The Ninth Life Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Clea Simon

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Clea Simon

  Theda Krakow Mysteries

  MEW IS FOR MURDER

  CATTERY ROW

  CRIES AND WHISKERS

  PROBABLE CLAWS

  Dulcie Schwartz Mysteries

  SHADES OF GREY *

  GREY MATTERS *

  GREY ZONE *

  GREY EXPECTATIONS *

  TRUE GREY *

  GREY DAWN *

  GREY HOWL *

  STAGES OF GREY *

  CODE GREY *

  Blackie and Care Mysteries

  THE NINTH LIFE *

  * available from Severn House

  THE NINTH LIFE

  A Blackie and Care Mystery

  Clea Simon

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2015

  in Great Britain and 2016 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2015 by Clea Simon.

  The right of Clea Simon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Simon, Clea author.

  The ninth life.

  1. Cats–Fiction. 2. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  813.6-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8571-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-679-4 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-737-0 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  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.

  I strain forward to catch more. There’s something here, but then she’s crying again. And one hand shows an angry red welt, where, I fear, I must have scratched her in my frenzy.

  I have hurt this girl, this young woman. And all the evidence tells me that she may have saved my life. It was uncivil of me, and I am ashamed. She has sunk to the ground now and is sitting in the mud. The rain has let up, and her sobs are clearly audible over the rush of water. Behind me, I hear the current, the flood, and shiver at the memory of its crushing cold. I look up at my companion. She has wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and a faint smear of blood has been transferred, like warpaint under the pink thatch. She’s a child, for all her age, and shivering.

  My own body heat has begun to return to normal, and so I drag myself close beside her. She sniffs and turns to me. Puts out one hand gingerly and waits. I lean in, the worn denim of her jeans soft over her skinny leg, and she wraps an arm around me. Shared warmth makes for mutual comfort and a rising tide of contentment begins to rumble through me. Who this girl is, I do not know. How I got here, I cannot yet answer. But as exhaustion takes me, and my eyes grow heavy, I am struck by the oddest of thoughts.

  I have begun to purr.

  I am a cat.

  TWO

  I wake with a start from a vicious dream. Three figures, their eyes cold, watching me as I sink. No more than that, not that I can recall, and I struggle to make sense of the scene before it fades; of the three figures – men, I am sure – who stand above me. They make no move to help, which does not surprise me. There’s malice in their eyes, and I know they are the reason I am sinking. The reason I am …

  ‘Hey, you want some?’

  I am torn from my reverie by that voice. The girl is extending a dirty hand to me, holding out – can it be? – a chicken wing. The aroma reaches me even as I register what it is, and I realize I am starving. I have never smelled anything more enticing. More meaty. I grab the wing from her and, holding it still against the ground, tear at the flesh. It’s cold. A day old, I gather, and spotted with what tastes like coffee grounds, sour and dark. I do not care, and make quick work of the morsel, bones and all, growling as I eat. I am too hungry to be embarrassed and find myself licking my paws when I am done, as much to lap up every bit of savory fat as to clean my black fur.

  ‘Hungry, weren’t you?’

  Famished, I want to say. Instead, I blink up at her. She’s still eating her piece: a breast that, unless I miss my guess, had already been bitten into before it was discarded. Something about the tearing of the skin. It doesn’t match her mouth, which has a slight overbite. This chicken was discarded. This girl, this child, must be as desperate as I to eat it, and yet she has shared her foraged meal. With me, a cat.

  I want to thank her. To ask her name and how she came to be here, alone and hungry as I am. But the limitations of my species hold me back. I push my head against her, a purr once more rising deep within my chest, and catch the hint of a smile. She understands.

  ‘You’re welcome, Blackie.’ That’s not my name, but never mind. ‘We’re good luck for each other. Don’t you think?’

  I blink up at her and wait. My silence, I know, will bring forth more of an answer than any question I could have formed. She looks around, a furrow forming between her shadowed eyes, and I take in the bank we are sheltered against: a half-formed cave up a small, steep slope from where the water now lies still and muddy. The rain must have stopped while I slept, protected by the overhang. She peers up, blinking as the sun grows brighter, and my curiosity is piqued. The ledge above us sparkles. Asphalt, drying in the sun. We have sheltered by a road, the cause of my near demise its drainage ditch.

  With a leap, I make the ledge. I am warm and dry and have eaten enough, and I’m feeling my strength. But as I raise my head to explore further, hands grab me, pulling me down. It’s the girl, and so I sheathe my claws, waiting for an explanation.

  ‘Let me make sure they’re gone. OK?’

