The City of Crows

by Bethany Anne Lovejoy

  “Is it ready?” I asked, an eyebrow raising.

  He looked at me, his head turning just slightly to the side. Emotion, I wasn’t sure what it was, appeared and quickly disappeared from his face. He sighed, the air seeming to come from deep inside him as he removed the lid, scooped the strainer out, and pushed the cup towards me.

  I smiled, trying to reassure him as I took the tea, inhaling the scent that floated up from it. It stung my nose, but I didn’t think much of it. His eyes were on me, worry still painting his face as I took a long sip.

  The liquid was thicker than usual, though I’d not seen him put in any milk or honey. It had a lavender after taste, yet a bitter taste when it first hit my tongue. Immediately, my eyes began to water. Still, I forced myself to take another sip. Then, when his hand rose to mine as I began to put it down, another. And another, and another; finishing the cup quickly. Awake, that was all I needed to be.

  Visible relief settled over Leo’s face as I finished, which was the first thing that cued me off. “Are you okay, Leo?”

  He stiffened, turning away from me, his shoulders squaring as he regarded his kettle once more. “Yeah,” he said, pushing the kettle away from the burner.

  Strange, but not concerning. Leo went quiet sometimes, it wasn’t supposed to be a cause of concern. But now? I was worried.

  I grabbed my phone, after having dressed for the day I stowed it in my back pocket. Maybe it was better to busy myself. Rowan’s message still sat in the corner of my screen, unread. A part of me wanted to open it, a part of me didn’t.

  I looked up at Leo’s frame, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath. It was best to get it out of the way while he was turned around, I supposed. My thumb reached for the message icon, the screen taking a moment to load.

  Rowan’s familiar face came into view, smirking from the icon. Beside him, a single message, my eyes scanning over it once but not really taking it in. Again, they went over it, then again. Over and over, until finally I understood. Ask Leo.

  My eyes drifted back to Leo, mouth opening to do just that. But then, I felt it. The heaviness, the fog and something else that you don’t realize until you’re far too near the brink. “Leo…” I began, my voice just as off-balanced as I was starting to feel.

  “Yes, Lyra?”

  “I don’t feel good,” the world came to a crashing stop.

  22

  Goodnight, Lyra

  Strong arms caught me before I hit the ground, a grunt resounding through the thick haze that had begun to overwhelm my senses. Lavender, that was the main thing I could see, a purple sheen that overcame every image and a scent that overwhelmed my senses, forcing my body into submission. The world seemed to move slower, a floating sensation overcame me as my legs came back into view, my side crushed against a firm, yet squishy wall. Blobs of black peaked through the sea of white that appeared in front of me, slightly discolored by the purple tint that seemed to overwhelm everything.

  “I’m sorry,” Leo’s voice echoed in my head, seeming so far away. Instinctually, I knew that he wasn’t. His arms wrapped around me, shoulder attempting to cradle my head. I knew he was there. “I had to do it, Lyra,” his voice continued as I feebly attempted to raise a hand to him to reach for his face, if only to ask him what exactly it was that he had done.

  My mind was processing so little, and the small window that I was seeing through seemed to be threatened by a frame of lavender that only grew smaller and smaller.

  “A lot of melatonin,” he said, the word melatonin seeming to bounce around in my head, “and a little of another sleeping pill. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you, so I thought…” He trailed off just as I did, but a droplet of warm water against my cheek was all it took to jerk me back to reality. “I had to do this,” he said, more for his benefit than mine. “Lyra, I couldn’t let you hurt yourself. You have so much to live for, so many people who love you. How was I supposed to come to terms with that if you lost it all because of me? What if it changes who you are? What if it ruined you?”

  A long exhale escaped my body as I found myself unable to form words, much less thoughts.

  “But you weren’t going to stop,” further and further away again. My back rested against something softer now, something colder. Bed, a dangerous place to be, especially when I was clawing at the walls of consciousness. “If I didn’t do this, you would. If I managed to stop you long enough to die, you’d still find a way to bring me back, to do something like this. Lyra, I…”

  I tried to find a way to anchor myself, to focus on his words and stay. That was a mistake, however, because it only made his next words hurt all the more.

