Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) (8 page)

“I don’t doubt it,” Devon said, giving her a crooked smile.

“So, like, it’s a gorgeous day out today,” Cecily proclaimed, having polished off her yogurt. “What are you doing inside prowling around my grandmother’s room?”

“Like I said, I was exploring.”

She smiled flirtatiously. “Want to do some exploring with me outside?”

“Yeah, sure. Show me around.”

They headed out
the back door. It was indeed a gorgeous fall day, with a bright yellow sun and clear blue sky. Warm, too—Indian summer. They strolled through the rose garden, where the roses grew in massive wild thickets over trellises. Most of the roses had long since dried and withered away, but a few deep purple clusters still clung tenaciously to the vines. Devon and Cecily hurried across a carpet of browned
petals, remnants of a glorious summer.

“Andrea said Misery Point was less boring in the summertime.”

“Yeah,” Cecily admitted, “but that’s when my mother really keeps me chained to the pillars. All those wild degenerates from New York and Boston come to town and I love meeting them. So Mother insists I keep a curfew of ten o’clock. I go, ‘Mother, I am no longer a child.’ And she goes, ‘I
know. That’s why I want you home at ten o’clock.’”

She laughed as they headed out across the wide green lawn that stretched all the way to the cliffs.

“This past year,” Cecily continued, “I did manage to get out more. I just started asserting myself. I mean, I’m going to be sixteen years old in less than a year. Sixteen! Nate started dating the day she turned fourteen. My mother has kept
me on a leash tighter than they keep a pit bull. Until this past year, I hardly ever was allowed off the hill to go down to the village, except, of course, for school. I was cooped up here constantly in that cold tomb Mother calls a house.”

They’d reached the cliffs. The waves crashed against the rocks below, although the fury they’d shown the night before had ceased. Overhead the sun burned
brightly in the slate blue sky.

Cecily looked at him. “You know, if you don’t stop me, I’ll talk about myself all day. So let’s talk about you. What do you think about me?” She let out a hoot. “Kidding! Seriously, tell me about you, Devon.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, was it hard coming here? I mean, your father dying and all, and having to move away. That must’ve been hard.”

They sat down on the grass. “Yeah,” Devon told her. “The worst thing—after my dad dying and all—was leaving my friends.”

“You mean your girlfriend.”

“She wasn’t really my girlfriend.”

“But you miss her.”

Devon found himself unable to look away from Cecily’s green eyes. “I … I don’t know how I feel.”

Cecily just sighed.

Devon hesitated, wanting to tell her more but unsure if
he should.

You can tell her
, said the Voice.

“Actually,” Devon began, “there was one thing that happened that was even worse than any of that.”

Cecily looked at him perplexed. “What was that?”

“Right before my dad died, he told me I’d been adopted.”

“No way.”

“Way.” Devon sighed. “So not only does he die, but I learn he wasn’t even my real dad.” He leaned in closer to Cecily.
“And see, I think that’s why I was sent here. I think right here in Misery Point I can find out who I really am.”

“Wow,” Cecily said, clearly impressed. “Did you tell Mother? Do you think she knows anything?”

“I did ask her, but she said she doesn’t.”

Cecily snorted. “I’ll bet she does. Mother keeps a lot of secrets.”

“You can say that again. Let’s see: there’s your grandmother, the
East Wing, and—hey. Where’s your father?”

A bitterness passed over Cecily’s eyes. “Who the hell knows? And I don’t really care one way or another.”

“How come I think that’s probably not true?”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Look. He left my mother when I was two. I don’t remember anything about him. He’s a loser. A total and complete loser.”

“I’m sorry,” Devon said. “I didn’t
mean to make you upset.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s a logical question.”

“Well, I can relate on one level. My mother died when I was a baby, and I don’t remember anything about her. Not that I can exactly hold that against her.”

