52. Zair
Zair
Sixty-one Tallies and Zero Answers
Iraise my hand to knock when a dejected shout rings out from inside Thea’s dorm. I freeze, hand hovering. Is this a good idea? Probably not. But it’s the only one I’ve got.
I knock. No answer.
I knock again, a little louder this time.
“Thea,” I say softly, talking to the door. “I know you’re in there.”
I wait. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she’s not upset. Maybe I pushed too hard.
God. I probably scared her off. It’s probably just me.
Then I hear the click of the lock. The door opens, and Thea stands there, barely holding herself together.
She’s a mess. Hair tangled like she’s been yanking at it, circles under her eyes so dark they look bruised. She hasn’t been sleeping. Hell, it looks like she hasn’t left her room all day.
“Hey,” I say, trying for a smile, soft and lopsided.
She blinks like she’s surfacing from deep underwater. A flicker of something crosses her face. A ghost of a smile. But it doesn’t reach her eyes.
And that, that hurts more than I want to admit.
She feels so far away.
“Hey,” she replies. “I’m not in the mood for company, Zair.”
I could accept it, but I don’t. “Good, because I’m not planning on staying. You’re coming with me.”
“But—”
“—Dylan issued a challenge. He said that werewolves are better bowlers than witches. Now are you going to let this slide or are you going to help me defend all witch kind?”
She looks at me like I’ve completely lost it. And for a second, I think she’s going to shut the door in my face.
She’s tired, but not the kind sleep can fix; she looks like she’s been fighting her own demons all week. It would almost certainly be easier to tell me to leave. To crawl back into the dark and spiral alone.
But she’s already tried that.
She exhales through her nose, jaw tightening.
Then something shifts behind her eyes. A small spark of life.
She gives me a begrudging smile and steps aside, holding the door open.
“We can’t let those shifters think they’re the best,” she insists, forcing levity into her voice. “They do know we can control the wind, right?”
The laugh that follows is fake, brittle around the edges. But she tried.
She gestures toward the desk for me to sit, then turns to rummage through her wardrobe like this is just another normal night.
“Definitely not,” I agree. Fine. If pretending is the only option left, then we’ll pretend. We’ll fake it until it feels like living again.
“Do I have time to shower?” she asks, and disappears into her en suite as soon as I tell her she does. I came by early, figuring it would take a while to convince her and for her to get ready.
I look around her room. I haven’t spent much time in here; she doesn’t have a TV, so we always watch movies in my room. It feels like the space can’t decide what it wants to be: half composed, half unraveling.
Her calendar hangs on the wall, meticulously color-coded.
Above the desk, her books and notebooks are lined up by class, arranged with military precision.
Even her bed looks like it’s been made with an almost obsessive level of care, the blanket pulled tight, the pillows stacked neatly at the head.
It’s almost unnerving in its perfection.
At the same time, papers are strewn about, as if her thoughts had burst past the limits of tidy piles.
I almost laugh when I spot the stacks of notebooks under her bed, like she needs them within reach in case she wakes up with a burning question.
Books are scattered across the floor, some left open, abandoned mid-read.
A whole stack on the Briarhold Coven catches my eye.
I didn’t even know there were that many books about the massacre.
I kneel down to grab one when my eyes fall on the wall and I wonder how I hadn’t noticed before.
It’s covered with multicolored tally marks.
The lines are uneven, scattered across the surface with no clear pattern, but I can feel the significance of them.
Fifty-four tallies: days, or something else?
The wall feels like a map of a journey she’s been on.
I don’t fully understand, but I can’t look away from it.
What’s she counting from? I pull out my phone and start counting backwards. The start of school, no, not enough… it comes to September fourteenth. That doesn’t make any sense. I stare at the date but it doesn’t mean anything to me.
The bathroom door opens, and Thea steps out, fully dressed.
She stands in front of the mirror, to the right of the tally marks on the wall, and begins brushing her long dark hair.
For a moment, I’m completely mesmerized.
It’s ridiculous how easily she knocks me off balance.
Like her beauty waits until I’m not ready and then takes a swing.
“What?” Thea asks, glancing at me over her shoulder. I realize I’ve been caught staring.
“What’s with the tally marks?” I ask, trying to sound casual, though I know I’m failing to hide my curiosity. She looks at the marks, her face going blank for a moment, as if she’s deciding how much to share.
Then, with a soft shake of her head, she answers, “Just a reminder.” Her voice distant, as if she’s already closed herself off from whatever they represent.
It’s as though she’s telling me everything without telling me anything.
I want to press, to ask her what they mean, but I can see now’s not the time.
