The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2)

by Jamie McLachlan

  I firmly believe some things are best not remembering if you plan on living another day.

  3

  Though I had spent a month beneath Braxton’s police station as a captive in the underground prison, I’ve grown accustomed to visiting the building. Admittedly, I prefer entering the station as the detective’s aiding empath rather than a criminal. Even the constables have adapted to my presence, barely glancing my way if only to acknowledge me. There were a couple of days where they openly glowered at me, even just the scent of their suspicion and disgust more disquieting than their stares could ever be. Some would even utter a profanity whenever I walked by, indirectly voicing their accusations.

  In their eyes, I was the guilty one, whereas their fellow constable, Anthony Bradford, was wholly innocent. They couldn’t—and wouldn’t—believe Constable Bradford was responsible for raping and murdering Ginny Parker and Rebekah Gray. Nor could they imagine the constable had been about to make me his third victim before the detective interfered. Instead, they chose to believe Bradford’s tale that I had seduced him with persuasion in an attempt to escape. If it wasn’t for the Chief, the detective, and Constable Jamieson, the other constables would have continued to believe in Anthony’s innocence.

  The Chief ushers Keenan and I into his office the moment he sees us and sits behind his desk, the chair creaking slightly beneath his weight. When I had first met the man, I had immediately disliked him. He had radiated authority as he offered the Elite’s pardon in return for my aid in the investigation, and I had assumed he was like every other domineering man I have encountered during my years at the pleasure house. But in the past month, my perception of the Chief has altered. He treats his wife and his constables with respect, and his conduct toward me has been one of an employer, as if I don’t bear the mark on my right cheekbone that signifies me as an empath and slave. So I’ve grown to like the man despite the few instances where he has made a generalized sexist remark. I’m capable of overlooking his slightly chauvinistic mentality, especially since he was one of only three men who believed me against Anthony.

  “I hear you’ve spoken with Mr. Anderson’s son.” His eyes fall on me and the red whiskers of his curled mustache twitch when he speaks. “Were you able to read his mind?”

  I nod. “He bore the Phoenix’s mark just like the other victims.”

  “Which means the Phoenix is no longer predictable,” adds the detective. “The date of the murders has changed along with the phrase in the letter that was sent to the victim. Either the alteration has been made randomly or the Phoenix feels pressed for time. Do you think he’ll target Mr. Harrison next?”

  The detective raps his index finger on the chair a few beats before he answers the Chief. “It’s possible. If I interpret the new phrase correctly, then eliminating Mr. Harrison is the Phoenix’s ultimate goal.”

  The Chief grunts in disapproval. “Then I’ll make a call to Mr. Harrison to inform him of this new development, and I’ll send some constables over to his estate for additional security.”

  After we’re dismissed, the detective and I head into his office. He sits behind his desk and immediately lights a cigarette, a cloud of haze momentarily obscuring his face before it slithers upwards. I sit down in the chair opposite him and fidget perceptively, but no matter how I position myself, my restlessness continues. It’s not just my too-tight corset, courtesy of Mrs. Whitmore; it’s an ever-persistent thought that nags at the back of my mind. Keenan notices my agitation, and his eyes settle on me with a hint of humour, the expression reminding me of this morning.

  “What is it, Moira?”

  “Well, it’s obvious we’re dealing with primarily a group of blockers,” I begin to say, but the detective’s brow lifts, demanding clarification. “Blockers have more autonomy than the other empaths, and Andrew never visited any of the three houses. We already know Daniel is responsible for Constable Evans’s death. He didn’t persuade Mr. Darwitt or Madame Del Mar to commit suicide, but how do we know he’s not responsible for persuading Andrew? He was Mr. Anderson’s blocker and was often in the man’s estate. He could have planted the seed of persuasion any time before we arrested him.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “It’s quite possible Daniel persuaded Andrew. But who is the one who sent the letter since Daniel is in prison? And who are the other empaths—assuming there is more than just one involved?”

