“Moira?” says the Chief on the other end.
“Chief, I made a mistake.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Keenan and I were…” I pause, suddenly aware I was about to inform the Chief of what we were doing at the time. “…talking, and I was in his mind. I might have showed him something or said something about Celeste. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”
I’m rambling, so I quickly cut to the point. “Keenan left and went to the police station. Chief, he was looking at Celeste’s file. Is there anything in there that might activate his memories?”
The Chief swears. “Of course there is. That’s why I kept the files locked up. Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think I might have an idea,” he grumbles.
I can sense he’s about to disconnect, so I quickly speak. “I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not. Where I’m going is no place for a young woman.”
“Chief,” I snap angrily. “I’m coming with you.”
“I’ll bring him home,” he says, and then hangs up.
“Chief!”
I growl my frustration, frightening Mrs. Whitmore who has been standing nearby. I should be out there with the Chief, looking for Keenan and not standing here idly. I’m responsible for this mess in the first place, and I resent myself for behaving so foolishly. If only I had never searched his office and found Celeste’s picture, Keenan would have never left. We would still be lying in bed now. I walk into the parlour room and stare out the window, wrapping my housecoat tighter around me.
“Where are you?” I whisper.
The Chief said he had an idea of where Keenan might be, and I recall him telling me the detective had used opium before he intervened. It’s possible he’s at an opium den, lost in the high of a dangerous drug. The idea brings a sharp sting to my eyes as they water. What have I done?
Eventually I leave the window to sit down on one of the chairs, curling my legs up beneath me. Mrs. Whitmore walks by and asks if I would like her to make a fire. I refuse as kindly as possible given my current mood, and once she leaves, I continue to berate myself. What could Keenan have possibly seen in me? I’m selfish, damaged, cynical, and only succeed in tormenting those around me. It was out of petty indignation I searched his office. And that foolish behaviour not only may have cost me my tenuous relationship with a noble man, but also may have ruined a perfectly great mind.
At some point, I must have fallen asleep on the chair, because I’m suddenly jolted awake by the sound of the front door closing. The sound of men talking briskly pulls me up from the chair, and I rush toward the entrance. Keenan’s practically limp form is held between the Chief and Constable Jamieson, and Mrs. Whitmore stands near the stairs with her hand over her mouth in shock.
“Come on, Sir,” says Rick. “Let’s get you upstairs so you can sleep it off.”
“Should I call a doctor?” asks Mrs. Whitmore, finally finding her voice. Meanwhile, I have yet to find mine.
The Chief grunts under Keenan’s weight, his gaze flickering to me briefly. His round face is blotched with the redness of exertion, making the thick curls of his mustache appear more coppery than usual. “No need. The man’s only drunk. Nothing a little sleep can’t fix.”
“I don’t need sleep,” slurs Keenan, his eyes opening to squint at his surroundings. “Bring me back.”
“Sorry, old friend,” says the Chief. “I can’t do that.”
Keenan scowls. “Some friend.”
This angry, drunken man is far different from the lonely man who asked me to sleep with him so he wouldn’t be alone. I wrap my arms around my chest, my heart squeezing painfully at the sight of him. He gives up trying to see, and his head slumps to the side as the other two men help him up the staircase. Even though I don’t like seeing him drunk, I’m glad he chose alcohol over opium. I follow them upstairs and into Keenan’s bedroom, and I can feel Mrs. Whitmore close behind me. She enters the room a moment later with a pail in her hand and places it by the bed.
“I’ve had experienced with drunken men,” she says as an explanation. “If he’s consumed as much as I think he has, he’ll be needing this tonight.”
Rick and the Chief carefully place Keenan on his bed, while he irritably tries to brush them off. Even though his frame towers over the other two men, his strength is greatly compromised by his intoxicated state. So when he tries to stand, his body teeters dangerously to one side and he quickly loses balance.
“I’m not drunk,” he declares with vehemence.
Rick catches him, settling him back on the bed. “Easy there, sir.”
