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
“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
Similar Books
