The Ninth Life (Blackie and Care Cat Mystery #1)
Clea Simon
For Jon
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Trying something new is always a bit scary, and this book might not have reached completion if it weren’t for the encouragement of early readers like Jeanne Powers, Lisa Susser, Naomi Yang, Brett Milano, Chris Mesarch and, of course, Jon S. Garelick. Thanks as well to Vicki Croke, Caroline Leavitt, Lisa Jones, Frank Garelick and Sophie Garelick for all their support and love, and to Ann Porter, who gave me the key to unlocking this story. My agent Colleen Mohyde of the Doe Coover Agency has been unwaveringly supportive, and the wonderful Severn House team of Emma Sudderick, Kate Lyall Grant, Charlotte Loftus, Sara Porter and Michelle Duff have been with me all the way, for which I am exceedingly grateful.
ONE
At first, they were shadows. Bars before the sun, dark against the light. I could make out three: two brown, or mostly, and – in between – a taller figure, black and narrow. Three vertical lines against a dull white sky. But as I watch, they begin to waver, their outlines rippling and losing shape as the light around them dulls into the dusk. Into the mud. Receding from me as I go under. As I, too, begin to fade …
No! I gasp, choking, and begin to cough, breaking the surface with a desperate effort. Water in my mouth. My nose. Burning my throat as I gag and spit. I can’t see, can’t hear anything but my own ragged breath. I have broken through, but I cannot last. The cold is weighing on me, dragging me down …
No! I cry in protest, my voice a wordless howl as I fight to stay afloat. Flailing, I gulp in air and swallow water, my last breath exploding from me in another cough. I am going numb. Losing the fight. My own sodden limbs conspiring to drag me down.
No! Hands grab me from behind. Pulling at me, hauling me backward – ducking me. I kick and flail. Find purchase beneath my feet and twist, lashing out. The loose gravel beneath me gives way to dirt, and I scrabble for balance as I turn, ripping myself loose from those hands to glare at the person now before me.
‘Whoa.’ He steps back. She – I shake the water from my eyes. Her body slim as a boy’s, but with the hint of curves. Her hair ragged and short. Dripping, a strange shade of pink. ‘Calm down, why don’t you?’
I hiss, my throat too raw for words. I don’t know this person – this girl – but I have felt the awful strength of those hands. Hands that reach for me now. I jump back without thinking – too exhausted for anything but pure instinct – and feel one foot slide back into the icy flood.
On all fours like a beast, I pull myself out and shake off what water I can, all the while keeping my eyes on the stranger. This girl who now stares back is pale, her face as bloodless as I feel my own to be. Her cheeks wet from the rain, her eyes red. Who is she, and how did she – how did I – get here?
I am panting and I catch myself. Make myself regulate my breathing, needing to jumpstart my frozen brain. I’d been sinking. Drowning in some kind of torrent. A river or whirlpool. Caught by a sudden flood? Or had I been sabotaged? A victim of … No, it is all blank. All I have is what I can now see.
This girl – the pink-haired one – has pulled me from the water. Had she also pushed me in? Children could be evil, though how I could have been so vulnerable stymies me. I struggle to remember. Those figures. Three against the light. None of them had pink on them.
A snort, then a gasp. I look up to see the girl covering her face with fingers bitten to the quick. A moment later, I see why as she makes a fist to wipe those red eyes. She’s crying, the rain alone insufficient to camouflage her tears, and for the briefest of moments I regret my wordless anger. Have I hurt her, as I shoved her off? Have I been ungracious to the person who may have saved my life?
I watch her, silent, as she wipes her face on a sleeve too wet to offer much utility. Fourteen, I decide. Fifteen tops. Signs of acne around her nose and the last of her baby fat still rounding out her cheeks, the only place where childhood’s softness lingers. It was that hair that had thrown me. Ridiculous color.
‘You’d think …’ She’s muttering, more to herself than to me. Her voice is soft. She’s self-comforting, rather than addressing me, but the cadence reveals some education. Enough to be at odds with the worn clothing and ragged hair.