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

by Jamie McLachlan

  “That’s my girl,” he says softly. “You learn fast.”

  “I’m not your girl,” I snap.

  The corners of his lips pull upwards, and his black eyes glitter with pleasure. “No, I suppose not. I may be your master, but you belong to someone else.”

  His puzzling words wash away my animosity. He lowers his hand and leans forward so his lips are a breath away from my ear. My heart beats rapidly, and I sing a mantra in my head.

  Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move…

  “Come now,” he says, his voice husky. “I have a wonderful game we can play.”

  The rest of the memory fades away, and my consciousness snaps back into my own body standing in Keenan’s room. It takes a moment before my eyes finally focus, and instead of black eyes, I find Keenan’s vibrant green ones. They’re staring at me with a mixture of emotions churning behind them, and I notice he’s lowered the gun. If he were to shoot now, he’d get me in the stomach.

  “I didn’t mean to see that,” I say apologetically, referring to his memory.

  His surprise quickly turns to indignation. “You promised you wouldn’t enter my mind unless invited.”

  “You’re leaving me no choice.” My gaze falls on the revolver. “And I’d rather not use persuasion on you.”

  He looks down at the weapon, and then slowly lowers it to his side. His voice is very quiet when he speaks next. “I wouldn’t have hurt you.”

  My body relaxes, and I hesitantly approach him. When there’s only a few feet between us, I hold out my hand. He places the revolver in my grasp, and I quickly hand it to the Chief behind me. With the weapon gone, the tension in the room decreases remarkably. I force myself to look Keenan in the eyes, despite the memories we just shared. I suppose misery attracts and welcomes the misery of others, because there’s no judgement in his expression. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, there seems to be a new understanding between us.

  “I don’t want to forget anymore.” In his voice, there’s both a demand and a plea.

  “I know,” I say softly. “He’ll only remove the door, nothing more.”

  He sighs, and then nods once.

  I turn to the memory blocker and urge him to step forward. He wipes his brow and approaches the detective. Now that the situation has been resolved, I step back and find Rick and the Chief examining me. We silently leave the room and head downstairs, and I can sense both men wish to speak with me. I’m proven correct when the Chief speaks the moment we enter the parlour room.

  “That was a brave thing you did, Moira.” He sits down on the sofa and fidgets with his mustache. “Stepping in front of a gun like that.”

  I wrap my arms around myself and think back on the detective’s expression. His sorrow still lingers in my mind, beckoning old memories forward. “It wasn’t bravery. It’s my fault he’s in pain. I’m the reason there’s a crack in that door.”

  “Well, whatever your reasons, I’m grateful nonetheless.” He looks down at the fireplace, and when he speaks again, he sounds dejected. “I couldn’t get to him.”

  Constable Jamieson sits beside the Chief and sighs heavily. “I’ve never seen the detective like this before. What happened?”

  Rick doesn’t know Keenan had lost his wife four years ago and had the memory of their lives together blocked. He wasn’t even a constable at the time the Hangman was loose on the streets of Braxton. I glance at the Chief uncertainly, but he only nods. Since it’s my fault, I suppose I should be the one to explain. I sit down on the chair across from them and suppress the urge to curl my feet beneath me. It’s not exactly the most comfortable position when wearing a corset and long skirt.

  “Celeste was Keenan’s wife,” I explain. “When he couldn’t deal with the pain of losing her, he visited the memory house and had the memories of their marriage blocked.”

  “Dear God,” Rick breathes. “What made him remember?”

  “That’s my fault.” I sigh and glance uncomfortably at the men before continuing. “I said something about Celeste that contradicted his memories of her. And naturally curious, he went to the police station to look through the Hangman files. Whatever he saw in there must have triggered his memory.”

  “The file mentions Celeste had been pregnant when she died,” says the Chief. “There are also photographs of the crime scene and her body. I imagine the sight of their home and her mutilated corpse was what did it.”

  Meddling with someone’s mind is a dangerous thing, especially when it involves memories. If a memory is extremely painful, then the client has an easier time accepting its absence when a memory blocker locks it behind a vault. They hardly ever question the persuasion used to explain the memory’s absence. Keenan probably never wondered why he moved to a new townhouse, or how he didn’t seem to remember what he’d done in those three years he and Celeste had been married. The mind brushes away those doubts and continues to move on with life. But as easily as the mind is willing to forget, it’s just as equally desperate to remember. A place, a picture, or an object all have the potential to trigger an echo of the lost memory, and once the mind realizes it has forgotten something, it will stop at nothing to recollect what has been missing.

  I turn my attention to the Chief. “I want to know more about the Hangman case and what happened.”

  “Well, Keenan was still a constable when the first victims were found. The killer brutally disfigured his victims before hanging them. He left clues at the crime scene and sent some to the police station that would inform us of his next victim. Of course we never could solve the puzzle in time, so the victim would be found dead. That is, until Keenan solved one of the clues. We were able to save the man’s life before the killer could catch him and kill him.”

  The Chief pauses for a moment before continuing. “The case went cold for a few months, but then more clues were sent to the station. Keenan solved it once again, and we were able to save the person’s life. But when Keenan went home that night, he found his wife brutally mutilated and hanging from the staircase. The Hangman had tricked us. The other victim was just a ruse so he could kill his intended victim: Keenan’s wife.”

