Page 64 of Ride the Storm (Cassandra Palmer 8)

“No.” He rooted around in the fridge. “Fish tacos?”

“Sounds good.”

He stuck a nose in the container and made a face. “It wouldn’t if you smelled them.”

They hit the garbage can.

“Don’t you have anyone to cook for you? A girlfriend?”

; “War mage,” he reminded me, sniffing a take-out bag. And rearing back, his eyes watering. “I gotta clean out this fridge.”

“So war mages don’t get the women?” I asked, only half joking. Because Caleb was a damn good catch. Handsome, brave, a world traveler—more than one world now—and judging by the apartment, he wasn’t broke. But if there were any feminine touches around here, I didn’t see them.

Even the artwork on the walls were line drawings, black on white and black-framed, more architectural than strictly beautiful. Sort of like the man himself: solid, straightforward, but more interesting than you’d expect when you got to know him.

“Women like security,” he told me. “Safety—”

“What’s safer than being married to a war mage?”

“—for their man, as well as for themselves. They don’t like going to bed not knowing if he’s gonna be there when they wake up, or if he’s ever gonna be there again.”

“Cops have wives,” I pointed out. “And soldiers—”

“And they face some of the same kind of thing. But it’s worse for us. Some of the stuff we work on . . . they can’t be told what happened to us, when we don’t come back. They may never be told. It’s . . . difficult.”

“So war mages don’t settle down?”

“Some do. Some marry other war mages. Some get divorced and drink too much.” He shrugged.

“Makes me wonder why anybody does the job at all.”

“I’ve often thought the same thing about Pythias.”

I made a face.

And then made a different one when a plate was handed over the counter.

It was a retrospective of Caleb’s weekly intake. But since he wasn’t as much of a health nut as Pritkin, there was actual food on there: broccoli beef still in its little carton, potato salad, dim sum balls stuffed with barbecued pork, chicken shawarma . . . and some of the requested amaretto cookies.

I dug in and Caleb watched me over the counter while sipping his own mug of coffee.

“So why can’t you just ask the old man for the potion?” he finally said.

I swallowed. “Because I’ve tried trusting Jonas lately, and it hasn’t gone well. I thought we had an understanding, but then he snuck Lizzie away this morning, before I got back, so now I don’t know.”

“You could ask him. See what he says.”

“Yeah, I could,” I agreed, around a mouthful of chicken. “Only I already did that a couple days ago, and didn’t get anywhere. He claimed he didn’t have any more, and maybe he doesn’t. Or maybe he does, and he doesn’t want to give it to me. He’s afraid I’m going to go off somewhere and get myself killed, like I can’t do that here!”

There was silence for another minute while I shoveled food into my face. It finally stretched long enough that I looked up and found Caleb regarding me moodily. “What?”

“You won’t like it.”

“Well, there’s a switch.”

He sighed and ran a hand over his head. It was the cue ball look today, so the recessed lights were shining on a slick dome that looked like it had too much to think about. At least if the wrinkles on the forehead were anything to go by.