Cecily narrowed her eyes. “But if your father wasn’t your real father, was she your real mother?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know what to think anymore. We never
even had any pictures of her. I never even knew what her maiden name was. Dad always said it was too difficult for him to talk about. He just said she was a good woman.”

“I couldn’t
stand
not knowing who my parents were.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking of doing my own investigation.”

Cecily grinned. “Awesome. Let me help. What’s the first thing we should do?”

He considered. “I suppose I
should go down to the town hall in the village and see if they have a birth certificate for a baby boy born fifteen years ago with the name Devon,” he said logically. “I guess that should be my first step.”

“Then let’s do it today,” Cecily told him, her eyes dancing in the afternoon sun. “I’m bored, nothing to do. And besides, there’s no time like the present, right?”

“Yeah,” Devon agreed.

“Come on, we’ll cut through the woods to get into town. It’s faster than going by the road. And I can give you the complete rundown of all our family ghosts. You’ve got to get to know them if you’re going to live here.”

They traveled down a well-worn path, twigs snapping and leaves crunching under their feet, the sky above them crosshatched by tree limbs. Along the way, Cecily eagerly recounted the legends of the ghosts of Ravenscliff.

First, of course, there was Horatio, the founder of the house, and his wife Chloe. Horatio still guarded the house, Cecily told Devon, and Chloe wanders aimlessly. Chloe
Muir had died giving birth to her third son, Randolph, who was Cecily’s grandfather and Mrs. Crandall’s father. But it was Randolph’s brother—Horatio and Chloe’s first son—who was the fiercest legend. The notorious Jackson Muir.

“The warlock,” Devon said.

“Don’t laugh.” They had emerged from the woods into a meadow of wild blue asters and bright yellow tickseed. “Mother refuses to ever mention
his name. She won’t hang any pictures of him in the house, even though every other ancestor is on the walls. She was just a little girl when her uncle Jackson died, and I think he scared her real bad. But she loved his poor wife, Emily, who was so unhappy being married to that creep that she jumped to her death from—”

“Devil’s Rock,” Devon finished for her.

She nodded. “She supposedly found
him in bed with another woman, and so she took the plunge. The old man, guilt-ridden, died from his grief.”

“It’s all very Wuthering Heights.”

Cecily was smiling. “I’ve heard her out there, you know. Emily’s screams on a windy night.”

Devon narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you really believe them? Do you believe there are ghosts in the house? Things you can’t explain?”

She considered
the question. “Ever since I was a girl, I’ve heard things,” she said finally, the frivolity gone from her voice. “Skeptics don’t last long here. That’s Simon’s line.”

“Simon? Oh, the servant. I’ve yet to see him.”

“He keeps to himself mostly. But he believes all the legends. Said he’s seen all the ghosts.”

“Have you?”

Again she considered her answer before replying. “There have been
occasions when I’ve seen things, someone moving away at the end of the hallway when I turn the lights on quickly. And I’ve heard things—”

“Like sobbing?” Devon asked.

She looked at him without surprise. “So you’ve already heard the sobbing.”

“Yes,” he told her. “Last night. I thought it might have been Alexander, but I don’t know now. I’m quite sure he was outside my door, trying to scare
me, but then I heard this sound, coming from downstairs …”

Cecily was nodding. “When I was a girl, my mother told me not to be frightened by anything I heard or saw in that house. ‘Nothing here will hurt you,’ she assured me. ‘This is our house. We respect our house, and our house respects us.’” She laughed. “Strange thing for a mother to say to a little girl, huh?”

“Not if the ghosts are
real,” Devon said.

“I do believe they’re real.” She smiled again, and started down a steep path cut into the cliff on the other side of the field. “But they won’t interfere with you. The only spook you need worry about is that very-much-alive little cousin of mine.”

“I think I can handle him.”

Cecily looked back at him. “I think you can handle just about anything you want,” she said coyly,
batting her long eyelashes almost comically. “Now watch your step along this path. It gets a bit treacherous.”

