by Jacob Grey
“Get away from me!” Caw said. And before he had even thought about it properly, he’d drawn the Crow’s Beak.
“Or what?” said Johnny, putting up both hands. “You’ll stab me? You sure we’re on the same side?”
“Caw, don’t,” said Pip. He looked close to tears.
“Calm down, everyone,” said Mrs Strickham. “Remember who we are! Caw, let’s talk this out.”
“You just want to take the Stone,” said Caw. “You’ve already made up your mind.”
Johnny whipped out a hand and batted the Crow’s Beak aside. Caw watched it skitter across the concrete, slide under the railings and fall over the edge of the car park.
“Give me the Midnight Stone,” said Johnny. “We’ll look after it, I promise.”
Racklen and Ali were coming at him from either side.
“Back off,” said Caw as his mind screamed for him to fly.
And then Johnny’s face creased in confusion as Caw’s skeleton seemed to soften and shrink. Caw’s body dynamics turned upside down, his legs stiffening and strength flowing to his powerful shoulders.
“Hey, what are you—” shouted the coyote feral. “No!”
The world bent into curves as Caw became a crow.
The coyote feral lunged forwards, and in the same instant Shimmer and Screech flapped in his face. Johnny cried out.
Caw rolled over the top of the railings. He fell for a second, before his wings caught the air and he swooped away.
Looking back, he heard Lydia calling out to him. “Caw!” she yelled. “Come back!”
Let’s get out of here, said Glum.
Caw hovered, waiting for Shimmer and Screech, then climbed with powerful wing strokes away from the car park.
We’ve got company, said Shimmer.
Pigeons were flocking over the edge of the building – hundreds of them.
Caw summoned his murder and, like a black swarm, more crows rose from the ground below. He needed to get away, but pigeons – as Crumb never tired of telling him – were faster than crows, and soon they were surrounded.
Split up and lose them, commanded Caw.
His crows burst across the sky. The pigeons scattered, each one tracking a different crow. Caw flew low between the buildings, zipping down an alley, under an old bridge, then climbing up the other side. Pigeons were faster, but crows were more agile. He looped under the bridge a second time then perched on one of the steel supports beneath. The pigeon chasing him shot past and flew on.
Caw waited, his crow heart thudding. It had happened so fast. They’ve all turned on me.
Shimmer, Screech and Glum glided in under the bridge and landed at his side.
That was crazy, said Shimmer.
We got away though, said Screech. What now?
Caw thought for a moment. He’d left the Crow’s Beak behind. Perhaps he could go back. He could explain properly, say sorry for drawing his sword and … No. He didn’t owe them an apology.
He couldn’t go back to his house, and Lydia’s place wasn’t safe either now he couldn’t rely on Mrs Strickham.
Then it came to him. He knew only one person who could help now. The problem was, Caw didn’t have the first clue where to find him.
Spreading his wings, he dropped back into the air and flew out from under the bridge. A group of half a dozen crows were loitering on a window box. He recognised one as Krak, a tough, no-nonsense female who was Shimmer’s aunt – not that family relationships meant much to crows. Caw landed beside the other crows and they shuffled along.
I need you to go back for the Crow’s Beak, he said. But if it’s too hard to retrieve, just leave it.
Define hard, said Krak.
Caw smiled inside. Just don’t get hurt, he said.
All of the crows took off in a black stream except for Glum, Screech and Shimmer.
And I need you to look for cats, he told Screech and Shimmer. Spread the word. Report to the old power plant – I’ll be waiting there.
Cats? said Screech. Horrible creatures …
Look for any hanging around in groups, said Caw. Acting weirdly.
What d’you want with them? asked Glum.
If we find cats, we can find Felix Quaker, replied Caw with a grimace. Glum, you come with me.
Felix Quaker might just be the only friend Caw had left.
