Mind of the Phoenix (7 page)

“Thank you, Sophia,” says the detective. “You may go, but please send in the butler.”

Once the maid leaves, he sits beside me again and looks at me expectantly. “Has her mind been tampered with?”

“No, I didn’t see any mark of persuasion.”

“I assumed as much,” he mutters, pensively beating his index finger on his thigh, and I begin to associate the unconscious behaviour as something he does when he is deep in thought.

The butler enters the room, and the detective gestures for him to sit in the chair across from him. “Your name is Arnold, am I correct?” The butler responds with a quick nod. “Arnold, do you know if Mr. Darwitt visited the pleasure house? The house will have records of every transaction, but it saves me time if you tell me the truth.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Darwitt took to visiting the pleasure house more often when Mrs. Darwitt became pregnant.”

“I see,” says the detective, his face carefully neutral. “And had Mr. Darwitt visited the pleasure house that night?”

“Yes, sir.”

I sigh in disgust, and the detective cuts me a sharp glare. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Constable Evans had been engaged, yet he had spent a lot of time at the pleasure house. And now we discover that Mr. Darwitt, who had a young, beautiful, pregnant wife, had also visited the pleasure house. I’m positive that several of my own clients had been either engaged or married. I’m just as equally certain that the women would blame me rather than the men, as if it were my fault for luring them into my boudoir with my beauty.

“Thank you very much, Arnold,” says the detective, rising. “Kindly inform Mrs. Darwitt that our interrogation is complete once we have gone.”

I rise and follow Keenan into the foyer. But it isn’t until we are outside that I swear under my breath in annoyance. The detective turns to regard me beneath the rim of his bowler hat, his breath clouding the air momentarily in the slight chill of March.

“Is there a problem, Moira?”

“Yes, actually there is. It’s just so typical. Mr. Darwitt had a beautiful young wife waiting for him at their home, but instead he kept visiting the pleasure house. God, she’s
pregnant
.”

“What do you consider
typical
about that scenario?”

“Is there
any
man out there who is actually faithful to his wife, detective?” I ask instead of answering his question.

“I’m sure there is, Moira.”

“Really?” I say, and cross my arms over my chest. “Do you know any?”

He stares at me for a moment, and it is the first time that he glances at one eye and then the other. “The Chief of Police has been married to his wife for twenty-five years, and in that time I’ve never known him to commit infidelity.”

“But how–”

“How would I know?” he says, finishing my sentence. “I suppose I don’t, really. But I think something like that would be hard to hide if you did it more than once.”

I grunt, but don’t pursue the conversation further. I’ll let him think that he has made a point when in fact he hasn’t. The Chief of Police could have still cheated on his wife without the detective’s awareness, but I don’t bother mentioning that fact since it would only be useless. I suddenly wonder if that is the reason why the detective isn’t married yet. Maybe he just couldn’t commit to one person and enjoys his freedom where he doesn’t have to attend or justify his behaviour to someone else.

“I forgot to mention that tomorrow evening I have to attend an event at the residence of one of the Elite,” he informs me as we drive back to the hotel. “I’m to bring you along with me.”

“To a social gathering?”

I’m surprised and excited at the prospect of going out in the evening rather than being stuck at the hotel. I’ve never been to a private event and, even though I’ll undoubtedly be introduced to various Elite members, I think it would be worth the trouble just to avoid the boredom I inevitably face in my hotel room.

“Yes, that means you’ll have to wear an evening gown, so I will have one delivered to you tomorrow.” He then glances at my hair with furrowed brows. “I suppose there’s nothing we can do about that hair.”

“Is it really that awful?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

The corner of his mouth quirks upwards and I suspect he’s trying not to laugh at me. “No, even if it
is
rather uneven.”

I smile brightly at him. “Well, it was either this or trying to brush out the knots in my hair and potentially yank clumps right out of my skull.”

He parks the vehicle in front of the hotel and turns to face me. “I must warn you though, that because no one but the Elite knows who you are and that you’re aiding in the investigation, you will be introduced as my–” He stops abruptly and appears to struggle with what word to use.

“Oh, come on, detective,” I say sweetly. “There’s no need to be shy.”

“You will be introduced as my
property
,” he states finally. “So, your name will be Moira Edwards for the time being.”

“Hmm, and do I get any sort of
payment
for my cooperation, master?”

“Yes,” he says quietly, his eyes never wavering from my gaze. “That I won’t throw you back in prison.”

I laugh heartily. “So, you’ll still be by tomorrow morning so that we can interrogate Rachel, right?” He nods in response.

