Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) Read online

  “Mrs. Crandall?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the woman replied, not extending her hand or asking him inside. “And you are Devon.”

  It was not a question but a statement. She spoke his name with a determined emphasis, and her eyes never left his face.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Devon March.”

  She smiled, finally. “Please come inside.” She stepped back, allowing him to enter the foyer of the great mansion. “Where’s my daughter?” she asked, looking past him. “Isn’t Cecily with you?”

  “No, ma’am. I took a cab here.”

  “A cab?” Mrs. Crandall seemed genuinely outraged as she closed the door. “Why, I distinctly told Cecily this morning to arrange with Simon, our driver, to meet you at the bus station. Weren’t they there?”

  “No, ma’am. There was no one. It’s all right, though. I was able to see a little of the village this way, and meet a few people …”

  She looked at him hard. Devon had the feeling that meeting the villagers was the last thing Mrs. Crandall had wanted him to do on his first night in Misery Point.

  And who could blame her? The stories he had heard, the legends of the ghosts, the hostility toward the Muir family … And now he was there, in the fabled house, standing where few had ever gained entrance.

  Devon looked around him. The high cathedral ceiling of the foyer and the enormous stained glass windows—St. George slaying the dragon—suggested an old church, an image aided by the presence of dozens of candles burning atop brass and pewter candelabras. To his right the grand curved staircase was carpeted with an old Oriental runner. The floor on which it was laid was marble, a deep violet and gray stone that shone as brightly as if it had been cut and polished only the day before. Dark wood walls were hung with somber portraits of men and women Devon assumed to be Muir ancestors: Which one might be Jackson the warlock, he wondered. And his tragic wife Emily, who threw herself off Devil’s Rock?

  “I apologize for my daughter,” Mrs. Crandall was saying.

  “That’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not. I don’t know where she is.” She glanced up at the old grandfather’s clock that stood in the foyer. It was a quarter past ten. Mrs. Crandall drew her shoulders up and walked toward a pair of closed double doors, her black dress molded against her shapely body. Devon felt weird checking out her legs, given how much older she was, but he had to admit they were definitely fine.

  “I will speak with Cecily,” Mrs. Crandall told Devon. “Now, put down your bag. I’ll have Simon take it upstairs for you. Whenever he shows up, that is. Come into the parlor and let’s get acquainted.”

  She opened the doors in a manner that further solidified her status as a great lady: with both hands on both doorknobs, sweeping into the room as the doors yielded to her effort. Inside, a fire crackled within the old stone hearth. An elegant sofa was angled in front, watched over by a stern old man in a portrait above the mantel.

  Devon could see why people whispered about Ravenscliff, why Andrea’s parents might have told her that old Jackson Muir was a warlock. Among the books on the shelves that lined the room were several skulls, at least three shrunken heads, and half a dozen crystal balls. A suit of armor stood against the far wall. It sure looked like Dumbledore’s den.

  “Wow,” Devon said, looking around. “Cool room.”

  To the left, large glass doors draped in rich purple velvet offered a magnificent view of the coast off Devil’s Rock, the moonlit stormy waters crashing against the rocks far below.

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” Mrs. Crandall admitted. “Both my father and grandfather were travelers and quite the collectors. These trinkets come from all over the world.”

  “Awesome.” Devon placed his hand on one of the skulls, withdrawing it quickly when he felt a jolt of something like electricity. He hoped Mrs. Crandall hadn’t noticed.

  “Have a seat,” she was telling him.

  They sat in front of the fire, Devon on the sofa and Mrs. Crandall in a large cushioned wing chair that the boy instinctively knew was exclusively hers. The warmth of the fire felt good to Devon, whose skin had seemed to absorb the moisture of the night. He shivered. Mrs. Crandall noticed and raised an eyebrow.

  “Are you cold? Shall I get you some tea?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be fine now that I’m finally out of the rain.”

  “I apologize again. Cecily will be reprimanded.”

  “No, please, not on my account. I wouldn’t want to start off on the wrong foot with her.”

  She sighed. “I’ve tried to impose some discipline on Cecily, but it’s difficult. She can be headstrong. I take it that you will respect the rules of the household, Devon?”

  “Well, I’ll do my best.”

  She brought the tips of her fingers against each other. The glow of the fire reflected along her face and neck. Again, Devon was struck by her beauty. He concentrated, trying to see if the Voice might tell him anything about her, but it was silent. The heat he felt outside the house had subsided, too; the only warmth now came from the fire.

  “I imagine you must be anxious to resume your schooling,” Mrs. Crandall said.

  He shrugged. “Well, leaving school in the middle of the semester was hard. I imagine starting up here will be even more so.”

  “I’ve arranged with a tutor at the school to help you if needed. I’ve spoken with the guidance counselors, and everything has been arranged for you to start on Monday. You needn’t worry.”

  He laughed a little. “I don’t worry—not about that anyway. The worst thing is just leaving my old friends behind.”

  Her face seemed to reflect some compassion. “I was very sad to hear about your father’s death, Devon,” she said, softer now. “Were you very close?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Very close. My mother died when I was a baby, and I don’t remember her. So my Dad was all the family I had.”

