Blood Moon (Book Three - The Ravenscliff Series) (19 page)

Is it possible this child will someday be my mother?
Devon wondered.
Is that really what Clarissa meant?

Looking into the child’s eyes now, Devon tried to see the answer.
Was this why I came back? Will I finally learn who my real parents are?

Miranda, meanwhile, was busy with baby Edward, holding him in her arms, allowing him to play with a magical crystal in his hands. Montaigne told them that children even as young as Edward could absorb knowledge through the Guardians’ crystals. Devon watched as the boy gurgled his wonder, fascinated by the small glowing orb in his pudgy hands.

“You are good with babies,” came a voice.

Devon looked up. It was Jackson Muir, and he was speaking to Miranda.

He was strolling across the grass with his brother Randolph. Both sorcerers were dressed all in black, with red ascot ties.

Miranda blushed as she looked up at Jackson. “It is my privilege, sir,” she said.

Devon noticed the look that passed between them. He’d warned Miranda about Jackson, but apparently, she’d paid no attention. Devon had watched her as she fluttered around the dark-eyed sorcerer. She was easily swayed by his flattery, and especially his excessive praise of her family, the Devons. She seemed to have totally forgotten Devon’s warnings and been seduced by the wily charm of the Madman.

But Devon couldn’t think too long about any of that, for Randolph Muir had approached him. He stood now looking down at Devon and little Amanda.

“Flower, Papa,” Amanda said, showing him the daffodil. “I opened it.”

“Very clever of you, sweetheart,” her father said, but his eyes remained fixed on Devon. “Why don’t you run along into the house and give your flower to Mama? I would like to talk with our young Guardian here.”

Amanda happily obeyed. Devon watched her totter off through the grass, then noticed Miranda, still carrying Edward, wandering off toward the stables with Jackson. Randolph seemed to take no notice of them, however. His only interest was Devon.

“My daughter seemed to like you a good deal,” the Master of Ravenscliff said.

“Yes, sir. She’s a great kid.”

“With all the good instincts of a true Nightwing.” His eyes revealed more than he was saying. “Tell me, Teddy. Any more battles out here in the garden? Any demons you’ve had to send back to their Hell Holes?”

Devon was stunned. Randolph
knew
.

The great sorcerer smiled. “Did you think, Teddy, that I would not recognize another Nightwing in my own house? That I would not sense your presence? Surely you might have done a better job of disguising yourself, of obscuring your energy, had you wanted to remain undetected.”

“I’m—I’m not hundred percent sure how to do that,” Devon admitted.

Randolph looked surprised. “It’s one of the first lessons a Guardian teaches. Why was yours so lax?”

“I—I never had one, sir.”

“Never had one?” Randolph folded his arms across his chest. “Well, well, well. I suspected there was something odd about you. Not threatening, but odd. That’s why I enveloped you in a cloak of obscurity myself, so that my wife and my brother wouldn’t notice you. At least not until I found out your story. Care to divulge it?”

Devon hesitated. “I’m not sure if I should, sir.”

Randolph lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “You stand on my estate and in my presence and defer an answer to a direct question?”

“Look, I’m not trying to be disrespectful. But I was sent here to find out some things—”

“Sent by
whom
?” Now Randolph’s brow furrowed with concern.

“I came down the Staircase Into Time,” Devon told him.

Randolph smiled. “Ah, my father’s most brilliant bit of sorcery. Now tell me, Teddy. I demand to know. From
what
time did you come, and from what place?”

Devon gulped, trusting his intuition that it was okay to reveal more details. “I came from about thirty years in the future,” he said. “And from …
here
.”

“From
Ravenscliff
?” Randolph dropped his arms to his sides and his face took on an expression of great interest. “You are from the future of Ravenscliff?”

“Yes, sir. And I have to say, sir, that your brother—”

“Don’t continue.” Randolph Muir raised his hand to silence Devon. “You are about to say that you do not trust him. That you have come to this time to warn me of his apostasy.”

“Well, sir …”

“Say no more. It is a rule of time travel that information not be given before its time. You can corrupt the flow of days. Tell me nothing of what will come.”

“But sir!”

Randolph Muir made a face of terrible sadness. “I am not an ostrich with my head in the sand, young Teddy. Do you think I have not had my doubts about my brother? Do you think I am not watching his every move?”

“If you had doubts about him, why would you allow him to return?”

“What was I to do? Continue to permit him roaming the world? Better to have him here, so I might watch him.” Randolph sighed, looking off in the direction where Jackson had walked. “I lost two brothers, you know. Gideon is forever gone. But Jackson …”

Randolph’s voice trailed off.

“I must believe that he is being honest with me,” the sorcerer continued. “Perhaps you are here to tell me otherwise. Perhaps your presence means that I am wrong to hope that he has changed. But for now I must continue to hope, to believe.” He closed his eyes and then with great effort opened them again. “His love for his wife, so pure, so honest—that is what has changed him. I must believe it will keep him true.”

“Do you want to know what happens, sir? If I tell you, maybe we can prevent—”

Again he was silenced. “History cannot be changed, Teddy. You will see that. If it could be changed, everything would be constantly unraveling. Change one little fact here in our time and then you yourself might not be born. Time would collapse in on itself.”

“But Jackson will try to—”

“I want no further details, my good young man. I insist!”

Devon was silent.

Randolph smiled. “You may be here simply to set into motion my own process by which I can truly change Jackson for good. At least, that is what I must try to do. It is the only way I have.”

“Yes, sir,” Devon said.

“Whether that happens or not depends on the fates.” Randolph looked sadly back toward the house. “I admit your presence here does unnerve me. I must protect my children if indeed Jackson means any harm. They will be sent away when the time comes. I have no right to ask—it is against the laws of time travel—but I am a father. Tell me, Teddy. Do I have time at least to keep my children from harm?”

