Page 10 of Echoes of the Banshee

Have I met her before? Maybe at a party, a night blurred out by noise and bad decisions. But no. I’d remember those green eyes.

They’re unforgettable. She’s not new. How the hell have I never seen her before?

I force a laugh, smoothing over the crack she left in my composure. “You’re sharp. I like that.”

“Careful,” she says. One corner of her mouth twitches into a faint smirk. “You might cut yourself trying to keep up.”

I roll my lip ring with my teeth and laugh again, this time genuinely.

“Bold of you to assume I’d try.”

“Oh, you’re trying, all right,” she replies, still focused on her notebook. “The effort’s just… not impressive.”

Her tone is dry and deliberate, the kind of teasing that dares you to rise to it. But there’s something else underneath it. Something unfiltered, untamed.

“Fair play,” I say, grinning despite myself.

Her eyes jerk to me, like what I said strikes a chord. Shit. That slipped out. My charm hides my accent, not my idioms. Americans say touché.

“You’re really good at first impressions.” I try to play it off.

She shakes her head. “Thanks. It’s all about setting the bar low for the second one.”

“You don’t give anyone an inch, do you?”

“Not unless they earn it,” she says with a pointed look, holding her fingers together to emphasize how little I have. “And you’re still at zero inches.” But she’s looking at me. And somehow, even at zero inches, it feels like I’ve scored a point.

I laugh, leaning forward slightly. “Good to know. Guess I’ll have to work on that.”

She smirks, already turning back to her notebook. “Like I said. Impressive effort. Results? Still pending.” It’s the most fun I’ve had in a conversation in weeks. Maybe even months. And for the first time all day, the scream in my head is quiet.

The teacher calls the class to attention. Sinclair, the substitute for today, stands at the front of the room, his eyes sweeping the class as he explains the day’s potion, a draft for dreamless sleep. I barely pay attention, already zoning out on the details.

I let my eyes drift over her again. She’s short, maybe curvy. It’s hard to tell beneath the baggy school sweater and faded jeans. Her dark hair’s pulled into a loose braid down her back, and when she turns slightly to grab something from her bag, I catch a glimpse of her face. There’s a small scar through one eyebrow, a pale line that breaks the symmetry. Why hasn’t she hidden it?

Around her, the other witches look like they’re ready for a photoshoot, tailored blazers, sleek dresses, heels sharp enough to kill. All witches are beautiful. That’s part of the problem. They’re too perfect — full makeup, glamoured skin, voices tuned to charm. It stops registering after a while. But her? Is she naturally beautiful, or just better at faking natural? I need to know if her eyes are real.

I shouldn’t.

But I do.

I lean in slightly, to check. To catch the scent of an illusion.

Her smell smacks me upside the head.

It’s not just any fragrance. It’s the perfume of death. Not the still, silent kind that clings to a corpse, but something deeper. Something broken. The death of a soul.

Her soul lights up without me meaning to, a pulse of light that flares as my magic brushes against it. I try to look away, but it’s like I can’t. My banshee instincts grab hold of me, dragging my gaze toward her, forcing me to confront the ruin in front of me.

It’s a battlefield, shredded and scorched. The edges aren’t just frayed. They’re torn wide open, jagged and uneven. Like someone ripped it free and carelessly shoved it back into place. At the center, I see a void. A hollow space where everything vital should be. It should hum, pulse, but hers flickers like a dying flame.

I’ve never seen anything like this. It feels wrong on every level. This isn’t damage.

This is mutilation.

The only light comes from a soul shard, as if the remnants of her being are clinging to it out of sheer desperation. It’s the only thing anchoring her to this world, a defiant ember fighting to survive in the wreckage.

I take another breath, wrinkling my nose at the scent. It clings to me, wrapping around me like a second skin. It’s suffocating. Familiar. I want to turn away. I should turn away.