I’m almost out of the motor vehicle when he stops me by saying in a quiet voice, “You could have read my mind, Moira.” I glance back at him, knowing that he’s referring to when he grabbed my neck in the tub this morning. He’s looking at me as if I’m a puzzle he doesn’t understand. “Why didn’t you?”

I smile sadly, knowing that I should respond with a flippant remark and confirm his cynical prejudices against empaths. But instead I find myself saying, “I suppose, detective, that some things you want given to you willingly.”

I quickly head toward the hotel entrance, leaving him to think whatever he wants of my reply. There’s no way that I would elaborate if he asked, and, in fact, if he mentions it tomorrow I’ll deny the whole statement. I should have read his mind when I had the chance. To him, I’m probably nothing but a concubine and a murderer; I shouldn’t try to convince him otherwise. It’ll make escaping that much more difficult.

Yes, but if you earn his trust he won’t suspect your intentions,
says a voice inside my head.

Yes, I suppose the voice inside my head is right. Right now the detective is watching me carefully and probably expects that I plan to escape. If I earn his trust, however, his attention will eventually slip, allowing me the opportunity to fade from his sight. But if I’m honest with myself I know that the idea of manipulating the detective’s trust is unappealing to me. It’s messy and has the potential to involve too many emotions that somehow always get muddled. Besides, I don’t think I would be capable of falsely luring the detective into a false anything.

Even if it means your survival?
asks the voice.
Besides, it’s not like the detective could see you as anything other than a whore and a murderer.

I scowl and try to shut out the voice. I prefer not to stay up all night with her cynical thoughts swarming around in my mind, and I sigh in relief as the darkness slowly ebbs away in the distance.

S
ometimes I’m
sure I’ve succeeded in complete detachment. I learned to stop crying at a young age. I can throw sardonic remarks at the sound of someone else’s death. I’ve managed to become invincible. Yes, others still have the power to hurt me physically, but they can never reach my mind. But other times, I find myself standing in a familiar place or catching a hint of a familiar scent. It could be something so simple and ordinary, but my mind shatters with no warning. Memories, thoughts, emotions all come tumbling to the forefront of my mind in a violent assault, and I realize that I’m not as invincible as I had believed. It’s strange that a seemingly neutral place has the power to have me emotionally crumpling to my knees with the memories it forces me to recollect. It’s as if the scene has imprinted itself onto the landscape.

As I descend the stairs to the underground prison, I’m bombarded in such a way, and I instinctively halt half-way down. Madame Del Mar and my previous master had used light deprivation as a form of punishment, so I should be accustomed to the darkness, especially since the police use the same tactic in their underground prison. But that month of darkness in the cell, where I had only my thoughts and memories as companions, was brutal and reminded me of all the other times I had been caged in the dark. Even though the scattered lights along the wall have been lit and the detective and I both carry a lantern, I still feel powerless against the wave of memories. I can almost hear the crack of the whip and feel black eyes leering at me from the shadows.

He’s here; I can feel him.

“Are you alright, Moira?”

“Of course,” I say casually, even though my heart has picked up speed.

He lifts up the lantern and looks at me. The golden light dances across his face, casting deeper shadows beneath his eyes, and the low light makes him appear more haunted than in the bright light of day. I wonder if his demons come to haunt him when he’s in the darkness just like me, or if I’m the only one afflicted in such a way. Instead of prying further, he diverts my attention back to our task at hand by mentioning Rachel.

“So, you’re confident she won’t be able to read your mind when I ask you to read hers?”

“Yes,” I reply. “Besides, even if she did, what damage could she do to me or our investigation in the cell?”

He turns, apparently content with my answer, and continues down the long hallway. I rush after him, the feeling of black eyes following my hasty progress, and nearly bump into him. His scent and warmth beckon me, and I find myself eager to close the distance between us so that I can reassure myself that I’m not alone in this hellish prison. God, when did I become so weak and dependent? The detective glances back at me with apparent intrigue in the rising of his brows.

“You’re rather skittish,” he says teasingly. “Are you recalling your time in prison or is it possible that you are afraid of the dark?”

“I’m not afraid,” I declare defensively.

I catch the curving of his lips before he turns around. Rachel is further into the underground prison than I had been, and when we finally reach her cell our lanterns cast a faint glow into her meagre confines. I’ve always wondered how many prisoners resided in the prison, considering that the underground institution runs beneath almost half of the south district. Rachel looks similar to how I had, with matted hair and a dirt-streaked face. There’s only a small, thin shift to cover her body, and already she has lost a lot of weight. She slowly turns her head toward us, and I’m confronted with the blank gaze of someone who has given up. When she focuses on us, she doesn’t plead or fall into hysteria like I had done. Instead, I feel as if death is watching me from behind those lifeless eyes, telling me that I am next.

