Mind of the Phoenix (13 page)

“Oh, what is this?” I say sweetly, tracing the outline of the bird with my index finger. He shivers noticeably at my mental touch, and his arousal hits me unexpectedly.

“I’ve never seen that in my life,” he responds quietly.

He’s suddenly angry again, but the acrid emotion is not directed at me. His ignorance of the door isn’t a lie, and its presence infuriates him, along with the realization that someone else has been in his mind. I examine the lock and try not to bite my tongue in aggravation. There’s no key, and I have a feeling that only the person who put it here would have the power to unlock the door. I study the strength of the wood, searching for cracks and contemplating whether I could break it open.

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses. “You could end up damaging me.”

I laugh at the sound of his outrage. “You never once considered
my
feelings,” I say acrimoniously. “Why should I do the same for you?”

“God damn it, Moira!” he exclaims in a mixture of fury and panic. “It’s not like I ever hit you!”

He’s right. He never once raised so much as a fist against me. But there are other ways to hurt someone. He’s convinced himself that he was never cruel to me, and in many ways he was one of the nicer clients of mine. But Daniel took advantage of the system; he took advantage of me. He never once asked me if I wanted to have sex with him or participate in any of his other sexual activities. No, I was just a toy that he paid to use for his pleasure.

He’s panicking now because he has glimpsed my thoughts. “Moira–” he begins, but I start pounding my shoulder against the door. He cringes and tries to push against me.

“Don’t resist me, Daniel,” I say gently. “It’ll hurt less if you stop.”

“If you break open that door, you’re no better than I am!” he snarls.

“Moira,” says another voice somewhere beside me. It’s the detective, and I realize that I had momentarily forgotten where I was in my attempt to break down the door. “Moira,” he says again. His voice is tender and reminds me of the times he spoke to Sophia or Rachel.

I feel the pleasant sensation of someone else’s skin sliding against my fingers and realize that the detective has grabbed hold of my hand. My grasp on Daniel’s mind slips, the Phoenix’s door retreating in the distance along with the abandoned city, and I hear Daniel sigh.

“If what he says is true about this… door, that you could potentially damage his mind in your attempt to open it, I think you should stop,” Keenan suggests carefully, and I notice that he has strategically phrased his words as a recommendation rather than a demand.

I release Daniel’s mind completely, and the sensation is rather like cutting a taut string and watching the two ends snap back in opposite directions. Somewhere during my perusing of Daniel’s mind, I had stood. The detective continues to hold my hand, and I stare into those green eyes and feel as if I’m swimming in a sea of green. He’s frightened that I will read his mind, not necessarily because he’s hiding some secret. Having someone else in your mind opens you up to a vulnerability that is in many ways a form of submission. He’s terrified of that vulnerability—that loss of control—especially since he doesn’t have the power of an empath. His eyes narrow fractionally, an indication that he has sensed my presence. It is a demand, but also a silent plea. I respect it and relinquish my control, because there are some things in life that you want given.

A caustic laugh echoes in the room. “Fuck,” mutters Daniel, sounding breathless.

The sound of the other man’s voice reminds the detective that we’re not alone, and he moves away from me quickly. My hand suddenly aches for the warmth of his touch, which surprises me.

“I don’t know who to hate more right now,” continues the blocker, glancing up at me with a glare. “
You
or the bastard who put that door in my mind.”

“What’s the door?”

“I found a door that was locked,” I explain, giving the detective a pointed look. “It had an outline of a bird carved on it.”

I know that he is thinking of the Phoenix by the way his eyes narrow.

“I swear I have no idea how that got there,” states Daniel, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

“What will happen now that you know it’s there?”

“I’m not sure,” I answer, before Daniel speaks. “It’s not like the tombs that the memory blockers use, so I don’t think his mind will unravel now that he knows of its existence.” I give Daniel a sly smile. “I presume he’ll just drive himself mad trying to figure out how to open it.”

A mixture of desire and possessiveness flickers across Daniel’s face. “Are you sure you’re not for sale, Moira? I promise not to play rough unless you ask me to. I’ll even let you peruse my mind at your own disposal.”

