Mind of the Phoenix (19 page)

“I can try to get into his mind again,” I suggest, hating the idea while realizing it may be our only hope. “Perhaps there’s another door locking the memories of him persuading Mr. Darwitt or Madame Del Mar. Maybe there’s even one blocking his memory of the Phoenix himself.”

“I suppose it’s worth a try,” he says. “But this time he’ll be safely behind bars and won’t be able to attack you.”

“Did you punch him in the face?” I suddenly remember that Daniel’s nose had been bleeding, and the detective nods. “Damn, my preconceptions of you were wrong. I had figured you weren’t a violent man, detective.”

“Again,” he says slowly, “would you have preferred that I had sat back and allowed him to strangle you?”

I snort. “No, detective,” I say teasingly, leaning toward him. “Are you looking for gratitude?”

His eyes soften in that lazy way they had when I caressed the gears in his mind. “You hardly need to feel obliged to thank me. But I suppose I can’t stop you if you feel strongly on the matter.”

I narrow my eyes and can’t stop my lips from curving upwards in amusement. “Are you
flirting
with me, detective?”

“Would you care to find out, Moira?” He places his hand on the table with his palm facing up, another offer that I know I’m not strong enough to resist. “Of course, that would require you to give me something in return.”

I scowl. “You weren’t lying when you said you were a
just
man, detective,” I say crossly, leaning back in my chair.

“I’ve also been very generous,” he states. “I allowed you access to my mind on the night of Mr. Hayes’s private event without expecting or demanding something in return.” He then tilts his head thoughtfully. “Or had you forgotten about that night?”

No, I hadn’t. I hadn’t forgotten about how he had kissed my neck tenderly, or how his lips had left my skin all too quickly. I can’t help but bitterly ask myself why it is I’m attracted to this man, when I’ve never felt such desire for anyone other than Devin. When I look into the detective’s eyes, I find the answer. I’m desperately intrigued by his mind.

Desire is a perilous thing, but when it’s coupled with other emotions it becomes deadly. And I find myself at the brink.

“No, I haven’t forgotten.”

“What do you say, Moira?” he asks, his gaze darting to his offered hand.

I sigh, knowing that I have once again found myself at the mercy of those green eyes. Does he know that my hunger makes it impossible for me to turn away from an open invitation? Does he use my weakness against me? I look up hesitantly into his eyes and then smile. No, he suffers from the same hunger. He’s baiting me, while also tempting himself. He immediately regards the sight of my curved lips with suspicion, but, before he can retract the offer, I place my slender hand in his. The feel of my fingertips sliding against his warm skin makes me shiver. His long fingers close over my hand, and his thumb slides over my skin in a caress.

When I hear the soothing
tick-tock
of the gears, I sigh in contentment. Keenan narrows his eyes in amused puzzlement.

“Hungry?”

“Something like that,” I murmur, dreamily trailing a finger along a gear.

His jaw clenches. “What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” I say, and then plant a firm hand on the gear. “Do you mean this?”

“
Yes,
” he hisses, his grip tightening.

“What, you don’t like it?” I ask teasingly, because I know that he does.

“I don’t know.”

His voice suddenly sounds so vulnerable that I pause. “I won’t do it if you don’t like it. Just tell me to stop and I will.” He doesn’t respond, so I continue. “I’m just touching the landscape of your mind.”

“The landscape,” he echoes, raising a brow.

He’s confused, and for good reason. It’s hard for a person who’s not an empath to view the mind as having a landscape with doors and locks—or gears, for instance. He’s now ruminating on what
his
landscape looks like, but I have no intention of telling him. I don’t want it to change. I like the gears and the rhythmic ticking. It’s soothing and makes my own incessant thoughts fade.

“Do you plan on just wandering again, like last time?”

I try to hide my hesitancy because, even though that was not my intention, he sort of has me trapped in the clock unless I find a way out. Although he has allowed me access to his mind, letting me peruse his immediate thoughts and emotions, he has his memories hidden. It’s not exactly done intentionally, but rather that he always keeps his memories tucked far away from even himself. What do you not want to remember so vividly, detective? Instead, I settle for what I hope is an easier question to answer.

