He awoke quickly. The storm still raged, and he expected another go-round with the beast outside his window. But there was no heat, no pressure. Still, something awakened him, and he listened carefully to the night, to the sound behind the storm. There it was: a soft, steady, insistent voice that seemed to come from some place in his darkened room. And it was saying, “Leave here. You’re not wanted here. Leave here.”
Devon listened closely. The constant drone of the rain and the frequent booms of thunder often obliterated it, but it was there, always underneath, over and over, like a mantra: “Leave here. You’re not wanted here. Leave here.”
“No,” he said out loud. “I will not leave.”
The little voice, high and feminine, continued. Devon jumped out of bed. Standing close to his door, he could hear the voice from the other side: “Leave here. You’re not wanted here. Leave here.”
With a sudden fierceness, Devon pulled open the door and stared out into the blackness. The corridor was darker than he imagined a tomb might be, and just as cold. Still, the voice stopped, replaced by the ethereal sound of wings in retreat—or else the sound of footsteps, padding away as fast as possible down the carpeted corridor.
Devon was about to close the door when he heard another sound, this one from much farther away, from deeper within the house. It appeared to be the sound of someone crying. Cautiously he stepped outside into the corridor. Feeling for the light switch, he pushed it up, but discovered the power was still off. He walked back to his bedside table and fumbled for the candle and matches in the dark. Finding them, he struck a match and relit the candle. With a tiny, quivering flame to guide him, Devon returned to the hallway and followed the sound of the crying. It lead him down the great staircase, where strange twisting shadows danced upon the walls, and into the main foyer, where every creak of the old house made him look around, reassuring himself that the demon was not following him. Through the foyer Devon stepped quietly, past the large formal dining room and heading down another corridor.
Outside the storm thrashed against the house. For a second, Devon imagined what the house must look like to the village below, its turrets silhouetted against the sky by each flash of lightning.
There was no mistaking it now. The sound was that of a woman sobbing, crying as if the tragedy of her life was too horrible to bear any longer. It seemed to come from behind a closed door at the end of the corridor. Devon wasn’t sure, but he suspected it led to the closed-off East Wing. This was where his memory of the house’s exterior told him the tower would be.
Under no circumstances should you attempt to go into that part of the house. Is that understood?
He hesitated, unsure about disobeying Mrs. Crandall’s orders the very first night he was in the house. But too many things had already happened. Something was trying to force him to leave, maybe even kill him—and somewhere in this house the secret of his identity sat waiting to be discovered. No way was Devon just going back to bed now. If he had to confront the demons in their own Hell Hole, he’d do it. He’d spent his entire life living in fear about what lurked in his closet or under his bed. He was tired of it, and his father’s death had only galvanized him to put an end to the fear.
And he had the distinct feeling that the tower—where, no matter what Mrs. Crandall said, he was sure he saw a light—held the answers he was looking for.
He tried the door at the end of the corridor, but it was locked. Somewhere behind the door, the woman continued her tears. A crash of thunder shook the house just then, startling Devon and causing him to drop his candle, its fragile life snuffed out when it struck the marble floor. Left in pitch darkness, Devon had no choice but to retreat to the parlor in search of another candle. His eyes came to rest on the portrait of Emily Muir hanging there just as a bolt of unnaturally brilliant lightning illuminated the room. And in the few tantalizing seconds that the lightning allowed him to see, Devon saw that the once peaceful face in the portrait was now contorted in sorrow, and the hands that earlier had been clasped serenely in her lap were now clawing the air.
A Strange, Precocious Child
After returning to bed, Devon found his sleep to be fitful, and he awoke early. With daylight streaming into his room, the weirdness of the previous night seemed like a bad dream, already fading with the coming of the sun.
The power was back on, so Devon plugged in his computer, anxious to reconnect with the outside world and his old life. He quickly signed onto Facebook and updated his status: “First day of my new life in an old mansion looking over the sea. How very Goth of me.”