“No thanks, Daniel,” I say with feigned politeness. “I’m quite happy where I am now.”

Both Daniel’s mind and his eyes travel to the detective with the assumption that I am romantically involved with the other man, and he is actually
jealous.
The emotion immediately arouses my anger and my eagerness to leave Mr. Anderson’s estate.

“Thank you, Daniel,” says the detective, yet his voice sounds less than congenial. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

Daniel calls out my name just as we reach the door, and, even though I pause, I don’t turn around to face him. “I’m glad that you’re not dead,” he declares, his voice barely containing his amusement.

I follow the detective out into the hallway, and we leave without speaking to Mr. Anderson. He’s quiet the entire way to the police station and doesn’t speak until we’re behind the closed door of his office. Even then it takes him a while. He first lights a cigarette and inhales deeply as if he had been desperately craving the cloud of smoke in his lungs. He seems on edge and those green eyes are brighter than usual.

His silence unnerves me, so I break it with an obvious statement. “So, it’s safe to say that Daniel’s
not
the Phoenix.”

The detective looks at me with reluctant agreement. “I suppose you’re right.” His index finger is rhythmically tapping the side of his chair. “But now we know that the Phoenix has been in his mind. We just don’t know what that door is blocking.”

“I think it’s a memory,” I suggest hesitantly.

“Elaborate,” he orders, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“I think the outline is used as a memory block while the fire acts as the persuasion. In Rachel’s mind, the outline was on fire. Do you remember me mentioning that I thought it contained a memory block as well as persuasion?” He nods. “Well, I think that because Daniel’s wasn’t on fire, there’s no persuasion involved.”

Keenan examines me intently and then says in a soft voice, “You’re proving to be more useful than I had envisioned, Moira.”

A grin graces my features even though I’m not entirely certain that he was paying me a compliment. For a moment, I’m convinced that he will return my gesture, but then his face pulls tight in contemplation.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you knew Mr. Anderson and Daniel?”

My smile vanishes as fast as it had appeared. “First of all, I don’t
know
Mr. Anderson, and I only remembered him when I was looking through Rachel’s list and saw his name and his
special requests
. Like I said yesterday, he was never one of my clients, but the things he did to the women that he purchased left quite the impression on my mind.”

“I can only imagine,” he mutters under his breath.

“And Daniel,” I begin, and then pause thoughtfully. “Well, I didn’t
know
I knew him, because I had never known his name when he came to the pleasure house.”

“But he was a client of yours?” he says, already knowing the answer.

I nod, and he slowly pulls on his cigarette. The anger that I had glimpsed in Mr. Anderson’s office has returned, and I can sense the beast prowling behind those green eyes as well as his desire to know more. The detective may not be an empath, but he has the hunger like one. I give him a look that says, “Don’t ask, detective, because you don’t want to know.” His gaze softens, the beast and his curiosity carefully restrained, and I realize it is a sign of repayment for the respect I had shown him earlier when he held my hand. He won’t ask; he won’t demand. He’ll wait even if that day never comes, because apparently even he believes some things should be given.

“Why did he say that you were
hungry
?” At the last word, the detective gives me a curious look.

I laugh heartily, because it’s a question I hadn’t expected. “Well, you see, detective, mind reading is sort of like any other
appetite
. We have this hunger to know more, to pry, to discover, and to unravel the secrets of the mind. At the pleasure house, I was momentarily satisfied because I was permitted to read the minds of some of my clients’ just like the dream weavers and memory blockers are temporarily satisfied with the tidbits they get from their clients. When I escaped, I got a bit from the strangers I persuaded, but then I was caught and imprisoned for nearly a month. So Daniel said I was hungry because I
am
.”

He exhales, but even in the obscurity of the cloud of smoke I can see his eyes regarding me carefully. His curiosity is practically suffocating, and I smile deviously.

“Don’t worry, detective, I won’t bite,” I say smoothly. “My belly is rather satiated right now with the thoughts and memories Evan was so kind to give me at the dream house the other day, and now with the thoughts I took from Daniel.” My lips twitch with the beginnings of mirth, yet I manage to keep my voice innocent as I add, “But if you’re offering…”

“I don’t think so, Moira.” Even though he has rejected me, his tone is void of the guarded hostility he had the first day we met.