  “It could be a number of them. Like I said, blockers have more freedom to move and they have access to all of the Elite members.” I give Keenan a pointed look and emphasize my next words. “I still think Jonathan Hayes is involved.”

  He stops tapping his finger and slowly exhales a cloud of smoke. “It’s certainly a possibility, especially now we know there is more than one empath involved. He could very well be our letter sender.”

  “I could try to read his mind again.” Even though I made the offer, I still cringe at the idea.

  Keenan’s eyes dart to my face. “I think we should try other avenues before we resort to that.”

  “What’s the matter? You don’t think I could do it?”

  “Reading his mind again would require you to do it by force, Moira. And though I don’t underrate your talents, I’d prefer to think of a safer alternative.” His eyes soften despite the fact his tone remains dispassionate. “Consider it, instead, as a precaution rather than a doubt in your capabilities.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  I don’t voice what I truly feel, but I suspect Keenan knows. The last time I met Jonathan, the detective and I questioned him about the murders. But it wasn’t the first time I had met the blocker. Jonathan had been a client of mine when I was a slave at the pleasure house. Each visit had left me feeling like the man raped me body and mind, because he would always force his way into both simultaneously. I had despised the blocker then as I do now. The detective, with that immense inquisitiveness of his, once ventured to inquire about my history with Jonathan, and I had shared a memory with him. So I know, without slipping into his mind, that Keenan has spoken truthfully.

  “And just to be safe, I’ll have a blocker read Daniel’s mind to see if he is, indeed, the one responsible for persuading Andrew.”

  I should thank the man, but instead, I simply say, “That would be wise.”

  It’s not that I’m not grateful, because I truly am. Daniel is another blocker I’d rather stay away from, and the detective is aware of that fact. Having another blocker read Daniel’s mind is an attempt on Keenan’s part to spare me once again from facing an uncomfortable situation. Yet my voice fails to speak of my gratitude. He has witnessed my vulnerability more than anyone, and admitting my appreciation is just another way of appearing weak in front of him.

  Distractedly, I wonder if there is a blocker I’ve actually liked—granted, I haven’t met all of them to know for certain. But so far, of the ones I’ve met, I’ve disliked all. Scott, Daniel, and Jonathan easily fall into that category. Perhaps it’s because they’re all traitors.

  The detective once again interrupts my thoughts. “Don’t forget that tomorrow night we’re expected to attend Mr. Harrison’s private event.”

  “That’s tomorrow?” I had, indeed, forgotten. Then, an idea strikes me as my mind wanders to thoughts of Mr. Hayes, the Dream House Instigator. “I could seduce Mr. Hayes and see what he knows. Jonathan is his blocker, after all.”

  “Ah, yes, the man who propositioned you for sex the last time you saw him.” He snuffs his cigarette a bit too forcefully, his words punctuated with vehemence. “I think not, Moira.”

  “What’s the matter, Detective?” My voice is too sweet, buoyed by his obvious jealousy. “Afraid I’ll enjoy myself a little too much?”

  He glares at me, and his ire trickles down my spine. “If that is the case, then accept his offer on those terms.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” he pauses, his expression smoothing into the epitome o
f indifference before he continues. “Seduce Mr. Hayes if you so desire, Moira. But do it for your own pleasure and not with the intention of wheedling information for the case.”

  I had leaned forward in my puzzlement, and I now abruptly sit back at his statement. “Even if it could help us find the Phoenix?”

  “Yes.” When I simply stare at him in disbelief, he adds, “There are other ways of attaining information that don’t involve seduction.”

  I recover quickly and give him a charming smile. “That may be, Detective. But you’d be amazed by how much a person lets down their guard in the heat of passion.”

  His expression doesn’t change—a mask successfully hiding the emotions that faintly trickle toward me without his awareness. Frustration is the prominent emotion, but without his thoughts, I’m left with no context. Is he just annoyed with my insistence? Or does it stem from jealousy? Maybe it comes from something entirely different. I’m once again wishing he would permit me to enter his mind, yet he hasn’t ever since that kiss we shared.

