The White Widow's Revenge

by Jacob Grey

  “Are you in there?” said Lydia, crouching to look into his eyes.

  Caw bobbed his head up and down in answer.

  “That’s so cool,” said Lydia.

  Caw flexed his wings and hopped up to peer over the edge of the vent. Below lay a black abyss – even with his enhanced crow vision – curving downwards.

  Good luck, said Glum.

  I’m coming with you, said Shimmer. Her talons rattled on the steel alongside him.

  Caw stepped forwards and felt his claws skid for purchase. He tumbled into darkness.

  He flapped his wings in panic, but there wasn’t any room to extend them as he fell. He heard Shimmer cry out and felt her body buffeting against his. They crashed down on to more metal. Shimmer landed beside him in a tangle as dust filled his beak.

  You OK? Shimmer asked.

  I think so, replied Caw.

  He turned in the gloom, and saw a dim light to his left. He skittered down the shaft towards it. Three slats crossed the opening, but by flattening his wings he popped through to the other side. Caw was in a narrow stairwell with bare walls of patchy plaster. He guessed it was there to give access to the roof, for repairs. Shimmer flapped through too, scattering a loose feather. She was covered in dust and cobwebs.

  Up there, said Caw.

  At the top of the steps, a vertical ladder led to the underside of the metal hatch they’d seen on the rooftop. On this side, a simple rusty bolt was drawn across. He and Shimmer flew up. Caw twisted his head and took the bolt in his beak. He strained his neck and managed to shift it a fraction.

  Help out, will you? he said.

  Shimmer joined him, fastening her beak on the bolt as well. Together they succeeded in moving it across.

  Lydia, it’s open! Caw shouted, forgetting for a moment that he was talking in crow.

  But his friend must have heard the sound of the bolt shifting. The hatch swung open from above, and she grinned down. “Nice work, guys!”

  Caw flew out on to the roof, and landed next to his motionless human form. He concentrated hard on letting his aura split from Screech’s and wobbled slightly as he reassumed his normal body.

  Screech blinked then pecked him on the ear lightly. You got me all dirty.

  “Sorry,” said Caw. “And thank you.”

  Lydia started to climb down the ladder into the service stairwell. Caw followed her, instructing all the crows to stay on the roof apart from Glum, Screech and Shimmer.

  At the bottom they came to a plain metal door. Caw turned the handle slowly and opened it up a crack. The corridor on the other side took him by surprise.

  The exterior of the hospital may have looked ancient, but the inside was definitely brand-new. The corridor was painted pristine white, with glass doors set into the sides every ten paces or so, each with a number above. Caw pushed open the door, checking both ways, and saw a security camera high up on the wall. It was scanning slowly across the corridor then reached its limit and began to turn back towards them. He quickly closed the door.

  “There’s a camera,” he said to Lydia. “We’ll have to time it exactly right.”

  Caw waited a few seconds, then peered out again. The camera was facing away. He beckoned to Lydia and they left the stairwell and crept along the corridor.

  As they reached the first door – number thirty-four – he sucked in a breath. A skeletal man stood perfectly still behind it, dressed in a beige hospital gown, eyeing them with pale blue eyes. He didn’t flinch or blink, even when the crows came into view. Behind him was a simple room with a perfectly made bed. A table contained a tray with an empty, clean plate.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” said Lydia.

  The next door revealed a similar room, but in this one the bed was occupied by a tiny figure curled under the sheets. The food on the bedside table was untouched.

  “Poor people,” said Caw.

  He glanced back and saw that the camera would soon be on them.

  The final cell was dimly lit, but Caw could make out someone moving inside. There was no noise at all – he guessed the glass was soundproofed. He hurried past.

  The corridor approached a T-junction and Caw pulled Lydia into it, just as the camera swung round to face them. Lydia ducked, tugging him down too. She pointed to a glass-walled office just beyond them with a bank of monitors inside. A woman in uniform was eating a sandwich in front of the screens, with her back to Caw and Lydia. On the wall beside her were several plastic cards hanging from pegs.

  “We need to find Cynthia Davenport’s room,” said Caw.

  “And I bet those are the key cards,” said Lydia, pointing at the office.

