Mind of the Phoenix (3 page)

I pucker my brows at the last one. Having been her property for nineteen years, I know Madame Del Mar very well—or at least as well as a slave could. The Madame had been large, and resembled more a man than a woman, with her whiskered chin and meaty hands, her eyes always wide and her face perpetually red. Even though I had been one of her most prized possessions, it hadn’t prohibited her from treating me cruelly. She was ugly, and I was beautiful—a fact that made her particularly resentful. The smoke drifting from Keenan’s cigarette suddenly reminds me of the horrible woman, and I instinctively cringe.

“No pithy remark?” His light-green eyes have noticed my discomfort. “Madame Del Mar was once your master. Could it be that you’re sad to hear of her departure?” He tilts his head slightly and his expression turns cold. “No. In fact, I believe you’re relieved, if not pleased.”

I straighten in my seat. “Of course I’m relieved. Would a mouse mourn the death of a cat that had made his life a living hell?”

He slowly pulls on the cigarette and exhales a cloud of smoke. “Some would say that it’s only the cat’s nature and a necessity. Mice are vermin after all.”

“Necessity dictates that the mouse is eaten. But the cat merely toys with its prey, and, instead of killing out of necessity, it kills out of enjoyment.”

Despite his disapproval of me, he’s intrigued. I’m not what he had expected, and I suspect that he thought I would be crazy and disturbed. To him, I’m nothing but a concubine and a murderer, and, having nothing but low expectations, he’s surprised to discover I have somewhat of a brain. Like most men I know, he’s proven to be nothing but a self-satisfied, pretentious–

“Refreshments will be on the way,” says the Chief, entering the room and sitting beside me. “So, has Keenan given you the details?”

“Not all.” The detective speaks before I have the chance. “I had just finished outlining the preliminaries of each case. She has suggested in her own way that the first two cases are to be expected.”

“Is that so?” says the Chief, glancing at me.

Keenan exhales another cloud of smoke. “I was just waiting to hear what she had to say about the third case.”

A maid enters the room, carrying a tray of sandwiches, while another walks behind her with a tray of tea. They set the items down on the small table in front of us, and I immediately reach for one of the delectable pieces, beyond caring what the two gentlemen might think of me as I hungrily devour the food. The maid dutifully pours three cups and then leaves. Food—another thing I promise to never take for granted. I open my eyes, unaware that I had closed them, and find the detective giving me a peculiar look. Had I moaned in pleasure? I glance at the Chief and see a similar look. Yes, yes I did.

I shrug and lick my fingers unabashedly. “Unlike some women, I didn’t choose to be this skinny. And as for Madame Del Mar, I find it hard to believe that she would commit suicide.”

“Why is that?” questions the Chief, who, unlike the detective, is happily indulging in the refreshments. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one who was hungry, or the Chief simply can’t resist what’s in front of him despite whether he’s hungry or not.

“Because…” I begin, before taking a hesitant sip of the hot tea. “The Madame was not the type to indulge in self-pity or wish to end her life. She would have seen all her concubines dead before possibly entertaining the idea.”

“Perhaps you didn’t know her as well as you think,” says the detective, snuffing out his cigarette.

“I didn’t profess to know
her
, only her
nature
. She had her secrets just like every other person, but she wouldn’t have killed herself. That, I know.”

He’s still not convinced, and is determined to regard everything I say through a lens of suspicion. I suppose I can’t blame him. My flippant remarks about the deaths have only confirmed his negative assumptions of my character, but, as much as he claims to know my past, there’s only a fraction of the truth in my file. There are many facts that aren’t recorded with pen and paper.

“Well, I suppose that’s good news, because you didn’t think she killed herself either,” states the Chief, drawing the detective’s gaze momentarily.

“Yes, well, there’s also the evidence of the letters–”

“What letters?”

“If you had allowed me to finish, I would have told you,” continues Keenan. “We found a letter on
both
Mr. Darwitt’s and Madame Del Mar’s desk. It says the exact same phrase in the same writing, and both are unaddressed. It appears that they had read the letter before committing suicide.”

