a gentle slope, nothing too steep, but they were definitely going down. It was narrow at first but grew wider as they traveled. Not wanting to signal Bjorn that he was being followed, they remained in the dark.

“If this isn’t a Hell Hole,” Gisele whispered, “how was it created? What could possibly cut through the earth in this way?”

“A gnome could. Look.” He indicated the rough surface of the tunnel’s sides, which were covered with little ridges and valleys the size of fingertips. “Have you never seen a gnome’s fingernails? Harder than stone. They built mines like this all through northern Europe with their bare hands.”

Gisele shivered. “Gnomes give me the oopalas,” she said.

“The what?”

She laughed. “The Voice in my head said to tell you ‘the creeps.’”

Devon smirked. “Look how well we’re communicating and we’ve barely known each other a day.”

Gisele started to say something back but was distracted. “There!” she whispered, pointing past him. “Up ahead.”

Devon saw a small, flickering light. It had to be Bjorn. The gnome had paused in a larger hollowed-out area of the tunnel. Devon waited until they were only a few feet behind him before calling out.

“Bjorn Forkbeard!”

The gnome nearly dropped his candle in surprise, but he recovered in enough time to turn around and hold the flame up to their faces. In the backglow his little eyes peered at them in terror.

Devon realized Bjorn didn’t know him. Of course not—they hadn’t met yet. That day would come some five hundred years from now. But it dawned on Devon that on that fateful day on the icy driveway of Ravenscliff, the gnome would already know exactly who Devon was—because they had met here, in the past.

“We are Nightwing,” Devon said to him, “and we command you to tell us your business. Why did you not stop when I called to you on the street?”

“Noble sir, great lady, I ask your pardon. But I was so consumed by my purpose this night—surely you understand.”

Devon looked at Gisele, then back at Bjorn. “What are you talking about?”

Just then they heard a sound. A squeaking sound—the sound of a bat somewhere off down the tunnel ahead of them.

“No!” Bjorn said. “She comes!”

“Who comes?” Devon asked.

Bjorn’s eyes were filled with fear. “The Witch!”

“Isobel?”

Bjorn nodded.

“Then you are in league with her!”

“No, good sir. Of course not. I was instructed by the great Clydog ap Gruffydd to meet her here. Surely you know that?”

“Who’s Clydog ap Gruffydd?” Devon whispered to Gisele.

“A very important Nightwing, of course,” she told him.

He grunted. “Hey, I didn’t go to your exclusive Nightwing academy, remember? My high school back home doesn’t offer Sorcery 101.”

Bjorn was fretting. “Oh, why have you come? If she sees you, all is lost.”

Devon turned to Gisele. “Can you make yourself invisible?”

“Of course I can. It’s one of the first things Wiglaf ever taught me.”

“Then do it.”

Both of them promptly faded from sight.

Just in time, too: Bjorn turned from them in terror, watching as the bat flew into view from the tunnel.

Devon watched as well, his eyes riveted.

The bat slowly transformed into a woman.

Isobel the Apostate, wrapped in a swirling cape of green and gold.

At long last, Devon looked upon her face. Her dark hair, her dark eyes, her extraordinary beauty.

And he saw what he had known perhaps all along, but had never been able to admit.

Isobel was Morgana.

The Witch's Castle

“There is a presence here, gnome,” Isobel said, her black eyes flashing, her long, lustrous black hair flowing as she turned her head, right and left. “Perhaps more than one!”

“No, no, milady, it is only me.”

She sniffed the air. Devon and Gisele froze, desperately trying not to make a sound.

“Don’t lie to me, you little cretin. I am a Nightwing. I can sense—”

“Milady,” Bjorn interrupted. “I have brought you vital information.”

The sorceress glared down at him. “What sort of information?”

“About the Witenagemot. There is a plot against you, to seize you.”

“Just as I suspected. My foolish weak-kneed Nightwing brethren. Using their mighty powers only in the pursuit of good. Where has that ever gotten them?”

“They will strike at midnight when you enter the convocation. You will be surrounded by three hundred Nightwing. There will be no escape!”

She threw her head back and laughed. It was the same horrible, mocking sound that Devon remembered so well. He felt Gisele shudder beside him.

“May I go, then, milady?” Bjorn asked. “I have told you all I know.”

“No!” she snarled, grabbing the terrified little gnome by the collar of his shirt. “You have served your purpose for me. But I have hungry demons back at my castle. They’d like nothing better than roasted gnome for their dinner!”

“No, milady, no!”

But her hold on the gnome tightened. She transformed herself once more into an enormous bat, its black claws gripping Bjorn’s flesh and lifting him, carrying him kicking and screaming down the tunnel. All the while her hideous laughter continued to fill the space, so loud and so evil that it threatened to suck the air right out of Devon’s lungs.

“Is it safe now?”

“Yes,” Devon said, and they both rematerialized.

“So he was in league with the Witch,” Gisele said, “if he told her the Nightwing plan to defeat her.”

“Then why didn’t he reveal us? He protected us. Why would he do that if he were truly helping her?”

They hurried back down the tunnel, anxious to return to Kelvedon House. There, they related what they had seen to Gisele’s parents and Wiglaf. Arnulf was angry; he slammed his fist on the wooden table, upsetting a goblet of wine.

“You took great risk following the gnome,” Arnulf thundered. His wrath was the same that Devon had seen in Rolfe’s eyes. He could not shake the feeling that it was Rolfe standing there, scolding them. “Had Bjorn not distracted the Witch, she would have discovered you, and then all our plans would have been destroyed.”

“But Bjorn revealed those plans to her, Father,” Gisele told him. “He told her that the Nightwing would take her at midnight at the Witenagemot.”

“That’s what he was ordered to tell her, by none other than Clydog ap Gruffydd!”

Wiglaf leaned in toward Devon. “Clydog is a great Welsh sorcerer,” he whispered, “one of the most respected Nightwing in all of Europe.”

Sybilla of Ghent had come forward to stroke her daughter’s titian hair. “Why did you suspect Bjorn Forkbeard? You know the gnomes have always been devoted servants of the Nightwing.”

“Devon said he’d seen him, stirring a witch’s cauldron, calling on spirits—”

“But of course,” Wiglaf chimed in. “That is what gnomes do. They have no powers of their own, save their tremendous strength. But they are masters of potions, brews, and spells of nature.”

“Wait a minute,” Devon said. “Just so I understand. This Clydog guy was using Bjorn to pass fake information to Isobel?”

“You comprehend our meaning at last, Devon March,” Arnulf said, turning away in frustration to stand over the fire, warming his hands.

“So when I saw him in the future, he really was trying to ward off Isobel.” Devon sighed, cursing his own impetuousness. “And I dumped his cauldron into the sea.”

“If I may be so bold as to explain the Nightwing plan,” Wiglaf said, “the intention is to seize Isobel in advance of Witenagemot, not at the convocation as she was told. That way, she can be taken unawares.”

“Is there a plan to storm her castle or something?” Devon asked.

Arnulf laughed as he gazed down into the fire but he said nothing.

“No, my boy,” Wiglaf said. “Nothing so obvious as that.”

Sybilla smiled at Devon. “Do you understand her powers fully?”

“I know she’s a Nightwing. She has powers like any of us. So it makes sense that a bunch of us together could overpower her.”

“Not just any ‘bunch of us,’ as you put it,” Sybilla told him. “You see, Isobel has learned certain skills from her liaisons with the demons. She has acquired a very specific power that she can use over certain Nightwing.” She paused, looking back at her husband. “The male Nightwing.”

Arnulf just grunted.

“You’ve seen her,” Wiglaf said to Devon. “She is very beautiful, is she not?”

“She’s a succubus,” Devon said. “Isn’t she?”

Sybilla nodded. “That she is. A Nightwing succubus. Any of our men who would attempt to capture her would be vulnerable to her lethal charms. She has seduced many men of the villages away from their wives. Simply being Nightwing does not make our men any more immune.”

“We are men first,” Arnulf grumbled, still looking into the fire. “Human in every way but our powers. All too human.”

Devon could fully relate to that. “But she will be defeated,” he insisted. “Look, I don’t just come from another place. I come from another time. The future. And the history of the Nightwing reveals that Isobel will be burned at the stake—and that it will be the female Nightwing who will overpower her.”

“You come from the future?” Gisele asked. “So that is where this girl-friend lives.”

Her father seemed to take some heart from Devon’s announcement. “Then we will be successful,” Arnulf said, brightening. “We needn’t fear, then, what we must do.”

“The boy did not come here to instill complacency,” Wiglaf warned. “He came to engender confidence. You can still fail, Arnulf, and then the whole course of history will be altered. You must each play your part as destiny has written it.”

They decided to rest for what was to come. Devon was given a bale of straw to spread out in front of the fireplace. He settled down, inhaling the pungency of the straw, trying to find a comfortable position. Wiglaf was already snoring in his chair; Gisele and her parents had disappeared into another part of the house.

What if I’m trapped here? Devon thought again. What if this is my destiny? To bring confidence to those who would defeat Isobel in this time?

He supposed it wasn’t such a bad fate. Sure, he’d have to make do without television, cars, computers, cell phones, movies, ice cream and pizza—but he’d have knights and castles and sorcerers’ conventions and free-flowing ale to take their place. Sure, he’d have to get used to raw sewage in the street and a lack of indoor plumbing, but he’d get to grow up with a clan of Nightwing, maybe even attend the Nightwing school where Wiglaf taught. It was better than dealing with sweaty old Mr. Weatherby.

And, in truth, he already felt comfortable with these people, with their remarkable resemblances to Cecily, Rolfe and Mrs. Crandall. Hey, there was even Bjorn—if he could be rescued from Isobel, that was. And Devon knew that he would be, because he would be alive and well five hundred years from now.

But if Devon stayed here, who would vanquish Isobel in the twenty-first century? Who would save Ravenscliff from her assault? Would the vision his father showed him come true? Even if he wasn’t there to physically open the Hell Hole, he’d bear culpability for it if he wasn’t around to prevent Isobel from doing so. Would Cecily and the rest of his friends lie dead in a pool of blood? Would Alexander live out his days scuttling around as a skunk? And what about Rolfe? Would Roxanne be able to save him from Isobel’s spell, or would he become her slave forever as the Apostate ruled first over Ravenscliff and then over the world?

“Restless, Devon March?”

He looked up. Gisele stood over him in her nightdress, holding a candle aloft.

“Well, it’s sure not like my bed at Ravenscliff.”

She sat down beside him. “Tell me about it. About the future, I mean.”

He sighed. “Well, there are a lot of reasons to recommend it. You can get around a lot faster. We have cars and airplanes—”

“Airplanes?”

“Yeah. Like boats, only they fly through the sky.”

“Is this Nightwing sorcery?”

“No, just regular old mortal technology.”

“Technology?”

“Know-how.”

She nodded, seeming to grasp his meaning. “And what about women in the future?”

“Oh, you’d really like that. There’s like total equality. Or nearly anyway. Women can do whatever they want, be whoever they want to be.”

Gisele smiled. “Well, that is good. I pity ordinary women today. They are subjects of their fathers and husbands in all things. Nightwing women are different, of course, but in our daily activities with normal folk we must pretend to be obedient, lesser creatures.” She made a face. “It offends me to do so.”

“I can understand.”

She looked at him with affectionate eyes, the glow of her candle lighting her face. Devon looked at her and saw Cecily.

“As wonderful as the future is, Devon March,” Gisele pleaded, “do not leave us to go back there.”

He gave her a small, sad smile. “I’m not sure I’ll even be able to.”

“You’ll come to accept that this is your time now. You will be a great sorcerer here. I know this.”

She reached over and kissed him lightly on the cheek before heading back to her room. Devon stretched out again on the straw. He could barely sleep all night. The Witch was in his dreams still, with all her cunning, all her powers of seduction. “I will resist you,” he told her, but she just laughed at him. Cold fear overwhelmed him. More than the Witch, Devon dreaded his own fear. That’s what will defeat you, the Voice told him, even in his dreams.

In the morning, the plan went into action. Devon followed Arnulf and Sybilla through the streets, avoiding the eyes of townsfolk who might remember him from the day before. “Where is the secret meeting to be held?” Devon asked Wiglaf.

“Now, if I knew, would it be secret?”

“Well, Arnulf must know.”

“We stop here,” Arnulf announced suddenly.

They were standing in a field of goldenrod at the end of the village. A sea of glimmering yellow stretched off to the horizon. It reminded Devon again of how fluid time had become. When he’d left the twenty-first century, it was frigid winter. Here it was late summer, muggy and hot.

He couldn’t understand, however, why they’d simply stopped in the middle of a field. “The gathering is to be held outside?” Devon asked. “How smart is that?”

“This is where we were told to meet,” Arnulf explained.

Devon noticed other people wandering into the field now. He presumed them to be other Nightwing. But as he watched, one by one they seemed to become obliterated by the sunlight reflecting off the fierce glow of the goldenrod. Then he realized he himself was glowing, and so were his companions.

“What’s happening?”

There was no chance for anyone to answer him, for in the next moment Devon saw they were no longer standing in a field but instead were assembled inside a great stone structure. They stood upon a marble floor and looked up at a great mosaic of red and blue stars that formed a majestic dome over their heads. The place was filled with Nightwing—hundreds of them. Devon knew they were Nightwing because the hair on his arms stood up, just as it did when he approached those books in the basement of Ravenscliff. He was suddenly flushed and breathless, surrounded at last by others like him.

“Is this where Witenagemot will be held?” he asked.

“Yes, boy,” Wiglaf told him, “though the official gathering does not begin until midnight tonight. We come together now for one purpose only: the defeat of the Witch.”

“I call this assembly to order,” a lumbering old man was saying in a deep, booming voice, banging a gavel at a lectern in the front of the hall.

“That’s Clydog ap Gruffydd, the most powerful sorcerer in Britain,” Wiglaf told Devon.

Clydog looked fierce enough: long white hair, deep-set black eyes, a hooked nose and huge hands that gripped the lectern as if to break it in two. He stood nearly seven feet tall, with a shoulder span of some four feet. “Sure glad he’s a good guy,” Devon said.

“Aye,” Wiglaf said. “Very good. But very formidable.”

The Nightwing filed into pews. Men, women, children, all speaking their own languages: English, French, Dutch, German, Finnish, Scandinavian, Russian, Polish, Greek, Italian, Spanish, Turkish, Hindi, Chinese, Arabic, Swahili. The colors of their skin reflected the far-flung diaspora of the Nightwing, from pale white to golden brown to deep, shining ebony. Devon slid into a pew beside Gisele, his neck twisting around to soak up as much of the sights as he could.

