The White Widow’s Revenge

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 dense foliage lent everything a peaceful hush.

The nest at the top of the chestnut tree was almost invisible from the ground, and Caw liked it that way. With the help of a legion of crows, he’d moved his tree house, piece by piece, from Blackstone Park. He knew that he had a cosy bed in the main house, but it brought him comfort to have his former home close at hand. He’d even slept out here once or twice, and he had a feeling he’d want to tonight.

As he climbed in, Screech looked up, rice scattering from his beak.

You want some? he said.

“I’m OK, thanks,” Caw said.

Phew,said Screech, head disappearing into the carton again.

Glum opened one eye, peering out in the direction of the house. Bit noisy in there, isn’t it? he said.

“I’m sure it won’t be forever,” said Caw doubtfully. He lay down across the nest, hands behind his head, and stared up at the gently swaying leaves. The only sound was the steady drip-drip of rainwater. It made him think of a book he’d been reading – with a bit of help from Crumb. There was a story in it about an angry god who made it rain until everyone in the world was drowned. Well, almost everyone. One man and his family survived in a great big ship called an ark. Somehow he invited two of every animal on board.

Sounds a bit unlikely, Glum had said when Caw told him about it.

“Maybe he was a feral,” Caw had suggested.

The nest was the perfect place for Caw to empty his thoughts. Sometimes, it wasn’t hard to fool himself that he was back in the park – just Caw and his crows, before his world changed completely. Back then he hadn’t known that there were other ferals in Blackstone. He hadn’t even known there were ferals at all. Life was hard, of course, but it was simple too. Forage, stay out of sight and sleep. No Spinning Man, no Mother of Flies, no fighting against ferals who wanted to kill him. But no friends either – other than his crows, Screech and Glum. And his oldest companion, Milky, who was gone forever to the Land of the Dead. No Lydia. No Mrs Strickham or Crumb or Pip.

No Selina.

Guilty feelings surged through Caw’s brain. Poor Selina. What was going on in her head? Was she dreaming or just drifting on a sea of emptiness?

Caw sat up, rocking the nest slightly. “We need to check on Selina,” he said.

Again? asked Screech.

“There might be a change,” said Caw firmly.

It’s Glum’s turn, said Screech.

I’ll go,said Shimmer.

“Caw, are you up there?” called a familiar voice from below.

For a moment, Caw thought about not answering. He was fairly sure Mrs Strickham couldn’t see him, and she wouldn’t be able to climb up. Nor would her foxes. One of her creatures must have seen him come up – Velma had spies everywhere.

“Caw?” she said again.

“Ladder’s coming down,” he called out. “Stand back.”

He’d found the old rope ladder already attached to the tree, and with a bit of fixing up it was perfect for guests. He unfastened it from the nearby branch and let it unroll.

The ladder tightened and swayed as it took Mrs Strickham’s weight, and a few seconds later her head broke through the foliage. She climbed a little unsteadily, and it was odd to see her so unsure of herself – the fox feral was normally completely in control. Caw offered a hand to help her in. For a brief instant, he remembered the first time he’d met Lydia and smiled. She’d invited herself in too.

Scrambling over the edge, Lydia’s mother regained her composure as she crouched in the tree house. She’d never been up here before.

“Well, this is … um … cosy,” she said.

It’s not built for two, Glum snapped.

Mrs Strickham looked at the old crow askance. “I might not speak crow, but I’m guessing that was a grumble.”

Glum haughtily turned his beak away.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not staying long.”

As she glanced around the nest, Caw wondered what it was she wanted.

“So, you know Johnny?” he said.

Mrs Strickham smiled and nodded. “Very well,” she said. “He saved my life, on more than one occasion. I never thought he would come back.” She shook her head in wonder. “Anyway, Caw, that’s not what I came to speak with you about. I wanted to thank you for letting the other ferals use your home. A place where we can gather offers us security – a lot of those ferals inside are scared of becoming the next target.”

“It’s fine,” said Caw, sort of meaning it. “But is this really the best place? There isn’t even any electricity. Wouldn’t they be better somewhere … else?”

He knew it sounded like an excuse, but Velma didn’t look annoyed. Instead, a wave of sadness passed over her face.

“I wish they could stay at mine,” she said, “but things at home are … they’re a little difficult. Lydia’s father … let’s just say he’s trying to get his head round some changes.”

Caw tried to look sympathetic – things must be worse than he had imagined at the Strickhams’.

“Don’t worry, though,” said Mrs Strickham with forced brightness. “He and his prison guards are working with the police to track down the escaped convicts. We can win this battle if we all pull together.”

“I know,” said Caw.

“And that’s why,” continued Mrs Strickham, “I wanted to speak with you about the Midnight Stone.”

Caw resisted the urge to look up towards the whorl in the tree trunk a few feet above Mrs Strickham’s head. Hidden inside that whorl, wrapped in a cloth pouch, was the Midnight Stone. Caw had threaded it on to a piece of cord so he could wear it round his neck, but the tree seemed the safest place to keep it out of sight.

So that’s what she’s after, said Glum.

“What about it?” asked Caw.

“It’s a great burden on your shoulders, Caw,” said Mrs Strickham. “If ever you want help, someone else to hold on to it, then—”

“No,” said Caw quickly.

The Midnight Stone had been guarded by his ancestors for hundreds of years – since the days of the greatest crow talker that ever lived, Black Corvus. Caw’s famous ancestor had persuaded other ferals of his time to lend a portion of their powers to the Midnight Stone. This was in order to conserve their lines, in case they were killed without a feral heir. The Midnight Stone could absorb the abilities of any feral who touched its surface and bestow those powers on a normal human.

Caw’s mother had kept the Midnight Stone safe from the Spinning Man, and had been murdered protecting it. The Mother of Flies had used it to create a fearsome army, and Caw had almost died getting it back. The Midnight Stone belongs to the crow line.

“All I’m saying—” began Mrs Strickham.

“I can look after it,” said Caw firmly.