Mind of the Phoenix (12 page)

“Yes, I’d like to speak with your records keeper, Mr. Sommers,” answers the detective. “Tell him that it is Detective Edwards on Elite business.”

She nods and ushers us into an office on the left. Mr. Sommers rises and shakes the detective’s hand, and I again recognize him from Mr. Anderson’s private event. His eyes glance at me and then look away in disinterest. He is one of the few men whose minds are predominantly focused on intellectual pursuits rather than sexual ones, and I can also sense that he doesn’t find me sexually appealing. I’m not offended, because I know that I can’t be
everyone’s
type. He is a tall man, with ginger hair and a curled mustache.

“So, Detective Edwards, what can I do for you?” His voice is surprisingly deep for his stature. It always amazes me when I meet a burly man with a very soft voice, or a scrawny man with an exceptionally bass-like timbre.

“I need to know if Madame Del Mar or Mr. Darwitt was ever a client at this house.”

“Of course,” he says.

He gestures for us to sit while he peruses one of the drawers of a large cabinet. Their clientele is presumably a lot smaller than the other houses, but that by no means suggests that their revenue is lower. They charge a hefty price to block memories, and there are plenty of rich people who want their mental baggage gone. Mr. Sommers closes the drawer and turns to us.

“Neither one of them visited the memory house, detective,” he says. “Was there anything else I could help you with?”

The detective stands. “No, thank you Mr. Sommers.”

I rise and Mr. Sommers leads us back into the lobby. The woman at the entrance gives us a congenial smile as we leave. We exit the house and enter the motor vehicle. Other than my encounter with Evan, I’m rather disappointed with our investigation so far.

“Well, hopefully our interview with the blockers will be more useful.” I look at the detective abruptly. “What sort of questions are we going to ask them? We can’t just blatantly ask them if they are the Phoenix.”

“No, unfortunately not,” he says. “But we won’t need to ask, because
you
can read their minds.”

M
y mind feels
like scrambled eggs, whisked so vigorously that everything bleeds together to the point where my past overlaps my present. Sometimes I feel as if I’m walking backwards, the world twisting into a horrifying replay as scenes flash before me. During those moments, my future retreats from my grasp at an alarming speed, and I find it exceedingly difficult to focus and separate myself from the investigation.

On the one hand, I resent the Phoenix for Rachel’s impending execution and for giving the people of Braxton another reason to fear empaths—as if they needed one more excuse to enslave us. Most of all, I despise him for inadvertently involving me in the case, which has forced me to reveal my gifts to the detective. And then there’s the other part of me—the one who is cruel, bitter, and unforgiving. She wants the Phoenix to succeed; she wants to see people like Mr. Anderson rot in hell. According to her, Madame Del Mar deserved her death for the injustice she executed at the end of a whip, and Mr. Darwitt was indubitably guilty of some crime as well. There is no room for forgiveness or sympathy, and I’m frightened that no one is safe from her blame. Sometimes I hate her, desperate to be free of her darkness, and other times I fear that she may be right. I dread the day when I will become her completely, and there will be nothing but blackness—a sticky tar that will swallow me whole.

Mr. Anderson leads us into the office of his private estate, where every item is a testament to his wealth, and taunts me, who has nothing but the skin on her back. I’m torn between a desire to laugh and cry as I realize that I don’t even own my body; I remain an item on the Elite’s shelf of trinkets. Mr. Anderson sits behind the large ornate desk that is as black as his soul, and his equally black eyes languidly rest on me. My glare amuses him, and the idea of whipping it off my face arouses him greatly. The past seizes me then, and I see a different pair of black eyes leering at me. Instead of wanting to dominate my defiant nature like Mr. Anderson, this man wants to beat any residual obedience out of me. If I show fear, apathy, or any other sign of weakness, he will punish me.

“Get up, Moira,” I hear his husky, laboured voice growl above me.

I shiver in anticipation as if the pain will strike me any moment, and shift restlessly in my seat. Damn, this is definitely not a good time to start hearing his voice in my head. I can’t tell which is worse: hearing Scott’s voice, or having
her
whisper the darkness into my heart. The urge to shake my head—to jostle those dirty memories away—overwhelms me, but that is something I would only do in private. She’s too close to the surface today, and, whenever that occurs, the bleak memories rush forward in their eagerness to torment me. I need something to ground me, and I instinctively glance at the detective. Somehow, those green eyes always manage to root me to the present, but unfortunately they are currently focused on Mr. Anderson.

“So, to what do I owe this visit?” asks Mr. Anderson, lifting a brow. “You wouldn’t tell me over the phone, only that I should have my blocker Daniel available for interrogation.”

