16

“Good riddance,” said Mrs. Strickham.

Crumb stood silently, staring at the dog feral’s dead body. Pip was shaking, and Caw put a hand across his shoulders. One question drummed in his brain.

“How can we find Lydia now?” he said.

“Search his pockets,” said Mrs. Strickham.

Caw crouched slowly beside Jawbone’s smoking corpse. The thought of touching the body made him shudder, but he didn’t want to appear weak in front of the others. He felt the feral’s jacket. “Nothing,” he said.

“Check inside,” said Lydia’s mother.

But Jawbone’s pockets held nothing but a vicious-looking knife, with a black hilt and a blade shaped like a sharpened fang. Mrs. Strickham hefted it. “This was Jawbone’s weapon of choice during the Dark Summer. He must have come back here to get it. Funny—I never took him for the sentimental sort.” She tossed the knife to the ground with a clatter.

Wait! said Screech, twitching his beak. Look at his shoe. I see something shiny!

Caw examined the bottom of Jawbone’s black boot and saw a glint of silver there. He pried the object out of the rubber sole with his fingers. It was a silver sewing needle.

“Mamba had one of these at the library,” Caw remembered. His heart hammered as he thought of what she’d used it for. “And look at the cuffs of his jeans!”

Crumb and Mrs. Strickham peered closer. A few multicolored threads were clinging to the cuffs of Jawbone’s jeans.

“Needles and threads,” Crumb mused. “Strange.”

“Textiles,” Mrs. Strickham murmured, frowning in thought.

One of her foxes barked twice.

“Exactly what I was thinking, Ruby,” said Mrs. Strickham. “There’s an old sewing factory in the industrial quarter. It’s been abandoned for years—my husband is always hearing about police activity over that way. It would be a perfect place to hide.”

Caw’s skin crawled. The followers of the Spinning Man using a sewing factory as their headquarters. . . . It made a strange, creepy kind of sense.

“Do you think Lydia’s there?” he asked. He couldn’t believe how calm they were after what had just happened.

“Maybe,” said Mrs. Strickham. “Or maybe not. But it’s the only lead we have. Let’s go.”

She turned toward the exit.

“What about him?” said Pip quietly, pointing to Jawbone’s body.

Mrs. Strickham didn’t break her stride. “Leave him to the rats.”

They found the dead feral’s dogs meekly sniffing at the gates to the underground station, their tails tucked between their legs.

“They’re harmless now,” said Mrs. Strickham, stroking one of the beasts behind its ears. The metal shutter was locked, but Pip soon had it open with a set of lock picks he pulled from his coat.

Rain had started to fall while they were fighting in the subterranean world. It scoured the streets of Blackstone, as if the lead sky was emptying itself. The four ferals ran through the downpour, staying under cover when they could. On days like this, Caw would usually have pulled over the nest tarpaulin and tried to sleep, but he felt wired. His shock at the chilling brutality of the ferals slowly faded, until he was left thinking only of Lydia. What if she wasn’t at the sewing factory? What then? He tried to ignore his doubts, but it wasn’t easy.

There weren’t many people around as they headed for the industrial quarter. Pip was reliving the battle with Jawbone for most of the way, blow by blow. His blond hair was plastered over his head by the rain, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Your foxes were awesome!” he said to Mrs. Strickham. “How many can you call at once?”

Mrs. Strickham carried an umbrella, and the water poured off its sides in a constant stream. “I’m not sure,” she said.

“I bet you can summon loads!” said Pip.

“I’ve not had the need to for a long time,” said Mrs. Strickham wearily.

“Leave Velma alone,” said Crumb.

Pip went into a sulky silence.

They soon reached the low-rise buildings of the industrial quarter—dormant factories and vacant warehouses spread out around a grid of streets, with parking lots scattered in between. Weeds grew up from the alleyways between the buildings. Caw’s crows flew on ahead. He’d told them to keep a lookout for anything suspicious—any snakes or cockroaches lurking in the shadows. Screech landed on a lamppost and shook droplets from his feathers. More rain trickled from his beak.

Caw jogged up until he was alongside Lydia’s mother. Her face was expressionless, her eyes distant.

“Mrs. Strickham?” he asked.

She came out of her trance and waved a hand impatiently. “Velma,” she said. “Since circumstances have forced us together, we may as well not be strangers.”

Caw nodded but couldn’t bring himself to actually call her by her first name. “Is it true,” he went on haltingly, “that some ferals can transform themselves into their animals?”

“So they say,” she said, directing her gaze forward. “Though I don’t know of any alive who can.”

“So . . . you can’t?”

