Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) (19 page)

On the way home, the night was cool and crisp. The leaves on the trees were mostly gone. The air was pungent with the sweet fragrance of the harvest: freshly scythed hay, overturned soil. Crickets kept up their monotonous chorus, and the moon shone high in the clear sky.

They’d left D.J. and Natalie at Stormy Harbor, preferring to wander along the beach and then climb back up the cliffs
by themselves. Devon had reached down and taken Cecily’s hand. At one point he’d kissed her—the first time on his own initiative. She smelled so great, felt so soft. He wouldn’t think about what they’d talked about, the whole brother-sister thing. It couldn’t be true.

Inside the great house, the old grandfather’s clock in the foyer struck midnight. Twelve resounding chimes echoed across the
cold marble. Long purple shadows stretched lazily along the floor, and the movements of the bare trees outside cast weird dancing shapes on the walls.

Cecily headed off to bed, but Devon stood in the parlor watching through the windows as the white-capped waves crashed against the rocks far below. Their sound lulled him, and he wondered what Mrs. Crandall would say if she knew about his budding
romance with Cecily. He had a feeling she wouldn’t approve.

Then, startling him, it came.

The Voice.

The boy’s in danger.

Devon turned and headed quickly up the stairs. He found Alexander in his room awake, sitting on his bed, his back against the headboard, his hands folded in his lap. As if he were just waiting for something.

For Devon, perhaps.

“What are you doing up, Alexander?
It’s past midnight.”

“I was watching the moon.”

“The moon?”

“To think. Men have walked there. Isn’t that extraordinary?”

Devon had never really thought of it. The first moon walk had taken place years before he was born, and he’d grown up with space shuttles and satellites as commonplace as bicycles and trains. “I suppose it is,” Devon acknowledged. “When you think about it.”

The
boy laughed sharply. “Do you know what this is?” he asked suddenly, sliding his cell phone from under his pillow.

“That’s your phone.”

“Isn’t it astounding?” Alexander looked at the phone in his hand as if he’d never seen it before. “I can carry it with me wherever I go and it still will ring.”

Devon sat down on the edge of the boy’s bed. Something was going on. The boy—or Jackson—was
playing with him again.

“Of course cell phones will ring if you carry them around,” Devon told him. “That’s what they do.”

The boy was admiring the phone in his hand as if it were a rare find. He touched various apps and made cooing sounds as they opened. Then he started punching numbers.

“Alexander, what are you doing?”

“I’m calling my father,” he said simply, holding the phone to
his ear.

“Your father’s in Europe. You only punched four numbers—”

“Hello, Father?” Alexander asked cheerily. “How are you?”

Devon felt his shoulders stiffen. The boy’s face brightened. His greeting sounded authentic. Could he really have called Edward Muir in London—or was it Paris? But it was midnight here; it would be five in the morning in Europe.

“Alexander,” Devon said.

The
boy glared at him over the phone. “I’m talking to my father,” he whispered, his teeth suddenly clenched, anger glowing in his eyes.

Tightness grabbed Devon’s throat. He stood up, looking down at the child.

“It’s just Devon,” Alexander was saying into the phone, spitting the name with horrible malice. “Do you want to talk with him?” The boy suddenly thrust the phone over at Devon. “He wants
to talk with you.”

“Alexander, is that really your fath—”

“He wants to talk with you!”

The boy’s eyes blazed with such fury that his face contorted into a nearly unrecognizable mask. Devon had no option but to accept the phone.

“Mr. … Muir …?”

Of course there was no answer. Not for a second had Devon really believed that Alexander had so effortlessly punched in four numbers and
called Europe.

But there
was
someone on the other end of the line. Someone was breathing, short and raspy, the labored breath of a very old man. Devon hit the end button with a forceful thrust of his index finger.

“What did he say?” the boy asked innocently, now calm and smiling.

“Who was that, Alexander?”

“My father. What did he say?”

“You—you just woke someone up. That’s what
you did. You hit some random numbers and woke some poor old man out of a sound sleep.”

Alexander shrugged. “Maybe it was a bad connection.” He reached behind him and pulled out another device from his pillow. “And this. Do you know what this does?”

It was the remote control for the television.

Devon studied the boy. He sat back down on the bed. “No,” he said cagily. “Why don’t you explain
it to me?”

“If I push this button like this,” Alexander said, holding the remote in his right hand and pressing a knob with his thumb, “the TV comes on.” The television set at the foot of the boy’s bed popped into life. The sound jarred the silence of the dark room, sending shivers of blue light across the floorboards. “Isn’t it a marvelous invention?”

