Lord Loss (7 page)

I stare wordlessly at Uncle Dervish. He speaks so honestly, so matter-of-factly, that he could be explaining a math 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 over-bearing 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.

“Mom 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 along 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 easygoing 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 forever.”

“I'll steer clear,” I laugh. “I'll find a different source 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 eat 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 forever overlooking the obvious. Well, there are fourteen bedrooms to choose from — any except mine is yours for the taking.”

“You don't have a room set aside for me?” I ask, surprised.

“I thought about it,” he replies, “but I decided to let you choose for yourself. You can test out as many as you like. If you want to stay on the upper floor, close to me, you can — though the rooms there are quite modest compared to those on the first floor.”

He tips an imaginary hat to me, then trots up the stairs to his study.

Standing alone in the vast hall. The house creaks around me. I shiver, then recall Uncle Dervish's promise — I can't come to any harm here. I shake off the creeps before they have a chance to take hold.

Picking up my bag, which I dropped by the front doors when we came in, I climb the ornate stairs and go searching among the beautifully kept, expansive array of rooms for one that I can dump my gear in and call my own.

PORTRAITS

I
DON'T
expect to get much sleep the first night — new surroundings, new bed, new life — but surprisingly I drop off within minutes of climbing underneath the covers of the small first-floor bed I chose, and don't wake until close to ten in the morning.

I feel good as I use the
en suite
bathroom. Refreshed. The sun's broken through the clouds and is shining directly onto my bed when I come out of the bathroom. I lie on the covers and bask in the rays, smiling softly. For a moment I think of Gret's
en suite
… the rat guts … the start of the nightmares. But I'm in too good a mood to dwell on all that. Shaking my thoughts free, I head downstairs for a late breakfast.

I'm finishing off my cornflakes and munching my third slice of toast when Dervish enters through the back door. He's been jogging. Red-faced, sweaty, panting.

“I looked in … on you … earlier,” he gasps, rolling his neck around, jiggling his arms and legs. “Didn't have the heart … to wake you.”

“I don't normally sleep this late.” I grin guiltily.

“I should hope not.” He stretches, holds his hands over his head while he counts to ten, then relaxes, pulls up a chair, and sits. “Any plans for today?”

“I'm not sure,” I admit nervously. “I'm used to having nurses plan my days for me.”

“I've been thinking about school,” Dervish says. “Ideally I'd like to get you started quickly, but they're midway through the semester. You'd be playing catch-up from the second you sat down. I think it'd be easier if we waited until after the summer, when you can go in fresh with the rest of the class.”

“OK.” I'm relieved — I was dreading the return to school.

“If you want, I can give you some lessons, or we can enroll you for private tutoring,” Dervish continues. “You've missed a lot, and I suspect you'll have to repeat a year, but if you work hard over the summer …”

“I'm not worried about repeating,” I mutter. “If I was at my old school, I'd want to move up with my friends. But since I'm starting fresh, it doesn't really matter which class I go into.”

“I like the way you think.” Dervish smiles. “OK, we'll lay off the heavy grind, but fit the odd bit of learning in along the way — you'll get rusty if you don't keep your brain sharp.”

“What about today?” I ask. “What should I do?”

“Get the lay of the land,” Dervish suggests. “Explore the house. Have a look round the grounds and neighboring fields — you won't get in trouble for trespassing as long as you don't mess with the livestock. Maybe take a stroll to the village and let the gossips have a gawk — I'm sure they're dying to check out the new boy. You can start on the household chores tomorrow.”

“Chores?”

“Sweeping, cleaning, stuff like that.”

“Oh.” I glance around. “I thought … a place this big … you'd have a maid or something.”

“No maid!” Dervish laughs. “I have a woman who comes in every other week to dust the bedrooms, but that's it as far as outside help goes. You'll have to earn your keep here, Grubbs m'boy! But we'll start with the slave labor tomorrow, like I said. Find your feet first. Take it easy. Enjoy.” He rises and his expression saddens. “Hell, you're due some enjoyment after all you've been through.”

I do the village first. Carcery Vale is quaint, quiet, picturesque. Nice white or creamy houses, smiling people, the occasional car puttering down the main street. I walk through the village, familiarizing myself with the layout. I pass the school — larger than I thought. It's lunch and the students are in the yard, shouting, laughing, playing football. I don't get close. Nervous. I've had months of dealing strictly with adults. I've almost forgotten what people my own age are like and how to get along with them.

Not many shops, and a very limited selection of goods. I need new clothes, but socks and underpants are all the local stores have to offer. I suppose there's a town within easy driving distance where Dervish can take me. I'll ask when I get back.

The people in the shops and on the streets eye me curiously but without suspicion. I keep expecting them to ask for my name or pass a comment — “You must be Mr. Grady's new house guest,” or “You're not from around here, are you?” — but they just nod pleasantly and let me go about my business.

Early afternoon. Wandering around the mansion. Checking out the rooms.

