She screeched as the fox’s teeth sank into her ear and pain flooded her senses.
Slate pulled back, horrified to feel the tip of her ear tear away. For a couple of heartbeats darkness covered her eyes and her legs wobbled unsteadily.
When her vision cleared, Slate saw Cricket and the fox circling each other, both poised for the next blow. For a brief moment she realized how hungry the fox must be, now that the sickness on the moor had wiped out so much of the prey. It needs food, just like us.
Then she saw the blood pouring from her brother’s shoulder, and any sympathy she might have felt for the fox vanished like dew under hot sunlight. She lunged again, raking her claws down its side, then leaped back out of range as the fox turned toward her, snarling. Cricket dashed up behind it, nipping at its hind paws.
Slate wanted to reach her brother so that they could attack together, but the fox was too wily for that. It kept its body between the two cats, attacking so viciously, so fast, to one side and then the other, that Slate and Cricket couldn’t join up to fight side by side.
It could kill us, Slate realized, cold terror trickling down her spine.
She made one final attempt to dart around the fox, slashing it across the snout with both her forepaws as she lunged. For a heartbeat she thought she had made it past the bigger animal. Then searing pain tore across her belly, and she realized that she had left herself vulnerable to the fox’s powerful claws.
Slate let out a shriek. Her paws slipped on her own blood and she collapsed onto her side.
“Slate!” Cricket screeched, a look of horror on his face.
For a moment he stood frozen, staring, as the fox swung back toward him.
“Cricket!” Slate choked out in warning, afraid that he was too shocked to defend himself.
But Cricket recovered just in time to meet the fox as it sprang toward him. He raised one paw and scratched the fox along the side of its face. The fox yowled in pain as Cricket’s claws sank into its eye. It drew back, stumbling and shaking its head from side to side as blood streamed down its face.
It can’t see out of that eye, Slate thought. I can attack it from that side, slash its throat, and end all this.
But as Slate tried to heave herself to her paws, she realized with horror that she couldn’t move anymore. The blood from the wound in her belly was soaking the grass all around her. Dark mist was creeping up on her from every side.
A screech of rage reached her ears, seeming to come from far, far away. As her vision blurred, she made out a blocky shape—she couldn’t even tell whether it was Cricket or the fox—hurling itself toward the other in a furious attack. Then the mist swirled around her, thicker and thicker, until with a defeated whimper Slate gave herself up to darkness.
Chapter One
Huge green eyes peered into Slate’s and whiskers brushed across her face as she blinked groggily awake. With great effort she managed to raise her head, her torn ear aching with pain.
At her movement, the cat who was bending over her, a thin gray tabby tom, leaped back, startled.
He looked vaguely familiar, but for the moment Slate couldn’t remember where she’d seen him before.
“You’re alive!” he exclaimed, relief in his voice.
Slate barely paid any attention to his words. She had spotted some fur lying in the grass just beyond him: the most familiar fur in the world. The orange tabby fur of her brother, Cricket. Slate closed her eyes, trying to block out the sight of her littermate’s fur strewn in a mess of grass and blood.
“No…” she choked out.
The gray tabby followed her glance, and moved to stand between her and Cricket, fluffing out his fur to block her view. “You friend wasn’t so lucky,” he mewed, his voice soft and regretful. “I was out hunting and found you… and the remains of him,” he added after a moment’s pause. “The fox had gone by then.”
Slate closed her eyes as grief washed over her like a cold wave, sweeping her away to drown in darkness. Cricket gone… it’s not possible. She seemed to live the moment over again when she could have saved him, could have killed the fox or driven it off, if only she could have moved. I failed my brother. It’s my fault he’s dead.
The touch of a paw on her forehead roused Slate. She opened her eyes to see the tabby tom bending over her again, concern in his green eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he meowed, “and to be honest, you don’t look too good, either. You’ve lost a lot of blood. I know a cat who can help, but you need to stay alive while I go to fetch him. Okay?” He blinked encouragingly. “Promise?”
Slate forced herself to nod in response, but she had no interest in staying alive. What can the world possibly have to offer me now?
“I don’t mean to offend you,” the gray tabby mewed, “but that wasn’t much of a nod. I’m not sure I believe you.” He thought for a moment, then went on. “Right, new plan. I’ll send my mate and kits to keep an eye on you while I get help. They will make sure that no dangerous animals come near, too.
Okay?”
This time he didn’t wait for Slate to respond, just bounded off across the moor.
Slate knew the tom was being kind, but she wished he would just leave her alone. What did it matter if she died? She could join Cricket, then. She closed her eyes again, inviting the blackness to take her, sinking into it with a sigh of relief as her senses whirled away.
But Slate could not stay in the comforting darkness for long. She was roused by the sensation of being prodded all over by tiny paws. Forcing her eyes open, she saw two bright-eyed kits staring at her: a white she-cat and a gray tom.
“She’s dead,” the white kit mewed, sounding disappointed.
“She’s not,” the little gray tom retorted. “See, she’s looking at you.”
The white kit let out a gasp of excitement. “Her eyes are open!” Taking a step forward, she peered more closely at Slate and added, “Hello. Do you want to be friends?”
“Get away from her!” A sharp voice sounded in the distance; Slate couldn’t see the cat it was coming from. “We don’t know what kind of diseases that rogue might have.”
Instantly the kits backed away and were replaced by a wiry brown she-cat; like the tom, she looked vaguely familiar to Slate. She halted several tail-lengths away and looked Slate up and down, her yellow eyes unimpressed.
Slate flexed her claws in annoyance at the she-cat’s rudeness. I don’t know why I should care.
All I want is to die in peace… but I’d like to claw that sneering look off her face. She was offended, too, that the she-cat had called her a rogue.
Now I remember who these cats are, she thought. They’re part of the group Cricket was always complaining about. Cricket had been outraged by the way these cats had appeared on the moor and settled down there and in the nearby forest, making it harder for the local cats to find prey. And they’d called the cats who had always lived here rogues.
“They want to fight all the time,” Cricket had said scornfully. “They’re violent prey-stealers, and I don’t want anything to do with them.”
Slate raised her head and glared back at the brown she-cat. “Hello,” she meowed pointedly. “I can hear you, you know.”
The she-cat narrowed her eyes. “So you’re alive,” she snorted, not sounding happy about it. “You don’t have the sickness, do you?”