Mind of the Phoenix (11 page)

“Why haven’t you used persuasion on me, Moira?” he questions in a cold, demanding voice.

I sit up abruptly and look right into his eyes. “Is that an invitation, detective?”

His gaze flickers between my hazel and blue eye. He’s angry, but I can’t understand why. I haven’t used persuasion on him, so he should be relieved by that fact. Instead, he’s staring at me as if I have done him an injustice, which I find ridiculous. I’m about to say something when the door opens and a young man enters the room. Instead of a suit, he is wearing a white tunic and trousers. His curly blond hair is untamed like a young boy, but his brown eyes are that of a guarded man. The red horizontal ‘s’ on his right cheekbone informs me that he is an empath, and I assume he is Evan.

He pulls the drapes apart to sit in front of us, and his guarded eyes quickly scan the detective’s profile and then settle on me with a glare.

“Mr. Gavin says that you have come to ask me questions about my previous master and that I am to answer them honestly.” The statement is directed to the detective even though his eyes never waver from mine.

“Yes, Evan. Every once in a while you wove dreams for Mr. Darwitt, am I correct?”

The dream weaver nods and his eyes finally rest on the detective. “Yes, but you already knew that. Otherwise you wouldn’t have requested to see me.”

“Do you know if any of the dream weavers particularly disliked Mr. Darwitt?”

Evan smiles, and, even though it is a sardonic lifting of the lips, the grin lightens his face and makes him appear younger. “There are some of us who are content with our lot in life and some who are not. But the latter are very careful to hide their contempt, so it makes it difficult to know who is who.”

“I see,” says the detective, but his brows have furrowed. The empath’s answer is anything but useful.

“Is she going to read my mind to make sure that what I say is the truth?” Evan inquires, and he actually sounds intrigued by the prospect, which immediately unsettles me.

The detective’s eyes narrow thoughtfully and he says, “There’s no need.” He then looks at me. “I need to speak with Mr. Gavin alone, so I’ll come back for you in a few minutes.”

He then stands and walks over to the door, where he puts his shoes back on. When he leaves, I’m left still staring at the door in bewilderment. It is rare that he leaves me alone with a stranger, but perhaps he believes that the other empath doesn’t pose a threat. I turn back around and find Evan openly examining me, so I do the same. His curiosity wraps around me like a thick blanket, but isn’t nearly as demanding as the detective’s. He wants to know more about me, my relationship with the detective, and the reason behind my presence here. Yet he’s having difficulty reading my emotions beyond my own curiosity and hunger. He gives me a sardonic smile, and I examine the pleasant curve of his lips.

“So, what is your name, traitor?”

“I’m not a traitor.”

“Aren’t you?” he says, narrowing his eyes. “The fact that you are here with the detective means that you are either his property and he brings you everywhere like a pet, or that you are a blocker working for the police. So, which is it?”

“Neither,” I reply, giving him my best saccharine grin.

In one swift movement, he is suddenly kneeling in front of me with my wrist in his grasp. “I’ll give you something if you give me something in return,” he says quietly, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“What?” I blurt, fighting against him. “Let go of me!”

Though his grip is firm, his words aren’t referring to any sexual favours. He is offering to let me read his mind if he can read something from mine. I’m intrigued and irritated at the same time. It’s been a while since I last let someone enter my mind willingly. He’s smiling again, but this time it is a playful one. He knows I can hardly resist, yet he wishes to taunt me.

“Oh come on, now,” he says softly. “I could practically smell your hunger as soon as I entered the room. Whoever you are, the detective is being very careful in letting you only glimpse a taste of someone’s mind.” His grip has lightened, but he still has my wrist. “Are you really so stubborn that you’ll refuse someone who is offering?”

It is a good question. His smile broadens as he undoubtedly sees the acquiescence in my eyes, and he silently lifts up the hand that he has in his grip, bringing my fingers to the side of his face. This close to him I can tell that he’s probably only a year or two older than me, and I can smell the scent of fresh soap and shaving cream clinging to his body. He slowly glides his hand up my wrist so that his fingers are holding my palm gently, and begins caressing the back of my hand with his thumb. Other than Rachel and Sophia, it has been a long time since someone has allowed me to sift through their mind. It’s also been a very long time since I’ve allowed someone access to my own mind, and even though I’ve permitted him entrance, I’m very careful to block certain information from him.

