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

by Geoffrey Huntington

  Who was that man? What did his words mean? They made no sense to Devon. The Nightwing—what did he mean?

  But Hell Holes Devon understood. That was what Dad had called the closet in Devon’s bedroom.

  He wanted to touch the book again, to see what else might happen, what else he might learn, but something stopped him. Part of it was fear—he couldn’t deny that the experience had freaked him out a little, especially because he had no control over it—but part of it was also because he was distracted by a third book. For the first time since he’d been trapped in the secret room, the Voice was speaking to him.

  Open that one, Devon, it was saying. The book was called Registry of the Guardians of the Portal.

  Devon slid it out, a fog of dust choking him momentarily, and flipped open its musty pages. The title pages indicated it is a compilation of Guardians—whoever they were—published in the year 1883. On its brittle pages were portraits of nineteenth-century men and women. The men were dark-eyed and somber with heavy whiskers and high collars; the women were solemn with their mouths drawn inward. Devon flipped through the pages until one face stopped him and made him gasp out loud.

  It was his father.

  But it couldn’t be: Dad wasn’t alive in the nineteenth century. The name under the portrait read:

  THEODORE UNDERWOOD.

  GUARDIAN.

  But it sure looked like Dad: round, pudgy face, poached egg eyes, that goofy grin Devon had loved so much.

  All of a sudden he felt the heat again, on his back, like eyes watching him. Devon spun around: the little red bat eyes had returned. They blinked a few times, then disappeared.

  Devon closed the book and returned it to its place.

  Look around, Devon.

  He followed the Voice. The secret of his past was close by. He was suddenly certain of it. He held the candle in front of him, squinting into the darkness.

  At the far end of the room, he spied another door—metal, half-sized, rising from the floor to about Devon’s chest. He hoped against hope that it wasn’t locked. But where might it lead? Approaching, he discovered that the door was indeed locked: bolted, in fact, with a heavy iron sliding bar across its width. Try as he might, Devon couldn’t budge the door; the bolt seemed almost welded in place, as solid as the heavy door it kept closed.

  And suddenly he knew why.

  “It’s a Hell Hole,” Devon said out loud.

  They’re in there, the Voice confirmed for him. That’s why the door is locked.

  Devon reached down, placing his hand against the door. Immediately he felt the throbbing, scorching heat within and withdrew his hand. He could hear the demons now, scuttling and squirming, agitated behind the door:

  Let us out! Let us out! Open the door and let us out!

  He stared down at the door and watched as it began to pulse, as if the forces imprisoned behind it were suddenly pushing against the door, begging for release.

  Let us out! Let us out!

  Their voices formed a hideous chorus in his mind. Devon covered his ears.

  “Never,” he whispered to them.

  It’s like my closet, he realized now. The closet in my bedroom back home, where the green eyes stared out at me from the darkness, where the thing that had nearly killed Dad had slithered out across my floor …

  He stared at the bolted metal door. The portal shuddered. Devon felt the heat emanating in waves from it.

  Who barred that door? What connection did it have to the creatures that had haunted him as a boy? To the thing that had assaulted him on his first night in this house?

  To Alexander? To Jackson Muir?

  Suddenly Devon felt compelled to once again approach the portrait of the boy who looked so much like himself. He took a few steps and the candlelight revealed the face. Yes, it’s me, Devon thought—or else, it’s someone who looks exactly like me—

  Devon smelled the thing before he saw it. A horrible, rotting, putrefying smell. The stink of death.

  Something was in the room with him.

  Devon held the quivering flame out in front of him. There was a shape in the darkness, and it was moving toward him.

  “You are no match against me,” the thing in the darkness said, a terrible, velvety whisper.

  And then it stepped into the dim light of the candle.

  It was the man from the cemetery.

  Jackson Muir.

  The warlock smiled, exposing the maggots in his teeth.

  Devon screamed.

  The candle fell to the floor and was snuffed out.

