The hilarity of the situation sent us into conniptions. I cackled, my ribs’ fierce complaints bringing tears to my eyes, yet the entire scenario was just too absurdly bizarre to stop. Blake’s laughter, spurred on by my own, had him rolling across the empty street. Erin shook, making high pitched ‘a-a-a’ noises, sounding more bird than person.

It took some time for us to still again. I wiped tears from my eyes, then turned my head to spit more blood at Blake. He deftly avoided the projectile by rolling away and snickered slightly, proceeding to spit back at me. Still immobile, I couldn’t dodge, but he missed horribly anyway. Erin watched the two of us, a wry grin splitting her face.

He rolled back, coming to a halt next to me. “Why ask Erin, anyways?”

She gave him a dirty look, and he backpedalled. “Not that she’s not a lovely lady. I thought you were tryin’ to charm that merchant girl, though.”

“Farmer girl.” I corrected. “She just sells a lot of produce.”

“Damn, you’re really punchin’ up there.”

I gave a grunt of assent. “It’s not working out, anyway. I think she hates me.”

“Why’s that?”

I groaned. “I don’t know. She keeps insulting me, calling me ‘dough boy’ and other food-related names. And she gives me these looks, like I’m some sort of dancing dog.”

“Ouch,” Blake said, shaking his head. “That’s rough. I could-“

“This girl,” Erin interjected. “What’s her name?”

“Jasmine.”

“Does she let you talk to her?”

I shrugged. “She has to. I’m usually a customer.”

“But she doesn’t only talk about what you’re buying, right?”

“I guess.” I raised my head, unsure where she was going.

“And you’ve let her know you like her?”

“I’ve asked her like I asked you, just more.” I paused. “With more giving of food, and less giving of punches.”

Erin hummed thoughtfully. “Is she older than you?”

“By about two or three years.”

She nodded. “That would do it. She probably likes you as a person; she just doesn’t see you as a man.”

I thumped my head back onto the ground. “Great. Excellent, even. Thank you for the reassurance.”

“Well, all you have to do is seem more mature,” she claimed. “It’s not some unsolvable problem.”

“With Orvs, it pretty much is.” Blake interjected.

“Okay, maybe.” Erin agreed, ignoring the scowl I sent her way. “Still, you could… try ignoring her more?”

Blake answered for me. “Huh. That seems dumb.”

“Shut up, Blake.” I retorted. “You’ve got girls all over you without even trying. You know nothing of the common man’s struggles.”

“I try!” claimed Blake.

“You absolutely do not.” I said. Erin nodded in agreement. “I don’t get it. You’re not even good-looking.”

“Well, that’s ‘cause you’ve got bad eyes.” Blake preened.

Erin twisted her hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture. “He’s not bad. It’s more that he spends most of his time working and brawling than anything to do with his face. It makes him seem older and more powerful than he actually is. Being in control of most of the area helps.”

“See Orvs,” Blake grinned, completely ignoring the rest of the girl’s statement. “I’m not bad.”

I spat more blood at him and he laughed.

“So, ignoring her? Do you really think that would make me seem more mature?”

“Well,” Erin responded, crossing her thick arms over her chest. “It’s probably your best bet. It’s less about maturity and more because she probably likes the attention. Being a bit colder might help her think about you more, maybe help her see another side of you. Look, this is all guesswork; I’ve no clue what this girl wants.” She paused, then muttered. “Not like I’m any more popular.”

“It’s still better than nothing.” I assured. She scratched her head and shrugged.

“I guess it is.”

I poked my ribs. They felt a bit better. I sighed, then turned to Erin.

“When did you join the Butcher Street Boys, anyway?”

She scowled. “Stupid name.” I nodded in agreement, Blake adopting an expression of mock outrage. “I ran another gang, but it seemed smarter to join a rising star than scramble around for scraps for much longer.”

“You willingly put yourself under Blake?” I asked.

The teenager in question interjected. “She’s my second. Was one of her demands for joinin’ up.”

“Oh, okay. Is Bran not annoyed?”

He groaned. “Bran was a trash second anyway. Always fight, fight, fight with him.”

I nodded, acquiescing the point. Something wiggled in the back of my brain; there was something I was going to tell Blake. The fight and subsequent fall had obviously knocked the thought loose. I clicked my tongue, then remembered.

“Oh, right. Do you two know the Bushwhack?”

Erin shook her head, while Blake nodded. “That joint you hate?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. It got vandalised. Ma was telling me that Uncle Jackson is probably going to blame you.”

He swore, then eyed me suspiciously. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

I looked away. “Maybe.”

“Gods, Orvs.” Blake slumped to the ground. “You blame us or something?”

“No. I wrote ‘bootlickers’ in dung.”

“What? Why?”

I let out a deep breath. “The place had a bloodtech oven. It was why their prices were so cheap.”

“Damn,” he winced. “I ate there once.”

“Wait, you went there? Even knowing how much I hate it?”

Blake gave me a sheepish look. “It’s cheap!”

“Uh, right.” I exclaimed, trying not to shift nervously. "We're cheap too."

“I’m poor!”