  Shimmer hopped on to his foot. My turn, she insisted.

  It’s too dangerous, said Screech. That security guard will see you.

  I’m not going in there, sparrow-brain! Shimmer said. I’ve got a better plan. She took off, flying low through the corridor.

  “Where’s she gone?” whispered Lydia.

  “I have no idea,” said Caw.

  Sparrow-brain? Screech muttered.

  Not a compliment, lad, chortled Glum. I once met a sparrow who was scared of rain.

  One of the monitors in the office began to blink, and the footage became shaky. The security guard reached up to the bottom of the screen. She turned a dial, but nothing happened. The image flickered again.

  The guard stood up, unclipped a holster at her belt, and walked towards the door, speaking into a walkie-talkie on her lapel.

  “I’ve got a camera fault in D Block,” she said, then paused. “Nah, it’s probably just these old electrics. Looking into it.”

  She left the office.

  Good old Shimmer, Caw thought. “Back soon,” he said to the others. He tiptoed quickly into the office.

  The key cards were numbered and named, and Caw scanned them as quickly as he could. His reading had come along a lot in the last few months, but he knew he wasn’t as fast as Lydia would be. Then he saw it: CYNTHIA DAVENPORT. NUMBER EIGHT. He grabbed the key card off the peg. Hopefully the guard wouldn’t notice it was missing when she returned.

  Then he spotted a cable leading from the back of the monitors to a plug socket. It gave him an idea.

  He took a half-drunk coffee mug and sloshed the contents over the plug. With a fizz and a pop, all of the screens blacked out at once. That should buy us a few more minutes.

  By the time he got back to Lydia, Shimmer had returned.

  “Got it!” said Caw, showing them the card. “We need to find cell eight.”

  Expecting an alarm to sound or another guard to cross their path at any moment, they hurried along the corridors, turning corners until Caw lost his bearings. The numbers were counting down, and soon they reached number twelve, then eleven, then ten. Caw slowed his steps. These cells were empty.

  Number nine was vacant too.

  Caw felt his neck prickling. He reached instinctively for the Crow’s Beak under his jacket, and Lydia looked alarmed.

  “What are you going to do?” she said.

  “It’s just for protection,” Caw said. “If anything happens, run. OK?”

  Lydia raised her eyebrows.

  “I mean it,” said Caw.

  The cell marked EIGHT was dark inside, but he could make out a woman hunched at the end of the bed. If she had seen them, she didn’t show it.

  Caw lifted the key card towards the sensor then paused, his heart racing. The last time they had fought, the Mother of Flies had created a swarm of her creatures, a solid giant of insect flesh. She had almost crushed him in a fist made of flies. If this was a trap, then opening the door in front of him might be the last thing he ever did.

  Lydia pressed a switch beside the sensor. Inside room eight, the light blinked on.

  The figure on the bed shielded her eyes, shuffling backwards. Cynthia Davenport seemed to have aged ten years in the last two weeks. Her hair was grey and messy, her pasty skin covered in blotches. Her once cruel eyes gazed at her visito
rs with a vacant stare from hollow, dark sockets. It was hard to tell from her hunched posture, but Caw even thought she had shrunk a little. Dried white spittle lurked at the corners of her mouth, and her hospital tunic was covered in food stains. There was no sign of any flies.

  Caw looked at Lydia, who stared back sadly.

  The crow talker searched Cynthia Davenport’s vacant eyes, looking for some hint of the Mother of Flies.

  “What now?” said Lydia.

  Caw breathed deeply. He had to find out what had happened to Selina.

  “Stay back,” he muttered to Lydia. Then he held the key card against the sensor. The red light flashed green and the door slid open.

  The patient in room eight didn’t move.

  “Hello?” said Caw, his heart beating so hard he thought he could hear it. “Commissioner Davenport? It’s me, Jack Carmichael.”

  The patient blinked once. “Fly, fly away,” she muttered in a weird sing-song voice, her head jerking. “Fly to the sky for his webs reach high. Spiders can’t fly, but their spirits don’t die.”

  Caw frowned. “We need to talk to you,” he said.

