of Commissioner Davenport’s apartment, Selina had lain unconscious in a Blackstone Hospital bed. The doctors didn’t know why she wasn’t waking up. They thought it might be some sort of infection. Caw’s friend Crumb, the pigeon feral, said it might be better if she never woke up. Caw couldn’t reply to that. Despite what everyone else thought, Selina was his friend. She’d stuck by him when it mattered most.
Hello? said Shimmer. What do you say, boss? I can scan the block. No one will even see me.
“OK,” said Caw. “Just be careful.”
Shimmer took off, spreading her wings in a low glide and dipping out of sight.
Caw would ask Glum to take on hospital duty later. Any day now, there must be good news.
He heard a squeak and turned to see Pip, the young mouse feral, and the lanky Crumb climbing up from the fire escape.
About time, said Glum.
Crumb was holding aloft a battered umbrella and Pip stayed close to his side as they hurried across the roof.
A pigeon landed with a clumsy hop beside Crumb.
“Keep 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.
