Blood Moon (Book Three - The Ravenscliff Series) (6 page)

“We never did anything more than kiss,” Rolfe said, returning his hand to the wheel. The roads were becoming extra slippery through this pass. Devon realized it was the very spot where, soon after the young Amanda Muir had broken up with him, a distraught and drunken Rolfe had run his car off the road. He had survived the plunge into the waters below, but two passengers in his car, a boy and a girl, servants at Ravenscliff, did not. It would be Amanda’s testimony—that she had seen Rolfe at the wheel—that had sent him to jail for manslaughter for ten years.

It was an act of betrayal for which Rolfe had never forgiven her, and for which he had sworn revenge—on her and on the whole Muir family. He insisted he was
not
driving that night. He’d been too drunk to remember who was, but he knew it wasn’t him. He hadn’t been too drunk to remember the horror of their deaths, however. Rolfe had been fooling around with the girl, Clarissa Jones. That was the reason that Amanda had ended their relationship. Jealousy, spite, hatred—these had been the motives behind her testimony against him, Rolfe had always believed.

“If Amanda
is
your mother, Devon,” he said now, breaking the silence, “who your father could be is a complete mystery. I was in prison, of course, so I don’t know who she was seeing. But she would have had to give birth to you very soon afterward, for within a year or so after I had left she had married Peter Crandall and had Cecily.”

Devon nodded. “That’s why I’m starting to believe I’m a year older than I’ve always thought. Instead of being almost sixteen, I’m almost
seventeen
.”

Above them the lights of Ravenscliff had begun to glow through the rain. “I don’t know, Devon,” Rolfe sighed. “I just don’t know about any of this …”

“Well, I
do
,” Devon said, looking up at the house.

“For now,” Rolfe said, “the more immediate mystery is who that woman is, and what her powers are, and why Amanda has kept her locked up so long.” He smiled deviously. “Wouldn’t the authorities be interested in learning about this …”

“Don’t, Rolfe. Don’t say anything yet. Not until I can get some answers from her.” Devon continued staring up at the glowing windows of the great house. “After that—mother or not—you can do whatever you want with her. Send her to prison. It would serve her right.”

Yet despite his anger at her, Devon immediately felt guilty for saying such a thing. She
had
taken him in after all, and certainly Cecily would be devastated by her mother going to jail …

Rolfe was looking over at him. “You think she’s actually going to give you answers to your questions? She’s never answered you straight before.”

He had stopped the Porsche halfway up the driveway. It was best that Devon got out here; Mrs. Crandall was already going to be angry enough as it was. No use further perturbing her by letting her see him get out of Rolfe Montaigne’s car.

“I’m going to try,” Devon said, opening the door. “Now that I’ve met Crazy Lady, she’s going to have to admit
something
.”

“Good luck, buddy,” Rolfe said.

“You, too. See what the crystals have to say about all of this.”

“I’ll finish watching the little home movies and let you know.”

Devon gave a little salute and pushed out into the rain. He watched as the Porsche turned and headed back down the hill, its headlights sweeping past him, then disappearing beyond the crest of the hill.

He began to trudge toward the house.

And in the distance, he heard it.

The howl of the beast.

And something else, too.

The sounds of moaning close by. A strange wailing, as if another animal was in pain. It came from behind him, then in front of him, then off to his left. Something out there in the woods along the driveway. Devon began to walk faster, anxious to be inside the house and out of the cold rain. Away from these sounds …

But then he saw it. In front of him, standing directly in his way.

The ghost. The same from last night. The man in the jeans and tee shirt. He writhed and twisted and contorted, the moonlight seeming to single him out like a spotlight. He moaned and cried out—and before Devon’s eyes, he transformed into the beast.

The thing fell to all fours and growled up at Devon, yellow saliva dripping from its lips, ready to spring.

I haven’t any silver
,
Devon thought in a panic just as the thing leapt.

Devon screamed.

But it never made contact. It simply disappeared into the night.

Devon ran the rest of the way into the house.

“
Well
,” Mrs. Crandall intoned imperiously, her arms folded across her chest, “you finally came back to face what you’ve done!”

“Can I just take off my wet coat before you start yelling at me?” Devon asked, yanking himself free of his drenched denim jacket and hanging it on the coat rack.

She was standing in the doorway to the parlor. As ever, she was dressed as if she were going to a ball instead of just hanging around the house on a stormy night. She wore a green satin brocade gown that came to the floor, emerald earrings, and a long pearl necklace, her strawberry blond hair swept up in an elaborate ’do. She was beautiful, all right, green eyes set deep into her pale face. Devon could see why Rolfe had found her hot. But she was also his
mother
, and he was angry at her, and he just couldn’t look at her with any objectivity.

“You have no
idea
what you have done, Devon,” she said, glaring at him.

Just then there came a mad thumping, followed by hysterical laughter. It was Crazy Lady, running behind the wall of the parlor. She banged her fists against the wall a couple of times to let them know she was there, emitting a high-pitched cackle. Then Devon heard her footsteps running up some secret stairs and then—bang, bang, bang!—across the ceiling above them.

“She is running wild within the walls of this house thanks to you,” Mrs. Crandall snapped, turning and striding into the parlor. “Come in here! We need to talk!”

“Yes, we certainly do,” Devon agreed.

