Blood Moon (Book Three - The Ravenscliff Series) (18 page)

Jackson then took the sword from his brother and rose to his feet. Devon braced himself. Was he going to attack? Was this the moment he revealed his true colors?

But Jackson turned the sword on himself, slicing his left wrist. Devon was ready to cry out, but since no one else reacted, he kept quiet and assumed this was part of the ceremony. It was, for Montaigne was ready with a small golden plate to catch the droplets of the Madman’s blood.

“I let my blood,” Jackson said. “I cleanse myself of my apostasy. I drain my spirit of all aberrance. I heal now with your good will.”

Miranda was right there to wrap his wrist in a golden cloth.

He looked down at her with such peace and joy in his eyes. She smiled up at him.

“Then let us rejoice!” Randolph said, louder now. “Apostate no more! You are my brother, Jackson Muir! You are Nightwing!”

All but Randolph fell to their knees, Devon with great reluctance. His hesitation did not go unnoticed by Randolph, however, who cast him a glance before calling them all to rise and join him and Jackson in the feasting downstairs.

Two days went by, and Devon began to get really worried.

How long was he to remain in the past? All of this was interesting and filled gaps in his knowledge of the Muirs and his own Nightwing heritage. But how did it help him stop the Madman from returning in his own time? How did it help him find a way to save Marcus from the curse of the beast, or to rescue Alexander from the Madman’s possession? If only he’d been wearing his father’s ring when he came back through time. That might have given him some answers.

Devon was terribly anxious to get back home to his friends. Sleeping in a small room in the servants’ quarters, he couldn’t help but worry about what was happening to them … but then he reminded himself that none of them—Marcus, Cecily, Natalie, D.J., Alexander—were even
born
yet. He just hoped that when he went back to his own time, he wouldn’t have missed too much. The image of the beast howling within its pentagram in the middle of Rolfe’s study was never far from his mind.

Neither were the faces of Cecily and Natalie. Neither girl even existed in this time and place, but Devon surprised himself by still feeling all the confusing emotions he had for them whenever their faces popped into his mind.

The celebrations continued. Feasting, games of swordplay, tournaments of sorcery. It was extremely cool to watch the brothers don suits of armor and mount their horses and joust with invisible rods. For a moment Devon found that he could forget his fears of the Madman and instead just marvel at his magical agility—though, whether out of lack of skill or deference to his brother, Jackson always lost to Randolph. It must have been humiliating for him, Devon thought, being the elder of the two brothers.

But he always lost graciously, bowing to his brother and saluting him.

Jackson did manage to shine on his own, however, when he regaled the children with his magic show. Boys and girls from the village were brought up to the estate to watch as Jackson, dressed as a clown, emerged from behind a black velvet curtain set up in the parlor. Devon had to grip the edges of his chair tightly to keep from falling over. This was how he first met the ghost of Jackson Muir: dressed as an infernal clown in cakey white makeup and a bulbous red nose. He called himself Major Musick, and he played a strange-looking horn. Watching him, Devon felt the same terror he’d felt in those earlier days; this was no happy-go-lucky clown but a demonic creature with a croaky voice and malice gleaming from its eyes.

And he wanted to send all those children into the Hell Hole!

Are they crazy?
Devon thought, as the village kids laughed and clapped at Major Musick’s antics. That funny-looking dragon the clown just pulled out of his hat? That was no Muppet. It was, Devon was certain, a demon straight from hell.

He suddenly noticed that little Amanda, sitting up front, was afraid of her uncle in his clown disguise. The little girl started to cry, and Miranda had to rush in and pick her up and carry her out of the show.

Major Musick seemed amused by her fright. He rubbed his hands together. “Do we have a volunteer?” he rasped.

Devon was about to raise his hand, but another boy, some blue-eyed kid about ten years old, had beat him to it. They all thought this was just sleight of hand; Randolph probably thought it was all just good fun, his brother reviving his magic show for kids. But Devon knew better: it was actual sorcery, and none of them were safe.

The blue-eyed kid took his place on the makeshift stage. Jackson lumbered toward him in his floppy white pants with the red polka dots. “Do you believe in other worlds?” he asked the boy. “Do you believe in other realms beyond our own?”

The boy turned out to be a bit of a wise guy. “You mean like Canada or somethin’?”

The other kids laughed. Major Musick didn’t seem to like being upstaged. He smiled wickedly. At least his smile looked wicked to Devon.

“Oh, the realms I’m thinking of are much farther away than that.”

The kid scoffed. “You know, I don’t buy this magic act.”

The clown laughed. “Let’s see if I can change your mind!”

He suddenly waved a large sheet of red satin in front of the boy, and when he folded it back into his hands, the boy was gone.

The children in the audience gasped.

Then, all at once, from the velvet backdrop burst the face of a demon. No silly-looking dragon this time, it resembled a T. rex, snapping and snarling as it loomed over the audience. Screams fill the air, but before pandemonium could break out, the red-eyed thing with the dripping fangs disappeared, and the clown was laughing.

“Look behind you, boys and girls,” he said, pointing.

There, at the back of the room, stood the little boy who had disappeared. He was stunned, shaken, no longer so cocky. Emily Muir gently helped him to a chair.

“For one moment I switched them,” the clown said, to the thunderous applause of the children. “The youngster went back in time and the Tyrannosaurus rex came forward!”

“Wow! That was cool!”

“Groovy, man!”

“Do it again!”

But the show was over. Randolph Muir had appeared in the doorway of the parlor, and from the look on his face, Devon didn’t think he approved. The children were ushered out, as well as Devon, Miranda and Emily, and Randolph closed the doors to speak with his brother alone.

“I do hope Randolph isn’t angry with Jackson,” Emily murmured, looking at the doors of the parlor. “My husband just wanted to entertain the children.”

