"No." Margrit looked at her hands. "Not tonight."

"Maybe you should. Not that I want to encourage you to do stupid things, but you sound like the dog died." Cole picked up a dish towel, drying his hands, then folded his arms across his chest. "What’s wrong?"

"I’m thinking about taking another job." The idea formulated as she spoke.

Disbelief shot Cole’s voice into a higher register. "You’re kidding. What, did a position open up in the D.A.’s office? I thought you and Legal Aid were bound in holy matrimony."

"Not with public services at all. I saw Eliseo Daisani yesterday, and he offered me a job again." Margrit’s temples throbbed badly enough that she touched one, expecting to feel the vein popped beneath her skin.

"Elis- the Eliseo Daisani?" Cole asked, as though there were several possibilities, and as though he’d never said it before. Margrit smiled faintly, which did nothing to alleviate her headache. A headache was a malady, the sort of thing Daisani’s blood should wipe away. Maybe it didn’t work when the aches and pains were born of tension.

"That one, yeah. The very, very rich one."

"The very rich one who used to date your mother?"

Margrit winced. "If that’s what they did, yeah, I guess so. I try not to think about why my mother knows him, Cole. You’re not helping."

"Just wanted to make sure I had the right Daisani, Grit." Cole crossed the kitchen to crouch in front of her, taking her hands in his. "Why in the hell would you do that?"

For a fleeting moment Margrit considered telling the truth : I’m about to have a dragon pissed off at me for failing to protect his liegeman djinn, and the gargoyle I thought would help me has walked away. The vampire’s all I’ve got left. Daisani was the only person who could protect her if she failed to keep Malik alive. Moreover, if Daisani was behind Janx’s lieutenants’ deaths, maybe she could use herself as a bargaining chip to protect Malik. And Kaimana Kaaiai wanted her to be his courier between Janx and Daisani, anyway. Working for Daisani would only make that easier.

Margrit pulled her hands from Cole’s and pressed them to her face. "I’m defending this guy," she said into her palms. "He’s a complete bastard, a total son of a bitch. A rapist. The good news is I’m going to lose. Evidence is completely on the prosecutor’s side, and my guy’s too fucking dumb to take a plea. But I’m in there doing my best to get him off, because that’s my job, and Jesus, Cole, what kind of job is that?" She looked up through her fingers, finding his worried eyes studying her. "I don’t know. Maybe it’s just finally getting to me."

The worst of it was that the argument sounded plausible to her own ears, and from the sympathy tempering Cole’s expression, it resonated with him, as well. Margrit sighed. "Compared to that, a posh office with a park-side view and a big fat paycheck’s starting to sound pretty good."

"Ah, c’mon, Grit," Cole said gently. "Daisani’s building doesn’t even overlook the park."

Margrit exhaled a soft burst of laughter, winning a smile from her housemate before he asked, "You eaten recently?"

"Um…" She tipped her head back, stretching her throat. "Not since lunch, I guess. I don’t even remember if I ate lunch."

"Then you probably didn’t. You never forget a meal." Cole pushed himself upright and went to the fridge. "Cam’ll be home in a few minutes. You can have some dinner and we can talk about it. This is kind of out of nowhere, Grit, and you shouldn’t be making decisions with low blood sugar." He left the fridge door open as he pulled leftovers out, taking a newly washed plate from the dish rack to pile scalloped potatoes and ham onto it. Margrit watched silently, trying to push down an overwhelming rise of emotion that made her nose sting and her chest feel full.

"I could do that myself, you know," she said thickly. "I’m a hundred-percent capable of using a microwave."

"You’re fine where you are. Have you talked to Tony about this job change idea, Grit? Your parents? Russell?"

"Nobody. Just you." Margrit got up to close the fridge and leaned on its broad orange surface.

Cole glanced over his shoulder at her. "So you’re trying the idea on for size."

"I guess." She folded an arm around her ribs and bent the other up, pressing her knuckles against her mouth. "Did you always want to be a pastry chef?"

Cole chuckled. "We’re not making this about me, Grit. But yeah, I guess. I used to get under Mom’s feet in the kitchen. By the time I was fourteen I did most of the baking at home."

Margrit dropped her knuckles enough to grin. "That must’ve gone over well with the guys."

"Remember I grew up in San Francisco. Everybody just assumed I was gay." Cole grinned back. "Actually, nobody cared if I was queer as long as I fed them, so it went over fine with the guys." His smile broadened. "It went over even better with the girls. Anyway, people were always telling me I should be a chef, but I wanted to bake, not cook, and it took forever to get the idea there were jobs specifically for bakers."

"Hence the dust-gathering business degree?"

"Pretty much. I thought it’d be good to finish that up in case baking didn’t pay the bills. But yeah, it’s what I’ve always liked doing. No mid-career crisis." The microwave dinged and Cole took a plate of steaming food out and slid it toward Margrit. "Your dinner, madame."

"It’s a little early for me to have a mid-career crisis. Thank you." She took a fork from the clean dishes and broke up the scalloped potatoes, leaning in to inhale the steam. Her stomach rumbled and she pressed a hand against it, laughing weakly. "Guess I’m hungry."

"You’re always hungry. I’ve seen you eat a five course meal and look for a snack twenty minutes later. I don’t know why you don’t weigh three hundred pounds."

"Because I run in the park every night," Margrit said reasonably. Cole made a face, then looked pleased as she took a bite of potato and sighed contentedly. "S’ferry good," she promised around the mouthful.

"Of course it is. Okay, Grit. Tell me something." Cole elevated an eyebrow in challenge and Margrit nodded agreement around another mouthful. "How much of this job change idea is about Tony?"

The bite or two she’d taken turned heavy in her stomach. Margrit straightened up, feeling heat come to her cheeks and doubting she could blame the warm meal. "Tony?"

"Yeah, Tony. The guy who called here four times this evening trying to invite you to dinner."

"He-crap. I thought he was working. I thought-why didn’t he call my cell?"

"He did. You didn’t answer."

"Crap." Margrit closed her eyes and pushed the food away. "I turned the ringer off while I was in court. I didn’t see any messages from him when I checked earlier."

"It was hours ago now. So come on, ’fess up. How much of this has to do with him? I know you two’ve been trying to stabilize things."

"And my job’s a sore point." Margrit looked back at the potatoes, unable to find an answer. The easiest one was to let Cole believe he was right. It rankled, though, in a way that pretending the morality of defending criminals bothered her didn’t. If she’d been pretending. For a disconcerting moment, Margrit was unsure whether she had been or not. "I really hate the idea of giving up my job for a guy," she finally said.

"You would." Wryness colored Cole’s response. "It’s archaic. Nobody’s going to give you a hard time, Grit, you know that, right?"

"Yeah." Margrit wet her lips and tried for a smile as she looked at her dark-haired housemate. Guilt stabbed her, though, and she dropped her eyes again. She hadn’t lied, but she’d given Cole a neutral statement that could easily-obviously-be interpreted as an agreement to his hypothesis. It was a wonderful trick to pull off in a court. Using it against a friend made her feel tired.