  “I should have never met you.”

  Pain. Not the kind you could feel or really process, but the kind that brings tears to your eyes without you realizing it. My eyes half open and my mind fully delirious, the pain felt like too much, the liquid dripping from my eyes. I was bad, that was something I understood, I had done something bad and now Leo didn’t want to be there anymore.

  “I love you, even though I’m not supposed to,” he admitted. “Even though the woman at the crossroads told me not to.” Warmth, his thumb brushing over my cheek, wiping away the wetness and replacing it with a gentle kiss. “Ever since I saw you through those bookshelves.” Weight, which I at first hadn’t realized had been there, left my side.

  Wake up, all I could do was think the word, not perform the action. He was slipping further away by the minute both mentally and physically.

  “Goodnight, Lyra,” he whispered, his hand caressing my cheeks. “Please stay safe.” Treacherous lips touched mine, lacking the passion and vigor of earlier in the day. This was a different kind of kiss, the kiss of goodbye. They were too much, too much familiarity and too much want; I couldn’t fight it. My heartbeat slowed with his touch, the desire for more becoming quieter and quieter. My hand feebly reached out, desperate to grab him, desperate to stop Leo before he could make a mistake that he could never take back. But I couldn’t reach him, I couldn’t stop him from going. The world was becoming too heavy, the haze too enticing. Slowly, I slipped away.

  “Lyra Alix Wynne,” A voice cut through the silence, tearing my eyes open with that shrill, familiar sound. “What did I tell you?” A woman spoke, a cloud of cigarette smoke smacking me in the face as she leaned down to grab my wrist, pulling me forward. “Today is not the day to be sneaking around,” she declared, pulling me forward, her cigarette leaving her mouth to flick away the ash just as she turned away from me.

  Familiar, mousy brown locks appeared, tied up tightly in a cheetah print scarf that clashed with the woman’s scarlet red tank top. She cast me a look backward, the frame of her ruby colored cat-eyeglasses allowing only the smallest glimpse of the corner of her blue eyes. Her dark burgundy lips were set in a frown as she walked, the back of her heels digging into the grass with every step she took. White nails, professionally done yet cut short as to not interfere with her work, formed a loose circle around my wrist.

  “You have to stop staring sweetie, and start moving,” the woman said dryly from above, lacking the patience for my explorations.

  “Mom…?” I breathed, eyes widening.

  “Yes, Lyra,” she said in a tone that made it very clear, I should know this fact by now. “Now, we have a visitor today, one of mommy’s acquaintances from work. So, you must, absolutely must, stay upstairs in your room and not make a sound. We’re already running fairly late, and he’ll be here any minute. You do as I say, Lyra, and don’t question it.”

  “But—”

  “I said don’t question me, Lyra,” my mother tutted, finally reaching the back door of our house. She tore it open impatiently, dragging me in. Catching the concerned, almost frightened look on my face, she took a long drag of her cigarette before dropping down to her knees in front of me, flicking the butt off the side of our back stoop. “You want mommy to be happy, don’t you, Lyra? Because if you do, and you want to be happy too, y
ou will stay in your room. No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, stay in your room, and don’t make a sound,” she cooed, brushing the mess of home-cut bangs out of my face, “we only have to do this one more time, and then I promise you, you and I will do something special. We’ll go get ice cream, and watch lots of movies, just like you like,” she smiled.

  “Ice cream,” my voice responded, a grin stretching across my features.

  “Ice cream?” A male voice asked from the kitchen doorway.

  My mother froze, her hand still on my shoulder, willing me, forcing me to look towards her. I couldn’t help it though, my head swiveled around to look at the source of the sound, my mother slowly rising behind me. It was only a moment, a sheer second that I saw the long limbed, elderly man in our kitchen before my mother’s hip came into view, blocking him from my sight and me from his view.

  “You said you would come at two,” her voice was low, deathly grave.

  “I came early, figured I would give you another chance to change your mind,” he replied, the floor creaking under his feet as his voice grew louder, “I knew you needed more time to think about it.”

