She can smell it. Thick and heavy in the air, concentrated around one point out to her left. The stink of it stains the leaves and the ground.
Fear.
She sniffs again, closing her eyes to smell better. A faint trail stumbles off to one side. She can follow it down to the stream from here, down to the boys’ territories. This other source smells better anyway. Richer, stronger, more afraid. It reeks.
The prey perhaps knows she’s coming. She slides almost invisible through the trees but she’s hardly small and leaves and vines and branches caress her fur, slapping against the bark as she slips away. It’s loud to her so to other ears must be audible, at least. Every so often she steps on stone and it crumbles underfoot. Buildings. Stone and broken, not for living in. Not like the clean rooms she’s used to, the sharp smells harsh to a sensitive nose and the sound of the boys’ roaring echoing from somewhere else.
Here, here there is hunting.
Her top lip curls up over her teeth, and her tongue dabs at the air for a moment, and she can taste the blood and sweat burst in her mouth. Hot and sticky and delicious. But not yet. Now is the fun, the chase.
It’s wriggling, whatever it is. Spitting and angry and scared.
The light is getting brighter, and she slinks down lower to avoid the sharp points fighting through the leaves. She should be asleep now. The boys are; one of them got one not long ago - she heard his growls, smelt the blood in his territory - and will be full and sleepy. But her own stomach is demanding to be fed.
Somewhere nearby she can hear the meat, mumbling in a rough voice, all angry and grating. Unexpected, it bursts out loud; she crouches for a second, snarling and ready to attack. From the smell it hasn’t moved, but the fear is so strong in the air that it might mask it.
No, definitely still there. It’s a shame. Her muscles are starting to twitch for the chase, her eyes ready to fix on prey as she bounds seamlessly through the undergrowth. Her tail flickers, swishing to and fro in the leaves.
She can see the meat now, upside down, arms waving. Too easy.
She circles the smell, feeling it thicken, rough and salty and heavy with the promise of juicy, bloody meat. It shouts things, squeaking out, but the sounds make no sense. Doesn’t all prey scream for help? She lets out a small growl. It still doesn’t run.
She slips through a curtain of vines, past a pile of stone, and there it is. Meat, hung up for her. It’s all red in the face, hot with blood. So there is a game in it after all. A purr of delight ripples through her chest, and she starts to circle. The meat follows, eyes big in the red face, soft pink paws swiping out. She gives it a little pat, and watches it swing back and forwards. It’s making funny noises, choking and loud.
Good noises. The meat swings in close again and she pauses, waits, pets at it again. A little harder, claws out. A warning, if you will. The hot smell of blood floods out, and she licks her lips. The meat lets out a desperate yowl that soothes her ears; this is it, this is good.
On the floor, she has managed to slice a piece off. A piece of paw lies stumpy and bloody on the floor. She nudges it with her nose, savouring the smell, before snapping it up.
The meat yelps.
Another go. Claws out, if it means she gets pieces of food and those noises again. More blood drips onto her nose, steaming hot and fresh. She paws it away and licks off the smears. There is time for this. The prey isn’t going anywhere, only hanging there and moaning and sometimes even screaming, nice satisfying noises. The blood is hot and thick and buttery.
Somewhere in the distance, one of the boys can hear and they growl, low and full of meaning. You have food. I am coming. I am hungry.
Time to finish off. He can get his own kill, not taking hers.
She brings her face up close to the meat, smelling the breath as it moans into her face. There’s a crunch, something not soft, but it gives way under her teeth and her mouth is flooded with blood and juice.
The crying stops.
The lump, roughly circular, tumbles from the ropes and onto the leafy ground, bouncing a little. She shakes her head, pawing at it to check that it definitely won't move, and hunkers down to tear at the it. Crunchy on the outside, all soft and warm and delicious inside. Juicy, under the shell, though some of the fur catches in her teeth. It slides down nicely.
A booming noise stops her; something coming. She crouches down over the meat, her paws slippery with blood, and lets out a growl to warn away anything.
A reply purrs through the trees. One of the boys. A pair of narrow yellow eyes stare jealously at her. It’s the thinner one. Nice shape, smooth flanks, but this is her kill and she’s proud of it so he can get lost.
She hisses, feeling the hackles rise on her neck. Blood is still steaming onto the ground; her mouth is damp with saliva. His is too, and she can smell his hunger from here. But this is hers. He doesn’t need to know that there wasn’t a chase.
Another hiss, showing all her blooded teeth, and the boy growls back sadly and vanishes. He’ll be back to pick the tattered remains from the ropes, still hanging from the tree. Now, though, this is her space and her food.
She bats the empty, broken shell out of the way and sits down to clean herself.