There are ghosts in this place, thought Caw. Perhaps not the kind that swooped through empty rooms, banging doors and howling, but sadder spirits. Sorrow lingered here, silent and lost from the memories of the living.
He checked the watch Crumb had given him. Two a.m.
This is a bad idea, said Glum. He was perched on a branch ten feet above, beak resting in the thick plumage of his chest feathers. I’m older than you. Why does no one ever listen to the voice of experience?
“I did listen,” said Caw. “I just chose to ignore you.”
He tried to sound confident, but his mouth was dry as he crouched, shivering, in the bushes. The house in front of him was abandoned, its walls flaking and covered in graffiti. He counted two intact windows, while the rest were either cracked or boarded up. The front lawn was so overgrown there wasn’t even a path to the door. One of the trees that grew beside the house had blown over in a storm, and its branches had crushed a section of the roof and now appeared to be growing into the building.
Home sweet home, muttered Screech, hopping nervously along Caw’s shoulder. The young crow’s claws pricked Caw’s skin, even through the leather of his coat.
Home? thought Caw. It didn’t feel like it. Not at all.
He searched his memories but couldn’t find this place among them. He’d been five years old when the crows carried him away, and nothing about the building in front of him was familiar, except the unsettling feeling of dread that seeped from his dreams.
Not too late to go back to the church, Caw, said Glum. Crumb was making sweet potato pancakes, wasn’t he? Besides, how do we even know this is the right place?
“I just know,” said Caw, feeling cold certainty in his gut.
A snap of fluttering wings sounded at his back, and a third crow alighted on the ground. Wiry and sleek, she stabbed a slender beak into the earth and prized up a wriggling worm. The slimy creature squirmed and coiled as the crow tossed back her head and gobbled it down.
Hey, Shimmer! said Screech, puffing out his chest.
Coast’s clear, the female crow said, loose crumbs of earth dropping from her beak. What are you all waiting for?
For this young man to see sense, said Glum. To let history lie.
Don’t be such a killjoy, said Shimmer, stretching her wings. They were sheened with blues and reds like spilled oil on wet blacktop. It took me four weeks to find this place. If Caw’s not going in, I am.
“Can you all stop talking about me as if I’m not here?” said Caw. For once, the crows ceased their bickering. It was a rare occurrence since Shimmer had joined the group. Crows were stubborn. They liked to argue, and they liked having the last word even more. All except Milky, the white crow that Caw had grown up with. In all the years they’d lived together in the nest in Blackstone Park, he’d spoken less than twenty words. Caw wished the old crow was still with them.
He stood up, stretching his lower back and casting a glance back along the street. None of the buildings in this part of town were inhabited—the families had all moved out when the jobs dried up after the Dark Summer, the secret war between ferals that had broken out eight years ago. A broken and rusted scooter lay in a gutter full of leaves, and below a tree in a front garden hung a lopsided swing, its cords frayed.
He wondered for a moment what it had been like growing up here. Had he played with other children from these abandoned houses? It was hard to imagine sounds of laughter in a place so dismal and heavy with silence.
Caw began to make his way up the driveway toward the house, heart thumping. The front door was boarded up, but he could climb in through a window easily enough.
You can still turn back, said Glum, remaining stubbornly perched on his branch.
It was easy for Glum to say. This house meant nothing to him, but for Caw, it was everything. For so many years, his past was a blank—an open sea with no charts to guide him. But this place was a landmark, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Who knew what he might find inside?
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the crumpled photo—a picture of his parents, from happier times. Crumb had given it to him. The pigeon feral hadn’t wanted Caw to come tonight either, grumbling that it was “a waste of time.” Caw let his thumb brush across his parents’ faces. They looked almost exactly the same as they had when he found them in the Land of the Dead. He’d managed to share only a few precious moments with them, and it had left his heart aching for more. Where better to find out about them than this place?
He owed it to them not to turn back.
As Caw laid a hand on one of the boards over the door, he found that it was loose. He gripped the edge firmly and easily yanked it free, rusting nails and all. The others posed no more bother, and soon he’d cleared the way.
Caw sensed the crows behind him and turned. Sure enough, all three were settled on the ground.
“Let me go in alone,” he said.