“Why do I sometimes smell alcohol on you?”

In response, a flood of thoughts rush into the clock. His remorse nearly knocks me off my feet. I was right when I had thought that he felt responsible for the people who had fallen victim to the Hangman. Images of their torn and bloody bodies flash before my mind, and I instinctively cringe. The detective’s grip on my hand tightens and those green eyes steady me. I suppose that I too would often find myself at the bottom of a liquor bottle if I had seen those grotesquely disfigured bodies in person. These two cases that we’re working on now remind him of his previous failure to save those people and—like me—darkness has a tendency to creep up on him when he’s alone.

“Have you found your answer?”

“Yes,” I respond just as quietly. “Is that why you go to the dream house, Keenan?”

I know the answer before he responds verbally. “I can’t drink every night,” he states lightly, but his eyes have become shadowed.

“What sort of dreams do you get them to weave?” I probe, recalling that the woman at the dream house had asked him if he wanted Clara to do the usual.

He shrugs. “Various pleasant childhood memories, like visiting my grandfather’s farm and playing with the animals, or sometimes I request no dreams.” His eyes flicker between my one hazel eye and the blue one, as if uncertain of which one to focus on. Like Mr. Hayes, he finds my different coloured eyes to be fascinating.

“Any other questions, Moira?” he wonders, deciding to favour my blue eye today.

“No,
for now
.”

The corner of his lips curve into a faint smile and I catch the hint of a dimple. I find myself smiling in return and make a silent promise to bring out that dimple more often. It makes him appear younger and less haunted. Those green eyes have moved away from mine and are now examining my lips. I don’t have to read his mind to know that he wants to kiss me; the only uncertainty is whether or not he’ll act on his desire. He inhales deeply and his gaze travels back to my blue eye. Apparently, he won’t, and I find myself disappointed. He resorts, instead, to gently caressing the back of my hand with his thumb again.

“What’s
your
question, detective?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “What was Mr. Hayes asking you to consider?” he asks, his green eyes lacking the tenderness he is using to caress my hand. “And what promise did he make you?”

I laugh because, although his mind is already thinking along the correct path, in that Mr. Hayes wants to engage in sexual activities with me, the details surrounding that offer are incorrect. The detective thinks that Mr. Hayes wants me to consider some sort of sexual proposition he had offered, and that his promise was to pay a large sum for my services. In reality, Mr. Hayes simply wants to have sex with me and promises that I’ll enjoy the activity along with him.

“What is so amusing to you?” He’s annoyed and thinks that I’m mocking him.

“I’m not laughing at you,” I reply, stifling my mirth.

“Then what are you laughing at?”

“I suppose it’s not really that funny,” I decide. “You’re right in thinking that he wants to have sex with me.” At those words, Keenan’s jaw clenches and I raise a brow in amusement. “Are you
jealous
, detective?”

“Why would I be jealous?”

My lips curve deviously. “Perhaps I might have been persuaded to accept his offer.”

“Has he offered you money?” His voice is completely void of emotion when he asks this, because he’s carefully restraining himself so that I don’t read his emotions. It’s amusing, but a rather futile attempt, especially since I’m touching him.

“No,” I answer, and my palms have begun to sweat. “He thinks that his charm and attentiveness in the bedroom will be enough to entice me.”

He raises a brow. “And is it?”

My heartbeat is pounding in my head so that I can barely hear my own voice when I say, “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued.”

“I see.” Has he forgotten that we’re still holding hands and that his emotions are trickling through our physical bond?

“Does that bother you, detective?” I ask, even though I know he is
very
much bothered by the idea.

“Yes,” he responds slowly. “Because you’re property of the Elite and falling into a sexual relationship with Mr. Hayes could interfere with our investigation.”

No, that’s not the reason you were thinking, detective. But if you don’t want to say it out loud, then I won’t tell you that the idea of falling into a sexual relationship with
you
is a lot more intriguing than Mr. Hayes, or any other man for that matter.

“Well, considering that Mr. Hayes is a member of the Elite I don’t really think there would be much of a problem,” I say instead, and immediately regret it.

