Niko rode shotgun while Teddy drove himself to his apartment complex, a rambling batch of ratholes in the worst part of Apricot. It was past midnight, but the noodle shops and taquerias were open, their neon signs fuzzy in the wet fog. The smell of grease scented the mist when Niko walked around the front of the Pig and got into the driver’s seat.

He and Teddy would be seeing each other the next night because Niko gave into the temptation of seeing Coffey fight again.

Niko drove home to the Fix-It Shoppe, in Old Town, in a strip mall off Main Street. It was small triangular parking lot, and they fought about parking, all the time. He was glad the normal spot for the Pig was open.

In the strip mall, shops were at the rear end of the triangle, all of them two stories. All were still open, their own neon signs in various stages of flickering. To the left was the Punjab Conveniently, in the middle was the Happy Noodle, and the Fix-It Shoppe took up the last two spaces. The pagoda roof of the restaurant swept its eaves over the entire set of buildings. The Happy Noodle’s second floor housed more tables and a balcony, while the second floor of the other shops were apartments. Pete’s room was right next to the Happy Noddle, and it could get loud there.

Niko had no idea why his parent’s store was still open. As for the Happy Noodle and the Punjab Conveniently, they were looking for the bar traffic. They’d close when the two-a.m. traffic slowed to a trickle.

The worst neon sign, by far was the Punjab Conveniently, a tiny grocery store ran by a Sikh family. Gobind Singh wouldn’t waste money on something as petty as a nice sign. Gobind was the worst about parking, a turbaned, bearded scowling man. They’d basically known each other for decades, but you’d never know it. Even Teddy had trouble with the guy, and he’d been working at the store for a couple of years now.

The Zhao family were the exact opposite.

The owners of the restaurant were far more friendly, and they swapped noodles for Polish food all the time. And then, on the right end, was the Fix-It Shoppe. They had leased two spaces. If only Niko’s family had bought it twenty years ago. Real estate in the Bay Cities had boomed and boomed again. Their landlord, Ana Silva, was an ancient woman, as Portuguese as Mrs. Villareal was. As long as she held on, things wouldn’t change much. The minute she died, the hope was each of the families could possibly buy their stores and the apartments above. Or it could be, once Mrs. Silva passed, her family would kick them all out, and some developer would scrape the land, and put up a skyrise of apartments. More and more, people were building upward in the Bay Cities, since the Cambion Crisis had pushed everyone into the urban centers.

When Niko saw the lights on the Fix-It, he sighed. He just wanted to go to bed. What were his parents still doing up? Probably worrying over Pete. The entire family did that, except for Pete himself, and Aleksy, the eldest, who had turned tail and fled the family drama.

Niko went through the front door. The bell tickled, and it was all so familiar. That was good and bad—annoying and comforting and somewhat stifling. To his right, customer electronics filled a metal shelf, tags on each of the devices. TVs, computers, DVD players, and some cell phones. The place smelled like it always did, a little grease from the Happy Noodle, the ghost of his parent’s dinner they’d cooked in the apartment above, and the slight metallic stink of the Whitney units.

Directly in front was Tato’s desk filled with papers orbiting two monitors. Long fluorescent lights gave the place an industrial feeling. Pictures of their Polish ancestors hung from the walls as did a few certificates Tato had gotten from tech school—an American diploma and one from Kraków where he’d grown up.

Tato was at his desk, reading glasses perched on his big nose. He’d let his white beard grow, and he had a full head of hair. He wore his khakis and button-up shirt, like always, white hair poking out of the collar. His big belly pressed against the gunmetal drawer of the desk, like a decommissioned aircraft carrier.

At the bell, his mom came out of the backroom, which was nothing more than electronics piled floor to ceiling, as was the space next to them. Those back offices also had a variety of Whitneys, containing extra daemons they could swap out, which is what they did most of the time.

Mamo Kowalczyk was a big woman as well, with brown hair going gray, and a round, smiling face. And a very Polish nose, a ridge at the top, flaring down to wide nostrils. Her smile made you forget about the nose. Niko took after his father, but Pete had the nose, as did Aleksy. Or he did. A little Rhinoplasty later, and his beak was a lot smaller.

