Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) (20 page)

Of course, the books he really needed were in that inner chamber in the East Wing. He knew he had to find a way back in there, as much as he dreaded the proximity to that bolted door. But for now he contented himself with what he might discover from these more standard
accounts, the first of which was called simply
A History of Ravenscliff
.

The book seemed to have been put together by a local historian at the request of Randolph Muir, Mrs. Crandall’s father. Devon flipped open to the first page:

DEDICATED TO OUR FOUNDER, HORATIO MUIR

There was a photograph of Horatio: an old man with heavy sideburns and thick brow, stern and solemn. But not evil,
Devon thought. Horatio Muir was not an evil man. Not like his first-born son.

He read on:

Horatio Muir was born in London, scion of a long and distinguished heritage. He came to America in 1920 and settled at Misery Point, Maine, building a house that would rival the mansions of Newport. A powerful businessman, Horatio was also a judicious man, believing that with his great power, privilege
and affluence came great responsibility. His wealth would be shared with the village, bringing jobs and prosperity.

Ravenscliff was completed in 1922, and it drew the curious and awestruck from around the nation. A sprawling mansion of fifty rooms, it comprised not only two wings but also a tower, from which Horatio Muir often viewed the surrounding estate reaching off to the sea.

The
house was so named for its black stone and ebony wood, and also for the birds that took up roost there, eliciting wondrous comment from the village. The ravens became Horatio Muir’s constant companions among the battlements of the house; they could be seen for miles swooping around the tower and alighting upon the gargoyles on the facade of the mansion.

So it was true. There
were
once ravens
at Ravenscliff. Devon wondered why the birds had left and where they had gone.

There were photographs of Horatio and his wife, and then others of people whose names Devon didn’t recognize, and finally several of Horatio’s youngest son, Randolph Muir, Mrs. Crandall’s father. But there were none of Jackson, Horatio’s eldest. Devon flipped ahead several pages but found nothing.

“Not one picture
of Jackson,” he murmured. “Not one.”

Devon recalled Jackson’s tombstone, with “Master of Ravenscliff” etched into the granite.

There must have been some rivalry between the brothers, Devon surmised. Jackson was the oldest. He was probably supposed to get the house, but for some reason didn’t. His younger brother did. But why then would Randolph allow Jackson to construct a monument to himself
proclaiming himself to be master of the house? Just what happened between them, and what relevance did that rivalry have for Devon?

He was not surprised that an “official” history, apparently commissioned by Randolph Muir, left out any mention of magic or demons. But somehow, at some point, Jackson had achieved knowledge of the black arts. Devon recalled Mrs. Crandall on his first night here
telling him that both her father and grandfather had been “world travelers.” The skulls and shrunken heads and crystal balls in the parlor were their “trinkets,” she said. Was this, then, a family of warlocks?

Or, rather, as the books in the East Wing had suggested, sorcerers?

What had been the exact wording? Sorcerers of the Order of the Nightwing.

The Nightwing.

Devon felt a sudden
surge of electricity run through his body. What did that word mean?

Finally, from a book on the great whaling ships of Misery Point slipped a faded, yellowed newspaper clipping. It was undated. Devon held it up to the light to read:

ELDEST MUIR SON, RETURNED FROM EUROPE,
DELIGHTS CHILDREN WITH FANTASTIC SHOW

Jackson Muir, elder brother of Randolph Muir of Ravenscliff, entertained
his niece and nephew and several of the village children with a magic show yesterday on the estate, exhibiting tricks and sleight of hand he’d learned while on an extended tour of European cities. Dressed as a clown in white face and bright red nose, he delighted the boys and girls with such fantastic feats as pulling a rabbit from a hat, summoning a dragon from its lair, and making one little
boy seem to disappear.

Devon’s blood ran cold. Jackson Muir, dressed as a clown. The image of a kindly Jackson entertaining children just didn’t cut it. Devon knew what kind of a clown he was, and he bet the kids were more frightened than delighted. He didn’t need the Voice to tell him that Jackson’s “dragon” was no sleight of hand, and he couldn’t help but wonder what really happened to the
little boy Jackson “seemed” to make disappear.

Returning the clipping to the book, he chanced upon another notice tucked among the pages. On this one, the headline read:

MRS. EMILY MUIR FALLS TO DEATH FROM DEVIL’S ROCK

Police are investigating eyewitness accounts that Mrs. Emily Muir, twenty-two-year-old wife of Jackson Muir of Ravenscliff, fell from the cliff at Devil’s Rock last
night. Both her husband and Muir family caretaker Jean-Michel Montaigne told investigators they followed Mrs. Muir onto the estate grounds at the height of last night’s thunderstorm. Distraught and confused, Mrs. Muir apparently fell from the rock around midnight. She is presumed dead, although her body has not been recovered.

Mrs. Muir is the former Emily Day. She and her husband were married
four years ago, shortly after Mr. Muir’s return from Europe. They have no children.

Devon stared down at the clipping. Jean-Michel Montaigne must have been Rolfe’s father, but it was another fact that intrigued Devon more. He looked again of the date of the clipping. Emily killed herself on Halloween—not far from today’s date. The clipping trembled in his hand, close to crumbling. “They have
no children,” Devon read aloud.

But the Voice told him otherwise.

Jackson did have a child.

Clarissa? The stone where he’d seen the figure of the woman in white?

Who, by rights, should have inherited this house.

But the name “Clarissa” didn’t appear in any of the books on the shelves. He went through each of them, one by one. Most were general texts on fishing or whaling or the
New England coast. There were a few old picture books of ravens; in one, he found a black-and-white photograph of Ravenscliff with dozens of the birds perched atop the parapet and nestled among the heads of gargoyles. He thought again:
Where did all the ravens go?

