Volumes 1 and 2 - Lord Loss/Demon Thief

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. “Recognise 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 enquire.

“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 which 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 Mum and Dad and Gret back,” I snarl.

“Of course you would.” Dervish frowns, glancing at me oddly, and I realise 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 centrepiece—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 hangs 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.”

I stare wordlessly at Uncle Dervish. He speaks so honestly, so matter of factly, that he could be explaining a maths problem. There’s so much I want to ask, so many questions. But this isn’t the time. I’m not ready.

I scratch my head and pluck a long ginger hair from behind my left ear. I rub it between my fingers until it falls, then face Dervish and grin shakily. “I’ll agree to stay out of your study if you’ll do something for me in return.”

“What?” he asks, and I can tell he’s expecting an overbearing request.

“Will you call me ‘Grubbs’? I can’t stand ‘Grubitsch’.”

→The cellar’s full of wine racks and dusty bottles.

“My other great love, apart from books,” Dervish purrs, wiping clean the label of a large green bottle. He advances, lights flicking on ahead of him as he walks. I wonder if it’s magic, until I spot motion-detection sensors overhead.

“Do you drink wine?” he asks, leading me down one of the many rack-lined aisles of the cellar.

“Mum and Dad let us have a glass with dinner sometimes, but I don’t really like it,” I answer.

“Shocking!” he tuts. “I’ll have to educate your palate. Wine is as varied and unpredictable as people. There are some vintages you just won’t get on with, no matter how famous or popular they are, but you’ll always find something you like—if you search hard enough.”

He stops, picks out another bottle, appraises and replaces it. “I roam around for hours down here some days,” he sighs. “Half the pleasure of having such a fine collection is forgetting what’s here and rediscovering it by accident years later. The choosing of a bottle can be almost as much fun as the drinking of it.” He snorts. “Almost!”

We return to the steps leading up to the kitchen and he pauses. “I have to ask you not to come down here either,” he says. “But this has nothing to do with spells or magic. The temperature and humidity have to be maintained just so.” He pinches his left thumb and index finger together. “I’m fairly easy-going when it comes to material possessions, but where my wine’s concerned I’m unbelievably cranky. If you caused an accident…” He shook his head glumly. “I wouldn’t say much, but I’d silently despise you for ever.”

“I’ll steer clear,” I laugh. “The off-licence will do for me if I want to go boozing.”

Dervish smiles and leads the way up. The lights switch off automatically behind us, plunging the cellar into cool, precision gloom.

→“And that’s it.”

Back where we started, the main hall, beneath the giant chandelier. Dervish checks his watch. “I usually have dinner anywhere between five and seven. You can eat with me—I’m a nifty little chef, if I do say so myself—or do your own cooking and feed whenever you like. The freezer’s stocked with pizzas and microwave dinners.”

“I’ll eat with you,” I tell him.

“Then I’ll shout when it’s ready. In the meantime, feel free to explore, either inside or out. And remember—you can’t come to any harm here.”

He heads for the wide set of marble stairs leading to the first and second floors.

“Wait!” I stop him. “You never showed me my room.” Dervish slaps his forehead playfully. “You’ll get used to that,” he chuckles. “I’m for ever overlooking the obvious. Well, there are fourteen bedrooms to choose from—any except mine is yours for the taking.”