by Lisa Fiedler
Oh, but these humans are cold blooded. They take their shovel to the prince and he falls. I am overcome with rage and helplessness, waiting, watching. . . .
It is not long before Hopper is here. The sight of him fills me with relief but also guilt. I told him I would come for him, and I had every intention of doing so. Alas, much has transpired to make that impossible, even at this very moment, when I am close enough to call out his name. But this is not the time to reveal myself.
His presence is the distraction I need. While he frees what rodents he can, I creep into the ruins of Atlantia and drag the unconscious Firren from her cage. I bring her to my latest hideout in the darkness of the tunnels, not far from Atlantia, but still a long way to carry someone. Lucky she is small, for a rat.
Many days ago I found this artifact where I now live. A human castoff—a suitcase, I believe it is called. I cannot go back to the locomotive in the Mūs village, so I have made this my dwelling place. Who knows how long it has been lost and moldering here in the darkness. It bears a medal that tells me it is named for an ancient who was known for his great strength—Samson. This is a good sign, for what I need is a fortress. A roomy one that will prove difficult to breach. Thus far the cats have paid this item no notice, so I am safe. And so shall Firren be.
When she is securely ensconced, I hurry back to the city, eager to see if I can be of similar assistance to the prince. I arrive just in time to see Hopper taking cover beneath a heap of green fabric. Zucker is not where he was when I went in for Firren. In fact, he is nowhere.
I can only hope that his soldiers have come to his rescue. A chill shoots through me when I hear the ferals lurking, because it is equally possible that the cats have stolen Zucker away in my brief absence. For all I know, he is already disemboweled and scattered in bloody pieces throughout the tunnels. Or perhaps the humans have scooped him into an airless sack to be carried away and incinerated like so much garbage. Truth be told, I do not know which scenario sickens me more.
And now Hopper’s hiding spot is being plucked up from the ground by a human hand. I watch with wide eyes, horrified. Wherever that fabric is going, the Chosen One is going with it.
Only once in my life before this have I felt such a sense of loss.
I turn and rush with all my strength back to the place where I have hidden Firren.
When I arrive at my fortress, someone is waiting for me. A female rat who, after mere moments in my company, seems to ascertain exactly who I am and what I’m about . . . what I have always been about.
“La Rocha?” she asks.
“If you choose to believe it,” I reply.
She smiles and explains that she, like Firren, who still lies motionless but alive inside my fortress, has just escaped the violence in the city. This is how she has come to be here in my hiding place. I tell her she is welcome to stay, for I see a brightness and a sensitivity about her that one does not often encounter. She could easily be the one to succeed, the one who comes next . . . if she is willing.
I tell her so. It is a great risk to share such a secret so quickly, but I can tell she is trustworthy. She is flattered by my offer. More than flattered . . . interested. But she tells me she must go back to the city to seek her family. She has brothers, she tells me.
But we can meet again?
Yes.
For there is much to be taught, and much to be learned.
The rat, whose future is now entwined with my own, takes her leave with a blessing from me, and I return my attention to Firren. With Zucker gone and the Chosen One taken, she is the only one left. It is up to me to care for her and see to her comfort.
With any luck she will live.
And if she does not, I will give her a hero’s farewell. She deserves at least that much from me.
After all, we are old friends.
CHAPTER NINE
REACH!
The word exploded in Hopper’s head; it was half thought, half instinct, and he did not question it. As the air took him, he shot both arms upward.
Grab!
He grabbed. His paws connected with something—an edge, an unyielding permanent thing that seemed to hover there alongside the sky—mouse claws on metal, grasping, clutching, clinging. Again words pushed through his terror, instructing him:
“Hold on! Hold on tight!”
But these words were not inside his head. Someone was shouting to him.
“I’m coming. Just hang on!”
Hopper gripped as tightly as he could, his muscles burning with the strain; he hazarded a downward glance and saw that he was dangling high above something blue gray and flowing. Water. A river, like the mad rushing one that had swept him into the tunnels in the first place. But compared with this river, that first one had been little more than a trickle. This river was massive, sprawling, and unfathomably deep. The drop from where he dangled was immeasurable.
