7. Thea
Thea
Note to Self: Never Be Nice Again
This class is as boring as the last time I took it.
I use the time to make a list of all the males in the school who could be a banshee; their powers, and any relevant details I’ve picked up.
Before I start, I cast a charm over the page so no one else can read it.
Just in case. If anyone saw what I was doing, they’d probably think I was looking for someone to help me climb the ladder.
They wouldn’t be entirely wrong. I’m looking for a male witch.
But I don’t care if he’s hot or strong. What matters is that he’s my banshee.
I can feel Zair’s eyes on me throughout Spiritborne History.
I’m not sure why. It’s not like I care. He isn’t my Lazlo.
That much I’m certain of. Sure, his last name is Irish, but Lazlo’s dad was a witch, and male witches usually take their father’s name.
His dad was American. If anything, an Irish surname makes it less likely.
Besides, Zair’s got that smile, that effortless charm, and it’s just too much.
I don’t even write his name in the notebook.
Lazlo wasn’t like that. He never tried so hard to be seen. Lazlo was just… himself.
Though Zair didn’t switch lab partners when given a chance and he called me Thea. That alone is more than I expected of him.
After class, I keep my head down, dodge the cafeteria cliques, and grab something fast to eat.
No interest in lingering. I need quiet, and I know exactly where to find it.
I nearly run to my library, the place I missed most while I was trapped.
Over the last two years, my secret nook there has seen more of me than the rest of the campus combined.
It’s the one place where the world fades away, leaving only me, my books, and a comforting silence. A place I never shared with anyone.
Not even Anita.
I did tell Lazlo. He thought it was criminal that he hadn’t known about the library’s secret nook during the three years he went here. I told him that when we got out, when we came back to finish, I’d show him. I will.
Once I find him.
Pausing in the doorway, I feel a rush of nostalgia.
This place is my sanctuary. It’s technically a study room, but no one else seems to know it’s here.
The trash never gets taken out, and the books on the return cart are never reshelved.
With a small flick of my fingers, I cast an illusion over the doorway.
No one will notice that I’ve made it invisible.
I step inside and just appreciate it. The table in the middle is still littered with my notes, the whiteboard covered in math scribbles from yesterday. Because, technically, I was here yesterday.
The big picture window frames a view of the park, now steeped in dusky shadows as the sun sinks lower. I cross and drop into the green armchair. Closing my eyes, I let the stillness settle around me.
The weight of the dungeon, my death and my rebirth, all of it seems to lift in this space. I want to look into it, to figure out what this mark means, what I’ve become. My phone buzzing interrupts my musings. I groan, already bracing for a message from Vivien or Anita. But the number is unfamiliar.
Thea. Not as good as the ones that were destroyed, but still better than nothing. – Z
Its followed by a few pages of notes. I blink, surprised. No one has ever gone out of their way to help me. I glance at the notes and realize they’re Anna’s. Not only did he get me notes, he got the right ones.
Thank you.
How did you get Anna’s notes?
Not everyone is immune to my smile.
These will be a big help with the lab report.
I’ll send you the answers when I finish.
When do you want to meet to work on it?
No need. I’m at the library now.
Once I’m done rewriting my notes, I’ll work on it.
I wait, thinking he’ll say something more, but the text thread goes silent. With a sigh I stand and head into the main library, straight for the section on magical markings. I’ve heard of scythe marks in stories, but never actually looked up what they mean.
I scan the spines, pull the first book on markings I see, flip to the index.
Scarab… Scion… Sigils.
No Scythe.
Another.
Seer Markings… Spirit Warding…
Still nothing.
Finally:
Scythe Mark, p. 73. See also: Reaper’s Mark, p. 68.
I was looking for the wrong name.
I turn the page so fast I almost tear it.
There’s a picture of the mark on an old man’s wrist.
The Reaper’s Mark (also known as the Scythe Mark) has been occasionally recorded in spiritborne cases where individuals claimed to have ‘cheated death.’ The mark typically manifests on the inner wrist and is most often associated with self-reported resurrection or near-death experiences.
There’s no known magical benefit associated with the mark beyond its symbolic value.
