Blood Moon (Book Three - The Ravenscliff Series) (9 page)

“Our mystery lady has the powers of a sorceress,” Mrs. Crandall said, still apparently unperturbed, though Devon’s Nightwing ears could detect a racing heartbeat. “Did you ever know Clarissa to have powers?”

“None,” Rolfe admitted. “Except the ability to bewitch a boy who was otherwise in love with you.”

At that Mrs. Crandall could keep her composure no longer. She stood, pushing past Rolfe and striding across the room. “This is all nonsense!” she said, her voice shrill, her hands quavering. “Give Devon his birthday present and then go.”

“Not until you tell me the truth, Amanda.” Rolfe’s voice was cold and final. “I went to jail for ten years for Clarissa’s death. If she’s out there, she will come to me. Tell me the truth now, Amanda, before I learn it on my own!”

“
All right
!” Mrs. Crandall spun around to face him. “Yes, that was Clarissa! Yes, I kept her here secretly all these years! What do you propose to do about it, Rolfe?”

He smiled evilly. “Maybe give you a taste of what I went through for those ten years. Perjury is a crime, Amanda.”

“I testified that I saw you driving, which I did,” she said, defiant. “No perjury involved.”

“That’s a lie and you know it. It must have been Clarissa who was driving!”

She laughed at him. “You were so drunk that you couldn’t even walk!”

“But hiding Clarissa here when I was on trial for her death—”

Mrs. Crandall pushed away from him again, moving across the room with the forcefulness of a cheetah. Devon jumped out of her way.

“Clarissa didn’t return until after my testimony, after your trial was all over. I had no idea until that point that she was alive.” She turned to glare at Rolfe, then over at Devon. “Imagine my surprise when she showed up at the front door.”

“Where had she been?” Devon ventured to ask.

“She could never tell us,” Mrs. Crandall said. “She was insane. The shock of the accident, I suppose.”

“And her powers?” Devon asked. “How did she get them?”

“Again, we never knew,” Mrs. Crandall said. “All I know is that when she came back to Ravenscliff she was a different person—and she went straight to the portal in the West Wing and tried to open the Hell Hole! She was obsessed with the idea of it. It was all she wanted to do—let the demons free, and the Madman, too!”

Neither Devon nor Rolfe could speak after hearing that.

Mrs. Crandall gave them a small, tight smile. “Now perhaps you can understand why my mother and I needed to do what we did. Why we kept Clarissa here, safe and protected. Why we never let her learn the extent of her powers. If she were allowed to be free, she would open the Hell Hole. It would have meant the death of us all!”

Rolfe was scratching his head. “Why do I have the feeling we’re only getting part of the truth here?”

“I’m telling you all I know.”

Rolfe sneered. “I just find it awfully convenient that in protecting Ravenscliff from the Madman you also managed to get revenge on
me
.”

She held his gaze. “That’s your own narcissism, Rolfe. Thinking everything is about you.”

“You could have found a way to keep Clarissa from the Hell Hole and still let the authorities know she was alive.”

“Why? To get you out of jail?” Mrs. Crandall moved in, her face only inches from Rolfe’s. “Why would I care to do that? You seem to forget there was someone
else
in that car, too. That servant boy.
He
never turned up alive. Oh, no. That poor boy really
did
drown because of your negligence, your disregard for human life. So whether Clarissa lived or not, you
deserved
to be in jail.”

Rolfe looked away, saying nothing.

An awkward, unhappy silence settled over the parlor. Devon realized that neither of them enjoyed this battle of wills. Neither truly wanted to be cruel to the other. Devon could plainly feel that.

“Well,” the teenager said, breaking the silence, “at least we don’t have to worry about her any more. There’s no need to try to contain her. She flew out of here. Literally. Flapped her arms like a bird and flew. I tried, but I was unable to stop her. And my inner Voice assured me she’s really gone.”

“We can only hope that is true,” Mrs. Crandall said.

Rolfe had recovered himself. “You’d better
hope
that’s true, because imprisoning someone is against the law, too.”

