Copyright © 2021 by Bethany Anne Lovejoy
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Dedicated to My Mother, who has always supported me in all of my foolish endeavors.
The City of Crows
Bethany Anne Lovejoy
Contents
1. Out of Towner
2. The Last of Nineteen
3. Drowning
4. A Guiding Star
5. Cat’s Out of the Bag
6. The Green Man
7. Love is Blind
8. Avoidance
9. The Unexpected Visitor
10. Convenient
11. Auspicious
12. Landon
13. The Beginning of Loss
14. Lacus
15. Names
16. For Your Sake, Not Mine
17. Not Who You Think
18. Pain
19. Empty Goodbyes
20. Just Visiting
21. One Last Day
22. Goodnight, Lyra
23. The Crow
24. Autumn
25. An Exciting Disappointment
26. Many Faces in the Closet
27. The End
28. Intoxicated
29. One Last Cup of Tea
About the Author
1
Out of Towner
Hard, stone-like rain pounded against the sidewalk, leaking down the subway entrance and drenching the cement entryway with its cold, unending presence. It wasn’t alone, small balls of hail bounced down the steps as well, rolling nearer and nearer to the toll gates as if they too would be riding the subway. A stray crow, seeking shelter from the ongoing downpour stood near the exit, drying its wings. All around, people tightened their hoods and held on tight to their umbrellas, their eyes trained nervously on the ground as a few unprotected and unbothered people walked by them, sporting cold glares on their faces that were typical on a rainy day in this part of town. You didn’t have to watch too closely to see those people jostle up against their well-protected counterparts, purposefully knocking shoulders and whispering obscenities under their breath.
I stood at the platform just past the gates, hood down, praying that my train would come before any others arrived to dump even more people out onto the platform. I didn’t want trouble, not today or any day. But the platform I stood at made trouble a stronger than usual possibility. Beside me, a small girl shivered, her hand in her mother’s, her pointed red hood up like an arrow for the eyes of passerby. They weren’t from town, you could tell because if they were her mother would at least have the decency to pull it down, and she wouldn’t be walking in a red woolen coat that reeked of her heritage. She would have had the knowledge to dress her child smartly, not broadcast to the world what she was; adults could make the choice, but kids?
If I was a better person and perhaps less of a coward, I would have leaned over and told her as much. I would have been sure that the little girl beside me stayed safe, because only ten years ago I was that same little girl. But doing so risked my identity as well, and I couldn’t let that happen. I’d grown smart and crafted too thick of a web of lies to risk getting torn down by getting beaten up on a subway by some middle-aged man with an anger problem, least of all to do such a thing on a platform in ‘The Stakes’. No, it was better to keep my head down and my mouth shut, hoping that luck favored me. I’d already put myself at risk by agreeing to come here, especially so close to my shift.
My roommate, Yvie, was lucky that I was short on rent that month. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered to try fulfilling such a brazenly stupid favor.
I fingered the baggie of fish scales and foxglove root in my pocket, wondering how so little could be worth so much trouble. Yvie could have gotten it herself, in fact, normally she would. But she took any opportunity to get me back into this part of town, if only to remind me of what I was. Yvie had a problem with hiding it, and a real problem with our overly priced but moderately safe apartment situated just outside of The Stakes. She wasn’t ashamed, she craved this life, she wanted to be around our own kind.
A soft grinding filled the air, the noise of a subway train growing closer. Beside me, the girl’s guardian withdrew a piece of paper from her pocket, unfolding it to look at the directions on it as she murmured a few words in German. The girl tugged at the woman’s coat, a small flash of dirty blonde hair peaking out of the side of her hood as she looked up to her.
I fingered my own hair, once blonde and now chemically lightened to platinum, I just had to see that single wisp, didn’t I? I wondered if I looked the same once, hand tucked into my mother’s velvet skirt as I struggled to keep the purple pointed hood of my childhood upright when we first came to town, too secluded from a life in the countryside to know any better.
The train came to a halt in front of us, its doors still closed. I had five seconds to make a decision, but I didn’t need them. The second I heard the locks unlatch, my hands flew to the back of the girl’s hood, yanking it down before a sea of people could come tumbling out of the car. I dove through the nearest door and I hoped that she’d never know enough to thank me later, her curious eyes blinked up at me as the crowd surrounded her, her mouth slightly agape. Let her stay innocent.
I pushed my way into the car but didn’t stop, moving up a few cars incase her mother was stupid enough to pull the hood back up. My hand wove around one of the straps and my eyes shut, counting down the seconds before the quickly moving train would lunge forward again.
“Magictown to Marlow Heights station,” a mechanical sounding female voice announced; pre-recorded, of course.
Ten minutes and I’d be in the Heights, ten minutes and this could be just another day. My hand tightened around the baggie in my coat pocket, eyes clenching shut even tighter. Somehow, I didn’t believe it. I could feel change in the air.