“Moira Del Mar,” he says, and his eyes lower to examine my body before rising again to rest on my face. “You’re definitely not a blocker, and neither are you the detective’s. But your mind is too elaborate to be just a concubine.”

“Thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“It’s a compliment, even if I find your mind slightly unnerving.”

I laugh sardonically. Yes, I suppose my layout can be disturbing, with its web of staircases that either lead you to more stairs or break off abruptly. Lightning splits through the sky and threatens to hit him simply because he is an intruder, but he has managed to avoid the danger by pressing himself against a stone wall. He continues to ascend the staircase, determined to find the answer of who I am. I give it to him willingly, otherwise he would be climbing an infinite amount of stairs that would lead him only further into the labyrinth. An opening in the stone wall suddenly appears, revealing my prison cell beneath the police station and the memory of the Chief of Police requesting my aid in the investigation. And even though I keep the details of the case away from him, I don’t bother hiding the fact that an empath is responsible for killing Madame Del Mar and Mr. Darwitt.

His eyes widen and then narrow. “You’re the empath who was rumoured to have escaped her master,” he says, and I can hear awe in his voice. “I heard about you.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he says. “I also heard that you were caught and imprisoned. Mr. Darwitt told us, hoping that it would discourage any ideas we might have had. I wasn’t fond of Mr. Darwitt, but I didn’t kill him. I’m sure that’s what you are here to determine.” He then smiles softly. “You’ve been rather patient for one so hungry.”

He opens his mind to me, and I suddenly find myself standing in a meadow with random items and various doors strewn across the landscape. I eagerly latch on to the thoughts whispering in the wind. It’s obvious that he didn’t like Mr. Darwitt, and he’s also intrigued by the idea that there is an empath out there eliminating the Elite. He wants the Phoenix to succeed. I move on because it quickly becomes apparent that he’s not the Phoenix, nor does he know who it is. He’s intrigued by my presence here, and he doesn’t push away or even blush when I read his thoughts regarding me. He finds me attractive and unabashedly lets me know that he wishes to kiss me, amongst other things. I laugh and unsuccessfully try to hide the cynicism.

“What’s so funny about that?” he asks softly, and I can feel him sifting through my thoughts as he continues to climb up a winding staircase. He doesn’t understand why I would be suspicious about his attraction toward me. “Oh–” he begins to say when he has found the source of my bitterness, but I don’t allow him to finish.

I continue walking through the meadow because I don’t like the sad look he is giving me or what he had been about to say. I find a bed and touch it eagerly. He’s slept twice with another dream weaver, but I quickly move along, not interested in his sexual escapades. I’m like an uncontrollable madwoman rummaging through someone else’s belongings, searching for something—anything that will quench the thirst.
I must know more
becomes a mantra in my head. I find something that smells of anger and hate, so I open the door that is erected in the meadow. It’s a memory of Mr. Gavin whipping his back at the age of fifteen for planting a nightmare in a client’s mind. Evan’s grip on my hand tightens; he doesn’t like that I’ve made him relive that memory in his mind. In response, he pushes open one of my doors and is satisfied when he finds a similar memory of Madame Del Mar whipping me for stealing whisky at the age of eighteen. I don’t really care, because it’s not one of the memories I’m trying to keep him from seeing. Those memories are so carefully hidden that they would take him a very long time to find.

When I find a door that has a lock on it, I push and immediately encounter resistance.

“
Careful
, Moira,” he growls. “You don’t see me pounding on all
your
locked doors, and I’ve found plenty of those.”

Then the door to the dream room opens and the detective steps in, his green eyes immediately assessing the scene. I quickly pull my hand away from Evan and sit back down on the cushion. I hadn’t even realized that I had risen to my knees while reading Evan’s mind, and I’m careful to avoid his gaze right now. I suddenly feel a bit lost and am desperate to touch him again. After feeling the presence of someone else’s mind in mine, I now feel lonely with only my own thoughts and memories as companions. I glance at Evan and know that he feels the exact same way. I’d gladly step into that meadow any day.

