“Good ev’nin’, Cecily,” the deputy said, smiling. He was a good-looking youth, no more than nineteen or twenty, sandy blonde hair and a blush of acne on his chin.
Cecily sighed. “Hello, Joey.”
Her mother ushered the deputy into the parlor. “Devon,” Mrs. Crandall called. “Please give Deputy Potts your account of last seeing Alexander.”
Devon hesitated. How much should he say? Well, Deputy, I believe the child was abducted—maybe tossed off Devil’s Rock—by the avenging ghost of Jackson Muir …
“I saw him last late this afternoon,” Devon said. “He was getting ready to watch television. But he seemed frightened about something—”
“He scrawled a message,” Cecily interrupted. “Here.” She had gone up to the boy’s room and retrieved his computer. She held it out so they could all see. “Read what he wrote.”
“Help me,” the deputy read dispassionately. “He’s coming.”
“What could it mean?” Mrs. Crandall fretted.
“Well,” Joey Potts said, “looks to me like he might be playing a joke on you.”
“No,” Devon insisted. “This isn’t a joke.”
“Could he be hidin’? Come on, Cess, we know that kid’s been in his share of trouble before. He wants ya to believe someone’s after him.”
“No,” Devon repeated. “I think he’s really in danger.”
“Why do you think that?” Mrs. Crandall asked, her eyebrows arching, her back going stiff.
“Because—” Devon paused. He crossed the room, standing in front of the large glass doors looking down onto the now-placid sea. The moon hung high and round and bright. The rain came in a leisurely silence. The night seemed very still, very peaceful, and eminently rational.
“Because I believe there may be a force in this house that—wants to get to him.”
He turned around to face the others. Deputy Joey Potts simply twisted his eyebrows at him. Who is this dude, anyway, he seemed to be thinking.
Mrs. Crandall’s lips narrowed into a thin straight line. “Devon. Your talk of ghosts is becoming wearying. Please—”
“We heard him scream,” Cecily insisted.
The deputy shrugged. “A trick of the wind. You know how it sounds up here, Cess.”
Devon leaned forward. “If there’s a little boy really lost out there, Deputy, you’ll have to eat those words.”
Joey stiffened.
“Deputy,” Mrs. Crandall intoned grandly, “I want you and your men to search every inch of these grounds, as well as the beach below Devil’s Rock.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Meanwhile, Simon and I will search every room in this house,” she said, looking over at Devon. “Including the East Wing.”
She brushed out of the room and up the stairs.
Deputy Potts sighed. “Guess I’ll be seein’ ya, Cess,” he said, tipping his hat. She gave him a wry smile. “You too, buddy,” he said to Devon. Devon didn’t respond.
Once he was gone, Devon said to Cecily, “I think that creep was looking at you.”
“Oh, I know.” She giggled. “Joey’s always flirting with me.”
Devon frowned. “Yeah, well, he could get statutory thrown at him.”
Cecily laughed. “Why, Mr. March. I do believe you’re jealous.”
He snorted. He looked out the window as Misery Point’s finest began to crawl across the estate, their orange searchlights casting unnatural glows through the windows of the house.
Cecily came up behind him. “Okay, let’s suppose your theory is correct. Why do you think Jackson Muir would want Alexander? I thought you were the one with the powers, the one who stirred all this up.”
Devon shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m just convinced Alexander knows something. Maybe he stumbled upon something in the East Wing. Maybe—”
He suddenly thought of something.
“Maybe Jackson’s trying to get Alexander to open the bolted door!”
“The way you described it, no little kid could break through that.”
Devon shrugged. “Well, maybe he can’t do it himself because he’s a ghost, and he needs human help.”
Cecily scrunched up her face. “Why would somebody who’s dead want to let demons out of hell?”
“Maybe because he’s in hell, too …”
Cecily shuddered. “Okay, that just sent ice through my veins.”
“All I know is, Jackson Muir wants Alexander for something. He’s trying to work through him. I know that. And when the Voice tells me something, Cecily, I believe it.”
