15

“But—” Caw began. “How did you—”

“You know each other?” said Crumb, frowning.

“You’ve grown up, Crumb,” said Mrs. Strickham. “I wish we were seeing each other again under better circumstances.”

Crumb, for once, seemed speechless. The look in his eyes was a mixture of awe and disbelief, like an astonished child.

“I heard you called a gathering.” She was almost gliding toward them. “Given my current crisis, I thought it wise to attend.”

Caw glanced guiltily at Crumb, who was shaking his head. “You’re the last person I expected to see,” said the pigeon talker. “I thought you had left the city for good.”

Despite her severe expression, Mrs. Strickham’s lip trembled. “They have my daughter, don’t they?”

Crumb’s frown turned to openmouthed shock. “Lydia is your—”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Strickham. “When I saw she wasn’t with you, I— I feared the worst. And it seems I was right. She knows nothing about my . . . past. She must be so frightened, I—” Mrs. Strickham’s face began to crumple with grief, but she quickly composed herself. “I mean to get her back,” she said, her voice a low growl. “Whatever it takes.”

“You’re a feral,” said Caw.

Mrs. Strickham turned her piercing gaze on him, and he felt a little like prey in the sight of a predator. “Yes, crow talker.”

Caw could barely believe it. “It’s my fault,” he said finally. “They think Lydia is the crow feral. But it’s me they wanted!”

“Lydia never did like doing as she was told,” said Mrs. Strickham with a grim smile.

“We’ll find her,” said Pip, puffing out his chest.

“Ah, the mouse talker,” said Mrs. Strickham, eyes falling on the mouse crawling up Pip’s sleeve. “I knew your father, young man. You have his eyes.” She paused, and Caw thought how utterly terrifying she looked—standing straighter than before, her loose red hair twisting like flames in the breeze. “He died bravely.”

Pip’s eyes filled with tears, but he quickly dashed them away. “I know,” he said. “Crumb told me.”

“So what now?” said Caw. “How do we find Lydia?”

Mrs. Strickham turned her sharp gaze on him. “If Jawbone was with them, we could try the old underground network beneath the city.” She pointed along the tracks. “During the Dark Summer, he and his pack were said to hide out there.”

“But the network goes on for miles,” said Crumb. “Even if he is down there, how will we find him?”

“Maybe I can help,” said Pip. The young boy paled as Crumb and Mrs. Strickham both turned to look at him. But Caw gave him a smile, and he rallied a little. “There are mice down there,” he explained. “Lots of mice!”

“Can you call them?” asked Caw.

Pip nodded. He knelt on the platform, placing his hands flat on it, and closed his eyes. Caw hopped down onto the tracks and saw that they descended toward the circular mouth of a tunnel leading into blackness.

Nothing.

And then, at last, a small brown creature scurried from the mouth of the tunnel. It was followed by another, and another. Soon a whole tide of mice surged out, spilling from the sides of the tunnel and dropping from the roof.

The mice flowed past Caw’s ankles and up onto the platform, gathering around Pip like a rustling brown carpet, all squeaking at him. The boy’s eyes flicked open, and his face lit up with a grin.

“I’ve never summoned so many!” he said proudly.

“Jawbone,” said Mrs. Strickham sternly. “Where is he?”

“Sorry,” said Pip. He listened again and at last sat up. “They’ve seen a big man with a tattoo on his face,” he said. There was no triumph in his voice—only a tremble of fear. “He’s been coming and going, and he always has dogs with him. They’ll lead us.”

Caw’s heart jumped at the thought of the evil feral so close by.

“Then what are we waiting for?” said Crumb. He leaped down onto the tracks.

They set out together. Pip led the way, a tide of mice running ahead, while more perched on his shoulders and arms and in folds of clothing. Mrs. Strickham came close behind, even more mice swarming around her feet. Caw’s crows flew overhead and paused at the entrance to the tunnel. Even Milky didn’t seem sure about flying inside.

Is this the best idea? asked Screech, glancing into the tunnel. I mean—it’s the enemy’s turf, isn’t it?

Scared, Screech? asked Glum.

No! said Screech. Just cautious, that’s all.

Well, I’m terrified, said Glum.

Milky silently ruffled his feathers.

Caw concentrated and summoned more crows, and when he turned, he was grateful to see a flock gathering at his back. From the pigeons mixed in with the crows, he guessed Crumb was thinking the same. They were heading into the unknown. . . .

“Just stay close,” Caw told his crows.

“What about the trains?” asked Pip.

“This line hasn’t been used for a decade,” said Crumb. “But keep your wits about you. There’s bound to be a few dangerous characters down there who won’t want to be found.”

As the darkness swallowed them, Caw strained his eyes, trying to pierce the shadows. If Jawbone really was here, who knew what traps he might have set up?

