Mind of the Phoenix (8 page)

After some time, he whispers, “I love you.”

She smiles and jumps away from him. “I believe you have been rather naughty, Mr. Evans,” she jokes, putting his police coat over her bare chest.

He lies on his side and props his head up on his hand, a wide grin spreading across his face. He laughs as she mocks marching, and I find that his laugh is as pleasing as Rachel had suggested. I can also sense her happiness.

“What’s this?” she asks, pulling an envelope out of the inner pocket of his coat. “It has my name on it.”

He looks at her, mystified. “I honestly don’t know what it is, Rachel.”

She opens it, and then hands him the folded note. “Read it, please.”

Even though he has told her that he doesn’t know what the letter is, she thinks that he is lying and that it’s some sort of love letter from him. He begins to read the words that I had heard Keenan read the first day we met, but before he can finish the entire phrase Rachel’s mind becomes blank.

The fiery outline of a bird flashes in my mind, and I abruptly release Rachel’s hand. Rachel’s crying again, and I swear I hear the anguish in her heaving sobs. I immediately stand and wish that we could leave this place. Her sorrow is too much for me, voicing years of pain, and I want nothing to do with it. I can barely handle my own pain; I don’t need hers to weigh me down further. I can feel the black eyes on me again. He would find Rachel weak, his disgust evident with the sight of his retreating figure.

“Thank you, Rachel,” says the detective.

He’s frowning deeply, and after a moment he turns to me. We leave Rachel and climb the flight of stairs out of the underground prison. I’m grateful to be out in the daylight again, and I look at the detective expectantly.

“Where to now?”

“My office.”

We enter his office and I gratefully fall into a chair as he closes the door behind him. He quietly sits behind his desk and lights a cigarette. He exhales a cloud of smoke and stares at the space before him, idly tapping his left index finger on the arm rest. I know now that it’s a sign that he’s lost in thought, as if the slow rhythmic beat aids in his thinking process. I take advantage of his distraction to openly examine him without the unsettling stare of those green eyes directed on me. He suddenly seems morose, the shadows beneath his eyes darker and the hollow of his cheeks deeper, and I wonder if maybe he had been affected by Rachel’s despair. Perhaps it is just the pressure of the case that is weighing him down.

“Are you alright, detective?” I ask in the same tone he reserves for me.

He blinks and slowly looks at me. In my twenty years, I have met many eyes. There are those few that are alight with awe and happiness, and, even though I despise their innocence, I envy them. There are also those that are perpetually glazed over, as if their minds are awake in some other realm and you’re either lucky or unfortunate to pull their gaze to the world in front of them. Then, there are those who make you believe that evil can truly possess a person’s soul. There’s no depth in their eyes, only darkness. More often, I find the eyes of those who guard themselves. Their gaze is neither revealing nor questioning. Then, there are the eyes of the detective. Even though they are undoubtedly guarded, they don’t focus all their attention on saying, “No one can touch me.” Instead, they divert the attention away from themselves by unsettling their subjects with their intensity and open examination. They demand, “Reveal yourself.”

“I’m quite alright, Moira,” he responds, and then pauses to pull on his cigarette. “Did you see the mark of the Phoenix?”

I nod and say, “Her memory was exactly how she had described, though I could have done without her obvious attempt to persuade me of their love.”

“What do you mean?”

I snort. “She showed me them having sex, and I saw more than I would have liked.”

“Are you embarrassed by what she showed you?”

“Not at all. I’ve seen my fair share of naked bodies, detective.”

“Then, you don’t believe that they truly loved one another,” he states, his green eyes demanding me to open myself up to them.

I give him a guarded look. “No.”

“And why is that?” he asks softly, but I can tell by the look in his eyes that he assumes he has me figured out.

“You seem to think you know the answer, so…” I say, trailing off.

The corners of his lips curve upwards fractionally, and his eyes glimmer with amusement. “You think that because she’s a concubine, she is neither capable nor worthy of love. You think that her perception is jaded, and that she hopelessly deluded herself into thinking that a man could ever love her. Your own perception of people is jaded, especially when it comes to men. So, naturally, you think that Constable Evans was cruelly manipulating both his fiancée and Rachel. Perhaps you think it was purely for his enjoyment, but I think that you assume all men are incapable of fidelity.”