  “I don’t,” my mother spat, her body shifting so that it stood more in front of me, her hand reaching behind to grab my shoulder, as if to be sure that I was still there. “And when I say two, I mean two. Not one forty-five, two.”

  “Is that the girl,” the man changed the topic, attempting to step around her, only to find that she once again marched straight into his view. “Lyra,” he breathed my name despite the intrusion, shuffling ever so closer. “Oh, I suppose this form frightens her, doesn’t it? Should I slip into something a bit more comfortable?”

  “You can slip out of my god damn house.”

  “Oh Lydia,” the man cooed, though his voice changed as he spoke, sounding far less old, more healthy and young. “I just want to see the little baby girl.” Something about it, the way that he spoke, my chest heaved in and out, I knew that it wasn’t right. “Curious, she looks so little like you. It must hurt, her having the same face as her father—”

  “Go. To. Hell.” She spat, bending down to pick me up. She hoisted me upwards, balancing me precariously on her hip in a way that forced my arms to grip around her neck for dear life. “I fulfilled my end of the deal and now he’s gone, far away with his secretary, no longer thinking of me. So, you keep your hands to yourself, because Lyra’s mine.” She jerked around, angling my body so that the man remained out of view.

  “Oh, but Lydia,” the voice chided, taking on a familiar tone. I craned my neck to see, almost mistaking it for my neighbor’s voice. “Just like all witches, Lyra will be mine. Maybe not now, but some day.” A glimpse, just the slightest glimpse rewarded me with the sight of an eye shifting across dulled skin, nose clicking into place beside it as the man’s features seemed to rearrange themselves, turning from the unfamiliar to the far too familiar. I jerked my head back to my mother, burying my face in her shoulder. “Congratulations on the new house, by the way. Shame you had to move so far,” no, that was definitely his voice, the man who lived next door to us. Yet, just one minute prior, I could have sworn that I’d seen him outside, mowing his lawn. “But I’m sure you would have gone further had the opportunity arisen.”

  My mother clutched me closer, burying me in her shoulder as she proclaimed, “Lyra’s tired, she needs to go to bed.” Her voice was quiet, almost begging. Never mind the fact that I didn’t even feel the slightest bit tired. “Please, just let me put her to bed, then we can keep talking.”

  “Oh, but then she’ll miss all the fun.”

  “She doesn’t need to hear about your perverse miracles,” my mother hissed. “Not now, not ever. Just let me take her to bed, then we can finalize things. I promise.” A beat, her hand clutched tighter to my back, “please.” I’ve never heard her speak like that, and I never wanted to again.

  The man was swayed, my mother began to walk. She carried me, buried in her shoulder, and slowly turned out of the kitchen and climbed up the staircase. Every breath came out harshly, far more labored than her pack a day habit could create on its own.

  Though her steps were hurried, it took far too long to reach my room. Time moved differently in the depths of the lavender haze, slow, fast, never at its actual speed. She sat me down on the floor in front of her, kneeling down to look me dead in the eyes. Her eyes were red and below them, her black mascara had just barely begun to run. Her lips bore chipped paint, lipstick bitten away from her lower lip.

  She smiled, a hollow, empty smile; leaning forward to press her lips against my forehead. The skin stuck for a moment, signaling the transfer of burgundy lipstick to my skin.

  “You’re going to be very good Lyra, aren’t you?” She asked. “You’re going to stay safe and do exactly what mommy asks you too, won’t you?”

  A nod, my head moved of its own accord.

  “Good,” she sighed, reaching into her back pocket. “Now, this is going to hurt, just a little bit. But you trust mommy, don’t you? You stay still and mommy will make it all go away, she’ll make it all better. You won’t have to be afraid anymore, you won’t remember a thing. Just stay still, Lyra.”

  Another nod, my stomach dropping. I trusted her, with every ounce of my being I trusted that my mother was doing what was right.

  She withdrew a thin, polished wand made out of sandalwood; its surface still unmarred by time. I knew it intimately, she still used it. “Close your eyes,” she said, her voice making it clear that this wasn’t a request. Obediently, my eyes shut, my feet betraying me by shuffling closer. The soft, sanded tip of her wand rested against my head, and all air seemed to leave my body. “This is for you, Lyra,” she whispered.

