“I see the two of you already know each other,” Cecily observed.
“Old friends.” Andrea reached down to give Devon a kiss. He blushed. “How ya doin’, kid? Surviving those ghosts?”
Devon smiled over at Cecily. “What ghosts?” he said, and they both laughed.
“What’ll it be, folks?” Andrea asked. “You get a Diet Coke, young lady. Don’t get me in trouble again.”
Cecily turned to Devon. “The manager came by and checked my ID a few weeks ago and bawled poor Andrea out for giving me a glass of wine. Can you imagine?”
“Just because you’re a Muir doesn’t mean you can get away with everything,” Andrea quipped.
“Diet Coke and an order of fried clams,” Cecily said. “No bellies. Oh, and some mussels. In that red wine sauce. Or do I need to be twenty-one for that, too?”
Andrea just smirked.
“I’ll have a ginger ale,” Devon said.
“Comin’ up!” Andrea chirped, moving off among the crowd.
Devon watched the people around them. Mostly older, stocky men with heavy brows and two days’ whiskers on their faces. “Fishermen,” Cecily said, watching his eyes. “Most of whom work for my family.”
During the season, she told Devon, tourists hung out here, too, as well as the hordes of waiters and houseboys who flocked in every May looking for jobs. But now, as fall chilled into winter, it was mostly just the hardy natives and a scattering of teenagers.
Andrea brought their order. Cecily popped the first clam into her mouth. She eyed Devon for a second, then asked him a question very slowly, something that had apparently been on her mind:
“Devon,” she began, “with all this talk about your past … your real parents … and the connection to Jackson Muir. Well, do you ever think we … you and I … might be related?”
“Actually,” he admitted, “yeah.”
He dipped a clam into the marinara sauce and chewed it, looking over at her.
“But I can’t figure out how,” he said. “I mean, it would make sense in a way, explaining why my father sent me here. But the possibilities seem too far out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I wondered if maybe your uncle Edward and his crazy wife were my real parents, which would make Alexander and me brothers. But why send me away and not him?”
“Yeah,” Cecily agreed. “And besides I don’t think they even knew each other when you were born.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So maybe I was some kid your uncle had with a girlfriend.” He paused, looking intently at her. “Then there’s your father to consider.”
“My father?”
Devon nodded. “Maybe that’s why I was sent away. Maybe that’s why he left, because he got some girl pregnant and your mother wouldn’t stand for it.”
“That one is just too weird,” she said. “That would mean you and I were—” She couldn’t say it.
“Brother and sister,” Devon said for her.
“But that’s insane. If that were the case, why would Mother have taken you in?”
Devon shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Oh, Devon,” Cecily said, her eyes suddenly growing wide, “if you’re my brother, then I can’t deal with this!”
He nodded. He understood. He liked Cecily—a lot. If she turned out to be his sister, well, he didn’t even want to think about it.
“But I suppose we need to consider the possibility,” he told her. “What else do you know about your father?”
She took a sip of her Diet Coke. “Nothing really.” Her eyes moved off, as if looking at something Devon can’t see. “Sometimes I think about him … wonder if he’d stayed around … if maybe I might have had a more normal life.”
“Meaning?”
“Maybe Mother would have been less uptight. Maybe that house wouldn’t have seemed like such a crypt. But he left her, and she’s been brooding about it ever since.”
She pushed the platter of clams over at Devon. “Eat some,” she instructed, as she dug into the pot of mussels. He obeyed.
“Of course,” Cecily continued, “I don’t think she ever loved him. Not really.” Cecily smiled. “She only married him to get back at the guy she really loved.” She waited a beat. “Rolfe Montaigne.”
Devon’s eyes popped. “Rolfe Montaigne?”
Cecily laughed. “Well, I suppose if you’re looking for secrets, you should also hear the ones that have nothing to do with ghosts.” She finished her soda. “Hey, Andrea, may I have another?” Andrea gave her a thumbs-up.
“Tell me.”