The Chief approaches me, worry creasing his brows. “We found him at one of the pubs near the station. He hasn’t said anything yet about you know who, so I’m not sure if he remembers. It certainly isn’t the first time I’ve seen him drunk since then.”
My gaze flickers to Keenan lying on the bed. As much as I would love to believe he’s drunk simply because of the pressure of the case, my mind tells me otherwise. Because beneath the haze of liquor fogging his thoughts, I can distinctly sense the cloying scent of despair—the kind of anguish that plagues those who have lost someone close. It reminds me of the misery that surrounded Andrew Anderson the day we interrogated him. The emotion fills the room, snuffing out any others that might be present, until the air is thick with it. When I inhale, the emotion swirls into my lungs, nearly suffocating me with its potency.
Keenan groans and rolls to his side. “Celeste…what have I done?”
The complete abandonment of his usual stoicism brings tears to my eyes, and I furiously wipe them away. “He remembers,” I whisper.
The Chief sighs heavily. “Should we contact the memory house?”
“Not tonight. His mind is too incoherent at the moment for them to be of use, but you should have someone stop by tomorrow.”
This is all my fault.
If it were anyone else lying on the bed, I would have walked out by now. But the person before me isn’t just anyone—it’s Keenan. And he’s in pain because of me.
I force my feet to move toward him, and then hesitantly sit on the edge of the bed. Before I can stop myself, my fingers reach out to comb through his hair. My thumb brushes over one of his eyebrows, and his eyes flicker open to gaze up at me. It takes a moment for them to focus on my face, and I wonder if he’s conscious enough to know who I am. His eyes are blood-shot and filled with unspoken sorrow, but they continue to stare up at me.
“Celeste–” His voice breaks off in anguish.
My heart constricts because he doesn’t know who I am.
But then he says in a quiet voice, “I’ve done a horrible thing, Moira.”
“Shh, Keenan.” I try to pitch my voice in a low and soothing tone. “Don’t think about that now. Just sleep.”
His eyes close. “Will you stay?”
“Of course.”
My gaze flickers to the other people in the room, and all three of them avert their eyes. Mrs. Whitmore is the first to leave, brushing past the two men silently upon her exit, and Rick offers me a solemn nod before leaving the room.
The Chief glances at me, and then at the detective. “I’ll have a memory blocker visit tomorrow. Make sure he doesn’t try to go anywhere.”
I nod, and he turns to leave. “Thank you for bringing him back home.”
The Chief’s gaze meets mine before settling on the detective who is currently fighting off sleep. “Anything for a friend.”
When he leaves, I lie down beside Keenan and pull the covers over us. He’s fallen asleep, so I snuggle closer to him, curling my body along his back. I prop myself up on my elbow and continue to tentatively stroke the side of his face with my fingertips. Once again, I have ruined everything and just when things were starting to go well.
I lean forward and plant a tender kiss on his cheek. “I’m sorry, Keenan.”
12
The last time I saw the de
tective point a revolver at someone was when he had walked in on Constable Bradford trying to kill me. His face had been composed, and his voice had been authoritative. Though there had been a hint of anxiety in the depth of his gaze, he had held the weapon firmly with the confidence of someone who knows they will gain control over the situation. And he did. Within a couple of minutes, Constable Bradford was detained and I was safe.
The memory slips away, and my gaze focuses on the man standing before me. His brown hair is unruly, as if he’s been running his fingers through it roughly with desperation. Those green eyes that are usually demanding in their examination are now wild, blood-shot, and glazed with the instability of despair. He wears the same clothes he slept in last night, the sack-coat abandoned, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His strong, muscled right arm that once caressed me with tenderness now shakes slightly as it holds a revolver directed at the person in front of him. Normally, I would scoff at the idea he would shoot. But today, Keenan’s instability makes him unpredictable.
“Everyone just relax,” says the Chief, his face covered in red splotches. “There’s no need for the revolver. Keenan, listen to me. The memory blocker needs to fix the door.”
