A Terrible Fall of Angels (Zaniel Havelock #1)(84)

“I don’t remember when I couldn’t hear other people’s thoughts,” he said, and upended his teacup like you’d finish off liquor, or maybe his was getting cold, too.

“I remember that your parents brought you into the College to see if the angels could help you.”

He flashed me a smile and asked, “Could I have another cup?”

“I’ll make us a pot if you want.”

“Do you have a real teapot?”

I grinned and went to the cabinet over the microwave. I got down a carefully covered bundle and set it on the cabinet by the stove.

“Is that a tea cozy on it?” he asked, and sounded happy again like I hadn’t heard him in so long. I didn’t want the serious sad coming back; it made me feel like the positive change was only temporary. I wanted it to last.

“Yes, though I like thinking of them as tea sleeping bags,” I said, and lifted off the deep blue tea cozy.

He laughed again, head back and just so happy. “I’d forgotten that we used to call them tea sleeping bags when we were little, and how did you get a nice heavy teapot like Master Sarphiel had?”

“I sent away to England for it when we bought our house.” I pushed the thought away that Reggie had packed it up in a box with some other things she thought I’d need in the apartment, as if I wouldn’t need a big teapot at the house anymore.

“What did Master Sarphiel here call it, a Brown Betty?”

“Yes, though since this one is a deep blue is it still a Brown Betty, or is it a Blue Betty?”

He chuckled. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. It takes me back to those endless pots of tea when we were all still together before we had to choose specialties.”

I nodded. “I’ve told Connery it’s a tea cozy, but when he asked what that meant, I told him it was a sleeping bag for the teapot to keep it warm.”

“Does he call it a tea sleeping bag?”

“He says, ‘Don’t forget the sleeping bag, Daddy. The tea needs to be warm.’ ”

“That’s great, I’m sorry I scared him the last time. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t mean to.”

The sadness started to slip back over his face as I put enough water in the teakettle to fill the big pot. “You can feel my questions, so I’ll just ask, how did your head get so quiet? How did you clean up and get . . . better?”

He smiled, chasing back the shadow in his eyes. “I was sleeping in an alley, I’m not even sure where I was exactly, but I woke up and there were people standing over me. I thought I was going to get robbed or beaten up again.”

I fought to keep my face neutral at the again. I’d taken him to the emergency room at least five times myself. I’d hated that he wouldn’t stay in the shelters where he was safer, not safe, I knew better, but safer than that.

“But they didn’t hurt you?”

“They were prophets,” he said, his face sliding into that seriousness again.

“Oh,” was all I said, because street prophets could be just another name for crazy homeless person, except that they thought they had the ear of God, or the angels, or a saint, or even occasionally the devil. A lot of schizophrenics thought they heard the voice of God; how did you tell delusion from true prophecy?

“I know what you’re thinking, Z. They were the real deal.”

“I thought you couldn’t read my thoughts.”

“I don’t need to; that little oh and the way you go all stiff through the shoulders, that was enough.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult the prophets.”

“I know some of them are crazy like I was, but in between the crazy some of us truly do hear the angels, or spirits and powers of one kind or another.” He was getting sullen again. I had a glimpse of what his face must have looked like behind the beard and hair all these years. There was a sourness to it that looked wrong on his shaved face, as if the old crazy Jamie was getting mixed up with the original Jamie, which I guess was exactly what was happening. Even if he stayed sane from this day on, the years on the street had to have left their mark.

I sat back down across from him this time, because I wanted to see his expression full on. “What did the prophets tell you?”

“That I needed to go to a shop and talk to a woman who worked there.”

“What shop?”

He gave me a sly smile that had always been edged with beard before this; I didn’t like the smile still being in him. It was an unpleasant smile, the one that meant he was usually about to say something crazy, or mean, or both. I prayed that whatever he said next wouldn’t be either.

He looked confused. “Part of me wants to say I bet you’d like to know, or It’s none of your business, but it’s like habit. It’s not what I want to say to you.”

“What do you want to say to me?” I asked, trying to keep my voice and face neutral so I didn’t trigger any negative urges in him.

“I want to tell you about the shop and that Emma works there. She does reiki and reads tarot. The prophets told me a woman wearing a rose would help me close my shields so I could be alone inside my head.” The confusion moved to something else, something that didn’t quite believe in going to look for a woman with a rose.