Sorcerers of the Nightwing

Book One - The Ravenscliff Series

Geoffrey Huntington

Copyright

Diversion Books

A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

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New York, NY 10016

www.DiversionBooks.com

Copyright © 2002 by Geoffrey Huntington

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com.

First Diversion Books edition June 2013

ISBN: 978-1-626810-73-0

For T.D.H.

Prologue

Monsters in the Closet

Ted March called it the Hell Hole.

It was his son’s closet—a plain, ordinary little closet with sliding maplewood doors, where the six-year-old boy hung his shirts and tossed his sneakers, where his stuffed animals were tumbled in a pile on the floor. A closet that, at first, seemed like any other, no different from those in the rooms of the other little boys in the tidy little houses that lined their tidy little street.

But in Devon March’s closet, green eyes stared out from the darkness.

“Daddy,” the boy asked, “what’s in there?”

Ted March called it the Hell Hole, but not so Devon could hear. Ted was determined that the boy he was raising as his own would grow up as normally as possible—that the truth of his past would not prevent him from living his life like any other little boy. Everyone had agreed it was best that Devon not know the truth of his birth and the identities of his real parents, and so Ted had taken the child far away from the place where he was born. He’d spared him the legacy of his birthright—and the reason why his closet was a gateway to hell.

“Daddy,” Devon cried, pointing. “There are eyes in there!”

And indeed there were. Until now, Ted had managed to keep the demons at bay. He’d caught the few that had slithered out of the closet like snakes, wriggling across the boy’s floor and taking up posts under his bed. Ted had caught them and stomped them, sending them back to where they came from. So far, they’d all been small creatures—stupid, reptilian things, easily snared with the ancient skills Ted had learned from his own father.

“Daddy!” Devon cried louder. “Something’s moving in there!”

Until now, the boy hadn’t actually seen anything—but he had heard them, whispering and hissing at night, their nefarious scuttling about in the Hell Hole awakening him from a sound sleep. He had called out for Ted, who had learned to sleep with one eye and ear open. Moving to another house was pointless: the demons had followed them here from Misery Point and dug their filthy hole, and they’d surely track them down no matter where they fled. For Devon had something they wanted, and wanted desperately.

He also had the fears of any six-year-old boy awakened in the middle of the night. And as hard as his father would try to console him, the one thing Ted wouldn’t do was lie. He wouldn’t tell the child the sounds were only his imagination; he wouldn’t deny that the hissing and scratching in his closet were real.

“Daddy, look,” Devon said, more frantic now. “The eyes are moving!”

And they were. Ted March stood staring into the darkness of his son’s closet. He felt the stifling heat, the throbbing pressure. Green bloodshot eyes blinked languidly, once, then twice, over the pile of sneakers and stuffed animals.

“They can’t hurt you, Devon,” Ted whispered to his son. “Remember that no matter what. You are stronger than they are.”

“But I’m scared!” the little boy whimpered.

Yes, that was the rub: the demons might not have been able to hurt Devon, but they could frighten him. Frighten him badly, at least while he was still a child. Ever since the Madman had opened the Hell Hole in Misery Point, the demons had been loose, and Ted had known all too well that the sealing of the Portal six years ago hadn’t corralled them all. They had followed them here, hundreds of miles away, burrowing down deep into Devon’s closet to forge a new Hell Hole, taking up residence in their house like rats in a basement.

Ted watched as the eyes grew larger in the darkness. It was waking. It sensed them, and its eyes narrowed in contemplation. Ted could hear the demon’s breath now, hissing like a faulty radiator.

“Stand back, Devon,” he told his son.

The little boy shrunk in terror beside his bed. His father stood facing the closet. The demon within stirred, one long arm stretching out from the dark, human except for the talons where fingers would have been.

Ted glanced quickly around the room, his eyes landing on Devon’s baseball bat. Grabbing it, he raised it into the air. “By the power of my father and my grandfather and my grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather, I order you back!” he shouted, swinging the bat down hard on the creature’s arm.

A roar of pain and anger shook the room. Devon clutched onto his bedpost, his little eyes wide in fright. When the demon screamed again, the boy covered his ears, and his eyes grew large as the thing in the closet crawled out into the room.

Into the light.

Ted had seen many demons in the flesh: in his youth, on the moors of England, he’d battled hundreds of the tribe, stuffed dozens of the filthy brutes back down the throats of their Hell Holes. But never had the sight of them not elicited repulsion, and this one—tall and gaunt, dripping puss and slime, skeletally human except for its talons and fangs—was particularly beastly.

“Get back, you hellspawn,” Ted shouted, landing a savage roundhouse kick to the monster’s gut. It roared, its strangely humanoid face grimacing in both pain and outrage. Its long unruly hair, growing from both its head and body, swung furiously, slapping Ted across the face and filling his nostrils with the stink of death.

“You can’t touch Devon,” he called to the creature. “He’s stronger than you are—and you know it!”

The thing reared back on its haunches, as if to spring. But instead, it lashed out with a sweep of its long arm, slashing Ted across the face with its talons, drawing blood.

“Daddy!” Devon screamed.

Ted lunged. Gripping the creature around its middle, he pushed it back into the closet. It roared again from the darkness, jolting the room like an earthquake. Model dinosaurs and miniature cars came raining down from Devon’s shelves; his bookcase tipped over, spewing DVDs across the floor. The demon, enraged, bolted once more from the closet and grabbed Ted with its long talons, tossing him across the room. Only the wall stopped his flight. Ted thudded hard against the plaster, sliding down into a sitting position, stunned and helpless as the demon advanced toward him.

“Daddy!” Devon cried.

The creature lumbered across the hardwood floor. The tears ran down Devon’s face as he watched the thing approach his father. Its long red tongue darted out of its mouth and licked its sharp teeth. Later, such scenes would be remembered by Devon as horrible nightmares, but in the moment the little boy stood terrified, convinced he was about to watch his father be devoured, and that he was next.

“No!” Devon shouted.

That was all: just a simple no, and the creature turned, its eyes blazing terror.

“No!” Devon repeated, and instinctively put out his hand.

You are stronger than they are, his father had always said.

“No!” Devon commanded.

The demon roared. Devon bit down hard on his lip and concentrated with all his might. “Go back!” he cried, and with a sweep of his little arm, he sent the demon flying through the air and back inside the closet. The door slid shut with a bang, and the room fell suddenly silent.

“Daddy?” Devon asked in a very small voice.

Ted March opened his eyes. The demon was gone. The heat that had filled the room was gone, too. He looked up and saw his little dark-eyed son standing over him. He smiled.

Devon had yet to lose all his baby fat, but in some ways he was already a man.

“Daddy, are you okay?” Devon asked, his little eyes welling with tears.

“I’m fine, Devon,” Ted said, opening his arms. His son fell into them gratefully. “You are a strong boy, Devon. You are stronger than they are.”

He held the boy close. He could feel Devon’s six-year-old heart beating wildly, his small frame trembling.

Yes, he was stronger than they were, but not nearly so cunning. Ted knew they’d use that against him. This one was clumsy, ignorant—but there were others who were far smarter, far more shrewd, and Ted knew they’d come too.

And the Madman—Ted didn’t believe for a second that he was really gone for good.

Ted March had pledged his life to little Devon. He vowed again that no harm would come to him, that he would live as a normal boy might, that his life would be as free from the horrors of his birthright as possible.

Not an easy vow, Ted knew, when the monsters in the closet were real.

Nine Years Later

Misery Point

For one long moment the mournful howl of some distant animal obscured the sound of the wind. Devon March stepped off the bus, one hand lugging his heavy suitcase, the other clasping the medal of the lady and the owl in his pocket, squeezing it so tightly that it pinched the flesh of his palms.

He felt the heat, even on this damp, windy, cold October night, the heat and the energy he had recognized ever since he was a small boy. They’re out there, he thought. In the night. Watching me, as they always have.

He headed down the steps, stepping off onto the concrete. Behind him, the bus driver yanked the doors shut and the bus screeched off into the night.

The station was left in darkness, with just an autumn moon to light Devon’s way. Only one other person had gotten off the bus with him, a man whose footsteps now echoed through the empty terminal ahead of him. The rain had not yet come, but Devon could feel it already in the wind and the salty dampness blowing up from the sea. Mr. McBride had said it would be this way: “Why else would they call it Misery Point?”

Devon walked out of the station and into the parking lot. He looked around. A car had been promised to meet him, but there was no one to be seen. Perhaps they were just late; perhaps the bus had been a few minutes early. Devon yanked his phone out of his coat pocket and saw he had no bars. What kind of place was this that phones had no reception? He tried texting Suze but it wouldn’t go through. As the shadows flickered in the windy moonlight, Devon couldn’t shake a sudden sense of foreboding.

He tugged at his collar. For such a windy, raw night, he still felt the heat underneath, which meant that the demons were near. Of course, Devon had fully expected that they’d follow him here, that they wouldn’t simply allow him to get away. What he hadn’t expected was the intensity of the heat: it seemed to be ratcheting up by the minute, as if the creatures were getting closer. From the moment Devon had stepped off the bus, the heat had been far more intense than it ever had been in New York.

This place holds answers, the Voice inside himself said. That’s why your father sent you here.

In the distance, thunder rumbled. He pulled his coat more tightly around him.

What had the old woman said to him on the bus?

“You’ll find no one there but ghosts.”

“Excuse me,” came a voice, interrupting his thoughts.

Devon turned. In the empty parking lot stood the man who had gotten off the bus with him a moment ago.

“Are you waiting for a ride?” the man asked.

“Yeah,” Devon replied. “I was supposed to be met here.”

The man carried a suitcase not unlike Devon’s own. He looked to be in his late thirties, tall, handsome, dark. “Well,” said the man, “I can’t imagine a less hospitable place to be stood up. Do you need a ride into town?”

“I’m sure I’m not stood up,” Devon told him.

The man shrugged. “Okay then. Just wouldn’t want you to get caught in the rain.”

Devon watched him. The man continued on his way to his car—a silver Porsche—parked a few yards away. It was the only car in the lot.

This man knows. This man knows what I came here to find.

The Voice came to him as it always did: small, sure, far back in his mind. It was a voice unlike any other thought: clear and sharp, and unrecognizable to Devon as his own.

He knows, the Voice told him again. Don’t let him get away.

Just what the man knew Devon wasn’t sure, but one thing was certain: if he hoped to find answers in this place, he needed to listen to the Voice. It had never failed him before.

“Yo!” Devon called.

But the wind had swelled up fiercely, drowning him out.

“Yo!” he called again, louder. “Hey, Mister!”

The man, still oblivious, opened his car door and slid inside. Devon heard the kick of the ignition. The car’s headlights switched on.

There’s no time, Devon thought. He wouldn’t see me if I try to make a run for him.

There was only one way. He prayed that it would work. Sometimes it did and sometimes it didn’t. Devon concentrated. The car began to back out of the stall. Devon closed his eyes. He concentrated harder.

And suddenly the driver’s door blew open.

“What the—?” the man shouted.

Devon grasped his suitcase tightly and ran toward the car.

“Hey!” he called.

The man leaned out from the open door, finally aware of Devon. Yet he seemed more concerned with checking his car door hinges than with the boy running up to him.

“Hey,” Devon said, reaching him, a little out of breath, “your offer for a ride still good?”

The man looked over at him, then quizzically back at his door. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Sure, kid. Jump in.”

“Sweet,” Devon said, beaming.

He has answers, the Voice told him.

Answers Devon had come to Misery Point to find.

Devon March was fifteen years old. He was not like other boys; he’d known that since the age of four, when he made his dog Max, a wiry Yorkshire terrier, levitate across the room. One time, running a relay race with his best friend Tommy, Devon had sprinted across the playground before any of the other kids had even left the starting gate. Since then, he’d stood face to face with demons—so close he could see right up their nostrils, demonic nose hair and all. That wasn’t something he imagined many other kids his age could claim.

No, not like other boys.

“You have a gift,” his father had told him ever since he was a little. “You can do things others can’t. Things people wouldn’t understand. Things they might fear.”

“But why, Dad? Why can I do these things?”

“Why doesn’t matter, Devon. Just know that all power ultimately comes from good, and so long as you use your power in the pursuit of good, you will always be stronger than whatever else is out there.”

He felt kind of like Clark Kent on Smallville, except he knew there was no rocket ship hidden in some barn to explain his origins. His father promised him that someday he would understand everything about his powers and his heritage. But until then, he had only to trust in the power of good.

“Call it God, as many do,” his father had told him shortly before he died. “Call it a higher force, the spirit of the universe, the power of nature. It is all of these things. It is the light within you.”

Dad had started talking in these weird riddles in his last weeks, and Devon had sat there trying to make them out as best as he could. But in trying to figure them out, he had gotten exactly jack—and then Dad had died, leaving Devon with a whole new set of mysteries to ponder.

“You’re going where?” the old woman sitting next to him on the bus had asked.

“Misery Point,” Devon repeated. “It’s way up north on the coast of Maine.”

“I know where it is,” she’d said, all eyes and shriveled mouth, “and you’ll find no one there but ghosts.”

Up until that point, the old woman had taken a liking to him. She’d asked where he was from, and he’d told her upstate New York, a little town called Coles Junction. They’d exchanged pleasantries and watched the colors of the New England foliage pass outside their window. But once he’d spoken the words Misery Point, Devon had found her strange and recoiling.

“Ghosts?” Devon asked her. “Whaddya mean, ghosts?”

“I know these parts,” she warned. “And that is not a place for a young man to go. Stay away from there.”

Devon laughed. “Well, normally I’d take your warning under advisement, but you see, my dad just died, and he left guardianship to an old friend of his who lives there. So my choices are rather limited, you understand.”

The old woman was shaking her head. “Don’t get off the bus. You stay right where you are until it turns around and heads back to wherever you came from.” She looked at him. Her old eyes were yellow and lined, but they glowed with a ferocity he hadn’t expected to see there. “There are legends,” she said.

Devon’s hand sought the indentation of the medal of the lady and the owl through his pants. “What kind of legends?” he asked.

“About the ghosts,” the woman said, lowering her voice. “I’m telling you true, my dear boy. All you’ll find there are ghosts. Oh, you young people today think nothing can harm you. You with your rap music and cell phones and Tweeter—”

“Twitter,” Devon corrected.

“Whatever. Point is, you’ve tuned out on the world around you.”

But that wasn’t true: at least not about Devon. He knew some things simply couldn’t be explained, that there did exist a realm of … of … Something Else. When he was a boy, fearful of the monsters in his closet, his father hadn’t soothed him with assurances that such things didn’t exist. How could he, when Devon at six had already witnessed a slimy, hairy creature crawl out of his closet and try to bite off both their heads? Rather, Dad had comforted him by telling him that he was stronger than any demon, that his powers were deep and rare.

Rare they certainly were, for they came and went with a frustrating frequency. In times of crisis—like demon invasions of his bedroom, for example, or the time Dad nearly fell off the ladder painting the house—they never failed. In those cases, Devon always managed to save the day thanks to his mysterious powers. But when he tried to impress a girl by lifting a barbell with only his mind, forget it.

In fact, Devon’s powers seemed to have a will of their own, sometimes fading away, other times popping out with no warning. Like that day in WalMart, when he wasn’t more than seven, when he’d wanted that anime video game so bad. It had risen off the shelf and floated across the aisle, dropping into Devon’s book bag. He hadn’t stolen it; it had simply followed him home. Devon was as surprised as Dad when he found it later that night among his books.

Then there was the time Mrs. Grayson had punished him for talking in class. She was a nasty old sow, a shriveled apple of a woman everyone despised. She made Devon turn his desk around the opposite way, facing the back wall. Mortified—Devon hated being singled out from the rest—he wished with all his might that he wasn’t the only one so punished. Suddenly, every desk in the class turned around to match Devon’s. Snarly old Mrs. Grayson practically had a coronary up there by the chalkboard.

Yet other than the powers and the demons—not insignificant exceptions, Devon admitted—he was like any other kid his age. At least he had been before he was sent away. He’d hung out with his friends, listened to music, watched TV, played video games. He’d been a good student and had lots of friends. He wasn’t the most popular kid in school, but he certainly wasn’t unpopular.

All that had changed when his father had died less than a month ago. Ted March had had a heart attack shortly before and had been confined to his bed. “You’ll get better, Dad,” Devon had insisted.

His father just smiled. “I’m a very, very old man, Devon.”

“Dad, you’re only in your fifties.” He looked at his father intently. “That’s not so old.”

His father had just smiled and closed his eyes.

Dad lingered less than a month. He tried to rally but never found the strength. Devon found him one morning, just as the sun was breaking over the horizon. Dad had died quietly in his sleep, alone. Devon just sat there for an hour at the side of his father’s bed, stroking his cold hand and letting the tears run down his cheeks. Only then did he telephone Mr. McBride, Dad’s lawyer, and give him the news.

How quickly his old life had been replaced. Practically all Devon had left from that old life was Dad’s medal. It was silver on one side, with an engraving of a flying owl, and copper on the other side, with an image of a lady dressed in a long robe. The medal had once jangled among the coins in his father’s pocket, always at ready grasp. His father had called it a talisman. When Devon had asked what a talisman was, his father had smiled and said, “Just call it my good luck charm.”

All the way up to Misery Point, Devon had kept reaching down into his pocket to cup the medal in his hand. The medal gave him a connection to the father he missed more than he could possibly express. Devon still woke up in the mornings expecting Dad to be out in the kitchen frying bacon and eggs for breakfast. He still expected Max to be panting eagerly in the hallway, wanting to go for a walk. For a terrible second every morning when he opened his eyes, Devon would forget everything that had happened the past few weeks: the funeral, the lawyers, the reading of the will—especially the startling confession Dad had made on his deathbed.

But quickly it always came rushing back: Dad was dead, Max had gone to live with Devon’s friend Tommy, and the topper of them all: Dad hadn’t even been his real father. Devon had been adopted. That’s what Dad had told him right before he died. That bit of knowledge proved to be even harder to absorb than the fact that Dad was dead.

“I may not have been your blood,” his father told him in a soft, weak voice, his frail body propped up with pillows, “but always know that I loved you as my own son.”

Devon had been unable to respond.

“I’m sending you to live with a family in Maine. Trust me, Devon. They will know what’s best for you.”

“Dad, why did you never tell me before?”

His father smiled sadly. “It was for the best, Devon. I know I ask a lot when I ask you to just trust me, but you do, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, Dad.” Devon felt the tears push forward and drop, hot and stinging, one by one down his cheeks. “Dad, you can’t die. Please. Don’t leave me alone. The demons may come back. And I still don’t understand why.”

“You’re stronger than any of them, Devon. Remember that.”

“But, Dad, why am I this way? You said I’d understand someday. You can’t die without telling me the truth. Please, Dad! Does what I am have something to do with who I am? With my real parents?”

Dad tried to answer, but found he couldn’t. He just closed his eyes and settled back into his pillows. He died that night.

After the will was read, Dad’s lawyer, old Mr. McBride, told Devon that guardianship had been left to a woman named Mrs. Amanda Muir Crandall, way out on the rocky coast of Maine—in a place called Misery Point.

You’ll find no one there but ghosts.

Ah—but they are your ghosts, the Voice in his head told him.

The old woman beside him on the bus had kept her distance the rest of the way. Devon had concentrated on the landscape rolling by outside his window. He’d watched as the day deepened from its heavy blue, threatening rain into a wet violet, blurring like an amateur watercolor. By the time he’d arrived in Misery Point, mist was speckling his window, and Devon had looked out into the dampness with a growing ache of loneliness.

“You’re nearly a man,” Mr. McBride had told him when he’d put him on the bus.

Nearly a man, Devon thought. He knew he’d passed innocence a long time ago—the first time the eyes in his closet turned out to be real, in fact—but he still felt very young and very alone riding that bus.

Dad …

In the reflection of the window he tried to remember his father’s face.

How can I face them without you? How can I learn everything I need to understand? How can I find out who I really am?

Thunder crackled, and suddenly the sky opened. The earth was all at once bombarded by rain. Devon slid quickly into the Porsche next to the man he was convinced held some of the answers he sought.

“The name’s Rolfe Montaigne,” the man said, reaching over to shake Devon’s hand.

“Devon March,” the boy replied.

Raindrops pounded on the roof of the car like hundreds of tiny tap dancers each in a race to see who was fastest. In the dry interior, Devon found the smell of the leather soothing, the soft supple seat seeming to embrace him as he settled into his space. The heat was gone, the pressure lifted. He rested his head back and closed his eyes.

Montaigne flicked on the wipers and shifted into reverse, looking over his shoulder as he began backing the car up once more.

“Looks as if we made it just in time,” he said. “It’s supposed to get pretty bad tonight. You haven’t seen a storm till you’ve seen one at Misery Point.”

“Guess that’s where the name comes from, huh?”

“That and a few other things.” Montaigne headed the car out onto the road. “So where are you headed?”

Devon opened his eyes and looked over at him. “It’s a house called Ravenscliff. Do you know it? Can you drop me there?”

“Do I know it?” Montaigne looked over at him sharply. “Kid, I wouldn’t drive you up to Ravenscliff if I had garlic around my car windows and a crucifix on my dashboard.”

Devon smirked. “Um, so that’d be a no?”

“What are you going to Ravenscliff for?”

Devon wasn’t sure he should answer. The man might have answers, but whether he could be trusted or not, the Voice hadn’t yet revealed. “Look,” Devon said, “if you don’t want to drive up there—”

Montaigne shook his head, a smirk creeping across his lips. “I’ll take you as far as the Borgo Pass. You can get a cab there.”

“Very funny,” Devon said. “I get the references. I’ve read Dracula. Borgo Pass. Garlic. What is it about this place? Why’s everyone scared of it?”

“It is Walpurgis night,” Montaigne said, laughing, mock blessing himself with his free hand. He winked over at Devon. “Nosferatu.”

“You don’t scare me, man.”

“I don’t?” Rolfe asked, grinning over at him, white teeth in the dark. “You sure?”

Devon gave him the most unimpressed face he could muster. Maybe he ought to be scared of this guy, but he was sure not going to show it.

The man laughed, and Devon turned to look out onto the watery streets, the rain distorting his view through the glass. The street beyond was a river of blues and reds and yellows, cast in shadows, the neon of storefronts reflecting crazily.

Silence fell over the car after that, the only sounds the swish of the wipers against the glass and the pounding rain on the roof. The highway rose and became a bridge over a large body of water and Devon could feel the force of the high wind. Montaigne had to struggle a bit to keep the car on a straight path. Finally, they arrived onto a long narrow stretch of land. Devon knew from looking at a map earlier that Misery Point sat at the end of a long rocky peninsula, jutting out from the coast into the Atlantic Ocean. Wind and water pelted the car windows. He heard again Mr. McBride’s brittle laugh. Why do you think it’s called Misery Point?

The swaying beams of the Porsche’s headlights cut into the stormy blackness of the crooked road ahead, revealing little but hostile barren branches that reach out across the road. Devon felt almost mesmerized watching them.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” Montaigne said, breaking the uneasy silence, “but is your business at Ravenscliff brief?”

“Not very.” Devon looked over at him, deciding to try the truth. “It’s only, like, permanent.” He waited a beat. “I’m going there to live.”

“Live? You’re going there to live?”

“Well, I certainly hope I’m not going there to die.”

Montaigne didn’t reply. He just looked over at Devon as if the idea was not really so farfetched.

Devon wrestled down a shudder. “My father just died,” he explained, “and guardianship was left to the lady who lives at Ravenscliff. A Mrs. Crandall.”

Montaigne had returned his eyes to the road. The rain was coming down more furiously now. “Are you a relative?” he asked.

“Not that I’m aware. All my dad told me was that Mrs. Crandall would know what was best for me.”

“Curious.” Montaigne seemed to roll the information over in his mind. “Mighty curious indeed.”

They had come to a red light, which seemed to swim in the watery darkness beyond the windshield. Montaigne looked over at the boy.

“I’m sorry about your father,” he said.

Devon looked away. He couldn’t reply.

“I know what it’s like,” Montaigne told him. “I lost my father when I was eight.”

The light changed. They appeared to be driving through the center of the village. White clapboard shops, many with their windows boarded up for the season.

“So why do you say it’s curious?” Devon asked. “Do you know the people who live at Ravenscliff?”

The windshield wipers screeched like angry sea birds. “Oh, yes,” the man replied quietly, “I know them. Very well.”

Devon noted the sarcasm in his voice, but another idea had just occurred to him. “Maybe you knew my father then, too,” he inquired. “Ted March.”

Montaigne considered the name. “Ted March. No, sorry. I’ve lived here in Misery Point most of my life, except for a few years when I was out making my fortune. But I can’t say I recall anybody by that name.” He smiled. “But, then, Amanda Muir Crandall has lots of secrets. If your father said he knew her, I don’t doubt him.”

The man looked over at Devon again. His eyes were deeply set and shone a brilliant green, even here in the darkened car.

He knows, the Voice told Devon again.

But what? There was history behind Montaigne’s words, a history Devon was certain could answer many of his own questions. Yet for all of what he might know, Rolfe Montaigne also troubled Devon, even if he couldn’t figure out exactly why. Certainly he felt none of the heat here in Montaigne’s car, none of the ominous pressure that signaled the demons were close.

“How do you know Mrs. Crandall?” Devon asked.

“I’m an old friend,” Rolfe said. “You make sure you give her my regards.”

Devon didn’t need an extrasensory Voice to tell him that was more sarcasm.

The car splashed through a deep gut in the road, but Rolfe Montaigne didn’t seem to notice. “So you’ll have to transfer to school here,” he observed.

“Yeah. That’s probably the worst part. I hate being the new kid.”

“What year are you in?”

“I’m a sophomore,” Devon told him.

Montaigne nodded. “Did you talk with Mrs. Crandall at all before coming up here?”

“No,” Devon said. “My father’s lawyer did. I haven’t had any communication with her at all. I do know she has a daughter my age.”

“Oh, yes. Cecily.” Montaigne smiled. “And then there’s the nephew. Surely you know about Alexander.”

“No,” Devon admitted.

“An eight-year-old.” Montaigne lifted his eyebrows over at him, and once more his white teeth flashed in the dark. “You like kids?”

“Don’t have anything particular against them.”

Montaigne laughed. “After you meet little Alexander, you might rethink that idea.”

He turned the wheel and headed abruptly off the road, into a parking lot beside a large white house. A sign swung ferociously in the wind, engraved with old Gothic letters: stormy harbor. The tires of the car crunched gravel before coming to a stop.

“Here we are,” Montaigne said, smiling strangely across at Devon. “The Borgo Pass. You can get a cab here to take you up to the house.”

“Thanks for the ride,” Devon said, turning to open the door.

“Not yet.” Montaigne reached across the boy to snap the car door’s lock into place. “Not so fast.”

Rolfe Montaigne’s face was suddenly no more than four inches from Devon’s.

“Next time,” Montaigne whispered menacingly, “you ought to think twice about who you accept rides from. Anybody could have told you to stay away from Rolfe Montaigne. They could have told you that Rolfe Montaigne served five years in prison—for killing a young boy just like you.”

The House on the Hill

“Back off,” Devon said in a small, hushed voice.

Rolfe Montaigne laughed. “Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

He leaned back into his seat and Devon exhaled. The boy’s hands were tightly drawn into fists, prepared to have used whatever power he might have summoned.

“You totally did mean to scare me,” Devon told Montaigne.

The man was looking over at him. “Just figured you were going to start hearing all sorts of scary stories about me, especially up there at Ravenscliff. Figured I’d let you hear it from me first.”

Devon swallowed. “Did you really kill—?”

“You ask Mrs. Crandall to give you the whole story.” Montaigne opened his car door and stepped outside. In seconds he was opening Devon’s door, shielding him from the rain with an umbrella. “I’m sure the mistress of Ravenscliff will be only too happy to give you all the details.”

Devon squinted into the rainy darkness, trying to make sense of the place.

Montaigne gestured up at the storm clouds. “Welcome,” he said, “to Misery Point.”

The murky yellow light of the windows of Stormy Harbor burned through the rain. Devon and Montaigne hurried inside, where the older man shook his umbrella and headed without any further word off to a back room. Devon stood by himself, looking around. The place was dark, paneled in deep brown wood, hung with fishing nets and life preservers. The floorboards were uneven, warped from decades of sea air. A few tables with kerosene lamps were scattered across the floor; two craggy old men sat against a far wall drinking beer and smoking pipes.

Lining the front wall was a bar edged with stools. Devon sidled onto one, attracting the attention of the bartender. She was a plump young woman with close cut red hair, a dimple in her chin and a gold hoop through her left eyebrow. Somehow her appearance reassured Devon. Someone with an eyebrow piercing couldn’t be as weird as Rolfe Montaigne.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

“Coffee,” Devon told her.

She poured him a cup. “Here ya go. Ain’t a fit night out for—ah, you know the rest.”

Devon smiled. “Well, it certainly is beastly out there.”

“You new in town?”

“Yes,” Devon replied, sipping the coffee “Just arrived tonight.”

“Where from?”

“New York.”

“Really now?” She leaned forward. “You’re a big city boy.”

“Not Manhattan,” he said. “From upstate.”

“Oh.” The bartender folded her arms across her rather large chest. “So what brings you all the way out to Misery Point, at the end of nowhere?”

“I’m going to live with a family here. At Ravenscliff. Do you know the place?”

There it was again, Devon realized: that look. The same look the old woman had given him on the bus; the same that crossed Rolfe Montaigne’s face in the car.

“Do I know the place?” The bartender laughed. “Everyone in Misery Point knows Ravenscliff. How could we not? That family owns half the freakin’ town.”

“They’re very wealthy, I was told.”

“They’ve got more money than God.” She grabbed a dishcloth and began wiping down the bar. “The Muirs practically built this village. Bought the fishing fleet, started the tourist trade, everything. There was nothing here before the Muirs. Every schoolkid knows the legends of Ravenscliff—how old Horatio Muir built the house out there on the point and how all the ravens descended on it and came to live there.”

“Ravens?”

“Yup. You know, the big black birds. My grandfather remembers when the place was covered with them. That’s how it got its name. There aren’t any ravens up there anymore, but the place is still the creepiest thing you can imagine.”

Devon laughed. “I was told all I’d find there are ghosts.”

Her eyes twinkled. “You were told right. Ghosts and a few crazy real live people.” She grinned. “I’m Andrea, by the way. You?”

“Devon,” he told her. They shook hands.

“So you’re really going up to that house to live?”

He nodded. “Mrs. Crandall is my guardian. My father died. I kind of got left to her in the will.”

“Weirdness,” Andrea said. “That’s one odd lady. Her daughter’s pretty cool, though. Cecily. She comes in here to hang sometimes with her friends. She’s about your age.”

“Well, that’s good. I was beginning to think it was only going to be awkward and boring up there.”

Andrea shrugged. “Well, those are two adjectives that definitely describe this town. I don’t know what the place you came from is like, but Misery Point can be pretty bleak. Especially, like, in January, February, March. Nobody’s around and most everything except this here dive is closed. Summertime, that’s a different story. In the winter, we’re just under three thousand people, but at the peak of the season—Fourth of July through Labor Day—we’ve got something like fifty thousand tourists crammed in.”

“Wow.”

“You know, I think it’s the name. You’d think it would keep people away, but no. Everybody wants to say they’ve been to Misery Point and back. Us poor townies—we kill ourselves in the summer trying to accommodate all of them. I suppose we should be grateful. It’s their dollars that keep us all living from September to May.”

“I’ll be sixteen by summer,” Devon said. “I’d like to get a job.”

“They’ll be plenty of them in the summer. So you’re what? A sophomore?”

“Yeah. I’ve got to start school here in a week. Coming in midsemester is kind of weird. I’m not looking forward to it.”

“Cecily will take care of you. She’s got her own little clique of friends. It’s not a bad school. I graduated a few years ago. It’s a regional, so that’s cool. At least you’ll meet kids from outside Misery Point.” She fiddled with the ring in her eyebrow. “So you think you’ll stay here for good?”

Devon looked off towards the windows. The rain continued to crash against the glass. “I don’t know,” he told her. “For now, I have no choice. But later …”

His words faded off. Ever since the will was read, Devon had wondered how long he’d stay in Misery Point. Part of him had rebelled against the idea of leaving Coles Junction and his friends. He missed Suze and Tommy—and especially his dog Max—like crazy. But another part of him had been compelled by the Voice: The answers are there in Misery Point. Who you are. What you are.

In the hours after Dad had died, the heat in Devon’s room had ratcheted up twenty degrees. In his grief, Devon hadn’t thought he was strong enough to withstand whatever it was that haunted him. But he was—just as he’d always been: with just one sharp look and a wave of his hand, his armoire had slid across his room, blocking his door. The knob had turned and rattled, but nothing had gotten in.

The answers are here, the Voice was telling him.

And Devon agreed: I knew that from the moment I stepped off the train.

“Anybody tell you about the kid?” Andrea was asking.

Devon returned his eyes to her. “The kid? Oh, you mean the little boy at Ravenscliff.”

She nodded. “‘Little boy’ is a deceptive description. Try monster. Try gremlin. Do you know why they kicked him out of the school he was going to in Connecticut?”

Devon grinned. “I’m afraid to find out.”

Andrea let out a hoot. “He set the curtains in the cafeteria on fire. The cafeteria! Now, I could understand the headmaster’s bedroom, or the math classroom—but the cafeteria!”

Devon shook his head. “Sounds like a kid with a severe case of I-want-attention-and-I-want-it-now.”

“Yeah, Alexander Muir is definitely twisted. Growing up in that house, I can understand.”

“Too many ghosts?” Devon smiled.

Andrea shrugged. “Hey, that’s what they say.” She leaned in towards him. “You can still hear Emily Muir’s screams at Devil’s Rock. And this is firsthand information, buddy. I’ve heard them myself.”

“Whoa,” Devon said. “Screams? Devil’s Rock?”

“Yeah. It’s the highest point overlooking the sea, out at the end of the Muir estate, the very tip of Misery Point. Emily Muir threw herself off the cliff fifty years ago. It’s said she found her husband with another woman.”

Devon grinned. “Sounds like some bad horror film on Lifetime.”

“Scoff if you must, but her husband is the worst ghost of all. Jackson Muir. My parents remember him from when they were kids. He was a real live person then, living in that house, and he terrorized the village. They say he was a warlock.”

“Warlock? You mean like the kind they turn out at Hogwarts?”

She tossed the dishrag at him. “Hey, I’m just repeating what I’ve been told. Poor old Jackson Muir, though. None of his spells could bring his precious Emily back, and so he died in grief and guilt, you know, cuz he’d been cheating on her.”

“You’re just trying to freak me out,” Devon told her.

Andrea smirked. “Have I succeeded?”

“No.” He took another sip of coffee. “I don’t scare easily. Never have.”

“Well, you just watch out for yourself. Mrs. Crandall is just this side of Looney Toons. I’ll see her driving along in that Jaguar of hers. She’ll show up in some local shop all covered up with silk scarves so that you can hardly see her face and then she’ll haggle over the price of a ten-dollar pair of sandals.” She leaned over the bar. “And do you know what else is weird about that family? They’ve only got one servant. One! Can you imagine? For that big house? Why, I can barely keep my little one-room apartment clean, and they’ve got fifty!”

“Fifty rooms?”

“Yup. Can you imagine?”

No, Devon couldn’t. But somewhere in those fifty rooms he was convinced he’d find a clue to who he was and where his strange powers came from.

“More coffee?” Andrea asked.

“No, thanks,” Devon said, draining his cup. He looked over his shoulder. Rolfe Montaigne still hadn’t emerged from the back room. “Is there a phone I could use? I can’t get reception on mine.” He showed her the lack of bars on his phone.

“Get used to that, buddy. Our insufficient cell towers are legendary. The tourists are always griping about it, but whenever town meeting brings up the issue, the locals always vote it down.” She rolled her eyes. “People here seem to think too many cell towers will give them brain cancer or something, or allow the government to spy on them. You’ll see. This town is rather paranoid.”

“Well, I need to call a cab to get me to Ravenscliff.”

“They didn’t even send a car to get you?”

“They were supposed to, but no one was there.” Devon took his wallet out of his jacket pocket and withdrew a five-dollar bill, setting it on the counter just as he noticed Montaigne come out of the back room. “That guy gave me a ride here.”

Andrea looked off in Montaigne’s direction and made a face.

“You aren’t messed up with Rolfe Montaigne, are you?” she asked.

“No, he just gave me a ride. Why? Shouldn’t I be?” Devon looked at Andrea intently. “He told me he went to jail for murder. Is that true, or was he just trying to scare me?”

She snorted. “I’ve told you enough horror stories tonight,” she said. “Don’t get me started on Rolfe Montaigne. I’ll call you a cab. There’s only one guy in town.”

Devon thanked her. She headed to the other end of the bar to make the call. Devon looked around at the other people in the bar, waiting to see if he picked anything up from them. Nothing. No voice. No heat.

But he knew there were people in this town who held the truth he sought. And he’d find them. Fate—or whatever—had already brought him into contact with one: the mysterious Rolfe Montaigne, who, after waving to Andrea, walked straight past Devon and out of the place without saying another word. In moments, Devon could hear the engine of the Porsche kick in. The headlights cast their light through the windows behind the bar as Montaigne drove off.

“The cab will be here in about five minutes,” Andrea told him when she returned. “Stop in again. You’ll need to get out of that house often if you want to stay sane.”

Devon promised.

Even before the five minutes were up, the cab honked from outside. Devon rushed out to meet it. The rain had eased up. The windshield wipers flicked back and forth only every few minutes. The driver was a squat man with leathery skin—a fisherman by day, Devon imagined—and dark eyes under a heavy brow. Like everyone else, he was surprised when Devon told him his destination was Ravenscliff, arching a furry eyebrow at him in his rearview mirror. But he said nothing and drove on.

The moon reemerged from the dark gray clouds overhead, a shy child peeking around a corner past its bedtime. Its light was hesitant, unsure: it came and went, but it was bright enough to illuminate the jagged wet rocks on the side of the road and the roiling sea beyond. The white caps of the waves seemed unbearably cold to Devon. He listened as they crashed on the beach below.

Finally, up ahead, standing against the moonlight on the top of Devil’s Rock, he saw Ravenscliff. It was little more than a shadow at first, a silhouette, as if it were a painted backdrop on a Broadway stage.

“There she is,” the cab driver croaked.

“Yes,” Devon replied, his eyes caught.

“I don’t much say anythin’ to the folks I drive,” the man told him, glancing sharply in the rearview mirror. “And God knows I see enough that I could say somethin’. I pick up drunks and take ‘em home to their wives. I pick up politicians and bring ‘em to their mistresses. I don’t say nothin’. Never have. But tonight, I’ll give you a tip.”

“What’s that?” Devon asked. They rounded a curve on the seaside road and began the snaking drive up the hill. Ravenscliff loomed over them now, black and foreboding, poised on the edge of the cliff.

“You do whatever business you have up there and leave,” the cab driver said. “Don’t ask no questions. Just do what you came to do and get out.”

Devon kept his eyes on the dark mansion. There were only two windows lit, both on the first floor, and their light seemed dull and uninspired, as if hesitant to disturb the shadows. A tower rose from the east end of the house into the black-violet sky.

“I’m afraid that will be difficult for me to do,” Devon explained. “I’m going to live there.”

The driver grunted. “Well, I feel sorry for you, my boy. I worked for Edward Muir once, on one of his boats. He thought he owned me. Don’t let him do that to you.”

The cab driver pulled over to the side of the road. Ravenscliff was still some yards in the distance up the hill.

“Why did you stop?” Devon asked.

“This is the end of the line for me.”

Devon laughed. If anything, he wasn’t surprised: he might have expected such behavior, given everything else that night. “What?” he asked. “Are you afraid the werewolves will be set loose upon you if you drive any closer?”

“Might be,” the man said, and he seemed utterly serious.

Devon was angry. He got out of the cab, lugging his heavy suitcase behind him. “Here,” he said, thrusting three dollars through the front window. “Don’t bother looking for a tip because you won’t find one.”

“Don’t matter. Just wish you’d take mine.” The driver made a U-turn and headed back down the road, leaving the boy alone in a swath of moonlight, light rain misting his face. Below, the monotonous crash of the waves drowned out the sound of the speeding cab as it descended the hill back into the village.

Devon looked up at the house ahead of him. Another light had appeared: in the topmost window of the tower. “There,” he said. “The place is coming to life.”

Yet, trudging forward, he wished he could have believed that. Instead, he whistled in the dark, warding off evil spirits with his happy tunes, clutching his suitcase in one hand and the medal of the lady and the owl in his pocket in the other.

Devon’s friend Suze had been easily frightened. Back in Coles Junction, they’d all go to the movies—Devon and Suze and Tommy and whoever else might be hanging with them that day. They loved scary movies: 28 Days Later and Drag Me to Hell and even Shaun of the Dead. Suze would get all neurotic whenever the music got creepy, and Devon would have to reach across in the darkness and take her hand, reassuring her. Sometimes, walking home, they cut through an old churchyard corridor. The only light in the corridor came from dim yellow lamps high up on the stone wall every few yards. Bats were known to fly along this route, their high-pitched cries only slightly more horrifying than the sound of their slippery wings beating against the cold stone. Suze would hear the bats and start to run, her hands covering her hair, begging for Devon to follow. But Devon was simply fascinated by the flying rodents. He caught sight of their eyes: little red embers in the shadows.

Whenever Suze got really frightened, Devon remembered, she’d start humming or singing to herself. “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way,” she’d sing, even in the direst days of summer. Those little tunes: as if the bats would be lulled to sleep, the ghosts shamed into submission, the demons driven back to the depths all because of the forced frivolity of one young girl.

Yet now Devon hummed the same little tune himself. For the first time, he admitted to a little fear himself. He could feel the heat building the closer he came to the great house. And he could hear voices behind the wind: not the Voice that guided him, but the voices of others. The voices of the eyes that had stared out at him from the darkness of his closet since he was six.

Not more than two yards from the front gate, Devon stopped walking and looked up. Through the rusted iron spears of the gate, he could see the house twist its way upward. The clouds were gone, and the moon, emboldened, claimed the sky. There was enough light now to make out the facade of the house: rain-slicked black stone worn by decades of sea wind. The wood of the house was as ebony as the stone: dark old wood, crusty with the salt of the sea. Ravens or no ravens, Devon found the name of the house appropriate. It was as black as a raven’s wing. Monstrous gargoyles like those on medieval French cathedrals protruded from the higher reaches of the house: hideous clawed and winged creatures that Devon knew were all too real.

Had the builder of this house known it too?

A sudden wind, chill and damp, fought him as he approached. You can’t stop me, Devon thought. No matter how hard you try, I’ve come here to find out the truth. The truth that’s been kept from me all my life.

He passed under the front gate and started up the long driveway. It curved toward the main entrance then continued out beyond the house to smaller buildings. Devon walked with a briskness that belied the strength of the wind. His gait was as much to reassure him as the little tunes that still came forth from his lips: “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way …”

Someone—something—was watching him. He was suddenly convinced of it.

Be on guard, came the Voice. He half-expected at any moment to be pounced upon by some creature from the dark bushes that lined the driveway, some crazed animal with long teeth and red eyes.

But when he spotted his watcher, he saw that it was decidedly human. Devon lifted his eyes to the tower. The moonlight revealed a man—or at least, something that had the shape of a man—watching his arrival from an aperture in the crenelated turret.

Devon stopped in his tracks. He felt the weight of his body leave him, rising from his bones and evaporating like steam. He tried to fix his gaze upon the man above, but whenever Devon’s eyes settled, the man seemed to vanish completely into the shadows. He could only see the man in his peripheral vision, as if whoever stood atop the tower existed not there but somewhere else.

Yet for the seconds that Devon did actually see the man, all sound ceased: the steady beating of the waves against the rocks below, the hooting of birds from the woods around him, the pulse of his heart in his own ears. It was then that the words of the old woman on the train echoed in his mind, startling the stillness like the cry of a gull:

“You’ll find no one there but ghosts.”

Creatures in the Night

How long he stood there staring at the tower Devon wasn’t sure, but something roused him from his trance, as if some unseen hypnotist had snapped his fingers. The Voice maybe—but Devon wasn’t sure he actually heard it or what it might have said. Perhaps it was simply the light in the topmost tower room going out, leaving the upper floors of the house in complete darkness once again. Or maybe it was the rain, starting again, wetting his face with hundreds of damp little tongues.

Gathering his wits, Devon took the final steps to the house. He knocked upon the door using the rusted brass ring that hung there. It reverberated with a deep, cavernous echo, as he suspected it might.

The front door of Ravenscliff was opened not by a servant—the lone servant Andrea had said the family employed—but by a woman Devon could not have expected. She was tall, titian-haired, and startlingly beautiful, of indeterminate age, her chin raised imperiously, with a sharp, striking profile and very long neck. She wore a simple but elegant black dress. Her hair was gathered in an elaborate French twist worn at the back of her head, and a single strand of pearls adorned her bare throat. Her eyes were large and set far apart, and they widened without blinking when she saw Devon standing there.

“Mrs. Crandall?” he asked.

“Yes,” the woman replied, not extending her hand or asking him inside. “And you are Devon.”

It was not a question but a statement. She spoke his name with a determined emphasis, and her eyes never left his face.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Devon March.”

She smiled, finally. “Please come inside.” She stepped back, allowing him to enter the foyer of the great mansion. “Where’s my daughter?” she asked, looking past him. “Isn’t Cecily with you?”

“No, ma’am. I took a cab here.”