He’d been hoping for messages from Suze or Tommy, but there was nothing. Well, for them it was a school day. Devon thought of his friends heading off to school and seeing all the familiar kids and teachers, and he felt a pang of homesickness. He sent Suze a message explaining that there was no cell reception out here at the end of the earth, and that he hoped to hear from her later. He glanced through some of his online pictures—he and Tommy making faces, he and Suze posed on top of the Coles Junction bridge, he and Max sleeping on the couch—and suddenly he had to close his computer. If he looked too much longer, he’d really start getting morose.
He reminded himself that Ravenscliff was where he’d find the answers he’d been looking for all his life. And really, it was a pretty cool place to live, from the little he’d seen so far.
Stepping into his own private bathroom, Devon was impressed. “Not bad,” he said, looking around. “Not bad at all.” An enormous walk-in marble shower stood beside a Jacuzzi and a sunlamp. Thick, luxurious towels had been set out for him. Back in Coles Junction, he and Dad had shared a cramped little bathroom. Now Devon stepped across gleaming black-and-white tile to turn on the shower’s shiny hot-water faucet, which he suspected was solid gold.
Stripping off his t-shirt and sweat pants, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror. He remembered how Cecily had called him gorgeous. With all that had happened last night, he hadn’t had time to process that fact. She called me gorgeous. Suze had never called him gorgeous. No one ever had. Devon studied his reflection. A lean, tight, slender body. Dark eyes, dark hair, a tinge of olive to his skin. Devon had never thought he was all that good-looking. In fact, he’d always been a little self-conscious about his looks, since he looked nothing like his father, who’d been blue-eyed and pale. That had always bothered him a little. He should have guessed a long time ago that he was adopted.
Instead, he’d figured that he must resemble his mother, even though he remembered nothing about her. There weren’t any pictures of his mother around the house, either, something Devon had assumed to be the result of Dad’s grief at losing her. Now Devon had begun to wonder if his real parents had been Italian—or Spanish—or something else dark and swarthy. Turks? Arabs? Gypsies?
Considering his reflection, Devon thought maybe he’d grown another inch since last week, and he’d already been five-eight then. He wondered if his real father was tall. He flexed his biceps quickly in the mirror, then laughed at himself.
Cecily called me gorgeous.
Stepping into the shower, Devon was still smiling, remembering how Cecily had automatically decided they would date each other. If Mrs. Crandall was now his foster mother, didn’t that make Cecily his foster sister? And the idea of dating a sister, foster or otherwise, was just plain creepy.
Still, there was no denying that Cecily was a babe.
Once again, he wished Suze would hurry up and write to him.
Under the warmth of the shower spray, Devon savored the peace it permitted his mind after a night like the one he’d just been through. He could forget for a few moments demons and Hell Holes and weird visitations in the night, and instead think about things any fifteen-year-old might, things like pretty girls. For a moment, Devon never wanted to part the curtains and step out once again into the world, where things came at him from his window and ghosts woke him up at night with their sobbing. Here, under the steady stream of hot water, there wer
e no sounds, no voices—except the one in his own head.
This is a place of secrets, the Voice was telling him again. This is where you will find your secrets.
Devon toweled himself dry. Opening his drawer, he withdrew a fresh pair of khakis and a flannel shirt. Combing his dark hair, he let it fall naturally across his forehead.
The most important thing, he told himself—even more important than fitting in at school or finding a place within this family—was to discover his past. His truth. He couldn’t get sidetracked. That’s why Dad sent me here. I know it.
Downstairs, he found no one. In the daylight, with the sun filtering in through the gauzy drapes of the tall windows, Ravenscliff didn’t look nearly so mysterious. The marble shone, the crystal glittered. In the dining room, a whole spread had been set out: fruit, cereal, scrambled eggs, all in shiny aluminum trays over steam heaters. A pot of coffee added its rich fragrance to the room.