But what chilled Devon far more than
the boy’s strange attitude, far more than the breathing on the other end of the phone, was the program that was suddenly playing on Alexander’s television set.

The Major Musick Show
, with its gravelly voiced host and rows of vacant-eyed children singing a song about a big dark house on the top of a hill.

“Alexander,” Devon whispered, “it’s the middle of the night. Why is this on?”

But
the boy was watching raptly. Major Musick danced in a sinewy rhythm in front of the tattered red velvet drapes. His garish outfit sparkled in the bright lights of the camera: reds and blues and big pink fuzzy buttons down his ruffled shirt.

Devon drew closer to stare at the screen. The camera moved in for a hideous close-up of the clown. The putty on his red nose was cracked and caked; the
white makeup on his face was pasty and thick.

“How was that, boys and girls?” Major Musick rasped. “Did you like that song?”

But the camera kept moving in closer, closer, closer—until only one yellow bloodshot eye of the beast filled the screen. Major Musick’s laughter filled the room, and for a moment Devon was as entranced by its spell as Alexander. It was easy to get lost in the sound,
to allow it to turn you over and over and over again, to carry you up and out the window, to get inside your head and stay there.

But Devon forced himself finally to blink. The camera had pulled back again, and now Major Musick was in front of a chalkboard, writing with long, unnerving squeaks. “The letter for the day, boys and girls, is ‘N,’” he was saying.

“Ennnnnn,” Alexander enunciated
from behind Devon.

“Listen to how much it sounds like emmmmm,” the clown said.

“Emmmm,” Alexander repeated.

The camera framed the clown’s face. Devon stood in front of the TV set. And suddenly Devon recognized Major Musick.

He’d seen him before, in a moment of terror, in the last seconds of consciousness. He’d seen him—in the darkness of the closed-off room in the East Wing.

Major
Musick smiled then, and there were maggots in his teeth.

Devon knew the truth at last: beneath the chalky white makeup of the television clown lurked the diabolical face of Jackson Muir.

Devon switched off the TV.

“Don’t you like Major Musick?” Alexander asked angelically behind him.

The eerie silence that overtook the room was only slightly less unnerving than the clown’s hideous laughter. Devon said nothing, just turned and stared at the boy.

Cecily came in behind him. “What’s going
on in here? It’s pretty late for Alexander to still be awake.”

Devon grabbed the remote control. “Cecily, look at this,” he said, switching the TV back on.

But it was Jay Leno interviewing Beyoncé. “Wait,” Devon said, switching channels. Grace Kelly and Gary Cooper in an old western. He pressed the next channel. Some girl modeling a bathing suit on the shopping channel. Then CNN. Then a
rerun of
The Golden Girls
.

“He was there,” Devon said.

“Who was there?” Cecily asked.

He continued flicking through the channels until he finally gave up. He snapped off the TV, looking back at Alexander.

“How did you do that?” Devon asked. “How did you get that show on the screen?”

“Devon, what are you talking about?” Cecily demanded.

“Can I go to sleep please?” Alexander asked
sweetly.

“No! Tell me who you are!” Devon shouted. “What do you want from me?”

“Hey,” Cecily said, putting her hand on Devon’s arm. “Take it easy. Let’s go.”

Alexander just smiled. Devon felt an overwhelming urge to slap him, to shake him, to force the truth from his smug little throat. But instead he allowed Cecily to guide him from the room and out into the hallway. He heard her tell
her young cousin to go to sleep, that as usual he’d caused enough trouble. Then she switched off the light and closed the boy’s door.

“Devon,” Cecily whispered as they walked down the corridor, careful not to wake her mother, “what did you see on the TV?”

“If I needed any proof that Alexander’s in Jackson Muir’s power, I got it.”

He led her into the playroom. On top of the television
he found that week’s
TV Guide
. He flipped through the listings. There was no program called
Major Music
.

He meant,
Major Musick
.

Musick. With a “K.”

He found Alexander’s iPad and checked it for any strange apps. “He was watching it on here, too,” he told Cecily. He discovered nothing. He tapped Google and typed in “Major Musick.” But nothing came up about any creepy television clown.

“He doesn’t exist,” Devon said out loud.

“Who doesn’t exist?” Cecily asked.

Suddenly Devon’s eyes landed on a stack of board games in the corner. He lunged for them.

“Devon, what’s going on?” Cecily shrieked.

He pulled the Scrabble box out of the pile of games.

“Suddenly you want to play games?” Cecily asked, completely bewildered.

