The City of Crows Bethany Lovejoy (color ebook reader .TXT) 📖

people I loved behind, if only for their sakes, it’s been about three years. It seemed unfair to keep going and bring my friends along while I knew. I mean, dead at twenty-five? It’s a tragedy when it’s someone you know, but only a sad story when it’s an acquaintance. Leaving them behind was the least I could do.”

“You should go to a doctor--” I began.

“It’s not a disease,” he interrupted, the air heavy with the implication of what it was.

There was no other reason to go to a witch, no other purpose behind generation after generation of the same family researching bloodlines. It was one of those things much whispered about, the few cursed hints of magic from when it was at its strongest. No wonder he’d been kicked out of the records; even just having someone around like that was considered to be bad luck. Not just that, it was bad press for the witches desperately fighting for acceptance of their own kind. A bloodline curse, an act of malice centuries old.

“My great grandfather wasn’t a good man,” he spoke as if it was a simple thing, just another fact of life. Seeing the intrigue in my eyes, he sighed, moving back in his chair with a look that was both jaded and hesitant. “You’ll find for a lot of men that legacy matters more than anything else. My great grandfather was not a kind man, nor was he a patient one. He was cruel to his wife, and after three daughters he’d grown angry and demanded an heir. She began to grow desperate, drinking a combination of elixirs and eating dishes that would make your skin crawl in desperation to give him an heir. When all seemed futile, she heard word of a woman north of her village, one who would care for her and save her from the pain of her husband’s vicious disappointment. But a woman like that wouldn’t be impressed with him, nor willing to do anything to benefit him. She promised my great grandmother that from then on, the firstborn would always be a son, and gifted the woman with the heir my grandfather so desired. But there was a catch, each first born son would have a far shorter lifespan than that of his father. My Great Grandfather died that summer at fifty-five, and forty-five years later, his son would die as well. My father died on his 35th birthday, and in two months, I will die at twenty-five.” He grimaced, if grimace was enough of a word to describe the look on his face.

What could anyone say? Any attempt to respond wouldn’t have been enough. I’m sorry feels hollow when someone has lost so much. Even more so when someone knows that soon their life will be lost.

“I wasn’t upset,” he explained, finally sliding the cup closer to him, the tip of his finger barely skimming across the surface of the tea. “I mean, at first, I couldn’t come to terms with it; I felt almost crushed by it all. I had all these dreams; I had these fantastic ideas of falling in love and getting married, painting pictures of the love of my life. I wanted kids and a big house, a white picket fence and a dog. That sort of cliche thing. But that went away, it didn’t feel like it was mine anymore.” The corner of his mouth went up as I reached across the table, the small metal strainer in my hands as I tried to remove the tea leaves from his drink, figuring that he probably knew it was time to drink. “Maybe it’s still not mine to have, but I think you more than anyone know that there are things in life that we are never meant to have but are more than willing enough to steal.” He nodded in thanks, his lips barely brushing against the rim of the drink as he held it up to his mouth, closing his eyes as he inhaled, “It’s human to want to take things that were never meant to be yours.”

A part of me wanted to know what he found in that action. I finished skimming the tea strainer out of my drink, placing it down gently on the white saucer. Raising the mug to my nose, I inhaled, surprised at the notes hidden beneath the surface of the seemingly average tea. My shoulders rose slightly as I inhaled.

A small snort responded to me, the sound of a poorly held back laugh hitting the air at the same time as the clang of porcelain against wood. Pink rose on my cheeks as I looked up at him, quickly lowering the cup. “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t expecting you to copy me like that,” he promptly replied. “I suppose you’re different than I expected,” he admitted. “I’ve seen videos of your mother’s lectures. She’s very serious, very stern, and demanding. There’s a reason she hasn’t taken any of our calls or letters. You’re different than that, you’re…” he trailed off. “I’m glad you’re the one I found.”

“You’re assuming that I’m able to help you,” I pointed out, placing the mug down on the counter. “I can’t, you know that. No one can; there’s no magic around strong enough to, I’m sorry. I know someone who makes potions that can numb the pain if you’re still feeling that, but other than that, I--” He was wrong to come here, wrong to assume; wrong to be happy that it was me and not my mother. If it were her, if it were Lydia Wynne, then there was a chance in hell. She was a professor, an academic at a university halfway across the country. She would know what to do, not some bookstore worker from the worst district in New Haven. “Listen, I’m sorry, I genuinely am. It doesn’t feel like enough to say it, but I am. I wish I could help you, I wish I had