Mind of the Phoenix (4 page)

He hands me a bottle, and I don’t fail to notice that he has kept his gloves on. I hesitantly place the small vessel beneath my nose and inhale… and then cough violently. The strong scent was slightly unexpected, but has succeeded in clearing my mind. I give him back the bottle and walk toward the body with an air of affected confidence. Constable Evans had been an attractive young man with broad shoulders and a defined abdomen, yet there appears to be no residual mark on his right hand to indicate that he was married. Surely, he had left some woman pining after his death besides the concubine.

“Married?”

“He was engaged to a Miss Jessamine St. Claire.”

“Typical,” I mutter, glaring at the dead man.

“What do you find typical, Del Mar?”

“Hmmm?” I say, glancing up at him. “Oh, just that he was engaged, yet still couldn’t help himself from crawling between the legs of the pleasure house.”

“Not all men visit the pleasure house, Del Mar.”

A low, harsh laugh escapes me. “Are you suggesting that you never have, Mr. Edwards?”

“Shall we have a look at Madame Del Mar?”

I give him a slow smile because he has inadvertently answered my question. The detective has visited the pleasure house in his past, but it would seem that he hasn’t in a very long time. Perhaps he is one of the few men who are devoted to their wives. I watch him walk toward the other table, glancing down at his gloved hands. He’s being awfully careful to eliminate any chance of physical contact between us, and I’ve often found that the people who go to great lengths to avoid being touched by an empath often have secrets they don’t want anyone to know.

“Either you’ve chosen to abstain from sex or your wife keeps you satisfied.”

He doesn’t even blink as he pulls the sheet away from Madame Del Mar’s face, which could either mean that he’s disciplined or he doesn’t have a wife to defend. I look down at the corpse of my previous master and then quickly glare at the detective, wondering just what his intention is by showing me the dead bodies. Perhaps if I don’t react to the gruesome sight of the bodies it’ll prove that I’m just a criminal, not human. He must be disappointed to see that I can hardly keep my eyes focused on Madame Del Mar’s fractured head and that I’ve instinctively covered my nose in an attempt to shield myself. I have to admit, however, that I’m not sad to see her dead. After witnessing several times the damage she had done physically and mentally to her ‘property’—including, of course, myself—I have to say I’m glad she’s gone. The world is now minus one horrible being.

Clients paid the highest price for the beautiful, so if you were one of those beautiful subjects and had recently been punished by the Madame for disobedience, you were then considered damaged goods until the bruises and cuts faded. If you were fortunate, you were left in the cellar of the house without food and water for a few days; if you were unfortunate, the Madame would announce you temporarily ‘half off’ and you would be further damaged by multiple clients while still bringing in some income for her. Not being much of the obedient type, I had experienced both options, and I wouldn’t wish either on anyone.

“So, why didn’t the doctor or Rick come in with us?”

“Although Dr. White knows the details of the bodies, having examined them himself, only the Chief and I know the full particulars of all three cases.”

“And now me.” I look up to find him openly inspecting my reaction. “Why
are
you showing me the bodies?”

“Well, Del Mar, I’m hoping that you can prove to me that you are useful,” he answers, seemingly unperturbed by our surroundings. As a detective, he undoubtedly has a lot of experience with the dead. “You were referred to the Elite by someone who claims that your gifts are exceptional and that the police would do well to recruit you for the investigation. So far, I haven’t seen anything promising.”

He doesn’t want my help; he’s hoping I fail. I glance down at Madame Del Mar’s face and am disgusted with myself for what I’m about to reveal to the detective. I didn’t just come out of prison to be thrown back in a couple of days later. My intention is to milk every luxury this investigation provides me and then make my escape. I have no desire to die anymore.

I plan to survive.

“No one but the doctor, the Chief, and yourself has seen the body?”

“I just said that.”

“Well then, it looks like I may be useful to you after all, detective,” I say with a smug smile.

“Really?” He’s still not convinced. “Please, do explain.”

“I assume that since no one else has examined the bodies, it’s safe to say that you are unaware that the mind leaves a lingering imprint after death, like an afterimage.”

“How come the police and the Elite are unaware of this?”

“It could mean that your precious blockers are withholding information, or they simply don’t know about it.” I shrug and add, “Besides, it’s not like everyone knows how to do it. Just like any talent, we all have our skills and deficiencies.”

“And you just so happen to know how to do this?”

“Would you like to perform some test runs?” I suggest with an innocent smile as I hold out my hand, palm up. “You look at something without me knowing what it is, and then you close your eyes. I can then read your mind to see what you looked at last.”

He glances down at my hand, and I know that even though he’s curious he won’t permit me to touch him under any circumstance. “That’s quite all right, Del Mar. I’ll take your word for it.”

