Blood Moon (Book Three - The Ravenscliff Series) (3 page)

Crazy Lady began to laugh again, low and tittering. “Your mother … why, she has always been right here, Devon, all along!”

He stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“All along,” she echoed.

“You can’t mean—” Demon stammered as an idea took shape in his mind. “Not her—”

The mysterious sorceress just laughed.

“You can’t mean—
Mrs. Crandall
?” Devon asked, his voice a bitter croak.

Crazy Lady clapped her hands together, letting out a long hideous cackle, thrilled to have finally revealed the deepest, darkest secret of Ravenscliff.

Devon couldn’t respond. His voice—all thought—was gone.

He said nothing, did nothing as Crazy Lady turned and ran off back down the corridor into darkness.

“No,” he finally said.

It can’t be.

Not Mrs. Crandall—

He reacted suddenly to a noise. A scraping sound. The wall beside him began to move. A panel opening. Devon readied himself, as a sorcerer should, for an attack.

But it was Cecily.

“Devon,” she said, scrunching up her face as she peered into the darkness at him. “What are you doing inside my
wall
?”

Behind her a soft light glowed from the side of her bed. Devon just stared at her, unable to speak.

“I heard voices from inside here,” she said. “They woke me up.” She examined the sliding panel. “I haven’t used this old secret door since I used to play on this staircase as a little girl.” She looked back at Devon and frowned. “You still haven’t answered me about what you’re doing in there.”

He couldn’t seem to form any words.

“What is the matter with you?” Cecily took his arm and coaxed him forward into her room. He followed numbly. She shut the panel and then turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked especially pretty in the soft light from her lamp, her red hair down around her shoulders. She was wearing a pink flannel nightgown.

“Oh, I get it,” she said, smiling. “You were sneaking up to see me. Didn’t want my mother to know. Oh, Devon—”

She reached out to take him in her arms but he recoiled.

“No!” he shouted, pushing her away.

She made a face. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing. I mean, everything. I mean—”

He covered his face with his hands and staggered away from her.

“What
is
it, Devon? Tell me.”

He dropped his hands and stared into her eyes. “We can’t—we can’t be—I mean, we can’t—we can’t see each other any more, Cecily!”

“What?”

“I got behind the wall in the basement,” he said. “I met the woman we’ve heard behind there. I was right. She
did
know who I am!”

“You met the sobbing woman?” Cecily’s eyes sparkled with interest. “The one I’ve heard all my life? Who
is
she?”

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter right now.”

“Doesn’t matter? Of
course
it matters, Devon. Mother’s always denied her existence. Claimed it was a ghost. If she’s
real
—”

“Didn’t you
hear
me, Cecily? She knew who I was!
That’s
what matters here!”

“Oh,” Cecily said in a small voice. She looked at Devon with sudden fear in her eyes. “What did she tell you?”

“That—that my mother is—” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. He finally forced the words out. “My mother is your mother!”

Cecily covered her mouth with her hand.

“I can’t see you any more, Cecily. You’re—you’re my sister.” The words burned his lips. He felt sick.

“No way,” Cecily said, her eyes holding his in horror.

“That’s what she just told me,” Devon said.

Cecily suddenly gripped Devon by his shoulders. “Are you sure? Is that what she said? Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes! She said my mother had been here all along and when I asked if she meant Mrs. Crandall—”

“What did she say, Devon? What did she say then?”

“She laughed,” Devon told her.

“So she didn’t confirm that’s what she meant. She didn’t actually
say
Mother was your mother.”

“But that
was
what she meant.”

“You don’t know that,” Cecily said, grasping.

“Come on, Cess—I’ve suspected your mother was my mother before!”

“Yes,” the girl said, “and each time you have you’ve decided it was ridiculous. I mean,
look
at us, Devon. We look nothing alike!”

It was true: Cecily with her fair skin, green eyes and red hair, Devon with his olive complexion, brown eyes and hair so dark it was almost black.

“Different fathers,” Devon said in response. “We probably had different fathers.”

