The City of Crows

by Bethany Anne Lovejoy

  Oh well, it wasn’t any of my business, I supposed. I stood up, brushing off my jeans as I unbuttoned my coat, shrugging it from my shoulders and throwing it on one of our barstools to dry.

  “You’re home early,” Yvie pointed out, her human voice hitting the air as I was turned away. I looked back to see her stretching, a hint of dark skin visible on her belly as her tank top stretched out of the way, revealing the inked runes that sat above her hip bone as she shook out her short, curly purple hair from the two twists atop her head. Yvie always tried to wait for people to look away when she changed, never quite comfortable with others seeing the in-between stages.

  “Yeah, well, another one of those days, you know?” I said, averting my eyes as I paid extra attention to my jacket, straightening it on the chair and trying to ignore the way that rain droplets hit the linoleum. “Rough,” I added, hoping that would be enough.

  It wasn’t for once, surprisingly. “I thought you said flower shop guy was coming in today,” Yvie said, and I could hear the way that her nose scrunched in thought, her amber eyes observing me. Yvie had one of those faces, the kind that seemed built for observation. I could see gears turning behind her rounded amber eyes. “Not like you to miss a day that he’s stopping by. Especially since it means that you get to see him for free for once,” she said with a snort, gesturing back towards the various flowers scattered around our apartment. Yvie hated dead plants, she found them depressing.

  “Yeah, well, his book didn’t come in,” I lied. “Shame, really,” I didn’t sound disappointed enough, I knew that. There was no way to make myself sound right, not when faced with Yvie.

  “You said it came in last night,” Yvie pointed out, her footsteps growing nearer. “Remember, we had take out? You were positively gushing, excited even.”

  I shot her a warning glare, unsurprised to see her face far closer than the average human distance. That was how Yvie was, always comfortable and always observant. Still, I couldn’t help but back up, my waist hitting the counter as I tried to escape her looks. “Wrong book?” I tried.

  “You wrote down his order, you said so,” Yvie recounted. “Your fingers just barely brushed, and you were regaling me with those details. A little bit cold, clammy; you wanted to warm his hands up.”

  “I wrote it wrong,” I lied.

  She didn’t buy it, of course she didn’t buy it. “Right, you wrote the order wrong for the guy that you’ve been on about for months, likely story.” Her hand ran through her hair, separating her curls further. She seemed to decide the situation was futile, crossing the room to flop herself on the couch with dramatic flair. “I’m going to Gigi’s tonight,” she declared, eyes still watching me, “you should come with.” The look on her face didn’t mean should; it meant will.

  The problem was, I was already booked. “Right, go to your girlfriend’s when you two are meant to be alone,” I turned to face her, shaking my head at her. “I’ll pass, Yvie. I’ve already been to Magictown tonight. Thanks for the invite, though.”

  “One,” she began to correct as I grew near, my hands wrapping around the fresh flowers in the vase on our coffee table, “it’s not alone time. That’s Thursday nights, you know that. It’s a Friday, so, you know, party.” I quirked my eyebrows, stroking my hands up the stems in a jerky movement, forcing a few of the heads off. “Two, one can never go to Magictown enough. Not when things are so painfully dull here. Three,” she was quick to add the third part as I successfully gathered more flower heads, her voice growing louder as she said it in anticipation of me leaving the room, “it might be a good idea for you to be a little bit more social, Lyra! We can’t all hide out in a cave!”

  I snorted, taking my flowers and walking towards the bathroom. Jerking the door open, I was unsurprised that Yvie still spoke in the background, even as I tossed my handful of flowers into the tub with a grunt.

  “And four, maybe if you meet someone nice, you’ll stop blowing your rent money on all of these flowers!”

  Aaand, that was enough Yvie for the day. I kicked the door shut as I leaned over the tub, my hand turning the hot water faucet all the way. The hotter the water, the better. I wanted to boil the worry away. Steam rose from the bathtub almost immediately, the only virtue of our building being the relatively large and efficent water heater. The edges of the mirror began to fog and the scent of flowers filled the air. We’d pay for residual water damage from all the steam eventually, but Yvie and I had already decided that our deposits were as good as gone after we moved out. Why not have a little fun before we had to face the facts?

