Hurry up. Tigerheart glanced down the alley to where Cobweb, Mittens, and Fierce had stopped to drink from a puddle. It was bad enough they had to scavenge for scraps even Twolegs didn’t want; did they have to take so long? There were no mouthwatering prey scents carried on fresh forest breezes here. Tigerheart wanted to get the patrol over with.
The laid-back life of the guardian cats no longer felt like a relief. It had begun to irritate him. Scavenging was all they did now. In the two moons since Shadowkit, Pouncekit, and Lightkit had been born, leaf-fall had hardened into leaf-bare. Prey had become scarce, and the guardian cats relied on Twoleg scraps more and more. This morning, Tigerheart had woken to a hard frost, which had turned the clear walls of the gathering-place den into patterned ice. And yet when he’d followed the others out into the streets, the city lacked the stone-cold chill of the forest, holding a warmth of its own like a huge living creature.
Fierce had suggested they take a tour of their favorite scrapcans, clustered in the alleys that ran behind the rows of dens. Tigerheart had offered to come, as he always did. He owed the guardian cats his loyalty. But he secretly hoped that he would find a mouse or bird to take home to Lightkit, Pouncekit, and Shadowkit. Weaned now, they were eager for food, and Tigerheart hated that they had only tasted Twoleg scraps. What if they didn’t grow up to be strong? City strays were agile and wily, but none of them were as well-muscled as a forest cat. He’d hunted around the gathering place, but in the city there was always the sudden rumble of a monster or the thumping paws of a passing Twoleg to scare prey before he could finish stalking it. He hadn’t caught anything for half a moon. He guessed that was why the guardian cats weren’t even trying to hunt now. Besides, the scrapcans were overflowing, even as the weather grew harsher. He remembered with a pang the anxious days of leaf-bare in the forest, when catching a single rabbit brought joy to the whole Clan because it meant a warm night’s sleep on a full belly.
These cats have no idea what it is to go hungry, Tigerheart thought as he watched Cobweb shake puddle water from his whiskers and Fierce lap a few more sour mouthfuls. He wondered if they had ever been truly cold. The gathering-place den had grown chilly, but it was sheltered from wind and free of the drafts that would be slicing through gaps in the walls and dens of the ShadowClan camp now. It was easy to warm up in the furless-pelt nests.
In the past two moons, he’d learned city words like alley, street, and scrapcan; he’d grown accustomed to monsters and had learned to dart between them with ease as they crawled between the dens. He hardly noticed the Twolegs now as he wove between their legs on patrol.
This was the only world his kits knew. They’d never seen forests and streams and real prey. He wondered how long it would be before Dovewing agreed that they were old enough to make the journey home. By the time they reached the lake, would they be able to adjust to warrior life?
His pelt ruffled uneasily at the thought and he pushed it away. There would be plenty of time for them to learn to become warriors. But what if this first glimpse of life stayed with them? What if they always found warrior ways strange?
“I’m going on hunting patrol,” he’d told Pouncekit before he’d left.
She’d blinked at him. “Don’t you mean scavenging?” she’d asked. “That’s what the others call it.”
“Scavenging is like hunting,” Dovewing had answered quickly as Tigerheart’s pelt ruffled, then added, “Tigerheart used to be the best hunter in ShadowClan.”
Pouncekit didn’t seem to hear. “Why don’t warriors scavenge like city cats?”
Tigerheart stared at her. What could he say? That warriors had more pride and more skill? That they kept their distance from Twolegs, and definitely didn’t eat their scraps? He didn’t want to insult the guardian cats. But he wanted Pouncekit to understand what it meant to be a warrior.
Dovewing spoke for him again. “There aren’t any scrapcans to scavenge from by the lake,” she told Pouncekit diplomatically. She caught Tigerheart’s eye. “Besides, hunting is much more fun than scavenging. You’ll find out when you become a warrior.”
Tigerheart had turned away heavily and followed Fierce, Cobweb, Cinnamon, and Mittens out of the gathering place. He hoped that soon he’d be able to show Pouncekit what a warrior was. Now, as the sun lifted over the Twoleg dens, Tigerheart glanced at the bright blue sky showing between the rooftops. They’d scavenged all morning, but he hadn’t once smelled prey, and his hope of finding fresh-kill for the kits was fading.
Fierce flicked her tail happily. “Cold weather like this makes Twolegs hungry,” she meowed. “Which means more leftovers for us.” She led the way to another cluster of scrapcans and jumped onto one. As she knocked it open with practiced ease, Tigerheart jumped onto the next and pushed away its cover while Cobweb and Mittens rummaged through litter at their base. Tigerheart dug deep into the trash, his paws feeling the softness of something edible. He hooked it out with his claws. A round lump of something that smelled a little like meat but he knew would taste sour.
Cobweb glanced at it, his eyes brightening. “Meat scraps!”
Mittens hooked out a soft white strip from among the litter. “Dotty will like this,” he mewed. “It’s easy to chew.”
Fierce pulled a bone from her trash and flicked it triumphantly onto the ground below. “There’s more in here.” She delved deeper and hauled out another.
Tigerheart swallowed back distaste as she tossed it over the side. Warriors leave bones for the crows. Here they were a treat.