She turned to him again with a piercing stare. “No, I can’t,” she snapped. “And if I were you, I’d concentrate on Lydia and stop daydreaming about the sort of legends Felix Quaker spouts.”

She stopped at a junction between two streets and gestured at a gray, windowless building. “We’ve arrived.”

“We’ll investigate,” said Crumb. He glanced at Velma, who gave a tiny nod.

“You two must wait outside,” said Lydia’s mother.

“What?” said Caw.

“This is not your fight,” said Mrs. Strickham. “These are our old enemies. And they have my daughter.”

“My parents—” Caw began.

“Your parents were killed by the Spinning Man,” said Crumb. “And as long as you do not wield the Crow’s Beak, the Spinning Man cannot return. Do as Velma says.”

“No!” said Caw. “You need us.”

“He’s right!” said Pip.

Crumb stepped forward and placed his hands on Caw’s shoulders, looking into his eyes. “Caw, you aren’t ready,” he said. “Simple as that.” He leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “Besides, if I don’t come back, I need someone to look after young Pip.”

Caw wanted to argue, but he checked his frustration on the tip of his tongue. “Fine,” he muttered.

When Crumb released him, Caw saw that they were surrounded by a dozen foxes and a flock of pigeons. The two adults made their way across the road, side by side.

“You’re just going to let them go?” said Pip angrily.

“We’ll keep a lookout,” said Caw, every word an effort. “The Spinning Man might have other followers nearby.”

Pip slumped against a wall.

Good decision, said Glum, landing beside him. Let the experts handle this one. They’ll find Lydia in no time.

Crumb and Mrs. Strickham crept along the side of the textile building toward a metal door, their creatures melting through the shadows in their wake. The rain was easing up at last.

The next moment, they had vanished into the building.

“I can’t believe we’re sitting this out,” said Pip. He seemed close to tears.

“We’re not,” said Caw. He began to follow in the footsteps of Crumb and Mrs. Strickham.

We’re not? said Screech, springing into the air.

“Hold on!” said Pip, scurrying after him. “I thought—”

“I just didn’t want an argument,” said Caw. “There’s no way I’m going to stay out here when Lydia’s in danger.”

Glum flapped past and landed on the road ahead. Caw, you heard what Crumb said. This isn’t—

“There’s no point talking about it,” interrupted Caw. “My decision’s made. You can sit it out if you want.”

Glum sighed, then followed.

They reached the door, still ajar. It was dark inside. Caw slipped through, with Pip at his heels. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out hundreds of desks and chairs stretching into the distance. Each desk had a piece of machinery on top. Dust coated the floor, making the footsteps of Crumb and Mrs. Strickham easy to follow. Some of the machines still had pieces of material piled up beside them.

“Sewing machines,” whispered Pip.

Milky, Screech, and Glum landed on the nearest tables. The vast room was so quiet Caw could hear the rustling of their wings.

Halfway along the room was an enclosed office built against the side of the factory. The floor was littered with papers, and there were mannequins standing against one wall, with material draped over them. Caw guessed that no one had worked here for a long time. Maybe not since the Dark Summer.

Footsteps in the dust led toward the far corner of the building. A few mice crawled along the edge of the wall nearby.

“Backup,” said Pip gravely.

Caw smiled, though he couldn’t imagine what help the tiny rodents would be. In the corner, he saw a set of spiraling metal steps leading downward into a basement.

“Can you hear that?” said Pip.

Caw cocked his head to listen. There was some sort of rhythmic sound coming from below. “It sounds like chanting,” he said. He couldn’t make out the words.

He descended the stairs, heart thumping, placing each foot with care.

Before Caw reached the bottom, a cacophony of howls and screeches filled the air. He rushed down into an empty corridor with light at the far end. The animal sounds grew louder, and he broke into a run. As he skidded to the end, he saw a set of double doors with small glass windows. The light and the horrible sounds were coming from the other side of them.

He crept closer and looked through.

The first thing he saw was a ring of foxes standing guard around Mrs. Strickham, hackles up and snarling, but hesitating, as though afraid to move forward. The pigeons were the same, flocked in a circle around Crumb.

Caw pushed the door open a fraction, taking care to remain hidden. He saw a large storeroom, surrounded by pallets and crates and lit by candlelight that reflected off silver air-conditioning chutes on the ceiling above. There was a soft gasp from behind as Pip joined him, peering through the crack in the door with wide eyes.

Mamba and Scuttle occupied the center of the room, standing several feet apart, unarmed as far as Caw could see. He caught his breath. Between them stood Lydia, holding the Crow’s Beak and shivering. There was a hood over her head and neck. At her feet, on the floor, strange shapes were drawn in some thick black substance.

“Don’t you dare hurt her!” said Mrs. Strickham.