I look at him expectantly, trying not to interrupt even though he has paused dramatically.

“One by one the stars shall crumble, and into the depths of despair they will fall,” he articulates, reciting the contents of the letter by memory. “And amongst the ash, the Phoenix will rise and conquer them all.”

“Interesting, now what the hell does it mean?”

“It could mean various things, but it seems to refer to Revelations 6 in the Bible. Have you read the Bible, Del Mar?”

“Only cursorily.”

I hate that he continues to refer to my previous master’s last name, the woman who had owned me before I was sold. It proves that he doesn’t consider me a person, only a concubine—property to be bartered and sold—and I presume he knows very well that most concubines aren’t taught to read. What he may or may not know is that the master who Keenan so casually says I murdered had forced me to learn to read, but that would be very suspicious behaviour on
his
part, and most wouldn’t believe it.

He scrutinizes me before continuing. “Revelations 6 describes the four horsemen and mentions the stars of heaven falling unto the earth, similar to how the letter describes the falling stars. The end mentions that the wrath of the Lamb has come to pass judgement on unbelievers, which could bear resemblance to the so-called Phoenix in the letter, since the symbol of the creature was adopted in early Christianity and possibly represents Christ and his resurrection.”

“That seems to be a lot of speculation. Perhaps the phrase has nothing to do with the Bible, and someone just thought it sounded fancy.”

The Chief of Police laughs suddenly, a deep rolling laughter that chills my bones with the memories it conjures. “That’s exactly what Keenan thought when we found the first letter.” He glances at the detective with apparent mirth. “You practically said the same thing to me in my office.”

The corners of Keenan’s mouth curve upward in a humourless smile, for he doesn’t like the slightest indication that he and I might think alike. I can see that his smile would otherwise be attractive if it weren’t for the strained coldness in his green eyes, for there’s a hint of a dimple that suggests he isn’t always so detached and serious. Oh yes, the detective has many secrets—ones that I will receive immense pleasure in unravelling. He seems to guess my intent by my grin, and his affected smile vanishes.

“The point is, we have someone out there who believes they are passing judgement on others.”

“Meaning we may or may not have a religious lunatic running around Braxton murdering people,” I interject cheerfully. “What about the constable? How is his death related to the suicides, or is it?”

“I’m rather surprised that you haven’t even asked why we think the suicides were murders.”

Oops. Well, no use pretending innocence now. This man doesn’t let
anything
pass by him. “I assume that they were under some sort of persuasion that would activate once they read the cryptic phrase.”

“Indeed.” He absently drums on the chair’s armrest with one hand while the other is elegantly propped beneath his chin. “That is exactly what the Elite’s blockers said when I inquired about persuasion.”

Damn blockers. They’re all traitors to their kind, responsible for the symbol scarring each empath’s cheek and the subsequent barrier placed in most citizens’ minds. They’re also often used for police interrogations as a reliable source of detecting lies, and they act as mental bodyguards for the rich and the Elite. I hate them. Suddenly, all I can see is a pair of black eyes demanding me to challenge them, and an urge to pry those eyes right out of the skull overwhelms me.

“I wonder if you are of the same mind as them,” says Keenan, his pleasing voice piercing through my haze. “They told me that such a type of persuasion is rare among your kind, and that they reckon only a few of you would be able to perform such a rarity.”

“Yes, what they say is true. But did they forget to mention that there’s a possibility one of them could perform that type of persuasion?”

“Not at all,” declares the Chief, jerking my gaze away from the detective. “They are prospective suspects just like everyone else.”

Despite the Chief’s bulky physique, I had somehow managed to forget his presence in the room. The detective’s intense gaze has a way of pulling its subject into a sort of privacy, as if nothing else in the room exists. I feel as if I’m under constant inspection beneath his gaze, incapable of looking away despite my squirming and protests. Does he look at everyone like that, or just criminals?