  I flick my tail, annoyed. My senses are more acute than hers, I have no doubt. But since I have no way of asserting this, I simply stare. No, I do not want to meet my attackers again. Those three dead-eyed men. Although the idea that they would lie in wait seems illogical. I was clearly overpowered, overwhelmed by the raging water. Without this girl …

  She is nervous. I should have noticed. The way she has explained herself to me alone may not say much, but now I see how she has bitten her lip raw. Her tongue darts out to wet it, and I do not think it is hunger that makes her salivate, makes her swallow. She may in truth be looking out for me, but she is concerned about her own safety as well.

  Would those three men …? No. Whatever their cruel reasons, they were focused on me. She did not figure in that scene, in my dream. Someone else is hunting her. Someone or something has threatened this odd-looking girl who dragged me from the flood and shared her paltry meal. I lack the means to inquire, but one thing I know: I will protect this girl, if I can. With tooth and claw and whatever instincts I possess.

  With this resolve, I find myself tensing as she stands to peek over the ledge. She grips the asphalt, pulling herself up just so, her worn sneakers finding purchase in the dirt. She may think her actions are covert, but that shocking pink crop gives her away. It has dried while I – while we? – slept, to be lighter, brighter and more elevated than before. If anyone is waiting, it announces her before she would choose to make herself known. I am struck by her lack of awareness. Did nobody ever school this child in self-protection? She has courage, of a sort, but if I were training her …

  ‘All clear.’ She jumps down and turns toward me, reaching out, and I skitter back. She’s hurt; her emotions clear on her pale, young face, and for a moment I am concerned that those big eyes, as green as I sense mine to be, will fill once more with tears. But I am no pet to be hauled about by a human. Not even one that I – yes, I realize it’s true – trust. She stands, letting her hands fall to her side, as if to deny her original intentions. I know somehow that she sees me as cool, my gaze judgmental. I know, just as surely, that I cannot be influenced by her emotions. What matters is that she learns to mask these lapses. That she learns to survive. Turning from her, I leap up to the ledge and wait while she scrambles up beside me.

  ‘OK, then.’ She’s licking her lips again. Anxious, now, rather than sad, and from the way her eyes are darting, not entirely sure of her surroundings. Despite the dirt, the water, the cave that sheltered us overnight, we are in the city. Down by the docks, my nose tells me. The smell of fish and rot would be overpowering if I weren’t used to it. I know this place, though I do not trust it. There will be prey here, and food to scavenge. But I am not the only predator in this stone and asphalt wasteland. Not the only one to haunt the piers.

  We set out, walking along an overpass, a stretch of pitted pavement that bridges the marshy land below. The culvert beside us is now a trickle that runs into a drainage pipe, but the sides of the ditch are steep and worn. Even if I had survived my dunking, I now see I would have been swept out to the harbor. It bothers me that I do not remember how I became immersed, though that memory suggests something other than a hard rain and poor footing.

  No matter. I am not one to dwell on what could have happened but did not. I store away my impressions of the culvert – the pipe, the water. The way erosion has recreated something almost natural here in this urban setting. I look around. A cl
uster of buildings lie ahead, but I can sense which one the girl is leading me to. It looks empty, its windows dark where the glass has shattered. Somehow, I know it isn’t.

  A car whizzes by, as large as a tank. The spray of gravel it kicks up catches my hindquarters. I’m stiff, despite that jump. Of course. In retrospect, it seems obvious. I am older. If I were in my prime I would not have been caught last night. Trapped and nearly drowned in the storm drain.

  The girl’s pace has accelerated, and I trot to catch up in a fashion I realize must seem a tad dog-like. Well, so it is. Despite a certain feline pride, I am not vain. I need to keep an eye on her, my erstwhile savior. There’s an edge to her that I do not understand, and I fear for her until it is resolved.

  She heads toward the building, clambering over a pile of rubble in her way. I leap to its summit to appraise the situation before following. There’s more in the dark than the simple vermin of the waterside locale. Stirring bodies of various sizes announce themselves, to my ears at least. Even in the dim light I see several, the sounds of perhaps a dozen more in rooms beyond. Her entrance as much as the dim sunlight has woken them. With her human senses, she cannot make out all that I do, but she proceeds without fear.

  A pale figure rises to her right. He is tall. Big, but not, I think, one of the three I recall. There is something about him that suggests youth, despite his worn face, the grit that accentuates the lines around his mouth. He is less bulky, less stiff than those three – though how I know this, when I only saw them in silhouette, I cannot say. Outlined against the window, he stretches. I suspect we are supposed to find him cat-like, but his movements are exaggerated. He is hiding something in his assumed nonchalance.