“We are honored to have with us today an emissary from His Majesty King Henry,” Clydog ap Gruffydd is telling them. “Baron Stanley.”

“That’s the king’s stepfather,” Devon whispered to Gisele, pleased that he’d remembered something else from Mr. Weatherby’s class.

The baron was a large man, though standing beside Clydog he seemed puny. He wore a fur hat not unlike Devon’s own, but his doublet was studded with rubies and emeralds. “Long have we heard the whispered of the great Nightwing in our midst,” the baron addressed the crowd, “but not until now did I truly believe.”

He seemed awed by the assemblage in front of him. Devon could understand: after all, he’d just witnessed hundreds of people simply materialize in the hall.

The baron gathered his wits. “His Majesty turned to you for help in ridding this kingdom of a scourge—a woman who would usurp his throne, and use the power of England for the glory of the Devil!”

The Nightwing murmured their assent.

“But how can we do this, when a very look from her reduces a man—even one of you—into a puddle of fear and lust?”

There was a ripple of laughter through the crowd. Devon was startled when Sybilla stood. “My lord, nearly half of this assembly is immune to the Witch’s sorcery,” she said. “The strategy to defeat her should be obvious.”

“But you are mere women,” the baron said.

Again, laughter. “As is she, the scourge that you and your King fear so greatly,” Sybilla said and sat back down. There was a scattering of applause for her.

Clydog ap Gruffydd had moved back to the lectern. “Sybilla of Ghent is right. We must rely on our Nightwing sisters to overcome the Witch.”

Now it was Wiglaf’s turn to stand. “Great Clydog, if I may be permitted a word?”

“Of course, Wiglaf. You are the greatest of our Guardians. What have you to add?”

Wiglaf nudged Devon to stand. “If I may, noble Nightwing, introduce a young visitor to our time—”

“Wiglaf, what are you doing?” Devon blushed fiercely, whispering through gritted teeth. “Why are you—”

“His name is Devon March,” Wiglaf continued, ignoring him, “and he comes with the blessing of Horatio Muir.”

Devon felt as if he’d melt right there in the pew. The faces of three hundred Nightwing had turned to look at him. Him! Only a few months out of Coles Junction. As if he, puny little Devon March, had any of their knowledge, their experience, their understanding of Nightwing history and tradition—

You plunged into a Hell Hole and emerged alive, the Voice reminded him.

“Ah,” Clydog was saying, “Horatio Muir. Our time-traveling descendant from the future. Tell us what news you bring, Devon March.”

Devon stood, hoping no one—especially Gisele—would notice his knees shaking. “Well, um—” Devon stammers, looking over at Wiglaf.

“Tell the assembly about seeing the Witch,” his Guardian explained.

“Well, yeah, I did see her. Isobel. The Witch.” He looked down at Gisele. “We—Gisele and I—followed the gnome, Bjorn Forkbeard—”

“You did what?” Clydog boomed. His face was contorted suddenly in dark anger. A murmur of outrage jogged through the crowd. “He was sent on a mission! How dare you jeopardize—?”

“Hey, don’t get all worked up, okay?” Devon took a breath. “She didn’t see us.” He looked down at Wiglaf. “Did you do that deliberately to get me in trouble?” he asked under his breath.

“There are consequences for every foolhardy action,” Wiglaf whispered, a mischievous little wiggle to his ears.

“Be that as it may, Devon March,” Clydog intoned from his lectern, “you put our mission at risk. As did you, Gisele of Zeeland.”

Devon felt badly that Gisele had been dragged into it. “It was totally my idea,” he insisted to Clydog. “Please don’t blame her.”

He glanced down at Gisele. She gave him a small smile.

“But the other thing is,” Devon adds, looking around at the group, feeling suddenly more confident, more a part of them, “I know from studying Nightwing history in the future that you will win against her. Isobel will be burned at the stake. I know that from reading history—”

“Then history must be changed!”

The entire congregation was stunned by the sudden voice—a shrill, high-pitched utterance that seemed to emanate from every corner of the room. Devon tried looking around to see who this newcomer was, but all at once he felt claws gripping his shoulders—invisible claws—and he was lifted from his place into the air. The crowd gasped.

The claws holding Devon by his shoulders materialized. Above him grinned one of those hideous flying monkeys, its reptilian wings flapping furiously in the air.

But far more terrifying was the image that suddenly appeared at the front of the hall, hovering over Clydog. Its laughter told Devon who it was even before he saw her face.

Isobel the Apostate.

And she was descending on Clydog, who simply fell to his knees.

“Shall I reduce him to nothing, right here before you all?” Isobel shrilled. “Turn him into a quivering, drooling creature—your great leader, the mighty Clydog?”

“Please,” Clydog begged, covering his face.

“Tell them how much you desire me, Clydog. How you dream of me, night after night—”

The great warrior cowered before her.

“Your little gnome messenger was so easy to bend to my will,” Isobel told the crowd. “I learned all of your schemes from him. I knew last night not to trust him when I sensed the presence of these two children. Think not that you can defeat me!”

Devon struggled to break free of the demon’s grip, but he found he could not—not while he heard Isobel’s voice. Or rather, Morgana’s voice—

I think I’ve fallen in love with you, Devon.

Try as he might, he couldn’t deny the feeling he had for her, even now, even as she threatened to destroy them all…

But maybe he wouldn’t have to. Several of the female Nightwing had leapt from their seats in an attempt to subdue her, including Sybilla and Gisele. Devon watched Isobel’s flashing black eyes. She had something up her sleeve—literally. Just as the Nightwing approached her, Isobel hurled something out into the air—something shiny—something gold—

It was a golden chain, and it magically wrapped itself around Gisele, the smallest of the army that surged forward.

“Gaze upon her!” Isobel commanded, as Gisele struggled in the air, bound by the chain. “She is under my power now. Your gnome proved very useful, revealing many secrets. Including the special goldmines in the Arctic whose enchantment is so great they can even contain Nightwing!” She laughed hysterically.

The women stopped in their charge, concerned about what might happen to Gisele if they continued.

“Such will be the fate of all who oppose me,” Isobel said, her shrieking voice echoing throughout the room. “And now, my Nightwing brothers and sisters, I bid you a fond farewell. I’m sorry that I shall not be able to join you at Witenagemot. May you enjoy your last gathering—for when I have achieved my victory, you will all be banished into my Hell Holes!”

“Seize her!” Clydog shouted from the floor.

“Oh, and I must not forget,” Isobel said, laughing once more, “a couple of young hostages for safekeeping.”

Her eyes locked onto Devon’s. The beast gripping him by the shoulders began to flap its wings. It flew over the crowd and headed straight for an enormous stained-glass window. Saint George slaying the dragon, Devon realized, just like the one at Ravenscliff, as he protected his face with his hands. The last sound he heard was the smashing of glass. Then all was dark and quiet.

He awoke in a dungeon.

It looked like every dungeon he’d ever seen in movies or books. On the far wall, two men hung from chains on their wrists. Rats crawled over filthy, stinking, moldy straw. The only light came from slivers of windows far up the stone walls.

Devon groaned. His shoulder killed—the monkey demon had ripped open the same spot where he’d been wounded before. Or will be wounded, Devon thought. Whatever.

“Here, my young Nightwing,” came a voice near him in the dark. “Let me assist you.”

It was Bjorn Forkbeard.

“Here, in the pocket of my breeches, I have a powder,” the gnome told him, extracting a vial. “It will aid in your healing.”

“Thanks,” Devon said, remembering how the powder worked the last time. He pulled down his bloodied doublet to reveal his shoulder. Bjorn shook the powder onto the wound. Instantly the pain was relieved.

“It is all my fault,” Bjorn said, tears dropping down his cheeks. “She forced it out of me—the place where the Nightwing were meeting—and she made me forge that golden chain.”

“I want to trust you,” Devon said. “I want to believe you didn’t squeal of your own choice.”

“On King Henry’s name, I vow I did not! She has ways—she gets into a man’s heart, his thoughts, his very soul!”

Devon sighed. That much he knew to be true. Who could resist Isobel when she turned on the charm? Even Devon himself hadn’t been able to do it.

“But there is something I can do,” Devon said, standing. “I can free these men.”

With a wave of his hand the men chained to the wall suddenly found themselves free, sliding down the stones to stand on the floor of the dungeon, weak in their knees but standing nonetheless.

“You are a great sorcerer,” one of them said in awe, looking at Devon. “You must defeat the Witch!”

“Yes,” the other man adds. “The Witch imprisoned us after taking our homes and all of our land. She must be stopped!”

“Yeah, I’m with you on that,” Devon said. “But just how to go about doing it I’m not so sure.”

He tried willing open the door to the dungeon but it didn’t budge. He felt Isobel’s power behind it: it was as if she was on the other side, holding it shut. Nightwing power, head-to-head, and Isobel was stronger.

“I’ve got to help Gisele,” Devon said. “What was that golden chain you made, Bjorn?”

“It is forged out of gold from the Nightwing’s own mines in the north of Finland. It has the power to contain a sorcerer, to prevent him from using his power.”

“Or hers,” Devon grumbled. “Gisele is powerless against Isobel then.”

“I am afraid so.”

The men Devon had freed were stretching their legs and exercising their stiff arms. “When the guard comes,” one man whispered, “we will retreat to the shadows and overpower him.”

“And then what?” Devon asked. “I’ll run smack up against Isobel and who knows what will happen then. I need a better plan. Let me think.”

He tried to reassure himself that he knew how this all would end—Isobel burning at the stake, her hands bound by the same golden chain that now kept Gisele a prisoner. But could history be changed? Had Devon’s very presence in this time altered the flow of history enough so that Isobel might win? If so, what consequences would that have on his own time? Might Cecily and his friends truly die at the Apostate’s hands?

Or—the thought nearly knocked Devon over—might they never even be born?

He realized that it wasn’t just his current dilemma over which he needed to triumph. It was also something far greater: in his hands he held Cecily’s very existence—and maybe even his own! If Isobel was able to win here in the fifteenth century, then the very course of Nightwing history would be changed. Horatio Muir might never even come to be born. So Cecily—and Mrs. Crandall and Edward and Alexander—would never exist!

And Devon’s parents, whoever they were, might also fade from the pages of history.

What happens then? Devon shuddered. I’ll just disappear, he thought in terror. I’ll cease to exist. Maybe that was Isobel’s plan all along. Send me back in time—and thus change the course of history—allowing her to win in both 1490 and in the future!

“The guard comes,” one of the men said. “I hear his footfall. Be ready!”

Devon had no choice but to act. The guard was a misshapen creature, with a hunchback and one empty eye socket. He unlocked the door to the dungeon and lumbered in awkwardly. The two prisoners easily overpowered him, allowing Devon and Bjorn to escape.

“Defeat her!” one of the men cried after them. “Save us from the Witch!”

Devon didn’t respond. He was growing more frightened by the moment, convinced he was merely playing the patsy in Isobel’s grand plan. He wished he could talk to Rolfe—or Wiglaf.

Your fear is your downfall, the Voice reminded him. You must believe you can win.

“Believe I can win,” Devon mumbled to himself as he hurried up the damp cold steps into the Witch’s castle.

“Of course you will win, good sir,” Bjorn said beside him. “I believe in you.”

Devon looked down at the little man. Was he friend or foe? He wished the Voice would tell him for sure…

Trust your gut, the Voice said. You need no assurance other than that.

They’d emerged into the great hall of the castle. Devon gasped at what he saw ahead of them. At the far end of the hall a throne was set upon a pedestal. A throne fit for a King—or a Queen. Banners with the royal arms hung over the throne, and beside it were hunched two demons, beasts with faces like apes that were nodding in and out of sleep.

“Stay back,” Devon whispered to Bjorn as they crouched in the shadows. Devon surveyed the room. It was empty except for the throne at one end and a banquet table in the middle of the room. But then he heard a sound. The clanking of a chain. He looked up.

There, in what looked like a silver birdcage attached to the rafters, was Gisele.

She had spotted them. Their eyes held without saying a word. Devon felt confident he could free her from the cage, but he’d still be powerless to remove the chain from her wrists. Only a non-Nightwing could do that…

He looked down at Bjorn.

It was if the gnome had read his mind. “Bring her down,” Bjorn said, “and I will break the chain. I am strong enough!”

Turn around, the Voice suddenly commanded him. Quickly!

Devon spun back toward the demons guarding the throne. One sleepy eye had opened wide, and it was trained right on him.

“We’ve been spotted,” Devon whispered. “Now!”

He concentrated. The door to Gisele’s cage swung open. With his mind, Devon brought her down safely to the ground. But the demons had now launched themselves across the hall as if on springboards, shrieking out hideous monkey calls that summoned more of their filthy kin flapping in as backup.

“Free Gisele!” Devon barked to Bjorn as he fought off the first demon to reach him, landing a punch to its jaw and sending it sprawling back across the hall. But another was on him then, and then another—

“Let him go!”

The voice was Isobel’s. The foul-smelling beasts had knocked Devon to the floor but rolled off him obediently when their mistress commanded it. Isobel’s shadow suddenly fell over Devon as she approached. She stood over him to stare down at him with her bewitching black eyes.

“Who are you, my little time traveler?”

Their eyes locked. It was Morgana—how well Devon knew those eyes. His heart leapt.

I think I’ve fallen in love with you, Devon.

“Who are your parents, boy?” the Witch demanded.

Devon said nothing. Isobel didn’t know him. She had no idea that they would meet five hundred years from now—or did she?

She was studying him. “I could suck your lifeblood into nothingness,” she told him. “But you intrigue me. I want to know who you are.”

Still Devon said nothing. In his peripheral vision he could see Bjorn being restrained by the demons. Gisele remained shackled, unable to help him.

Isobel smiled. “You have great spirit,” she told him. “I could enjoy having you at my court. For only those Nightwing who join me will be spared.”

“I’ll never join you,” Devon told her. “I’ve come back in time to stop you!”

She threw her head back and laughed. Devon recoiled from the sound. It was the same cruel, manic sound he heard that day in the tower.

“You cannot defy me, boy. You saw what I did to the great Clydog. I will soon have the King’s throne—and I will rule all of Europe by year’s end! In another year, I’ll have the world!”

She laughed again, a hideous cackle pealing throughout the hall. Her merriment offered Devon just enough time to act. With her eyes turned away from him, he found the strength to pull his legs up and back, landing a powerhouse kick right on her shins. It sent her flying back across the room.

He was quickly on his feet. “My father always told me to never hit a lady, but in your case, he’d make an exception.”