  The Boy With Talons for Hands

  Devon shouted again in the darkness, trying with all his might to fight off the dead man, but he was immobilized. His powers were gone. His father was wrong: he wasn’t stronger than any of them, at least not Jackson Muir. At any moment in the pitch darkness he expected to feel the ghost’s clammy hands on his throat, tightening their grip until he could no longer breathe. But all he felt was his own thudding heart, and all he heard were his own screams.

  He collapsed onto the floor and mercifully passed out.

  When he awoke, Devon forgot momentarily where he was, and couldn’t comprehend the darkness. Then it all came rushing back at him: Alexander’s treachery, the bolted door, his inability to fight the maggot-ridden Jackson Muir, the horrible rasp in his ear: “You are no match against me.”

  He sat up in the darkness and listened. He convinced himself he was alone.

  How long had he been locked in here? His stomach rumbled with hunger. Surely it was now past dinnertime. It might have been well into the night as far as Devon could tell. Mrs. Crandall must have inquired about his whereabouts by now. What had Alexander told her?

  “Alexander!” he called.

  He had to call for help. Yet he still tried not to sound frantic, to mask the terror he felt burning in his gut. He was reluctant to feel his way through the dark to find the candle he’d dropped. He was afraid that just inches away stood the moldy, rotting corpse of Jackson Muir, still smiling unseen in the darkness.

  “Help!” he shouted. “Alexander! Let me out of here!”

  Seconds ticked into minutes in his mind. Minutes became hours, but time in a vacuum is meaningless. Now the air felt stiflingly thin. Dust seemed lodged in his throat and his nostrils. His voice grew hoarse and sore from shouting. Finally, Devon just crouched against the wall, as far away as possible from the padlocked metal door, and let sleep overtake him.

  He awoke with a start some time later. Was it morning? In such total darkness one would never know. Was this how he’d die, then? Was this the destiny he had come to find? To die in this house of secrets, to discover not his past but his fate: doomed to spend eternity as one more ghost haunting the halls of Ravenscliff?

  Above him, the red eyes of the bats came alive pair by pair, like horrible Christmas lights strung through the night. Something moved past him: a short rush of air. Devon swallowed staring into the dark. He heard the soft laugh of a child.

  “Alexander?” he said weakly.

  His hands fumbled across the grimy floor, searching for the candle. After much effort, his fingers closed around the stubby wax. He reached out blindly for the rolltop desk, finally feeling the book of matches. He struck one, lighting the candle.

  “Alexander!” he hollered.

  He heard a noise from the outer room.

  “Who is it?” someone called. “What is going on in there?”

  It was a gruff, raspy voice, followed by the low grating sound of a door being shoved open. The beam of a flashlight, slicing through the darkness, caught Devon in the eye, and he winced. In the back glow of the flashlight he saw a man approaching. A short, squat man.

  Simon.

  “What are you doing here?” the caretaker asked, his ugly features even more hideously distorted by the darkness.

  “Alexander tricked me,” Devon told him. “He locked me in.”

  “The boy’s an imp,” Simon muttered.

  “Did yo
u hear me call? Is that how you happened to come by? You heard my shouts?”

  “No,” the man said plainly. “If you were shouting, nobody woulda ever heard you in here. I just happened to see Mr. Alexander come out of the secret door in the closet yesterday afternoon. I scolded him, but he paid me no mind. Thought I’d seal off that panel. Good thing I decided to investigate first, eh?”

  “Yes.” Devon just wanted to get out of this place. He looked once more toward the padlocked metal door. “Please. Let’s go.”

  Simon nodded. Silently they walked out of the darkened room, through the deserted wing of the house and down the narrow passage back to the linen closet. Simon led the way with his flashlight. When they emerged into the warmth and light of the main part of the house, Devon blinked, his eyes not yet accustomed.

  “Is it morning?” he asked Simon.

  “Sure is. Monday. I’ll be driving Miss Cecily to school in a half hour. You going with her?”

  School. He had forgotten. It was his first day at a new school. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I was supposed to.” He looked over at the stunted caretaker. “Hey, so where did everybody think I was?”