The intolerable man doesn’t stop there, but continues. “Your perception of love is jaded as well. Not having experienced it yourself, you think that it doesn’t exist. Not because the world is lacking in love, but rather because your notion of love is too idealistic. You don’t permit it any flaws, but what you fail to see is that everything is flawed. You think that if he loved her, Constable Evans would have found some way to be with Rachel exclusively, defying both his family and the Elite, and they would have died in the process.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” I declare defensively, hating that his words may have carried some truth in them.

“No?” he says softly, and then chuckles. It is the dark, low laughter of a cynical man. “I forgot. Your kind likes to prod the minds of others, but as soon as someone gets into your mind you cry injustice.” He pulls on his cigarette and exhales slowly. “I may not have the power to read your mind, but I have my own ways of reading people. And I expect it’s no less than what you have done with me.”

“Perhaps if you
had
the ability to read people’s thoughts you’d be as embittered as I am,” I tell him, trying to contain my anger. “Even the kindest soul is capable of extraordinary evil. There’s no such thing as altruism, because I’ve
heard
the thoughts that flutter around in people’s heads, and it all comes back to their selfish desires. And there’s no such thing as unconditional love either, because in the end love fades. It dies just like everything else in this world.”

“I would hardly consider myself an optimist,” he counters, and his calm exterior irritates me. “And I don’t need to read people’s thoughts to know of the evil people are capable of. I’m a detective. I see it nearly every day in some form or another. In fact, that is exactly why I commend Constable Evans and Rachel on their bravery, because to find love in this chaotic world is all one can really hope for.”

“Even if she is just a concubine and an empath?”

“Yes.”

He’s staring at me in that way of his, but I refuse to look away first. “That sounds rather optimistic to me, detective.”

“Perhaps,” he says, putting out his cigarette.

“I think that people put too much stock in an emotion they don’t even understand.”

“That, Moira, is because you’ve never experienced love,” he states, those green eyes staring at me as if they have the power to unravel my mind. “Love is inextricably connected to various emotions, and emotions have a way of defying logic and our need for categorization. How can we define love yet allow everyone the individuality of other emotions such as happiness and sadness? What right do you have to say that what they had was not love? It would be equivalent to me assigning you an emotion of my own liking and dismissing the one you claim to feel.”

“Alright,” I say irritably. “I get what you mean. They were in
love
.”

This whole conversation is making me wonder if the detective has ever been in love. From the way he speaks about love and responds to my cynicism, I am inclined to believe that he has fallen in love with someone at least once. If you praise Constable Evans and Rachel for finding love, then why did you let yours go, detective? Perhaps he has a point, in that love is flawed. It fades just like everything else in this world, and maybe that is why the detective isn’t married. His love left him, or vice versa—or maybe it was mutual. Either way they separated, but, instead of being bitter, the detective is simply grateful that he had the chance to experience the phenomenon at least once in his lifetime. The only way I’ll know for sure is if he tells me—which I doubt—or if I get inside that mind of his.

“Did you see anything else in her memory?”

“Well, I think so,” I reply carefully, and he lifts up a brow. “I noticed that her mind went blank before Constable Evans had read the whole phrase, which might mean that it’s not the entire phrase that activates the persuasion.”

“Do you know where in the phrase the persuasion began?”

I look at him pointedly and say, “Just after the constable had said the word Phoenix.”

He’s distractedly rapping the side of his chair again. “And we now know that it’s not necessary for the victim to personally read the phrase, just as long as they hear it.” His gaze travels back to my face. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” I respond. “I also noticed that the Phoenix’s insignia is a combination of persuasion and memory blocking. When the symbol is activated, the victim is persuaded to act out in accordance to the killer’s demand, but the mark also blocks their memory of the event. So that is why Rachel doesn’t remember killing him, and why I couldn’t see that particular part of the memory.”

“I suppose that means that the Phoenix has to be gifted with persuasion
and
blocking memories.”

“He’s also a sick bastard who put the letter addressed to Rachel in the constable’s coat,” I proclaim dryly. “Either he was taking a chance that she would find it on that day, or he knew how far their relationship went and knew without a doubt she would find it.”

“I presume he knew exactly how intimate they were. And yes, it is quite the game the Phoenix is playing. It also means that the Phoenix encountered Constable Evans before, in order to place the note in his jacket.”

“But why even bother with them? Why not just attack the Elite?”

“Perhaps it is simply to confuse us,” he says. “But I suspect that if the Phoenix knew the extent of their relationship, then it was a deliberate attack. I’m certain that there are those even among your kind who wouldn’t have approved of their relationship.”