While some folklore attributes the symbol to a forgotten coven or resurrection cult, most modern scholars consider it a cultural artifact. A dramatic flourish used to substantiate unverifiable claims of being ‘elevated,’ ‘unchained,’ or ‘un-killable.’
Well. That was unhelpful.
I grab the first book again.
Reaper’s Mark, p. 29, p. 320.
I try page 29 — Death Cults. No thanks. I skip to page 320.
Nearly the same as the other entry. Useless. Probably fake.
Most modern magical texts consider it allegorical.
Just a myth.
I look at my wrist. The brand stark on my skin. Not a myth.
Re-shelving the book, I head to the card catalogue.
Three books are listed for Reaper’s mark, not including the two I already looked at.
No entry on scythe marks, but a half dozen on scythes.
I write them down anyway. What else should I look for?
What had Anita said? Soul shard. They only have one book listed.
Walking the stacks, I gather the books, taking a trip to the nook to drop them off when they get too heavy. I spot Zair across the stacks, his eyes catching mine almost instantly.
“There you are,” he says, striding over. “I’ve been looking for you for like twenty minutes. I was about to give up and call.” He flashes that easy smile of his.
I tilt my head. “You were looking for me?”
“You said you were going to work on the lab report,” he reminds me. “I came to help.”
“Oh.” I blink, caught off guard. “I was just going to finish it myself and send it to you.”
“Or we could work on it together now.”
“Okay, let me go grab my stuff,” I tell him, turning toward my nook.
I’m nearly there when I realize he’s followed me.
The shelves here look like nothing but dusty, outdated reference books, and the way they’re arranged makes the wall appear seamless.
Even without the illusion I cast. “Go find a study spot and I’ll meet you there. ”
He lifts an eyebrow. Looking around, clearly confused as to why we’re here.
“What’s wrong with where your stuff is?” I hesitate.
My first instinct is to shut it down, send him away, and keep the nook mine.
But he’s already seen me, already curious, and persistent enough that he’ll probably follow me anyway.
Still…
“You can’t tell anyone about it,” I warn. “If I find a bunch of bimbos back here, I swear I’ll make your life hell.” His grin spreads, but I don’t wait for a reply. I reach for his sleeve and tug him through the bookshelf illusion into the nook.
“What do we have here?” he asks as he looks around.
“My secret study space. And I’m serious, don’t tell anyone.” I point to a chair at the table. “Sit.”
“This is amazing,” he says, ignoring my warning as he steps further into the nook. “You’ve got the big window, the armchairs, even your own bookshelf.” He gestures to the return cart, now fully stocked with my collection of books. “All you’re missing is a fireplace.”
I roll my eyes. “Not a big fan of fire.”
He laughs, his smile widening as he drops his bag next to the table. “Seriously, though, this is incredible. No wonder you’re always hiding out.”
“Exactly.” I take the stack of books I brought and put them on the return cart before grabbing my laptop.
For the next hour, we work side by side, settling into an easy rhythm.
I handle the calculations and charts, double-checking for accuracy, while Zair rewrites sections of the report, his word choices somehow making even dry lab results sound polished.
At one point, Zair stretches lazily in his chair. “You know,” he says, his tone playful. “I thought you’d be a complete control freak about this.”
“Excuse me?”
He smirks. “With the way you were ordering me around in lab, I figured you’d bark orders and micromanage every sentence.”
“Bark? I’m not a werewolf, Zair. Does that pretty little nose of yours not work?”
“You think my nose is pretty?” he taunts.
“Yep, it’s pretty. But you might want to get it checked. Doesn’t seem to be working properly when it comes to picking up hints,” I say, a smirk tugging at my lips.
He throws his head back, laughing, and the sound is warm, easy, and unguarded. It fills the nook like sunlight. And dammit, I feel it. My smirk softens to a real smile before I can stop it.
“Okay, your turn,” he says after a while, sliding the laptop to me. “Check my brilliance.”
I skim the paragraphs he’s rewritten. “Hmm. Not bad. I’ll add it to the very short list of your semi-functional skills.”
“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment,” he says, arching an eyebrow.
“No seriously. Shockingly readable. I barely had to translate.”
“And here I was worried you wouldn’t recognize good writing when you saw it. Guess miracles do happen,” he tells me. Earning himself a laugh.
We finish up the last few things and he emails himself a copy to turn in.