  Cynthia Davenport continued mumbling as if he hadn’t spoken. “I spy his eight legs dancing nigh. You can try, you can try. But a crow can’t fly from his spider eye.”

  Her lips barely moved, but the strange chant made Caw shudder. He had been wrong after all. There was no way this woman could have kidnapped her daughter.

  He took a step closer, and she shrank away, pressing herself against the wall.

  “Please, we won’t hurt you,” said Lydia, entering behind Caw. “We just want to know about Selina. She’s gone missing. Have you seen her?”

  Cynthia’s head whipped round at the sound of her daughter’s name. Her eyes gleamed manically. “Oh, yes, she’s here,” she said. “She’s always here with me.”

  Caw’s pulse quickened. He lifted the point of his sword. “What have you done with her?”

  Cynthia reached out a hand in front of her, lightly pushing the point of the Crow’s Beak aside. Her nails were filthy, but she moved her fingers up and down as if she was stroking something tenderly.

  “My girl is here,” she said. “My pretty girl. Come to Mummy, darling. Let’s go to the old well and draw the water together … Yes, we can pick flowers, sweetheart. All the flowers you want … No, no spiders there, petal. Just flowers and water so clear you can see the past and future in its depths.”

  Lydia touched Caw’s shoulder. She shook her head.

  Caw lowered the blade. And as Cynthia Davenport continued to stare at the empty space where she could see an imaginary girl, the tension left Caw’s body. In its place, a dull sadness throbbed. He wasn’t looking at an evil feral any longer, just a broken mother longing for the daughter she had lost.

  Screech gave a sudden warning squawk.

  Caw spun round, expecting to see a guard.

  Then Lydia cried out in alarm as a hairy shape leapt through the air and hit Caw in the chest.

  He felt something sharp scratching his forearm. “Ow!”

  Caw dropped the Crow’s Beak, staggering in pain as a small pale-furred monkey leapt off his arm. It bared its needle-like teeth and Cynthia Davenport began to wail as the monkey hopped around the room. Three more appeared, their horrible shrieks filling the air.

  The crows flapped wildly, but soon both Screech and Shimmer were held in monkey paws, trapped on the ground. Glum tried to stay airborne, but the remaining two primates knocked him down and held him to the floor.

  Get off me, you stinking furball! said Screech.

  Caw started towards the Crow’s Beak, but backed away sharply as a panther stalked into view in the doorway, followed by the hulking form of Lugmann.

  A scrawny young woman with her hair in ratty strands stood behind him. The monkey that had bitten Caw leapt on to her shoulder, hissing.

  The panther snarled and Lydia pressed up against Caw, her face pale.

  Last of all, Mr Silk sauntered into cell eight. The moth feral’s lips twisted in a cold smile.

  “What a pleasure to see y’all here,” he said.

  aw took a deep breath as he fought to understand what was happening. Our enemies, right here.

  “It was a trap,” he said quietly.

  Mr Silk tipped his hat. “A trap you fell for – hook, line and sinker.”

  Caw glanced at Cynthia Davenport, expecting her to drop the act. But there was no triumphant smile. She looked bewildered. Afraid, even.

  Whatever was going on, the Mother of Flies wasn’t part of it.

  Caw closed his eyes and tried to summon more crows. If they could get through the hatch on the roof …

  “Don’t bother,” said Mr Silk. “We locked the door at the bottom of the stairwell. No one’s coming to help you. We dealt with the guards too.”

  “But the flies at the hospital …” said Lydia.

  The skinny ratty-haired woman sniggered, revealing gappy, rotten teeth. She drew out a matchbox from her pocket. Pushing it open, she tipped half a dozen dead flies on to the floor.

  Cynthia scrambled off the bed, falling to her knees. “My darlings! My creatures!” she cried, scooping up the dry husks in her palm. “Oh, my sweet children, what have they done to you?” Her eyes streamed with tears.

  Caw didn’t understand. Why would they bother planting dead flies in Selina’s hospital room? And why hadn’t Mr Silk attacked him at Blackstone Hospital in the first place? There was no reason to bring them out here to the asylum. Was there?

