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

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,”