Lord Loss (6 page)

“Do they know about me?” I ask.

“Only that you're an orphan and you're coming to live with me.”

A winding road. Lots of potholes that Dervish swerves expertly to avoid. The sides of the road are lined with trees. They grow close together, blocking out all but the thinnest slivers of sunlight. Dark and cold. I press closer to Dervish, hugging warmth from him.

“The trees don't stretch back very far,” he says. “You can skirt around them when you're going to the village.”

“I'm not afraid,” I mutter.

“Of course you are,” he chuckles, then looks back quickly. “But you have my word — you've no need to be.”

Chez
Dervish. Three storeys. Three floors. Built from rough white blocks, almost as big as those I've seen in photos of the pyramids. Shaped like an L. The bit sticking out at the end is made from ordinary red bricks and doesn't look like the rest of the house. Lots of timber decorations around the top and down the sides. A slate roof with three enormous chimneys. The roof on the brick section is flat and the chimney's tiny in comparison with the others. The windows on the lower floor run from the ground to the ceiling. The windows on the upper floors are smaller, round, and feature stained-glass designs. On the brick section they're very ordinary.

“It's not much,” Dervish says wryly, “but it's home.”

“This place must have cost a fortune!” I gasp, standing close to the motorbike, staring at the house, almost afraid to venture any nearer.

“Not really,” Dervish says. “It was a wreck when I bought it. No roof or windows, the interior destroyed by exposure to the elements. The lower floor was used by a local farmer to house pigs. I lived in the brick extension for years while I restored the main building. I keep meaning to tear the extension down — I don't use it anymore, and it takes away from the the main structure — but I never seem to get around to it.”

Dervish removes his helmet, helps me out of mine, then walks me around the outside of the house. He explains about the original architect and how much work he had to do to make the house habitable again, but I don't listen very closely. I'm too busy assessing the mansion and the surrounding terrain — lots of open fields, sheep and cattle in some of them, a small forest to the west that runs all the way to Carcery Vale, no neighboring houses that I can see.

“Do you live here alone?” I ask as we return to the front of the house.

“Pretty much,” Dervish says. “One farmer owns most of this land, and he's opposed to over-development. He's old. I guess his children will sell plots off when he dies. But for the last twenty years I've had all the peace and seclusion a man could wish for.”

“Doesn't it get lonely?” I ask.

“No,” Dervish says. “I'm fairly solitary by nature. When I'm in need of company, it's only a short stroll to the village. And I travel a lot — I have many friends around the globe.”

We stop at the giant front doors, a pair of them, like the entrance to a castle. No doorbell — just two chunky gargoyle-shaped knockers, which I eye apprehensively.

Dervish doesn't open the doors. He's studying me quietly.

“Have you lost the key?” I ask.

“We don't have to enter,” he says. “I think you'll grow to love this place after a while, but it's a lot to take in at the start. If you'd prefer, you could stay in the brick extension — it's an eyesore, but cozy inside. Or we can drive to the Vale and you can spend a few nights in a B&B until you get your bearings.”

It's tempting. If the house is even half as spooky on the inside as it looks from out here, it's going to be hard to adapt to. But if I don't move in now, I'm sure the house will grow far creepier in my imagination than it can ever be in real life.

“Come on.” I grin weakly, lifting one of the gargoyle knockers and rapping loudly. “We look like a pair of idiots, standing out here. Let's go in.”

Cold inside but brightly lit. No carpets — all tiles or stone floors — but many rugs and mats. No wallpaper — some of the walls are painted, others just natural stone. Chandeliers in the main hall and dining room. Wall-set lamps in the other rooms.

Bookcases everywhere, most of them filled. Chess boards too, in every room — Dervish must be as keen on chess as Mom and Dad. Ancient weapons hang from many of the walls — swords, axes, maces.

“For when the tax collector calls,” Dervish says solemnly, lifting down one of the larger swords. He swings it over his head and laughs.

“Can I try it?” I ask. He hands it to me. “Hell!” It's
H-E-A-V-Y
. I can lift it to thigh level but no higher. A quick reappraisal of Uncle Dervish — he looks wiry as a rat, but he must have hidden muscles under all the denim.

