5. Zair
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.
Have I met her before? Maybe at a party, a night blurred out by noise and bad decisions. But no. I’d remember those green eyes.
They’re unforgettable. She’s not new. How the hell have I never seen her before?
I force a laugh, smoothing over the crack she left in my composure. “You’re sharp. I like that.”
“Careful,” she says. One corner of her mouth twitches into a faint smirk. “You might cut yourself trying to keep up.”
I roll my lip ring with my teeth and laugh again, this time genuinely.
“Bold of you to assume I’d try.”
“Oh, you’re trying, all right,” she replies, still focused on her notebook. “The effort’s just… not impressive.”
Her tone is dry and deliberate, the kind of teasing that dares you to rise to it. But there’s something else underneath it. Something unfiltered, untamed.
“Fair play,” I say, grinning despite myself.
Her eyes jerk to me, like what I said strikes a chord. Shit. That slipped out. My charm hides my accent, not my idioms. Americans say touché.
“You’re really good at first impressions.” I try to play it off.
She shakes her head. “Thanks. It’s all about setting the bar low for the second one.”
“You don’t give anyone an inch, do you?”
“Not unless they earn it,” she says with a pointed look, holding her fingers together to emphasize how little I have. “And you’re still at zero inches.” But she’s looking at me. And somehow, even at zero inches, it feels like I’ve scored a point.
I laugh, leaning forward slightly. “Good to know. Guess I’ll have to work on that.”
She smirks, already turning back to her notebook. “Like I said. Impressive effort. Results? Still pending.” It’s the most fun I’ve had in a conversation in weeks. Maybe even months. And for the first time all day, the scream in my head is quiet.
The teacher calls the class to attention. Sinclair, the substitute for today, stands at the front of the room, his eyes sweeping the class as he explains the day’s potion, a draft for dreamless sleep. I barely pay attention, already zoning out on the details.
I let my eyes drift over her again. She’s short, maybe curvy.
It’s hard to tell beneath the baggy school sweater and faded jeans.
Her dark hair’s pulled into a loose braid down her back, and when she turns slightly to grab something from her bag, I catch a glimpse of her face.
There’s a small scar through one eyebrow, a pale line that breaks the symmetry. Why hasn’t she hidden it?
Around her, the other witches look like they’re ready for a photoshoot, tailored blazers, sleek dresses, heels sharp enough to kill.
All witches are beautiful. That’s part of the problem.
They’re too perfect — full makeup, glamoured skin, voices tuned to charm.
It stops registering after a while. But her?
Is she naturally beautiful, or just better at faking natural? I need to know if her eyes are real.
I shouldn’t.
But I do.
I lean in slightly, to check. To catch the scent of an illusion.
Her smell smacks me upside the head.
It’s not just any fragrance. It’s the perfume of death. Not the still, silent kind that clings to a corpse, but something deeper. Something broken. The death of a soul.
Her soul lights up without me meaning to, a pulse of light that flares as my magic brushes against it. I try to look away, but it’s like I can’t. My banshee instincts grab hold of me, dragging my gaze toward her, forcing me to confront the ruin in front of me.
It’s a battlefield, shredded and scorched.
The edges aren’t just frayed. They’re torn wide open, jagged and uneven.
Like someone ripped it free and carelessly shoved it back into place.
At the center, I see a void. A hollow space where everything vital should be.
It should hum, pulse, but hers flickers like a dying flame.
I’ve never seen anything like this. It feels wrong on every level. This isn’t damage.
This is mutilation.
The only light comes from a soul shard, as if the remnants of her being are clinging to it out of sheer desperation. It’s the only thing anchoring her to this world, a defiant ember fighting to survive in the wreckage.
I take another breath, wrinkling my nose at the scent. It clings to me, wrapping around me like a second skin. It’s suffocating. Familiar. I want to turn away. I should turn away.
But I don’t. I can’t.
“What? Do I need a shower?” she asks, light and unconcerned. She has no idea the chaos she’s stirring in me. I look around and realize the other students are starting their labs.
“No, it’s… it’s just… you smell weird.” The words fall out before I can stop them, and regret hits instantly. Bloody brilliant. Have I never spoken to a woman before? I should have kept that to myself. Too late now.
“Neat,” she deadpans, like I haven’t said the strangest thing imaginable. “Well, if my stink doesn’t bother you too much, we need to start this potion.”
The potion? That’s what she’s worried about? How is she alive?
“Get the fire going,” she orders as she takes off her sweater and sets to work. Without thinking, I follow. Grab the flint. Strike it. The flame bursts to life in front of me.
“Add the crushed dragonroot. One pinch,” she instructs, her voice steady.
I do it without hesitation, like I don’t have a choice. It’s automatic.
She’s calm. Too calm. Like nothing can touch her. Does she know her soul is barely holding on?
“Keep up,” she says. “Timing matters.”
I don’t question her. I move, caught in her rhythm, swept along like I’ve been pulled into some current I can’t fight.
She’s adding the moonwort when Professor Sinclair starts making rounds. Thea looks up and sees him coming towards us. She slides the procedure sheet toward me with one hand without stopping her work. All her thorough notes detailed out with careful precision.