“Niko!” Mamo said. “Did everything go all right with the client?”

“Yeah, her drode went out on her PC. It took five minutes. I said we’d send her a bill.” Niko put his satchel down at his own desk, off to the left, a little wooden space that he kept clean. He had a monitor from this century flanked by antique lamps. It had a certain charm to it, but Niko rarely sat there. He was mostly out, driving around, handling customers.

Tato leaned back, his chair squeaked, and again, it was all so familiar. He gave his stomach a sharp slap. “Good. We can charge afterhours prices. That’s good. If it weren’t for the Villareals, I don’t know what we’d do.”

Mamo leaned against the doorframe. She rarely sat. Her desk was in the back room, crammed between the stairs leading to their apartments and the alley door, where the dumpsters were. Highrise condos butted up against the alley. “Did you eat?”

That was Mamo Kowalczyk, asking about food. “There’s leftover Golumpki. I could warm some up for you.”

It was tempting. She made good Golumpki, spicy meat wrapped in cabbage leaves, but the cherry pie had filled him up. And if he were hungry, he could get the Singapore noodle bowl from the Zhaos. Lots of greasy carbs before bedtime was always comforting and gave Niko interesting dreams.

“No, I ate.” Niko paused. “Cherry pie. Any word from Pete?”

Mamo shook her head. Tato let out a hiss. “Nothing. That boy. I don’t know what we’re going to do about him.”

That was an understatement.

“How was your battle convention?” Mamo asked.

He could say fine. He could just go to bed. But the roar of the audience, Mrs. Villareal’s warnings about regret, and Teddy’s encouragement made him rethink that. “I fought today, at the Con, just a quick one-round match.”

Tato dropped his glasses on the desk. His smile made his eyes shine. “You did? Did you win? Who did you fight? What was the Zenith spin? Tell me everything.”

“Are you okay?” Mamo asked, her expression hard to read.

“I’m fine. Tired, though. I haven’t fought in a long time.”

“Five years!” Tato swung around. “It’s been five years. Of course, you’re tired. How did it go?”

Niko gave them a brief summary. He left out getting to his feet when he was at zero sharira. That would worry them.

“How did it feel, Niki?” Mamo asked. Again, was the concern or suspicion in her voice?

He couldn’t tell. He felt like he was five years old again. “It felt good.” No, that wasn’t right. He had to be honest with himself. “It felt great. Andrew J. Coffey asked to see me. He invited me to a critique group in the city. Barton Hennessey uses it to look for talent.”

Mamo crossed her arms. Concern or suspicion?

Tato leapt to his feet. “Wait, the Andrew J. Coffey? I saw him fight a dozen years ago. He wasn’t such a big deal back then, but now? And you said Barton Hennessey? We talked to him. Do you remember? It was your senior year. You were at the state tournament in Angel City. He was very interested in you. Did he remember you?”

“He did.” Niko gazed at his mother while Tato hugged him. “The critique group meets on Wednesday nights. If it was local, I could take the on-call phone, but it’s in the City. I’d be gone all night. Teddy did offer to help with calls. He could use the extra money.”

“So could we,” Mamo said softly. Okay, she was both concerned and suspicious. “We cannot rely on Peter. If only we could.”

Tato didn’t let that bit of darkness dim his excitement. “A little vodka to celebrate!” He left Niko and went to the back room and up the stairs. They heard him tromping up above them.

Mamo shook her head. “Niko, this might not be a good time for this. I know, the Arts are important to you, they always have been. And your tato and I, we know it’s been hard for you. It’s just…”

“You don’t want me to get my hopes up.” Niko stood there awkwardly. He and his mother were on the exact same page.

“I don’t want to see you hurt.”

She didn’t mean physically—the Arena Masters and their Assistants kept Artists safe.

Tato came tromping back with shot glasses and his bottle of Żołądkowa Gorzka, the liquor inside a honey-golden color rather than clear. It was big news for Tato to bring out the Żołądkowa Gorzka.

He poured each of them a tiny bit in the shot glasses on his desk. “I heard this talk of hurt. And yes, there will be hurt. But Niko is a man, now. He can decide. And we can get by. Yes, I am not too old to drive the Pig, and Mamo, refuses, but Peter will come around.”