The demons were enraged, dive-bombing at Devon, but he was so pumped by his success in taking Isobel by surprise that he confidently swatted them away like so many flies. Isobel, meanwhile, had regained her feet, her eyes blazing in fury.

“You will pay for that!” she howled. “You will burn!”

“No, I think that dance card is reserved for you,” Devon said, leaping through the air toward her.

She parried him with a simple wave of her arm. Without even touching him, she sent him crashing into the far wall. Devon was dazed for a moment, but regained his senses just in time to find Isobel in his face, bearing down at him.

“You don’t want to fight me, Devon March,” she purred, her voice dripping with honey. He tried to avoid her eyes but he could not. They overtook him, filled up his vision. “You’d rather kiss me, wouldn’t you, my love?”

“No,” he groaned.

But his strength was ebbing. He smelled her—Morgana—lilacs. She touched his hair.

“You will fight me no longer, will you, Devon March?”

He looked up into her eyes. She was so beautiful—the most beautiful woman who had ever lived—

She smiled. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you, Devon.”

The room went black. Devon felt horribly lightheaded as everything began to spin. Then he felt himself falling, falling, falling …

She’s won, he told himself, his last thought before losing consciousness. And I no longer exist …

Witenagemot

Free the gnome.

It was the Voice.

You’re still here, Devon.

Free the gnome!

Wherever he was, Devon realized that his spirit still existed. There was blackness all around him, thick and warm, but he still had some link to the world. He could still think. He willed himself to visualize Bjorn being held down by the demons. He saw the little man kicking and twisting.

Get off him, Devon commanded. You have no power over him!

In his mind’s eye he watched as the demons suddenly fell backward off their prisoner. The gnome sprung to his little feet.

And suddenly there was light again. Devon opened his eyes and realized he was back in the great hall. In the rafters, to be exact—looking down as Bjorn rushed over to Gisele as Isobel approached her ominously.

“Hey, Izzy,” Devon shouted. “Up here!”

Isobel the Apostate looked up in shock.

“You’ve lost your charm, I’m afraid,” he told her, dropping down to land both feet on her back, sending her crashing into the floor.

It gave Bjorn just enough time to rush to Gisele’s side and snap off her chain. The demons were now attacking from all sides, and Gisele knocked the first few easily aside. But there were dozens of them—and more kept arriving, their talons scratching at the stone floors, their wings flapping up windstorms.

“There’s too many of them!” Gisele shouted.

She’s right, Devon realized. It was the scene at Ravenscliff all over again. Devon did his best to fight the creatures off, but they kept coming, one after another. Bjorn cowered under the banquet table. The demons were not concerned with him; they cared only about defeating the two young Nightwing who have so humiliated their mistress.

Isobel was back on her feet. “They can’t best you all!” she shrieked to her minions. “They cannot defeat the power of Isobel!”

A green-eyed feathered thing with an enormous beak had landed on Devon, trying to peck out his eyes. He thrust it off him, but his strength was fading.

Don’t give in to your fear, he reminded himself. Do not be afraid!

“You can still live, Devon March!” Isobel called to him. “You can still join me!”

The beast with the feathers was back on him, squawking in his ear. He fought it, but fell to his knees.

“Don’t surrender, Devon!” he heard Gisele call from somewhere in the mayhem. “You are a great sorcerer!”

“Yes,” he told himself, wearily but convincingly. “I am the one-hundredth generation from Sargon the Great!”

With that, he easily tossed the demon off of him, sending it shrieking through the air, disappearing into its Hell Hole.

He was on his feet facing Isobel again.

“One-hundredth generation,” she was saying, looking at him in wonder.

“Yeah,” he said. “Thought that might impress you.”

“Who are you? From what line do you come?”

He smiled. “Your guess is as good as mine on that one. But I know I’m Nightwing. Exactly one hundred down from Sargon.”

“You still cannot overcome my power,” she seethed.

“Maybe not, but I’m sure going to give it a try.”

Just then the floor seemed to explode. The trapdoor to Bjorn’s tunnel, leading from the village to the Witch’s castle, had sprung open. And through it flew dozens of Nightwing—female Nightwing!

Suddenly their odds improved greatly. Devon watched as the Nightwing overpowered the demons. The beasts are booted, punched, kicked back to hell. Sybilla of Ghent came to the aid of her daughter, sending a hairy creature thudding into the wall.

Devon was assaulted again by something he couldn’t see. Talons gripped him from behind, closing around his throat. He elbowed the thing in the ribs, knocking it off him—and watched as another Nightwing landed a punch to the beast’s gut, sending it screeching through the air.

But it wasn’t a female Nightwing as Devon expected. It was a young man—and as Devon looked at him, he saw he was the spitting image of Marcus.

“Not all of the Nightwing men are so easily ensnared by the Witch’s charms,” the young Nightwing said, noticing Devon’s surprise.

Devon laughed. “Excellent! Let’s kick some demon butt, man!”

“With pleasure,” the Nightwing who looked like Marcus said. They dispatched a couple of hairy brutes easily.

Isobel was standing below, screaming in fury as she watched her demons defeated. “No! No! No!”

“Actually,” Devon told her, landing in front of her, “I think that’s a yes.”

Gisele was suddenly in front of him, lashing the golden chain around the wrists of the Witch.

“Who would have thought a nice little girl like you could ever destroy my beautiful wickedness?” Isobel shrieked.

“Oh, so that’s where that line comes from,” Devon said, grinning.

As soon as Isobel was bound, the last few remaining demons disappeared, sucked back down their Hell Holes.

“Until we meet again,” Devon told Isobel, as the Nightwing women hauled her away to stand trial for apostasy.

Isobel said nothing, just fixed on Devon with her great black eyes.

She was found guilty, no surprise.

And so Devon watched her burn. She was condemned that very day, and the King’s court made haste to attend her execution. The villagers celebrated, dancing in the streets. There were musicians and jesters and vendors with their little spider monkeys. Standing beside Wiglaf, Devon watched as Isobel the Apostate was led to the pyre. Her eyes remained locked onto his. He saw such hatred there, such desire for revenge. Then the green wood and peat around the stake was lit, and the flames consumed her.

Devon was given the great honor of being the sole Nightwing to witness the Witch’s death. It was better not to inflame the superstitions of the populace even more by a gathering of sorcerers. History would record only that a traitor to the King was executed. There would be no mention of sorcery in the official accounts. Mr. Weatherby’s history books would never tell the whole story.

But even as she burned, Isobel’s eyes defied her captors. Even before Devon saw her rise from the flames, her arms outspread like the wings of an ascending bird, he knew she was not completely defeated.

She’ll be back—five hundred years from now.

Devon coughed, spitting soot from his mouth. He had to sit against the side of a brick building, away from the smoke.

“Are you all right, my young friend?” Wiglaf asked.

“I suppose so.” Devon couldn’t get the taste of burning flesh off his tongue. “It’s just that watching somebody get burned alive at the stake isn’t something you do every day.”

“The eyes of a Nightwing must become accustomed to such horrors.”

Devon made a face. “You don’t have to tell me that, Wiglaf. I’ve seen rotting corpses come out of their graves. I’ve had slimy beasties from hell gnawing on my bones. So believe me, I’m accustomed.”

Wiglaf gave him a sympathetic smile. “It is not an easy path, the road of the sorcerer.”

Devon covered his face with his hands. “I just want to know why me. All of this craziness—and still I don’t know where I come from. Who my parents were. Why it’s me, just a kid from Coles Junction, who’s stuck here in the fifteenth century battling witches and demons.”

Wiglaf placed a hand on his shoulder. “Tonight, at Witenagemot, there will be many wise Nightwing. Perhaps some of them can help you.”

“Look, Wiglaf, as much as I’d like to see it, I can’t stick around. I need to try to get back to my own time. Now that I’ve helped defeat Isobel here, maybe I’ll be strong enough to defeat her in the future.”

“Not yet, my friend. You must first give your report to the council.”

“But Cecily may already be dead—” Devon stopped. “Okay, I forgot. She’s in no danger because she hasn’t been born yet.”

“Precisely. So you must attend Witenagemot. You were the only Nightwing to witness the destruction of the Apostate. You must relay the story of how you saw her rise from the flames.”

They headed back to Kelvedon House to rest. Devon slept on the straw and dreamed of his father. Even for all of Ted March’s advanced years—he was some three hundred years old when he died in the early twenty-first century—he still had yet to be born in this time. Devon awoke feeling more alone than he ever had before.

Witenagemot was held at midnight in the same great hall as the earlier gathering—which seemed to exist in some sort of parallel vibration. It stood in the middle of a field of goldenrod, but no one but Nightwing could see it or enter it.

Devon was completely awed. Once again the Nightwing filed into the Great Hall, a large room with a hammer-beam roof ornately decorated with pendants that Devon recognized from Mr. Weatherby’s class as influences from the Italian Renaissance. At the far end of the hall a fan-vaulted bay window shed moonlight upon the dais, where the Nightwing leaders were gathering, talking joyfully among themselves, clapping one another on the back. If the splendor of the room entranced Devon, he was even more awestruck by the sorcerers themselves, dressed in their ceremonial purple robes with sashes of bright yellow. They wore chains of rubies and diamonds; the women had emeralds entwined through their hair. Many swept into the room wearing capes and feathered hats. Wiglaf and other Guardians have shed their drab brown robes for garments embroidered with stars and moons.

“The tapestries are Flemish,” Gisele told Devon, indicating the rich fabrics hanging from the walls. “A gift from my people.”

He smiled. The room was abuzz with chatter and good cheer. The wine and ale flowed freely, even among the young. Devon smiled, remembering how Andrea at Stormy Harbor was always so vigilant checking customers’ IDs when they tried to order a beer. Here youths as young as eight imbibed freely, wiping the froth from their chins with the backs of their hands.

Devon spotted the young Nightwing who looked so much like Marcus, who saved him from the demon in Isobel’s castle. “Hey, man,” Devon called. “What’s up?”

“What is up?” the boy echoed. “The moon, presently.”

Devon laughed. “Just a phrase from where I come from. Thought I’d say thanks for helping me out earlier today.” He extends his hand. “I’m Devon March.”

“I am Thierry of Paris,” he said. “From the line of Louis of Chaumois. My father is Artois and my mother Berengaria of Navarre. And you?”

Devon realized it was standard for Nightwing to introduce themselves by offering a genealogy. It had been the same when he’d met Gisele. She piped up now, offering her own descent from Wilhelm of Holland. Thierry of Paris shook her hand warmly, then turned his eyes in anticipation to Devon.

He sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know what line I come from,” Devon admitted. “All I know is that somehow, from somewhere, I’m Nightwing.”

“And a powerful Nightwing at that,” Thierry said, “if your battle against the Witch is any indication of your powers.”

Devon shrugged. “Well, yeah, I guess.”

They were distracted by the thunderous bang of a gavel from the dais. Clydog ap Gruffydd was calling the Witenagemot to order. Long benches magically appeared throughout the room, and the sorcerers took their seats.

“Let a joyful noise be spread throughout this land and beyond the seas,” Clydog said. “The Apostate has been defeated.”

But Wiglaf stood, telling the body that Devon had his own report to make. The Nightwing all turned in fascination as Devon stood. Their eyes regarded him proudly, with deep respect. No longer was he being scolded; no longer did his knees shake as he addressed them.

“Look,” Devon said, “I don’t want to rain on your parade or anything like that. But she’s not gone. Not really.”

The crowd muttered.

“Oh, you guys are okay. I don’t think she’s coming back to this time. I just know I saw her rise from the flames—and that she’ll turn up in my own time, some five hundred years from now.”

“Then her unrepentant spirit still burns with the desire for revenge,” Clydog said.

“So, look,” Devon told the group. “I need help in getting back to my own time so I can try to stop her there. She’s trying to do the same thing in the twenty-first century that she did here.”

The great Clydog looked at him with some compassion. “We have not learned the secret of time travel, my young friend,” he said. “That will be left to our descendant, Horatio Muir, who has graced us often with his presence.”

Devon felt desperate. “So he never told you how he does it? How he got the Staircase Into Time to materialize?”

“No, Devon March. Such would go against the rules of time. It is not knowledge we are destined to have for several centuries.”

Devon sighed. “But what good is defeating Isobel here if she’s able to come back and start up again in the future?”

“We shall look into that, my friend. Perhaps we will learn how to stop her spirit from ever returning.”

“But I’ve got to go back. We’ve got to do it now!”

There was a small ripple of sympathetic laughter in the hall. “We have five hundred years to study the problem, Devon March,” Clydog told him.

Devon sat back down. Five hundred years—but he’d be long dead by then. Was that it, then? Was this his destiny—to live out his days here, in the fifteenth century? He’d never know how the future would unfold, what happened after he disappeared from Ravenscliff. Would his friends die? Would the house be destroyed? Would Isobel the Apostate gain control of the Ravenscliff Hell Hole? And then what?

Maybe Roxanne would snap Rolfe out of Morgana’s spell. Maybe he’d be successful in finding other Nightwing to defeat Isobel. Maybe they would all be okay—maybe they would manage to defeat her on their own.

But they would always wonder where Devon went—and why he had abandoned them when they needed him most.

A sense of gloom settled over Devon. He couldn’t concentrate on the proceedings. He didn’t really understand them, either, with all sorts of words and phrases being bandied about that meant nothing to him. Finally Devon slipped out to the fountain courtyard. The moon was high and very bright. He sat beside the cascading water and closed his eyes.

“I would think a novice sorcerer would be inside, absorbing as much as he can.”

Devon opened his eyes. It was Wiglaf.

“I just can’t concentrate,” Devon said. “My heart’s not in it.”

“You have much you need to learn, Devon March.”

“Tell me about it.”

Wiglaf sat beside him on the cold stone bench. “You must try to forget your friends’ peril. It is not part of your reality anymore. It is not happening now.”

“But it will happen.”

Wiglaf sighed. “Yes. It will happen.”

An idea suddenly hit Devon. “Hey! Horatio Muir knew how to transcend time. When do you think he’ll be back here?”

“I know not. When last I saw him, which was more than two centuries ago, he gave no indication that he would return. Perhaps he will never, at least not in my lifetime.”

“But you said I will meet him, and I haven’t yet.”

Wiglaf nodded. “That is so. But consider, Devon March, that Horatio Muir might not return for many years. You might be an old man when you finally meet in, say, the year 1560.”

Devon was flabbergasted. “But I can’t return to my own time as an old man! That would be just too weird!”

“And by then you might not want to, my friend. You might have come to consider this as your own time.”