“A cab?” Mrs. Crandall seemed genuinely outraged as she closed the door. “Why, I distinctly told Cecily this morning to arrange with Simon, our driver, to meet you at the bus station. Weren’t they there?”

“No, ma’am. There was no one. It’s all right, though. I was able to see a little of the village this way, and meet a few people …”

She looked at him hard. Devon had the feeling that meeting the villagers was the last thing Mrs. Crandall had wanted him to do on his first night in Misery Point.

And who could blame her? The stories he had heard, the legends of the ghosts, the hostility toward the Muir family … And now he was there, in the fabled house, standing where few had ever gained entrance.

Devon looked around him. The high cathedral ceiling of the foyer and the enormous stained glass windows—St. George slaying the dragon—suggested an old church, an image aided by the presence of dozens of candles burning atop brass and pewter candelabras. To his right the grand curved staircase was carpeted with an old Oriental runner. The floor on which it was laid was marble, a deep violet and gray stone that shone as brightly as if it had been cut and polished only the day before. Dark wood walls were hung with somber portraits of men and women Devon assumed to be Muir ancestors: Which one might be Jackson the warlock, he wondered. And his tragic wife Emily, who threw herself off Devil’s Rock?

“I apologize for my daughter,” Mrs. Crandall was saying.

“That’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t know where she is.” She glanced up at the old grandfather’s clock that stood in the foyer. It was a quarter past ten. Mrs. Crandall drew her shoulders up and walked toward a pair of closed double doors, her black dress molded against her shapely body. Devon felt weird checking out her legs, given how much older she was, but he had to admit they were definitely fine.

“I will speak with Cecily,” Mrs. Crandall told Devon. “Now, put down your bag. I’ll have Simon take it upstairs for you. Whenever he shows up, that is. Come into the parlor and let’s get acquainted.”

She opened the doors in a manner that further solidified her status as a great lady: with both hands on both doorknobs, sweeping into the room as the doors yielded to her effort. Inside, a fire crackled within the old stone hearth. An elegant sofa was angled in front, watched over by a stern old man in a portrait above the mantel.

Devon could see why people whispered about Ravenscliff, why Andrea’s parents might have told her that old Jackson Muir was a warlock. Among the books on the shelves that lined the room were several skulls, at least three shrunken heads, and half a dozen crystal balls. A suit of armor stood against the far wall. It sure looked like Dumbledore’s den.

“Wow,” Devon said, looking around. “Cool room.”

To the left, large glass doors draped in rich purple velvet offered a magnificent view of the coast off Devil’s Rock, the moonlit stormy waters crashing against the rocks far below.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Mrs. Crandall admitted. “Both my father and grandfather were travelers and quite the collectors. These trinkets come from all over the world.”

“Awesome.” Devon placed his hand on one of the skulls, withdrawing it quickly when he felt a jolt of something like electricity. He hoped Mrs. Crandall hadn’t noticed.

“Have a seat,” she was telling him.

They sat in front of the fire, Devon on the sofa and Mrs. Crandall in a large cushioned wing chair that the boy instinctively knew was exclusively hers. The warmth of the fire felt good to Devon, whose skin had seemed to absorb the moisture of the night. He shivered. Mrs. Crandall noticed and raised an eyebrow.

“Are you cold? Shall I get you some tea?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine now that I’m finally out of the rain.”

“I apologize again. Cecily will be reprimanded.”

“No, please, not on my account. I wouldn’t want to start off on the wrong foot with her.”

She sighed. “I’ve tried to impose some discipline on Cecily, but it’s difficult. She can be headstrong. I take it that you will respect the rules of the household, Devon?”

“Well, I’ll do my best.”

She brought the tips of her fingers against each other. The glow of the fire reflected along her face and neck. Again, Devon was struck by her beauty. He concentrated, trying to see if the Voice might tell him anything about her, but it was silent. The heat he felt outside the house had subsided, too; the only warmth now came from the fire.

“I imagine you must be anxious to resume your schooling,” Mrs. Crandall said.

He shrugged. “Well, leaving school in the middle of the semester was hard. I imagine starting up here will be even more so.”

“I’ve arranged with a tutor at the school to help you if needed. I’ve spoken with the guidance counselors, and everything has been arranged for you to start on Monday. You needn’t worry.”

He laughed a little. “I don’t worry—not about that anyway. The worst thing is just leaving my old friends behind.”

Her face seemed to reflect some compassion. “I was very sad to hear about your father’s death, Devon,” she said, softer now. “Were you very close?”

“Yes, ma’am. Very close. My mother died when I was a baby, and I don’t remember her. So my Dad was all the family I had.”

She nodded. “I see. Well, for however long you remain with us, we are glad to welcome you to ours.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Devon appreciated her words, but there was little emotion behind them. “Mrs. Crandall, may I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Was this an agreement between you and my dad? That if anything ever happened to him, you’d take me in?”

She moved her eyes off to the fireplace. “To be frank, Devon, no. I was as surprised as you probably were when I got the call from Mr. McBride telling me about the guardianship.”

“Then you could’ve said no.”

“I could have.” She returned her gaze to him. “But I didn’t.”

“How did you know my dad? You must have been close if he sent me to live with you.”

“It was a very long time ago. I gather your father never spoke of Ravenscliff.”

Devon shook his head. “Never. Not until right before he died.”

Mrs. Crandall stood and approached the fire, warming her hands over it. “I suppose your father felt I could offer you things he never could. That we could provide well for you here.”

Devon glanced around the room at the antiques, the silver serving set, the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “Yeah, I suppose he did,” he said.

His own house back in Coles Junction had been small, just four rooms: his and his dad’s bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen. Dad had worked as a landscaper and mechanic, making what he could. He’d smelled of motor oil and cut grass, with grime permanently embedded in the pores and cracks of his hands. He’d driven an old Buick, owned just one sport jacket, and while he made sure Devon never wanted for anything—food, clothing, toys—they never took the kinds of vacations that Tommy did with his folks: to Disney World or Cape Cod or up to Mount Snow for skiing.

“There are some rules, however, Devon,” Mrs. Crandall was saying, “and as I said, I expect that you follow them.” She drew herself up regally, like a duchess or something. “This is a big house, with only a few of us living here now, so we’ve closed the East Wing. Under no circumstances should you attempt to go into that part of the house. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Also, my mother is not well. She has not left her room in years. I’d prefer for the time being you not meet her.”

“All right.” Devon felt a little tingle in his fingertips as Mrs. Crandall set down the rules. The sensation moved up his fingers and into his hands. Just by telling him that there were places and people in the house that he was not supposed to see, she had succeeded in making him suspicious.

And he realized that so far there’d been no mention of a Mr. Crandall, the husband of the woman standing before him. Devon wondered just how many secrets were held by this family of which he had suddenly found himself a part.

“You have a nephew, too,” he asked. “A little boy?”

Mrs. Crandall looked down at him with some surprise. “My, the townspeople have been busy filling you in, haven’t they? What else did they told you?”

“Well, to be honest, ma’am, several warned me against coming here.”

She smiled, turning around completely to face him. “I see. They warned you about the ghosts, I’m sure, and the strange, eccentric people who live in this house.”

“Yes,” Devon admitted. “They did.”

“They call me a witch down in the village. But do I look like a witch to you?”

“No, ma’am, you certainly do not.”

“Try not to concern yourself with the petty gossips of Misery Point,” Mrs. Crandall told him. She moved—it was more like gliding than walking—to the glass doors overlooking the sea. She stood there, framed in the moonlight.

She knows, the Voice said at last.

Devon had a sudden urge to lift one of the crystal balls from the shelves and gaze into it. Why not? the Voice asked. They belong to you.

The thought startled him. Belong to me? Could that be true?

He sat forward in his chair, watching Mrs. Crandall. What did she know of his past? Why had she brought him here?

“This is a house with many secrets, ” she said, as if responding to Devon’s unspoken questions, though she did not turn around to look back at him. “All old houses have them. Four generations of Muirs have lived in this house. Everyone who has lived here has left behind their secrets.” She paused. “We respect those secrets. We do not pry into them. Remember that, Devon.”

She turned at last, brightening. “But tell me about yourself. I am eager to learn more about you so that we can be friends.”

“There’s not much to tell beyond what you already know.” Devon had already decided against mentioning anything about his powers or the Voice. Maybe he would at some point, but not yet. There had been too many warning signs: he was still not sure he could trust Mrs. Crandall.

But he had to ask one question:

“Mrs. Crandall, do you know who my real father was?”

Her face turned ashen. Her elegant eyebrows rose; her exquisite lips parted. Then she recovered, a little, enough to say, “I wasn’t aware that Ted wasn’t your father. What makes you think that’s the case?”

“He told me. Just before he died. He said I should know the truth.” Devon narrowed his eyes at her. “I can’t believe that his decision to send me here and the truth of my real parents aren’t connected.”

She smiled. Whatever concern had flickered through her eyes was gone. “Well, I can’t imagine what that connection might be.”

“Are you telling me that you know nothing of who I am or where I come from?”

She looked at him with fierce, hard eyes. “That’s what I’m telling you.” Then she softened and looked away. “I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help.”

Thunder exploded all at once, seemingly directly over the house. The rain began again, torrentially, and the lights were suddenly snuffed out.

“Mother!”

From the foyer, a gust of wind and rain. The front doors flew open, and a pretty teenaged girl with bright red hair wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket and a short pink skirt tumbled inside, a tall boy with a shaved head close behind her.

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.”

“Why?”

“Because she’ll boot you out of here, no questions asked.” Cecily was evidently pleased by this bit of news. “Rolfe is hot. I’d totally go for him if I was older.”

“Why does your mother not like him? Did he really kill a kid?”

Cecily hopped off her bed. “Okay, I’ve talked way too much. If Mother came by and heard me blabbing about Rolfe, she’d throttle me. I mean … that’s the one name you can’t say in this house.”

“Now you’ve really got my curiosity going,”

“And that’s a shame, isn’t it?” She headed out of the room, turning in the doorway to look back at Devon. “I could probably tell such deep dark secrets to my boyfriend, but to a perfect stranger, no, I don’t think so.” She blew Devon a kiss. “Night, night,” she said, and disappeared down the hall.

Devon undressed, wishing the power was on so that he could plug in his computer—its battery was dead from the long bus ride—and see if Suze had written to him. She must have been wondering why Devon had just so abruptly stopped texting her. Maybe Tommy had written, too, telling him how Max was adjusting to living with him. Suddenly Devon missed his little Yorkie very much.

He brushed his teeth by candlelight in the attached bathroom and then, exhausted, slipped between the sheets. It was a comfortable bed, bigger and softer than what he’d had at home, but still sleep did not come easily. The storm remained fierce, a maelstrom that seemed to have descended upon the village and gotten trapped, spewing out its fury and frustration on everyone below. The shutters outside his window crashed and banged; wind howled through the eaves of the old house; lightning lit up his room at regular intervals. Devon lay wide awake, the eyes of Muir ancestors looking down upon him from their portraits on the walls.

Each time he began to doze off, a thunderclap would awaken him. In one such moment, as he hovered in those tenuous seconds between sleep and wakefulness, he saw the figure of a man standing among the shadows at the foot of his bed. He sat up at once, trying to focus his eyes.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

There was no one. But the heat had suddenly shot through the roof. A dank, damp pressure hummed at him, a whining vibration. His sheets were drenched.

It was like this last spring, Devon recalled. The pressure. The high-pitched whine. It had been the most terrifying night of his life, a night he’d been mostly successful in forgetting. But this was how it had begun, with the heat and the pressure. It had ended with Devon bruised and bloodied, but with a demon vanquished.

“Trust your instincts,” his father had taught him. “Your body will follow.”

The creature that had attacked him that night last spring had been far more cunning than the one who had visited years before, when Devon was six. This one had arrived not through his closet, with reptilian eyes blinking in the dark, but instead had walked casually through the door of his bedroom, in the guise of Devon’s father. Devon had been reading a graphic novel on his bed and had looked up to see his father come into the room—except Devon knew his father never just walked in without knocking first, and besides, his father was at the grocery store—

“Dad?”

The thing had turned on him then: great yellow eyes and dripping fangs, Dad’s form literally melting away in the angry rush of the demon’s passion. It had lunged at Devon; he’d fought back with pure instinct. The creature’s talons had sliced his shoulder and ripped an inch-deep gorge in his thigh, but Devon had prevailed, landing a powerhouse blow in the beast’s gut and sending it spiraling back into its Hell Hole. It had come for him—cannier, shrewder than the others—but still Devon had won.

It was happening again, he realized now.

Another one was close by.

They’ve followed me here.

Or, rather, I’ve found where they come from …

His heart began to thud in his chest. The room seemed to spin. Devon kicked off his sheets and tried to steady his vision, but he was caught in the rotation of the room. He began to feel dizzy.

With great effort, he swung his legs off the side of the bed. This was worse than last time. Far worse. The heat and the pressure had never been this intense before. Something was happening. He could feel it. Sweat began to pop from his forehead, running down his face. His t-shirt clung to his chest and under his pits. He forced himself to stand, but he faltered, nearly losing his balance.

“I am stronger than they are,” Devon said out loud, trying hard to believe it.

A dull, low roar filled the room. At first, behind the wind and rain and thunder, it was difficult to perceive, but it grew louder and more distinct. Surely the whole house could hear it. Cecily, Mrs. Crandall … surely they would come running. Devon grasped one of the posts of his bed, and concentrated as hard as he could. Maybe he could stop it in its tracks. He’d done that before. Only twice had he actually come face to face with them: every other time when he’d felt the pressure building or seen the eyes in the night, he’d managed to concentrate and send them away. With a raise of his hand he’d made his armoire slide across the room or his closet doors swing shut. He’d been able to silence the demonic whispering, make the terror dissolve.

But it hadn’t worked the time the demon disguised as Dad had so casually breezed into his room. There had been no warning then; that creature had been far too clever for that. Devon had had to fight him, punching and kicking, throwing moves he’d never been taught to do, finding that his limbs somehow responded to the situation at hand with a precision that both surprised and awed him.

This time, however, he could feel the demon coming—but even with a warning, he knew he couldn’t send it away. He had never felt anything like this. What forces had he disturbed by coming into this house? The roar grew louder; the room kept spinning. Devon feared this would be the worst he’d ever experienced: a demon more terrifying, more powerful than ever before.

Suddenly his windows swung inward, the full fury of the storm invading his room.

Devon raised his arms, but it did no good. The windows did not shut.

All at once the room smelled fetid and foul, like the stink of a swamp, like decomposing animals.

“Who’s here?” Devon called out, as the lightning flashed again.

The roar was deafening now. Devon clamped his hands over his ears to block out its noise.

From the window came the source of the roar: a figure—a creature—something Devon couldn’t describe. Small at first, but growing larger—closer—it came out of the swirling rain and wind. A thing—of unspeakable hideousness—great green eyes and sharp pointed teeth and a long, wet, slithering tongue—

“No!” Devon shouted. “Back off! Get the hell away from me!”

The demon landed on its six feet. It panted hungrily, its tumor-covered tongue nearly reaching the floor.

“Go back to hell,” Devon said, springing from his bed and landing a swift kick at the creature’s cranium. Once again his body was responding instinctively, without any consciousness on Devon’s part.

The demon roared and leapt back at him. Devon deflected it with a swing of his forearm, surprised again by his strength. “Maybe you weren’t listening, you pile of puke!” Devon shouted. “I said, go to hell!”

The thing hesitated this time, but then pounced again. Devon landed a punch right in its snout, cracking a couple of its sharp teeth. “I am stronger than you! Get that through your ugly head!”

In rage and frustration, the demon reared up on its hind legs and roared. But it did not lunge again. Instead, it leapt back out into the night.

The room stopped spinning. The heat died down. The night was quiet, except for the steady pounding of the rain.

Devon let out a long breath. He could feel his body trembling. It was only afterwards that he could feel how scared he really was. He approached the window, pulling the panes shut and latching them together.

He turned, waiting for someone to bang on his door and ask what in heaven—or hell—had just happened in there. Surely then Mrs. Crandall would have to reveal what she knew.

But no one came knocking.

They didn’t hear, the Voice told him. It came for you and you only.

Devon understood that now. It was his presence in this house that caused whatever it was to leave its Hell Hole. Whatever forces had haunted him since he was a boy were infinitely stronger here.

This is where they live, the Voice told him.

“And they don’t want me living here, too,” Devon said to himself.

His heart still thudding in his chest, Devon sat down on the side of his bed.

I can’t face these things without Dad. This is way too much. I can’t do this alone, no matter how many answers I might find.

But how could he leave? Mrs. Crandall was now his legal guardian. And where would he go? What would stop the creatures from following him?

That was when the thought struck him: Dad wouldn’t have sent me here if he felt I’d be in any real danger. Dad knew this was where I’d find the truth about myself.

“Always remember, Devon,” Dad had said, the first time Devon had gotten really frightened by the eyes in his closet. “No matter what happens, no matter what you see, no matter where you are. You are stronger than any of it. Never forget that, son. Never.”

“I haven’t, Dad,” Devon said quietly now, and let out a long breath.

He actually felt just the slightest bit cocky. He’d fought off that thing without so much as even a cut this time. How he was able to fight like that, he wasn’t sure—he had never received any kind of martial arts training, not even karate lessons as a kid—but he was sure of something else: he really was stronger than any of it.

Finally, he drifted off to sleep, and his mind would later recall a series of images: Ravenscliff etched against the night sky, the figure of the man watching him from the tower, Rolfe Montaigne’s hot breath in his face saying, “I killed a young boy just like you.” In his dream, Rolfe had him backed into a corner. There was nowhere to run. Devon could feel the man’s warm breath on his face as he had earlier in the car. His eyes, as green as those in his closet, burned into his soul.

He awoke quickly. The storm still raged, and he expected another go-round with the beast outside his window. But there was no heat, no pressure. Still, something awakened him, and he listened carefully to the night, to the sound behind the storm. There it was: a soft, steady, insistent voice that seemed to come from some place in his darkened room. And it was saying, “Leave here. You’re not wanted here. Leave here.”

Devon listened closely. The constant drone of the rain and the frequent booms of thunder often obliterated it, but it was there, always underneath, over and over, like a mantra: “Leave here. You’re not wanted here. Leave here.”

“No,” he said out loud. “I will not leave.”

The little voice, high and feminine, continued. Devon jumped out of bed. Standing close to his door, he could hear the voice from the other side: “Leave here. You’re not wanted here. Leave here.”

With a sudden fierceness, Devon pulled open the door and stared out into the blackness. The corridor was darker than he imagined a tomb might be, and just as cold. Still, the voice stopped, replaced by the ethereal sound of wings in retreat—or else the sound of footsteps, padding away as fast as possible down the carpeted corridor.

Devon was about to close the door when he heard another sound, this one from much farther away, from deeper within the house. It appeared to be the sound of someone crying. Cautiously he stepped outside into the corridor. Feeling for the light switch, he pushed it up, but discovered the power was still off. He walked back to his bedside table and fumbled for the candle and matches in the dark. Finding them, he struck a match and relit the candle. With a tiny, quivering flame to guide him, Devon returned to the hallway and followed the sound of the crying. It lead him down the great staircase, where strange twisting shadows danced upon the walls, and into the main foyer, where every creak of the old house made him look around, reassuring himself that the demon was not following him. Through the foyer Devon stepped quietly, past the large formal dining room and heading down another corridor.

Outside the storm thrashed against the house. For a second, Devon imagined what the house must look like to the village below, its turrets silhouetted against the sky by each flash of lightning.

There was no mistaking it now. The sound was that of a woman sobbing, crying as if the tragedy of her life was too horrible to bear any longer. It seemed to come from behind a closed door at the end of the corridor. Devon wasn’t sure, but he suspected it led to the closed-off East Wing. This was where his memory of the house’s exterior told him the tower would be.

Under no circumstances should you attempt to go into that part of the house. Is that understood?

He hesitated, unsure about disobeying Mrs. Crandall’s orders the very first night he was in the house. But too many things had already happened. Something was trying to force him to leave, maybe even kill him—and somewhere in this house the secret of his identity sat waiting to be discovered. No way was Devon just going back to bed now. If he had to confront the demons in their own Hell Hole, he’d do it. He’d spent his entire life living in fear about what lurked in his closet or under his bed. He was tired of it, and his father’s death had only galvanized him to put an end to the fear.

And he had the distinct feeling that the tower—where, no matter what Mrs. Crandall said, he was sure he saw a light—held the answers he was looking for.

He tried the door at the end of the corridor, but it was locked. Somewhere behind the door, the woman continued her tears. A crash of thunder shook the house just then, startling Devon and causing him to drop his candle, its fragile life snuffed out when it struck the marble floor. Left in pitch darkness, Devon had no choice but to retreat to the parlor in search of another candle. His eyes came to rest on the portrait of Emily Muir hanging there just as a bolt of unnaturally brilliant lightning illuminated the room. And in the few tantalizing seconds that the lightning allowed him to see, Devon saw that the once peaceful face in the portrait was now contorted in sorrow, and the hands that earlier had been clasped serenely in her lap were now clawing the air.

A Strange, Precocious Child

After returning to bed, Devon found his sleep to be fitful, and he awoke early. With daylight streaming into his room, the weirdness of the previous night seemed like a bad dream, already fading with the coming of the sun.

The power was back on, so Devon plugged in his computer, anxious to reconnect with the outside world and his old life. He quickly signed onto Facebook and updated his status: “First day of my new life in an old mansion looking over the sea. How very Goth of me.”

He’d been hoping for messages from Suze or Tommy, but there was nothing. Well, for them it was a school day. Devon thought of his friends heading off to school and seeing all the familiar kids and teachers, and he felt a pang of homesickness. He sent Suze a message explaining that there was no cell reception out here at the end of the earth, and that he hoped to hear from her later. He glanced through some of his online pictures—he and Tommy making faces, he and Suze posed on top of the Coles Junction bridge, he and Max sleeping on the couch—and suddenly he had to close his computer. If he looked too much longer, he’d really start getting morose.

He reminded himself that Ravenscliff was where he’d find the answers he’d been looking for all his life. And really, it was a pretty cool place to live, from the little he’d seen so far.

Stepping into his own private bathroom, Devon was impressed. “Not bad,” he said, looking around. “Not bad at all.” An enormous walk-in marble shower stood beside a Jacuzzi and a sunlamp. Thick, luxurious towels had been set out for him. Back in Coles Junction, he and Dad had shared a cramped little bathroom. Now Devon stepped across gleaming black-and-white tile to turn on the shower’s shiny hot-water faucet, which he suspected was solid gold.

Stripping off his t-shirt and sweat pants, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror. He remembered how Cecily had called him gorgeous. With all that had happened last night, he hadn’t had time to process that fact. She called me gorgeous. Suze had never called him gorgeous. No one ever had. Devon studied his reflection. A lean, tight, slender body. Dark eyes, dark hair, a tinge of olive to his skin. Devon had never thought he was all that good-looking. In fact, he’d always been a little self-conscious about his looks, since he looked nothing like his father, who’d been blue-eyed and pale. That had always bothered him a little. He should have guessed a long time ago that he was adopted.

Instead, he’d figured that he must resemble his mother, even though he remembered nothing about her. There weren’t any pictures of his mother around the house, either, something Devon had assumed to be the result of Dad’s grief at losing her. Now Devon had begun to wonder if his real parents had been Italian—or Spanish—or something else dark and swarthy. Turks? Arabs? Gypsies?

Considering his reflection, Devon thought maybe he’d grown another inch since last week, and he’d already been five-eight then. He wondered if his real father was tall. He flexed his biceps quickly in the mirror, then laughed at himself.

Cecily called me gorgeous.

Stepping into the shower, Devon was still smiling, remembering how Cecily had automatically decided they would date each other. If Mrs. Crandall was now his foster mother, didn’t that make Cecily his foster sister? And the idea of dating a sister, foster or otherwise, was just plain creepy.

Still, there was no denying that Cecily was a babe.

Once again, he wished Suze would hurry up and write to him.

Under the warmth of the shower spray, Devon savored the peace it permitted his mind after a night like the one he’d just been through. He could forget for a few moments demons and Hell Holes and weird visitations in the night, and instead think about things any fifteen-year-old might, things like pretty girls. For a moment, Devon never wanted to part the curtains and step out once again into the world, where things came at him from his window and ghosts woke him up at night with their sobbing. Here, under the steady stream of hot water, there were no sounds, no voices—except the one in his own head.

This is a place of secrets, the Voice was telling him again. This is where you will find your secrets.

Devon toweled himself dry. Opening his drawer, he withdrew a fresh pair of khakis and a flannel shirt. Combing his dark hair, he let it fall naturally across his forehead.

The most important thing, he told himself—even more important than fitting in at school or finding a place within this family—was to discover his past. His truth. He couldn’t get sidetracked. That’s why Dad sent me here. I know it.

Downstairs, he found no one. In the daylight, with the sun filtering in through the gauzy drapes of the tall windows, Ravenscliff didn’t look nearly so mysterious. The marble shone, the crystal glittered. In the dining room, a whole spread had been set out: fruit, cereal, scrambled eggs, all in shiny aluminum trays over steam heaters. A pot of coffee added its rich fragrance to the room.

Devon peeked into the kitchen: no one. It was weird, as if he were the only one in the house, and it wasn’t even yet eight thirty. Cecily and Alexander, Devon assumed, were already off to school. It was Friday, after all, and although he wasn’t scheduled to start until Monday, school hadn’t stopped for the rest of the world. But where was Mrs. Crandall? And Simon, the servant?

Devon shrugged and helped himself to breakfast. He ate heartily, not having had much of a dinner last night, just a burrito from Taco Bell while he waited to change buses in Boston. He was wolfing down his food when Mrs. Crandall finally arrived, in a long paisley satin robe.

“Good morning, Devon,” she said. “I trust you slept well.”

He gave her a look. Even without the Voice to tell him, he knew it was best to reveal as little as possible for now. “Yes,” he told her. “I slept fine.”

“Even with the storm?”

Was she testing him? Devon just smiled. “Even with the storm. After all, I was pretty tired.”

“I’m sure you must have been. Well, enjoy your breakfast. When you’re finished, come upstairs to the playroom. I’d like you to meet Alexander.”

Devon looked up over his forkful of eggs. “Alexander? Isn’t he at school?”

A cloud passed over Mrs. Crandall’s lovely face. “I’m afraid that since he’s come to Ravenscliff, Alexander has not been enrolled at the public school. My brother and I are still discussing what the best course of action should be.”

“I assume Mr. Muir is away traveling.”

Mrs. Crandall nodded.

“When does he return?” Devon asked.

“I’m not sure.” She poured herself a cup of coffee. “I’m never sure with my brother.”

“And Alexander never sees his mother?”

“I told you last night. She’s been institutionalized nearly all his life.”

“Poor kid.”

Mrs. Crandall smiled, balancing her cup of coffee and its saucer in her palm. “I do so hope the two of you become friends. Alexander needs a solid male influence in his life. As I said last night, he’s a troubled boy.” She paused. “And willful. Last night, I discovered him in the East Wing.”

Devon’s eyes shot up at her. “But you said that’s locked,” he said.

“A locked door has never kept Alexander Muir from where he wants to go.”

Devon considered something. “Mrs. Crandall, might Alexander have … been outside my door last night?”

“Why do you ask?”

He shook his head. “No reason. I just thought I heard something.”

“Well, if he disturbed you, I apologize.” She sipped her coffee as she headed out of the room. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? I told him you’d come up to the playroom when you finished breakfast. He’s expecting you.”

Devon put away a couple of blueberry muffins on top of his eggs and cereal. Then, not sure what to do with his plates, he just left them there on the table for the seemingly invisible servant and headed upstairs.

He wasn’t quite sure where the playroom was, but continuing on down the corridor past his room, he came upon a large door that was ajar. From inside, Devon could hear music coming, and the light shining out from the room was very bright. Peering inside, he saw books and toys scattered across the floor and on several tables: a cracked Buzz Lightyear doll, some messy piles of comic books, an overturned Scrabble board. He opened the door wider. At the far end of the room stood an old wooden rocking horse; leaning against the wall was an ancient, oversized Raggedy Ann doll.

“Alexander?”

The music was coming from a television set, turned to face an empty beanbag chair. It sounded like some kids’ show, with tinny voices and the repetitive crash of the laugh track.

“Alexander?” Devon said again. “You in here?”

Suddenly he felt something lunge at him, grab him around his shoulders. Damn it, he thought. I was unprepared. It’s back. The thing—

Instinctively he threw the demon, or whatever was on his back, clear across the room. It thudded hard into the far wall and then slid down to the floor.

Devon looked over at it.

It was a small boy.

Alexander.

The kid sat against the wall looking over at Devon with stunned eyes. Devon guessed that Alexander had been up on the table, waiting for him.

He was trying to surprise me. Scare me.

Well, it had worked all right.

“Alexander!” Devon hurried over to the boy. “Are you okay?”

The boy’s eyes flickered up at Devon in terror.

“How did you do that?” the child asked, his voice quivery.

“You just scared me, that’s all.” Devon stooped beside him. “Sure you’re not hurt?”

Alexander stood up, quickly recovering his bravado. “You can’t hurt me,” he spit, walking past Devon.

“Well, if you were hurt, Alexander, I hope you’d believe that I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The boy turned to face him. His eyes shone malice—a bitterness that for a fleeting second took Devon’s breath away. Everyone had warned him about the little monster, but Devon was still unprepared for the child’s malevolent eyes.

“You didn’t hurt me,” the boy insisted coldly.

He stood defiantly before Devon. Alexander Muir was a towheaded, chubby child with large blue eyes, as round as buttons. To see his eyes without looking into them would be to imagine Alexander Muir as a little doll. But Devon wouldn’t forget the rage he saw there anytime soon.

“So do you regularly dive-bomb everybody who walks into the room?” he asked Alexander.

“Only potential invaders,” the kid replied.

Devon laughed. “I just came up to meet you, to say hey.”

A snaky grin wiggled its way across Alexander’s pudgy face. “Did my aunt tell you that we should be good friends?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, she did.”

The child snickered. “And she did tell you what I did to get kicked out of school?”

Devon folded his arms across his chest. Alexander seemed to be trying to set up a battle. And indeed, there was heat in the room. Devon could feel it now, seeping in from the cracks in the walls.

“You set fire to the curtains in the cafeteria,” he told Alexander. “Isn’t that it?”

The boy laughed again. “I wish I’d burned the place down. I wish all the teachers and all the sniveling brats had burned with it.”

“Wow, kid. You don’t hold back, do you?”

Alexander sulked. He clearly wasn’t getting the kind of fear out of Devon that he hoped for. He stalked across the room and flopped down into the beanbag chair in front of the TV.

Devon approached, peering around at the television screen. “So what are you watching?”

“Major Musick.” Alexander didn’t take his eyes off the TV. “You ever seen it?”

“No, I don’t think I have.”

The screen featured an obscenely tight close-up of a clown. And an ugly clown at that: bulbous red nose, oversized bloodshot eyes, and a thick white mane of hair. He was singing in a raspy voice, a voice so obviously phony it had to be a parody.

“Is this Mad TV or something?” Devon asked.

Alexander harrumphed. “Shows how much you know. It’s a real show. It’s wicked cool. That’s Major Musick right there. Musick with a ‘K.’ M-U-S-I-C-K.”

The clown stopped singing. “Today’s letter, boys and girls,” he was saying, exposing what looked like false teeth behind its red clown lips, “is ‘N.’ Ennnnnnnn. Can you say it? Ennnnnnnn. Hear how much it sounds like emmmmmm.”

Devon couldn’t bear it any longer. “This is way too bizarre for me. You actually enjoy this weirdness?”

The boy smiled up at him. “I suppose my aunt has complained to you that I spend too much time in the house watching TV and playing on the Internet.”

“Actually, she hasn’t. But I would think that a boy your age would rather be outside playing baseball and catching frogs and climbing trees. I know I did.”

“I hate baseball,” Alexander snarled. “Frogs are slimy. And I’m too fat to climb trees.”

Devon glared down at him. “Oh, you’re not so fat. I’ll bet you can run pretty fast.”

Alexander eyed him. “I can run faster than you.”

“You can? We’ll have to race sometime.” Devon smirked. “Of course, you might just win. You did run pretty fast last night.”

“Last night?”

“Yes. Outside my door.” Devon folded his arms over his chest. “To get all the way down the hall and then into the East Wing in such a short amount of time …”

Alexander looked stonily at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Devon had concluded one thing: whatever the reality of the demons in this house, one part of last night had been very much of this earth. The little voice telling him to leave, that he wasn’t wanted here, was that of Alexander Muir. Just why Alexander didn’t want him here was still a mystery—and perhaps part of the answers he sought.

“I know you were outside my door last night, Alexander. I heard you, and heard you run down the hall.”

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?”

“Yeah,” Devon agreed.

“Come on, we’ll cut through the woods to get into town. It’s faster than going by the road. And I can give you the complete rundown of all our family ghosts. You’ve got to get to know them if you’re going to live here.”

They traveled down a well-worn path, twigs snapping and leaves crunching under their feet, the sky above them crosshatched by tree limbs. Along the way, Cecily eagerly recounted the legends of the ghosts of Ravenscliff.

First, of course, there was Horatio, the founder of the house, and his wife Chloe. Horatio still guarded the house, Cecily told Devon, and Chloe wanders aimlessly. Chloe Muir had died giving birth to her third son, Randolph, who was Cecily’s grandfather and Mrs. Crandall’s father. But it was Randolph’s brother—Horatio and Chloe’s first son—who was the fiercest legend. The notorious Jackson Muir.

“The warlock,” Devon said.

“Don’t laugh.” They had emerged from the woods into a meadow of wild blue asters and bright yellow tickseed. “Mother refuses to ever mention his name. She won’t hang any pictures of him in the house, even though every other ancestor is on the walls. She was just a little girl when her uncle Jackson died, and I think he scared her real bad. But she loved his poor wife, Emily, who was so unhappy being married to that creep that she jumped to her death from—”

“Devil’s Rock,” Devon finished for her.

She nodded. “She supposedly found him in bed with another woman, and so she took the plunge. The old man, guilt-ridden, died from his grief.”

“It’s all very Wuthering Heights.”

Cecily was smiling. “I’ve heard her out there, you know. Emily’s screams on a windy night.”

Devon narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you really believe them? Do you believe there are ghosts in the house? Things you can’t explain?”

She considered the question. “Ever since I was a girl, I’ve heard things,” she said finally, the frivolity gone from her voice. “Skeptics don’t last long here. That’s Simon’s line.”

“Simon? Oh, the servant. I’ve yet to see him.”

“He keeps to himself mostly. But he believes all the legends. Said he’s seen all the ghosts.”

“Have you?”

Again she considered her answer before replying. “There have been occasions when I’ve seen things, someone moving away at the end of the hallway when I turn the lights on quickly. And I’ve heard things—”

“Like sobbing?” Devon asked.

She looked at him without surprise. “So you’ve already heard the sobbing.”

“Yes,” he told her. “Last night. I thought it might have been Alexander, but I don’t know now. I’m quite sure he was outside my door, trying to scare me, but then I heard this sound, coming from downstairs …”

Cecily was nodding. “When I was a girl, my mother told me not to be frightened by anything I heard or saw in that house. ‘Nothing here will hurt you,’ she assured me. ‘This is our house. We respect our house, and our house respects us.’” She laughed. “Strange thing for a mother to say to a little girl, huh?”

“Not if the ghosts are real,” Devon said.

“I do believe they’re real.” She smiled again, and started down a steep path cut into the cliff on the other side of the field. “But they won’t interfere with you. The only spook you need worry about is that very-much-alive little cousin of mine.”

“I think I can handle him.”

Cecily looked back at him. “I think you can handle just about anything you want,” she said coyly, batting her long eyelashes almost comically. “Now watch your step along this path. It gets a bit treacherous.”

Devon felt his cheeks redden, and it wasn’t from the high altitude. Cecily was nothing if not persistent. She was several feet ahead of him on the path, showing off her familiarity with these craggy old rocks. Her red hair was loose and bouncing around her shoulders, its highlights reflecting in the sunshine.

“Cecily,” Devon called.

She spun around smiling, eyes closed, as if she expected him to catch up with her and kiss her. But instead he asked: “What’s the story with Rolfe Montaigne?”

Cecily opened her eyes, a little disappointed. “Rolfe is really our only competition in this town,” she said, as the path leveled out and opened into another field. Tall cat-o’-nine-tails grew like mangy children, their velvety hoods already turning to seed. “Ever since he came back to Misery Point a little over a year ago, Rolfe has been systematically buying up as much real estate in the village as he can—just about anything that’s not already owned by us. His biggest catch was a restaurant called Fibber McGee’s. It’s the most popular place in the summer, and Rolfe brought in all these big-name acts. He’s practically put our restaurants out of business.”

She turned around and winked at Devon impishly.

“Don’t tell Mother, but I went there a couple of times this past summer. It’s awesome. Very artsy. That’s where all the celebs hang out when they’re on vacation here. I saw Shia LaBeouf there!”

Devon looked up ahead and, through a break in a wall of yellow maples, he spotted a graveyard. The path took them straight through it. Old brownstone markers protruded crookedly above tall yellow grass. Suddenly he felt a chill that belied the sunshine on his face, while around him the air conversely grew warmer.

The heat, he realized, was definitely not coming from the sun.

“So,” he said, keeping his eyes and ears alert, “that’s why Rolfe and your mother don’t like each other.”

“Well, that and—” Cecily stopped in her tracks, causing Devon to nearly run into her. “Look, I personally don’t think he was to blame, but it remains a fact—”

“That he killed a kid?”

Cecily looked at him. “Did he really tell you that?”

“Yes.” Devon swallowed, concerned that the heat around him was rising. “I thought he was just trying to scare me.”

“Well, actually it was two kids,” Cecily said. “A boy and a girl. Rolfe spent five years in prison for it. They were in his car when he crashed. The prosecutor said he was drunk, but Rolfe said he was drugged by someone, so he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened that night. But he always insisted it wasn’t him at the wheel of the car. Still, it was Rolfe’s old Mustang that was pulled out of the bay, and the boy was inside, dead. The girl’s body was never recovered. It must have been washed out to sea.”

They were getting closer to the graveyard, and Devon kept watch for whatever might be causing the heat. “So why do they think it was Rolfe who drove off the road?” he asked. “Were there any witnesses?”

“Two people testified that they saw Rolfe emerge from the water,” Cecily said, even more upset by this part of the tale. “So I guess if Rolfe really was drunk at the wheel, then he deserved to go to prison.”

“But it sounds as if you think maybe he wasn’t? That maybe the witnesses were lying? That maybe they were the ones who drugged Rolfe? But why would they do that?”

“Well, there are all sorts of stories—”

Cecily stopped talking. They had reached the cemetery by now, and the sun had suddenly disappeared behind a cloud.

“Creepy, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Devon admitted.

He looked around. The graveyard wasn’t big, with no more than a dozen stones, but it overlooked the ocean, giving it an openness that made it seem larger. The grave markers were weathered from the rain and the wind and the salt of the sea. A few had fallen over into the tall grass. Most were brownstone, but a number were slate, and the one in the middle was white marble, crowned with an angel that was missing one wing; it lay on the ground in the grass beside her. Near the edge of the woods, farthest from the sea, stood three small crypts, each made of a dark red stone.

“This is our own personal graveyard,” Cecily explained. “These are the first Muirs, Horatio and Chloe and their children and servants. They didn’t want to be buried in with the poor slobs down in the village, you see.”

Devon had taken a few tentative steps through the wild golden grass that nearly obscured the stones. “Is Jackson buried here? And Emily?”

“Yes,” Cecily said, pointing to the largest stone, the one in the middle with the broken angel on top. Devon approached it, observing the monument with a strange fascination. On one side of the stone was etched:

JACKSON MUIR

MASTER OF RAVENSCLIFF

Cecily came up beside Devon and scoffed. “Mother always bristles when she sees that. Jackson was never master of the house. His brother—my grandfather—was. But Jackson always felt that he was the rightful heir. I don’t know why Grandfather allowed him to carve that on his stone.”

Devon walked around the marble structure. This side faced the sea and was coated with a crusty white brine, but he could still make out the words engraved there:

EMILY MUIR

LOST TO THE SEA

Devon looked over at Cecily. “So her body was never recovered?”

Cecily shook her head.

Devon looked again at Emily’s name. “Just like the girl in Rolfe’s car …”

Cecily let out a sigh. “So old Jackson is all alone under that big marble stone. Bitter old man. Deserves to be alone.”

Behind them they could hear the sea crashing on the rocks below.

With just the slightest hesitation, Devon placed his hand against the marble. Immediately he pulled his hand back, shouting out in pain. It was burning hot. He looked down at his palm. The skin was bright red.

“What happened?” Cecily asked.

“I guess … the stone was hot from facing the sun all day.”

Cecily gave him a look, but she didn’t pursue the matter, thankfully. Devon hoped she didn’t ask to see his hand.

The girl had started wandering off through the tall grass, heading toward what looked to Devon to be a staircase built into the side of the cliff.

“Come on,” she was calling. “We need to get down to the village before the town hall closes.”

But something else had now caught Devon’s eye. A large brownstone marker off to the side of the cemetery, an obelisk set upon an octagonal base. Even from where he was standing, Devon could make out the name engraved there.

“Cecily,” he said, pointing. “Look.”

She turned, and saw what he meant.

DEVON

That was all that was engraved on the stone. They both walked all the way around it. No other names, nothing. Just Devon.

“I never made the connection,” Cecily said. “I mean, I’ve seen this stone all my life, but I didn’t remember it until just now.”

“What could this mean?” Devon asked, feeling the letters carved into the stone, which were cool, not the least bit hot or foreboding. “Might this be—”

“A clue?” Cecily echoed, wide-eyed.

“A clue to what?”

It was a new voice, a rough, gravelly bark that came from the woods behind them. Devon made a small gasp, certain that when he turned, he’d see a corpse, muddy with maggots after decades in the ground, sitting up in the tall grass and pointing a long, accusatory, bony finger at him.

But Cecily calmed him. “It’s only Simon,” she said.

The Muir caretaker limped through the grass. He was no corpse, but he was frightening enough, Devon thought. Small and bent, his face was drawn inwards, his eyes most of all, deep and black. Even from across the graveyard they bore into the boy.

“Simon,” Cecily called. “Who’s buried here?”

“Whatchu doin’ in the cemet’ry, Miss Cecily?” he growled.

“Oh! You haven’t met Devon, have you?” She giggled a little. “Devon March, this is Simon Gooch, our caretaker. And gardener. And chauffeur. And cook.” She laughed. “Our everything!”

Simon had reached them. He stood only to Devon’s shoulders; surely this was not the man he had seen on the tower last night. That man had been taller and more broad-shouldered. Devon did his best not to recoil from the caretaker. Simon’s breath was foul, and his hands were small and scarred with short stubs of fingers. Devon noticed one was missing: the ring finger of his right hand.

Doing his best to be polite, Devon extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Simon,” he said.

The caretaker did not accept it. He just kept looking up into the boy’s eyes. “So you’ve come to live at Ravenscliff, eh?”

“Yes.”

Simon’s face was deeply lined; Devon couldn’t make out whether he was forty or seventy. His hair was thick and black, cut unevenly around his face.

“Simon,” Cecily said, her voice reproving. “Don’t be snarly now.”

He grinned up at her, exposing perfectly shaped white teeth. They startled Devon. “Never for you, Miss Cecily. Never for you.”

“Then tell us who’s buried here,” she insisted.

“Don’t know. That ain’t a Muir grave.”

“But look. It said Devon. And Devon here thinks he was born around here. He doesn’t know who his parents were.”

Simon looked back at Devon, but uttered nothing more.

“It just seems such a coincidence,” Devon said.

“We’re going to the town hall,” Cecily told Simon. “To search for a birth record of a boy named Devon born fifteen years ago. Now we know to look under first and last names!”

Simon remained silent, his black eyes intent on Devon’s face.

“Well, we’ve got to get going,” Cecily said, taking Devon’s hand and leading him toward the cliffs. “Simon, tell Mother we’ll be back in time for dinner.”

They hurried through the grass. Devon turned around once: Simon still stood there, waist deep in the yellow grass, staring after him. He was several yards away by now, but Devon could still see something burning in his eyes. Fury. No—fear. But why?

Cecily took her first step onto the steep staircase cut into the side of the cliff. Devon looked back again, drawn by this terrible little man. But this time it wasn’t Simon he saw standing in the grass. Whoever stood there now was much taller, for the grass had nearly obliterated the caretaker. Now it didn’t even reach the man’s knees.

Devon felt the heat rush at him, like exhaust from a truck, as intense now as it had been last night when the creature had come through his window.

There, in the full, bright sunshine, Devon recognized the man as the same he had seen the night before on the tower: a tall man with dark eyes, dressed entirely in black, as if in mourning. And Devon now understood who he was.

The man was Jackson Muir.

The Secret Room

“Devon!”

Cecily stood on the edge of the cliff, her long red hair caught in a sudden wind. “Devon, are you all right?”

Devon turned to look at her, tearing his eyes from the thing standing only a few yards away in the swaying grass. His face was white.

“Gosh, I didn’t know you were so afraid of heights,” Cecily quipped.

Devon couldn’t speak. He just pointed behind him.

“What?” Cecily asked. “What is it, Devon?”

“Him,” he managed to say.

He turned back to where he had seen the ghost—but nothing remained in the spot except for the grass, now pummeled by a wind that surprised both of them in its ferocity.

“Who? Devon, who are you talking about?”

