Fierce jumped down. “Let’s take these scraps back to Cinnamon.”
They’d left Cinnamon guarding their first haul—a collection of scraps they’d fished out of a scrapcan nearer the gathering place. Tigerheart had suggested a moon ago that the guardian patrols stash the scraps they’d gathered before taking them home. It was an old warrior trick that freed up their paws for more scavenging. But the city was full of cats and foxes, and they’d often return to find that their stash had been raided. It had been Cinnamon’s idea to post a guard. Tigerheart had been pleased that one of the guardian cats had begun to think like a warrior.
He hurried back toward Cinnamon. The strange meat he’d scavenged dangled from his jaws and smeared grease on his chin. As he ducked from the alley and followed the street that led to their stash place, pigeons fluttered between the dens above him. If only he could reach one. Why hadn’t the guardian cats come up with a plan to catch them? There must be some place in the city where the clumsy birds settled within reach. Hadn’t the guardian cats worked out where it was?
As he turned in to the narrow alley between dens where they’d left Cinnamon, his fur bristled. Four strays surrounded her. They’d backed her against the wall where her stash was piled. Cinnamon spat at them, back arched and fur bushed. One of the strays reached for a scrap trailing from the pile behind her. Cinnamon lashed out with a hiss. The tom backed away, snarling. Fur sparking with alarm, Tigerheart dropped the meat he’d been carrying and leaped in front of Cinnamon.
He faced the strays and growled at them menacingly. “This is our stash,” he snarled. “Go find your own.”
As he spoke, Fierce padded into the alley. Cobweb and Mittens watched, wide-eyed, from the end. Tigerheart beckoned them closer. He might need backup. The strays were standing their ground. Greed shone in their eyes.
One of them—a lithe gray she-cat—narrowed her bright blue gaze. “Your friend wanted to share,” she told Tigerheart.
“No, she didn’t,” Tigerheart snapped.
The gray cat glanced around at the guardian cats, food dangling from their jaws, then nodded to the scraps piled behind Cinnamon. “There’s enough to share.”
Tigerheart growled. “We have other mouths to feed.”
“We might have other mouths to feed too.” The gray she-cat tipped her head.
“That doesn’t mean you can take our catch.” Tigerheart glanced at Fierce. Was she going to speak up?
“Why shouldn’t we?” the gray cat meowed.
“You didn’t catch it,” Tigerheart growled.
“Nor did you.” The she-cat glanced dismissively at the scraps. “You found it. Now we’re finding it too.”
Shame scorched beneath Tigerheart’s pelt. She was right. They’d picked these scraps out of cans. I’m fighting over crow-food! And yet this crow-food would feed the cats waiting at the gathering place. It will feed my kits. He lifted his chin. Even if it wasn’t prey, it would keep them from starving. A new, protective anger surged in his chest. It belongs to us! Did this cat have no sense of honor at all? He looked around at the guardian cats, who were watching uneasily. “You’re trying to steal from my friend,” he hissed slowly.
“Steal!” The gray cat lifted her chin. “No cat owns anything until it’s safely in her belly. Here it’s every cat for herself. You’re obviously not city-born, or you’d know that.”
“I’m glad I’m not city-born.” But my kits are. Tigerheart pushed the thought away. “I was born in a place where we feed our Clan before we feed ourselves.”
The gray cat shrugged. “But you’d let us go hungry?”
Tigerheart blinked. How was she making him out to be the bad cat? “You’re not my Clanmate. Besides, there are plenty of scrapcans in the city. You won’t go hungry.”
“‘Plenty of scrapcans,’” the she-cat mimicked. “But only if we can get to them before the foxes.”
“Foxes only come out at night, when the Twolegs have gone,” Tigerheart pointed out.
“What do you know, outsider?” For the first time, the she-cat’s eyes rounded, betraying unease. Pelt ruffled, she nodded to her companions. “Come on. Let’s try somewhere else.” She shot Tigerheart a look. “Don’t get too comfortable. You don’t belong here. I can still smell the grass on your paws.” Turning her tail on him, she padded away down the alley. The others followed, glancing reproachfully over their shoulders.
“Well done.” Fierce blinked at Tigerheart warmly.
“You saved us a fight.” Cinnamon looked relieved.
For now. Tigerheart watched the city cats disappear around the corner. Don’t get too comfortable. The gray cat’s parting threat made him feel this confrontation might just be the beginning.
Back at the gathering-place den, the guardian cats clustered around the patrol as they dropped the scraps they’d collected. Tigerheart eased himself away from the crowd and glanced toward his nest. He was relieved to see that Dovewing and the kits were sleeping.
“Those smell like good scraps.”
Spire’s mew took him by surprise.
The skinny black tom was sitting in the shadow of a wooden ledge, watching Blaze scramble for food with the others. Tigerheart had avoided Spire as much as possible since the strange healer cat had told him Shadowkit would be able to see into the shadows. He hadn’t told Dovewing of Spire’s prediction, even after she’d named the tom-kit. “Shadowkit, in honor of your Clan,” she had explained. How could he have argued with her? The coincidence had unnerved him, though, and he’d kept clear of Spire in case the tom announced any more alarming visions.
Now Spire watched the guardian cats with a clear, even gaze. “How are your kits?”
“Fine,” Tigerheart answered quickly. “I was thinking of catching some real food for them.”
“Food is food,” Spire mewed casually.
“Scraps aren’t warrior food.” They’re crow-food. Tigerheart didn’t meet the healer’s gaze. “Warriors eat fresh-kill.”
“And your kits will be warriors.” The healer’s tone was matter-of-fact.
Tigerheart felt Spire’s gaze burning into his pelt. Unable to resist, he turned to meet it. Did this strange cat know for sure that his kits would be warriors? Or am I just taking him seriously because he’s saying something I want to hear?
He gave the tom a questioning look.
“What else could they be with Dovewing and you as their parents?” Spire got to his paws and padded toward Blaze.
Blaze met him, greasy scraps hanging from his mouth. The young tom’s eyes shone brightly as he dropped them at Spire’s paws. “Look what I got for us!”
Tigerheart looked up at the den entrance. Determination hardened his belly. He would catch fresh-kill for his kits. Was there time before they woke? Quickly he leaped onto the wooden ledge and up through the gap in the wall.
Outside, pigeons fluttered around the great spike sticking up from the thorn den. Hope pricked in Tigerheart’s paws as one swooped low, but a passing monster sent it rushing upward once more, and his heart sank as it nestled beside its companions on the roof.
Pelt itching with frustration, he stalked between the stone slabs. The frost on the grass had melted, and icy water seeped into his paws. This grassy stretch around the gathering den was the only green he’d seen since arriving in the city. His heart ached for the crunch of pine needles beneath his paws. He longed for the scent of sap and the familiar smells of home. Had Rowanstar chased the shadows away yet? Was ShadowClan back to normal? Was it safe for him to return without blocking the sun? Even if it was, he knew the kits were too young for such a journey.