“I’m honoured that you feel I’m suddenly trustworthy, detective,” I say, my grin widening at his dour expression. “Constable Evans has been dead for over a month, so I’m positive that there won’t be anything. I can try if you want though.”

He nods, and I walk back to Evans’ body. I try not to cringe as I place my palms on the sides of his head and close my eyes. The lack of warmth beneath my fingertips is unsettling, but I can’t let it disturb me, especially with the detective’s eyes carefully watching my every move. When I push forth with my mind, I’m met with darkness. There’s nothing, not even a faint afterimage left. Constable Evans is brain dead.

“As I suspected, there’s nothing,” I say, opening my eyes.

When I position myself in front of Madame Del Mar, I hesitate. I don’t want to touch her, but if I plan to survive I have to give the detective something. My mind struggles against the torrent of memories that threaten to overwhelm me once more, and I see the Madame’s large eyes glaring at me beyond the darkness. No, go away. I mentally swat at the memories and they scatter in the wind to the back of my mind. With determination, I place my hand on the side of the Madame’s head, and an image of a bird on fire flashes in my mind before quickly vanishing. I open my eyes and grimace.

“There was a bird on fire.”

“Are you suggesting that Madame Del Mar saw a bird on fire before she shot herself?” asks the detective, understandably confused.

I laugh. I can’t help it. The mirth bubbles out of me before I’m able to stifle it, and the detective looks at me as if I have just proven to him that I’m mentally unstable.

“No, the image was an outline of some sort of bird and the outline was on fire. It’s not what she saw just before death. I presume it’s the insignia of our killer.”

“The Phoenix,” utters the detective, following my train of thought.

“Yes. It’s like his signature that he uses for persuasion, similar to how the empaths at the memory house leave a mark on the minds of those they block memories from. It’s their way of branding their work.” I look down at the Madame. “It makes sense that that’s what would be the afterimage, since she was under the persuasion before she died.”

“It appears you
may
be useful to me after all, Del Mar.”

Instead of following him to the exit, I position myself in front of the sink and promptly scrub the lingering feel of Madame Del Mar’s skin on my fingertips with soap. I have no intention of walking around the rest of the day keeping the taint of her skin on my hands, and I’m suddenly itching to touch someone else. If I could just touch someone else’s skin, read their mind, then perhaps I’ll forget about the Madame. Unfortunately, soap will have to do for now.

“So, where to now?” I probe when I’ve caught up to him in the lobby.

“To the police station,” he declares, already donning his coat and bowler hat.

T
he last time
I stepped foot in Braxton’s police station I had been kicking and screaming in the arms of my captors. I was like a savage beast rearing its head in defiance, determined not to be caged, but unfortunately my dainty female form was no match against the rippling muscles of the policemen that had me in chains. In those moments, I wish I was physically stronger. Sometimes the soft beauty of a woman is impractical, especially if you’re struggling against the opposite sex, whose hands alone are capable of crushing your petite wrist. I can still recall the cold clasp of the chains that had dug into my flesh.

None of the police seem to recognize me from the wild creature they brought in a month ago, but it doesn’t stop them from openly staring at me as I walk into the station between the detective and Constable Jamieson. I don’t like the fact that I’m standing above the underground prison that was my cage for a month, but I suppose I should get used to it for the time being. I’m quite the sight compared to the other women of society, with my short hair and different-coloured eyes—a rarity that I have only seen once in another person. They might just assume that I’m one of the Elite’s blockers. I’d prefer they think of me as a concubine rather than one of those traitors.

The detective promptly leads me to his office and closes the door. He removes his coat and hat, and I do the same, hanging the jacket on the coat hanger beside his. His nose is slightly red from the cold outside and I know that mine is most likely red as well. I walk toward the desk and sit in his chair. There’s a file sitting on top of a stack of papers, and I blink in surprise to find my name scrawled on the folder in neat writing. The first thing I find when I open the file is a black and white photograph of me when I was about eighteen. The photo is slightly creased, but that by no means distracted from the young figure in a rather revealing corset and dress. My breasts are made to look like small mountains across my chest, and the effect is emphasized by the sleeves of the dress being pulled down to expose my neck and shoulders. In the picture, I’m standing with one foot propped up on a chair and my hands are holding up my skirt to reveal the length of my leg. Half of my hair is tied up at the crown of my head while the rest falls in loose curls down my back. My body was luscious back then, with naturally distinct curves that women seek to imitate with a corset—definitely not the skeletal form I am now.

Madame Del Mar would often criticise my body, centering mostly on my weight, but I would always ignore her. If men were so particular about having their women merely skin and bones, I wouldn’t have been one of her most successful subjects. A lot has to do with your mannerisms. If you ooze sexuality and confidence, then people are naturally drawn to you.

The file snaps shut before my face and the detective shoves it into his top drawer.

I smile at him and get up out of his chair and slide into the stark wooden one that sits opposite.