Devon looked across the graveyard. The trees now bent in the harsh wind; crows in the trees swooped out from the branches, calling out warnings of another impending storm. But there was no man. Jackson Muir’s monument stood solemnly amid the waving grass. Whatever had been there was gone.

“Nothing,” Devon managed to say. “It was nothing.”

“I think a storm’s rolling in,” Cecily said, looking up at the sky. “We should hurry.”

Overhead, deep purple rainclouds spread like watercolors across the pale blue sky. The wind bit at their cheeks; the bitter dampness of the sea crept down the back of Devon’s shirt like a dead hand.

He decided not to tell Cecily about the ghost. He looked up into the sky and figured they had enough time to make it into town. Seagulls circled overhead, calling out their melancholy warnings. Devon and Cecily descended the staircase along the cliff, looking over the roofs of the village. It was the first glimpse Devon had had of Misery Point in the daylight. It was a charming place, really: neat, colorful shops and boutiques lined a center street and a long, narrow, sandy beach stretched lazily beyond. At the end of the main drag the land rose sharply again into new cliffs, and there, about halfway up, Cecily pointed out one of the Muir family restaurants.

At the far end of town, a white square building sat very close to shore. “That’s the Muir cannery,” Cecily told him. “Keeps folks employed year-round. Total gross-out stink, though. Imagine spending your day filling cans with tuna fish and crab meat.”

The sky remained pregnant with rain. The day grew dark with clouds, and the wind added a chill. They emerged into the village behind a t-shirt and souvenir shop. A sign hanging from its front door proclaimed:

THANKS FOR ANOTHER GREAT SEASON—SEE YA IN MAY!

Down the street, Devon recognized Stormy Harbor. Across the way were more shops, most of them boarded up except for Adams Pharmacy and a True Value hardware store. A few old Victorian homes, all painted white, graced well-manicured lawns. Beyond them, stretching out toward the beach, summer cottages were built up on stilts, all evenly aligned and shuttered down for the winter.

Close to the pier, Cecily gestured toward a restaurant. “That’s Fibber McGee’s,” she said. “Rolfe’s place.” It was a sprawling, California-style eatery perched at the very edge of the land, a silver and spun-glass resort with an incredible deck overlooking the water, pink and green umbrellas dotting the veranda. Devon recognized Rolfe’s silver Porsche parked out in front.

The town hall was at the end of the road: an old brownstone structure with a clock tower. Inside, the footsteps of the two teens echoed down a high-ceilinged hall, and Devon felt his hopes rise. When the bespectacled woman in the clerk’s office plunked a large, dusty volume down on the counter in front of him, he could barely open it. Is this it? he thought. Is this the first step on my road to the truth?

But his high hopes faded to disappointment when the only Devon in the index was a Miranda Devon, who died unmarried at the age of seventeen almost fifty years earlier—way too long ago to have any obvious connection to Devon. And there was nothing entered about where she was buried.

“So we’ll look up your birth chronologically,” Cecily offered, flipping the yellowed pages to March 15—Devon’s birthday—exactly fifteen years earlier. But the only male birth registered between January and May in that year in the town of Misery Point was one Joseph Yoo, whose race was listed as Asian.

“I think we can safely rule that one out,” Devon sighed.

So the search revealed nothing. The severity of Devon’s disappointment was only matched by the sudden reappearance of the rain, coming down finally as they headed back up the steep cliffside stairway. They were drenched by the time they got back to Ravenscliff, but ironically the downpour had the effect of brightening Devon’s spirits rather than dampening them. He and Cecily chased each other across the yard, their clothes sticking to their bodies. They laughed and carried on for three quarters of an hour as if no ghosts intruded into their lives, no secrets hung over their heads. For that brief time, getting wild in the rain, slipping in the mud and taking Cecily down with him, both of them dissolving in hysterics, Devon could actually believe that he was just like any other boy.

It stormed again that night, giant flashes of lightning and horrible cracks of thunder. But Devon slept well nonetheless, exhausted from the night before and worn out from the travel and the adventures of the day. No sounds disturbed his rest, and in his dreams he saw Dad sitting on a gravestone in that windswept cemetery out on the cliff, telling him that his destiny was here.

In the morning, Cecily greeted him at the breakfast table. It was Saturday, and Simon was taking her into the village to go shopping. She asked Devon if he wanted to come, but he declined, saying he wanted to spend some time exploring the estate. There was no sign of Mrs. Crandall; he hadn’t seen her since yesterday morning, in fact. When he and Cecily had returned from town yesterday, she’d already retired. Cecily explained that her mother did that often: either spending time with Grandmama or retreating into her own private suite of rooms, where sometimes she’d remain for days. Simon would bring her meals up to her.

“It’s hard to imagine someone as creepy as Simon being this good of a cook,” Devon said, forking a piece of Canadian bacon into his mouth.

“Oh, he’s really very good,” Cecily said. “He’s a master chef.”

Still, Devon thought, the idea of Simon’s blunt, scarred little hands touching his food was just a little revolting.

He watched as Cecily waltzed off, Simon appearing almost from nowhere to trail behind her, car keys jangling from his belt. Devon pulled back a velvet curtain in the foyer to spy on the Jaguar as it glided down the driveway and disappeared down the hill.

Upstairs in his room, he checked Facebook and was disappointed to see that no one had commented on his status from yesterday. Nobody had wished him good luck, nobody had said they missed them. There was still no message from Suze, though Tommy had sent him a one-liner that said Max was doing really well and seemed quite happy in his new home.

While Devon was glad to know his beloved dog was happy, he felt bad that Max didn’t seem to miss him. No one seemed to, in fact.

It didn’t matter, Devon tried to tell himself. He had come here to find his destiny. The dream of Dad had only confirmed it.

Devon knew he needed to try the door to the East Wing again. He wasn’t sure what secrets this house held—but he felt quite certain that if they were anywhere, they were in the East Wing. That was where he’d seen the man on top of the tower the night he arrived, a man he was now convinced was Jackson Muir. Seeing Jackson’s specter again yesterday in the cemetery made Devon suspect that the nefarious warlock of Ravenscliff held some clue into his past. Mrs. Crandall, he was quite certain, hadn’t simply closed off the wing because there were so few people in the house. She’d closed it off because she didn’t want anyone discovering what was in there.

Of course, when he tried the door, it was still locked. Devon tried willing it open—he could do that sometimes, like the time he’d gotten locked out of the house when Dad was still at work—but nothing happened. The knob still failed to turn. Devon sighed. He figured there must be another way into the wing from the second floor of the house. He roamed up and down the corridor outside his bedroom once again; from the playroom he could hear Alexander’s television set, but everything else was as quiet as a tomb.

He considered talking with the boy again in the hopes of finding some clues. Alexander knew a way into the East Wing; Mrs. Crandall had said locked doors did not stop Alexander Muir. But Devon didn’t trust Alexander. Not after their first meeting. He had to find the way in on his own.

After careful consideration, he deduced which part of the corridor seemed to be directly over the East Wing entrance downstairs. But all he found there was a linen closet—the doorknob of which burned in his hand.

“Yow!” he called out, then bit down on his lip to keep from making any more noise.

So this is it, he thought.

He nudged the door open with his foot. Inside were deep shelves of towels and sheets, pillowcases and tablecloths. A little balsam-smelling star hung from the center rod to scare away moths. Devon peered into the darkness of the closet. There must be a door through here, he thought. This was likely once the upstairs entry into the East Wing, refashioned into a closet when the wing was closed down.

He decided to give up the search for the time being. He could have started taking down the towels and sheets and feeling along the shelves, but Alexander could have come out of the playroom at any time, or Mrs. Crandall might have shown up behind him. It was too risky right now. But he’d be back. That was for sure.

Heading back down the stairs, Devon was surprised to see Mrs. Crandall sitting in her chair in the parlor, sipping a cup of tea with a few crackers on a plate. A fire roared within the hearth, which felt good even out in the foyer, as the day was damp and overcast.

“Oh, Devon,” Mrs. Crandall called to him. “Please join me.”

He sat on the sofa opposite the fireplace. “The fire feels great,” he said.

“Doesn’t it? I’ve always been partial to fires. Oil heat alone always feels so unsatisfying.” She smiled. “Are you warm enough at night?”

“Yes,” he told her. “My room is very comfortable.”

“That’s good,” she replied. “I want you to like living here.”

“So far, so good,” Devon said, pointedly looking at her.

“Is it?” Her response seemed equally pointed, as if she knew something, or suspected he meant more than he was saying.

Devon smiled. “I’ve encountered a few ghosts, but they haven’t scared me away.”

Mrs. Crandall lifted the dainty cup of tea to her lips. It looked fragile and ancient. Devon imagined Emily Muir drinking from that same cup, in that same chair. “Well,” Mrs. Crandall said, after a moment’s consideration, “if everyone ran from the sight of a ghost in this house, there would be no one left.”

He eyed her. “You’ve seen your share?”

“How could I not? I’ve spent all my life here.”

“Mrs. Crandall,” Devon ventured suddenly.

“Yes?”

“Who is buried in the cemetery out on the cliffs under the monument marked ‘Devon’?”

Her blue eyes looked at him over her teacup. She seemed to hesitate, with the cup not touching her lips, just hovering there in her hand. Then she carefully settled it back into the saucer.

“I don’t believe I know,” she said at last. “That’s the center stone, isn’t it?”

At least she wasn’t denying she knew it. “Yes,” Devon said. “The obelisk.”

“Curious, isn’t it?” she asked. “Whoever it is must have been a trusted friend or servant of my father or grandfather.”

“The only Devon listed in the registers for Misery Point is a Miranda Devon, who died forty-six years ago,” he reported. “Did you know her?”

She looked at him with a tight smile. “How old do you think I am, Devon March?”

He blushed. “I’m sorry. But I thought maybe you would have heard of her.”

Mrs. Crandall was still smiling. “Two days here and you’ve already been busy conducting your own little investigation.”

“Could it be Miranda Devon who’s buried in that grave?”

“I have no idea. All the records on the Muir family cemetery were destroyed a few years ago when a pipe burst in the basement. But why does all this interest you so much?”

“I’m determined to find out who I am and where I come from.”

“Do you think your father would want that, Devon? After all, he raised you as his own. He never told you about your birth parents. Perhaps there was a reason for that.”

Devon considered this. “My father wanted me to know,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I truly believe that. He could have gone to his death without telling me the truth, and I’d have never known. But he did tell me, Mrs. Crandall, and he told me I needed to know my destiny.”

Her lips tightened. She stood, walking with her teacup toward the fire.

“Not only that, Mrs. Crandall. He sent me here. He could’ve found another guardian. But he sent me here.”

“Yes,” she said, more to herself than him. “He sent you here.”

Devon couldn’t tell what inflection her words carried, if she was bitter or grateful or resentful of that fact. He continued, “I’m certain that my father sent me here because this is where I’ll find the truth of my past.”

Mrs. Crandall turned to face him, leveling her eyes down at him. “I told you the night you arrived here that this is a house with many secrets. I also told you we respect those secrets. We do not pry. I can offer you one piece of advice, Devon, and I hope you take it. The answers are not in the past but in the future. If you want to be happy here, you’ll look forward, not back, and not into every shadow and every closed door of this house. There are reasons that the doors are closed.”

She excused herself then, saying she had work to do, that Cecily could find her in her room if necessary. Devon nodded, watching the flames crackle in the hearth, sending shadows across the marble floor that danced with all the agility of spirits.

Mrs. Crandall definitely knew more than she was saying, he thought. But the Voice added that Devon must be on his guard around her. Whether she was friend or foe wasn’t yet clear, but in either scenario, asking her too much right now would be unwise. Once again, Devon realized the information he sought would need to be unearthed on his own.

That night, the first dry, peaceful night since his arrival, Devon took a walk across the grounds, listening to the roar of the waves below, allowing the sound to soothe him as he made his way along the cliffs.

The moon was bright upon the ocean. He lapsed into a sort of timelessness as he watched the waves, feeling the cool October air on his face. The moonlight mesmerized him as it flickered on the sea, a ballet of light. He found a smooth, flat rock near the edge of the cliff and sat down, his feet dangling in the air below. It was a hundred feet or more of a sheer drop to the beach below. This was Devil’s Rock, he realized; perhaps this was the very stone from which Emily Muir took her final leap. Suddenly Devon was consumed by a horrible sadness, one that settled deep into his body. He thought of Dad, of finding him in bed, still and cold, his eyes open as if he’d been frightened to death.

“Stop it, Devon,” he whispered to himself, but it was too late. The tears flowed. In the few months since his father had died, Devon had thought of finding his body many times, and the image was impossible to push away. Dad had lay there, staring up into the emptiness of death, his blue-veined hand over his heart. He’d been in bed for several weeks, and Devon had become accustomed to their routine: sitting with him until he fell asleep, then crawling into his own bed for a few hours sleep, only to return at dawn to be there when Dad awakened. Only on this morning Dad had never opened his eyes, and when Devon had touched him, he’d been cold and hard. He’d knelt beside the bed and wrapped his arms around the cold body and cried.

“If the ghosts of Ravenscliff can come back,“ Devon whispered into the night, “why can’t you?”

But he can, and does, comes the Voice.

Devon reached down into his pocket and gripped the medal of the owl and the lady in his hand.

“If you ever feel lost, that medal is your talisman,” Dad had told him just a few days before he died.

Sitting there overlooking the sea, Devon squeezed the small, round, flat silver medal tightly in his palm.

He took out his phone. One flickering bar offered a tenuous connection to the world beyond. And he saw he had a message from Suze. Suddenly happy, he clicked on the notification.

“Dear Devon,” Suze wrote. “I wanted to tell you that Tommy asked me to go out with him and so were are dating now. I hope you are doing good and that you—”

He couldn’t read anymore. Wouldn’t you know it? The one time he had reception it was to get a message from Suze breaking up with him.

Except they’d never really been dating. So what was there to make Devon feel so bad? Only the fact that Tommy and Suze and Max all had each other, and he was all alone.

It’s so hard, Dad, Devon told his father. It’s hard because I’m in a place I don’t know, with people I’m not sure I can trust. Dad, I miss you. I wish you were here so much. I’m trying to discover why you sent me here, but there are so many mysteries. And the demons, Dad—they’re here, and they’re far stronger than they ever were back home …

He wrapped his arms around his torso, rocking himself, swaying his legs in the weightlessness below the cliff. He imagined Emily Muir standing here in this very spot, her heart racing in her ears, her tears still wet in her throat, her heart broken by her savage, selfish warlock-husband—and then jumping, plunging onto the rocks below, the white water staining red, her mangled body being claimed by the sea …

Carefully Devon stood and looked away from the waves. His knees suddenly felt weak, as if he might fall, following Emily’s path, and he pushed himself up onto the grass. Away from the cliff, he felt sturdier, and he walked back across the estate, the well-manicured lawns and shrubbery a testament to Simon’s skill. To his left the tennis court stood silent; to his right the gardens stretched lazily toward the sea. Their flowers were mostly withered, although several large round pumpkins caught the moonlight.

Devon looked up at the great house, looming in bleak silhouette against the night sky. Once again he spied the same light in the tower he had seen before, this time from another angle. Whipping out his phone, he snapped a picture. He’d show Mrs. Crandall that he wasn’t seeing things. But despite taking one picture after another, not one image of the tower showed up in his camera roll. Devon tried taking pictures of the sea and the cliffs and the gardens and captured all of them. But every time he tried to take a picture of the light in the tower, all he got was a white overexposed rectangle.

“The tower has been locked for years,” he said.

Yet what were locks, he reasoned, to those who had already managed to break out of the grave?

Cecily looked at him with amusement. “I think I’ve told you one too many stories about our ghosts.”

They were at breakfast, seated at the great long polished oak table that accommodated twenty-six, though it had been a very long time since Ravenscliff had hosted gatherings of such numbers. Devon and Cecily looked even younger than their years as they huddled together at the far end of the table, eating cereal and fresh fruit and whispering between themselves.

“No, Cecily, it was there. I’m sure of it. I saw a light in the tower.”

She made a face, clearly troubled, as if she preferred not to delve much deeper.

“Have you ever seen a light up there?” Devon asked her. “You admitted you’ve heard the sobbing.”

“And maybe I shouldn’t have.” She frowned. “Look, Devon. I try not to see too many things in this house. I look the other way.”

“But why, Cecily? You can’t deny—”

“Why?” She looked at him, very upset now. “Because I’d go crazy otherwise! Imagine growing up here. Imagine what it must have been like.”

“You look the other way because that’s what your mother always told you to do.” He leveled his gaze at her. “Isn’t that right?”

She pouted. Her silence told Devon he was indeed correct.

He laughed. “Since when have you done what your mother has told you?”

Cecily’s eyes fluttered up to find his. Years of denial shone there—a denial of anything not easily explained. “In this one area,” she explained, “it’s been easier to merely go along with Mother. Devon, I’d wake up at night with such nightmares as a little girl. Terrifying. Horrible. I had to believe Mother when she told me the sobbing was only the wind, that the figure in the hallway was just a trick of light and shadows in an old house. I had to believe her when she said nothing here could harm me. And I can’t stop believing that now.”

She pushed aside her bowl of cereal and headed upstairs.

Devon hadn’t meant to upset her, but he needed somebody to confirm what he’d seen and heard. After breakfast, when he found Mrs. Crandall in the library, he decided to confront her again.

“You are a determined young man,” she said, her neck high and arch as she listened to his story. She wore a simple black dress and a single strand of pearls around her throat. In her hands were three old volumes: one was Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, he could see, but the other titles were obscured. The library smelled dank and dusty, but in a good way, a comforting fragrance of old books and knowledge. Yet in that moment, he felt neither comforted nor literary. Determined was precisely the word he, too, would have used: determined to find out just what this family was hiding from him.

“I know I saw a light both times,” he insisted.

“Then I’ll have to check,” Mrs. Crandall replied, idly flipping open the top book and scanning the page. “Perhaps there is a short in one of the old light fixtures up there. The wiring hasn’t been updated for nearly fifty years.” She closed the book. “I should thank you, Devon. You may have alerted us to a potential fire hazard.”

So that was her answer. He accepted it, for now.

“By the way, Devon,” she said nonchalantly. “I spoke with Alexander. He said you assaulted him.”

“That’s crazy—”

“You needn’t try to explain. I understand the boy’s imagination. But I suggest you try to make friends with him. Remember, I had hoped you’d provide a good influence.” She handed him The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. “Here. Would you bring this to him? I told him I’d send him some books to read. Until we decide what to do about his schooling, I want his mind on something other than television and the Internet.”

She swept out of the library. Devon sighed, not relishing another encounter with the Bad Seed. But he trudged on upstairs anyway. Perhaps he could determine more of what the boy knew.

He found Alexander once again in the playroom, stretched out in his beanbag chair, holding his iPad in front of his face. Devon peered around to see what he was looking at. It was that ugly old clown again.

“Is that show on Netflix or something, too?” Devon asked.

Alexander ignored him, keeping his eyes glued to his iPad.

Major Musick was once again comparing the letters “M” and “N.” “Listen to how they sound almost the same,” the clown rasped.

“Is this a rerun?” Devon asked.

Alexander hit the stop button on his video, leaving Major Musick in extreme close-up, baring his ugly teeth. The boy looked up at Devon. “I don’t need to watch my show if you want to hang out,” he said.

Devon looked at him oddly. “You want to hang out with me?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Devon smirked. “You didn’t seem all that willing yesterday.”

“Hey, I could use an older brother.” Alexander smiled. “Did you think we wouldn’t be friends?”

Devon just studied him.

The boy laughed. “I’m a tough kid to break through to,” he said, and something danced in his eyes. It was that challenge—that defiance, that secret knowledge—Devon had seen the first day.

“I think you’ll enjoy this book,” Devon told him, handing him Huck Finn. “It was one of my favorites when I was your age.”

Alexander accepted the book. “I can’t imagine you at my age.”

“Well,” Devon said, “I was.”

“Did you get into trouble like I have?”

Devon considered his answer. “Well, I didn’t set fire to any curtains, but I had my share of trouble.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there was this old corridor in this old churchyard. Sometimes we’d go there to hang out, my friends and I. We weren’t supposed to go there because it was old and the bricks were loose and there were bats that lived in the eaves. But of course, everybody liked to hang there. But this one time—it was Halloween—one of the priests came out and found my friend Suze and me there—”

“What were you doing? Screwing?”

“No,” Devon responded, struck by the child’s presumption. “We were just hanging out.”

Alexander grinned deeply. “I’ll bet you were just hanging out.”

“We were.” It came out harsher than Devon had intended. “We were just talking and squeezing vampire blood out of a tube.”

“Vampire blood?”

Devon laughed. “Yeah. It’s red dye, sold for Halloween costumes, and we were putting it on our hands and faces. But the old priest thought we were sniffing glue. He called the cops. Boy were they surprised!”

Alexander grinned again. “It sounds like a really cool creepy old place.”

“It was.”

“I have a place like that where I go! Do you want to see it?”

Devon frowned. “Why do I think it’s someplace you’re not allowed to be?”

“Aw, come on. I thought you wanted to be my friend.” The boy lay back in his beanbag.

“Where is it?”

“The East Wing.”

“Your aunt said nobody’s allowed in there.”

“So don’t come. I don’t really care.”

Of course, Devon wanted into the East Wing himself—badly—but to accompany Alexander there felt doubly dangerous. Mrs. Crandall had expressly forbidden it, and he wasn’t sure he could trust the kid to keep their jaunt a secret.

Alexander looked up at him. “We could get in and out quickly,” he promised, “and no one would ever know we were there.”

If there were answers in this house, Devon felt quite sure they were located in the East Wing. “All right,” he conceded, after considerable hesitation, “but this has to totally be our secret.”

The boy beamed. “All riiiight,” he crowed, jumping to his feet. “Follow me.”

Alexander ran out into the corridor as fast as his fat little legs could carry him. He scurried to his bedroom, Devon following, where from the top drawer of his bureau he withdrew an old silver candlestick, a short stubby white candle and a book of matches.

“Hey,” Devon asked, “what do we need that stuff for?”

Alexander fit the candle into the candlestick and held it out in front of him. “Where we’re going they’ve shut off the electricity,” he told Devon matter-of-factly.

“Wouldn’t a flashlight be more efficient?” Devon asked.

“It’s about atmosphere,” the kid replied. “It’s creepier this way.”

In the hallway, the stillness of the house suddenly made Devon apprehensive. It felt as if they were all alone in the house. But that wasn’t the case, he knew: Mrs. Crandall was somewhere, perhaps sitting with her reclusive mother, and surely that crotchety Simon was lurking around as well. Cecily, too, probably—and Devon suddenly wished that the pretty, bright teenager was going with them on this trip.

He followed the boy as he padded down the old Oriental runner that lined the long corridor, worn a pinkish gray in some places but still brilliantly red in others. Alexander held the candle in front of him, as if he were leading a solemn procession.

At the end of the corridor, Alexander opened the door to the linen closet. “In here,” the boy whispered.

Devon couldn’t help but smile. The entrance to the East Wing was just as he thought.

“Look,” the boy was saying, holding his candle aloft so that its glow illuminated the back of the closet. Devon could see nothing that he hadn’t before. Alexander brought the candle closer. Finally, Devon could make out a faint rectangular shape in the plaster below the bottom shelf.

“Watch,” Alexander instructed. The boy ran his hand along the floor of the closet, his fingers gripping a section of old wood. He pushed. For a second, nothing happened: then Devon heard a soft grinding sound, like old wood against stone. The rectangular shape began to retreat. Devon realized it was a trapdoor, a small panel that was now opening inward, exposing a deep blackness within. It was only about three feet by four, just large enough for a small person to wriggle through. From it, damp air struck Devon like a cold, musty breath.

“See?” Alexander exclaimed. “A secret panel. Isn’t it cool?”

“I don’t know if it’s safe to go in there, Alexander,” Devon cautioned.

“I do all the time!” the boy protested. “What’s the matter—you afraid?”

No, not afraid, but suddenly aware of his responsibility with an eight-year-old boy, as part of a new family he was still unsure of. Yet Devon’s curiosity, his quest for answers, overruled any misgivings he had about what Mrs. Crandall might do if she found out.

Alexander handed Devon the candle and dropped down onto all fours. Within seconds he had crawled inside, like a skunk scuttling under a fence. Devon took a deep breath and followed. The fit was tighter for him, but he made it.

The narrow passage led between the walls of the house. On the other side, Devon found he could stand up. Alexander turned around to return the panel to its place. “So no one will see we’re in here,” he whispered.

Ahead of them a small passageway, dimly illuminated by their candle, veered off sharply to their left. Alexander led the way, taking the candle back from Devon, its flickering light barely allowing them to see a few inches ahead. Several times Devon felt the sticky kiss of a cobweb against his face; he brushed at them uselessly, convinced a large spider was crawling along his back.

At the end of the passageway, Alexander pushed at another door. It opened onto a large corridor, not unlike the one outside their bedrooms, with a similar Oriental rug that ran the length. But here everything was covered in a thick layer of dust: a heavy, bitter sediment that made Devon cough as soon as they entered

“We’re in the East Wing!” Alexander proclaimed in triumph.

The windows were mostly shuttered here, but enough daylight filtered through the slats to make their way a little easier. The wallpaper was old silk: a faded textured blue with a pattern of swans, Devon thought, although it was hard to discern what was actually etched beneath the dust. On the walls, old lamp fixtures that had not burned in decades hung side by side with the sagging wire of old picture hooks—the portraits of dead Muir ancestors removed to livelier parts of the house. A large stained glass window at the far end of the corridor depicted God casting Lucifer into hell.

Through the open doors that led off the corridor, Devon peered into empty, shuttered rooms. Their footsteps echoed dully through the dust.

Alexander was urging Devon to hurry up, beckoning him into one large room that once must have served as an upstairs parlor. A closed-off fireplace and shuttered bay windows attested to the fact that this had been more than a bedroom. Devon looked up: an old, broken chandelier still hung in the center of the room. For a second he imagined Emily Muir here, entertaining guests, laughing, the light of the chandelier reflecting on her delicate features.

“In here,” Alexander called, crooking a finger at Devon to follow. They passed through an archway into a small anteroom and then through a small door into a third room, an inner chamber with no windows. “This is it,” Alexander announced. “This is my place.”

Here the candlelight revealed remnants of the past: several bookcases filled with dusty old tomes, a rolltop desk with most of its drawers missing, and a broken mirror propped up against the wall. And here, suddenly, the heat came at Devon full force, causing him to turn away from its impact as if he’d just been slapped across the face.

This is the place, Devon thought. The place I’ve been searching for.

Why would the Muirs build an inner room? A place without windows? What secrets were kept here?

“This was a library, I think,” Alexander said, and indeed, more books were piled on the floor. Suddenly there was a scampering sound: mice, Devon imagined.

But no, not mice, he realized on second thought. Whatever was moving under the floorboards and behind the walls was far heavier and much faster than any mouse or rat. Once more Devon felt the heat pulsing around his face.

“And look,” Alexander pointed out.

A solitary portrait hung on the far side of the room, the dust on its face disturbed by the strokes of a child’s fingers.

“Doesn’t it look like you?” Alexander asked. “I thought so the first time I saw you.”

There was no doubt it did. The portrait was of a boy close to Devon’s age, dressed in the clothing of the 1930s or 1940s. Devon took a step closer to examine it, but Alexander had moved off with the candle, leaving the portrait in darkness.

“Do you like this place?” the boy asked.

He set the candle down on the rolltop desk. He looked up at Devon, the flickering flame illuminating his features.

Devon tried to smile. “It’s very intriguing,” he admitted, already thinking he would come back here tonight with a flashlight and without the boy. He’d make sure to bring his phone so he could take pictures. “But maybe we shouldn’t stay much longer.”

“We won’t,” Alexander said—and in that second, with the candlelight distorting the boy’s sweet childish face, Devon glimpsed the evil creature that lurked within. “But you will.”

The candle suddenly went out, followed by the horrible sounds of footsteps running across the floor and then a door slamming.

“Alexander!” Devon called after him, even as he heard an old key twisting in a lock.

The darkness was complete. Now there was only the high, sweet voice of a demon child:

“You’ll rot in there. They’ll never know where you went.”

“Alexander!” Devon screamed.

But he was gone. In his mind, Devon followed the boy out through the old parlor, into the corridor, down the secret passageway, out of the closet, down the hallway, and back into his room. Later, when Mrs. Crandall would ask where Devon was, Alexander would reply with expertly feigned innocence. “I don’t know, Aunt Amanda,” he would say. “Perhaps he’s gone for good.”

For several moments, Devon did not think at all. He merely stood in the middle of the room, unable to move, immobilized by the darkness. But then he began to concentrate, first on his heartbeat, then on his breathing, and finally he turned to the place where it seemed the boy had left the candle.

Or had he left it? Might he have snatched it from the table once he blew it out, condemning Devon here to total darkness?

But for that much at least Devon could be grateful. After fumbling through the dark and finding the rolltop desk, he placed his hand around the candlestick and found the matches nearby. Striking one and lighting the wick, he breathed a long sigh of relief as the room flickered back into view.

“You didn’t reckon on one thing, brat,” Devon said out loud, turning to face the door. “I have resources of my own when it comes to locked doors.”

He concentrated. He willed the door to open, the way he’d flung open the doors on Rolfe’s car that first night. But the door to the room didn’t budge. Devon grunted and put his hands to his head and tried again. But he knew it was useless. The power came at first concentration, or it didn’t come at all. It only worked when it wanted to work. Devon could never predict it, except he knew it had never helped him win track meets or impress his friends. It just worked when he needed something really bad, like to fight off demons. But wasn’t this a situation when he really needed help? If it wasn’t, he didn’t know what was.

Slowly a little fear began to gather in the back of his mind. What if I can’t get the door to open? What if I scream but no one hears me?

I’ll die here, in the darkness.

There was light for now, although the candle was short. If he needed to, Devon would snuff it out to conserve it. But he left it burning; for now, the light gave him some comfort.

Surely Alexander would return. Devon settled himself against the wall. If I’m raving like a child, he thought, he will have won. If I remain calm, he will see that I do not frighten easily.

But what if he meant his threat? What if he really was that disturbed? Or worse?

What if Alexander Muir was in fact a demon in disguise? One had disguised itself as Dad once. Or what if—and this possibility felt more compelling—Alexander was being controlled by some demonic force?

His eyes. His voice. Devon had recognized it from the moment he met the kid. There was more to little Alexander Muir than a troubled boy’s mischievous behavior.

“You’ll rot in there. They’ll never know where you went.”

“No,” Devon said out loud. Surely Mrs. Crandall—and Cecily—would know he wouldn’t just disappear. They’d come looking for him.

He looked up then, toward the corners of the ceiling. Beady little eyes of bats, rose colored and cruel, stared down at him. He was fascinated by them, as he was that day in the old corridor with Suze. He blinked, and they were gone.

Devon stood up, the candle quivering in his hand. He needed to occupy his thoughts or else he’d go mad. Alexander would return. He had to. Devon carried the candle over to the old bookcase and lifted it so he could read the titles. He was stunned by what he saw there. Books on magic. Sorcery, to be exact. One title in particular appeared to glow along the binding. The Arcane Art of the Sorcery of the Nightwing.

Devon’s hand trembled as he reached for the book. He could feel the surge of electricity through his body. He slid the book off of the shelf, opening it indiscriminately. With the candle he glanced down at the page and read a passage that seemed to pop out at him: “All power comes from good.”

Hadn’t Dad always said the same?

Devon replaced the book and looked at the next one. This was a much thicker tome, with ornate gold leaf on its binding. The Book of Enlightenment.

Suddenly Devon was overcome with a sense of dizziness. He was forced to set the candle down on top of the bookcase and grasp a chair to support himself. Something was rushing through his brain. Words, sounds, pictures. He touched the spine of The Book of Enlightenment—

He was surrounded by blue light.

A man he didn’t know, a man with long white hair wearing a flowing purple robe, was speaking in a deep voice that echoed through the blue nothingness:

“Of these enchanters, the most noble and feared have always been the Sorcerers of the Order of the Nightwing, who alone discovered the secret of how to open the Portals between this world and the one below. For nearly three thousand years, the Nightwing have jealously guarded the secret of the Portals, which, in common parlance, have come to be known as Hell Holes.”

Devon staggered back a bit, breaking contact with The Book of Enlightenment. The blue light disappeared, and he was back in the darkness of the secret room. He found he had to catch his breath, so powerful had been the vision.

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 you 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, blue-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.

“I think you’ll do fine with us,” he said. “Cecily told us you were cool. She also said that you were mysterious.” He looked over at Devon, his brown eyes twinkling. “That, of course, just made us all the more determined to find out your secrets.”

Devon laughed. “Well, whatever you find out, let me know, because I want to find out, too.”

The bell rang and they hurried to class. For Devon, the day passed in a haze. Classes, seat assignments, and a pile of new books. Meetings with teachers, interviews with guidance counselors, summaries of lessons. Starting in the middle of the semester was no fun, but the day did give Devon a break from the thoughts that had consumed him since his arrival at Ravenscliff. It gave him the opportunity, for a few hours at least, to be just an ordinary kid.

His mind was still swimming when the last bell rang and he made his way back to his locker. Cecily was there waiting.

“All the girls are asking about you,” she announced.

Devon smiled, a little embarrassed by the attention. He began fiddling with the lock, the combination of which he was trying to commit to memory.

“45 … 15 …”

“I told them you were gay,” she said.

Devon whipped his head around to look at her. “Why would you tell them that?”

“To keep them away from you. I’ve already got to deal with Nate coming on to you.”

Devon shook his head and went back to opening his locker. “You’re a very funny girl, you know that, Cecily?”

“I called Simon and told him D.J. would bring us home,” she said. “This way we can hang at Gio’s for a while.”

“What’s Gio’s?”

“A pizza place,” Marcus told him, suddenly appearing at the next locker. “Everybody from Misery Point hangs there after school since most everything’s closed down in our town this time of year.”

He looked over at Cecily.

“And by the way, Cess,” he added, “I straightened out your story about Devon, so to speak.” He grinned over at Devon. “I told all the girls who were asking that you were straighter than a yardstick.”

“Marcus!” Cecily whined. “Why’d you do that?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind if Devon was gay. I’d like to find a boyfriend myself before sophomore year is over. But fair’s fair, Cess.”

Cecily pouted.

“Thanks,” Devon said to Marcus. “But I don’t really care what people say about me.”

Marcus gave him a look. “That’s because you do have a secret, I suspect,” he said in a low voice. “But it’s not that you’re gay.”

Devon smiled. “Yeah, nothing as simple as that.”

He was pleased that his new friend didn’t press him. They slammed their lockers shut and headed out into the parking lot.

D.J., being sixteen, had his driver’s license. He’d been kept back a grade in junior high. He was leaning against his car as they came upon him. Devon watched as Cecily and Natalie suddenly turned on the charm to him now that he was giving them a ride.

“Thank you, Deejie sweetums,” Cecily purred.

Natalie gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best, Deej.”

Devon walked around the classic red Camaro. “Awesome car,” he said to D.J. “What year is it?”

“She’s a ‘79,” D.J. replied, still seeming unsure of whether he liked Devon or not. He slid in behind the wheel and started the engine, the car humming to life. The music snapped on as well. Aerosmith.

“Hey,” Devon said. “Aerosmith rocks.”

D.J. beamed. “Finally,” he called to the other kids, who were climbing into the backseat of the car. “Somebody who has some taste in music.” He looked over at Devon, who had slipped into the passenger seat upfront. “These guys are all about those stupid British boy bands.”

Devon shuddered. D.J. laughed and clapped him on the back. Suddenly they were best friends.

Heading out of the school parking lot and out onto Route 1, D.J. gave Devon a detailed description of the Camaro’s engine, its horsepower, its history of different paint jobs. Devon’s father had worked on cars so he had some understanding of what D.J. was talking about. “I just painted the white stripe down her side,” D.J. told him. He’d named the car “Flo,” he told Devon, after his grandmother, who’d given him the money to buy it.

For the first time since leaving Coles Junction, Devon felt as if he might just fit in here. His friends back home had all seemed to move on without him. But now he had some new friends—friends who, according to Marcus, had each other’s backs. Never mind for the moment all the creepy mysteries that were waiting for him back at the old house on the cliff. For Devon, almost as important as finding out about his past was finding a group of friends, people he liked and could trust, people who could help him forget how much he missed his old life. Maybe in time he wouldn’t miss it as much.

D.J. was singing along to “Walk This Way.” He was tall and lanky, pierced and scruffy. Devon realized that D.J. was usually pretty laid-back, but he came alive when something really got him excited—like his car or the music of Aerosmith. In his black jeans and black t-shirt, D.J. seemingly hadn’t a care in the world except for keeping his Camaro waxed and shined. Devon envied him; he couldn’t imagine the luxury of such a wonderfully ordinary life.

At Gio’s, they piled out of Flo and scrambled into the pizza place, which was already packed with kids. On their way inside, D.J. slapped the backs of the guys who were hanging out in front smoking cigarettes. One kid who was leaning against his motorcycle D.J. called “Crispin.”

A heavy aroma of garlic assaulted Devon’s nostrils as he made his way inside the small space, where the walls were festooned with American and Italian flags. Natalie stopped at a booth to exchange giddy gossip with some other cheerleaders while Marcus air-kissed a couple of girls sitting on stools at the long counter and shouted an order for a pepperoni pizza into the kitchen. Cecily spoke to no one. She was busy tweeting their arrival. “I have to get in all my social media needs while we’re outside Misery Point,” she told Devon. “Mother is so obstinate about not getting a cell phone booster for the house.”

That was when Devon realized he had some texts that he’d missed. One was from Suze. She hoped that Devon wasn’t mad at her since he hadn’t replied to her last message. Devon frowned. How was he supposed to reply to a message telling him he’d been replaced not more than two days after he’d left? Then there were two texts and a photo from Tommy. The texts were brief, just saying “hey” and “what up.” The photo was of Max sprawled out on Tommy’s bed, which broke Devon’s heart. He chose not to reply to any of the texts.

Instead, he slid into a booth beside Cecily and Marcus, as D.J. and Natalie sat opposite them. What an eclectic little group his new friends were. Cecily was the rich girl. Natalie was a cheerleader. D.J. was a gear head, and Marcus was gay.

“So what brought you guys together?” Devon asked, as Gio, a barrel-chested man in a grimy apron, dropped a steaming pizza in the middle of their table. “How come you guys hang out with each other? I mean, you’re all so different.”

They looked at him as if it they didn’t know what he was talking about. “Different?” D.J. asked. “We’re not different. We’re all strictly non-bullshitters, you know? We do and say what we mean.”

“We just don’t quite fit with any other group,” Marcus added, lifting a slice of pizza in the air, its cheese dangling in a long string. “According to conventional wisdom, I should hang out with the theater crowd. But I’m not that—well, theatrical.”

“And me,” Natalie said, cutting her pizza with a knife and fork. “I could hang with the cheerleaders if I wanted. But who wants to do that? Like I want to talk about shaving my legs all the time?” She paused. “Some of the time, sure—but not always.”

Devon was smiling. “And what about you, Cecily?” he asked, looking at her. “What puts you in this little group?”

A small grin played with her lips. “I think it’s mostly because these losers put up with me, and none of the others will.” She looked over at D.J., then at the rest of them. “I can be pretty demanding, can’t I?”

A chorus of affirmative replies followed. “All right, all right,” Cecily said. “You don’t have to agree so strongly.” She paused. “But you know what else? It hasn’t been easy growing up at Ravenscliff, the way people talk about the place. The ghosts. The legends. The scandals. A lot of the kids don’t want anything to do with me, or they just want to get to know me so they can get a free pass into Ravenscliff. Now this sorry lot”—she gestured around at the other four kids in the booth—"isn’t impressed with any of that. In some ways—”

But suddenly she was cut off by a noise. There was commotion up front. A fight. They all turned to look. Two boys were tussling. Gio was shaking his fists at them.

“Who’s fighting?” Cecily asked.

D.J. bounded out over the back of the booth, landing on his feet. “Looks like Crispin,” he said.

Indeed, the guy being pulverized was the same who’d been leaning against his motorcycle earlier. D.J. ran to help his friend.

“D.J.!” Cecily called after him. “Be careful!”

All at once Devon felt the heat. A vibration began high in his ears as the pressure seemed to close in on him.

That’s no kid that started that fight, the Voice told him.

Devon slid out of the booth. He felt unsteady on feet.

“Devon?” he heard Cecily ask, but it was as if she were miles away. He took a few steps in the direction of the scuffle, but the heat was making him dizzy. Other kids were gathering around now. Devon pushed through them, wending his way to the heart of the fight.

D.J. was trying to lift the kid who was pummeling his friend into the floor by gripping the back of his denim jacket. From where Devon stood, the attacker looked like any other kid. Blondish hair, small frame, jeans, Nike sneakers.

But when D.J. managed at one point to pull the kid up by the back of his jacket, Devon saw the truth: those were talons instead of hands, clenched into terrible fists as they pounded the boy below.

“Get back to hell,” Devon growled, leaping forward and grabbing ahold of the demon’s shoulders. He lifted it off of Crispin with strength he didn’t know he possessed. D.J., stunned, took a couple of awkward steps backward. Holding the creature by the shoulder with one hand, Devon hauled back with his other and landed a punch square in the thing’s face, sending the brawling demon flying out of the open door.

“Holy shit,” D.J. breathed.

The other kids looked at Devon in awe.

Outside on the sidewalk, the demon-that-looked-like-a-boy stood and hissed.

You’re the one I was looking for, it said to Devon. Figured this would get your attention.

Devon stared at him. He knew he was the only one who could hear the creature’s words.

Open that door! the demon roared, yellow saliva dripping from its mouth. Let them free!

Never, Devon replied.

The thing hissed again, then turned and ran off down the road.

“I didn’t do nothin’,” cried Crispin, sitting up and rubbing his face. “That freak just jumped me!” Several girls were crowding around him. Gio hurried over with a cold cloth to press against his head.

“Did you see his hands?” Crispin asked.

“I’m going after him,” D.J. announced.

“No,” Devon said. “He’s long gone!”

“I called the police,” Gio told the assaulted kid. “They’ll be here for you to file charges.”

“I was just standing by my bike, doin’ nothin’,” Crispin said. “He comes up and throws me down, starts whaling at me. Man, did you see his hands?”

It appeared no one but Crispin and Devon had gotten a clear view of the talons.

“You ever see him before?” Gio was asking Crispin.

“No. Never.”

The general consensus among the crowd was that he wasn’t from around here. Devon laughed to himself. That was for sure.

“Hey.”

Devon looked up. D.J. was standing next to him. Behind him were Cecily, Natalie and Marcus. All wide-eyed.

“How’d you get to be so strong?” D.J. asked, awestruck.

Devon felt his face redden. “I don’t know. Adrenaline, I guess.”

“You were awesome,” Natalie gushed.

“Yeah,” agreed Marcus. “Did you go to fight school or something? Karate?”

“No. Just lucky, I guess.”

Cecily sidled up next to him. “Lucky doesn’t begin to describe it.” She reached up and put her arms around his neck. “You’re a superhero, Devon March.”

Devon gave a statement to the police when they arrived, but professed ignorance when Crispin insisted his attacker had “hands like claws.” Devon told police that in the rush to come to Crispin’s aid, he’d never gotten a good look at the kid.

That wasn’t true, of course, but he knew the creature wasn’t going to be caught by any police dragnet. In fact, Devon had gotten a good look at the thing: except for the talons, he’d looked like an average kid, and that was what was so scary. The dumb-ass demons like the one that had come through his window the other night were not nearly so threatening as these clever ones, who could take the shape of humans. Devon realized he had to be on alert twenty-four seven now: at any time, those around him might not be what they seemed.

Like little Alexander Muir?

The other kids at Gio’s all wanted to meet Devon after his display of strength. He was suddenly the kid to know, and the jocks were all telling him he should join the football team and the popular girls were all flirting with him. Cecily put a stop to that by announcing they had to get back home; her mother had called wondering where they were. Devon thought maybe she was making that up, but he was just as glad to get out of there. All that attention made him uncomfortable.

They piled back into Flo and D.J. dropped Natalie off first. She lived in a small white house near the pier, where her father kept his boat. Then they brought Marcus home. He lived in a redbrick house with a white picket fence. His mom was outside raking leaves and gave Marcus a big hug as he came walking up the driveway. Devon wondered what it felt like to have a mother.

Back at Ravenscliff, he took a long shower, feeling dirty from the encounter with the demon. Why were these attacks happening so often? Back home, the experiences with the demons had been rare and came with some degree of warning: a gradual increase in the temperature and the pressure around him. Here everything was unpredictable and far more intense. It was as if by his very arrival in Misery Point he’d disturbed a long dormant hornet’s nest.

Devon let the spray hit his face. Dad sent me here to find the clues and discover my truth, a truth he apparently was not free to tell me. He turned off the shower and stepped out into the steamy bathroom. I’ve got to find the answers. And soon.

The thing at the pizza joint had confirmed what he’d already concluded: that bolted door in the secret room must never be opened. Behind it lay creatures that their brother demons wanted liberated. But what connection did Devon have to them? Why did the demon tell Devon to open the door? Why was Devon the only kid in the world who knew demons and monsters were real?

And what was all this about Sorcerers and Guardians of the Portals? And finally, who was the boy in the portrait who looked so much like him?

Devon was convinced Alexander held some of the answer in his fat little hands.

Dressing quickly, he headed down the corridor to the playroom. Once again he heard the inane laughter of that stupid clown and saw the blue flickering light of the television.

