A Terrible Fall of Angels (Zaniel Havelock #1)(81)

I knew he meant Surrie, him, and me. “Yeah, Suriel was surprised, too.”

“You’ve seen Surrie? Where? When?”

I mentally cursed myself for just blurting it out. “Tell me how you got better, and I’ll tell you how I ran into Surrie.”

His face crumpled and I watched an echo of the crazy Jamie in his eyes. “Suriel came to give us her expertise on a demon-related case today, that’s all.” It wasn’t all, but I wanted to chase away that shadow in his eyes. I’d fill in the blanks after I got him talking about something else.

“So she stayed an Infernalist,” he said, face serious and sad, and his eyes still not good.

“Yes.”

“How was she?”

“She’s third in line of all the Infernalists.”

“I knew she’d do well at whatever she chose.” It was almost an echo of what I’d thought, but he didn’t look happy about it. He looked sad, worse.

I thought about telling him that I’d see Harshiel and Turmiel, too, but he’d never been friends with them, and his eyes still didn’t look right. I wanted him well more than I wanted to talk about anyone at the College. I got the cheese out of the fridge, slicing some samples off the three kinds of cheese I had. I handed him a taste of muenster. He took it without thinking about it and ate it the same way. The moment he tasted it his eyes cleared. I’d noticed over the years that sometimes food could bring him back out of whatever trap his mind had become. It never brought him back completely; Gordon Ramsay couldn’t have fixed a meal that would have cured him, but food helped, especially if he hadn’t been eating enough.

“That’s good, muenster, right.”

“Yeah,” I said and handed him a piece of the Old Croc cheddar, though it wouldn’t melt well enough for a panini.

“Okay, that’s amazing, what is it?”

“Old Croc cheddar, it doesn’t melt well, but I can cut some with crackers for us to snack on while I cook the sandwiches.”

“Yes, please,” he said, and he looked happy again. His eyes were clearing of that shadow. He was better, so much better, but the broken bits were still inside him. I guess we never really get rid of the broken pieces; we heal, but the scar tissue stays to remind us of what happened.

I put the cheese and crackers on a small plate. They were supposed to be salad plates, but I’d never seen anyone serve salads on them; desserts yes, salads no. Reggie had explained to me that the tiniest plates in our wedding china were supposed to be the dessert plates.

“You look sad, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“Did you know this is supposed to be a salad plate?” I said.

He looked down at the cheese and crackers, which were half gone. I almost told him that he was going to ruin his dinner as if he were Connery. Instead I reached for a cracker and a chunk of cheese, before he finished them all. If we shared, then neither of us would ruin our dinners.

“I thought it was for desserts.”

“Me, too, but according to my wife they’re salad plates and the really tiny plates are the dessert plates.”

“You thought about Regina, that’s why you looked sad,” Jamie said. His dark eyes studied my face as if they could see inside my head to every thought, which had been true once, before he lost the gift along with his mind. He’d tested so high on the Methodius scale that teachers had compared him to Bachiel, who stayed in his high tower and listened to thoughts of the human world. It was a rare gift to be able to see angels and read human thoughts.

“Did you hear me thinking?” I asked.

“No, I am thankfully alone inside my head. It is so quiet, so peaceful inside me right now. Blessedly so.” He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh of contentment.

“I’m glad,” I said, and meant it, but I had so many more questions that I wanted answered; I was just afraid that too many questions would undo the peace inside him.

“Is that supposed to be smoking?” he asked, pointing back at the stove.

“Crap!” I grabbed the pan off the heat and flipped the sandwich over. The bread wasn’t black, but it wasn’t the light golden brown I’d been aiming at either.

“I guess this one is mine,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I’m the cook and I burned it.”

“I’m not sure I follow your reasoning, but okay.” He took another piece of cheddar, broke it in half and put it on a cracker.

I put a second sandwich together and lowered the heat before I put it back on the flame. I watched this one more carefully, turning it over when the bread was a golden brown and not burned. By the time I had it finished, the Old Croc cheddar was gone, the plate empty except for two lonely crackers. I’d have offered him more cheese, but the sandwich was done. I plated it and set it down in front of him, trying not to grin as he said, “Smells great, Z.”

I did grin then, because it had been his nickname for me since we were small. Suriel had never liked it, said it wasn’t dignified. She’d always cared more about stuff like that even at eleven.

“Thanks, Lev,” I said, using his old nickname.

He shook his head. “Levi is short enough, Z, maybe someday I’ll earn the other name back, but let’s not jump the gun.”

“Okay . . . Levi.”