Page 123 of Echoes of the Banshee

Zair steps toward me, his brow furrowing as though trying to make sense of what he’s seeing.

“Thea?” His voice is cautious, like he’s not sure if I’m real or a trick of his imagination. I try to speak, to explain, but my voice catches in my throat. My chest tightens as the weightless sensation intensifies, and my form begins to waver.

Zair reaches out a hand, his confusion giving way to alarm. “What’s going on? Are you—” Before he can finish, my form dissolves, the locker room blurring into nothingness. The familiar hush of the library crashes back around me. My breath comes in short gulps as I clutch the arms of my chair, the cool wood grounding me.

What just happened?

My head spins as I press a hand to my chest, feeling my heartbeat thunder beneath my palm. Whatever that was, it wasn’t supposed to happen. I’d only wanted to meditate, to calm my mind. Instead, I’d — what? Projected myself into the boys’ locker room?

Astral projection?

My phone rings. Fuck.

I answer and brace myself.

“You okay?” His voice is all concern.

“I think so. Sorry.”

“You at the library?” he asks, as if nothing just happened.

I tell him I am, and he says goodbye. Seriously? He’s not going to call me out on it?

I scramble to a book on powers, flipping through its pages with shaking hands. What kind of magic do I have? I’m still poring over the text when Zair strolls into our nook about thirty minutes later. His grin is smug, the kind that immediately puts me on edge. He must have decided to wait to torture me in person.

“Hey, Perv. You enjoy the show?” he asks, his voice teasing as heat rises to my cheeks at the memory of his naked ass.

“I really hate you,” I mutter.

“Did you know you can astral project?” he asks, almost too casually.

“No. I was meditating, and then got distracted wondering if you were done so I could ask you to bring me dinner, and next thing I know, I’m getting an eyeful of—”

“My sexy ass?” he offers, a smirk dancing on his lips. “Or did you get the full show?”

“Seriously, I hate you,” I deadpan, but my cheeks are traitorously warm. “Just your hairy ass.”

He laughs, not mocking, just — stupidly delighted.

Then I frown, realization dawning. “Wait. How could you see me? I thought if it was astral projection, you shouldn’t have been able to.”

His smile falters for half a second. “Guess you’re too powerful to ignore,” he says, way too fast, brushing it off.

“I don’t think—”

“How about I take you out for dinner? Make up for it?” he offers, grabbing my bag before I can protest.

I narrow my eyes. “I see you naked, and now you’re buying me dinner. Isn’t this a little backward?”

His laugh is easy, carefree. “Hey, I’m a gentleman like that.”

Despite myself, I follow him out. He drives us off-campus to a cozy restaurant, far from all the drama of the day and even with the lingering embarrassment, the evening is unexpectedly enjoyable.

Anita

Mother Knows Best

The laughter follows me everywhere. I can’t escape the jokes and mocking. I used to be loved, respected, and feared. Now I hear whispers of ‘blue-haired babies’ or ‘let me love you’ in mocking tones.