Devon peeked into the kitchen: no one. It was weird, as if he were the only one in the house, and it wasn’t even yet eight thirty. Cecily and Alexander, Devon assumed, were already off to school. It was Friday, after all, and although he wasn’t scheduled to start until Monday, school hadn’t stopped for the rest of the world. But where was Mrs. Crandall? And Simon, the servant?
Devon shrugged and helped himself to breakfast. He ate heartily, not having had much of a dinner last night, just a burrito from Taco Bell while he waited to change buses in Boston. He was wolfing down his food when Mrs. Crandall finally arrived, in a long paisley satin robe.
“Good morning, Devon,” she said. “I trust you slept well.”
He gave her a look. Even without the Voice to tell him, he knew it was best to reveal as little as possible for now. “Yes,” he told her. “I slept fine.”
“Even with the storm?”
Was she testing him? Devon just smiled. “Even with the storm. After all, I was pretty tired.”
“I’m sure you must have been. Well, enjoy your breakfast. When you’re finished, come upstairs to the playroom. I’d like you to meet Alexander.”
Devon looked up over his forkful of eggs. “Alexander? Isn’t he at school?”
A cloud passed over Mrs. Crandall’s lovely face. “I’m afraid that since he’s come to Ravenscliff, Alexander has not been enrolled at the public school. My brother and I are still discussing what the best course of action should be.”
“I assume Mr. Muir is away traveling.”
Mrs. Crandall nodded.
“When does he return?” Devon asked.
“I’m not sure.” She poured herself a cup of coffee. “I’m never sure with my brother.”
“And Alexander never sees his mother?”
“I told you last night. She’s been institutionalized nearly all his life.”
“Poor kid.”
Mrs. Crandall smiled, balancing her cup of coffee and its saucer in her palm. “I do so hope the two of you become friends. Alexander needs a solid male influence in his life. As I said last night, he’s a troubled boy.” She paused. “And willful. Last night, I discovered him in the East Wing.”
Devon’s eyes shot up at her. “But you said that’s locked,” he said.
“A locked door has never kept Alexander Muir from where he wants to go.”
Devon considered something. “Mrs. Crandall, might Alexander have … been outside my door last night?”
“Why do you ask?”
He shook his head. “No reason. I just thought I heard something.”
“Well, if he disturbed you, I apologize.” She sipped her coffee as she headed out of the room. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? I told him you’d come up to the playroom when you finished breakfast. He’s expecting you.”
Devon put away a couple of blueberry muffins on top of his eggs and cereal. Then, not sure what to do with his plates, he just left them there on the table for the seemingly invisible servant and headed upstairs.
He wasn’t quite sure where the playroom was, but continuing on down the corridor past his room, he came upon a large door that was ajar. From inside, Devon could hear music coming, and the light shining out from the room was very bright. Peering inside, he saw books and toys scattered across the floor and on several tables: a cracked Buzz Lightyear doll, some messy piles of comic books, an overturned Scrabble board. He opened the door wider. At the far end of the room stood an old wooden rocking horse; leaning against the wall was an ancient, oversized Raggedy Ann doll.
“Alexander?”
The music was coming from a television set, turned to face an empty beanbag chair. It sounded like some kids’ show, with tinny voices and the repetitive crash of the laugh track.
“Alexander?” Devon said again. “You in here?”
Suddenly he felt something lunge at him, grab him around his shoulders. Damn it, he thought. I was unprepared. It’s back. The thing—
Instinctively he threw the demon, or whatever was on his back, clear across the room. It thudded hard into the far wall and then slid down to the floor.
Devon looked over at it.
It was a small boy.
Alexander.
The kid sat against the wall looking over at Devon with stunned eyes. Devon guessed that Alexander had been up on the table, waiting for him.
He was trying to surprise me. Scare me.
Well, it had worked all right.
“Alexander!” Devon hurried over to the boy. “Are you okay?”
The boy’s eyes flickered up at Devon in terror.
“How did you do that?” the child asked, his voice quivery.