“You’re a poor friend.” I said, trying to deflect from my restaurant's prices.

“C’mon, don’t be like that.”

“So,” Erin interrupted our argument. “Bloodtech. How’s it work, anyway?”

Surprisingly, Blake had an actual answer. “I cracked one open and it had no blood in it. Though it was weird, so I asked around. Alchemist we buy from said it’s made by using an Owlblood’s powers. He reckons some of the stranger gods could do something similar.

“Like, the Spider makes webs, but none of the Spiderbloods can. Lady was sayin’ maybe the Houses were…”

He paused, clicking his fingers. Erin interjected. “Trying to understand how to mimic the gods?”

Blake nodded. “Something like that, yeah. Interesting stuff. Wish it weren’t the Houses bringing it in, though.”

We all nodded. There wasn’t a single Butcher who thought fondly of them. A consequence of being left to rot after their family died in the Houses’ army. Pensions meant nothing when the economy was in shambles.

Erin turned to me. “This Jackson. Is he going to tell the Old Guard we did it?”

“He’s actually just joined it, but…” I shook my head. “He wouldn’t backstab us like that. He’s loyal, and I think the Oxblood only reinforced that.”

Her eyes widened. “He’s an Oxblood? So, what, they forced him into their ranks?”

I let out a breath, thinking. Blake responded in my place. “Sounds right.” At Erin’s curious look, he continued. “I’ve met Jackson a few times. Seemed alright enough. Not the kind to trade pride for profit, anyway.”

I wasn’t so sure. Uncle Jackson hated the Houses, but there was a deeper loathing when he spoke of the gods. An excitement when he told me about the Raven’s death. He had gotten better at hiding over the years, but when I was seven or eight he would freely talk of killing them. The best way to get that sort of opportunity was to join up with a House.

I held my tongue, though. Jackson was family, even if he was part of the Old Guard.

As I turned my focus back to the conversation, I noticed Erin was uncharacteristically heated. Blake shot me a pleading look.

“-really? You’re serious? Maja the Oxblood? She’s Orv’s Ma? You’re absolutely lying. Blooded can’t have children, so where did he come from? She disappeared anyway. There’s-”

“I’m adopted,” I cut her off, hoping to give Blake some room to breathe. “Ma doesn’t advertise her old life often. For obvious reasons.”

Erin slowly turned to me. “You’re absolutely not pulling my leg?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why are you so excited? All the stories make General Maja seem like a frothing monster.”

“Oh, but I don’t think that!” she shook her head rapidly, as if speed would emphasise the point. “It’s just, she’s really impressive, is all. Yeah.”

Blake turned to me. “She has a massive crush on your Ma.”

“What? No!” she gasped. “Not anymore, anyway.”

I snorted lightly. “Believe me, you definitely won’t after you lay eyes on her.”

My rival snickered, and Erin scowled. “I can’t believe you would insult your own mother. Even if she’s not beautiful, I’m not so shallow as to think less of a hero for their appearance.”

Gods. I had met a few people who had tracked Ma down. It was mostly those who hated her, Ma having been stupidly open about putting many of the survivors down. She thumped those, but the few fans I met were much more disturbing. Mostly teenage girls. All the fawning got under my skin.

“Can we stop talking about Ma?”

“Well, would it be okay if I asked a few more things?”

I slammed the back of my head against the floor a few times. “No.” Erin opened her mouth again, but I shushed her. “If you’re interested, just come to our restaurant. I’ll introduce you.”

It was much funnier watching Ma try to handle these kinds of people anyway.

She spent the next few minutes profusely thanking me, and both Blake and I slowly realised that there wouldn’t be any more coherent conversation between the three of us. After making sure I could walk, Blake dragged Erin off to wherever they needed to be next, and I limped my way home.

By the time I got home, it was night. The wind had turned from an irritation to something that cut through to bone. Washing myself in a trough had made me presentable, yet waddling through the city drenched in water had me shivering most of the way home. Every clack of the teeth reminded me I was missing one, and I had to hope I could get by Ma without opening my mouth.

The restaurant was still open when I entered. Ma usually kept the stove on late, even as she sent the rest of us to bed, waiting for the occasional insomniac to enter. Sometimes I would hear her talking to the patrons, however nights were almost always quiet. Ma would sit alone in the empty restaurant, only retiring to bed when the Foot was completely without sound.

Her eyes were closed when I entered, her chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. She was probably meditating. On one of the empty tables was a bowl of mild curry – a favourite of mine, when I was small. Though it was cold, for once, it wasn’t half-eaten.

I grunted a greeting and grabbed the bowl. In our living area, once I was sure she wouldn’t follow, I began eating. It was familiar. Curry wasn’t ordered often, so I hadn’t had it in years. A very gentle, nostalgic taste. As I finished, I felt a surge of guilt.

Beneath the rickety ladder, I listened for any sign Dash was still awake. Hearing nothing, I climbed carefully upwards. Undressing would be too noisy, so I simply fell into bed.

Staring at the shadows in the attic ceiling, I tongued the gum where my tooth once sat. It was already growing back.