Three pairs of red eyes filled the darkness. The eyes approached slowly, fearless. The color of the creatures’ mangy fur was mottled brown. They resembled what they fed on.

One by itself would be no problem. And between Mucum and himself, they could, if they were lucky, face down a pair of them. But the stories at work hadn’t yet explained how to survive an attack by three peckish sewer rats, each the size of a fully grown wolfhound. Their teeth, used to dealing with dead pets that got flushed into the system, would have no problem snapping the odd leg bone.

“Jobby Jones got it right for once,” said Mucum.

“How?”

“All that health and safety malarkey about carrying a crossbow every time you go below. Wish I’d listened.”

“Thanks, Mucum. Really helpful.”

The rats sensed their fear, edging forward. Mucum responded by shuffling backward one step at a time, Ark cowering behind him. A slow-motion dance toward certain death.

“You know that fing you did with the ravens? Now would be a good time to pull it off again. What do yer think?” Mucum being polite was not a good sign.

Ark waited for the blinding flash. But whatever he had was gone. The raven mother veering off was dumb luck. He was only a sewer boy, back where he belonged, the slime soaking into his shoulders as he slid along the wall. He wondered briefly about the feather in his bag. There had to be a reason for it. Was there magic hidden within its blackness? At this moment, he doubted it. Maybe he could stab one of them with the quill. He looked again. Rat hide was thicker than bark. Stupid idea.

The rats brought with them a stench that made the boys almost gag, as if the whole sewer system was concentrated into these three scavenging machines. Their intent washed over Ark. It was time for a feast!

“Head for the ladder!” he cried, about to turn tail and run. Rats were renowned for their intelligence, but evolution hadn’t yet taught them to climb a set of vertical iron rungs. He hoped.

“No time!” said Mucum. Any second now, these scabby monsters would pounce. He thought about jumping in the river of squit that flowed past their feet, pulling his scared companion behind him. Maybe not. Rats were born to swim. A bath of Dendran doo-doos was their equivalent of paradise.

“You know, Ratty,” Mucum announced suddenly, stopping still, “I’ve ‘ad enough!” At the sound of his raised voice echoing around the circular walls, the rats paused in their advance.