Devon sighed. “But maybe I can change history. Maybe Horatio can send me back in time to stop Isobel from ever appearing in our time. I can prevent Edward from ever meeting her and so she’ll never be brought to Ravenscliff.”

“But then there would be no reason for you to travel back to this time, would there?”

Devon admitted there would not be.

Wiglaf smiled. “You see the paradox you create, Devon. You can do nothing but trust in your fate. I offer you one important lesson. Where you are is always where you are meant to be.” Wiglaf touched Devon’s hand. “It is one of the first things I teach my students.”

Devon looked up at the moon. He didn’t know what to think.

“Do you understand, my young friend?” Wiglaf asked. “You played a part in Isobel’s defeat here. If you had never come back, she might have triumphed, and the whole history of the world might be different. You are inextricably a part of this time, Devon. You always have been and always will be.”

Devon gave him a little laugh. “Then I got gypped, because the history books make no mention of how I saved the King of England.”

“No. His Majesty has decreed that no chronicler will write the story of Isobel the Apostate.”

“But, Wiglaf, if I don’t go back to my own time, I’ll never find out who I am. Where I came from, who my parents were and what happened to them, why I was raised by Ted March and why he had to keep my heritage as a Nightwing secret. If I stay here, I’ll never learn those things.”

The Guardian considered this. “Do not be so certain of that, my good friend.” He grasped an amulet that hung from a silver chain around his neck. He unclasped it from the chain and handed it to Devon. “Do you know what this is?”

Devon held the amulet in his hands. Imbedded in its middle was a crystal.

“It’s your crystal of knowledge,” Devon said. “All Guardians have one.”

Wiglaf nodded. “See what it tells you, my boy. Hold it tightly.”

Devon obeyed. Might it reveal some truth to him? Might it explain who he is?

Might it even return him to where he belonged?

“My baby.”

It was a woman’s voice. A voice Devon thought he’d heard before…

He kept his eyes squeezed shut. He concentrated on seeing what the crystal had to show him, but everything was blurred. It was like watching television with really bad picture quality. He could make out only shapes moving against a dimly lit background. The only sound was the woman’s voice.

“My baby. Don’t take my baby away.”

Where am I? The place looks familiar…

Suddenly Devon knew.

It was the tower at Ravenscliff. The picture shuddered briefly into focus, then faded out again. But the woman’s voice continued.

“My baby! My baby! My baby!”

Devon could make out hands clawing the air. He could hear footsteps running down stairs. Lightning flashed. A baby cried.

“My baby! My baby! My baby!”

But now the woman’s cries were mixed with laughter—a wicked cackle he knew all too well.

Isobel.

“You think I am gone? You think you have defeated me so easily?”

He smelled the fire again. The taste of burning flesh collected at the back of his throat. Devon gags.

“It is not I who will burn this time, Devon March! It is you!”

Suddenly the flames roared around him. He felt the heat and the pain as they began licking his skin. He screamed out.

And tossed Wiglaf’s amulet away from him as far as he could.

When he opened his eyes all he saw was sky. An umbrella of deep violet studded with stars.

Let me be home, he thought, sitting up. Let me be home.

Yet although the face hovering above him was Cecily’s, the dress told him the young woman was, in fact, Gisele.

“I’m still here,” he said, scrunching up his face.

Gisele took his hand, sitting beside him on the grass. “Is it so horrible, this place?”

He looked at her. “I just want to go home.”

Her eyes glistened with tears. “It is this girl-friend of yours. She is the reason.”

Devon said nothing. Wiglaf had retrieved his amulet and now stood looking down at Devon.

“I was concerned when you left the hall,” Gisele said. “And I come out to find you sprawled here on the ground. Please, Devon March. Try no more to return to your own time. It is too dangerous.”

“What did the crystal show you?” Wiglaf asked.

Devon sat up on one elbow, running his other hand through his hair. “I’m not sure. It may have been a clue as to who I am. There was a woman, crying over a baby… but then there was Isobel, telling me she wasn’t gone for good.”

Wiglaf shook his head. “I know not what to make of it.”

Devon looked up at him suddenly. “Isobel had a child, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” Wiglaf said. “A son by Sir Henry Apple, the husband poisoned by the Witch.”

“But the son? Isobel’s child?”

“Good Queen Elizabeth, King Henry’s wife, has agreed to raise him far from the scene of his mother’s evil. When the time comes he will be trained at my school. Fear not for him. The children of Apostates are not doomed to repeat their parent’s folly.”

“Then maybe what I saw was Isobel crying over her son. But I’m certain the woman in the vision was from my own time. She was in the tower at Ravenscliff. What connection is there?”

“What is Ravenscliff?” Gisele asked.

He looked at her. “It’s my home.”

Even with all the horrors he’d had to face since coming there, Ravenscliff had indeed become his home. With his father gone, Ravenscliff and Misery Point and the people who lived there—Cecily, Alexander, Rolfe, D.J., Marcus, Natalie—have become his only family. He felt terribly homesick thinking about them—people who didn’t even exist yet.

“Stay here with us, Devon,” Gisele said. “You are among your own kind here. You can come back with me to my country. You will like it there, Devon. I promise you.”

“The assembly adjourns for the moment,” Wiglaf announced. “Even Nightwing need time to heed the call of nature.” He smiled. “Why don’t you walk among them, Devon? Clear your thoughts.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“We reconvene in an hour,” the Guardian told him. “I will look for you inside the hall.”

Devon agreed, bidding Wiglaf and Gisele farewell for the moment. He wandered off through the garden. Nightwing were everywhere, their capes snapping in the breeze, their rubies and emeralds flickering in the moonlight.

Stay here, Devon. You are among your own kind.

My own kind.

It was true, Devon realized. Back home he was isolated and alone, stumbling through life not fully understanding his Nightwing powers or heritage. In his own time, it was a game of chance, hoping Rolfe could find some answers in his father’s books or that Mrs. Crandall might be forced into revealing some of what she knew. Here, Devon could attend a Nightwing school, grow up with other Nightwing, become a great sorcerer …

But forget about watching television. Or getting his driver’s license. Or playing basketball. Or posting photos on Facebook or Tumblr.

Or ever seeing Cecily again.

But there was Gisele, Cecily’s double—and in this time, Cecily had the same powers as he did. How cool would that be, back at home? There he could only share his powers with his friends in times of crisis. Here he and Gisele were equals.

And she looked and sounded just like Cecily. And her father looked and sounded like Rolfe. Devon had met Marcus’ double and he suspected he’d meet doubles for D.J. and Natalie and Alexander, too, and maybe other people in his life. It would be like having all his friends with him.

Except it wasn’t.

“What’ll it be, man?”

Devon looked up. Without even being aware of it, he had wandered into a room that looked like a tavern. Many Nightwing were filling their mugs with ale, laughing heartily among themselves. A few spotted Devon and nodded graciously to him.

“An ale for you, too, young sir?” the man behind the bar asked again.

“Um, sure,” Devon said.

“Here you go.” The bartender, a portly, bearded man with muttonchop sideburns, slid over a mug to Devon. “You’re the young Nightwing that battled the Witch, are you not?”

Devon nodded, leaning against the bar. “Yeah. I had help, though.”

“Well, of course you did, lad. If not for the ladies, we’d all be sliding down those infernal holes with the devils and the hobgoblins.”

Devon nodded. The ale was bitter. He set it down, figuring he’d rather keep a clear head. He looked around the room. It could have been a bar anytime, anywhere. It could have been Stormy Harbor. The men drinking beer, carrying on, getting a little too loud.

“Everything but a jukebox, eh?” the bartender said, leaning in over the counter at him.

“Yeah. Everything but—” Devon spun around. “Hey! How do you know about jukeboxes?”

The bartender tapped his head. “I can see things sometimes. I saw what you were thinking. You were thinking about another time.”

Devon nodded. “Yeah. My own time. Where I want to return.”

The bartender chuckled. “Well, I’m not sure why, young sir. You’re a hero here in the fifteenth century. You could have quite the glorious future ahead of you.”

Devon laughed. “I don’t care about that.”

“Really? Why, every sorcerer dreams of being a great and glorious hero, does he not?”

“You’re obviously not Nightwing. That’s not what it’s about. If that’s what you’re after, you’re never going to become very powerful.” He sighed. “All power comes from good, and must be used in pursuit of good.”

“Your Guardian teaches you well,” the bartender said, clearly impressed.

“Yeah. I guess I’m getting the hang of it.”

“You will have many friends here, sir. I am certain of it.”

Devon nodded. “I already do. I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad. It could be a lot worse.” His voice choked. “But I can’t just keep jumping from place to place. My dad died not so long ago, and well, I finally found a place where I feel at home. Where I finally found friends. Even a family. A family that somewhere, in some corner of another time, is in danger. And I want to help them. Not because I want to be a hero, but because I love them.”

The bartender smiled sympathetically. For the first time Devon thought he’d seen him before, but couldn’t quite place his face.

“Then you truly are getting the hang of being a Nightwing, good sir,” the bartender said. He gestured to Devon’s mug of ale. “Too bitter for you?”

“Uh, yeah. But it’s okay.”

“No, I’ve got another keg in the antechamber across the room. Would you be a good lad and fetch it for me?”

“Really, you don’t need to on my account,” Devon told him.

“It would be a grand favor to me if you’d do it.”

“Okay.” Devon looked at the wooden door toward which the bartender is pointing. “Through there?”

“Aye, good sir. Many thanks.”

Devon crossed the room, shouldering past Nightwing who seemed to be growing louder and more tipsy with each ale they consumed. They called after him heartily, clapping him on the back. Devon smiled, but didn’t stop to talk. He reached the door and pulled the iron ring to open it.

He peered inside. The room was dark. He looked back at the bartender, who smiled and nodded.

“Go on ahead, young sir. Inside.”

Where have I seen him? Devon thought, trying to remember. His face—I’ve seen his face…

Devon moved into the room, only to realize it was a set of stairs leading up into an attic. The itchy odor of dust and mold reached his nostrils as he started up the steps. At the top of the stairs was another door.

This is strange, Devon said. He said the keg was in an antechamber, not in the attic.

He pushed open the door.

At once he was struck by light. Bright, electrical light.

He was not in any attic.

He realized—looking around—that he was back at Ravenscliff, in his own time.

And he realized one thing more: Morgana—Isobel the Apostate—was coming straight at him!

A Revelation

“So,” she said. “We meet again.”

She threw back her hood to reveal her face. She was the cloaked figure he’d seen right before he went down the Staircase Into Time. Isobel’s bewitching eyes ensnared him anew.

“No,” Devon said, turning from them.

As he did so, he realized he was in the upstairs corridor of Ravenscliff. How much time had passed since he’d been gone? Was it too late to save Cecily and the others?

“They are all dead,” Isobel said calmly, almost sympathetically. “There is no point in your fighting any longer. If you learned anything from your little visit to the past it’s that I don’t give up easily. Even burning at the stake couldn’t stop me.”

He suspected she was lying. From where he was standing, he was able to glance into his room, grateful that he’d left the door ajar. The digital clock at the side of his bed glowed the time: 9:02. The clock had chimed nine o’clock just before he’d gone down the Staircase. While nearly two days had elapsed during his time in the past, he’d returned just a couple of minutes after he left.

“You still need me to open the Hell Hole,” Devon said, keeping his eyes averted. “If my friends are dead, you have nothing to bargain with. You may as well kill me, too, because I’m not opening that portal.”

“Perhaps I no longer need you to help me,” Isobel said. “Perhaps I have discovered someone else who can. Another Nightwing!”

“I sealed that portal,” Devon said. “Only I can open it.”

“You silly child. I’ve had five hundred years to observe history.” Her black eyes seemed to pulse with fire. A smile drawn with malice stretched across her face. “You told me in the past that you weren’t sure from which line you sprang. But I know, Devon. I’ve discovered who you are. I watched it all unfold from the world beyond. Do you hear me, Devon March? I know who you are!”

Without intending to, his eyes shifted back to Isobel’s face.

“Yes, Devon. Don’t you want to know?”

He gulped. He tried to look away but cannot.

“Don’t you want to know from which line you come? From which line of Nightwing you can claim descent?”

He said nothing as she approached. Her laughter, low and mocking, started deep in her throat.

“You come from my line, Devon March. Mine! In your blood runs my blood! We are the same, you and I!”

“No!” he shouted, just as she closed in, arms outstretched.

He disappeared from her grasp, leaving her hands clenching only air.

He reappeared downstairs, just in time to slug a demon in the face that was looming over Cecily, ready to bite off her head.

“Back to your Hell Hole!” he commanded, and the thing was gone.

He was furious, outraged.

It can’t be true! I am not like her!

“Back to your Hell Holes!” he shouted, louder and deeper than he’d ever shouted before. “All of you!”

He realized suddenly that he was growing—bigger, taller. He was a giant, ten feet or more, and his voice reverberated like deep thunder. He lorded over the beasts, who suddenly cowered in awe. The lights in the house dimmed as a great wind spiraled through the house. The marauding demons shouted in pain and surprise, and within seconds all of them were gone.

Devon shrunk back to his normal size.

He rushed to Cecily, who was slumped at the foot of the stairs covering her head. “You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, realizing it was safe to look up. “I think so.” She squinted at him. “Why are you dressed like that?”

He realized he was still in fifteenth-century clothes.

“Is that real fur?” she asked. “It better not be.”

“Never mind now,” Devon told her, hurrying into the parlor. The place was in shambles. Books were strewn all over the floor, the suit of armor was smashed. Shards of glass from the window crunched underfoot as Devon made his way to check on his friends. D.J. and Marcus, scratched and bleeding and with their clothing torn, were helping Natalie to the couch.

“Is she okay?” Devon asked.

“Not sure,” D.J. said. “She took a pretty bad hit.” He made a face at Devon. “Dude, what’s with those clothes?”

“Never mind that for now,” Devon said. “Where are you hurt, Natalie?”

“I think I broke my ankle,” she said. “Got carried away with my kicks, I guess.”

“An ankle can be fixed,” Devon said.

“Yes, it can.” They look around. Bjorn had come into the room carrying his purple sack. “May I look at it?”

Natalie nodded. She winced as the little man removed her shoe and examined her ankle. Bjorn fumbled through his bag and produced a salve. He rubbed it over the swollen area, then bound the ankle with a green bandage. “Give it an hour or so,” he told her. “Don’t put any pressure on it until then.”

“An hour?” Natalie asked. “Shouldn’t I go down to the clinic and get a cast or something?”

The gnome shrugged, standing. “If you prefer.”

“Trust him, Natalie,” Devon told her.

Bjorn looked up at him. “If only you thought the same.”

