Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) (4 page)

If not for all the candles, the power outage would have left them all in darkness. But once Devon’s eyes had adjusted to the candlelight,
he was able to make out the arrival of the girl he presumed to be Cecily Crandall, his errant welcome wagon.

Mrs. Crandall moved from the parlor to the foyer as quickly and as soundlessly as a cat. “Cecily!” she scolded. “Where have you been? You were supposed to go with Simon to pick up Devon at the bus station!”

The girl’s eyes peered around her mother’s shoulder and spied Devon standing
awkwardly in the doorway of the parlor. He smiled shyly. Cecily groaned.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mother, I’m truly sorry.” She turned to the boy with the shaved head. Devon noticed a piece of metal was pierced through his nostril. “Oh, D.J.,” Cecily whined, “I knew I had forgotten something! Didn’t I say I had forgotten something?”

“Yes, Mrs. Crandall, she did say that. She—”

“If you don’t mind,”
Mrs. Crandall said icily, “I’d like to speak with my daughter alone.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem.” The boy looked uncomfortably down at Cecily. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Cess.”

She nodded, brushing him aside as if she’d suddenly grown weary of him. D.J. shrugged, as if he was used to such treatment, and let himself out, while Cecily marched straightaway into the parlor, stopped a few feet from
Devon, and eyed him up and down.

“He’s beautiful, Mother,” she said, as if Devon were a puppy or a painting, not something with ears and eyes to comprehend her assessment. “Just gorgeous.”

She smiled at Devon, extending her hand in a gesture as grand as any her mother might have flourished. Devon wasn’t sure if he should shake her hand or kiss it. He opted for the former.

“Pleased to
meet you, Cecily.”

“Well, of course you are, sweetheart.” She winked at him, then walked across the room to plop herself down on the sofa. “Now, just how long is the power going to be out this time? It really sucks when we lose power because I can’t get on the Internet and without access to the Internet, I feel like I’m on a desert island in this godforsaken town.”

“And you can’t do it on
your phone because there’s no reception out here,” Devon added.

“I know, right?” Cecily shuddered. “It’s like living in Siberia.”

Mrs. Crandall rolled her eyes. “Cecily, I suspect you don’t even know where Siberia is,” she said.

“Sure, I do,” Cecily replied, pouting. “It’s like in … Oregon or something, right? Or Australia.”

“It’s in Russia,” Devon told her.

“Oh, Mother, please,
can’t we get a generator? You’ll see, Devon, we lose power out here all the time. Why can’t we get a generator? Aren’t we supposed to be rich?”

Her mother frowned. “I shouldn’t get you anything ever again after what you did today,” Mrs. Crandall scolded, standing over her now. “Devon will be lucky if he doesn’t catch a cold. He had to take a cab here, and was nearly drenched—”

“Look, I said
I was sorry,” Cecily griped. “But D.J. and I had a fight. I told him I couldn’t be his girlfriend anymore. He just has no ambition. He’ll never leave Misery Point, and oh, man, I’ve got to get my butt out of here someday!”

“Don’t talk so crassly, Cecily,” Mrs. Crandall said.

“Look,” Devon said to the girl. “Don’t worry about not picking me up. I’m just glad to be here.”

“You are?” Cecily
looked at him as if he were crazy. “For God’s sake, why?”

“Because he just lost his father, as I told you, Cecily,” Mrs. Crandall said. “And here he can find a new home.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry about your dad,” Cecily said, her voice a little less strident.

“Thanks,” Devon replied.

“But have you told him about Alexander?” Cecily asked, turning to her mother.

“I had just begun,” Mrs. Crandall
told her before turning again to Devon. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care for some tea?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Please. Finish telling me about the family.” He gave Cecily a little grin. “Since, after all, I’m going to be part of it.”

The girl smiled then patted the place on the couch next to her. Devon sat down.

Mrs. Crandall resumed her position beside the fire. She seemed to be giving
some thought to what she was about to say.

