Page 147 of Echoes of the Banshee

“What’s with the tally marks?” I ask, trying to sound casual, though I know I’m failing to hide my curiosity. She looks at the marks, her face going blank for a moment, as if she’s deciding how much to share.

Then, with a soft shake of her head, she answers, “Just a reminder.” Her voice distant, as if she’s already closed herself off from whatever they represent. It’s as though she’s telling me everything without telling me anything. I want to press, to ask her what they mean, but I can see now’s not the time.

My job tonight is to pull her out of her head, not shove her back in. By the time the last frame rolls around, Thea is her usual self, her competitive spirit in full swing. She’s laying it on thick, boasting that witches are definitely better bowlers. I’m pretty sure Dylan let her win, though. Seriously, a werewolf with four gutter balls?

When I drop her off, she pulls me into a hug. It’s the first time I’ve seen her so relaxed all evening.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, slowly pulling away.

“For what?”

“Being you.” It’s so simple, but means everything.

She kisses my cheek, just once. It’s soft and almost nothing, but somehow it wrecks me in the way only she can. Before I can recover she’s gone.

She calls and wakes me early the next morning to ask if I want to spar.

I agree, and stop by her dorm on the way to Otherfell.

She seems lost in thought, her steps a little slower, and her silence heavier.

I let her wander, matching her pace as we head to the field where we usually spar.

“No Mavrik today?” I ask, glancing over at her.

She shakes her head. “No. I—” She hesitates, then squares her shoulders. “I want to try something. And… I think you’re the only one who can help me.”

I nod immediately.

She takes a breath, and I can see the weight of whatever she’s about to say pressing on her.

“The reason I’ve been so… shut off this past week is that…” She trails off, struggling.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” I tell her, meaning it.

She gives me a lopsided smile, like she’s grateful but still determined to say it anyway.

“So you know I’m in Misfits. But I couldn’t figure out what type of magic I had. It doesn’t fit in any box. But Monday, I found the box.” She pauses, steadying herself. “I think I have soul magic.”

My brain stutters. I can’t quite process what I just heard. Not just what she said, but by the fact that she trusted me enough to say it.

“Okay,” I say simply, because anything more would feel wrong. And because it is okay.

She watches me for a moment, searching for something. Waiting, maybe, for me to recoil or jerk away. When I don’t, she nods to herself, satisfied.

“I found a book on soul magic, it explains if I put my hand on someone’s chest I can call for their soul, I think that’s what happened at the party with Ethan, I felt his emotions when I touched his chest.” She takes a deep breath and I feel a moment of panic, knowing what she’s about to say.

“The test is one hundred percent up to you,” she says carefully. “You can tell me to go to hell and never ask again. I’ll get it, no hard feelings.”

“You can,” I say, voice steady. “I trust you.”

“Really?” Her expression makes it obvious she hadn’t expected me to agree.

“Yes. One hundred percent,” I say, the brief moment of fear already forgotten.

She doesn’t know she can’t accidentally take my soul. Banshee souls hang on tight; we have to, or we might end up ripping ourselves apart.

She has no idea that I’m the perfect person for the job.