“I’m sorry, Bjorn. I really am. I should’ve trusted you.”

The gnome eyed him with interest. “Your clothes suggest you have made the timeslip and returned.”

“I’ve been to the past, if that’s what you mean.”

Bjorn grinned. “I was wondering when it would happen. I never got the chance to thank you, my friend, for rescuing me that day in the witch’s castle. I’ve been waiting some five hundred years to thank you.” He laughed. “It seemed you’ve made a habit of saving me. I am truly grateful.”

“And I to you.” Devon smiled. “Is that why you came here to Ravenscliff? Because you knew me in the past?”

“No, ’twas but a happy coincidence. I recognized you that first day, knew you were a great Nightwing. But it was clear you had not yet lived our first meeting, that your own time continuum had yet to catch up with mine. After you told me you feared Isobel the Apostate was coming, I suspected it would be soon that you would make your timeslip. And I hoped that when you returned, you might trust me finally.”

“I do.” Devon looked around. “Now we have to work together to stop her. She’s in the house, and she’ll attack again soon.”

Bjorn shuddered. “You have humiliated her once more by overpowering her demons,” he said. “She will lick her wounds for a bit now, so we have some time to prepare. But not much.”

Devon was confused about something. “How did you know I’d return to this time, Bjorn? You had no way of being sure I’d make it back here.”

“True enough. I wasn’t positive. But I suspected you would. For you became quite the legend in the fifteenth century—the young Nightwing hero who disappeared forever from Witenagemot, never heard nor seen from again.”

“Really? Awesome.”

“Wiglaf said he felt certain you’d gone back to your own time. I only had to wait half a millennium to find out for sure.”

Devon smiled. “It’s so weird. For me, it’s been only a matter of minutes.”

“You’ve been to the past?” Marcus asked. “That’s why you’re dressed like that?”

“But, dude,” D.J. added. “When did you go there? I mean, we’ve all been right here…”

“I’m not quite sure how I got back here,” Devon admitted. “There was this guy, at a pub, and he led me to Horatio’s Staircase—”

He stopped speaking suddenly, glancing up at the portrait that hung over the mantel. Somehow, even with all the commotion caused by the demons, the portrait of Horatio Muir remained intact. It hung there still, its eyes glaring into Devon’s soul.

“It was him!” Devon shouted. “It was Horatio Muir!”

“Ah,” Bjorn said, nodding. “The great Master of Time himself.”

“Wait a minute,” Cecily said. “You actually went back into the past, Devon? How is that possible? When did you have the time? One minute you were over there in the corridor and the next you were on the stairs, wearing those silly clothes, helping me.” She eyed the trim of his doublet disapprovingly. “Please tell me that’s not real fur.”

“I spent two days in the past, but only missed minutes here.”

“Two days?” Marcus asked. “That’s impossible!”

“No, it’s not,” Devon assured him. “And it gave me plenty of time to learn about Isobel.” He glanced up toward the stairs. “We have no time to talk. She’s here. She’s still determined to open the portal.”

“But you’ve showed her you’re stronger than she is,” D.J. said. “Look at how, when you got mad enough, you just sent all those nasties right back to their Hell Holes.”

Devon sighed. “That might not matter now. She said she’s found another Nightwing to help her.”

He noticed Bjorn shudder.

“You know who she means, don’t you?” he asked the gnome.

“I—I can’t—”

Devon grabbed him by the front of his shirt and lifted him a couple inches off the ground. “Yes, you can! We’re equal now, Bjorn! Our time continuums or whatever they are have caught up to each other! I suggest you tell me what you know. Finally!”

“I suggest you put him down,” came a voice from the landing at the top of the stairs.

Looking up, they all gasped.

“Grandmama!” Cecily shouted.

Old Mrs. Muir, fully poised and sane, began descending the stairs.

“What a mess,” said Greta Muir, looking around the parlor. With a wave of her hand, she fixed everything: the shattered windows, the broken chandeliers, the scattered books, the smashed suit of armor. In an instant the room looked as if nothing had ever happened.

No one could manage to utter a word.

“Really, Mother,” Mrs. Crandall said, following her now into the room with Edward coming up behind. “Such ostentatious displays of power—”

“Oh, hush, Amanda,” the old woman told her impatiently. “You know I can’t think with such clutter.”

“But there are others present.”

Mrs. Muir eyed D.J. and Natalie and Marcus, then turned her gaze upon Devon.

“They are not others, Amanda,” she said. “They are the comrades of a sorcerer.”

Devon was staggered. “How—I mean—you were—”

The old woman smiled. “Before I married my husband, I was an actress. Did you know that? They were small parts, mostly B-pictures, but the reviewers said I had ‘spunk.’” She laughed. “It would seem that I still have a gift. I could have won an Oscar for that crazy old lady routine, eh, Edward?”

“Yes, Mother,” her son obediently agreed.

“You were acting?” Devon was stunned. “You were never—crazy?”

“There were reasons for the deception, Devon,” Mrs. Crandall insists.

He looked over at her. “Yeah, there are always reasons. How about if you start telling some of them to me?”

“You are an able sorcerer, Devon, but still an impudent youth.” Mrs. Muir frowned. “Sit down and you’ll receive the facts in due course.”

The teenagers all followed her with wide eyes.

“Grandmama,” Cecily said, a little whine in her voice, “why did you have to pretend with me, too?”

“Sorry, sweetness. But we thought it best.” She looked around the room. “If you think what happened here tonight was terrible, it was only because you didn’t live through the cataclysm that happened here before you were born. That was the night the Madman took your grandfather—my husband—into the Hell Hole. We heard his screams echoing throughout the house for weeks.”

“That’s when the family renounced their sorcery,” Devon said. “But you still have your powers, Mrs. Muir.”

She gave him a look. “Do you think we’d really be so foolish as to give up all our sorcery? We knew the Madman might return—and he did, as you know very well, Devon.”

“So it was you!” Devon said. “It was you who saved me on the roof of the tower from Simon!”

“Yes. But it was important that the Madman believe I was a helpless old crone, gone crazy in my upstairs room. He had to believe that I had no sorcery left in my being, so that I could take him by surprise, if need be.”

Devon was nodding, finally understanding. He turned to Mrs. Crandall. “That’s why you would always head up to your mother’s room when things happened,” he said. “So she could use her powers.”

The mistress of Ravenscliff merely sighed.

“I did my best,” Greta Muir said. “But this time—”

“Isobel found out about you,” Devon finished.

The old woman glanced out the window at the crashing sea below. “Yes. And she will try to force me to do what you have refused so far to do, Devon. Open the Hell Hole.”

Devon was on his feet, approaching her. “But you can fight her! She doesn’t have the same hold over you that she has over me.”

Their eyes meet. “That is true. But I am an old lady. I am still human, Devon, and these bones are old. Isobel, on the other hand, is an undead spirit. It matters not what condition her bones are in.”

“We can do it,” Devon assured her. “I know we can. Together, we can do it.”

She smiled kindly. “I admire your courage, Devon. I always have.”

He looked up at her. She knows who I am, he thought. She knows about my past. She can tell me what I need to know.

“Isobel said I was of her line. That her blood runs in my veins.”

Mrs. Muir nodded solemnly. “It runs in ours, too. Many Nightwing were descended from Isobel’s son. But he grew up a proud and noble sorcerer. The evil of the Apostate need not taint the blood of her descendants.”

So that much, at least, Devon could relax about. He figured there was a lot more that Mrs. Muir could tell him, but now was obviously not the time to start bombarding her with questions. They had an undead sorceress to defeat, and who knew when she was going to strike next?

They didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“Devon! Devon!” Alexander came crying, running down the stairs.

“Oh, yes,” Greta Muir said. “I forgot to mention. First thing I did was remedy Alexander’s rather, er, distasteful condition.”

“I couldn’t do it when I tried,” Devon said.

The old woman smiled. “I have a few years on you, Devon. You’ll get the knack.”

Alexander nearly flew into Devon’s arms, completely bypassing his father. Devon noticed Edward Muir look away.

“I was in a cage!” the boy cried. “Cecily put me in a cage!”

“You were a skunk!” Cecily protested. “What was I supposed to do?”

Devon smiled. “It was for your own good, buddy. Everything’s okay now.”

“No, it’s not,” Alexander said. “I just saw her. Morgana! Protect me, Devon! She’s going to change me back into a skunk!”

“Where did you see her?” Devon asked.

“Upstairs. In the corridor. She walked right past me, like she didn’t even see me.” The boy’s eyes were round and terrified. “She was heading into the East Wing.”

“Time to get it on,” D.J. mumbled under his breath.

Devon turned to Mrs. Muir. “I suppose we need to head to the East Wing ourselves.”

“Yes,” the old woman said. “But you stay well behind me, Devon. Don’t look into her eyes. None of you boys should.”

“She doesn’t have anything on me,” Marcus quipped.

But Mrs. Crandall stopped them. She gripped her mother’s arm. “Please, no, Mama. Let’s all just go away. Leave Ravenscliff.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been advocating all these years,” Edward groused.

“Amanda, let go of my arm,” Mrs. Muir said.

“Mama, please!” Mrs. Crandall was near tears, desperate. “I couldn’t bear it if—” Her words broke off. She was overcome.

Devon had never seen her like this. Her usual steely composure, shattered. Mrs. Crandall looked like a little girl, holding onto her mother after a bad dream.

And why shouldn’t she look like a child? She had lost her father to the demons of the Hell Hole. Now she risked losing her mother as well. Despite her stubbornness, despite all her opposition to him these last several months, Devon couldn’t help but feel a sting of compassion for Mrs. Crandall.

“We have no choice, Amanda, and you know that,” Greta Muir said, gently extricating herself from her daughter’s grip. “We are Nightwing. You may have renounced your powers, but I did not. And remember, you were born with your powers. I was given mine, by my husband, as a wedding gift. I took a vow then that I would use these powers wisely, and never shirk from duty, and to honor all the Nightwing who had come before me. What an honor it was for me to join the ranks of Sargon and Horatio Muir and all the others.” She paused for emphasis, looking first at her daughter and then at her son. “I intend to keep my vow.”

The room was silent. Mrs. Crandall looked away.

“Come, Devon,” Greta Muir said. “There’s not a moment to spare.”

“These kids ought to go home,” Edward said, obviously unsettled. “In fact, we all ought to leave the house. Who knows what will happen up there?”

“We didn’t leave the last time,” D.J. announced, “and we’re not leaving now.”

“My ankle is completely healed,” Natalie said, standing up. “I’m ready to go.”

Devon smiled. Marcus gave him a little salute. Cecily hugged him. He had his army if he needed them.

“We’ll start on our own,” Mrs. Muir said. “If we need reinforcements, we’ll send for you.”

Cecily embraced her grandmother. “Please be careful, Grandmama,” she said.

“We can do this,” Devon told them all, projecting confidence.

But inside the fear was mounting, and he knew he couldn’t let it win.

If it did, he lost.

Taking the old woman’s hand, Devon felt himself dematerialize. It was a feeling he didn’t think he’d ever get used to, that tingling sense of disconnection, of existing only in his mind and not in his body.

They reappeared in the upstairs parlor of the East Wing, surrounded by furniture shrouded in sheets and covered in layers of dust and cobwebs. The only light came from a few slivers of moonglow that seeped in through the slats of the shuttered windows.

Greta Muir looked around at the place sadly. “I remember poor, sweet Emily here,” she mused. “It was my first day at Ravenscliff. How lovely she was. How grand this room was back then.” She shook her head. “How different things were in those days, before the Madman changed all our lives forever.”

Devon felt the heat pulsing from the inner chamber.

“Um, with all due respect, Mrs. Muir, maybe we can hold the nostalgia for later,” he said.

The old woman nodded. “She’s inside. Isobel stands at the Hell Hole.”

“Do we have a plan?” Devon asked.

“Yes,” the old woman said simply. “We plan on defeating her.”

She took a few steps toward the door. All at once a figure moved out from the shadows, blocking their way.

“Who is there?” Mrs. Muir cried.

The figure made no answer. It was tall, Devon observed. A man.

“Who is there?” Greta Muir called out again.

The man passed through a slender ray of moonlight. Devon made out his face.

“Rolfe!”

“I will not let you enter,” Rolfe said, and before either of them was aware of it, he had thrown a chain around the hands of Mrs. Muir.

A golden chain.

“You foolish man!” the old woman cried. “I always thought you were stronger than that! My husband loved you like a son!”

She tried breaking free of the chain but could not, and Devon knew why. “You can’t break it,” he told her. “It’s been forged from the mines of the gnomes!”

Still the old woman struggled to free herself. But now Rolfe had moved over to the door to the inner room and opened it. A pale green light fell out from within. Rolfe crooked his finger at Devon.

“She waits,” Rolfe told the boy. “It is your destiny, Devon. Even your father’s vision predicted that you would open the Hell Hole.”

“Break free of her, Rolfe!” Devon shouted. “You can do it. You’re strong! You’ve taught me to be strong! Think of your father, Rolfe. He was a great Guardian! He would never help an Apostate.”

Rolfe said nothing. He stepped aside so that Devon could peer into the room filled with the strange green light. There was a figure standing in the doorway.

It was Isobel.

“Come, Devon,” she said, her voice warm and entreating. “Come discover your destiny to rule beside me, with the greatest power any sorcerer has ever known.”

She reached out her hand to him. He was transfixed looking at her. He could not think—could not remember any of her evil, any of her treachery, any of her dark plans.

All he remembered was that she had said she loved him.

“Come, Devon,” Isobel called.

He could see the Hell Hole now, the source of the green light. It pulsed ferociously, the creatures behind the locked door frantic with the anticipation of freedom.

“Come to me,” Isobel said, and extended her hand.

“Yes,” Devon murmured, and reached out toward her.

All at once there was a flurry of motion, a rush of wind. Devon staggered backward, falling to the ground, as the force pushed past him, assaulting Isobel. It knocked her to the ground. The Apostate began to scream.

“What? What happened?” Devon shouted.

He was being helped to his feet by Rolfe. He saw the golden chain on the floor.

He realized that the force that had overtaken Isobel was Greta Muir.

But not Greta Muir the old woman. Instead she was like a bird—a raven—a giant bird with enormous, powerful claws.

And Isobel—she was a rat, a hissing, snarling rat, with sharp pointed teeth and a long, greasy tail that kept whipping back and forth in terror and rage.

The raven’s beak slammed down into the eye of the rat. A howl of pain shrieked from the creature’s mouth, and the entire house began to shudder with the force of an earthquake. Devon staggered, holding onto the wall to keep from falling, all the while watching the Hell Hole, pulsing with green light, the demons screaming and throwing themselves against the portal.