There was more to it than that. Mamo had been attacked during a call, the police had been involved, and she’d sworn off home visits ever since.

Tato continued. “And if not Peter, then Teddy. He is driving our van all the time anyway. Insurance be damned! We can do a tax form on him. It will work out. My Niko, fighting again. And Barton Hennessey will see his talent.” Tato snapped his fingers. “Monday, Niko, you should go to the apothecary, Wochick’s. He can evaluate your prana, and I know, I know, you don’t believe tinctures, but you need to get your strength back.”

Mamo tsked at the idea of tinctures, not because she didn’t see them as valid, but because they were expensive.

Niko’s father raised his glass.

Mamo took hers, and Niko went forward, and gripped his. It was cold because the vodka bottle had come out of the freezer. Every Polish house had vodka in the freezer just like they had too much silverware and too many plates.

Normally, Tato would toast with a hearty, “Za nas!” which translated as “to us!”

This time, he went with, “Na drugą nogę!”

For the second leg!

Usually, that was a toast to drink more. This time, it meant something different.

Tato drained his glass in a single gulp. Mamo sipped hers. As did Niko. The alcohol, a sweet orange and clove taste, went down smooth, with only a slight burn. His belly glowed warm.

Mamo flipped the close sign and shut off the outside lights.

“You guys have to lock the door,” Niko said. “You shouldn’t be open so late. It’s not like we get foot traffic.”

Mamo locked the doors.

They made their way upstairs, into the cramped space. The furniture was all wood from Poland, piled with knick-knacks. The windows didn’t have shades or blinds, nothing so American, but firanki, lacy curtains that let in the sun.

His parents had the big room and their own bathroom in the back of the apartment overlooking the alley. Niko’s own bathroom and room were off the kitchen. He walked past dishes piled in the sink, to his little closet of a bedroom. He’d had to share it with Pete for most of his childhood. Bunkbeds had been involved. Now, Niko had his own single bed, and Pete had Aleksy’s old room, across the living room next to the Noddle House.

Niko didn’t mind. He liked the small space. All of his things had their place, his bed was made, and he slumped down on to it. No brushing his teeth. No washing his face. He was still far too tired for that. He wished he had implants, or at least a pair of eGlasses, to check his stats. That was unlikely ever to happen. He’d have to see Dr. Wochick and hope the apothecary didn’t berate him too much. Or got too nosy. Neither the doctor nor Niko’s parents knew the damage he’d done to himself five years ago.

Niko meant to keep it that way.

He wasn’t going to think about.

He gave his Playstation a quick glance. He considered playing Twelve Legends, but he could do that in the morning.

Laying on his back, he grinned up at the familiar water marks in the ceiling above him. Had the day really happened? Was he really going to start down the path of the Artist again?

He was.

That meant returning to the Artist Discipline.

Every muscle ached. He ignored his exhaustion.

Going to his closet, he opened the doors, reached beyond his shoes, to a cardboard box. He drew it out. On top were his dusty Battle Artist robes. Underneath, his meditation mat.

He grabbed it and laid the carpet out on the hardwood floor in front of his door between his bed and his bookcase.

Before he sat, he drew hand over the woven fibers of a man with two faces, the Gemini sign. Taylor had given him the carpet. She would be so happy for him, so proud, so encouraging. If only she were still around.

He sat down, legs crossed, hands in position. He concentrated on his breath, breathing in through his nose, and out through his mouth. He counted to twelve, one breath for each of the Battle Artists signs. And then he started again at one. He went through, saying a sign, then counting one to twelve, over and over. When he was relaxed, he cycled his prana for the first time in a long time. At times, he used a bit of prana to fix things or to adjust daemons but not often, and mostly, his core sat dormant.

Inside, his energy was sluggish and sore. He was lucky that the fight at MudCon hadn’t damaged his already fractured core.

The cycling was as agonizing as it was wonderous.

And that was the Battle Arts.

Before he went to bed, he wondered what Dr. Wochick would think of his return to the Arts. It wouldn’t be good. Dealing with the apothecary was brutal.