Just as I was pulling out a stool, I spotted Peeto sidling back into the food line, bowl in hand. Likely gonna claim his first dropped on the floor. No way I could call him out here in the Mess. Besides, I wanted to hear what was up with these guys. Peeto had to wait.

“Little snake!” I slid into the space between Spunk and Rubio, hoping to diffuse the tension a little.

Rube’s arm jerked. “Who, me?”

Did I say it out loud? “No! Sorry!” Get a grip, Glim! “What’s with those guys at Blue?”

“Pissant heroics.” Rubio shoveled more scrambled egg into his mouth. He had a stretched-out sweatshirt layered over his street tee, so probably his chills were back. “They can’t believe someone out there’s daring to diss them.”

“Louka’s beery boyfriend.”

He snorted. “Breeding will tell . . .”

“Listen.” I leaned in close. “I had a chat in the showers you need to hear about, but not here.” The noise swelled over at Blue. “Are they serious about a reprisal raid?”

Rube grimaced across the litter of mugs and porridge bowls. “They seem to think so.”

“Against who?”

“Ain’t figured that out yet, have they.”

“And Rousseau’s cool with it?”

“Hmmm. An interesting question. Rather an overt challenge to his non-aggression policy, wouldn’t you say?”

That irked me. “So you support this mayhem because it makes trouble for Rousseau?”

“Of course I don’t support it. But I am curious about how it will play out.”

“Careful whacha wish fer,” muttered Spunk, scraping the last bit of rice from his bowl.

Across the table, Jake was running an old storm story for Sam, a dramatic and personal version with himself as the star. As he got into it, his posture lightened and the moody angles of his face lost years. I loved watching Jake perform. Easy then to imagine him framed on screen, sculpted by sidelight, romancing some starlet.

“. . . the rain was pounding way up in the grid. We really had to project. Maybe forty people in the house. The stage manager wanted to call the show, but the second act had just gone up and we all said, no, no, no, we can . . .”

I tuned in with one ear, having heard it before.

Spunk screeched his chair closer and jutted his whiskery horse-chin. He was bare-armed in a tank top. He never felt cold. “Someone steal yer lunch?”

“What?” Steal? My shoulders slid into lockdown. “What d’you mean?”

“Yer frownin’ fit ta beat.”

“Me? Oh. Just listening to Jake.”

He grinned. “Dat’ll do it, alright.”

I didn’t really believe Spunk could read my mind, but sometimes, ’specially when he fixed those sleepless eyes on me, he came way too close. I straightened up and waved my fork toward Blue. “Hard to eat with all that going on!”

He threw a hard stare down the hall. “S’like dey jess learned dey got balls.”