Alexander didn’t seem surprised when Devon walked in. He just looked up at him from his beanbag chair, where he sat alternately watching the TV and reading about Huck Finn. His eyes reflected no astonishment, no guilt at seeing Devon. They were empty, as empty as anything Devon had ever seen.

“So,” Devon said. “Tell me what you think of Huck.”

“He ran around doing bad things,” Alexander replied, the touch of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

“And what might you know about doing bad things, Alexander?”

“My teachers told me I was a bad boy.”

Devon sat down on the floor beside him. “I don’t think you’re bad. But I do think sometimes we all do bad things, things we wish later we could do over.”

The boy squinted at him. “So were you scared?”

“Did you want me to be scared, Alexander?”

The boy shifted. Suddenly he seemed uncomfortable, less calculating, even—could Devon trust it?—sorrowful.

“Have you ever been scared, Alexander?” Devon asked.

The boy looks at him, suddenly all bravado. “No. I’ve never been scared.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The boy stood up abruptly. He strode over to his toy box, opening the lid and withdrawing a ball. He began bouncing it up and down.

“I’ll bet you were scared when they sent you off to that school,” Devon said. “I’ll bet you were scared when your father went away.”

“He’s coming back!” the boy said sharply, looking over at Devon.

“Who’s coming back?”

“And when he comes back, he’ll make everything okay!”

“Are you talking about your father?”

Alexander seemed to retreat into his thoughts. At the mention of his father he seemed to grow sad. He stopped bouncing the ball and held it in his hands.

“If my father were here,” he said, “he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.”

Devon stood, walking over to the boy. “Do you think something bad is going to happen to you, Alexander?”

The boy seemed to suddenly hear a sound far off in the distance. “It’s time for Major Musick,” he announced, almost dreamily.

“Alexander, let’s talk. Are you frightened of something? Talk to me about your father. Talk to me about—”

“It’s time for Major Musick,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable, as if Devon were the foolish child, the frightened idiot. The ball rolled away as Alexander headed back over to the television set.

Devon intercepted him. He took the boy by the shoulders and looked down into his round button eyes. He was startled by the raw terror he saw there, but Alexander did his best to keep his eyes averted. For an instant Devon wanted to disbelieve what he saw, to dismiss it as Alexander’s game. Pity me, the poor innocent frightened child, abandoned by my father. But the kid was trying too hard to disguise his fear. He didn’t want Devon to know that he was scared any more than Devon had wanted the boy to know of his own fright at being locked in that room the other day.

But what could be frightening him?

“It’s all right, Alexander,” Devon tried. “It’s okay to be frightened sometimes. We all get frightened once in a while. Tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can fix it.”

“You think you could?” He laughed. “You really think you could?”

“I could try. At least by talking about it—”

“I can’t! He won’t let me!” The boy shuddered against Devon. His eyes searched back and forth across the room.

“Who, Alexander? Who won’t let you?”

The boy was silent.

Devon looked closely at him. The boy’s eyes were like burning coals. His mouth curled in a snarl that seemed so alien to his smooth, childish features. It was the expression of an adult, a cynical, bitter man.

“Let me go,” Alexander said.

Devon complied. The boy settled back into his beanbag chair. With the remote control, he switched the channel to Major Musick. Devon walked up behind him to watch.

On the screen, four rows of blank-eyed children sat in low-rise bleachers. The children were clapping, all in unison, like little robots, or like those windup monkey bands. The camera scanned past the gray masked of their faces. It lingered on the face of one of them: a skinny boy in a crew cut, his face a mass of freckles.

Major Musick came out then, making his entrance from behind a frayed red velvet curtain. “Hello, boys and girls,” he barked. “What shall we sing today?”

Just what was it about this creature that so entranced Alexander? Devon watched as the boy hunkered down to raptly watch the show. Major Musick launched into a crazy song about big black birds flying through the sky. Devon observed the painted lips, the big red nose, the little darting eyes surrounded by enormous white circles.

“He’s creepy,” Devon told Alexander.

But Alexander wasn’t paying any mind, just singing along in a low childish voice to the song about the birds.

Devon shuddered, putting his questions aside for now, and left Alexander to his clown. More than anything else, he just wanted to get out of that room.

“He needs a shrink,” Cecily said as they walked out to the stables, the sky darkening above them. Yet another storm was looming on the horizon. “His mother was loco. It must run in the family.”

“Cecily, I know you think the ghosts in this house are harmless. But I’m not so sure.”

“Oh, Devon, really.”

She slid the bolt aside and pulled open the door. Devon inhaled the thick air of the stable, heavy with the pungency of straw and manure. Cecily’s horse, Pearlie Mae, was a champion, a beautiful white Morgan with sharp pink ears and wide blue eyes.

Devon caressed the side of the animal. “Does Alexander ride?” he asked.

Cecily laughed. “You kidding? That little porker? He just sits in front of the computer or the TV and eats Ring Dings all day long.” She shook her head. “I tried being friendly to him when his father first dumped him here, but he’s just so miserable.”

“I’m worried about him,” Devon told her.

“With reason. Too many of those things can kill you!”

Devon smiled wearily. “I wasn’t talking about Ring Dings.”

“Then what?”

“I’m not sure,” he told her. Pearlie Mae snorted. “Tell me something. Do you think Jackson Muir really was a warlock?”

Cecily moved in close to him. “Oh, Devon. Maybe we’ve filled your head with too many of our stories. Our ghosts aren’t menacing. Pretty soon you’ll get used to them. They’ll fade into the background, like the wallpaper.” She reached up and put her arms around his neck, pulling him close to her so that he could feel the contours of her breasts against him. “You were just so manly at the pizza shop today,” she told him.

For a moment, so close to Cecily, the smell of her hair enveloping him, Devon forgot all of his fears. All thoughts of demons and ghosts and secret rooms were chased from his mind by his proximity to this beautiful girl.

They kissed.

In her stall, Pearlie Mae whinnied and whipped her tail. Devon eased Cecily back, gently removing her arms from around his neck.

“Cecily,” he said, “I can’t deny that I like you a lot. But this stuff that’s been happening ever since I got here—I’ve got to figure out what’s going on.”

“What are you talking about?”

He sighed. “All right. I’m going to try something. I don’t know if it’ll work, but I’m going to try.”

She looked at him strangely.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. Once, trying to impress Suze back home, he’d tried lifting the front of a Volkswagen. It hadn’t worked. But now he wasn’t trying to impress Cecily as much as enlist her help; he needed an ally in fighting whatever it was that threatened him, and maybe Alexander, too.

“Watch the door,” he told Cecily.

Devon closed his eyes and visualized the stable door. It was standing wide open, the way they’d left it. He concentrated as hard as he could and—

The stable door swung shut.

“Whoa!” Cecily shouted. “How’d you do that?”

“I can just … do things,” Devon replied, adding, “sometimes.”

She stared at him. “Do something else.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he told her.

“Then how do I know that wasn’t the wind?”

He sighed. He looked around. His eyes came to rest on Cecily’s horse. He concentrated.

And within seconds Pearlie Mae levitated three feet off the straw-covered floor.

“Oh my God,” Cecily breathed, her face going white.

Devon brought the horse gently back to earth.

“Oh my God,” Cecily said again. “That was definitely not the wind.”

“Ever since I was a kid, I could do this stuff.” Devon smiled awkwardly. “Sometimes it doesn’t happen, try as I might. But see, Cecily, that’s why I’ve got to discover the truth of who I am. Why I’m like this. And I’m certain my dad sent me here so I could find out.”

“Oh my God,” was all Cecily said again, sitting down on a bale of hay.

Devon sat down beside her. “Do you think I’m a freak?”

She looked up at him, and finally smiled. “I could never think that, Devon.”

He sighed. “Good. Because I need your help. You’ve got to believe me when I tell you what I’ve seen in that house. What I’ve seen all my life.”

So he told her about the demons—the green eyes in his closet back home, his father’s admonition that he was stronger than any of them. He told her about Alexander’s prank and about what he found in the East Wing. The portrait. The door.

“It’s not like I don’t believe you, Devon,” Cecily said when he was finished. “It’s just that—I can’t adjust to the idea that there are demons in Ravenscliff. Ghosts, sure—but Mother always told me I had nothing to fear from anything in that house. She might be odd, but I can’t believe she’d let me stay here if there was any danger.”

Devon considered this. “I don’t think there was—not before I arrived, at least.” He looked at her. “I have a theory. I think somehow my coming here has stirred things up. Gotten whatever forces are here all riled.”

“But why?”

“Something about who I am. My past. Where I came from.”

“Your real parents?”

He nodded. “And I think Alexander knows something. Maybe not consciously even—but he’s got some connection. Cecily, he locked me in that room in the East Wing for a reason.”

“Yeah,” she said, “to scare you. Devon, I’ve told you that Alexander is a screwed-up kid. Has been all his life.”

“But how much now is his own screwed-up-ness and how much is Jackson Muir?”

“Jackson Muir? You think our so-called warlock has something to do with your demons?”

“I’m starting to think so.”

Cecily frowned. “Devon, I can’t deny something weird is going on, not after seeing you in action at Gio’s and what you just did to Pearlie Mae. But why do you think Jackson Muir is involved? He’s just a legend. I should never have encouraged that warlock talk—”

“I know it was him that I saw in that locked room. The Voice tells me I’m on the right track, and the Voice has never failed me yet.”

“Well, if any of our ghosts were to go psycho on us, it would be Jackson.” She looked over at Devon. “How much do you think my mother knows about all this?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But she knows something, I’m sure. Something about who I am.”

“Do you think she knows about—what you can do?”

“I don’t know.” He considered the idea further. “No, I don’t think she does. And I don’t think she should, either, for now.”

“Okay,” Cecily agreed.

They heard the first pitter-patter of raindrops on the stable roof. “We should get going,” Devon said.

They secured the doors to the stable tightly in advance of the storm.

“Devon,” Cecily said, whispering in the damp dusky air.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for trusting me.”

He grinned. He reached down and took her hand. Together they hurried back up to the main house.

The storm hit just before dinner, rocking the house like the slap of a giant hand. Great purple fingers clawed across the sky, bringing darkness early to the coast. The rains pounded the earth with a force strong enough to release stones from their lodgings, sending tiny avalanches of rock and soil down the steep cliffs along the roads. Echoing claps of thunder set the dogs all to howling; ferocious lightning crackled against the sky, silhouetting the spires of Ravenscliff above the village below.

When Alexander failed to come down to dinner—a rare gathering his aunt had intended for the whole family, minus (of course) old Grandmama—Mrs. Crandall sent Simon up to fetch him. When the caretaker returned to report that the boy wasn’t in his room, the matriarch of the house let out a long sigh. “That incorrigible child. I’ve told him repeatedly not to be late for dinner.”

Simon served their roast turkey, carved on an enormous silver platter. Devon was famished, and he ate heartily—but something about Alexander’s absence unnerved him. There was a sense of something amiss, something wrong. There’s your sensitivity again, Dad was telling him in his mind.

After dinner, as Simon cleared away the plates, Devon asked Cecily to accompany him through the house to search for Alexander.

“Do you think he might have snuck back into the East Wing?” she wondered.

“Simon said he nailed that panel shut,” Devon told her. “But who knows if there are other ways into that place.”

The thunder startled both of them then, and the lights went out. “Ever wonder why they call this Misery Point?” Cecily laughed.

“I figured it out the first day I was here,” Devon replied.

They both lit candles and made their way through the dark. They searched every room in the main part of the house: the kitchen, the dining room, the parlor, the study, the library, the bedrooms, the playroom. But no Alexander.

“Could he be outside?” Cecily asked, looking out the parlor window just as a great flash of lightning illuminated the vast stretch of the estate leading out to Devil’s Rock.

Devon was looking out too. “Hey, I think I just saw someone out there,” he said. “When the lightning came—”

Cecily unfastened the hook and opened the panes outward. “Alexander!” she called. “Are you out there? Are you crazy?” She pulled back in. “Duh. Like I don’t know the answer to that question.”

“Let’s look in his room and see if his coat is gone.”

Indeed it was. “Oh, Devon, I hope he’s all right,” Cecily said, finally genuinely concerned about her young cousin. She lifted a teddy bear from the boy’s bed. “This storm is awfully intense.”

Devon felt a shudder but suppressed it. “It’s not the storm I’m worried about.”

She managed a smile. “Hey, if Jackson Muir is behind this, as soon as he gets a hold of that brat, he’ll send him back!”

Devon looked at her. “Stop making light of this. I believe Alexander is in danger.”

She looked back squarely, suddenly terrified. “You really do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said. “At least, I believe it’s worth—”

He paused. Alexander’s laptop computer sat on a table next to his bed. Devon peered down at it. A Word document was open, containing just one line of type, in all capital letters.

HELP ME. HE’S COMING.

Cecily saw it too. “What do you make of that?” she asked.

It was precisely at that moment, beneath the steady pounding of the rain, just before a thunderclap shook the very foundation of the house, that they heard the unmistakable sound of a child’s scream.

The Woman in White

The storm raged all through the night like a lover spurned. As he searched for Alexander near the cliffs, Devon came to understand why the villagers claimed to hear Emily Muir on stormy nights such as this. Behind the wind, the echo of her screams remained high and clear. Devon was even sure he saw her once, in that portentous second when the lightning illuminated the dark woods: a shrieking figure in a long white gown, fingers clawing the night.

He feared approaching Devil’s Rock any closer: what if, in his terror, Alexander had plunged from its edge?

Cecily drew closer to him. She was bundled in a bright yellow raincoat, the hood pulled tightly around her face. Wisps of her red hair poked from beneath the elastic, dripping down into her eyes. Devon carried a large flashlight. Its beam swung through the shadows, exposing tree trunks with limbs now as bare as the arms of skeletons, their fiery-colored leaves blown away by the wind. But despite calling the boy’s name over and over for the last hour, there was no sign of Alexander Muir.

“You heard the scream, too, didn’t you?” Devon asked. “I’m not imagining it?”

“I heard it,” Cecily admitted. “Oh, Devon—where could he be? Why would he come out in a storm like this?”

Thunder rattled them both suddenly, and they paused in their steps. The flashlight sputtered, then dimmed. Cecily made a small cry, but Devon shook it, bringing the flashlight back to life. Ahead of them somewhere was Simon, whose raspy voice calling after the boy had now faded into the steady beat of the rain, which exploded the earth with its ferocity, splashing mud up onto their shoes and pants.

Raw terror burned in Devon’s gut. Cecily was right to wonder what had possessed the boy to come outside on a night like this. Even more disturbing was the scream they’d heard. Had he fallen from Devil’s Rock? Had he—Devon shuddered—been led there by Jackson Muir and then pushed?

In his mind he couldn’t shake the image of that decomposing face, the maggots in its teeth, its rotting breath in Devon’s ear.

Help me, Alexander had written. He’s coming.

Who else, Devon feared, but Jackson Muir?

“We’ve got to look down at the beach below Devil’s Rock,” Devon shouted through the driving force of the rain.

“Oh, Devon,” Cecily cried.

Through the mud they pushed onward. They’d have to be careful themselves: at the edge of the cliff the wind rushed and swelled with a force far greater than anywhere else along the coast. Cecily had told him that a tourist trespassing on the Muir estate two summers ago had been swept off the peak by a sudden and malevolent gale. His broken, mangled body had been found six miles down the coast twelve days later. His camera was still in its bag over his shoulder.

Cecily steadied herself at the brink. “Even if he fell, we couldn’t see from up here,” she gasped into the wind. “It’s too dark.”

“Maybe I should go down,” Devon said.

“No need,” came the deep, coarse voice of Simon. He stepped out of the shadows beside them. A fog suddenly rolled in off the sea; it obscured the little man’s features. But his unkind eyes still bore through the night like red embers. Devon recoiled.

“What do you mean, no need?” Cecily asked.

“I’ve just been down there,” Simon told her, his unevenly cut black hair plastered down around his face and into his eyes. “There’s nobody on the rocks. If the boy fell, he’s washed out to sea. We’ll have to wait until morning, see what turns up.”

“Oh,” Cecily muttered, putting her hands over her face and starting to cry.

“Come on,” Devon said, placing his arm around her and leading her back across the estate.

About three o’clock in the morning, the storm finally abated. The rain turned soft, hushed, and nearly invisible. Now the only sound was the mournful call of the foghorn, warning ships not to come too close to this place.

Mrs. Crandall had finally called the sheriff. At first, she was uneasy about summoning the law onto the Muir estate. The Muirs regarded their grounds as a private fiefdom, a sovereign state, Devon had come to learn. “I don’t like policemen prowling around my property,” Mrs. Crandall had sniffed.

But she’d finally relented when Devon and Cecily had stumbled into the foyer of the great house, drenched and dispirited. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Simon had said from behind them. “I wish I could give you better news, but the boy just wasn’t no where to be found.”

In Misery Point, when Mrs. Amanda Muir Crandall called the sheriff, there was no delay. There was no paperwork to be filled out, no excuses about the lack of personnel at three in the morning. Precisely seven minutes from the time she hung up the receiver, a sheriff’s deputy was knocking at the front door of Ravenscliff. Cecily let him in, still towel drying her hair.

“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 approach. 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.”

“Hey,” Rolfe said. “Who said I didn’t believe? I understand about ghosts. I’ve seen a few myself. Right here in this house.”

“Really?” Devon asked. “Here?”

“I’ll bet nobody’s told you that I lived here when I was your age,” Rolfe said. “Right here. Probably in the very room you’re using. Did they give you the one right above the terrace overlooking the garden and the cliffs?”

“Yes,” Devon said.

“Figured as much.”

“Why?” Devon became animated all at once. “Why did you live here?”

Rolfe seemed to be considering how much he should say. “My father was the caretaker here before they hired that old gnome Simon,” he explained finally. “That was when Mrs. Crandall’s father still ruled the roost. He was a great old man.”

For a moment Rolfe’s eyes appeared distant, lost in time, a melancholy shadow passing across his features. Then he smiled. “So I encountered my share of ghosts.”

Devon looked up at him hard. “Did you ever go into the East Wing?”

Rolfe returned his look. “Have you?”

Devon nodded.

“Listen, kid,” Rolfe said, his voice growing serious. “You’ve got to be careful. I mean it. There are things—”

“Yeah, there sure are things. Locked behind a metal door in a closed-off room.”

Rolfe’s eyes bore down on him solemnly. “Come visit me at the restaurant when you get a chance. I’m there every afternoon.” He paused, studying the boy. “I think we have some things we could talk about. Just don’t let Amanda know you’re coming.”

Devon watched him walk off down the path. He disappeared around the bend and then Devon heard the Porsche kick into gear. The sun was edging the horizon now. Long low rays of golden sunlight reached across the estate. Devon headed back inside.

He heard it then: the sobbing.

Low, sepulchral, thick: the sound rose in waves, louder now, then hushed, obscured by the increasing chatter of birds heralding the sun. The house was veiled in long shadows. Soon—in minutes, really—sunlight would spill through the windows, and Devon was certain the sobbing would not endure the harsh reality of day. But now, in the procrastination of the dark, the sound persisted. It was the most wretched cry he had ever heard, the most heartsick lamentation he could possibly imagine.

The sound seemed to seep up from the floorboards and emerge from the air. Devon walked through the main corridor past the dining room, then through the study. He paused at the doorway to the East Wing. There was no mistaking the fact that it was louder here. It came from somewhere beyond this door.

Despite everything, despite all of Mrs. Crandall’s anger and everything that had happened tonight, Devon tried the door—he had to know the truth—and to his great surprise it opened. They’d been looking for Alexander in here earlier, he realized. Somehow—crazily—they’d forgotten to lock the door again.

He pulled the door open and peered into the corridor beyond. To the right another door stood open, revealing a curved staircase leading up. The tower, Devon figured. On the wall he flicked a light switch: a single hanging bulb popped tenuously into life. So much for the power being shut off in here. He made his way up the steps one by one, pausing on each to listen. Still the sobbing came, thicker now as he approached its source.

At the first landing he looked around. The sobbing continued from somewhere still higher. Devon continued climbing the stairs, round and round, padding through the thick dust that had accumulated on the broken cement steps. He could see the second landing above him now, where there was a door ajar. A small glow from a candle flickered from within. What could he expect to find in there? Whom could he expect to confront?

The flickering candle above was his only guide now, as the light from the old bulb below didn’t make it this high. Devon kept climbing through the darkness by feeling along the cracked plaster of the wall. Across his hand scurried something soft and furry. He pulled his hand back, imagining a large spider or bat. He cringed. His heart raced through his ears, but he kept climbing.

All at once, the sobbing pitched and then stopped. Devon was left in silence.

In the few seconds before terror overtook his rationality, he told himself that dawn’s first light would soon stream in from the tower windows along the old stone walls, lighting his way. But such rationality was shattered when he smelled once again the rancid breath of the demon in the dark and felt its cold, rough fingers close around his neck.

The Face of the Madman

He did not surrender without a fight. Jackson Muir might have been stronger, but Devon struggled mightily to break free of the warlock’s grip, trying with all his might to scream. But the breath was being choked out of him. He began to feel light and heady, as if he’d lose consciousness.

Then a filter of sunlight transformed the darkness, and the first thing he noticed was what was cinching his neck was no demonic hand but rather a length of old rope. In that instant the grip was suddenly relaxed, and Devon tumbled to his knees. He coughed, spit, rubbed his burning neck—and turned around to look up into the malicious face of Simon Gooch.

“You tried to kill me!” Devon gasped.

“I will kill ya,” the ugly little man barked, “if I ever catch ya in here again.”

Devon stood, clutching his chafed neck where Simon had tightened the rope. “I don’t think Mrs. Crandall will be too pleased to hear how you attacked me.”

Simon grinned. It was a horrible expression. There was delight in the man’s eyes, a sadistic pleasure gained from Devon’s pain and fear. “She wouldn’t be too pleased to hear that you disobeyed her about comin’ in here neither,” he said through clenched teeth. “She’s already pissed at ya enough for scarin’ the boy.”

Devon was silent. They stood there glaring at each other for several seconds, and then Simon laughed. “You get out of here or else I’m locking you in,” he snarled, turning and clomping back down the tower steps in his heavy work boots.

Devon looked back up at the door above, then sighed, following Simon. The caretaker’s sour body odor lingered in his path. When Devon reached the last step, the little troll was waiting for him at the door back into the main house. He grunted for Devon to get moving. The boy did, taking one last look up into the tower, and then walked out into the morning light.

He showered quickly and met a groggy-eyed Cecily at the breakfast table, ready for school once again. The day passed in a blur: two nights of no sleep were taking their toll. Devon had more meetings with teachers, more classroom discussions he couldn’t follow, more textbooks piled high on his desk. After classes the gang again piled into D.J.’s Camaro and headed over to Gio’s, where they wolfed down pizza. D.J. and Marcus got into a burping contest, but Devon was too tired to participate.

All day, he’d been a star. Girls had gazed over at him longingly in the corridors, and guys looked at him with a mixture of envy and apprehension. “You the man,” Crispin told him—and if the rebels liked you, you were certifiably cool.

Word travels quickly in high school, especially when a new kid exhibited nearly superhuman powers. At the pizza joint, Gio told him their cheese-and-pepperoni was on the house. “You’re welcome here any-a-time,” Gio gushed. “You can protect old Gio’s business from the cretins.”

Yeah, Devon thought. Guess I might have to do exactly that.

But thankfully, no “cretins” disrupted them this afternoon. In fact, an uneasy quiet seemed to fall over Ravenscliff during the next several days. Devon was able to get to bed early, collapsing into an exhausted sleep, a pattern he followed the rest of the week. He was able to make a little headway into his studies, finally catching up a little. He even raised his hand a couple of times in political science class and participated in the discussion.

Could life have actually been returning to normal?

Cecily remained as affectionate as ever, but she was silent about Devon’s powers. Neither did she mention the ghosts, or the padlocked door, or Devon’s suspicions about Jackson Muir and Alexander. It was almost as if she didn’t want to think about any of that anymore—the way, Devon believed, she’d always dealt with the unexplained and the unexpected at Ravenscliff.

Mrs. Crandall mentioned nothing further about the incident with Alexander. Neither did the boy, who greeted Devon the first time after his harrowing disappearance with a cherubic grace, a smile that belied the mystery within.

Yet whenever he encountered him, Devon just looked intently at Alexander. There was something in those round button eyes that shone like counterfeit silver. Even in the boy’s most banal moments he seemed to be laughing at Devon, lying in wait for the next opportunity. Devon studied the boy’s every word, every glance, every movement. When would he pounce again?

“You seem fascinated by something, Devon,” Alexander observed finally, a week after all the fuss.

They were both in the playroom, Alexander in his beanbag, Devon on the floor. They were watching a movie on Hulu about aliens coming down to Earth, but Devon had been glancing more frequently over at the younger boy than at the TV set. Alexander’s eyes were on the program, but he wasn’t really watching either: at least, not the way he watched that creepy clown.

“I am,” Devon admitted.

Alexander smiled. “Care to share what it is?”

“I’m fascinated by your composure, actually. Your ability to bide your time.”

The little boy raised his eyebrows. “Bide my time? What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Devon replied, “that I am left to wonder when next you might lock me in a room, or run off in a storm, or tell your aunt that I have filled your head with ghost stories.”

“Oh,” Alexander said, returning his gaze to the television, “is that what has gotten you so piqued? Never fear, Devon. We’re friends now. All that’s past. I was just testing you.”

“I want to be your friend, Alexander. But something won’t let us be friends.” He narrowed his eyes at the boy. “Tell me what it is. Do you even know?”

Alexander seemed to consider his answer. He smiled, looking up innocently at Devon. “Perhaps it’s the fact that I feel abandoned by my parents, and I’m desperately seeking attention.” He paused, assuming an expression of mock fear. “Or it might be Jackson Muir has come back to claim my soul. Might it be either of those scenarios?”

“You tell me.”

The boy laughed, a high-pitched sound. He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a stick of gum. He unwrapped it carefully, folding it into his mouth, and began to chew. He turned and grinned up at Devon.

“I know there are answers here,” Devon whispered. “And I’m going to find them. You can tell that to him. He can’t stop me. I’m going to find the truth.”

“Alexander has always acted strange,” Cecily assured him.

“I know. But there’s something—” Devon searched for the words. “I really believe Jackson Muir is working through him.”

They were in the stable again, propped up against a haystack. Pearlie Mae was behind them, calmly chewing her cud.

“Oh, Devon,” Cecily said. “You know I trust you. You know I believe you. But it just feels crazy, you know. You show up here and suddenly the ghosts of our house take possession of Alexander. Come on. It feels like a movie on Mystery Science Theater. All that’s missing are those little robots in the first row telling us how dumb we’re being.”

“I know it’s hard to believe, Cecily.” He sighed. “But the Voice … I trust it. If it tells me something, I can’t deny it.”

She made a face as if she was still not convinced entirely.

“Look,” he told her. “Once, when I was ten, we had this deaf kid in our class. Sammy Silbernagel. And one day, after class, I just couldn’t stop looking at him. The Voice was telling me something about him, but I couldn’t exactly figure out what. All I could hear was that he was in trouble. That he was going to get hurt.”

Cecily blinked. “So what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“So the Voice was wrong.”

Devon laughed. “No. It was right. Because I followed Sammy out to the playground and kept watching him. He was lost in thought, just walking along towards the street. He walked right out into the path of a bus—and totally didn’t see it coming. I was too far away to catch up with him but I yelled out for the bus to stop. And it did. Sammy just kept on walking, not knowing a thing, but the bus driver was all shook up and came out to tell me that if I hadn’t yelled, he didn’t think he’d have been able to stop in time.”

“You saved Sammy’s life,” she breathed in awe.

“Whatever. The point is the Voice was on target. It’s always been that way. Big things like that, but little things too. Like once when I couldn’t find my dog, Max. The Voice told me where he was.”

“That is so cool,” Cecily said, clearly more persuaded. “Is that why you’re an honors student?”

Devon shook his head. “I tried once passing a history test without studying, thinking the Voice would tell me the answers. I failed miserably.”

“I knew there had to be a catch somewhere.” Cecily smiled. “So why do you think you have this Voice?”

“I don’t know. The Voice, the weird powers—they’re what make me so determined to find out who I am. It has to do with—those things—those creatures—that are always after me. Cecily, that guy at the pizza joint was right. The kid who attacked him did have claws. It was a demon—like the kind I’ve told you about.”

“Get out,” she said, frightened.

“It’s true.”

Devon stood up suddenly. He was angry, but not quite sure why.

“You know what it’s like, Cecily?” he asked. “For all your life to have this fear in the back of your mind that no one can take away? I wasn’t like other kids, whose parents could come into their rooms at night and reassure them that there was no boogeyman, that there were no monsters under their bed.”

He kicked the wooden planks of the straw bin.

“Because there were monsters under my bed! There were things crawling around in my closet! There really were voices inside my head! I grew up never knowing why—why they picked on me but not on other kids, why I was the one who always had to be strong. I never knew why I could do these weird things with my mind—things that if anyone ever learned about would make me into a freak. Would make people scared of me.”

He slumped his head against his chest.

“I just want to know why, finally,” he said. “I want to know why I am the way I am.”

Cecily was standing up, embracing him. “Oh, Devon. I’m sorry. It sucks. It totally sucks.”

He looked into her eyes. “I’ve only been here a little more than a week,” he told her, “but already I know one thing for sure: this is where it originates. All the mysteries of my life. They come from here. And there are forces that don’t want me here. They don’t want me to find out their secrets because I can destroy them. My dad always said I was stronger than any of them. Why, I don’t know. But I am.”

“But not Jackson Muir,” Cecily reminded him. “You said he was stronger than you.”

“Maybe. But if that’s the case, why hasn’t he just snuffed me out? Why’s he playing around with Alexander?” He took her face in his hands. “Tell me everything you know about Jackson Muir, everything you heard growing up.”

“Not much,” she told him. “Mother never speaks of him except to say that he was evil. He was her father’s brother and he died when she was little. He scared her, I think. She said she stayed as far away from him as possible. Then there was the tragedy with his wife, Emily. And there were other things, too. Simon has said some things.”

“Like what?”

She made a face as she tried to remember the exact words. “He called him a Great Necromancer,” she said, shuddering. “Isn’t that some kind of twisted sex?”

Devon shook his head. “No. I saw that word in the locked room so I looked it up. It’s a form of sorcery. Magic. So how does Simon know about Jackson?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Simon was only hired after my grandfather died, so he didn’t know Jackson Muir. But Simon seems to know a lot stuff about our family.”

Devon considered all this information. “Rolfe Montaigne told me his father was caretaker here before Simon.”

Cecily nodded. “Yeah. I guess that’s when all the bad blood between Mother and him started.”

“Tell me what you know,” Devon said.

She looked up at him. “Let’s go into the village. I feel like I’m going to go mad if we stay here. I’m feeling just a little freaked out, and seeing people will help.”

“Okay,” he said. It was Saturday night, after all. They could still have some semblance of normal lives, he supposed. “Where do you want to go?”

“Stormy Harbor. We can get a platter of fried clams and a pot of mussels and gorge ourselves while we talk.”

He agreed. They passed across the lawn and down the cliffside staircase. The night was purple and fairly warm. A thin, salty fog was settling over everything. For most of the way they were silent. But once they were on the coast road, heading into the village, Cecily piped up again.

“Does Alexander know you suspect him as being in league with Jackson?” she asked, the waves crashing not far from them on the beach.

“We have these sparring matches,” Devon told her. “But I think it’s Jackson I’m sparring with, not an eight-year-old boy.”

Cecily shivered. They’d reached Stormy Harbor. “I can’t think about any of this right now,” she said, pulling open the old wooden door.

The place was packed. A heavy gray cloud of smoke hung low around the ears of the crowd. The doorman greeted Cecily warmly. He was a severe-looking young man with close-cropped dyed black hair and purple mascara. Devon and Cecily sat at a table off to the side.

“Hey, if it isn’t our New York boy,” Andrea said, arriving with pad in hand. “With Mistress Crandall herself.”

“I see the two of you already know each other,” Cecily observed.

“Old friends.” Andrea reached down to give Devon a kiss. He blushed. “How ya doin’, kid? Surviving those ghosts?”

Devon smiled over at Cecily. “What ghosts?” he said, and they both laughed.

“What’ll it be, folks?” Andrea asked. “You get a Diet Coke, young lady. Don’t get me in trouble again.”

Cecily turned to Devon. “The manager came by and checked my ID a few weeks ago and bawled poor Andrea out for giving me a glass of wine. Can you imagine?”

“Just because you’re a Muir doesn’t mean you can get away with everything,” Andrea quipped.

“Diet Coke and an order of fried clams,” Cecily said. “No bellies. Oh, and some mussels. In that red wine sauce. Or do I need to be twenty-one for that, too?”

Andrea just smirked.

“I’ll have a ginger ale,” Devon said.

“Comin’ up!” Andrea chirped, moving off among the crowd.

Devon watched the people around them. Mostly older, stocky men with heavy brows and two days’ whiskers on their faces. “Fishermen,” Cecily said, watching his eyes. “Most of whom work for my family.”

During the season, she told Devon, tourists hung out here, too, as well as the hordes of waiters and houseboys who flocked in every May looking for jobs. But now, as fall chilled into winter, it was mostly just the hardy natives and a scattering of teenagers.

Andrea brought their order. Cecily popped the first clam into her mouth. She eyed Devon for a second, then asked him a question very slowly, something that had apparently been on her mind:

“Devon,” she began, “with all this talk about your past … your real parents … and the connection to Jackson Muir. Well, do you ever think we … you and I … might be related?”

“Actually,” he admitted, “yeah.”

He dipped a clam into the marinara sauce and chewed it, looking over at her.

“But I can’t figure out how,” he said. “I mean, it would make sense in a way, explaining why my father sent me here. But the possibilities seem too far out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I wondered if maybe your uncle Edward and his crazy wife were my real parents, which would make Alexander and me brothers. But why send me away and not him?”

“Yeah,” Cecily agreed. “And besides I don’t think they even knew each other when you were born.”

He raised his eyebrows. “So maybe I was some kid your uncle had with a girlfriend.” He paused, looking intently at her. “Then there’s your father to consider.”

“My father?”

Devon nodded. “Maybe that’s why I was sent away. Maybe that’s why he left, because he got some girl pregnant and your mother wouldn’t stand for it.”

“That one is just too weird,” she said. “That would mean you and I were—” She couldn’t say it.

“Brother and sister,” Devon said for her.

“But that’s insane. If that were the case, why would Mother have taken you in?”

Devon shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Oh, Devon,” Cecily said, her eyes suddenly growing wide, “if you’re my brother, then I can’t deal with this!”

He nodded. He understood. He liked Cecily—a lot. If she turned out to be his sister, well, he didn’t even want to think about it.

“But I suppose we need to consider the possibility,” he told her. “What else do you know about your father?”

She took a sip of her Diet Coke. “Nothing really.” Her eyes moved off, as if looking at something Devon can’t see. “Sometimes I think about him … wonder if he’d stayed around … if maybe I might have had a more normal life.”

“Meaning?”

“Maybe Mother would have been less uptight. Maybe that house wouldn’t have seemed like such a crypt. But he left her, and she’s been brooding about it ever since.”

She pushed the platter of clams over at Devon. “Eat some,” she instructed, as she dug into the pot of mussels. He obeyed.

“Of course,” Cecily continued, “I don’t think she ever loved him. Not really.” Cecily smiled. “She only married him to get back at the guy she really loved.” She waited a beat. “Rolfe Montaigne.”

Devon’s eyes popped. “Rolfe Montaigne?”

Cecily laughed. “Well, I suppose if you’re looking for secrets, you should also hear the ones that have nothing to do with ghosts.” She finished her soda. “Hey, Andrea, may I have another?” Andrea gave her a thumbs-up.

“Tell me.”

“Okay. The whole sordid story goes like this. Back when Rolfe was a teenager living at Ravenscliff, he and my mother were real close—if you know what I mean. His father was the caretaker and also the great good friend of my grandfather. So Grandfather agreed to raise Rolfe as one of the family. Rolfe got the same great education my mother and uncle did and enjoyed nearly all the same privileges.”

“So when did the bad blood start?”

“Well, my mother’s told me that my Uncle Edward—her brother—was always envious of Rolfe because Rolfe was bigger, faster, stronger, smarter, better looking. My grandfather even seemed to prefer Rolfe over poor Uncle Edward. ”

Andrea settled the Coke in front of Cecily. But the teenager was too engrossed in telling her story to notice. “Grandfather had always hoped Rolfe and my mother would get married, and in fact, they planned to. They were hot and heavy for a time, I take it.”

The thought seemed incongruous to Devon. Mrs. Crandall—elegant, poised, cold Mrs. Crandall—in the arms of Rolfe Montaigne.

“But Mother was just devastated to find Rolfe with another woman. I don’t know who it was, but Mother was furious. She just never suspected.”

“So she’s still bitter at Rolfe.”

Cecily took a sip. “That’s only half of it. But maybe I shouldn’t—”

“You’ve gone this far.”

She giggled. “Oh, all right. But don’t breathe a word of it. You know how Rolfe went to jail?”

Devon swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Of course, this was all before I was born, but the stories have become Misery Point legend. It was right after Mother found out about his affair that Rolfe drove his car off the cliff. There were two kids inside. I think the girl was the one Rolfe was dallying with, but I don’t know for sure. Anyway, they’d been drinking, and you know how rain-slicked these roads get and how the wind gets so fierce.” She gave him a little smirk. “You can do the math, I’m sure.”

“They went off the road.”

“Go to the head of the class.” She shuddered. “Oh, it was all like really tragic. But here’s the kicker. Mother told the police that when Rolfe left Ravenscliff that night with the two others, she knew he’d been drinking. She said she had tried to discourage him from driving but that he’d brushed her off. She swore under oath that she had seen Rolfe behind the wheel of the car just shortly before it went off the cliff. Her testimony was enough to put Rolfe away for five years for manslaughter.”

“So she had her revenge.”

Cecily finished the last of the clams. “I’ll say. Especially since nobody in town believes Rolfe really was driving that night.”

“Wait—so your mother lied under oath to get back at Rolfe for cheating on her?”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe Mother honestly believed Rolfe was driving. Maybe he was driving when they left Ravenscliff, but one of the other two took the wheel at some point after that. That’s what Rolfe believes, anyway. But he was too drunk to remember much. They found him asleep the next morning at the foot of the cliffs.”

“Wow.” Devon took a long sip of his ginger ale.

“Hey, if isn’t the Mighty Morphin Power Ranger,” came a voice. It was D.J.—with Natalie behind him. “Anybody giving you trouble in this joint tonight, my man?”

Devon smiled. “Not so far.”

“Hey, handsome,” Natalie said, pulling up a chair next to him.

Cecily scowled. “Did it ever occur to you that we may have been in the middle of an important and private discussion?”

Natalie smiled cattily at her. “You can’t hog your new brother all the time, Cess.”

“He’s not my brother,” she snarled.

D.J. sat close to her. “Well, if he’s not, I’m gonna start gettin’ jealous.”

“Have you been drinking?” Cecily asked him. “Your breath reeks.”

“Not when I drive, Cess. You know that.”

“Then you’ve been eating too many Cheetos. Back off a little.”

D.J. made a face and slumped back in his chair.

Andrea came by to take their orders.

“An iced latte, please,” Natalie said, noting the plate of fried clam crumbs in front of Cecily. “With nonfat milk. I’m watching my weight.”

Cecily made a face at her. D.J. ordered a Coke.

Natalie batted her eyelashes over at Devon. “You wanna go to a movie later? Just me and you?”

He shrugged. “Well, Cecily and I were kinda hanging out.”

“Yeah, Miss Rah-Rah.” Cecily’s eyes widened. “Hey, Devon. Look who’s just come in.”

They all turned. Devon could see him, literally head and shoulders above most of the crowd, his intense green eyes looking around.

Rolfe Montaigne.

“Isn’t he dreamy?” Natalie gushed. “He is like so … so … movie idolish.”

Rolfe spotted them. He smiled, making his way through the crowd.

“He’s coming over!” Natalie gasped.

D.J. snorted. “Ah, what’s so great about him? He’s a murderer.”

“Stop that,” Natalie scolded.

Rolfe Montaigne arrived and stood at the side of the table. “Good evening, kids. Cecily.”

“Hello, Rolfe,” Cecily said. “How are you this evening?”

“I’m fine and dandy.” He looked down at Devon. “Hope you’re not filling the new boy’s head with all those terrible stories of the days when I was the town drunk.”

“Rolfe hasn’t had a drink since he’s come back,” Cecily informed the group.

He winked at them. “A model citizen I’ve become.”

“That you have,” Natalie cooed, sliding her chair away from Devon and gazing up at the older man. “I’m Natalie Santos.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Santos.”

Rolfe pulled a chair over to their table and sat down. Andrea arrived and he ordered them all refills plus another plate of clams. “Put it on my tab,” he told her.

“Mother would say you’re trying to buy my favor,” Cecily said. “Like you’ve bought the whole town.”

Rolfe laughed, a big, hearty sound. “Your mother does have a way with words. I haven’t bought the whole town.” He paused, then winked over at Natalie. “Yet.”

Natalie giggled. “How’d you get so rich?”

“Bet it wasn’t legal, whatever it was,” D.J. said.

Rolfe looked mock stricken. “Young man. Me? Do anything contrary to the law?”

“D.J., you are so crude,” Natalie snarled.

“Actually,” Rolfe told them, as Andrea settled their glasses and the fried clams on the table, “my wealth is all completely aboveboard. My books are open to anyone. After all, doesn’t everyone know how I made a killing—” he paused deliberately “—on the stock market?”

Cecily laughed.

“It’s true,” Rolfe said innocently, looking over at Devon. “I took a few risks that paid off. Do you take risks, Mr. March?”

“Only calculated ones,” Devon replied.

“Ah,” Rolfe scoffed. “Playing it safe never made anyone rich. When I got out of prison, do you know what I did?”

“Tell us,” Natalie said.

“I got a job on an oil rig in Saudi Arabia. That’s where my fortune began. From there it was an easy hop to Egypt, where I had the good fortune to hitch my wagon to an archaeological dig. And guess what we found?”

“A mummy’s tomb!” Natalie exclaimed.

Rolfe was grinning. “You are one clever girl. That’s absolutely right. King Rootintutin. Ever hear of him?”

“I think we studied about him in Western Civ,” Natalie said.

Cecily laughed out loud. “Nate, you are a three-way lightbulb set permanently on dim.”

Rolfe smirked. “Lots of gold. Lots of it.”

Cecily shook her head. “Aren’t you going to regale us with tales of the mummy’s curse?”

Rolfe stood up. “Another time. Don’t want to use up all my stories in one sitting.”

Natalie stared up at the older man in awe. “Can you imagine? A mummy’s tomb!”

But Rolfe wasn’t paying her any more attention. He was looking at Devon again. “So,” he asked, a trifle more serious. “Any more ghosts?”

Devon avoided his eyes. “Maybe a few,” he said.

“Keep me informed.” Rolfe’s voice was steady now, firm. Devon could tell he meant what he said. “You know where to find me.”

He gave the table a little salute and moved off.

He knows, the Voice told Devon again.

He knows things I need to find out.

“He seems awfully interested in you,” Cecily said. “I wonder why.”

Devon didn’t know either. But he aimed to find out. And soon.

On the way home, the night was cool and crisp. The leaves on the trees were mostly gone. The air was pungent with the sweet fragrance of the harvest: freshly scythed hay, overturned soil. Crickets kept up their monotonous chorus, and the moon shone high in the clear sky.

They’d left D.J. and Natalie at Stormy Harbor, preferring to wander along the beach and then climb back up the cliffs by themselves. Devon had reached down and taken Cecily’s hand. At one point he’d kissed her—the first time on his own initiative. She smelled so great, felt so soft. He wouldn’t think about what they’d talked about, the whole brother-sister thing. It couldn’t be true.

Inside the great house, the old grandfather’s clock in the foyer struck midnight. Twelve resounding chimes echoed across the cold marble. Long purple shadows stretched lazily along the floor, and the movements of the bare trees outside cast weird dancing shapes on the walls.

Cecily headed off to bed, but Devon stood in the parlor watching through the windows as the white-capped waves crashed against the rocks far below. Their sound lulled him, and he wondered what Mrs. Crandall would say if she knew about his budding romance with Cecily. He had a feeling she wouldn’t approve.

Then, startling him, it came.

The Voice.

The boy’s in danger.

Devon turned and headed quickly up the stairs. He found Alexander in his room awake, sitting on his bed, his back against the headboard, his hands folded in his lap. As if he were just waiting for something.

For Devon, perhaps.

“What are you doing up, Alexander? It’s past midnight.”

“I was watching the moon.”

“The moon?”

“To think. Men have walked there. Isn’t that extraordinary?”

Devon had never really thought of it. The first moon walk had taken place years before he was born, and he’d grown up with space shuttles and satellites as commonplace as bicycles and trains. “I suppose it is,” Devon acknowledged. “When you think about it.”

The boy laughed sharply. “Do you know what this is?” he asked suddenly, sliding his cell phone from under his pillow.

“That’s your phone.”

“Isn’t it astounding?” Alexander looked at the phone in his hand as if he’d never seen it before. “I can carry it with me wherever I go and it still will ring.”

Devon sat down on the edge of the boy’s bed. Something was going on. The boy—or Jackson—was playing with him again.

“Of course cell phones will ring if you carry them around,” Devon told him. “That’s what they do.”

The boy was admiring the phone in his hand as if it were a rare find. He touched various apps and made cooing sounds as they opened. Then he started punching numbers.