The detective is correct. There are plenty of empaths who would perceive Rachel’s behaviour as a betrayal and would shun her. And then there are probably the few who covered for her and had kept her secret. I am neither. I’m too busy trying to survive to have the luxury of concerning myself with other people’s problems or choices in life. I’m surprised that the detective approves of their relationship rather than condemns it, but, then again, he hasn’t exactly shown any revulsion toward my kind. The only reason why he’s hostile toward me sometimes is because I’m a convicted murderer.

“So, what do we have planned for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow we go to the pleasure house, but tonight we have the Elite’s private event to attend.”

A
fter speaking with the detective
, I am escorted back to the hotel, where I am to wait for the evening event at an Elite member’s house. Within a couple of hours, a hotel maid enters my room with the evening gown for me to wear. I’ve never worn anything so extravagant in my life. The soft fabric is a light bluish-green, the tight-fitting bodice shows a scandalous amount of cleavage, and the lace sleeves hang off my shoulders. The train of the dress is a bit longer than what I am accustomed to, and I’m to wear white gloves. Because my hair is too short to be tied up in the popular hairstyle, the maid does something with my short strands so that the sides are wavy against my face. She applies a bit of rouge to my cheeks and reddens my lips.

I walk downstairs and find the detective waiting for me in the hotel lobby. He has cleaned up nicely and wears a dark tail-coat and trousers, with a dark waistcoat. He has exchanged his bowler hat for a top hat, but still has his cane in his left hand. He looks handsome, and something inside me twists at the sight of him.

“Master,” I say, with a curtsy.

“Perhaps you should say it with less disdain,” he says dryly, his eyes languidly examining the length of me. He touches a strand of my hair and raises a brow.

“The hotel maid said it would make me look more feminine, something about the waves mimicking the curves of the feminine form.”

He narrows his brows and his gaze flickers briefly to my cleavage. “I suppose it does.”

My heart thuds loudly in my ears at the hint of desire, but his eyes have already left my body and the emotion is gone. Perhaps I had even imagined it. All that talk about love earlier and Rachel’s vision of her having sex with Constable Evans has muddled my brain. I suddenly feel like I’m missing
something
, and the absence is leaving me with a hollowness and yearning that was never there before. How can you want something so desperately without even knowing what it is you’re pining for?

The detective leads me to the motor vehicle and we drive toward the Elite member’s house. We pass Mr. Darwitt’s place and head west intoward twenty-four. We’re still in the north district, so everything is basically the same. Even the house we pull into resembles Mr. Darwitt’s estate. I wonder if that was the architect’s intent or if they simply lacked ingenuity.

“So, who’s hosting the event?”

“The Memory House Instigator, Richard Anderson,” he informs me, leaving the motor vehicle in the front of the estate for a valet to park.

“Isn’t he the last house instigator alive?”

“No,” says the detective, and I take his offered arm. “Someone has already been elected to fill the Dream House Instigator position.”

“What about the pleasure house?”

“I don’t believe that position has been filled yet. You see, Moira, the members of the Elite are nervous. They have no wish to die in a couple of months.”

“They’re scared.”

“Yes,” he responds. “That’s why Mr. Anderson was at the Chief’s house the first night we met. He’s frightened that he might be next.”

“Oh,
that’s
the Memory House Instigator?” I say, remembering the man’s black eyes, and the detective nods. “So, why is he hosting this event? Shouldn’t he be locked up in his room or something?”

“He’s frightened, yes. But he thinks that as long as he doesn’t read any letters addressed to him, he is safe.”

Just as I presumed. The man is arrogant and thinks that he is invincible. I suppose that is how all people get when they have a lot of money and power at their disposal. What he doesn’t know is that it’s not necessary for the victim to read the letter as long as they hear the Phoenix’s phrase. Not only that, but the Phoenix is also persuading others to murder. Mr. Anderson is assuming that the killer will use persuasion to make him commit suicide, but it’s possible that someone else might kill him. You just never know who has the Phoenix’s mark implanted in their minds, waiting to be activated. I shiver, for the thought is absolutely terrifying.

“Cold?”

I shake my head. “So, I suppose this is what you’d do if you owned a Del Mar,” I tease, giving him a sly smile as I recall our conversation in the café.

