We reach Thornton's School of Werewolves half an hour before the scheduled time of the lecture.
It's one of the few stone buildings I've ever seen, and the biggest by far. Large, rugged boulders, bonded with coarse cement, make up the walls that seem to be reaching for the sky.
They could've moved to a more contemporary structure, or even built one, but the werewolves doggedly continue to keep the school in this archaic building.
I pull out a jacket from my bag and wear it. There's an unstirring chillness in the hallways of Thornton.
A freakishly large bearded man introduces himself as Adams Somayn, Thornton's principal. His clothes look coarse and thick like they are made of jute. His arms are covered in dark, curly hair that look similar to his eyebrows. He welcomes us with a surprisingly cheery smile that doesn't match his formidable air and reverberating voice.
Adams then introduces us to another large man, who is equally intimidating but a bit refined, with his pastel linen shirt and mildly distressed jeans. He is Mosley Picket, a professor of Thornton, and he will assist us in the preparation.
Cynthia looks calm and collected as she interacts with the two men who tower over her like giants. I, on the other hand, make myself sparsely visible by hiding behind her.
After the pleasantries, Mosley takes us to a large auditorium where the lecture will be held. Rows of chairs, stacked up behind each other, cover the room, leaving a mid sized stage at the front. Oddly, I'm reminded of the colosseum.
While Cynthia and Mosley discuss the lecture notes, I pull out my wand to distribute the print-outs over the empty students' desks.
After their discussion, Cynthia tells me, "Riva, go with Mosley. He'll give you a copy of Kurntey's Special Hexes Volume III. Bring it over and add it to the exhibit as item three."
I follow Mosley out, maintaining an ample distance between us.
"You look too young to be an AP," Mosley says.
"No, sir, I'm a student. Professor Cynthia's AP couldn't attend today."
"Advanced Studies?" he asks.
I nod, wondering if I look that intelligent or that nerdy that he could guess my advanced placement just by looking at me.
We reach a large, polished metal door with a wheel handle, the kind you see on giant freezers. He asks me to wait outside and goes in. Once the door shuts and the hallway is swallowed by a ghostly silence, I realize I haven't seen a single student yet. Where are they? I look at the door Mosley disappeared behind and then at the long, dark corridor I'm in. I feel uneasy, standing alone here, like a clueless deer that was separated from the herd. So I walk to the end of the passage to see what's around the corner.
When I near the end, I hear faint voices. I follow the voices, which increase in volume to that of a racket, and reach another corridor that faces a quadrangle on the ground floor.
It's packed, save for the clearing in the middle where four boys are fighting — one against three.
One of the three gets up from the ground, pulls out a short knife, and charges at the solo fighter from behind. The solo fighter moves his head just enough to miss the stab and grabs the assailant's hand. In one brisk swing, he hurls the guy with the knife to the ground, as if he was just throwing a towel from his shoulder into a laundry bag.
The remaining two go for the strike. He punches one of them on the torso, sending the guy crashing against the wall, and grabs the other guy's throat and drags him to the same wall and shoves his head against it.
The guy who fell first is back on his feet, wobbling. He searches the ground near him, picks up the knife he'd dropped and shakily charges again at the solo fighter, only for the knife to be grabbed and bent by his opponent. The guy throws up his hands, "I'm out."
The crowd erupts into a clamorous cheer and converges on the solo fighter. I lean over the rail to catch who this monster in the human form is. However, he looks up, straight at me.
I gasp and move back, out of his piercing eyes' view, with a hand over my drumming chest. Then I run back to the room I should've continued to stand in front of even if the sky was falling down.
Mosley comes outside. "Is the fight over?"
After reading my face he says, "When I came outside you weren't here. Thought you must've gone to the square."
As I continue to stare at Mosley with a pale, wet face, he smiles. "I bet you kids don't fight much in your school. Even if you did, it probably wouldn't be this... crude. Believe me, what you saw was just a friendly fight."
That's a friendly fucking fight? And why it had to be him?!
Mosley hands me a grubby, tan leather book. I take it from him in a daze.
"I think you're still in shock. That must have scared you a bit."
"I'm not scared," I say in a puny voice and run again, to the auditorium, to my professor — the only person I feel safe with in this building.
