Sorcerers of the Nightwing (Book One - The Ravenscliff Series) (21 page)

“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 opposing driver, its talons gripped around the wheel.

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.”

He withdrew a bottle of red wine from the small bar in the center of the room. He uncorked it and poured two glasses. He handed one to Devon, who looked at it funny.

“Go ahead, Devon. A little wine doesn’t hurt. In France boys far younger than you drink wine the way most kids drink Coca Cola.”

Devon took a sip. He’d snuck beer before, but never wine. At first it tasted bitter to him, warm
and dry. But after a few more sips he began to like it: thick and soothing, rich and fruity.

They sat on opposite sofas, facing each other. Below them the waves crashed against the rocks as the sun dropped lower in the sky. Devon wasn’t sure where to begin, and the wine suddenly made him feel a little fuzzy, as if he couldn’t quite remember why he came to visit Rolfe Montaigne.

“To ghosts
and other dangers,” Rolfe toasted, holding up his glass of wine. “So tell me what it’s been like these past few weeks.”

“Intense.” Devon tried to think through his words. “I feel I’m real close to finding out stuff about myself.”

“Yourself? Say more.”

“Finding out my past. Who I am.”

Rolfe nodded. “Ah, yes. Your father’s deathbed revelation of your adoption. So what are you finding?”

Devon looked at him fiercely. “You said you saw your share of ghosts when you lived at Ravenscliff.”

Rolfe shrugged. “Anyone who spends any amount of time there eventually does.”

“What do you know about Jackson Muir?”

“That he was an evil man. And that his evil did not die with him.”

Devon could tell he was being deadly serious. As if to punctuate his words, the first flickering
of silent lightning appeared on the horizon over the sea.

“I can vouch for that,” Devon agreed. “I’ve seen him. Several times.”

“Where?”

“In the cemetery. In the East Wing. And other places, too …”

“Amanda’s a fool,” Rolfe said, more to himself than Devon.

Suddenly Devon was aware of the woman from upstairs, Roxanne. She had come down with a platter of strawberries, sliced pears,
French bread and cheese. She looked into Devon’s eyes.

“You’re hungry,” she said.

He was. But how did she know?

“Thank you, Roxanne,” Rolfe said.

She smiled.

“Yeah,” echoed Devon. “Thanks.”

She nodded, the fire reflecting against her chocolate-colored skin and dancing in her strangely golden eyes. She moved soundlessly back up the stairs.

“It’s like she could read my mind,”
Devon said, popping a strawberry in his mouth.

“Roxanne’s very perceptive,” Rolfe told him, smiling after her.

Devon sliced a wedge of cheese and broke off a piece of the French bread. “So getting back to what we were talking about,” he said, mouth full, “why do you say Mrs. Crandall is a fool?”

Rolfe sipped his wine. “She should never have brought you, an innocent kid, into that house.”
He moved to stand before the glass, looking out at the roiling sea below. In the distance a very low tremble of thunder rolled across the waves.

He can be trusted
, the Voice told him. Any fear, any apprehension Devon may have felt earlier about this strange man, vanished. He could tell that Rolfe not only had answers, but that he was being straight enough with him that he might just share some
of them. Finally—someone being straight with him.

Devon approached him, biting into a pear slice. “Why is the East Wing closed off?”

Rolfe looked over at him. “Devon, you’re a good kid. But you need to go to Amanda—”

“I have. I’ve tried. She won’t say anything. She won’t admit what she knows.”

Rolfe finished his wine, shaking his head.

“Look,” Devon said. “I am entitled to this
knowledge. This is my past, my history.”

Rolfe studied him. “Why do you think it’s yours, Devon? We’re talking about two separate things here: what Amanda may or may not know about your real parents, and what she’s not saying about the ghosts of Ravenscliff.”

“I think they’re connected,” Devon said plainly.

“Why do you think that?”

“Rolfe, that car that tried to run us off the cliff
on the way over here—that was no kid behind the wheel.”

He could see in his eyes that Rolfe knew this bit of information as well, that he’d been shielding it, thinking Devon blind to it.

Rolfe was studying him. “How do you know that?”

“I’m not as innocent as you might think,” Devon told him. He finished off the last of the strawberries. “You know about the demons, don’t you, Rolfe? You
know about the bolted door in the East Wing.”

Rolfe’s eyes narrowed as they locked onto Devon’s. “Who are you?” he asked very softly.

“That’s what I want to find out.”

Rolfe just looked at him.

Show him
, came the Voice.

Devon lifted his left arm, gesturing with his hand. He had a pretty good sense his powers would work. And sure enough: a book lifted off of Rolfe’s shelf and sailed
smoothly through the air into Devon’s grasp. Rolfe was watching all along, expressionless.

“
Registry of the Guardians of the Portal
,” Devon read, looking down at the title. “There’s another copy of this book in the East Wing.”

“Yes,” Rolfe said, taking the book from him. “Yes, indeed there is.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off Devon. “Let’s go sit by the fire, shall we?”

They settled down
into two large overstuffed chairs. The fire snapped in the hearth. Outside the rain pecked hesitantly against the window panes, as if loath to disturb them. The thunder grumbled, but it was still miles away.

“You’ve known others with powers like mine, haven’t you, Rolfe?”

“I have.” The older man was still studying him, as if trying to understand. “How long have you known of your abilities?
And who else knows you have them?”

“I’ve known ever since I was a kid,” Devon replied. “And so far, besides you, only Cecily knows for sure. Some of the kids at Gio’s saw me wrestle a demon, but they think it was just adrenaline.”