He followed her into the parlor. It was a wondrous room, presided over by the stern portrait of Horatio Muir hanging above the mantel. Musty old books were stacked from floor to ceiling on shelves that were imbedded with skulls and crystal balls, shrunken heads and stuffed birds—souvenirs of generations of sorcery. An ancient suit of armor stood beside stained glass double doors, beyond which lay a terrace overlooking the cliffs and choppy sea below. In the air hung the heavy aromas of incense and oils, while in the stone fireplace a furious fire snapped and popped.

“You had no right—
no right!
—to break that wall,” Mrs. Crandall shouted now, facing Devon. “That’s willful destruction of property!”

The teenager stood his ground. “So have me arrested. Wouldn’t the sheriff like to know you kept somebody imprisoned in this house?”

“Don’t play games with me, Devon. This time you have gone too far. You know the dangers of this house, the horrors we have faced here from the Madman. Do you want to bring that all back?”

“So is there a connection between Crazy Lady and Jackson Muir?”

Amanda Muir Crandall let out a long sigh as across the ceiling above her came the sound of running footsteps.

“Look,” Devon said, “she’s been calling my name for months. How could I
not
investigate? If she’s a danger,
tell
me. I’ve got powers. I can take care of her. I’ve handled crises here
before
, you know.”

“Oh, Sir Galahad,” Mrs. Crandall said sarcastically. “But maybe this time you’ve gotten a bit over your head.”

Devon made a cocky sound of disbelief. “Crazy Lady is more dangerous than Jackson Muir? Than Isobel the Apostate? I don’t think so.”

“Oh, Devon,” Mrs. Crandall said, suddenly appearing utterly exhausted. She sank down into her wingback chair. “Do you really believe we would have kept her safely secured and hidden away in the tower, and then in the basement, if our very lives hadn’t depended on doing so?”

Devon made a sound of frustration. “Why don’t you just tell me who she is? Every secret you’ve tried to keep from me has eventually come out …”

Mrs. Crandall stood again, pacing across the room. The footsteps behind the wall, the laughter, the bang-bang-banging, was grating on her nerves. “Oh,
why
hasn’t Bjorn caught her yet? Every time he manages to contain her, she slips away. She is crafty. She’s remembered how to disappear …”

Devon nodded. “I assume whatever spell kept her confined for so long also kept her from the use of her powers.”

“Not any more,” Mrs. Crandall conceded.

“Is she Nightwing?”

“Her powers … they’re different from yours, Devon. She was never properly trained in them. And she has forgotten even the rudiments of how to use them correctly, which only makes her more dangerous. If you met her, Devon, you would understand how unbalanced she is—”

“Oh, I did meet her,” Devon said. “Didn’t Bjorn tell you?”

Mrs. Crandall’s head suddenly spun around to look at Devon. “No. He only told me that you had seen her run into the secret panel …”

Devon gave a little laugh. “I imagine he was trying to keep both of us out of more trouble than we were already in. But yes, I met Crazy Lady.” He held his gaze with Mrs. Crandall. “We had
quite
the conversation.”

Her face went completely pale as she looked at Devon.

“In fact, she told me who I was,” Devon said calmly.

Mrs. Crandall steadied herself against the back of her chair. “Devon,” she said, her voice trembling now, “she is insane. You must remember that …”

“She told me who my mother is.”

The mistress of Ravenscliff seemed almost as if she might faint. Still holding onto the chair, she managed to sit back down, her eyes never leaving Devon’s face.

“She … told … you …”

“Yes,” Devon said. “She told me that
you
were my mother.”

Mrs. Crandall was silent, just staring up at him.

“Don’t you have anything to say to that?” Devon asked.

She finally broke her gaze, looking off across the room. “She told you that I was your mother? She really said that?”

“Yes, she did.”

Mrs. Crandall stood. Her face had shifted from anger to kindness in a matter of seconds. She approached Devon, cupping his cheeks between her palms and looking down into his eyes.

“Oh, Devon,” she said. “How difficult it must be for you, not knowing who your real parents are. I do feel for you. Please don’t ever think that I don’t. But I’m not your mother. She is insane. She is insane and dangerous, and we must find her and keep her safe, so we, too, will be safe.”

And with that, she moved off, her long gown rustling as she walked out of the parlor and across the foyer to the staircase. Devon watched her ascend to the second floor like an empress, regal and poised.

What is the truth? Devon couldn’t be sure. If Mrs. Crandall was his mother, why didn’t she just admit it?

Well, for lots of reasons
, he supposed,
prime among them probably Cecily.

Mrs. Crandall didn’t want her daughter to know that she’d had a child before she was married. And by admitting it, she’d then have to deal with the question of Devon’s father, and maybe she just didn’t want to be reminded of whoever he was.

Or maybe—all sorts of ideas flooded Devon’s mind over the course of the next few days—maybe Devon’s father was some powerful sorcerer, and by reconnecting him to Devon all the sorcery would come back to Ravenscliff.

Which, come to think of it, was Devon’s birthright as much as it was Cecily’s and Alexander’s. If Mrs. Crandall was his mother, Ravenscliff was as much his as it was anybody else’s.

That’s why Dad sent me here
.

But in the days that followed, Devon’s heart continued to hurt as Cecily cold-shouldered him. How much he wished Mrs. Crandall was not his mother and Cecily not his sister. He tried to convince himself that was Rolfe was right, or at least to entertain the possibility that Mrs. Crandall was not his mother. After all, why would Devon have powers if his mother had renounced hers before his birth? And Crazy Lady hadn’t exactly confirmed the theory, as everyone kept pointing out—even if Devon was certain that was what she meant.