rise on my skin and the drizzling rain beckons me uninvitingly.
“Groups!” a voice yells.
A mid strides into the centre of the area and my immediate thought is how does he get through doors? His width may fit through— just—but this guy would surely need to bend his body.
He wears a t-shirt the same as everybody else and one arm is covered in brown fur, ending in a paw. I attempt not to stare, but I’d never seen mids until I arrived here. The other guards have more subtle hints of their shifter forms, but this guy’s ursine features are more than a minor snout shape to his jutting jaw.
“Roger,” whispers Oriana. “Angus’s right hander.” She inclines her head to where the institute head stands in the doorway and watches, his broad arms crossed.
Other students make their way into the centre of the exercise area and line up like soldiers under inspection. Oriana gives me a light shove and I follow her.
Silently, Roger walks from group to group and counts, mouthing the numbers as he does. His gaze rests on me an extra couple of seconds, but he says nothing.
My goosebumps multiply as we stand still, and I envy the nearby shifters who are unperturbed, thanks to their higher body temperatures. A group of vamps look unimpressed by the rain, but I bet they don’t feel the cold either.
I flick my look from group to group the same as Roger does, but I’m looking for one person. A guy in a grey hoodie pulled down over his face has joined the end of the line, and Dorian’s two offsiders confirm it’s him even though his face is obscured. His arms are crossed over his chest, stance relaxed. Dorian’s meeting with Marcus must’ve been short.
“What next?” I whisper as Oriana steps back.
“Next we warm up.”
I startle as Roger blows a whistle and the group I’m with jostles me as they run to the perimeter of the exercise area.
“Five laps each. You know the drill,” he barks out.
I’m bewildered as everybody breaks into a run, including my roommate. I attempt to catch up with Oriana, who’s sprinting skills are impressive, and dodge a slower, overweight guy as I reach her shoulder. Why doesn’t anyone explain exactly what’s happening?
“Five laps?” I ask.
“Yeah. Though you’ll probably end up with ten. You look unfit.”
“Ten?” The drizzle may not look as bad as a torrential downpour, but the icy raindrops sting my bare arms. I don’t normally run. Or do much exercise at all.
A couple of vamps catch up, but they’re not running at their preternatural pace. Zeke is ahead of the group, but even he isn’t using shifter speed.
The wards must affect more than our magic; we’re pulled down to a human physical level.
“Sorry, girl, I can’t face ten laps today. You're on your own.” Oriana ups her pace and my heart sinks. She’s friendly, but the Ravenhold motto is every person for themselves, I guess. I set off jogging too, attempting to blend in with a group of witches, but they soon outpace me.
Freaking great, I’m at the back.
Footsteps thud on the hard tarmac behind me and Zeke speeds by on his second lap. Rain sheens his face, his blond hair darkened by the water, but he’s running with ease and no sign of breathlessness.
Me? My lungs ache already, after five minutes. Crap. Do we do this every day?
Roger yells as the minutes count down, and when I pass him he looks at me with a mix of pity and disdain. “There's no special treatment because you’re new, Miss Thornbrook,” he calls after me. “We’re all equals here.”
“That’s what he thinks.” Dorian saunters past. “How’s it going, witch? Tired yet?”
His taunt pushes me onwards when I’d almost stopped for breath, pissed off he’s alongside me. For half a minute, he slows to match my pace and I refuse to look at or acknowledge him.
With a chuckle, Dorian sprints away. The rain has dampened his open jacket, and the white t-shirt beneath has soaked and clings to his defined chest and abs, betraying the strength beneath. He’s reduced to human pace too, but is as effortless as Zeke, passing me a second time.
Dorian glances back and winks at me. I should thank him for the burst of angry energy this gesture gives me, as I run faster.
But both are outpaced by one person. Ethan charges around the makeshift track as if he's being pursued. No—as if he's a shifter pursuing his prey. When Ethan passes me