Page 9 of Echoes of the Banshee

Probably plotting my demise.

Fair, I’d hate me too if I was him.

Though I probably hate witches more than he does.

Anita gets mad when I refuse to give her the assignment and I’m sure I will hear about it later, but file it under problems for later me.

The rest of my morning nightblind classes pass by quickly. Thornfell University wears its disguise well. On the surface, it’s your typical Ivy League institution. Pristine facades, academic rigor, and a vigorous admission process. In the mornings, I attend lectures for my degree in pre-law, surrounded by nightblinds, before heading to the secret campus. Technically it’s called the Thornfell Atramentum. But all the students call it Otherfell.

The walk there is laughably anticlimactic. Past the regular library, through a door that looks like campus bureaucracy, and opens into another world entirely. I never get tired of that.

After grabbing lunch, I head to my advanced potions class. The classroom still smells like rosemary and regret. One look at the potion on the board and I grimace. I remember this lab. This is one that Sinclair substituted.

My eyes tear around the class till I find him. His mustache is perfectly villainous. Like he thinks he’s some kind of cowboy. I’ve hated Sinclair for as long as I can remember, and probably even before that. Knowing he had a hand in my death, honestly doesn’t even make me hate him more.

Last time, potions class ended in chaos, courtesy of a group of girls who managed to trigger an explosion so spectacular it left scorch marks on the ceiling, a lingering stench of rotten eggs, and more than a few witches who had to cast illusions to cover up ruined clothes and missing eyebrows. I slip into a seat far from the coming disaster and start my usual pre-class ritual: sharpen my pencil, skim the instructions, and jot quick margin notes. I remember only one group got this lab right last time, so I focus on making a list of all the steps so I don’t screw it up again. The scent of cologne that smells too good to be cheap drifts into my space, immediately followed by someone taking the seat beside me. I glance up briefly and feel a sinking sense of déjà vu.

Zair Brennan.

Of course it’s him. Classically handsome, popular, and armed with too much charm for anyone’s good. His dark hair falls into his eyes enough to be purposeful. His constant smile is somehow enhanced by a lip ring. Strong witch, star forward on the soccer team, all lean muscle and sharp features.

The worst part? This is exactly what happened last time. He started the lab sitting next to me, but didn’t stay long, opting to partner with someone else halfway through. I’d hoped switching seats would avoid this situation entirely, but apparently, fate or time has a cruel sense of humor.

“Hi!” he says, his tone warm and easy, his smile dazzling enough to turn heads. Too bad it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m Zair. Guess I’m your lab partner.”

Perfect. Again.

Zair

The Girl Who Smelled Like Death

I’m already in a foul mood by the time I drag myself to potions class. My headache pounds relentlessly, each throb in sync with the scream that woke me this morning. It feels like the world cracked open in the night and something came pouring out. It’s savage, unrelenting, clawing its way through my thoughts like it wants to tear something loose.

Morning classes blur together as I stumble into the lab, still caught in the haze of my own head. Too many eyes turn to me, hopeful I’ll sit nearby. I give them a nod, another empty smile. It’s all automatic, meaningless. All I want is silence.

My gaze sweeps over the room, searching for someone who won’t bother me. I spot her almost immediately, sitting alone at a table, her head bent over a notebook, pencil moving rapidly. Perfect.

I slide into the seat next to her, and for a second, the quiet settles over me like a balm. She glances at me and lets out an exasperated sigh before refocusing on her notes. Which is good, because I’m staring like an idiot. She has green eyes. Like jade or an emerald, Benson would know what stone. I’ve never seen a witch with eyes that color. I blink, shake it off. Just an illusion. Meant to catch attention. I almost fell for it.

She hasn’t looked back at me. Still focused on her notes like I’m not here. It is refreshing. Most people would already try to start a conversation, ask what I think our chances are for this soccer season, or make a sly promise they won’t tell anyone if I break my no-witches rule with them. Hard pass. I don’t flirt with, kiss, or touch witches.

But this girl? She looks like she’s put out that I’ve sat next to her. Her indifference piques my curiosity more than I’d like to admit.

So, I decide to test the waters. “Hi,” I say, waiting for her to look up. When she finally does, I offer the smile that usually gets the job done.

“I’m Zair. Guess I’m your lab partner.”

“Thea,” she replies like it’s an obligation. Her eyes flick to my face for a moment, scanning me like a report before returning to her notebook. Her pencil never stops moving, like I’ve already failed some unspoken test.

“Stuck with Miss Chatty, I see,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

“Better than Mr. ‘Charming on Command,’” she shoots back without even glancing up.

It lands like an insult. “Excuse me?”

“Your smile doesn’t quite hit the mark,” she says. “It’s like your face got the memo, but your eyes missed the meeting.”

I blink, shocked again by this girl. I’m not used to people reading me like that. Peeling away the surface like they’ve seen the real me before. She isn’t wrong; that smile’s been my armor for as long as I can remember. But now? It feels paper-thin.