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.
A loud chirrup sounded nearby. Tigerheart jerked his muzzle toward it. A thrush was hopping along the branch of a cherry tree. The colored walls of the gathering place glittered behind it.
Tigerheart sank into the grass. Dampness soaked his belly fur as he fixed his gaze on the thrush. Keeping as still as one of the stone slabs, he waited. The thrush chirped again. A warning cry? Had it spotted him? Tigerheart’s chest tightened. He glanced at the trunk, wondering if he could climb without being seen. But the branches had been stripped bare by the cold. The thrush would see any movement.
Frustrated, Tigerheart flexed his claws, longing for the shadows of the pine forest. Feeling helpless, he watched the thrush flutter onto a higher branch. It pecked at the bark, then hopped to a spot of moss farther along and began pecking again.
Disappointment dropped in Tigerheart’s belly like a stone. There was no way to reach the thrush without scaring it off. His kits would eat crow-food again today. Guilt tugged him toward his nest. If they woke, he wanted to be there to share crow-food with them at least. As they ate, he could reassure them that one day they’d eat real prey.
Movement jerked him from his thoughts. The thrush dived suddenly down and landed in front of one of the slabs. It began rummaging in the grass with its beak. Hope sparked beneath Tigerheart’s pelt. Slowly, he drew himself to his paws and began to creep toward it. The stone slabs hid his approach. He quickened his pace. He had to reach the thrush before it fluttered away again. Slow down, he told himself. He couldn’t let desperation make him mess this up.
Stopping behind the slab where the thrush was digging for worms, Tigerheart steadied his breath. He peered around the edge. The thrush hadn’t noticed him. As he eased into the open, Tigerheart’s belly fluttered with excitement. Whiskers twitching, he pounced and slapped his paws onto the thrush a moment before it could flap away in panic. Pinning it to the earth, he grabbed its neck between his jaws and killed it fast. Thank you, StarClan. Happiness surged through him at the taste of blood. He picked it up in his teeth, relishing its warm prey-scent as he hurried back to the den.
“Wake up!” He dropped his catch at the side of Dovewing’s nest.
Dovewing lifted her head, her nose twitching. “Thrush!” Pleasure sparked in her green gaze as she sat up and looked from Tigerheart to the limp bird. She prodded the kits, still snuggling against her belly. “Wake up, Pouncekit! Lightkit, wake up.” She lapped Shadowkit between the ears. “Tigerheart’s brought food.”
Blinking in the sunshine, which flooded the den, Pouncekit peered over the side of the nest. Her shoulders drooped as she saw the thrush. “That’s not food,” she mewed sadly. “It’s just a bird.”
“It’s prey!” Tigerheart bristled angrily. “And you’re going to eat it.”
Lightkit scrambled out of the den, her brown tabby kit fluff ruffled by sleep. She sniffed at the thrush. “It smells sweet.”
Shadowkit balanced on the edge of the nest, his nose twitching suspiciously. “Weren’t there any scraps?” He looked across the den to where the guardian cats were lounging, the scraps they’d gathered gone.
Pouncekit followed his gaze, sniffing. “I can smell meat.” She scanned the den.
“This is meat.” Tigerheart poked the thrush.
“It’s all feathers.” Pouncekit dismissed it with a flick of her muzzle.
Tigerheart’s belly tightened. Why wasn’t the scent of fresh-kill making them hungry?
Dovewing climbed out of the nest and began to tear the thrush into strips as the kits watched with a look of horrified fascination. Putting the feathery parts aside, she laid a small, meaty strip in front of each of them.
Irritation clawed Tigerheart’s belly. “Tawnypelt never had to tear my food up when I was a kit.”
Dovewing shot him a look. “Of course she did. They’re only two moons old. You can’t expect them to rip up their own prey.”
Tigerheart sat back on his haunches. Perhaps she was right. He must be patient.
“Try it,” Dovewing encouraged the kits gently.
Pouncekit sniffed uneasily at the strip of red meat before dabbing it with her tongue. She frowned and dabbed it again. Shadowkit touched his piece with his paw before sinking his teeth in. Lightkit grabbed one end of hers in her mouth and, hooking the strip with her claw, began tugging it with her teeth.
Dovewing blinked affectionately at Tigerheart. “It was good of you to catch fresh prey for us.”
Tigerheart didn’t answer. He was still staring anxiously at the kits. What if they never learned to love fresh-kill? What if he took them back to ShadowClan and they refused to eat?
“All kits are fussy about food at first,” Dovewing murmured. “Ivypool refused to eat rabbit until she was four moons old. And I hated shrews.”
“Really?” Tigerheart looked hopefully at her.
She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded at the kits. All three were busy chewing on their strips of thrush. Shadowkit looked thoughtful. Pouncekit was still frowning. Lightkit’s cheeks bulged with food where she’d bitten off too much.
“Chew it properly before you swallow,” Dovewing warned. “Or you’ll get a bellyache.”
Tigerheart watched them eat, pride swelling in his chest. Even if they didn’t like the thrush, they were trying to eat it. Your kits will be warriors. Spire’s words rang in his mind. Of course they would be. Especially if he took them home soon.