  Finally he speaks, and his voice is chilly with its resolution. “My answer is still no, Moira.”

  * * *

  Later in the evening, I’m once again suffering from another bout of boredom. Shortly after our dinner meal, Keenan excused himself and headed directly to his study. Meanwhile, I’ve been left to wander the house alone. Neither Mrs. Whitmore nor the one other housemaid is an enjoyable companion considering the two women are too intimidated to speak with me. Whenever I approach either one of them, they immediately avert their gaze and answer my questions with as little information as possible. So I’ve stopped trying to speak to them altogether.

  After a pleasant bath, I creep toward the detective’s bedroom, my toes skimming over the hardwood floor. When I try to turn the knob, I find the door locked—again. I’m not surprised, because Keenan has been very diligent with securing the room. Disappointed, I walk naked to my own bedroom in search of clothing. Instead of calling for Mrs. Whitmore to tie my corset, I simply put on a housecoat over my chemise and trot down the stairs. To this day, I’m still unsettled by the lack of photographs lining the walls. Even the pleasure house has paintings hanging in the hallways, even if they’re arbitrary and poor works of art. Yet Keenan’s walls are curiously blank, despite the garish wallpaper. So far the only place I’ve seen personalized is his study, and I pause at the closed door before decidedly knocking twice.

  Silence greets me at first, but then I hear his voice. “Come in, Moira.”

  I open the door and am struck with the unexpected scene. Instead of sitting at his desk as per usual, Keenan is lounging in one of the chairs by the fire. His sack coat rests over the back of his chair, and the sleeves of his shirt have been unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows. My gaze flickers to the glass in his hand, the amber liquid darkening the bottom, and I’m instantly reminded of Andrew. He glances away from the fire crackling in the hearth, his gaze traveling down the length of me to settle on my bare feet, and his expression shifts into a slight frown.

  “I hope Mrs. Whitmore didn’t see you come in here dressed like that.”

  I shrug and give him a lazy grin. “Are you afraid she might think I’m your concubine?”

  He brings the glass to his lips and takes a sip of the amber liquid. “I’m more concerned with what she might say to others rather than what she thinks.”

  “Because you don’t want anyone to think I’m your concubine?”

  “No, Moira,” he says softly, giving me a slightly exasperated look. “Because I prefer my privacy.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” I mutter, thinking about the locked door upstairs.

  I nestle into the chair across from him, bringing my legs up to curl to one side. Keenan watches me, but his expression lacks the usual intensity. His eyes slide up to my face in the sort of lazy alertness that is often found between two people who are comfortable with one another. It’s a relief to have someone look at you, rather than analyze your every move. But if I’m honest, I also find it a little unsettling. I can’t recall a time when I simply lounged with a man, other than Devin.

  Keenan gestures toward the decanter on the table between us. “Would you like a glass?”

  I lean forward and inhale the liquor’s aroma. It smells extremely unpleasant—more like a chemical found in the mortuary rather than a drink consumed for pleasure. I immediately cringe away from the scent and shake my head, bewildered anyone could find that liquor appealing. Suddenly, the taste of whiskey is on my tongue and the memory of the time I stole the liquor from Madame Del Mar flashes in my mind. My stomach rolls disagreeably, and I shove the unwanted memory away.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Ah, that’s right,” he says, his dimple showing in a small smile. “You prefer wine. I have that as well, if you would like a glass.”

  My stomach flips in an entirely different way at the sight of his dimple. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “Not at all.” He arches a brow in innocence. “I’m merely being hospitable.”

  “Then I kindly decline.”

  I inspect him, cautiously reaching out to sense his emotions. Though they’re a bit muddled from the alcohol, I can detect mild content at the surface. If I wasn’t an empath, I’d pass his demeanor as someone who is delightfully intoxicated. But unfortunately for him, I am an empath and can see the darkness that lurks beneath the haze of bliss. His eyes narrow, sensing my keen examination of him as a sign of my intrusion on his emotions. He sighs heavily and takes another sip of his liquor.

