11

Caw stood with his back to the entrance, staring down the central aisle of the church.

You sure about this? said Screech. The crows were perched on a pew nearby.

“No,” muttered Caw, “but I’ve got to try.”

Crumb sat at the front of the church, under the white outline of the missing cross. He slouched on the bare altar table, legs dangling over the side. “Ready?” called the pigeon talker.

“Come on, Caw!” shouted Lydia from the gallery above.

“Teach him a lesson, Crumb,” yelled Pip from beside her.

“I’m ready,” said Caw.

Crumb whistled like he had at the nest, and there was a bustle of beating wings as hundreds of pigeons descended from the roof beams and landed around his feet.

Okay, that was impressive, said Glum, tilting his head.

I can’t look, said Screech, shielding his eyes beneath a wing.

Caw stretched out his arms and willed the crows to come. He felt the same warmth building in the pit of his stomach as he’d felt earlier. He could do this.

Crumb flung out his left arm, and all the pigeons on that side took flight at once, their wings cracking like whips. They flew straight at Caw.

Caw’s concentration broke into panic. “Stop them!” he yelled.

Geronimo! cried Screech.

The three crows took to the air, but the pigeons swamped them in seconds. Amid the melee of feathers and squawks, Milky, Screech, and Glum were completely outnumbered. The pigeons forced them to the ground, and Pip’s high-pitched laugher filled the nave.

“That’s not fair!” said Lydia. “Caw didn’t have time to call his crows.”

Crumb was still seated on the altar table, looking very relaxed indeed.

“You think the Spinning Man’s followers will give Caw time?” he said. “You’re lucky it’s only a few friendly pigeons. Jawbone’s dogs would have torn those three crows to pieces.”

The crows continued to struggle helplessly against the weight of pigeons. Caw wanted to run and kick the vermin birds away, but he knew that would be giving up. Instead he forced himself to concentrate, to draw the crows to him once more.

“Sorry about this,” said Crumb, standing up from the altar table and brushing his hands together like the fight was over. “But now you can see . . .”

Caw felt power swelling in his gut. He sensed the crows gathering. They’re coming, he thought with a smile.

The door burst open with a bang, and Caw felt a rush of triumph at the shock on Crumb’s face. The older feral jerked to his feet as dozens of black shapes swooped past Caw and straight toward the carpet of pigeons. Caw waited until his birds reached Crumb’s, then threw his arm toward Crumb. The crows steered in a dark wave to attack the pigeon talker, their wings snapping up and down.

“Go, Caw!” shouted Lydia.

“Look out!” said Pip.

Crumb clapped his hands together, and his remaining pigeons flew in a tight crisscross formation in front of him. Crumb disappeared completely behind the curtain of gray.

The crow attack parted the sea of pigeons straight through the middle, scattering them in all directions.

Then the pigeons dropped as one to the ground.

Crumb had vanished.

“What?” said Caw.

“Just a trick of the trade,” said Crumb’s voice in his ear.

Caw spun around to find the pigeon talker standing on the pew beside him.

“How did you do that?” he said.

“A little sleight of hand goes a long way,” said Crumb. He pulled apart his coat, and a dozen pigeons burst from inside. They swamped Caw, pecking and clawing, driving him along the pew until he hit the stone wall and couldn’t go any farther. Their shrieks were so shrill he struggled to think. His arms flailed as he tried to cover his face and drive them off, but there were too many. He wanted to summon his crows, but he couldn’t even open his eyes to look for them. The world had shrunk to flapping wings and screaming birds and stinging scratches wherever his skin was exposed.

“Please,” he yelled. “Please, make them stop!”

In a heartbeat the pigeon attack ceased. Caw slumped against the wall, ashamed, as the pigeons flew back into the rafters. The other crows had gone, leaving only his three loyal companions perched on the pew, looking ruffled but uninjured.

“Woo-hoo!” cried Pip. “Crumb wins!”

Crumb walked over and offered Caw his hand. “Forgive me,” he said. “I shouldn’t have started showing off.”

Caw could hardly look the pigeon talker in the eye, but he let himself be pulled upright. His hands and forearms were bleeding, but none of the scratches were deep.

Good try, Caw, said Screech.

A for effort, Glum added with a heavy hint of sarcasm.

Screech butted up against the older crow’s side. He did his best.

Caw snorted. “But my best was nowhere near good enough,” he said. Looking up, he saw Lydia staring at him, her eyes full of sympathy.