We meander through the downstairs rooms, Dervish explaining what each was used for in the past, pointing out items of special interest, such as a stuffed bear's head that is more than two hundred years old, a cage where a live vulture was kept, rusty nails that were used by the Romans to crucify people.

There's a large, empty fish tank in one of the main living rooms, set against a wall. Dervish pauses at it and taps the frame with his fingernails. “The last owner of this place — before it fell into ruin — was a tyrant called Lord Sheftree. He kept live piranhas in this tank. One day, a woman turned up with a baby — she claimed it was his, and she wanted money to pay for its upkeep.”

Dervish crouches down and stares into the abandoned aquarium, as though it's still full of circling, multicolored fish.

“Lord Sheftree invited her to stay for the night,” he says calmly. “While she was sleeping, he crept into her room and removed her baby. Brought it down here and fed it to the piranhas. Took the bones away and buried them. The woman raised almighty hell, but search parties couldn't find a corpse, and nobody had seen her arrive with a child — so there was no proof she ever had one. She ranted and raved and was eventually locked away in a mental asylum. She hanged herself there.

“Years later, when Lord Sheftree was an old man and his mind was wandering, he boasted about the murder to one of his servants, and told her where the bones were buried. She dug them up and informed the police. They came to arrest him, but the local villagers got here first. He was discovered chopped up into tiny pieces — all of which had been dropped into the piranha tank.”

Dervish stops and I gaze at him in silent awe.

He stands and faces me. “I'm not saying this to scare you,” he smiles, “but this house has a long and bloody history. There are dozens of horror stories, none quite as gruesome as that one, but all of them pretty gut-churning. I think it's best you hear about its past now, from me.”

“Is … is the house haunted?” I wheeze.

“No,” he answers seriously. “It's safe. I wouldn't have brought you here if it wasn't. If the nightmares of the past prove too oppressive, you're free to leave. But you've nothing to fear in the present.”

I nod slowly, thinking about Lord Sheftree and his piranha, wondering if I have the courage to spend the night in a house like this.

“Are you OK?” Dervish asks. “Would you like to step outside for fresh air?”

“I'm fine,” I mutter, turning my back on the fish tank, acting like I hear this sort of stuff all the time. “What's upstairs?”

Mostly bedrooms on the first floor. All are fully fitted, the beds freshly made, though Dervish says only four or five of the rooms have been used since he renovated the mansion.

“Why bother with all the beds then?” I ask.

“If something's worth doing, it's worth doing right,” he laughs.

Some of the beds are four-posters, imported from foreign countries, with histories as old and macabre as the house. It's only when Dervish is telling me about one particular bed, in which a French aristocrat hid for four months during the Revolution, that I think about how much they must have cost.

“What do you
do
?” I ask my uncle. It sounds ridiculous, but I don't recall Mom or Dad ever mentioning Dervish's line of work.

“I dabble in antiques,” he says. “Rare books are my speciality — particularly books regarding the occult.”

Dervish looks at me questioningly — we haven't mentioned demons since he picked me up at the institute. He's offering me the chance to quiz him about them now. But I'm not ready to discuss Lord Loss or his minions yet.

“You must be good at it, to afford a place like this,” I say, sliding away from the larger questions and issues.

“It's a hobby,” he demurs, leading me down a long corridor full of framed portraits and photographs. “The money's good, but I don't worry too much about it.”

“Then how do you pay for all this?” I ask nosily.

Dervish quickens his pace. I think he's avoiding the question, but then he stops at one of the older portraits and points at it. “Recognize him?”

I study the face of an old man — lined, quite a large nose, but otherwise unspectacular. “Is he famous?” I ask.

“Only to us,” Dervish says. “He was your great-great-great-grandfather. Bartholomew Garadex. That's our original family name, on our paternal side — it got shortened to Grady around your great-grandfather's time.” He points to a nearby portrait. “That's him.” Waving a hand at the hall in general, he adds, “They're all part of our family. Garadexes, Gradys, Bells, Moores — if one of our relations has been photographed or painted, you'll most probably find them here.”

