Witch Born - LJ Swallow Page 0,27
delve into my jeans pocket and pull out the paper with the list of classes that I pushed in there yesterday.
The similarity between Ravenhold and a real school is odd—and forced. Francesca’s art and meditation classes, amongst others, are shoe-horned between straightforward academic subjects and daily physical exercise.
I hope Dorian isn’t in every one of my classes.
By the time I return from my shower, Oriana has dressed and left. Disappointed that she didn’t wait for me, I take a deep breath and face my second day in the academy.
Today’s physical torture is more bearable because there’s no rain and I remembered my jacket. I’m no quicker than yesterday, but keep my head down and refuse to engage with anybody in case I get questions about Dorian. One foot in front of the other, I lose myself in the determination to at least finish—even if I fail to complete the task in enough time and have to move on to ten laps.
Which I do.
This time, I escape a stint inside a magic circle.
The cold wind slaps my hot, sweaty face as I half-stagger towards the doorway where Oriana and her friends gather outside. They haven’t spoken to me much since I arrived, but at least are pleasant.
My lungs burn and I struggle to speak as I slump against the wall. “Why are we waiting?” I gasp out eventually.
Oriana blows air into her cheeks. “No clue. Roger is talking to Marcus.”
She inclines her head.
Marcus is head to head with Roger. He has his hands clasped behind his back, stiff and formal, as he speaks. Crap. Is this about my fight with Dorian yesterday?
I look over at Dorian, surrounded by his subjects and looking every inch the beautiful bastard that he is. We’ve kept our distance since yesterday, but how long will that last?
“Is he an okay teacher?” I ask.
Her friend Sapphire snickers. “Teacher. Marcus was a teacher. He once taught at a Nightworld academy, but loves being around young offenders now.”
“What does his counselling involve?” I ask.
Oriana shrugs. “I don't go much. Apparently, he likes to talk about our childhoods, how we feel about our crimes, that type of crap.”
Sapphire cocks her head and regards me through her huge eyes. “What did you do?”
Even Oriana doesn’t know this. “My family are Dominion sympathisers.”
Lana snorts. “That’s not enough to land you in Ravenhold, otherwise half the supernatural world’s kids would be here. You must’ve done something.”
“Yeah, did you kill?” adds Sapphire.
Ha. Quite the opposite.
“No. I shouldn’t be here.”
Oriana chuckles. “Show me one kid in this place who thinks they should be here.”
“Most of the vamps here killed,” says Sapphire in an offhand way. “A few of the shifters too.”
“This is why people shouldn’t constrain what they are,” says Oriana. “Or hide from humans. They need to know; maybe then we can make the world ours.”
A cool fear trickles into my veins. How many kids here are Dominion sympathisers, because her words would be straight from their instruction book? Shoving a bunch of us together like this isn’t smart of the Confederacy.
Unless Ravenhold really is a death camp.
I shiver, but not because of my wet hair.
“Eloise Thornbrook,” Roger calls and beckons me over. “You’re needed.”
Attention switches to me as I walk over to him and Marcus’s eyes bore into me. “I’m Marcus Dmitri. You may’ve seen me around the academy.”
“Once or twice.” I attempt a relaxed smile and fail.
“I’d like to chat to you, if you have a moment.”
His request seems strange, considering I can’t say no and the academy dictates what I do with every ‘moment’. “Sure.”
“Come with me.” Marcus leads me back into the building and walks ahead of me along the hallway, leaving me to trail along behind like a duckling following a mother duck.
His room is two doors down from Thaddeus’s and for a moment I think Marcus is leading me in there instead. “Please, do come in.”
Despite his almost painful politeness, I’m nervous and I run through everything I’ve done that might’ve earned me a summons from a senior staff member. I’ve co-operated every step of the way. Oh, apart from magic and fighting.
Marcus ushers me inside his room and I glance around. His office has the same layout as Angus’s, but with fewer personal touches. A tall metal filing cabinet takes up most of one wall beneath a photograph of a pale-bricked large manor. I’ve seen this place in pictures before—Confederacy HQ.
Pens are arranged in a silver pot on his desk and two trays hold folders. As he