As I sit across from him, I wonder how many times he had glanced at my photograph. Were those creases created from a determination to memorize the face of a killer, or were they made from curiosity and desire? His caustic behaviour toward me so far makes me inclined to believe the former, but sometimes people who refuse to acknowledge their desires respond to them with contempt.

I pluck the paper bag from his desk and pull out the croissant. Its flaky centre dissolves on my tongue, and I inhale the delicious aroma… and catch the unpleasant scent of smoke. I open my eyes and stare accusingly at the cigarette in the detective’s hand.

“Do you mind?” I say acerbically. “I’m eating and your cigarette is clogging my senses with its pungent odour.”

The insufferable man stares me right in the eyes, pulls on one end of the cigarette with his mouth, and then slowly exhales a thick cloud. The gesture makes it clear that it is his office and he’ll smoke whenever he so desires. In response to his superiority, I proceed to moan in pleasure as I slowly eat the rest of the croissant. He stares at me the whole time, so I stare right back. I’m not particularly good at being submissive, and I wonder when or if he’ll catch onto that fact.

“Are you quite finished?”

I sigh contentedly and lick the flakes off of my fingers. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Good, now we can discuss the case.” He exhales another cloud of smoke before continuing. “I’m hoping that you’ll be able to provide a prospective suspect with the evidence we have so far.”

Again, he’s only
hoping
that I’ll fail.

“Well, now that we know for sure that the killer is using persuasion it seems that our killer is an empath,” I say. “They would have to be someone who knows how to do such a persuasion; someone who knows how to read and write; someone who would have no difficulty in meeting the required victims to plant their persuasion; someone who is personally seeking revenge on their victims or believes that they are performing a higher sort of judgement.

“The concubines aren’t educated, but meet a wide array of people, so they would have access to Madame Del Mar and the empath that killed the police constable,” I continue. “We would have to see if the Dream House Instigator was a visitor to the pleasure house. I have no doubt that he was a frequent member. A dream weaver would probably meet a variety of people as well, and is probably more educated than a concubine. They would also have had immediate access to Mr. Darwitt, but I doubt that the Madame and the concubine visited the dream house. The concubine wouldn’t have had the money or the permission, and Madame Del Mar was a horrible human being so I doubt she suffered from nightmares or sleepless nights.”

“You don’t think highly of your previous master.”

“Why would I?” I say, propping my feet up on his desk in a most un-lady-like fashion. He glares at me, but remains silent. “Besides, only the ashamed or troubled suffer from nightmares or insomnia. The Madame wasn’t ashamed of who she was.”

“Is that so? You seem to know a lot about human nature.” I know in his mind he continues the sentence to include
for a concubine and a murderer,
even if he doesn’t say it out loud. “Are you haunted by your past, Del Mar? Or do you have no conscience?”

“I could ask you the same thing, detective. The shadows beneath your eyes suggest that
something
is keeping you up at night. I wonder if
you
are a frequent visitor of the dream house.”

His unyielding gaze warns me to tread carefully, and surprisingly I don’t push the subject. It’s because I’m confident that I will sooner or later discover all his secrets, and he will be powerless to stop me. I look into those light-green eyes and find that they are saying the same thing about me. I give him a smile that says, “I’d like to see you try, detective.” I have no intention of blatantly telling him that the ghost of my previous owner haunts me with his leering grin and black eyes. Nor do I confide in him that every time I close my eyes I’m plagued by a multitude of horrifying scenes, and that those dreams are not imaginary. Instead, the nightmares are born from my own experiences that continue to chase me even in my sleep.

I continue with my previous thought. “The memory blockers are the more educated of my kind, and may encounter a variety of clients as well. I doubt the concubine would have been a client, having no money and permission, but I suppose it’s possible that Madame Del Mar and Mr. Darwitt visited the house. As for revenge, well, anyone is capable of that, and any one of them would have motive. My kind isn’t exactly treated kindly. We’re merely slaves, after all—valuable, yes—but still slaves.”

“I suppose you’d rather have us allow
your kind
to rule the world? And then the rest of the people would be slaves.”

“Why do there have to be slaves at all?” I ask, annoyed. “Why can’t we all be free entrepreneurs?”

“Because, Del Mar, there are the weak and the strong,” he says, pausing to light another cigarette. “And there’s always someone who wants control, and those who don’t want to be bothered with societal problems and need someone to think for them.”

I pause and deliberate on his words, wondering who the weak one is between us. There’s no question that he’s physically stronger than me and can easily restrain me. I’d be powerless against that tall body that I can only imagine is well-built beneath that tailored suit. His limbs don’t appear to be scrawny, but neither are they the bulky musculature that some men have. Instead, his body is the sleek powerful form of a healthy man. But since he’s not an empath I could undoubtedly overpower him with my mind. His eyes are directly on mine, and I know that he has come to the same conclusion as me. Is that why you’re so boldly staring at me, detective?

