guess,” said Johnny.
Caw suddenly felt embarrassed as they approached the overgrown front garden and boarded-up house. When Crumb and Pip had moved in a fortnight before, they’d been full of plans to give the place a fresh lick of paint and repair the windows. But fighting the escaped convicts had taken over from all of that.
Caw saw a faint light coming from the dining-room window. The other ferals were already here.
He led the way to the front door, and pushed it open.
Several people were sitting round the dining-room table, and candles were lit across the room. There were familiar faces – like Ali the bee feral, Racklen the wolf talker, and the bat feral Chen – but strangers among them too. In the past couple of weeks, Mrs Strickham the fox feral had been gathering to their cause all the loyal ferals she could find. Some had refused, but most had agreed to join them, reasoning that they were stronger in numbers. Across the floor lay an assortment of dogs, and a few birds and lizards clung to the furniture.
The room was heady with a potent mix of food smells. Some ferals were digging into takeaway cartons, while others had scavenged plates, bowls and any containers they could find from his kitchen.
When Caw had agreed that the good ferals could use his house as a base, he hadn’t realised quite what Mrs Strickham had meant. But it was too late to go back on his word. It made sense to relocate here – their enemies might guess where they were, but at least no innocent people were living nearby. And Mrs Strickham couldn’t volunteer her own house. Caw knew that her husband, Lydia’s father, would never allow the ferals to use his family home for their war councils. Until a couple of weeks ago, the warden of Blackstone Prison hadn’t even known his wife was a feral, and from what Caw could gather, he wasn’t all that happy about it. If it wasn’t for her father, Lydia might be here with them now. She would have found a way to make Caw feel better about all this.
The tall figure of Mrs Strickham strode over to them. She was dressed in dark jeans and brown leather boots, with a pale roll-neck jumper. Her long hair was tied back. “We heard what happened,” she said. “I’m glad you’re all OK.”
“They got away with the money,” said Caw, lowering his eyes.
Mrs Strickham touched his shoulder, and he looked up. “But everyone’s all right?” she asked.
“I think so,” said Caw. “It could have been a lot worse …”
Mrs Strickham’s eyes shifted away then went wide. A smile slowly lit up her face. “Johnny?” she said.
“Vel!” cried Johnny Fivetails.
Mrs Strickham flew past Caw and embraced the coyote feral. Caw had never seen her look so happy. There was a commotion as several others crowded round, taking it in turns to hug Johnny or shake his hand. Even Racklen, who rarely smiled, was beaming.
Caw noticed Crumb was hanging back in the doorway. He didn’t like crowds either. All these people sitting on his furniture made Caw feel like a stranger in his own home. It was becoming hard to breathe in here.
“So what happened?” asked Mrs Strickham, addressing Caw.
He felt the room turn its attention on him. “Lugmann hit Pickwick’s bank,” he said unsteadily. “We tried to stop them, but they had the bison feral.”
“And Mr Silk,” Johnny pitched in. “It was well planned.”
Mrs Strickham nodded grimly. “I suspected the moth feral wasn’t gone for good.”
“Mr Fivetails came to our rescue!” said Pip. “The bison was going to maul me!”
Johnny shrugged modestly. “Thank the coyotes, not me,” he said.
“Our enemies are getting bolder,” said Crumb. “A bison in the city – it wouldn’t even have happened in the Dark Summer.” He lowered his voice. “We think there might be a new boss.”
Velma Strickham’s eyes widened again, and she gestured to the wolf feral. “Racklen, Crumb, Johnny – we need to discuss this properly. Caw, do you want to get some food and join us?”
The room filled with a hubbub as the other ferals began talking with each other and with their animals. A snake wound down the banister and butterflies fluttered around the lampshade. A Great Dane lay sprawled across the sofa, drooling on the carpet. Caw was beginning to feel dizzy.
“I might go outside and get some fresh air first,” he said.
Johnny looked a little surprised. “We could do with your input, Caw,” he said.
A bright parrot flew past Caw’s face and sparks flashed across his vision.
“Back in a minute,” muttered Caw, as his feet carried him towards the back door. He just needed to get away from all the noise. Crumb would say it better than he could anyway. He tripped over a snoozing fox, which bared its teeth at him.
“Stop it, Morag,” said Mrs Strickham. “Sorry, Caw, she’s old and grumpy.”
Caw stumbled into the kitchen, where a couple of lizards eyed him from the counter. Pip caught his arm.
“Hey, Caw, let me show you something,” he said. “I’ve been practising my power.”
“That’s great,” said Caw as the room spun around him. “But can it wait?”
Pip lowered his eyes. “I guess so.”
“Maybe later?” said Caw, feeling guilty as he grasped for the door handle. “I want to see, I promise.”
“OK,” said Pip.
Caw flung open the back door, and gulped in the cool garden air with relief. All those ferals inside needed somewhere to meet, but Caw felt a flash of annoyance at how they had made themselves at home. It was still his house, after all. He wondered if the arrangement was going to be permanent.
You OK? asked Shimmer.
Caw saw her perched on the kitchen windowsill, talons clinging to the edge of a broken plant pot.
“I think so,” he said.
Glum and Screech are up in the nest, said the crow. They got some egg-fried rice. I told them to save you some, but you know Screech …
Caw made his way down the overgrown garden path. It must have been beautiful once – there were still flowers of every description growing among the weeds and the remains of a delicate wooden archway. Caw tried to remember playing here with his mum and dad, but his memory refused to give anything up. A rose bush had grown away from the trellis in a wild sprawl, and he had to pick his way past the thorny overhang.
At the back of the garden grew a tall chestnut tree, covered in knots and whorls. On sunny days, its huge canopy cast the garden in an emerald glow, but now its leaves were slick and dark with raindrops. Caw wedged his foot on a scar in the bark, pushed upwards and leapt for a low-hanging branch. Water droplets scattered from the drooping leaves as he swung up to sit astride it. As Caw scrambled swiftly up the tree, the tension across his temples vanished. Soon he couldn’t hear anything but the leaves rustling as the
