We were driving along the winding, forest-lined lane to Adrian’s house. In a few minutes, I would be meeting his family, which was legitimately freaking me out. Would they be like Adrian, or would they be all pale and creepy and mean? Would there be cameras and lights and a D-list celebrity host popping out with a mic? “Surprise! You’re on a dumb prank show where we convince normally intelligent people that mythical creatures exist!” I honestly didn’t know which would be worse—if it was a joke, or if it was real.
We finally came around the last curve in the driveway and he parked—while I stared. Technically, I’d been here once before, but it had been the dead of night, and I’d been drunk, and sitting here now I was completely unprepared to come face-to-face with the embodiment of just how different Adrian’s life was from mine.
A detached five-car garage stood to our right. Straight ahead of us, however, was a three-story—well, I think mansion would be the only adequate term. It looked like an architect’s fantasy of a luxury ski resort, with one-and two-story wings spreading gracefully from the main hall. French doors were scattered at picturesque intervals, leading to little decks and terraces with manicured potted trees and shrubbery. Honest-to-God shrubbery. Their front door gave me the impression that it had once belonged on a Gothic cathedral, and the wrought-iron fence surrounding the property lent the whole snow-laden house an air of elegant impenetrability.
“You live in a castle,” I told him, as if he was not aware of where he lived.
He glanced at it. “This was built ten years ago. It’s not a castle.”
“Fine then—mansion.”
“It doesn’t have enough rooms to be a mansion.”
I looked at him. “How many rooms does it have?”
He shrugged and said, “A dozen bedrooms,” as if that were the normal number of bedrooms that houses were supposed to have.
I choked. “And there’s five of you?”
He smiled way too cheerfully. “Ready?”
No, I thought but slid down out of the truck and followed him through the snow to the house. Entering a code into the security keypad, he pushed the door open and led me inside.
The entryway was a good fifteen feet wide, made entirely of white marble. Straight ahead, a winding staircase branched off at the second story before continuing up to the third. Black-and-white marble busts of what I assumed were very important people were placed tastefully on white pedestals. It should have been kind of tacky and over the top, but it wasn’t—it was beautiful. And intimidating as hell. Adrian slipped my coat off and hung it in on a mahogany rack.
“If you don’t mind, Mariana doesn’t like shoes inside the house.”
I quickly tore my boots off. This place was rich enough to be holy ground.
“Come on,” he said, leading me to the left through an archway. We walked into a vast dining room with a marble fireplace on the opposite wall. The furniture was dark wood, intricately carved; the candleholders were solid silver; the chandelier dripped with Swarovski crystals. Adrian pulled lightly on my hand and we came into a kitchen the size of my aunt and uncle’s entire house. We passed through this, too, down a hallway, and to what I would have to call the most kick-ass library I have ever seen. The ceiling was at least two stories tall, maybe three. Huge overstuffed armchairs and couches were scattered around the room, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were grouped in spiral formations throughout the hardwood floor, which made it impossible to see from one end of the room to the other. As we walked, I realized there were rolling ladders lining the walls and I had the sudden, crazy urge to climb on one and have Adrian push me around. I was therefore understandably distracted when the attack came. From above, something flew straight at me. I shrieked, jumping back into Adrian’s chest.
“Boo,” the thing said, coming to a halt inches from my face.
Adrian clasped his hands over my mouth, then tilted my head up to look at him.
“It’s just Lucian.”
I looked again. An eleven-year-old boy was hanging upside down from a pulley attached to the ceiling. His light brown hair stood out in wavy strands from his upside-down face, and his eyes were covered in an overly large pair of aviator goggles.
“How do you do?” the boy asked me, sticking out his hand.
“I’m—fine,” I said, shaking it.
He looked at Adrian. “Her heart is fast.”
“That’s because you scared her. Normal people don’t hang from ceilings upside down.”
“They don’t?” Lucian asked seriously. Adrian shook his head. Lucian sighed, flipped over, and landed gracefully—and barefoot—on the hardwood before walking off.
I looked at Adrian. “What was that?”
“Lucian is fond of this room.” He pointed up. “The harness is attached to rolling magnets, which adhere to the steel ceiling. As long as you have the right weights up, you can roll around the whole library. Makes getting books down a lot easier.”
I stared at Adrian, a gleeful look stealing over my face. “When can I try this?”
He rolled his eyes, smiling. “And you call me a nerd.”