“No, it wasn’t,” said Crumb simply. “If you went up against the Spinning Man’s followers now, you would be dead, and so would your crows, and your feral line would be no more.”

Caw looked at Screech, Milky, and Glum. They’d die for him, he realized, but they were only three birds. And however many he managed to call today still wasn’t enough.

“How do you summon so many?” he asked Crumb.

“Willpower,” said the pigeon talker. “And a lot of practice. I’ve been a feral for much longer than you, and I’ve always known the threats we face.”

“Then teach me,” said Caw.

“It would take months,” said Crumb. “No, years of intense training. There isn’t time.”

“I could learn quickly,” said Caw, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

Crumb smiled. “Even if you could, you’re not a fighter, Caw. The people we’d be up against—they’re brutal. They don’t have any mercy.”

Lydia and Pip joined them at the bottom of the stairs. Lydia’s lips were pressed in a determined line.

“We can’t give up,” said Caw. “We can’t just hide away!”

“Can’t we?” said Crumb. “Stay here, with us. We’ll be safe.”

“They’ll find us,” Lydia told Crumb, her voice hard. For a moment it felt to Caw like she was the adult, and Crumb the child.

“And how do you know that?” said Crumb defensively. “Pip and I have never been bothered here before.”

Lydia huffed. “Maybe that’s because no one’s come looking for you before. There are three of them out there. And who knows—they may join up with others too. You might be able to hide for a while, but it will only take one slipup, and they’ll strike.”

Silence fell in the church. Caw felt completely powerless.

“There were stories once,” Crumb murmured. “Stories of ferals so powerful they could become the animals they controlled.”

“Just stories?” said Caw.

“Well, I’ve never met one,” said Crumb. “I’ve been training since I was fifteen and I haven’t come close.”

“Maybe you just don’t know how?” said Lydia, tipping her chin up in challenge.

“Listen, you!” Crumb said, his face flushed with anger. “You don’t know anything about this. You haven’t lost friends and loved ones, or creatures as dear to you as family.”

“I have, actually,” said Lydia. For a moment her bold expression dropped. “Mamba’s snake killed my dog, Benjy. He was my best friend in the world.”

Crumb stared at her, his gaze softening. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. “But the point still stands. We don’t have a hope this time.”

“We have to at least try,” said Caw.

“And get killed?” said Pip. “What’s the point in that?”

“We’ll die anyway if they hunt us down,” said Caw.

“And they know where I live,” Lydia interrupted. “They know where my family lives.”

“It’s true,” said Caw. “If you won’t help us, Lydia and I will go against them alone.”

We’ll come too! said Screech, hopping along the back of the pew.

Will we? said Glum, looking askance at the younger crow. He shrugged his wings. I suppose we have to.

Caw grabbed Lydia’s hand and walked toward the church door.

“Listen to you!” Pip called after them. “The boy who can barely control three crows. Now you’re talking like you’re Felix Quaker with lives to spare!”

Caw froze. Quaker. He felt Lydia tighten her grip on his hand.

“Who’s Felix Quaker?” he said, turning around.

Crumb shrugged. “The cat feral,” he said. “He’s rumored to have nine lives—and to have been around for a couple of hundred years.”

Caw glanced at Lydia. “We need to talk to him.”

Crumb shook his head. “You won’t get any help from old Quaker. He’s not exactly friendly. He sat out the Dark Summer—locked himself away in his mansion—and wouldn’t join either side.”

“But he’s in Blackstone?” said Caw.

“Yes,” said Crumb. “Lives in Gort House. Great big place on Herrick Hill—spires and turrets and the rest. He collects anything to do with feral lore. Memorabilia, books, all kinds of junk. And he knows more feral history than most people can be bothered to remember.”

“I know the place!” said Lydia. “Everyone says the guy who lives there is crazy.”

“Not far off, if you want my opinion,” said Crumb.

“But maybe he can help us,” said Caw eagerly.

“He’s not fond of visitors,” said Crumb, shaking his head. “You’re better off focusing on your skills, learning to defend yourself and keeping from getting caught.”

Lydia was watching Caw, frowning slightly. He knew what she was thinking: Why aren’t you telling him about Miss Wallace’s note?

He shrugged at her, hoping Crumb wouldn’t notice. Why should he tell the pigeon talker everything? Okay, Crumb had given them shelter, but that was as far as it went. Caw was sure that more answers lay with this cat feral, perched on his hill above the river. He was tired of the surprises, and tired of people telling him what to do—he wanted to be in charge for once.

