Page 58 of Echoes of the Banshee

“Have you ever tried talking to her?” I ask. “You’d get it if you did.”

Disbelieving laughter rings out, but I don’t let it bother me.

“I’m with Zair on this one,” Bernard pipes up. “She not only roasted Ethan in Combat, but she verbally annihilated Wesley Dean last week. I don’t think he’s shown his face since.”

Despite myself, I smile. The way she didn’t raise her voice, took him apart, line by line, like she’d been waiting her whole life to shut someone like him up.

Marco raises a brow. “That’s just a rumor. I’ll believe that when I see it.”

I kick his chair just enough to jolt him, and he laughs like I proved his point. I fake a laugh and go quiet, letting them think whatever they want. She can take them. I hope I’m there to see it. I notice a real smile creep up as I pack up my things and head to potions. The butterflies in my stomach are definitely because I ate something funny.

The classroom is filled with a familiar mix of herbs, bubbling cauldrons, and the low murmur of students already finding their seats. Since our regular teacher, Professor Smith, got back, Potions has been uneventful. She seems to like Thea and doesn’t give her a hard time like Sinclair did. I don’t even bother pretending that I’m debating where to sit and head straight to the empty seat I’ve taken every class since we met.

Lillian tries to block my path but I simply sidestep her. It’s like some weird, unspoken competition between the girls to see who can get closest. My refusal to date witches has only made me a bigger target. Like I’m some kind of trophy, and that’s about as appealing as being the last piece of meat on a butcher’s counter.

I’ll never sleep with one of them. Not unless I’m drunk enough to forget. But I’m Irish and can hold my liquor. But Thea… she’s different. She’s the only one who even makes me consider dating a witch. Something about her doesn’t feel like all the others.

Unfortunately she doesn’t see me that way. Or maybe herself. It’s hard to tell sometimes. Last night, while I was just trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m sitting there pining for this girl who may have a boyfriend, she somehow took my silence as proof that I think no one could love her. Hell, she thinks I only flirt with her because she’s unlovable. What the hell has happened to this girl?

When I plop down beside her, she keeps writing her notes. Like I don’t matter.

“Still hate me?” she asks, without looking up.

“Why would I?” Then, remembering this morning. “Actually, yes. That was the most undignified I’ve ever looked.”

“I’m sure your O-face is less dignified,” she jokes, and I can’t help the snort and smile that spreads across my face.

“Wanna see? You know, to compare,” I joke back, and the brief exchange leaves a warmth spreading through me. At first I liked that she didn’t fall for my charm. Now I’m wishing she knew it was always real. Accidental, honest.

“As long as I get it on video,” she plays along. Because she thinks that we’re playing. “And you’ll have to recreate the coffee snort. Scientific purposes, of course.”

Our banter continues effortlessly until class begins, and we dive into the task at hand. Today’s potion allows you to relive a specific moment, replaying it in your dreams as though it’s happening in real time, every sight and sound vivid and sharp.

Thea seems especially invested. At the end of class, when it’s time to finish up I start packing up my things.

“You can have mine too,” I offer without much thought. “If you tell me what you’re itching to see.”

“Just my time in jail.” Her lips curling into a smirk. But there’s something about the way she says it, almost too casually that makes me wonder if she’s not joking. Her eyes shine a little too brightly, her voice a touch too eager, as though she’s relishing the idea of replaying that moment, no matter how flippant she sounds.

“Well, as long as it isn’t to review past notes,” I say, handing it over with a shrug. “Or to remember that time you got the perfectly sharpened pencil.”

“Ah, the perfectly sharpened pencil, what dreams are made of.”

We head out of the classroom, making our way down the corridor to Spiritborne History. Halfway there, Mavrik falls into step beside us.

“How was Runes?” Thea asks him.

Mavrik’s usual smirk creeps onto his face. “I read that Spiritborne History is going to be the most boring class today.”

Thea cocks an eyebrow. “Calculus this morning was like watching paint dry. I saw you pull your cuddly little shadows around you and nap through the whole thing.”

Mavrik laughs. “And here I thought I’d been sneaky,” he says, clearly unrepentant.

I can’t help but notice how much Mavrik relaxes when he’s with Thea. It’s like he’s a completely different person. Most people look at his magic like it’s cursed; something dangerous. But Thea doesn’t see the shadows as twisted or unnatural. When they’re together, I’ve noticed the shadows clinging to her too and she never seems bothered. Hell, she even calls them ‘cuddly little shadows.’ The way she accepts Mavrik’s shadows, I wonder… could she accept me being a banshee? What would she call my wail? My dreamy wails, my screaming serenade. I nearly laugh aloud at the idea.

I glance at Mavrik, something stirring inside me: a brief, odd sense of empathy. I know what it’s like to be harassed, to be sought after for all the wrong reasons. But Mavrik has it worse. No one wants a thing to do with him, and that loneliness seems to follow him everywhere. I can’t help but think that if anyone knew I was a banshee, my fate would mirror his. As much as I hate the superficial attention I get, I don’t think I could handle being an outsider like he is.

We enter the class and Mavrik takes a seat beside her. I look to my usual seat, then sit on her other side.