“You just scared me, that’s all.” Devon stooped beside him. “Sure you’re not hurt?”
Alexander stood up, quickly recovering his bravado. “You can’t hurt me,” he spit, walking past Devon.
“Well, if you were hurt, Alexander, I hope you’d believe that I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
The boy turned to face him. His eyes shone malice—a bitterness that for a fleeting second took Devon’s breath away. Everyone had warned him about the little monster, but Devon was still unprepared for the child’s malevolent eyes.
“You didn’t hurt me,” the boy insisted coldly.
He stood defiantly before Devon. Alexander Muir was a towheaded, chubby child with large blue eyes, as round as buttons. To see his eyes without looking into them would be to imagine Alexander Muir as a little doll. But Devon wouldn’t forget the rage he saw there anytime soon.
“So do you regularly dive-bomb everybody who walks into the room?” he asked Alexander.
“Only potential invaders,” the kid replied.
Devon laughed. “I just came up to meet you, to say hey.”
A snaky grin wiggled its way across Alexander’s pudgy face. “Did my aunt tell you that we should be good friends?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, she did.”
The child snickered. “And she did tell you what I did to get kicked out of school?”
Devon folded his arms across his chest. Alexander seemed to be trying to set up a battle. And indeed, there was heat in the room. Devon could feel it now, seeping in from the cracks in the walls.
“You set fire to the curtains in the cafeteria,” he told Alexander. “Isn’t that it?”
The boy laughed again. “I wish I’d burned the place down. I wish all the teachers and all the sniveling brats had burned with it.”
“Wow, kid. You don’t hold back, do you?”
Alexander sulked. He clearly wasn’t getting the kind of fear out of Devon that he hoped for. He stalked across the room and flopped down into the beanbag chair in front of the TV.
Devon approached, peering around at the television screen. “So what are you watching?”
“Major Musick.” Alexander didn’t take his eyes off the TV. “You ever seen it?”
“No, I don’t think I have.”
The screen featured an obscenely tight close-up of a clown. And an ugly clown at that: bulbous red nose, oversized bl
oodshot eyes, and a thick white mane of hair. He was singing in a raspy voice, a voice so obviously phony it had to be a parody.
“Is this Mad TV or something?” Devon asked.
Alexander harrumphed. “Shows how much you know. It’s a real show. It’s wicked cool. That’s Major Musick right there. Musick with a ‘K.’ M-U-S-I-C-K.”
The clown stopped singing. “Today’s letter, boys and girls,” he was saying, exposing what looked like false teeth behind its red clown lips, “is ‘N.’ Ennnnnnnn. Can you say it? Ennnnnnnn. Hear how much it sounds like emmmmmm.”
Devon couldn’t bear it any longer. “This is way too bizarre for me. You actually enjoy this weirdness?”
The boy smiled up at him. “I suppose my aunt has complained to you that I spend too much time in the house watching TV and playing on the Internet.”
“Actually, she hasn’t. But I would think that a boy your age would rather be outside playing baseball and catching frogs and climbing trees. I know I did.”
“I hate baseball,” Alexander snarled. “Frogs are slimy. And I’m too fat to climb trees.”
Devon glared down at him. “Oh, you’re not so fat. I’ll bet you can run pretty fast.”
Alexander eyed him. “I can run faster than you.”
“You can? We’ll have to race sometime.” Devon smirked. “Of course, you might just win. You did run pretty fast last night.”
“Last night?”
“Yes. Outside my door.” Devon folded his arms over his chest. “To get all the way down the hall and then into the East Wing in such a short amount of time …”
Alexander looked stonily at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Devon had concluded one thing: whatever the reality of the demons in this house, one part of last night had been very much of this earth. The little voice telling him to leave, that he wasn’t wanted here, was that of Alexander Muir. Just why Alexander didn’t want him here was still a mystery—and perhaps part of the answers he sought.
“I know you were outside my door last night, Alexander. I heard you, and heard you run down the hall.”
Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 6