“She was a
guest
here, never a prisoner. She was treated very well.”

Devon wasn’t sure how true that was, remembering all the times he heard Clarissa’s sobs echoing throughout the house. But then again, she
was
insane. Who was to say what her tears meant?

Mrs. Crandall leveled her eyes once more at Rolfe. “I want you out of this house in ten minutes. Give Devon your gift and then please leave.”

She walked quickly out of the parlor, her long green gown rustling behind her on the floor. Once she was gone, Rolfe sat down, exhausted, in her chair.

“She’s still in love with you,” Devon said, sitting on the couch opposite the older man. “It’s so obvious.”

“She hates me,” Rolfe said, none too convincingly, “just as I hate her.”

“Yeah, right.” Devon sighed, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of his elders. “So do you think maybe the mystery of Crazy Lady is over? Maybe there’s nothing more to worry about. Maybe Clarissa has taken her powers, whatever they are, and gone off to live as a sorceress somewhere else.”

Rolfe laughed. “Like you haven’t had enough experience at Ravenscliff to really believe that. Come on, Devon. Clarissa is tied up in the mystery of this house as much as any of us. She’ll be back.” He shook his head. “What I don’t understand is how she got the powers of a sorceress. She was just an ordinary girl.”

Devon leaned forward on the couch, a little grin playing with his lips. “So, um, not to change the subject or anything, but … do you really have a birthday present for me?”

Rolfe laughed. “Sure do.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a small box. Devon accepted it gladly, removing the lid and peering inside.

“It’s my Dad’s ring!”

“I think I’ve gotten it working,” Rolfe said. “I consulted several books and learned that if the crystals in a Guardian’s ring become erratic, they should be placed in close proximity with other crystals and they will, in effect, ‘recharge’ themselves.”

Devon looked down at the gold ring in his hand, a sparkling blue crystal in its center. It was Ted March’s ring, and Devon had been thrilled to receive it. But the ring had proven weak and unreliable in its visions. If Rolfe had indeed fixed it, it could prove to be a font of information for Devon.

“Thank you, Rolfe,” Devon said, slipping it onto his finger. “I’ll try it tonight.”

“Happy birthday, my friend.” Rolfe glanced out into the foyer and up the stairs. “Now I’d better get out of here. My ten minutes are almost up, and I think we’ve antagonized Amanda enough tonight.”

“Listen, Rolfe,” Devon said as they walked toward the door, “there’s going to be a full moon again in a week or so. We need to be prepared that the beast might come back.”

Rolfe nodded. “I’ve been trying to find out more about such things in my library but haven’t come up with much. I’ll keep looking.”

Devon looked down at the ring on his finger. Maybe this would offer some answers. He said goodnight to Rolfe and hurried upstairs to give it a try.

His room smelled like fresh wood. Mrs. Crandall had wasted no time getting carpenters in to repair his room. They had begun repairing the charred floorboards and window frames. Tomorrow they’d be back to finish the job. Devon hated the new curtains Mrs. Crandall had picked out, however. Yellow with pink roses—what was she
thinking
? He pushed them back as far as they would go and opened his windows outward. He cast his eyes up to the sky.

It was lightly raining, but he could still make out the partial moon. Devon held his hand out into the air, extending his ring finger as he concentrated.

At first, there was nothing. Devon feared that Rolfe really didn’t get it working again. But then he felt a tingling sensation in his hand, which traveled up his arm and into his head. Everything around him became sharply delineated. Devon kept his eyes on the moon.

And suddenly the bright white orb turned red.

Blood! The moon was covered with blood!

Long and syrupy, it dripped from the face of the moon, staining the night sky. The misty rain turned into blood, too, and Devon’s arm got covered with the sticky stuff. He pulled back, shutting his windows tightly.

Once closed off from the night, the blood disappeared, but it had left a sickening feeling in Devon’s gut. What did the vision mean? What was it supposed to tell him about the beast?