“
M
oira
.”

The pleasant timbre of a masculine voice whispers into my ear, piercing through the haze of my dream, and I swat at the air clumsily. Even though I enjoy the sound of his voice, I don’t want to leave the blissful confines of sleep—unless he wishes to persuade me with his tongue.

“Go away,” I mumble sleepily, because he has no intention of falling into bed with me.

Just when I’m convinced that the blackness has swallowed me whole, his voice pierces the silence once again.

“Moira, wake up,” he says more urgently.

Bare skin grazes against my arm, and in my haze I’m reminded of another man’s touch. I jolt awake, spurred to defiance, but those hands easily wrap around my wrists and pin them above me. My struggles are thwarted, and just when I’m prepared to use my teeth I hear that voice once again close to my ear.

“It’s me, Moira.”

The tenderness in the detective’s voice is not something I had ever heard from the other man, and I immediately subdue my writhing. The morning light streaming through the windowpane isn’t enough to illuminate the room completely, but it provides me with enough clarity to see that the person restraining me is the detective. Normally, I’d remark on our inherently sexual position, especially since I’m lying naked beneath him, but his expression and the emotions rolling off of him halt my flirtatious tongue. Something is wrong; I can smell it as if it has a pungent odour. He releases me and stands, unflustered by my unclothed body.

“What’s wrong?”

“Get dressed,” he orders quietly. He pauses and then adds, “There’s been another murder.”

Before I can ask him to clarify, he is gone from the room. A hotel maid, who I presume had been watching from the hallway, hurriedly strides toward me and helps me dress. In the meantime, my mind slowly becomes more alert. He said that there had been another murder, but that’s impossible. The other three murders had occurred on the seventh of each month; today is only March seventeenth. I brush my hair in all of four strokes and rush down the stairs. Could the Phoenix be changing the rules of his game? Or had we simply seen a pattern where none existed in the first place?

The first light of morning has just touched the sky, and I muse over where the detective will lead me. Perhaps Mr. Anderson’s time was up, and a vision swarms in my head of his dead body collapsed onto the chair behind his desk, those black eyes staring up at the ceiling in eternal blankness. The image raises a satisfied growl from
her
, and, if I’m honest with myself, I’m buoyed by the idea as well. A hint of stubble darkens the length of the detective’s jaw, and I can tell that last night was less than peaceful.

“So, who is it?” I inquire, unable to bear the silence any longer. “Who’s been murdered? Mr. Anderson?” I cringe, hoping that my voice hadn’t sounded too hopeful.

“No, Moira,” he replies, glancing at me sideways. I can tell by the look in his eyes that I hadn’t been successful at all. “The victim is a young woman. That’s all I know so far.”

We drive into the east district, and the condition of the buildings and citizens drastically changes into that of the poorly maintained. He parks on the side of a street, a clear indication that the body hasn’t been brought to the mortuary yet. The few citizens who are up this early have paused at the mouth of an alley in an attempt to peer past the line of constables blocking their view. The detective orders them to move along in a severe voice and then leads me past the constables into the alley. I immediately smell death. I have become familiarized with the unpleasant stench, even though I wish I hadn’t. My past and present collide into a swirl of blood, pain and anger as the scene before me blurs into a mixture of ripped clothing and bare flesh. I want to look away; I don’t want to see this.

“Moira?” The detective’s voice is soft once again, and he has paused to look back at me. I had stopped walking, and I tear my eyes away from the dead body to look at the detective. “I was hoping that you could see if there is an afterimage.”

I nod, knowing that my voice will crack if I speak. Seeing the woman’s body at the scene of the crime where the murderer had left her is a lot different than seeing the body on a table at the mortuary. It’s more real—the horrible moment stuck on perpetual loop. Her long blonde hair has been tugged free of its restraints and partially covers her face so that only one eye stares blankly up at the sky. The white blouse and chemise have been torn open, exposing the paleness of her breasts. Bluish marks taint the flawless skin around her neck, indicating strangulation, and her skirt pools around her waist, revealing the spattering of bruises blemishing the inner softness of her thighs. She was raped and then strangled to death.

