His jaw snapped shut inches from my neck. Either he didn’t know who he was fighting, or he didn’t care. Or Malone had finally decided I’d be easier to kill than to deal with. I slashed with my rear feet. My claws sank into flesh and fur, then ripped through both. The tom screeched and tumbled off me. Blood poured from his thigh. I scrambled to my feet and lunged for him, jaw open and ready. And was knocked off course in midair by another flying body. My side hit the ground. Air whooshed from my lungs in a raspy feline grunt. I sucked in a deep breath and snorted out steam. The new tom straddled me, growling. Hesitating. He’d noticed I was female and was reluctant to kill me. His mistake. I lunged for his front right forepaw and crunched through bone. The tom howled and fell over. I rolled onto my feet and had only an instant to absorb what I saw. Fighting. Brawling. Everywhere. At least three dozen toms, most in cat form, swiping, hissing, slashing, and ripping. Two of Malone’s to one of ours, in most cases.