Mrs. Strickham gave a soft click with her tongue. Caw heard a light padding of feet, and a furry shape slipped among the mice, keeping pace at her side with its ears pricked. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realized what it was. He remembered the orange creature slinking beside the bushes at the Strickhams’ house the night of the disastrous dinner.

“You’re the fox talker,” he said.

The fox was joined by another, and it made a clicking sound back at Mrs. Strickham.

“You’re right,” she told the fox with a sly grin. “He is a little slow.”

Caw blushed and was glad of the darkness.

“Why didn’t you say before?” he asked.

Mrs. Strickham kept her gaze fixed straight ahead. “Because I value my privacy,” she replied. “I suspected who you were from the moment I laid eyes on you, Jack. I didn’t want my daughter being mixed up with other ferals. I suppose you thought me very rude.”

“It’s all right,” said Caw.

“No, it isn’t,” she said. “Because I failed.” She turned to face him as she walked. “Perhaps I was naive—I thought I could protect Lydia from the world of the ferals. . . . I wanted her to have a childhood, you see? Like a normal girl. My own mother denied me that. As soon as I was old enough to understand, I was playing with foxes. I knew from the age of four that one day I would have the gift myself.”

“And Lydia has no idea?” said Caw.

Mrs. Strickham shook her head. “I was very careful. After the Dark Summer, I rarely communed with my foxes, even though we’d been through a lot together.”

“That’s an understatement,” muttered Crumb from up ahead.

“I— I’m sorry Lydia got involved,” said Caw.

“Yes, so am I,” said Velma Strickham simply. She quickened her steps, striding ahead, and her foxes trotted to keep up.

I don’t think she likes you very much, said Screech, half walking, half flying beside Caw.

“Don’t worry about her,” said Crumb, dropping back next to him. “She’s always been a bit, er . . . aloof.”

“She hates me,” said Caw. “And I don’t blame her.”

“She was the same with me, at first,” said Crumb. After a brief pause, he lowered his voice. “There’s something you should know about Velma Strickham, by the way. It was she who finally killed the Spinning Man.”

Pip gave a low whistle through the darkness.

Caw stared after Mrs. Strickham’s silhouette, as she turned the corner. So she avenged my parents’ death. That made it even worse—he owed her.

Gradually, his eyes could make out more of the tunnel ahead—the crumbling brickwork and the gray tracks penetrating the distance. No sign of anyone else, and no dogs lurking. Against the shuffles of their footsteps, he heard water dripping, the rustling of the mice, and the occasional flap of the birds’ wings.

Perhaps Mrs. Strickham had a point. He’d been so glad to have a friend, he’d become selfish. He could have told Lydia to stay at the church while he went to Gort House. But he hadn’t. Just like he’d been selfish getting Miss Wallace involved. He hadn’t known then what they faced or the lengths to which his enemies would go.

He knew now, though, and he wasn’t going to take any more risks with Jawbone and the others. Having a powerful feral like Lydia’s mother at his side made him feel a lot better, even if they weren’t exactly friends.

Mrs. Strickham stopped dead. “What’s that?” she murmured.

Then Caw felt it too—a tingling through his feet.

“It feels like a train,” said Pip nervously, glancing up and down the tunnel. “I thought this line wasn’t running anymore.”

“It isn’t,” said Crumb.

The vibrations grew by the second, and then two bright white lights swerved around the corner behind them.

“Run!” said Crumb.

Caw’s crows overtook him, flying down the tunnel in the same direction as Mrs. Strickham. Caw shot after them, with Pip running at his side, mice scattering in all directions.

“This way!” called Lydia’s mother. “There’s a platform ahead.”

Light swamped the tunnel, casting long shadows. The train’s roar filled Caw’s ears. He didn’t dare look back. Instead, he watched the tracks flying by at his feet. If he tripped, that was it. Then he glanced up to see the tiled walls of the station and the platform at chest height. Lights flickered overhead. He leaped after Mrs. Strickham, and then he and Crumb pulled Pip up to safety. The train came thundering along the tracks behind him.

“Hide!” shouted Crumb.

Mrs. Strickham sprinted toward an old ticket booth, and they crouched behind it as the train’s brakes screeched. There was a sign on the tiled wall, but Caw couldn’t read it.

“Mason Street,” whispered Pip, following his eyes.

“I don’t understand,” said Crumb. “There shouldn’t be any power down here.”

The train shunted to a halt at the platform, and the crows and pigeons alighted on its roof, out of sight. Caw couldn’t see Mrs. Strickham’s foxes anywhere.

“Someone must have rewired the electrics,” she whispered. “And I think I know who.”