Bile burns the back of my throat, but I swallow it down with determination. I will not vomit; I will be strong. I’m tempted to ground myself with the detective’s eyes, but instead I kneel beside the body. I try to disassociate my mind from my emotions, but fail. So I settle on anger, because at least with rage I will have the strength to touch her. I gingerly brush aside the strands of hair covering her face as if she might shatter beneath the contact.

“Sir, should she be touching the body?” questions a constable, and I recognize his face from when the detective and I visited the pleasure house a few days ago. It’s Constable Smith.

“It’s fine, Smith,” responds the detective, crouching down across from me. He stares at my hazel eye for a moment and then slowly shifts to the blue one. “Take your time, Moira.”

The victim is young and pretty in the conventional way, and a voice inside me says that she would have been better off born ugly. A horrible thing to say, I know. But my bitterness is creeping along my spine, and
she
tends to say vile things. I’m tempted to close the young woman’s eyelids to spare myself their emptiness, but then decide against it. I gently rest my fingertips on the side of her face, resisting the urge to cringe away from the absence of life. I don’t expect to see the Phoenix’s mark since she hadn’t committed suicide, but rather had been murdered. What I do see is the outline of a man’s head, his features darkened by the absence of light, and the faintly illuminated night sky in the background. I pull away, annoyed. The faded image is not enough for me to identify the killer.

The detective and I both stand to allow the policemen to carry her body to the vehicle that will transport her to the mortuary. Then I silently follow Keenan to his motor vehicle, knowing that I should wait until we’re alone to inform him of the afterimage.

Once the policemen have gone, the detective’s voice shatters the silence. “Tell me what you saw, Moira.”

“Not much,” I answer with a sigh. “I saw what she saw right before she died, but when she was attacked it was dark out. I just saw the dark shape of a man’s head and shoulders above her as he choked her.” My anger intensifies as I add, “Nothing to identify him.”

“Constable Jamieson has been sent out to gather information on our victim, so hopefully we’ll know more when we get back to my office,” he says. “About
her
at least.”

The moment we enter the police station, the detective pulls Constable Jamieson into his office with us and asks him to relay any information he has discovered about the victim. Keenan lights a cigarette while the young man speaks, and each inhalation borders on desperation as if the smoke provides the strength and clarification he needs in order to continue functioning. His fingers dance on the side of the chair in that way of his as he intently gazes at Constable Jamieson. If he had been born an empath, he would have been a force to reckon with.

“Her name is Ginny Parker,” informs Rick. “She worked at the pub several streets down from where her body was found. She doesn’t live far away either, in one of the rental buildings. She was twenty-two and had left her family in Carldon.”

“So, she was young, poor, and alone,” says the detective, exhaling a veil of smoke. “Thank you, Jamieson.”

Rick smiles tentatively at me, and I return it. He then leaves the detective’s office, knowing that he has been dismissed, and Keenan’s eyes are immediately on mine.

“What do you think, Moira?” he queries. “Do you think this is the work of the Phoenix?”

“Honestly?” I recall the apparent signs of rape left on the woman’s body, unlike the Phoenix’s other victims, and know without a doubt that we’re dealing with another killer. “No, I don’t. And I don’t think you do either.”

He nods once in agreement. “Then that means we have another killer on our hands.”

“Yes, one who enjoys raping young, vulnerable women and then suffocating them,” I retort angrily. I hate rape; it reminds me of my own weakness and the times when my freedom had been seized from me.

He sighs. “It would appear so. I’ll have both Constable Jamieson and Constable Smith escort you back to the hotel.”

“What?” I blurt incredulously. “Aren’t we going to go pay a visit to the pub that she worked at?”

He exhales a cloud of smoke while eyeing me curiously. “
I
had intended to,” he says slowly. “Your obligation is only with any case that relates to the Phoenix. The Elite does not require you to help with any other investigation.”

I meet his statement with defiance. “But what if I
want
to help?” I ask, annoyed that he would so easily set me aside. I will
not
beg.