  I looked down into the bathtub, watching as the flowers swirled in the water, some color leaking out from the yellowed center, confirming as always that the flower shop was dressing their plants up a little for purchase. Still, I didn’t mind half-dead flowers, not if my favorite florist arranged them. My ex-boyfriend told me that florists, especially humans, didn’t really care what the flowers’ meaning was. In fact, most of them didn’t bother to learn them. I wondered if Ollie was the same, or if he knew the importance of apple blossoms, daisies, and honeysuckle; and how witches desperately bathed in them to will something new to bloom. Probably not.

  His easy good looks came into mind as I watched the flowers swirl in the hot bathwater, same as always. Clear blue eyes, cropped red hair, square lensed glasses; average, but not too average. The type of man that your friends pass by at a party, slightly invisible but looks like someone everyone knows.

  But somehow, just thinking about him and this imaginary version of him I’d crafted brought me back to a very real person. I blinked at the intrusive thoughts entering my mind once more, placing my head delicately against the door. A green knitted sweater, the metallic gray of lead on his hands, a kneaded eraser working between his fingers, a smudge of black that I hadn’t paid enough attention to while it sat on his chin. Leo Hoang, the guy at the counter. The man who ignored my coworker and demanded service for a witch, the dangerous man who knew what I was.

  Straining, I attempted to hear if Yvie was still there, instead catching the low hum of the tv. Normally, that would be a bad sign, but with Yvie, it was good. When she did things like pack to stay the night, she always liked to have a little background noise.

  I held back my amusement at my roommate’s antics, kneeling at the bathroom counter to withdraw a scoop of sea salt from the heavy bag underneath the sink, filling the plastic measuring cup in the bag to its brim before placing it in the bath. Purity and protection, those were always good things to have. Maybe it’d push his face out of my head.

  Ollie, Oliver, flower shop guy. Focusing on that and those far off dreams was easier. A part of me wondered if I ever did obtain my wish of normality, did I have to give up these secret moments? Would I someday be married and have my husband question my need to bathe in flower petals and various concotions? Yvie always said that I liked Oliver because he was far off and unobtainable, but he was also an excuse to try to act human. Yvie was right, but I wouldn’t tell her that. I desperately wanted to be anything but a witch at this point in my life.

  And yet, I struggled to give up the things that made me a witch. I wrote off my desires as things that would happen someday but someday far off and unpredictable, therefore it was okay to still engage in and really bask in moments like these. It was better to treasure these moments while they lasted, wasn’t it? As if to respond to that moment, a door slammed in the background, symbolizing the end of Yvie’s company. Perhaps I wouldn’t get to cherish these moments as much as I wanted.

  Finally, I brought myself to withdraw the piece of paper from my pocket, eyes squinting at the slightly smudged writing as my hand moved busily on my phone’s screen. The moment felt quick, far too quick, as the dial tone began to sound while I kicked off my socks, eyes observing the now murky water. For a moment, I wished that he wouldn’t pick up, but barely a ring went by before a telltale click sounded.

  I didn’t wait any longer.

  I didn’t expect
him to arrive fifteen minutes earlier than we’d agreed upon, dredged by the cold rain and calling my cellphone to beg me to let him in. Lucky enough for him, he’d managed to arrive only moments after I’d pulled my shirt over my head.

  He then sat, somewhat awkwardly and unsure, on a towel on my overly plumped couch, small droplets of rain escaping his black locks as he made no efforts to hide his roving eyes. As if it wasn’t evident enough before, it was clear that Leo had never met a witch, much less been in the home of one; at least not in this city. His eyes fell on the headless flowers and discarded crystals, his eyebrows raised at the wax that coated the floorboards. If I were a good hostess and not one who wished desperately for her guest to leave, I would have at least tried to clean up a bit while he was there. Instead, I sat atop one of our barstools, leaning towards him with a questioning look.

