The Ninth Life by Clea Simon

Author:Clea Simon [Simon, Clea]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781780107370
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2015-10-08T16:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-THREE

Morning finds the girl roused and ready, shaking her younger companion at first light. I’ve been awake for hours, of course. Hunted, bathed. But although I find myself wondering about the boy’s duties and the role he may yet play in this girl’s life, I keep my thoughts to myself, content to sit on that ledge and sniff the air, all the while keeping these young humans within earshot.

‘Come on, Tick,’ she calls to him while rummaging in her sack. The boy is slow to wake. He’s been dreaming, I could tell her. Though whether the night phantoms that haunted his sleep, prompting the twitches and moans of a prey animal under attack, bear any relation to the scene I have relived, the water’s edge and the silhouettes, I do not know. ‘We’ve got to go.’

‘Where are we going?’ He takes the piece of cheese Care hands him along with the wrinkled apple. I perk up at the sight of the cheese, remembering its salt and grease, and Care slices off the rind, placing it on the sill before me. It is more wax than cheese, however, and I leave it. Perhaps it will draw something more toothsome still, especially once these two have moved on. My side still aches from yesterday. My hindquarters are stiff and sore, and I have no desire to trot around after this girl as if I were some kind of dog. This seems to be our base for now, dry enough and reasonably safe. I will wait here and hunt again, gathering my thoughts until these two return.

‘I have an idea.’ Care looks around before locating the loose bricks of the boy’s hiding place. That she then unpacks her bag and places her extra clothes, the few treasures she has taken from AD’s, in the space confirms my deduction: this is to be home for the foreseeable future. I fold my paws beneath me and prepare to nap.

‘I think …’ she says, turning back to the boy, to us, ‘… I want to call on George Bushwick.’

‘Who?’ The boy stands yawning, his question a delaying tactic. But I am no longer at rest. The memory of Bushwick’s warehouse, the stench of those pelts, has banished thoughts of sleep. There was something – is something – wrong with that man, reeking of fear and death. I cast my thoughts about for some way to communicate and find myself twining around the girl’s ankles, willing her to listen as I mewl out my complaint.

‘Hey, Blackie, it’s OK.’ She picks me up, burying her face in my fur. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, being lifted off one’s feet, and although the warmth of her embrace is pleasant – I am not immune to the affectionate gesture and the rubbing of her face against my side translates – I struggle to be let down, twisting in her grasp. ‘You didn’t eat your cheese.’ She has noticed the rind and reaches for it before I can bat it away. Strict economy delays her further as she retrieves her bag to stow the waxy morsel.

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