“Okay. The whole sordid story goes like this. Back when Rolfe was a teenager living at Ravenscliff, he and my mother were real close—if you know what I mean. His father was the caretaker and also the great good friend of my grandfather. So Grandfather agreed to raise Rolfe as one of the family. Rolfe got the same great education my mother and uncle did and enjoyed nearly all the same privileges.”
“So when did the bad blood start?”
“Well, my mother’s told me that my Uncle Edward—her brother—was always envious of Rolfe because Rolfe was bigger, faster, stronger, smarter, better looking. My grandfather even seemed to prefer Rolfe over poor Uncle Edward. ”
Andrea settled the Coke in front of Cecily. But the teenager was too engrossed in telling her story to notice. “Grandfather had always hoped Rolfe and my mother would get married, and in fact, they planned to. They were hot and heavy for a time, I take it.”
The thought seemed incongruous to Devon. Mrs. Crandall—elegant, poised, cold Mrs. Crandall—in the arms of Rolfe Montaigne.
“But Mother was just devastated to find Rolfe with another woman. I don’t know who it was, but Mother was furious. She just never suspected.”
“So she’s still bitter at Rolfe.”
Cecily took a sip. “That’s only half of it. But maybe I shouldn’t—”
“You’ve gone this far.”
She giggled. “Oh, all right. But don’t breathe a word of it. You know how Rolfe went to jail?”
Devon swallowed. “Yeah?”
“Of course, this was all before I was born, but the stories have become Misery Point legend. It was right after Mother found out about his affair that Rolfe drove his car off the cliff. There were two kids inside. I think the girl was the one Rolfe was dallying with, but I don’t know for sure. Anyway, they’d been drinking, and you know how rain-slicked these roads get and how the wind gets so fierce.” She gave him a little smirk. “You can do the math, I’m sure.”
“They went off the road.”
“Go to the head of the class.” She shuddered. “Oh, it was all like really tragic. But here’s the kicker. Mother told the police that when Rolfe left Ravenscliff that night with the two others, she knew he’d been drinking. She said she had tried to discourage him from driving but that he’d brushed her off. She swore under oath that she had seen Rolfe behind the wheel of the car just shortly before it went off the cliff. Her testimony was enough to put Rolfe away for five years for manslaughter.”
“So she had her revenge.”
Cecily finished the last of the clams. “I’ll say. Especially since nobody in town believes Rolfe really was driving that night.”
“Wait—so your mother lied under oath to get back at Rolfe for cheating on her?”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe Mother honestly believed Rolfe was driving. Maybe he was driving when they left Ravenscliff, but one of the other two took the wheel at some point after that. That’s what Rolfe believes, anyway. But he was too drunk to remember much. They found him asleep the next morning at the foot of the cliffs.”
“Wow.” Devon took a long sip of his ginger ale.
“Hey, if isn’t the Mighty Morphin Power Ranger,” came a voice. It was D.J.—with Natalie behind him. “Anybody giving you trouble in this joint tonight, my man?”
Devon smiled. “Not so far.”
“Hey, handsome,” Natalie said, pulling up a chair next to him.
Cecily scowled. “Did it ever occur to you that we may have been in the middle of an important and private discussion?”
Natalie smiled cattily at her. “You can’t hog your new brother all the time, Cess.”
“He’s not my brother,” she snarled.
D.J. sat close to her. “Well, if he’s not, I’m gonna start gettin’ jealous.”
“Have you been drinking?” Cecily asked him. “Your breath reeks.”
“Not when I drive, Cess. You know that.”
“Then you’ve been eating too many Cheetos. Back off a little.”
D.J. made a face and slumped back in his chair.
Andrea came by to take their orders.
“An iced latte, please,” Natalie said, noting the plate of fried clam crumbs in front of Cecily. “With nonfat milk. I’m watching my weight.”
Cecily made a face at her. D.J. ordered a Coke.
Natalie batted her eyelashes over at Devon. “You wanna go to a movie later? Just me and you?”