“Yes,” he begins, but then pauses as if he can sense my eyes on him. He glances at me sideways in a silent question, but I quickly look away. “I cannot discuss the particular details of the investigation with you, Mr. Anderson, but I have reason to believe that your blocker may be involved in the murders.”

“Involved?” echoes the other man. His anger trickles into me like acid down my throat, scorching my insides. He’s irate with the detective for suggesting that Daniel is the Phoenix, but he’s even angrier with the idea that
his
blocker may be the killer. He’s convinced that something like that wouldn’t have evaded his knowledge.

The detective nods. “Like I said, I cannot tell you how or why we’ve come to that conclusion. I can only say that there is evidence to suggest such a connection and that under the laws of the Elite you are required to let me interrogate him in private without your interference.”

Mr. Anderson’s gaze flashes angrily in my direction. “Oh, and I suppose this
whore
is going to read Daniel’s mind? I don’t even know why Mr. Hayes and Mr. Harrison believe
she
is valuable to this investigation. All she’s ever been good for is perhaps a decent fuck.”

“And that’s something
you’ll
never have the chance to experience,” I hiss furiously, leaning forward in my seat. Ever since entering the house, I have been clinging to the edge of a cliff with only my fingertips, and Mr. Anderson has just pried my hands free of the ledge. “You’re just upset because I got away before you could rip open my flesh with your whip!”

His eyes gleam with amusement. “Ah, so you
do
remember me?” The horrible smile has returned to his face. “I wondered if you had recognized me.”

“How could I forget when I had to listen to a woman’s cries for nearly an hour?” I say through gritted teeth. “Your lacerations put her out of commission for weeks, and God only knows of the hidden damage you did to her!”

Mr. Anderson laughs. The bastard
laughs.
The mocking sound stirs something within me and
she
begins to stretch into her full height. She is not intimidated by this man, and his taunts only fuel her.

“Yes, and the moment I saw you I knew I had to have you,” he declares, his desire for me thickening with each moment that passes. “And believe me, Moira, I would have done a lot worse to you if it hadn’t been for that damn blocker purchasing you.”

“That’s
enough
, Mr. Anderson,” demands the detective beside me, but his voice is too low for the other man to hear.

“I would have wiped that glare off your face,
whore
,” he sneers. “I would have relished in your cries, and by the end you would have begged for me to stop.”

“You’re a sick bastard–”

“
That’s enough!
” the detective snarls in a loud, deep voice. He’s risen from his seat in the heat of his rage, and his fury is evident in the crimson colouring of his face. Those green eyes blaze with a kind of ferocity I had never seen in him before—nor would have expected—and I’m grateful that the full intensity of that stare is directed at Mr. Anderson. “You will lead us to Daniel so that we can conduct our interrogation in private. Do you understand, Mr. Anderson?”

Mr. Anderson is staring at the detective in open-mouthed shock. He is equally flabbergasted that someone has yelled at him and that the person happens to be the detective—a man who hardly ever allows his anger to break through his composed exterior. After a moment, he finally manages to close his mouth into a firm line and his eyes harden with the intent of challenging the detective’s authority.

“Yes, detective,” he says. “I understand, but I hope you understand that you’re speaking to an Elite member.”

The detective notices the threat and retorts, “Do not think to threaten me, Mr. Anderson. You know very well the regard in which Mr. Harrison holds me and my opinion.”

The two men glare at one another, each asserting his dominance over the other, until finally Mr. Anderson stands with the reluctance of the defeated. Even though he silently escorts us to another room, I know that he has no intention of letting this transgression pass without another fight. His back is rigid with suppressed rage and I pity the woman who will become the outlet for his tension. We’re led to a parlour room of equal over-indulgence, where we find Daniel patiently waiting for us. The door slams behind us, and I’m relieved that I’ll no longer have to endure another moment beneath the scrutiny of those black eyes. I can still sense the detective’s fury writhing restlessly beneath his affected equanimity like a caged beast. The red hasn’t entirely vanished from his face, and is more noticeable without the shadow of stubble to subdue the glaring hue. His eyes are still shaded with traces of insomnia, but the residual blaze of his anger has illuminated them so that they appear a vivid green.

“Mr. Anderson,” says the detective, nodding in greeting.

“I’d prefer if you call me Daniel, detective.”

His ginger hair is smoothed back and his eyes are as blue as a clear summer sky. He’s wearing a well-tailored suit, one of the many indications that he enjoys many luxuries at the expense of his master. His station as a blocker has made him a pro at deflecting my careful probing, so that even his emotions are kept from my grasp. When he glances at me, I cannot tell if he recognizes me or recalls that I was a concubine he had paid several times a month to enjoy. Unfortunately, my mind hasn’t kindly blocked the memory of his face or the feel of his hard body against mine.