The old power plant was a wasteland: a sprawl of corrugated steel and bare-brick buildings, surrounded by chain-link fencing. Huge rusting vats and ugly towers stood lifeless against the horizon. An offshoot of the Blackwater river that had once flowed under cooling towers came to rest here in stagnant murky pools. The gravel roads that years ago had been busy with trucks were now overgrown with weeds. One side of the plant had become a rubbish dump for old electrical appliances and metal waste – washing machines, TVs and twisted girders.
No one ever came here now.
Still in crow form, Caw landed on the edge of an empty steel drum. Beside him, balancing on a lopsided aerial antenna, Glum shook out his feathers.
You really think the cat feral can help? he asked.
He’s an expert on feral lore and our entire history, said Caw. If there’s a way to help Selina, he’ll know it.
It was mid-morning when the rest of the crows began to arrive. Most had no information of use, but Morton, an old warrior crow who’d lived through the Dark Summer, brought the news Caw had been hoping for.
There were three of them, he said. Looking shifty. In the Lanes.
Caw felt a surge of hope. The Lanes were all that remained of old Blackstone, and lay beside what had once been the river docks. Most of the buildings there were cheap hostels, pawn shops or discount stores. Caw had occasionally walked the streets there when he was younger. It was the one place in Blackstone that a boy on his own, dressed in grubby torn clothes, attracted little attention. It seemed an odd place for Quaker to be lurking – there were no restaurants, or tailors, or shops catering for the finer things in life that he enjoyed.
But if there were cats there, congregating …
Caw told his crows to stay where they were, apart from Morton and the three who always stuck by him. They flew off towards the river.
Glum pumped his wings to keep alongside Caw. They’re worried, he said.
Who? said Caw.
The crows. They never liked Selina.
They don’t know her like I do, said Caw.
Are you sure you do know her? asked Glum.
Caw didn’t answer right away. He remembered how, the last time he’d seen her, she’d defied gravity, scurrying across the ceiling. He remembered the way she’d looked, with her bleached hair and eyes with no whites. If she was the White Widow, was there any of Selina left?
They’re scared too, said Glum. They fear the spiders will be too powerful this time.
Give it a rest, said Screech, zipping up to join their convoy. We’ll fight them like we always do. And if Caw wants to rescue Selina, I say we help him.
I never said I wouldn’t, said Glum grumpily. I’m just wondering if we’re doing the right thing.
What other options are there? asked Caw, his anger rising.
Glum was panting as he tried to keep up. Only that you don’t … have to do … this alone, he said. It’s not your job to fix every problem.
Caw put on a burst of speed to put some distance between them. Glum might be right, but the other ferals had hardly given him a choice, had they? They just wanted to kill the White Widow and forget all about Selina.
Finally, they reached the winding alleys that made up the Lanes. From above, the tall, mismatched buildings seemed to lean towards one another in huddles.
That’s the place, said Morton, with a twitch of his beak towards a pitched roof with an open skylight. The cats disappeared in there.
Thank you, said Caw. Return to the others. We’ll be back soon.
Caw swooped down and let his talons settle on the rooftop, where they became feet again. It was the longest time he’d e
ver spent as a crow.
In human form once more, he peered through the skylight and saw a dim room inside. He placed his hand on the window frame, and a furry paw lashed up and raked him across the wrist. Caw drew it back with a gasp.
He heard rapid footsteps, then Felix Quaker appeared, clutching a cricket bat in one hand and a cut-throat razor in the other.
“Who’s that?” Quaker shouted.
He was wearing a scarlet dressing gown with satin trim, and half his doughy face was still covered in shaving foam. His wavy grey hair hung untidily over his shoulders.
“Caw?” he said, eyes widening.
The cat hissed.
“Can I come in?” asked Caw.
Quaker rested the cricket bat on a table. “How did you find me?” he asked. “For pity’s sake, Bluebeard. Let him past.”
Caw cautiously opened the skylight wider then lowered himself through, dropping on to worn, creaking floorboards. His three crows followed.
A dozen cats watched Caw suspiciously from the corners of the room.
“Welcome to my palace,” the cat feral said joylessly.
