The Crow Talker
In a city ravaged by crime and corruption, 13-year-old orphan Caw’s only friends are the murder of crows he has lived with since his parents flung him from their house aged only five…Caw lives in a treehouse in an abandoned city park, surviving on scraps of food and only communicating with his three crows. But a jailbreak at the prison forces him into contact with other humans – particularly a girl called Lydia, who is attacked by the escaped prisoners and is saved by Caw.Caw realises that these escaped prisoners have more in common with him than he’d like… they too are FERALS – humans able to communicate with and control an animal species. And they want to bring their evil Feral master, The Spinning Man, back from the Land of the Dead. Only by joining forces with other good Ferals hiding throughout the city can Caw stand a chance of defeating them.
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Childrenâs Books 2015
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Ferals: The Crow Talker
Text © Working Partners Ltd 2015
Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers, 2015
Cover art © Jeff Nentrup, 2015
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Source ISBN: 9780007578528
Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780007578535
Version: 2015-01-20
With special thanks to Michael Ford
âSome of the victims were found with tooth marks on their bodies. Others had been dropped from great heights or were bloated with poisons found in their blood. To this day, no one knows what â or who â was behind the strange series of murders that swept through Blackstone that fateful summer.â
The Mystery of the Dark Summer by Josephine Wallace, Head Librarian, Blackstone Central Library
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Publisher
Blackstone sprawled like a bacterial growth on all sides. Caw took in flashes of the city â skyscrapers rising to the east, and to the west, the endless slanting roofscape of the poorer districts and the smoking chimneys of the industrial quarter. In the north loomed abandoned tenements. The river Blackwater was somewhere to the south, a roiling sludge carrying filth away from the city, but never making it any cleaner. Caw could smell its fetid stench.
He skidded up against the dirty glass panel of a skylight. Laying his hands softly on the glass, Caw peered into its soft glow. A hunched janitor wheeled a mop and bucket through the hallway below, lost in his own world. He didnât look up. They never did.
Caw took off again, startling a fat pigeon and skipping around an ancient billboard, trusting his crows to follow. Two of the birds were barely visible â flitting shadows black as tar. The third was white, his pale feathers making him glow like a ghost in the darkness.
Iâm starving, muttered Screech, the smallest of the crows. His voice was a reedy squawk.
Youâre always starving, said Glum, his wing-beats slow and steady. The young are so greedy.
Caw smiled. To anyone else, the crowsâ voices would merely sound like the cries of regular birds. But Caw heard more. Much more.
Iâm still growing! said Screech, flapping indignantly.
Shame your brain isnât, Glum cackled.
Milky, the blind old white crow, drifted above them. As usual, he said nothing at all.
Caw slowed to gather his breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs. He took in the sounds of night â the swish of a car across slick tarmac, the thump of distant music. Further away, a siren and a man shouting, his words unclear. Whether his voice was raised in anger or happiness, Caw didnât care. Down there was for the regular people of Blackstone. Up here, among the skyline silhouettes ⦠was for him and his crows.
He passed through the warm blast of an air-conditioning vent, then paused, nostrils flaring.
Food. Something salty.
Caw jogged to the edge of the rooftop and peered over. Down below, a door opened on to an alley filled with rubbish bins. It was the back of a 24-hour takeaway. Caw knew they often threw out perfectly good food â leftovers, probably, but he wasnât fussy. He let his glance flick into every dark corner. He saw nothing that worried him, but it was always risky at ground level. Their place, not his.
Glum landed next to Caw and cocked his head. His stubby beak glinted gold, reflecting a streetlight. You think itâs safe? he asked.
A sudden motion drew Cawâs gaze; a rat, rooting in the rubbish bins below. It lifted its head and eyed him without fear. âI think so,â Caw said. âStay sharp.â
He knew they didnât need the warning. Eight years together, and he could trust them better than he could himself.