  Simon shrugged. “No one noticed you were gone.”

  “What?” Devon was astounded.

  “Mrs. Crandall spent the evening with her mother, then went to bed early. Miss Cecily was out with that hooligan from the village. Mr. Alexander told me you’d gone to bed.”

  “So I really might have rotted up there,” Devon said, more to himself than Simon. “Look, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this episode to Mrs. Crandall. I don’t want Alexander getting into trouble over it. I’d like to handle it my own way with him.”

  Simon shrugged. “Don’t make no mind to me. But I’m telling you. Stay out of that place. The East Wing was closed for a reason.”

  “Tell me something, Simon. Do you believe Jackson Muir’s ghost haunts this house?”

  “Why not? The house is rightfully his.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Simon looked at him. He seemed defiant in a way, as if he felt the need to come to Jackson’s defense. “He was the elder son. His line should’ve been the masters of Ravenscliff. But he had no heir. So it was his brother’s family that got the estate.”

  Devon thought Simon’s face betrayed some bitterness over the fact. “Jackson had no heir,” he asked, “because his wife jumped off Devil’s Rock?”

  “Why are you asking all these questions?” Simon snapped, suddenly on guard.

  Devon faced the caretaker. “I’ve seen both of them. Jackson in there last night and in the cemetery a few days ago. And Emily downstairs in her portrait.”

  Simon’s beady eyes narrowed further. “You’d best be careful, boy.”

  Devon looked back at the little man intently. “I’ve heard her, too. Emily—I’ve heard her sobbing.”

  Simon’s face changed, becoming suspicious. “Where? Where did you hear this sobbing?”

  “Coming from the East Wing. The tower.”

  Simon scoffed. “It was the wind. That was no sobbing.”

  “What about the light in the tower room? I suppose there’s nothing there, either.”

  Simon gave him a small, tight smile. “Mrs. Crandall had me check. There was an old light fixture that had a short. It would come on and off. No ghosts involved there.”

  That had been Mrs. Crandall’s explanation earlier. Devon shook his head. “I don’t understand, Simon. At first it seems you believe there are ghosts here, then you try to offer logical explanations. What’s the truth?”

  “Just listen to me. I don’t know what you’ve seen or think you’ve heard. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there are ghosts all through this house. All the more reason for you to just keep your nose to your books and let it all be. The whole reason I told you about Jackson Muir is for your own good, so you won’t go prowling around this house. There are secrets here, dangerous ones that you shouldn’t go messing with. The family respects the secrets of the house, just lets them lie. That’s the way. Otherwise—”

  His voice trailed off. There’s genuine fear in his eyes.

  “I can take care of myself,” Devon told him. “Thank you, Simon. Tell Cecily I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Devon quickly jumped in the shower. His hair was still damp as he bounded down the stairs to find Cecily at the breakfast table.

  “Whoa, Rocky the Flying the Squirrel,” she said as Devon hurriedly poured himself a cup of coffee and grabbed a corn muffin. “You oversleep?”

  “Something like that,” he told her.

  “Well, let’s get going. Simon’s waiting.” She flung her hair back, giving him a smirk. “I’ve told everyone about you. Where were you last night? Everyone wanted to meet you.”

  “Um, I was kind of indisposed.”

  “Well, that just means the whole school will get to check you out at the same time.”

  “Oh, great,” Devon said, rolling his eyes.

  Simon didn’t speak as he drove them down the hill and through the village, out along Route 1 and into the neighboring town, past a couple of strip malls and a scattering of fast food and pizza joints. Cecily was gabbing about her friends, trying to give Devon background on each one before he met them, but he wasn’t listening.

  I’m getting close, he was thinking. That locked door in the East Wing … the portrait that looks like me … the picture in the book that looks like Dad. This is my past. Somehow I’m connected to those things—but how?

  “Here we are,” Cecily announced.

  Devon looked up. Northeast High School. Kids were standing around the grassy yard, some smoking cigarettes, most in little clusters, talking animatedly.

  School. I’ve got to focus. I don’t want everybody thinking I’m a jerk.