“Thank you, Evan, for answering my questions,” says the detective, grabbing his coat and hat. “Come along, Moira. We’re leaving.”

I rise and find Evan mirroring my action. Before I turn to leave, he grabs my hand and squeezes gently. It’s not invasive nor is it an invitation; it is simply a comforting gesture. He holds on for a bit and then releases my hand. I return his smile before joining the detective, who quickly averts his gaze the moment I turn to him.

Once I have my shoes and coat back on, we leave the dream house. I climb into the motor vehicle and wait for the detective. He sits beside me, but doesn’t drive. Instead, he lights a cigarette. It’s not that cold out today, so I don’t protest. But his silence is unnerving, and I glance at him expectantly. If only I could get further inside that mind of his…

Finally he exhales, and then looks at me. “So, what did you find out?”

I realize then that he’s not upset and that he had deliberately left me in the room with Evan. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he answers. “The young man was very interested in you, so I figured that if I left he would speak more openly. Was I right?” He examines my expression carefully. “I have to say though that I didn’t expect to walk in on what appeared to be an intimate conversation.”

I laugh. “Is that what you think it was?”

“What else am I supposed to think?” My smile bothers him.

“Well, rest assured, detective, that I was simply reading his mind,” I say, amused by his reaction. “But I suppose it would have appeared otherwise to you. Reading someone’s mind is inherently either invasive or intimate—invasive if the person hasn’t granted you permission and resists, and intimate if you are permitted to enter their mind without opposition.” I give him a pointed look and grin. “Much like sex.”

He looks away quickly and pulls on his cigarette with a long inhale. “What did you find out?”

“Well, he’s not the Phoenix, nor does he know who it is. So I suppose that means our only lead so far is the two blockers.”

“Yes, it would seem so,” he agrees. “I’ve made an appointment with Mr. Anderson for tomorrow and with Mr. Hayes four days from now, to speak to their blockers.”

I do the math in my head and then say, “That’s the day before Rachel’s execution.” He gives me a nod, and I sigh. “She’s going to be executed isn’t she?”

“Yes, Moira. You knew that.”

I did, but I still don’t like the idea. She’ll be hanged for a crime she committed under the persuasion of the Phoenix, but everyone will think that she intentionally killed Constable Evans. The execution will take place at the city centre, serving as both justice for the constable’s grieving family and a warning to everyone else who thinks they are above the law. I’m disgusted, and the cruel voice in my head threatens to rear its ugly head again. I can feel her darkness creep into my mind, knowing that it’ll be harder to ignore her once she speaks. I’m suddenly freezing, but it’s not physical. It’s a cold that chills my spine and encases my heart in ice. I want to shake free of it, to move; to do anything that will set me free. I begin to shift restlessly.

“Moira?”

I wonder if his pleasant voice will always be there to pull me out of my darkness. I look into those green eyes, desperately wanting the answer to be there in the depths. Am I strong enough to ask, to demand, to plea? His eyes narrow and I can sense his concern. But before he can reject me or make his own demands, I decide I’m not strong enough and look away. I don’t know why I would even consider trying to connect with anyone, especially this man, who has made his thoughts on me very clear.

“So, are we visiting the memory house now?”

In response, he starts driving back to the north district, and we remain silent for the rest of the drive toward twenty-two. The memory house resembles the other houses, with its barred windows, and the entrance has a desk like the dream house. Unlike the other two houses, however, there is hardly a sound echoing down the hall like a precursor to the house’s promise to silence unwanted memories and there’s only the faint smell of perfume, which I presume comes from the woman seated behind the desk.

“How may I help you, sir?” she asks, and with those words I know that the detective has never been to the memory house.

But then I retrace my thoughts, because it dawns on me that if he
had
visited the memory house, the woman would pretend to not know him anyway. In order for a memory block to be successful and remain hidden, the client must remain ignorant of their choice to visit the house and have one of their memories blocked. As soon as the person becomes aware that a memory has been blocked, their minds revolt in a way, and the tomb that the memory blocker built to encase the memory eventually shatters. And then the mind would fall into pandemonium.