“Daniel,” says the detective. “Last year in the months of September and October you visited a Rachel and a Mia Del Mar. Do you deny that?”

“No,” replies the blocker without any shame. “I am a man and that’s what they are there for.” His eyes then fall on me. “I was rather disappointed that one of my favourites was no longer available.”

So, he
does
remember me, much to my annoyance. I now not only have to fight back the memories that his gaze forces me to remember, but I also have to suffer through the detective’s silent curiosity as his gaze flickers between me and Daniel. Asking the blocker to clarify is unnecessary, because it’s obvious by his intent gaze on me that he’s referring to my absence.

“Did you miss me?” he asks, his lips twisting into an impish smirk. “I was quite annoyed with Scott for purchasing you and then keeping you locked up. Was he that horrible to you that you had to kill him though?”

I despise his casual reference to Scott’s treatment toward me, and I’m tempted to rip through the man’s mental barriers before the detective has given me permission. He won’t be smiling for long because I have no intention of being gentle about it, just like he had never once been tender with me. I clench my teeth and nearly bite on my tongue as the memory of his sweaty body grinding over me clouds my vision, and his grin widens as if he knows where my thoughts have gone. He can taste my discomfort, and he enjoys it.

“We’re not here to talk about Scott, Daniel,” states the detective. “And you will address
me
, not Moira.”

“Oh,” says Daniel, raising a coppery brow. “Am I to assume that she’s
yours
now? Aren’t you afraid that she’ll kill you?”

“Moira is property of the Elite for now–”

“So then she’s up for sale again?” he inquires, glancing at me. “Perhaps I’ll purchase you for myself and–”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I exclaim in irritation and then glance at the detective impatiently. “Can I read his mind already?”

The detective is annoyed by my interruption, but then both of our attentions are drawn to the sound of laughter.

“
She’s
going to read
my
mind?” questions Daniel, evidently amused by the idea. “You can’t be serious. I’m a
blocker.
She’s just a
whore.
”

At those words, I don’t wait for the detective’s permission. I decide that I don’t need it, and force my way into Daniel’s mind. His eyes widen in surprise as he undeniably feels my presence pushing against him like a forceful gale, and he immediately begins to resist. But his attempt is futile.

“Get out of my mind,
whore
,” he growls. I ignore him and take a war hammer to the wall he has erected in his mind. “How are you doing this?”

Perspiration beads at his forehead and slides down the side of his face. He’s extremely strong and is exceptionally skilled at blocking other empaths from his mind. But I decide I’m stronger and a crack forms, causing the whole wall to shatter. I faintly hear a noise that sounds like a mixture of a cry and a snarl as I step into what can only be described as an abandoned city. The wind howls aggressively as if it resents my presence and I feel cold eyes watching me from broken windows.

“Moira,” says the detective uncertainly, but he doesn’t try to stop me.

“You shouldn’t be able to do that!” shouts Daniel, glaring at me in rage.

He’s risen from his chair with the intention of throttling me evident in the blaze of his icy stare. If I don’t act quickly, I will be at his mercy within a second. I’ll have to use heavy persuasion and hope that it works.

“
Sit down,
” I command, my mind struggling to dominate his. He glares and clenches his jaw, the sweat sliding down his face. He’s trying to resist, but the fact that he doesn’t step forward means that I have him. “
Sit. Down.
”

He immediately falls into the chair as if I had pushed him, yet he still refuses to surrender completely. Normally, I might fear that someone as powerful as him would try to enter my mind, but his focus is solely intent on resisting the persuasion I’ve implanted in his. I wander down the street, peering into the dark windowpanes of empty shops and houses in search of anything that might connect him to the Phoenix. During my hunt, I feel his hatred toward Mr. Anderson and discover that although Daniel has a lot more freedom and luxuries than I had, he’s no stranger to the whip. Apparently, Mr. Anderson relishes in punishing men just as much as he enjoys exerting his dominance over women—though the former isn’t done with sex in mind. I glance into another window and immediately cringe. It is a store brimming with memories of me, and I realize that he wasn’t lying when he said I was his favourite. While taking his pleasure from my body, he also loved tasting the darkness of my mind. He saw my animosity and defiance, similar to his own, and thought that we were much alike.

“I’m nothing like you,” I spit venomously.

He chuckles, and it dawns on me then that he’s no longer resisting me. He has surrendered and actually
likes
my presence in his mind. “Yes, you are,” he replies softly. “I underestimated you, Moira. And you’re so
hungry
. I may have played a bit rough, but I was never cruel to you.”

I scoff bitterly with every intention of replying, but then I notice the shop door next to mine. There’s an outline of a bird carved into the door, heightening my resolve to find out what lies behind the barrier, and I instinctively reach to touch it. The Phoenix.