Caw couldn’t imagine anything more different from the splendour of Quaker’s old residence, Gort House. In these cramped lodgings, there was just a single armchair with the stuffing bursting out and a footstool. A camping stove with a small saucepan sat on a battered old desk. The paltry row of leather-bound books was nothing like the vast library in Quaker’s previous home. Only the shelves contained any vestige of Gort House, lined with ancient-looking objects that Caw guessed were feral artefacts: a feathered wand, an ornate glass cup, a skull that might have belonged to a large dog or maybe a pig or a goat …
“Tea?” said Felix, as a cat curled itself into the armchair and closed its eyes. “I’m afraid I have no fresh leaves. Only bags.”
“No, thank you,” said Caw. “I need your help.”
Quaker snorted and put a steel kettle on the stove’s ring, lighting it with a match. “And what help can I possibly be to the crow talker?”
He sat on the footstool with a bowl of water and a cracked mirror in front of him, and recommenced shaving his chin with short, brisk strokes of the razor.
“The Spinning Man is back,” said Caw.
Quaker paused, and his eyes met Caw’s in the mirror. Then he continued shaving.
“That is not possible,” he said quietly.
“He took Selina from the hospital – somehow,” said Caw. “She calls herself the White Widow now. He spoke to me – through her.”
Quaker wiped his face on a moth-eaten towel. It seemed like he had aged ten years in the last fortnight. He’d lost weight, and his legs looked skinny in his baggy trousers and shirt. His face sagged in doughy folds.
“Well?” said Caw. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
The kettle whistled, and Quaker shuffled over, dropping a teabag into a mug and pouring in the steaming water.
“You’re sure you don’t want one?”
Ask him if he’s got any biscuits, said Screech.
“No!” said Caw. “Are you even listening?”
Quaker turned and hissed at the cat on the chair, which unfurled sleepily and hopped off. He sat down heavily. “I heard things were bad in the city,” said Quaker.
“The convicts are getting more powerful with every day,” said Caw. “And they’re working for the White Widow now. We don’t know what to do.”
“You could run away,” said Quaker. “If he’s found a way back then his powers are beyond your comprehension.”
“That’s why I came here,” said Caw. “I need you.”
Quaker nursed his tea in both hands. “I am not a fighter. You need Velma Strickham. Racklen. You need ferals who have fought him before.”
“They want to kill Selina,” said Caw.
“This ‘White Widow’, you mean?” said Quaker. He looked at Caw with an arched brow and sipped his tea.
Caw shook his head angrily. “There must be another way. What about the Midnight Stone? It can suck out feral powers, can’t it?”
Quaker looked up, his eyes flashing. “The Midnight Stone is dangerous,” he said. “How would you ever get this new spider feral to touch it without putting it into her hands? If she – or, worse still, he – has it, that could be the end of us all.”
Caw hated the tone of Quaker’s voice. Defeated. Cowardly, though that was hardly a surprise. He wanted to smash the mug out of the cat feral’s hands and haul him up by his collar.
“I won’t let them kill her.”
“Ask yourself: is Selina better off dead?” said Quaker.
“Of course not!” said Caw.
Quaker sighed. “If the Spinning Man’s spirit has possessed Selina – and I really have no idea how that could have happened – it’s beyond me how to draw him out again.”
“You were my last hope,” said Caw.
A grey cat hopped up on to the desk and Quaker absently stroked its head. “But …” he said, “there might be another use for the Stone. Do you have it with you now?”
Caw reached under his collar and pulled it out, still safely wrapped in its pouch on the cord round his neck.
Quaker visibly stiffened, and though his eyes followed it, he didn’t come any closer.
“It is said that your ancestor, Black Corvus, was the most powerful feral who ever lived,” said Quaker. “Far more powerful than his contemporaries. Few people know this, but when he died, his daughter, the next crow feral, could barely summon the birds to her for many years. Some surmised that Black Corvus had invested his feral spirit into the Midnight Stone in his final hours.”
“But how? And why?” said Caw.
Quaker shrugged. “Perhaps he couldn’t bear the idea of dying and thought it was a way to live on. There are some who say he was jealous of anyone else having his power. Even his own flesh and blood.”
