Page 11 of Echoes of the Banshee

But I don’t. I can’t.

“What? Do I need a shower?” she asks, light and unconcerned. She has no idea the chaos she’s stirring in me. I look around and realize the other students are starting their labs.

“No, it’s… it’s just… you smell weird.” The words fall out before I can stop them, and regret hits instantly. Bloody brilliant. Have I never spoken to a woman before? I should have kept that to myself. Too late now.

“Neat,” she deadpans, like I haven’t said the strangest thing imaginable. “Well, if my stink doesn’t bother you too much, we need to start this potion.”

The potion? That’s what she’s worried about? How is she alive?

“Get the fire going,” she orders as she takes off her sweater and sets to work. Without thinking, I follow. Grab the flint. Strike it. The flame bursts to life in front of me.

“Add the crushed dragonroot. One pinch,” she instructs, her voice steady.

I do it without hesitation, like I don’t have a choice. It’s automatic.

She’s calm. Too calm. Like nothing can touch her. Does she know her soul is barely holding on?

“Keep up,” she says. “Timing matters.”

I don’t question her. I move, caught in her rhythm, swept along like I’ve been pulled into some current I can’t fight.

She’s adding the moonwort when Professor Sinclair starts making rounds. Thea looks up and sees him coming towards us. She slides the procedure sheet toward me with one hand without stopping her work. All her thorough notes detailed out with careful precision.

“Don’t forget, the rosemary goes in by intervals. Not all at once,” she murmurs. Then, almost as an afterthought, “And don’t sit with Sloane and Lillian. Mila and Anna are better.”

I frown, puzzled, but she doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t look at me.

I don’t even know a Mila.

My gaze darts around, and sure enough, Sloane and Lillian are working together. And that must be Mila. Okay. But why the hell is she telling me where to sit, when I’m already sitting with her?

The air shifts, thickens, the moment Professor Sinclair steps into our space.

“Mr. Brennan,” he says, his tone desperately warm, like a smile pulled too tight. “How are you today?”

“Doing good, sir,” I reply automatically.

Sinclair’s saying something about soccer. I toss out the same line I always do. It seems to satisfy him. But then his gaze slides to Thea, who’s still working like we aren’t even there.

“Zair,” he says, voice dipping lower. “I know it’s open seating, but if you arrived late and couldn’t find another spot, I can always add you to a group. Make it a three.”

He gives me a fucking wink.

I blink, thrown. “Excuse me?”

That false smile stretches wider. “Why don’t you work with Lillian and Sloane? They’d be excellent partners. You could keep your attention on more pressing matters.”

The way he says it makes my skin crawl. I can’t tell if he’s pushing me toward stronger witches or dangling an easy grade for the team. Either way, it leaves a bitter taste.

“I have a partner,” I say, nodding toward Thea. My voice is steady, but my pulse isn’t.

His eyes flick to her, something unreadable flashing in them. “Adora,” he says, the name sounding like rot. “How’s your mother?”

“Dead,” she replies, flat and final. “And I go by Thea.”

Sinclair’s smile falters and his color drains. “Still holding on to all that bitterness?” he sneers, his tone now stripped of any pleasantries. “I meant your high priestess, Vivien.”

“She’s your high priestess, too,” Thea replies, cool as ice. “Do you call her Mommy?”