Devon ignored her. He removed the lid of the
box and shook the little squares of the alphabet onto the table. He began sorting through them. Cecily stood over him, watching. He spelled out, one letter at a time:

MAJOR MUSICK

“I don’t understand,” Cecily said. “Who is Major Musick?”

“Hang on,” Devon told her, as he began sliding the letters around. First the J, then the A …

And he spelled out:

JACKSOM MUIR

“Jack-
som
?” Cecily asked.

Devon’s body tingled.

“The letter for today, boys and girls,” he said softly, “is ‘N.’” He looked over at Cecily. “Listen to how much it sounds like ‘M.’ Ennnnnnn.”

“Devon, you are freaking me out!”

“Replace the ‘M’ with ‘N’ and it’s right there!” Devon shouted. “It’s spelled out as plain as day. He wanted me to figure this out. He was giving me clues!”

“Figure
what out? Who wanted you to?”

He gripped her by the shoulders. “That show Alexander is always watching. That’s how Jackson Muir got him. How he hooked him.”

“Devon, I’m not following.”

“That’s all right. I’m not sure yet what it all means myself, but I’m now absolutely convinced that Alexander is the key to finding out what I need to know.”

“You’re telling me the ghost of Jackson Muir
was on a TV show?”

Devon smiled. “He seems fascinated with modern technology. What was his death date on the tombstone?”

“I don’t remember.”

“It was before the moon walk. Before cell phones. Before even TV remotes.”

“I guess,” Cecily said, still not getting it all.

Devon kissed her quickly. “Let’s get some sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”

“Wait, Devon.”

He looked at her. “What is it?”

“This is going way too far. I mean, you move around a few letters and get Jackson’s name. Except not even totally. And that’s enough to convince you that his ghost has got Alexander under his control.”

“I
saw
Jackson, Cecily. Behind the clown’s makeup.”

She closed her eyes. “You saw a dead man on a kids’ TV show?”

“It’s not a real show! It only exists
in this house! There’s no TV show by that name listed anywhere.”

She seemed at a loss. “All I know is Alexander’s a very clever little kid. The stories his headmaster told—he used to trick them all the time at his school.”

“Cecily, you didn’t see him in there. How he was acting—”

“No, but I’ve seen him plenty of other times. He can be devious. Even running away the other night. You saw
how he manipulated the whole situation.”

“It wasn’t him, Cecily! It was Jackson Muir!”

She sighed, made a face, and ran her hand through her hair. “Devon, has it ever occurred to you that in your fever to find out the truth about yourself and your abilities you may have begun seeing things that aren’t really there?”

He looked at her hard. “I know it’s all weird to you. I know I’ve arrived
here with stories about ghosts and goblins and you don’t know what to believe.” He paused. “And I can find the answers on my own, Cecily. If you don’t want to be involved, I can’t blame you.”

She seemed near tears. “It’s not that I don’t want to be involved,” she told him. “It’s just that … I was always taught not to question. Not to look too deeply into the rooms of this old house or the motives
of anyone who lived here. You’re asking me to go against everything my mother has told me, Devon. I’m frightened of what you might find out.”

He nodded. He could understand. They headed off to their rooms without further conversation. Devon, too, was frightened by what all this might have been leading to: not only the truth about himself, but of his father as well. What had Dad been involved
with? What had his connection been to this house, to its secrets?

And if Dad wasn’t his real father, who was?

Mrs. Crandall was present at breakfast
the next morning, bright and smiling and full of good cheer. “Simon’s brought in the pumpkins from the garden,” she announced. “That always makes me glad.”

She poured herself some coffee from the silver urn that Simon had placed on the table. Devon noticed that Cecily wasn’t there: she’d already had breakfast, her bowl of unfinished Special K remaining at her place, a few slices of banana growing
soggy in the skim milk.

“Cecily’s taking her morning exercise regimen quite seriously,” Mrs. Crandall commented. She went on to reveal that her daughter had just breezed past her this morning in running shoes and sweatpants, out to circle the grounds a couple of times. “I wonder how long this phase will last.”

Devon suspected that Cecily was avoiding him after their confrontation last night.
He concentrated on his orange juice, preferring not to dwell on the fact that Simon’s malformed little hands squeezed it fresh every morning.

Mrs. Crandall was watching him. She raised her chin, displaying her long neck, adorned by a single strand of pearls. Her dress this morning was scarlet, striking against her pale skin and upswept golden hair. No lipstick or mascara marred her features.
They were delicate but solid, soft yet firm. Her chin had not yet begun to sag; few wrinkles lined her eyes. Devon imagined her as a young girl Cecily’s age; he could understand how Rolfe Montaigne had found her lovely.