“Now listen . . . ,” said the voice. “I’m going to swing my tail toward you, and I want you to catch it. Got me?”
Hopper grunted an affirmative reply.
A rope of silky black fur unfurled and flicked toward him. “Grab my tail!”
Hopper told himself to reach for it, but his paws would not let go of the edge.
“Don’t be afraid,” cried the voice. “You have to let go of the bridge and grab my tail.”
Bridge. So that’s where he was. Suspended in midair from the edge of a bridge over what appeared to be a frigid, bottomless body of water. Wonderful.
His paws were beginning to go numb, and his muscles were cramping.
“Here comes the tail again! Now just reach out and grab on.”
The sleek black lifeline swished into view once more. This time Hopper reached out. He felt himself beginning to plummet, but only for a heartbeat—in the next second his paws were gripping fur.
“You did it!” The tail swung once, then jerked upward, and Hopper found himself back on the bridge. He fell to his knees, pulse thumping as he sucked in mouthfuls of cold air. The graceful stone towers and metal netting still loomed above him.
Infinite water and certain death loomed below.
But thanks to that tail—and whoever belonged to it—Hopper was alive.
He took a moment to allow the blood to return to his paws. The air was chilly, and after his time in the tunnels he found the sensation of so much space and atmosphere intoxicating. He was dizzy and sore, but also extremely grateful.
“Thank you,” he said, turning to smile at his rescuer.
His blood turned to ice.
A black-and-white cat smiled back at him.
“Ahhh!” Hopper let out a squeak and leaped to his feet, springing backward and once again tottering over the edge of the abyss.
The cat shot out a paw, caught hold of Hopper’s tunic, and yanked him back to safety.
Hopper reached for his sword. But it wasn’t there. He held up his front paws in a gesture of surrender, but as he stared into the clear green eyes of the stranger, he began to relax. These eyes did not have the fiendish look he recalled seeing in Felina’s mismatched eyes or in Clops’s single good one. These eyes looked friendly. And besides, Hopper reasoned, if this cat wanted to eat me, I’d be dead already.
“I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his paws. “It’s just that where I come from, cats don’t usually rescue mice. In fact, cats are the ones the mice need rescuing from.”
“I can see why you’d be worried,” the cat said, nodding. “But I promise, you’re safe with me. Welcome to Brooklyn. The name’s Eugene. But everyone calls me Ace.”
“Hopper.”
“Hopper, huh?” Ace lowered one whiskery eyebrow. “You sure it’s not Jumper?” He glanced meaningfully toward the metal ledge from which Hopper had so recently been dangling.
“Huh? Oh . . .” Hopper shook his head hard. “No, no, no . . . I wasn’t trying to . . . ya know . . . jump off, if that’s what you mean.”
“Didn’t really think so,” Ace said with a nod.
“You don’t exactly strike me as the Good-bye-cruel-world type.”
Hopper took a moment to study the cat. He was mostly black, with a brilliantly white chest and paws. He had a lithe and limber way about him, and Hopper guessed it was only recently that Ace had grown out of his kittenhood. He was strong and agile, with a ready grin and a youthful confidence.
“Just so I’m clear . . . you’re not going to eat me, right?”
Ace laughed. “Not to worry, friend. I don’t eat mice. I prefer to stick to table scraps and store-bought bagged food.”
That was some of the best news Hopper had ever heard. He was fuzzy on the actual meanings of “bagged food” and “table scraps,” but he did understand that Ace presented no immediate gastronomic danger. He relaxed, but only a bit. After all, he was still standing on a gigantic bridge in the daylight world, where he had no home, no friends, and very little hope for the future.
“So how did you get here?” Ace asked. “Did a bird drop you?”
The only birds Hopper knew of were the candy-colored ones who had sung so cheerfully back in Keep’s shop.
“No, a human did.” Hopper pointed to the rolling monsters, still zooming past mere inches from where he and Ace stood. “Flung me out of one of those.”