He glances sideways at me, and those green eyes flicker to my chest again before looking away. It is the first time that I can for certain taste his desire, even though he’s trying hard to suppress it. No, this isn’t exactly what he had in mind when he made that comment, but he won’t admit it. I’m not sure who he is trying to hide it from: me or himself. It doesn’t matter though, because I’m suddenly feeling triumphant, as if I have won some sort of battle between us. Like most men, he has brute force as his advantage against me, but as long as he has desire I stand a chance of manipulating him and gaining control—if and when the time comes, of course.

“Mr. Edwards,” says a man, gesturing for us to come forth, and I immediately recognize his black eyes.

Mr. Anderson is an attractive man in his early forties, but regardless, I can’t get past those black eyes that remind me of someone else’s. The sides of his dark hair are streaked with grey, and he has a mustache similar to the Chief’s, with the ends curling upwards. He’s tall and lean, his frame just barely surpassing Keenan’s. Those black eyes unabashedly examine me, lingering on my chest for more than I like. He’s a man who enjoys his domination over others, and I see that he still distrusts me, while desiring me at the same time.

He smiles, and there is nothing kind about the curve of his lips. “I suppose you clean up nicely, Edwards,” he states, using my fake last name. “Though whatever you’ve done with your hair is still unattractive.”

I open my mouth with every intention of insulting this man, but Keenan’s hand on my elbow tightens. He’s looking at me as if he knows that what I intend to say is inappropriate and his gaze is silently imploring me to behave in front of the Elite members. His eyes say, “Do you want to go back to your prison cell, Moira?” Meanwhile, his touch says, “Please don’t give them any reason to imprison you again.” I suddenly want to ask him why he even cares, but instead I close my mouth and remain silent. Mr. Anderson doesn’t even deserve a response, anyways.

“Oh,” he says in surprise, with a cruel low rumble in his chest. “Has the detective managed to snip that tongue of yours and teach you your place in society?”

I’m about to retort despite the fact that Keenan’s fingers are now digging into my skin, but someone manages to speak before I can.

“I sure hope not,” replies the man standing beside Mr. Anderson. “I rather enjoy a woman with a tongue. It makes kissing and other things much more
pleasurable
.”

The man somehow manages to make the word sound like a caress, and I suppress yet another shiver this evening. There’s something about his amber eyes and teasing smile that seems familiar, but I can’t place his features in any past memory. It’s one of those disorientating moments where something or someone feels familiar, but they’re not. He seems young, and I can tell by the amusement in those amber eyes that he’s the type who hardly ever takes anything seriously. He also seems like a man of many vices.

Mr. Anderson laughs, and Keenan politely lifts the corners of his mouth in feigned amusement. I, on the other hand, don’t know how to receive the man’s comment.

“Forgive me…” He pauses as if he is waiting for something, and Keenan supplies the man with my first name. “Ah,
Moira
,” he continues, my name sounding too intimate on his lips. “Please, don’t be offended. You mustn’t take
anything
I say seriously.”

“Moira, this is Icarus Hayes,” says the detective, introducing the man. “He’s the new Dream House Instigator and also the one who suggested the Chief and I recruit your help on the case.”

“You are?”

“I know it must come as a shock,” he responds, giving me that playful smile of his. “But you see, I had come across your case and thought that someone who’s capable of killing their master—who just so happens to be the head of the blockers—and then escapes and evades officials for six months, is someone who could be made a valuable asset to the Elite.”

“
If
she can be controlled,” interjects Mr. Anderson, his black eyes regarding me coolly.

“It also suggests that you possess particular skills that you pretend not to have,” continues Mr. Hayes, as if he hadn’t heard the man beside him speak. “Am I correct,
Moira
?” When I don’t respond, those amber eyes sparkle with amusement. “It is a beautiful creature that will do anything to survive.”

“I don’t know if I’d agree,” counters Mr. Anderson, scowling. “I’ve seen a mouse gnaw off its leg just to escape a trap. Disgusting vile creature if you ask me.”

“Richard, you are a bizarre fellow,” says Mr. Hayes. “I suppose it’s no surprise that you didn’t kill the mouse to put it out of its misery.”

“Oh, and I suppose you would have?”

“No, probably not,” he admits, and he’s smiling at me as if the whole conversation is amusing.

I’m hardly following it though, because my mind is still reeling from the idea that this man is responsible for my involvement in the case. I’m beginning to think that his jesting exterior is hiding an intelligent and calculating man. To ignore him would be a mistake. I glance at the detective and wonder if he has concluded the same thing. As usual, those green eyes are unapologetic in their examination, and I have no doubt that his keen mind has detected that Mr. Hayes only
appears
harmless.

