Now the boy was smiling again. “Hasn’t anyone told you about the ghosts in this house?”
“Oh, yes,” Devon admitted. “I may have even met a few.” He loomed over Alexander. “But that was no ghost outside my door last night.”
“Are you accusing me of something?” The young boy crossed his arms against his chest, seeming to intentionally model Devon. “Because if you are making an accusation, I’d suggest you take it up with aunt. She’s my guardian now, at least until my father comes back and rescues me from all of you.”
Something in his words suddenly connected with Devon. Alexander Muir had been born into a world where he could expect everything and want for nothing; he did not have to struggle the way Devon and his father had. But Devon had grown up with some things that Alexander had not: affection, support, and understanding. Alexander’s father was always traveling, his mother was institutionalized, and his aunt was cold and aloof. Had anyone ever offered the child anything resembling love?
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Alexander,” Devon said, trying a gentler approach. “Just explaining that I can’t be tricked and I can’t be scared away.”
The boy giggled, turning his attention back to the TV.
“In fact,” Devon said, stooping down beside the boy, “I want us to be friends.”
“Friends?” Alexander Muir looked up at him intently. There was a twinkle of something there that broke through the icy veil. Devon hoped it might be a flash of vulnerability, but it could just as easily have been another plot hatching in the kid’s mind. “You want to be friends?”
“Yes, why not? Is that such a radical idea?”
Alexander’s eyes hardened. “I don’t need any friends.”
Devon straightened up. “Okay. But if you change your mind, I’m here. I’m not going to leave Ravenscliff. Looks like your aunt is my guardian too.” He started to walk out of the room, then stopped and turned back. “I came here not just because I had to, but because I’m looking for some answers. I’d like your help in finding them. We can either be friends or foes. That’s up to you, Alexander.”
The boy pretended he didn’t hear. He kept his eyes on the TV. The voice of that repulsive clown filled the room.
The meeting with Alexander Muir had turned out to be far more than Devon had expected. The Voice was clear in telling him that the boy was key: he held answers, important answers. Devon could see it in the child’s eyes. It was right there, so plain and obvious, yet still so indecipherable.
Why did he jump at me? A childish prank—or something else?
Devon suspected the latter, given Alexander’s behavior the night before. Alexander knew something—or someone. And that something or someone didn’t want Devon in this house. Whatever the truth was, Devon believed, little Alexander would prove essential in finding it out.
He didn’t see Mrs. Crandall or anyone else for the rest of the morning, even into the afternoon. On his own, Devon wandered the great empty house, looking, seeing, ever on the alert. He wouldn’t be taken unprepared again. Every house has its secrets, Mrs. Crandall had said, but this one held his secrets. Had his father ever been here? Mrs. Crandall had said she’d known Dad a long time ago, but she’d seemed loath to say any more. What connection did Dad have with this house, with the Muirs?
In searching the house, Devon decided to start from the bottom up, so he headed down to the basement. A cobwebbed staircase led into a dimly lit room containing little more than empty boxes, locked trunks and hundreds of moldy books. Passing one pile of books, Devon felt the hair on his arm suddenly stand up, pointing toward the old tomes as if by static electricity. He stopped, lifting the first book off the pile. On its cover was printed one word: necromancy. Devon wasn’t sure what the word meant—he had the vague notion it might be something pervy—but then he noticed it was a children’s picture book. He flipped open to the first page. “Once upon a time,” Devon read, “many years ago, in the land of the forgotten days, lived a sorcerer named Sargon.” It was clear this Sargon was a magician of some kind, as he levitated himself and caused flowers and rabbits to appear.
A magician—or a warlock, Devon thought, remembering Andrea’s word to describe the former master of Ravenscliff.
Why had the hair on his arm stood up when he passed these books? They were all kids’ books. Weird people with names like Sargon and Brunhilde and Ambrosius, all performing magic tricks. What could a bunch of kid’s books tell him? Why had did he feel a tingling flipping through their pages?
The Voice was silent. Devon sighed. It could be so annoying like that.
Returning upstairs, Devon discovered that lunch had been mysteriously served in the dining room. Now there were macaroni and cheese, cooked apples, and baked beans bubbling in the aluminum containers. Once again, he ate alone.
After lunch, he explored the upstairs, passing the playroom, where he could still hear the drone of the television set. He spied Alexander sitting in there, folded into his beanbag chair, the only thing, Devon imagined, the kid would let embrace him. Had Simon brought Alexander’s lunch to him? He must have, though it was very peculiar that Devon had yet to lay eyes upon the servant.
He continued on down the corridor, finding that it turned at the far end off into a new wing of the house. If the closed-off wing was north, then this must have been south. Here the windows were shuttered; deep shadows obscured the daylight. Every door was closed and locked except the last, which stood ajar.
Devon peered within. It was a sitting room, with old furniture that looked as if it came from another century: a curved sofa, a couple of wingback chairs, a faded gilded Victrola. Stepping inside the room, Devon was confronted immediately by a smell of mustiness and dankness, far more so than even the basement. On the other side of the room another door opened onto a larger space. Devon caught a glimpse of a sparkling chandelier inside. He began to walk toward this second room when the dust of the room made him sneeze.
“Eh? Who is that?”
It was an old voice, ragged and dry, from the room beyond.
“Is that you, Amanda?”
Devon stopped in his tracks. It was the old woman. Mrs. Crandall’s mother—whom he’d been forbidden to meet.
“Who is there?” the old woman shrilled, becoming agitated. “Who is there?”
