The Rise of Renegade X Read Online Free PDF

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    There are obviously a couple pages missing between Mom’s subway scandal and her Thanksgiving plans—I can tell by the torn edges—but I’m desperate enough to keep reading, just in case. I scan through the part about Grandma oppressing Mom with baking equipment and a lack of trust in her Thanksgiving skills. Believe me, Grandma’s the one in the right here. I’ve experienced Mom’s cooking. It’s a lot like her punch, only without the alcohol, so you don’t even have the benefit of blacking out halfway through.
    But as far as my father goes, no luck. I close the diary and slip it back in its place in the stack.
    I lock up and take the elevator to Mom’s closet. I peer into her bedroom before emerging, making sure the coast is clear. As I’m hurrying past her bed, I notice her current diary on the nightstand. I walk over to it, drawn despite my will, and flip to the entry from a couple days ago. My birthday.
My worst fears have been realized. I was hoping the stories weren’t true, that he’d get his V anyway. I never had the heart to tell him the truth. My poor little Damien! And now he knows, he knows that his father must be … one of them .
My parents are going to disown me. They always suspected his father “wasn’t of the right sort.” I hope they don’t take it out on Damien. He’s going to have it rough as it is, and there’s no way he’ll make it to Vilmore—
     
    I’m sure that sentence ended in something slightly upbeat, like that I won’t make it to Vilmore this fall , or that I won’t make it for visiting day later this spring. But I don’t find out because I hear the bedroom door opening and slam the book shut. I drop it on the nightstand and dive under the bed as Mom bursts into the room. She flings the door open so hard, it bangs against the wall. I peer out from under the dust ruffle. Her boots thump against the carpet, kicking up dust. She has the hypno device in one hand. It might have looked like a busted-up piece of junk before, but now there are even more wires hanging out of it, and it rattles a little as she moves. Oops. I guess knocking it off the table wasn’t such a good idea, but it’s not my fault she buys such crappy equipment. Mom mutters something under her breath about me not being allowed in the lab anymore. She scowls and slides open the closet door.
    I wait until she’s safely in the elevator before getting the hell out of there.

 
    T he Gallant Gentleman, a superhero in one of those red fox-hunting outfits British people wear, twirls his riding crop and scowls at me. He’s not actually British, since I know he was born in Golden City—I did my homework—but he talks with an accent. He’s got a pack of hunting dogs with him, because that’s his power: talking to dogs. I guess if you’re really serious about it, you can make a career out of any superpower, even a really dumb one. Of course, he’s not exactly fighting crime anymore. I cornered him in the park, where he gives lessons in obedience training every afternoon. He’s kind of washed up, relying on the name he made for himself years ago to keep his obedience school going. He’s only got two students today, and they’re both busy practicing guiding the dogs between the statues in the Heroes Walk. The Walk is a brick path that wanders through Golden City Park, surrounded by blindingly white statues of superheroes who have supposedly done something really awesome for society, like kill off supervillains. I know the woman who defeated Kat’s grandfather has one of these statues, but I haven’t actually seen it.
    The Gallant Gentleman takes one look at me, in my hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans, and I can see his lip twitching in disgust. God, I hope he’s not my father. It didn’t take long to narrow down my suspects. An hour at the library pouring over old newspapers on microfiche—after stopping to pick up a pair of gloves first; they’re black and fashionable enough that no one will