“But we’re the same age. You were born in March and I was born in August. Sorry, but that’s not quite enough time for Mother to have had you and then had me. Check Biology 101 if you’re still not sure.”

Devon had an answer for that, too. “Who’s to say that I’m not already sixteen? I might be a year older than you are, Cecily. There’s never been any birth certificate for me, remember. Your mother could’ve had me a year before you were born, and given me to Ted March to raise, and for whatever reason they decided to tell me that I was a year younger than I really was.”

“And why would they do that?”

“I don’t know. To throw us off the track.”

Cecily sniffed. “Now you’re just talking stupid. I won’t hear any more of it. And who is she anyway, that crazy sobbing lady? Why should we take her word for anything? Until I know who she is, I’m not believing anything she said.”

“Cecily, I believe her …”

“Why? Did the Voice confirm it?”

She meant Devon’s Nightwing intuition. “Well, it’s not telling me she’s wrong.”

Still Cecily refused to accept it. “Well, I have my own intuition, and it’s telling me she is. I don’t know if it’s some Nightwing remnant of my own family sorcery, but it’s just as real as yours, Devon. And mine says we are
not
brother and sister.”

“I don’t know,” Devon said, and his heart broke. “I can’t take that chance any more.”

She looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“What I said before, Cecily. We can’t go on together. Not like we were. Not until I know for sure …”

Cecily looked aghast. “Are you breaking up with me, Devon March?”

He felt worse than he’d ever felt before. Even worse, if that was possible, than the day Dad died.

“Yes,” he managed to say. “I guess I am.”

Cecily grabbed her pillow from her bed and threw it at him. “Then get out of my room! You have no business being here! Get out!”

He did as he was told.

When one goes seeking answers
, a voice told him—Sargon’s? Dad’s? His own?—
one has to be prepared for what those answers might be
.

Of course, back in his own room, he couldn’t sleep. He lay there staring up at the ceiling.

Mrs. Crandall is my mother. A woman who has shown such little regard for me that when the demons have struck, she’s barely lifted an eyebrow. A woman who has tried to bully me into forgetting my past and renouncing my powers. A woman who has kept secrets from me, lied to me, discouraged me in everything.

This was the mother that Devon had looked for all his life? This—
ogress
?

He couldn’t even begin to process the horrible sensations roiling through him
.
Worst of all—he had lost Cecily.

I’ve kissed her. My own sister.

Devon felt as if he might be sick. He tried to push the memory far out of his mind.

He had to stop thinking about Cecily and Mrs. Crandall and instead concentrate on the mystery of the woman who was now running around inside the walls. With his sharply attuned Nightwing hearing, he could hear her scuttling from room to room and floor to floor. Who was she? Why did Mrs. Crandall—his mother!—keep her locked away?

Suddenly he heard a sound from outside. It pulled him away from his thoughts and focused him on the present. Lying in the dark, he listened for the sound again, and finally it came: a long, low howl. The sound of some animal. A cry of agony, Devon thought.

He threw his blanket off and stood up. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep anyway. He hurried over to his window. The howl came again. It rose up from the village at the bottom of the hill. The sound of a dog—or a wolf—or a bear—

“Devon,” came a voice behind him.

He turned. It was Alexander. The chubby little boy stood there in his blue flannel pajamas, his big button eyes wide with fear.

“Do you hear that sound?” he asked. “What is it, Devon?”

“I don’t know, buddy,” Devon said, unfastening his window and opening the panes. Cold air rushed in at them as they heard the howl again, far off and ferocious.

“Is it a demon?” Alexander asked, coming up beside Devon.

“I don’t think so. I don’t feel any heat, and I always feel heat when demons are present.” He tousled the boy’s hair. “Maybe it’s just a dog.”

“I never heard any dog sound like that,” Alexander told him.

It occurred to Devon that if Mrs. Crandall was his mother, Alexander was his cousin, the boy being the son of Mrs. Crandall’s brother, Edward. Devon had met Edward Muir. He was an irresponsible playboy always off traveling the world, leaving his son here at Ravenscliff under his sister’s care. Although Alexander worshipped his absent father, Devon felt sorry that the boy had to grow up with such a distant, uncaring parent.