“Alexander, what are you doing?”

“I’m calling my father,” he said simply, holding the phone to his ear.

“Your father’s in Europe. You only punched four numbers—”

“Hello, Father?” Alexander asked cheerily. “How are you?”

Devon felt his shoulders stiffen. The boy’s face brightened. His greeting sounded authentic. Could he really have called Edward Muir in London—or was it Paris? But it was midnight here; it would be five in the morning in Europe.

“Alexander,” Devon said.

The boy glared at him over the phone. “I’m talking to my father,” he whispered, his teeth suddenly clenched, anger glowing in his eyes.

Tightness grabbed Devon’s throat. He stood up, looking down at the child.

“It’s just Devon,” Alexander was saying into the phone, spitting the name with horrible malice. “Do you want to talk with him?” The boy suddenly thrust the phone over at Devon. “He wants to talk with you.”

“Alexander, is that really your fath—”

“He wants to talk with you!”

The boy’s eyes blazed with such fury that his face contorted into a nearly unrecognizable mask. Devon had no option but to accept the phone.

“Mr. … Muir …?”

Of course there was no answer. Not for a second had Devon really believed that Alexander had so effortlessly punched in four numbers and called Europe.

But there was someone on the other end of the line. Someone was breathing, short and raspy, the labored breath of a very old man. Devon hit the end button with a forceful thrust of his index finger.

“What did he say?” the boy asked innocently, now calm and smiling.

“Who was that, Alexander?”

“My father. What did he say?”

“You—you just woke someone up. That’s what you did. You hit some random numbers and woke some poor old man out of a sound sleep.”

Alexander shrugged. “Maybe it was a bad connection.” He reached behind him and pulled out another device from his pillow. “And this. Do you know what this does?”

It was the remote control for the television.

Devon studied the boy. He sat back down on the bed. “No,” he said cagily. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

“If I push this button like this,” Alexander said, holding the remote in his right hand and pressing a knob with his thumb, “the TV comes on.” The television set at the foot of the boy’s bed popped into life. The sound jarred the silence of the dark room, sending shivers of blue light across the floorboards. “Isn’t it a marvelous invention?”

But what chilled Devon far more than the boy’s strange attitude, far more than the breathing on the other end of the phone, was the program that was suddenly playing on Alexander’s television set.

The Major Musick Show, with its gravelly voiced host and rows of vacant-eyed children singing a song about a big dark house on the top of a hill.

“Alexander,” Devon whispered, “it’s the middle of the night. Why is this on?”

But the boy was watching raptly. Major Musick danced in a sinewy rhythm in front of the tattered red velvet drapes. His garish outfit sparkled in the bright lights of the camera: reds and blues and big pink fuzzy buttons down his ruffled shirt.

Devon drew closer to stare at the screen. The camera moved in for a hideous close-up of the clown. The putty on his red nose was cracked and caked; the white makeup on his face was pasty and thick.

“How was that, boys and girls?” Major Musick rasped. “Did you like that song?”

But the camera kept moving in closer, closer, closer—until only one yellow bloodshot eye of the beast filled the screen. Major Musick’s laughter filled the room, and for a moment Devon was as entranced by its spell as Alexander. It was easy to get lost in the sound, to allow it to turn you over and over and over again, to carry you up and out the window, to get inside your head and stay there.

But Devon forced himself finally to blink. The camera had pulled back again, and now Major Musick was in front of a chalkboard, writing with long, unnerving squeaks. “The letter for the day, boys and girls, is ‘N,’” he was saying.

“Ennnnnn,” Alexander enunciated from behind Devon.

“Listen to how much it sounds like emmmmm,” the clown said.

“Emmmm,” Alexander repeated.

The camera framed the clown’s face. Devon stood in front of the TV set. And suddenly Devon recognized Major Musick.

He’d seen him before, in a moment of terror, in the last seconds of consciousness. He’d seen him—in the darkness of the closed-off room in the East Wing.

Major Musick smiled then, and there were maggots in his teeth.

Devon knew the truth at last: beneath the chalky white makeup of the television clown lurked the diabolical face of Jackson Muir.

The Corpse Walks

Devon switched off the TV.

“Don’t you like Major Musick?” Alexander asked angelically behind him.

The eerie silence that overtook the room was only slightly less unnerving than the clown’s hideous laughter. Devon said nothing, just turned and stared at the boy.

Cecily came in behind him. “What’s going on in here? It’s pretty late for Alexander to still be awake.”

Devon grabbed the remote control. “Cecily, look at this,” he said, switching the TV back on.

But it was Jay Leno interviewing Beyoncé. “Wait,” Devon said, switching channels. Grace Kelly and Gary Cooper in an old western. He pressed the next channel. Some girl modeling a bathing suit on the shopping channel. Then CNN. Then a rerun of The Golden Girls.

“He was there,” Devon said.

“Who was there?” Cecily asked.

He continued flicking through the channels until he finally gave up. He snapped off the TV, looking back at Alexander.

“How did you do that?” Devon asked. “How did you get that show on the screen?”

“Devon, what are you talking about?” Cecily demanded.

“Can I go to sleep please?” Alexander asked sweetly.

“No! Tell me who you are!” Devon shouted. “What do you want from me?”

“Hey,” Cecily said, putting her hand on Devon’s arm. “Take it easy. Let’s go.”

Alexander just smiled. Devon felt an overwhelming urge to slap him, to shake him, to force the truth from his smug little throat. But instead he allowed Cecily to guide him from the room and out into the hallway. He heard her tell her young cousin to go to sleep, that as usual he’d caused enough trouble. Then she switched off the light and closed the boy’s door.

“Devon,” Cecily whispered as they walked down the corridor, careful not to wake her mother, “what did you see on the TV?”

“If I needed any proof that Alexander’s in Jackson Muir’s power, I got it.”

He led her into the playroom. On top of the television he found that week’s TV Guide. He flipped through the listings. There was no program called Major Music.

He meant, Major Musick.

Musick. With a “K.”

He found Alexander’s iPad and checked it for any strange apps. “He was watching it on here, too,” he told Cecily. He discovered nothing. He tapped Google and typed in “Major Musick.” But nothing came up about any creepy television clown.

“He doesn’t exist,” Devon said out loud.

“Who doesn’t exist?” Cecily asked.

Suddenly Devon’s eyes landed on a stack of board games in the corner. He lunged for them.

“Devon, what’s going on?” Cecily shrieked.

He pulled the Scrabble box out of the pile of games.

“Suddenly you want to play games?” Cecily asked, completely bewildered.

Devon ignored her. He removed the lid of the box and shook the little squares of the alphabet onto the table. He began sorting through them. Cecily stood over him, watching. He spelled out, one letter at a time:

MAJOR MUSICK

“I don’t understand,” Cecily said. “Who is Major Musick?”

“Hang on,” Devon told her, as he began sliding the letters around. First the J, then the A …

And he spelled out:

JACKSOM MUIR

“Jack-som?” Cecily asked.

Devon’s body tingled.

“The letter for today, boys and girls,” he said softly, “is ‘N.’” He looked over at Cecily. “Listen to how much it sounds like ‘M.’ Ennnnnnn.”

“Devon, you are freaking me out!”

“Replace the ‘M’ with ‘N’ and it’s right there!” Devon shouted. “It’s spelled out as plain as day. He wanted me to figure this out. He was giving me clues!”

“Figure what out? Who wanted you to?”

He gripped her by the shoulders. “That show Alexander is always watching. That’s how Jackson Muir got him. How he hooked him.”

“Devon, I’m not following.”

“That’s all right. I’m not sure yet what it all means myself, but I’m now absolutely convinced that Alexander is the key to finding out what I need to know.”

“You’re telling me the ghost of Jackson Muir was on a TV show?”

Devon smiled. “He seems fascinated with modern technology. What was his death date on the tombstone?”

“I don’t remember.”

“It was before the moon walk. Before cell phones. Before even TV remotes.”

“I guess,” Cecily said, still not getting it all.

Devon kissed her quickly. “Let’s get some sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”

“Wait, Devon.”

He looked at her. “What is it?”

“This is going way too far. I mean, you move around a few letters and get Jackson’s name. Except not even totally. And that’s enough to convince you that his ghost has got Alexander under his control.”

“I saw Jackson, Cecily. Behind the clown’s makeup.”

She closed her eyes. “You saw a dead man on a kids’ TV show?”

“It’s not a real show! It only exists in this house! There’s no TV show by that name listed anywhere.”

She seemed at a loss. “All I know is Alexander’s a very clever little kid. The stories his headmaster told—he used to trick them all the time at his school.”

“Cecily, you didn’t see him in there. How he was acting—”

“No, but I’ve seen him plenty of other times. He can be devious. Even running away the other night. You saw how he manipulated the whole situation.”

“It wasn’t him, Cecily! It was Jackson Muir!”

She sighed, made a face, and ran her hand through her hair. “Devon, has it ever occurred to you that in your fever to find out the truth about yourself and your abilities you may have begun seeing things that aren’t really there?”

He looked at her hard. “I know it’s all weird to you. I know I’ve arrived here with stories about ghosts and goblins and you don’t know what to believe.” He paused. “And I can find the answers on my own, Cecily. If you don’t want to be involved, I can’t blame you.”

She seemed near tears. “It’s not that I don’t want to be involved,” she told him. “It’s just that … I was always taught not to question. Not to look too deeply into the rooms of this old house or the motives of anyone who lived here. You’re asking me to go against everything my mother has told me, Devon. I’m frightened of what you might find out.”

He nodded. He could understand. They headed off to their rooms without further conversation. Devon, too, was frightened by what all this might have been leading to: not only the truth about himself, but of his father as well. What had Dad been involved with? What had his connection been to this house, to its secrets?

And if Dad wasn’t his real father, who was?

Mrs. Crandall was present at breakfast the next morning, bright and smiling and full of good cheer. “Simon’s brought in the pumpkins from the garden,” she announced. “That always makes me glad.”

She poured herself some coffee from the silver urn that Simon had placed on the table. Devon noticed that Cecily wasn’t there: she’d already had breakfast, her bowl of unfinished Special K remaining at her place, a few slices of banana growing soggy in the skim milk.

“Cecily’s taking her morning exercise regimen quite seriously,” Mrs. Crandall commented. She went on to reveal that her daughter had just breezed past her this morning in running shoes and sweatpants, out to circle the grounds a couple of times. “I wonder how long this phase will last.”

Devon suspected that Cecily was avoiding him after their confrontation last night. He concentrated on his orange juice, preferring not to dwell on the fact that Simon’s malformed little hands squeezed it fresh every morning.

Mrs. Crandall was watching him. She raised her chin, displaying her long neck, adorned by a single strand of pearls. Her dress this morning was scarlet, striking against her pale skin and upswept golden hair. No lipstick or mascara marred her features. They were delicate but solid, soft yet firm. Her chin had not yet begun to sag; few wrinkles lined her eyes. Devon imagined her as a young girl Cecily’s age; he could understand how Rolfe Montaigne had found her lovely.

“I wasn’t always such a dowager,” Mrs. Crandall smiled, as if reading Devon’s thoughts. “Once I was as young and carefree as Cecily, running out to jog around the estate. I don’t suppose you can imagine that.”

“Oh, but I can.” Devon smiled over at her. “I’m sure there are many sides of you I don’t know.”

Her smile faded a little. “A curious remark, Devon.”

“Mrs. Crandall,” he said, changing the subject, “Alexander claims to have telephoned his father in Europe last night. Is that possible?”

Mrs. Crandall sighed. “I hardly think so. Even I have trouble tracking that man’s whereabouts.”

Devon took a bite of his Belgian waffle. “I thought perhaps Alexander had entered a code on the phone or something. He only pressed a few numbers.”

“Well, that just shows you he was playing with you. Where Edward is at the moment is a mystery. Paris, possibly. Or Geneva. Or Vienna. My brother has never stayed in one place for very long.”

Devon looked at her. “Mrs. Crandall, we’ve never talked about the other night. The night Alexander disappeared—”

She silenced him with her hand. “Don’t bring it up. It’s forgotten. I know what this house can do to those who are new here. It can play all sorts of tricks with one’s mind. My own mother, God bless her, still talks to everyone who’s ever lived here.”

“But there are questions I have, Mrs. Crandall. And I think you might know something that might—”

She stood up. “Devon, I want so much for this to work out. I want very much for you to be a part of this family.” She walked over behind Devon’s chair, placing her hands on his shoulders. “But you must do your part as well. I told you that you shouldn’t go looking for answers. I wish I could help you, but I can’t. Is it not possible for you to just look forward to a bright and shining future instead of looking only to the past?”

He steeled himself and imagined she could feel his shoulders tense. “Mrs. Crandall, until I can understand my past, I can’t see any future.” Her hands lifted from his shoulders. She walked away, pouring herself another cup of coffee, preparing to disappear back into the house.

“Mrs. Crandall, I’m worried about Alexander,” Devon said before she could leave. “I think—no matter what you say—he’s in danger.”

“The child is in no danger,” she said, dismissing him impatiently.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I am.” She glared at him. “Because I vowed no one in this family would ever be in danger again. And I’ve taken measures to insure that. Do you understand, Devon? There is no danger here! So don’t go looking for any!”

Then she was gone.

Devon sighed. What was she hiding? Why was she so certain there’s no danger? He realized he couldn’t confront her in the hope of discovering anything. She was far too guarded for that. He was on his own—maybe even without Cecily.

He resumed his breakfast. When he looked up he saw Alexander standing in the archway between the dining room and the kitchen.

“How long have you been standing there?” Devon asked.

“Long enough.” The boy sat down opposite Devon. He looked very small in the tall chair, his shoulders barely clearing the table. “Want to watch some TV?”

Alexander grinned impishly.

“Maybe.” Devon stared over at the child. “Maybe it’s time you told me about Major Musick.”

“He’s on right now.”

“He’s always on, isn’t he?”

Alexander smiled.

“Who is he, Alexander?”

The boy’s eyes danced. “Have you been to the tower, Devon?”

“Why should I go to the tower?” Devon decided to play along with him to see where he was heading with this. “What’s there for me to see?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never been there myself. But maybe tonight—maybe tonight you’ll be able to get in.”

“What game are you planning, Alexander? Are you planning to lock me in there the moment my back is turned?”

Alexander just laughed. He got down off the chair and scampered back upstairs. Devon listened as his footsteps against the marble faded off into the house.

He realized that he wasn’t going to get much more out of Alexander either; he was too far-gone into Jackson Muir’s power. Somehow, however, he had to find out why the demon had appeared in the form of the television clown and what he hoped to gain by it, besides control over Alexander. It wasn’t so much that Jackson was trying to prevent him from finding out the secrets; in fact, he almost seemed to be egging Devon on to try to discover who he was and how he was connected to this mysterious old house.

His next step, Devon resolved, would be twofold. First, he’d find out all he could about Jackson Muir and his black magic. Then, after school tomorrow, he’d take Rolfe Montaigne up on his offer to “keep him informed.”

The first part of his plan didn’t take long. Cecily was nowhere to be found, Alexander was ensconced in front of the TV in the playroom, Simon was outside raking leaves, and Mrs. Crandall was cloistered with her mother. Devon settled himself in the library, a blazing fire in the hearth, leafing through books on the Muir family history.

Of course, the books he really needed were in that inner chamber in the East Wing. He knew he had to find a way back in there, as much as he dreaded the proximity to that bolted door. But for now he contented himself with what he might discover from these more standard accounts, the first of which was called simply A History of Ravenscliff.

The book seemed to have been put together by a local historian at the request of Randolph Muir, Mrs. Crandall’s father. Devon flipped open to the first page:

DEDICATED TO OUR FOUNDER, HORATIO MUIR

There was a photograph of Horatio: an old man with heavy sideburns and thick brow, stern and solemn. But not evil, Devon thought. Horatio Muir was not an evil man. Not like his first-born son.

He read on:

Horatio Muir was born in London, scion of a long and distinguished heritage. He came to America in 1920 and settled at Misery Point, Maine, building a house that would rival the mansions of Newport. A powerful businessman, Horatio was also a judicious man, believing that with his great power, privilege and affluence came great responsibility. His wealth would be shared with the village, bringing jobs and prosperity.

Ravenscliff was completed in 1922, and it drew the curious and awestruck from around the nation. A sprawling mansion of fifty rooms, it comprised not only two wings but also a tower, from which Horatio Muir often viewed the surrounding estate reaching off to the sea.

The house was so named for its black stone and ebony wood, and also for the birds that took up roost there, eliciting wondrous comment from the village. The ravens became Horatio Muir’s constant companions among the battlements of the house; they could be seen for miles swooping around the tower and alighting upon the gargoyles on the facade of the mansion.

So it was true. There were once ravens at Ravenscliff. Devon wondered why the birds had left and where they had gone.

There were photographs of Horatio and his wife, and then others of people whose names Devon didn’t recognize, and finally several of Horatio’s youngest son, Randolph Muir, Mrs. Crandall’s father. But there were none of Jackson, Horatio’s eldest. Devon flipped ahead several pages but found nothing.

“Not one picture of Jackson,” he murmured. “Not one.”

Devon recalled Jackson’s tombstone, with “Master of Ravenscliff” etched into the granite.

There must have been some rivalry between the brothers, Devon surmised. Jackson was the oldest. He was probably supposed to get the house, but for some reason didn’t. His younger brother did. But why then would Randolph allow Jackson to construct a monument to himself proclaiming himself to be master of the house? Just what happened between them, and what relevance did that rivalry have for Devon?

He was not surprised that an “official” history, apparently commissioned by Randolph Muir, left out any mention of magic or demons. But somehow, at some point, Jackson had achieved knowledge of the black arts. Devon recalled Mrs. Crandall on his first night here telling him that both her father and grandfather had been “world travelers.” The skulls and shrunken heads and crystal balls in the parlor were their “trinkets,” she said. Was this, then, a family of warlocks?

Or, rather, as the books in the East Wing had suggested, sorcerers?

What had been the exact wording? Sorcerers of the Order of the Nightwing.

The Nightwing.

Devon felt a sudden surge of electricity run through his body. What did that word mean?

Finally, from a book on the great whaling ships of Misery Point slipped a faded, yellowed newspaper clipping. It was undated. Devon held it up to the light to read:

ELDEST MUIR SON, RETURNED FROM EUROPE, DELIGHTS CHILDREN WITH FANTASTIC SHOW

Jackson Muir, elder brother of Randolph Muir of Ravenscliff, entertained his niece and nephew and several of the village children with a magic show yesterday on the estate, exhibiting tricks and sleight of hand he’d learned while on an extended tour of European cities. Dressed as a clown in white face and bright red nose, he delighted the boys and girls with such fantastic feats as pulling a rabbit from a hat, summoning a dragon from its lair, and making one little boy seem to disappear.

Devon’s blood ran cold. Jackson Muir, dressed as a clown. The image of a kindly Jackson entertaining children just didn’t cut it. Devon knew what kind of a clown he was, and he bet the kids were more frightened than delighted. He didn’t need the Voice to tell him that Jackson’s “dragon” was no sleight of hand, and he couldn’t help but wonder what really happened to the little boy Jackson “seemed” to make disappear.

Returning the clipping to the book, he chanced upon another notice tucked among the pages. On this one, the headline read:

MRS. EMILY MUIR FALLS TO DEATH FROM DEVIL’S ROCK

Police are investigating eyewitness accounts that Mrs. Emily Muir, twenty-two-year-old wife of Jackson Muir of Ravenscliff, fell from the cliff at Devil’s Rock last night. Both her husband and Muir family caretaker Jean-Michel Montaigne told investigators they followed Mrs. Muir onto the estate grounds at the height of last night’s thunderstorm. Distraught and confused, Mrs. Muir apparently fell from the rock around midnight. She is presumed dead, although her body has not been recovered.

Mrs. Muir is the former Emily Day. She and her husband were married four years ago, shortly after Mr. Muir’s return from Europe. They have no children.

Devon stared down at the clipping. Jean-Michel Montaigne must have been Rolfe’s father, but it was another fact that intrigued Devon more. He looked again of the date of the clipping. Emily killed herself on Halloween—not far from today’s date. The clipping trembled in his hand, close to crumbling. “They have no children,” Devon read aloud.

But the Voice told him otherwise.

Jackson did have a child.

Clarissa? The stone where he’d seen the figure of the woman in white?

Who, by rights, should have inherited this house.

But the name “Clarissa” didn’t appear in any of the books on the shelves. He went through each of them, one by one. Most were general texts on fishing or whaling or the New England coast. There were a few old picture books of ravens; in one, he found a black-and-white photograph of Ravenscliff with dozens of the birds perched atop the parapet and nestled among the heads of gargoyles. He thought again: Where did all the ravens go?

He was about to end his search when he heard a sound. The rustling of fabric. He turned. There, in the corner, he could see a figure.

He gasped. The glow from the fireplace briefly illuminated the figure in the corner. It was a woman—horribly mangled, deformed. Her head was crushed, one eye dangling from the socket. Her shoulders were twisted, her hands broken. She walked slowly toward Devon, reaching out toward him with her twisted fingers.

It was Emily Muir.

Devon covered his mouth with his hands to avoid shouting out. Emily Muir—or rather, her corpse. How she looked after the fall from Devil’s Rock!

Her deformed hands beseeched him. She tried to speak but made no sound. Devon stared wide-eyed. Then she disappeared.

She wants me to find out the truth, Devon thought.

The fire was dying in the hearth. Devon let out a long breath and made his way upstairs. He saw no one else that night. It took a long time to clear his mind of thoughts of Emily’s mangled hands reaching out to him, but finally sleep overcame him.

He began a long and winding dream: He was outside, near Devil’s Rock, staring up at the light in the tower room. Behind him stood Rolfe—but it wasn’t Rolfe as he knew him now, but the Rolfe of twenty years before, when he was Devon’s age and slept in Devon’s very room.

“Don’t you want to know who’s up there?” this teenaged Rolfe asked.

“I do,” Devon said dreamily, and all at once he was wandering down long and twisting corridors of the dark, dusty house. He quickly became lost: every new turn thrust him deeper into the maze of the house. He had the sense of climbing, and now he stood at the door of the tower room, and he could hear the sobbing coming from within. He reached out his hand to turn the knob—

“Don’t go in there,” came a voice from behind him. He turned. It was Dad. “Not unless you really want to know, Devon.”

“I do,” Devon replied, close to tears now. “Dad, you sent me here to find out. I’ve got to know who I am.”

His father looked at him sadly. “Then go ahead, son.”

He turned back and threw open the door. There, in the candlelit darkness, was the rotting, white-caked skull of Major Musick, who was pulling a rabbit out of a hat and laughing at him.

Devon awoke with a start. He sat up in his bed, listening to the crickets chirping in the still night air. A window had blown upon, and a cool October breeze filled the room. Devon shivered, trying to shake off the anarchy of the dream. He threw back his sheet and stood to refasten the window. He glanced up at the tower, standing bleakly against the deep blue sky.

Of course, there was a light there. He closed the window, hooking it tightly.

Without making a conscious decision, Devon pulled on his jeans and slipped a t-shirt over his head. He stepped out into the shadowy corridor, hearing his own heart in the hushed stillness of the house. He first made a deliberate stop at Alexander’s room—assuring himself that the boy was fast asleep—and then continued on his mission.

He could not have expected to find the door to the East Wing unlocked once again, but it was—of course, just as Alexander had said it would be. It stood ajar, a strange golden light flickering from beyond.

What secret did this place hold? Devon steadied himself, casting off the lingering miasma of the dream. He was fired by a will not entirely recognizable as his own, and he did not challenge it. The door creaked as it opened, sending a shiver all through the house. Upstairs, Devon was sure, Mrs. Crandall turned restlessly in her sleep, and Cecily sat up in sudden alarm. And of course Alexander was now awake, wide-eyed and knowing.

Devon stepped into the small round room behind the door. It was the same as before, except this time he didn’t pull the string for the overhead bulb. He began his ascent up the bare concrete spiral steps. The light came from above, a candle as before, sending quivering glimmers down the steps that made the shadows dance. Devon moved forward.

He was stopped by the sense of someone else’s motion. Someone—something—was descending the spiral steps toward him. Devon could see its shadow take on contours along the curved wall as the light came closer. It was the figure of a person—no, two people. He could now clearly make out their shadows, cast by the candle that one of them was carrying. He stopped in his tracks as he heard his name—“Devon!”—exclaimed by a woman—but then the candle that had offered their only light was snuffed out and they were all left in darkness.

“Who’s there?” he called, and his voice echoed against the marble and concrete.

There was only a rustle of fabric in response, and perhaps the muffled whisper of the woman who had called his name. But then nothing, and Devon, unnerved yet determined, placed one foot in front of the other and began ascending the stairs once more.

“I thought I warned you not to go prowling around in here,” came the voice of Simon. New light struck him: the harsh golden beam of Simon’s flashlight.

“Someone just called my name,” Devon insisted.

“Maybe it was a ghost,” Simon snarled. “Whatcha doin’ in here in the first place?”

“The door was ajar.”

“Don’t give you no right to go where you’re not allowed.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t try to strangle me again,” Devon said belligerently.

“Didn’t have no rope.” Simon glared up at him. Devon believed that was indeed the only reason the caretaker hadn’t again assaulted him. “Now, g’wan. Get outta here.”

“What’s up there?”

“Nothin’ but ghosts.”

“Then what are you doing in here?”

“Checking on that light fixture. Making sure it wasn’t shortin’ out again.”

“Simon, it’s the middle of the night.”

“I keep odd hours.”

Devon knew he was lying. But he was not going to tangle with Simon again. He turned and headed back down the stairs out into the great hall. He looked up at the grandfather’s clock. It chimed three.

For the rest of the night, he didn’t sleep. He just stared up at the ceiling, listening to every sound, every creak of the old house in the wind.

All the next day he dragged through his classes. Exhausted, frustrated, itching for a showdown—any kind of showdown—he kept looking at the clock, anxious for the last bell. When it finally came, he threw his books into his locker and sought out D.J.

He found him leaning up against Flo in the parking lot. “Will you do me a huge favor?” he asked.

“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.

The Nightwing

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.

It took Devon several seconds to respond. The word had sent chills up his spine. He felt his skin tingle from head to foot.

“The Order of the Nightwing,” Rolfe repeated.

In his mind Devon again saw those books in the East Wing of Ravenscliff. The word had given him pause then, too. Nightwing. He knew without even asking that the Muirs had been Nightwing as well: he recalled the ravens, black as night, that had once lived in their house.

“Nightwing,” Devon breathed. “Sorcerer—warlock! Just like Jackson Muir.”

Rolfe looked angry. “Oh, no. Not like him. Jackson Muir defiled the ancient honorable tradition of the Nightwing. The tradition taught to him by his father, the great Horatio Muir. Jackson used his powers for evil. That made him an Apostate—a renegade necromancer, shunned by all Nightwing around the globe.”

It sounded like the stuff of fairy tales to Devon—stuff he might have read about in comic books. It was hard to fathom, yet it was oddly reassuring too. Whatever this Nightwing was, he was a part of it—one of them. For the first time in his life, he felt connected to something bigger than he was.

“So there are more of these … these … Nightwing people?”

Rolfe smiled. “Oh, yes. The Nightwing can be found all over the world. Their history dates back to ancient days, when the first Nightwing learned the secrets of the old elemental Knowledge—and tapped the power of the demons for their own use, for good.”

Devon laughed. “This is just too freaky.”

“I thought so, too, once. But I can remember, as a boy, watching my father and old Mr. Muir corral a demon in the courtyard at Ravenscliff. I watched as Mr. Muir twisted it and pummeled it, all without ever even using his hands, only his mind. I watched as the filthy thing was sent back to its Hell Hole—and I knew then that I was witnessing greatness, that I had been given a great privilege, to see in action the magic of the Nightwing.”

“So the Muirs—all of them—are part of it,” Devon said. “The whole family. I was reading about them, about Horatio—” He looked over at Rolfe. “So Mrs. Crandall has to know this?”

“Of course she knows. But—” Rolfe made a face, clearly troubled by a memory. “It was a long time ago. Terrible things happened. Sorcery and magic were banned from that house.”

“Because of Jackson, right?”

Rolfe nodded. “He was known as the Madman.”

Devon shivered at the word. “The accounts say he left Ravenscliff for Europe …”

“Yes. He had broken with his father, begun using his powers for his own gain.”

“So he was considered an Apo—what was it you said?”

“An Apostate. A member of the Nightwing order who rejects the power of good. Who harnesses the power of the demons for his own gain.”

Devon was having a hard time keeping up. He steadied himself against the table. “But Jackson came back to Ravenscliff,” he said. “He came back and married Emily …”

“Yes, he did. He convinced his brother he’d reformed. Oh, Jackson was very canny. Shrewd. Poor old Randolph Muir learned too late how shrewd Jackson was.”

Devon remembered the clipping of Emily’s death. “I saw your father’s name in an article about Emily Muir’s death. Is it true that she jumped? Because of Jackson?”

Rolfe folded his arms across his chest. “You have been doing your homework. I was quite young when Emily Muir died. But I remember her as a sweet, sad young woman. When she failed to get pregnant, Jackson began cheating on her. It sent her into a deep depression.”

“So she killed herself.”

Rolfe nodded.

“But Jackson grieved for her,” Devon said. “That’s what Cecily told me. He erected that monument to her. So he couldn’t be all bad—not if he loved her.”

Rolfe laughed. “Well, aren’t we the young romantic. But believe me, Devon. There was nothing but evil in the heart of Jackson Muir. When Emily couldn’t give him a child, he destroyed her.”

Devon looked off at the furious sea. “Why was he so keen on having a kid?”

“Isn’t it obvious? So his line could take back Ravenscliff. His evil would have lived on in another generation. A child of Jackson’s would have guaranteed the destruction of Randolph’s line. Amanda, Edward, Cecily, Alexander … none would be here today.”

Devon thought of something. “Did he have a kid with somebody else then, other than his wife? With whomever he was cheating with?”

“No. That was his great regret. Jackson died without an heir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Devon, I’m sure.”

The boy had walked over to the bookcase. He touched a skull that stared out at him from the shelves. He felt a little electric shock.

He turned back to Rolfe. “Why did Jackson want to be master of Ravenscliff so bad?”

“Horatio Muir built the house on one of the largest Hell Holes in the Western hemisphere. He drew his power from a vast and powerful resource. Jackson wanted control of the house and the portal—which, as the eldest son, he believed was his birthright.”

“So a Nightwing gets his power—from the Hell Hole?”

Rolfe managed a smile. “Listen, Devon. This is all too complex for me to just sum up quickly for you. Maybe in one of my father’s books …”

“But I’ve got to know. Does Jackson control the demons? Is he the one who’s been sending them against me?”

Rolfe sighed. “Perhaps Jackson is in league with some of them, but I don’t know the answer fully. There are many Hell Holes, Devon. Some have been sealed over. Some are under the control of Nightwing—and some are open. ‘Earth’s gaping wounds,’ Thaddeus used to call them. From them many creatures have escaped over the centuries, and these things walk among us. Some are crafty. Some are just plain stupid. But all have one intent: to release their brethren and once again be permitted free rein upon the earth.”

Devon nodded. “That’s what the creep at the pizza joint said.”

“Of course, Jackson would use them to his own advantage, as I imagine he’s doing now. Being dead is only a minor inconvenience for him … especially now that there’s a new Nightwing at Ravenscliff.”

Devon looked up at Rolfe. “He’s got Alexander in his power now.”

“What do you mean?”

“At first I just thought it was Alexander being the malicious kid everybody said he was. But not anymore. Now I know Jackson’s working through him. I saw him, on this weird TV show Alexander watches—”

“TV show?” Rolfe barked. He rushed over to Devon and grabbed his shirt. “What TV show?”

“Hey, take it easy,” Devon said. “It’s called Major Musick …”

“Dear God,” Rolfe breathed. “Not again.”

“What do you mean, not again?”

Rolfe glared at him. “When I was a teenager, the Madman tried the same thing. It was a few years after his death. We discovered this television show one day and became hooked. Only later did we realize that it was a televised version of the magic show Jackson used to put on for us in the parlor when we were kids.” He looked sternly at Devon. “Have you seen this program? Have you watched it?”

“A little,” Devon admitted.

“Don’t. And you’ve got to prevent Alexander from doing so ever again.”

“It’s too late for that. He’s already in Jackson’s power.”

Rolfe shook his head. “If Alexander’s still here, it’s not too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he’s physically still here. The Madman’s plan is to bring him inside.”

Devon looked astonished. “Inside the TV? How crazy is that?”

“Inside the Hell Hole, Devon. The TV screen is just like a monitor into the depths of hell.”

“Whoaaa …”

“Yeah, whoa all right.” Rolfe bit his lower lip, contemplating something. “I’ll tell you a story, Devon. I imagine Thaddeus never told you he had another son—a son of his own.”

“No,” Devon said.

“His name was Francis. We called him Frankie. He was about my age. He came to Ravenscliff with Thaddeus. We all hung out together: Eddie Muir, Frankie, myself. It was the three of us who started watching Major Musick. Every day we watched it faithfully, and none of the adults suspected a thing. None of the adults who were always on the lookout for the Madman’s return—Mr. Muir, my father, Thaddeus. They just saw three boys watching a clown. How innocent was that?” He paused. “How devious of Jackson Muir.”

“What happened?”

“One day Frankie disappeared. We searched everywhere for him but he wasn’t found. Poor Thaddeus was so distraught.”

Devon thought of his father with another son. There was a small twang of jealousy, but it dissolved under the realization of the pain Dad must have felt. Devon remembered once when he got lost in a department store. He was maybe five or six. Dad had been far more upset than Devon, throwing his arms around the little boy when he spotted him, saying over and over again, “Thank God you’re all right! Thank God!”

He understood now why his father had been so upset. He’d been through it before.

“Was Frankie ever found?” asked Devon.

“Oh, yes, he was found.” Rolfe paused. “Do you know where?”

Devon swallowed. “Tell me,” he said, dry-mouthed.

“Sitting in the bleachers of The Major Musick Show. There he was, just sitting there. Blank-eyed and vacant. I remember sitting in front of the TV and recognizing him. Just a slight kid, covered with freckles …”

Devon felt as if a cold hand had just touched him on the shoulder. “I’ve seen him!” he shouted. “I’ve seen him on the show!”

Rolfe grimaced, running his hand through his hair. “Poor Frankie. All this time in the Hell Hole.”

Devon still felt the icy grip. “That’s what he wants to do to Alexander? Bring him in there? Why, Rolfe?”

“Because he wants you to come in and try to save him,” he said.

“Me? He wants me to go—in there? Through the bolted door?”

Rolfe nodded. “Just as poor old Mr. Muir was forced to do. The last of the Nightwing.” He looked sadly at Devon. “He never came out.”

“Mrs. Crandall’s father? He died in the Hell Hole?”

Rolfe sighed. This was clearly dredging up long-ago, painful memories. “And he wasn’t the only one who died in that struggle.”

“Your father, too?” Devon ventured.

Rolfe nodded, his eyes shining with tears now. “The Madman won. Which is why sorcery became forbidden at Ravenscliff. Why the spells were cast to renounce their Nightwing heritage. The ravens left one bright afternoon, flying up into the air all at once, obscuring the sun for several seconds before disappearing forever.”

“But Jackson has returned,” Devon said.

“Yes, and I suspect you were the catalyst. He sensed another Nightwing had arrived. He wants that portal opened, Devon. He wants the demons released so he can harness their power.”

Devon ran his hands over his face. He felt staggered by all this information. “Rolfe, it’s just so hard to—make sense of it all—”

Rolfe frowned. “I understand, Devon. There’s so much you need to know, so much you need to learn, and I’m not a Guardian. I was meant to be, but my father died too young to teach me everything he knew.”

“I need to know about the Nightwing, Rolfe. What I am.”

“Yes, Devon, you deserve to know your own history, the heritage of the Nightwing.” Rolfe shook his head. “But not now. We don’t have time for all that. We have to move quickly if we’re to save Alexander.”

Devon looked at him with some alarm. “What do you mean?”

“We need to go to Ravenscliff and confront Amanda.”

“Why? Confront her how?”

Rolfe sighed. “I’m not sure how much she knew about the specifics of that television program. Her father kept a good deal from her. But she was there. She certainly remembers Frankie’s disappearance and what happened to her father and mine as a consequence of it.” His jaw set in determination. “No matter our own personal antagonism, she’s got to listen to me when I tell her Alexander is in danger.”

“Well, she insisted to me he wasn’t,” Devon said.

“She thinks they’re protected from the Madman. She thinks because they’ve renounced their family’s heritage that Jackson is gone for good.” Rolfe looked at Devon. “Perhaps because she doesn’t know of your powers. If she did, she might be more wary.”

“So I should tell her?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll try talking to her first. Come on. Who knows how much time we have left to save the boy?”

Devon considered something. “Rolfe, I think it’d be better if we don’t show up together. It might antagonize Mrs. Crandall to see us arrive in the same car.”

Rolfe nodded. “You’re a sharp kid. Okay, I’ll drop you back at Stormy Harbor.” He laughed. “Reminds me of the night I brought you in from the train station.”

How long ago now that seemed to Devon. And how much more he now knew. Not that he understood all of it fully—

His mind was spinning. So much information in such a short time. It seemed utterly fantastic and yet so right somehow. As if he already knew everything that Rolfe had told him, somewhere deep down within his soul. As if the knowledge were embedded in his psyche, in his genes.

They headed back up the spiral staircase. Roxanne was at the table, going over old manuscripts. She and Rolfe just exchanged knowing smiles as Rolfe grabbed his coat from the rack and headed outside. Devon wondered what their relationship was.

“Goodbye, Devon March,” Roxanne said.

“See ya later,” he said, managing a smile. “And thanks again for the food.”

He and Rolfe spoke very little in the car heading back to the village. What could they say? Devon felt talked out. His head struggled to absorb all the new information.

I’m a Sorcerer of the Order of the Nightwing, he repeated over and over again to himself. And Dad was a Guardian …

Over two hundred years old …

He waved so long to Rolfe as the Porsche crunched the gravel driving out of the Stormy Harbor lot. Then Devon sighed, looking up at the dark sky, grateful that the rain had eased for his climb back up the hill to Ravenscliff.

“I can’t believe you, Devon,” came a voice.

It was Cecily. She was standing next to D.J.’s car, parked a few yards away.

“Cecily,” he said. “What’s the matter?”

“I saw you get out of Rolfe Montaigne’s car,” she said.

“I had to talk to him—”

She was furious. “Devon, I’ve tried to understand you. I really have. I know you want to find out why you are the way you are. But you’ve gone too far, Devon.”

He approached her, extended his hand, tried to touch her face. But she recoiled from him.

“I know Rolfe can be cool,” she said. “I don’t hate him the way Mother does. But the fact remains that he wants to hurt my family, and there you are sneaking off to meet with him. I’m telling you, Devon, in your search for the truth, you’ve gone too far. Alexander’s not possessed; he’s just a brat. And Rolfe isn’t your friend; he’s just using you to get at my mother!”

“That’s not true, Cecily. If you knew the stuff I’ve just found out—”

“I don’t want to hear any more of it. It’s madness!”

She turned away sharply, her hair flying, rushing to the other side of the car and sliding in beside D.J. Devon heard the engine kick in.

“Cecily!”

He ran after the car as it started to move. D.J. looked out from the driver’s window.

“Hey man, no hard feelings, okay,” D.J. said. “Guess Cess just decided she liked me better.”

The car accelerated. And in that last instant before the Camaro gunned out of the parking lot, Devon saw D.J. grin—shiny pointed fangs in the dark, flashing a thumbs-up sign with a hooked, yellow talon.

The Light in the Tower

“Cecily!” Devon shouted—but the car screeched off down the road.

Guess Cess just decided she liked me better.

A demon posing as D.J. The same one, Devon thought, that had assumed the shape of the boy at Gio’s. What would it do to Cecily?

Flo’s red taillights were vanishing in the darkness.

I’ve got to save her. I’ve got to—

Without even consciously willing it, Devon found himself airborne—thrust forward in a single leap at a speed that left him gasping for breath. Within seconds he was on top of the Camaro, looking down through the glass roof at the two figures within.

The demon looked up and roared, exposing its true face.

Cecily, suddenly aware, screamed.

A taloned hand came crashing up through the glass, trying to grab Devon. Darting out of the way, he managed to stay attached to the car—almost as if he had suction cups on his hands. The Camaro swerved across the road into the oncoming lane. Ahead, a tractor-trailer barreled towards them.

“Oh noooo!” Devon shouted.

The truck leaned on its horn. The demon was driving with one claw, its other still trying to grab hold of Devon’s legs through the smashed window of the roof. It was laughing maniacally now, the same laughter Devon had heard when the thing had tried to run him and Rolfe off the road.

Devon concentrated on Flo’s steering wheel.

With his mind he wrested control of it away from the creature who was driving. With just one thought, he managed to turn the wheel abruptly. The car swerved out of the truck’s path and off the road into a grassy embankment. It came to a resounding thud against a tree.

“Hope you remembered to buckle up,” Devon called, jumping off the roof of the car and opening the passenger-side door.

Cecily had, indeed. She was dazed but unhurt.

“Cecily, get out,” Devon commanded, unhooking her seat belt. She obeyed, tumbling out onto the grass.

Meanwhile, the demon, still dressed in D.J.’s clothes but looking like its true self—scaly, reptilian, hissing smoke through its flaring nostrils—had jumped out of the other side. It laughed at them over the hood of the car.

Cecily gasped. “Devon—that thing—”

“Run!” he shouted, and she did, sprinting off into the woods on the side of the road just as the demon leapt, landing on Devon, pushing him down into the mud.

You should have just opened that door, the creature hissed in Devon’s mind. You should have just let them out. Such power you’d have then …

“I have power now,” Devon bellowed, thrusting the thing off him. It flew through the air, landing on its back not far from where Cecily was hiding between a tree, splashing her with mud. She screamed.

“I’m stronger than you,” Devon shouted at the creature, but it paid him no heed, getting back on its feet and leaping again, its face now a snout full of fangs.

You will be ours, the demon told him. You will come over to our side.

“A doubtful scenario, I think,” Devon cried, hauling off and socking the thing smack in the face. It recovered quickly, its long arms swinging back at him. Talons made contact with his skin, cutting Devon across his face.

“Listen, ugly,” he cracked, “you keep this up and you’re gonna really start hurting my feelings.” Without even knowing he could do it, Devon threw himself feet first into the thing’s belly, toppling it over. It roared in pain.

He stood over it. “I send you back to your Hell Hole,” he uttered in a voice that seemed alien to him—a deep, strong, adult voice. The thing on the ground quivered, then screamed. Suddenly it was whisked away, as if by some giant unseen vacuum, across the night sky.

Devon just stood there, breathing heavily, in and out, for several seconds.

“Devon?” came Cecily’s little voice behind him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, turning to her.

“Am I okay?” She touched the wound on Devon’s cheek, which stretched across the bridge of his nose. “Are you okay?”

He flinched a little at her touch, then reached up to examine the wound himself. “Nasty thing drew blood,” he snarled. “I hate that.”

“Devon, what is happening?”

She began to cry. And shake uncontrollably. Devon wrapped his arms around her.

“It’s okay, Cecily. It’s gone.”

She looked up at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I’m sorry for everything. I’ll believe anything you say now.”

He smiled a little, kissing her forehead.

“Oh, Devon,” Cecily cried. “It’s like I always knew something would happen. Something would force the truth to come out.” She managed a small laugh. “Not that I could have expected anything quite like this. But I knew something—something was out there.”

“It’s okay,” he soothed her.

She buried her face against his chest. “Ever since I was little, I’ve known it. I’ve seen the lights in the tower, too, Devon. I’ve heard the sounds, seen the figures, felt the presences. All of my mother’s reassurances couldn’t push away the truth. I knew it was out there.”

“Look, we can talk more later. Right now we’ve got to get back into town.” Devon looked over at the Camaro with its fender mangled up against the tree. “Poor Flo. Poor D.J.”

“Yeah,” agreed Cecily. “Who’s gonna tell him?”

Devon realized something. “You know, if that stinking thing was masquerading as D.J., then where’s the real one?”

Cecily looked at him dumbstruck.

“Where did you meet up with Ugly?” Devon asked.

“At Stormy Harbor. I went down there looking for you. I saw D.J. sitting in his car—what I thought was D.J. anyway. A few minutes later you showed up.”

Devon nodded. “Then the real D.J. is probably back there somewhere, and he may be hurt. We’ve got to go find him.”

They looked at each other. True enough—but just how were they going to get there? They were at least a mile out of town.

“I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to repeat the stunt I pulled getting here,” Devon said.

Cecily looked over at Flo. “Think she’s still drivable?”

“Maybe.” He grinned sheepishly. “But Cecily, even if she is, I don’t know how … to …”

She smirked. “Oh, so you can fight off demons but you don’t know how to drive a car? Well, I didn’t necessarily mean you, Indiana Jones. I’m not just a helpless female cowering in the woods, you know.”

She slid in behind the wheel.

“Jeez, the thing sure left a stink in here,” Cecily said, scrunching up her face. She turned the ignition. The engine kicked in. “Ah,” she purred. “Flo’s still got some life left in her.”

Devon got in the passenger side, careful of the glass showered all over the interior. “But you’re too young to have a driver’s license,” he said.

Cecily gave him a look. “For a kid who can wrestle down demons, you’re pretty naïve, Devon.” She put the car in reverse and backed it up on to the shoulder of the road. “D.J. taught me a long time ago. And when you’re Cecily Crandall, the police don’t pull you over.”

