by Jacob Grey
Caw edged forward and sat down on the cold rock, leaning the Crow’s Beak against it. He glanced at Lydia and Selina, who both looked worried. Bootlace crouched, gently scooping several thin worms from the ground. He cupped them near to his mouth and whispered something.
“They will tell you,” he said. Bootlace took one of the worms between his thumb and forefinger and dangled it at the side of Caw’s head. Caw shifted away. “What are you doing?”
Bootlace grinned, revealing his dagger-like teeth. “Worms speak quietly, child. To hear them you must be prepared to listen. Now hold still. This may feel a little strange.”
Even the crows were silent for once. Caw felt the worm tickle the cartilage of his ear, then squirm into his earhole. His skin crawled, but he managed to stay still. The look on Lydia’s face was pure disgust.
Caw tried to ignore the sensation that the worm was burrowing into his brain, as Bootlace fed another into his ear. He swallowed. A sound like waves washing over shingle filled his head. He could feel every squirm as the worms forced their pulsing flesh into his ear canal.
“Are you all right?” said Lydia, her voice distant. “You’ve gone very pale.”
The cavern blurred, and the shapes of Lydia and Caw and Bootlace doubled, then tripled.“What’s happening to me?” Caw muttered.
Bootlace’s laughter cackled and echoed. “Let them show you, crow talker. Don’t fight it.”
The images spun together so their shapes and colours melded. Caw felt himself falling backwards, and hands caught him, soft as cushions.
Caw closed his eyes and gave himself to the worms.
hen Caw opened his eyes again, Lydia and Selina and the crows were gone. He sat alone in the cave, surrounded by feral tombs. A worm played over the back of his hand.
No, not his hand. The skin was pale, the knuckles like knots of protruding bone, the nails filthy with dirt. Bootlace’s hand. Caw tried to move it, but couldn’t. He was trapped in a body not his own.
In a memory, he realised.
He could hear footsteps, coming from the passage. His body shrank away, carrying him into the shadows where he crouched, watching the door. He felt afraid.
The door opened, and a face appeared. Caw’s heart jolted, almost painfully.
Mum?
She looked terrified, her hair a tangled mess, and a bruise across her cheek.
Caw longed to run to her, but his feet – Bootlace’s feet – stayed rooted to the floor.
“Mr Wythe?” said his mother. “Are you here?”
“What do you want?”
The words came from within and without. He felt his lips move, but the voice was not his.
His mother squinted into the gloom. On her shoulder was a huge black crow missing a patch of feathers from its neck. It squawked, but Caw didn’t understand what it was saying. “Mr Wythe – I need your help,” said his mother. “May I come in?”
“If you must, crow talker.”
Elizabeth Carmichael was wearing a bulky coat with a fur-lined hood, leather boots and long, delicate-looking gloves. She entered cautiously.
“Mr Wythe, I don’t have long,” said Caw’s mother. She reached into her pocket and drew out a small drawstring bag. Caw could tell what was inside from the shape of it. The Midnight Stone. “You know what this is and the power it has.”
Caw felt Bootlace flinch and draw back. He could tell that the worm feral did know – just – though the memory was a dim and dream-like one. “Why have you brought it here?”
“I need you to look after it for me,” said Caw’s mother, holding out the bag. Her eyes were desperate.
Bootlace made no move to take it. “The Midnight Stone belongs with the crow line,” he said.
“I know that,” said Caw’s mother, “but the spider feral has learnt of its existence.”
“How?” said Bootlace. “The stone is a secret kept between crows and worms alone.”
“That’s not important,” said Caw’s mother, casting a glance back towards the door. “The Spinning Man will stop at nothing to have it. Please, you must.”
Bootlace edged forward. He pulled his sleeve down over his hand. “Very well,” he said, taking the bag. “And if you do not return? I have heard of the war that rages in Blackstone – many have perished already.”
“I have a son – Jack,” said Caw’s mother. “Take it to him when the city is safe.”