He sat on his bed and closed his eyes. “Show me more,” he commanded. “Tell me what I need to know.”

He was suddenly no longer in his room. He was walking down some cobwebby corridor, probably in the closed-off West Wing. He could hear his breathing, loud and in his ears, as if this were a movie and the soundtrack had been amplified. He felt fear, not knowing what it was he was walking toward, but he tried to keep a lid on that fear, realizing it could render him powerless.

Finally, at the far end of the corridor, Devon made out the figure of a man. Approaching, he recognized it as the ghost he’d first met in the secret panel. The young man in the jeans and tee shirt. He was standing there, just staring at Devon. He looked terribly sad and weary.

“Who are you?” Devon asked.

The man made the sign of a five-pointed star in the air again.

“Yes, I know, I know, the pentagram,” Devon said impatiently. “But who are you? What do you have to do with the beast? And are you connected to Clarissa in any way?”

The man didn’t answer. He just lifted his eyes upward. Devon followed his gaze. Suddenly they were no longer standing in a dusty old corridor but in the woods. The smell of dead leaves and wet earth assaulted his nostrils. Devon’s eyes looked up at the moon in the dark night sky. It was no longer a partial moon as it was earlier. It was now full.

And once more dripping with blood.

Devon returned his eyes to the man opposite him. But the man was gone, replaced by the snarling beast. It roared at him, baring its long, sharp teeth. Then it lunged.

Devon opened his eyes.

He was still on his bed, in his room. Outside the rain tapped against his windows. He let out a breath, expelling the fear the vision had inspired. He was suddenly tired, inexplicably so.

“I’ll leave the ring on,” he said to himself as he undressed for bed. “Maybe it will give me some answers in a dream.”

He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

“Devon.”

He heard the voice from somewhere, far off, but couldn’t make out who it was.

“Devon.”

“Dad?”

Through the fog he recognized his father’s face. Ted March, with his round, red, chubby cheeks, his bright blue eyes. His arms were outstretched toward him.

“Dad, is it really you?”

“Yes, Devon, it’s me.”

Devon was aware that he was dreaming, but that didn’t make the sensation of seeing his father again any less thrilling. Devon had come to realize that his dreams were often as real as anything he experienced while awake. He might have been asleep, but Dad was still very much there with him.

But as in so many dreams, time and distance held no logic; the more Devon approached his father, the farther away he became.

“Dad, so much is happening,” Devon called to him through the mist. “So much I need to figure out.”

“You can do it, Devon. You can put all the pieces together. I know you can.”

His voice was far off. Devon ran faster, trying to reach him, to get closer. But his father kept fading farther and farther away.

“Dad! I need your help! I need you to tell me who Clarissa is! What does the blood on the moon mean? Please tell me, Dad!”

He could barely make out his father’s words now, as his form rapidly disappeared into the thick, moist fog. “My ring,” Ted March said, but what he said after that, Devon couldn’t hear.

“Dad! I’m losing you! Dad!”

The face of Ted March shimmered, fading in, fading out, merging with something else. His voice was nothing but a whisper now, overpowered by a new sound. A low, crackling sound that got louder and louder.

Laughter.

The laughter of a madman.

“Dad!” Devon shouted.

“Dad!” mocked the laughter. “Dad! Dad! I’ll give you Dad!”

And suddenly it was no longer Ted March’s face in the fog but the face of Jackson Muir, in all his decomposing horror. His skeletal teeth chattered as the Madman laughed at Devon.

“So much is happening,” Jackson Muir said, still mocking him. “So much you need to figure out.”

“You’re dead and gone,” Devon insisted. “You’re never getting out of the Hell Hole again!”

“I’ll get out, Devon,” the Madman’s voice purred, as thick and heavy as molasses. “Because
you
will let me out.”

“Never!”

“Oh, but my boy, never is an awfully long time.”

Maniacal laughter filled the space of Devon’s dream. He was trying to force himself to wake up, but he couldn’t. He felt trapped, and the Madman sensed it.