She sped back into town, skidding into the parking lot of Stormy Harbor. “He was parked over there,” Cecily said, pointing to the far end of the lot.

Sure enough, when they investigated, they found D.J. behind a clump of bushes, just in his underwear, bound and gagged and shivering—but otherwise okay.

They untied him.

“You should’ve seen it, man,” D.J. said as soon as the gag was removed. “Claws and fangs—”

“We know, D.J.,” Cecily replied.

“You okay, buddy?” Devon asked.

The other boy realized his nakedness in front of Cecily. “Oh, crapola,” he murmured.

Devon doffed his coat and threw it to D.J., who speedily wrapped himself in it.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he said. “But that thing, man. It took my car.”

Devon looked at Cecily. “You fill him in, okay? I’ve got to get back up to Ravenscliff.”

She nodded, helping D.J. stand.

“Hey, man,” D.J. said, looking at Devon’s bloody face. “What happened to you?”

“Tell you later. Just be on your guard, okay? Things may not be as they seem. Don’t trust anybody.” He winked at Cecily. “See ya at the big house.”

He bounded off toward the road. Within minutes he was at the cliffside staircase. He took three steps at a time. He emerged into the cemetery cautious, feeling quite certain Jackson Muir would be standing once again in the tall grass. But there was nothing there except the moonlight on the gravestones.

He passed the flat stone marked “Clarissa” and realized he hadn’t had a chance to ask Rolfe about that name or about the marker called “Devon.” There was so much he hadn’t had a chance to ask, so much he still didn’t understand.

But he knew one thing: their time grew short to save Alexander Muir.

He rushed into the foyer, out of breath. Ahead of him in the parlor he could see Mrs. Crandall sitting in her chair in front of the fire, with Rolfe Montaigne standing over her.

They both looked up at him as he entered.

“Devon!” Rolfe exclaimed. “What happened to you?”

“I—had a little run-in,” he said, sitting down on the couch.

“Dear God,” Mrs. Crandall was saying, on her feet now, looking at the boy’s face. “Simon!”

The servant seemed to appear from nowhere at the door to the parlor.

“Bring me a bowl of warm water, a cloth, disinfectant, and some bandages. Quickly!”

She stooped down in front of Devon, inspecting his wound. “It’s not too deep,” she said. “If we clean it, bandage it, and keep using vitamin E, it’ll heal quickly and not leave a scar.”

Rolfe was looking down at him intently.

“Did you tell her?” Devon asked. “Did you tell her about Alexander?”

“Yes, he told me,” Mrs. Crandall said, but Devon couldn’t tell what emotion lurked behind her words. Anger? Gratitude? Indifference?

Simon had arrived with the first aid. Mrs. Crandall took the cloth, dampened it, and began patting Devon’s face. “Does it hurt, Devon?” she asked.

“A little.”

He sat there and allowed her to tend to him. It was a side of her he hadn’t seen before: caring, nurturing, compassionate.

Dare he say maternal?

And the thought struck him, as Mrs. Crandall tenderly treated his wound, gently reassuring him—could this woman be my mother?

The idea startled him. It would make sense—more sense than her husband being his father. His powers, inherited through her, through Horatio Muir. Mrs. Crandall was Nightwing—just like him.

That’s why my father sent me here. Because Mrs. Crandall is my mother!

And then—Cecily—Cecily really is my sister!

He tried to get the Voice to confirm the idea—to tell him whether it was true or not. But the Voice remained stubbornly silent.

Devon looked at Mrs. Crandall as she sat back to observe his bandaged face. “There, Devon. You’ll be all right now.”

Such concern in her voice. Was it possible, this crazy idea?

Cecily …

“You can fill me in later on the details of your little run-in, Devon,” Rolfe said. “In the meantime, I think we’ve got things under control here for now.”

Devon pushed aside the thoughts about Mrs. Crandall. They were too much to consider right now. Way too much. He’d rather have thought about demons and Jackson Muir masquerading as that crazy clown than think about Cecily being his sister.

“So,” he asked. “Alexander’s okay?”

“We just came downstairs from talking with him,” Rolfe said. “He’s spitting mad, but he’s okay.”

Mrs. Crandall had stood, resuming her more usual air of chilly grandeur. “Rolfe has some silly idea that watching television is dangerous for Alexander. While I agree about the harmfulness of TV, I think we’re talking about different things.”

“Very different,” Devon said.

“Amanda did, however, see the wisdom of removing the televisions from both the playroom and Alexander’s bedroom,” Rolfe said.

Mrs. Crandall looked at him icily. “And now that all that is settled, I thank you for your concern, Rolfe, and I’ll show you to the door.”

“Wait,” Devon said, standing up. “That’s not the end of it. I mean, Jackson Muir is still out there. He’s not going to go away so easily.”

Mrs. Crandall sighed. “Devon, this talk about Jackson Muir has gone far enough.”

Devon looked over at Rolfe. “Is she still denying it? Even after everything you told her?”

“I’m not denying anything, Devon,” she said coldly. “There are just things I will not have discussed in this house. And certainly not with Mr. Montaigne present.”

Rolfe laughed. “You’re an ostrich, Amanda. As vain and as obtuse.” He was putting his coat back on. “You have three young lives under your care. Think about them, if not you.”

She bristled. “If I were you, Mr. Montaigne, I wouldn’t lecture anyone about putting young lives in jeopardy.”

What Devon saw next startled him, caused him to gasp: Rolfe, in a sudden rage, bounded toward Mrs. Crandall, got right up in her face. She shrunk back in fear, and there was a part of Devon that thoroughly enjoyed seeing her composure broken, even for a moment.

“I’ve told you this before, Amanda, and I’ll tell you this again,” Rolfe seethed. “I will find a way to prove my innocence—and then I’ll make you pay dearly for the five years you stole out of my life.”

“Get out,” she spit.

Rolfe turned to Devon. “Remember,” he said, “you’re stronger than any of them.”

With that, he turned and stalked out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

The seconds after Rolfe left felt like minutes—long, drawn-out minutes. Devon at first said nothing, then finally ventured over to the woman glaring out of the windows at the sea.

“Mrs. Crandall?”

“What is it?”

“I don’t want you to be angry with me. I want you to understand.”

She turned to face him. “What am I to understand?”

“Rolfe told me about this family’s legacy. I know about the Nightwing.”

“He had no right.”

Devon sighed. “Maybe not. But he did. So I know that these things that have been happening aren’t just my imagination.”

“Listen to me, Devon. I am your guardian.” She smiled. “Lowercase. Guardian with a small ‘g.’ And with the legal admonition to watch out for your welfare. I am telling you only what you need to know. Anything else you must simply trust me about.”

She pulled herself up to her full height, looking down at him. “And I assure you that no matter what frightens you in this house, nothing will hurt you. I have seen to that.”

“That’s what you always told me, Mother,” came the voice of her daughter.

They both turned. Cecily stood in the doorway.

“But it’s not true,” she said calmly, never taking her eyes from her mother. She walked into the parlor, approaching them. “I was almost killed earlier tonight. If it wasn’t for Devon, I’d be dead.”

“Killed!” Mrs. Crandall grasped her daughter’s face in both her hands. “Cecily! Are you all right?”

“I told you, thanks to Devon.”

Mrs. Crandall looked over at her young ward. “Devon …”

He patted his bandages. “You never asked how I got the wound. It was as if you didn’t want to know.”

She seemed as if she might break then—as if her body was on the verge of trembling, collapsing, her emotions ready to shatter into uncontrollable tears. But she didn’t, and Devon marveled at the woman’s control. He could see her struggle quite clearly, the yearning to surrender—but he could also see the invincibility that ultimately forbade it. She took hold of the back of her chair to steady herself, drawing in and then exhaling a very long breath.

“Long ago,” she said, “terrible things happened in this house. Maybe your friend Rolfe told you about them. Whether he did or not, it suffices for me to remember them only in their terror, not in their specifics.” She looked off toward the fire. “Why do you think my brother wanders the globe? Why do you think my mother cannot bear to leave her room? Because they are trying, each in their way, to cope with the past. As I am. As I must raise the three of you to do.”

Devon walked up to face her plainly. “But how can we do that if we don’t know what that past is? Especially me, Mrs. Crandall. I’m not a Muir. I never even knew such a place as Ravenscliff existed until a month ago. And suddenly here I am, dropped down in the middle of it, and you expect me not to ask questions, not to demand answers!”

She looked at him sadly. “I know it’s difficult, Devon. But that’s all I can I say for now.”

“No, you can say something else,” Devon said. “You can tell me what you know of my parents. My real parents. You can tell me who I am and how I fit into all of this.”

She sighed. “I’ve told you, Devon. I can’t help you there. I don’t know …”

“You knew my father. He lived here under the name Thaddeus Underwood. He was a Guardian here, teaching you and your brother in the art of the Nightwing.”

“The Nightwing?” Cecily asked.

Devon didn’t answer. He kept interrogating her mother. “Why did my father change his name? Why did he take me to New York to raise me?”

Mrs. Crandall clapped her hands to her ears. “I don’t know, Devon! Stop badgering me with these questions. I don’t know why he changed his name! I had no contact with him after he left Ravenscliff. I have no idea why he moved to New York or why he adopted you or why he sent you here!”

The face nearly cracked, but she pulled back again. Mrs Crandall closed her eyes, sighing heavily, dropping her hands again to the back of the chair for support.

“Mother,” Cecily said, near tears, “I’m frightened.”

Devon saw the maternal love emanate from Mrs. Crandall’s eyes. She let go of the chair, approached Cecily, and clutched her daughter to her bosom. Devon watched them and felt very alone. He’d never known a mother’s love. As a young boy he used to dream about his mother. She was an angel, with golden hair and a long flowing white dress. She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, lithe and lovely and ethereal. In his dreams, she’d sing to him and hold him the way Mrs. Crandall now held Cecily.

If she’s my mother, he thought sadly, she has no interest in consoling me.

Mrs. Crandall took Cecily’s cheeks in her hands again, looking at her. “I promise you, Cecily, as I promised you when you were a little girl. I will not allow anything in this house to harm you. I promise you I will redouble my efforts in keeping you safe.”

Redouble her efforts? Devon wondered what she could mean by that.

“But Mother,” Cecily added, “it wasn’t in this house that I was almost killed. It was on the village road.”

Mrs. Crandall let her go. She drew herself up again. “Let us speak no more of it. No more mention of such things in this house.”

“But, Mrs. Crandall—” Devon insisted.

She held up a hand to silence him. “That’s my final word, Devon. I don’t know why such things are happening again, but I will do my best to put an end to them.”

Devon considered revealing his powers to her—after all, that might help explain the why—but for some reason the Voice cautioned him. It might be wise to keep one last card up his sleeve in dealing with her.

But Mrs. Crandall had another hand to deal herself. She leveled her gaze at Devon. “One other instruction,” she told him. “One that I expect to be followed completely. Under no circumstance are you to have any further interaction with Rolfe Montaigne. As your guardian, I forbid it. Is that understood?”

“Mrs. Crandall—”

“Is that understood?”

It was no use fighting her here and now. “Yes, ma’am, it’s understood.”

“Classic example of major denial,” Cecily commented after her mother had swept out of the room.

Devon had filled her in briefly about what he’d learned from Rolfe, as much about the Nightwing and the demons and the Hell Holes as he could in the space of a few minutes.

“No doubt about it,” he agreed. “But if her father died fighting Jackson Muir in the Hell Hole, I guess maybe I can understand her reluctance to bring it all up again.”

“I can’t, not if it puts us in danger.” Cecily sat down in front of the fire. “Like, how can I concentrate on my algebra homework now?”

Devon grinned. “Oh, yeah. Forgot about that.”

They got out their books and worked their way through a few problems. But Cecily was right: it wasn’t easy to concentrate.

“You know what really makes me wonder?” Devon asked suddenly. “How she said she’d redouble her efforts.”

“Yeah,” Cecily agreed. “She said she’d do her best to put an end to all this.” A thought seemed to strike her. “Do you think my mother still has the powers of the Nightwing?”

Devon shrugged. “Rolfe told me the family renounced all their powers, their whole Nightwing heritage.”

“We’ve got to learn more about all this,” Cecily said.

Devon nodded. “I’ve got to talk with Rolfe again. There’s so much I still need to know.”

“Mother will atomize you if she found out.”

He smirked. “Or maybe cast a spell on me.”

“Turn you into a toad. Hey, can you do that?”

He laughed. “Never tried. And don’t think I will right now either.” He considered something. “You know, if I can’t get to Rolfe, I’ve got to get back into the East Wing. There are books there.”

She shuddered. “Yeah, and that door.”

“And the portrait that looks like me.”

It was all too confusing.

They managed to get through their homework and wolf down a little dinner: Simon’s prepared roast ham and butternut squash. After that, Cecily headed off to bed, though she admitted she wasn’t likely to sleep much.

She went to kiss Devon goodnight, but he stopped her.

“What?” she asked, bewildered.

“It’s just … there’s too much weirdness right now,” he said.

“I know what you’re thinking, Devon,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

“What am I thinking?”

“You’re thinking we’re related.”

He lifted his eyebrows at her. “Well, you gotta wonder about it.”

She frowned. “What does that Voice thing of yours say about it? Wouldn’t that tell you if we were brother and sister?”

“It doesn’t always tell me stuff. I think it only speaks up when it thinks I can handle it.”

She sighed. “Well, we don’t look anything alike.” She winked. “Anyway, thanks for saving me earlier, Spider-Man.”

Devon watched her close her door. He wished he could have kissed her. He really did. In the midst of all this craziness, he had really started liking her. A lot. He’d never felt this way about a girl before. Suze didn’t even come close. He remembered Dad saying that things would start changing now that he was fifteen. He would start to feel differently. He’d see girls in a whole new way.

Well, they have, and I do.

Devon knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep right away. So he decided to pay a visit to Alexander who, sulking about the lack of TV, had refused to come down for dinner.

He wasn’t in the playroom. Not in his room either. Devon worried at first that the boy might be in East Wing, but the Voice told him otherwise.

Try the basement, it said.

He found Alexander in the cold, damp darkness, behind a forlorn dressmaker’s dummy and several trunks plastered with stickers from foreign countries. The boy was crying.

“Hey,” Devon said gently, approaching him.

Alexander didn’t look up. In the dim light from the overhead bulb, Devon discerned that the boy was holding something—cradling it, in fact—in his lap. Devon’s eyes strained to make out what it was, and then he saw.

It was a small television set. An old, vintage 1970s portable TV, probably black-and-white. Devon saw the reason for Alexander’s tears. The television’s cord snaked off along the floor like the tail of a dead animal, ending in a splay of wires. Its plug had been snipped off long ago, for forgotten reasons.

Except, as Devon suddenly remembered, there was another time in this house when the television proved a danger to little boys …

He sat down beside Alexander and put his arm around the chubby kid’s shoulder. He felt terribly sad for the boy, as if he were some addict needing a fix only to find his supply shut off. The analogy, he realized, wasn’t far from accurate.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Devon whispered. “It’s going to be okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Alexander whimpered in a soft, pathetic little voice. “It’s never going to be okay again. They took away all the TVs and this one is broke.”

“It’s for your own good,” Devon told him. “I know that’s easy for me to say, but it’s true.”

The boy stiffened. “Yeah, that’s what adults are always telling me. That it’s for my own good. They say they know I don’t understand, but it’s for the best. Except it never feels that way. It never feels for the best.”

“What do you mean, Alexander?”

The little boy hugged the television set. “I remember my father saying I couldn’t see my mother anymore, that it was for the best. But it felt yucky. I haven’t seen her since.” He heaved a little, catching his breath. “Then my father said I couldn’t stay with him anymore, that sending me away to school was for my own good. But I hated that place. Then, even there, the headmaster sent me away cuz he said it was for the best.”

Devon smiled sadly. “And it hasn’t turned out that way, huh?”

Alexander shook his head. He began crying again.

Devon pulled the boy in close to him. This was a different Alexander Muir, down here in the damp shadows of the basement. Away from the ghosts, away from his own demons, the boy was just what he was: a small, terrified, lonely eight-year-old.

“Alexander,” Devon told him, “let me tell you something. I can relate to a lot of what you say. They took me away from my mother, too. I never knew her. I used to look at other boys with their mothers and I’d wish I had one, real bad. You know, like the mothers on television. I always wanted a mother who would make me a lunch and pick me up after school and do all that sort of stuff.”

The boy just sniffled against Devon’s chest.

“But, see, I was lucky in one regard. I had a really good dad. He taught me something really important, and that’s that you’ve got to let kids know they’re loved. And safe. And all that.”

“My father never did that for me,” Alexander said.

“Hey, I’m sure your dad loves you a lot. He’s just busy.” Devon looked down at the top of the boy’s blonde head. His hair was matted, sweaty. “But maybe we can hang out, Alexander. Maybe we can be friends after all.”

Alexander caressed the television set in his lap. “But I already found a new friend,” he said quietly, dreamily.

“No, Alexander. He wasn’t real. He wasn’t a friend at all.”

The boy pulled his head away from Devon’s chest to glare up at him. “He was, too! What do you know? Major Musick was the best friend I ever had!”

“Listen to me, Alexander. Major Musick is bad. He wants to hurt you. And me. And everyone in this house.” Devon paused. “But I won’t let him.”

The boy made a face, as if he might cry again. Instead, he just yanked the cord up to his lap and fingered the loose wires where the plug once was.

“Come on,” Alexander said gently. “Let’s go up to your room and talk some more. It’s cold down here.”

The boy said nothing but put the TV down on the concrete floor and followed Devon up the stairs. Once in bed, Alexander merely listened as Devon sat on the edge and described what they might do the next day: take a walk along the cliff, go into town, play some video games. When Devon noticed the boy’s eyelids getting heavy, he told him to sleep well, that he was safe now.

And when he leaned across to the switch off the light, Alexander reached up and embraced him, taking Devon by surprise.

Devon hugged him back.

The house settled into an uneasy quiet over the next few days, but Devon didn’t trust it. He knew Jackson Muir was just biding his time.

At school, D.J. looked at him with even more awe. Devon swore his friend to secrecy, and felt confident he could trust him.

They whispered outside the cafeteria. “Man, this is some crazy shit going down,” D.J. said. “What’s up with that thing? What’s it got against you?”

“I can’t explain everything now, and certainly not here.” Devon looked around as kids passed by in the corridor, many of them looking over at him. He’d already gotten a reputation as a mystery man, and the bandage across the middle of his face only added to that image. “Just be on guard, okay?”

“No problem there, dude. But why do you think it didn’t just take me out? You know, instead of going to the trouble of tying me up and stealing my clothes?”

“As near as I can figure, it probably wants to keep its options open. You’re my friend. It may want to disguise itself as you again. That’s why I’m telling you to be on guard.”

D.J. shook his head. “Freaky, man.”

“To say the least.”

He looked over at Devon. “Look. I know you and Cecily like each other. I admit I wanted to hang on to her, but you’re a cool dude, and so I’m not gonna try and come between you or anything. Just promise me one thing, okay? Don’t let any of this get to her, you know?”

Devon smiled wanly. “Believe me, I’m trying.” He sighed. “Hey, I’m sorry about Flo.”

D.J. shrugged. “Mostly fender damage. The glass tops are the biggest bummer.”

“I’ll find a way to pay to replace them.”

“Don’t worry about it, man. I got some friends down at Sonny’s Autobody. They can hunt me down some new ones. I was thinking of getting all the glass tinted anyway.”

Devon smiled. “You’re a good friend, Deej. There’s got to be some kind of spell a Nightwing uses to protect his friends. I promise I’ll look into it.”

D.J. gave him a jaunty salute. “Rock on.”

But how could he look into anything if Mrs. Crandall kept him away from Rolfe? He had to trust that Rolfe would find a way to get in contact with him. And in the meantime, he had to find a way into the East Wing.

He kept his promise to Alexander. For the next few days they did hang out. The boy, while quiet, seemed to be coming around, no longer the nasty little precocious brat he was when Devon first met him. Devon took him into town, bought him a handful of comic books at Adams’ Pharmacy. They carved jack-o’-lanterns from the pumpkins Simon brought in from the garden, and Devon promised to take the boy trick-or-treating in the village on Halloween, something Alexander had never done in his life.

And every night Devon talked with him before he went to sleep, sitting on the side of Alexander’s bed like Dad used to do with Devon.

“Can I ask you something?” Alexander said one night, after Devon had stood, getting ready to turn out the light.

Devon looked down at him. “Sure.”

“You’re not going to go away or anything on me, are you?”

Devon smiled. “No way, buddy,” he assured the boy. “I’m not going anywhere.”

By the fourth day—with things still quiet and peaceful and Alexander blossoming more and more—Devon began to wonder if maybe he was wrong. Maybe, in fact, the ditching of the television sets did stop the Madman in his ghostly tracks, and the whole nightmare was over.

Yet it can’t be, he reasoned: Jackson didn’t need a dumb old TV screen to appear to them. Still, Devon thought, maybe he was frustrated in not being able to claim Alexander, and he’d retreated.

Dream on, the Voice told him.

Devon pulled back the sheets to his bed and slipped beneath them, telling himself that what he should be doing was memorizing those English kings for his history quiz tomorrow, not attempting to figure out the motives and machinations of Jackson Muir. He closed his eyes. “William the First,” he whispered to himself. “William the Second. Henry the First. Stephen …”

He was asleep before he could get to the Plantagenets. He dreamed of the books in the East Wing. He was sitting before a fire, with the books piled high beside him.

“Of these enchanters,” Devon was reading aloud, “the most noble, powerful and feared have always been the Sorcerers of the Order of the Nightwing. Only the Nightwing have discovered the secret of how to open the Portals between this world and the one below, the realm of the Demons. For nearly three thousand years, the Nightwing have been a proud and honorable clan, using their powers for good. They have jealously guarded the secret of the Portals, which, in common parlance, have come to be known as Hell Holes.”

“Devon,” came a voice from somewhere in the mists of his dream.

He looked up from the book in his lap. In the swirling distance was a woman. Who she was, he wasn’t quite sure, but she was definitely familiar …

“Devon,” she called again.

“Who are you?” he asked.

But she didn’t answer. She just beckoned to him with her hands through the fog.

Was it Emily Muir?

“Devon,” she called again.

Or maybe she was the spirit he’d seen in the cemetery … the woman crying over that mysterious grave …

“Devon.”

“Who are you?”

“I am your mother, Devon.”

He woke up with a start. His heart thudded in his chest.

The woman in his dream had been neither of the ghosts he’d seen at Ravenscliff.

It was my mother.

Yet even awake Devon could still hear the woman calling his name in the night—soft and almost musical. The wind had risen outside, and it whistled through the eaves. Just below the wind, the lilting voice of the woman from Devon’s dream continued to call to him.

“Devon … Devon …”

He sat up. Yes, it was there, all right. He was not imagining it.

“Devon …”

He threw off the blankets and placed his feet against the floor.

“Devvvvonnnn …”

Like music.

It was coming from outside.

He padded across the floor to the window. Through the gauzy curtains he could see the light burning once again in the tower room. He unlatched the window and pushed it open.

There, looking back at him from the open tower window, was the silhouette of a woman—and she was indeed calling his name.

The Demon's Grave

Devon stared over at the woman in the tower just as the light went out behind her and she disappeared.

There was a soft knock at his door.

“Who—who is it?” Devon asked.

“Cecily.”

He opened the door. She was in her nightgown.

“I heard someone calling you,” she told him.

“You heard it too,” he said.

She nodded. “I’m not going to just pretend I don’t see and hear things in this house anymore. I couldn’t sleep—I haven’t been able to sleep since that thing in the car—and I was certain I heard a woman’s voice calling your name.”

Devon looked back out his window. “It was coming from the tower. I saw her.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did she look like?”

“It was hard to tell. Just a woman—in white, I think. Long blonde—or maybe gray—hair.”

“It must have been Emily Muir,” Cecily reasoned. “She’s trying to warn you about Jackson.”

“Possibly.” It was as good a scenario as any, but Devon wasn’t sure. “I saw someone in the tower when I went in there before. I’m sure it was a woman.” He sighed. “But investigating the tower again won’t do us any good. It’ll either be locked or else Simon will take a pickaxe to the back of my head.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. Until I can learn more about this Nightwing stuff, I’m through investigating. Because I have a feeling, Cecily, that once I have the knowledge, no one will be able to hide anything from me ever again.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Do you mind if I kiss you goodnight, Mr. Wizard?”

Devon looked at her. He’d missed kissing her. He wondered if this was what falling in love felt like. He wondered if, in spite of demons and warlocks and everything else, he could still feel anxious and flushed taking a certain person into his arms.

He grinned, and Cecily moved into his embrace. They did kiss, for several minutes, until the wind knocked a shutter loose, startling them.

“You’d better go back to your room,” Devon told her huskily.

She looked into his eyes dreamily. “Why is that, Devon?”

He smiled awkwardly. “Because I think our budding hormones are itching to do some damage, and I’m just trying to contain the fallout.”

Cecily pouted.

“Look,” Devon said. “I like you. A lot. I didn’t expect to at first, but I do. So I don’t want to rush things. I want whatever happens between us to be special, and when we’re both ready for it.”

Cecily seemed touched. “You are so romantic, Devon March,” she told him. “I love that.”

She kissed him once, briefly. Then she was gone.

Yeah, Devon thought to himself. Romantic.

But I also want to be absolutely, positively, one hundred percent certain that you are not my sister.

He climbed back into bed, trying to make the Voice tell him for sure whether or not Cecily was his blood kin. But it was quiet. Devon closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep. Cecily’s scent lingered and he could still taste her lips on his own. The warm feeling that spread through his body as he thought about her made him forget everything else, and he fell into the best sleep he’d had in weeks.

The next day he even aced his history quiz, and for the first time, had a truly good day in school. He felt caught up. He felt he fit in. Even the seniors nodded in the corridor to him. In the caf, Jessica Milardo, one of the cheerleaders, invited Devon and the gang to a Halloween party at her house later in the week, something that likely wouldn’t have happened without Devon’s heroics at the pizza joint. Natalie accepted enthusiastically for all of them.

“I am not going to that stuck-up Jessica’s party,” Cecily vowed. “As a feminist, I have to take a stand. She and her airhead cheerleaders perpetuate a notion of female subservience that I find appalling.”

“What are you talking about?” Nat asked, scrunching up her face across the lunch table. “I’m a cheerleader.”

“Precisely my point. You and the whole squad are out there cheering the boys on in football and basketball and whatever other balls they throw around.”

D.J. and Marcus spit out their Coke laughing at her pun. Devon smiled, not sure Cecily had intended it.

She was on a roll. “Seriously,” she was saying, flicking her long red hair back with her long red fingernails. “When’s the last time a squad of boys cheered on a girls’ team?”

“You are such a spoilsport,” Nat griped. “Jessica is a nice girl.”

“Then why don’t you hang out with her and the other cheerleader bimbos instead of us?” Cecily asked.

“You know why. I don’t feel completely at home with them. They’re all from rich families—”

“Cess is from the richest family in town,” Marcus reminded her.

Natalie smirked. “Yeah, but it’s a weird rich family. All these other girls are all so white-bread and prissy. But I like them. Or at least most of them.”

“You don’t like them,” Cecily told her. “You just want to be like them. You’re ashamed of being the daughter of a poor Portuguese fisherman. Admit it.”

“I am not!”

“Well, I hope you’re not. Because your father is one awesome guy and I’d give anything to have had a father like that, to have known a father at all.”

Devon reached under the table and took Cecily’s hand.

“All I want,” Natalie said, “is to bridge the gap between my cheerleader friends and you guys.” She looked around at all of them. “You guys are my family. Like blood. But these girls …. Well, I’d like to show them how special you all are. Please, Cecily. Will you go?”

Cecily sighed dramatically. “You’re going to owe me big time.”

Nat beamed.

The boys all agreed they wanted to go. D.J. said he’d drive; he was getting Flo’s glass tops replaced this afternoon.

“What are you going to go as?” Natalie asked him.

“I’ll have to put my thinking cap on,” D.J. replied.

Cecily and Marcus exchanged a look. “A thinking cap for you, Deej, would have about as much effect on you as it would the headless horseman,” Marcus quipped.

D.J. made a confused face as if he didn’t get the joke.

“I’m going as a harem girl,” Natalie chirped, batting her lashes.

Cecily laughed. “Harem girl? Cheerleader? And the difference between them is—?”

“You’re supposed to go dressed as something scary,” Marcus told her.

“Then just go as you are then,” D.J. cracked, the joke at his expense having finally sunk in.

Marcus landed a mock blow to D.J.’s gut. “The scariest thing is driving over there with you.”

“I think,” Devon said, “there are scarier things than that.”

“What are you going as?” Natalie asked him.

“Haven’t really given it much thought,” Devon said.

“I know just the place we can look for ideas,” Cecily told him.

After school, she showed him what she had in mind.

Climbing the creaky the stairs to the attic of Ravenscliff, Devon choked back dust. Parting cobwebs, Cecily led the way. She made a beeline to a couple of old trunks stacked against a far wall.

“The Muirs have always been such pack rats,” she said. “They never threw away anything. We’re sure to find costumes in here.”

They opened the first trunk and were nearly knocked over by the heavy odor of mothballs. Inside they found women’s clothes: turn-of-the-twentieth-century dresses, bonnets, corsets, gloves. In the next there were military uniforms from World War II.

“I could go as a Newport belle and you as her Army captain suitor,” Cecily gushed, batting her eyelashes ridiculously.

Devon grimaced. He’d never much liked playing war; he hated G.I. Joe as a kid. He wondered if that had something to do with his Nightwing blood: he suspected the sorcerers of the Order of the Nightwing only fought to defend themselves, always in the cause of good. Damn, he needed to read those books.

As Cecily pulled out lacy dresses and pantaloons, holding them up against her, Devon wandered through the attic. Against the far wall, just below where the roof came to a point, he spied an armoire.

Look inside, the Voice told him.

He approached it. He expected the knob to be hot, but it wasn’t. He turned it and peered inside the armoire.

There were several dark suits hanging there. The shoulders looked a little mildewed. He touched one, feeling along the length of the material. It was a cape, he realized.

Taking hold of the hanger, he lifted the cape out of the armoire. Hanging with it were black wool pants striped up the side in blue. The black cape was lined with red satin. Looking back into the armoire Devon spotted tall black leather boots, still shiny under the blotches of mildew.

“What’s that?” Cecily asked, coming up behind him.

“My costume,” he told her.

“But what is it?”

He ran the fabric of the cape through his fingers. “It’s the ceremonial dress of the Nightwing,” he said, not knowing how he knew this, but certain it was the truth. “It’s what I’m going to wear.”

They spent the rest of the evening cleaning the clothes. Devon buffed the boots to a high polish. Cecily had to pin the dress she’d chosen to make it fit, but Devon’s suit could have been tailor-made for him. He fit into the pants and white lace-up shirt perfectly, and the boots slid on with ease. The cape was the pièce de résistance, and he looked at himself in the mirror with a slightly embarrassing sense of awe.

“It’s you,” Cecily declared.

Yes, Devon thought. It is.

After school the next day, he told Cecily he had to see Rolfe. Finding the costume had cinched it for him. “I’ve got to know about my heritage,” he said. “It’s time. I need to learn the truth of the Nightwing.”

“But Devon, the danger’s passed. Alexander is okay.”

He shook his head forcefully. “Cecily, I don’t believe for a minute that Jackson’s gone for good. He’s just biding his time.”

She sighed. “I’m past the point of doubting you, Devon.”

“Cover for me?” he asked. Cecily nodded. He snuck off down the cliffside staircase and hurried into town.

He recognized Roxanne at the front desk at Fibber McGee’s. “Good afternoon, Mr. March,” she said, her voice warm like syrup.

“Hi,” Devon said. Roxanne’s golden eyes seemed to glow. Devon wondered exactly what her story was: Rolfe had hinted she was something special. And not just on account of her awesome body, which was right then encased in a form-fitting gold satin dress.

Devon’s mouth had gone a little dry. “Is … is Rolfe here?”

“He’s at the house,” Roxanne told him.

Devon sighed. It was too far to walk.

“That doesn’t matter, not to you,” Roxanne told him.

He looked at her oddly. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?”

She smiled. Her eyes glowed. “That it’s too far to walk.”

Devon was astounded. “How—how did you know I was thinking that?”

Roxanne laughed gently. “Just click your heels, Devon March,” she said, the cadence of the islands in her voice. “Isn’t that how the fairy tale goes in your culture? Click your heels three times and you will go where you want to go.”

He didn’t know what to think. But he knew he could do it. He knew he had the power. He remembered how he’d leapt onto D.J.’s car as the demon drove it off down the road. Rolfe’s house was much farther away—three, four miles—but that didn’t matter.

“Not to you, Devon March,” Roxanne repeated.

He looked up at her. She smiled.

Then he closed his eyes.

When he opened them he was in Rolfe’s den, the late afternoon sunlight slanting through the glass. Rolfe was sitting in a wing chair with a book in his lap. He looked up at Devon without much surprise.

“Getting the hang of this sorcery stuff, huh?”

Devon blinked. “Guess so,” he said, then looked down at himself, dissolving into laughter as he realized how easy it had been to transport himself from the restaurant. “Okay, that was totally awesome!”

“I was wondering when you’d pop by,” Rolfe said, closing the book. “I figured sooner or later you’d appear.”

“Can I do that all the time?” Devon asked excitedly. “Heck, I won’t need to get my driver’s license!”

Rolfe smiled. “I’d still sign up with the Big-A Driving School if I were you. Leaping around through time and space isn’t exactly the best way to take a girl out on a date.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Devon said, grinning. “I think Cecily would be mighty impressed.”

Rolfe raised his eyebrows. “That’s just it, Devon. It’s not about impressing anyone.”

Devon remembered how embarrassed he was when he’d tried to show off his powers to Suze back home. He sighed, approaching Rolfe. “There’s just so much I gotta know.”

The older man nodded. “That’s why I’ve been reading through all of my father’s books again. But words on paper simply can’t tell you everything.”

Devon sat down in the chair opposite Rolfe. “But can they tell me about what I am? I mean, what is a Nightwing? Like, is my blood the same as everyone else’s? My bones?”

“You’re the same as anybody else, Devon. Except you have something special.”

“But how is it passed? Through the genes?”

Rolfe smiled. “Good question. I’m not sure science could explain it. But it is passed from generation to generation. And has been, for almost three thousand years.”

“The Nightwing have been around that long, huh?”

“Oh, yes. There’s so much history in these books—ancient Rome, ancient Egypt, Celtic Britain, the Crusades—the Nightwing sure got around.”

“And no other warlock or sorcerer has powers as strong as a Nightwing?”

“That’s right. The powers of the Nightwing are unique, though if one chooses, they may share their abilities with a spouse or a close comrade. Sometimes this is temporary; other times, with great ritual, the sharing of power is made permanent. Often, when a Nightwing marries, he or she will give their spouse the power as well.”

“But Jackson didn’t give Emily any powers,” Devon said.

“Oh, no. He was far too selfish to do that. But his brother gave them to his wife.”

“The lady I’ve never met? Cecily’s grandmother? She has powers?”

Rolfe sighed. “She did. Remember that sorcery and magic was repudiated at Ravenscliff.”

“Yeah. Now I’m the only one left with it. Which I think is too bad, because I don’t know if I can stop Jackson all on my own.”

Rolfe raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think he’s gone, either, Devon.”

“If I’m going to fight him, I need to know everything about what I am.” He paused. “About the Nightwing.”

Rolfe stood and walked over to his bookshelves. Lightning crackled over the white caps of the waves below. Funny, there was no storm earlier, Devon thought.

“There are books here you should read,” Rolfe said. “They’ll tell you more than I can.” He slid one in particular out from the rest. It was covered in gold leaf. Devon recognized it from the room in the East Wing.

“This,” Rolfe said, “is the sacred text of the Nightwing. It’s called The Book of Enlightenment. It has been passed down for centuries, begun by Sargon the Great himself.”

“Sargon the Great?”

Rolfe nodded. “The first Nightwing of all. Nearly three thousand years ago.”

Devon remembered suddenly the children’s books in the basement at Ravenscliff. “I saw that name. Sargon the Great. It was a kid’s book—Sargon and some other guys. Vortigar. Brutus.” Strange how he could remember the names. “And a girl, too. Diana.”

Rolfe smiled. “All great Nightwing of the past. All part of your heritage, Devon.” He laughed. “Those books were mine. I can remember reading about all their exploits. Brutus sailing to ancient Britannia, finding a Hell Hole in the middle of the ocean, slaying the sea demons …”

“Cool,” Devon said.

“But greatest of all was Sargon, the founder of the Nightwing. So great was he that the gods decreed that no Nightwing would again have such unlimited power until a hundred generations had passed.” Rolfe looked at Devon solemnly. “The hundredth generation, I suspect, has arrived with you, Devon.”

“Me?” he asked in a little voice.

“Actually, I’m certain of it. It was an event that was long awaited. It was anticipated that the hundredth generation would arrive sometime at the start of the twenty-first century, and shortly before he left, Thaddeus told me he had received word that finally a child had been born.” Rolfe smiled. “He must have meant you.”

“Me,” Devon whispered.

“Check this out,” Rolfe said, handing him The Book of Enlightenment.

Devon felt the electricity in his hands as took the book from him. It seemed to weigh a ton. “I’m supposed to read all of this?” he asked.

“Eventually,” Rolfe said. “But for now, since we’re pressed for time—” He took the book back from Devon and set it on the table. “Tell me, Devon. Did Thaddeus ever wear a ring? With a white crystal embedded in it?”

Devon thought. “No,” he said. “I don’t remember ever seeing one.”

Rolfe nodded. “I’m not surprised. He was trying, for whatever reason, to keep all knowledge of your heritage from you. But every Guardian has a crystal. The Crystal of Knowledge. The Guardian’s crystal holds within it all the ancient alchemy and history of the Nightwing. In its center is the knowledge that you need to learn. I remember Thaddeus wore his in a ring. But what he did with that ring after he left here, I don’t know. ”

Devon felt desperate. “So without his crystal, what can I do?”

Rolfe winked at him. “You’re forgetting, Devon. My father was also a Guardian.”

“So he had a crystal ring, too?”

“Not a ring. My father was a gardener. He kept his crystal on a stone pedestal, surrounded by tall flowers. I remember as a very young boy being mesmerized by it. How my father’s crystal shone in the sun, the spectrum of color that reflected off it. I remember birds that would hover above it, seemingly caught by its magnetic pull. Butterflies, too. Hummingbirds.”

He turned, withdrawing from a shelf a gleaming white crystal, about the shape and size of a baseball. Devon blinked, as if the crystal were emitting a powerful light. But it wasn’t. At least, not a light that he could physically see.

“The Guardian’s crystal holds immense power,” Rolfe was telling him. “It will give you the answers you seek. But it might be a little—well, intense.”

Devon smirked. “So, in other words, it might sting a little.”

“Or something,” Rolfe said.

Devon laughed. “Like I should be afraid of a rock when I’ve had demons at my throat?” He held out his hands. “Bring it on.”

“Hold it in your hands, Devon,” Rolfe told him, placing the crystal gingerly into the boy’s palms. “Hold it and see.”

Devon felt its cold smoothness roll against his palms. He looked down at it. Nothing happened. “Is there any spell you have to say?” he asked. “Any incantation or something?”

“Not that I know of,” Rolfe told him.

“Bummer,” Devon said. “I was hoping for a little hocus-pocus.”

“Oh, I think you’ll get it,” Rolfe said.

Devon looked down again at the crystal. He was about to say something else when, all of a sudden, he was no longer there—no longer in the room, no longer in Misery Point, no longer anywhere he recognized. Devon sensed he was not even in the same time or place, maybe not even on the same planet, as he was just moments ago. He was surrounded by blue light, just as he’d been in the East Wing. And the man he’d seen there—the white-haired man in the flowing, star-studded purple robe—was once again speaking to him:

“Know this: that the world is far older than anyone can imagine. Once, well before the coming of the Great Ice, the world was inhabited by Creatures of Light and Creatures of Darkness, battling each other for eons for dominion. Their masters were the elemental gods—of Fire, of Wind, of Sea, of Earth—omnipotent rulers of nature, neither good nor evil. It was left to their shifting, roiling creatures to forge the battle lines. As the ages passed, and the time of the Creatures fades farther and farther into the dim recesses of time, they have come to be known as Angels and Demons.”

“Angels … and demons?” Devon asked, his voice small and faraway, not even seeming to come from his own throat.

“Yes, child.” The man bore down upon him. He looked old, terribly old, but his eyes burned with a blue fire. “But these are not the creatures of your Sunday school catechism. Their shape was inconsistent, their powers various, and their allegiances to many and diverse gods and devils.”

Devon pulled back. “But what do they have to do with me?”

The man’s eyes grew wide. “Came destruction from the sky in the form of fiery rain, and then the Great Ice moved across the globe! The masters had grown tired of their battling Creatures and banished them to a realm of lower vibration. There, without the interference of the elemental gods, the Demons quickly bested the Angels and created the kingdom of Hell!”

“Hell Holes,” Devon whispered.

“Every culture that has evolved since has recognized the existence of this place in its religions and mythology—the underworld of the damned.” The strange old man loomed over Devon, his blue eyes blazing. “While the Demons there reign supreme, they still seethe in fury over their loss of Empire in the world above. The world of Man.”

“They want to get it back,” Devon said.

“Yet as Man evolved, some came in touch with the old elemental Knowledge. These mortals came to be known by many names in many cultures: wizards, medicine men, shamans, priests, witches, sorcerers, alchemists. Through the old Knowledge, they were able to manufacture some semblance of the powers once wielded by the Creatures. Such powers they used for their own ends, both for good and for evil.”

Devon felt himself being drawn away, but he struggled to listen to the last of the old man’s words.

“Of these enchanters, the most noble, powerful and feared have always been the Sorcerers of the Order of the Nightwing. Only the Nightwing have discovered the secret of how to open the portals between this world and the one below, the realm of the demons.”

The blue light obliterated everything else. Devon felt himself being whisked as if down a long chute, every fiber of his body pulled by an unseen force, a giant vacuum through time and space. He couldn’t catch his breath. He feared he might suffocate, and he started to panic—

But then he landed, with a thud, on a grassy plain.

He could breathe again. But Devon had no time to think: above him roared an enormous demon, scaly and dripping wet. It raised its head on a long dinosaur neck, flaring its gigantic nostrils. It opened its mouth and belched a spear of fire.

“Slay it! Slay the dragon!” came the chants from the crowd watching him.

Devon realized he had a sword in his hands. He thrust it upward, into the belly of the demon. Scalding hot orange blood gushed out all over his hands. The crowd cheered.

The images around him disintegrated, like a television losing its picture.

Falling again.

“It’s not difficult when the thing is as primitive as that,” someone was saying to him.

Devon struggled to see and to regain his balance. Finally, he found solid ground and steadied himself, breathing heavily. He opened his eyes. A man stood in front of him, someone he thought he recognized, but wasn’t sure.

“The ignorant ones are blundering and obvious,” the man told him. “Defeating them is no test of a Nightwing’s strength.”

Devon stared at the man. He was wearing a tunic and sandals, with long reddish hair and a beard. A sword was sheathed at his side.

“Can you not spy the demon now, child? Can you not see it? You, of my hundredth generation?”

“You’re Sargon,” Devon breathed in awe. “Sargon the Great.”

“The epithet came only after the fact, after proving myself a sorcerer of dexterity, strength and cunning.” Sargon leveled his gaze at the boy, Devon shrinking back from its intensity. “What will they call you, Devon March? The Blind? The Muddled? The Daft?”

Devon stiffened. Great founder or not, there was no reason for him to get nasty. “What do you want me to do?”

“Send the demon back to hell,” Sargon said plainly. “Can you not see it?”

Devon looked around. For the first time he took in his surroundings. They were in a meadow that stretched off to the horizon for miles unbroken by any trees or structures. Only tall grass and wild flowers swayed in the slight breeze. The sun was bright, the sky an unbroken dome of blue. Devon saw no demon, sensed no filthy thing crawling in the grass. He concentrated but felt no heat, no pressure. He turned his eyes back to Sargon.

“There’s no demon here,” he told him.

The great master moved away from him in contempt. “A Nightwing should never use only one or two of his senses at a time. You disappoint me, Devon March.”

Devon stared after him. What did the guy want? I’m new at this, he thought defensively.

Prove him wrong, came the Voice. He’s daring you to prove him wrong.

Okay, Devon told himself. So don’t just base it on sight or feel. How else can I detect a demon?

He listened. No thrum, no vibration, no scuttling of hellish feet. He stood there in the meadow a few yards from Sargon, the first Nightwing of all, and heard no demon presence. None of his senses indicated one was nearby.

Except—

That smell.

They stink, Devon realized. That’s right: they stink. And I can smell the putrid thing somewhere. But where?

He looked around. He saw nothing. Nothing except the tall grass.

And Sargon the Great.

Suddenly Devon knew. Faster than he’d ever moved before, he lunged at the great founder of the Order of the Nightwing, tackling him down into the grass. Sargon’s eyes flashed surprise at first, then fury. His eye sockets turned yellow, his fangs ripping through the flesh of his face. A claw twice the size of Devon’s head gripped him around the middle and lifted him high in the air, holding him over the demon’s open mouth.

“Let—me—go!” Devon commanded.

But the thing simply tightened its grip around Devon’s waist, drawing him down closer to the stinking canyon of its mouth. A whole snout of fangs had pushed through the mask of Sargon the Great, dripping with blood and saliva. Devon could smell its horrid breath, feel the heat of its body. In seconds his face was going to be lunch for the snapping jaws of the thing.

