“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.”