Page 158 of Echoes of the Banshee

“I know you hate witches and I should’ve come up with another plan—”

I spin around and look at her in confusion.

“I’m not upset you kissed me.”

“Why?”

“You’re probably the best person I’ve ever met,” I admit. She looks at me and then quirks her lips.

“You are pretty sheltered,” she jokes. I laugh like that’s the truth.

She goes back to the cuff sucking the life out of me.

“What do you think that was about?” Thea asks me.

“Not a clue. Probably not to watch us kiss.”

She giggles.

“No, probably took a few decades off his life with that one.”

“What’s your theory?” I ask, knowing she probably has one and is testing him as much as he’s testing her.

“Still working on it.”

The next time they call for us, I can’t even stand on my own. How am I supposed to protect her when I am so weak?

Thea

Not Crying, Just Laughing in Horrific Pain

They come by and let us use the restroom. Benson can barely stand and I have to hold him while he pees. We’ve reached a new level of friendship. No going back now. Also… okay, fine. Lazlo wasn’t lying. I started that rumor as a joke, but apparently, goblins really are packing.

They bring us some fast-food chicken sandwiches. They aren’t warm and the wrappers say this place doesn’t even open until eleven. So probably already afternoon. I’m basically Sherlock Holmes. I snort despite myself, working on Benson’s cuff.

“What’s so funny?” he asks weakly, eyes closed. He’s had the cuffs on for sixteen hours now, and he’s young. His magical reserves must be dwindling.

“The sandwiches,” I say. “They’re cold.”

“I noticed. Why is that funny?”

“The bag says the place opens at eleven. Means it’s already past noon. So either we slept through the worst of it, or this is the chillest hostage situation of all time.”

He cracks an eye open.

“You seriously read the wrapper?” His tone is dry, amused. “You need a new hobby.”

“What, you think consulting detective isn’t in my wheelhouse?” I shoot back, keeping my tone light. Trying to make it feel normal. Like we aren’t completely screwed.

“Is there such a thing as a consulting detective?”

“That’s literally Sherlock Holmes job, haven’t you read any of his books?” I ask.

“I meant you need a hobby other than reading,” he clarifies.

“You’re a monster!” I say with false bravado that causes a small chuckle. Score.

“Ah, the age-old debate: what are goblins?” he muses, a hint of playfulness in his tone. “We pass as human, but don’t have much in common.”