The White Widow’s Revenge

“No!” said Pip. “Even if he kills us, the other ferals will still stop him!”

Tyra laughed. “With birds and mice?” she said. The bison snorted, its massive flanks heaving.

Pip swallowed. “You’re just a bunch of greedy crooks,” he said. “We work together, and you only look out for yourselves.”

“Pip!” said Crumb. “Please, stop!”

“The boy’s got more guts than you, pigeon talker,” said Lugmann.

Some of the bank employees who’d been hiding in the back came through the door, shouldering the weight of huge canvas sacks with notes spilling out of the tops. They gazed at the bison and the panther in terrified astonishment.

“Load up the van!” said Lugmann impatiently, waving his sledgehammer.

The bank staff carried the sacks through the broken glass doors, down the bank’s steps and began to place them in the back of the van. They barely seemed to notice the hundreds of birds massed outside, and as soon as they had loaded the van, they ran off down the street.

Mr Silk reappeared and Lugmann tossed him the van keys.

“We’ll be out in a minute. I haven’t quite finished here,” Lugmann sneered.

Tyra summoned the bison to her and patted its matted fur.

“We’ve got what we came for, my friend,” said Mr Silk, a hand on Lugmann’s arm. “Almost three million, by my estimate.”

Lugmann shook off the hand, and his cold eyes fell on Pip. “Yes, but my pet hasn’t eaten yet.”

Caw tensed, ready to jump up. He could sense his crows outside, spreading their wings. Nothing would happen to Pip, not while Caw was still breathing …

Mr Silk paused, removing his hat. He shot a look at Pip, who had begun to cry as the panther paced towards him. “Those weren’t our orders,” he said quietly.

Lugmann and the moth feral eyeballed each other.

Caw hesitated, his breath catching painfully. Orders? Who’s giving them orders?

“I’m … reading between the lines,” said Lugmann. “Wait in the van, Silk. Unless you want to watch.”

The moth feral replaced his hat and, without a backwards glance, he swept out of the bank.

“You promised not to hurt Pip,” said Crumb.

“No,” said Lugmann. “I promised he’d live. And he will. He can live with one leg, can’t he?”

“You’ve got your money,” Caw growled. “Just go.”

“Do it,” Tyra said, eyes gleaming.

The panther opened its jaws wide.

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aw summoned his crows, driving them with all his willpower. As his birds shot into the air, he heard growling and a pack of wolves streaked past him.

Caw’s heart soared. Racklen must be here!

Two wolves leapt on to the snarling panther, raking it with their claws. Another sent Lugmann sprawling to the floor. The bison backed off in panic, as three more snapped and growled in its face.

No, not wolves. They were too small and lithe. Their fur was sandy and pale, not grey.

Coyotes.

The panther rolled then lashed out with a paw, as it backed away across the stone floor.

Tyra ran to Lugmann, but instead of helping him up, she grabbed the sledgehammer. She could barely lift it, and the crows swooped in, pecking at her wrist. She screamed and dropped the hammer, the head crunching into the floor. The crows’ claws snatched at her clothes, lifting her up and dropping her behind a teller’s counter with a thump. Pigeons joined the coyotes, and the massive bison bucked and crashed into furniture in its effort to escape.

Mr Pickwick scrambled out of the way. Crumb swept Pip up in his arms as the panther spun and growled. It hurled a coyote across the bank as if it weighed nothing, and swatted another to the floor with a howl. But more wild dogs rushed in; so many that Caw lost count.

The bison staggered behind the counter, emerging a moment later with a barely conscious Tyra, her collar clutched in its mouth. It dragged her down the steps as fast as it could.

Lugmann was on his feet again and, with his panther shielding him from snarling coyotes, he ran out of the bank’s shattered front door. They stumbled into the back of the van and the doors closed.

Caw rushed to the top of the steps, calling his crows to action. They swarmed the windshield as Mr Silk cranked the van into gear. It lurched forwards, crashing into a lamp-post, then veered across the wet street and smashed into a parked car, scattering glass across the road. The back doors swung open and several sacks spilt out. Lugmann hauled the doors closed and, with a screech of rubber, the van tore off down the street. Feathers and rolls of cash littered the ground.

Mr Pickwick appeared at Caw’s side, clutching his bleeding arm, misery etched on his face. The bank was wrecked. Blood was spattered on the floor, mixed with clumps of fur and feathers. Chairs were smashed, and a clock hung askew on the wall. Around a dozen coyotes lay down and began to lick their wounds.

“Where did they come from?” asked Caw.

Crumb was still holding Pip, breathing heavily. He glanced around as a new voice spoke up.

“Well, I thought you might need a hand.”

Caw turned to see a man of about thirty skipping up the steps of the bank. He wore blue jeans and a pristine white T-shirt, with leather shoes and a leather jacket. His blond hair curled as it reached the nape of his neck, and his eyes sparkled a pale blue. He smiled warmly, and the nearest bloodied coyote pushed its head against his leg.

“Brave work, Vic,” he said. “All of you.”

The coyotes let out a collective noise, halfway between a purr and a growl.

“Fivetails!” said Crumb.

“Who?” said Pip, clearly as bewildered as Caw.

“Johnny Fivetails,” said the man, holding out a hand to the mouse feral.

Pip looked at it, blinking.

The man grinned then clapped him on the shoulder instead. “Still in shock, I guess. It was a hell of a fight.”

“What are you doing here?” said Crumb. “How did you—”

Sirens wailing in the distance cut him off.