“How so?” I query.
“Well, for starters, it’s a lot less detailed. I can tell from someone’s blood that they’re depressed or that they’re suffering from other physical ailments from exhaustion to disease, but thewhyisn’t prevalent in the blood itself. If I had read that man, I would have sensed the depression and known it was at an alarming level, but I wouldn’t have been able to discern the cause without him telling me,” he explains.
“Does your brother get summoned a lot? Do you go with him when he does?” I ask, wondering what the other Bone Witch’s life is like. I suspect it would be fun to have a partner in crime, so to speak. To have someone who knows what you’re dealing with when it comes to magic and being a witch. My grandfather knew what Grammy Ruby was, but it never sounded like he fully got what it meant or how it felt.
“It happens now and again, but not often. I’ve never seen him do a reading; he doesn’t talk about them much.”
“Wait,” I exclaim, turning in my seat so I can get a good look at Rogan. “You’ve never seen your brother do a reading? Like, ever?” I clarify.
“No,” he responds with a dismissive shrug.
“But I thought you said that the two of you worked with the same clients. He doesn’t do readings for them?”
“He does, sometimes, but I’m never in the room for that. We make potions together, and things like that work for some of the same clients in different capacities, but, yeah, no readings.”
“Hasn’t he ever done a reading for you?” I ask, completely astonished by this news.
My grandmother did a reading for everyone in the family when they turned sixteen. After that, she’d do them if we asked or if she sensed we were really struggling with something. It seems weird to me that two brothers would keep their abilities so separate.
“We tried to read each other when we were younger, but it never worked. We asked our uncle about it, and he said it didn’t always work for people close to you.”
“Huh,” I mumble, making a note to read Tad when I get back so I can test that theory. “Did your uncle ever read for you?” I ask, assuming that his uncle was the former Osteomancer in the family.
“No, he always said it would be a waste of his magic. He knew where Elon and I would end up, just like him and his brother.”
“Well, it sounds like he was thelife of the party,” I snark.
Rogan gives an amused snort. “That would be a massive understatement.”
There it is,I think to myself as I catch the slightest tightening around his eyes when he mentions his family. It doesn’t take the bones to tell me that there is something there, something massive and painful. The car grows quiet again, and I find myself studying Rogan’s face. I’m sure he can feel that I’m just sitting here staring at him, but he lets me do it without saying a word.
He’s hurting. I picked up on that almost as soon as I met him, but I figured it had to do with his brother. But there’s more there.
“Would you like me to read you?” I ask randomly as I study the angles of his face. I blink and then try to shake some sense into me when I realize I’m perving out a little too much.
Rogan’s brow dips, but in the dark, I can’t quite make out if it’s confusion or concern that’s etched into his features.
“Um, sure, I guess, but it’ll have to be some other time, because we’re here,” he declares, and I pivot to face forward as we pull through the trees into a clearing that displays a large well-lit house. I lean forward so I can take it all in. His house is modern, the structure more windows than anything else. There’s a dark gray paneling on the parts that aren’t glass, and beautiful cedar accents frame the doors and line the underside of the roof.
Soft golden spotlights light up the property from the outside, and there’s a similar-colored glow coming from rooms inside that give the appearance that someone is home. It dawns on me then that I have no idea if Rogan is married or lives with a girlfriend or boyfriend. He made it seem like it was just him and his brother, but I never really asked.
He pulls up to a four-car garage, and the frosted-glass door begins to open. There are other cars parked inside, but it’s impossible to tell if they belong to Rogan or someone else.
“Your house is beautiful,” I declare, still looking around at the details as though I don’t know which stunning thing to really focus on first. “Is it just you in this massive place?” I inquire, not at all smoothly.
“Thank you,” he replies as he pulls his sleek car into its spot. He looks over at me curiously as he puts it in park. “And yes, it’s just me out here,” he supplies.
Relief slams through me, and I take a second to side-eye that.Why do I care?
“Do you get lonely in a huge place like this?” I ask, and the rude question is out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“Sometimes,” he answers evenly, his eyes studying me intensely.
“Sorry, I don’t know why I asked that. I get lonely in my little ass apartment all the time. Size doesn’t matter,” I blurt and then immediately want to facepalm again.
“Good to know,” Rogan states, a small smile twitching at the edges of his mouth.
“Not like that, pervert,” I accuse.