S
cott’s
black eyes always have a way of finding me in the darkness, making me feel like prey in the wilderness. I feel them watching me as I follow the detective past cells whose contents are hidden in the shadows with only a shuffle or a moan to indicate that something is
alive
in there. I wonder if it is the darkness that makes my skin crawl, that if bright light were to shine and illuminate the deteriorating prisoners I wouldn’t be as afraid. Or would the clarity that the light provides only intensify the horrific state of the underground prison and its captives? Ignorance can be frightening, but sometimes being left in the dark is a kindness.

I keep close to the detective and swallow my fear, holding my lantern high. The prison is the second worst place after the pleasure house, and I’m already having second thoughts about trying to read Daniel’s mind. His mind is like this prison, filled with shadows and dark corners that hide horrific thoughts and memories. Last night I had hardly slept, my mind whirling with images of Rachel moaning beneath Daniel, who would then transform into Constable Evans. It would take one disturbed person to persuade another to kill someone they love, and I pity Rachel. She had found a sliver of happiness in a cloud of darkness, and Daniel had stolen everything from her—her loved one and her own life. My hate for him has surpassed what he’s done to me; I despise him now for what he’s done to Rachel.

We stop at a cell and a voice echoes in the darkness. “Oh Moira, you pretend to hate me yet you can’t seem to have enough of me.” The words send a shiver down my spine; they had voiced my thoughts as if he had been listening with his mind.

The detective raises his lantern to illuminate the cell and Daniel’s outline comes into focus. He’s removed his jacket and vest, and his shirt is unbuttoned. His ginger hair is no longer immaculately combed back, but sticking up at odd angles as if he had been pulling on the strands. He grabs onto the bars in front of him and leans his head against one, the picture of desolation. Yet he hasn’t been in the prison long enough to resemble Rachel’s state of distress, or my own when I had been in a similar cell. And, even though he’s a little rough around the edges, he looks too smug for someone who’s behind bars.

“What is it you wish to pry from me now, Moira?” he asks, those eyes never wavering from mine. “You already know I’m the one who persuaded Rachel.”

Though the fact is staring back at me, I still don’t understand why, and had spent all night ruminating over my confusion. My initial thought was that maybe Daniel and the Phoenix just wanted to kill a constable of the law as a means to challenge the Elite’s authority, but then Rachel’s involvement suggests something more sinister. The Phoenix had specifically placed the note in Constable Evans’s coat, knowing that Rachel would have found it eventually. In a way, it’s as if the Phoenix was punishing Rachel for falling in love with someone other than an empath. The idea is a startling one that threatens to endanger several empaths. Even though it’s not openly accepted, I know that Rachel and Collin weren’t the only ones to think they were in love.

I find myself blurting, “Why, Daniel.
Why?
”

“The whore was a traitor.”

“How so?” I demand. “Because she believed she was in love with a constable?”

“No,” he replies, and then finally glances at the detective. “Because she chose them over her own kind.” He voices my fears, but it only makes me angrier.

I take a step closer even though my body resists. “You worked for the Elite as a blocker, Daniel. Most people would argue that
you
were the traitor.”

He laughs, an inhuman pitch to the cackle. “My master was never the Elite.” He tilts his head and smiles. “Haven’t you figured that out already? My master is and always has been the Phoenix.”

“Who is the Phoenix?” I demand, even though I know he won’t just tell me, especially with Keenan beside me. But I can’t help it. I’m driven by a
need
to know more, which is only intensified by the imperative need to solve the case before more people are murdered.

He laughs again. “Did you really think it would be that easy, Moira? Go ahead and try to read my memories.” His lips curve into a crafty smile. “I won’t bite. I won’t even try to reminisce over memories that you deem so disturbing.”

I hate that he’s baiting me, but I’m in no position to refuse the offer. I
need
answers, so it is with a heavy heart that I enter his mind. It’s the first time that there is absolutely no resistance from him, and within a second I’m wandering the empty streets of that abandoned city. The wind continues to howl, but doesn’t threaten to knock me off my feet. When I near the shop that contains the memories of me, my pace slows. Surprisingly, he keeps his word and doesn’t force the past on me. With renewed confidence, I continue perusing his abandoned landscape. I stop in front of the door that I had opened yesterday, in hopes that another memory involving the Phoenix will be nearby. Unfortunately, there is nothing.

