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since I work for him from time to time—mostly when I’m broke. I’m really not suited to the job, though.
    So, much as I hated to involve Victor, it was probably a good idea to do so. A new black practitioner was in town, one with a serious rep, one who even I’d heard of. And contacting me with an offer of employment, for rather flimsy reasons, was worth a closer look. It might mean nothing, but it also might mean quite a lot. Victor would probably be keeping tabs on her already; he has a lot of sources and isn’t often taken by surprise. But he wouldn’t know yet that she had contacted me. He might have a much better handle on why she had called me than I did.
    When I rang him up and told him about my meeting, I expected him to rant on angrily about my not telling him before I went. One of the basic areas of disagreement between us is that he feels I should inform him ahead of time about anything I do that might possibly affect him, and I don’t. But he hadn’t ranted at all; only a slight pause before he said, “Interesting.” Another pause, and then he said, quite politely, “Why don’t you come over for breakfast tomorrow—say nine or so? We should talk about this.”
    Something was not right. Victor seldom bothers to be polite to me; he feels it’s a waste of effort. So either he’d undergone a radical personality transformation in the last few days or he wanted me to do something for him. And as I’d learned over the years, when he wanted something, my own health and well-being was often not his primary concern.
    Eli was already futzing around in the ground-floor kitchen when I arrived at Victor’s Ocean Beach Victorian next morning. Eli is often at the house, since he and Victor are usually working on some project or other. His day gig is at San Francisco State, where he’s a full history professor, which gives him some flexibility. But his convenient presence here just reinforced my suspicion that something was up. He gave me a broad smile and shook his head when he saw I was about to pump him for information. More confirmation.
    Victor was brewing coffee, and Timothy, Victor’s current boyfriend, was busy cooking breakfast. The smell of bacon wafting through the kitchen almost threw Lou into a frenzy. He has a rather unhealthy preoccupation with food anyway, but bacon is his true weakness. It’s like crack for him; I almost think he’d abandon me for a stranger with a rasher of bacon, although he might feel guilty later.
    Maggie, the gray Persian cat, was curled up lazily on a chair seat. She looked up as Lou came in and yawned sleepily. Yawning sleepily is what she does best; sometimes it’s hard to believe she’s an Ifrit like Lou. She rarely leaves the house, although she had helped Lou out once when we were all in danger. She does suit Victor, though—like her, he’s neat and self-possessed, and unlike myself, he doesn’t often need help. I’d be lost without Lou; he’s helped me out of more than a few tight spots.
    Lou walked up and they touched noses briefly. In the past, they hadn’t got along at all, which is unusual for Ifrits, but of late they seemed to have arrived at an understanding. They weren’t exactly great friends, but they were civil to each other. Sort of like Victor and me, only the two of us aren’t always civil.
    “Cheese omelette?” asked Victor as I came in, civil as all get-out.
    He’d lately reverted to his beard of sharp, thin lines, giving up his recent full-coverage look. He seemed to have put on some weight as well—muscle, not fat. A pot-belly on Victor would have been as unthinkable as—well, I can’t think of anything that impossible. Maybe he thought he needed more strength, since he’s a short man, but I’ve seen him fight, and more strength would be an embarrassment of riches. Timothy interrupted his cooking long enough to hand me a cup of coffee.
    “The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast,” I muttered, too low for Victor to