He shrugged. “Well, Cecily and I were kinda hanging out.”
“Yeah, Miss Rah-Rah.” Cecily’s eyes widened. “Hey, Devon. Look who’s just come in.”
They all turned. Devon could see him, literally head and shoulders above most of the crowd, his intense green eyes looking around.
Rolfe Montaigne.
“Isn’t he dreamy?” Natalie gushed. “He is like so … so … movie idolish.”
Rolfe spotted them. He smiled, making his way through the crowd.
“He’s coming over!” Natalie gasped.
D.J. snorted. “Ah, what’s so great about him? He’s a murderer.”
“Stop that,” Natalie scolded.
Rolfe Montaigne arrived and stood at the side of the table. “Good evening, kids. Cecily.”
“Hello, Rolfe,” Cecily said. “How are you this evening?”
“I’m fine and dandy.” He looked down at Devon. “Hope you’re not filling the new boy’s head with all those terrible stories of the days when I was the town drunk.”
“Rolfe hasn’t had a drink since he’s come back,” Cecily informed the group.
He winked at them. “A model citizen I’ve become.”
“That you have,” Natalie cooed, sliding her chair away from Devon and gazing up at the older man. “I’m Natalie Santos.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Santos.”
Rolfe pulled a chair over to their table and sat down. Andrea arrived and he ordered them all refills plus another plate of clams. “Put it on my tab,” he told her.
“Mother would say you’re trying to buy my favor,” Cecily said. “Like you’ve bought the whole town.”
Rolfe laughed, a big, hearty sound. “Your mother does have a way with words. I haven’t bought the whole town.” He paused, then winked over at Natalie. “Yet.”
Natalie giggled. “How’d you get so rich?”
“Bet it wasn’t legal, whatever it was,” D.J. said.
Rolfe looked mock stricken. “Young man. Me? Do anything contrary to the law?”
“D.J., you are so crude,” Natalie snarled.
“Actually,” Rolfe told them, as Andrea settled their glasses and the fried clams on the table, “my wealth is all completely aboveboard. My books are open to anyone. After all, doesn’t everyone know how I made a killing—” he paused deliberately “—on the stock market?”
Cecily laughed.
“It’s true,” Rolfe said innocently, looking over at Devon. “I took a few risks that paid off. Do you take risks, Mr. March?”
“Only calculated ones,” Devon replied.
“Ah,” Rolfe scoffed. “Playing it safe never made anyone rich. When I got out of prison, do you know what I did?”
“Tell us,” Natalie said.
“I got a job on an oil rig in Saudi Arabia. That’s where my fortune began. From there it was an easy hop to Egypt, where I had the good fortune to hitch my wagon to an archaeological dig. And guess what we found?”
“A mummy’s tomb!” Natalie exclaimed.
Rolfe was grinning. “You are one clever girl. That’s absolutely right. King Rootintutin. Ever hear of him?”
“I think we studied about him in Western Civ,” Natalie said.
Cecily laughed out loud. “Nate, you are a three-way lightbulb set permanently on dim.”
Rolfe smirked. “Lots of gold. Lots of it.”
Cecily shook her head. “Aren’t you going to regale us with tales of the mummy’s curse?”
Rolfe stood up. “Another time. Don’t want to use up all my stories in one sitting.”
Natalie stared up at the older man in awe. “Can you imagine? A mummy’s tomb!”
But Rolfe wasn’t paying her any more attention. He was looking at Devon again. “So,” he asked, a trifle more serious. “Any more ghosts?”
Devon avoided his eyes. “Maybe a few,” he said.
“Keep me informed.” Rolfe’s voice was steady now, firm. Devon could tell he meant what he said. “You know where to find me.”
He gave the table a little salute and moved off.
He knows, the Voice told Devon again.
He knows things I need to find out.
“He seems awfully interested in you,” Cecily said. “I wonder why.”
Devon didn’t know either. But he aimed to find out. And soon.
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 i
t 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?”
Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 16