She folded Bootlace’s sleeve-covered fingers over the bag and squeezed them tight. “You must tell him what it can do. He must tell no one about it. Trust no one. It is his to bear alone.”
“I will tell him, crow talker,” said Bootlace.
“Thank you.” Caw’s mother turned to go and Caw longed to go after her, to call out her name.
At the door, she stopped and turned, and for the briefest moment Caw wondered if she sensed his presence within the worm feral. But how could she? This was only a memory.
“Farewell, Mr Wythe,” she said.
“Farewell, Elizabeth Carmichael,” he said. “And fear not death. Remember, we are but food for worms.”
“Easy for you to say,” she replied. A wave of sadness passed over her face. “Remember, his name is Jack.”
“We will remember,” said Bootlace.
As the door closed behind her, the vision vanished. Caw felt his mind untether, and drift on seas of time …
He was looking into a fire, blazing in a hearth. The heat warmed his face and a grand tall clock was ticking slowly. The time read close to twelve o’clock.
His body turned and he saw a window of small, leaded panes black with night. He was standing in a study with wood panelling on the walls and oil paintings in gilt frames. A crowd of people – men and women of all ages – filled the room and talked to one another in hushed tones.
The gathering seemed to include those from all walks of life. He saw a small man in a rough-hewn brown jacket and dirt-streaked shirt, and a woman in a grand ballooning dress with a hat trailing lace. Others wore doublets or leather jerkins, work boots or shoes with polished buckles. One old man carried a cane topped with gold. Caw didn’t know much about historical dress, but he guessed he was looking at a scene from several centuries ago. The only light came from candles on the walls and the fire in the grate.
A man cleared his throat and the crowd settled down, all turning towards him.
“Thank you for coming here tonight,” he said.
Through the other people, Caw saw the speaker. He was a broad-shouldered man dressed entirely in black, with a tight-fitting velvet doublet, trousers and boots. His long wavy hair was black as well, swept away from his face, which was matted with a thick beard. A vertical scar ran over his left eye from the centre of his forehead to his cheek. At his hip hung a scabbard, and in it was a sword Caw knew well – the Crow’s Beak.
Was this a crow feral? It had to be. He held the gaze of all the ferals in the room, seeming more real, somehow more present, than all of them. It wasn’t just his striking black clothes that set him apart, or his fierce demeanour – he seemed to emanate a hidden power.
“The Winter Solstice is upon us,” said the man. “It is a sacred time for our kind, but never have we been in greater danger.”
The others in the room muttered to themselves and nodded.
The woman in the elaborate hat spoke up. “They’re killing us, Corvus. Burning us at the stake as witches. Driving us from our homes.”
Black Corvus! Quaker had told Caw about him; that he was the greatest of the crow line. Caw gazed at the grim face of his ancestor, hard as iron, looking for any similarity to his own.
The murmurings increased in volume, until Black Corvus raised his hands for silence. The room obeyed at once.
“People fear what they do not understand,” he said. “And this is why I have summoned you here.” He turned to a table and opened a plain wooden box. Inside, on a bed of white satin, was a black stone. It looked identical to the one Caw had in his possession.
Caw sensed Bootlace craning his neck to get closer. “Is that what I think it is?” he said.
Black Corvus’s nostrils flared and he nodded. “It is Obdurian stone,” he said.
Everyone in the room instantly backed away, and one or two crossed themselves.
“Black diamond!” said one of the gathering angrily. “What is the meaning of this?”
“It has taken me months to find it, deep beneath the ground,” said Black Corvus. “It shall be our salvation.”
“How can you say such a thing?” said the old man with the gold-tipped cane. “Obdurian saps the power of any feral who touches it, Corvus. It draws out our abilities, eroding the connection to our animals.”
“Exactly,” said Black Corvus. “And that is why I have brought it here. Take heed, friends, we have lost too many lines already. I ask each of you tonight – sacrifice some of your great powers, confer your gifts upon the stone, so that should you die without an heir, the line will not end.”
“We will be weaker,” said the scruffy man.