The bell rang behind me as I entered the bookstore, pulling the zipper quickly across my pocket so that my morning activities would not be discovered. I whispered a silent plea under my breath, praying that their contents would not be discovered.
Emma was at the front desk, twirling a piece of her thin, brown hair around her finger as she noisily chewed gum, splotches of her lipstick smearing across her chin. I debated telling her about the lipstick, but then she opened her mouth, “you’re just in time, lots of ‘interesting’ characters around here today,” she said pointing at the shelves to the left of her, not bothering to lower her voice. “Boss told some guy he can do space studies of the stacks, whatever that means. And, well… you’re going to have to talk to that old woman near the cookbook section, if you know what I mean. Don’t know why she thought she could come in here, she practically has the word written across her head.”
“Don’t you think we could just leave her be?” I asked, stepping behind her to pull my apron off the coat rack. A dark green apron to cover my street clothes, Able’s books written across it in white letters. I knew that just asking was a futile thing, but still.
“Right,” Emma’s bubble popped and I saw a hint of teeth as she dragged her chewing gum back into her mouth, “and then we’ll start letting in all of the other freaks as well; brilliant idea, Lyra.” She shook her head, withdrawing her phone from her pocket as she dismissed me, “c’mon, you know they’re practically useless when it’s raining. Just take off your nametag and that bat can’t do anything, she’s still a little soaked from getting here. She’s not going to curse you or anything,” she lowered her phone, looking me in the eyes as she quipped, �
��and if she did, just take a shower and wash it off.”
“Yeah but,” I said awkwardly, my eyes drifting to the row of bookshelves that the cookbook section lay in. “I always do it.” Anything to stall just a moment longer. I felt good about myself from helping the little girl earlier, just a little bit; couldn’t Emma let that feeling stay a while longer?
“Seniority,” Emma replied, once again pointing to the aisle, “duh.” She rolled her eyes, as if just asking such a question made me stupid. Nevermind the fact that her perceived seniority shouldn’t have counted since she’d only started a week before me. “Listen,” she took pity on me, “you can shelve some of the new stock, make sure our ‘artist’ isn’t stealing anything, and then kick her out. Just do it before it comes time to check out, you know how I hate dealing with them. It’s always so awkward, like we’re really going to let a witch walk around with a bag with our logo on it. Puh-lease.”
Oh the irony.
I kept silent, taking the large stack of books that sat behind the desk and throwing them onto a book cart. There were things I wished I could say to Emma but I never did, and it was good that I didn’t. Emma was Able’s favorite and when it came down to it, the old man would choose her over me.
Especially if I let a witch stay in his store.
Still, as I worked my way through the stacks and shelved book after book, I wished that it would never end and that I would never have to face her. Emma could tell she was a witch by the way that she looked, I wondered what features she counted in that description. What traits defined one as a witch?
I pushed my cart, the wheels squealing in protest. It was brand new, but somehow louder than the one before it. That’s the funny thing about book carts, there’s never been a quiet one. Still, the regulars didn’t mind. I suppose that was how it was in libraries too, the wheels seemed louder and more intrusive to you while you were shelving, but not to anyone else.
Or maybe not. I felt eyes on me as I entered the next aisle, my eyes trained on the ground as a faint blush spread across my cheeks. I always hated the idea of disturbing someone at Able’s. Much like a library, a good bookstore was a quiet one. My eyes drifted up to catch a peak at the customer, a glance just out of the corner of my eye so that it didn’t seem so obvious.
The angle wasn’t right, I only saw the edge of a dark green cableknit sweater and something, a firm, gray blob that looked to be putty, in a decidingly male hand. The artist. His hand didn’t move anymore, and I had the embarrassing realization that he could likely see me, even if I couldn’t see him.
I tucked my head down, shoving the last book into the shelf without properly aligning it with the other books. I decided as I pushed the cart away and skipped the artist’s aisle that I’d lie and say it must have been moved by a customer if Able questioned it, which he likely would seeing as how he walked around the shelves every night with the eyes of a hawk. Something about just the man’s hand reaffirmed what I felt on the platform, a strange, breathless feeling, as if I was anticipating something.
Truthfully, the only thing I should have been anticipating was the appearance of the florist from across the street later today, seeing as how the book he ordered finally came in. I tried to focus on him instead, daydreaming about Oliver and his stunning blue eyes and remarkably average looks. Maybe that change would be something good, maybe that change would mean finally getting out more than a few words when I talked to him. A girl could only hope.
Disappointingly, shelving the books went quickly, as they fit perfectly into the large, expectant gaps that lay open waiting for them, and many of them came from the same section. It appeared that we got in a new shipment of travel books. That’s what I got for shelving on a friday, a lot of new releases that no one cared to read. I frowned down at the cart, hoping that the shuffling of feet on the other side of my shelf was not what I feared.
I was wrong.
