The City of Crows

by Bethany Anne Lovejoy

  “Yeah?” I squeaked.

  “Yeah,” Leo assured, nodding his head. “I think I live around here, actually,” he nodded, his eyes not leaving mine.

  “You do?” It was a lie, I could tell, but I wanted to believe it.

  “Yeah,” he said, his hand beginning to coax me closer, likely so that he could guide me out of the alley before anyone else could appear. “And you’re freezing, Lyra,” It was just another excuse, one he gave me so that I wouldn’t have to admit the truth. “We should get you inside, get you changed into something warm. You know, I have more of that tea, other flavors too, and the comfiest couch you’ve ever sat on; better looking than yours too. And all of that, I mean… I’m feeling really tired, and I wouldn’t want you walking home alone. Maybe you could…?”

  I nodded so frantically that a hiccup escaped me, my body subconsciously stepping closer to him, close enough that his arm was able to fall around my waist, his hips bumping against mine as he slowly guided me out of the alley. My head fell against his shoulder, the sensation of his body grounding me in reality.

  We entered the street, dim lights reflected off the asphalt as we tumbled onto the sidewalk, Leo struggling to keep me upright in my half-dazed state. He led me further and further down the street, his hand disappearing only briefly to silence the phone in his front pocket that had only just begun to light up. I couldn’t hide the fact that I noticed, my gaze lingering for far too long. He brushed it off quickly, offering me his hand in turn and pulling me in once I’d taken it. His skin felt warmer than mine, and I didn’t protest moving closer. It was confusing, but not unpleasant.

  Seeing the uncertainty of my expression, he tried to pull me away from speculation and back into reality, asking, “How do you feel about neon signs and awful puns? More importantly, how cold are you?”

  Ah, “I could take them or leave them,” I replied, bemused and successfully distracted.

  “The long way home then,” Leo said, tugging my hand to change direction and urging me to cut across the street with him.” You have to tell me what your favorite is, though,” he informed me. “Mine is this restaurant that just calls itself, ‘Great Asia,’ they have a sign out front that says, ‘call pho a good time,’” he explained. “My mother would roll in her grave if she saw it, it’s that tacky.”

  Neon lights and awful puns were only a short trip, it turned out. I’d never been to that part of town, but they had showmanship and a residual energy that could have rivaled that of Vegas. It laid in the opposite direction of where we ended up going, and I think that Leo thought I wouldn’t have noticed, but it was nice in a way. Soothing was a strange way to put it, especially when I stood face to face with the kicking leg of a scantily dressed woman captured in neon, but there wasn’t any other way to put it. I felt my fear begin to fade.

  Finally, though, we were in his apartment, Leo’s warmth only capable of carrying me so far before the comforts of the inside world were required. I don’t know what I’d expected, but not what I was faced with.

  Smooth, wooden floors and cleared counters greeted me when I arrived, emphasizing the space’s emptiness. It was a decently sized studio apartment, one that probably cost far too much and was occupied far too little. Sunshine yellow walls and white cabinets made up the small kitchen, a half wall serving as a barrier between it and the living space only helped make the contrast between it and the predominantly white yet multi-colored geometric wallpaper of the living area. The couch, green and overstuffed, held a multitude of patterned cushions, none matching but all seeming to go with the decor. In front of it was a faded blue rug, that sported the same geometric patterns as the wall yet more toned down. Two armchairs sat on either side of it, one a rich robin’s egg color and the other in the same golden yellow as the kitchen. There was no television, but a cabinet to the side with glass doors held an overflow of books.

  In the back, behind a decorative room divider, was the bedroom. It had the same patterned wallpaper, which contrasted the cyan-colored bedding sitting atop his kingsized bed, the pillows were a rather feminine shade of pink. Above the bed hung a net of fairy lights, usually a problem in most apartments due to low ceilings, but here they hung just out of reach, suspended in the air like stars in the sky. To the side of the space sat a low armoire, golden patterns stenciled across its drawers, a houseplant, likely fake, dominating the top of it.

