Mind of the Phoenix (15 page)

“Are you a customer of the pleasure house?”

“Yes,” answers the blocker, and he’s telling the truth.

“Have you ever been a client of Mia Del Mar?”

“I hardly remember their names, detective,” he states, and the corners of his lips curve in amusement. Still, he is telling the truth.

“Have you ever used persuasion on a Del Mar during your visits?”

The man is quiet for a moment and then responds, “No.”

He’s lying, yet I can’t understand why. I’m wandering through the icy landscape of his mind, wrapping my arms around my chest as I seek the truth. I find it nearby, as if he is offering the answer to me. He’s used persuasion on the concubines, but each time was just another way to dominate the women. I hurriedly skim through the memories with disgust, not interested in seeing him torment other women, but he wants me to see. He has shown me these memories for a reason, yet his persuasions are never used to make them kill another person. They have no relevance to the Phoenix, so I retreat.

In fact, his mind is a barren landscape with only the hints of consciousness that he allows me to witness. He’s watching me meander around the frozen halls, and I realize that though he has willingly allowed me access to his mind, he has carefully blocked me. Most people use doors, locks, and chests—anything in the physical world that is meant as a barrier to hide something. But this man has moulded his mind to resemble a frozen cavern with various halls to confuse the intruder, much like a labyrinth. It takes an exceptionally talented blocker to construct such a ruse, and it reminds me of Daniel and my previous master, Scott Harrison.

Whenever I had tried to pry into Scott’s mind, I had found myself roaming through an eerie wilderness with luminescent eyes peering at me through the darkness. Eventually, I would stumble upon a trap that he had set up. The first few times that I invaded his mind without permission, he had lashed out at me in rage with a harsh whipping. But then one day something changed, and it became a sort of game between us. He would encourage me to enter his mind and, in the end, his world of shadows became as familiar to me as my own. If I failed to pass his traps, he would punish me. The punishments would vary between darkness, starvation, and physical abuse. But if I found a way past them, I would be rewarded with food, a soft bed, a bath, and a memory of his.

I nearly slip on the ice and brace myself against the frozen wall. The moment I make contact, I’m instantly drawn into a memory. He’s at the pleasure house again and has just entered a concubine’s boudoir. Dread squeezes my heart as I realize that the woman with long, dark hair cascading down her back is me, and I scoff at my arrogant eighteen-year-old self. Perhaps I’m still haughty. She—me—approaches Jonathan with seduction, though her eyes are clearly bored. It is a strange experience to see oneself through someone else’s mind. When my eighteen-year-old self reaches him, he turns me around and throws me onto the bed. I don’t want to see this; I want out of this man’s mind. It was a horrible encounter, and it’s even worse to see it through his mind, to feel his emotions and hear his thoughts. His smirk widens; he wants me to see this memory. He wants me to relive the way he had forced himself inside both my body and mind at the same time. True to his nature, he has forced the memory upon me without my consent. I wrench my hand away from the wall and the memory fades.

“Don’t feel like reminiscing, I see,” he says, with that horrible smirk still on his face. “That’s too bad. I particularly like that memory.”

I ignore him, because to answer his taunts would only satisfy him more—something I’m no longer required to do. I continue searching for anything that might tie him to the Phoenix.

“Did you ever use persuasion on Mr. Darwitt?”

“No.” Again, it is the truth.

“Have you ever used persuasion on Madame Del Mar?”

Jonathan laughs, but replies, “No, detective.” A moment of silence ensues before he adds, “Are there any other questions?”

“No, that will be all,” says Keenan, resting his hand gently on my arm.

A relieved sigh escapes me as I retreat from Jonathan’s mind, glad to be out of the frozen cavern. If I were forced to stay, I would eventually find my way through the labyrinth much as I had done with Scott. But it would require a lot of persuasion to convince me to remain in Jonathan’s presence. His mind makes my bones rattle with unease, and the iciness in his eyes reflects the dark thoughts that lurk behind them.

“Thank you, Jonathan,” says Keenan rising, and I bolt upright.

Jonathan nods and then extends his affected courtesy to me. “I hope we meet again, Moira.”

I bare my teeth in a saccharine grin. “I don’t,
Jonathan.
”

He returns my smile and his eyes regard me knowingly. Keenan senses my uneasiness, and we exit the room. Mr. Hayes meets us in the lobby.

“Finished already?” he probes, and the detective nods. “Well, I hope that you will still be attending my event coming up, detective, and I expect you to bring Moira along again.”