  “Am I going to regret letting you in?”

  “Why would you say that?” I add an innocent smile to support my words. “I’m behaving, aren’t I?”

  The look he gives me says he doubts my virtuousness and silence stretches between us. I anxiously fidget with the hem of my housecoat, and he immediately fixates on my hands. He leans his head against the chair and closes his eyes, as if he is resigning himself to some unpleasant truth. Meanwhile, I’m engrossed with examining his profile without that inquisitive gaze of his directed on me. For some odd reason, there is something enticing about seeing his bare forearms. I wonder if it’s because I rarely see them. Or maybe it’s because, unlike mine, they’re corded with lean muscle. My gaze travels up to the exposed skin at his neck, eyeing the dip in the centre of his collarbone. I’m itching to caress the curve of his Adam’s apple. In my mind, I unbutton his shirt to explore the rest of his body.

  “Alright, Moira,” he says quietly. “Let me hear it.”

  “Hear what?” Too bad he wasn’t an empath and could see my thoughts have wandered to something else. But, alas, he’s not.

  His eyes open and lazily glance my way. “Whatever it is you wish to say.”

  At first, I’m bewildered, having forgotten what had been on my mind a moment ago, but then I quickly remember. “Oh, I was just remarking on how it seems you wish to drown something in that mind of yours.”

  “And why do you say that?”

  “Well, I can sense a hint of melancholy beneath your placid exterior.” His eyes narrow as I continue. “And I couldn’t help but wonder about its cause. The Hangman case ended four years ago and Anthony Bradford will be executed in a couple of days. So the only thing that should bother you is our current case, yet it seems like more than the Phoenix case is troubling you. What’s on your mind?”

  “I assure you my thoughts are solely on all that pertains to the investigation.”

  I raise a sceptical brow. “All thoughts?”

  I cross my right leg over my left, exposing the length of my calf. Keenan’s eyes move away from my face to scan my bare skin. Clearly some thoughts are focused elsewhere.

  But rather than simply admit that fact, he denies it. “Yes.”

  “Well, if that’s the case then I don’t see why you won’t agree to use every angle. We need to solve the Phoenix case sooner rather than later, and I have certain skills we have yet to utilize.”

  “And what an
gle would you be referring to?”

  “Seduction.”

  I uncross my legs and stand, drawing closer to the fire to investigate the picture frames resting on the mantle. The closest photo is of Keenan in his first years at the police station, along with the Chief and the other constables. He hasn’t physically changed that much in the years that have passed since the photograph was taken. The only difference I notice is the younger man lacks the faint signs of bitterness that now marks the man sitting behind me. Neither has the Chief changed—even if he has less hair than before—and I’m not surprised Constable Jamieson isn’t even in the picture. He would have still been in his late teens at the time.

  “I thought we had already discussed this, Moira. And I specifically told you my answer was no.”

  “I just don’t understand why you won’t reconsider.” I glance at the other photograph and smile at the elderly couple who I imagine are Keenan’s parents. So when I speak next, the cynicism I originally felt has left me, and the words sound more like an afterthought. “I’m still a slave, and it’s not like I’ve never been forced to do worse at the pleasure house.”

  His rage seeps toward me, hot and volatile, and it’s the only warning I receive before he bursts out in frustration. “God damn it, Moira!”

  Shocked, I turn to face him with wide eyes. His face has reddened and his green eyes are luminous with the intensity of his irritation. It’s rare the detective’s temper flares, and he mostly appears calm and collected despite my attempts to bait him. But I had forgotten he’s not entirely void of emotion and that liquor tends to loosen people’s inhibitions. Keenan slams his glass on the table, the liquor sloshing violently within the walls of glass, and he abruptly stands. In any other man, I’d be afraid he might hit me—something I have experience with in my past. But despite the visible frenzy in his eyes, he won’t hit me.