My job tonight is to pull her out of her head, not shove her back in.
By the time the last frame rolls around, Thea is her usual self, her competitive spirit in full swing.
She’s laying it on thick, boasting that witches are definitely better bowlers.
I’m pretty sure Dylan let her win, though.
Seriously, a werewolf with four gutter balls?
When I drop her off, she pulls me into a hug. It’s the first time I’ve seen her so relaxed all evening.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, slowly pulling away.
“For what?”
“Being you.” It’s so simple, but means everything.
She kisses my cheek, just once. It’s soft and almost nothing, but somehow it wrecks me in the way only she can. Before I can recover she’s gone.
She calls and wakes me early the next morning to ask if I want to spar.
I agree, and stop by her dorm on the way to Otherfell.
She seems lost in thought, her steps a little slower, and her silence heavier.
I let her wander, matching her pace as we head to the field where we usually spar.
“No Mavrik today?” I ask, glancing over at her.
She shakes her head. “No. I—” She hesitates, then squares her shoulders. “I want to try something. And… I think you’re the only one who can help me.”
I nod immediately.
She takes a breath, and I can see the weight of whatever she’s about to say pressing on her.
“The reason I’ve been so… shut off this past week is that…” She trails off, struggling.
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” I tell her, meaning it.
She gives me a lopsided smile, like she’s grateful but still determined to say it anyway.
“So you know I’m in Misfits. But I couldn’t figure out what type of magic I had. It doesn’t fit in any box. But Monday, I found the box.” She pauses, steadying herself. “I think I have soul magic.”
My brain stutters. I can’t quite process what I just heard. Not just what she said, but by the fact that she trusted me enough to say it.
“Okay,” I say simply, because anything more would feel wrong. And because it is okay.
She watches me for a moment, searching for something. Waiting, maybe, for me to recoil or jerk away. When I don’t, she nods to herself, satisfied.
“I found a book on soul magic, it explains if I put my hand on someone’s chest I can call for their soul, I think that’s what happened at the party with Ethan, I felt his emotions when I touched his chest.” She takes a deep breath and I feel a moment of panic, knowing what she’s about to say.
“The test is one hundred percent up to you,” she says carefully. “You can tell me to go to hell and never ask again. I’ll get it, no hard feelings.”
“You can,” I say, voice steady. “I trust you.”
“Really?” Her expression makes it obvious she hadn’t expected me to agree.
“Yes. One hundred percent,” I say, the brief moment of fear already forgotten.
She doesn’t know she can’t accidentally take my soul. Banshee souls hang on tight; we have to, or we might end up ripping ourselves apart.
She has no idea that I’m the perfect person for the job.
And she’s terrified. If she has soul magic she’ll need to learn to control this. It’s lucky she didn’t accidentally take Ethan’s at the party. No wonder she was so on edge.
“You’re really serious,” she says slowly. “I thought you’d tell me to fuck off.”
I step forward with decisiveness, gently take her hand, and place it flat against my chest.
“Let me know if it’s as pretty as I am,” I murmur and I see her scoff. I smile and close my eyes.
I feel it the instant she reaches for me.
A soft, electric pulse as her magic brushes against mine.
My soul hums under her touch, reaching toward her with longing.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, voice full of awe. “It’s beautiful.”
A memory flashes: the first time I ever saw a soul, glowing and alive and impossible to forget.
And now, somehow, she’s the one seeing mine.
I feel her let go, slow and careful.
I open my eyes and watch her face.
Wide-eyed wonder, disbelief, pride.
Hell.
I’d let her reap my soul if that was the last thing I saw.
“I did it,” she says, glowing. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m perfect,” I tell her, meaning it. “Do you want to try again?”
“Let’s not tempt fate and keep your soul where it belongs,” she jokes, giving me a crooked smile.
“Well, now that that’s confirmed, I guess I know why I have astral projection,” she says, glancing at me. “Since you seem to be able to see me — I was hoping you could help.”
The silent deal descends between us: I won’t ask what all she can do, and she won’t ask why I can see her astral form.
I nod in agreement.
She drops onto the field and crosses her legs, ready to work. I flop down beside her. We practice for an hour before we spot other students approaching in the distance. So we switch to normal sparring.
The next morning before combat, we do it all over again.
And the next.
And the next.
Every day this week we meet and practice before combat class.
The fear lingers, but she refuses to bow to it.
Friday morning, she’s running late and she asks me to wait while she finishes getting ready. Sixty-one tallies now. She is counting days. Why does it feel so fateful, like it’s something I should understand? It feels right on the edge of my consciousness.