“Alexander is a … troubled boy,” she began. “His mother has been in a mental institution since he was four. His father travels extensively and has not had much time to spend with the boy. We had him in a school down in Connecticut: a boy’s academy. He … didn’t do well in that environment. He withdrew, became moody. His studies went from average to
failing. And last spring—he set a fire.”

She looked over at Devon to see his reaction. He feigned surprise, raising his eyebrows.

“No one was hurt, thank God. But it did cause considerable damage. He was asked to leave, of course. And my brother has turned over guardianship of Alexander to me.”

“Given that I turned out so well,” Cecily whispered, nudging Devon and winking.

Mrs. Crandall
ignored her. “It wouldn’t do to send the boy away again. He’s clearly crying out for help. So I decided to keep him here.” She looked pointedly at Devon. “I’m hoping you might be of some help to him, Devon.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Mr. McBride sent me your report cards from school. You’re an honors student. Perhaps you can help tutor Alexander. Not just tutor but perhaps in some ways mentor him. Serve
as an older brother since his father is away so much. I think some male companionship might do him some good.”

Devon looked over at Cecily. She shuddered.

“Well, I’ll give it a shot, Mrs. Crandall.”

“That’s all I ask.” She sighed. “We all have our responsibilities here. That could be part of yours. I want to make sure no harm comes to Alexander. That he is safe.”

Devon thought her
words odd. “What kind of harm, Mrs. Crandall?”

Cecily piped up. “From himself. He’s crazy.” She laughed, leaning into Devon, speaking close to his ear. “He’s got little friends that only he can see.”

“Most children do,” Devon said.

“The problem,” Cecily went on, still leaning into Devon, “is in this house, you can never be sure what’s his imagination and what’s real.”

“Now, Cecily,”
Mrs. Crandall said.

But her daughter continued addressing Devon. “I’m sure our friendly villagers warned you about our ghosts.”

“Well, as a matter of fact—”

“Which ones did they tell you about?” Cecily asked. “I’m sure they told you about old Jackson. He’s our most famous ghost. A warlock, people say. He used to put on these really freaky magic shows for the kids in the village—”

“Cecily,
stop this,” her mother commanded.

Her daughter ignored her. “Then there’s Jackson’s wife, Emily—so tragic.” Cecily stood up, pointing to the portrait over the mantel, the solemn-looking man in a gray frock coat and muttonchop sideburns, brooding within the gilt frame. “And that’s our founder, the great Horatio Muir, right there. You’ll find all of them howling through the corridors on stormy
nights like this!”

Mrs. Crandall sighed and walked over to the window, as if giving up on Cecily, apparently having been there before and knowing it was useless to try and rein her in.

“Over there is poor Emily,” Cecily said, pointing. Devon turned around. On the far wall, a portrait of a woman stared into eternity. She was lovely, delicate, and blonde, looking kind of like Marilyn Monroe,
Devon thought. There was a sadness that emanated from her large round eyes. “She fell to her death from Devil’s Rock.”

“I was told she jumped,” Devon said.

“How the villagers like to sensationalize our family tragedies,” Mrs. Crandall told him, turning away from the window.

“I’ll give you a complete tour tomorrow,” Cecily whispered, leaning in toward him again. “I’ll give you the full
version on all the legends.”

Her mother gave her a look. “I’m sure Devon would like to wash up and see his room and get some sleep,” Mrs. Crandall said. “We can become more acquainted in the morning.”

“Actually, I am pretty tired,” Devon acknowledged.

They all moved back into the foyer. Devon’s bag still sat there.

“Simon didn’t take your bag upstairs,” Mrs. Crandall said, frowning.
“Where could he be?”

“I haven’t seen him all day,” Cecily told her. “If I had, I would’ve remembered to pick up Devon.”

Mrs. Crandall’s frown hardened. “Simon is our servant, Devon. He’s usually very efficient. It’s not like him to let a guest’s bag sit unattended.”

“You know,” Devon said, “I think I may have seen him. There was a man standing outside on the tower when I came up the drive.
Might that have been him?”

“That would be impossible,” Mrs. Crandall replied. “The tower is part of the East Wing. As I told you, that part of the house has been closed off for years.”