The battling creatures had resumed their human forms. Isobel, regaining her strength, rose to stand over the fallen Greta, a broken old woman who could do nothing more than lift her right hand.

Suddenly a white light overwhelmed them all. Devon and Rolfe both recoiled from its glare. The demons ceased their noise behind the door. Through the blinding light Devon managed to glimpse Greta Muir rise up—not the old woman he’d come to know, but a young, vibrant, powerful sorceress, the way she must have been once many years ago, before her husband had been killed. Her hair was as red as Cecily’s, her eyes blazing with fire.

“Your power here is ended,” Greta shouted as she pinned Isobel down on the ground. “The power of good will always triumph over the darkness!”

“No!” Isobel shrieked, trying to break free. “It mustn’t end this way! It mustn’t!”

With one last blast of power, she threw Mrs. Muir off of her. Greta sailed across the room and crashed into a table. Isobel tried to stand but discovered she could not. She had been weakened, perhaps fatally, by Greta’s power, but for the moment she was still capable of more destruction.

“Now, Devon,” Rolfe whispered.

And Devon leapt. He landed with both feet of Isobel’s chest. She screamed.

“Nooooo!”

The Hell Hole pulsed in one last burst of light, then faded into darkness. The heat dissipated. The green glow was gone.

Under Devon’s feet, Isobel twisted and convulsed, then disappeared in a funnel of gray smoke. All that was left in her place was a pile of ashes—the stinking, smoldering remains of a witch burned at the stake.

Rolfe rushed to Greta Muir’s side. “Are you hurt badly?” he asked.

She was old once more and badly bruised, but she managed a smile. “My husband would be proud of you, Rolfe.”

He turned to Devon. “Help me with her. We’ve got to carry her downstairs.”

“It was the element of surprise that was necessary,” Rolfe explained as they gathered in the parlor. Mrs. Muir had been carried to her bed in her room, and Bjorn is with her now. His potions and powders would bring her back to health and strength.

“So you were just pretending to go along with her?” Devon asked.

Rolfe nodded. “I knew the moment would come when I’d be able to turn the tables on her, so long as she never suspected.” He smiled. “So the moment she wasn’t looking, I removed the golden chain from Mrs. Muir.”

“But, dude, how’d you break free of her power?” D.J. asked. “I tried, believe me, but I just couldn’t do it.”

“I admit I had help.” Rolfe looked at Devon. “I don’t think Isobel expected to run into someone like Roxanne when she came to Misery Point.”

“What kind of powers does Roxanne have exactly, Rolfe?” Devon asked. “Is she a sorceress, too?”

“Let’s leave that story for another time,” Rolfe said, just as Mrs. Crandall and Edward walked into the room.

Their faces were pale. Mrs. Crandall’s eyes were red from crying.

“Mother,” Cecily said. “Grandmama is going to be all right, isn’t she?”

“Bjorn can’t do anything for her,” she replied emotionlessly. “None of his remedies have helped.”

Edward Muir scoffed. “I never believed in his hocus-pocus anyway.”

“Well, it worked for me,” Natalie said, standing up on her ankle. “See?”

“A real doctor is on his way,” Edward said, ignoring her. “And I think it’s time all you children ran along home. It’s late. I’m sure your parents must be wondering where you are.”

“But first, Devon,” Mrs. Crandall said, “I want you to take away their memories of everything that has happened here. It wouldn’t do to have them telling tales of sorcery and witches in the village.”

“Take away my memories?” Marcus said, outraged. “I think not.”

The others echoed his sentiments.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Crandall insists. “It is for your own good, as well as ours.”

“I won’t do it,” Devon told her, crossing his arms over his chest.

Mrs. Crandall was adamant. “I am your guardian. You will do what I say.”

“No,” Rolfe said, walking up behind Devon to drop his arm around his shoulder. He faced Mrs. Crandall. “I am Devon’s Guardian. Capital G. And you know full well the responsibility that carries. And you also know that Devon using his powers in such a way would be a terrible misuse of them. I doubt he could even do it if he tried.”

“You stay out of this, Montaigne,” Edward Muir snapped. “The boy’s father sent him to live with Amanda, not you.”

“Uncle Edward,” Cecily said, getting up in front of him. “Rolfe just helped save us all from Isobel the Apostate. Don’t you think you owe him some thanks?”

“Thanks?” Edward Muir looked as if he wants to spit. “For what? For nearly killing my mother? If he would have just let her handle it her own way, she might not be up there right now fighting for her life. He threw that golden chain on her, remember. He admits that.”

“He had to do it, Edward,” Devon said. “It was the only way to trick Isobel, to take her by surprise. I was there. You weren’t.”

Rolfe had turned away in disgust. “That’s all right, Devon. Let them remain consumed by their hatred of me.” He glared over at Edward suddenly, then back at Mrs. Crandall. “But you can no longer keep me from Devon. The boy has a right to learn about his Nightwing heritage.”

“Get out,” Mrs. Crandall said. “All of you. I want to be alone.”

“I’m telling you, Amanda,” Rolfe told her. “I will train Devon in his powers.”

“You? You haven’t had the training yourself!”

“I am learning! And I will bring experts here to Misery Point—”

“Get out!” Mrs. Crandall was furious. “I will determine what’s best for Devon! Now I mean it, all of you, out!”

Rolfe shook his head. Heading out the door, he told Devon that he’d be in touch tomorrow. Devon had so much he wanted to tell him—starting with his adventure in 1490—but he knew they’d better not push Mrs. Crandall much further. He said goodnight, and Rolfe left through the front door, as Devon’s three friends followed.

“I’ll talk with you guys, too, tomorrow,” Devon said to them.

“Good work, Mr. Wizard,” D.J. said.

Devon smiled.

They pledged to keep everything to themselves. It was a vow they’d taken before, and they’d kept it. Not even their parents knew about the supernatural adventures they’d had at Ravenscliff.

“You think this is the last of the weirdos from hell dropping by this house?” D.J. asked Devon as he headed out the door.

Devon doubted it. Not with that portal in the East Wing, and the power that lay beyond it.

Doctor Lamb gave them all a sympathetic face.

“I suggest at this point that you just try to keep her comfortable,” he said, standing outside Greta Muir’s room. Devon saw Mrs. Crandall’s eyes burn with repressed tears. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do.”

The family sat up with her through the night. Devon changed out of his fifteenth-century breeches and slipped into a pair of sweat pants. He sat in the hallway outside Mrs. Muir’s room, leaning against the wall.

“She’s asking for you, Devon,” Cecily said, sometime around one in the morning, coming out of her grandmother’s room.

“Me?”

Cecily nodded. “I’m not sure Mother is planning on telling you. But Grandmama keeps saying your name, over and over.”

“Should I just go in, then?”

“I would if I were you.”

“Your mother will be angry.”

Cecily smirked. “You just fought an undead Nightwing witch, and you’re afraid of my mother?”

Devon admitted she had a point. He tiptoed into the old woman’s room. She saw him approach.

“Devon,” she whispered.

Mrs. Crandall was sitting beside her bed. “Mother,” she said. “Just try to sleep.”

“I must talk to Devon,” Greta Muir insisted weakly.

“You mustn’t—”

“I—must—”

Devon stood over her bed. “What is it, Mrs. Muir? Why have you been asking for me?”

“No, Mother,” Mrs. Crandall said, standing now, trying to block Devon from the old woman’s view.

“He has a right,” Mrs. Muir rasped, her voice weak. “He should know his past.”

“Mother, you are talking nonsense.” Mrs. Crandall looked over at him. “Devon, really, she is truly mad now. This is no deception. She is confused, incoherent—”

“Let me—speak—Amanda!”

Devon leaned in close to Mrs. Muir. The old woman was clearly fading. It wasn’t so much any bruises or broken bones, but her very spirit that had been sapped by the encounter with the Apostate. She seemed spent and broken, a pale shell of the feisty old woman Devon had met just hours ago in the parlor.

“Do you know my past, Mrs. Muir?” Devon asked. “Do you know who my parents were?”

“Mother, please, don’t—” Mrs. Crandall cried.

The old woman gripped Devon’s hand tightly with her knobby, spotted fingers. “You—must—know—”

“Know what, Mrs. Muir?”

“That you—you are one of us—”

“Yes, Mrs. Muir, I am Nightwing. And I am proud of that heritage. As you said before, I respect the power and those who have come before me.”

“But you, Devon… you… are…”

She was trying to tell him something.

“My parents? Do you know them, Mrs. Muir? Why did my father send me here to Ravenscliff?”

“You—you—are—”

“Mother, no!”

The old woman’s hand suddenly fell away from Devon’s. Her eyes remained open, but Devon knew she was dead.

Mrs. Crandall knelt beside her mother and cried. Devon wasn’t sure if they were tears of grief or relief—relief that the old woman had died just before she could reveal whatever it was that she knew about Devon’s past.

The Hell Hole

Greta Thorne Muir was buried beside her husband out in the old windswept cemetery at the edge of the cliff. It was a simple ceremony, with only the immediate family present: Greta’s two children and two grandchildren, and Devon March.

After the rest had gone back to the house, Devon stayed behind, watching Bjorn shovel the earth back into the grave.

“Good thing we’ve had this January thaw,” the gnome said, the soil making a sickening thud against the treated wood of Mrs. Muir’s coffin.

“Oh, come on,” Devon said, smiling a little. “As if a little frozen earth could stop you. I saw that tunnel you made leading from the village to Isobel’s castle. All with your fingernails, huh?”

“Yes, that is how I did it,” Bjorn said, pausing in his work and to look down at his nails. “My father tunneled all the way from the Arctic circle to Copenhagen. It was the largest gnome mine ever constructed.”

“Is it still there?”

Bjorn shrugged, getting back to shoveling. “Haven’t been back in a while.”

“So what have you been doing for the last five centuries?”

“Oh, this and that.” Bjorn laughed. “Do you want a year-by-year account? We’d be here all week!”

Devon looked up at the sky. It was clear and blue.

“Tell me what happened to all of them, Bjorn,” he said softly. “Wiglaf. Arnulf and Sybilla.” He paused. “Gisele.”

“I’m not sure about the others, but Wiglaf finally died in the seventeenth century, around the time of the Civil War in England. Of course, he was heartbroken when his school was destroyed. It happened not too long after you left. He never quite got over it.”

“The Nightwing school was destroyed? How?”

“Oh, I’m fuzzy on the details. It must be in one of the history books.”

Devon nodded. So much to learn still…

“There,” Bjorn said, finished with his task, patting the earth with the shovel. “May you rest in peace, great lady.”

Devon looked down at the grave. “She took the secret of my past with her.”

Bjorn eyed him craftily. “I told you the day we met that you have the power to find out what you need to know.”

Devon smirked. “Are you suggesting I try to use the Staircase Into Time again? Because if you are, I’m not sure I’d make it back this time.”

“I don’t mean just the Staircase, Devon. You are a Sorcerer of the Nightwing. You are the only one left in this house now who has such power. They can’t hide the truth from you forever.”

Devon narrowed his eyes at him. “So tell me who the woman you took from the tower was. I thought at the time it might have been Isobel. But now that idea seems pretty crazy.”

“Has it ever occurred to you, Devon, that I might not know the answer to that question? I cannot tell you what I do not know.”

“So you’re admitting you took someone from the tower and brought her to the basement? You just don’t know who she is.”

The gnome sighed. “You have powers, Devon. Use them.” He flung the shovel over his shoulder. “Come on back to the house. I’ve got to set out dinner.”

Devon laughed. “You’re a man of many talents, Bjorn. Tunnel-maker, magical chain welder, gravedigger, chef…”

“You could name them all, but they’d still not be as many talents as you have, my boy.” They started off back through the field toward Ravenscliff. “No, sirree. Not as many as you.”

When she came to him, it took him by surprise.

Devon was walking down a long corridor in some medieval castle. Torches burned along the walls, and in their glow he could see blood, glistening in the firelight as it dripped to the floor. Devon heard her laughter moments before he rounded a corner and saw her standing there.

Isobel the Apostate.

“Blood of my blood, flesh of my life,” she said, her arms outstretched. “I knew you would not abandon me.”

Her eyes were black and as beguiling as ever. Devon fell into her arms and felt her mouth, like a vampire’s, upon his throat…

“No!”

He sat up in bed. The dream had left him in a cold sweat.

She’s gone! So why is she still in my dreams?

Devon swung his feet out of bed and placed them against the cold hardwood floor. His heart was thudding in his chest. Outside his window he could see it was snowing lightly.

I can just have plain old ordinary nightmares, can’t I? That’s all it was. It’s not Isobel. She’s gone. Mrs. Muir defeated her. I saw her ashes in the East Wing.

A gust of wind rattled the windows. Devon knew he couldn’t get back to sleep now. He looked over at his clock. 3:15. He let out a long sigh.

What was Mrs. Muir going to tell him right before she died? Had she really known the truth of his past? Why was Mrs. Crandall so desperate to keep her from talking?

He had a right. He should know his past.

That was when Devon heard it: the sobbing.

He sat in rapt silence. The horrible sound came from far away, creeping around corners and up through floorboards. It was the same sound as ever, coming from that hidden room in the basement.

Who was it? If not Isobel, if not Mrs. Muir—who was it?

The ghost of someone who once lived here? Emily Muir?

But he’d seen Bjorn escort a living, breathing woman.

And whoever—whatever—was being kept in that basement knew Devon’s name.

He remembered the vision he’d had using Wiglaf’s crystal. A woman—in the tower—crying out for her baby. A baby that was being taken away from her.

Devon couldn’t stand it anymore. He pulled on his robe and headed out into the corridor. At the landing he saw a light in the foyer. He peered over the railing. Edward Muir was down there in his coat, wrapping a scarf around his neck.

Devon came halfway down the stairs.

“Ah, Devon,” Edward said, looking up at him. “I should’ve suspected you’d be prowling about.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes. That’s exactly my destination. Somewhere. Anywhere but here.”

Devon noticed there was a suitcase at his feet.

“I have a flight to London out of Boston at six-thirty,” Edward Muir told him. “From there I’ll head on to Amsterdam. Then down to Greece, I think, where I can charter a boat to take me out into the Aegean. All I want to do is sleep in the sun and forget this wind, this cold, this—”

“Sobbing?” Devon asked. “You can hear it, can’t you?”

“Of course I can hear it. I’ve heard it all my life.”

“Who is it, Edward?”

“You have so many questions, and I suppose I can’t blame you for asking them. But I can only give you one answer, Devon.” Edward paused. “As soon as you’re old enough, get out of this house. Go as far away as you can.”