Suddenly a sense of danger overcame Devon. The heat in the room ratcheted up. His heart began to beat wildly in his chest.
And then a head touched his shoulder.
“You’re a bad boy, Devon March,” a voice whispered behind him.
With the voice, the heat retreated, and Devon’s sense of danger evaporated.
He turned around. It was Cecily, home from school. She was grinning.
“Mother said you weren’t to meet Grandmama yet,” Cecily said, smirking. “You are bad, bad boy.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it was her room.”
“Who is there?” the old voice was demanding.
“It’s just me, Grandmama, Cecily,” the girl called, winking at Devon. She strode into her grandmother’s room. Devon hurried back into the hallway to wait for her.
Why had alarm bells gone off for him when he approached the old lady? Why did the heat surge up suddenly, then go back down again?
They’ve all got answers, Devon thought to himself. Everyone single person in this freaking house. Mrs. Crandall, the kid, the old lady …
And …
Cecily emerged from her grandmother’s room. “She’s easily rattled,” she told Devon, as they made their way back down the corridor.
“I’m really sorry,” he told her. “I didn’t mean to disturb her. I was just exploring the house and …”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” she said. “Just as long as Mother didn’t find you.”
“Is she okay? I didn’t upset her?”
Cecily laughed: a light, tinkling sound, like wind chimes. “Grandmama is the craziest of us all. Rose petals falling from the bushes
outside can set her off.”
“Well, it’s weird being in the same house as she is and her not even knowing I’m here.”
Cecily shrugged. “Who can understand Mother’s reasons for doing anything? She’s just very protective of Grandmama. If she knew you were in there—well, she’d have the requisite coronary, like she almost did last night when I came home with D.J.”
They’d reached the top of the stairs and began the climb down. “Your mother doesn’t like him?” Devon asked.
“She doesn’t like any of my friends.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I won’t hang out with the spawn of her snotty social set.” Cecily paused on their way down the stairs. “Not that Mother has a social set, mind you, as she’s pretty much a shut-in, looking after Grandmama. But she thinks I should be friends with her lawyer’s snot-nose kids or the brats who go to the private school two towns up the point. That’s where she wanted me to go, of course. No way, I told her. I’m going to the public high school.” Cecily resumed walking, letting out a laugh. “She nearly had a meltdown when I insisted on that, but she’s never been able to deny me anything ever since I was a tiny tot.” She batted her eyes over at Devon. “So you see, I usually get my way.”
He gave her a smirk. “Like choosing and discarding boyfriends along with your summer and fall outfits?”
“Mmhm.”
It was Devon’s turn to laugh. “So I imagine D.J. must be utterly devastated that you broke up with him.”
“Who knows? I’ve never known D.J. to show any feelings one way or another. That’s part of the reason I broke up with him. But we’re still friends. We’ve been friends since kindergarten and I guess we always will be. I don’t think we’re meant for romance, but maybe D.J. feels otherwise.” Her eyes twinkled over at him. “You should ask him.”
“Well, I hope he and I will be friends.”
“Of course you will be. If you’re my boyfriend, he and Nate and Marcus will all be your friends.”
Devon made no reply to the first part of her comment, but asked, “Who are Nate and Marcus?”
“Nate is the only girl I like at school, the only one I can tolerate among all the silly tools at that school. Her real name is Natalie Santos, and her father’s a fisherman. They have like no money at all, and I love it. And Marcus is my gay friend, who, if you persist in resisting my advances, I will fix you up with.”
“Oh, gee, thanks, Cecily, you’re very considerate.”
“It’s the only reason I’d accept for you not wanting to date me.” She fixed him with her pretty green eyes. “Unless … there’s some other girl back in whatever backwoods watering hole you came from?”
Devon thought about Suze. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know where she and I stand.”
“Is she pretty?”
They had reached the bottom of the stairs and were standing now on the marble floor of the foyer. Cecily wasn’t moving until Devon gave her an answer.
“Yeah, she’s pretty.”
“Prettier than me?”
“You’re, um, well, you’re very different from each other.”
Cecily tossed her shiny red hair and headed down the corridor toward the kitchen. “Don’t even think for a minute that your diplomacy works on me, Mr. March.”
Devon hurried to catch up with her. “I’m not being diplomatic. It’s true. You’re very different. She’s a brunette, you’re a redhead—”
“Look, buddy boy, I was all psyched when my mother told me some boy my age was coming to live here. God knows I’ve been in need of a shot of adrenaline into my boring life. I’ve just itemized the only three friends I have in school. I’m counting on you to shake things up a bit.”
Devon laughed. “Boring life? You’ve got a tennis court, a swimming pool, the beach down the hill—not to mention all these rooms …”
“Everything’s dead up here,” Cecily said matter-of-factly. “You’ll soon discover that. And nobody down in the village is worth getting to know either. People don’t like my family much.”
“Why is that?”
They had entered the gleaming kitchen, where Cecily yanked open the refrigerator and snatched a carton of yogurt. “Oh, between my mother and my Uncle Edward, our family owns practically every business in town, from the restaurants to the tourist boats to the fishing fleet. We provide more than half the jobs in this town, and people always hate the hand that feeds them.” She spooned some of the yogurt into her mouth. “When kids are nice to me, I always figure they’re just trying to suck up to my family or get an invitation to see the inside of Ravenscliff. Believe me, I’ve got a bullshit radar like you’ve never witnessed before.”
“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?”
Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 7