Read Online Lord Loss by Darren Shan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Darren Shan
Tags: JUV001000
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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.
His thirst for chess is at least equal to that of Dad and Mom, if not more so. He went easy on me to begin with, gently encouraging me to play, treating the games as fun. Now he's showing his true colors. Insists that I play with him every night and gets irritated when I play badly.
“You've got to love the game,” he told me last night, tossing a captured rook at me with unexpected force. “Chess is life. You have to love it as you love living. If you don't …”
He said no more, just stormed out of the room, leaving me at a loss for words, rubbing my cheek where the rook struck. Later, when I'd recovered and was passing him in the hall on my way to bed, I muttered, “Get a life, you freak!” The perfect comeback — just an hour too late.
He's got no time for music. I find a grand total of three CDs in the house, all old albums by some group called Led Zeppelin. Doesn't read fiction. Watches only the occasional documentary on TV. Spends a lot of time on the Web, from what I've seen when I've visited him in his study. But he doesn't seem to surf or play games — he mostly exchanges e-mails with contacts around the globe, or visits dull-looking encylopedic sites.
Apart from his books and antiques, chess and jogging, and his e-mail friends, he doesn't seem to have any hobbies, or any apparent interest in the world beyond this house.
There are stables — long abandoned — behind the mansion. I'm exploring one of them, idly toeing through the old nails and horseshoes on the ground in search of some interesting nugget, when somebody raps on the rotten door and startles me out of my skin.
“Peace, hombre,” the stranger chuckles as I duck and grab a horseshoe for protection. “I come to greet you, not to eat you — as the cannibal said to the missionary.”
A boy a year or so younger than me enters and sticks out his hand. I stare at it a moment, then shake it. He's a lot shorter than me, chubby, with black hair and a lazy left eye that hangs half-closed. Wearing a faded pair of jeans and an old Simpsons T-shirt.
“Bill-E Spleen,” he says, pumping my hand. “And you're Grubbs ‘don't call me Grubitsch!’ Grady, right?”
“Right.” I grin thinly, then repeat his name. “Billy Spleen?”
“Bill-E,” he corrects me, and spells it out. “Actually, it's really Billy,” he confesses, “but I changed it. I haven't been able to do it officially yet, but I will when I'm older. There's nothing wrong with Billy — it's a hell of a lot better than Grubitsch or Grubbs! — but Bill-E sounds cooler, like a rap star.”
He talks quick and sharp, fingers dancing in the air to accent his words.
“Are you from the village?” I ask politely.
“Yup — I'm a Valer,” he yawns, as though it's the dullest thing in the world. “I used to live a few miles over — in a cottage smaller than this stable — until Mom died. Then I moved in with my grandparents — ‘the original Spleens,’ as Mom used to call them. They're OK, just a bit old-fashioned and straitlaced.”
Bill-E studies the disturbed nails and horseshoes on the ground and grins. “You won't find any
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.
His thirst for chess is at least equal to that of Dad and Mom, if not more so. He went easy on me to begin with, gently encouraging me to play, treating the games as fun. Now he's showing his true colors. Insists that I play with him every night and gets irritated when I play badly.
“You've got to love the game,” he told me last night, tossing a captured rook at me with unexpected force. “Chess is life. You have to love it as you love living. If you don't …”
He said no more, just stormed out of the room, leaving me at a loss for words, rubbing my cheek where the rook struck. Later, when I'd recovered and was passing him in the hall on my way to bed, I muttered, “Get a life, you freak!” The perfect comeback — just an hour too late.
He's got no time for music. I find a grand total of three CDs in the house, all old albums by some group called Led Zeppelin. Doesn't read fiction. Watches only the occasional documentary on TV. Spends a lot of time on the Web, from what I've seen when I've visited him in his study. But he doesn't seem to surf or play games — he mostly exchanges e-mails with contacts around the globe, or visits dull-looking encylopedic sites.
Apart from his books and antiques, chess and jogging, and his e-mail friends, he doesn't seem to have any hobbies, or any apparent interest in the world beyond this house.
There are stables — long abandoned — behind the mansion. I'm exploring one of them, idly toeing through the old nails and horseshoes on the ground in search of some interesting nugget, when somebody raps on the rotten door and startles me out of my skin.
“Peace, hombre,” the stranger chuckles as I duck and grab a horseshoe for protection. “I come to greet you, not to eat you — as the cannibal said to the missionary.”
A boy a year or so younger than me enters and sticks out his hand. I stare at it a moment, then shake it. He's a lot shorter than me, chubby, with black hair and a lazy left eye that hangs half-closed. Wearing a faded pair of jeans and an old Simpsons T-shirt.
“Bill-E Spleen,” he says, pumping my hand. “And you're Grubbs ‘don't call me Grubitsch!’ Grady, right?”
“Right.” I grin thinly, then repeat his name. “Billy Spleen?”
“Bill-E,” he corrects me, and spells it out. “Actually, it's really Billy,” he confesses, “but I changed it. I haven't been able to do it officially yet, but I will when I'm older. There's nothing wrong with Billy — it's a hell of a lot better than Grubitsch or Grubbs! — but Bill-E sounds cooler, like a rap star.”
He talks quick and sharp, fingers dancing in the air to accent his words.
“Are you from the village?” I ask politely.
“Yup — I'm a Valer,” he yawns, as though it's the dullest thing in the world. “I used to live a few miles over — in a cottage smaller than this stable — until Mom died. Then I moved in with my grandparents — ‘the original Spleens,’ as Mom used to call them. They're OK, just a bit old-fashioned and straitlaced.”
Bill-E studies the disturbed nails and horseshoes on the ground and grins. “You won't find any
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