Devon sighed. “Does Mrs. Crandall know you’re leaving?”

Edward chuckled. “I’ve learned it’s never prudent to clue Amanda in ahead of time about anything. She’ll just try to stop you. Remember that, too, Devon.” He grinned. “Bid my dear sister goodbye for me, will you?”

From outside a car honks.

Edward sighed. “Do you know what I had to promise to pay to get a cabbie up here to Ravenscliff in the middle of the night? Stupid villagers.” He smirked, pulling on his gloves. “They think the place is haunted.”

“But what about Alexander? You can’t just leave without saying goodbye—”

“Really, Devon, it’s for the best.” Edward lifted his suitcase and headed toward the door. “The boy always makes such a scene when I leave.”

Devon watched him go. He thought of the little boy asleep upstairs, the little boy who would once again be disappointed by an uncaring father. Once again Devon considered how fortunate he was to have grown up with Ted March as his dad, who gave him everything Edward Muir had never given Alexander. Maybe Devon never got the kinds of expensive gifts Alexander that received from all over the world—and in the next few days he was certain the boy would find some outrageous toy in the mailbox—but Devon got things like support, constancy, and love from Ted March. Alexander was never going to get that from his father, especially not now, humiliated by Morgana, browbeaten by his sister, and once again bested by Rolfe Montaigne.

“No,” Devon whispered to himself. “Alexander is never going to get what he needs from his father.” He paused. “He’s going to have to get it from me.”

The sobbing had stopped. Devon no longer had the heart for exploring anyway, so he just headed back to his room, where he lay awake in bed until it was time to get up for school.

“And you will see here in these illustrations the extravagance of the Tudor period,” Mr. Weatherby was saying, clicking his remote from the back of the room as a series of slides flashed upon a screen. “It was an extravagance intended to give a message of royal authority and security, especially after the King had vanquished the last of the claimants to his throne.”

Devon watched with fascination. The paradoxes of time continued to boggle his mind. In this life, he’d never left the United States, but five hundred years ago he was in England.

Later, in a booth at Gio’s, Devon filled in his friends about his timeslip, as Bjorn called it.

“So you were really in the year 1490,” Marcus said in astonishment.

“Yeah,” Cecily said. “So tell me more about this girl who was a double of me.”

“I met doubles of both you and Marcus, as well as Rolfe and your mother,” Devon told her.

“What about me?” Natalie whines. “Didn’t you see a double of me?”

“No, but I’m sure you were there.” Devon sat between Natalie and Cecily looking across the table at D.J. and Marcus. “You too, Deej. See, I have this theory that we all have doubles throughout time. I’m sure that if I’d stuck around longer I would’ve seen doubles of everybody I know. Maybe even a double of myself.”

Gio came by for their order. “Pepperoni with a scald?” he asked.

“You got it, my man,” D.J. said, nodding and licking his lips. “And would you throw some candied apples on that, too?”

“Eeew, I hate candy apple pizza,” Cecily said, shuddering. “It has got to be the grossest invention of all time.”

“I can think of a few sicker,” Marcus said, laughing.

Devon looked over at him. There it was again: the pentagram hovering over Marcus’ face. What did it mean? One more mystery still unsolved.

“Back to your story, Devon,” Cecily was saying. “My double was a Nightwing, right? With powers.”

“Oh, yeah. And she was really good, too.”

Cecily gritted her teeth in determination. “I want my Nightwing heritage restored. My mother had no right to renounce my powers without my consent. Isn’t there some kind of ritual I can do to get them back?”

“Oh, like your mother would sit back and allow that,” D.J. said.

“It’s my birthright!”

“Be careful what you wish for, Cess. It hasn’t always been so great, you know, growing up with things climbing out of my closet trying to drag me down to hell.”

“As if that hasn’t been happening to me of late, too.” Cecily sulks. “It would just be nice to have my own powers instead of having to rely on you to lend me some. I’m not the kind of girl who likes depending on a man for everything.”

“I am,” Natalie said, leaning into Devon. “I totally am.”

Marcus laughed. “Even still,” he said to Natalie, “you handled yourself pretty well against those demons.”

Natalie grinned. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

Devon sighed. “Well, I’m heading over to Rolfe’s after this. There’s so much stuff I still need to know. I want to check out his books, since Mrs. Crandall still won’t let me see the ones in the East Wing.”

“Let me come with you,” Cecily said.

“If your mother found out…”

“She won’t!”

“Okay. It’s your head in the guillotine, not mine,” Devon said.

So D.J. dropped them both by Rolfe’s after they finished their pizza. Devon had arranged earlier with Rolfe to meet him at the house. Roxanne was nowhere to be seen; Devon still wondered just what power she had that had enabled her to break Isobel’s hold over Rolfe. But right now he was focused on something else.

“What do you want to look up first?” Rolfe asked.

“I want to find out what happened to Gisele of Zeeland.”

“Why are you so interested in her?” Cecily asked, looking over his shoulder as Devon leafed through the first book Rolfe handed to him. “Did something go on between the two of you?”

Devon smiled. “Why? Are you jealous?”

“Well, kind of. Even if she did look exactly like me.”

Rolfe laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about her too much, Cecily,” he said. “Whoever she is, she’s been dead for almost five centuries.”

It was an observation that still seemed so bizarre to Devon. All of those people, dead. Long dead. Except Bjorn, of course. But for Devon they had been alive just days ago.

“Here!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Here she is!”

“Gisele of Zeeland,” Cecily read, taking the book from Devon. “Daughter of Arnulf of Flanders and Sybilla of Ghent. One of the great Nightwing of the sixteenth century. While still in her teens, she helped defeat Isobel the Apostate in England. Returning to her native country, Gisele discovered a pustular break between this world and the next—’ ” She paused, looking up at Devon. “What’s a pustular break?”

“It’s an emerging Hell Hole,” Rolfe explained. “I’ve been doing a good deal of reading-up on all this. One of the things I’ve learned is that when a Hell Hole first forms, it causes the earth to become contaminated—like pus on a human sore.”

“Gross,” Cecily said.

Rolfe winked at her. “Well, what do you expect when you’ve got demons eating through the earth’s crust?”

“Anyway,” Cecily said, resuming her reading, “ ‘Gisele discovered a pustulous break between this world and the next and did battle with the creatures therein, sealing off the portal. Later, she helped save many Nightwing children from the catastrophic demonic assault on the school of Wiglaf in 1554. Hailed as a hero, Gisele lived to a very old age, dying at 97 in 1572.’ ”

She looked up from the book into Devon’s eyes.

“I so want to be a Nightwing,” she told him dreamily.

He smiled and took the book from her. It might all seem pretty glamorous to Cecily, but Devon knew differently. He had inhaled the stench of the Hell Holes. He’d seen the destruction and the bloodshed caused by demons and renegade sorcerers. The destruction of the Nightwing school might have seemed like the stuff of Arthurian fantasy to Cecily—but Devon knew Wiglaf, and it bothered him to think that he’d had to face such a thing.

Would I give it all up? Devon thought, as Rolfe drove them back to the cliffside staircase. Would I give up all my Nightwing past the way Mrs. Crandall and Edward did, just so that I might try to live an ordinary life?

As if it had worked for them.

Devon knew he’d have no better luck.

He dreamed of Isobel again that night—except now she was Morgana again—and they were sitting in the back of Stormy Harbor, holding hands. He woke up flushed and frightened. Why did he keep dreaming about her if she was gone?

It’s just going to take awhile to forget her, he assured himself. That’s all.

The next day after school he spent time with Alexander, who’d had little to say about his father’s departure, pretending it didn’t bother him. Devon dragged out a couple of sleds from the garage and the two raced each other down the sloping hill behind the mansion, hooting and laughing. Alexander got the sudden idea to build a snowman at the foot of the hill, which they did, rolling three big balls of snow and then placing them one on top of the other. Alexander found one of his father’s old hats from the garage and placed it on the snowman’s head. Then the boy hopped back on his sled and rode smack down the hill into the snowman, obliterating it.

Devon resisted the urge to play child psychologist. He just gave the boy a high five.

For supper, Bjorn made them a terrific meal of what he said was pterodactyl and gravy. Devon thought it tasted like chicken. Mrs. Crandall didn’t join them.

She had avoided them all as much as possible since her mother’s death, taking her meals in her room and barely speaking even to Cecily. She seemed overcome, not just by the loss of her mother, but by Edward’s departure and the sudden realization that she was all alone now, the sole sentinel against Ravenscliff’s supernatural past. Devon wondered if the great lady might have been softening, if she would relent in her steely determination to keep whatever secrets she held deep within herself.

Yet if he dared to hope she’d reveal something—anything—he was quickly proven wrong. The following night, encountering Mrs. Crandall on the stairs as he headed up to sleep, Devon found her pale and shrunken, her eyes lost in deep sockets of sleeplessness. It was the first time she had emerged from her room in days, and she barely acknowledged Devon as she tried to pass him on the stairs.

“Mrs. Crandall,” Devon said, stopping her, “maybe it would be easier on you—on all of us—if you told me what your mother tried to say before she died. I’m not just asking for myself. That way you wouldn’t have to carry this burden alone, whatever it is.” He touched her arm. “Please. Let me help you.”

She looked at him without emotion. “Help me? You? No, Devon. You cannot help me.” Her eyes moved away, seeming to fix on something only she could see. “And I cannot help you.”

She continued on down the stairs like some wandering ghost.

That night Devon didn’t dream of Isobel the Apostate, but of his father.

“Beware, Devon! Beware!”

“Dad? Where are you?”

It was dark. There was no light, only heat and darkness.

“You will open the Hell Hole, Devon! Beware!”

“No, Dad,” Devon cried into the darkness. “I didn’t open it. We defeated her! The vision was wrong! I never opened the Hell Hole!”

“But you will, Devon! You will!”

He bolted upright in bed. Every night another nightmare. He was drenched in sweat. He rubbed his head. Would he ever get a good night’s sleep again?

Kicking off his sheets, he was suddenly aware of how warm he was. But it wasn’t just the aftereffects of the dream, he quickly realized. His room was wickedly hot—and he knew what that meant.

“Oh, no,” he groaned. “Not again. Not so soon!”

But he sensed no demons present. Just the heat and pressure. He concentrated. They had to be in the house somewhere.

In his mind’s eye, he saw the portal in the East Wing. It was thrumming with a high-pitched sound and once more was glowing green.

You will open the Hell Hole, Devon!

“No,” he said, a small voice in the darkness of his room.

What could be causing the disturbance? he asked himself. Isobel is gone.

Wasn’t she?

That was when he heard her laughter.

Gone? But you know that’s impossible, Devon!

“Isobel,” he breathed, gripping his pillow to his chest.

You saw how I transcended even the flames of death!

Fear took him by the throat.

Come to me, Devon. It is time you learned the truth of who you are. I will tell you the truth. I will tell you all you want to know.

“She’s at the Hell Hole,” Devon said.

And this time he was really on his own.

Come to the East Wing, Devon. I await you. I await you with the truth.

“But I can’t,” he said weakly. “I’ve never been able to get in there—”

The old woman is dead. It was her power that stopped you and now her power is ended. You are the Master of Ravenscliff now!

Devon tossed his pillow across the room. “No! You’re trying to trick me!”

I will open this portal, Devon, even if it means destroying this house and everyone in it!

Devon concentrated. And he found Isobel was telling the truth. The way is no longer barred to him.

He disappeared from his bed and reappeared in Emily Muir’s cobwebbed parlor.

He was in the East Wing.

From the inner room he could see the green light glowing anew.

Isobel the Apostate waited for him. She was different somehow. She seemed strangely transparent. Moonlight shone through her, and when she turned certain ways she disappeared entirely from view.

But the Hell Hole was clear and solid, pulsating and glowing. From behind, disgusting vermin scratched and howled, frantic to be set free.

“We are evenly matched, the two of us,” Isobel said. “I cannot force you to open this portal against your will.”

Devon faced her. “So why have you called me here?”

“To make a bargain with you.”

“I’m not interested in sharing any kind of power.”

She smiled. Even with all the horror, Devon still found her dazzlingly beautiful. Her black eyes danced.

“Not power, Devon,” she said. “I understand now that’s not what you want. You want knowledge. Truth.”

He said nothing.

“You want to know who you are. Who your parents were. Why you were sent here to Ravenscliff. What is the secret of your past, Devon, and what is your future?”

Still he said nothing.

Isobel smiled cunningly. “I will make an even exchange with you, Devon. The knowledge you seek for your assistance in opening this Hell Hole. If you want to rescue the people in this house once you have done so, so be it. You have the power to do so. I will not stop you. Just give me access to the power of this portal and to the creatures within, and I will give you the knowledge that you seek.”

“So give it now.”

Isobel laughed. “Do you think I’m as gullible as that? That I have spent five centuries observing the foibles of humankind to fall for such a trick? I would tell you what you want to know and then you would back out on your part of the deal.”

Devon didn’t reply.

She shook her head. “No, my boy. The exchange will take place simultaneously. You open the door and the knowledge will immediately be yours, there in your mind—as if it had always been there.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You know who my parents were?”

She beamed. “You are my blood, Devon. I have watched all my descendants. I know full well the secret Amanda Muir Crandall has been keeping from you.”

Devon hesitated.

I could do it. I could learn the truth. And I’m sure I could save Cecily and Alexander from whatever might come out of that Hell Hole…

But then the demons would be loose… and Isobel free…

I could fight her.

But I might not win…

“The truth, Devon,” Isobel taunted. “Finally the truth.”

“The knowledge I seek,” he said dreamily, “for opening the Hell Hole.”

“That’s all, Devon,” Isobel insisted. “Just a quick and easy exchange. You get what you want, I get what I want.”

“What I want,” he mumbled.

“The name of your father,” Isobel said. “The name of your mother. Your place in the history of the Nightwing.”

“Yes,” Devon said.

“Yes,” Isobel echoed.

He turned from her and concentrated on the portal. He felt no fear, just a calm and certain resolve. He did this once before, when he plunged into the Hell Hole to bring Alexander back. He knew how to do it. He knew how to open the door between this world and the one below.

“Oh, yes, Devon,” Isobel breathes, in near ecstasy as she watched Devon concentrate.

Behind the door, the demons were wild. The portal shuddered under the force of Devon’s mind. The great iron bolt began to tremble.

He felt his awesome power then, raw and mighty. A magical passion consumed him, and he was no longer a fifteen-year-old boy but an ancient wizard—a sorcerer of the noble Order of the Nightwing. He took in a long, deep breath—and the bolt on the door slid easily and smoothly from its place.