  “My mother’s an interior decorator,” Leo began to explain. “She’d kill me if I took credit.”

  And yet, her decorating skills couldn’t quite overwhelm the focus of the room. I stepped toward one of the walls, my hands desperate to reach out and touch what hung on its surface, but my mind being far too smart to allow me to. “You are an artist,” I said, taking in the heavy-handed charcoal drawings on the wall, having stopped at the one nearest the entrance. The eyes of a woman, her legs dangling in the poolside as her form only half-turned to us, looked out at me. Black and white, and yet her simple shape held so much life that it felt as if she was gesturing towards me.

  “Ex-girlfriend,” Leo explained dismissively, walking past me into the apartment. “I gifted her husband a copy of it when they got married, she told me to keep the original. Maybe it was a bit selfish, but I was glad she did. I don’t think many artists like to part with their work.”

  “You make a living off of this?” I asked, tearing my eyes away from her and taking in the next piece. A smiling little girl with a missing tooth hung from the side of Leo’s island cabinets, her tongue poking through the gap.

  “Yes?” He said, digging around his cupboards for some glasses. “Why, do you think they’re bad? I paint too, I’m not very good at it, but people like to buy colorful things as well so...” he shrugged.

  “No, I think they’re nice,” I admitted, my eyes seeking out the next ones. “I don’t know many artists…” or any, at least not gainfully employed ones.

  He snorted, withdrawing two burnt orange colored mugs and setting them onto his counter. “That’s because you didn’t draw them, so you can’t see everything that’s wrong with them. The shading’s off on that one, and she needs more white in the eyes. And the other one? I could have been more dynamic with my lines. I only put them up to remind me.”

  “So you only put flawed pieces of art up to remind you?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.

  Leo looked over his shoulder at me, shooting me a look that almost seemed impatient, as if he was waiting for me to realize something. When I didn’t, he smiled, an exasperated and tired grin. “There is no perfect artwork, Lyra. But thank you for thinking so highly of mine.”

  I could have argued otherwise, but I didn’t, sliding onto one of the stools on the other side of his kitchen bar, inwardly noting how much longer and bigger it was than mine. It was evident that I wasn’t the only one who thought he had beautiful work; otherwise, I doubted he could have afforded his apartment.

  “I have portraits of you, you know,” Leo admitted, turning the burner on underneath the kettle he’d placed upon the stove. Embarrassed, he quickly added, “of course, I didn’t know you yet, so they’re not quite accurate. Just speculation as to what you could look like. If anything, it’s a little embarrassing. I’ll draw you again someday. I like to draw people who are important to me.”

  “You’ll have to do it soon,” I informed him. “Otherwise, you’ll forget.”

  He averted his eyes, looking back to the kettle. “No, I don’t think I will forget you, Lyra.”

  My smile fell. I took in his back once more, lips pursing. I suppose he wouldn’t, not if he got to live. A part of me wanted to inform him that I wouldn’t forget him either, but that felt unnecessary. Still, I wanted to say something.

  “You’re probably still cold,” Leo said. “You can pick out something from my armoire; I don’t have anything to hide. I promise there’s more than art smocks and sweaters handknit by my grandmother. I’m not such a square that I don’t own a t-shirt.”

  “Right,” I said, pushing
back from the counter as he began pulling out metal containers full of tea leaves and setting them on the counter. Noting his bare feet, I kicked off my shoes and set them to the side before approaching his armoire, a nagging feeling still tugging at me as I began to pull open drawers to search for suitable sleepwear. “Thank you, Leo,” I started, though it still didn’t feel like enough.

  “You’re welcome,” he responded, the pop of an airtight container following soon after his voice as I dug through his t-shirts.