“We know that Constable Evans’s murder is related because we found a similar note in the empath’s boudoir,” states the detective. “We have yet to determine if it is the entire phrase that activates the persuasion or if it is only some of the words used. Also, all three deaths occurred on the seventh day of the month.”

“I see. So, you think that an empath is responsible for all three deaths.” I don’t word it as a question, because it’s obvious what they think.

“That is our immediate conclusion, yes.”

“Well, then,” I declare, crossing my arms in automatic defiance. “What if I said let there be judgement passed?”

“You would be sent back to prison and executed.” The Chief’s voice is gruff with the potential of my disobedience.

“And I would find the killer with or without your aid, Del Mar,” says the detective. “It may take longer than usual, but eventually I
will
force the killer out of his hiding place.”

“Are you so sure that the killer is a ‘he’?”

The Chief’s thunderous laughter echoes in the room once more. “We’re not certain, but I doubt a w
oman
would be capable of such ingenuity.”

I glance back at the detective and see that, unlike the Chief, he isn’t so convinced of a woman’s unimaginativeness, and that his reference to the killer being male had been purely circumstantial to his point. To him, a person’s gender has nothing to do with the fact that they are a murderer, everyone having equal capability of committing a crime. It is the sort of mentality and one of the many qualities that make him a successful detective. The Chief of Police would skim over certain people just because of his prejudices, while the detective wouldn’t let
anyone
pass him by.

“Well, I think that shall be all for this evening,” says the Chief, rising. “The constables outside will take you to the hotel near the Police Station where you’ll be staying for the duration of the investigation.” He leads us out to the foyer. “Your room and food have all been paid for, so you needn’t concern yourself with that. You should also know that the constables have been instructed to sleep at the hotel as well, and keep an eye on you, so I wouldn’t bother trying to escape.”

He hands me a long coat and gloves that he had recently purchased for me, and I gratefully put them on, knowing that it’ll be cold out. I could get used to this. Back at the pleasure house, I had a few luxuries because of the revenue I brought in. But, when I was bought, my next master precariously fluctuated between denying me everything and spoiling me.

“Oh, you’re leaving as well, Keenan?” The Chief glances at the detective in surprise when the man proceeds to put his coat.

“I plan on having an early start tomorrow.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” He’s disappointed that he’ll no longer have someone to converse with over a glass of brandy and cigars.

Two motor vehicles are waiting out front, one with more than two seats and already occupied by four constables. The Chief and his wife most likely aren’t too keen on the idea of having a murderer sleep in their house, but I’m actually pleased with the arrangement. A room in a hotel will give me more privacy than a room in the Chief of Police’s crowded estate. It has been nearly a month since I last slept in a bed rather than on a prison floor—another luxury I’ll relish each night. My boots crunch on the thin layer of snow and already my nose feels frozen. The four constables are watching my progress intently, curiosity the prominent emotion wafting from the men. Even though I have never been in the north district, I know without a doubt that that is in fact where I am. The houses don’t resemble the worn-down state of the east district, and the air lacks the congestion of fumes that often taints the south district.

“I have informed the constables of our early start tomorrow,” says Keenan beside me, and I realize then that his green eyes have been watching me carefully beneath the rim of his bowler hat. “So I advise you to get a full night’s rest.”

“What are we doing tomorrow?” My breath comes out in a white cloud.

The detective turns away from me toward the empty motor vehicle and calls out without a backward glance, “Visiting the mortuary, Del Mar.”

“Moira,” I say venomously, but he has already decided that our conversation is over.

T
he Churchill Hotel
is a fairly small establishment situated near Braxton’s Police Station, with moderate furnishings for its guests. At first, I had doubted I’d be able to sleep considering that my cell beneath the police station was precariously close, but I had eventually blacked out into blissful oblivion and wouldn’t be surprised if I had snored. Thankfully, I hadn’t been plagued by nightmares, dreaming of black eyes or the sound of a whip breaking skin. Unfortunately, my sleep had been periodically interrupted with loud knocks on my door, which I responded promptly to with, “fuck off”. Or at least, I think I had. My mind is still blurry, falling in and out of sleep restlessly.