“I want to believe you, Devon,” Cecily told him, but he could see she was struggling with all of it. “I really do.”
Devon suddenly moved out into the foyer, fetching his still-dripping raincoat from the coatrack. He pulled it on, smelling the dampness of the rubber and the clinging aroma of mud and leaves.
“Where are you going?” Cecily asked.
“I think I know where Alexander might be,” he replied. Then he pushed head first out into the rain.
The crooked white stones in the old Muir cemetery caught the glare of the moon. They stood out in stark contrast to the deep purple of the night. Devon approached the graveyard with an energy that surprised him. He felt determined, driven, and only the slightest bit fearful.
“Alexander!” he called.
The soft mist clung to his hands as he cupped them around his lips. The fog had thickened, tasting of sea salt. It was low tide below the cliffs, and the tanginess of rotting crabs and seaweed reached his nostrils. He called the boy’s name again.
His voice echoed now, bouncing off the stones. Devon waded into the high wet grass of the cemetery, catching a glint of moonlight from the tall obelisk in the center, the stone that bore his name. But that wasn’t the marker he sought tonight. His destination was the grave of a boy he suspected might exist: a boy who should have become master of Ravenscliff.
Why do you think Jackson Muir would want Alexander?
He couldn’t be sure exactly, but the Voice had given him a clue. It came as clear as a bell as he stood there in the parlor with Cecily.
Jackson Muir had a child.
But somehow Jackson Muir died without an heir. Somehow the estate passed to his brother’s family, from whom sprang Mrs. Crandall and Cecily—and Alexander. But it was the descendants of Jackson Muir—the eldest son—who should rightfully rule this house and the secrets it held within.
He wants to reclaim what he feels is rightfully his, the Voice told him.
Devon felt certain there must be a grave here of Jackson’s child. A son who should have become master of Ravenscliff—but through some unknown nefarious act was kept from his fulfilling his fate. Where exactly the pitiful remains of the young Muir rested Devon couldn’t be sure, but he assumed it would not be far from the elaborate monument honoring his parents.
It was in that direction Devon headed, dangerously near the sheer drop from the cliff.
“Oh, Dad, help me now,” Devon whispered.
He felt the heat. Yes, he’s here, Devon realized. Alexander’s here.
Jackson Muir wanted to use Alexander as his own son—to replace the heir he lost—and to prevent Devon from uncovering the truth.
Up ahead he saw the monument with its broken angel. Devon steeled himself. What if Jackson Muir deigned to show himself again? What might he do? Devon had been powerless before him in the East Wing. Would he prove stronger now?
There was a whiff of movement to his left. Devon paused, straining his eyes to see through the dark. He could discern nothing, so he kept going. A cold damp wind blew up from the sea, breaking through the heat. The fog deepened. Now Devon sensed movement again, this time up ahead, just a yard or two to the left of Jackson’s stone. There was someone there, someone moving among the shadows.
“Alexander?” Devon called.
But the figure was garbed in white. It was kneeling in front of a flat marker. It did not appear to notice Devon’s appro
ach. Its face—hooded, Devon thought, as he peered through the fog—was intent upon the gravestone.
“Who are you?” he called gently.
This time the figure looked up to face him. As Devon drew closer, he had the sudden sensation of flight: as if the figure all at once transformed into a flock of white doves, flying off gently into the night. Devon could feel the cool rush of air made by their wings upon his cheeks.
Yet in that instant, too, he saw the face of a woman.
He looked down at the stone where the figure in white had knelt. Its inscription puzzled him. All it said was:
CLARISSA
“Jackson’s child?” Devon whispered, but he couldn’t be sure.
The Voice was silent.
Heading back to Ravenscliff, Devon felt chilled and discouraged. There had been no sight of Alexander in the cemetery as he had hoped.
Maybe I’m losing it. Maybe for once the Voice was wrong.
He had even more reason to doubt himself as he rook off his raincoat and turned to see Alexander sitting in the parlor.
“Alexander!” he shouted, rushing into the room.