I knew the instant I arrived that this was a monster of a house, but it's only today that I realize just how enormous it is. It doesn't have a single modest inch or nook to it. Everything's overblown and over-the-top. I feel out of place. I'm used to ordinary houses, wallpaper from chain stores, furniture bought from glossy catalogues, paperback bestsellers, and brand-name reference guides on the bookshelves.

But as awkward as I feel in this massive, ornate old house, I'm not scared. Although it reeks of history, and is full of barbaric weapons and grotesque items like the piranha tank, I'm not frightened. I don't get shivers down my spine strolling through the corridors (some longer than the street where I used to live). I don't imagine monsters lurking under the beds, or demons cackling in the shadows.

This house is safe. I'm protected within these walls. I don't know how I know — I just do.

The hall of portraits. I've been here fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, studying the faces of my relatives. Most are strangers, faded faces from the long-forgotten past — many of them young, just teenagers — but some are familiar. I spot Grandad Grady, my great-aunt Martha, a few cousins I met when I was younger — all of whom have died during the course of my short life.

I look for my picture but I'm not among them. Dad and Gret are though, in new frames. Recent photos. I remember the day they were taken, last summer, when we were on vacation in Italy.

No photo of Mom. I go through them all again, but she isn't here. The two of us are missing.

Shopping for clothes, twenty miles from Carcery Vale, in a large mall. Lots of people and noise. I feel lost in the crowd. Dervish sticks close by me, sensing my nervousness.

Kebabs when we've finished shopping. Hot and juicy. Dervish nibbles slowly at his, delicately. I finish long before him. Slurping down the last of my Coke. Studying him as he eats. Wondering if I should mention Mom's and my absence from the hall of portraits.

“An unasked question is the most futile thing in the world,” Dervish says, startling me. Doesn't look up. Swallows his food. Waits.

“I was looking at the photos and portraits in the hall today,” I begin.

“And you want to know why there are so many teenagers.”

I frown. “No. I mean, I noticed that, but it was Mom and me I was curious about. You have photos of Dad and Gret, but not us.”

“Oh.” He grimaces. “My
faux pas
. Most people ask about the teens. The photos and portraits are all of dead family members. I like to frame them as they looked at the end of their lives, so most of the photos were taken shortly before the subject's death. We have a tragic family history — lots of us have been killed young — which is why there are so many pubescents up there.”

He wipes around his mouth with a napkin, carefully balls it up, and lays it aside. “As for why Sharon hasn't been included, it's simple — no in-laws. Everybody on those walls is a blood relative. It's a family tradition. But I have lots of photos of her, as well as Cal and Gret, in albums that you're free to browse through.”

“Maybe later,” I smile. “I just wanted to make sure you didn't have any underhanded reasons for not including us with the others.”

“Everything's aboveboard with me, Grubbs,” Dervish says, then sips from his mug of coffee without taking his eyes off me. “Well — almost everything.”

Late. Close to midnight. In my pajamas. No slippers — I left my old pair at the hospital and I forgot to buy new ones today. The stone floor's cold. I have to keep moving my toes to keep them warm.

I'm drawn back to the hall of portraits. Studying them in moonlight, the faces mostly concealed by shadows. Focusing on the teenagers. Dozens of them, all my age or slightly older. Wondering why the faces of the dead teens fascinate me, and why I feel uneasy.

I'm back in my room, in bed, before the answer strikes and drives all hope of sleep away in a flash. In the restaurant, Dervish didn't simply say that many of our family members had died young — he said they'd been
killed
.

SPLEEN

S
ETTLING
in. Daily chores — washing up after meals, sweeping a different couple of floors each day, polishing the furniture in one of the large halls or rooms. Lots of other less-regular jobs — taking out the garbage, cleaning windows, running errands in the village.

I enjoy the work. It keeps me busy. Not much else to do here apart from play chess with Dervish, watch TV — Dervish has a massive 60-inch widescreen set, which he hardly ever uses! — and read. Chess doesn't thrill me — Dervish is like Mom and Dad, a chess fanatic, and beats me easily each time we play. I'd as soon not play at all, but he gently presses me to work on my game. I don't get my family's obsession with chess, but I guess I'll just have to bear it here like I did at home.

I read more than I normally do — I'm not big on
litrachoor
— but Dervish doesn't have a great collection of modern fiction. I pick up a few new books in the Vale, and order some more over the Internet, but I'm not spoiled for choice. I try some of the thousands of occult books littering the shelves, figuring they've got to be better than watching the moon all night, but they're too complicated or densely written to be of interest.

So that leaves me with the TV — an endless stream of soap operas, talk shows, movies, sitcoms, sports programs. And while I never thought I'd admit such a thing, TV does get a bit boring after a while, if it's all you have to keep yourself amused.

But, hey, it's a million times better than the institute!

A week passes. At ease with the house. Getting to know Dervish, though he's a hard one to figure. Kind, thoughtful, caring — but aloof, with a warped sense of humor. He came in one day while I was watching the news. Caught a report about a serial killer who'd chopped off and collected his victims' heads. Commented drily, “There's a man determined to get ahead in life.” Spent the next five minutes doubled over with laughter, while I gazed at him, astonished, and the TV broadcast pictures of bloodbaths and weeping relatives.