Returning to the portrait of my great-great-great-grandfather, he says, “Bartholomew was a sublimely clever man. He started with nothing but had amassed a fortune by the time of his death. We're still living off of it — at least,
I
am. Cal preferred to make his own way in the world, and only dipped into the family coffers in emergencies.”

“How much is left?” I inquire.

“Quite a lot,” Dervish says vaguely. “Your great-great-grandfather — one of old Bart's boys — wasted most of it. Then his son — the one who changed the family name — restored it. It's been fairly constant since, much of it tied up in bonds and properties that yield steady profits.”

“Who does it go to when …” I stop and blush. “I mean, who's your heir?”

Dervish doesn't answer immediately. He gazes at the face in the portrait, as though seeing it for the first time. Then he looks away and says quietly, “I have no children. I've willed portions of the estate to various friends and causes. I always meant for the majority of my assets to go to Cal and his kids. Since you're the only survivor …”

My stomach tightens — Dervish sounds as if he's accusing me of caring more about money than my family. “I'd swap any amount of a fortune if I could bring Mom and Dad and Gret back,” I snarl defensively.

“Of course you would.” Dervish frowns, glancing at me oddly, and I realize I was only imagining the accusation.

“Let's go,” Dervish says. “There's another floor to explore — and a cellar.”

“A cellar?” I ask nervously.

“Yes,” he says. “That's where I bury the bodies.”

I freeze, and he has to stop and wink broadly before I catch the joke.

Lots of storage space on the second floor — rooms packed with crates, statues, and boxes of books. There are a couple of small bedrooms, including Dervish's, and the centerpiece — his study.

Unlike every other room in the mansion, Dervish's study is carpeted and the walls are covered with leather panels. It's a colossal room, the size of seven or eight of the bedrooms, with two desks larger than most of the beds I've seen. There are bookcases, on which small numbers of books are carefully arranged. He has a PC, a laptop, a typewriter, several writing pads, and a multitude of pens. There are five chess sets in the room, each different, one made entirely of crystal, another with solid gold pieces. A sword and axe hang from each wall, their handles encrusted with precious jewels, their blades gleaming brightly.

“This is wild.” I grin, circling the study, checking out some of the book titles — all to do with ghosts, werewolves, magic, and other occult-related items.

“Some of my rarer finds,” Dervish says, picking up a book and smiling as he flicks through it. “The great thing about having loads of money is not having to sell to survive.”

“Aren't you afraid of burglars?” I ask. “Wouldn't this stuff be safer in a museum?”

“The contents of this room are protected,” he says. “Anyone breaking in is free to plunder the rest of the house as they please — but they won't take anything from here.”

“What sort of security system do you use?” I ask. “Lasers? Heat sensors?”

“Magic.”

I start to smirk, thinking this is another of his jokes, but his grim expression unnerves me.

“I've cast some of my strongest spells on this room,” he says. “Anybody who enters without my permission will run into serious obstacles. And I don't use that phrase lightly.”

Dervish sits in the large leather chair behind one of the desks and rocks lightly to the left and right as he addresses me. “I know there's nothing as tempting as forbidden fruit, Grubitsch, but I've got to ask you not to come into this room when I'm not here. There are spells I can cast to protect you — and spells I can teach you when you're ready to learn — but it's safest not to tempt fate.”

“Are you …” I have to wet my lips to continue. “Are you a magician?”

“No,” he chuckles. “But I know many of the ways of magic. Bartholomew Garadex was a magician — among other things — but there hasn't been one in the family since. Real magicians are rare. You can't become one — you have to be born to it. Ordinary people like you and me can study magic and make it work to an extent, but true magicians have the natural power to change the shape of the world with a click of their fingers. It wouldn't do to have too many people with that kind of power walking around. Nature limits us to one or two per century.”

“Is …” I hate to say his name out loud, but I must. “Is Lord Loss a magician?”

Dervish's eyes are dark. “No. He's a demon master. He's as far advanced of magicians as magicians are of the rest of us.”

“When I … was escaping … I used magic.”

“To fit through the dog flap.” He nods. “Many of us have magical potential. It usually lies dormant, but the presence of the demons enabled you to tap into yours. The magic within you reacted to theirs. Without it, you would have died, along with the others.”