  She nodded. “I see. Well, for however long you remain with us, we are glad to welcome you to ours.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Devon appreciated her words, but there was little emotion behind them. “Mrs. Crandall, may I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Was this an agreement between you and my dad? That if anything ever happened to him, you’d take me in?”

  She moved her eyes off to the fireplace. “To be frank, Devon, no. I was as surprised as you probably were when I got the call from Mr. McBride telling me about the guardianship.”

  “Then you could’ve said no.”

  “I could have.” She returned her gaze to him. “But I didn’t.”

  “How did you know my dad? You must have been close if he sent me to live with you.”

  “It was a very long time ago. I gather your father never spoke of Ravenscliff.”

  Devon shook his head. “Never. Not until right before he died.”

  Mrs. Crandall stood and approached the fire, warming her hands over it. “I suppose your father felt I could offer you things he never could. That we could provide well for you here.”

  Devon glanced around the room at the antiques, the silver serving set, the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “Yeah, I suppose he did,” he said.

  His own house back in Coles Junction had been small, just four rooms: his and his dad’s bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen. Dad had worked as a landscaper and mechanic, making what he could. He’d smelled of motor oil and cut grass, with grime permanently embedded in the pores and cracks of his hands. He’d driven an old Buick, owned just one sport jacket, and while he made sure Devon never wanted for anything—food, clothing, toys—they never took the kinds of vacations that Tommy did with his folks: to Disney World or Cape Cod or up to Mount Snow for skiing.

  “There are some rules, however, Devon,” Mrs. Crandall was saying, “and as I said, I expect that you follow them.” She drew herself up regally, like a duchess or something. “This is a big house, with only a few of us living here now, so we’ve closed the East Wing
. Under no circumstances should you attempt to go into that part of the house. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Also, my mother is not well. She has not left her room in years. I’d prefer for the time being you not meet her.”

  “All right.” Devon felt a little tingle in his fingertips as Mrs. Crandall set down the rules. The sensation moved up his fingers and into his hands. Just by telling him that there were places and people in the house that he was not supposed to see, she had succeeded in making him suspicious.

  And he realized that so far there’d been no mention of a Mr. Crandall, the husband of the woman standing before him. Devon wondered just how many secrets were held by this family of which he had suddenly found himself a part.

  “You have a nephew, too,” he asked. “A little boy?”

  Mrs. Crandall looked down at him with some surprise. “My, the townspeople have been busy filling you in, haven’t they? What else did they told you?”

  “Well, to be honest, ma’am, several warned me against coming here.”

  She smiled, turning around completely to face him. “I see. They warned you about the ghosts, I’m sure, and the strange, eccentric people who live in this house.”

  “Yes,” Devon admitted. “They did.”

  “They call me a witch down in the village. But do I look like a witch to you?”

  “No, ma’am, you certainly do not.”

  “Try not to concern yourself with the petty gossips of Misery Point,” Mrs. Crandall told him. She moved—it was more like gliding than walking—to the glass doors overlooking the sea. She stood there, framed in the moonlight.

  She knows, the Voice said at last.

  Devon had a sudden urge to lift one of the crystal balls from the shelves and gaze into it. Why not? the Voice asked. They belong to you.

  The thought startled him. Belong to me? Could that be true?

  He sat forward in his chair, watching Mrs. Crandall. What did she know of his past? Why had she brought him here?

  “This is a house with many secrets, ” she said, as if responding to Devon’s unspoken questions, though she did not turn around to look back at him. “All old houses have them. Four generations of Muirs have lived in this house. Everyone who has lived here has left behind their secrets.” She paused. “We respect those secrets. We do not pry into them. Remember that, Devon.”

  She turned at last, brightening. “But tell me about yourself. I am eager to learn more about you so that we can be friends.”

  “There’s not much to tell beyond what you already know.” Devon had already decided against mentioning anything about his powers or the Voice. Maybe he would at some point, but not yet. There had been too many warning signs: he was still not sure he could trust Mrs. Crandall.

  But he had to ask one question:

  “Mrs. Crandall, do you know who my real father was?”

  Her face turned ashen. Her elegant eyebrows rose; her exquisite lips parted. Then she recovered, a little, enough to say, “I wasn’t aware that Ted wasn’t your father. What makes you think that’s the case?”

  “He told me. Just before he died. He said I should know the truth.” Devon narrowed his eyes at her. “I can’t believe that his decision to send me here and the truth of my real parents aren’t connected.”

  She smiled. Whatever concern had flickered through her eyes was gone. “Well, I can’t imagine what that connection might be.”

  “Are you telling me that you know nothing of who I am or where I come from?”

  She looked at him with fierce, hard eyes. “That’s what I’m telling you.” Then she softened and looked away. “I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help.”

  Thunder exploded all at once, seemingly directly over the house. The rain began again, torrentially, and the lights were suddenly snuffed out.

  “Mother!”

  From the foyer, a gust of wind and rain. The front doors flew open, and a pretty teenaged girl with bright red hair wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket and a short pink skirt tumbled inside, a tall boy with a shaved head close behind her.