Crumb sighed. “Look, why don’t you stay the night? Lie low until morning, and then we can talk again.”

Caw nodded in agreement. But secretly, he was already making other plans.

Caw is dreaming.

It’s the same dream as before, only now he is watching as the tall, pale stranger brings down the knocker of his parents’ house. The moonlight glints on his spider ring.

“Don’t answer it,” Caw shouts, but no sound escapes his lips. The door opens of its own accord.

This is the horror his crows carried him away from. But now, for the first time, they bring him inside, in the wake of the stranger.

In the wake of the Spinning Man.

The door slams closed behind them.

Caw sees his parents, standing side by side in front of a dining-room table. Two half-empty glasses of wine sit there. A single crow perches on the floor at their feet. Caw’s mother faces the Spinning Man, unflinching, the folds of her black dress billowing around her like a crow’s wings, as though she controls the very air around her.

“Get out of my house,” she commands through gritted teeth. Caw can see sweat glistening on her forehead, as if she were straining with effort. “I’m not telling you where it is.” The crow puffs up its feathers in agreement.

“Don’t come any closer!” shouts Caw’s father. He’s standing next to his wife, brandishing a poker from the fireplace.

The Spinning Man just smiles. “And what are you planning to do with that?” he asks, his voice like silk drawn over stones. He nods at the poker.

Caw’s mother looks at her husband. “Please, you have to get out of here. Now. This is nothing to do with you.”

“I’m not leaving you,” he tells her.

“I can handle that monster,” Caw’s mother says, her eyes focused on the Spinning Man. But her voice sounds tired.

“I think not,” says the Spinning Man. “Not without your crows.”

With horror, Caw sees that the windows are open but covered in a pale gauze: spiderwebs. Listening closely, he can hear the wing beats and desperate cries of hundreds of crows trying to break through.

“If you won’t tell me what I want to know, then you’re of no more use to me, crow talker.”

Caw’s mother falters—her dress hangs loose around her now. She turns to her husband and says, “Run, darling—please, just run.”

“No,” Caw’s father says, grasping her hand in his. “Never.”

“As you wish,” says the Spinning Man. “You can die together.”

He lifts a hand, and the room darkens as though he’s dimmed the lights.

From the corners shadows begin to crawl. Not shadows—spiders. Hundreds of them. They emerge from the ceiling too, descending the walls like falling drapes of black. The crow tries to take off but is overwhelmed by crawling creatures. Caw’s parents press closer to each other and back into the table. A glass of wine smashes onto the floor. Caw wants to rush forward, but the crows hold him, a powerless spectator. There are thousands of spiders now, their legs shuffling as one. They close on his parents, a carpet of glistening black bodies. So many that he can hear the rustle and chatter of their movements.

Caw watches as the spiders crawl over his parents’ feet and up their legs. They try to brush them away, but there are too many. The poker falls, landing among the spiders with a soft thud. Caw’s parents squirm and writhe like they’re on fire as the spiders consume them, and he feels their agony in his own powerlessness. The sounds from their mouths are not cries of pain, but worse. Short, panicked wails. The spiders cross their chests, their shoulders, and their necks.

Caw wants to look away, but he can’t.

Now they’re straining their chins upward, as if they’re drowning, searching for air. His father howls, and then chokes as spiders pour into his mouth.

With her last breath, Caw’s mother speaks to the Spinning Man in a muffled voice. “You won’t win. You’ll see.” A moment later, the spiders silence her. Her eyes find Caw at last, and a wind seems to rush out of her, whirling toward him like a gale. It lasts for a split second before the tide of spider legs blinds her and . . .

Caw woke with a gasp. The church attic swam into focus, lit only by the glowing embers of the fire in the brazier. He propped himself up on his elbow, shivering under the threadbare blanket. The dream still held him in its clutches, wringing his nerves. He pressed his eyes shut, trying to stamp out the nightmare images.

Was that really how they had died, in wordless terror, choked by the Spinning Man’s creatures? Milky landed silently beside him and cocked his head. His pale eyes were moist. In that moment, Caw knew it was the truth.

Crumb was on his back, a whistling sound escaping his lips with every breath. Pip was huddled under blankets, completely hidden. Across the rafters, an army of pigeons had their beaks tucked into the thick feathers of their breasts.

If Caw was going to slip away, now was the time.