“You’ll never find him, Moira,” he says softly, but I ignore him.

I refuse to succumb to failure, so I continue searching until finally I find another door with the outline of a bird—another memory block. I immediately recite the phrase like I did yesterday, but this time the words have no effect on the door. My anger intensifies when I notice that not even a crack has appeared. The sound of laughter breaks my concentration and the door along, with the deserted city, fades into the distance. When my eyes finally focus on Daniel, I see my own face staring back at me through the bars—the hysterical abandonment I had when the Chief of Police first came to visit me in the cell. Daniel wears a similar expression, and it chills my bones. It is the face of someone who has come to terms with their fate, yet still laughs at death.

“The Phoenix has blocked his identity from my mind, Moira,” he states. “Only
he
has the power to unlock it. You’re never getting past that door without damaging my mind and even then you risk damaging the memory in the process.” He then glances at Keenan and glares. “You might as well quit because you’ve already lost.”

“I’m not the one behind bars, Daniel,” counters the detective, and then it hits me—the main reason behind my confusion.

I can’t fathom why Daniel would risk his own life for the Phoenix. What does he gain by fulfilling the Phoenix’s orders? It doesn’t make sense. And I don’t understand why he would ever willingly subject himself to another master. He doesn’t look upset by the fact that he’s in jail, but rather has accepted his fate and laughs at us as if
we’re
the unfortunate ones. It aggravates me. He should be livid that he was caught, and should be cursing the Phoenix for leaving him in prison.

I say furiously, raising my voice, “You’re just going to die for the Phoenix?”

“I didn’t realize you cared whether or not I died, Moira.” His gaze travels to my lips, and a memory of them against mine flashes in my mind, forcing me to automatically step back. I don’t ever want to feel those lips on me again.

“I don’t,” I hiss. “I just don’t understand why you’d die for someone else. You’re going to be executed while the Phoenix continues to live.”

He shakes his head as if what I had said is wrong. “Some things are
worth
dying for, Moira.”

I narrow my eyes in disgust. “
Nothing
is ever worth dying for, Daniel.”

“No?” he retorts, raising a brow. “Do you want to go back to the pleasure house? Do you want to continue being used? Do you want to continue being someone’s
property
, calling an inferior being your
master?
” His gaze shifts to the detective abruptly, and his lips curl in revulsion. “Perhaps you enjoy it. Perhaps you get
wet
when his kind touches you.”

“
How dare you
!” I snarl, dark tendrils curling around my mind and clouding my vision. “
You
visited the pleasure house.
You
paid to have sex with women.” I force a memory of when he had visited me at the pleasure house, the way he had carelessly used me as if I were
his
. “
You
used me.” I continue to bombard his mind with every memory of him using me, and the feelings I had during those visits. I think I hear him cry out in pain, but I ignore it. “
You
thought that you could own me.”

I step closer so that my face is an inch away from his and my voice is unrecognizable when I say, “In the end, Daniel, you’re just like every other master I’ve had.”

“Moira-”

“Don’t touch me!” I sneer, when he tries to reach for me through the bars.

“How can you cringe from my touch when I have tasted your mind and seen the darkness that taints your soul?” he asks quietly, but doesn’t try to reach for me again. “You say you hate me and that I’ve used you cruelly, but we’re the
same
, Moira.”

I take another step away from him. “You’re wrong. I’m nothing like you.”

“When will you stop fighting your nature?” His tone is exasperated, as if he is speaking to a wayward child. “You can pretend to be someone else, but eventually your true nature will win. And then where will you be?” His eyes dart toward Keenan. “By
his
side? He’s not like us. He will never understand you like I do.”

“I’ve had enough,” I say to the detective, annoyed that Daniel keeps referring to him as if we are romantically involved. “We’re not going to find out who the Phoenix is by talking to
him
.”

“Just one moment,” Keenan says. He turns to Daniel. “Are you the one who persuaded Mr. Darwitt or Madame Del Mar?”

Those glacial eyes stare at me when he replies, “No.”