“Of course, Mr. Hayes,” says Keenan. “Good day.”

When I walk past Mr. Hayes, he nods at me and those amber eyes are glimmering with mirth. “Moira.”

“Mr. Hayes.”

The smile I give him before leaving his estate is just as devious as his. I greet the chilly air gratefully and follow Keenan to the motor vehicle. The interrogation had momentarily diverted my mind away from my intimate experience with him, and I hope that the ride back to the police station won’t be awkward. Thankfully, it’s not. Keenan wastes no time in diving right into the questions flooding his mind, and we fall into our usual banter.

“Was he lying in any of his answers?”

“Just one,” I answer. “He sometimes uses persuasion on the concubines, but it’s only to make them do something sexually related.”

“I see,” he says, trying to contain his ire. “That kind of persuasion is illegal.”

“I suppose when it’s used on concubines it doesn’t matter,” I remark indignantly. It now dawns on me that the reason Jonathan had lied was because he didn’t want the detective to know that he was using illegal persuasion.

“Moira.”

“What?” I say, but he simply gives me a black look in response.

“Did you find anything that connects him to the Phoenix?”

“No,” I say thoughtfully. “But that man keeps his mind carefully blocked.”

“I thought you were able to break through the barrier?” He’s confused, and rightfully so. He doesn’t understand how someone can simultaneously open their minds while keeping certain information hidden.

“I was, but that was just to get inside his mind,” I respond. “His memories and thoughts are cautiously guarded. It would take a while for me to break through and expose his secrets.”

“So then it’s possible that he might be the Phoenix,” says the detective.

We fall silent as he parks his vehicle in front of the police station, and wait until we’re behind the closed door of his office to continue discussing the case. The other constables are now accustomed to my presence in the building, and only a few of them glance up at me curiously. In their minds, they tolerate my existence because my involvement in the case suggests that I am as trustworthy as a blocker. They’re fools, and their compliance makes me giddy.

“I suppose he could be,” I continue once we’re inside the office. “He’s a blocker, intelligent, and would have had access to Mr. Darwitt, Rachel, and Madame Del Mar. We also now know that he’s capable of using persuasion, but we don’t know if it’s strong enough to compel someone to commit suicide or murder. The only thing–”

“Is that he was telling the truth when he said he hadn’t used persuasion on either victim,” says the detective, finishing my thought. “And we don’t know if he’s gifted with blocking memories.”

“
And
he’s not a religious lunatic,” I supply with amusement. “Even if the Phoenix is referring to Revelations 6 in the Bible in that silly phrase of his, I doubt he believes he’s fulfilling a religious duty by passing divine judgement. He’s just messing with us.”

“Yes, I think so, too,” agrees the detective with a sigh, lighting a cigarette.

That stare of his is directly on my face. He’s curious about my past, my relationship with Jonathan, and what memory we had been ‘reminiscing’ about. Despite his blatant interest, he won’t ask though. After the incident this morning, I would be surprised if he ever ventures into my personal life again. And, even though he seeks the truth, he simultaneously doesn’t want to know the answer. He also doesn’t wish to upset me for a second time today. I blink and resent myself for not noticing it before. He’s giving me more than he ever has, with just one look, and my own inquisitiveness is piqued. Perhaps it is an offer?

I decide to test the waters. “Why did you become a detective?”

He exhales slowly and then replies, “To serve justice.”

I scoff. “You mean the
Elite’s
justice.”

“No,” he counters, pulling his brows together in a mixture of annoyance and weariness. “But I suppose you would see it that way.”

“How can it be seen any other way?” I ask. “You’re carrying out the Elite’s laws when a lot of them are unjust.”

“Some, but not all,” he says, and then pulls on his cigarette. “You have to choose your battles. You can’t win everything.”

“And what are
your
battles, detective?”

“Right now?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for me to respond. “The Phoenix and the person responsible for murdering Ginny Parker. My job is to find them and bring them to justice.” He then looks at me thoughtfully. “What are
your
battles, Moira?”

“To survive,” I respond automatically. “I suppose you think that’s selfish and ignoble.”

“We’re all trying to survive,” he says softly. “It’s a battle we’re all fighting, but there’s more to life than mere survival.”

I give him a bitter smile. “Not for someone like me. All I can hope for is to survive.”

He exhales slowly, and I can see in the way those green eyes regard me that he is about to make the offer. He wants to know more about my past and is willing to make an exchange. “Is that why you killed Scott Harrison?” he asks.

