49. Thea
Thea
Turns Out, I have No Idea what I’m Doing
My Sunday is gone. I spent the morning at the game, and then the guys didn’t let me escape all afternoon, dragging me from one mandatory event to the next.
When I finally make it to my nook on Monday afternoon, I curl up with a dusty book in my favorite green chair, flipping through it for anything that might explain what I can do.
Good elemental control.
Astral projection.
Touching emotions? Was that what happened with Ethan?
Then I see it.
The words are there, staring at me. Blinding. Branding.
I’m so fucked.
Soul Magic is a rare and ancient discipline concerned with the direct interaction with and manipulation of the soul: The aetheric essence believed to constitute the true self of all sentient beings.
Practitioners are said to possess the capacity to perceive and make contact with souls, discerning their emotional tenor and spiritual resonance.
They are also reported to possess the ability to project their own essence beyond the corporeal shell without the use of an Astral Draught.
Whether through accident or intent, a practitioner may separate a soul from the body, leaving the victim in a state worse than death.
The Briarhold Conventions held that no type of magic is inherently evil, and soul magic practitioners were historically protected under this doctrine.
However, no practitioners have been formally recorded in more than three centuries, leading many scholars to consider the discipline fabled rather than extinct.
No.
This can’t be real.
My hands are shaking as I slam the book shut.
I leave the nook, practically sprinting, and shove the book back on the shelf where it came from as if shelving it properly will undo what I just read. As if putting it away will make it untrue.
Soul magic.
The words echo, sick and relentless, pounding against the inside of my skull. I can’t make sense of it. I can’t make it fit.
I walk, the world around me warping at the edges. I suck in a breath, trying to steady myself, but it’s no use.
I can’t stop the spiral once it starts.
What does it mean?
Is that why they cuffed me, silenced me, and chained me like a dangerous animal?
Was I always dangerous? Was I born wrong?
Is that why I came back?
My stomach twists.
Can it be corrupted? Can I be corrupted?
Is it already too late?
The questions claw at me, merciless and cold.
I’m still walking, but it’s automatic now.
All I can see is a future unraveling in front of me, thread by thread.
Everyone will find out. They’ll be afraid. They’ll hate me.
I’ll lose everything I haven’t even managed to build yet.
I’m going to end up alone.
I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t care.
I just keep moving.
“Thea?”
Mavrik’s voice cuts through the fog. I blink up at him, disoriented, realizing I’ve stopped in the middle of the path. His hand finds mine and he tugs me gently forward. I follow without thinking. It’s easier than standing still and drowning.
We move through winding hallways, up a narrow staircase, until we step out into the sharp, open air of the bell tower.
The view spreads out before me, half spiritborne, half nightblind. Two worlds colliding. Neither one feels like it belongs to me.
I sink down onto the cool stone floor beside Mavrik, my breath shallow.
I need answers. I need something.
Anything.
Soul magic.
Who the hell even knows how that works?
Who could I even ask?
I’m mated to a banshee and I have soul magic. We’re both doomed.
I look over at Mavrik, suddenly tired of trying to hold everything together. The cool stone beneath me is grounding, the silence between us a welcome relief from the storm in my mind.
But even in the silence, I feel the pull between us, the invisible thread that tugs at my heart every time I look at him. Is it him? Could it be him?
I’ve been thinking about this moment for so long, agonizing over whether I should ask him, confront him, demand the truth. What if he’s Lazarus? My chest tightens at the thought. What if he’s not?
I don’t know if I’ll ever have the answer, but I can’t keep pretending that nothing’s there. Can’t keep pretending that I don’t feel something pulling me toward him. I glance at him, my breath shallow.
He meets my gaze, and for a long moment, nothing else matters. Not the questions, not the doubts, not the past I can’t escape.
Without thinking, I lean in, my lips brushing against his before I can second-guess myself. The kiss is soft, tentative, but then, like someone lit a match it explodes.
His hand slides to the back of my head and suddenly there’s no room left for doubt. I melt into him, chasing the warmth of his mouth like it might drown out the noise in my head. For one impossible moment, it almost works.
I pull away slowly, blinking in the sudden clarity. Mavrik’s smile is soft, and for a moment, it catches me off guard. It’s sweet, innocent even, like nothing could be more natural than this.
But it doesn’t change the questions. They’re louder now, insistent, and I can’t ignore them any longer. I have to know.
Maybe I’ll be right, and I’ll still have ninety-nine things to panic about instead of a hundred.
It’s reckless. It’s stupid. But I’m drowning, and right now, recklessness feels better than silence. The kiss wouldn’t have felt like that if he wasn’t my mate. Right?
“Are shadows the only magic you have?” I ask, my voice steady, but my heart pounding. Screw it. I can’t keep pretending. I need to know.
He tilts his head, his brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Are you a banshee?” I blurt out before I can talk myself out of it.
Mavrik jerks away, frowning at me like I’ve slapped him. “What? No!”
The sharpness of it stings more than it should.
I wince. Okay, terrible start.
But the words are already tumbling, and I can’t shove them back inside.
“I’m looking for a banshee named Lazarus. It’s… it’s life or death for me. Is that you?”
I don’t say please.
I don’t say I’m scared.
I don’t say I don’t want to be alone anymore.
But maybe he hears it anyway.
He meets my gaze for a long moment, his eyes flickering with something I can’t quite place. And then, he gives me a sad smile. The kind that stings.
“No.”
His words sink deep into my chest. It’s not the shock of a broken heart, but the cold realization that all my reasoning, all the facts I held onto, have fallen apart.
“No,” I repeat quietly, more to myself than to him, as if I can somehow make the truth softer, less harsh. The word echoes, a dull ache that makes everything feel impossibly distant.
Tears come then, but they don’t come with the fury I expect. They fall slowly, quietly, as if my body is acknowledging the loss without needing to scream.
Before I can pull myself together, Mavrik is there, his arms around me, pulling me close. I let him, though it doesn’t bring the relief I thought it would. His presence is steady, but it’s not enough to undo what’s been revealed.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice thick with an emotion I can’t quite place.
I don’t have the strength to push him away, but I also can’t hold onto him like I want to. He’s not Lazlo. He’s my friend, and though I appreciate him, it’s not enough to fill the emptiness inside me.
He doesn’t let go, though. His arms stay around me, firm and steady. “I wish I could fix this,” he says, voice strained. “I wish I could be what you need.”
But he can’t. That’s the hardest part of all.
Still a hundred problems.
But he’s not the solution, and that’s the truth I have to face.
He walks me to my dorm, and I let myself fall.