He was about to end his search when he heard a sound. The rustling of fabric. He turned. There, in the corner, he could see a figure.

He gasped. The glow from the fireplace briefly illuminated the figure in the corner. It was a woman—horribly mangled, deformed. Her head was crushed, one eye dangling from the socket. Her shoulders were twisted, her hands broken. She walked slowly toward Devon, reaching out toward him with her twisted fingers.

It was Emily Muir.

Devon covered his mouth with his hands to avoid shouting
out. Emily Muir—or rather, her corpse. How she looked after the fall from Devil’s Rock!

Her deformed hands beseeched him. She tried to speak but made no sound. Devon stared wide-eyed. Then she disappeared.

She wants me to find out the truth
, Devon thought.

The fire was dying in the hearth. Devon let out a long breath and made his way upstairs. He saw no one else that night. It took a
long time to clear his mind of thoughts of Emily’s mangled hands reaching out to him, but finally sleep overcame him.

He began a long and winding dream: He was outside, near Devil’s Rock, staring up at the light in the tower room. Behind him stood Rolfe—but it wasn’t Rolfe as he knew him now, but the Rolfe of twenty years before, when he was Devon’s age and slept in Devon’s very room.

“Don’t
you want to know who’s up there?” this teenaged Rolfe asked.

“I do,” Devon said dreamily, and all at once he was wandering down long and twisting corridors of the dark, dusty house. He quickly became lost: every new turn thrust him deeper into the maze of the house. He had the sense of climbing, and now he stood at the door of the tower room, and he could hear the sobbing coming from within.
He reached out his hand to turn the knob—

“Don’t go in there,” came a voice from behind him. He turned. It was Dad. “Not unless you really want to know, Devon.”

“I do,” Devon replied, close to tears now. “Dad, you sent me here to find out. I’ve got to know who I am.”

His father looked at him sadly. “Then go ahead, son.”

He turned back and threw open the door. There, in the candlelit
darkness, was the rotting, white-caked skull of Major Musick, who was pulling a rabbit out of a hat and laughing at him.

Devon awoke with a start. He sat up in his bed, listening to the crickets chirping in the still night air. A window had blown upon, and a cool October breeze filled the room. Devon shivered, trying to shake off the anarchy of the dream. He threw back his sheet and stood to
refasten the window. He glanced up at the tower, standing bleakly against the deep blue sky.

Of course, there was a light there. He closed the window, hooking it tightly.

Without making a conscious decision, Devon pulled on his jeans and slipped a t-shirt over his head. He stepped out into the shadowy corridor, hearing his own heart in the hushed stillness of the house. He first made a deliberate
stop at Alexander’s room—assuring himself that the boy was fast asleep—and then continued on his mission.

He could not have expected to find the door to the East Wing unlocked once again, but it was—of course, just as Alexander had said it would be. It stood ajar, a strange golden light flickering from beyond.

What secret did this place hold? Devon steadied himself, casting off the lingering
miasma of the dream. He was fired by a will not entirely recognizable as his own, and he did not challenge it. The door creaked as it opened, sending a shiver all through the house. Upstairs, Devon was sure, Mrs. Crandall turned restlessly in her sleep, and Cecily sat up in sudden alarm. And of course Alexander was now awake, wide-eyed and knowing.

Devon stepped into the small round room behind
the door. It was the same as before, except this time he didn’t pull the string for the overhead bulb. He began his ascent up the bare concrete spiral steps. The light came from above, a candle as before, sending quivering glimmers down the steps that made the shadows dance. Devon moved forward.

He was stopped by the sense of someone else’s motion. Someone—something—was descending the spiral
steps toward him. Devon could see its shadow take on contours along the curved wall as the light came closer. It was the figure of a person—no, two people. He could now clearly make out their shadows, cast by the candle that one of them was carrying. He stopped in his tracks as he heard his name—“Devon!”—exclaimed by a woman—but then the candle that had offered their only light was snuffed out and
they were all left in darkness.

“Who’s there?” he called, and his voice echoed against the marble and concrete.

There was only a rustle of fabric in response, and perhaps the muffled whisper of the woman who had called his name. But then nothing, and Devon, unnerved yet determined, placed one foot in front of the other and began ascending the stairs once more.

“I thought I warned you
not to go prowling around in here,” came the voice of Simon. New light struck him: the harsh golden beam of Simon’s flashlight.

“Someone just called my name,” Devon insisted.

“Maybe it was a ghost,” Simon snarled. “Whatcha doin’ in here in the first place?”

“The door was ajar.”

“Don’t give you no right to go where you’re not allowed.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t try to strangle me
again,” Devon said belligerently.

“Didn’t have no rope.” Simon glared up at him. Devon believed that was indeed the only reason the caretaker hadn’t again assaulted him. “Now, g’wan. Get outta here.”

“What’s up there?”

“Nothin’ but ghosts.”

“Then what are you doing in here?”

“Checking on that light fixture. Making sure it wasn’t shortin’ out again.”

“Simon, it’s the middle of
the night.”

“I keep odd hours.”

Devon knew he was lying. But he was not going to tangle with Simon again. He turned and headed back down the stairs out into the great hall. He looked up at the grandfather’s clock. It chimed three.

For the rest of the night, he didn’t sleep. He just stared up at the ceiling, listening to every sound, every creak of the old house in the wind.

All the next day he dragged through his classes. Exhausted, frustrated, itching for a showdown—any kind of showdown—he kept looking at the clock, anxious for the last bell. When it finally came, he threw his books into his locker and sought out D.J.

He found him leaning up against Flo in the parking lot. “Will you do me a huge favor?” he asked.