It’s not the question I expected. I’d rather discuss my history with Jonathan than so much as utter my previous master’s name, and I realize he is striking a hard bargain. “That’s quite the question, detective.”

“I’m a just man, Moira,” he states quietly.

My blood pools to my heart, because not only am I yearning to read his mind, I will also jump at any excuse to touch him. Although he wants me to accept, he doesn’t think I will. What he doesn’t know is that I desperately want to accede, but I can’t answer
that
question. Any other question, and I would have pounced on the proposal. But I suspect that he specifically asked that question with the confidence that I would refuse. It wasn’t even a fair offer to begin with, and I can’t imagine why he offered in the first place if he suspected that I would reject.

“I’ll keep that in mind, detective,” I say, already regretting that I’ve declined.

His index finger begins to lightly tap the surface of his desk and those green eyes are staring at me, though I feel as if they are staring
through
me. I think I see disappointment in them, before it quickly vanishes, and I realize that maybe he had been hoping that I would accept. Damn.

D
ead
.

Or at least that’s what I would have been if I hadn’t accepted the Elite’s proposition. The woman walking up the stairs to the platform that has been erected in the city centre before the legislature building would have been me. Her long dark hair has been cut so that it sticks out unevenly around her face, and her eyes are already empty. She has cried all the tears that her body could possibly produce in a lifetime, all in a few weeks. She’s already dead inside, gone from this world, so maybe it’ll hurt less when the rope cuts off her airway. Her hands are bound, yet she still manages to hold her head high. Constable Evans’s family is at the front, where people are cursing the concubine and throwing rotten food at her. The women in the family are crying, and they look to the concubine as if watching her suffer will alleviate the hollowness inside them. One of them is indisputably the constable’s fiancée, and I wonder if she at all questions why he sought out the concubine’s bed.

At the front, I can also see a few Del Mars who have been permitted to watch the execution. They’re not crying, nor are they throwing food or cursing Rachel. They are as silent as statues, watching the woman walk with desolate eyes toward the rope hanging in the centre. I wonder if they have come to provide Rachel with something other than hate to look at in the crowd. They most likely weren’t her friends, but in the end they chose to support their own in what little way they can. Is that the reason why I am here with the detective, to provide Rachel with support in her time of need? Or have I come to stare death in the face and laugh because I managed to elude it once again?

That would have been me, and I ruminate over what
my
crowd would have looked like. I didn’t kill a constable of the law; I killed one of my own. I try to think if there was anyone out there who would have mourned the death of Scott Harrison, the Chief Blocker and property of the Chief Elite member. Mr. Harrison was in all probability just annoyed at being inconvenienced by having to find another personal blocker and hire someone else as Chief Blocker. Would people have sworn and thrown food at me as well?

Yes, they most definitely would have
. Why is she always right?

Rachel stands in front of the rope, and the executioner places the noose around her neck. She gazes straight across the sea of hate, past where I stand at the edge. Before she plummets through the opening in the floor, she smiles, and I suspect she is hearing Constable Evans’s musical laugh. The clock tower behind us resounds with a distinctive
boom
as it indicates the new hour. Then, down she goes.

Dead.

The sight of her lifeless body hanging at the end of the rope propels me into an unbidden memory. Suddenly, I’m back at the pleasure house in my boudoir. Shouts and screams are echoing down the hall, so I rush out in curiosity. A group of Del Mars is crowding the entrance to someone’s boudoir, and I squeeze—and sometimes push—my way past the other women to see what has stirred such a commotion. Then I see her. Her body is at the mercy of a rope that hangs from one of the rafters, and she is a friend no more. Several women are desperately trying to lift her dead body so that they can loosen the noose, but even together they aren’t strong or tall enough. A tall, muscled body brushes past me and strides to the hanging body. It’s Devin—one of the few male concubines. He stands on a chair and grabs the woman’s body in an iron grip, and loosens the noose with the other hand. When he carries her to the bed, his gentleness is unnerving.

I bite my lip. No, go away. I don’t want to remember this memory, and I most certainly don’t want to think about Devin. The detective glances at me, those green eyes lacking the usual brightness as he stares at me in concern. He still hasn’t shaved, but his clothes don’t carry the hint of another night spent at the bottom of an alcohol bottle. I’m anxious to forget about the friend I lost, the woman hanging just a few feet away from me, and even Devin. And it is in my desperation that I reach up a hand to touch the detective’s face, overcome by the need to be in someone else’s mind and a desire to run my fingertips along the growth of hair on his jaw. He stops me before I can meet my destination, his hand easily engulfing my small wrist, and his eyes narrow in a silent question.