The woman stood at the counter, pale with skin that was almost paper thin and grey, frizzy hair that passed her shoulders. Her complexion was mottled, years and years of sunlight wearing down on her in the form of heavy brown blotches marring her features. Her eyes were blue, made almost royal in color in comparison with her almost completely faded eyebrows and nearly invisible eyelashes. All over her were wrinkles, ones that dominated her features like the shrunken apple-headed dolls I’d seen in craft magazines.
Clenched tightly in her fist was a wad of wrinkled cash. On the counter in front of her, a single, secondhand cookbook. Her finger repeatedly pointed to the title, her eyes wide as she attempted to pay for it, unaware that it was Emma’s very job to make sure that she didn’t leave with an item from this store.
“The book,” the woman croaked desperately, small wrinkled eyes downturned as she begged the girl. “Please.”
“Again,” Emma said with a disinterested look, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to leave.” Emma cast me a look, beckoning me over to eject the woman. My lungs tightened.
“No, no, no,” the woman replied, growing increasingly hysterical. “The book, I need--”
“The only thing you need is to leave, we don’t take kindly to witches--” Emma glared in my direction. “Lyra,” she demanded.
I tried to breathe, but the air didn’t fill my lungs. Hundreds of times I’d done it, and yet it didn’t get easier. And something about her, something about her genuine need for this particular cookbook, this one stupid thing-- I wished I was a bigger person, I wished I wasn’t a coward, I wished I could tell Emma to shove it because I’m--
“I’ll buy it.” A male voice carried through the shop, footsteps that I didn’t notice before growing louder until a man poked his head out of the stacks, eyes level and confident as he came into view. I was unable to even begin to process the man, I was so in awe of his disruption.
Emma fell quiet as he approached the counter, already digging in a leather wallet that he withdrew from his pants pocket. I could see small bits of eraser fall from his forest green sweater as he dug out the money, slamming it on the counter with a loud smack that ran throughout the shop. The man looked up, dark, curly bangs falling to the side as his near-black eyes met Emma’s.
“The book’s twenty, right? I can see it on the back. This is forty dollars, double the price. Give it to her.”
“Excuse me?” Emma blinked.
“This is forty dollars,” he said, gesturing to the money in front of him, the elderly woman beside him merely gaped, shocked that he would bother to stand up for her. “Books cost money, right? So I’m paying you money in order to buy this book.”
“That’s-- I---,” Emma veered around, her eyes falling on me. High pitched, she demanded, “Lyra, tell him the policy. Witches aren’t allowed to shop here!”
“She’s not shopping,” the man tsked impatiently, looking over to his newly made acquaintance with an expression that read ‘can you believe her?’ “I’m shopping. I’m buying this book, you see. What I do with it after this transaction is kinda my business, you understand? So if you don’t mind, ring it up and then hand it to the lady beside me.” He pushed the book towards her, offhandedly stating, “don’t look at the other girl like you don’t know what’s going on, ring me up.”
“I…” Emma gaped, her mind lagging far behind the situation. After a moment, she evidently completed her risk assessment, her shrill voice commanding me, “Lyra, you ring them up. I don’t want this on my hands.” Her face communicated the extra tidbit that she didn’t share, this is your fault anyway.
I swallowed, hesitantly nodding as I rounded the desk, Emma moved out of the way and walked through the door behind the desk that led to the employee breakroom. Evidently, just this was enough for the day. Scurrying behind the desk, I stared at the barcodes hesitantly, hand not yet reaching for the scanner as I contemplated whether or not this was a fireable offense.
“Well,” the man asked, his voice more even and patient than before. His voice was pleasant, an underlying warmth to it. “Are you goin
g to help me or not?”
Good question. My hand drifted to the scanner, but my eyes did not lift up. This was likely the first time any witch had ever been checked out at Able’s. The red line went over the barcode, a reassuring beep hit the air. I took in his hands as he pushed the cash towards me again, the knuckles of his fore and middle fingers dusted with graphite. Thankfully, the money gave me something else to look at; I popped open the cash register, counting the money in my hands.
“No change,” he kept things simple. “And one of those big green bags so my new friend doesn’t get her book wet.”
I nodded, turning to mechanically bag the book while the receipt printed, shoving the piece of paper in once it was done. I twisted the top so the rain wouldn’t get in, swiveling around to look at the actual recipient. I wish I didn’t when I saw her.
Her big, blue eyes bubbled over when the book was placed in front of her, body immediately turning to the young man to wrap her arms around him as she murmured something. His hand flew to her shoulder and a small, hopefully indectable strangled sound left my body. Able sold rare books, I imagined that she couldn’t get this cookbook anywhere else. Least of all, Magictown...
I held it in as the bell chimed, the green bag in front of me vanishing with the woman.
“Her mother had the same cookbook,” the man’s voice informed me, “she’s been looking for it for years.”
“Extraordinarily rare books,” I said with a strangled voice, “that’s what we advertise.”
The City of Crows Page 1
