“They bother you, don’t they,” he said.
“Not the cub. The gray … she doesn’t have anything in her eyes, Bonechewer. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
“Your clan teaches that the Un-Named are witless,” Bonechewer said, a harsh edge to his voice. ”Why should you be upset to find that some of them are?”
“I thought Meoran was wrong …” Ratha faltered. “What I was taught; it was just words. I said them, I learned them; I even questioned them, but I never knew what those words meant. Not until I looked into the gray-coat’s eyes and found nothing there.”
Bonechewer heaved a sigh. “You thought you had caught the truth, didn’t you. Again, you were wrong. Each time you try you will be wrong. The only truth is that the Un-Named are of many kinds. Some are like you and me. Some are like the gray-coat. Some are different from either. You will have to learn not to be bothered by what you see.”
“And I will see more of them?” Ratha asked.
“Yes, you will.”
“Does seeing ones like the gray-coat bother you?”
“It used to,” Bonechewer said. “It doesn’t any more.” He paused. “I learned never to look too deeply into anyone’s eyes.”
“Except mine,” Ratha said boldly, remembering his intense stare that seemed to pierce into her depths.
“True, clan cat,” he admitted, wrinkling his nose. “I do make mistakes sometimes. Is there anything left on that deer?”
Ratha inspected the stripped carcass. The other two had devoured what she and Bonechewer had left of the viscera and the meat. Rain crawled along the bare white ribs and dripped through. The fawn’s head and shanks still bore coarse fur. The rest had been torn off. The only part worth taking was the head. Ratha stared moodily at the carcass. She wanted to get rid of the deer, to forget they had found it.
“Do you want the head?” Bonechewer asked. He came up behind her and nudged her, making her flinch. His touch sent a wave of heat rushing through her body with a violence that made her gasp. The cold rushed in and she shivered hard. Unable to keep still, she began to pace back and forth. “No,” she growled. “There isn’t enough there to risk breaking a tooth cracking it.”
“Then help me drag it back into the lake. I don’t want these bones on my ground.”
Ratha made an angry turn, lost her balance and toppled.
Bonechewer nosed her as she clambered to her feet. “You’re hot.”
“I’ve been running,” she snapped, but inwardly she was alarmed. Had she caught a fever? She felt so hot and wild that she wanted to run up the hill and howl or plunge herself in the lake.
Bonechewer was still nosing her, digging his muzzle into her flank. Her irritation flared. “Stop sniffing at me as if I was a putrid kill!”
He ducked her swipe and backed off. She saw a hungry glow rise in his eyes. Yet he had eaten. What else did he want?
She sat down and scratched herself. Besides being hot, she was itchy. Had she caught some illness? If so, it was a strange one. She had never felt anything quite like this before.
Bonechewer began to tug at the carcass. Grudgingly Ratha joined him and helped him haul the remains through the rushes to the lakeside. Try as she would, she could not help bumping against him and each touch sent another heat shock through her, starting at her middle and rippling out in both directions to her head and tail.
Ratha and Bonechewer reached the shore and threw the carcass in. She watched it sink beneath the gray water until only the faintest glimmer of white bone showed on the bottom.
Her belly was full and she wanted to curl up in the den and sleep. She wanted time to think, to try and make sense of what she had learned. Perhaps, as Bonechewer had said, she would always be wrong. Perhaps there was no sense to be made of it.
Bonechewer brushed against her as he passed. His scent and his closeness drove the questions from her mind. She shook her head, trying to throw off the fuzziness that was creeping over her thoughts. She only made herself dizzy.
Bonechewer, far down the path, lifted his tail and waved the white spot at the end. Ratha lowered her head and trotted after him, leaving only the rain pattering on the lakeshore.
The next morning, Ratha woke, nestled in brittle leaves inside the ancient pine, once hollowed by fire. Age and weather had softened the sharp smell of charred timber. Resin seeped through the cracked wood and mixed its smell with the fragrance of the dry leaves.
Ratha blinked sleepily, rolled over and rested her chin on the bark sill at the entrance. She was still lightheaded, although the sensation wasn’t as unpleasant as it had been. She snuggled into the leaves and watched the winter sun rise. Last night’s fever had fallen, leaving her comfortably warm and lazy.
Something worried at her mind, trying to catch her attention. She sensed that it was important or had been important. Odd that she couldn’t remember what it was. She sighed, feeling the cold wind on her nose in contrast to the snug heat of her body.
Bonechewer lay curled up near her, feeling warm and smelling musky. The sunlight fell on his coat, turning it from shadowed brown to burnished copper. Ratha rolled over next to him and leaned over him, fascinated by the pattern of hair on his chest and foreleg. Each hair was gleaming and haloed; so perfectly placed in the pattern that flowed down his leg until it ended in a whorl on the back of his foot.
His smell hypnotized her; drew her closer. A wild dark scent, tinged with bitterness. A scent powerful enough to send shivers down her spine to the tip of her tail.
Bonechewer stirred as the sun warmed him. Ratha retreated, frightened by the motion and astonished at her feelings. He settled and his scent drew her back. One paw flexed, showing ivory claws, and he yawned, rubbing his cheek in the leaves. One eye opened. The one-eyed golden stare made Ratha feel confused and abashed. She ducked her head.
“Hmm,” he said and yawned until the back of his tongue showed. “You’re feeling better, aren’t you.”
Ratha gave him a puzzled stare.
“You spent half the night trying to push me out of the den. I suppose you don’t remember.”
He rolled over on his back, the motion sending waves of his scent toward Ratha. They rocked her, sweeping over her and through her until she could barely stand. Bonechewer had never smelled quite like this before. Had his odor changed? No. It was her. Her nose, her eyes. Everything was so much stronger, so much more intense that she could scarcely bear it. What was wrong with her?
Bonechewer wiggled on his back, his paws open, his eyes inviting. It was too much. Ratha jumped out of the den and trotted away a short distance. The day was clear and the wind nippy. Overhead, the sky was cloudless and blue. Ratha fluffed her fur and began licking herself, letting the task calm her mind. She began to enjoy it much more than she ever had. The feeling of fur gliding beneath her tongue, the warmth and roughness of her tongue pressing the fur against her skin; all of these sensations kept her licking even though she had groomed herself thoroughly. It felt nice, especially on that itchy place at the base of her tail.
She was suddenly aware that another tongue had joined hers, licking the nape of her neck while she was grooming her belly. She snapped her head up, catching Bonechewer beneath the chin. He shook his head ruefully and backed away, leaving her swimming in his scent. She tucked her tail between her legs and scuttled away. She crouched, watching him from a distance. He cocked his head and grinned at her, then took several steps toward her.
Ratha felt her lips slide back from her teeth.
“Stay away,” she growled.
“All right,” he said good-naturedly. “You’re not ready yet. Are you hungry?”
“Go stalk your own kill,” she snapped. “I can feed myself.” The comfortable lazy feeling was gone. She felt prickly and hot. Bonechewer turned tail and sauntered off.