The White Widow’s Revenge. Jacob Grey

watch, Bobbin,” said the pigeon feral. Despite the umbrella, his blond hair lay in wet straggles across his forehead and his scruffy beard was beaded with water. “This is the place.”

      Caw looked across the street at the ornate three-storey facade of the Blackstone Savings Bank.

      “How do you know?” he said. “Everything looks normal.”

      “Turns out the manager is a feral,” said Pip eagerly. The mouse talker’s eyes were eager saucers under the hood of his waterproof jacket. It was at least three sizes too big and came down to his knees.

      Crumb nodded. “Pickwick, the sparrow talker. That’s probably why the escaped convicts chose it – they get the money, plus they hit back at the ferals who are trying to stop them.”

      Caw’s heart began to beat faster. He knew how ruthless their enemies were. A few weeks ago, the Mother of Flies had released Blackstone Prison’s most dangerous convicts and turned them into an army of new ferals, using the power of the Midnight Stone. Commissioner Davenport had given each of them an animal species to control in return for doing her bidding.

      Caw may have defeated the commissioner on the apartment rooftop, but her ferals were still on the loose. Crime had been on the rise across the city, made a hundred times worse by the convicts’ new feral powers. Thefts, assaults, vandalism … The papers had picked up a few odd stories about animals at the scenes of crimes – a colony of vultures swooping over the town hall, an infestation of raccoons in the cinema – but the police hadn’t made the connection. Caw couldn’t blame them – they had no idea ferals existed.

      That morning, a casino break-in had left two security guards dead, with lacerations to their throats – the work of Lugmann, the new panther feral. It was pure luck that a couple of Pip’s mice had been at the scene and had overheard the plan to hit a bank.

      Caw clenched his fists. As the convicts mastered their feral powers, they would become only more deadly. They had to be stopped.

      “Should we let the others know?” Caw asked. Mrs Strickham and the other good ferals were positioned all across Blackstone, watching the banks.

      Crumb shook his head. “There’s still a chance they’ll hit a different bank. I’m afraid this one’s on us.”

      “And Pickwick’s ready?” said Caw, glancing down at his weapon, the Crow’s Beak. The short, black-bladed sword of the crow line hung at Caw’s side, in a sheath he’d made from the remains of an old leather satchel.

      “Pickwick’s not a fighter,” Crumb said. “He rarely even speaks to his birds any more. But he’ll get any innocent bystanders out of the way.”

      Caw found it strange to think of a feral not using his powers; just living a normal life. Nothing about Caw’s life had ever been normal.

      Shimmer swooped up with an urgent squawk.

      They’re coming! she said. Black van, five blocks east, stopped at the lights.

      “Good work,” said Caw. He turned to Crumb and Pip. “They’re almost here.”

      Crumb waved an arm, and several pigeons flocked to him from surrounding buildings.

      Pip leant over the edge of the roof. Caw heard a scream in the street below and looked down to see a young girl scramble into her mother’s arms. A wriggling surge of mice had emerged from a drain and poured over the road as passers-by backed away.

      Pip grinned. “Who needs a panther when you’ve got a mouse or two?”

      With a flick of his hand, he directed the horde of mice up the steps of the bank. The mass of their bodies was enough to open the automatic doors, and they swept through. Screaming customers ran out, and a moment later a small, grey-haired man in a suit and glasses followed, muttering apologies. He looked up to the roof and gave a small salute.

      Crumb nodded back. “Let’s get down there.”

      “Fetch the others,” Caw said to Screech, and the crows took off as he sprinted to the fire escape. Adrenaline coursed through Caw’s veins as he took the rails in both hands and slid down, his heels slamming into the platform below. He ran to the next set of stairs and did the same, reaching ground level in seconds. Then he darted across the street. What with the plague of mice and the bad weather, the pavements were almost empty.

      Mr Pickwick saw Caw coming and squinted. “Sorry, closing early,” he said. “Vermin infestation.”

      “I’m the crow talker,” said Caw urgently. They had to get inside before the convicts’ van arrived.

      The old man looked him up and down suspiciously.

      “He’s with me,” said a voice from above.

      Crumb and Pip were hovering in the rain, held by several dozen pigeons.

      Mr Pickwick smiled grimly as they landed in front of him. “I stand corrected. Come in – quickly.”

      The bank was smart and old-fashioned, with wooden counters embossed with bronze plating, and a huge mural of swirling oil colours on one wall. The air smelt of floor polish and the only sounds were the scuffing of footsteps as Mr Pickwick’s staff hurried out through the back offices.

      “How do we lock the doors?” said Caw, looking at the glass panels sliding shut behind them.

      “There’s a switch – bottom left,” said Mr Pickwick.

      Caw found the switch under a clear plastic hood, and pressed it. The thick glass doors glided shut.

      “The glass is bulletproof,” said Mr Pickwick.

      “Call the police anyway,” said Crumb.

      As the bank manager picked up the phone, a black van screeched to a halt beside the steps outside, making Caw’s heart jolt. He recognised the driver’s crew-cut hair, and his muscular arms blue with prison tattoos. Lugmann.

      The convict’s eyes widened as he leant over to look into the bank and saw Caw. He grinned crookedly.

      Caw grabbed the hilt of his sword.

      The back doors of the van burst open and a woman with a shaved head and a pierced lip jumped out. Caw remembered her from the fight on the commissioner’s roof. She beckoned to something in the van.

      The back of the van lurched downwards, and a giant head peered out. A huge bison sniffed the air then stomped down to the pavement. The sheer size of it made Caw’s knees turn to liquid – its hooves were the size of dinner plates. Its head swayed towards them, and it gave a guttural bellow as strings of drool dripped from its mouth.

      “Is the door bison-proof?” asked Crumb, his face pale. They stood transfixed as the enormous beast lumbered up the steps, snorting through flared nostrils.

      Lugmann stepped out of the van, a large, sleek, black cat following at his heels. He looked up and down the street and then straight at Caw. The panther feral put his hands together as if in prayer then moved them apart, mouthing, “Open the door.”

      Caw shook his head.

      The shaven-headed woman commanded the bison, and the creature charged forwards, slamming head first into the door with a huge crash.

      Everyone jumped back. The glass shook, but didn’t break. The bison backed up then charged once more. The glass held, but the metal door hinges were twisting out of shape.

      “They must have cut the line,” said Mr Pickwick, holding the phone limply. “It’s dead.”

      Caw’s heart sank. But he pushed his fear aside and let his mind reach out, searching for his crows. Clenching his fists, he drew the birds towards him.

      Through the glass, he saw a black cloud swoop down from the surrounding buildings.

      Get the bison! He sent a murder of crows at the creature, and others broke off and attacked the female feral