Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) (16 page)

There was a whiff of movement to his left. Devon paused, straining his eyes to see through the dark. He could discern nothing, so he kept going. A cold damp wind blew up from the sea, breaking through the heat. The fog deepened. Now Devon sensed movement again, this time up ahead, just a yard or two to the left of Jackson’s stone. There was someone there,
someone moving among the shadows.

“Alexander?” Devon called.

But the figure was garbed in white. It was kneeling in front of a flat marker. It did not appear to notice Devon’s approach. Its face—hooded, Devon thought, as he peered through the fog—was intent upon the gravestone.

“Who are you?” he called gently.

This time the figure looked up to face him. As Devon drew closer, he had
the sudden sensation of flight: as if the figure all at once transformed into a flock of white doves, flying off gently into the night. Devon could feel the cool rush of air made by their wings upon his cheeks.

Yet in that instant, too, he saw the face of a woman.

He looked down at the stone where the figure in white had knelt. Its inscription puzzled him. All it said was:

CLARISSA

“Jackson’s child?” Devon whispered, but he couldn’t be sure.

The Voice was silent.

Heading back to Ravenscliff, Devon felt chilled and discouraged.
There had been no sight of Alexander in the cemetery as he had hoped.

Maybe I’m losing it. Maybe for once the Voice was wrong.

He had even more reason to doubt himself as he rook off his raincoat and turned to see Alexander sitting in the parlor.

“Alexander!” he shouted, rushing into the room.

Mrs. Crandall was seated in her chair, hands clasped in her lap. “You were partly correct,
Devon,” she said. Her eyes looked tired and bloodshot. “He wasn’t in the house. But it wasn’t a ghost who had abducted him.”

A deep, familiar voice spoke then from behind Devon. “I wouldn’t exactly call it an abduction, Amanda,” a man said.

Devon turned around.

Behind him stood Rolfe Montaigne.

“Our young friend here,” Rolfe was saying, walking up to Alexander and tousling his hair,
“was wandering in the rain on the road back up to Ravenscliff. Seems he’d decided to run away, then thought better of it.”

Alexander grinned up at Rolfe. “He sure has a cool car,” he said, turning to his aunt.

Mrs. Crandall looked distinctly uncomfortable. Cecily was seated in front of the fireplace. “Mother, we should be grateful to Rolfe,” she told her.

“I’m not looking for gratitude,”
Rolfe said, and his mysterious green eyes found Devon across the room. “I certainly couldn’t have allowed the boy to walk alone in the rain in the middle of the night.”

“Why did you run off, Alexander?” Devon asked, stooping down in front of the boy.

The boy looked spitefully at him. “Because of
you
.”

“Me?”

“You scared me,” Alexander told him, and his round button eyes grew small,
seeming to retreat into his head. Devon shivered. It was as if the boy was changing right there in front of all of them, but only he could see the transformation. Even his voice took on a low, cold, monotonous sound: “I went looking for ghosts. You told me about ghosts.”

Mrs. Crandall arched an eyebrow. “Is this true?” she asked Devon.

Devon swallowed. “I just asked him what he knew—”

“You asked an already impressionable child about ghosts?” Mrs. Crandall was very angry. “I thought you had more common sense than that. I told you that Alexander was troubled. I asked you to have a good influence on him!”

Devon glanced over at the boy. Alexander was watching him, observing his every move, every reaction. This was precisely what he had wanted to occur. He had manipulated the
situation beautifully.

“Oh, don’t be so hard on the boy,” Rolfe said, and he meant Devon. He, too, was watching him. “He’s just getting to know our young Mr. Muir and his bag of tricks.” He winked at Devon, who immediately turned away.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Mrs. Crandall sniffed. “Cecily, take Alexander up to his room. As for you, Devon, we’ll discuss all this further in the morning.”

Cecily took her young cousin by the hand. Devon followed them out into the foyer. “Wait,” he called. “Alexander, tell us why you wrote what you did on your computer. You wrote that ‘he’ was coming, that you wanted someone to help you.
Who
, Alexander? Who was coming? Who did you need help against?”

The boy spun around to face him. His plump little face was a mask of horror, like a twisted,
broken doll. “You,” he spit. “You were coming—to bother me and tell me scary stories. It was you I needed help against!”

There was silence in the great house after that. For a moment they all just stood there, looking down at the small boy.

Can’t they see?
Devon was thinking, and he believed suddenly that they could, even if they wouldn’t admit it. This was no innocent child. The kid was
a demon as surely as the kid at the pizza joint.

Only this one’s named Jackson Muir.

Cecily urged Alexander along, getting him upstairs and into bed just as the rosy glow of dawn began to edge over the black sea. Mrs. Crandall closed the doors of the drawing room, apparently unfinished with what she had to say to Rolfe Montaigne. Devon simply wandered through the corridors, past the cavernous
formal dining room, through the comfortable oak-paneled study, into the greenhouse off the kitchen, where he sat in the warmth of the orange lamps and realized the boy had won.

This round, at least.

Alexander’s possessed by Jackson Muir. If I’d been hoping to protect him, I’ve failed miserably.

That much Devon was certain of. But what did it mean? The Voice had been right after all:
Devon firmly believed Jackson wanted to use the boy as some kind of conduit to regain mastery of the house. And more critically, of that locked portal in the East Wing.

He wandered back into the foyer of the great house, deciding that he’d confront Mrs. Crandall in the morning, lay all his cards on the table and demand she do the same. What could she do? Kick him out? She was now his guardian.
She couldn’t kick him out.