“See you,” I say, already pulling out my English work. It’s not a goodbye. It’s a door closing. I don’t expect to see him again. I’m surprisingly disappointed. After a few minutes, I realize he hasn’t left. Peeking up briefly, I catch him watching me, his expression warm and bemused.
“What?”
“Do you ever stop working?” he asks.
“Not when there’s work to be done.” I turn back to my assignment.
“Of course,” he says with a low chuckle. “Thea: part student, part machine.”
“You only get one life. I’m not about to waste mine.” Well I got two. And I’m definitely not wasting this second chance.
“Some would say hiding here alone is wasting yours,” he quips.
“Some, but not you,” I reply confidently. “You hate the games as much as I do.”
He bites his lip ring and then cocks an eyebrow. “I don’t know, Thea. I think I’m starting to enjoy this game we’re playing.”
“We’re playing a game?” I ask innocently. Like I’m not enjoying the banter.
He taps the table. “Definitely.” His grin sharpens. “Which is why your nook might be my new favorite place on campus.”
“You find me in here again, I’ll rip that lip ring out,” I warn with a smile.
“You say that like it’s not the hottest thing you’ve ever threatened me with.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a laugh I can’t quite smother. Instead of leaving, he casually pulls out his Spiritborne History book and flips it open like he’s got all the time in the world. Like staying here with me was the plan all along.
“Have you started this yet?”
“I already knew the answer,” I admit. “Do you need help?” The words are out before I can second-guess them.
“You’d be the person I ask. Seriously, your pencil didn’t stop moving the entire class. I think I managed, like, three notes.”
I let out a soft chuckle. “I didn’t write any notes. I was working on something else.”
“Thank god,” he says with mock drama. “I was ready to believe I somehow missed the earth-shattering complexities of Nightblind Bylaws.”
“Nope. They’re as asinine as ever.”
“What are you working on then?”
“English,” I say, flipping the page. “As you saw from the lab report, I’m no Tolkien. My version of Lord of the Rings is: he took the ring, dropped it in the volcano, boom, the end.”
He laughs, then gently takes the paper from me and starts reading.
For the next half hour, he walks me through it.
Then we switch. I help him with his Magical History assignment, and for the first time since I got back, I don’t feel like I’m running.
Definitely the nook. Not the company. The hours slip by.
I stifle a yawn, exhaustion tugging at me.
“I didn’t sleep well,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “I’m going to call it an early night.”
“This is early?” he says, clearly appalled.
“Thanks for studying with me.”
“This is probably the best night I’ve had in a long time,” he says, his smile soft and genuine, warming his eyes. “And definitely the most productive. I might have to take advantage of your little nook again,” he adds, flashing a teasing grin.
I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t like that lip ring much, do you?”
His laugh is quiet, but it makes me smile.
We gather our things, and as we leave the library, the campus is nearly empty.
The only sound is our footsteps echoing as we make our way to the nightblind college.
My dorm is the closest to the secret entrance, only about a ten-minute walk.
Zair walks me to my door before turning and heading in the other direction to his room.
It’s a small gesture, but there’s something unexpectedly sweet about it.
If only he was a banshee.
Inside the girls’ dorm, I head up the side stairs to my room. I was upset last time, when my room wasn’t next to Anita’s. Now I’m glad it’s not.
I shut the door behind me and slump against it. The weight of the day finally catches up. I lock it and flop onto the bed, but sleep doesn’t come easily. Too much has happened.
I think of Lazlo. I hear his laugh. The way his words always tethered me. How his love felt. How it made me feel.
I start a mental list of make-or-break questions.
An embarrassing number are food-related.
Some are easy. Does he like to travel? Does he like soccer?
Zair plays soccer.
No. There’s no way Lazlo could hide the fact that he’s Zair Brennan — star forward, campus golden boy.
Maybe I’ll ask about siblings. Lazlo had two sisters. That’s rare.
I count down the days until he’s taken.
Look up the girl who dies when they catch him. God, she’s only nineteen. Lazlo said it was her time. I think I understand now. Why he hated his fate. Why being a banshee felt like a curse.
I fall asleep to the memories of him.
When I wake the next morning, I take a Sharpie and draw a tally on the wall.
Day one, done.
Ninety-seven to go.