Another knock batters the door, followed by an impatient voice that tugs at my memory. “Open the door, Del Mar.” I know that voice somehow, yet I can’t place the face that belongs to the disembodied sound.

In my muddled state, I rise out of my bed with a growl and swing open the door. “What?”

I blink in the sudden onslaught of desire and then realize two things at once: I’m naked—because I always sleep naked—and the desire is coming from the constable standing behind Keenan. I examine his young facial features, concluding that he’s only a few years older than me, and when his eyes
finally
leave my private parts I’m pleased to see red creep along his neck. Apparently, even in my starved state I’m still appealing. I align my curves seductively against the door frame and give the constable my best flirtatious smile. The corners of his lips begin to spread into a responsive smile, but Keenan’s sharp glare stops him short and he clears his throat roughly.

Unlike the young constable, the detective doesn’t appear to be fazed by the sight of my naked body, and I’m slightly offended. People had paid a high price to be a client of mine for a few hours, yet this man barely sweeps his gaze over my breasts. Perhaps he prefers blondes, or women who don’t look like a skeleton. I can’t wait to gain a few pounds so that my body is a landscape of soft curves rather than jagged mountains of bone.

“Get dressed now, Del Mar.”

“Will you be watching?”

“Will it make you go quicker?” he asks dryly.

“Oh, you like it fast, do you? I honestly wouldn’t have guessed as much, but–”

“
Now
, Del Mar,” he says. “Your refusal to wake up when the constables knocked has made us late.”

“–sometimes you never know,” I continue. “A person’s appearance can be quite deceiving. Like this one client I had, he–”

To my surprise, he promptly grabs my shoulders with his gloved hands and shoves me back into the room, slamming the door in my face. I have barely a moment to acknowledge my shock when I hear him call to me from the other side of the door.

“Get dressed, Del Mar, and meet me downstairs.”

I smile, and then my stomach rumbles with the thought of breakfast. The promise of a free meal is enough incentive to get anyone out of bed and dressed, and I discover that in that aspect I am no different from everyone else. One of the hotel maids knocks at the door, and I let her in to tie my corset. The same constable is waiting outside my door, and he nods his head at me, gesturing for me to walk ahead. His desire still lingers like a potent perfume, but it reminds me of the hesitant young men who revere the female form rather than the domineering lust of a man who only sees a woman as an object to satiate his desire. Despite my past relationship with men, I find the young constable’s hesitant nature endearing, and I flash him a congenial smile.

“I don’t believe I got your name last night.”

“Patrick Jamieson,” he replies. “Most people just call me Rick.”

“So, Rick, where are the other constables?”

“Back at the station for now. It’s just me and the detective until Mr. Edwards is finished with your assistance.”

“I see,” I say as Keenan comes into view at the hotel’s entrance. Either they have confidence that I won’t try to escape, or they’re confident they could stop me. I’m thoroughly offended. I
had
evaded the police for six months in the past before they caught me, and I’m pretty sure I could do it now if I wanted.

Without a word, the detective begins to usher me out of the building into the frigid morning air, and I immediately protest. “Aren’t we going to eat breakfast first?”

Keenan glances at me sharply. “You lost that privilege with your tardiness, Del Mar. Perhaps, this way, you won’t waste time prancing around your room naked tomorrow morning.”

“I wasn’t ‘prancing around’,” I say acidly. “I was
sleeping
. Besides, you can’t be serious.” He ignores me and climbs into the seat beside me while Rick sits in the back. “I’m supposed to be fed. How do you expect me to help if I’m
starving
?”

“I doubt that you’re starving.”

He starts to drive along Churchill Road, and I suppress a shiver, wishing that I was back in the velvety warmth of my bed. Even though I had brought in high revenue for Madame Del Mar, she would still make me wake up at the same time as everyone else and do household chores. Our house wasn’t dirty in the literal sense, that’s for sure, and none of us were permitted to sleep in. If anyone disobeyed the Madame’s orders, they were severely punished. I can still hear the crack of the whip and see her robust figure looming over my naked body. I think she received a perverted pleasure by tormenting her female subjects, and most of us had the sneaky suspicion that Madame Del Mar liked women, not men. The fact that she hadn’t married supported that view.