“I didn’t realize you were such a cynical man.”

“I didn’t think a murderer would be concerned with other people’s freedom.”

“I suppose you would know a lot about murderers,” I suggest, smiling coolly at him. “How does your wife feel about you working so closely with dead bodies and disturbed criminals?”

“You seem to be rather interested in my wife.” A cloud of smoke slithers toward me, and I fight the urge to cringe away from the memories it threatens to evoke.

“Oh, so you
do
have a wife.”

“No.” When I narrow my brows in confusion, he clarifies. “I don’t have a wife, Del Mar.”

“Divorced? Widowed?” He just stares at me with those cold, calculating eyes that don’t reveal anything. “You’re an attractive and intelligent man, detective. Surely you have some woman pining after you for matrimony. You’re what–” I pause to tilt my head in consideration. “In your early thirties? You could probably still find a lovely demure wife to impregnate.”

“It would appear that you enjoy wasting time with idle talk, Del Mar.”

A crack has formed in his stoic exterior, revealing impatience. My constant references to his marital status irritate him, but the reason has yet to be revealed. Perhaps he doesn’t like me alluding to the fact that he is lonely. I find it hard to believe that he has never been romantically involved with anyone to the point of a marriage proposal, because he
is
attractive and intelligent. Maybe he’s one of those people who put their career before their personal relationships. That’s easy to believe, considering the amount of hours he’s in his office.

“Fine,” I breathe. “We have no way of knowing who’s capable of performing such a persuasion because no one would willingly admit it. You might think it’s a concubine because they sometimes use persuasion with their clients in their boudoirs, but that’s merely parlour tricks, and it’s not exclusive to them. The persuasion they use is to satisfy the client’s sexual fantasies. Are you partial to blondes, detective, or maybe brunettes? Or perhaps you prefer the rarity of redheads. A concubine can be anything you want them to be.”

He doesn’t even blink at my statement, which confirms my suspicion that for him work comes before anything else. “So, it’s possible that any one of you could be capable of persuading someone to commit suicide and even murder,” he proposes, but he’s already concluded as much without my help.

“Yes, a blocker may or may not have access to the three victims, but they’re traitors to my kind. I don’t see why they would ruin their position with the Elite. They profit as long as the Elite stays in positions of authority.”

“So, you think that the killer wishes to eliminate the Elite?”

“It would seem so,” I say with a shrug. “They’ve already eliminated two of its members: Charles Darwitt and Madame Del Mar.”

“And what of the constable Collin Evans?”

I narrow my brows in thought. “Was the killer targeting the constable or was his intention to incriminate the concubine that killed the constable? And why have two victims commit suicide and one commit murder?”

“Those are questions I plan to find the answers to.” He tilts his head slightly and adds, “That was a rather extensive examination, Del Mar.”

I grin. “I thought you’d appreciate my thoroughness.”

“But if the killer really is targeting the Elite, then it’s imperative that we find them before the seventh of April.”

He stands and walks to the other end of the room so that I can’t see him behind me. My instinct demands me to turn my head and keep him in sight, while my defiant nature laughs at the idea. With someone like Madame Del Mar, taking your eyes off of her would have been foolish behaviour. It would be a sign that you had chosen to succumb to her will, whereas staring her in the eye meant defiance. Yet, with someone like my previous owner, choosing to look away was an indication of rebelliousness just as much as staring into those black eyes was. I don’t know the detective well enough to know how he will perceive my refusal to turn around, but I suspect that if I did, it would be an admission of fear.

“You seem to have a clever mind, Del Mar.”

“For a concubine,” I mutter, finishing his thought for him.

“You read the Bible.”

I snort. “Not really.”

“But you know how to read,” he suggests, and anxiety grips me. “You worked at the pleasure house and were Madame Del Mar’s property.” His voice appears closer behind me. “You seem to possess talents that most of your kind don’t have.”

He’s standing close to me now, so I turn around and stare right into his eyes. “Are you accusing me of being the Phoenix?” He simply stares at me in response. “You realize that I was in jail for the past month and before that I wasn’t even in Braxton. How could I possibly be the killer?”

The idea is ludicrous to me. It’s as if he thinks that just because I killed one man, I must have killed others, clearly having no qualms about murdering people. But I suppose it does make sense that he would suspect me. I’ve obviously been educated, Madame Del Mar was my master before I was bought, and I worked at the pleasure house. So I would have come across the empath that murdered Constable Evans, Madame Del Mar and, assuming that Mr. Darwitt visited the pleasure house, it’s a possibility I could have encountered him as well. Like most of my kind, I resent the Elite and would be glad to hear of their demise. If it wasn’t for the fact that I wasn’t even in Braxton when the first two murders took place, and was in jail for the Madame’s murder, I might be afraid of the look in the detective’s eyes.