“Relax, detective, I’m capable of touching someone without prying into their minds,” I say wryly, but my heart has quickened its pace.
Please
, make me forget…

“Are you?” he inquires, raising a brow. I stare back at him silently. “I’ll keep that in mind, Moira.” Those are the exact words I had used when I told him that I would consider his offer. It elicits a small smile from my lips.

He releases my wrist and I let my hand fall to my side limply. “You’re looking rather weary,” I say.

In my years, I’ve discovered that the best way to forget about something is to distract your mind with another emotion, other than sadness. Most of the time, my mind would stray to anger and hatred. Today I will choose flirtation. Inappropriate? Yes, especially since I just saw someone die. But if I allow the waves of anger to infiltrate my mind, then
she
will surface.

“As do you,” he replies, walking away from the crowd.

He hadn’t asked why I wanted to be here to see Rachel’s execution, something I appreciate immensely. He had simply nodded once and insisted on accompanying me. During the entire time, he had silently stood beside me, as if years of being a detective have made him impervious to watching another human being die. His face is pulled in contemplation, and his eyes lack their usual brightness. I don’t like it, especially after seeing so much death lately. I want to see that luminosity. I don’t even care anymore if his stare is unyielding and demands that I reveal myself. I’d rather squirm beneath that intense gaze than flounder underneath the lacklustre stare of the apathetic.

“Yes, because you keep waking me up so early,” I retort.

“I doubt that is the only reason.”

“I think you rather enjoy seeing me naked, detective,” I continue, as if he hasn’t spoken. “I think that you keep waking me up early in hopes that you’ll catch me before I’m dressed.”

“Yes, I think the hotel maids assume the same thing,” he says wryly. He then glances at me. “Do you always sleep naked?”

I nod and smile artfully. “It’s comfortable. You should try it sometime.”

“Perhaps I shall.”

Once we enter the police station, the Chief of Police calls for us to enter his office. His baritone voice fills the small space and his curled mustache quivers whenever he speaks. I find it exceedingly difficult to focus on his words, entranced with the red whiskers, but I doubt I’ll be spoken to anyway. The Chief doesn’t want to hear what
I
have to say, and I wonder if he’s still angry with the persuasion I had used in my cell.

“Any progress on the Phoenix case, Keenan?”

“Yes, we’ve interrogated Daniel Anderson, who had visited both Rachel and Mia Del Mar,” he responds. “Moira was able to find a memory block in his mind that had the Phoenix’s insignia. I’ve recently discovered that she’s capable of breaking through the barriers that the blockers have implanted in our minds.”

“Ah, so that’s what you did back in that cell,” says the Chief, eyeing me from across the desk. “I was rather disturbed to see my wife behind those bars.”

“Sorry.” I’m not, but if he wants the fake apology he’s more than welcome.

He waves a hand dismissively at me and then fiddles with his mustache. “Would you do it again?”

Okay, definitely not the response I had expected. But if he’s offering, it would be unfair of me to refuse. My mind is already decided, but before I can speak the detective interferes. The Chief hadn’t informed him of the trick I had played in the cell, and his mind has assumed the worst. He thinks that it had been an attempt to escape, which makes me want to laugh at its unoriginality. I
am
capable of cunningness, detective.

“Chief?” says Keenan questioningly.

“Yes,” he says with a decisive nod, and then leans back in his chair. “Persuade me that I see someone else.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea–”

“It’s alright, Keenan,” he interjects, and then gestures for me to oblige him.

His mind is nothing like Daniel’s or Jonathan’s, and it’s not long before I push past the meagre barricades that a blocker has planted in his mind. I can’t persuade him that he sees the detective, because the man is sitting beside me. It would have to be someone the Chief doesn’t expect. I immediately think of Rick and carefully—but loosely—plant the seed in the Chief’s mind. As his brain fills in the blanks, his eyes widen. His mind instantly tries to fight the persuasion, battling between the knowledge of what I’m doing and what his eyes see. I could press harder and convince him that he truly sees Constable Jamieson instead of Moira Del Mar, but I don’t.

“Do I make a convincing male?” I ask light-heartedly, and the persuasion shatters like a broken mirror at the sound of my voice.