Besides, Devon felt quite certain that she’d rather have him here than anywhere else now that he was beginning to understand a few things about her family’s secrets.

Yet what of the secrets left undiscovered? The books in the East Wing with their mysterious words and phrases? The light in the tower? The gravestone marked Devon? The uncanny resemblance to the portrait
in the East Wing? The woman in white? Was she Emily Muir? Or the mysterious Clarissa, whoever she was?

Yes, Devon would demand some answers from Mrs. Crandall.

“Amanda, you’re as unreasonable as ever!” came the voice of Rolfe Montaigne all at once, bellowing through the closed doors of the parlor. Devon stood outside, hesitant about eavesdropping but drawn by the resonance of Rolfe’s deep
voice and what secrets he might reveal.

“Unreasonable?” Mrs. Crandall laughed. “I think it’s perfectly reasonable to object to you driving a young boy along the rain-slicked streets of Misery Point.” There was a calculated pause. “Remember what happened last time.”

“You’ll keep up that lie until you’re cold in your grave, won’t you?”

“Why did you come back to Misery Point after they let
you out of jail?”

“I wanted to open a restaurant,” he told her, and Devon could hear the smile in his voice.

“To compete with me,” she snapped. “To drive me out of business!”

“That’s the American way, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t you already do enough damage to this family? Why come back now and try to hurt our livelihood?”

“Dear Amanda, I hardly think the livelihood of the great Muir family
will be affected by one restaurant.” Rolfe sighed. “Besides, my dear, I believe this family has inflicted enough damage on itself for me to have much impact.”

“Get out.”

“You’ve always been especially lovely when you’re angry.”

“Get out!”

Devon bolted when he heard the doorknob begin to turn. There was nowhere to hide in the foyer. It was a cold marble room with a great cathedral ceiling,
and its only furnishings were a simple coat rack and a magnificent grandfather’s clock. Devon had one option: to slip out the front door and hide behind the thick shrubbery there. In his hurry, he left the door partly ajar. Just seconds after he slipped out behind the bushes he saw Rolfe’s hand through the opening of the door.

“Tell me,” Rolfe was saying to Mrs. Crandall as he left, “just who
is this young ward you’ve taken in under your wing?”

“Stay away from Devon,” she said, unseen. “I mean that. He’s no concern of yours.”

From his hiding place in the bushes Devon could see Rolfe’s face, lit by the pink glow of the coming dawn. “My, my, we’re protective,” he was saying to Mrs. Crandall. “Might I inquire just who he is?”

There seemed to be something in his voice, as if Rolfe
knew some secret, some tantalizing detail that unnerved Mrs. Crandall. She said nothing in reply, just pushed the door shut on his face. Rolfe laughed.

In the bushes, Devon held his breath, waiting for Rolfe to pass. But instead Rolfe simply stood there, facing the rising sun.

“Oh, what a beautiful morning,” he sang softly. He moved out of Devon’s view. “Oh, what a beautiful day. I’ve got
a wonderful feeling—”

Suddenly Devon felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun around and there stood Rolfe behind him.

“—ev-ry-thing’s go-ing my waaay,” Rolfe finished the song. “Well, well, well, look who’s out hiding in the bushes.”

Devon felt his face flush. “I didn’t want Mrs. Crandall to think I was eavesdropping—”

“But you were,” Rolfe said.

“No, no, not really—”

“Oh, no need
to pretend with me.” He smiled down at Devon. His face was creased from the sun, his jaw strong and hard. He put his arm around Devon and drew him out of the bushes. “So tell me, my boy,” he said, “how have you enjoyed life at Ravenscliff so far?”

“Well,” Devon began, “it’s certainly been—exciting.”

“You mean tonight’s little episode?”

“That and—other things.” Devon was anxious about
Mrs. Crandall catching him talking to Rolfe Montaigne. He kept looking back toward the door.

“You mean the ghosts? The stories you’ve been filling Alexander’s head with?”

“I don’t care if you don’t believe me. I know what I’ve seen.”

“Hey,” Rolfe said. “Who said I didn’t believe? I understand about ghosts. I’ve seen a few myself. Right here in this house.”

“Really?” Devon asked. “Here?”

“I’ll bet nobody’s told you that I lived here when I was your age,” Rolfe said. “Right here. Probably in the very room you’re using. Did they give you the one right above the terrace overlooking the garden and the cliffs?”

“Yes,” Devon said.

“Figured as much.”

“Why?” Devon became animated all at once. “Why did you live here?”

Rolfe seemed to be considering how much he should say.
“My father was the caretaker here before they hired that old gnome Simon,” he explained finally. “That was when Mrs. Crandall’s father still ruled the roost. He was a great old man.”

For a moment Rolfe’s eyes appeared distant, lost in time, a melancholy shadow passing across his features. Then he smiled. “So I encountered my share of ghosts.”

Devon looked up at him hard. “Did you ever go
into the East Wing?”

Rolfe returned his look. “Have you?”

Devon nodded.

“Listen, kid,” Rolfe said, his voice growing serious. “You’ve got to be careful. I mean it. There are things—”

“Yeah, there sure
are
things. Locked behind a metal door in a closed-off room.”

Rolfe’s eyes bore down on him solemnly. “Come visit me at the restaurant when you get a chance. I’m there every afternoon.”
He paused, studying the boy. “I think we have some things we could talk about. Just don’t let Amanda know you’re coming.”

Devon watched him walk off down the path. He disappeared around the bend and then Devon heard the Porsche kick into gear. The sun was edging the horizon now. Long low rays of golden sunlight reached across the estate. Devon headed back inside.