Darkwing by Kenneth Oppel

Dusk swallowed.
    “And remember what Mom said. Behave like the colony, or risk being shunned by the colony.”
    “You can’t tell anyone about this,” Dusk said urgently. “Promise me, Sylph.”
    “Don’t worry,” she said kindly. “I promise. I’ll keep your secret.”
    Carnassial prowled the forest.
    After his first kill, he’d been overtaken with a shame almost as overwhelming as the pain that had twisted his guts. On the bank of the stream he’d vomited up part of his feed, and then returned to the prowl, promising himself he would never do such a thing again. Patriofelis was right: it was barbaric.
    But a day passed, then another, and the memory of that warm paramys flesh never left him. It lingered in his mouth, tingled his salivary glands. The surfaces of his teeth could not forget the ecstasy of tearing. His mind became a weary battlefield, his thoughts clashing again and again until he was exhausted.
    It was unnatural; it was natural.
    He could not do it again; he
would
do it again.
    Even in his sleep, he was tormented by visions of hunting, which brought equal measures of remorse and elation.
    Now night was falling and he was deep in the forest, his pupils dilated. In his head echoed two words.
    I must.
    He was far from the other felids; but he had to be certain there were no other beasts watching.
    He barred his mind to all other thoughts and doubts.
    He ground his teeth; his nostrils flared. There.
    A small groundling rooted near the base of a tree. Carnassial approached stealthily from behind. It was not a he or a she. It was an it. It was neither son nor daughter, father nor mother. It was prey. It was his to devour.
    A twig snapped under his paw, and the rooter looked over his shoulder and saw him. Their eyes locked. At first the rooter’s squat body registered no alarm. It was common to see felids in the forest, and all manner of beasts crossed paths peaceably. But this time, the rooter must have sensed something other than simple indifference in Carnassial.
    Carnassial saw it tense, ready to flee.
    “No!” it squealed.
    Carnassial ran forward, then sprang. It was an ugly fight. The rooter thrashed with all its strength, scratching and biting, twice wrenching itself free from Carnassial’s jaws and trying to drag itself away on wounded legs. But each time Carnassial seized it again, clamping its throat tighter. The kill took much longer than Carnassial had expected. It was a sweaty, dirty, loud business. When the rooter’s body was finally limp, Carnassial was worried their noise must have been heard.
    Panting, he hauled the carcass into the thick cover of some tea bushes. His breath came in ragged little bursts. He listened for a moment, but heard nothing nearby. And then he could wait no longer. His blood pounded through him and he was almost whimpering with need. He pushed the rooter’s face down, so that he would not have to look at its dead eyes, and tore into the soft flesh of its belly. He knew he would have to feed quickly, for the rich, intoxicating smell of the guts would spread through the forest quick as a breeze.
    He ate like a creature who’d starved for days, heedless of everything else.
    When he lifted his head for breath, Panthera was watching him from the other side of the bushes, not five feet away. “What have you done?” she whispered.
    Her nose quivered with the smell; her whiskers twitched in agitation and her ears pricked high. Her astonishment made him realize how he must look, his face a mess of clotted blood, strings of flesh snared between his teeth. “We are meant to do this,” he said quietly. “Try some.”
    She took a step back.
    “Panthera,” he said, wounded by the fear and revulsion glimmering in her eyes. “This is the way of the future. This is how we will rule.”
    She turned and ran.

CHAPTER 7
W AY OF THE F UTURE
    Waking early, Dusk’s muscles hurt so much he wondered if he really was meant to fly. When he breathed in, his chest throbbed hotly