Mind of the Phoenix (6 page)

“When’s her execution date?”

“March twentieth.”

“That’s eight days from now!” I exclaim angrily.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “And we see her tomorrow.”

“I don’t understand why the–” I pause, and lower my voice when I continue. “Why the Phoenix would allow one of his kind to be executed.”

“Perhaps we’ll find out tomorrow, Del Mar. But I suggest we discuss this another time when we are
alone
.”

Our server arrives with our breakfast, and we eat in silence for several minutes. The patrons are still glancing at us with a mixture of criticism and curiosity, whispering amongst one another, and I grin at a lady who is at that moment openly examining me. The detective continues to eat in silence, which means he’s either oblivious to the other patrons or he simply doesn’t care. I wonder if it’s because he’s not at all embarrassed to be in my company or because he’s extremely confident that other people’s assumptions don’t matter.

I lean in conspiratorially and whisper, “Do you suppose they think that you are my master?”

He immediately looks up at me sharply, and then glances at the other women and men in the café. “I don’t know, Del Mar,” he says, his eyes focusing back on my face. “Would you like them to think so?”

“Would you?”

“If I had purchased a Del Mar I wouldn’t be sitting in a café eating breakfast with her.” His gaze never wavers from mine as he says this, and I don’t know whether to take that as an insult or an attempt at flirtation.

“Then, what
would
you be doing with her?”

He continues to stare at me as he dreamily raps his index finger lightly on the table. “I suppose that would be between me and her, would it not?” he finally says, and I can’t believe he just said that with that stern expression of his.

“More coffee, sir?” asks the server, who I hadn’t notice approach us. Keenan gives a slight nod, and the server pours the steaming dark liquid and then turns to me. “Miss?”

I sit up straight in my chair and accept another cup. I had been leaning closer toward the detective with every word exchanged between us and hadn’t even realized it until the server’s interruption. At first, I’d been more inclined to believe that his statement was intended to be an insult, considering his current behaviour toward me so far. But, even though his expression had been serious, there had been a hint of playfulness in his eyes that I usually find in men who are flirting with a woman. When the server leaves, I give the detective a sly smile.

“Why are you smiling, Del Mar?”

“Oh, nothing,” I say breezily. “It’s just that I was beginning to think that you weren’t interested in women.”

He narrows his eyes and says carefully, “What makes you say that?”

“Well, because you’re not married and you made it seem like you’ve never visited the pleasure house,” I say, deliberately pausing to pour sugar and cream into my coffee. “And because you didn’t seem to be affected by seeing me naked twice. Even Constable Jamieson blushed at the sight of me, and he’s engaged.”

“Perhaps, Del Mar, you’re not my type.”

“Maybe I’m not,” I say icily. “But I’m just a whore, as you like to point out by continuing to refer to me as Del Mar.”

“I see,” he says slowly as he leans toward me. “So, would you prefer me to act charmed like Constable Jamieson, or take advantage of you like I have no doubt Constable Bradford would have done if I hadn’t interrupted? I suppose it doesn’t matter as long as I’ve
paid
.”

I look at him coolly. “I’d
prefer
you to call me Moira.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

He leans back and says, “Then consider it done,
Moira.
”

I sigh irritably. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“Like what?” he asks innocently. “I see no other way to pronounce the name.”

“It’s not your pronunciation. It’s–” I pause at his amused look. “Fine, say it however you want. I suppose that’s better than hearing you call me Del Mar all the time.”

He looks down at his pocket watch. “Time for us to leave, Del–” He stops and looks at me pointedly as he amends his words. “
Moira
.”

I smile appreciatively and rise. Even if he says my name in a condescending tone, I prefer it over his continual reference to my previous owner. He pays, and we leave the café. We drive to Mrs. Darwitt’s estate in silence, and it is only when we have parked in front of the house that he speaks.

“According to Mrs. Darwitt, we are here for a routine follow-up on the death of an Elite member,” he informs me as I examine the beautiful brick house in front of me. It is in the middle of Parker Avenue—one of the richest streets in ward twenty-eight.

