Burn for Me (Hidden Legacy #1)(61)

“By the way,” Arabella said, “you might get a call from school. I forgot to mention it before.”

Mother paused. “Why?”

“Well, we were playing basketball and I guess I pulled on Diego’s jersey. I don’t even remember doing it. And Valerie decided it would be a good idea to snitch on me. I mean, I saw her walk over to the coach and pull on his sleeve like she was five or something. I even asked Diego if he cared, and he said he didn’t even notice. It’s a sport! I was into it.”

“Aha,” Mother said. “Get to the call-from-school part.”

“I told her that snitches get stitches. And Coach said that I made a terrorist threat.”

“That’s stupid,” Lina said, pushing back her dark hair. “It’s not a threat, it’s just a thing people say.”

“Snitches do get stitches.” Bern shrugged.

“Your school is stupid,” Grandma Frida said.

“So he said I had to apologize and I refused, since she snitched on me, so I got sent to the office. I’m not in trouble, but they want to move me to third-period PE now.”

Well, it could’ve been worse. At least she didn’t hurt anybody.

Silence claimed the table. Across from me, Mad Rogan was cutting the pancake into precise pieces and devouring it with a familiar efficiency. When my mother had come home on leave, she’d eaten like that. She was leaning against the island now, watching him.

“You’re Mad Rogan!” Leon burst out.

“Yes,” Mad Rogan said, his voice calm.

“And you can break cities?”

“Yes.”

“And you have all this money and magic?”

“Yes.”

Where was Leon going with this?

My cousin blinked. “And you look . . . like that?”

Mad Rogan nodded. “Yes.”

Leon’s dark eyes went wide. He looked at Mad Rogan, then glanced down at himself. At fifteen, Leon weighed barely a hundred pounds. His arms and legs were like chopsticks.

“There is no justice in the world!” Leon announced.

I giggled and almost choked on my pancake. Mother cracked a smile.

“Can you play guitar too?” Leon asked. “Because if you can, I’ll go kill myself right now.”

“No, but I can sing a little,” Mad Rogan said.

“God damn it!” Leon punched the table.

“Calm yourself,” Bern told him.

“You shut up. You’re the size of a Sasquatch.” Leon pointed at Mad Rogan. “Are you seeing this? How is this fair?”

“He’s fifteen,” I told Mad Rogan. “Fair is very important right now.”

“You have time,” Mad Rogan said.

“Yeah . . .” Leon shook his head. “No, not really. I can’t sing for sure, and I’ll never look like that.”

“I’m a product of calculated selective breeding,” Mad Rogan said. “I was conceived because it would be good for my House to have an heir and because my parents’ genes ticked the right set of boxes. You were probably conceived because your parents loved each other.”

“According to our mother,” Bern said, “he was conceived because she was too wasted to remember a rubber.”

Mad Rogan stopped chewing.

“I was conceived because my mother skipped bail. Her boyfriend at the time threatened to call the cops on her, so she had to do something to keep him from doing it,” Bern said helpfully.

Awesome. Just the right kind of information to share.

“Aunt Gisela isn’t the best mother,” I said. “There’s one in every family.”

“What do you do?” Leon leaned forward. “You left the Army and disappeared. How come?”

“Leon,” Mother warned.

“Is it because of the war?” Lina asked. “People on Herald say you have PTSD and you became a hermit like a monk because of it.”

“Either a hermit or a monk, not both,” I corrected out of habit.

“Herald also said he was disfigured.” Arabella made big eyes.

“Yes, I’m a hermit. Mostly I brood,” Mad Rogan said. “Also I’m very good at wallowing in self-pity. I spend my days steeped in melancholy, looking out the window. Occasionally a single tear quietly rolls down my cheek.”

Arabella and Lina snickered in unison.

“Do you also brush a white orchid against your lips?” Arabella put in.

“While sad music plays in the background?” Lina grinned.

“Perhaps,” Mad Rogan said.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Grandma Frida asked.

I put my hand over my face.

“No,” Mad Rogan said.

“A boyfriend?” Grandma Frida asked.

“No.”

“What about . . .”

“No,” Mom and I said in unison.

“But you don’t even know what I wanted to ask!”

“No,” we said again together.

“Party poopers.” Grandma shrugged.

“It’s nine o’clock,” Mom said. “Go on.”

Leon pointed at Mad Rogan. “But Mad Rogan!”

“But you have a sixty-seven in French,” she said. “You’ll regain your staying-up privileges when you pass.”