With a hiss, the doors at the carriage opened. Two slavering dogs, ears pricked, stepped onto the platform. Jawbone followed, casting a dead-eyed stare left, then right.

“Wait here, boys,” the dog feral murmured. “Won’t need you where I’m going.”

The dogs sniffed the air and growled. Jawbone raised his huge head, and his eyes narrowed. “Got a visitor, have we?” he said. “Show yourself!”

Caw’s neck prickled as he crouched. Mrs. Strickham had closed her eyes as if she was concentrating hard. When they snapped open, he saw her determination. She started to straighten, ready for the fight. . . .

Without thinking, Caw lunged forward, throwing himself into the open ahead of her.

“Caw, get back!” she hissed.

But it was too late. The dogs turned in a flash, muzzles contracting over their teeth.

“Just you, runt?” said Jawbone, grinning.

“Where’s Lydia?” said Caw. “What have you done with her?”

“The crow talker’s safe where she belongs,” said Jawbone. “Shame I can’t say the same about you. Dinnertime, boys.”

The two dogs rushed across the platform at astonishing speed. Come to me, crows! Caw willed. He threw an arm toward the dogs, and two dozen crows swept down from the train roof, with Glum, Screech, and Milky in the lead.

Jawbone grunted as the dogs skidded to a halt. The crows swerved and landed on the dogs’ backs with ripping talons. The dogs went into a frenzy, rolling and leaping and snapping to throw their attackers off. Some crows scattered, others held on. One crow let out a dying wail as it was hurled from a dog’s mouth into a wall.

Then the foxes came—nine or ten of them, snarling and growling, emerged from abandoned elevators at the platform’s edge. They fastened their jaws over the dogs’ legs, making them howl in pain.

Jawbone stumbled back, a look of panicked surprise on his brutal tattooed face.

Pigeons swept over him, driving him back still farther. They managed to lift him a few feet off the ground, then hurled him down onto the platform. Jawbone fell to his knees and started crawling toward the open doors of the train carriage. His dogs scampered off into the tunnel, pursued by yapping foxes and screeching crows.

“Stop him!” shouted Mrs. Strickham.

The dog feral had almost made it as far as the carriage, still covered by flapping, pecking, stabbing pigeons. He reached out an arm streaked with blood, just as the door slid shut with a sudden bang.

Jawbone groaned and rolled across the platform, scrabbling against the tiled wall and slamming into some sort of metal box. The rusted cover of the box fell open, exposing a mass of electrical wires and panels within. The pigeons didn’t let up. Caw saw that Crumb’s face was twisted with anger. He realized he was seeing a new side of Crumb: the veteran of the Dark Summer, fierce and vengeful.

A handful of mice scurried out from beneath the carriage and back across the platform toward their master.

“You did it! You shut the door!” said Pip as the mice climbed his legs. He turned to the others. “They gnawed through the wires.”

Crumb advanced on Jawbone, lifting his hand. With a beating of wings, his pigeons rose from the convict’s prone form.

Caw winced when he saw what the pigeons had done. Jawbone’s face was covered in cuts and scratches, the blood dripping onto the platform. His hands were torn and bloodied too.

Mrs. Strickham seemed unaffected by the pitiful sight. As she approached, Jawbone pushed himself back against the wall. His eyes widened. He was afraid of her, Caw realized. “You!” said the dog feral. “You’re the one who killed my master!”

“Where’s my daughter?” shouted Mrs. Strickham. “What have you done with her?”

Jawbone’s great brow furrowed as he frowned. “Your what?” he said.

“You know who I’m talking about!” said Mrs. Strickham. As she spoke, three growling foxes approached with menace.

Jawbone’s frown deepened. “I don’t . . . understand. You’re the fox feral. She’s not your daughter.”

“You’ve got the wrong person,” Caw said. “I’m the crow talker.” Glum and Screech came to rest, one on each of his shoulders. “I’m the one you want.”

Jawbone said nothing, but his eyes blazed with helpless rage.

One of the foxes clambered over the dog feral’s chest and brought its muzzle close to his face.

“Last chance,” said Mrs. Strickham. “Where is she?”

Caw felt cold. Was she serious? No matter what horrible things the man had done, Caw couldn’t bear the thought of those foxes hurting him any more.

But before he could say anything, Jawbone lunged to one side, sending the fox sprawling. He got up to run but instantly stumbled and fell. Blindly, he reached out a hand to steady himself, and grasped the only thing he could—the mass of exposed wires inside the open metal box.

There was a loud popping sound, and Jawbone’s twisted mouth opened in a silent scream. His body jerked rigid, the veins on his neck standing up like worms under his skin. Then smoke rose from his eye sockets and he slumped to the ground next to the signal box, head thumping onto the platform.