“Wow.” Ace looked impressed. “You must be one tough little mouse to survive that.”
“Must be,” said Hopper, although he wasn’t feeling very tough. He was feeling shaky and scared and very, very lost. His two best friends in the whole world were gone and he’d left behind scores of others who were depending on him to help rebuild a safe and prospering city. He was suddenly overcome with misery. “Maybe you should have just let me fall.”
“Aw, c’mon, Hopper. Things can’t be that bad.”
“Trust me.” Hopper sighed. “They are.”
“Maybe all you need is a good meal and a little rest,” Ace suggested. “I always find that things have a way of getting better if you just wait ’em out. You have to put the bad stuff behind you and get on with your life.”
“Easy for you to say,” Hopper muttered. “You have nine of them. The odds of at least one of them turning out right are definitely in your favor.”
Ace laughed. “Tough and witty. I like that in a rodent. Now let’s get off Mr. Roebling’s masterpiece, all right? Being this close to traffic gives me the willies, and we need to put a little food in you.”
Hopper didn’t know what willies were, but he followed Ace to the end of the bridge. A meal sounded good.
“Where are we going to find this food?” Hopper asked warily.
“My place,” Ace answered, then gave Hopper a big grin. “Hope you like Italian.”
On the walk to Ace’s “place” they kept to the sidewalks to avoid the round-footed beasts that seemed to be everywhere. Ace explained that these were called cars and were, in this cat’s opinion, an animal’s worst nightmare. Hopper thought Ace might feel differently if he ever found himself in the path of an oncoming subway train.
The humans who hustled about the sidewalks of Brooklyn ignored the odd duo of cat and mouse for the most part, although a few stopped to pet Ace or give him a scratch between his ears. On these occasions Hopper pressed himself against the nearest wall and tried to be invisible.
“You’re awfully popular around here,” Hopper observed. “I didn’t know humans could be so pleasant.”
“It’s the same as it is with cats and rodents, I guess,” said Ace. “Some are okay, some . . . not so much. You’ve just got to know who to trust.”
They turned into an alleyway and approached the back entrance of a building.
“This is it,” Ace announced. “My pad.”
“Your what?”
“Where I live.” Ace leaned his shoulder against a tall glass door; when it swung inward, he motioned for Hopper to go in ahead of him.
Hopper was immediately hit with an onslaught of smells. Good ones. His nose went into a twitching frenzy as he tried to breathe in so many aromas, none of which he’d ever experienced before. All of them exotic, delicious, and savory.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“Guido and Vito, the guys who run it, they call it Bellissimo’s Deli. Me, I call it home.” Ace sniffed the air and smiled. “Smells like today’s special is eggplant parmigiana.”
Hopper’s mouth watered. “That sounds incredible.”
“Oh, it is!” said Ace, licking a paw and giving his face a quick wash. “I’ll go out front and see what I can rustle up. You stay here.”
“Why do I have to stay here?”
“Because mice and food-service establishments definitely do not mix.” Ace pressed his head against a creaky swinging door and disappeared through it.
Hopper looked around the room. It was snug and cozy, lined with tall shelves well-stocked with cans, jars, and tins. The labels on them read: ROASTED PEPPERS, IMPORTED OLIVE OIL, SEMOLINA FLOUR.
A skinny, treelike object stood by the door with white aprons and heavy coats hanging from its branches. Pinned to the wall was a rectangular piece of paper with the word JANUARY printed across the top. Hopper would have to ask Ace what “January” meant.
Over in one corner on the scuffed wooden floor were arranged four metal bowls—two large, two small—and beside them was a gigantic, pillowlike bed. The scent emanating from it was new to Hopper—not human, not feline, not rodent, but absolutely animal. On closer inspection he realized the indentation in the pillow’s middle was much too large and deep to have been made by the lissome Ace. Judging by the size of the impression, it was clear the creature that slept in this bed was no lightweight.
“Buon giorno.”
Hopper gulped. Deep voice. Hot breath. Right behind him.
“Come si chiamo?”
