#that's 5.3K today boys and girls and enbys

[elenajohansenauthor]

Fictober18, Day 22: “I know how you love to play games.”

OCs: Shannon and Orlando

Project: Untitled paranormal romance for Fictober18/NaNoWriMo, now tagged #spookyromancenovel on my blog

Potential Triggers: none

Word Count: 2,395

About: BIG CHAPTER! COMPLETELY UNPLANNED PLOT TWIST! THIS IS WHY I LOVE BEING A PANTSER!

The longer I talked, the more insane I sounded. I could hear it in my own voice; I could feel Orlando's skepticism on my skin, though he tried hard to keep his face neutral. I didn't doubt he sensed the truth in my voice, but that didn't make what I had to say any less incredible. I thought the story we'd brought him the first time was strange enough, but apparently, to him, a lone human woman trying to find a way to get herself into the Archives safely was even weirder.

When I was done, when I had told him everything from the names I'd been given to how awful it felt to lie to Noah about my activities, Orlando clucked his tongue at me and said, “You make me feel old, with all that energy you're throwing off., but you're also a disaster. You're like a baby duckling, and I'm watching you head straight for a busy road without your mama to follow.”

I hung my head, wilting from his disapproval. “I know. It's stupid and next to impossible and everyone keeps telling me how dangerous it is, but all I want to do is look at some manuscripts. Other people must get to do that, or why keep them and store them in the first place? Why is there a project to restore them, that Wes is working on, if it's just to lock them away, what's the point?”

Orlando waved a hand, and tiny table appeared between us, already laden with a steaming, fat-bellied iron teapot and two small handle-less mugs. Despite the definite Middle Eastern influences to Orlando's furnishings and the vague African-ness of his wardrobe—the bright prints of his long tunics reminded me of so many tribal photos I'd seen in magazines that I couldn't possibly identify their true provenance—the low table and tea set were distinctly Japanese. It made me ache for Noah in an unexpected way. His parents had raised him on green tea instead of soda, and he'd never acquired a taste for coffee as a result. My parents lived on it, I was sure my mother's blood at any given time was at least thirty percent coffee. But once Noah had started coming around, there was always a box of green tea on the shelf

I had one in my apartment, too, even if it hadn't been touched in three long years.

Orlando poured for us. “You're such an idealist, Shannon. I like that, even if I'm not used to it.” He picked up his mug and saluted me with it. I mirrored him, and we both drank. “Now let me explain, and don't interrupt. In fact, don't say anything at all, not until you've finished your tea.”

I hate being told not to talk, always have. My mouth was open to protest immediately, without thought. But the sharp look Orlando cut me with deflated any protest I would have made. I sipped my tea.

“Ideally,” he began in a soothing, practiced tone, “knowledge should be shared, and would be freely available to everyone. But we both know that's never going to be true, not completely. Because knowledge is power. It's an old chestnut, but it's solid and true. And if there's one creature out there who lusts for power more than humans, it's vampires. They crave power and hoard it like some people hoard their wealth. If the faction that controls the Archives is restoring manuscripts—thank you for that, by the way. I hadn't heard a whisper about it, and it puts some other recent occurrences in a new light. So if they're spending money on that, and giving safe conduct to human artisans to do it, then it must be tied in some way to a bid for power. For influence.”

The answer seemed obvious, even if I could see no obvious connection. “The Enclave negotiations?” I remembered as soon as I said it that I wasn't supposed to speak, but Orlando nodded. My tea was only half gone, but this was a point worth discussing. “How could restoring and preserving old scrolls and books and whatever affect politics?”

Orlando took a long sip of his tea and shrugged. “To know that, I'd have to know the contents of whatever's being restored. Which your friend Wes rightfully chose not to divulge to you. Though in any case, I doubt he knows. If I were in charge of the project, I'd make sure to hire artisans who spoke only one language, then assign to them texts in a different one. Many are illustrated, of course, because who doesn't love old art of demons or monsters or what have you? But if they're books on magic—and if they're in the Archives at all, that's a safe bet—then they'd be useless to anyone who couldn't read them.”

“So Wes is patching up parchments covered in Portuguese or ancient Sumerian or something, while somebody from Russia or Uruguay or Myanmar handles anything in English.”

“Russia, not so much, I'd think.” Orlando chuckled. “English education there is strong, a large percentage of the population speaks, or at least understands, some English. I don't know much about Uruguay, but I do know very few people in Myanmar speak English, so that's not a bad guess.”

I sighed. “I am stupid. I hadn't even considered a language barrier. Even if I could get it, even if I found what I needed, there's no guarantee I'd be able to read it.”

“Now you're getting it. So, as long as we're talking about impossible plans, what you should really be doing isn't trying to get into the Archives yourself, though I can tell your little bookworm heart wants that more than just about anything—and not just to save your best friend.”

I grimaced at him. He was right, of course he was right. I had a good reason, the best of reasons to want to go, but that didn't mean I didn't have selfish motives as well.

“What you need is to discover the identity of a vampire who works in the Archives, capture them, persuade them to find the information you need, then set them loose in their own territory.”

“Persuade them?” There was a hysterical edge to my voice I didn't like, but if my plan was impossible, his was astronomically and ludicrously untenable.

“Magically speaking, of course. You'd never get a vampire to commit that kind of espionage with logic or even threats. There would have to be some kind of mind control or compulsion involved.”

Which was so thoroughly illegal it made my head spin. The law was still catching up to magical ability in many respects, and loads of gray areas existed both legally and morally. But anything that took away a person's will was forbidden.

