“I don’t like the looks of this neighborhood,” Bast said, flicking gobs of mud off her white paws.
Sekhmet curled her lip. “Did you expect to find the Chosen’s mother in a nice, clean parlor, lapping daintily at a plate of gourmet food? The Prophecy said that though her heritage is royal, her circumstances would be lowly. In a place like this, you find cats with backbone.”
“And dirty paws.” Bast flicked again.
Orion sniffed. The scent grew stronger with every paw step—not just the delicious aroma of a female in heat, but, oddly, the fragrance of white-throated flowers and fat mice and earth bursting with life. He quickened his pace when he saw the warehouse.
“Go up those metal steps; they lead to an open window,” he said.
“We’ll let you introduce yourself first,” Sekhmet said.
Orion stood on the window ledge and watched an elderly cat hiss at a white tom.
“You’ll have to come past me, Senti. You want it bad enough to kill for it?”