Mrs. Crandall was seated in her chair, hands clasped in her lap. “You were partly correct, Devon,” she said. Her eyes looked tired and bloodshot. “He wasn’t in the house. But it wasn’t a ghost who had abducted him.”
A deep, familiar voice spoke then from behind Devon. “I wouldn’t exactly call it an abduction, Amanda,” a man said.
Devon turned around.
Behind him stood Rolfe Montaigne.
“Our young friend here,” Rolfe was saying, walking up to Alexander and tousling his hair, “was wandering in the rain on the road back up to Ravenscliff. Seems he’d decided to run away, then thought better of it.”
Alexander grinned up at Rolfe. “He sure has a cool car,” he said, turning to his aunt.
Mrs. Crandall looked distinctly uncomfortable. Cecily was seated in front of the fireplace. “Mother, we should be grateful to Rolfe,” she told her.
“I’m not looking for gratitude,” Rolfe said, and his mysterious green eyes found Devon across the room. “I certainly couldn’t have allowed the boy to walk alone in the rain in the middle of the night.”
“Why did you run off, Alexander?” Devon asked, stooping down in front of the boy.
The boy looked spitefully at him. “Because of you.”
“Me?”
“You scared me,” Alexander told him, and his round button eyes grew small, seeming to retreat into his head. Devon shivered. It was as if the boy was changing right there in front of all of them, but only he could see the transformation. Even his voice took on a low, cold, monotonous sound: “I went looking for ghosts. You told me about ghosts.”
Mrs. Crandall arched an eyebrow. “Is this true?” she asked Devon.
Devon swallowed. “I just asked him what he knew—”
“You asked an already impressionable child about ghosts?” Mrs. Crandall was very angry. “I thought you had more common sense than that. I told you that Alexander was troubled. I asked you to have a good influence on him!”
Devon glanced over at the boy. Alexander was watching him, observing his every move, every reaction. This was precisely what he had wanted to occur. He had manipulated the situation beautifully.
“Oh, don’t be so hard on the boy,” Rolfe said, and he meant Devon. He, too, was watching him. “He’s just getting to know our young Mr. Muir and his bag of tricks.” He winked at Devon, who immediately turned away.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Mrs. Crandall sniffed. “Cecily, take Alexander up to his room. As for you, Devon, we’ll discuss all this further in the morning.”
Cecily took her young cousin by the hand. Devon followed them out into the foyer. “Wait,” he called. “Alexander, tell us why you wrote what you did on your computer. You wrote that ‘he’ was coming, that you wanted someone to help you. Who, Alexander? Who was coming? Who did you need help against?”
The boy spun around to face him. His plump little face was a mask of horror, like a twisted, broken doll. “You,” he spit. “You were coming—to bother me and tell me scary stories. It was you I needed help against!”
There was silence in the great house after that. For a moment they all just stood there, looking down at the small boy.
Can’t they see? Devon was thinking, and he believed suddenly that they could, even if they wouldn’t admit it. This was no innocent child. The kid was a demon as surely as the kid at the pizza joint.
Only this one’s named Jackson Muir.
Cecily urged Alexander along, getting him upstairs and into bed just as the rosy glow of dawn began to edge over the black sea. Mrs. Crandall closed the doors of the drawing room, apparently unfinished with what she had to say to Rolfe Montaigne. Devon simply wandered through the corridors, past the cavernous formal dining room, through the comfortable oak-paneled study, into the greenhouse off the kitchen, where he sat in the warmth of the orange lamps and realized the boy had won.
This round, at least.
Alexander’s possessed by Jackson Muir. If I’d been hoping to protect him, I’ve failed miserably.
That much Devon was certain of. But what did it mean? The Voice had been right after all: Devon firmly believed Jackson wanted to use the boy as some kind of conduit to regain mastery of the house. And more critically, of that locked portal in the East Wing.
He wandered back into the foyer of the great house, deciding that he’d confront Mrs. Crandall in the morning, lay all his cards on the table and demand she do the same. What could she do? Kick him out? She was now his guardian. She couldn’t kick him out.
