I mean, I hate walking through the dead too, and Vera isn’t exactly the most delightful spirit to behold. That head of hers is held on by a thread of skin, but she’s nice for the most part, unless she spots a bully. We’ve had to shine a light through her head on more than one occasion to redirect her attention. I’m sure Anora has seen worse. I’ve seen worse. So if it isn’t the sight of the dead that scares her, what does?

Jacobi swings his blades toward my head and feet simultaneously. I jump back, stretching my wings to keep from falling.

“I saw you talking to her.” He says it like an accusation, but he’s just mad because I’m not willing to have a conversation about it.

I talked to her for…reasons: because it’s my job as a student aide, because she is clearly a death-speaker, and I need to ensure she follows the rules set forth by the Order. They’re basically the Congress of the Valryn world and just as dysfunctional. Some death-speakers have a tendency to involve themselves with the dead in ways that harm the living, specifically through the occult, which makes them dangerous and puts the Order on edge.

But Anora doesn’t show any signs of practicing the occult. She isn’t aged beyond her years. Her hair is dark and shiny, her skin and eyes are clear—she practically glows—and she’s healthy and strong. If anything, it feels like she’s just a normal teenage girl. Except I’m pretty sure I’ve met her before.

The problem is that she doesn’t look familiar. This is more something I feel. Something inside me reacts to her presence, like we’re connected by an invisible thread. When she walks away, that thread unravels with her. When I don’t follow, it pulls taut at my chest. Even now, I rub the spot where the feeling is tightest. Which makes Jacobi laugh.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Savior?” he says, swinging his blade toward my side. I spin away from him just in time. “You’re acting weird.”

He’s right. And it’s not just this stupid feeling in my chest.

She did things today that pulled at my memory just like this thread pulls at the space over my heart: laugh so that chills pricked my arms, or nervously pressed her full lips together, or tilted her head to the side as she studied me, narrowing those pretty hazel eyes in a way that made me think she finds me just as familiar. I spent all day trying to figure out where I’d met her, stared at her so much she even called me out like a stalker. I’m not meant to have a connection with a human, and I want to know why I feel this way about her.