“But I’m sure I saw a man—”

“That would have been impossible, Devon,” Mrs. Crandall repeated.

“Well, there was a light. I know I saw a light in the tower.”

Her look told him he was being absurd. She
smiled. “There was lightning on the horizon,” she insisted. “Light can be reflected in the most uncanny ways.”

Seeming to punctuate her point, lightning crackled suddenly, illuminating the room, followed by a horrible burst of thunder. Cecily laughed.

“You’ll get used to the storms up here, Devon,” Cecily told him. “Sometimes they go on for days.”

Indeed, the storm wasn’t over for that night yet. Devon carried his own bag upstairs, having said good night to Mrs. Crandall in the foyer. Cecily showed him to his room: a comfortable space with large windows that looked out over the sea. The four-poster bed was already turned down for him, and a candle burned beside it.

“So I’ll introduce you to all my friends at school,” Cecily was saying
as she sat down on the bed. “Don’t worry. You’ll fit in fine. You can be my boyfriend now that I’ve broken up with D.J.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said I’d introduce you to my friends. After school, we usually—”

“No,” Devon said, interrupting her. “What was the part about me being your boyfriend?”

“Well, I’m single now, so the timing is perfect.”

Devon laughed. This girl really thought way
too highly of herself. Yes, she was pretty—very pretty, in fact. Devon couldn’t deny that he liked very much the sight of her sitting there on the bed, her sexy legs crossed and swinging, her pink skirt inching up her thighs. Her green eyes sparkled, her red hair shone with golden highlights. And for a fifteen-year-old she was already quite busty, which she showed off by wearing a snug, stretchy
top.

But Cecily was nothing like Suze, who was sweet and a little shy and would never have worn such a short skirt. Devon and Suze had never officially been boyfriend and girlfriend, but still, ever since he’d left Coles Junction, Devon had been thinking about her, and missing her more than he expected. Until he’d lost reception on his phone, he’d been texting Suze the whole time he’d been
on the bus, describing his journey step-by-step. So Cecily Crandall had some nerve to announce that Devon was now her boyfriend, just like that.

“What if I don’t want to be your boyfriend?” he asked.

For the second time that night she looked at him as if he were mad. “Wait, are you gay? Because if you are, it’s cool. My friend Marcus is gay and I could fix you up with him—”

“I’m not gay,”
Devon told her.

She made a face of utter confusion. “So then what possible reason would you have for not wanting to be my boyfriend?”

“I don’t work that way, Cecily. I know it may be a radical concept for you to understand, but I like having some say in who I decide to date.” He smirked. “Just a little idiosyncrasy of mine, I guess.”

“Well, the offer isn’t going to be good for long,”
she said, sticking out her lower lip. “Just so you know.”

“I appreciate the fair warning,” he told her, setting his suitcase on a nightstand and snapping it open.

“I mean, if you’re pissed at me about having to take a cab all the way here—”

“I’m not pissed,” Devon said, removing his shirts and socks from his suitcase and placing them in drawers of the bureau. “In fact, I didn’t take a
cab all the way. I got the cab at a place called Stormy Harbor, where the bartender said she knew you.”

“Oh, yeah, Andrea. She’s cool. She sometimes lets me in even on nights when they have an age limit so I can see some of the acts that come through here in the summer.” Cecily sat forward on the edge of the bed just as something seemed to dawn on her. “So, wait. If you got the cab at Stormy
Harbor, how did you get there from the bus station?”

Devon didn’t make eye contact with her as he continued unpacking his suitcase. “I got a ride from a man who said he was a friend of the family’s,” he said. “Something told me I shouldn’t tell your mother, though.”

“Who was it?”

“Rolfe Montaigne.”

Thunder crashed again, as the storm turned for a second round of attack. Cecily burst
into laughter, covering her mouth to calm herself.

“What’s so funny?” Devon asked.

“Just that Rolfe
would
have the nerve to say he’s a friend of the family. Your instincts were right, Devon. Don’t tell Mother that Rolfe Montaigne gave you a ride.”