finished playing with him. Then, oddly, an unbidden thought came to him. Looking in Datura’s direction, but speaking to the room at large, he said, “I feel sorry for you.” The whiskers stilled, and then they crackled all around him in outrage.
“He feels
sorry
for us?” said Aconite, the grey’s voice incredulous.
“Let me rend him limb from limb,” said Ratsbane. “Let me break each of his paws, slowly, so that he cries the way that straydid, and then let us tear out his whiskers and his tongue, Datura. I want to feel his bones snap between my teeth.”
The white cat barely flickered an ear, but the room fell silent, and even Ratsbane didn’t venture further towards Southpaw.
“You interest me, meat,” said Datura. “You smell of blood and fear, and you will soon stink of pain and regret, before we take pity on you and end your foolish life. You are alone, and we are many; your friends have deserted you. And yet you feel sorry for us? In the few seconds left to you before you join the rats and the mice whose bodies litter the floor, as you can see, you choose to feel
sorry
for us? Explain yourself.”
The white cat’s purr was mild, even reasonable, but Southpaw’s ears were sharp enough to catch the undercurrent of rage, and to sense the anger that Datura held tightly contained in his whiskers.
“The crows peck at strangers as you do; the rats round on the young and helpless as you do, Datura; but no true cat would behave as you and your kind do,” said the kitten.
Datura turned on the stairs and Southpaw saw the white cat’s whiskers start to extend. No doubt, this would be the order to Ratsbane, Aconite and the others to finish the game.
“I haven’t finished speaking,” the kitten said, letting his own voice rise sharply and fill the room, a skill he had learned from watching Katar conduct the colony’s sometimes uproarious meetings on the link between the older cats.
A murmur of incredulity rippled through air, but the kitten cut through the rising storm. “Miao and Katar always told me that even cats of a different scent should be heard when they ask for shelter, unless they are a threat to the clan,” said Southpaw.“I came here to escape the dog, because you said I could come in, Datura. But you don’t behave like the cats I know.”
Datura began descending the stairs, his yellow eye blazing in fury, his blue eye opaque and inscrutable.
“What fine entertainment we have today!” he said, his fur radiating contempt. But he did not stop Southpaw, or order his kill.
The kitten’s heart was beating so fast that he wondered if all the ferals in the room could hear it.
“When was the last time you went outside, Datura?” he asked. Aconite hissed. “Let me kill him now! The impertinence!”
The ring tightened around the kitten, and he sensed that there were more ferals coming around the back. He was surrounded.
The white cat was on the bottom-most stair, his tail flicking steadily back-and-forth.
“Why should Datura go outside?” asked Ratsbane, his teeth bared in a growl. “Why should any of us go outside? Here, we have everything we need, you stupid piece of meat. This is our kingdom, our domain; we feast on rats and the few pigeons who flutter through the windows, we live by our own laws, not your foolish, weak rules, and we are disturbed by nobody.”
Southpaw drew on all of his reserves of anger, allowing it to well up inside his small chest and bury the sharp fear he felt as the ferals of the Shuttered House crept closer.
“I’m asking Datura,” he said, “not you.” The white cat snarled, his ears back, and now the kitten could see the madness in his eyes. Datura began padding towards the kitten, his claws clicking on the floor. Southpaw’s fur was taut from tension, his sparse eyebrows and black whiskers crackling.
“Were you born here?” he asked desperately. Datura stopped, his tail waving from side to side.
“I was,” he said. “What of it? What
“He feels
sorry
for us?” said Aconite, the grey’s voice incredulous.
“Let me rend him limb from limb,” said Ratsbane. “Let me break each of his paws, slowly, so that he cries the way that straydid, and then let us tear out his whiskers and his tongue, Datura. I want to feel his bones snap between my teeth.”
The white cat barely flickered an ear, but the room fell silent, and even Ratsbane didn’t venture further towards Southpaw.
“You interest me, meat,” said Datura. “You smell of blood and fear, and you will soon stink of pain and regret, before we take pity on you and end your foolish life. You are alone, and we are many; your friends have deserted you. And yet you feel sorry for us? In the few seconds left to you before you join the rats and the mice whose bodies litter the floor, as you can see, you choose to feel
sorry
for us? Explain yourself.”
The white cat’s purr was mild, even reasonable, but Southpaw’s ears were sharp enough to catch the undercurrent of rage, and to sense the anger that Datura held tightly contained in his whiskers.
“The crows peck at strangers as you do; the rats round on the young and helpless as you do, Datura; but no true cat would behave as you and your kind do,” said the kitten.
Datura turned on the stairs and Southpaw saw the white cat’s whiskers start to extend. No doubt, this would be the order to Ratsbane, Aconite and the others to finish the game.
“I haven’t finished speaking,” the kitten said, letting his own voice rise sharply and fill the room, a skill he had learned from watching Katar conduct the colony’s sometimes uproarious meetings on the link between the older cats.
A murmur of incredulity rippled through air, but the kitten cut through the rising storm. “Miao and Katar always told me that even cats of a different scent should be heard when they ask for shelter, unless they are a threat to the clan,” said Southpaw.“I came here to escape the dog, because you said I could come in, Datura. But you don’t behave like the cats I know.”
Datura began descending the stairs, his yellow eye blazing in fury, his blue eye opaque and inscrutable.
“What fine entertainment we have today!” he said, his fur radiating contempt. But he did not stop Southpaw, or order his kill.
The kitten’s heart was beating so fast that he wondered if all the ferals in the room could hear it.
“When was the last time you went outside, Datura?” he asked. Aconite hissed. “Let me kill him now! The impertinence!”
The ring tightened around the kitten, and he sensed that there were more ferals coming around the back. He was surrounded.
The white cat was on the bottom-most stair, his tail flicking steadily back-and-forth.
“Why should Datura go outside?” asked Ratsbane, his teeth bared in a growl. “Why should any of us go outside? Here, we have everything we need, you stupid piece of meat. This is our kingdom, our domain; we feast on rats and the few pigeons who flutter through the windows, we live by our own laws, not your foolish, weak rules, and we are disturbed by nobody.”
Southpaw drew on all of his reserves of anger, allowing it to well up inside his small chest and bury the sharp fear he felt as the ferals of the Shuttered House crept closer.
“I’m asking Datura,” he said, “not you.” The white cat snarled, his ears back, and now the kitten could see the madness in his eyes. Datura began padding towards the kitten, his claws clicking on the floor. Southpaw’s fur was taut from tension, his sparse eyebrows and black whiskers crackling.
“Were you born here?” he asked desperately. Datura stopped, his tail waving from side to side.
“I was,” he said. “What of it? What
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