The City of Crows by Bethany Lovejoy (great books to read .txt) 📕

seeming quite pleased. Beside us, her granddaughter only sighed, raising her magazine higher as if she were done with the older woman. “I was told to come here, told that you might have some solution to my problem.”

“Ah, an awful problem you do face,” the woman replied, rubbing his hand between hers with a hint of sadness. My face fell beside the two of them, yet Leo only grinned brighter. He was delighted, delighted that it was her and delighted that she seemed to know exactly what she was talking about. I could hear the generalization from a mile away, my ability to spot it practically hammered into my head by my mother years before. “And yet somehow you keep defying fate, my dear,” she said, and I couldn’t help but notice the way that her eyes drifted to me. I returned her gaze with a narrowed stare, not fully understanding her meaning and not caring to. If she meant to insinuate that I was not meant to be there with him, then the universe had likely neglected to inform her of the very specific blend of incidents that led to our meeting. “And you wish to defy fate once more,” an air of breathlessness colored her voice.

“Fate? That’s--” He began to argue.

“You come with me, boy,” the woman demanded. “You come with Dalia and you let me tell you what will come. Leo obeyed, shuffling closer. I tried to follow suit, but, “only you, Leo. It’s only your future to view, your possibilities to explore. Not Lyra’s.”

That was the only odd part; I’d never even told her my name.

Leo didn’t argue, giving into the woman far too quickly. He let her pull him away, behind the curtain without a single glance back. I didn’t move to follow him, I didn’t dare try. All I could do was stand by the desk and stare at the teenager, wondering what Leo was about to discover.

He stumbled out minutes later, looking far more ill than anything else. It was almost robotic the way he exited, Dalia staying behind the curtain. I sat by the door, reading a small travel booklet that had been left on one of the many shelves for people to take. He didn’t acknowledge me as he approached, didn’t say a single word. He merely stared, waiting for me to join him.

No hand was offered, no smile was given. Leo’s eyes were downcast, his lips unmoving. As we exited the shop, I moved to stand closer to him, hoping to at the very least brush against him. I wasn’t rewarded with such contact. Leo moved away just in time, still walking in line with me but not providing any of the friendly touches I had become so used to.

15

Names

“Are you sure you’re okay, Leo?” I asked for the umpteenth time, unfolding the lids of our Chinese take out containers and beginning to fork the contents out onto plates. I had been the one to suggest it, figuring that my comfort food might help him. Somehow, it wasn’t working. I don’t know why I was surprised.

Leo had not so much as spoken a word since we’d left Lacus. His shoulders were tensed, his eyes avoiding mine, he did not say anything. He had walked with his hands tucked in his pockets and his neck craned downwards; if he hadn’t slowed down occasionally to make sure I was following him, I wouldn’t have known that he intended for me to go with him. We reached his apartment, still no words. I sat on the sofa and ordered take out, still nothing. Instead, he sat in the armchair, feet planted firmly on the ground as he gazed off into space.

It was only when I went downstairs to get our order that he seemed to move, frantically digging through the closet nearest his front door, revealing shelves of sketchbooks that had previously been tucked out of view. I spared him only a momentary glance; it was far too concerning watching him as he desperately dug, holding each sketchbook up as if it held the secrets of the world, then frantically flipping through the pages only to be disappointed. There was no order to his madness, but I suppose that was due to his lackluster style of organization. It appeared that nearly every sketchbook was thrown to the side and just tossed onto the shelves, much like how the coats were thrown onto hangers within the closet and forgotten about. Whatever he was looking for was special.

I put a generous helping of vegetable lo mein and stir-fried eggplant on his plate, throwing on a couple extra cream cheese wontons. The few times I’d seen Leo eat, it’d been a lot. “Leo,” my voice carried through the apartment, yet he still did not come. I sighed, grabbing our plates along with utensils and kicking open the barely ajar door with my foot.

Leo did not look up, still engrossed in the books before him. There was little change around him, three sketchbooks laid open, multiple young women stared from their pages. It was eerie, each girl having hollow eyes, their mouths set in frowns. Some looked skeptical, others angered, a few looked saddened. But every single one of them was looking out of the page, their eyes trained so that no matter what direction the viewer looked, they would feel them watching them. For a moment, I recoiled. Leo didn’t react.

But then sense came back to me. I knitted my brows together, lowering myself down to the floor beside him. Helpfully placing the silverware on top of his plate and pushing it towards him, I sat beside him, hoping the smell of American Chinese food and heavy soy sauce would knock him out of it. But even that couldn’t reach him.

“Leo,” I tried again, reaching for his shoulder. “Are you okay? What happened in there?” I didn’t know what else to do, my thumb instinctually rubbing circles on his shoulder. “There’s