“Back!” came a voice. “Back to your Hell Hole!”

The demon twisted under Devon, releasing its hold and shuddering uncontrollably. Devon toppled to the grass, while his attacker was suddenly seized as if by an unseen giant hand and flung through the sky. It disappeared into the air.

Devon looked up. Sargon the Great was standing over him.

“You passed your first test, Devon the Abecedarian. But failed your second.”

“I tried to send him back,” Devon told him. “It’s worked before.”

“Your fear was too great. These things feed off fear. They become more powerful the more fearful you are.”

Devon sat up, rubbing his elbow where he’d banged it falling back to the ground. If this was a dream or going on inside his head, it was all too real. He looked over at Sargon.

“Listen, back home I’m fighting off a Nightwing gone bad—what do you call them? An Apostate. Any suggestions on how I might—?”

But Sargon was gone. So was the field, the very ground Devon had been sitting on. All there was left was a strange gray mist, and as it gradually cleared Devon began to make out Rolfe’s room. He realized he was still there, in the same place, holding the crystal.

“Devon, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I—uh—”

But he was falling again. Back through time and space. He flailed his arms wildly, trying to grab onto something, anything. Far below him he could see a gaping hole in the earth, growing wider and larger and more terrifying as he approached. He knew what it was.

A Hell Hole.

“Rolfe!” he screamed. “Get the crystal out of my hands!”

He kept plummeting toward the Hell Hole. He heard a voice, laughing at him.

“Why do you fear the portal, Devon? It is the source of your power.”

Everything went black. Devon was no longer falling, merely floating. The temperature began to rise. Thick humidity pressed in around him.

Am I—am I in the Hell Hole??????

Laughter again. Raspy and insane.

“Didn’t you think you might find me here?”

That voice. Devon knew it.

He was no longer floating, and the heat was gone. He was in a cold, dark, confined place. He tried to look down at his body, but he couldn’t see a thing. The darkness was total. He couldn’t move. He shivered. It was as cold as a tomb—

Devon gasped.

He knew where he was.

“That’s right,” came the voice. It was the gravelly voice of Major Musick. “You’re in my grave. G-R-A-V-E. Can you spell it, boys and girls?”

The chalk-white face of the clown appeared in the dark.

“Yessirree, boys and girls, Devon is in the grave of Jackson Muir, in the cemetery out by the cliff, under the statue of the broken angel! Hee hee heeeeeeee!!!!!”

Mocking laughter filled Devon’s head.

He still could not move. After much struggle, however, he managed to lift his head. His nose touched something solid above him. Wood. He realized he was lying prone.

In a coffin.

I’m buried alive!!

No, he tried to tell himself. I’m standing in Rolfe’s den.

The crystal was meant to give him knowledge of the Nightwing, information on his heritage. Why was he then inside the rotting corpse of Jackson Muir???

“Isn’t that obvious?” rasped the voice of the Madman inside his head. “You want answers as to who you are. You are a Nightwing—like me!”

No, not like you. I am no Apostate!

“How can you be so sure, Devon? You, who know nothing of what you are.”

I know that our power must be used for good. You used it for your own ends and died because of it!

“We are the same, Devon March. The sooner you acknowledge that, the sooner we shall both have the power to rule the world!”

The Madman’s laughter rumbled inside his head. Devon could smell the decay now: a sickening odor that threatened to make him puke.

“Go ahead, try and break free,” Jackson taunted him. “What if you never move from this spot? What if I’ve brought you here forever? What if you can never break free of me?”

Devon felt terror clutch his throat.

The laughter again.

Could it be possible? Devon began to panic. Might I really be trapped here?

“All too possible,” the voice of the Madman replied. “Prepare to spend eternity with me, Devon March—in my grave!”

Halloween

This can’t be happening … can’t be real!

Devon struggled to unclasp the bony rotted fingers from across his—Jackson’s—chest. He moved the hands down the sides of his body—Jackson’s corpse—and felt the edges of the coffin. Moldy, decaying satin. He could hear a sloshing sound as he shifted his rotting limbs.

It can’t be, Devon thought. This can’t be happening.

“Devon March, you are mine now. You thought you had won. That you had defeated me! But you were wrong!”

Devon made a little sound of terror through his rotting skull.

“Wrong!” the Madman exulted. “Can we spell that, boys and girls! W-R-O-N-G! What’s it spell? Wrong!”

His laughter threatened to trip Devon over into insanity.

Your fear was too great. These things feed off fear. They become more powerful the more fearful you are.

That was right. He was very fearful. Terrified, in fact. But he had to get control of his fear. It was the only way.

For some reason, Devon suddenly saw Roxanne in his mind—Roxanne, Rolfe’s friend. The woman with the golden eyes. He remembered something she had said to him.

“Just click your heels, Devon March. Isn’t that how the fairy tale goes in your culture? Click your heels three times and you will go where you want to go.”

He tried. He managed to move what he knew were the skeletal feet of Jackson Muir. He brought them together once, then twice, then three times.

It will work, he told himself, and he believed it. The fear ratcheted down.

And suddenly he was back, sitting in the chair in Rolfe’s den, holding the crystal in his palms.

“Get this thing away from me!” Devon shouted, thrusting the crystal as far as he could.

Rolfe tried to catch it but missed. He watched helplessly as his father’s prized gem shattered into several pieces on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Devon said. “But I was in Jackson’s grave—I was in his body!”

Rolfe gingerly picked up the pieces. “It’s all right. It retains its power no matter its form.”

Devon was panting for breath. “That was worse than anything I’ve dealt with before,” he said. “I was Jackson. I was his decomposing skeleton!”

“Take it easy, Devon.” Rolfe placed the crystals on the table. “Did the Madman speak to you?”

“Yeah. He wanted me to acknowledge I was like him. But I’m not.” He looked intently at Rolfe. “Right?”

Rolfe tried to smile. “Not if you don’t use the powers you have for evil. But what I don’t understand is why the crystal brought you to him. The goal was to give you knowledge about your heritage as a Nightwing.”

“It started out that way,” Devon said. “I met—Sargon the Great!”

Rolfe’s eyes widened in wonder.

Devon realized he was smiling despite the terror he’d just experienced. “Sargon was testing me. He asked me to find the demon, but I couldn’t see any. So I tackled him.”

Rolfe blinked his eyes. “You tackled Sargon the Great?”

“Yeah. I passed the test. The demon was masquerading as him.” Devon sighed. “But I was unable to defeat him because I was scared. That’s the thing I have to learn to control.”

Devon rubbed his head. He was still a little grossed out by being in that coffin. He could still smell the decay in his nostrils.

“But then I remembered something Roxanne said to me,” he told Rolfe. “Reminded me I had the power to get out of there.”

Rolfe grinned. “You are stronger than any of them.”

“Yeah,” Devon agreed. “That’s what my Dad always said too.”

“But the fact that the Madman came to you,” Rolfe said, clearly alarmed, “merely confirms our fears.”

“He’s still around,” Devon said. “I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him.”

The older man sighed. “If he can appear to you, he may still find a way to appear to Alexander.”

Devon nodded. Thinking of Alexander reminded him of Ravenscliff: he’d better get back soon. Mrs. Crandall would start suspecting something was up if he missed dinner. “Rolfe, thanks for all this. I got a lot out of it. Though I’m sorry about breaking your dad’s crystal.”

“It’s okay, Devon.”

He thought of something. “Hey, Rolfe. Would you give me a ride back to town? Somehow I don’t think my little trick in getting out here will work on the way back. I don’t think the gods care much about things like curfews or being late to dinner.”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

“Oh—and what does Abecedarian mean? Sargon called me that.”

Rolfe suppressed a smile. “It means novice. Amateur.”

“Amateur?” Devon’s blood rose. “I’ll show him.” Then he laughed. “I guess there still is a lot I need to learn.” He sighed, looking over at the pieces of crystal on the table. “Though maybe I’ll wait a while before trying that again. Being trapped in a coffin was a little more than I expected to deal with today.”

They climbed the stairs and headed outside. They were about to get into Rolfe’s car when Devon paused. “Halloween,” he breathed, as if just realizing something.

“What about it?”

“It’s in a couple days,” Devon said. “And it’s the anniversary of Emily Muir’s death.”

Rolfe nodded. “A day to be on guard, I imagine.”

“Yeah,” Devon agreed. “We’d better be. Just in case anything goes wrong.”

The first thing that went wrong on Halloween was that Devon forgot his promise to Alexander.

“Oh, no,” he said, done up in his Nightwing best, scrunched into the backseat of the Camaro between Natalie and Marcus, with Cecily in the passenger seat up front. “I was supposed to take Alexander trick-or-treating in the village.”

“Like, groan,” said Natalie.

“What was he going as, Freddy Krueger’s younger brother?” D.J. asked.

Devon ignored them. “Aw, man, I feel terrible.” He wanted to kick himself. “I didn’t see him all day, so I forgot. He was supposed to tell me what he wanted to go as, but he never did.”

“He’ll get over it,” Cecily said. “That little monster only cares about the candy. So bring him a Hershey bar and he’ll be happy.”

“Besides, Devon,” Natalie added, “you couldn’t do that and go to Jessica’s party. Believe me, this will be much more fun than hanging with Alexander.”

“It’s just that he was starting to trust me,” Devon said.

Marcus looked over sympathetically at him. “Sounds like you feel responsible for him somehow.”

“Yeah, kinda,” Devon admitted. “He’s never really had good role models.”

He actually felt really terrible. He felt as if he’d failed yet another test, that if Sargon the Great were around he’d call him an abecedarian, or worse. A Nightwing shouldn’t forget promises, Devon told himself. And little kids should be out having fun on Halloween, not holed up by themselves reading comic books.

Devon was just glad the TV was still off limits.

As Cecily predicted, the party was a lot of fun. Some of the kids were so done up, they were practically unrecognizable. Jessica herself was an old witch, with a huge putty nose and mounds of warts. Marcus got the lion’s share of applause for his highly detailed Frankenstein’s monster, complete with electrodes, scars, and enormous elevated boots, but Nat’s harem girl got plenty of attention, too—especially with her exposed belly and her heretofore secret navel ring. Cecily, dressed as Little Bo Peep in layers of crinoline and lace, fumed a bit because she didn’t get as much attention, but consoled herself with the fact that Devon rarely left her side.

Jessica was very welcoming of their whole little group, more so than she’d ever been before. In fact, all of the cheerleaders and jocks were really friendly, even to D.J., who they usually called a “loser” under their breaths. But Devon’s derring-do at the pizza joint had turned them all into celebrities.

Cecily didn’t trust these kids, of course, thinking that if they could “steal” Devon away from them, there would be no more invitations to Jessica’s house for parties. Devon thought she might be right. He was constantly being winked at, and girls would try to grab his hand and drag him off to their little groups. But he only went with them if Cecily and his other friends came along too.

The best part of the party was the “haunted house” that Jessica’s dad set up in the garage, with creepy music playing and her father himself costumed as a monster who lunged out at them from behind doors and corners. It was good for a couple scares and a lot of laughs before they headed into the house to wolf down pizza delivered from Gio’s.

But Jessica’s parents had insisted from the start that the party end precisely at ten o’clock. They had been very strict, sniffing everybody’s breath for alcohol. Suddenly, without warning, at 9:59, they begin hauling away the punch bowl and taking down the crepe paper. “Aw, Mom,” Jessica whined. “Daaaaaaaaaddy.”

But it was to no avail. They began wrapping up the brownies and turning on the lights, splitting up couples lip-locked on the couch.

Outside the house, the exiled kids gathered around their cars. Cecily, determined the night would not end so soon, whipped out her phone—reception was much better this far inland—and called her mother. A muttered conversation, and she exulted in triumph. “Mother said I could have a few kids back to Ravenscliff,” she said to D.J. and Devon. “Spread the word.”

Devon saw that she, too, was hoping to impress the A-list crowd.

In all, three cars headed back to the great house on the cliffs of Misery Point. The kids were all psyched; they’d never been up to the old mansion before. They honked and called out from their car windows as they passed each other on the street. Devon suspected the kids in one car—seniors—were passing around some whisky and some reefer, and worried that their impromptu party might get out of hand.

“Cecily, get real, okay?” he said, turning to her as some guy mooned them from another car. “How many kids did your mother say you could have over?”

“A few.”

“How many’s a few?”

“Look, Devon. She’s up with Grandmama. She won’t even hear us if we stay in the parlor.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “She said like no more than five or six, right?”

Cecily smirked. “Try four or five.”

“Oh, great, Cecily. We’ve got two whole cars following us, and some of them we don’t even know. A few of the seniors are pretty messed up, too.”

“Stop worrying, Devon.”

Devon sighed. He didn’t want to come off as a drag, but something didn’t feel right in his gut. This was, after all, the anniversary of Emily Muir’s death, and a bunch of messed-up kids were coming to party at Ravenscliff—where there was only a mad ghost and a Hell Hole full of demons to worry about.

Why can’t I just have a normal life? Devon wished, not for the first time.

Inside the house, they were greeted by a giant jack-o’-lantern placed on a table in the foyer, a candle flickering inside. Cecily insisted that everyone keep their voices down, but most of the kids couldn’t help whooping over the exotic trinkets in the parlor. “Check out this suit of armor,” gushed one of the seniors, his eyes spacey and bloodshot. “Awesome …” He lifted the visor. “Can I try it on?”

“No,” Devon said forcefully, shutting the visor. “Why don’t you just go sit down on the sofa? Take a load off your feet.”

“Not a bad idea, man,” he agreed, shuffling off.

“Look at those dudes,” D.J. said. “They’re already higher than King Kong on the Empire State.”

That was for sure. Devon watched as two seniors, both dressed as vampires, made out with two junior girls dressed as Barbie dolls. Most of the kids he recognized from school, even if he didn’t know their names. Only two were completely unfamiliar to him. One was wearing a lizard mask and the other sported Freddy Krueger makeup. They were raptly inspecting the shrunken heads in the bookcases.

A couple of guys dressed as cowboys, who Devon recognized from biology class, were lighting up cigarettes and using the eye sockets of a skull as their ashtray.

“No smoking in the house,” Devon told them, pushing them out onto the terrace.

He turned to see Cecily and Marcus dancing—a freaky sight, given that they were dressed as Bo Peep and Frankenstein’s monster. Natalie jacked up the volume; rap music incongruously filled the parlor—a place where Devon imagines Horatio Muir once sat languidly listening to Mendelssohn and Wagner.

How he even knew who those composers were, Devon wasn’t sure. But he did, and he knew something else. This was not the kind of activity that should be taking place in the great parlor of Ravenscliff.

He stalked over to Cecily, his sorcerer’s cape swinging majestically around his legs. “Excuse me, but don’t you think this is getting the least bit out of control?”

“Devon, can’t we just be shiny, happy people for a change?” Cecily replied, dismissing him with her hand. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to have a party here? How awesome it is to hear music—real music—in this stuffy old house?”

“Cecily, if your mother comes down here—”

“Eeeeeewwwwww!”

They turned. Even over the thud-thud-thud of the music, they could hear Natalie’s cry of revulsion. She was standing in front of the bookcase, scrunching her face as the kid in the lizard mask next to her stuck out his tongue.

“That was so gross,” Nat was saying. “Do it again.”

The kid complied, sticking out a long, slithery, pointed pink tongue from the snout of his mask. “Eeeewww,” Natalie said again, laughing and recoiling at the same time.

Another girl had walked up to see it too. “How do you do that?” she asked. “Is it curled up inside there?” She tapped the mask.

Out darted the tongue again.

“Who is he?” the girl asked Natalie, cracking up.

Natalie giggled, looking up at the lizard. “Do we even know you?”

Devon was watching them intently. It was like a movie in slow motion, the rap music soundtrack fading off in his mind. It was replaced with a high-pitched vibration, matched at that very moment with an overpowering gust of heat.

“Natalie!” Devon shouted—but his voice sounded muffled and distant to his ears.

The girls began to turn their heads in his direction—he saw everything in slow motion still—and he tried to run toward them. But his feet felt leaden, the gravity underneath magnified a hundredfold.

Behind the girls, the kid in the lizard mask opened his snout, revealing a mouthful of fangs that were all too real.

Cecily saw it too. She screamed.

Devon broke free from whatever force was trying to hold him in place. Cape flying, he lunged at the lizard kid, who now had his arms wrapped around Natalie. She turned and looked up into his face, realizing it was no mask, that the tongue and the teeth were real. She screamed.

Devon landed a punch into the demon’s side. The thing bellowed, dropping Natalie to the floor. Then it turned savagely to snarl at Devon, its long tongue darting in and out of its mouth.

“Come on, ugly, come on,” Devon taunted. “Give me your best shot.”

“Devon!” Cecily shouted. “Behind you!”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the kid in the Freddy Krueger makeup. The long, sharp knives in place of his fingers were real. He slashed them against each other, clanging them like swords.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Devon called out, trusting once more that his limbs would respond instinctively. They didn’t fail. His right leg shot up in a swift kick, slamming his polished sorcerer’s boot right under Freddy’s chin and sending him crashing into the sofa. The kids who were making out there yelled out in shock and fear, scrambling to huddle together in a corner of the room.

The lizard thing, meanwhile, was poised on its haunches, ready to spring. “Think again, Godzilla,” D.J. shouted, tackling the creature before it could strike.

“Thanks, buddy,” Devon called over to him, whisking the lizard from under his friend and pummeling it into the wall.

But there were others. The two cowboys now pulled their claws out of their dungarees and made for the girls.

“Cecily!” Devon shouted. “Just go for it! Believe you can and you will!”

She looked at him in utter terror, then back at the approaching cowboys, one of whom licked his lips. His hands were like bear paws: furry and enormous, with claws bared.

“I guess you’re not aware who I am,” Cecily said, her voice trembling. “I’m Cecily Crandall, and no one—I repeat—no one messes with me.”

Let her do it, Devon thought, concentrating.

Cecily lunged, crinoline and ruffles flying, kicking up hard with her knee into the cowboy’s groin. He howled in pain and collapsed to the floor.

“Attagirl!” Devon yelled. “Everybody! Just believe you can fight them off, and you will have the power to do so!”

The stoned, terrified seniors and their girlfriends didn’t try. They just ran screaming out into the foyer. Looking back, they screamed again and bolted outside. That left only the five friends to fight off the four demons.

“We’ve still got ‘em outnumbered,” Devon said.

But the demons had them contained. At that moment the double doors of the parlor slammed shut, and Devon could hear the lock slide into place. The demon in the shape of Freddy Krueger laughed.

“No one panic,” Devon said. “We can do this.”

Cecily’s eyes were blazing, but D.J., Marcus and Natalie seemed frozen in fear.

“If you believe you have the power, you will!” Devon told them.

The lizard swished its long powerful tail, toppling over a table, smashing an antique lamp to pieces.

“Hey,” barked Cecily, “that was my mother’s favorite.”

She was cocky now. With one sudden leap, she swung her leg around like Wonder Woman on a good day and bashed the thing upside its head. It roared as it fell to the floor.

One of the cowboys hissed, baring his fangs as he prepared to defend his fallen comrade.

“I don’t think so,” Marcus said, jumping at the creature and landing a swift flat Frankenstein-boot kick against its back, sending it flying towards D.J., who caught it.

“Hey,” D.J. said. “I recognize you. You’re the creep who stole my car!” He grinned malevolently. “And you’re gonna pay for what you did to Flo!”

He hauled off and punched the beast so hard it flew backward, crashing up against the fireplace.

But in all the commotion, Freddy Krueger had grabbed Natalie. He held her in front of him, his long sharp fingers ready to slit her throat. It made all of them pause.

“I’ll let her go if you open the portal,” it spoke.

It was the first time that Devon had actually heard a demon speak with a physical voice. It was low, guttural, the sound of stone against stone.

“Never,” Devon said, facing it. “I’ll never open that door!”

“Devon!” Natalie screamed. “Do what he says! Please! He’s going to kill me!”

“No, he won’t.” Devon stood firm in front of them. “He can’t—because I forbid it.”

How he knew that for sure was as yet unclear. Maybe the Voice had insisted it was so, and in all the fighting he hadn’t consciously heard it. But Devon felt confident that he could claim power over these things.

I’m stronger than all of them. I am the one-hundredth generation descendant of Sargon the Great.

His eyes locked onto the eyes of the demon, and he calmly stood his ground.

“I forbid it,” he repeated.

The thing let out a long, low growl from deep within its body.

“Let her go,” Devon commanded.

The demon suddenly lifted its face to the ceiling and howled in obvious frustration. It thrust Natalie away from its body. She tumbled into Devon’s arms, shaking uncontrollably.

“Now, all of you,” Devon commanded in a voice barely recognizable as his own. “Back to your Hell Hole! Now!”

All four of the demons screamed. They were sucked up into the air and disappeared.

“Holy—crapola,” D.J. breathed.

“What were they?” Natalie asked, still quaking in Devon’s arms.

Marcus had walked up to Devon and was staring at him in wonder. “How did you do that? How did we all get so strong?”

“And what’s a Hell Hole?” Natalie asked.

“I don’t have time to explain.” Devon turned to Cecily. “We’ve got to go check on Alexander.”

Her face showed sudden fear. “You think they’ve gone after him?”

“Not them. The Madman.”

But just then the doors to the parlor opened. Mrs. Crandall stood there, her eyes wide in outrage.

“Cecily! Devon! What is going on here?”

“Mother, we—”

She was aghast at the sight of the room.

“All the way up in the West Wing we could hear noise. Your grandmother is very upset. She’s shaking as if—”

She looked around. Devon sensed that even beyond the loud music and smashed lamp and the books scattered along the floor she could tell what went on here. She turned her eyes to bear down on Devon.

“I’ve got to go check on Alexander,” he told her forcefully.

She said nothing.

He turned to D.J. “Fill in these guys as best as you can for now,” he said, nodding over at Marcus and Natalie, who were still wide-eyed and terrified. “And tell those wimps who ran out of here that it was a Halloween prank. Something we rigged up.”

“Yeah,” Cecily added. “Like Jessica’s dad did.” She paused. “Only way more realistic.”

“Way,” Devon agreed.

D.J. managed a grin. “They were so messed up they’ll believe anything.”

Devon and Cecily prepared to head upstairs, but Mrs. Crandall stopped them in the foyer.

“I demand you tell me what went on here tonight,” she said, only the slightest quiver betraying her voice.

Devon looked at her hard. “I think you know, Mrs. Crandall,” he told her plainly. “I think you know.”

She said nothing more, just stood there, the terror stark upon her face, as Devon and Cecily raced upstairs.

Alexander was not in his room.

“If only I hadn’t forgotten about the trick-or-treating,” Devon said.

“Let’s look in the playroom,” Cecily suggested.

Devon felt a terrible sensation deep in his gut. Even before they arrived at the door, he could hear the voice of that insane clown.

Tinny laughter, a raspy song.

“Oh, no,” he said, running down the carpeted corridor.

Blue light and silver shadows danced against the wall of the playroom. There, in front of Alexander’s beanbag chair, sat the old portable TV set from the basement.

“But that’s impossible,” Devon said, his eyes trailing along its cord. “It was broken.”

“Not anymore, apparently,” Cecily observed.

Someone had fixed it. Devon’s eyes latched onto the black electrical tape wrapped around the cord, securing a new plug to its end. It was now firmly attached to the socket on the wall.

“Alexander!” Devon shouted. “Alexander! Get away from there!”

But when they ran up in front of the television set, Alexander was not in his beanbag. They turned to anxiously face the TV. On the screen, Major Musick was saying, “The letter for today, boys and girls, is ‘D.’”

“Where’s Alexander?” Cecily asked frantically, near tears. “Devon, where could he be?”

“Deeeee,” Major Musick intoned. “And an Eeeeee, and a Veeeeee, and an Ohhhh, and an ennnnnnnnnnN.”

The camera moved in for a tight close-up. Devon watched, transfixed.

“What’s it spell?” the chalk-white face of Jackson Muir asked, a maggot crawling from his between his lips.

“Devon!” called the children in the bleachers behind them.

“Devon!” the demon clown repeated, and he laughed.

Devon watched as the camera moved over to pan across the children. There they sat, in monochrome black-and-white, three rows of vacant-eyed kids. There was poor, freckle-faced Frankie Underwood, who Devon knew was his father’s first son, who’d been sitting there now for decades, staring into eternity.

And there, beside Frankie, at the very end of the row, his deadened eyes staring out accusingly from the screen, was the boy they sought.

Jackson Muir had won. He had taken Alexander Muir into the Hell Hole.

Into the Hell Hole

“I have to go … in there,” Devon said dazedly.

“In where, Devon?” Cecily asked.

He looked at her. “Into the Hell Hole.” He turned his frightened eyes back at the TV screen. “It’s the only way to save Alexander.”

“Not so fast,” came a new voice.

They both glanced up. Rolfe Montaigne had entered the playroom. His face was solemn. He looked at Devon intently.

“Rolfe,” Devon said. “He’s won. Jackson Muir has won.”

Rolfe joined them to look down at the TV set. His face contorted in grief and horror upon seeing Alexander sitting there, staring blank-eyed out through the screen at them. And Devon knew that beside Alexander sat Frankie, Rolfe’s childhood friend—as young as he was when Rolfe had last seen him, twenty-five years ago.

“Our new letter, boys and girls, is aaaaR,” Major Musick taunted. “As in Rolfe…”

“Damn you!” Rolfe shouted, and kicked the TV with his foot, smashing the picture tube and sending the box flying across the floor, smoking and popping.

Devon looked up at the older man. He glimpsed the fury beneath Rolfe’s suave facade. He’d seen it before, in the rage that had erupted at Mrs. Crandall, the pent-up anger of having lost five years of his life for a crime he didn’t believe he committed. Anger, too, at losing his father to the demons of this house—demons Rolfe failed to distinguish much from Ravenscliff’s living inhabitants.

“Rolfe,” Devon told him, “I have to try. You said it was the only way. We can’t leave Alexander in there.”

Rolfe spun on him. “You have no idea what you’re suggesting. You have no idea what going in there entails. I was here when it was tried once before. I saw what happened. I heard! Randolph Muir’s screams echoed throughout this house. We all heard it. We waited and waited and hoped for the best, but neither Frankie Underwood nor Randolph Muir ever emerged from the portal again!”

Cecily began to cry. Devon just swallowed.

“If so powerful and experienced a Nightwing as Randolph Muir could not survive the Hell Hole, how can you? A boy who only a few days ago didn’t even know what he was? Who found himself at the mercy of the Madman even when just using the crystal? How can you hope to make it back out alive?”

Devon felt dizzy. He tried to focus on Rolfe, to listen to his words, but it was difficult. He looked over at the smashed television set, its guts still smoldering. He followed the cord to where it had been plugged into the wall, his eyes coming to rest again on the electrical tape that mended it. Did Jackson do that as well? A ghost who can do electrical work?

He suspected the evil spirit of the house had some human help.

Suddenly Devon felt as if he wasn’t in the playroom anymore, and instead of Rolfe and Cecily, with him was Dad—and they were in the garage of their old house back in Coles Junction. Dad was fixing the engine of a neighbor’s Buick; his hands were black and grimy, and across his cheek there was a slash of oil, where he must have wiped his face. Devon was eight, maybe nine—about Alexander’s age, leaning up against the car, peering into the engine to watch his father work.

“Dad,” he said, “how come you’re fixing Mrs. Williams’s car?”

“She asked me to, Devon.”

“But how come you’re doing it here, not down at the shop?”

“Because I’m just doing it as a favor for her.”

“She’s not paying you?”

His father smiled. “No, I haven’t asked for any payment.”

“You’re just doin’ it to be nice?”

His father was tightening a nut and bolt. “Not so much being nice, Devon. Just doing what I feel I should.”

“But we hardly know her,” Devon said.

His father straightened up to look him in the eye. “Let me tell you something, Devon. In this world, we’re given gifts. One of mine happens to be fixing cars. Well, I believe if we’re given gifts, they don’t come free. We’re given them not to just hide them to ourselves. With any great gift comes responsibility.”

Dad reached over a blackened hand to place it on Devon’s shoulder. “You have your own gifts, Devon. Remember, always remember, the responsibility that comes with them.”

“Devon?”

He blinked, and it was Rolfe standing in front of him again.

“Rolfe,” Devon said, “I might not know much about my heritage, but I do know one thing.” He paused, looking up into the older man’s green eyes. “The Nightwing believe that with great power comes great responsibility.”

“But, Devon—”

“I can’t just look away from what I’m called to do.” As much as it terrified him. “Maybe,” he said, “maybe that’s my destiny—what I’ve been hoping to find—the reason why my father sent me here.”

Rolfe said nothing. There was nothing more he could say.

Cecily just began to cry harder and came around to embrace Devon around his neck. He just held her, saying nothing, thinking nothing—just feeling her warmth and smelling the sweetness of her hair.

“It can’t be happening,” Mrs. Crandall was saying. “Not again.”

“It is, Amanda,” Rolfe told her coldly. “I suggest you go sit with your mother for the duration.”

She bristled. “This is my house, Mr. Montaigne. I’ll not take orders from you.”

They were in the parlor. Rolfe had informed her of Alexander’s abduction and Devon’s decision. She had yet to look over at Devon, who had gone to sit with his friends by the window overlooking the cliffs. Mrs. Crandall, while disturbed that they were witnessing this, nonetheless had not yet permitted them to leave the house, apparently fearful of what they might say to others.

“This can’t be real,” Natalie whispered. “All of this can’t be happening.”

“It is,” Cecily assured her.

“How were able to fight like we did?” D.J. asked.

“A Nightwing can share power with comrades in times of a crisis.” Devon looked at the faces of his friends. “So long as they believe. And all of you did.”

“What did Rolfe mean that you were going through a door?” Marcus wanted to know.

“Dude,” D.J. said, a chilling realization hitting him. “You don’t mean that door you told me about—the one that the demons want opened?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” Devon said, without any emotion.

As the minutes ticked by, he felt more and more light-headed—as if gravity no longer existed, as if he might have just floated away. He realized he was trembling. Cecily reached over and took his cold hands into hers.

“This is just too bizarre,” Natalie said, shivering in her harem girl’s costume. “I want to go home.”

“And you will,” said Mrs. Crandall, approaching them, a forced, artificial smile on her face. “Enough of these Halloween games. My, didn’t Devon and Mr. Montaigne put on quite the show? I think they should win Academy Awards for their performances, don’t you?”

The teens just looked up at her as if she was certifiably loony. Which a few of them had thought for some time now.

“Such high-tech gimmicks, too,” she was saying. “I hope you all weren’t too frightened. Now run along home. Cecily, Devon, it’s getting late. You should start getting ready for bed.”

Cecily stood and smirked at her mother, hands on her hips. “And will we have some milk and cookies before beddy-bye, Mommy?”

Mrs. Crandall glowered at her.

“You guys probably should go,” Devon said to his friends.

“I don’t think so,” Marcus told him. “I’m not leaving you alone for all this.”

“No way we’re leaving the D-man,” said D.J., echoed by Natalie.

Devon smiled. “You’re good friends. I never had really close friends before. I feel as if I’ve known you all for a long, long time. And I appreciate you supporting me. But you have no idea what’s going to go down.” He laughed. “Actually, neither do I.”

“Dude,” D.J. told him, “we’re stationary til you get back. Deal with it.”

Mrs. Crandall loomed over them. “I’m telling you, all of you will have to go home now.”

“Amanda,” Rolfe called over to her. “Your mother is no doubt already getting agitated.”

She looked back over at him significantly.

“And you may want to be with her,” he added.

She seemed to consider something, then turned to Cecily. “You and your friends are not to leave the parlor. Do you understand?”

“They won’t leave this room, Mrs. Crandall,” Devon assured her. “You have my word.”

She looked at him fully for the first time. There was emotion in her face—feelings that had been tightly coiled for decades. They barely broke the surface, but in her eyes Devon could see the pain, the fear, the concern. Mrs. Crandall reached over and cupped Devon’s cheek in her hand. She said nothing, but her eyes held his. Then she turned and swept out of the room.

“So she knows,” Devon asked, as he approached Rolfe. “She knew all along about my powers.”

“I don’t know how long she knew about them,” Rolfe said. “But she asked no questions when I told her that you were the only one who could try to save Alexander.”

“And she wasn’t surprised? She didn’t seem at all surprised that I was Nightwing?”

“Not in the least.”

“Then she has to know who my parents are!”

Yet that mystery faded into the horrifying immediacy of the present. Rolfe held a book open in his palm, and he was reading intently. Devon wasn’t sure what it was, but he recognized it as one of the volumes Rolfe had said belonged to his father.

“Devon,” whispered Cecily’s voice behind him.

He turned to face her. Her mascara was dripping down her face. She stood there in her ancient hoop skirts, like some forlorn belle of the civil war. She couldn’t seem to find the words to fit her feelings. Neither could Devon. He just embraced her. Crinoline crinkled between them.

“Oh, Devon,” Cecily finally said. “Please be careful. Please come back to me.”

“I will,” he said, and they kissed briefly. She was crying too hard to remain in his embrace. Natalie was behind her, gently taking her away.

Devon looked back at his friends. Would he ever see them again?

He remembered the pentagram he saw on Marcus’s face. Would he ever know what it meant? Would he ever know the answers to so many mysteries?

Or was this it? Was this is his destiny—to come to Ravenscliff and to be lost in the Hell Hole forever?

“Devon,” Rolfe said. “Are you ready?”

He nodded. “Let’s go.”

D.J. gave him a high five. “Go whoop some demon butt.”

Devon smiled.

Rolfe had the key to the East Wing door. Apparently Mrs. Crandall had given it to him. He unlocked the door, which creaked open in his grip. They walked past the steps leading up to the tower, Devon wondering for a moment about yet another mystery that was hidden there and whether he’d ever learn the truth.

Silently, he and Rolfe passed down the corridor, finding the dusty old back stairs. Brushing aside cobwebs, they climbed to the top and emerged into the upper corridor of the East Wing, where Devon had explored with Alexander. He looked once more at the dead gas fixtures on the walls, the faded swans of the wallpaper. Ahead, the moonlight barely revealed the stained glass of God casting Lucifer into hell. Devon allowed himself a moment to muse on the irony, then cast the thought away.

“Devon,” Rolfe said huskily, as his flashlight cut a hole through the darkness, “I wouldn’t blame you if you backed out. There’s still time.”

“I wouldn’t be much of a Nightwing then, or you much of a Guardian,” Devon replied.

Rolfe looked down at him. In the glow of the flashlight, Devon could see Rolfe’s powerful green eyes. “We’re both new at these roles, Devon. My father wasn’t able to teach me very much. I’m afraid it’s true that I’m not much of a Guardian. I wish I knew more, that I could you give you advice on what to do or what you might find.”

Devon shrugged. “You’re all I’ve got.”

“And you’re all Alexander has,” Rolfe said seriously.

They’d entered the old upstairs parlor now. They moved stealthily through to the inner chamber. Standing before the door to the windowless room, Devon discovered the heat here was almost unbearable, burning his face like a sunlamp. Devon could see Rolfe recoil from it too.

“Rolfe,” Devon said, suddenly thinking of something. “What made you come to Ravenscliff tonight? What made you show up when you did?”

Rolfe turned his eyes to him. “I had a visitor,” he said plainly.

“Who?” Devon asked.

“Never mind that now.” He opened the door. Heat rushed out at them as if from an oven. They both cringed but pushed on.

Inside, the flashlight’s beam revealed the room as Devon remembered it: pitch-black and coated in a thick layer of dust. The beam fell upon the books, the rolltop desk, the portrait that looked so much like Devon.

“You see?” he whispered. “It could be me.”

Rolfe studied it, moving the flashlight to illuminate first the face, then the neck, then the hands, and then the face again. “Yes,” he agreed. “It certainly could be.”

“Rolfe,” Devon said, “if I don’t make it out of there, promise me you’ll still try to find out who I was. Where I came from. Somehow, I feel if you find out, I’ll know too.”

Rolfe gazed down sadly at the boy. “I promise, Devon.”

“And tell Cecily …” He choked up. “Tell her that I … that I …”

Rolfe smiled. “I think she already knows, Devon.” He paused. “But I’ll tell her anyway.”

The flashlight beam fell on the bolted door.

There wasn’t much time, but Rolfe slid several old volumes out of the bookcase. He blew off the accumulated dust and held the flashlight over them. He commenced reading:

“And in the beginning there were only the Creatures of Light and Darkness. Their masters were the elemental gods—of Fire, of Wind, of Sea, of Earth—omnipotent rulers of nature, neither good nor evil. It was left to their shifting, roiling, restless creatures to forge the battle lines between what we know today as heaven and hell.”

Devon listened, but it was difficult to concentrate. Was he learning finally about who and what he was—only to march into his doom?

Rolfe had turned several pages and was scanning them with the flashlight. “While the Creatures are immortal, the world around them teemed with mortal life, blooming and fading with the seasons. Such life became the pawns in the struggle between the Creatures. The Demons claimed the plants of poison and thorn, the beasts who ate flesh, and the snakes of the grass; the Angels held sway over the herbivores and the flowers, the birds of the air and the trees of life-giving fruit.”

“Rolfe,” Devon said. “All that, I’m sure, will make for fascinating reading some rainy day when I’ve got a fire going and a cup of Nesquik in my hands. But right now I need some practical how-tos, cuz I’m pretty clueless about jumping into Hell Holes and rescuing little boys.”

Rolfe sighed. He put down the book and looked into the bookcase with his flashlight. “Here,” he said, pulling out another book. “All right, listen to this. ‘A Sorcerer derives his power from the Creatures of the other realms, but the source of their power remains with the neutral gods of the elemental universe. Anything that upsets the balance of the world upsets the distribution of power between good and evil: that is, the selfish claiming of power or the usage of sorcery for one’s own gain. Such action tips the scales away from the universal equilibrium.’”

Devon was getting impatient. “Translation, please, Rolfe.”

“Good is more powerful than evil,” Rolfe told him plainly. “A creature like Jackson Muir disrupts the balance of power that keeps everything ticking.”

Devon remembered his father’s words. All power comes from good, he’d said. All truth. Trust in the truth, Devon, and you will always win.

“The truth,” Devon said dreamily.

“The truth, my friend,” Rolfe echoed, “is that you will return, and you’ll return with Alexander.”

Devon swallowed. Terror had him by the throat now; he could barely breathe. He knew that fear was his downfall, but how could he deny it? Words were impossible. He stared at the steel door in front of him. He could hear them now, scuttering and scampering behind it.

Let us out. Open the door. Let us out.

“But, Rolfe, if I open the door to get in, the demons will get out,” Devon said.

“No. The book explains that the Nightwing can enter a portal without allowing anything to escape. It opens only for you, not for them.”

Devon just stood there. He wasn’t sure what to do next. Did he attempt to slide back the bolt? He knew he couldn’t do it with his hands …

“There’s one more thing, Devon,” Rolfe was saying. “Something I remember both my father and yours saying, and saying often. The Nightwing must believe utterly in his power. You must believe, Devon, if you are to succeed. Remember your confidence against the demons. Remember what you did down in the parlor tonight.”

“But that was on my turf,” he croaked, his mouth as dry as the desert. “Now I’m on their side of the fence.”

Rolfe bore down at him. “You must believe, Devon.”

Did he? Devon thought of the way he ordered the demon to release Natalie. The way he’d been able to send each and every one of the things that had attacked him back to their Hell Holes. The way he’d even been able to empower his friends.

But he’d been powerless against Jackson Muir before.

Remember, Devon, you are stronger than any of them.

Any of them.

ANY OF THEM!

He stood tall in his sorcerer’s boots. In his pants pocket he grasped the medal of the owl and the lady, which he’d been sure to bring along.

He turned to Rolfe. “I believe,” he said firmly.

“Then concentrate on the door.” Rolfe pulled back a little. “That’s as far as I can counsel you, my friend. I wish you Godspeed.”

Devon trained his sight on the door. So heavy. Its large bolt seemed so secure. He imagined it had been sealed magically by the benevolent power of Horatio Muir, and then again by his son Randolph. He visualized the demons that lurked behind the door. He could see Alexander among them. And suddenly he remembered the boy’s words.

You’re not going to go away or anything on me—are you?

“I’m coming for you, Alexander!” Devon shouted. “Do you hear me? I’m coming to get you and bring you home!”

The bolt on the door trembled.

This is it, then, Devon thought. What I came to find.

He knew now that his entire life had been pointing toward this moment. Every encounter with the demons in his room, every lesson taught by his father, every flex of his power had been in preparation for this. All those nights lying awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why he was the way he was—here, now, was the answer. This was why. This was the destiny his father had sent him to Ravenscliff to find. Here, behind a locked door in a secret room in a forgotten part of a mysterious old house. After all these years, here was Devon’s answer.

He felt subsumed by his power then, as if his heart had suddenly ceased pumping blood and instead replaced it with raw energy—a passion, a magic, that flowed vigorously through every one of Devon’s veins and arteries. He stood up tall, took in a long, deep breath—and the bolt on the door slid easily and smoothly from its place.

The metal door creaked open to reveal the blackness within.

The heat.

For several seconds that was all Devon was aware of—the staggering heat, like none he’d ever felt before. An old memory resurfaced: as a little boy, opening his closet and tossing in his teddy bear, only to see it disappear into nothingness. Try as he might, Devon couldn’t find Teddy among his shoes and sneakers. Not until several days later did Teddy turn up, far back in the corner of the closet, as if spit up by the demons of the nether regions. Teddy was burnt to a crisp, his fur nearly gone, one scorched button eye staring up at Devon.

“The heat will not burn me,” Devon said now, but his voice sounded odd, displaced.

He tried to look around but saw nothing. The room was gone; Rolfe was gone. There was only darkness, horrible and complete.

He was walking, but there was nothing beneath his feet, nothing solid. For a second Devon recognized panic, brewing somewhere down deep inside him, but he was able to suppress a mutiny over his thoughts. He kept moving forward into the heat.

Now he could hear them. And smell them, too—rancid and rotting. “Take me with you,” something whispered in his ear. “Such power you’ll have then. I can give you so much!”

“No, not him! Me!” came another voice. Devon could feel its slimy body pressing against him, so cold despite the heat. “Take me with you, master!”

He brushed both of them aside. There was a light up ahead. He seemed to make out a door: a door he recognized. He reached it and placed his hand on the knob.

“Devon,” came a voice from the other side.

He opened the door. He was back in his old house in Coles Junction, the house where he grew up. The door led into Dad’s room. He was in bed. Everything was as it was: the bedside table with the pills and the empty bottles of ginger ale; the radio playing classical music softly in the background; Dad propped up with pillows, shirtless and gray.

“Dad,” Devon said in a small voice.

“Devon,” his father rasped. “Devon, come to me.”

He obeyed. He nearly fell at his father’s bedside, grabbing the old man’s hands in his own and staring up into his eyes.

“Why are you here, Dad? Why are you in the Hell Hole?”

“Oh, Devon,” his father said. “How disappointed I am in you.”

The words stabbed him as surely as a knife in his gut. “Why, Dad? Why? I’ve tried so hard …”

“But you’ve failed, Devon. You failed me. The boy … the little boy … the Madman has taken him. You should have prevented it.”

Devon looked pleadingly at his father. “I’m trying to, Dad! I’m trying to save Alexander.”

“Bah!” His father withdrew his hand. “You are a failure, Devon. Your powers are nothing.”

Devon began to tremble. This was his worst fear, always lurking down deep in his thoughts. I won’t live up to what Dad hoped. I won’t discover what he sent me here to find.

“Dad, please. I’m trying …”

His father scowled. “How you’ve disappointed me, Devon. I had hoped for so much more from you. But you are not nearly as strong as Jackson Muir.”

Devon felt the tears well in his eyes. What point was there in going on now? If even Dad felt he wasn’t strong enough …

He suddenly looked up at his father. “Dad, you always said I was stronger than any of them …”

“You’re not, Devon! He’s stronger than you!”

His voice. Something about Dad’s voice.

Devon stood up. “You’re not my father!” he charged.

The eyes of the sick old man in the bed began to glow.

“You’re not my father!” Devon shouted. “My father always believed in me! He still does! He still does!”

The creature in the bed began to transform. He threw his head back, laughing, revealing his fangs. Devon watched as the room around him dissolved. The floor beneath him disappeared, and he found himself falling, his cape billowing up around him. He dropped through a burning nothingness, the velocity of his fall increasing. If he hit anything solid, he’d die—splattered to bits on the surface of this Hell Hole.

But there was no surface here—it was all an illusion, he told himself. Even this fall …

“You need to believe in yourself,” he heard Rolfe say.

I am not falling, Devon said. I am stable, strong. In control.

Immediately the sensation of falling was gone. Devon stood on what seemed to be solid ground. But it was still dark, utterly black. He felt the medal in his pocket through his pants.

Give me light, Devon commanded.

All at once he could see. There were giant arc lamps hanging above him. Devon glanced around. He appeared to be on a soundstage of sorts; there were cameras and monitors and electrical wires. A frayed red velvet curtain separated the backstage area, where he appeared to be, from someplace else.

A place he suspected he’d seen before.

He heard the music then, indistinct at first, but gradually becoming more familiar.

The theme from The Major Musick Show.

“Welcome, boys and girls,” came the raspy voice of the unseen clown as Devon stepped through the curtain onto a wooden floor. He looked around. An unmanned television camera rolled threateningly towards him, as if to record a close-up. Above, the arc lamps hummed as they pulsated near blinding light onto the set.