Rick swallows loudly, his nervousness filtering through the room. “Listen to the Chief, sir.”
My eyes flicker to the memory blocker on the other end of the revolver, and my heart quickens in fear. The emotion is reflected in the other empath’s wide eyes and seeps out of his pores along with his sweat. An hour ago, the Chief called the memory house and requested they send the empath who had created the memory block in Keenan’s mind. The man arrived twenty minutes ago, and he never thought he would find his life in danger.
Instead of the white tunic and trousers the dream weavers wear, the memory blocker wears the black outfit of the memory house. Perspiration beads across his forehead, one droplet sliding down the side of his temple. But he doesn’t dare wipe the sweat away, frightened Keenan would kill him if he moved.
“Put down the weapon, Keenan.” The Chief’s voice has lost its previous calm, and I don’t blame him. He’s been trying to calm the detective ever since the memory blocker arrived. “Please, you don’t want to do anything rash.”
“I won’t let him in my mind,” Keenan says, finally speaking.
I decide to interject since the Chief’s attempts are failing. “Even if you don’t want him to fix the door, he still has to remove it. I imagine it’s creating chaos in your mind and you only remember some of the memories.”
Keenan’s brows pull together as he struggles with his emotions, and his lips press into a more severe line. His eyes are glazed and red with suppressed tears and little sleep, and his head must be muddled from the alcohol he consumed the previous night. He doesn’t speak, and the Chief sighs in defeat at yet another failed attempt. I can’t just stand here idly anymore and watch Keenan potentially hurt someone and ruin his life in the process. I inhale deeply and move out from behind Constable Jamieson’s shadow. The young man tries to grab my hand to halt my progress, but I easily shrug off his restraint.
“Moira–”
“Let me try, Rick.” I try to plead with him, and he finally nods.
Carefully, I step toward the memory blocker and Keenan’s attention slides in my direction before quickly looking back at the other empath. It’s the first time he’s looked at me today, and my heart flutters with the memory of his smile. I creep a little closer to his mental barriers, careful not to intrude just yet.
“Keenan?”
Though I stand right beside the memory blocker, the detective doesn’t glance at me again. Please, let this work…
“Keenan, this man means you no harm.” I cautiously slide in front of the memory blocker, and he sighs behind me. “Please, give me the revolver.”
I’m reminded of when he made the same request after Constable Bradford had been detained. His was a demand, mine is a plea. I look up at him and wonder if he’ll trust me. His brows narrow, and his irritation trickles past his anguish. He doesn’t like that I’ve stepped before the revolver. Without being in his mind, I’m not sure if he’s bothered because he would have shot the other empath and now I’m in the way, or if he’s upset for some other unknown reason.
“Give me the revolver, Keenan.” I make it sound firm, even if my voice speaks the words softly.
“I won’t let him block my memories again, Moira.”
My body relaxes at the sound of his voice, even if I’m still at the other end of a weapon that could end my life in an instant. “He won’t block them without your permission. If you want to remember, he’ll simply remove the door. It can’t stay there like that.”
When he still refuses to lower the revolver, I slip further into his mind, falling lightly amongst the gears. He immediately tenses, and his left eye twitches. My mouth parts open as my eyes register the chaos before me. The gears are whirring fervently, hot steam billowing up through the metal grate floor, causing me to sweat profusely. The sound is loud and frantic, no longer the soothing tick, tock I adore. I cover my ears and take a tentative step forward through the warm vapour. But the moment I move, I trip over something and land hard onto the floor. I have a brief second to notice the objects strewn across the ground before I’m unceremoniously pulled into one of Keenan’s memories.
I pull the rim of my hat farther down to shield my eyes from the bright sun. It’s extremely hot out, and the layering of my suit is stifling. My gaze flickers to the young woman walking beside me, and Keenan’s discomfort fades to the back of his mind. Her blond curls are arranged delicately beneath a fashionable hat, and her dress accentuates her petite waist. He finds her beautiful though he would never dare say so out loud. It’s the first time they’ve had a moment by themselves without the presence of her father or uncle, and Keenan tries to ignore the rising anxiety building within him.