“Mom?” said Lydia. “Mom, is that you?”

“Nice try, my dear,” said Scuttle, “but we know she’s not your mother. She’s the stinking fox talker.”

“Don’t worry, Lydia,” said Mrs. Strickham, her voice tight with anxiety. “Everything’s going to be fine now.”

Scuttle chuckled.

“I don’t think so,” said Mamba. “Not unless everyone does exactly what I say. First, let’s get rid of those foxes, shall we?” She pointed to a large, open-sided crate. “In there will do.”

Lydia’s mother glanced desperately at her daughter, then at the animals at her feet. At a flick of her hand, the foxes ran without hesitation into the crate, pressing their bodies on top of one another to fit. Mamba strode to the crate and slammed the lid closed, trapping the foxes inside.

“Pigeons too,” she said. “Out.”

Crumb hesitated for just a moment before raising a hand. His pigeons took off, and Caw and Pip jerked back from the doors as the birds burst through them, flying past in a stream, then vanishing around the corner of the corridor. Cautiously, Pip pushed the door open again.

“Now,” said Mamba, focusing her attention on Lydia. “Use the Crow’s Beak.”

“Do it, Lydia,” said Mrs. Strickham. “Cut a hole in the veil!”

“I told them a thousand times already,” said Lydia. “I don’t know how. They keep calling me the crow talker! What are you doing here, Mom?”

She sounded frightened, her voice muffled beneath the hood.

Scuttle’s feet shifted, and he cast a nervous glance at Mamba. “Enough!” hissed the snake feral. “We haven’t come this far to be fooled by a stupid trick. We know your real mommy is long gone, crow talker. Now get on with it!”

“Mom, please, tell them the truth!” said Lydia. “Tell them I’m just a normal girl!”

“Listen to me, sweetheart,” said Mrs. Strickham. “Do as the lady says. Hold the sword up and drag it from side to side.”

“But—”

“Do it!” said Mrs. Strickham sharply.

Suddenly, Caw understood. If Mamba and Scuttle realize Lydia’s useless to them, they’ll kill her in an instant.

Mamba started chanting again under her breath.

“She’s calling to him,” whispered Pip, his eyes wide with fear. “Those shapes on the floor and that funny language—it’s meant for talking to the dead. Crumb explained it to me once. She must be telling the Spinning Man to . . . to get ready.”

Lydia waved the Crow’s Beak. Nothing happened.

“Try again, Lydia!” said Mrs. Strickham. She took a step forward and Scuttle snapped his fingers, turning on her. Cockroaches swept from inside his clothes and across the floor, their shells clacking together. “Stop right there!” he said as the creatures swarmed into a circle around Crumb and Mrs. Strickham. “Or they’ll strip your flesh from your bones.”

“It’s not working,” hissed Mamba.

“Maybe the little grub was telling the truth after all,” snapped Scuttle. “Maybe the fox talker really is her mother, which means—”

“The girl is just afraid,” said Crumb, obviously trying to stall. “Give her another chance.”

“We don’t have time for this,” said Mamba. She stepped toward Lydia, her eyes narrowing. Then she reached up and snatched the hood from Lydia’s head.

“No!” gasped Mrs. Strickham.

Caw’s heart stopped. Around Lydia’s neck was a black snake, coiled tight. Its head rose a little, until it hovered beside her ear. Lydia flinched as its tongue flickered.

“This snake is only a baby,” said Mamba, “but his bite will kill a whelp like you in less than a minute. You’ll die like your dog, spasming in pain. By the time your father sees your body, it’ll be puffed up so much he won’t recognize you. The time for games is over. Cut the veil in the next three seconds, or my patience will run out. One . . .”

“Please,” begged Mrs. Strickham.

“Two . . .”

“Don’t do this,” said Crumb.

“Three . . .”

Caw burst through the door, with his crows and Pip at his back. “Stop!” he shouted. “I’m the crow talker!”

“It’s the scruffy kid from the library!” said Scuttle with a sneer. “But how can he—”

Mamba clenched a fist and punched her other palm. “Of course it’s him!” she said. “He must have been at her house when the crows were waiting outside. When my snake killed the little dog.”

Caw glanced at Mrs. Strickham, whose face was rigid with fear. If he could just distract them long enough, Lydia might get out of this alive. “Jawbone realized too,” Caw said. “Before he died.”

Scuttle jerked his eyes toward Mamba, then to Caw, blinking rapidly. “Dead?” he said. “You’re lying.”

“It’s true,” said Crumb. “Even a lump of meat like Jawbone can’t withstand twenty thousand volts.”