That raised an interesting point, though. “Vampires aren't citizens, so they're not subject to federal laws. That's one of the items in their manifesto—legal recognition and protection as individuals distinct from their mortal identities.” Noah had accused me of being politically dense; since then, when I'd needed a break from research and planning, I'd read up on current events. The Enclave had been rescheduled in about a month, though there was already fear of more terrorism surrounding it. “So using mind control on them isn't technically illegal.”

“No, it isn't.” He held my gaze over the rim of his cup.

“I can't tell if you're serious or not.” I let out a nervous laugh. “I'm not as strong a reader as you are—you're a big blank spot, mentally. I've only got your expression and body language to go on, and I just can't tell. Are you putting me on to prove a point about how insane I am? Because your plan is way, way worse.”

He said nothing, continuing to stare at me steadily.

I set down my mug and snapped my fingers. “But you didn't come up with this plan in the hour since I called. You're not thinking out loud at me, you've considered this before. You want something from the Archives, too.”

He touched one forefinger lightly to his nose.

“Dammit!” I cried. “I can't believe this is even an option. We're going to get ourselves killed.”

“You were already on that road yourself, Shannon.”

“Yeah, but I was only risking myself. I may have only figured this out just now, so I'm catching up to you on it, but even I can tell we can't pull this off ourselves. I don't know a shred of control or compulsion magic. Do you? You've got the power, at least. I'd hate to pit myself mentally against any vampire but a freshly turned one.”

“I do not,” Orlando stated clearly.

“But you know someone who does.” Before he said anything else, I held up a hand, palm out. “Don't confirm or deny that. I haven't agreed to anything.”  I threw back the rest of my tea in one scalding gulp. “Here's what I don't understand. Where do I come in to this? What do you need me for? Because if you've wanted this for a while but haven't attempted it, you're missing some piece of your plan. And I don't see how I'm that piece. I'm a decent Healer who reads a lot. I'm no spy, and you've proven I have very little aptitude playing at it.”

“You're smarter than you give yourself credit for, duckling. Think on it a bit more, and call me when you figure it out.”

“You know what?” I slammed my tea mug down and stood up. “I won't. Because I already know how you love to play games. I didn't mind when it was the price of admission the first time, and I guess this time I had to prove my bravery or resourcefulness or some shit. But capturing and mind-controlling a freaking vampire? This game of yours is now officially to rich for my blood. I'm folding.”

“You can make up whatever story you want.” Orlando didn't appear the least bit disturbed by my outburst. “You can call every name on that list, but you won't get anywhere. I'll give you credit for your determination and bonus points for your diligence. With the right instruction and some more experience, you could accomplish great things. But you're sheltered, duckling. You were treating this like a tough college admissions screening when it's actually life or death. If you do make it to the Archives, you will be turned or killed, no matter how you got there. That little concealment charm of yours is tattered just from walking the mile from your apartment. Nothing you can manage will protect you inside a vampire stronghold.”

My heart was pounding. I was so, so stupid. It didn't matter that I hadn't put my all into the charm—even if I had, it would hardly be stronger. My only true magical talent lay in Healing. “So what you're saying is that this is hopeless, unless I agree to help you, whatever that ends up meaning. That I won't be able to cure Noah on my own.”

“He'll survive as he is as long as he doesn't break the promise he made; that was the truth, and since you're still trying to save him, I assume that hasn't changed. As for whether or not you can cure him? I don't know. I'm not psychic.” He stopped and laughed at himself. “Or I am, but I can't see the future. And I haven't been inside your mind the way I was in his—maybe you'll find the answer. Maybe. What I can tell you is that your plan will fail. You don't have to help me, but regardless, you should abandon the idea of going to the Archives yourself. If you're killed, the promise will go unfulfilled, and Noah will turn.”

“He can't keep it if I'm a vampire?” I wasn't asking to know what it was. I knew he wouldn't tell me. But maybe he could give me this much.

“Ah, duckling, I like you a great deal, but you're so short-sighted sometimes. What has to happen to you before you rise as a vampire?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I have to be drained, drink the blood of the vampire who does it, then die and be buried. Then I either end up a vampire, or it fails and I turn into a ghoul.” I sighed. “It's death first, either way. Which breaks the promise, even if I'd be there afterward for him to talk to.”

“Which you wouldn't. The vampires are right about that—they're not the same people they were before death. Same faces, same voices, but what drives them is completely different. A vampire Shannon would only want to kill Noah, not save him.”

I hated crying almost as much as I hated being told not to talk, but a few tears leaked out anyway. Somehow, I didn't think Orlando would think of them as feminine weakness and hold them against me. “I really am an idiot.”

“No, duckling. An idiot would still be fighting me, convinced she was right. You're intelligent, but misguided. The type of person capable of making the biggest mistakes for the very best of reasons.”

I covered my face with my hands and wept. After a moment, I was wrapped in sturdy arms and surrounded by a pleasant, almost woodsy scent. Orlando gently pressed my head to his shoulder with one hand while stroking my back with the other. “Hush, hush,” he whispered. “Dry your tears soon so we can get you cleaned up and back home safe. Too many things out there with a taste for scared little girls.”

I choked on a sob and jabbed him in the ribs with my knuckles. “I'm not a little girl.” But the protest felt false even to me, because something intangible in Orlando's aura felt ancient to me, cared for but worn like a temple, wise as an owl. “You're older than you look, aren't you.” I didn't make it a question.

Being able to feel him shake with his laughter was comforting. “Someday people will say that about you, duckling, and I hope it makes you as happy as it does me.”