Leaf’s nose was twitching. “Perhaps we should hunt before we sleep.”
Thunder looked around at the cats huddled together in the shelter of the bracken. “No cat is hunting or guarding,” he told them. “There’s no scent of fox or other cats. We can sleep safely until morning, and then we can hunt.”
Murmurs of agreement stirred around him in the darkness.
One by one, his campmates closed their eyes.
Thunder gazed across the clearing, grateful they’d found shelter for the night. Beside him, Lightning Tail’s breath softened into sleep. Thistle and Clover stopped fidgeting beside Milkweed.
Leaf’s eyes closed, and Cloud Spots began to snore gently.
These were his cats now. Anxiety jabbed in his belly. How can I protect them all?
Thunder gazed at the tall oak, squinting against the sunshine spearing through its branches. He could see a wide gap far up the trunk.
Owl hole?
He climbed over the roots, satisfied when he saw a pellet of bones and fur lying among them. An owl definitely lived here. Prey must be rich in this part of the forest. He padded across the shaded stretch of ground and headed down the slope beyond. It felt good to be hunting alone, away from the responsibilities of the camp. If we hunt together, then we will be less tempted to keep our catch to ourselves. Clear Sky’s words rang in his head. How could his father believe he would eat before the cats in his camp had full bellies?
In the days that had passed since they’d discovered the ravine, they had made more nests among the bracken. The frost that had first come on the night they’d arrived had returned again and again. But sunshine pooled in the small, sheltered spot and warmed the camp by day. It had seemed foolish to look for another home. Milkweed had begun weaving brambles into a den for her kits in case snow came. She had also hunted, bringing back as much prey as Leaf. Her eyes flashed with satisfaction each time she dropped her catch among the other pieces of fresh-kill.
Pink Eyes had watched the kits while she’d been gone. Thunder was pleased to see how at ease the old tom was in his new home. He could hardly believe that this was the same cat who’d snapped at Birch and Alder for playing with his tail. Now, he would lie patiently in the sun-warmed clearing while Thistle and Clover clambered over him or played moss-ball nearby. From time to time he’d venture out of the ravine, hunting with Owl Eyes or helping Cloud Spots collect herbs. His delicate sense of smell could detect fragrant leaves so well hidden that they were unharmed by the frosts.
Yet the hunting wasn’t easy. The sickness had clearly reached this deep into the forest. Prey was as scarce as it had been in Clear Sky’s territory, and with kits to feed, finding enough each day was a challenge.
Worry itched beneath Thunder’s pelt as he padded down the slope. Had Clear Sky been right about hunting the forest dry before newleaf? What if the prey ran out? He pricked his ears. Water chattered ahead. He could see the river glittering between the trees. He licked his lips, suddenly realizing how thirsty he was, and headed for the bank. The river was sluggish here at the boundary of River Ripple’s marshland, lapping the edge of the forest.
As he neared, movement caught his eye. He froze. A sparrow was hopping among the roots of a rowan, digging its beak deep into the leaf litter to rummage for bugs.
Thunder dropped into a hunting crouch and pulled himself forward, paw by paw. He lifted his tail to make sure it didn’t drag over the rustling leaves.
The sparrow lifted its head and gulped down a morsel.
Thunder paused, waiting until it plunged its beak back among the leaves.
He narrowed his eyes. The sparrow was only a few tail-lengths away. Could he risk leaping from here? No need. It seemed busy with its hunt for food. He drew himself forward a few more paw steps, his heartbeat quickening as the sparrow looked up and shook out its feathers. It hopped onto a root and glanced at the branches above.
It’s going to fly away!
As the sparrow spread its small wings, Thunder leaped, stretching high to bat the small, brown bird down before it could flutter into the air.
The sparrow fell to the ground. Thunder lunged, killing it with a quick bite. It was thin, but it would feed the kits. He carried it to the river and laid it down on the sandy shore before he bent to drink.
Leaves rustled behind him.
More prey?
He turned, water dripping from his chin.
Two amber eyes watched from the woods.
Blinking against the sunshine, Thunder unsheathed his claws. He smelled tom. Tasting the air, he detected the odd scent of frost and stone. This cat wasn’t from around here. He narrowed his eyes, glimpsing the dark shape of a black cat, and growled as the stranger’s gaze flicked toward the sparrow. “Catch your own prey,” he warned.
“That was my prey.” The tom padded forward, his paws clumsily scuffing the sandy earth as he stepped from the trees.
Thunder’s pelt pricked. “What do you mean?”
“I was stalking it when you caught it.”
Unease flashed through Thunder. He hadn’t even realized he was being watched. He needed to be more careful on this new territory.
But the tom did not seem angry. Thunder suddenly saw how his pelt hung off his skinny frame, and how his shoulders jutted like twigs beneath his fur. He recognized the look of hunger hollowing the cat’s eyes and glanced guiltily at the sparrow. “I didn’t realize.” Should he give up his catch? What about Thistle and Clover? They were hungry too. “Where are you from?” Thunder tipped his head.
Was this cat from Twolegplace?
“We come from far away.” The tom stared boldly now at the sparrow as it lay on the bank, hope sparking in his dull gaze.
We? Thunder scanned the forest edging the river, shifting his paws uneasily. Were there more cats watching him?
“We come from the mountains,” the tom went on.
Interest sparked in Thunder’s belly. When he was a kit, Gray Wing had told him stories of the journey he and some of the others had made from the mountains. From what Thunder could remember, it had been a long, dangerous trek. No wonder this cat looked so worn out. “How many of you are there?” he asked.
“I’ll show you.” The tom headed back into the shadow of the trees.
Thunder hesitated. Was this a trap? He could see the tom’s pelt moving like a shadow between the trunks. No. They could have attacked him on the bank and taken his catch.
He picked up the sparrow and followed.
Beneath the trees once more, it took a moment for his eyes to readjust to the gloom. He halted and scanned the forest. The black tom was climbing over a fallen trunk, heading for a glade near the owl’s tree.
Thunder hurried after him, leaping the trunk and weaving his way past the stumps of shriveled ferns. The tom was already climbing the far side of the glade. He stopped beside a long-dead beech tree. A split in the trunk showed a hollow inside. The tom whispered something into the shadows; as Thunder approached, he saw two blue eyes blinking in the darkness, and smelled the scent of a she-cat. She carried the same tang of frost and stone as her companion.
“Who’s this?” The she-cat glared from her nest in the hollow trunk.
The tom dipped his head. “I don’t know. I found him drinking by the river.”
“Does he know them? Has he seen where they—” The she-cat began to cough, her frail body shuddering with each desperate hack.
The tom leaned down and began to lap her flank, trying to soothe her.
Thunder smelled the stench of infection and crept closer.