Shimmer nodded, and Screech hopped back a few steps. Glum looked away with a dramatic toss of his head.
There was a light switch inside, but Caw wasn’t surprised that nothing happened when he flipped it. The air was cool and musty. In the gloom, he made out overturned furniture, and pictures hanging lopsidedly from the walls. A grand staircase rose from the entrance hall up to a landing, then doubled back on itself to the second-floor level. Caw thought he saw something move up there—a rat, or a bird perhaps, but when he looked again, there was nothing.
Caw felt a dim sense of belonging. Small things looked familiar—a lampshade, a doorknob, a tattered curtain. Or maybe it was just his mind playing tricks, wanting to see something significant among the debris of abandoned lives.
Through an archway, Caw saw a sagging couch and wires protruding from a wall socket, and as he walked on, the view opened onto a dining table. A rush of fear turned his feet to lead.
He knew this room from his nightmares. It was here it had happened—beside that very table his parents had been murdered by the spiders of the Spinning Man. The table was covered in dust now, but Caw couldn’t bring himself to step any closer.
Instead, he turned to the stairs. They creaked as he climbed. With each step, a haunting nostalgia swelled in his stomach. On the second-floor landing, his feet carried him automatically toward a door with a small placard in the shape of a train. Painted on it were words he recognized from Crumb’s lessons. “Jack’s Room.”
Jack Carmichael.
That had been his name, once.
Caw took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
On the opposite wall, his eyes fell on the window and his knees turned to water. The memories, so dreamlike, crystallized into a feeling of pure fear. Caw gripped the door frame to steady himself.
He remembered the firm hands of his parents as they dragged him from his bed and hauled him toward the window. Their fingers had been so tight it had hurt, and their ears had seemed deaf to his screams of panic. His father had opened the window, and his mother had thrust him out. Caw closed his eyes, saw how the ground had spun below, felt the terror as he fell. . . .
He took a deep breath as the power of the memory faded.
For years, that had been his only remembrance of them, festering in his mind. Their heartless abandonment. Now he knew it wasn’t the full story. It was just one line in a tale that had begun centuries ago—a tale of ferals at war with one another. His parents hadn’t been trying to kill him—they’d been protecting him, by getting him as far away from the Spinning Man as possible.
Caw opened his eyes, looking away from the window. He was trembling.
The rest of the room was practically empty. A couple of shelves held scraps of paper, and bundles of old clothing had been pushed into one corner. Caw hadn’t been expecting the room to be preserved like a museum, but still he felt a rush of rage. Someone had taken all his things.
The anger seeped away as quickly as it had come, leaving only a numb sorrow. Of course the house had been ransacked and looted. Plenty of petty criminals had taken advantage of the chaos caused by the Dark Summer. Caw guessed a nice house like this would have made for easy pickings.
He let his feet carry him across the mold-covered carpet toward the window. The glass was cracked, and he rubbed a sheen of condensation away with the cuff of his leather jacket. Outside, the night was still, the stars bright in a cloudless sky, and the moon glowing softly.
Caw sighed. Crumb had been right—there was no point in coming here. The past was dead.
Then, in the trees below, he saw something. A pale face, materializing from the darkness beside a trunk.
Caw’s heart jolted. The face didn’t move at all, just stared up at him. It was an old man, with skin so white he might have been wearing makeup like a clown. His features looked pale too—bloodless lips, a squashed little nose, and wide, unblinking eyes. On his head was a squat round hat.
Who was he? And what was he doing here, in Caw’s garden?
Caw gripped the window frame. He tried to yank it up to call out to the man, but it didn’t budge. He heaved again and it gave a grating screech. He was about to open his mouth when he heard a panicked intake of breath at his back.
“Who are you?” said a voice.
Caw spun around and saw the pile of clothes in the corner stirring. There was a girl lying there, wrapped in a sleeping bag. She was skinny, with dark, tangled hair framing her grubby face, and she looked a year or two older than him. He’d been so sure he was alone. . . .
Caw stepped back until he collided with the window. His leg muscles wanted to run, but fear paralyzed him. He found his voice. “I . . .” What was he supposed to say? Where to start? Her eyes were defiant, but scared too, and his fear dipped slightly. He raised his hands to show he wasn’t a threat. “This is my house,” he said. “Who are you?”