At least I grew up with a great dad, even if he wasn’t my blood father
, Devon thought, remembering Ted March.
Dad was always there for me. He was the best parent anybody could ever have.

But if Mrs. Crandall was his real mother, Devon asked himself as he stared out the window, then who was his real
father
?

The howl came once more, louder and longer and more anguished this time.

“Do you think it’s hurt?” Alexander asked.

The sun began to rise over the horizon, casting a pink glow over the rooftops of the village.

“Could be,” Devon said. “It sounds pretty distressed.”

“But you’re
sure
it’s not a demon?”

Devon nodded. Alexander had seen a few of the nasty creatures; he knew enough about them to be afraid. And even though he had no memory of being taken down into the Hell Hole by Jackson Muir, the boy’s subconscious seemed wary of another attack by the Madman.

“I’m sure it’s just a dog,” Devon said, trying to reassure him. “Maybe a bear caught in a trap.”

“Poor thing,” Alexander said.

“The sun’s coming up,” Devon said, moving away from the window. “I might as well start getting ready for school.”

“Yeah, me too,” Alexander said. “Hey, it’s stopped now. The howling.”

“Maybe somebody rescued it,” Devon said.

The boy nodded, heading back to his room. “See you at breakfast, Devon.”

“Kay, buddy.”

Of course, Devon knew he wouldn’t just see Alexander at the breakfast table. He’d see Cecily, and he was not looking forward to that.

But the free-spirited, redheaded teenager was nowhere to be found when Devon made his way downstairs. The first one he spotted was Bjorn, who was setting out the scrambled eggs and French toast on platters. Devon helped himself to some as the gnome peeked up at him with a reproving eye.

“You see what you went and did,” Bjorn whispered. “Now she’s loose. Running through the insides of the house. How am I going to explain that to Mrs. Crandall?”

“Tell her I did it,” Devon said defiantly.

“If I tell her that, she’ll have your head!”

“Tell her not only did I do it,” Devon said, sitting down at the table with his breakfast, “but now I know everything. The truth!”

Bjorn squinted his little eyes as he looked at Devon. “What do you mean, the truth?”

“Mrs. Crandall will know what I mean. Tell her.”

“Oh, she’s going to be furious with me.” Bjorn clenched his fists together. Devon could see the gnome’s long fingernails, used for carving tunnels through earth and stone, pressing into the skin of his palms. “I might even lose my job over it.”

“I won’t let her fire you,” Devon assured his friend. “I’ll take all the blame.” He forked some eggs his mouth. “So why didn’t Crazy Lady have access to the secret panels inside the walls before? Why wasn’t she
always
running so freely through the house?”

“Somehow, whatever spell was put on that room was broken when you smashed your way through,” Bjorn said. “There was a hex on wherever they kept her imprisoned, but you’ve destroyed it.”

“It’s inhuman the way she kept her prisoner,” Devon said. “I have a mind to report Mrs. Crandall to the police. If she tries to fire you, that’s what I’ll do.”

Bjorn sat down beside Devon. “Oh, she was really very kind to her. She and the late Mrs. Muir both. They’d spend long sessions down there with her, or up in the tower when she was kept there. They’d read to her, or play games with her … she loved playing cards. Crazy Eights was her favorite.”

Devon smirked. “Why am I not surprised?”

“And they’d go for long walks in the courtyard or in the woods when you kids were at school.”

“But to keep somebody imprisoned like that, Bjorn …”

“It was for her own good,” the gnome insisted, “her own protection.”

“Protection from what?”

“I don’t know.” Bjorn sighed. “They never told me.”

“Mrs. Crandall only does what’s good for
her
,” Devon said bitterly. “She thinks of her own welfare first. Whatever reason she kept poor Crazy Lady locked up was purely selfish, I’m sure of that.”

The gnome was staring into Devon’s eyes. “What has turned you so hard against her?”

“Look, Bjorn, ever since I came here to Ravenscliff, she’s fought me. You know that. She’s tried to keep the truth of my Nightwing heritage from me.”