Crookedkit growled. “Never!” Memories of play fights with Oakpaw flashed in his mind. He pictured Oakpaw’s favorite move and let himself go limp.
The tom’s grip slackened. “You do surrender?”
Crookedkit shot backward, unhooking his pelt from the tom’s claws and wriggling out from behind as fast as a fish. As the tom turned, Crookedkit reared up, claws outstretched. “I’ll shred you!” He stared into the face of a fat ginger tom, nearly as big as Hailstar.
The tom’s whiskers twitched. “Go on then.” He sat back on his haunches and raised his forepaws to reveal a fat white belly.
Crookedkit narrowed his eyes. Was this cat mocking him? I’ll show him! He lunged at the tom’s exposed belly, paws churning. Thick, soft fur filled his nose and caught in clumps beneath his claws until he felt heavy paws push him gently away.
“Give it up, kit.”
Crookedkit paused and shook the fluff from his eyes, then blinked at the tom.
“You’re wasting your time,” the tom purred. “By the time you’ve finished shredding me, we’ll both have missed breakfast.”
“Breakfast?” Crookedkit tilted his head. What’s breakfast? His belly rumbled again.
“Sounds like you need some.” The tom narrowed his eyes. “And it looks like you need some, too.”
Crookedkit growled. Why did everyone have to point out how skinny he was? He dropped into an attack crouch.
“Whoa!” The tom held up a paw. “Let’s not go through that again. You’ve got sharp claws.” He began to pad toward the back of the nest. “What’s your name?” he called over his shoulder.
“Crookedkit.”
“I’m Fleck.” The tom halted and sat down. “What brings you to my barn, Crookedkit?” He stared into the pile of dusty stalks that Crookedkit had been watching. It was still quivering.
“I was on my way to the Moonstone.” Crookedkit padded after the tom, trying to figure out if this cat was an enemy. He wasn’t a Clan cat, that was for sure. “What are you looking at?”
Fleck dropped into a crouch, his tail flicking. “I see breakfast.”
Crookedkit bristled. “Stop! That’s my prey!”
Before he could finish Fleck dived across the floor and landed with his paws outstretched on the small lump that Crookedkit had been eyeing. Deftly, he hooked a mouse out of the stalks and killed it with a nip to the back of the neck. He glanced at Crookedkit. “Here.” He tossed the mouse and it landed with a thud at Crookedkit’s paws.
Even though it wasn’t fish, the warm smell of it made Crookedkit’s mouth water.
“You look like you need it more than me,” Fleck mewed.
Crookedkit stared at the mouse. He was starving. But could he let another cat catch food for him?
“Eat it.” Fleck rummaged deeper into the straw. “There’ll be another one in the straw.”
Straw? Barn? This cat knew some funny words.
Crookedkit sniffed his warm prey, wondering where to begin. “I’ve never eaten mouse before,” he admitted.
Fleck padded over. “Are you a kittypet?”
Crookedkit stiffened. “I’m a warrior!”
“Ah.” Fleck nodded. “That explains the jaw. Got hurt in a fight? I’ve heard warrior cats are always fighting.”
Crookedkit stared at the ginger tom. “No, we’re not! I hurt it falling in the river.”
“Tough river.” Fleck reached farther under the straw. “I had kin with a smashed jaw.” He sneezed. “He fell out of the barn loft.”
“The barn loft?” Crookedkit echoed.
Fleck jerked his muzzle upward. “This place is the barn, and up there is the loft. Long way to fall.”
“Where is he now?”
“Who? Domino?” Fleck stopped rummaging.
Domino? Farm cats had strange names. “The cat who broke his jaw.”
“He’s dead now.”
“Dead?” Crookedkit’s eyes widened. “Because he broke his jaw?”
Fleck sat up. “No,” he mewed quickly. “He died of old age. Last leaf-bare. He looked a bit odd, like you. He learned to eat using one side of his mouth. Hunted that way, too. He was one of the best mousers on the farm.”
Crookedkit quickly scanned the barn. “Are there many mousers here?”
“Just me now,” Fleck told him. “And Mitzi, my littermate. But she’s moved to the cornfield for her kitting.”
“Is that where the nursery is?”
“Nursery?” Fleck stared at him quizzically, then shook his head. “It’s quieter there. No farm monsters.” He nodded toward the mouse at Crookedkit’s paws. “Are you going to eat that?”
Crookedkit felt hot. “Are you going to hunt some more?” He didn’t want to be watched.
“Oh, yes. You’re not the only cat that needs feeding around here.” Fleck turned back to the heap of straw at the edge of the barn.
Crookedkit crouched down and bit into the mouse. It tasted musky and meaty. He screwed up his nose. At least it was food. A small chunk of meat dripped from the side of his mouth where his twisted jaw gaped.
“Tip your head,” Fleck called.
Crookedkit looked up sharply. Was the tom watching him? But Fleck had his tail toward Crookedkit, and his gaze was fixed firmly on the straw. Feeling awkward, Crookedkit tipped his head, cocking it sideways so the mouse meat fell to the straight side of his mouth. Chewing in quick, short nips, he crunched through the mouse, catching stray bits with sharp jerks so that he dropped only a few morsels.
“Got one!” Fleck dropped a second mouse beside Crookedkit. “Do you want another?”
Crookedkit shook his head, swallowing. A few scraps of his mouse littered the floor where he’d dropped them, but his belly was full already. He’d managed to swallow more in one meal than he’d eaten since his accident. And his twisted jaw hardly ached. He purred. “Thanks, Fleck.”
“What for?” Fleck started tucking into his mouse.
“The fresh-kill,” Crookedkit mewed. “And for telling me how to eat it.”
Fleck gazed at Crookedkit, chewing. “I watched Domino eat. I can show you how he hunted, too, if you want. He had a special way of doing the kill-bite. Looked a bit odd but it worked.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got to go home.” Crookedkit began to wash his face. “My Clan will wonder where I’ve gone.”
“Don’t they think you’re at the Mewstone?”
“Moonstone.” Crookedkit licked a paw and wiped it along his jaw.
“Whatever.” Fleck took another bite of mouse and went on, mouth full. “I’m going to catch something for Mitzi when I’ve finished this. She’s stuck in her nest with four kits. And I promised to watch them while she went for water.”
Crookedkit paused from washing. “You sound like a Clan cat.”
“I don’t know about that. But there’s no one else to hunt for her.” Fleck swallowed. “And you can’t let kin starve.”
“Can I help?” Crookedkit suddenly wanted to find a way to thank this cat for his kindness. “I could look after the kits with you.”
Fleck purred. “They’re a pawful,” he warned.
Crookedkit remembered his denmates with a pang. “I can handle kits.”
“Okay.” Fleck swallowed the last of his mouse and sat up. “Let’s hunt first.”
Crookedkit followed the ginger tom behind a pile of straw that was rolled and stacked high as a mountain. Fleck didn’t hesitate as he slid into the gap between the packed straw and the stone wall of the barn. Crookedkit padded after him, tasting the air. The tang of barn prey was familiar now and he smelled something warm as Fleck led him into a space shielded from the rest of the barn.
“They always hide here.” Fleck’s mew dropped to a whisper. Something was moving through the shadow at the bottom of the stone wall. “Can you see it?” he breathed.