“Rachel Del Mar, I’m Detective Edwards.” He places a large paper bag on the floor and carefully pushes it through the bars of her cell with his foot, but he keeps the container of water in his hand. “If you answer my questions truthfully, I will give you this container of water.”

The young woman stares blankly at him before she croaks, “And if I don’t?”

“The contents of the bag are still yours to keep,” he answers. “But I suspect you’ll be thirsty after you’ve had a few bites. In fact, I have no doubt that your throat is very raw at the moment.”

Rachel’s eyes narrow fractionally and then, with speed I had not anticipated, she lunges forward and grabs the bag. She stuffs one of the pastries into her mouth and practically swallows the thing whole. I glare at the detective. A person whose execution date is eight days from now won’t bother answering the questions of a detective. But Keenan was clever enough to know that and had purchased several delicacies at a nearby pastry shop, knowing that the prisoner could possibly be bribed to talk. Perhaps it was my own fault. With the way I relished food, especially the pastries that Rick had bought me, the detective had deduced that not only would Rachel be starving, but that she was also a concubine like me and hardly ever ate such food.

“I would suggest that you take your time, Rachel,” he states in that calm tone of his. “Your stomach isn’t used to eating such amounts. You might make yourself vomit.”

The woman glares at the detective, but slows down noticeably. When she finally swallows a mouthful, she asks, “So, what are your questions?”

“I’d like to ask you about what happened on February seventh.”

“I didn’t kill him, you know,” she declares, hugging the bag to her chest. “I mean…” she pauses and glances down at her hands, horrified. “These hands did, but
I
didn’t.”

“I’d like you to tell me what happened, Rachel,” he continues soothingly, and I wonder if his sardonic tone is only reserved for me. “What do you remember?”

“I was in my boudoir, waiting for him. I knew he would come, because… because–” She abruptly breaks off on a choking cry.

The detective pushes the container of water through one of the slits of the bars. “Have some water, Rachel.”

She takes the container and nearly chokes on the water in her attempt to gulp it down. She even coughs, spitting up water, but continues to drink, ignoring the detective’s advice to slowly consume the liquid and food. When she finally lowers the container, I notice droplets of water streaming down her dirt-streaked chin to the space between her breasts. She then looks at me as if she has suddenly noticed my presence, and my suspicions are proven correct. Rachel is a very weak empath, the kind that makes up the majority of the concubines. If you are suspected of being a weak empath, the Elite places you in the pleasure house rather than the other two houses.

“Who are you?”

“She’s my assistant,” the detective responds before I can answer. “Rachel, you said you were waiting for him. Do you mean Constable Evans?”

“Yes.” She reluctantly turns her attention back to the detective. “I was waiting for him, because…” she pauses, and I can see the tears pooling in her eyes. She doesn’t cry though, and manages to finish. “Because he always stopped by to see me. We were in love.”

The detective and I glance at each other, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing that I am. I can smell his suspicion, but I would need to enter his mind to trace his exact thoughts. My immediate thought is that this woman is delusional, and that she’s one of the many concubines who have managed to convince themselves that one or more of their clients
love
them. I don’t know which is worse: the idea that the client purposely manipulates the woman into thinking that they love them, or that the woman has managed to deceive herself all on her own. I was never once a fool to be under such an illusion, because true love just doesn’t exist. Everyone is too selfish and judgemental to actually
love
another human being unconditionally.

“In love?” echoes the detective.

“Yes,” she says, scowling up at him. “I don’t expect you to understand, but we
were
in love.”

“He was engaged,” I blurt, and both the detective and the prisoner glower at me.

“You don’t think I don’t
know
that?” says Rachel, her voice rising in anger. “It doesn’t change the fact that we were in love.”

“Oh, it
doesn’t
?” I counter disdainfully, and then laugh bitterly. “You were a concubine–”

“
Moira,
” warns the detective in a low growl.

“
What
?” I snap at him. “This woman is clearly deluded–”

“That’s enough,
Moira
.”

“You’re right,” says the woman in the cell, and the detective and I both look at her in surprise. “I’m only a
whore
. Collin knew that and still
loved
me. And, of course, he was engaged. His parents were pushing for the marriage just like they had pushed him into becoming a constable of the law. What was he supposed to do, marry
me
? Well, that’s against the Elite’s rules.”