“Ah, there you are, Keenan,” says the Chief of Police, walking toward us with a blonde, plump woman on his arm. “Margaret here thought that I was lying when I said you would come tonight.”

“Well, can you blame me?” she quips, staring at her husband reproachfully. “The man hasn’t attended an event in years.” She looks at the detective and smiles brightly at him. “Oh, Keenan, I’m so glad that you came.”

“Good evening, Margaret,” says the detective, giving the woman a polite smile, and I catch sight of his dimple. “Moira, this is Margaret, the Chief’s wife.”

“Well, I dare say she can deduce who
I
am,” utters the woman, examining me.

Even though she is polite not to glare, I know that her gaze is disapproving. I assume it is because the Chief has told her that I am simply a Del Mar that Keenan has recently purchased. It’s not uncommon for the rich to purchase an empath for their own personal use, nor is it unusual for such a rich man to escort his property to private events. But just because it’s done doesn’t mean that people openly accept that such sexual relationships exist. It would be considered perfectly natural for a man or woman to own a dream weaver or a memory blocker, and it’s even considered unwise for rich families not to own a blocker of their own. But a Del Mar? Well, according to high society, a concubine is to be used and then discarded. So, when a rich person purchases a concubine as their own, it is basically like taking on a mistress who you either keep locked in your bedroom for your use alone or—more boldly—take as an escort to private events as well. Keenan, however, isn’t perturbed by the rumours that will inevitably spread after bringing me here and introducing me as his property.

Margaret is looking at me as if she’s trying to understand what a man like the detective could possibly see in a concubine like me. I find her disapproval annoying, so I give her my best saccharine grin.

“Well, I just had to see with my own eyes that you were here,” she says, looking away from me. “You must stop by for tea sometime.”

“I promise I will when I can,” agrees the detective, but I suspect that he won’t.

She leaves, but not before she gives me a suspicious look. I watch her push her way through the crowd, forcing the other guests to move aside. They glance at her, appalled by her rudeness, but I reckon her status as the Chief of Police’s wife makes her almost invincible. I glance at the Chief and ponder on how it is that a man who is accustomed to authority would marry a woman who clearly has the upper hand in their relationship.

The Chief smiles and says, “Moira, good to see you. I’m glad Keenan here was capable of finding you a gown on such short notice.” He then gestures to a nearby server. “Have you had some wine yet?”

I shake my head, and the server hands us each a glass of wine. I have never had the luxury of tasting wine before, only the cheap whisky that we sometimes stole from the Madame. We weren’t allowed to have alcohol, because how could we earn money if we were drunk and possibly threw up on our clients? I take a sip and find myself enjoying the taste. It’s definitely more pleasing than the whisky I had tasted before. I continue to drink as much wine as I can get my hands on as I’m introduced to a few other Elite members. Eventually, I’m introduced to the Chief Elite member, a Mr. Harrison. He’s around Keenan’s height, but stockier. His features, however, resemble Mr. Anderson’s, and I wonder if they are related. Thankfully, he doesn’t have the same black eyes. Instead, they are a startling blue—a colour I presume matches the ice in his heart.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Moira,” he says, but I doubt it
actually
pleases him.

His stoicism reminds me of the detective’s, but, where the detective has the potential to respond with passionate emotions, I can sense that there is an unsettling
lack
of potential in Mr. Harrison. He must be a very boring lover, and I wonder which poor woman in the crowd has the unfortunate luck of sharing his bed.

I curtsy and hope that the gesture doesn’t reflect the disdain that I feel in my heart. “It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Harrison.” The detective tenses beside me, and I conclude that I haven’t been successful.

“Mr. Hayes is confident that your abilities will serve us well,” he states, seemingly oblivious to my hatred, or simply indifferent to it.

He’s a hard man to read, and I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that his emotions—if he has any—are carefully locked away in that mind of his. What I
can
sense though is that he harbours no ill will toward me for killing his personal blocker. As a blocker, Scott had been able to own another empath even though he was a slave himself. Apparently, Mr. Harrison is not even annoyed that I had forced him to hire another empath. To him, I’m just another puppet, and, unlike Scott—his former blocker and my former master—he won’t encourage my defiant nature. He’ll stifle it until I’m nothing but a limp form hanging from his grasp.