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

by Geoffrey Huntington

  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.

  “Name it, my man.”

  “Will you give me a ride to Rolfe Montaigne’s restaurant?”

  His friend made a face, then nodded for Devon to get into the car. D.J. slid in behind the wheel and cranked Aerosmith on the CD player. Dream on … dream on … dream onnnnnnnn …

  “So what you got goin’ with that jailbird?” he asked Devon.

  “I can’t tell you just yet. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

  “Ask no questions and you tell me no lies, huh?” D.J. said over the music, as they peeled out of the parking lot.

  “Something like that,” Devon said.

  “You are one mysterious dude,” D.J. told him as they glided onto the expressway. “It’s like you’re a superhero or something. Devon’s just your mild-mannered secret identity.”

  Devon grinned. “I’m not feeling very heroic. I’m just looking for some answers, D.J. And I think Rolfe Montaigne may know what went down here fifteen years ago.”

  “Fifteen years ago? Like the time you were born.”

  “Bingo.”

  D.J. took the exit for Misery Point and soon the white clapboard of the village came into view. He pulled the car up in front of Fibber McGee’s. Devon just looked over at the restaurant, not opening the door.

  “For a man looking for answers, you don’t seem to be in much of a hurry,” D.J. observed.

  Devon sighed. “Thanks for the ride, man.”

  “No prob.” D.J. reached over and slapped his back. “March on, Dick Tracy.”

  Devon got out of the car.

  “You want me to wait?” D.J. called.

  “Naw. Thanks anyway. I can walk back up to Ravenscliff from here.”

  He watched as the Camaro burned out down the road. He dropped his hand into his pocket and cupped the medal of the lady and the owl. He wished he was still in the car with D.J., just two ordinary kids hanging out, listening to music, eating pizza. Devon didn’t know why he felt so unnerved by this visit to Rolfe. Maybe because he felt he was going behind Mrs. Crandall’s back. If she’d been mad about his exploration of the tower, she’d go ballistic if she knew about Devon meeting Rolfe, given how much she hated the guy. But she’d forced him to do it: by stonewalling him, by refusing to give him answers, she’d driven him as surely as if she’d dropped him off here herself.

  Devon walked up the sidewalk to Fibber McGee’s. It’d be a few hours before the restaurant opened for dinner, but already Rolfe’s Porsche was parked out front. Through the large glass windows Devon could see the waiters, dressed in white shirts and black bow ties, setting out vases of chrysanthemums on the tables. Others were folding napkins and arranging silverware. Devon took a deep breath and pushed open the door. He was struck by the thick, wheaty aroma of bread baking in the kitchen. He realized he was hungry.

  He didn’t have to ask for Rolfe. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for Devon. The man appeared in an archway leading into a backroom, and he was smiling, arms crossed.

  “Well, if it isn’t the young ward of Ravenscliff,” he said.

  “Can I talk with you?” Devon asked.

  “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

  Rolfe looked over at one of the waiters, probably the maître d’. “I’ll be back in a few,” he said, striding quickly towards Devon, snatching a long black leather coat from the rack.

  He slipped the coat on and opened the door outside. “Come along,” he said to Devon, nodding for him to follow.

  Devon was confused. “Where are we going?”

  “For a little ride.”

  Devon had no choice but to follow him. Rolfe was already in his car, revving the motor. Devon opened the passenger-side door and slid in. He was hit by the memory of the first time he’d been in this car: his first night in Misery Point, not even a month ago but already seeming an eternity.

  Rolfe backed out of the lot and headed onto the coast road. “We can talk better at my house,” he said. “Not so many ears.”

  Devon said nothing. He just looked out the window. The day had become very gray; a slight mist speckled the windshield. He looked anxiously over the rocks of the sea. Suddenly he felt as if he’d blundered into a trap, turning to this man for help—this murderer? What if, out of some blind hatred toward the Muir family, Rolfe saw Devon as his means for revenge?

  The car accelerated, picking up speed as it rounded the sharp, twisting curves of the road. Devon pushed his head back into the leather seat, feeling his blood begin to race.

  “Whatsa matter?” Rolfe grinned over at him. “Don’t you like fast cars?”

  “I like them just fine,” Devon told him. “It’s the drivers I worry about.”

  Rolfe laughed. “What? Afraid we’ll have an accident? Maybe go off the side?”

  Just then two headlights like eyes burning holes in the mist suddenly appeared in front of them. Devon gasped. The oncoming car headed straight for them, as if to force them off the cliff. Rolfe lay on the horn but to no avail: the car kept coming, and in an instant Devon knew—saw in his mind—the sharp fangs of the o
pposing driver, its talons gripped around the wheel.

  The Nightwing

  Rolfe expertly swerved around the oncoming car, which passed them at breakneck speed, and Devon could hear manic laughter in its wake.

  “Goddamn idiots,” Rolfe muttered, looking suspiciously in his rearview mirror at the car. “Drunken kids, probably.”

  But Devon knew the thing driving that car was no kid.

  “Well, here we are,” Rolfe told him. “Home sweet home.”

  He swung the car onto a small dirt road that led to the edge of the cliff. On the point stood a small cottage with the glow of a fire reflecting in its windows. The fragrance of pine wafted down from the smoke from the chimney. They stepped out of the car and Rolfe opened the door to the cottage, inviting Devon inside.

  A woman was there, dressed in a gold satin blouse and black jeans, reading through some papers at a table. She was striking, like a supermodel: black skin, long legs, intense golden eyes. “Rolfe,” she said, then looked over at Devon. “Hello, young man.”

  She didn’t seem to be surprised to see him. “Roxanne, this is Devon March,” Rolfe told her, adding pointedly, “from Ravenscliff.”

  “Hello, Devon March,” the woman said, offering her hand.

  Devon shook it. “Hello.”

  “We’ll be down in the study,” Rolfe said, and she nodded.

  Devon followed Rolfe down a small spiral staircase that led to a room seemingly built into the side of the cliff, with one wall nearly all glass, facing out onto the sea. The other three walls were covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. There were books everywhere, in fact, and interspersed among them Devon spied crystal balls, a couple of skulls, and at least one shrunken head. Just like the parlor of Ravenscliff.

  “Awesome room,” Devon said.

  “You like it? I spend most of my time here.” Rolfe gestured around. “And who wouldn’t, with that view?” He sighed. “But mostly it’s because of my father’s books. They’re very comforting to have around me.”