The detective glances at me, seeking confirmation. “He’s telling the truth,” I say, and then turn away. At least now we know for certain that Daniel isn’t the only empath aiding the Phoenix in his sick game.

“Whose side are you on, Moira?” Daniel demands. “
Theirs
or
ours
?”

“I’m on
no
one’s
side.”

“I suggest you choose,” he says calmly. “Or else you’ll soon find yourself without a choice.”

I’ve had enough of listening to his poisonous words and looking into that self-satisfied expression of his. The only side I’m on is my own. No one has ever cared about me, and, although I hate the Elite for how they’ve treated my kind, I’m not a fool. The Elite aren’t the only people responsible for the bruises and scars left on my mind. Daniel talks as if my other clients had no right to be with me, and that he did because he’s an empath. He used me just like everyone else, and forgets that other blockers had taken advantage of me as well, such as Jonathan Hayes. Or how about the fact that one of
my kind
had purchased me at nineteen and physically and mentally abused me, because I will never forget or forgive Scott for what he did to me. Those scars are not only etched into the landscape of my mind, but remain a testament to his abuse on my skin.

No, I choose no one but myself. I will do what I have to do in order to survive. I have no intention of playing the Phoenix’s game or deluding myself, like Daniel, into thinking that in order to buy my freedom I must sell my soul to the devil. I will solve this investigation with the detective and
win
my freedom, and then I won’t have to continuously look behind me in fear.

“We’re the same, Moira,” I hear Daniel shout as I head out of the underground prison. “We’re the same!”

I’m desperate to escape the prison as soon as possible. The darkness in my mind is more threatening than the shadows that surround me in the world, and an increasing pressure builds beneath my temples. I feel mysterious entities crawling all over my skin and I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe. I’m trapped, and the exit is so far away. Scott’s black eyes watch me from every corner, laughing at my weakness, and I’m close to breaking. She’s rising, defiant as ever, and prepared to slay anyone who crosses her path. No one will be able to stop her, and I will be lost forever. I’m going to scream; I’m going to run.

Something warm slides across my fingers and grabs hold of my hand. I immediately try to yank myself free, but the grip tightens.

“It’s me, Moira.”

His hand is not an invitation; it is an offering of comfort just like how I had touched his hand back at the café that day. I greedily accept it and clutch his hand tightly as if it is the only thing tethering me to my sanity. He doesn’t complain or try to fill the silence as we walk through the dark hallway of the prison and up the stairs to the police station. He doesn’t even try to break the contact once we’ve stepped into the light of day, but I do. I don’t want anyone else to know of my weakness. It’s bad enough that the detective knows, but I’m grateful that he doesn’t mock me or use it against me.

“Ah, Keenan,” says the Chief of Police. “I need to speak to you in my office.”

The detective begins to walk to the Chief’s office and I automatically follow. I consider the possibility that I have become submissive to him, and the thought unsettles me. Does he notice that I’ve mechanically attached myself to him, shadowing his every move? I hold my head high and convince myself that it’s only temporary, and that it’s my way of making
him
think that he has me subdued. Yes, that’s exactly it. I smile contentedly.

The Chief of Police glances at me. “Ah, Moira, I’ll have a constable escort you back to the hotel.”

“What?”

“What I have to say to Keenan is a private matter,” he replies, and my eyes immediately narrow in suspicion, wondering if that
private
matter includes talking about me. “Constable Bradford, come here. Escort Moira back to the hotel.”

“Yes, sir.” His mocking eyes dart to my face, and I begin to panic. No, I’ll gladly go to the hotel as long as it’s anyone but him escorting me.

“Perhaps I should escort her myself,” suggests the detective, his green eyes regarding Constable Bradford’s smile with suspicion.

“Nonsense,” retorts the Chief with a dismissive huff. “Constable Bradford will escort her.”

Keenan’s uneasiness pours into me until I can no longer differentiate between his anxiety and my own. Without being in that clock, I’m left wondering if his apprehension is a result of his fear and suspicion that I will attempt to run away and murder Constable Bradford in the process, or if it is from something else—like jealousy, or even concern for my safety. I try to give him a reassuring smile that says I’m capable of handling the man if he tries anything, but this only troubles him more. Was my smile one of a murderer?