The Chief laughs, a loud, rolling sound that chills my bones, but he’s neither the man in the memory nor is he mocking me. Instead, his eyes are twinkling with genuine mirth. “Not with that voice, you don’t. And you looked too smug to pass as Constable Jamieson.”

I grin. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Can you only do that with one person at a time?”

“Pretty much,” I reply. “It would be very difficult to invade more than one person’s mind. It may be possible if I had physical contact with both people involved.” At the last statement, I glance at the detective meaningfully, but he won’t take the bait.

The Chief nods as if he is content with the answer. “So, were you able to get past the memory block in the blocker’s mind?”

“No, it has a specific way of opening that only the person who put it there would know,” I respond. “If I tried, I could ruin his mind and the memory in the process.”

“Does that mean then that he could be our next victim?”

The detective has been quiet during the demonstration of my powers, and I’m desperate to know his thoughts. He’s tapping the side of the chair in that way of his and is absent-mindedly staring at the wall behind the Chief. He hadn’t even heard the Chief speak, completely consumed in his own thoughts, so I respond instead.

“I suppose it’s possible,” I answer thoughtfully. “The memory could be blocking the memory of the Phoenix persuading him. Either that, or there’s something else in Daniel’s mind that the Phoenix wants to keep hidden.”

“This leaves us in quite the predicament,” says the Chief, twirling his finger around the curl of his mustache. “If he’s the next victim, then he could end up committing suicide or murder on April seventh.”

“Unless I find some way to open the memory before then. I–”

“The note,” interjects the detective, his eyes focusing on the Chief.

“What–”

“You read the Phoenix’s phrase to Daniel when you’re at the door,” he continues, his gaze now on me. “If it doesn’t work, then we’ll think of something else. But it’s worth a try.”

“I suppose that could work,” I admit. The Phoenix had used the phrase to activate the other persuasions. Perhaps the same words will unlock Daniel’s memory.

“And if he is the victim and reading the note activates the Phoenix’s persuasion, then we’ll be there to stop him from either killing himself or someone else,” says Keenan. “I’ll have to set up another day to interrogate him.”

“Good,” says the Chief. “Now, any progress on Parker’s case?”

“No,” Keenan replies. “The patrons who were sober enough to notice her all said that she left the pub alone, which means that she met her killer in the streets.”

“People are restless,” says the Chief. “They don’t think much of the two suicides, but the constable’s murder has caused quite the stir. And now the death of Miss Parker has made everyone afraid.” He looks at the detective pointedly. “But I have faith in you, Keenan. You’re one of the best. You solved the Hangman murders. If anyone can solve these two cases, it’s you.”

I turn to Keenan in surprise. “You’re the one that caught the Hangman?”

The Hangman was a notorious murderer who plagued Braxton for four years until the police finally caught him in the summer of 1899. He had been connected to six murders in those four years, and was given the name Hangman for leaving word clues at his murder sites. If the police didn’t post up the solved word, the Hangman would kill again. I was fourteen when the murders started, and during the next four years I was grateful for my caged life in the pleasure house. If the detective had been on the case, then he’s definitely in his thirties. Despite the slight dusting of grey along the sides of his brown hair and the small lines at the edges of his green eyes, he doesn’t appear older than thirty-five. I had pegged him for somewhere in his early thirties, but perhaps I’m wrong.

“Yes, is it that shocking, Moira?”

“No,” I say. “It just never crossed my mind.”

I realize just how haunted this man must be if he had been on the Hangman case. It now makes sense that he would have nightmares and be plagued by restless nights. Each murder was another clue, but if the police didn’t piece together the letters quickly enough another person would die. He probably feels responsible for some of the deaths and that guilt eats away at him. I’m annoyed that I hadn’t sensed it before. But it’s why he’s a regular at the dream house. Memories like that are hard to run away from.

“So, then how
old
are you?” I ask when we exit the Chief’s office.

He glances at me sideways, slightly offended by the tone of my voice. “I hardly consider thirty-one
old
.”

“It’s not really,” I say with a grin. “So then that would have made you twenty-seven when you caught the Hangman.”

“Yes,” he says wryly. “Your mathematical skills are remarkable.”

“I was seventeen.” At least I think I was. I can’t say for certain since I don’t exactly know my current age. I’m told I’m somewhere around twenty-one.

His green eyes narrow. “And?”

“Nothing,” I respond innocently. “Just saying.”