The White Widow’s Revenge

“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 with their talons.

Her hold on the bison must have been severed as she flailed under the assault of the black birds, because the huge beast staggered back down the steps and thumped into the side of the van.

Lugmann appeared through the flock of birds, wielding a sledgehammer. As he reached the top of the steps, he swung it at the glass doors. The impact reverberated throughout the bank, making Pickwick jump. Lugmann took a step back and swung again, throwing all his weight behind the hammer. A few cracks appeared in the glass.

Then Crumb’s pigeons joined the fight, smacking into Lugmann as he hefted the hammer again. He tried to shake them off, but more swarmed over him. He dropped the sledgehammer and retreated to the van, slamming the door behind him.

“Goodness,” said Pickwick. “Are we … Is it over?”

The grunts of the bison were muted through the glass. Lugmann and the feral woman were trapped in the van by the crows and pigeons, staring out with cold malice. Surely someone outside had called the police by now.

But Caw’s heart refused to slow down. It can’t be this easy …

“We did it,” said Crumb.

“Not quite,” said someone in a familiar Southern drawl.

Caw flinched and spun round. The oil-painted mural that covered one wall was shifting in a way that made his eyes strain and blink. Then the shape of a man emerged, the colours of his suit flickering before settling into pale cream. It was Mr Silk, the moth feral. He tipped his broad-brimmed hat.

“Mighty nice of you to join me, Caw.”

Caw flung out a hand, but all of his crows were still outside. He glanced at Crumb, but the pigeon feral had made the same mistake.

“Who are you?” asked Pickwick.

“Just a customer, come to make a withdrawal,” said Mr Silk. “A substantial one.”

“Pip, get him!” yelled Caw.

A surge of mice flooded towards the moth feral, but Mr Silk merely looked bored as he raised both arms. The walls and ceiling came alive. Thousands of moths peeled from every surface, burying the mice in seconds and smothering Caw’s face. He twisted and writhed, struggling to breathe, so thick was the air with tiny fluttering wings. Through the chaos, he saw Pip rolling into a ball and Crumb stumbling over a potted plant.

Caw heard an almighty crash and felt a shower of sharp rain across his back. Glass. Silk is just a distraction!

He threw himself aside as the bison crashed through the doors and stomped to a halt in the bank lobby, steam rising from its back and nostrils.

In the next moment, the moths lifted away. Light and air rushed over Caw, and he heard a terrified wail.

The bison was looming over Pip, pawing at the ground with its horns lowered. The mouse feral was pressed up against a counter, shaking in fear.

Caw’s crows massed by the door, but he held out a hand to stay them. One wrong move and the creature could crush Pip or rip him to pieces with its horns.

“Smart decision,” said Lugmann. He stalked past Caw, wielding his sledgehammer once more. His panther flashed its teeth in Caw’s direction. Caw flinched as he felt the heat of the big cat’s breath.

“No one do anything stupid,” said the convict. “Tyra’s beast can kill that kid in a heartbeat. It’ll take more than a flock of birds to stop it.”

Mr Pickwick finally let go of the useless phone. He laid it gently in its cradle. “What happens now?”

“Show Mr Silk to the vault,” said Lugmann.

Mr Pickwick hesitated, and the convict rolled his eyes. Instantly the panther pounced, landing on the counter beside the sparrow feral. It swiped a paw, almost playfully, across his arm. Pickwick cried out as its claws gouged through his suit and blood spattered on to the floor.

“Do as he says,” said Crumb, his voice quaking. “Lugmann, if that boy gets hurt …”

“Quiet,” said Lugmann. “If you do as we say, he’ll live.”

Mr Pickwick led the moth feral to a door at the back of the bank, and tapped in a code. Caw angrily watched Mr Silk’s cream-coloured suit disappear with Pickwick. The last time he’d seen the moth feral, Mr Silk had plunged into the Blackwater, the filthy river that flowed through the city. Caw had assumed that he’d drowned.

“You’re pathetic,” said Pip suddenly, his lips trembling.

“Shut your mouth,” said Lugmann, brandishing the sledgehammer.

“I’m not scared,” retorted Pip.

“Quiet!” said Crumb.