Devon wanted to grip her by her small, frail shoulders and tell her the truth. But he couldn’t—not yet, anyway. He had to bide his time if he was to learn whatever it was the Staircase Into Time brought him here to discover. But looking at Emily’s sweet, innocent face, Devon knew he was going to have to try to help her, too. He knew how Emily Muir would die—jumping to her death from Devil’s Rock once she discovered her husband’s evil ways. Devon was going to have to try to prevent that. He couldn’t just let her die.

“Someday,” she said, turning to him, “I will be given the powers of the Nightwing, too, just as Randolph has given them to his wife. What a glorious day that will be.”

Devon couldn’t picture this delicate lamb as a sorceress. “It’s a great honor,” he said, knowing all too well himself, “to become Nightwing.”

“Oh, yes,” Emily said. “I remember when Jackson first told me the truth about himself. We were in Copenhagen, walking along the banks of the Stadsgraven, watching the swans. And he opened his hand and produced a diamond. For me!” She held out her hand to display the ring on her finger. “No one had ever bothered with me before. I was a scared, nervous little girl, but Jackson saw something in me. Now here I am, in this great house, with such a great future ahead of all of us.”

Devon felt terrible. All Emily’s future held was a mangled corpse at the bottom of the cliffs and decades as a weeping ghost wandering the halls of Ravenscliff.

Whether Randolph reprimanded Jackson for such an ostentatious display of powers, Devon didn’t find out, but he suspected that he did so, further fueling his elder brother’s resentment of him. After all, this house was supposed to have been Jackson’s—until he messed up and went bad, forcing his father to change the will and leave Ravenscliff—and control of its Hell Hole—to Randolph.

But now Jackson’s come back to claim what he believes is his rightful heritage
,
Devon thought
, and all hell is going to break loose.

Literally.

Would he still be here to see it? Or would he be safely back in his own time by then?

Two more days went by.

Devon fell into a routine. First thing every day, he helped the cooks prepare breakfast. In this era, the great house had several servants, rather than just the one—Bjorn—in his own time. Part of a Guardian’s job is devotion—or
varshan
—so each of them had to perform some small duty of servitude to symbolically show their allegiance to the Nightwing. Devon was given the task of gathering eggs from the chickens that were kept in a coop out back—another feature of life at Ravenscliff that would disappear thirty years from now. They were special hens, Devon could plainly see: big, bold birds that laid enormous eggs. Their eyes gleamed an odd intelligence at Devon as he reached gently under them, into their beds of straw, to retrieve their eggs. The chickens were treated very well, given free range to walk about throughout the coop and out into the barnyard. Several ravens perched on the rafters, like sentinels watching over them.

Back inside the house, Devon set out the plates in the grand dining room. He stood to the side as first Randolph, then Greta, then Jackson and Emily each took their seats. They were followed by the two children, Edward carried by a nanny, and then the entire family feasted on the eggs, as well as large mounds of cinnamon pancakes and homemade raisin bread. Devon couldn’t help but think of the more health-conscious breakfasts that would be served at this table in his own time, spurred by Cecily’s latest concerns over too many calories and carbohydrates. After the meal was complete, Devon helped Miranda clear the plates away, and only then did he have anything to eat on his own.

It was after breakfast, however, that his days really got interesting. He and Miranda headed down to Montaigne’s cottage, where they were given instruction in the Guardianship of little Amanda and Edward. Devon, of course, was only there temporarily, and at some point everyone expected him to return “home” to England. But while he was here, he was expected to do his part in helping to train the Muir children. Montaigne demonstrated exercises to help the children adjust to their powers—making just a finger disappear, for example, before trying the whole body. “It can be rather disconcerting for a child to suddenly vanish completely,” Montaigne said. “Better to take them through it with baby steps.”

Don’t I know it?
Devon thought. As a boy, stumbling across his abilities terrified him. And he had had no one to explain why or how. All Dad had ever been able to tell him was that he was stronger than anything that might frighten him, and that he must always use his powers for good. How Devon wished he’d had Guardians like Montaigne and Miranda to help teach him the ways of the Nightwing, as Amanda and Edward Muir had. And to think someday they would give it all up, renounce their sorcery and their Nightwing heritage!

Devon liked Montaigne, probably because he reminded him so much of Rolfe. He had the same intensity as his son would have, the same deep-set green eyes, the same carefully modulated voice, even if Montaigne
père
’s was accented in French.

The best part of his day, however, was the early afternoon, when he and Miranda got to apply what Montaigne had shown them. Taking the children out onto the grass, they would try various tricks to acclimate the youngsters to their powers. Devon found it ironic that little Amanda took to him immediately. Thirty years in the future, she would be the ice queen of all time, distant and often hostile to him—but now she laughed at Devon’s funny faces and responded well to his encouragements to try some magic.

“Let’s open one of those beautiful flowers for your mama,” Devon said, pointing to a daffodil still closed tightly in its bud. “Concentrate, Amanda. Imagine it unfolding and opening into a brilliant yellow flower.”

The little girl laughed, stumbling through the grass to stand over the daffodil. After a couple of minutes, however, apparently frustrated, she reached down and tried to peel open the petals with her hand. The flower just ripped apart, and the child started to cry.

“It’s okay,” Devon said, coming to her aid. He decided to cheat a little. “Just do it like this.”

He concentrated on the next flower over. Slowly its petals begin to unfold, with Devon guiding it with his mind to full expression. Miranda, observing, made a face in disapproval—a Guardian wasn’t supposed to have such powers—but little Amanda watched Devon’s example in wonder.

“Now you try,” Devon said.

With some effort and a wrinkled forehead, the girl managed to open a third flower. She was elated and threw her little arms around Devon’s neck.