“Yes, sir. Your children will remain safe.”

Randolph Muir let out a sigh of relief. “Tell me no more, Teddy. I want neither to be discouraged nor complacent. But you can be assured I shall remain vigilant in watching my brother.”

He said nothing more, just strode off through the grass.

The next couple of days were terribly frustrating for Devon. He felt gagged. Being prevented from speaking the truth—giving these people warnings about the danger they faced—was really eating away at Devon.

And it wasn’t like he could divert himself with other things. Montaigne watched him like a hawk. Mostly Devon just performed menial tasks, like polishing silver or washing floors. Was this really the way a Guardian was trained? Where was all the instruction in magic, alchemy, and Nightwing history? And never could Devon use his sorcery to finish his chores. That would have given away his secret.

And forget about texting or tweeting or checking Facebook on his phone. Though he hadn’t brought his phone with him, he knew he’d have no service here in the past. Cell phones hadn’t even been dreamed up yet. All they had in this time period were big, clunky landlines, some of them attached to walls.

Television was also another waste of time. There were only like three channels. Devon thought cable TV existed, but clearly Randolph Muir didn’t put much stock in it.

“Yes, it can be boring here,” Miranda agreed as the two of them carried armloads of children’s books up to Amanda’s playroom. Devon recognized some of them as the ones he’d find, thirty years from now, in the Ravenscliff cellar. “I wish we’d have more ritual here. But Mr. Muir doesn’t like to attract much attention from the village. They already suspect too much.”

Devon knew that the people of Misery Point whispered about the legends.

“The parents of those kids at Jackson’s magic show are all aflutter, thinking he caused a real dinosaur to appear with his magical powers,” Miranda said.

“He did,” Devon told her. “But not a dinosaur. A demon. And it was kind of a dangerous thing to do.”

Miranda was sliding the books onto Amanda’s shelf. “I know. Mr. Muir was angry.”

“I tell you, Jackson is up to no good.”

She smirked. “At least he livens things up around here.”

“You need to watch out for him.”

Her dark eyes danced. “I came here to learn about the Nightwing. I’m tired of playing housemaid.”

“Yes, but Jackson—”

Miranda shook her head. “There’s a time for apprenticeship, and a time for action.” She looked over at Devon. “Maybe you’re just too young, sorcerer or not, to understand what I’m talking about.”

With that she huffed out of the room.

Devon fumed as he watched her go. Miranda was only a few years older than he was. He didn’t appreciate her superior attitude.

She had no idea how dangerous the Madman was.

If only Randolph would hear him out—if only he’d let Devon tell him what he knew. That Emily would die. That Jackson would try to open the Hell Hole. That a battle would ensue—but that Randolph would win. Jackson was marked by history for defeat.

But such information, given out of time’s proper sequence, would make Randolph complacent. That was the reason he gave, anyway, the reason he insisted he didn’t want to know what the future held. Yet something about that reasoning bothered Devon. If history couldn’t be changed, then what need was there to worry? Complacent or not, Randolph would still be victorious over Jackson.

Unless history
could
be changed. Unless Randolph was handing him a line.

Devon began to wonder if it was indeed possible to alter the course of history. Maybe Randolph wasn’t being fully honest with him. Maybe he had his own reasons to want Devon to believe in history’s immutability. Maybe he feared the possibility of time collapsing in on itself far more than he feared Jackson’s apostasy.

Change one little fact here in our time and then you might not be born.

If time could be changed, I’d cease to exist
, Devon thought.
And maybe Cecily and Alexander would cease to exist too. And who knew who else?

That night, Devon felt the heat.

Randolph had left earlier in the day on a mysterious errand. Off he had driven in his long black car, which had magically disappeared at the end of the driveway. With Randolph out of the house, Devon felt vulnerable and alone, especially when he awakened in the middle of the night, sweating into his sheets.

The Hell Hole. Someone is at the Hell Hole
.

He knew not to head to the West Wing. In this time the Hell Hole wasn’t there. It was in the basement. Devon disappeared from his bed and reappeared in the very spot where, thirty-some years later, a room would contain the crazy Clarissa.

Looking through the darkness of the basement, he could discern, set into a far wall, a bolted metal portal, about three feet wide and four feet tall. The same sort of door that would one day be in the West Wing.

Devon approached the portal carefully, feeling the heat around him shooting up dramatically. Placing his hand against the door, his hand was nearly scalded by the blazing hot metal. His presence awakened the things that live behind it. The demons began to scratch.

Is that you, master?

Set us free, master!

From somewhere farther off in the basement Devon heard the soft echo of a footfall. He hurried away from the portal, trying to take refuge in the shadows. He looked from side to side, trying to discern who was down there with him. He walked through a cobweb, its sticky fingers clinging to his face.

And then a hand dropped onto his shoulder.

“What are you doing down here?”

Devon looked up into the face of Jackson Muir.

For a moment, he couldn’t speak.

The Madman’s eyes were black, burning into Devon’s own. His grip on the teenager’s shoulder tightened.

Devon remembered that Randolph had hidden his sorcery from Jackson’s senses. He would not be able to feel the heat standing beside the teenager.

“I was just looking,” Devon said, concentrating on keeping his voice steady, “for some picture books for Amanda.” He was able to swallow his fear, carefully modulating his heartbeat to keep the Madman from detecting any anxiety. “Miranda and I brought her up some earlier today and she enjoyed them very much.”

Jackson studied him. Devon took some comfort in the fact that he was protected by Randolph’s cloak of obscurity, but the suspicious glare in the Madman’s eyes couldn’t be denied. Devon could barely manage to hold his gaze, remembering their battles in the future. How the Madman had taunted him, laughed at him, pulled him down into his stinking, rotting grave …