The girl stood up, shaking the sleeping bag off. She picked up a baseball bat from beside her, knuckles white as they clenched it.
“Are you on your own?” said the girl.
Caw remembered the man outside and took a quick glance back. But the face by the tree had gone. The crows were nowhere to be seen.
“Er . . . yes,” he said.
“So, if this is your house, why don’t you live here?” the girl said, jabbing the bat at him. She looked like she wouldn’t have a problem using it.
Caw kept his distance. “I haven’t lived here for a long time,” he said. He searched for a better explanation but couldn’t think what to say.
The girl hefted the bat again. She looked ready to pounce if he said the wrong thing.
“My parents . . . they threw me out,” he added. It was sort of true.
The girl seemed to relax at that. She lowered the bat a little. “Join the club,” she said.
“What club?” said Caw.
The girl frowned. “It’s an expression,” she said. “It means we’re in the same boat.”
Caw was getting confused. “This is a house, not a boat,” he said.
He wasn’t sure why, but the girl laughed at that. “What planet are you from?” she said, shaking her head.
“This one,” said Caw. She was making fun of him, he realized. But at least that was better than trying to bludgeon him with a bat. “Are you on your own?” he asked.
The girl nodded. “I suppose technically I ran away. I’ve been here a few weeks. My name’s Selina, by the way.”
“Caw,” said Caw.
“That short for something?”
“Not really,” he replied.
“I knew there were some empty houses around here,” said Selina. She waved the bat, pointing around the room. “This seemed the best of a bad lot.”
“Thanks,” said Caw. “This used to be my bedroom.”
The girl grinned. “It’s really nice. The rat droppings make it kind of homey.”
Caw couldn’t help laughing. It had taken him a while, but gradually, with Pip and Crumb’s help, he was getting the hang of talking to people. “It’s the charred curtains that make it for me.”
Selina leaned the baseball bat against the wall. “Look, I can go if you want.”
Caw went quiet. He felt sort of strange in the pit of his stomach. No one ever asked what he wanted, so he had no idea. He looked at her ragged clothes and thin face. If he kicked her out, where would she go? He supposed there were other houses she could squat in. But he’d only just met her, and she seemed okay, apart from the baseball bat.
The girl began to gather the sleeping bag up from the floor.
“There’s no need to leave,” he said quickly. “I’m not staying. I’m finished here.”
She paused. “Oh—you live somewhere else now?” she said.
Caw caught a flash of desperation in her eyes. He thought about the Church of St. Francis, where he lived with Crumb and Pip. He broke eye contact.
“Sort of,” he said.
Selina gave a wry smile. “It’s okay—I get it. I can look after myself.”
Caw searched her face and wondered if she was just pretending to be tough. He had a mattress at the church, warmth and food. A million times better than here. Could he take her there? There was plenty of room. His heart urged him to say something, but his head argued the other way. He knew Crumb wouldn’t like it if he showed up with a stranger. Plus, how could they keep their feral powers a secret from her?
No, it was too risky.
“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s not my place, that’s all.”
She nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”
He felt bad. It must get really cold here at night. And how did she eat without any crows to help her?
“Listen,” he said. “You look hungry. I could come back, bring you some food if you like.”
The girl blushed but lifted her chin. “I don’t need your help,” she said.
“No, of course not,” said Caw. “I was just . . . I know places to get food, that’s all. In the city.”
“So do I,” she said defensively. “I’m not going hungry, all right?”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. He hadn’t meant to offend her.
“Tell you what,” she said at last. “How about we share our knowledge? I’ll show you where I go, and you can do the same. Two runaways helping each other out?”
Caw blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that sort of offer. “What—like together?”
“Why not?” said Selina. “How about tomorrow night? Ten o’clock.”
Caw found himself nodding without even thinking about it.
Screech’s soft warble sounded from outside. They must be worried about me. Caw didn’t want them coming in and scaring Selina.
“I’ve got to go,” he said.
She was watching him closely, her brow wrinkled. “Okay,” she said. “Bye, Caw—see you tomorrow. I’ll guard your parents’ valuables till then.”
“Valuables?” said Caw. Had she found something in the house?
She smiled again. “Joking,” she said.