“Don’t forget, the rosemary goes in by intervals. Not all at once,” she murmurs. Then, almost as an afterthought, “And don’t sit with Sloane and Lillian. Mila and Anna are better.”
I frown, puzzled, but she doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t look at me.
I don’t even know a Mila.
My gaze darts around, and sure enough, Sloane and Lillian are working together. And that must be Mila. Okay. But why the hell is she telling me where to sit, when I’m already sitting with her?
The air shifts, thickens, the moment Professor Sinclair steps into our space.
“Mr. Brennan,” he says, his tone desperately warm, like a smile pulled too tight. “How are you today?”
“Doing good, sir,” I reply automatically.
Sinclair’s saying something about soccer. I toss out the same line I always do. It seems to satisfy him. But then his gaze slides to Thea, who’s still working like we aren’t even there.
“Zair,” he says, voice dipping lower. “I know it’s open seating, but if you arrived late and couldn’t find another spot, I can always add you to a group. Make it a three.”
He gives me a fucking wink.
I blink, thrown. “Excuse me?”
That false smile stretches wider. “Why don’t you work with Lillian and Sloane? They’d be excellent partners. You could keep your attention on more pressing matters.”
The way he says it makes my skin crawl. I can’t tell if he’s pushing me toward stronger witches or dangling an easy grade for the team. Either way, it leaves a bitter taste.
“I have a partner,” I say, nodding toward Thea. My voice is steady, but my pulse isn’t.
His eyes flick to her, something unreadable flashing in them. “Adora,” he says, the name sounding like rot. “How’s your mother?”
“Dead,” she replies, flat and final. “And I go by Thea.”
Sinclair’s smile falters and his color drains. “Still holding on to all that bitterness?” he sneers, his tone now stripped of any pleasantries. “I meant your high priestess, Vivien.”
“She’s your high priestess, too,” Thea replies, cool as ice. “Do you call her Mommy?”
I choke on my breath, eyes widening as Sinclair turns a violent shade of purple.
His face twitches, anger and embarrassment flashing across it, almost dizzying.
He’s about to blow, and I can’t decide whether to enjoy the show or get out of the blast radius.
For a second, I wonder what she has on him but before I can finish the thought, he clamps down hard on whatever explosion was about to happen.
I’m not sure if I should be worried or impressed by his restraint.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, my gaze shifting to Thea. Her face is a perfect mask of indifference. She’s dangerous. I shouldn’t like that. I do.
Sinclair pulls himself together, refocusing on me. “Zair,” he says, his voice low and coaxing. “Don’t let a partnership like this drag you down. I can pair you with someone better.”
“And Thea?” I ask, unsure why I’m even pushing this, but not willing to let it slide.
“She’ll do fine on her own,” he spits out, clearly not thrilled with my answer.
“If she can handle the lab on her own, then why do I need a different partner?” I ask before I can stop myself. My voice comes out more defiant than I intended. She might be a bad influence on me. I can’t bring myself to care.
Sinclair’s expression hardens, and he gives Thea a look, one that’s more disgusted than anything. It’s clear he wants to shift the blame onto her, but there’s nothing left for him to say. He falters for a moment, then sighs with a dismissive flick of his hand.
“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t offer you a chance.”
He leaves without another word. Thea finally looks at me, her eyes assessing, like she’s reading something in me I can’t quite follow. Then, like we hadn’t been interrupted, she moves to the next step of the potion.
I can’t do that.
“Why did he call you Adora?” The question is out before I think it through.
“Why didn’t you switch?” she counters, her gaze sharp, challenging.
I feel the weight of her question. I give her a half-smile. “Because I haven’t gotten my inch yet,” I reply. “If I leave now, I’ll forever be inchless.”
She studies me for a moment. Then to my surprise she offers a small, almost approving smile, as if I’ve passed some unspoken test.
“My name is Theadora,” she says. The name hits me like a wave of déjà vu, stirring something deep inside, like a forgotten memory trying to break free.
“Adora… well, that was a different me.” She pauses for a beat, her expression guarded, before adding, “Let’s just say, I don’t need that name anymore. ”
“Well then, Thea,” I say, letting her name settle between us. “What’s next?”
Over the next hour, we settle into a quiet rhythm. Thea moves with precision. She’s completely in her element, and I find myself falling into step with her. We move together through the potion’s steps without a hitch.
Her phone buzzes on the desk. She ignores it.
The phone vibrates again. She silences it. I peek at it, surprised to see ‘Sister’ flashing across the screen. The third time it rings, she answers.
“I’m in class,” she says, voice flat, emotionless. There’s a pause. “No, do it yourself.”
She returns to her notes like nothing happened.
“Does your sister go to school here?” The question slips out before I can stop it, and I instantly regret it. I already feel the awkwardness settling in. What’s wrong with me today?
“I don’t have a sister,” she says, her voice tinged with bitterness. She doesn’t even look up from her work. When the phone rings again, she lets it buzz for a moment before growling under her breath and tossing it into her bag at her feet.
I raise an eyebrow that she ignores as thoroughly as the phone.
“Just set alarms. Five-minute intervals. Please,” she mutters.
She flips a page in her notebook like the whole thing never happened.