  He wasted little time after niceties and sitting down were taken care of, toying with a thin cord that tied shut a small white sachet he’d removed from his coat. “You know, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. It’s only been two hours.” He toyed again with the cord, seeming to consider what was within it before setting it down on the coffee table between us. “I figured I should bring a gift for all of this trouble, a sort of apology for being rude in the shop, in case I upset you.” He grimaced, “I promise it’s tea, don’t worry about that—Ginger, a hint of chamomile, and orange; my mother’s favorite. I don’t even know if you like tea, so maybe it’s a bit presumptuous, but I heard that there was a very nice tea shop around here. So if you’ll…” he pushed the sachet towards me, “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want, I mean witches probably don’t drink just anything some random guy gives them.”

  “We really don’t,” I agreed. “We also don’t appreciate people showing up to our workplaces and declaring us to be witches, even in New Haven. Marlow Heights isn’t exactly an area that harbors positive sentiment towards witches, just so you know.”

  “That’s--” he flushed, unable to explain precisely what it was. “I mean, I’m sorry, but I didn’t feel like I had a choice, especially after trying to contact your mother--”

  “No one can contact my mother,” I informed him, “not even me.”

  “Well, um…” He didn’t know how to precede, his hands withdrawing to sit on his lap, gripping his knees as if he was afraid to touch anything else. Where was the demanding guy in the shop? Probably a little further away now that he had to confront me and state why it was he’d set out to ruin my life. “I mean, I should have figured. My grandfather and my father couldn’t get a hold of her; why should I be any different?”

  “Right,” I said. It was tempting to stand up, tempting to take advantage of the situation. He wasn’t used to witches, and he most certainly wasn’t comfortable in this situation. It’d be so easy to cross the room and frighten him, yet somehow I managed to refrain from it. Perhaps it was the illusion of normal I wanted to portray that kept me firmly planted. “And your father and grandfather tried to contact my mother because…” I trailed off, prompting him to complete the sentence.

  “Oh!” He straightened, almost seeming to not expect my question. I must have helped him decide how to proceed because just moments later, he began to speak again, his hands knotted in his lap as he looked up to meet my eyes once more. “That’s because she’s special, and you’re special as well. I mean, obviously you knew that, you’re a witch,” he slightly deflated at the fumble, but he kept going, “so I suppose to your kind, you’re not that unique, but to me-- well.”

  “Well?”

  “Well…” he breathed, his face suddenly growing pale as his eyes traveled down to his hands. Despite myself, I cocked my head in curiosity, once again wanting to cross the room. “I suppose to me, you’re a little bit of a North Star. I mean, my father discouraged that phrase but, that’s what I call witches like you. I have a list of them, there’s only nineteen that I know of.” He looked up just in time to catch my confused expression, a single finger raising as if to quiet my question before it even began to take shape. “My family’s been studying magic and the history of magic too, though not at as prestigious of a university as your mother teaches at. I guess I don’t exactly have the language; I’ve had far less time to study this than my father and not even half as much time as my grandfather. But, if I had to put it into words, I’d say that historically, your bloodline has a long history of leading people to the things that they need most.” He noticed my slightly agape mouth, continuing, “confusing isn’t it? I mean, it’s all confusing to me, and I’ve had only two years to adjust-- I tried everyone before you, Lyra, but--”

  “Nineteen people,” I said, my voice still highly skeptical. What did this guy think he was saying? “I highly doubt that you contacted nineteen different people.” I shook my head, only growing more confounded by the second.

  “I mean, my father did,” he admitted sheepishly. “And to be fair, it’s not a stretch for me to assume that in these ten years, a few of them have died. Eventually, the Society of Magic wouldn’t allow him to read the registry anymore, stating that it was a security risk,” an alarm began to sound in my head. The Society of Magic didn’t ban just anyone. “But thankfully, I managed to charm my way in, and using his original list of nineteen, I found you. You lived with your mother when he started calling, so naturally, he wrote you off. But now…”

  My nose wrinkled.