“I wasn’t always such a dowager,” Mrs. Crandall smiled, as if reading Devon’s thoughts. “Once I was as young and carefree as Cecily, running out to jog around the estate. I
don’t suppose you can imagine that.”

“Oh, but I can.” Devon smiled over at her. “I’m sure there are many sides of you I don’t know.”

Her smile faded a little. “A curious remark, Devon.”

“Mrs. Crandall,” he said, changing the subject, “Alexander claims to have telephoned his father in Europe last night. Is that possible?”

Mrs. Crandall sighed. “I hardly think so. Even I have trouble
tracking that man’s whereabouts.”

Devon took a bite of his Belgian waffle. “I thought perhaps Alexander had entered a code on the phone or something. He only pressed a few numbers.”

“Well, that just shows you he was playing with you. Where Edward is at the moment is a mystery. Paris, possibly. Or Geneva. Or Vienna. My brother has never stayed in one place for very long.”

Devon looked
at her. “Mrs. Crandall, we’ve never talked about the other night. The night Alexander disappeared—”

She silenced him with her hand. “Don’t bring it up. It’s forgotten. I know what this house can do to those who are new here. It can play all sorts of tricks with one’s mind. My own mother, God bless her, still talks to everyone who’s ever lived here.”

“But there are questions I have, Mrs.
Crandall. And I think you might know something that might—”

She stood up. “Devon, I want so much for this to work out. I want very much for you to be a part of this family.” She walked over behind Devon’s chair, placing her hands on his shoulders. “But you must do your part as well. I told you that you shouldn’t go looking for answers. I wish I could help you, but I can’t. Is it not possible
for you to just look forward to a bright and shining future instead of looking only to the past?”

He steeled himself and imagined she could feel his shoulders tense. “Mrs. Crandall, until I can understand my past, I can’t see any future.” Her hands lifted from his shoulders. She walked away, pouring herself another cup of coffee, preparing to disappear back into the house.

“Mrs. Crandall,
I’m worried about Alexander,” Devon said before she could leave. “I think—no matter what you say—he’s in danger.”

“The child is in no danger,” she said, dismissing him impatiently.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I am.” She glared at him. “Because I vowed no one in this family would ever be in danger again. And I’ve taken measures to insure that. Do you understand, Devon? There is
no danger here! So don’t go looking for any!”

Then she was gone.

Devon sighed. What was she hiding? Why was she so certain there’s no danger? He realized he couldn’t confront her in the hope of discovering anything. She was far too guarded for that. He was on his own—maybe even without Cecily.

He resumed his breakfast. When he looked up he saw Alexander standing in the archway between
the dining room and the kitchen.

“How long have you been standing there?” Devon asked.

“Long enough.” The boy sat down opposite Devon. He looked very small in the tall chair, his shoulders barely clearing the table. “Want to watch some TV?”

Alexander grinned impishly.

“Maybe.” Devon stared over at the child. “Maybe it’s time you told me about Major Musick.”

“He’s on right now.”

“He’s always on, isn’t he?”

Alexander smiled.

“Who is he, Alexander?”

The boy’s eyes danced. “Have you been to the tower, Devon?”

“Why should I go to the tower?” Devon decided to play along with him to see where he was heading with this. “What’s there for me to see?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never been there myself. But maybe tonight—maybe tonight you’ll be able to get in.”

“What
game are you planning, Alexander? Are you planning to lock me in there the moment my back is turned?”

Alexander just laughed. He got down off the chair and scampered back upstairs. Devon listened as his footsteps against the marble faded off into the house.

He realized that he wasn’t going to get much more out of Alexander either; he was too far-gone into Jackson Muir’s power. Somehow, however,
he had to find out why the demon had appeared in the form of the television clown and what he hoped to gain by it, besides control over Alexander. It wasn’t so much that Jackson was trying to prevent him from finding out the secrets; in fact, he almost seemed to be egging Devon on to try to discover who he was and how he was connected to this mysterious old house.

His next step, Devon resolved,
would be twofold. First, he’d find out all he could about Jackson Muir and his black magic. Then, after school tomorrow, he’d take Rolfe Montaigne up on his offer to “keep him informed.”

The first part of his plan didn’t take long. Cecily was nowhere to be found, Alexander was ensconced in front of the TV in the playroom, Simon was outside raking leaves, and Mrs. Crandall was cloistered with
her mother. Devon settled himself in the library, a blazing fire in the hearth, leafing through books on the Muir family history.