Page 44 of Echoes of the Banshee

“Is it really veiny?” Thea’s smile is glorious.

He glances around, catching the eyes locked on him. Trying to salvage something, he puffs up.

“Now listen here. You’d be lucky if I wanted you.”

It’s desperate, and everyone knows it.

“If it’s as underwhelming as your personality, I’m not missing much.”

He chokes on a response, face going redder than a hex flare, then spins on his heel and stomps off like a tantruming child denied candy.

I catch the eyes of a few of the guys, Tomo is here, so this story is going to spread like wildfire. Bernard is assessing Thea with new eyes. As the group starts to thin out, I turn to her, curiosity finally getting the better of me.

“What the hell was that?”

She shrugs. “What was what?”

“Nothing,” I say, still laughing, rubbing the corner of my eye. “Just… I didn’t realize you liked me.”

She lifts a brow, the kind of dangerous look that makes my stomach tighten.

I gesture behind us. “If that’s how you treat people you don’t like, I must be your favorite.”

She smirks, slow and lazy, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Then she keeps walking, leaving me trailing behind her, still grinning.

The rest of my day crawls by. No nightblind classes on Fridays. I try to focus on the group project, but it’s hard when I’m the only guy in a group of six. The girls hang on my every word, and I go through the motions: charming smile, practiced laugh, just enough wit to keep the sparkle in their eyes. But it’s like eating air. I used to think this was the point. To be wanted, be watched. To be the guy everyone gravitated toward. When you’re a banshee, you’re either feared or alone. I’ve hidden everything that makes me, me. And now, that feels startlingly empty.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m stuck in some kind of social purgatory. And I know exactly who’s to blame. The green-eyed witch who kicked a man in the balls with just her words this morning. Why is that so damn attractive? Must be the Irish in me.

I’m counting the minutes until lunchtime and it’s not a complete lie that I’ve got somewhere else to be. But lunchtime is no better. All the guy talk is meaningless. Who cares about a shifter who lost her clothes? Is that the most interesting thing that’s happened? The way they’re talking about it would make you think they’d never seen a naked woman before. What shifter hasn’t flashed half their pack?

Lunch blends into healing class, where it’s more of the same. It’s strange, I used to think the spotlight was where I belonged. But now, I’m not so sure.

During crafting Benson says, “Dylan wanted me to remind you of the party tonight.”

“Is it optional?”

“Nope. And it’s Friday night. No studying,” he tells me, his smirk knowing.

“What’s wrong with studying?” I play innocent.

“What’s going on with you and this witch?” he counters.

It’s good it’s hot because I’m sure my cheeks heat up. “You’d love her.” His face is skeptical but I launch into the story from this morning.

“Then bring her tonight,” he suggests.

“Did you not hear the story I told you? She’s rather misanthropic.”

After class, we head to soccer practice. Dylan and Benson don’t give me a chance to escape. Dragging me to a ridiculous party and then disappearing, leaving me to fend for myself. I’ve talked to maybe five people and haven’t said a single meaningful thing before she shows up.

Anita.

The kind of witch that would burn the world down because she was cold, and then expect us to thank her for the warmth. She sidles up to me like she owns the place.

“Hey, Zair,” she purrs. My skin is already itching.

“Hey.” I try to sidestep her, but she’s right there, glued to my side.