Devon’s eyes scanned the room. He saw the bleachers, with their rows of blank-eyed children. Devon tried to make out Alexander, but he was suddenly distracted by a hand on his shoulder. A hand cracking with cakey white makeup.

He turned to stare face to face with Major Musick.

“Today’s guest star is Devon March,” the creature croaked. “Won’t you all join me in welcoming him?”

The boys in the bleachers began to clap their hands emotionlessly, like windup toys. Devon looked up into the two television monitors overhead. In one, he could see himself standing with the clown on the set. In the second, he saw Rolfe, Cecily, D.J., Marcus, and Natalie, all huddled together, looking in.

They’re watching me, Devon realized. On one of the TV sets Mrs. Crandall had hidden from Alexander.

The clown’s repulsive breath was in Devon’s face.

“The word for today, boys and girls, is Devon’s death!” He cackled wildly. “Oh! That’s two words, isn’t it! Silly old clown am I!”

Devon glared at him. “Two words you’re not going to ever say again!”

He lunged, grabbing the filthy clown around his waist and toppling him into the camera. It crashed with shuddering force beneath them. But as soon as they hit the floor there was nothing in Devon’s arms but the clown’s tattered white robe. Devon spun around and looked up.

Looming over him was Jackson Muir.

“Such a rash young fellow,” the Madman spoke.

Devon could not move. It was the first time Jackson had spoken in his own voice. It was a deep, commanding sound, with arrogance dripping like warm syrup from his lips. Jackson towered over Devon’s fallen form, an enormously tall man with blazing black eyes and raven hair. He was dressed all in black, a red carnation in his lapel.

“Look at you,” Jackson Muir boomed. “Wearing my old clothes. The clothes of the Nightwing. Did you think they would make you more powerful? That somehow they’d frighten me—the most powerful Nightwing of all time?”

The Madman leaned back and laughed. His laughter echoed throughout the hellish soundstage, rising to the rafters. While Jackson’s chin was raised in his own mirth, Devon took the opportunity to look around. The rope to the frayed red curtain was coiled near his hand. With one nod of his head, Devon pulled the rope, and the heavy velvet curtain came crashing down onto Jackson Muir.

It surprised him for just an instant, but an instant was all Devon needed to slip out from under him.

“What a naughty boy you are!” Jackson said, grinning widely, as if he was actually enjoying their encounter.

Maybe he is, Devon thought. It’s been a long time since he’s tangled with anyone who could give him a real run for his money.

“I’ve come for Alexander,” Devon told him. “I’m taking him back with me.”

He could feel the power flowing from his hands. He could almost see it hurl through the air, like a torrent of knives, like the blast of a ray gun, aimed at Jackson Muir.

But with one casual flick of his wrist, Jackson diverted Devon’s power, sending it cannonballing into a far wall. There it burned a hole into the blackness outside.

“Really, my boy, your Guardian has not taught you very well,” Jackson said, approaching him now. “If it were up to me, I’d hand him his walking papers.”

“He taught me enough to know that I was stronger than you,” Devon spit.

“Stronger than me?” Jackson Muir laughed again. “I thought we’d already moved on from that foolish notion.”

He raised himself to an enormous height. Eight feet now, then nine, and getting taller. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he bellowed. “What I have done?”

“I know you killed your own family,” Devon told him. “Starting with your wife!”

The demon’s face twisted into rage. “How dare you mention my wife?”

“This is the anniversary of Emily’s death,” Devon shouted up at him.

“I forbid you to say any more!”

“You can’t forbid me to do anything! I know you grieved for Emily! I know somewhere down deep you still have a soul! You loved her, Jackson! But you killed her!”

The demon shrieked in rage.

“Tell me who Clarissa was, Jackson! Why would Emily cry over her grave?”

“You know nothing,” Jackson raged down at him.

“I know you might as well have pushed Emily off Devil’s Rock yourself! You drove her there! You killed her!”

Jackson Muir roared. Suddenly everything changed: the mirage of the television soundstage was gone, and they were in the center of the Hell Hole. But the darkness had been replaced by a fierce, harsh, cruel, yellow light. Devon could see all of the creatures around him clearly now: filthy, slimy, slithering things, moving like worms over and under and around each other. Their bloodshot eyes blinked against the light. Their skin was pallid from eons spent in the darkness. They were like creatures under a rock suddenly exposed to the sun: terrifying and terrified.

But the demons’ terror turned to fury as they recognized Devon. Their eyes burned; their yellowed talons clawed the air. One reptilian thing nearby hissed, its forked tongue slapping Devon across his face, its breath reeking like old rotting fish.

“They will devour you as they devoured my fool brother,” intoned the voice of the unseen Jackson Muir. “They will consume you into the very bowels of hell.”

The things were pressing against Devon from all sides. With all his might he tried to push them away, but it was useless. Tentacles wrapped around his neck from behind. A talon ripped his shirt and clawed his chest. He could feel sharp teeth puncturing the skin of his thigh.

This is it, Devon thought, just before he lost consciousness. I really have failed. They are eating me alive.

The Demon Lives

You are stronger than any of them.

“Dad?”

The Nightwing must believe utterly in his power.

“But I’ve tried … and failed.” As Devon spoke, the tentacles wrapped around his face, leaving him in blackness. “I tried to stand up to Jackson, but he was stronger.”

He could feel warm blood on his legs where a demon was eating away his flesh. He felt teeth strike bone.

Believe, Devon. Believe …

But now he could no longer see or speak. There was nothing left but blackness.

“Devon,” came a voice, very small.

The tentacles began to squeeze his head. My skull will crack; my brains will ooze out …

“Devon, help me!”

Alexander. It was Alexander.

“You must believe, Devon.”

Dad! I’ve got to help Alexander!

“Then you must believe you can,” his father’s voice spoke, as clear as if he were there in the slithering, slimy mass with him.

And maybe he was.

The very thought sparked the last flickering hope deep within Devon’s soul. He moved his hand down his leg, pushing past the scaly, squirming monsters that had gripped his body. Through his pants he felt the outline of the medal of the owl and the lady. Dad’s medal. His charm.

Devon opened his mouth, tasting the salty puss of the thing that had wrapped itself around his face, and shouted.

“Get off of me, you filthy hellspawn!”

The tentacles disappeared. Devon could see again. He looked down. A stupid-looking creature, hairy with fangs, was gnawing away just above his knee.

“Hey, you!” Devon hollered. “No more free lunch!”

And he kicked, sending the thing sprawling into the tangle of beastly bodies around them.

“All of you—out of my face!” Devon commanded.

And instantly, they were gone.

He was alone.

The pain found him then: everywhere, but especially his leg where the thing had been munching away.

I can’t give in to it, Devon told himself. I have to find Alexander and get out of here.

Simply by articulating his goal he found himself back on the soundstage. Major Musick was nowhere to be seen. But the children remained motionless in the bleachers.

“Alexander!” Devon called.

He could see the boy now, at the end of the row, beside Frankie Underwood. Devon began to run toward him, his leg burning with pain.

“Alexander!” he called again.

But the boy remained impassive, staring straight ahead. Devon stood at the edge of the bleachers. His face was about even with Alexander’s.

“Alexander, it’s me. Devon. Come on, buddy. We’re blowing this joint.”

Still no response from Alexander.

“Come on, kid!” Devon shouted. “We haven’t got much time!”

He encircled the boy’s waist, attempting to pull him off the bleachers. But suddenly there was a hand stopping him, reaching around from the other side to keep Alexander where he was.

It was Frankie Underwood.

“Hey!” Devon barked. “I’m trying to save him!”

Frankie Underwood’s eyes belied the immortal youthfulness of his body. They were old eyes, ancient—weary from decades of staring into space.

“Look, Frankie,” Devon said. “I know who you are. In fact, you’re kind of my brother. Your father was Thaddeus Underwood, and he was my father, too. Come with us, Frankie. I can save you, too.”

Something flickered in Frankie’s eyes for a second. Something shone: a tear, maybe? But he only tightened his grip on Alexander’s waist.

“All right, Frankie. I’m sorry to do this to you, but I have no choice.”

Devon concentrated. All at once Frankie’s arm released Alexander as he tumbled backward into the girl on the other side of him. They made no sound; the whole row of kids went down like dominoes. Devon grabbed ahold of Alexander and lifted him off the bleachers.

“Going so soon?” boomed a voice.

A great torrent blew across the stage, sending both Devon and Alexander facedown onto the floor.

“I wouldn’t hear of it. Why, my little party has just begun!”

Jackson Muir, towering now twenty feet tall, lumbered into view. His every footstep quaked the ground.

“I could crush you like roaches under my foot,” he roared.

Alexander pulled himself out of Devon’s grasp and ran toward the demon giant, his arms outstretched.

“You see?” Jackson laughed. “The boy wants me.”

“You want to claim him so you’ll finally be master of Ravenscliff,” Devon said.

“My rightful heritage,” Jackson replied, and without Devon even noticing the change, the Madman became human-sized again, wrapping Alexander in his arms.

“Come with us, Devon,” Jackson said, his voice eerily warm and almost kind now, as he held out his hand. “It can be your heritage, too.”

His eyes dazzled. Devon looked away.

I mustn’t look at him, he told himself. If I don’t look, I will remain stronger … than any of them …

“Look at me, Devon.” Jackson said softly.

“No!”

“Don’t you want it, Devon? It’s your birthright. The power, Devon. Can’t you feel it? Come. Join us—”

“Alexander!” Devon called, still averting the Madman’s eyes. “Listen to me. It’s up to you. Make the choice. It’s him or me.”

Jackson Muir laughed. “He’s already made the choice. Now you choose, Devon. Life or death. Power or nothingness. I told you before, Devon. We are the same, you and I.”

“Alexander!” Devon shouted, ignoring the Madman. “I am not like him! I am your friend! He is not! You know that!”

Still not looking at Jackson, Devon managed to catch a glimpse of the boy. His passive expression had changed. Devon could see the conflict there.

“I came here to save you, Alexander. I came into the Hell Hole to find you. To bring you back. He just wants to use you. To keep you here for his own power.”

The child looked at him. “You forgot me,” he said in a tiny voice. “You forgot a promise to me. You said you wouldn’t go away but you did.”

“And I am sorry, Alexander,” Devon said. “You will never know how sorry I am. All I can say is—if you come with me now, I will never forget a promise to you ever again.”

Jackson Muir was chuckling to himself. “Here, Devon. Look. You see?” He opened his arms and allowed Alexander to stand free. “He is free to go, but he stays. It is his decision to stay with me. Now why don’t you join me, too?”

Devon kept his eyes trained on Alexander. The boy looked over at him, then back up at Jackson.

“Alexander, it’s up to you,” Devon said softly.

The boy looked between the two again.

Then he trembled a little.

And bolted toward Devon, who was nearly knocked over in the impact.

“You’ve done it, Alexander!” Devon exulted. “We’ve won!”

“No!” roared Jackson, who grew to gargantuan size again. He smashed through the roof of the soundstage, and in the resulting chaos, all light ceased. There was an explosion, and debris bombarded Devon as he tried to shield Alexander in his arms. There was the sensation of flying through the air, then a sudden collision with something solid.

Then there was nothing.

Nothing at all.

“Devon?”

It was Rolfe’s voice.

“Where—am I?”

He sat up. He was back in the secret room. Alexander was slumped beside him.

“You did it, Devon!” Rolfe exclaimed. “You brought him back!”

Cecily was there, too. “Oh my God! Your leg!” she cried.

Devon, still breathing heavily, looked down at himself. Above his right knee where the thing had been chewing, there was a large wound. His black pants were soaked with blood. A puddle was collecting on the floor beneath him.

Cecily immediately tore off her blouse and wrapped it around Devon’s leg, using it to cauterize the wound. All she was wearing underneath was a brassiere. Black.

“Sexy,” Devon managed to say, smiling.

“Rolfe, push his eyes back into his head, will you?” she asked.

Rolfe lifted Alexander. The boy was groggy, but he was waking up. “Hey, kiddo. You okay?”

Devon turned to look at the metal door. The bolt was secure again.

And one thing more, he noticed:

The heat was gone.

Cecily helped him to bed, and Doc Lamb, the longtime Muir family practitioner, was called. Devon said he was attacked by an animal in the woods—a “vicious dog,” he thought. He clenched his teeth as the wounds on his chest and leg were cleaned and bandaged. The doctor finished up by giving him a tetanus shot. Devon smiled to himself, wondering if antibiotics can protect against viruses spread by demons from Hell Holes.

Doc Lamb checked out Alexander, too, and proclaimed him fine. The boy seemed to remember nothing after settling down in the playroom to watch the television.

One by one the crew came up to visit Devon at his bedside. D.J., then Natalie, then Marcus, and finally the whole gang lined the side of his bed. “We’ve called a meeting for after school tomorrow,” Marcus told him. “You and Cecily need to fill us in. On everything, man.”

“We took a pledge,” D.J. added. “Not to reveal anything about tonight. But we need to know some answers.”

Devon smiled. “I know about looking for answers, guys. All right. You’ll get them.”

They left so that Devon could rest. Cecily remained, however, stroking his hair. Rolfe came back into the room.

“You proved yourself tonight,” he told him.

Devon smiled. “I guess I did.” He looked up at Cecily, then back at Rolfe. “But there’s still so much I don’t know, Rolfe. Those guys say they want answers. Well, I’m not sure how much I can tell them cuz I still don’t know why I am the way I am.”

Rolfe shrugged. “I guess that will just have to wait until we can find out more information on your parents. But I can help you with some things right away, Devon. There are books we can read together. And there are other people out there we can find.”

“Other people?”

Rolfe nodded. “Guardians. Maybe we can track down some who can give us more of what we need to know.”

Devon realized the one person who hadn’t come to see him was Mrs. Crandall. “Your mother, Cecily,” he said. “I still think she knows more than she’s letting on.”

She nodded. “Maybe all this will force her into telling her secrets.”

Rolfe laughed. “Don’t count on it. Your mother has spent her life safeguarding secrets.” He looked at Devon. “She was relieved to know you and Alexander were all right. She’s with Alexander now. I expect she’ll come in to see you next.”

Devon could feel sleep overtaking him. He was exhausted beyond words.

“Rolfe,” he managed to ask, “do you think Jackson Muir is gone for good?”

“Hard to say. Once before, we thought he was. But you’ve shown you’re stronger than he is. You brought back the boy, which even Randolph Muir was unable to do.”

Devon lifted his heavy lids. “I saw him. Frankie Underwood, I mean.”

A sad expression clouded Rolfe’s face.

“I tried to save him,” Devon said. “But he wouldn’t come.”

“Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe it’s been too long for him.”

They were all quiet a moment, thinking of the freckle-faced boy who had once played happily in this house, now forever lost.

“Rolfe,” Devon said, his voice hoarse. “I’ve been wanting to ask you. I put the question to Jackson, and he became enraged. Who was Clarissa?”

Rolfe’s reaction surprised him. If the mention of Frankie had made Rolfe sad, this name seemed to unsettle him even more. His face tightened. “Why do you ask about her, Devon?”

“Because the ghost of Emily Muir led me to her grave. Who was she, Rolfe?”

The older man’s eyes glistened. “She was the girl in my car, Devon. The girl whose body was washed out to sea.”

Devon suddenly felt terrible for raising such a memory. “I’m sorry, Rolfe,” he said.

Rolfe tousled his hair. “It’s okay. You couldn’t have known.”

“But what connection does she have? Why would Emily—?”

“No connection that I know of, my friend.” Rolfe took a deep breath. “Clarissa Jones was just a girl who worked at Ravenscliff, the daughter of a servant. A spirited, happy girl.” His voice cracked. “One whose death I carry around with me, every day of my life. Even if I don’t believe I was driving that night, it was still my car. I was still unable to save her.”

They were quiet. Devon tried to imagine how Clarissa might fit into all of this, but he couldn’t. He was too sleepy to figure out much right now anyway.

“We’ll talk more in the morning,” Rolfe assured him. “You need to rest now.”

“Wait, Rolfe,” Devon said, once again fighting back sleep. “Please. One more thing. You said you had a visitor earlier tonight. Someone who told you what was going down here at Ravenscliff.”

Rolfe brightened, smiling again. “Yes, Devon, I did have a visitor.” He placed his hand on Devon’s shoulder. “It was Thaddeus Underwood. Your father.”

“My—father!”

Rolfe nodded. “You weren’t alone in there, Devon. A good Guardian is never far from your side.”

Devon had known this. He had felt his father with him, heard his voice.

“Did you see him, Rolfe? Actually see him?”

“At first I wasn’t certain, but then I found something that made me positive it was Thaddeus.” He reached into his pocket and handed Devon something. “It was his ring. The one I told you about. The ring with the crystal.”

Devon held it. A plain golden band, worn smooth where Dad wore it for hundreds of years. On one side there was a small white crystal embedded into the gold. Devon knew the ring contained answers for him, more information about his heritage as a Nightwing. But he was too tired to go there now. He set the ring on his side table, beside Dad’s medal of the owl and the lady, which had made it to hell and back with him.

Are you proud, Dad? Did I make you proud?

He didn’t need even the Voice to answer him on that one. Devon knew the truth. He closed his eyes, content at last, and finally allowed sleep to take him away.

The storm began about three fifteen. And Devon quickly learned the terror was not over. Not yet.

“Foolish boy,” came the voice in the night. “You will not keep him from becoming master of this house!”

Devon sat up in bed. Lightning crashed and illuminated the room. He saw a figure dart into the shadows.

“Who’s there?” Devon asked.

No answer. Just the howling of the storm outside. Thunder shook the great house.

Devon swung his legs out of bed. His right thigh still ached, and the painkiller the doctor gave him made his head buzzy. But he managed to put his feet on the floor and stand. He pushed the button to turn the light on beside his bed. The lamp stayed dark.

Another Misery Point power outage.

“Great,” he murmured, feeling for the candle and matches. He lit the wick and held the candle in front of him. He saw nothing in his room but shadows.

He made his way out into the corridor. He was wearing just his flannel pajama top and boxers. The house felt terribly cold, the wind sneaking in between the eaves. Yet that very chill reassured him; surely, if there were demons lurking, he’d feel their heat.

He paused to look out of the window.

Yes, just as he expected: a light in the tower.

I am stronger than you, he told Jackson Muir in his mind. I will banish you once and for all from this house.

Downstairs the only light was the dancing flame from the jack o’ lantern, casting weird moving shapes against the walls. Devon wondered why the candle hadn’t been extinguished. Or maybe it had been lit again, just to unnerve him?

Thunder rattled the chandelier in the parlor, sending a tinkling sound echoing through the house. The shapes on the wall writhed and twisted. Devon found the door to the East Wing unlocked, and beyond it, the entrance to the tower wide open—seemingly left that way to beckon him to enter. It had never been so easy before.

Holding his candle high, he began his climb. At the second landing, the door to the room where he’d seen the light was locked. He tried it but saw his destination was elsewhere. He was quickly distracted by motion still higher up. The door leading to the roof.

That’s where I saw Jackson the night I arrived, Devon remembered. Standing outside on the top of the tower, looking down at me.

He resumed his ascent. At the top of the stairs, Devon’s candle was quickly snuffed out by the wind and the rain from the open door. He stepped outside onto the roof. The deep purple sky above roiled as fiercely as the sea below. Sharp lightning sliced through the air down at him, as if drawn to the magnet of this house, to the slight figure of the teenager walking along its roof.

There is someone else out here, too, he realized.

Devon could see him now, at the other side of the tower.

But it was not Jackson Muir.

Not nearly so tall …

A flash of lightning revealed the figure’s identity.

There, in the brief luminescence, was the hideously contorted face of Simon Gooch.

“Simon!” Devon shouted.

The gnomish caretaker grimaced. “You were supposed to be his way back,” he rasped. “His way back to reclaim his rightful place!”

Simon’s hands were outstretched towards Devon. The boy backed up, looking down over the parapet to some twenty feet below.

“I’ve been waiting so long for his return!” Simon shouted into the wind, his ugly face contorted in rage. “Such power he promised me! I have known many Nightwing, but none so powerful as he!” Simon had reached Devon, staring up into the boy’s eyes. “A mere teenager will not be strong enough to stop him!”

Devon stood defiant. “I’m no mere teenager, Simon, and I think you’ve known that all along. I’m the one-hundredth generation of Nightwing, and I have stopped the Madman. I have stopped him!”

Thunder roared across house. The wind buffeted them.

Simon only grinned. From his pocket he withdrew a small pistol. But it wasn’t the pistol that interested Devon so much as what else fell from his pocket.

A roll of black electrical tape.

“It was you,” Devon said. “You fixed the television set so Alexander could watch. You wanted Jackson to get him!”

“Yes,” he grunted, sticking the barrel of the gun into Devon’s stomach. “It was part of his plan to come back. The boy. You. You were both part of his plan.”

“You’re crazy,” Devon said.

Simon grinned again, revealing those eerily perfect teeth in his profoundly imperfect face. “I haven’t been a Guardian for three hundred years not to know my path to true power. Your arrival here was the sign I’d been waiting for. For thirty years I waited.” He grumbled. “You were supposed to be more cooperative.”

“Sorry to let you down,” Devon quipped.

“You were the key. What he’s been waiting for ever since they drove the ravens away. The return of the Nightwing to Ravenscliff! You had the power to bring him back—and still do!”

“Then why did you try to kill me?”

“Just wanted to overpower you—get you to see who was boss. I wanted to make you do what he wanted. But I’ll kill you now, boy, I swear I will—unless you do what must be done. Bring him back! You can still bring him back!” Simon cocked the gun, ready to pull the trigger.

“I don’t think so,” Devon said, and instantly the gun became scalding hot. Simon dropped it, screaming out.

Devon tackled the little man to the ground. But Simon was strong: stronger than was humanly possible, Devon believed. He looked down into the caretaker’s face, and he realized it wasn’t just Simon he was fighting. In the man’s beady little eyes Devon could see Jackson Muir staring back at him.

“Listen to me, Jackson Muir,” Devon demanded. “I don’t know what connection there is between you and me, but I’ll tell you one thing: I’m stronger than you!”

“No,” the beast within Simon’s body growled. “You are a foolish child!”

Devon pinned him down by his wrists. “Why am I the key to bring you back? Tell me! Tell me who I am!”

But Simon roared, sending Devon flying across the tower. Only the stone parapet on the other side kept him from falling off and smashing to the ground three stories below. The little man staggered to his feet and limped over to where Devon lay. The boy looked up at him.

“Don’t you see?” the voice of Jackson Muir echoed through the sky, as loud as the thunder. “We are the same, you and I! Join me—taste the power I offer you—and we both will live supreme!”

“No!” came a new voice. “He is not the same as you, Apostate!”

Devon looked around to find its source. This was not a voice he had ever heard. A woman’s voice. Old and broken, but nonetheless powerful.

There, in the doorway leading back down the tower steps, stood an old woman, her long gray hair wild in the wind. She wore a long black robe and her bony fingers pointed accusingly at Simon.

“You will not have this house! It is not yours!” she commanded, and Devon watched transfixed as a bolt of lightning leapt from her forefinger and crashed into Simon’s chest.

He screamed, grabbing his heart. He staggered, then fell backward—over the parapet of the tower, screaming long and wild until his horrible impact with the earth silenced him forever.

Devon stood. He looked down. Simon’s crumpled body lay sprawled on the driveway of Ravenscliff, only a few yards from the front door.

He spun around. The woman was gone. But there were footsteps coming up the stairs now: Mrs. Crandall, wide-eyed and breathless, emerged from the doorway. She looked at Devon, then over the edge of the tower. She recoiled in horror.

The rain came down heavier now.

“He tried to kill me,” Devon said plainly, shivering in his pajama top and boxers.

Mrs. Crandall just glared at him. Then—in the last move Devon would ever have expected her to make—she reached over and pulled the boy close to her chest. She held him there, tightly, for several long moments, as the rain came down fiercely around them, drenching them both from head to foot.

The next morning Devon met the woman he believed rescued him.

“Mrs. Muir,” he said.

But the old woman in the bed just looked at him with uncomprehending eyes, smacking her toothless gums. She curled her long gray hair around a finger twisted with arthritis, blinking her eyes as she looked at Devon.

“I told Mama I can’t see any beaus today,” Mrs. Muir told him coquettishly. “How naughty of you to sneak up here.”

Mrs. Crandall stood behind Devon. “Her mind comes and goes,” she told him. “That’s why I felt it better you not meet her right away.”

But this morning he’d insisted he meet her, certain that it must have been she who saved him the night before on the tower. What other old woman lived in this house?

And seeing her now—well, he was quite certain it was the same woman. It had to be. The same long gray hair, the same bony hands—but how frail this woman was. How … confused …

“Mother hasn’t been out of bed in weeks, Devon—and it’s been years since she’s left her rooms.” Mrs. Crandall smiled at Devon’s befuddlement. “There’s certainly no way she could have ever climbed those tower stairs.”

“It was her,” Devon insisted. “It had to be.”

Mrs. Crandall just smiled again.

He thought of something. “I’ve seen her there in the tower before, too.” Devon looked from Mrs. Crandall back at the old woman, who now crooned some old ditty softly to herself. “One night she called me—by name—from the tower window.”

“Those tower rooms are locked, Devon. Mother doesn’t have a key. And even if she had been able to manage the stairs, and manage to find her way into a room—she didn’t know your name. She didn’t know you were even in this house.” She looked over at her mother sadly. “Still doesn’t, I’m afraid.”

“Who are you?” the old woman asked her daughter, her rheumy eyes trying to focus. “Are you the new maid?”

“Mother, I’m Amanda. Now just close your eyes. I’ll be back soon.”

“Goodbye, my beau,” she called out to Devon, waving her gnarled, veined hand. “Next time I’ll wear my prettiest pinafore! You’ll see!”

Cecily confirmed that her grandmother did indeed slip in and out of rationality, and that it was highly unlikely she could have made it up those tower steps. She also couldn’t imagine that it was she who called to Devon that night. Cecily insisted it had to be the ghost of Emily Muir.

“I don’t know what to believe,” Devon admitted. The Voice wasn’t cooperating in telling him anything.

They were sitting in the parlor, waiting for Mrs. Crandall. She’d allowed both of them to take the day off from school, given everything that happened last night. Devon hadn’t slept after the episode with Simon on the tower. He’d waited with Mrs. Crandall as she called the police. Soon the grounds had been swarming with cops. Both Devon and Mrs. Crandall swore that they’d heard a scream and, upon investigation, found Simon dead, an apparent accidental fall. Or a suicide?

Deputy Potts had looked suspiciously at Devon’s wounded leg. “How’d you get that?” he asked.

“You can check with Doc Lamb,” Devon told him. “Wild dog. Better track it down.”

In the end, the cops were convinced that Simon’s death was an accident. Of course, they’d have to do a full inquiry. Mrs. Crandall understood fully, and promised complete cooperation. Then Devon had watched solemnly as Simon’s broken body was loaded into the ambulance and taken away.

After that, Mrs. Crandall had refused to speak more until the morning. Now, after seeming to have disproven Devon’s contention about the old woman’s identity, she told Devon and Cecily to wait for her in the parlor.

“I can’t stop thinking about that poor kid Frankie,” Devon said. “He’s my brother. And he’s still trapped in there.”

Cecily shuddered. “You tried to help him, Devon. You said he wouldn’t go with you.”

Devon looked at her fiercely. “Someday, Cecily, I promise I’m going to get him out. I’m going to save him.” He sighed. “I just need to know more about what I’m doing.”

“Look, Devon,” Cecily said. “Mother has promised to finally tell us everything. All our questions will be answered.”

He doubted that.

Mrs. Crandall arrived as composed as ever, and just as guarded. Still, Devon knew there were certain things she could no longer deny. He watched as she settled into her chair in front of the fire.

“Well, it’s over now, and we can all breathe a long sigh of relief,” Mrs. Crandall said.

“Did you have any idea that Simon was working in league with Jackson Muir?” Devon asked her.

She shook her head. “No, and I blame myself for that. I look back now over the years and see how fascinated Simon was with our family history. I should have suspected. But he had been a trusted family servant for so long, I didn’t allow myself to question him.”

“He said he was a Guardian.”

This time she nodded. “He had worked with many of the Nightwing before coming to Ravenscliff. But you see, Devon, when he came here, he professed a desire to leave that world behind. We had repudiated our past involvement in sorcery ourselves, so he seemed ideal to work for us. Unfortunately, he harbored other plans.”

Devon leaned forward. “How did you repudiate sorcery? Isn’t it in your blood?”

She closed her eyes. “Rolfe told you of the horrible events that happened here in the past. How my father was killed. After that, spells were cast that ended our sorcery, divorced us from our Nightwing past, and took the sheen of magic off Ravenscliff.”

“That’s when the ravens disappeared,” Devon said.

She nodded, opening her eyes. “After my father was killed, after the little boy Frankie was lost—those of us who were left determined our family would never again find ourselves at the mercy of Jackson Muir.”

“But Jackson returned,” Cecily said. “Mother, you always said the ghosts in this house would never harm us. But Jackson tried to kill Alexander.”

Mrs. Crandall didn’t look at her. She kept her gaze fixed on Devon. “That’s because you arrived, Devon.”

“Me?”

“Jackson sensed that you were Nightwing. He determined you would be the conduit by which he returned to power. Your arrival here stirred back to life whatever mystical forces remain here. Your very presence counteracted the spells that had repudiated our sorcery.”

She stood up and approached him.

“We are all very grateful to you for saving Alexander. It was a courageous and noble deed.” She paused. “But the fact remains, Devon, that if you had not been practicing sorcery in the first place, Jackson would never have been able to return. You are responsible for the mystical disruptions that happened in this house.”

“But he had to use his powers, Mother!” Cecily cried. “There were things—demons—coming at him! And at me!”

“Be that as it may,” Mrs. Crandall said, still looking down at Devon, “they are gone now, and all practice of sorcery must cease. Do you understand, Devon?”

“I … I’m not sure I can promise that, Mrs. Crandall.”

Her eyes flashed anger. “How can you say that? Would you risk bringing danger once again to this family?”

“Of course I wouldn’t want that,” Devon told her. He seemed to think of something. “Mrs. Crandall, have you really surrendered all your powers? I mean, with a threat as great as Jackson, did you maybe keep just a few?”

She stiffened. “I told you. Sorcery and magic were repudiated here.”

“Yeah, but I still remember what you said about redoubling your efforts to protect us from Jackson. What did you mean by that?”

She sniffed. “Simply that I would make sure no one got into the East Wing again.”

Devon wasn’t buying it. “All I know, Mrs. Crandall, is that my father brought me up to respect my abilities. He promised that some day I would understand them.”

She was rigid, unmoving. “If your father had wanted you to practice and develop your powers, why did he never tell you about the long tradition of the Nightwing? Why did he never share with you the secrets of the Guardians? Why did he never train you in the use of your powers?”

She raised herself to her full height, as she was so prone to do whenever she attempted to intimidate Devon. She glared down at him.

“Thaddeus Underwood was a great Guardian,” Mrs. Crandall said, “one of the most respected in all the world. Why then did he become just plain Ted March, raising his son to be just an ordinary boy?”

Devon stood up straight himself, raising his face to look at her directly. He figured in another few months, he’d be as tall as she was, and then he’d grow even taller. Her intimidations no longer worked on him.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Crandall,” Devon said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

She backed down, a little.

“All I know, Devon, is that for whatever reason Thaddeus adopted you, he chose to raise you without knowledge of your heritage. He did not want you to be part of the Order of the Nightwing.”

Devon couldn’t answer. Maybe she was right. Dad never did tell him much … and he could have. He could have told him so much. But he didn’t.

He looked over at her. “When he left here, Mrs. Crandall, did he give any indication why? Or of any Nightwing who might have had a child? Namely, me? Rolfe told me that my father said he’d heard that the one-hundredth generation had been born …”

“No, Devon. Thaddeus did not give any indication why he was leaving or where he was going.” The matriarch of the house walked over to the fire and warmed her hands. “In fact, I believe your father sent you here because he knew of our repudiation of sorcery. He knew we’d understand your abilities, but he also knew that we would forbid you to use them.”

“My father never forbade me to use them. In fact, he—”

“None of that matters,” Mrs. Crandall said severely, interrupting him, “because I do. I forbid you to use any magic, any sorcery, from here on in!”

Cecily just looked at Devon anxiously.

Again Devon was not sure what to say. He couldn’t openly defy Mrs. Crandall. It was her house, and she was his guardian. Lowercase.

“Mrs. Crandall,” he said, after a moment’s consideration, “I promise I won’t use my powers except to protect myself or anyone else from demons or Jackson Muir. Is that fair?”

She looked at him warily. “I suppose so. For now.” She brightened. “But I truly believe that such protection will no longer be necessary. Once more, we do not have to fear anything in this house.”

“I hope you’re right, Mrs. Crandall.”

“I am.” She gave Devon a tight smile. “And one other rule still stands, Devon. I do not want any further contact with Rolfe Montaigne.”

“But, Mrs. Crandall—he’s the only one who can tell me more about my Nightwing heritage—”

She scowled. “If you are not practicing sorcery, you don’t need to know.” She seemed exasperated. “Devon. For God’s sake. You’re a high school sophomore. Next semester you’ve said you want to join the track team. You have studies to think about. Algebra, trigonometry. And then college. A career. That’s plenty for a young man.”

“I have a right to know who I am,” he told her. “I believe my father wanted that much for me anyway.”

“Then why did he never tell you?” She crossed the room, placing her hands on the knobs of the double doors of the parlor. “You’ve learned enough. There’s no need to know anything more.” She opened the doors to leave. “And be careful of how much you share with your friends. There are already too many legends of Ravenscliff out there. Let’s not stir the pot any more than we already have.”

She swept grandly out of the room.

When he caught up with the gang at Gio’s later that day, Devon was unsure how much he should say, but he did manage to give them a bare-bones account of the episode with Simon, promising that as he learned more, he’d fill them in. They all took a vow to keep it among themselves.

“But, dude,” D.J. said, “if we’re going to be doing anymore fighting off demons, you got to promise to make us honorary Nightwing again.”

Devon promised. He was glad to hear they’d done a good job convincing the terrified seniors that the fight with the demons had been staged for their benefit. Devon knew he could trust these guys. After just a month, they’d become the best friends he’d ever had.

It was Alexander he wasn’t so sure about. He hadn’t been allowed to see him yet, and he half-expected that when he did, the child would glare up at him with the same malevolence in his round button eyes as ever.

That night, he peered into the boy’s bedroom.

“Alexander?” Devon whispered.

“Devon!” Alexander called happily.

Devon stepped inside the room. “Hey, buddy. Feelin’ better?”

“Yeah. I feel fine.” Alexander was in his bed, reading comic books. Superman. Batman. Justice League. “But Aunt Amanda said I had to stay in bed all day, just to be sure I wasn’t coming down with anything.”

Devon sat down on the edge of his bed. “You remember anything about last night?”

“No. The doctor said I fainted or something.” Alexander tried to recall what happened. “I was waiting for you to go trick-or-treating, but you never showed up.”

“And I’m real sorry for that, Alexander,” he told him.

“I know. I think I remember you telling me that at some point.”

Devon smiled. “I did. But to make up for it, how about if we go into town this weekend and play some video games at the arcade?”

“Cool,” Alexander said.

“We’ll get you out of the house more often. Away from the old boob tube.”

Alexander frowned. “I hate television,” he said.

“Me, too, buddy.” Devon tousled his hair. “I’m glad we’re friends now.”

“Me, too.” Alexander looked over at Devon. “You still promise you’re not going to go away?”

“Still promise, Alexander,” Devon told him. “You can count on that.”

Epilogue

The Ravens

“Well, the most bizarre thing of all this is the change in that little monster,” Cecily said as they stood on the terrace, looking out along the cliffs. Several days had passed since Simon’s death, and at last, they were enjoying a peaceful night over Misery Point. “Alexander actually seems human now. You really are a master sorcerer, Devon.”

He laughed. But his eyes were drawn upward toward the roof of the old house. There was motion up there, a sudden flurry of wings in the moonlight.

“Cecily,” Devon whispered, pointing. “Look.”

Ravens.

They had returned.

They settled down, one by one, dozens of them, taking up their posts once more. Enormous, proud black birds with piercing, shining eyes.

They had left when the Nightwing were gone from Ravenscliff. Devon smiled. Now they’d returned—because the Nightwing had come back as well.

“Well, since you’re such a sorcerer,” Cecily said, “maybe you’ve cast a spell on me.”

“Cecily,” Devon said. “I like you a lot. But sometimes I still worry …”

She frowned. “That I’m your sister? Oh, Devon, that’s crazy. Wouldn’t the Voice tell you if that was so?”

“I would think so,” he said. The Voice always warned him of danger, and surely that would count as danger. Still, Devon wished he could banish all those lingering little nagging doubts from his mind. It would make kissing Cecily a lot more fun.

But surely putting his arm wouldn’t be a problem. They stood that way for a while, looking up at the ravens. And then Devon spotted something else in the upper reaches of the great house.

A light in the tower.

“Cecily,” he said, pointing again. “Look.”

She saw it.

“Still that light,” Devon said, shaking his head. “What does it mean?”

Then they heard something, too, from behind them.

The sobbing.

Stepping back into the parlor, they listened as the long wailful cries echoed across the marble of the great house.

“Some things don’t change,” Cecily said, sighing.

That was for sure.

After Cecily had gone up to bed, Devon sat in the darkened parlor, lit only by the light of the fire, pondering all the things he still didn’t know. What was the light in the tower? What did the sobbing mean? Who was the old woman who had saved him from Jackson on the tower?

And while Jackson was gone, could they be sure he’d never find a way back? What did the story of Jackson’s life—and the lives of all those who had lived here in this house—have to do with the mystery of Devon’s own past? Who was Clarissa Jones? Who was the boy in the portrait who looked so much like him? Who was buried under the gravestone marked DEVON?

Simon had hinted at knowing some of those answers—and Jackson, too. But their secrets had gone back with them to their graves. Would Devon ever learn what they were?

And what of his Nightwing heritage? Forbidden access to Rolfe, how could Devon find out the history of his people? Dad’s ring might tell him some things, but he’d need help in understanding them. Would he forever be made to go behind Mrs. Crandall’s back to find out the truth?

Behind him, he heard a footstep.

Devon stood, peering into the darkness.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

There was no one. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps this was one time that a creak in the old house really was just the wind.

Devon took a step forward to head up to bed.

Just as a hand burst from the shadows and grabbed him by the throat.

CONTINUED IN BOOK TWO, DEMON WITCH

More from The Ravenscliff Series...

Demon Witch

Book Two - The Ravenscliff Series

PROLOGUE

The Burning of a Witch

A.D. 1490

It took sixteen loads of peat and fifty bundles of fresh green wood to burn a witch.

“When it’s green,” the Guardian explained to the boy, “it burns longer.”

Men with shirtsleeves rolled up their hairy arms were laying the wood around the stake. The square was thronged with people cheering them on in their task. The execution of traitors, after all, was always a great public occasion, and a burning at the stake was the most festive of all. All around the bedazzled boy, vendors in silly jester’s hats hawked roasted chestnuts and steaming fried apples. Spider monkeys turned somersaults while their owners played merry little tunes upon their lutes.

“There!” someone from the crowd called out. “There she comes!”

A shout rose up as the cart carrying the witch trundled into view over the cobblestone road. “Burn the she-devil! Burn the witch! Burn! Burn! Burn!”

The boy turned, his eyes wide.

But Isobel the Apostate looked back at all of them with only a cold, quiet disdain. Her black eyes flashed as the crowd parted to make way for her cart. Strong men fell to the ground at the sight of her, overcome by her terrible beauty. If not for her wrists being bound by that strange golden chain, the boy knew they would all be in great danger. Yet bound as she was, the witch could no longer harm them, no longer summon the demons from the Hell Hole to do her bidding, the demons which would terrorize the villages of northeastern England no more.

Her green velvet dress was torn and soiled. Her black hair was loose, tumbling down to her waist in great disarray. Once, Isobel the Apostate was a noble lady with a vast estate who claimed descent from the blood royal, who dared to quarter her arms with those of King Henry the Fourth. For such audacity alone, the judges decreed she should die.

But there were sins far worse than treason.

“Look, over there,” the boy’s Guardian pointed out to him. “Do you see that man? The one with no legs, propped in the chair? ’Twas under his home that the witch discovered the Hell Hole. Without any regard to him who lived there, she opened the portal between this world and the one below.” The Guardian paused. “You see the result. The man is fortunate. His wife and sons did not survive the cataclysm.”

“But the golden chain…?”

“It has the power to keep her from escaping, from turning all of us here into toads and rats and skunks.” The Guardian lifted his eyes to the gray, cloudy sky. “At least, I pray that it does. I pray that the noble Sorcerers of the Nightwing, God be praised, have at last found the means to contain her.”

The boy watched as the witch was led from her cart to the center of the square. The crowd surged forward. Insults and curses rained down upon the woman, whose neck now began to snap back and forth, finally reacting to the taunts of the crowd. Her teeth gnashed wildly. She growled, hissing like a cat cornered by a pack of angry dogs.

“Get up there, boy,” the Guardian told him. “You must bear witness.”

Two platforms stood to the right of the square. They were filled with men from the King’s Court. Statesmen and clerics. The Archbishops of York and Canterbury. The Duke of Norfolk. They had all come to see the destruction of Isobel the Apostate, the most feared sorceress in all of Europe, a lady whose courtiers were not knights and gentlemen but the very beasts of hell.

Shoved toward the pillory by her guards, Isobel was forced onto her knees to face her judges. A pointed hat was placed on her head, on which is inscribed the words: Heretic, Witch, Apostate. Her death sentence was proclaimed, and a cheer rose from the crowd.

“Will she be allowed to speak?” the boy asked, looking up at his Guardian.

“Oh, no. For all that the last words of the condemned have long been a tradition in this realm, Isobel the Apostate is far too dangerous a prisoner. Even secured by the golden chain, what terrible catastrophe might she bring down upon us with her final words?”

But though she might be denied speech, the witch could still scream.

It was a horrible sound, and many in the crowd covered their ears. The witch’s screams echoed like those of a banshee off the walls of the square. Forcibly she was led to the pyre, snarling and twisting all the way.

“It wasn’t supposed to end like this, you see,” the Guardian explained, leaning down and whispering to the boy. “It was supposed to end with Isobel crowned as Queen of England. From there, with the English navy at her command, it would have been an easy step for her to rule the world, the demons of the Hell Hole at her side.”

The boy watched as the witch was pushed up the steps of the platform to the stake.

“But twas her own kind who turned her over to the King. Her own Nightwing brethren looked upon her evil and trapped her. It was they, far more than any of the King’s men, who consigned her to this fate. And do you know why it was done so, boy?”

The boy’s eyes remained riveted on the witch.

“Because true power can never be found through the pursuit of evil,” the boy replied, never removing his gaze. “True power comes only from good.”

His Guardian smiled.

“Yes, boy. You have learned well. You will make a noble sorcerer. Now watch. And learn from the death of the Apostate.”

Isobel was tied to the stake with the same kind of golden chain that bound her wrists. Her black eyes continued to flash, looking at each and every face in the crowd, as if committing them all to memory.

Her gaze fell upon the boy.

He gasped, pulling back from the power he saw there.

Her eyes danced as she took in the sight of him. She laughed, a cackle the boy would not soon forget. On his shoulder the grip of his Guardian tightened. “Fear her not,” the Guardian whispered. “Her time has come.”

The executioner lit the wood piled up around the base of the stake. Once more, Isobel the Apostate screamed.

“Think not that I perish here!” the witch cried out into the crowd, defying the order against speech. “Think not that you have won!”

The boy felt his Guardian’s hand tremble.

“This is not the end of Isobel!”

The flames sprung into roaring life, caught by the peat. Like malevolent imps, they popped and crackled and jumped upward. A spark ignited the witch’s dress.

“She burns!” someone in the crowd shouted.

The fire below her grew in heat and intensity. It was so strong that even several feet away the boy and his Guardian could feel it on their faces. Thick sheets of pitchy smoke appeared, obscuring their view. Soon the whole square was as black as night, and the crowd began coughing, turning away from the pyre. The foul stench of burning flesh assaulted their senses. From the heart of the darkness the witch screamed again. It was taken by many as her cry of death.

“So must perish all of the King’s enemies!” proclaimed the executioner.

But then the wind shredded the smoke, and there was a glimpse of the witch. The boy could see her, with her arms upstretched, free of her chains, as the flames consumed her body. Her eyes were wide and she was smiling.

“Does she perish?” the boy asked his Guardian, tugging at his robe. “Does she really perish?”

The Guardian did not reply.

Later, when the flames had died down, there was nothing left of the body of Isobel the Apostate. The King’s men declared that so great was the fire that the witch was consumed completely, reduced to mere cinder and ash.

But the Nightwing knew better.

For the boy reported to them that as he watched, the witch transformed herself into a great bird, a creature of gold with a tremendous wingspan that rose majestically above the flames with a resounding call of triumph. Then the bird diffused with the smoke, disappearing into the gray skies over the square.

“Like a phoenix,” the boy’s Guardian said, a great and shattering awe in his voice, “Isobel the Apostate has risen from the flames to live again.”

DEMON WITCH is available from all major ebook retailers.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to everyone at Diversion Books for bringing the stories of Devon March and the Nightwing back to life. Thanks also to Malaga Baldi and Tara Hart. And thanks to all the readers who have waited so long for this series to continue. I want to hear from you. Write to me at GeoffreyHuntingtonAuthor@gmail.com.

—G.H.

@HuntingtonGeoff

www.Facebook.com/Geoffrey.Huntington

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