Page 12 of Echoes of the Banshee

I choke on my breath, eyes widening as Sinclair turns a violent shade of purple. His face twitches, anger and embarrassment flashing across it, almost dizzying. He’s about to blow, and I can’t decide whether to enjoy the show or get out of the blast radius. For a second, I wonder what she has on him but before I can finish the thought, he clamps down hard on whatever explosion was about to happen.

I’m not sure if I should be worried or impressed by his restraint.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing, my gaze shifting to Thea. Her face is a perfect mask of indifference. She’s dangerous. I shouldn’t like that. I do.

Sinclair pulls himself together, refocusing on me. “Zair,” he says, his voice low and coaxing. “Don’t let a partnership like this drag you down. I can pair you with someone better.”

“And Thea?” I ask, unsure why I’m even pushing this, but not willing to let it slide.

“She’ll do fine on her own,” he spits out, clearly not thrilled with my answer.

“If she can handle the lab on her own, then why do I need a different partner?” I ask before I can stop myself. My voice comes out more defiant than I intended. She might be a bad influence on me. I can’t bring myself to care.

Sinclair’s expression hardens, and he gives Thea a look, one that’s more disgusted than anything. It’s clear he wants to shift the blame onto her, but there’s nothing left for him to say. He falters for a moment, then sighs with a dismissive flick of his hand.

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t offer you a chance.”

He leaves without another word. Thea finally looks at me, her eyes assessing, like she’s reading something in me I can’t quite follow. Then, like we hadn’t been interrupted, she moves to the next step of the potion.

I can’t do that.

“Why did he call you Adora?” The question is out before I think it through.

“Why didn’t you switch?” she counters, her gaze sharp, challenging.

I feel the weight of her question. I give her a half-smile. “Because I haven’t gotten my inch yet,” I reply. “If I leave now, I’ll forever be inchless.”

She studies me for a moment. Then to my surprise she offers a small, almost approving smile, as if I’ve passed some unspoken test.

“My name is Theadora,” she says. The name hits me like a wave of déjà vu, stirring something deep inside, like a forgotten memory trying to break free. “Adora… well, that was a different me.” She pauses for a beat, her expression guarded, before adding, “Let’s just say, I don’t need that name anymore.”

“Well then, Thea,” I say, letting her name settle between us. “What’s next?”

Over the next hour, we settle into a quiet rhythm. Thea moves with precision. She’s completely in her element, and I find myself falling into step with her. We move together through the potion’s steps without a hitch.

Her phone buzzes on the desk. She ignores it.

The phone vibrates again. She silences it. I peek at it, surprised to see ‘Sister’ flashing across the screen. The third time it rings, she answers.

“I’m in class,” she says, voice flat, emotionless. There’s a pause. “No, do it yourself.”

She returns to her notes like nothing happened.

“Does your sister go to school here?” The question slips out before I can stop it, and I instantly regret it. I already feel the awkwardness settling in. What’s wrong with me today?

“I don’t have a sister,” she says, her voice tinged with bitterness. She doesn’t even look up from her work. When the phone rings again, she lets it buzz for a moment before growling under her breath and tossing it into her bag at her feet.

I raise an eyebrow that she ignores as thoroughly as the phone.

“Just set alarms. Five-minute intervals. Please,” she mutters.

She flips a page in her notebook like the whole thing never happened.

Zair

Flirting with Disaster

Thea is definitely not giving me an easy A, but I’m pretty certain it will be one. She’s explaining to me the importance of each ingredient, distilling the book into clean, clinical bullet points. It’s the most I’ve ever learned about a potion, that’s for sure. I place my hand on the back of her seat as we work, so close we’re almost touching. But I can’t help myself. It’s not her broken soul pulling me in this time. It’s the way she carries herself, all sharp edges and cold confidence.