Even though I envied others for being allowed to own property, I still could never fathom what they did with all those rooms. The only space I had been permitted to live in was my boudoir at the pleasure house, and that had been enough. Granted, I didn’t have that many possessions and I suppose that rich people fill their lives with plenty of
things
. Not to mention, they probably have a room for every single thing instead of rooms with multiple uses. There’s probably a multitude of unused rooms that the servants are unfortunately forced to keep dusted and clean.

“I will ask all the questions, Del–
Moira
,” he instructs, and I wonder how many times he will have to correct himself before he starts automatically calling me by my first name. “I will tell them that you are an Elite blocker–”

“I’d rather be a concubine than one of
them
.”

“So that when it comes to our interrogation with the maid, you’ll be permitted to read her mind,” he says, ignoring my interruption. His green eyes then glance at me austerely as he adds, “You’re to only read her mind of the crime scene, but I would also like you to see if her mind has been tampered with by the Phoenix.”

“Alright,” I mumble, feeling buoyed by the idea of reading someone’s mind.

We leave the vehicle and head toward the door. The butler, a tall, dark-skinned man, opens the door and takes our coats. He’s shocked by the cropped length of my dark hair but has the decency not to gawk. He undeniably has much practice when it comes to turning away at scandalous affairs. He directs us to a parlour room where Mrs. Darwitt is already seated elegantly on a chair. She’s a beauty with gorgeous golden locks. Her face seems to glow despite the shadows beneath her eyes, and then my gaze drops to the protruding stomach beneath the silky folds of her dress. I instinctively touch my own belly, but then quickly hide the behaviour when I catch the detective’s keen gaze on my hand. The detective skillfully ushers me toward the velvet, rust-coloured sofa so that I have no choice but to sit beside him. As they exchange polite introductions, I try to ignore the sound of a screaming infant that has suddenly pervaded my thoughts.

“I understand that bringing up the death of your husband will be painful, but I am bound by the law to ask you the mandatory questions when an Elite member has died,” says the detective.

“I understand, detective,” replies Mrs. Darwitt, her hand resting on the top of her round belly.

Pregnant and now widowed. Normally, I would pity such a circumstance, but she most likely has enough money to take care of her and the baby for a long time. Then again, I have no idea how Mr. Darwitt spent his money, so I can’t say for certain if he had left a hefty sum. She’s so young, too, probably around my age. The Elite governs the breeding rights of my kind, and it’s illegal for us not to use protection if we haven’t been sanctioned to procreate. Of course, that doesn’t stop some people from trying to mate nor does the law protect people from rape. I’ve begun to fidget with my dress.

“I would like you to recall the events of that night in your perspective.”

“I went to bed early like I usually do,” she explains. “I believe it was around seven thirty. I had just begun to doze off when I was startled awake by a loud bang. The time then was a quarter past eight. I rushed downstairs as fast as I could.” She pauses and looks down at her stomach. “I would have fallen down the stairs if it hadn’t been for Arnold. He caught me and told me that I shouldn’t go into my husband’s study, that it wouldn’t be good for me and the baby.”

“Did you go into the study, Mrs. Darwitt?”

“No.”

“Now, for these next two questions I am able to look into the records, but if you could answer them truthfully it would save us both a lot of time,” he says. “Did your husband ever visit the memory house?”

“No, not that I am aware of.”

“And the dream house?”

She shakes her head. “Again, I assume no.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Darwitt,” he says. “We appreciate you taking the time out of your day to answer our questions. Now, if you could send in–”

“What about the pleas–” I begin, but Keenan’s hand is suddenly resting on my leg, squeezing as if to quiet me. I immediately clamp my mouth shut, and Mrs. Darwitt gives us a curious look.

“If you could please send in the maid who was in your husband’s study that night and allow us to conduct our interrogation in private, I would appreciate that,” continues the detective.

“Of course,” says Mrs. Darwitt. “It was a pleasure to meet you, detective.”

He stands up and nods his head in polite farewell. Mrs. Darwitt returns the gesture and then exits the room. I notice with annoyance that she didn’t even address me in her departure, as if I wasn’t even in the room or worthy of the courtesies extended to other human beings. I conclude that she is haughty just like the other women of high society, and I no longer pity her situation. As soon as she is gone, the detective sits back down beside me on the couch and glares at me.