“Do you?” he probes, raising a brow. “And why would you do that?”

I glare at him and exclaim in a caustic voice, “
Because
there’s some sick bastard out there raping and murdering women and I want to find him!”

“Be careful,” he warns. “Allowing your emotions to interfere can be very dangerous.”

“Oh, like you haven’t?” I scoff, because I can see the signs of his emotions in the shadow of his unshaven jaw and the shading beneath his eyes. “I’d wager that you hardly slept at all last night. Why is that?”

“I said it was
dangerous
.” Those green eyes are rigid in their examination. “I never said
I
was entirely successful.” He snuffs out his cigarette and stands up. “Alright, Moira, you can join me.”

I jump up with a bit
too
much enthusiasm and follow him out of his office. I’m surprised to see Constable Bradford upon my exit, for I had forgotten about him. The last time I had seen him was when we were battling to dominate one another in the hotel bathroom, and I presume a lot of that has to do with the detective. I give the constable a wolfish grin. Even though his expression can only be construed as a glare, his eyes still manage to scan the length of my body with unveiled lust. He then responds to my grin with a devious smile of his own. Something in the way his eyes gleam unnerves me.

The pub that Ginny Parker worked at is called the Pig’s Tail and is, according to Keenan, known for its cheap ale. The few patrons drinking this early regard us warily, and I can taste their shame like bitter ale on my tongue. Their desolation is apparent in the way they greedily nurse their glasses as if the dark liquid will provide them with salvation. They’re all drowning, and the bar reeks of their despair.

The barkeeper turns to greet us as we approach the bar, carelessly cleaning a mug with a cloth that has seen better days. “What’ll you be having?”

I wouldn’t want anything after seeing that filthy rag smearing the glasses with
more
grime.

“I’m Detective Edwards,” says Keenan. “I was actually hoping that I could ask you about one of your workers, Ginny Parker.”

The man’s eyes shift to me with suspicion. “What about her?”

“She was found dead this morning in an alley a couple of streets from here.” The barkeeper’s eyes widen in surprise at the information. “Do you know if she had an altercation with any of your patrons last night, or if she left the pub with anyone?”

“The patrons I get each night aren’t of the mind to be well behaved, Detective Edwards, especially to a young lady like Miss Parker,” replies the barkeeper, and I want to smack him. “And as for leaving with anyone, well, I can’t say I know anything about that. I offered to give her a ride home, but she refused.”

I narrow my eyes, my cynicism taking hold of me, because I immediately wonder whether his offer had been genuine kindness or one driven by sexual desire. He said that his patrons weren’t of the mind to behave civilly to Ginny, but perhaps the detective should be asking the barkeeper how many times he had blurred the line of professionalism.

“Do you mind if I look into your mind to see if I recognize any of the patrons you saw last night?” I inquire quickly before the detective can object, and because I have an ulterior motive for entering his mind.

The barkeeper blinks stupidly and then nods. I reach out to touch his arm and immediately confront his curiosity. I probe his feelings toward Ginny and find nothing nefarious or inappropriate. Yes, he had found her attractive, but his offer and generosity to her had been genuine. She had no family here, and he worried that someone would take advantage of her. Too bad he had been correct in his assumption. I quickly move away from his sadness to the memory of last night. The pub had been bursting with drunken patrons, the majority of which I don’t recognize. I do, however, notice two familiar faces. I retreat from the barkeeper’s mind and nod at the detective, informing him that I have recognized someone. The detective thanks the other man for his time and we exit the pub.

“Who did you recognize?”

“Constable Smith and Constable Bradford,” I answer, climbing into the motor vehicle. “Maybe they saw something.”

The detective’s face tenses as his thoughts are drawn inward. “Perhaps.”

As soon as we enter the police station, the Chief of Police requests our presence in his office. He questions us about the recent victim, and the detective informs him that we think we’re dealing with a different murderer. The Chief recoils from the idea, and I can’t blame him. I don’t like the idea that there’s another lunatic roaming the streets of Braxton any more than he does, yet the Chief is allowing his displeasure to cloud his judgement.