“But stronger as well,” said the crow feral. “We will insure against our own demise.”
The assortment of ferals were silent.
“I will be the first,” said Black Corvus. Caw saw the eyes of the room follow the crow feral as he reached out. His hand was trembling, and as he touched the stone with his fingertips he closed his eyes. Caw saw pale threads of light penetrating the stone, which glowed momentarily before fading to black again. Black Corvus stepped away. “It is done,” he said. “I beg you all, do the same. This is the only way to guarantee our survival.”
One by one, the other ferals approached, and repeated the ceremony. Caw came last of all, in Bootlace’s body, but Black Corvus shut the box before he could touch it.
“Your powers are not required, Henry,” he said. “Your line will never be destroyed, as you cannot die.”
“Thank you for reminding me,” said Bootlace and, even in the distant memory, Caw felt an echo of loneliness and pain.
The clock struck the hour and twelve chimes rang out.
“We will call it the Midnight Stone,” said Black Corvus to the room. “Should any of you die without an heir, your abilities will live on in the stone. All that will be needed for a new feral to be born is for a new heir and their creature to come together in the presence of the stone.”
In the back of Caw’s mind, a fear took hold and festered. So that was the stone’s true power … Not merely to take away a feral’s abilities, but to bestow them too. The power to create new ferals. That was what the Mother of Flies had fought, kidnapped and killed for.
“And who will look after it?” said the man with the embossed cane. “If it should fall into the wrong hands …”
“With your blessing,” said Black Corvus, looking around the room, “that duty will fall to me. I will never touch it, never giving up any more of my power to it, and never allowing any power to be taken from it.”
A few people muttered, but the only one to speak up was a woman with a thin, angular face and fair hair that fell completely straight from a centre parting. “And after you, Corvus?”
“The Midnight Stone will be passed through the crow line,” said the crow feral. “Not one of you in this room must ever mention it again.” He brought out a scroll. “This is a pledge to keep what has happened here a secret in your hearts. With your deaths, the secret dies too, kept only by my descendants. And we will protect it to our dying breath. Until the time comes for the stone to be used.”
“Noble words, Corvus,” said the woman. “But would it not be better with him?” She pointed to Caw. “After all, the worm feral will always know the secret.”
Caw sensed Bootlace’s panic. “I am no warrior, miss,” he said. “There is none better than Corvus to guard the stone.”
Caw saw Black Corvus give him a nod of appreciation.
One by one, everyone in the room stepped forward to sign the parchment. Caw came last, in Bootlace’s body. As he dipped the quill into the ink, the vision faded from his eyes.
Caw was breathing hard as slowly the candlelit tomb of the ferals swam back into focus. He fumbled with his ear and tugged out the wriggling tail of the worm, dropping it to the ground at his feet where the other one already lay.
He struggled to stand, but his legs were wobbly. The fear from the vision reignited inside his heart. The convicts in the apartment, the animals in the cages …
“I know … I know what she wants,” said Caw. “I know what the Mother of Flies is planning.”
“Be careful,” said Bootlace. “Your mind is still in the past.”
“What did you see?” asked Lydia.
“The Midnight Stone doesn’t just take powers from ferals,” he said. “That’s only part of what it does. It can also create feral lines. Any feral line that’s died out over the years – it can bring their powers back. That’s why the Mother of Flies has all those convicts from the prison and all the animals. She’s angry about the way other ferals have treated her and her ancestors, so this is her revenge.” He took a deep breath. “She’s going to create a feral army all of her own.”
Glum landed beside Caw. It would be like a new Dark Summer.
Worse, said Screech, flapping in panic. Every death would let her create a new feral to join her cause.
With the stone, she would be unstoppable, added Shimmer.
“Well, she can’t,” said Selina. “We’ve got it, and all we have to do is make sure she can never find it.”
Caw nodded, and looked to Bootlace. “We should hide it down here.”
“What?” said Bootlace. “No, no, no. I looked after it for your mother, but …”
“Exactly,” said Caw. “She trusted you, and you kept it safe. I bet the Mother of Flies doesn’t even know about you. And even if she does, she’d never be able to find this place.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said a familiar voice.
