ALL THE BOYS ARE SMOKING MENTHOLS [tax]

Stoatclaw was already curling his lip in disgust, so he began to bare his teeth outright at the queen’s suggestion of entering the nursery. He’d set paw inside before to make sure that his kits were raised the way he’d wanted—and StarClan forbid he never have the chance to spot the disaster that was Peachpaw ahead of time—but it was not a place he went for conversation. Stoatclaw found most of his Clan-mates to be less than tolerable, and many were unforgiveably small-minded when it came to planning out the future. They liked their tradition, but not the idea of burning a path for offspring the way Stoatclaw had planned. Some spat words like “controlling” and “cruel” and “obsessive” at him—there was a reason he wanted to talk to Littlecloud. Notoriously uninvested in Clan-life that she was, she was not likely to just gossip or scoff at his suggestions.

“Good,” Stoatclaw growled, glad that she saw reason without much prodding and was going to exit the den. The tom moved back a few pawsteps, turning impassive amber eyes down on the small cat with a snort of disgust. He nodded at the kill, refusing to acknowledge that she was almost as easy to please as a kittypet. She still had warrior blood, she would do fine.

Even so, this did not stop the fury that flared through him at her words. How dare this tiny, pathetic excuse for a Clan-cat forget his name! Stoatclaw pulled himself to his full height and bared his teeth and a furious hiss, “Stoatclaw—my name is Stoatclaw. Fair enough, we haven’t discussed much with one another.”

The anger in his posture and face did not ebb, despite his words. He turned his face toward the leader’s den and growled under his breath. If it weren’t for Falconstar choosing Hazelclaw as deputy no cat would question his name or presence. Not even Littlecloud. Lashing his tail he turned his eyes fiercely on the plump queen.

“I have need for your litter-bearing skills. I know you’re a permanent queen and thus want to make sure you are absolutely open for when Pearpaw becomes a warrior.” Stoatclaw was not going to beat around the bush. The tom angled his ears in the direction of the apprentice’s den, wondering if he should have brought his son to the she-cat if only to introduce them. “I don’t suppose you recall who Pearpaw was, even though he was recently in the nursery himself?”

The words were dry and irritated, but he barreled on angrily without confirmation from the she-cat.

“I want you to bear his kits once he gains his warrior name. I must have grandchildren, and Pearpaw seems… unfocused in the department of finding a suitable mate. I’ve taken it upon myself to do it for both of my kits, that way I can ensure my bloodline continues on,” Stoatclaw meowed gruffly. The tom paused and then continued with a sneer, “How lucky for you that I’ve decided to include you with such an honorable task.”