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The convicts began to break from their circle, approaching Caw. The panther beside Lugmann had lost its muzzle, and its white fangs glistened.

“Caw!” pleaded Mrs. Strickham. “Look after Lydia! That’s all that matters now.”

The Mother of Flies shook her head. “Don’t worry, Caw,” she said. “Once you’re dead, I’ll find someone suitable to fill your shoes.”

Caw stepped back as the convicts advanced in a line, their animals hopping, scuttling, prowling, and flapping at their sides.

“Hey, what about me!” said the pierced man beside the bear. “I haven’t got my powers yet!”

“You can wait,” said the Mother of Flies, slipping the Midnight Stone into her pocket. “How does it feel, Caw?” she asked. “You crows always thought you were the greatest of all ferals. I wonder what the mighty Black Corvus would have made of you.”

Caw remembered his ancestor in the firelit study, and the way the others had looked to him for guidance.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but he’d have hated you and everything you stand for. He wanted to protect the ferals, not use their powers for his own gain.”

“Is that right?” asked the Mother of Flies. “He never protected my ancestors. No one did. That’s why I had to make my own allies. New ferals, who understand that the fly line is to be honored, not scorned.”

“You’re just a criminal like any other,” shouted Mr. Strickham.

The Mother of Flies turned on him angrily. “Can any criminal do this?”

She flung a hand at him, and flies swarmed across the rooftop in a black ball, enveloping his head in a mask of bristling bodies. Caw heard muffled screams as Mr. Strickham fell forward, writhing on the ground.

“Stop!” said Mrs. Strickham. Cynthia Davenport lifted her hand and the flies buzzed away, as Lydia’s father gasped for air. “Just teaching your husband some manners,” she said. “There’ll be time to deal with all my enemies soon enough. Why rush?”

The convicts were slowly forming a semicircle around Caw. They looked hungry for blood.

“So,” said the Mother of Flies. “What are you waiting for? Use your powers!”

The dreadlocked man plucked the centipede from his neck and dropped it to the ground. The creature unfurled, nearly as long as Caw’s forearm, and scurried toward him.

Caw barely had to think before Glum darted down from the sky. He scooped the centipede up in his talons and carried it away, squirming.

The girl launched her eagle. Its wings spread majestically, six feet wide at least, feathers speckled white on their underside. With a piercing screech it swooped at Caw, its talons bent to tear at his face. He ducked in panic, throwing an arm over his head, and felt the claws sink easily through his jacket sleeve and into his flesh. The pain made him cry out, but he wriggled free.

The next moment his face was full of flapping, shrieking eagle, the beak stabbing like a dagger. Caw managed to hurl his jacket over its head, and the bird let go, rising away blindly on powerful wings, trying to shake off the cover and rapidly tearing it apart. Caw threw out a bleeding arm and crows smacked into the partly covered bird of prey. The noise was horrible as the birds attacked en masse. Feathers rained down, both black and brown. The scrapping birds hit the rooftop, and more crows piled on. The giant bird began to move more weakly as the crows attacked relentlessly.

Caw tore his gaze away as he heard a low growl. His blood froze as he saw the snarling panther leap forward. Crows flew bravely into its path but were knocked aside with ease. Shimmer managed to get her talons into its back. The cat didn’t even slow, and she tumbled off. Caw saw another crow snatched in its jaws. The panther tossed it aside with a vicious jerk of its head.

Caw backed off quickly, palms sweating, and only stopped when he reached the roof’s edge. Fear paralyzed him on the spot as the panther closed in. This was it—there was nowhere to go.

The panther pounced and Caw leaped up at the same time. He used his fear, channeling it through his body, willing his body to change into its crow form. The pain of the transformation, sudden and powerful, snatched his breath away. He rose on crow wings above the diving cat. Below he caught sight of a whirl of flailing limbs and gnashing teeth, then the panther’s eyes widening with terror. Its roar faded as it plummeted, spinning, toward the unforgiving ground far below.

A hand swatted Caw’s wing, turning him over, then yanked him from the sky. He hit the wet rooftop, and at once his hold on his crow form began to loosen and his limbs became human once more. Lugmann was holding his arm, anger twisting his face. “I’ll make you pay for that!” he said, spitting.

Blows rained down from all sides as the other convicts surrounded him. Caw curled into a ball, unable to tell where all the different stabs of pain were coming from. He saw boots and swinging legs but couldn’t do a thing to stop them. He tried to call the crows, but his mind wouldn’t focus. All around, from their cages, the other animals filled the air with their cries. Caw tasted blood in his mouth from a split lip. A fist connected with his ear and his head spun.

“Get off him!” yelled a distant voice. “Now!”

A few more punches connected, but the bodies around Caw began to separate. Weakly, he rolled over, and finally managed to call his crows. Help me. . . .

None came.

As the convicts moved back, Caw saw why. Across the rooftop and in the sky, clumps of flies swarmed over every one of his birds. He caught glimpses of beaks and wings as they struggled to break free.

Cynthia Davenport was covered too, from her boots right up to the base of her chin. Caw couldn’t see even a millimeter of her clothing. Flies coated her hair. Only her face remained untouched by the insects. She lifted her arms and as she did so, her body lifted from the ground. They were carrying her. She drifted like a black specter across the rooftop toward him.

“It’s over, Caw,” she said, floating in midair.

Caw managed to prop himself on his elbows, and his body throbbed with pain. His arm was gouged from the eagle attack, and he felt blood streaming from both nostrils too. Something was wrong with his side, making it hard to draw breath—a broken rib, perhaps.

“Your mother would be ashamed to see you now,” said the Mother of Flies, hovering. “For so many generations the crow talkers kept the stone a secret, but there was always going to be one weak link—a feral who let down his line. That’s you, Jack Carmichael. The time of the crows is over. It is time for the flies to take the throne.”

“There’s no throne!” said Caw. “You’re nothing but a plague—you and your flies.”

“I’ve heard it all before, crow talker,” said Cynthia Davenport. “Filthy. Repulsive. Unclean. That’s what they called my mother. That’s what they’ve always called us. But flies are survivors. My army will hunt the old order for sport. And even when the fly line is avenged, and this city is dead, my children will feed from its corpse and grow stronger.”

“And then?” said Caw, grimacing as he shifted again. “You’re no different from the Spinning Man. You just want power no matter what it costs. Who wants to rule over a dead city?”

“I’m nothing like the Spinning Man,” said the Mother of Flies. Lightning forked above. “He was an arrogant fool who let himself be bettered twice. I crawled my way up from the bottom. I’ve fought for everything I’ve ever had, and I’ve come out stronger than he ever was. Stronger than he ever could have been.”

Caw made up his mind. If he was going to die, he would do so defiantly. “If you say so. I think spiders will always be greater than flies. Your precious creatures die in their webs, don’t they?”

A flicker of pain crossed Cynthia Davenport’s face. Her flies set her down and buzzed away in a black wave. She reached inside her jacket and pulled out a gun. “Time for your gift to pass to someone more worthy,” she said, pointing the gun at his head. “I’ll do you the honor of making it quick. The Land of the Dead awaits you, crow talker.”

Caw closed his eyes.