Everyone turned to the cavern wall. The rock seemed to splinter into tiny fragments as hundreds of moths twitched their wings. They settled again, revealing the shape of Mr Silk, camouflaged against the rock. He held his gun at his hip, pointing it at Caw.
The crows jumped into the air with a flurry of beating wings, while the worms shrank away into the ground.
Then a squeaking horde of rats came rushing from the door, with Pinkerton skulking after them.
His mouth dry, Caw looked around desperately for another exit. But there was nowhere to run.
ou brought them here!” shouted Bootlace. “To my home!”
“How did you find us?” said Caw. He felt the weight of the stone in his pocket.
“How do you think, crow talker?” said Mr Silk. “Her children are everywhere. There is nowhere you can hide now.”
Caw drew a deep breath and summoned his crows. If they could sense him from so deep underground. He searched for their black shadows in the ether, but they were faint.
“Give me the stone,” said Mr Silk. He swivelled the gun to point at Lydia. “I know your weak spots, remember.”
“He doesn’t have it!” said Lydia defiantly. “We’ve hidden it.”
Mr Silk laughed. “Is that so, my dear? Then why is his hand covering his pocket like that?”
Caw drew it back. Come to me! he willed his crows.
The gun went off with a crack, the barrel flaring in the gloom. Lydia leapt and screamed as a bullet ricocheted off the rock beside her.
“Don’t test my patience,” said Mr Silk.
Caw could feel them now. Their massed feathers and sharp beaks and shrieking voices. The flood of bodies coming through the grave door.
Caw’s eyes went to the entranceway, where the rat feral stood oblivious. Silently he commanded his crows to plough through her.
“Shut the door, if you will,” said Mr Silk.
Pinkerton looked startled. “The w-w-what?”
“The door, my good lady. Quickly, now.”
The crows swept down t
he steps, hundreds of them, propelling themselves along the passage in an unstoppable wave.
Pinkerton slammed the door. Caw’s heart sank as a succession of thuds sounded from the other side.
“Th-th-think you can outsmart a rat?” she said.
Her creatures swept towards Caw, and Glum and Screech landed at his feet, their bodies right in the rodents’ path.
Where’s Shim—? began Screech, before the rats swamped him.
Mr Silk cried out as Shimmer swooped on him, the gun going off in his hand. Caw heard a bullet ping off the roof of the cavern, and the gun hit the ground. Shimmer shrieked as she clung on to the moth feral’s wrist, pecking and gouging. Blood splattered from his hand.
“Hide!” Caw yelled to the others.
Lydia and Selina ran, leaping through the carpet of rats. Caw saw the air move as a cloud of moths coalesced and dived towards their master. Shimmer was coated from beak to tail, and lost her grip, collapsing to the cave floor.
Caw ran for the gun, but Mr Silk knelt quickly and snatched it up. Caw saw the barrel turn to face him. “Don’t despair, crow talker,” said Mr Silk, leering cruelly. “This won’t be the end of your line, I promise. She’ll find some murderer or thief worthy to take charge of the crows.”
He pulled the trigger just as a shape leapt across in front of Caw. Bootlace! The worm feral’s body jerked with the impact of the shot. Mr Silk fired again, and Bootlace was driven back a step, but remained standing. Caw couldn’t see any wounds at all – it was as if his body had just absorbed the bullets.
“If only it were that easy,” said the worm feral with a grotesque smile.
Mr Silk looked at the gun in confusion, then fired three more shots at point blank range, before staggering as the ground at his feet broke apart. His foot slipped into a hole as worms broke through. “What the …” he said.
Caw turned, looking for Glum and Screech. Both were pinned, their wings jerking at strange angles as they tried to break free of the rats. Caw kicked one of the rodents aside, then grabbed another by its tail and tossed it. More squirmed up his legs, biting as they went. He fought his panic as he saw Pinkerton hopping up on to a rock, laughing maniacally.