Slowly Hopper turned, and found himself staring into what was perhaps the oddest and ugliest face he’d ever seen—broad and flat, with wrinkled skin and droopy eyelids. The bottom teeth jutted out farther than the uppers, and a long pink tongue lolled out from one side of the mouth, producing a ridiculous amount of drool. Even Titus’s scarred snout was a thing of beauty compared with this face. And the body was not much better: stubby, built low to the ground, with coarse hair and a stump of a tail.
But the stump was wagging. And the folds of the homely face suddenly widened into a lopsided grin.
“Ciao, piccolo.”
The words were unfamiliar, but the tone was friendly and Hopper could tell that the smile was genuine. Despite this creature’s unseemly appearance, he exuded warmth and kindness.
The creature tilted his big head. “Another of Ace’s foundlings, I take it?”
“Yes,” said Hopper with an ache in his heart. Zucker had called him a foundling once. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“I’m Capone,” said the creature, then, to clarify, he added, “Dog.”
“Mouse,” said Hopper.
“Yeah,” Capone said with a laugh. “I got that.”
The folds of skin around the dog’s saggy chin jiggled. “That cat saved my life. Found me half starved on Navy Street, a fugitive from justice.”
“Justice?”
“Well, maybe not justice. More like the pound. Point is, Ace brought me here and the Bellissimo brothers took me in. I’m not by nature inclined to feel friendly toward creatures of the feline persuasion, but Ace is different. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for that cat.”
“So you live here?” Hopper asked.
“Only during the day. The Bellissimo brothers take me home with them at night. Ace is a little more independent; he’s here round the clock.”
The swinging door banged open and Ace returned, looking anxious. “I see you’ve met my roommate. Great. But Hopper, would you do me a real quick favor?”
“Sure. What?”
“Hide!”
Hopper dove under Capone’s bed just as the swinging door creaked open again. He peered out from beneath the pillow and saw a pair of human shoes—they looked more pliable
than the boots the exterminators wore, less bulky, with springy soles, and there was a brightly colored swoosh marking on the side.
“Here you go, fellas,” said the human. He filled the metal bowls with the delectable-smelling meal, then reached down to scratch Ace underneath his chin. “Yo, Acey boy. Got a job for you. Mrs. Fiorenza saw a couple-a mice in her basement. Thinks they’ve got designs on her biscotti! I told her you’d swing by the bakery tomorrow to take care of things.”
The cat purred contentedly. It sounded like he was accepting the job.
So Ace had lied! He did eat mice . . . and he was probably going to eat Hopper! Today’s special: eggplant parmigiana with a side of mouse! Hopper stung with anger as he watched the deceitful cat rub up against the human’s leg.
The human bent down to give Capone’s belly a quick scratch, then pushed his way back through the swinging door.
Hopper crawled out from beneath the bed and scowled at Ace. “I thought you said you didn’t eat mice.”
“I don’t eat them,” said Ace, dipping his head into the bowl for a bite of eggplant. “I relocate them. Of course, the shop owners don’t know that.”
“I don’t understand,” said Hopper, but he was finding it hard to keep his mind on the conversation. The smell of the human food was too wonderful to be ignored.
“Ace is the neighborhood’s premier mouser,” Capone explained. “When the storekeepers find rodents on their premises—mice, rats, what have you—it’s real bad for business. Since exterminators are expensive and not exactly discreet, the store owners just borrow Ace for an afternoon and he gets rid of the problem.”
“That’s the part that worries me,” muttered Hopper, stepping closer to the food. “The getting-rid-of part.”
“I told you,” said Ace. “Mouse meat doesn’t appeal to me. No offense.”
“None taken.” Hopper took a nibble of the cheesy, saucy entrée in the bowl and nearly cried out in delight. “Wow. That’s delicious.”
“Exactly,” said Ace. “I don’t have to eat mice because I’ve got an endless supply of this! Which is why I follow a strict catch-and-release policy. I catch the rodents, I offer them a quick lesson in how to survive in the great outdoors, and then I bring them to the grasslands and let them go. Live and let live. That’s what it’s all about, Jumper.”