Page 139 of Echoes of the Banshee

Thea:

It will wash away when he showers.

I catch Dylan and damn he stinks. I drag him to the locker room and sure enough as soon as we step inside it disappears.

“I’m gonna get her back.”

Benson snorts. “You try and she’ll get you ten times worse.”

Dylan starts to argue then stops himself. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing.”

We laugh as we head into the showers. Wash away the sweat and dirt of the match, but not what followed. Benson and Dylan have been my closest friends for two and a half years now. Today, for the first time, it felt like I didn’t have to keep one foot out the door.

Thea

Turns Out, I have No Idea what I’m Doing

My Sunday is gone. I spent the morning at the game, and then the guys didn’t let me escape all afternoon, dragging me from one mandatory event to the next. When I finally make it to my nook on Monday afternoon, I curl up with a dusty book in my favorite green chair, flipping through it for anything that might explain what I can do.

Good elemental control.

Astral projection.

Touching emotions? Was that what happened with Ethan?

Then I see it.

The words are there, staring at me. Blinding. Branding.

I’m so fucked.

Soul Magic is a rare and ancient discipline concerned with the direct interaction with and manipulation of the soul: The aetheric essence believed to constitute the true self of all sentient beings. Practitioners are said to possess the capacity to perceive and make contact with souls, discerning their emotional tenor and spiritual resonance. They are also reported to possess the ability to project their own essence beyond the corporeal shell without the use of an Astral Draught. Whether through accident or intent, a practitioner may separate a soul from the body, leaving the victim in a state worse than death.

The Briarhold Conventions held that no type of magic is inherently evil, and soul magic practitioners were historically protected under this doctrine. However, no practitioners have been formally recorded in more than three centuries, leading many scholars to consider the discipline fabled rather than extinct.

No.

This can’t be real.

My hands are shaking as I slam the book shut.

I leave the nook, practically sprinting, and shove the book back on the shelf where it came from as if shelving it properly will undo what I just read. As if putting it away will make it untrue.

Soul magic.

The words echo, sick and relentless, pounding against the inside of my skull. I can’t make sense of it. I can’t make it fit.

I walk, the world around me warping at the edges. I suck in a breath, trying to steady myself, but it’s no use.

I can’t stop the spiral once it starts.

What does it mean?

Is that why they cuffed me, silenced me, and chained me like a dangerous animal?

Was I always dangerous? Was I born wrong?

Is that why I came back?