“I told you to be quiet,
Moira.
”

“You
forgot
to ask her if her husband was a client at the pleasure house,” I mutter accusingly.

“I didn’t
forget
,” he says. “If you won’t be quiet, then at least consider how a young pregnant widow would feel if we asked her if her husband was a frequent customer of the pleasure house.”

“Oh. I suppose you’re right.”

When the maid enters the room, the detective stands and directs her to sit beside me on the sofa while he takes the chair that Mrs. Darwitt had sat in. He does this purposely, so that when he asks me to read the maid’s mind I don’t have to reach far to touch her. Though she’s undoubtedly several years older than Mrs. Darwitt, her nervous behaviour makes her appear younger. She’s trying not to look at me as the detective begins to ask his questions, and I speculate on whether it is out of fear, or a blatant dismissal like Mrs. Darwitt.

“You were in Mr. Darwitt’s study with him on January seventh and the only one to bear witness to the incident,” he says. “Am I correct, Sophia?”

She nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember if the letter you had given him that night had come with the morning mail or if someone had personally delivered it?”

“It was with the mail, sir,” she answers timidly.

He gestures toward me and says, “This is Moira. She’s one of the Elite’s blockers.” The maid anxiously glances at me, and I try to give her an encouraging smile as her fear becomes obvious. Her eyes widen, and I assume that I must have displayed too many teeth. “Will you permit her to read your mind, Sophia? She has been instructed to only read the memory that pertains to the incident on January seventh.” I notice that he’s careful not to say ‘suicide’.

The maid glances at him and nods solemnly. I hold out my hand, and after a moment she reluctantly places her trembling palm against mine. I look straight into her blue eyes, because even with permission people tend to still resist, trying to fight your presence in their minds. It’s comforting to them if we maintain eye contact, and also reminds their subconscious that the mind invading theirs is the person in front of them. She keeps flickering between my hazel eye and my blue one, and then finally settles on the blue. Beneath her own blue irises, her mind opens up, showing no resistance as I search for the particular memory.

Sophia walks into the study behind a man who has begun to gain extra weight around his middle and then smiles politely at him. His blond hair has already begun to thin, and I estimate he must be in his mid-thirties. He looks vaguely familiar, but I quickly dismiss it. Sophia doesn’t seem to harbour any ill thoughts toward the man and thinks that he is a lovely husband to Estella.

“Will you be requiring anything this evening, sir?”

“A drink, Sophia,” the man responds cheerily as he sits in his luxurious leather chair behind the ornately carved mahogany desk. “Today has been a good day and requires celebration.”

“The usual, sir?” she inquires, her hand hovering over a dark bottle.

“No, Sophia,” he says, smiling. “Today calls for the cognac.”

“Yes, sir.” She pours him a glass, and then sets it on his desk. “Oh, I almost forgot, sir. A letter arrived today addressed to you.” She pulls out a white envelope from the pouch in her apron and hands it to him.

Mr. Darwitt takes a sip of the amber liquid before examining the envelope curiously. He opens the letter and pulls out a thin sheet of paper.

“Is there anything else that you will require, sir?”

The cheerful expression on Mr. Darwitt’s face has vanished and he doesn’t appear to hear the maid.

“Sir, is everything alright?” asks Sophia, concerned. She is confused because normally Mr. Darwitt responds to her immediately.

The man reaches into his right hand drawer and pulls out a revolver. The sight of the weapon frightens her, and she has the sudden idea that he intends to shoot her. Without hesitation, he places the barrel into his mouth and pulls the trigger. I see the gruesome scene of blood splattering on the wall behind the man before I hear Sophia’s horrified screams.

I release the memory and realize that Sophia is crying softly. I have pulled the memory to the forefront of her mind, and she is distressed by having to view the vivid scene once more. The sight of someone killing themselves in front of you is horrifying and changes a person. I can see the change already shifting behind Sophia’s eyes. I quickly stifle the memories that try to force their way out of the darkness, for I have no intention of reminiscing while in the presence of strangers.