“Sir, if I may, there’s a bakery across the street from the mortuary,” says Rick, leaning forward. I can’t help but think it’s odd that a bakery would be across from a mortuary. “I could get the lady some food there so that she doesn’t go hungry.”

“Really?” I say cheerily. “That would be most kind of you, Rick. At least someone has my well-being in mind.”

“Fine, but, so you know, it comes out of your pocket, Jamieson.”

“Oh, of course, sir. I don’t mind.”

“Of course you don’t,” mumbles the detective. He glances sideways at me and says loudly so that Rick can hear, “I imagine that since you have
experience
with dead bodies you’ll know what to expect.”

Since he didn’t actually ask me a question, I don’t bother to respond. I simply smile coldly at him, because his attempt to draw attention to my criminal past was lost on the constable. Rick’s mind was distracted with something else and he hadn’t heard the detective, which is beneficial to me if I wish to eat something soon. Keenan parks the motor vehicle in front of the mortuary, and I turn to find Rick’s hand held out for me. His
bare
hand. My gaze flickers up to his uncertainly, for surely he knows that to touch me would be to open up his mind to me. I realize then that I’m starving for an entirely different sort of nutrition. Emotions can be intriguing and sometimes draining, but they can never satisfy the hunger for more. That’s where thoughts and memories come into play, quenching the thirst to know
more.

“Don’t touch her, you fool!” snaps Keenan, thrusting his arm out to grab my wrist. Unlike the constable, the detective is wearing leather gloves. “And she’s
not
a lady, so quit treating her like one.” He lets go of my wrist and adds, “She’s a
criminal
, for God’s sake. You’ll do well to remember that. Now, go to the bakery if you still wish to. We’ll be inside.”

Red creeps along Rick’s neck and he mumbles an apology before leaving. I’m disappointed and a bit angry with being interrupted. What harm could one touch do? In my case, a lot, and Keenan obviously thinks so as well or else he wouldn’t have reacted so aggressively. Or at least I think so. The detective so far doesn’t seem the type prone to aggression, but maybe I’m wrong. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. I had made that mistake a few times with some of my clients, thinking that like most of the men they would simply ignore my snippy remarks. Instead, they had slapped me across the face with the back of their hand, and refused to pay the extra charge to Madame Del Mar for bruising my face. That would only lead me to further punishment and more bruises.

“You don’t need to be so rude,” I say defensively. “I wouldn’t have touched him anyway.”

“I saw your hand, Del Mar.” He opens the door to the mortuary and looks back at me. “And I saw the look in your eyes. You would have touched him.”

I walk into the building behind him and mutter, “I can’t help it if someone
offers.
”

He shrugs off his coat and removes his hat. It is then that I notice that his early start this morning had permitted him to shave, for his cheeks are as smooth as mine and the prominence of his jaw and Adam’s apple are made more distinct with the absence of hair. In fact, I can still smell the faint lingering aroma of his shaving cream—a smell I had always been partial to. I quickly look away so that he doesn’t notice me staring at him.

“Mr. Edwards,” says a man who has just stepped into the lobby. “Already here to examine the bodies again, are we?”

“Yes, well, I hope that this visit will prove more fruitful.”

“Ah, and I see that you’ve brought someone with you.” The other man turns to examine me and his eyes widen in shock.

Even though he wears an expensive suit, the collar is slightly askew and he had skipped a button in his vest. His ash-blond hair falls into his face and he keeps slicking it back with his fingers, and I notice the gold ring on his left hand. He’s about my height, which is considered short for a man, and has a scrawny build. Both my appearance and the fact that I am an empath have rendered the man speechless. In fact, he’s so perturbed by my presence that his hand remains in mid-swipe on his head. His gaze flickers to the detective uneasily, for he’s worried that I am here to interrogate him.