Besides, Devon felt quite certain that she’d rather have him here than anywhere else now that he was beginning to understand a few things about her family’s secrets.
Yet what of the secrets left undiscovered? The books in the East Wing with their mysterious words and phrases? The light in the tower? The gravestone marked Devon? The uncanny resemblance to the portrait in the East Wing? The woman in white? Was she Emily Muir? Or the mysterious Clarissa, whoever she was?
Yes, Devon would demand some answers from Mrs. Crandall.
“Amanda, you’re as unreasonable as ever!” came the voice of Rolfe Montaigne all at once, bellowing through the closed doors of the parlor. Devon stood outside, hesitant about eavesdropping but drawn by the resonance of Rolfe’s deep voice and what secrets he might reveal.
“Unreasonable?” Mrs. Crandall laughed. “I think it’s perfectly reasonable to object to you driving a young boy along the rain-slicked streets of Misery Point.” There was a calculated pause. “Remember what happened last time.”
“You’ll keep up that lie until you’re cold in your grave, won’t you?”
“Why did you come back to Misery Point after they let you out of jail?”
“I wanted to open a restaurant,” he told her, and Devon could hear the smile in his voice.
“To compete with me,” she snapped. “To drive me out of business!”
“That’s the American way, isn’t it?”
“Didn’t you already do enough damage to this family? Why come back now and try to hurt our livelihood?”
“Dear Amanda, I hardly think the livelihood of the great Muir family will be affected by one restaurant.” Rolfe sighed. “Besides, my dear, I believe this family has inflicted enough damage on itself for me to have much impact.”
“Get out.”
“You’ve always been especially lovely when you’re angry.”
“Get out!”
Devon bolted when he heard the doorknob begin to turn. There was nowhere to hide in the foyer. It was a cold marble room with a great cathedral ceiling, and its only furnishings were a simple coat rack and a magnificent grandfather’s clock. Devon had one option: to slip out the front door and hide behind the thick shrubbery there. In his hurry, he left the door partly ajar. Just seconds after he slipped out behind the bushes he saw Rolfe’s hand through the
opening of the door.
“Tell me,” Rolfe was saying to Mrs. Crandall as he left, “just who is this young ward you’ve taken in under your wing?”
“Stay away from Devon,” she said, unseen. “I mean that. He’s no concern of yours.”
From his hiding place in the bushes Devon could see Rolfe’s face, lit by the pink glow of the coming dawn. “My, my, we’re protective,” he was saying to Mrs. Crandall. “Might I inquire just who he is?”
There seemed to be something in his voice, as if Rolfe knew some secret, some tantalizing detail that unnerved Mrs. Crandall. She said nothing in reply, just pushed the door shut on his face. Rolfe laughed.
In the bushes, Devon held his breath, waiting for Rolfe to pass. But instead Rolfe simply stood there, facing the rising sun.
“Oh, what a beautiful morning,” he sang softly. He moved out of Devon’s view. “Oh, what a beautiful day. I’ve got a wonderful feeling—”
Suddenly Devon felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun around and there stood Rolfe behind him.
“—ev-ry-thing’s go-ing my waaay,” Rolfe finished the song. “Well, well, well, look who’s out hiding in the bushes.”
Devon felt his face flush. “I didn’t want Mrs. Crandall to think I was eavesdropping—”
“But you were,” Rolfe said.
“No, no, not really—”
“Oh, no need to pretend with me.” He smiled down at Devon. His face was creased from the sun, his jaw strong and hard. He put his arm around Devon and drew him out of the bushes. “So tell me, my boy,” he said, “how have you enjoyed life at Ravenscliff so far?”
“Well,” Devon began, “it’s certainly been—exciting.”
“You mean tonight’s little episode?”
“That and—other things.” Devon was anxious about Mrs. Crandall catching him talking to Rolfe Montaigne. He kept looking back toward the door.
“You mean the ghosts? The stories you’ve been filling Alexander’s head with?”
“I don’t care if you don’t believe me. I know what I’ve seen.”
Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) Page 14