  If not for all the candles, the power outage would have left them all in darkness. But once Devon’s eyes had adjusted to the candlelight, he was able to make out the arrival of the girl he presumed to be Cecily Crandall, his errant welcome wagon.

  Mrs. Crandall moved from the parlor to the foyer as quickly and as soundlessly as a cat. “Cecily!” she scolded. “Where have you been? You were supposed to go with Simon to pick up Devon at the bus station!”

  The girl’s eyes peered around her mother’s shoulder and spied Devon standing awkwardly in the doorway of the parlor. He smiled shyly. Cecily groaned.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mother, I’m truly sorry.” She turned to the boy with the shaved head. Devon noticed a piece of metal was pierced through his nostril. “Oh, D.J.,” Cecily whined, “I knew I had forgotten something! Didn’t I say I had forgotten something?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Crandall, she did say that. She—”

  “If you don’t mind,” Mrs. Crandall said icily, “I’d like to speak with my daughter alone.”

  “Yeah, sure, no problem.” The boy looked uncomfortably down at Cecily. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Cess.”

  She nodded, brushing him aside as if she’d suddenly grown weary of him. D.J. shrugged, as if he was used to such treatment, and let himself out, while Cecily marched straightaway into the parlor, stopped a few feet from Devon, and eyed him up and down.

  “He’s beautiful, Mother,” she said, as if Devon were a puppy or a painting, not something with ears and eyes to comprehend her assessment. “Just gorgeous.”

  She smiled at Devon, extending her hand in a gesture as grand as any her mother might have flourished. Devon wasn’t sure if he should shake her hand or kiss it. He opted for the former.

  “Pleased to meet you, Cecily.”

  “Well, of course you are, sweetheart.” She winked at him, then walked across the room to plop herself down on the sofa. “Now, just how long is the power going to be out this time? It really sucks when we lose power because I can’t get on the Internet and without access to the Internet, I feel like I’m on a desert island in this godforsaken town.”

  “And you can’t do it on your phone because there’s no reception out here,” Devon added.

  “I know, right?” Cecily shuddered. “It’s like living in Siberia.”

  Mrs. Crandall rolled her eyes. “Cecily, I suspect you don’t even know where Siberia is,” she said.

  “Sure, I do,” Cecily replied, pouting. “It’s like in … Oregon or something, right? Or Australia.”

  “It’s in Russia,” Devon told her.

  “Oh, Mother, please, can’t we get a generator? You’ll see, Devon, we lose power out here all the time. Why can’t we get a generator? Aren’t we supposed to be rich?”

  Her mother frowned. “I shouldn’t get you anything ever again after what you did today,” Mrs. Crandall scolded, standing over her now. “Devon will be lucky if he doesn’t catch a cold. He had to take a cab here, and was nearly drenched—”

  “Look, I said I was sorry,” Cecily griped. “But D.J. and I had a fight. I told him I couldn’t be his girlfriend anymore. He just has no ambition. He’ll never leave Misery Point, and oh, man, I’ve got to get my butt out of here someday!”

  “Don’t talk so crassly, Cecily,” Mrs. Crandall said.

  “Look,” Devon said to the girl. “Don’t worry about not picking me up. I’m just glad to be here.”

  “You are?” Cecily looked at him as if he were crazy. “For God’s sake, why?”

  “Because he just lost his father, as I told you, Cecily,” Mrs. Crandall said. “And here he can find a new home.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry about your dad,” Cecily said, her voice a little less strident.

  “Thanks,” Devon replied.

  “But have you told him about Alexander?” Cecily asked, turning to her mother.

  “I had
just begun,” Mrs. Crandall told her before turning again to Devon. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care for some tea?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Please. Finish telling me about the family.” He gave Cecily a little grin. “Since, after all, I’m going to be part of it.”

  The girl smiled then patted the place on the couch next to her. Devon sat down.

  Mrs. Crandall resumed her position beside the fire. She seemed to be giving some thought to what she was about to say.

  “Alexander is a … troubled boy,” she began. “His mother has been in a mental institution since he was four. His father travels extensively and has not had much time to spend with the boy. We had him in a school down in Connecticut: a boy’s academy. He … didn’t do well in that environment. He withdrew, became moody. His studies went from average to failing. And last spring—he set a fire.”

  She looked over at Devon to see his reaction. He feigned surprise, raising his eyebrows.

  “No one was hurt, thank God. But it did cause considerable damage. He was asked to leave, of course. And my brother has turned over guardianship of Alexander to me.”

  “Given that I turned out so well,” Cecily whispered, nudging Devon and winking.

  Mrs. Crandall ignored her. “It wouldn’t do to send the boy away again. He’s clearly crying out for help. So I decided to keep him here.” She looked pointedly at Devon. “I’m hoping you might be of some help to him, Devon.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Mr. McBride sent me your report cards from school. You’re an honors student. Perhaps you can help tutor Alexander. Not just tutor but perhaps in some ways mentor him. Serve as an older brother since his father is away so much. I think some male companionship might do him some good.”