4. Thea
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.
“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.
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.