  Blinding pain soon followed, the heavy sigh of a woman and the smoke of a cigarette trailing not far behind it. All thoughts of the man disappeared.

  Wake up, my mind continued to scream, not needing consciousness to do so. Don’t slip, wake up. Leo. Leo is gone. A jerk, my body came back to reality. Eyes shot open and lungs inhaled a heavy breath. My hand balled in the sheet beside me, as if confirming to me that it was capable of motion now. Still, the heaviness resided over me, my mouth terribly dry as if sawdust had been poured into it.

  Leo.

  My eyes shot to the side of me, finding the space on the bed empty. I looked in the other direction, finding the nightstand empty. Darting up, I felt my pockets; no phone.

  “Leo?” My voice carried, echoing off the walls of his apartment. Something, anything, that was all I needed. Just a sign that Leo was still there. I was rewarded with none, no response, nothing.

  Groggily, I swung my feet over the side of the bed, nearly collapsing from the dizziness caused by whatever he’d slipped me. Standing was a task that was both monumental and necessary. I struggled to my feet, gripping onto the nightstand beside me to keep me upright. Part of me wanted to call again, another part of me knew better. I stumbled my way past his room divider, gripping every object I could between the bedroom and couch.

  It was very evident that I was awake far earlier than intended, especially since the clock only read an hour later, and the night continued to beat on outside the apartment. Perhaps if I’d waited longer, it would not have hit me as hard.

  “This isn’t funny, Leo,” I groaned, slowly sinking to my knees as I attempted to reach for the door. How many times had I told him he was human, and yet he decided to do this? Foolish.

  I made it to the kitchen counter and I saw it, the object that was supposedly going to force some form of forgiveness out of me, the charcoal sketch of a blonde woman, her full cheeks and tilted nose being far too familiar to me. Lyra, the title read, followed by his signature. I slammed my hand onto the sketch, tossing it haphazardly to the ground. As if a simple picture could quell my rage.

  And then, like it was taunting me, the noise began.

  A soft series of caws from the ledge of the living room windows, a crow peering in. I stared at it, foot smashing t
he disregarded sketch as I shuffled closer. The crow stopped, its curious head tilted to the side as all humor seemed to immediately leave it, its nose pecking against the glass.

  In and out, in and out; I had to remind myself to breathe. But the sheer gall of it, the way that it seemed to try to communicate—

  I leaned forward, air filling my lungs when rationality could not fill my brain. Furious, I snatched the picture up from under my foot, clutching my fist as I released what I’d been holding back; an enraged scream.

  23

  The Crow

  I’m not proud of how I got to the roof, muttered spells and a wand rendering the lock in a doorknob useless via close proximity and the power behind my words, but I rationalized to myself that it was a necessary evil. As was pulling on Leo’s forest green sweater, the same one I’d first seen him in, a necessary precaution against the breeze and nothing else, definitely nothing else. His sweet, familiar smell filled my nostrils again, willing my feet forward, willing me onto the cement of the roof. He’d be back soon; I would get him back soon. But until then, this was enough. This had to be enough.

  The wind ripped across the roof, far rougher than it ever was on the street level. It was unforgiving, the way that it tore across, chilling me to the bone and nearly knocking me off my feet. Leo lived in one of the tallest buildings in New Haven, a building that seemed to reach endlessly towards the sky. Once on top of it, the height was quite daunting. Down below, lights shone and ant-like people went about their business, the gleam from office buildings creating a heavy haze. This was not the place to dangle your feet over the edge, nor one to watch the city flow by. This was a place dangerously near the stars, a place where the clouds seemed only just out of reach.

  And yet the crows… They flew so high that they went far past the boundaries of imagination. Crows showed up wherever I went, black bodies and beady eyes watching from every corner, balancing on powerlines, dodging the paws of my transformed roommate. The Devil’s familiars, humans used to call some Corvidae that, the nearly ever-present creatures living at the edge of our societies, eating scraps and left-over crops when they could, killing field mice and feasting on carion when the opportunity arose. It seemed only fitting, didn’t it? That the person I knew to be so desperate to eat up the scraps of whatever society would throw him had his own ties to the creatures.