Page 7 of Echoes of the Banshee

I head into my dorm room and stare around at this home that doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. The clothes that are little lies of who Adora was.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, a small, insistent sound that drags me from the edge of whatever spiral I was about to fall into. I grab it without thinking, fingers clumsy and cold as I fail to unlock the screen.

What the hell is my PIN? Fingerprint still works.

The GhostChat notifications blur past. Then I see the date. September 14th.

No.

They took me over winter break. Was I in the dungeon nine months?

No. The year. I already lived this day.

So was it a premonition? I’ve never had one before.

I examine the room like it holds the answers.

As if sensing the question, the scythe on my wrist tingles.

Thea

Dead Girl Walking (to Math Class)

Today feels like a cruel joke. I return from the dead and still have to go to school. I drag myself through the motions, including the first shower I’ve had in months. My body might be clean, but I’m not. I’m still trying to scrub off blood, smoke, and memory.

Before I get dressed, I run my thumb over the mark on my wrist. I reach for my magic, preparing to struggle with the illusion charm. Instead I overshoot, vanishing my entire arm. Okay, not that much. I dial it in until it looks like nothing’s there. My hand looks strange. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t wearing a shackle. I adjust the illusion, making it look like I’m still wearing the bracelet I destroyed.

My clothes are laid out from yesterday. It’s surreal. I don’t like them. I don’t remember ever choosing them. My whole closet is full of these neat little lies: fitted blouses, skirts that barely let you breathe, shoes you can’t run in. Adora’s wardrobe.

I’m done with pretending. I pull on my favorite baggy jeans and the tee-shirt with a history joke I love, the one I was told was stupid. I grab my bag and slip into my oversized Thornfell sweater. It’s simple, comfortable, and it’s mine.

I inspect my reflection, letting all of the illusions fall away. The face staring back is someone who’s been broken too many times, but still here. Still fighting. I don’t hide any of it.

This is me. Take it or leave it.

After leaving the dorm I stop by the park. The scene before me is perfectly ordinary, as if I hadn’t had a complete meltdown a couple hours ago. I make my way to the spiritborne counselor’s office, discreetly tucked inside the same building as the general student services. To nightblind eyes, those without magic, the door is plain, but for spiritbornes, a subtle shimmering emblem above it marks the space as ours.

Motivational posters line the walls, and behind the desk sits a middle-aged shifter. She looks up from her computer and offers a polite smile. “How can I help you, Miss…?”

“Thea Lockwood,” I reply, taking a seat. “I need to change my schedule. Classes have already started, but…” I’d pulled up my schedule this morning and decided that I needed a change.

She nods, gets my student number, and types it into her computer. “Let me pull up your records. Hmm, it looks like you’re currently on the Illusions track. That’s unusual. Your aptitude tests suggest that you don’t have any affinity for it.”

“That’s why I’m here,” I tell her. “I don’t want to study Illusions. I was placed there by mistake, I think.”

She tilts her head, frowning at whatever she sees. “There’s a note in your file. Magical override. High clearance. It doesn’t say from whom, just ‘Recommend reassignment to Mythic Methods. Placement advised by foresight faculty.’” Her eyes lift to mine. “That’s unusual.”

“Misfit Magic?” I ask, blinking.

“Er—Yes, that’s what the students call it,” she says sheepishly. Probably worried I’ll reject it. “Do you want to try it? We can always switch you back to Illusions or another track if it doesn’t work out, though the foresight faculty is rarely wrong.”

“Yes,” I tell her firmly. “I also want to add a combat class. Something physical. I need more than magic theory.”

She types a bit more, lips quirking as she reads. “Combat Magic has an opening. Open-level, hands-on, and very practical. It meets at five every morning, though. So, I hope you’re a morning person. Does that work for you?”

Not at all.

“Perfect,” I reply.