Mewliet crouched on the rooftop, tail flicking, ears twitching at every distant yowl. Below, the streets of Dignity pulsed with danger: the tang of fish markets, the acrid smoke of chimneys, and the faint, coppery scent of the river — or blood. It was hard to tell in this neighborhood.
The Calico Cartel and the Ginger Gang had been at war for generations, yet here she was, staring into the gold, gleaming eyes her sworn enemy — except, she'd never sworn it, had she? By the time she was born, all the swearing had been done for her.
Purrmio emerged from the shadows. “Late night stroll?” he asked, before squatting down to lick her paw.
Mewliet couldn’t stop the rumbling purr vibrating in her chest. “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, glancing down toward the alley where her cousins prowled. She'd started seeing Purrmio mostly out of rebellion against her Family's expectations. But he was so—different, so earnestly sweet. The thought of him getting hurt… “One wrong move—”
“—and it’s the end of our tragic tale,” he finished, licking his maw as though he relished the thought. “Exactly.”
Her heart raced. He always knew the right thing to say, even when it was the wrong thing.
A shadow streaked across the tiles — Clawdia. She purred in glee at having caught the lovers en furgrante.
“Well, well,” she sang, brushing between them with her tail high. She looked over a saucy shoulder. "Wait until Uncle — Rrreoow —!" the rest of her sentence was cut off as Mewliet shoved her off of the roof.
"Mewliet, you know I abhor violence!" Purrmio stood up and turned his back to her.
Mewliet, who had followed Clawdia's descent with mild interest, said. "She's fine. She landed on her feet." And Cousin Pawcasso's head, she noted, amused. She turned and saw that Purrmio had turned away from her, ears flattened against his head. She sighed, flicking her tail in annoyance. Purrmio was sweet — but a little more idealistic than the burly toms she usually dated. It was what had drawn her to him, but it did get to be a bit much, sometimes.
He finally turned back toward her, reluctantly. "I should get out of here, before your cousins filet me, marinate me in my own blood, and serve me — alive — to the early birds."
Mewliet wanted to say that her Family had stopped with such barbaric torture three generations ago, but that would have been a lie. "Fine," she said, being the one to turn away, this time, tail swishing.
He took a few steps away, then stopped. She heard him return, felt his breath against her ear. "You could come with me."
She turned to him, pupils dilated. He was panting lightly, the scent of his lunch—day-old salmon—was intoxicating. His golden gaze was intense. "Okay," she said, heart fluttering. She heard the scrabble of claws on tile. "But we have to go now!"
She turned and sprang across the narrow alley to the next roof. She paused long enough to hear him land next to her, and then she was off, letting him chase her, as her Family howled close behind.
They ran as one, whiskers brushing, tails tangling, paws pounding. She admired the sleek blaze of his ginger fur catching moonlight like a knife’s edge. He admired her sharp, glittering claws and patchwork calico coat that smelled like fish, smoke, and danger.
A loose tile slid beneath her paw; she stumbled slightly. “Watch out!” she hissed, catching herself with a swish of her tail. Purrmio shot her a glance, a flicker of worry in his amber eyes that made her heart thrum.
They were both out of breath by the time they reached the old bell tower at the city’s edge.
“We can’t go back there,” Mewliet panted. “Even if Rrreoow spares me, he'll trim your nails.” She couldn't remember the last time she'd thought of the Father of the Calico Cartel as her own actual father.
Purrmio shuddered. "I thought your Family stopped doing that. I'd rather be fileted." He pulled out a roll of parchment. “This… is a map,” he said softly, fur quivering under the lantern glow. “To a place where cats don't have to be Family. They can just be — family.”
Mewliet stared at the map. “That’s a lot of water,” she whispered.
Purrmio pressed a paw to hers, brushing against the tips of her claws. “That’s what boats are for, Baby.” The heat of him, the scent of ginger fire-smoke and garbage-salmon — it melted something in her ribcage.
She gave a soft, reluctant purr. She could handle being on a boat — if it was with him. And all the trapped mice they could eat. Yum!
Below them, Dignity slept — but hatred stirred in its alleys. Behind them, rooftops trembled under pounding paws, the rising war-cries of cats who would certainly tear them apart, whisker by whisker, before dawn. Mewliet and Purrmio, claws and tails intertwined, leapt toward their uncertain future.
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