Devon felt his cheeks redden, and it wasn’t from the high altitude. Cecily was nothing if not persistent. She was several feet ahead of him on the path, showing off her familiarity with these craggy old rocks. Her red hair was loose and bouncing around her shoulders, its highlights
reflecting in the sunshine.

“Cecily,” Devon called.

She spun around smiling, eyes closed, as if she expected him to catch up with her and kiss her. But instead he asked: “What’s the story with Rolfe Montaigne?”

Cecily opened her eyes, a little disappointed. “Rolfe is really our only competition in this town,” she said, as the path leveled out and opened into another field. Tall cat-o’-nine-tails
grew like mangy children, their velvety hoods already turning to seed. “Ever since he came back to Misery Point a little over a year ago, Rolfe has been systematically buying up as much real estate in the village as he can—just about anything that’s not already owned by us. His biggest catch was a restaurant called Fibber McGee’s. It’s the most popular place in the summer, and Rolfe brought
in all these big-name acts. He’s practically put our restaurants out of business.”

She turned around and winked at Devon impishly.

“Don’t tell Mother, but I went there a couple of times this past summer. It’s awesome. Very artsy. That’s where all the celebs hang out when they’re on vacation here. I saw Shia LaBeouf there!”

Devon looked up ahead and, through a break in a wall of yellow
maples, he spotted a graveyard. The path took them straight through it. Old brownstone markers protruded crookedly above tall yellow grass. Suddenly he felt a chill that belied the sunshine on his face, while around him the air conversely grew warmer.

The heat, he realized, was definitely not coming from the sun.

“So,” he said, keeping his eyes and ears alert, “that’s why Rolfe and your
mother don’t like each other.”

“Well, that and—” Cecily stopped in her tracks, causing Devon to nearly run into her. “Look, I personally don’t think he was to blame, but it remains a fact—”

“That he killed a kid?”

Cecily looked at him. “Did he really tell you that?”

“Yes.” Devon swallowed, concerned that the heat around him was rising. “I thought he was just trying to scare me.”

“Well, actually it was
two
kids,” Cecily said. “A boy and a girl. Rolfe spent five years in prison for it. They were in his car when he crashed. The prosecutor said he was drunk, but Rolfe said he was drugged by someone, so he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened that night. But he always insisted it wasn’t him at the wheel of the car. Still, it was Rolfe’s old Mustang that was pulled
out of the bay, and the boy was inside, dead. The girl’s body was never recovered. It must have been washed out to sea.”

They were getting closer to the graveyard, and Devon kept watch for whatever might be causing the heat. “So why do they think it was Rolfe who drove off the road?” he asked. “Were there any witnesses?”

“Two people testified that they saw Rolfe emerge from the water,” Cecily
said, even more upset by this part of the tale. “So I guess if Rolfe really
was
drunk at the wheel, then he deserved to go to prison.”

“But it sounds as if you think maybe he wasn’t? That maybe the witnesses were lying? That maybe they were the ones who drugged Rolfe? But why would they do that?”

“Well, there are all sorts of stories—”

Cecily stopped talking. They had reached the cemetery
by now, and the sun had suddenly disappeared behind a cloud.

“Creepy, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Devon admitted.

He looked around. The graveyard wasn’t big, with no more than a dozen stones, but it overlooked the ocean, giving it an openness that made it seem larger. The grave markers were weathered from the rain and the wind and the salt of the sea. A few had fallen over into the
tall grass. Most were brownstone, but a number were slate, and the one in the middle was white marble, crowned with an angel that was missing one wing; it lay on the ground in the grass beside her. Near the edge of the woods, farthest from the sea, stood three small crypts, each made of a dark red stone.

“This is our own personal graveyard,” Cecily explained. “These are the first Muirs, Horatio
and Chloe and their children and servants. They didn’t want to be buried in with the poor slobs down in the village, you see.”