  He sighed, a slight smile played on his lips and he moved his hand to cover it, as if I somehow wouldn’t have noticed it. “Everyone else has all but dropped off the map, lives in gated communities, or is living in Magictown where people don’t exactly give you information as to who is where, but you…” He seemed to deem it appropriate to beam, his hand dropping away from his mouth and dropping down to grip the cushion beside him in excitement. “Just when I thought time was running out, here you are.”

  “Here I am?” I said, quirking my head at him. What on earth was this man talking about? I regretted waiting for Yvie to leave before calling him. Letting a stranger who had hunted me down into my apartment wasn’t my best idea, and I suddenly became aware of his menacing height. A thousand tales of witches in the same situation ran through my mind, headlines of wingnuts with self-righteous attitudes taking out their religious retribution against them ran across my mind. I paled.

  “Please don’t-- I’m not--” he stumbled over his words, likely seeing the change in my demeanor. I had a wand sitting on my bedroom nightstand, and I desperately wished that it was in my hand instead. “Listen, I’m just--”

  “You’ve tracked me down,” my jaw clenched.

  “No, that’s not-- I mean, yes? Okay, but not like--” Quickly, he scrambled to his feet, hands up in a defensive pose. “Listen, just listen, I promise--” He moved forward, stumbling over the coffee table. Instinctually, I leaned back, my eyes widening.

  “What are you?” I began to question, my stomach sinking. Idiot, idiot, idiot; I was an idiot.

  “Just a normal guy,” he promised, body language still cautious. It was almost as if he was approaching a wounded animal. “Okay, maybe not normal, that’s not a good way to explain this. But Lyra, you have to trust me. Just let me find the words,” he begged, bending over to pick up the packet he’d left on the table and hold it out towards me again, like a peace offering. “I mean, it’s delicate. I don’t like to say it outright.”

  “Say what?” My tone of alarm did not leave.

  He exhaled, a long shaky breath leaving his lungs and audibly hitting the air. Just like that, his shoulders fell, face spiraling with them. Whatever confidence he’d picked up along the way left him, the man now looked downtrodden as he began to contemplate his next words. Whatever choices he faced, what he chose to say next was far too blunt for my tastes.

  “Lyra, I’m a man who is going to be dead in two months if you don’t help me.”

  4

  A Guiding Star

  A dark, marigold yellow leached from the leaves
and mingled with the water, heavy steam rose from the surface and danced in the air. Two cups, one white and tall, the other one transparent and stout, sat on the counter between us, filling the air with the aroma of citrus and ginger. A thick layer of leaves and rinds lingered on top of the liquid, waiting to be skimmed away with the small metal tea strainer that my roommate seldom used. Numb to the shock of heat, Leo kept his hand wrapped around the side of his cup, his dark brown, almost black eyes diving deep into the mixture as it brewed.

  There was a silence, one that had permeated the air since his statement, and it seemed impenetrable and endless. His shoulders were squared, a guarded look upon his face that lingered until, not knowing what else to do, I stepped over and grabbed the bag off the coffee table. I didn’t know what to say or what I felt, but his face changed when I reached for the bag of tea. Though I didn’t want to, I knew that he likely saw it as a sign of hope. He wouldn’t say it though, maybe he was afraid that acknowledging such a thing would cause it to go away.

  And yet, with the rich gold petals gliding through the water and the light scent of chamomile filling our lungs, he spoke once more, voice low and wistful. “You know it’s funny; I don’t think I’ve sat down and shared anything with anyone since I knew. I didn’t want to tell anyone and make them feel like they had to go through it with me.” His fingers tapped against the side of his cup. A smile, miserable and most certainly not a true one, played upon his lips. “Just because the world is stopping for me shouldn’t mean that it has to stop for everyone else.”

  Why was I doing this? Why couldn’t I stop? “How long have you been alone?”My voice spoke of its own volition, prying straight into his life. It wasn’t my business, it wasn’t my problem, yet somehow I couldn’t stop.