Scuttle narrowed his gaze, and the cockroaches around Mrs. Strickham and Crumb scurried as one to surround Caw. “Not scared, eh?” said the roach talker. “You should be. You’ll be nothing but bones and scraps of clothing if I give the word. Your feathered friends can’t do a thing about it.”

“You need me,” said Caw. “I’m the only one who can use the Crow’s Beak.”

“Caw, don’t!” said Lydia. Mamba shot her a look, and Lydia gasped as the snake around her neck slithered a fraction tighter, its head bobbing from side to side. Lydia’s eyes began to bulge as her face darkened.

“The poor girl can hardly breathe,” said Mamba. “Any tighter and her blood vessels will start to pop.”

Caw inched forward and the cockroaches went with him, edging him closer to his friend. With a jolt of horror he saw that the black shapes on the floor weren’t painted. They were made out of spiders, hundreds of them, all sitting perfectly still. Together they formed a distorted circle with eight crooked legs.

“Let her go,” said Caw desperately.

“You know what we want,” said Scuttle. “You hold the key.”

Caw looked at Mrs. Strickham and Crumb. The pigeon talker’s jaw was clenched. Mrs. Strickham let her eyelids slowly close, either in resignation or because she couldn’t bear to look. What did that mean? What was he supposed to do?

“All right!” said Caw. “I’ll open the door to the Land of the Dead. Just release her, please!”

“Cut the veil, and then we let her go,” said Mamba.

“No,” breathed Crumb. “He must not come back.”

“There’s no choice,” said Caw. “It’s the only way.”

He glanced at Mrs. Strickham. Her eyes were open again, and the emotions fought in her face.

“If he returns, we’re all dead,” said Crumb, staring pleadingly at Lydia’s mother. He looked like a little boy, utterly terrified.

The pigeon talker’s right, said Glum. You can’t.

Listen to Glum, Caw. Please, said Screech.

Caw looked to Milky for guidance. The pale bird said nothing, but something in his eyes gave Caw courage—and seemed to tell him that the choice he had already made in his heart was the right one.

As Caw reached the circle of spiders, the cockroaches stopped, as if they were afraid to pass through. Caw stepped into the circle and felt a twinge of nausea in his stomach, like the world had tilted a little.

“Give me the Crow’s Beak, Lydia,” said Caw. No matter what the cost, he couldn’t let Lydia die. He had to save her.

“Caw, don’t do this,” said Crumb. “You weren’t there eight years ago. You can’t understand what you’re doing.”

Mrs. Strickham was silent, chin slightly raised in defiance but skin desperately pale.

Lydia’s face was wet with tears as she handed the Crow’s Beak to Caw. Her eyes fixed on his, round with fear. As his fingers closed over the cold leather, Caw was surprised by how light the blade felt—it might have been a switch of willow rather than metal. It fitted his hand perfectly.

“That’s it,” said Mamba as the snake’s coils loosened on Lydia’s throat.

“Stand in the center,” said Scuttle.

“Caw, stop!” shouted Crumb angrily. “In the name of your parents, put down the Crow’s Beak.”

Lydia glanced back and forth between Caw and her mother. Mamba had begun to chant again.

The three crows swept unsummoned across the room. Glum and Screech suddenly backed away, hissing.

We can’t cross! said Glum.

Caw, come out of there! called Screech.

Only Milky landed on his shoulder.

“Come to keep me company?” said Caw.

Milky blinked, and Caw saw himself reflected in the crow’s pale eye.

Caw lifted the Crow’s Beak. “Remember our deal,” he said to Mamba.

He moved the sword through the air, feeling a slight resistance as if he were slicing through cloth. A sudden chink of blinding light made him turn away.

“It’s working!” said Scuttle. “Keep cutting!”

To his side, Caw saw that Crumb was openmouthed. Even Mrs. Strickham was trembling.

“I’m sorry, Caw,” said Lydia. “I’m so sorry.”

He dragged the Crow’s Beak in a curve. Squinting into the flooding light, he couldn’t see anything beyond the bright irregular doorway.

“Now step back,” hissed Mamba, her face alive with excitement. “The portal will only last for a few moments.”

Caw took a step away, then felt a tugging at his hand. Caw turned to see Lydia next to him. “You’ve saved me too many times already,” she murmured, her voice strangled and hoarse. “It’s my turn to save you.”

“Lydia . . . ,” said Mrs. Strickham, her voice urgent.

Before Caw realized what was happening, Lydia had snatched the Crow’s Beak from him and leaped into the portal, the snake still wrapped around her neck.

“No!” Mamba screamed. In a split second, the portal zipped closed, the candles flickered out, and all the spiders at Caw’s feet scuttled away, disappearing into the shadows.

Lydia was gone.