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“Thank you,” he says, “for asking me to.”

The kitchen light hums overhead. Outside, the halls stay properly, peacefully empty, nobody left to notice anything strange about the enormous, handsome, faintly self-conscious shadow lord sitting at my kitchen table. He’s just discovered, the hard way, that peanut butter goes on the inside of a sandwich.

I decide, watching him, that I could get used to Easters like this.

Outside, somewhere past the empty car park, a fox screams once, sharp and sudden, and neither of us so much as flinches. Just the two of us, a kitchen table, cooling tea, a plate of terrible, wonderful toast between us. Whatever’s waiting for me once term starts up again, exams and essays and the ordinary business of being twenty-something in Bristol, I think this evening is always going to be rather special.

That’s assuming I get to have the ordinary. The other stuff that’s possibly in my future is a whole lot more complicated.

But I’ll take this particular evening with me regardless.

Chapter 6

Brian Almighty

The bell above the door goes off like it’s been personally offended. I look up from the till expecting a regular, or possibly Sebastian come to yell at me about the belt incident, and instead find High Priestess Magdalene in the middle of Coffeelicious. Floor length purple kaftan, arms flung wide, sandals slapping the floor as she strides towards the counter like she’s arriving at the gates of somewhere considerably more significant than a Bristol coffee shop.

“Brian Almighty,” she announces to the entire shop at a volume that makes the woman by the window drop her spoon into her cappuccino.

I freeze mid-pour.

“High Priestess Magdalene,” I say, once my mouth remembers how to work. “What are you doing here?”

“The goats,” she says, both hands coming to rest flat on the counter, eyes wide and shining with the particular fervour I remember from every planetary alignment she ever declared unexpectedly early. “They stood in a proper circle, m’love. On the full moon. All thirteen of them, Brian, not one out of place, facing inward like they’d been arranged by something with actual hands.”

“That does sound like the goats,” I say carefully, “being goats.”

“It is the sign. The exact sign, word for word, as it was given to me forty years ago.” She grips my wrist across the counter. She’s round and soft in a way the kaftan does nothing to disguise, cheeks gone rosy red as apples from the walk over. The sort of build that makes you think of someone’s favourite grandmother rather than a woman obsessed with the end of the world. “It has begun, Brian. The prophecy has begun.”

Behind me, I hear Felix’s voice go very flat and very quiet, the tone he uses right before something either gets set on fire or very seriously interrogated.

“Brian Almighty,” he repeats.

I don’t turn around. I can feel him and Adam both staring at the back of my head with the particular intensity of two people who have just heard something they were absolutely not prepared for on a Saturday lunch shift.

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, to the counter, to Magdalene, to the general vicinity of the espresso machine, to anyone who might be willing to let this go. “It’s just an old nickname. From home.”

“It is not a nickname,” Magdalene says, wounded, letting go of my wrist to press a hand to her own chest instead. “It is your designation, m’dear. Given at your naming ceremony. I held you myself, three days old, and the sky did the thing it does, and I knew, Brian, I knew before you’d even opened your eyes properly.”

“Magdalene,” I try, “maybe we could sit down and talk about this somewhere a little quieter.”

“Brian One is an accountant,” she says, plainly, like she’s building a case, counting off on her ringed fingers. “Brian Two does his goat yoga and has never once shown an aptitude for anything beyond mild rebellion and personal grooming. Brian Three is quietly dependable, bless him. Brian Four ran off with an organic honey salesman, which, frankly, I’ve made my peace with. And you.” She looks at me properly now, something in her face gone soft and enormous and completely sincere. “You were never given a number, my love. You were given a title.”

The coffee shop has gone very quiet. I can feel every customer within earshot leaning very slightly towards our conversation, the way people do when something interesting is happening two feet away and they’re pretending not to notice.

“I know,” I say quietly.

“Brian Almighty the Chosen one!” Magdalene declares with great theatrics.

I wince and wonder if it’s too late to pretend I’m not here.

Felix makes a sound that isn’t quite a word.

Adam, beside him, has gone the particular pale that means he’s recalculating an enormous amount of information very quickly and not enjoying the process.

I feel the temperature drop half a degree behind me, familiar and immediate, and I don’t even need to turn around to know exactly what’s happening in the corner by the window. I reach one hand back without looking, a small, steadying gesture, the kind you’d use to calm something large and worried without breaking stride in a conversation.

“It’s fine,” I murmur, low enough that only he’ll properly catch it. “She’s not a threat. She’s just loud.”