Page 8 of Echoes of the Banshee

“Alright,” she accepts with a nod. “I’ll process these changes and update your schedule. You’ll receive a notification within the hour. Be prepared to catch up on the coursework you’ve missed.”

“Thank you,” I say, standing. “That’s all I needed.”

As I leave the office, my new schedule feels like a step in the right direction. While I’m not sure why I’d be placed in Misfit Magic, I’ll trust that it’s better than Illusions.

The rumbling in my stomach feels strange. It had stopped complaining in the dungeon. They pushed me to the edge of starvation more than once. Normal hunger is foreign. As I move through the cafeteria line, the sheer variety of food laid out before me is overwhelming. I can’t believe I ever chose not to eat. There’s everything I once avoided: pastries, oatmeal, crispy hash browns, and now, I want them all. Hunger almost dictates my choice, ready to pile everything onto my plate, but then I spot them: the waffles.

My pulse quickens. Recognition stirs deep within me. Without thinking, I cut through the line, moving straight toward the towering stack. Everything else fades into the background. I load two up with strawberries and whipped cream, the toppings only adding to the ache in my chest. For a moment, nothing else matters. Lazlo always talked about food. Like he was afraid if he stopped, he might forget what it tasted like.

God, he made me laugh. I miss him already, and it’s only been a few hours.

And now, here I am, sitting in the cafeteria with a waffle, hoping, against all logic, that somehow, he’d feel me. That eating what he loves might bridge the distance between us, pull him to me from wherever he is, even though I know how absurd that sounds. He’s somewhere in this school. I can’t stop the desperate hope that this simple breakfast will be the thing that calls him to me.

I try to picture him walking up to me, introducing himself with that calm, accented voice I remember from the dungeon. My gaze skitters across the room, from face to face, hoping for some sign. But every face I pass seems to blur, and the hope inside me flickers, faltering. They’re all wrong, too familiar, too foreign. Maybe he’s not here. Maybe I’m just chasing the echoes of my banshee. The thought cuts deeper than I want to admit.

I grab my fork, taking a bite. My taste buds savor the sweetness until Anita’s voice slashes through the fantasy like a blade.

“Are you sure you want to eat that, Adora?”

Her voice is sweeter than the waffles, but it’s thick with poison. I swallow, the waffle sticking to the roof of my mouth.

“It’s Thea,” I correct her, my voice flat. “And I’m positive.”

She slides into the seat directly across from me, her perfectly styled blonde hair falling into place around her face. Mavis and Sloane settle into the seats beside her, flanking her like backup dancers.

“You’re brave,” she says lightly, her eyes flicking to my plate. “It’s just… after the summer, I thought you’d want to, you know, watch it.”

Ah, there it is. The veiled insult, her favorite game.

“I’d watch the waffles, but they wouldn’t taste nearly as good,” I reply. “But, you’re welcome to enjoy them vicariously.”

Her brows lift slightly, the kind of micro-expression most people wouldn’t catch. “Hmm. Maybe. Or maybe you’re just… a little depressed?” She leans in, her voice laced with mock concern. “Breakups can be tough. It’s natural to comfort yourself with food.”

Who dumped me recently? That nightblind Rob? No. Maybe Ethan? I stab my waffle aggressively, shoving the last bite into my mouth and chewing slowly, letting myself swallow before responding. “Or maybe, I’m just hungry.”

“Maybe I’d believe that, but you look like a shifter.” She tilts her head, her smile sharpening. “What even are you wearing? You can’t sit with us looking like that.”

“You sat with me.” I stand, taking my tray with me. Thankful that I survived my first encounter.

“Careful with those carbs, Adora!” Anita says with a grin. Once, I might’ve thought it was sisterly teasing, but sisters don’t lock you in a dungeon or try to steal your soul. At least, most don’t. I start walking, stepping out of the tension as I head to my first class. Calculus. I slip into the lecture hall ten minutes early and snag one of the coveted seats by the door. It feels like muscle memory as I pull out my notebook, sharpen my pencil, and try to settle in and review my notes.

Or, at least, that’s the plan. No sooner do I start than a shadow sweeps over the pages, darker than the others, lingering just a little too long. My eyes dart instinctively upward.

Mavrik. The only witch I’ve ever met with an affinity for shadows.

I track the shadow back to its owner. There he is, tucked away in the corner seat. His black leather jacket seems to absorb the light, the shadows clinging to him in a way that makes him almost invisible, unless you’re looking for him.

His eyes flick open, locking onto mine. Shit. I realize I’ve been staring, not just staring, gawking. Heat floods my face, and my heart stutters in my chest. I try to smile, but it feels more like a grimace than anything resembling grace. Did that look alright? I have no idea. Probably not. I don’t know why I’m so nervous.

Could he be Lazarus? A banshee who controls shadows? It makes sense. It would explain why he never told me what kind of magic he had. It would’ve been obvious.

I mentally short-list him for Lazlo. Not to stereotype, but the guy hiding in the back in all black practically screams banshee.

I giggle at my own pun. Shit. He’s still watching me. Amusement dancing on his face. My gaze snaps to my notebook, heart pounding way too hard for no good reason. Focus. Focus.

I’ve never been so thankful for calculus. The professor starts speaking, and I slip into the rhythm of the lesson like a long-lost friend, the familiar structure of numbers and equations grounding me.

Class ends before I understand anything, and I gather my things, slipping out to head to English. As I make my way down the hall, I feel it, the weight of someone’s gaze. I glance back, and there’s a green-haired goblin watching me. His eyes aren’t curious; they’re... studying.