“Oh, yes,” he said, going red. “I get it. Bye then.”
He left the room, skin still burning furiously. But by the time he’d descended the stairs, his chest felt light. It had been so long since he’d spoken to a normal person, and apart from a few slips, it hadn’t gone too badly. He wondered if he should tell Crumb about the girl. The pigeon feral didn’t have a lot of time for non-ferals.
He paused in the living room. All sorts of questions occurred to him now. Where had she run from, and why? How long had she been here, and how had she survived?
There’d be plenty of time to ask her later.
Find anything? said Shimmer, hopping aside as Caw closed the front door behind him.
“Not really,” Caw lied. “Come on, let’s go home.”
Nothing at all? said Shimmer, cocking her head.
“It’s a ruin,” said Caw. “I should have listened to Glum.”
Told you so, said Glum.
Caw knew he should tell them about Selina, but they’d only object, just as they had with Lydia. Besides, all his life, the crows had kept secrets from him. It was oddly satisfying to have one of his own—even if it was only something small.
They had just reached the end of the front lawn when a figure stepped out ahead of them.
Caw was gripped with an icy panic. He gasped, and the crows took to the air with wild cries. He backed up, tripped, and fell onto his backside. Every fiber of his muscles wanted to run, but he felt completely unable to move.
The man thrust his head forward. “Jack Carmichael?” he said. His voice was soft but urgent. Caw noticed with a wave of revulsion that the man’s teeth were sharp shards of enamel jutting from his gums.
You know him? said Screech.
Caw managed to shake his head. It was the same person he’d seen from his bedroom window. He wore a long black coat and his face was skeletally thin, with dark hollows beneath his cheekbones. His eyes were covered by small tinted spectacles. His skin was almost white, and the part of his head Caw could see was hairless. Even above his eyes, there were no brows.
Shimmer leaped into a branch above the man and let out a harsh shriek.
“I mean no harm,” said the man, casting rapid glances to either side. “That’s if you are Jack Carmichael? The crow talker.”
“Who are you?” said Caw, picking himself up. “Why are you spying on me?”
The pale figure reached into his coat, and Caw bristled. He saw Glum spread his wings, ready to swoop down. But what the man drew out wasn’t a weapon. It was a stone, about half the size of Caw’s fist and polished to a jet-black shine.
“This is from Elizabeth,” said the stranger, holding it in front of him. “Elizabeth Carmichael.”
Caw felt the words tugging at his heart. “My mother? You knew her?”
“Perhaps,” said the man. He hesitated. “I suppose I must have. Once.” His mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile that vanished just as quickly. “Closer to her than ever now, of course.”
Er . . . what’s that supposed to mean? said Shimmer.
Caw stared at the stone sitting in the man’s hand. The harder he looked, the harder it was to focus on its edges. It wasn’t completely black at all—in its depths, swirls of color seemed to shift and blur. Caw drew back, and the man stepped after him, thrusting the stone toward him.
“It belongs to you, young man. To the crow feral. Take it. Take it.”
It might be a trap, said Screech.
Caw could hear the desperation in the stranger’s words, but somehow he felt sure it was the truth. The stone was his. He knew it, deep in his soul. He extended a hand, and the man dropped the stone into his palm. It was lighter than Caw had expected, and oddly warm.
“What is it?” said Caw.
Instead of replying, the man jerked his pale face upward and shrank back into the darkness. “I must go,” he said. “I want nothing to do with it, crow talker. It is yours to bear alone.”
Caw turned and saw a pigeon flap out of a window at the rear of his parents’ house. One of Crumb’s birds. It flew away like a gray shadow.
He closed his fist around the stone. He was dimly aware of the crows making noises, but he was too focused on the strange feeling of the stone throbbing in his palm. Maybe it was just the pulse of his blood?
When Caw looked for the stranger again, he was gone. Screech landed on his shoulder and gave his ear a light nip with his beak.
“Ow!” said Caw. “Why’d you do that?” He slipped the stone into his pocket.
Because you weren’t listening, said Screech. Are you okay?
Caw nodded slowly. “Let’s get back to the church. And . . . we’ll keep this to ourselves, all right?”
Screech chuckled. Who are we going to tell? It’s not as if anyone else understands crow, is it?
“Good point,” said Caw.