“Dr. White, this is Moira Del Mar. She’s here to help me with the investigation.”

“Del Mar?” echoes the doctor, who undoubtedly recognizes the last name as property of the pleasure house. His gaze once again flickers to the detective apprehensively, because he can’t conceive of what kind of services a concubine can provide in a criminal investigation. His mind could take a dark sexual turn and assume that it involves something seedy, but it doesn’t.

“Yes, we’re just waiting for Constable Jamieson and then we’ll be viewing the bodies.”

The aforementioned constable enters the mortuary with a brown paper bag in his hand that I immediately begin to salivate over. He hands me the package and I open it and inhale the glorious smell of fresh baked bread.

“I got a croissant and an éclair,” he declares, smiling at my satisfied grin. “I thought it would be something you’d enjoy and haven’t had in quite some time.”

I thank him, but don’t inform him that my life as a concubine never permitted me the luxuries of such baked goods. I grab the éclair from the bag, careful not to smear the icing on the inside, and sink my teeth into the cream-filled pastry. If I believed in a heaven, this would be it. The chocolate custard slides smoothly along my tongue, and I can’t help but ponder over how something so small can be so sinfully delicious. I finish the éclair with a lick of my fingers and open my eyes to find all three gentlemen staring at me.

“What?”

Dr. White swiftly looks away, while Rick blushes once more. The detective apparently is the only one who has the nerve to look at me, and his narrowed eyes look suspiciously like a glare, but I can’t imagine why. I wipe at my mouth believing I have cream on my face, but find nothing.

“Must you moan like that every time you eat, Del Mar?”

I raise my chin high in rebellion. “If you were stuck in a dark, dank cell for a month with nothing but a piece of bread to satiate your hunger, then
you
would be moaning in such a way after eating such a delectable pastry.”

“Are you finished for now?”

I consent with a short nod. The éclair—although hardly a proper breakfast—was rather filling and I wish to save the croissant for later. I hand Rick the paper bag—I don’t want the taint of dead bodies to mingle with the pleasing aroma—and follow the detective toward the room at the back. Inside, there are two tables in the centre with a white sheet covering the elongated lump on the surfaces. There are counters running along each side, with cabinets filled with what I deduce are medical supplies. It also smells—a very unpleasant scent that I’ve only encountered once in my lifetime.

I knit my brows in confusion at the sight of only
two
tables. “Where’s the third body?”

“Mr. Darwitt has been buried. Since his death was the first and thought to be a suicide, his family had arranged a funeral for him.”

“Which means that one of these bodies is Constable Evans and the other is Madame Del Mar.”

“Precisely.” His green eyes regard me coldly. “I hope you are capable of keeping down that éclair.”

“Of course, I have
experience
with dead bodies, remember?” I say sweetly, but it’s a lie. I’ll most likely vomit like any other person.

His lips press into a thin line before he looks away and pulls back the white sheet to expose the upper half of Constable Evans’ corpse. I try hard not to breathe in the stench of decay as I stare wide-eyed at the bluish-grey torso riddled with multiple stab wounds. It’s as if the empath who killed him had been overcome with a blind rage and stabbed anywhere the scissors could puncture. Was one of the holes the final killing blow or had the collection resulted in his death? The man isn’t familiar, but I doubt I would recognize him anyway. I have seen my share of faces in my life, and they all typically blur into one hateful memory. In that moment, I think I might vomit, but instead, a gruesome memory pushes its way to the front of my mind. I step backwards as my vision is clouded with the sight of empty black eyes staring up at me from the floor, a pool of crimson spreading beneath the body like wings. I look down at my hands, but all I see is blood. It’s not mine; it’s
his
. His black eyes seem to taunt me still, despite the absence of consciousness behind them.

“Are you alright, Del Mar?” The detective’s pleasing voice penetrates the memory that has infested all of my senses, and his brows are pulled together in what seems to be concern. “Here, smell this. It’ll help with the nausea.”