“It is mine!” Isobel exulted. “It is mine!”

The metal door creaked open to reveal the blackness within.

And suddenly Devon rushed the Apostate. Her face changed then, realizing how she’d been tricked. All of her centuries caught up to her in that instant. The woman Devon seized and thrust into the throbbing darkness of the Hell Hole was no longer young and beautiful, but rather a wizened, hideous crone.

“You wanted them so bad!” he shouted. “Now you’ll be with them—forever!”

Isobel the Apostate screamed as the portal shut against her.

Devon fell staggering back onto the dusty floor.

He had remembered his lessons from The Book of Englightenment. A sorcerer had the power to open the portal without letting anything out, only letting himself—or someone else—in.

He heard Isobel now behind the door, banging against the other side. Her cries were quickly drowned out by a cacophony of angry, frustrated demons, promised their freedom only to be denied, yet again. Devon heard their struggle. In his mind’s eye he could see them, scaly and putrid, dragging Isobel away from the door deep down into the bowels of the Hell Hole—the only place that would contain her, keep her evil spirit from returning.

“You were wrong, Isobel,” Devon said, staring at the portal, which was once again cool and quiet and still. “We weren’t evenly matched. You forgot just one important little detail.”

He grinned.

“I’m the one-hundredth generation from Sargon the Great.”

He sat up suddenly. He was in his room, in bed. The night was cool.

Was it all a dream?

Yes, he realized, it was a dream. But that didn’t make his triumph over Isobel any less real. Her power had to be ended, and her power came through dreams—so it was fitting that their final battleground was Devon’s mind. Just because he had never left his bed didn’t mean their battle hadn’t taken place, that he hadn’t exiled her to the Hell Hole. A Sorcerer of the Nightwing could pick his battles, and where he fought them.

He slept like a rock the rest of the night.

Epilogue

Behind the Wall

“But you could have learned the truth from her,” Cecily said the next night, after he’d filled her in on all the details. “You could’ve learned who you really are.”

Outside the wind was howling. The ravens cried, fluttering their wings, as ever guarding the house. There was no snow tonight, but thunder rumbled in the distance. Another Misery Point storm was on its way.

Devon smiled. “Yeah, but the truth at what cost? Isobel and the demons roving the world isn’t something I want to imagine. Besides, who’s to say she wasn’t planning something as devious as I was?”

Cecily grinned. “You really are Johnny-on-the-spot, aren’t you?” She reached over and kissed him. “I’m very proud of you, Devon.”

He blushed. “Well, the Voice is confirming for me that she’s gone. We don’t have to worry about Isobel the Apostate anymore.”

“Mother ought to be more grateful than she is.”

Devon shrugged. “I think she’s starting to realize keeping secrets from me is a losing proposition. But she’s stubborn. She’s not going to give in easily.”

“Yeah,” Cecily agreed. “But then again, neither are you.”

She headed up to bed, leaving Devon to sit in the parlor staring up into the oil paint eyes of Horatio Muir. “Thanks for your help,” he told the portrait. “I guess we’re destined to meet again. Maybe you can fill me in on all the outstanding mysteries of this house. Like who’s buried in the grave marked Devon and where I fit in with all of this.”

From some far corner of the house he heard it then: the sobbing.

He smirked, keeping eye contact with Horatio. “Oh, and how could I forget? Maybe you can tell me who the heck it is who’s hidden away in the basement. Who sobs like she’s carrying the weight of the world?”

He listened. The sound was heart-rending.

“Is it a ghost or is it human?” he asked the portrait. “And how come whatever it is seems to know me?”

You know her name, came a voice in his head.

Whether it’s the Voice or someone’s else’s—Horatio’s, maybe?—Devon couldn’t be sure.

“I know her name?” he asked.

You know her name.

“Who?” Devon asked the portrait, but the face of Horatio Muir remained flat and mute.

Thunder suddenly crashed directly over the house and the lights flickered. Devon stood and lit a few candles, just in case.

It can’t be Isobel. I can rule her out. The Voice said she’s really gone.

Then who could it be?

You know her name.

He took a candle with him as he headed down the stairs into the cold, damp cellar. As he suspected, the lights did go out with the next assault of thunder, and he had to use the candle to guide him to the source of the cries. They were louder down here as usual, and seemed to grow more agitated as he approached.

He approached the wall from where the sound seemed to originate.

“Tell me your name,” he shouted through the wall.

But the sobbing only grew more pitiful.

“Tell me your name and I can help you.”

“Devon?” the crying voice asked. “Devon, is that you?”

“Yes. You know my name, now tell me yours.”

But there was only silence. Devon set the candle down on an old trunk, the light flickering throughout the shadowy basement. He felt along the length of the wall. Nothing. No seam. No panel that he could discern.

“There must be a way out,” he said. “How else did they get you in there?”

He knocked against the wall with his knuckle. It was only drywall, maybe half an inch thick. It was a hastily built room with seemingly no door. Why had the Muirs built it? What was hidden back there? And who were they hiding it from?

From me, Devon told himself.

He tried to will himself behind the wall, the way he had in the East Wing. But he was met with failure—odd, given that Greta Muir’s sorcery was now gone. What force was still here that was stronger than he was?

More than ever, Devon realized there were answers behind this wall.

Answers to questions about himself.

He glanced around the basement. “Well,” he said, “if my powers won’t do the trick, then I’ll have to do it with my bare hands.”

He spotted what he’d been looking for.

“Stand back,” he called to whoever—or whatever—lived behind that wall. “I’m coming through!”

He raised a sledgehammer over his head.

CONTINUED IN BOOK THREE

More from the Ravenscliff Series...

Blood Moon

Book Three - The Ravenscliff Series

PROLOGUE

Halloween

Nearly 30 Years Ago

The old crones down in the village liked to say that if you made your way out to the farthest crag of Devil’s Rock on a stormy, windy night, you could hear the screams of all those who had lost their lives over the centuries to the furious sea below.

On this night, the young man feared, one more death would be added to the legends.

He ran after the woman, desperate to stop her and bring her back to Ravenscliff. Otherwise, he knew the Madman would enact his revenge. The Madman—the name Jackson Muir was called down in the village, the words that were whispered in fear in the servants’ quarters of the great house. The Madman.

That is what he is.

And he will destroy us all.

But Ogden McNutt would not accept that. He wasn’t willing to accept the idea of destruction, not yet. There was still time. Perhaps he could avert the fate that had been predicted for them, prevent the cataclysm that loomed over everyone at Ravenscliff. If he could prevent the woman from reaching the cliffs, if he could bring her safely back to the dark mansion atop the hill, perhaps all of what they feared could still be avoided.

“Emily!” Ogden shouted into the wind. “Emily!”

He could see her ahead of him, in her long flowing white gown, heading toward Devil’s Rock. Above them a large full moon struggled to break out from the dark clouds that raced against its face, as thunder grumbled on the horizon.

“Emily!”

She did not pause, but the young man was gaining on her. He could hear her now, her sobs, her tortured breathing. She had run from the house after finding Jackson, her husband, in the arms of that servant girl—that strange, bewitching creature with the piercing dark eyes and shining black hair. Ogden had witnessed the scene—and in Emily’s fair golden face, he had seen something twist, something shatter, as if suddenly, in a glance, she had understood every last nuance of the Madman’s evil. She turned and ran.

“Go after her,” said Montaigne—the man who had first brought Ogden to this place, who had promised him knowledge of the ancient arts, who had offered him an apprenticeship with the Guardians. “Bring her back here.”

She mustn’t be allowed to get near Devil’s Rock, Ogden told himself over and over as he ran, remembering the prediction of doom. I must stop her! I must reach her in time!

But she was already there, standing at the precipice, her long white dress billowing around her, when Ogden finally reached her. He staggered as he caught his breath, yet still managed to grab the beautiful young woman’s arm, just as both were leaning over the edge, staring down into the angry sea crashing below.

“Emily,” Ogden said, “you must come back with me!”

She spun on him, eyes wild.

“Back to Ravenscliff? Back to him? Are you as mad as he? Why would I go back, knowing what he has planned for all of us?”

“Please, Emily, you must come away from here—”

She pulled out of his grasp, stronger in her fury than Ogden could ever have imagined. How different she was now, how changed from the sweet, innocent, demure girl who had first come to Ravenscliff.

“Are you one of his minions?” Emily’s eyes were furious, accusing. “Is that it, Ogden? You and Montaigne—”

“No, Emily, we want to stop him! And we can, if you just come away with me!”

She laughed bitterly. “Stop him? You are a fool. All of you are fools if you think you can stop him now. Ravenscliff will be his—and the Hellhole beneath it too!”

“No, we can stop him!”

“Look!” She pointed up at the sky just as the first flash of lightning illuminated the night. “See what I have witnessed! Look and see!”

Ogden lifted his eyes to the sky as a loud roar of thunder shook the very rocks on which they stood. And there, as if projected against the clouds by some enormous magic lantern, was the vision that so terrified Emily. From a hole in the sky crawled the creatures of the Hellhole: eager, slobbering, rancid, malicious demons hell-bent on taking over the world.

“They will become us,” Emily cried. “Those filthy, hideous things! They will become us and we will become them!”

Ogden’s gaze was riveted to the sky. The demons crawled out of their hole on top of each other like roaches, scrambling across the firmament for as far as the eye could see. Hairy things and scaly ones, too—creatures made of human bone and animal skin—beasts with leathery wings and monsters with eight legs. Most of them were stupid, lumbering brutes, but among them Ogden could discern smiling, crafty devils, too, their malevolent intelligence shining from their eyes.

“That is the world he will bring,” Emily said. “That is his plan.”

From the distance there suddenly came a voice—the voice of the Madman himself, calling to his wife.

Emily turned toward the sound, her lovely blue eyes staring into the night. The Madman called her name again.

“That is his plan,” Emily said, calm now as the vision in the sky faded and Ogden returned his eyes to her. “But not for me.”

And before he could stop her, she threw herself from the cliff, her scream fading as she plunged into the night.

“Emily!” Ogden shouted after her.

“Emily!” echoed the voice of Jackson Muir, suddenly emerging from the darkness in a flash of lightning, stepping onto Devil’s Rock.

Ogden began to tremble. “I—I tried—”

The Madman rushed to the edge, peering over the side. From below the sound of the waves against the rocks reached their ears.

“I tried to stop her,” Ogden said, shaking terribly now.

The Madman turned to face him. There was rage in his eyes, but shock, too, and grief, terrible grief. For all his powers, he could not bring her back—at least, not to live as she once did. Ogden watched in fear and fascination as a terrible dilemma surged through the Madman’s being. Jackson threw his hands out in front of him, gesturing toward the cliff, as if his sorcery might compel his beloved wife to rise from the waves. But then he pulled his hands back, clamping them over his face, and he sobbed.

Making Emily rise might well have been possible, but she would have been broken—in spirit as well as in body. A great Nightwing sorcerer Jackson Muir might be, but he knew he could not bring his beloved wife back to a life of innocence and purity. Worse: he could not make her love him again.

And for that, Ogden knew, someone would have to pay.

“I tried,” he stammered, backing away from Jackson. “I tried to stop her.”

“And you failed,” growled the Madman, his dark eyes flashing.

He spread his arms wide and let out a scream that rivaled the thunder in its power. Indeed, the storm seemed to abate, its fury summoned into the body of the sorcerer on the cliff. Jackson Muir had always been tall and imposing, but now he seemed even more so, as if he stood not six feet but sixteen. His white teeth glowed in the dark and his eyes blazed red.

“You will pay, Ogden McNutt! You will pay for failing to save my wife!”

“No, let him be,” came the voice of another man.

It was Montaigne, having finally reached Devil’s Rock himself.

“He is my apprentice, Jackson. I will punish him. Leave him to me.”

“You dare instruct a Sorcerer of the Nightwing?” The Madman’s eyes burned holes in the night as he threw his gaze at the newcomer. “You, a Guardian, meant only to serve me?”

“And to teach you,” Montaigne said, defying his anger. “A Nightwing does not use his power for revenge.”

Jackson Muir laughed. “But you forget, Montaigne. What was it that my brother called me? A renegade? An Apostate?” He laughed again, returning his red eyes to Ogden. “Run, little rabbit! Give me some sport!”

So Ogden ran. It was futile, he knew, but he ran anyway, giving in to the basic human instinct for survival. He ran into the dark night, away from the cliff, into the woods. He blundered into a bramble of thorns, tripped over a log, fell into a puddle of mud. But he kept on, running deeper into the thickness of trees and gathering of shadows. Above him he caught glimpses of the moon, full and gold, appearing now and again in the spaces between branches, a solemn, watchful eye.

He came to rest finally, embracing a tree as a child might its mother’s breast. He understood this was the end, that there was no escaping the Madman—but even still, hope found its way to the surface. Might Montaigne have stopped him? Might he have persuaded Jackson to let Ogden go free?

It was quiet. No sound at all, except for the distant crash of the surf. Ogden thought of his darling Georgianne.

“A precious little child, isn’t she?”

The voice cut him to the quick. Ogden turned and there, standing not two feet away, was the Madman.

“Do anything you want to me,” Ogden said, “but don’t harm Georgianne.”

Jackson Muir smiled. “Step out into the moonlight, Ogden McNutt.”

Ogden hesitated just a moment, but then did as he was commanded. It was useless to disobey, to try to fight him now.

“Look up at the moon,” the Madman told him. “Look upon its face. See there your torment, my young fool. See your penalty for failing to save my wife.”

Ogden lifted his eyes to the shining orb. It was a moon of blood, dripping from the sky.

And suddenly Ogden began to itch. A terrible, burning sensation all over his body. He looked down at his hands and saw the reason why.

Hair—sprouting all over. His hands, his arms, under his clothes. He felt his face. There, too. Thick, bristly hair.

Then pain set in. Excruciating, ripping pain. Ogden’s body twisted, contorted. His jaw was pulled, stretched out of shape. He saw his mouth thrust forward, transforming into the snout of an animal. In his mouth his teeth grew long and sharp, cutting his tongue.

Ogden McNutt fell to his knees. He could no longer stand. His shoulder blades shifted and expanded. The pain overpowered him. But when he went to scream, it was not a sound that he recognized.

It was the cry of a beast.

And then there was nothing. No pain, no thought.

Just the craving to drink warm blood.

BLOOD MOON is available from all major ebook retailers on October 29th, 2013.

Acknowledgments

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 GeoffreyHuntingtonAuthor@gmail.com.

—G.H.

@HuntingtonGeoff

www.Facebook.com/Geoffrey.Huntington

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