  Mr Silk lifted his chin and looked down his nose at his former boss, cowering on the floor over her beloved flies. “What a pathetic sight,” he said. “To think I was once afraid of you.”

  With a twitch of his hand, moths burst from his cuff and flew at Cynthia’s face. She squealed and flapped as moths drove her back until she was pressed against the wall beside Caw and Lydia. As quickly as they had appeared, the moths rustled back to Mr Silk and vanished inside his cream jacket.

  In the midst of Caw’s whirling thoughts, a question crystallised. If it wasn’t the Mother of Flies leading the convicts, who was?

  He glanced down at Crow’s Beak, which lay on the ground beside the bed. Lugmann or the panther would get to him before he could do much damage, but it might give Lydia time to escape.

  “Before you do anything rash,” said Mr Silk, “we’re here to deliver a message.”

  Caw glared at Mr Silk.

  “An old friend is back,” said Mr Silk. “He wants you to know that—”

  “Enough of this,” said Lugmann suddenly, shoving Mr Silk out of the way. “I want my fun.” He snatched up the Crow’s Beak. “Gutted with his own blade,” snarled the convict, his savage gaze fixed on Caw. “How fitting.”

  Caw’s crows squawked desperately, but they couldn’t help him.

  “I’d hold back if I were you,” said Mr Silk. His head twitched towards the door, and then Caw heard it too.

  Something was coming. Something rustling along the corridor.

  An unexpected look passed over Lugmann’s face – of sheer terror.

  The monkey feral backed out of the door. Her creatures released the crows and sprang after her. “I told you to do what he said,” she snapped. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Lugmann tossed the blade on the bed and ran from the room, followed by the panther.

  Mr Silk touched the brim of his hat. “Looks like he’ll be delivering the message himself, after all,” he said. “Good day.” He ambled backwards from the room then strode out of sight.

  The rustling grew louder, sounding like a distant waterfall. Caw grabbed the Crow’s Beak and stepped into the corridor with Lydia and his crows.

  Cynthia remained, crouched beside the dead flies. She looked up, her face racked with despair.

  “He’s here,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Run, children. Run!”

  Then Caw saw a great mass of black spill round the corner of the corridor, and it was like his nigh
tmare come to life.

  Spiders – thousands of them.

  But how could it be him? thought Caw, backing away down the corridor.

  “We killed the Spinning Man,” Lydia whispered, echoing Caw’s thoughts. “Didn’t we?”

  We have to get out of here, said Screech, hopping from talon to talon.

  Caw was about to run when he realised he’d left the cell door open. He lunged back towards it.

  Caw, no! said Shimmer.

  “I can’t let them get to her!” he said.

  As he swiped the key card over the sensor, he got a final glimpse of Cynthia Davenport, cradling the dead flies in her hands. The airtight door closed, just as the first spiders crashed against Caw’s feet. He shook them off and ran after Lydia, the crows flying ahead.

  As they rounded the corner, Caw saw a guard sprawled on the ground, his neck broken. Lugmann’s work. Caw couldn’t remember which way they’d come, but with the spiders on their heels there was no going back. Lydia gasped as the arachnids swarmed across the floor, covering the guard’s body.

  At the next junction, the crows turned left.

  This way, said Glum.

  Caw followed, but then skidded to a halt as more spiders swept towards them from up ahead. He grabbed Lydia’s arm and tugged her back in the opposite direction.

  The groups of spiders coalesced and scurried after them.

  As they ran, Caw’s mind throbbed with a question. How can he be alive?

  Caw sensed they were heading deeper into the asylum. At any moment he expected to see the spider feral himself, like a monster from his nightmares. They turned several corners – left, right, right again – then more spiders blocked the way. Caw slowed his steps.

  “He’s toying with us,” he said.

  The crows flapped, struggling to stay aloft in the confined space. Glum landed beside Caw. Sending them to attack would be pointless.

  “Leave us,” said Caw. “Get out.”

  No way, said Screech.

  Two huge masses of spiders began to approach slowly from either side. Lydia clutched his arm. “Caw?” she said, as if willing him to do something.

  Caw backed up to the wall and realised they were against a door – a wooden one, with a handle. Unable to believe their luck, he tried it. His hope flared as it opened.