Caw frowned. “But Black Corvus created the Midnight Stone for the good of all ferals, didn’t he? So that no feral line would die out, even if a feral had no children to inherit their powers.” He had seen Black Corvus just once before, in the memories of Bootlace the worm feral – his ancestor had a fierce expression and a voice filled with confidence.
“There are many shades of good and bad,” said Quaker. “It rather depends on where you stand.”
“Are you saying that the Spinning Man found a way to channel his spirit?” asked Caw. “To preserve himself, even after death?”
“I’m saying that if anyone can tell you how it might be done, it would be Black Corvus himself,” said Quaker.
Is this making sense to you? asked Shimmer.
Barely, said Glum.
I’m still waiting for biscuits, said Screech. He must have them somewhere – there are crumbs on the table.
“But how can I talk to Black Corvus?” said Caw.
“You search for him,” said Quaker. He nodded at the cloth-wrapped stone in Caw’s hand.
Well, I’m glad he’s cleared that up, said Shimmer.
Caw slipped the threaded pouch off his neck and tipped the Midnight Stone gently on to the footstool. Its polished black surface reflected the room and Caw’s face leaning over it.
“Touch it,” said Quaker.
“Won’t it take my powers away?” said Caw nervously.
“I think not,” said Quaker. “The Stone belongs to the crow line.”
He thinks not … said Shimmer.
Hardly reassuring, said Glum.
“If Black Corvus is in there, perhaps he’ll find you,” said the cat feral.
Listen, Caw, said Shimmer. I’m not sure about this.
“I have to do it,” said Caw. “There’s no other way to help Selina.”
He reached out his fingers, paused, and then let them rest on the Midnight Stone. There was no sudden jolt or flash, but its jet-black surface was colder than he expected, almost icy. He drew back his hand, and his fingertips clung to the Stone a moment longer before peeling off.
Y
ou OK? asked Shimmer.
Caw nodded then touched it again. The cold immediately spread up his fingers in soft bursts, as if the Midnight Stone was an icy beating heart. Caw resisted the urge to pull away again, and closed his eyes.
“Control the Stone,” urged Quaker. “Use it.”
The deathly cold was inching up Caw’s arm and numbness crept along with it. Caw could feel his blood pumping yet being pushed back away from his frozen arm.
Where are you, Corvus? he whispered.
The Midnight Stone continued to force its ice into Caw’s body, but he fought back with his mind. He focused on where his blood met the freezing pulse of the Stone and felt the tides of cold and heat colliding with one another.
Corvus, he said. Corvus.
Caw’s thoughts became a black swirl, a self composed entirely of will. Slowly, he felt the cold recede. As it did so, Caw thrust his spirit in its wake, down his arm, through his wrist and into his fingers. And with a final burst of strength, Caw left his body and entered the Midnight Stone.
He felt a prickle across the back of his neck, and realised he was not alone.
aw opened his eyes. He was in a different room entirely. The walls were dark wood panels and a huge hearth was piled high with logs. A leather-topped desk with a quill and inkwell sat below a lead-paned window. It was oddly familiar, but Caw couldn’t say why. Silver tankards lined a shelf and his feet sank into a thick rug.
“Welcome, Jack,” said a deep voice.
He turned to see a man dressed in black from head to toe except for the white cuffs of his shirt, which peeked out from beneath a black velvet jacket. He even wore black leather gloves. Above a neatly trimmed black beard, dark eyes surveyed Caw with a haughty glare. It was neither friendly nor hostile, but strangely curious. And Caw had seen that face before.
“Black Corvus,” he said.
The man inclined his head a fraction. “We are family, Jack, so you must call me by my real name – Thomas.”
Now Caw remembered where he recognised the room from – the vision he had seen in the worm feral’s lair. He had been shown this place at the time when all the ferals had sworn to bestow a fraction of their powers on the Midnight Stone. But this felt different – although he was now inside it, the room was somehow more vague, less distinct. Caw sensed that each time he turned to face something new, whatever he had just been looking at evaporated.