Page 159 of Echoes of the Banshee

I give him a sidelong glance.

“Honestly, I don’t think either of us fits the human bill. Looks like we’re both monsters.”

He laughs weakly, his chest rising and falling with the effort. “More than just monsters, Thea. But, yeah, sometimes we’re seen as that. We’re… practical, I guess. Not much into philosophy or the finer things. We don’t have the luxury of overthinking.”

“Ah, so no Sherlock Holmes-type detective work for you then?” I ask, smirking.

He shakes his head.

“Not unless it involves tracking down something valuable. And even then, it’s all about the payoff, not the process.”

I work at the cuff a little more, feeling the pressure of time, but I can’t help but wonder.

“What makes goblins so… practical? Witches are so impractical it’s absurd.”

He pauses for a moment, as if thinking it over.

“Survival. We’re survivors. We don’t waste time trying to figure out why things happen. We just get through them.” He looks up at me, his eyes focused.

I nod slowly.

“Survival, huh? I feel like that’s all I’m doing some days too,” I admit. “But I’ve seen some of your crafting projects and designs, you’re super creative, so it can’t just be survival.”

“Art’s not about feelings. It’s just pretty,” Benson tells me.

“Like hell it isn’t. What? Van Gogh just had an astigmatism when he painted Starry Night?“ I ask, raising an eyebrow and holding my ground.

Benson’s laughter breaks through the tension, genuine, a bit breathless.

“Alright, alright,” he says, grinning weakly. “You got me there. I guess there’s more to it than putting pieces together.”

I grin, feeling a little lighter. “See? Even goblins can be poets under the right circumstances.”

He shakes his head, but there’s something warmer in his expression now.

“You really think so?”

“I do. It’s not just about surviving, Benson. It’s about living too.”

Benson reaches out, his hand curling around my wrist in a gesture of camaraderie as I work on the cuff.

“You need to get out and live too, Thea. Not just read about life in books.”

His fingers brush against the brand, and an icy jolt zips through me. I’d almost forgotten about it: the scythe brand. The illusion that usually covers it has faded along with the rest of my magic.

“Weird. It’s like one spot’s colder than the rest.” he says quietly, flipping my hand over in the dim light. His fingers trace the brand.

“It’s nothing.” I try to pull away, but his goblin-strength grip, even with his drained magic, holds firm.

“What’s this?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes focus intently on my wrist. “You died?”

I feel his gaze move up to meet mine, locking onto my eyes. The weight of his question settles deep in my chest, making it harder to breathe. I want to lie, but the truth is already on display in front of him.

“Yes,” I concede.

“I thought the scythe brand was a myth,” he murmurs, staring at me like he’s seeing a legend come to life.

The steady tread of boots echoes down the hallway, unhurried and sure. Benson immediately drops my hand. His eyes promise this conversation isn’t over as he moves away.