“So, you’re saying that you would have happily become his mistress while he was married to another woman?” I ask peevishly.

“I loved him. I would have done anything for him.”

I scoff and she looks up at me sharply. “Clearly you haven’t been in love.”

“So, what happened next?” requests the detective irritably, in an attempt to steer the conversation back to the events of that night.

“He came and we made love,” she says, and I roll my eyes. “We were relaxing and enjoying the time we had together before he had to leave. I had put on his police coat and was pretending to be a constable.” She smiles sadly as if she’s remembering something pleasant. “He had such a pleasing laugh. It was while I was acting that I noticed an envelope in the inner pocket of his jacket. I pulled it out and asked him what it was. He didn’t seem to know what it was or how it had gotten there. It had my name on it, so I opened it. There was a note, but I can’t read. So, Collin read it for me.” She looks up at the detective, almost beseechingly. “After that my memory is blank. I only remember coming back to myself with blood all over and–”

She’s crying again, and despite my cynicism I actually pity her. Even if I doubt the constable’s feelings toward her, I can see that
she
was at least in love. She was willing to do anything for the man, and I can’t help but bitterly wonder what
he
would have done for
her
. To suddenly come to and find that the person you love is dead and their blood is on your hands would be traumatic for anyone. I suddenly want to wash my hands, for I’m reminded of the time when
I
had looked down to find someone else’s blood on me. It’s a horrendous experience that has the power to shake anyone to the core.

“Do you remember what the note said?”

She shakes her head and tries to wipe her tears away.

“Rachel, I need to ask something of you,” he says softly. “I need you to let Moira read your mind. I think it has been tampered with.”

“Tampered with?” she echoes, looking up at him. “What do you mean? Will it get me out of here?”

“I can’t promise that, but I will try my best. But I
do
promise you that it’ll help us find the person responsible for Collin’s death. Can you help us, Rachel?”

The detective is lying. He knows that the Elite will never let Rachel go free unless we find the killer before her execution date. I doubt that, and so does the detective. Either Rachel is as weak of an empath as I presume, or she knows that the detective is lying but doesn’t care. I don’t know whether or not to despise the detective further or commend him on his cunning. The appeal to her love for the constable seems to make up her mind and she nods. I carefully kneel on the ground before the place where she sits and reach my right hand through the opening between the bars. I look up into her eyes and find her staring at me with confusion. She recognizes my face, yet she cannot place where she has seen me before.

“I know you. Where do I know you?”

Instead of answering her, I say, “I need your hand, Rachel.”

She slowly places her hand in mine as if uncertain. The moment we touch, the memory grips me by the shoulders and pulls me through as if it had been waiting for me.

Rachel is waiting in her boudoir, pacing back and forth in anticipation, with only a corset over her chemise. She’s excited, and her nervous energy buzzes around me. A soft knock taps on the door, and she opens it. I recognize the man in the police uniform from the bluish-grey corpse in the mortuary, and the memory confirms my assumption that he was an attractive man. He smiles at her, and I can feel her heart flutter as if it is my own. Even if I don’t know what love is, there is no question that she has strong feelings toward this man.

“Hey, babe,” he says softly, closing the door behind him. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

He pulls her into a deep, demanding kiss as she hurriedly undresses him. Once he’s left with just his drawers on, he breaks the kiss and makes her brace her hands on the door as he slowly unties her corset. He lets it fall to the floor and slowly runs his hands up her thighs, exposing her ass, and continues until his hands cup her breasts.

“Oh, Collin,” she whispers softly as he leaves a scattering of kisses along her exposed skin.

He turns her around abruptly and presses his lips to hers. Her chemise comes off, as does his drawers, and they move toward the bed. He teases her with the attentiveness of someone who wishes the other person to enjoy the experience as much as they will, kissing her stomach and the space between her thighs. She moans in pleasure, and I’m embarrassed by my own arousal for I can feel the whole experience through her. It’s unsettling, but also makes my heart squeeze with yearning. Collin then slides into her and kisses her passionately while his hips move with the grace of an experienced lover.

As I watch them have sex through Rachel’s perspective, I get an uneasy feeling, as if I’m watching something that I shouldn’t. Even though their rhythm quickly becomes fast and demanding, I can see that it isn’t carried out with the intent to harm the other and that both of them are thoroughly enjoying themselves. They cry out in ecstasy, and then hold onto each other as if the other is their lifeline. I get the distinct impression that she wanted me to see this part to prove that what they had was indeed love, but my cynical heart still has its doubts.