  They were a bit bigger than I expected, longer to cover his torso and also a bit wider. The curse must have begun to take a little weight from him, and I wondered what he looked like underneath the sweaters for a moment, but then realized myself and quickly moved on from such thoughts. Back to thinking of how to repay Leo, I sighed, pulling a long, plain burgundy shirt from the uppermost drawer, then bending down to inspect the lower ones. “He didn’t hurt me or do anything wrong, not that I realized right away,” I explained. Information, that was the only way to repay Leo. “I mean, Rowan? He can be a really good guy, underneath it all.”

  “You don’t have to--”

  “I do, Leo, because I’m taking advantage of your hospitality to avoid my problems,” I sighed, finally locating a sea of cotton fabric that led me to believe it was the pajama pants drawer. Luckily, it was. “I mean, I must look pathetic to you.”

  “You could never look pathetic to me,” he said, the clink of spoons being placed into cups ringing through the air.

  “Would you believe he was already like this before?” I pulled his t-shirt over my head, swiftly reaching down to remove my jeans. “You know, weird. Not in the best of ways, always looking for a way out, a way to be better than everyone. I thought it was okay for a while, but… that’s not a life, not for me.”

  “I’d believe anything you told me, Lyra,” Leo reassured. “And I won’t push you to go back or to ask him anything. If you don’t want to be there, I’m not going to make you go.” He sighed, and yet his voice made me believe him when he said, “I’m happy with what I have so far.”

  I pulled the pants over my thighs quickly, wanting to gauge his face as I spoke again. My eyes peeked past the divider, voice carefully asking him, “So you think there’s a chance?”

  His sleeves were rolled up, and the slender muscles on his forearms tensed as he leaned down on the counter. In front of him sat the mugs, both steaming as the tea brewed. “Well, not an outright one. I mean, I don’t have any idea of how powerful or anything like that, but…” He gestured to the mugs, beckoning me closer. “C’mon, sit, drink. Chamomile, lavender, and magnolia.”

  I nodded, approaching the table with little protest.

  “I added a little milk and honey, just to make it sweeter,” he informed me as I sat down, lifting his own cup to his lips before I could mistakenly grab it. I caught a hint of his tea’s almost black surface and its thickened texture, the smell of licorice hanging like a memory in the air.

  I looked down at my yellow tea, the clouds of milk that were devoid in his hanging close to the surface, waiting for me to stir it. My eyes traveled from my cup to his, yet he averted his gaze from mine, quickly swallowing his tea in two large gulps. His face fought back his disgust at the flavor.

  “You can sleep on the bed,” Leo began, eager to direct my attention elsewhere. “I’ll take the couch.”

  9

  The Unexpected Visitor

  “Oh, thank god, you know I was beginning to think that you quit,” Emma’s voice greeted me when I walked through the front door of the store, my mind still in a haze, just as it had been for the past few days.

  Thoughts pushed against my skull like a wave overtaking a tidepool, sloshing over the edges of my consciousness as I pulled my forest green apron over my head, securing the ties.

  The black liquid in Leo’s cup still bothered me, as did the news about Rowan and the fact that he’d not called my home that night. Something about the crows and the way they hung off the powerlines, leaning in to watch as we walked across the street taunted me. Everything felt, as it never had before, so impossibly overwhelming. Yvie had mixed me a calming potion, but the damp fog as I left our apartment building seemed to be enough to take that away, my body having not fully accepted the potion.

  Now I’d made it to work, but even entering the shop felt like additional weight on my shoulders. To add to it all, frequent check after frequent check did not provide me any reprieve; there were no messages from Leo. He was gone when I left the following morning, a note left on his counter telling me to make myself at home as he went out to sketch. But, after that? Not a single word, no text messages or phone calls for the past week.

  Maybe that’s why I was so concerned about the black liquid.

  It wasn’t a potion, I would have known if it was a potion. Yvie was connected to nearly the entire market, and she knew who sold what to who. She would have mentioned if she knew he’d bought some, she would have even offered to provide him with her own blend. No, whatever he was drinking was far stranger, unknown to me. I’d described the smell and texture to Yvie, but she’d not been able to identify it, saying that it would more likely be something that you had to witness to know.