Celeste turns her head slightly, her large blue eyes gazing up at Keenan. “Did you join me only to speak of the weather, constable?”
The last word surprises me, and I realize this must be a very early memory. Keenan is still a constable, not yet a detective, and he and Celeste have yet to court one another. I wish I could step out of his mind and see his younger self.
“Certainly not,” he says calmly. “What do you wish to discuss, Miss Harrison?”
“I’ll have you know I’m more than capable of discussing other things than the weather or fashionable hats.” There’s a challenge in her eyes, and her boldness surprises Keenan.
“In that case, I leave the choice of topic up to you, for I have no intention of offending you.”
The corners of her rose-bud lips turn upwards. “Are you always so serious, constable?”
His gaze flickers to her mouth, and he suppresses the urge to taste her. “Not always.”
“Good. I was beginning to think my uncle’s disposition has worn off on you.”
“And that would be undesirable?”
She looks up at him coyly. “Very much so. It would be a shame, really, because I do enjoy your company.”
He smiles as the words fill him with pleasure. “And I yours.”
Her beauty was the first thing to attract him, and he vowed to admire her from afar. But this bold and outspoken woman intrigues him, and he’s unaccustomed to women like her. How could he possibly keep his distance now that his curiosity has been piqued?
I quickly snatch my hand away from the object I’ve touched as Keenan’s anguish swirls around me. Reliving the memory has cut a deeper slash in the wound in his heart, and his misery bleeds into me, forcing tears from my eyes. I cry out, but it sounds like a choked sob. His emotions threaten to consume me, so I react instinctively. I place my hand firmly on one of the gears, and in an attempt to distract him, I project one of my own memories onto his mind. I was never skilled at calming people’s minds. It’s one of the reasons why I wasn’t placed in the dream house as a child. And I don’t exactly have a handful of pleasant memories wit
hin my reach. So when I grasp for something in my past and happen to grab an unpleasant one, I’m not surprised.
Golden light flickers along the walls, and I instinctively curl in upon myself. My bare skin scrapes against the rough ground, and my eyes water in the sudden glow of the lantern approaching me. I haven’t eaten since he put me here this morning, and my stomach growls in a loud protest. I hate the noise and hope he doesn’t hear it.
The sound of a loud crack splits through the air like thunder and reverberates through my body. My stomach tightens, and my eyes snap open. Dust swirls before Scott’s hazy silhouette, and the muscles of his forearm tighten as he clenches the end of the whip. I can smell his emotions, and his anticipation tastes like bile at the back of my throat.
“Get up.”
His voice is deep, filled with dark promises, and a shiver courses through my spine. I hate that my body has betrayed me by showing a hint of fear, and I clench my teeth. After finding myself here several times, I now know what he wants of me. And despite my current state, I have no desire to die or feel the crack of his whip cut my flesh again. I’ll kill him before that happens.
I plant my hands firmly on the ground and push myself up to my knees. In the faint glow of the lantern, I see his cruel sneer. My hatred for this man breathes strength into my limbs, and I pull myself up to my feet. When I sway slightly, I place a hand on the wall behind me for support. Scott approaches me, his smile gone, but his satisfaction wraps around me in a vise grip. He lifts the lantern, casting light onto his face. Shadows dance beneath his eyes and play around his mouth, twisting his features into a horrifying mask of cruelty. He’s so close that when he exhales I feel his breath tickle my face. I don’t dare move even though I’m repulsed by his proximity. Instead, I stare up at him defiantly. Those black eyes flicker to my lips, and he lifts the hand holding the whip. My face twitches as I suppress the urge to recoil, but what he does next is even more alarming than if he’d hit me. His thumb slides along my bottom lip, and his desire presses down on me.
The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) Page 15