“They saw you wrestle a demon?”

“Well, punch it out, really. I had to. It had attacked a guy.”

Rolfe’s face went pale. “Then they’ve returned,” he said quietly
after several seconds of silence. “I’ve sensed it. Tonight, that car cinched it for me. But if what you say is true, there are more than I imagined. If they’re randomly attacking kids—”

“I don’t think it was random. It spoke to me. It was trying to draw me out. I was its real target. But why, Rolfe? That’s what I want to know. All my life, these things have been trying to get at me. My dad
did his best, but a couple times they got through. And since coming here, I’ve been fighting them off right and left.”

“And apparently winning, if you’re sitting here,” Rolfe observed, admiration in his voice.

“Yeah.” Devon felt some pride himself. “Yeah, I’ve done okay.”

“You know what you are, don’t you, Devon? Your father must have explained it to you.”

The boy sat forward in his
chair. “That’s just it, Rolfe. I don’t know. My father never told me, except to say that I was stronger than anything out there, and that I shouldn’t be afraid.”

Rolfe made a face. “That’s odd. I assume your father was a Guardian, and it’s a Guardian’s job to teach.” He seemed to consider something briefly. “Your real parents must have entrusted you to his care. Given that he was a Guardian,
he’d understand your powers. But why they wouldn’t want you to know of your heritage, I can’t imagine. It’s a proud heritage, noble—”

“Whoa. Can we do a little rewinding here? My heritage? Guardian?” He looked at Rolfe with eyes wide. “Can you start from the beginning? Please?”

Rolfe smiled a little. He looked down at the book on his lap.

“Your father is in here, isn’t he?” he asked.
“In this book?”

Devon nodded. “Only it can’t be my dad. It was a different name, and the picture was from more than a hundred years ago.”

“Point him out to me,” Rolfe said, handing the book across to Devon.

Devon flipped through the old musty pages. He found Thaddeus Underwood. He held the book open facing Rolfe and pointed. “This one,” he said.

Rolfe’s eyes widened. “Thaddeus was
your father?”

“You knew him?”

Rolfe looked from the book up to Devon’s face, then back again.

“Oh, yes,” he said, “I knew him.” He stood, pouring himself another glass of wine. The rain came harder now, rat-a-tat-tatting against the glass. Lightning flashed on the horizon. Another Misery Point storm was under way.

“But this can’t be my father,” said Devon. “It’s from another century.”

“Guardians live a long time. They have to. They teach and train and protect generations. How old did your father say he was?”

“When he died he was fifty-seven.”

“Add at least a couple hundred to that, my boy,” Rolfe said, grinning.

“That’s impossible,” Devon replied, sputtering.

Rolfe’s grin widened. “As impossible as your levitating that book from the shelf? As impossible as wrestling
demons at pizza joints?”

Devon tried to comprehend this new information about his father. “Then March wasn’t my father’s real last name,” he mused out loud. “He probably took it because it was the month I was born.” He looked suddenly back over at the other man. “How can a Guardian—whatever that is—live to be so old? My dad was human. He had to be. Rolfe, please tell me what you know.”

Rolfe
sighed. “He was human, Devon. All Guardians are. But their bloodline is ancient … dating back to the early days of sorcery, when they were given special gifts. And in turn, they teach, train, protect …”

“Teach who, Rolfe?”

Rolfe seemed not to hear him. His eyes were far away, remembering. “When I was a boy, Thaddeus Underwood was the greatest Guardian in the Americas. I worshiped him. He
was like a grandfather to me—a wise, generous, kind old grandfather. My own father thought the Sun rose and set around him.” He paused. “We all loved Thaddeus. Mr. Muir. Edward. Amanda.”

“He was here? My father was at Ravenscliff?”

“Yes. For a time. He had come to train my father. You see, my father was a Guardian, too.” Rolfe looked at Devon, as if trying to see something there, something
he might recognize. “Though I can’t imagine for the life of me who your parents could have been. I know of no one who might have placed you with Thaddeus as a Guardian.”

“They had to have been here, in Misery Point,” Devon insisted. “Why else would Dad send me here after he died? And why didn’t he ever tell me anything about all this?”

“I don’t know the answers to those questions. But Thaddeus
Underwood never did anything without a reason. He was far too sharp for that. Yes, I’m quite sure he wanted you to discover your heritage here—but I can’t fathom his reasoning for keeping it from you himself. There are no Guardians here any longer, no one left who could teach you in the way he could …”

Devon had stood to face Rolfe near the windows again. “Rolfe, I’m confused. I don’t understand
what a Guardian is. Guardians of the Portal … what’s a portal? Is it like that door in the East Wing?”

“Very perceptive, Devon. Yes, exactly like that door.” He smiled a little sardonically. “In more common language, they’re referred to as Hell Holes.”

“Yes,” Devon said. “Like my closet back home. Hell Holes.”

Rolfe looked at him compassionately. “They took root in your closet? You poor
kid.”

“But why, Rolfe? That’s what I want to know. Why me?”

Rolfe studied him sadly. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“No,” Devon told him, his voice imploring the truth.

Rolfe set down his wine glass on the window seat. He placed his hands on Devon’s shoulders and looked him square in the eyes.

“Devon March, you come from a long and ancient line, a proud and noble heritage,” he
told him. “Devon March, you are a Sorcerer of the Order of the Nightwing.”

The thunder came then, fittingly.