Page 148 of Echoes of the Banshee

And she’s terrified. If she has soul magic she’ll need to learn to control this. It’s lucky she didn’t accidentally take Ethan’s at the party. No wonder she was so on edge.

“You’re really serious,” she says slowly. “I thought you’d tell me to fuck off.”

I step forward with decisiveness, gently take her hand, and place it flat against my chest.

“Let me know if it’s as pretty as I am,” I murmur and I see her scoff. I smile and close my eyes.

I feel it the instant she reaches for me.

A soft, electric pulse as her magic brushes against mine.

My soul hums under her touch, reaching toward her with longing.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, voice full of awe. “It’s beautiful.”

A memory flashes: the first time I ever saw a soul, glowing and alive and impossible to forget.

And now, somehow, she’s the one seeing mine.

I feel her let go, slow and careful.

I open my eyes and watch her face.

Wide-eyed wonder, disbelief, pride.

Hell.

I’d let her reap my soul if that was the last thing I saw.

“I did it,” she says, glowing. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m perfect,” I tell her, meaning it. “Do you want to try again?”

“Let’s not tempt fate and keep your soul where it belongs,” she jokes, giving me a crooked smile.

“Well, now that that’s confirmed, I guess I know why I have astral projection,” she says, glancing at me. “Since you seem to be able to see me — I was hoping you could help.”

The silent deal descends between us: I won’t ask what all she can do, and she won’t ask why I can see her astral form.

I nod in agreement.

She drops onto the field and crosses her legs, ready to work. I flop down beside her. We practice for an hour before we spot other students approaching in the distance. So we switch to normal sparring.

The next morning before combat, we do it all over again.

And the next.

And the next.

Every day this week we meet and practice before combat class.

The fear lingers, but she refuses to bow to it.

Friday morning, she’s running late and she asks me to wait while she finishes getting ready. Sixty-one tallies now. She is counting days. Why does it feel so fateful, like it’s something I should understand? It feels right on the edge of my consciousness.

Thea

Is This the Part Where I’m Supposed to Scream?