  Worry seeped into my thoughts. I wouldn’t admit it, but it was far more predominant in my brain than anything else.

  The crash of a book cart into my side brought me back to reality, Emma’s mouth twisted in cruel joy. “Oops,” she said, brushing off her hands as she removed them from the cart. Unsurprisingly, the cart was full. “I just had to leave them for the past few days; I didn’t want to mess with your system. There’s three more in the back,” she informed me. As if the carts alone weren’t enough for me to realize that my little indiscretion of leaving early had landed me in the dog house, she added, “Able wants all the shelves cleaned and the spines aligned, and don’t forget to alphabetize the picture books. Be sure to get that done tonight. He won’t be happy if the shelves are a mess tomorrow.”

  “Right,” I said, reaching back to tie my apron even tighter. Maybe if I did that, I could focus a bit more. It was worth a shot, at least for now.

  I gave my phone one last futile glance, seeing once again that no calls or notifications were awaiting me. Disappointed, I threw my phone onto the upper shelf of the cart, gripping the sides as I began to push the heavy load once more. Unsurprisingly, the wheels screamed just as they always did. Maybe if I focused on that, it could feel like a normal day.

  Maybe not. Despite myself and the task of shelving books in the right order being practically ingrained in my mind, I couldn’t concentrate. Normally, shelf-reading was an act of meditation for me, but today? Noisily, to the point where I felt almost guilty, I began to put books away; hoping that he would hear me and my squealing cart and come to speak to me if he were there. Unfortunately, there was no sign of him.

  The bell over the shop door rang in the background as I broke the cardinal rule of Able’s, reaching for my smartphone during a shift. It was almost as if the world wanted me to know that I’d done something wrong but had run out of more subtle ways to say it. Oh well, Emma was on her phone all the time, and if Able did fire me, then… Well, I could always get a new job. Leo was right, this wasn’t exactly the best place to work.

  Unsure what to say or how to lead off, I snipped a picture of the aisle, angling it so the desk that he once sat at was visible in the shot. I stared at the picture, mentally criticizing it but not allowing myself enough time to talk myself out of sending it. Hitting send before I could change my mind, I watched the photo upload, waiting to see if the telltale read message would appear. It didn’t, and so, mentally anguished by what I was doing, I quickly typed a message below it. ‘At work, should I be expecting you?’ Simple enough.

  I watched the message for a moment, as if he would text back right away. When he didn’t, I frowned, trying not to concentrate on it too much as I placed the phone face down on my cart once more. He’d write back soon, I reassured my
self, kneeling to pick up books from the bottom shelf of the cart. Leo wasn’t the type to make people wait.

  I found one that would logically fit in the travel section and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that the last name began with an M, just as the other books on the shelf I was already standing at. My eyes traveled along the shelf as I searched for the right spot, mentally looking for the ‘MI’s. They landed just at eye level, the books were jammed closely together with the help of a metal bookend. I stepped forward, pulling them apart to shove the book in. For some reason, it seemed they wanted to resist me.

  I squinted, biting the edge of my lip as I moved forward again, attempting to pry the books apart. For some reason, my body didn’t want to; an ounce of force felt like too much. I felt, for a minute, almost cold.

  Strange, but not completely impossible. Sickness did overcome those who found themselves particularly stressed, and I would say I was one of those people. Or, I would have said I was one, up until I saw a form move behind the books. My heart stopped.

  Suddenly, the motion became easy, my hands jerking the books apart in the proper place. Parting the books revealed the clavicles of a male chest, body clad in a white button-up shirt as the person behind the books stood far too close to the shelf. I stopped, the book still in my hand, my mouth fell open.

  “Leo…?” I asked.

  “Lyra,” a familiar voice responded, sending the book tumbling out of my hand. No sooner had the voice spoken than the being stooped to peer from between the gap, his green eyes looking back into mine, sending me stumbling into the shelf behind me. “It is you,” the voice replied, the person straightening and disappearing out of my view. I knew who it was, though I prayed that it wasn’t him.