The City of Crows by Bethany Lovejoy (novels in english .txt) 📗

to the glass vials jumping within his pockets, threatening to fall out with every step, actually falling out when he did move. No, he let himself move, his thin frame covering the distance in a time frame that I could never imagine, no second thoughts of the rain not the glass that scattered down to the ground. He had his eyes trained, and his mind focused on one subject…

“Lyra,” my name tumbled from his mouth as soon as he was in front of me, his mouth agape and a look of disbelief painted on his faces. “Lyra, what did you say?”

A part of me feared that he didn’t hear, a hiccup ran through my body. “Since you showed up at my apartment, maybe earlier than that-- Since you helped that woman…”

“Lyra, do you?” and there it was, all the confirmation that I needed, proof that he knew.

My shoulders lowered, a tired, defining want in my words as I asked, “do you?” An awful question, one that opened him to saying no.

His hand rose to my cheek. The most gobsmacked, astounded expression played upon his face as his hand cradled my face, thumb caressing my skin. He brushed the soaked hair away from my cheeks and looked into my eyes. He didn’t need to say it, not then. I could tell by the look on his face, by the softness of his touch, and by the way that his feet stepped daringly closer.

I couldn’t wait any longer.

I rose up onto my toes and placed a tentative kiss on his lips, my mouth brushing his, my hand knotting in the back of his hair. A small groan of surprise, his, hit the air as I hummed in content, my wanting mouth searching for more and more against his. The cold water against my lashes did nothing to stop me as my other hand reached for the neck of his sweater, pulling him down and holding him where I wanted him. Weeks and weeks of emotions crossed our lips. His teeth brushed against my lower lip as if to respond that, however long I may have wanted him, he had wanted me far much longer.

His hand tightened possessively around my waist as his other hand urged me forward, desperately drinking me in. There was no need to say anything, nospeeches of desire like in the movies; it was an intimately understood fact between the two of us. This was love, this was want, this was need, this was desire; this was the culmination of a month of waiting and wishing.

This was life passing between us, and if it could have moved slower, I would have let it.

Panting breath, Leo struggling for air as he pulled away from me. His lips nearly back against mine as he gazed longingly into my eyes, only stopping for the briefest of moments so that he could breathe. “Since I first saw you through the book shelves, but even more when you yelled outside of the Greenman. Lyra, I’ve been desperately--”

“I lied,” I admitted against his skin, as if that would suddenly change everything, as if that would be the tipping point in this disaster. “I know how to fix this, I know--”

“I love you,” he ignored my admission, his lips brushing against mine as he spoke, eyes closing once more as he leaned forward.

We didn’t know where we were going or what we were doing, not then. Very few things mattered between us, not in the grand scheme of things. But to me, more than any of them, more than love and the search for truth, the one thing that mattered was this.

20

Just Visiting

“Again, Mr. Withers, I should not have to reiterate this. If you had read the source material, you would be passing the quizzes. Based on your interruptions in class however, and the fact that you moved to question the first of the Impossible Miracles, likely in order to make some sort of political statement; It is a fair assumption that you are not reading the material.” The woman continued, her dry, scratchy voice to carrying beyond her office doors. “To question the miracles is to question magic itself, I don’t know why you, a masters student in the history of the Dark Arts and a warlock, would dare question the existence of magic. Just because you are not experiencing a great deal of power, does not make that a universal experience.”

A pause, I expect that Mr. Withers opened his mouth to speak. But if he did speak, then he lacked the volume of his opponent; he couldn’t hope to overwhelm the linguistic abilities of a woman who had now spent over half of her life speaking in filled lecture halls. I could tell, however, that he didn’t get to finish his brief explanation.

“That’s what it is, politics, Mr. Withers. There’s no other reasonable explanation for challenging what you know to be truth, is there? You’ve been shown artifacts from the act itself, and now you dare to say that it’s not real, that magic is not real. Yet, you live and breathe magic. I’ve seen you charge your phone in your hand with just a few words, and yet you aim to mislead others away from that truth.” A break, her low chuckle hitting the air, “Oh rest assured, Mr. Withers, I could prove magic to you in five seconds or less; but unfortunately, I don’t feel like dealing with throngs of angry parents and board members. If you really feel so inclined to argue against the existence of magic, perhaps you should leave my class and enroll in something more catered towards your simple tastes.” A scoff. “I will not have you polluting the minds of my students. Not in my classroom, and most certainly not in my department.”

There was a clatter followed by the disgruntled grunt of the young man and the slam of a door just around the corner. Leo and I sat huddled on the couch in the