As I gaped at him, Orrin raised his paper to-go cup and took a delicate sip, and I finally realized his usual hot water was a pale amber color.
My nose kicked in, and I recognized the faint scent of lavender—he’d made some of the lavender tea I’d gotten him from Queen’s Court Café. He’d probably used the coffee filter to filter it.
His aura of peace had me wondering if the barista had unknowingly sold me charmed tea, but the werewolf guard had sniffed it and said it was fine…
Orrin cradled his cup and eyed me.
“Hi.” I awkwardly held my hand up, then yanked it back down and glued it to my side. “I see you’re trying the tea. Is it good?”
“All tea is to be appreciated, no matter the quality,” Orrin said.
Hidden behind my mask, my forehead puckered as I tried to figure out what he was getting at. “Does that mean it’s bad and I overpaid?”
“It means all tea is good. Unless it’s poisoned or charmed,” Orrin said.
“Ah. Okay.” I stood there for a second, caught off-guard by the whole thing. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
There had been a part of me that assumed he’d just throw it out, even in my most optimistic thoughts I’d never guessed he’d be so happy to just drink tea.
Yeah, I should ask Grove for help in understanding fae more. None of my training classes ever covered this.
“You have questions for me today?” Orrin prompted.
“Yeah.” I flexed my hands in my gloves to ground myself as I tried to get my thoughts in order. “You heard you’re probably going to Ghast Prison for a bit?”
Orrin nodded, maintaining his serene zen. “Indeed.”
“You’re okay with that?”
Orrin shrugged. “I knew if I was caught there would be consequences for what I did.”
Huh. Okay…
I wasn’t surprised Ghast didn’t seem to bother him—it would probably be on par with this windowless room, since his crime was relatively small for Ghast.
Still, I’d been hoping for some kind of reaction—anything that would give me a hint at how deep this mess went.
“Going to Ghast is a bit over the top considering you did damage to public property, when Ghast is for the worst supernatural criminals,” I said.
“It has been twenty-nine days since I was arrested,” Orrin said. “Eventually the werewolves were bound to tire of me.”
A dig at werewolves seemed very in character for him and still not a reaction. Was there anything I could say to throw him off?
“I saw Gisila outside,” I blurted out.
Orrin jolted, jumping so hard he sloshed the tea in his cup.
I stared at Orrin, wide-eyed.
Orrin stared back at me, also wide-eyed.
Long moments stretched between us as I pondered that obvious reaction and how I could follow up on it.
“I’ve seen her around Magiford a few times since you were arrested.” I slowly and carefully said.
Orrin set his cup down—which I took to mean this was very serious, but also could have been an attempt at saving his precious tea so he didn’t spill it if he jumped again.
Silence stretched between us, I didn’t know how to test if Orrin was trying to be helpful or if this was an elaborate performance to mislead me.
I should have asked Sunshine to come with me. She’d know. Lesson learned.
I racked my brain for clever ways to ask questions, but the truth was I could barely have a halfway normal conversation the way it was. Maybe I was better off just being upfront?
“Is there anything you want to say?” I asked. “About that? About… Gisila?”
I assumed he wouldn’t react, so I was shocked when Orrin set his jaw and drew his head back.
It wasn’t a clear yes or no reaction—which I badly needed in order to make sense of this. But maybe he couldn’t give me a clear reaction, because of the geas?
I cleared my throat and tried again. “Or is it that there’s a lot you want to say, but can’t?”
Orrin flicked his eyes to me.
“Is your geas that all-encompassing?” I asked.
Orrin looked away, then belatedly picked up his cup and took another sip of tea as if to give himself something to do.
It’s possible he could be playing me. But he doesn’t have a reason to unless he’s still working with Gisila, but why would he when she’s disowned him? He could be trying to escape being sent to Ghast, I suppose.
“So—so.” I’d started to apologize, then I remembered Grove’s various warnings and changed my words at the last second. “I don’t understand fae politics and the way of talking through different meanings, so I’m not catching on if you’re trying to say something. Unfortunately.”
“You’re a slayer,” Orrin said. “It would be a sad state if you were able to catch onto fae trickery and the complexities of our magic.”
The sudden sound of his voice made me twitch—he’d been dead silent. Probably because of the geas. But this…I was confident he’d just used that dig at me to deliver a message his geas wouldn’t have normally let him say.
His words were very specific, but so vague they could apply to anything. I better just memorize it and ask Sarge and Sunshine. Maybe even Grove and Medium-Sized Robert. The more knowledge, the better.
I wanted to rub my temples—my head was starting to hurt from all the thinking. “It seems like you can’t really say anything about Gisila… anything else you want to say?”
Orrin stared at me.
“Er, anything you want to say about being sent to Ghast?” I tried again.
He shrugged. “As I said before. I’m not surprised—it’s the natural progression.”
“Yeah. It’s been…almost a month since you were arrested,” I said.
“Twenty-nine days,” Orrin enunciated, meticulously pronouncing every syllable.
“Twenty-nine days,” I repeated, thinking.
That’s the second time he’s said that. Is he that fixed on precision or does the day count matter?
Orrin stared at me, unblinking.
“Does the precise number of days you’ve been here matter?” I asked.
“No,” Orrin said. “It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been here in the Cloisters.”
He didn’t say the precise number of days didn’t matter, but that the number of days he’d been here. Does that mean the number of days matters after all and, maybe, it even has something to do with his geas?
“But twenty-nine days does matter?” I asked.
Orrin drank the last of his tea.
Pretty sure that’s as close to a yes as I can get as long as he’s gagged by his geas. Why the heck would the number of days matter, though? There’s no law about how long the Cloisters can hold people. It must have to deal with Gisila—and his geas.
My brain felt itchy from all the circular thinking. This was why slayers didn’t make deals with fae—we too highly valued being upfront.
I let out a big sigh that made my shoulders go lax. “Okay. Twenty-nine days. I’ll try to think about it and ask around.” I backed up and touched the door handle, then started to turn it. “Hopefully, I’ll be able to make another visit before you’re shipped out—I’ll bring more tea.”
Orrin made a noise that sounded like it started at the back of his nose. “Doubtful. You won’t need to come anymore, vampire-slayer-who-fights-with-vampires.”