  They said goodbye to Simon, who grunted and drove off. Cecily took Devon’s hand and led him toward a group of kids hanging by a bike rack. A girl and two guys. Devon recognized one of the guys as D.J.

  “Cess,” the kids said, acknowledging her. Their eyes were on Devon, though. D.J. seemed the most uninterested, having met him already, but the other guy and the girl watched him closely.

  “Guys, this is Devon,” Cecily said. “I’ve told you about him. He’s cool.”

  “Hey,” Devon said.

  The girl, a pretty brunette with a pug nose, smiled. “You were right, Cecily. He is cute.”

  “Devon, this is my dearest friend Natalie. Go ahead, ask her what she did on summer vacation.” Cecily smiled over at her and batted her eyelashes. “She’ll tell you her hair and her nails.”

  “Cecily will tell you the entire football team,” Natalie replied sweetly, all smiles, moving past her friend to stand directly in front of Devon, studying him as she clutched her books to her chest. She winked at Devon. “She’s just jealous cuz I made cheerleading and she didn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t be a cheerleader if I got paid for it,” Cecily snipped. “I mean, how geeky are those little skirts?”

  “Some people are just afraid to expose their thighs, I guess,” Natalie cooed.

  “Good to meet ya, Natalie,” Devon said, ending the banter.

  She winked again. “I look forward to being very good friends, Devon.”

  “And you remember D.J.,” Cecily said, rolling her eyes, taking Devon’s arm and leading him away.

  “Yeah,” Devon said, extending his hand. D.J. looked down at it but made no effort to take it. He barely nodded, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes and popping one into his mouth.

  “That is such a gross habit,” Cecily scolded. “Kissing a guy who smokes is like licking an ashtray.”

  D.J. grinned, the silver stud through his nostril rising and falling with every twist of his mouth. “If you promise to kiss me regular, Cess,” he said, “I’ll quit smoking.”

  She just scowled, walking past him with Devon. “And, finally, last but never least,” she said, “this is Marcus.”

  A dark-haired, freckled, bl
ue-eyed guy wearing a green crewneck sweater extended his hand. Devon shook it. “Nice to meet you,” Marcus said.

  “You, too,” Devon replied. But even as he said it, something seemed to materialize over Marcus’s face. Devon couldn’t make it out at first, but then it became obvious. It was a pentagram. A five-pointed star. It faded away almost as quickly as it appeared.

  “Devon,” Natalie was saying, “how about if I show you around? You know, where your locker is and everything?”

  “Thanks so much for your concern,” Cecily said, gripping Devon’s arm, “but I think I have everything under control.”

  Devon was still a little unnerved by the image he saw in front of Marcus’s face, but he felt no heat, no sense of any danger. He took out the papers Mrs. Crandall had given him, looking for his locker number. “I’m 127,” he told the girls.

  “Hey,” Marcus said, “I’m 128. I can show you.”

  “Oh, lucky you, buddy,” D.J. quipped, laughing. “Now you got ‘em all after you. Even Marcus.”

  Marcus dropped his arm around Devon’s shoulder and led him into the school. As they walked, Devon kept looking over at Marcus’s face to see if the pentagram had reappeared. There was no image on him now. What had it meant? And did it have anything to do with all of the things Devon had been finding at Ravenscliff?

  “Don’t worry, dude. I’m not hitting on you,” Marcus said as they made their way down the corridor, dozens of kids and lockers on either side of them. “Just figured I’d put an end to Cecily and Natalie trying to one-up each other.”

  “Yeah, seems like they hate each other’s guts.”

  “No, that’s just the way we talk to each other. We’re always teasing and being sarcastic. In fact, we’re family. We’ve got each other’s backs. We’d lay down our lives for one another if necessary.”

  “That’s pretty cool,” Devon said. “Hope I can manage to fit in with you all.”

  They had reached their lockers. Devon checked the combination printed on the sheet Mrs. Crandall had given him, then turned the lock as indicated. Marcus was sliding his books into the locker beside him.