  “So how did Keenan catch him?” I ask.

  “The Hangman had been careless when he killed Celeste. One of the neighbours saw the man entering the property and was able to provide enough description to identify the murderer. Keenan, of course, wasn’t able to forgive himself. To him, he had failed and lost everything dear to him in the process.”

  “All this time I never knew,” says Rick. “I can’t imagine losing Christine.”

  The Chief sighs. “Yes, it’s a horrible thing what happened to him, and now he has to go through it again.”

  Rick nods solemnly, and then looks at me. “But this time, he’s not alone.”

  I quickly look away. No, Keenan’s not alone; he has me lurking around his home. And I’m not sure I’m even wanted, especially after what has happened. Whatever was between us has been snipped prematurely, snapping me back into the stranger zone. How can I possibly be capable of providing him with comfort? It’s never been a strength of mine, and I fear every time Keenan will look at me he’ll only see the cause of his sorrow. Without me, he would still be blissfully ignorant of his painful past. I wouldn’t even know where to start on the path of making things right, or if I’m strong enough.

  I just hope he can forgive me.

  13

  The Chief, Rick, and I are still sitting in the parlour room when someone knocks on the front door. Mrs. Whitmore answers, and a moment later, Evan steps into the house accompanied by two constables. The Chief called the dream house earlier, requesting they send an empath over. Once the memory blocker removes the door, Keenan will be in a worse state than before. A dream weaver will be able to calm him and place him in a deep slumber.

  My eyes widen as they recognize the dream weaver standing in the foyer. Evan hasn’t changed since the last time I saw him at the dream house. He’s wearing the usual white tunic and tro
users, and his blond curls are just as unruly as I remember. There’s a youthful and slightly mischievous quality to his features, but the idea immediately vanishes when I look at his dispassionate gaze. He looks at the Chief and Rick impassively before his eyes settle on me. His pleasure slowly trickles toward me, informing me he’s glad to see me. His presence pleases me as well, and I suddenly wish to speak with him alone. But first, he must settle Keenan’s mind.

  Evan approaches me with a slight curving of his lips. “Moira, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I was hoping you would calm Mr. Edwards and put him to sleep. He’s been through a lot recently, and his mind might be slightly bruised.” I give him a pointed look, and make sure my words carry an unspoken threat. “So be gentle with him.”

  He bows slightly. “Of course.”

  At that moment, the memory blocker appears and descends the stairs. He informs the Chief the door has been successfully removed, but that Keenan is in a worse state than before. Rick escorts Evan upstairs, while the two constables usher the memory blocker back to the memory house. Within a few seconds, the house becomes quiet once more. Now that everyone is preoccupied, I head into my bedroom and grab Celeste’s photo. Keenan’s memories have returned, so he’ll recall he had placed her photograph in the romance novel. The last thing I want is for him to search for it and find out it’s not there.

  The Chief doesn’t notice when I slip by him into Keenan’s office. The novel is in the exact same place as I left it, and I open it at a random page. I hope he didn’t choose a specific spot, or else I might have to explain my behaviour to him after all. The sight of those blond curls reminds me of the memory I saw in Keenan’s mind. His wife wasn’t how I imagined her at all, and I wonder if our personalities were more alike than I had thought. She didn’t seem poised like Madame Josephine, nor was she timid like Christine. Maybe the detective’s attraction to me isn’t so inconceivable. Celeste had been beautiful, outspoken, and bold—just as I am, even if I might be less civilized.

  I snap the book shut and replace it on the shelf. The moment I exit Keenan’s study, I nearly collide with Evan who has just descended the stairs. He grabs hold of my elbow to steady me, and I’m immediately disoriented by his proximity. His touch is warm, and his scent is inviting. It would be nice to talk with another empath again. He must have sensed my interest, because he doesn’t move or release me. And he’s eager to speak with me as well.

  “It’s nice to see you too, Moira.”

  My brows narrow in annoyance, and I try to escape his grasp. The way he has grabbed me reminds me of the way most of my clients at the pleasure house would touch me. Keenan’s the only man I have allowed to touch me in such a way—the only one I have relinquished my control willingly.

  The thought of him brings a sharp pain in my chest. “How is he?”

  Evan glances at the Chief who has appeared in the foyer, and I can sense he doesn’t like the other man. “Distressed, miserable, helpless. Take your pick. He’s asleep now, but who knows how long that will last.”

  I nod, and then turn to the Chief. “May I have a moment with Evan?”

  “I suppose I can allow that,” says the Chief.

  I usher Evan into the parlour room, the prospect of entering someone’s mind sending a pleasant thrill of expectation through me. The moment we sit down on the sofa, he holds out his hand between us in a silent offer. I gratefully accept, my fingers sliding pleasantly across his. This touch is mutual, unlike the way he grabbed me earlier. He squeezes my hand softly and caresses against my consciousness. I smirk at his brazenness, but let him enter my mind. He stumbles onto my landscape, nearly falling off one of the many staircases that pervade my layout.

  “Careful,” I warn, my lips still curved in pleasure. “Wouldn’t want you to suddenly lose your balance and fall.”

  Evan quickly rights himself, stepping closer to the stone wall. “What would happen if I fell?”

  I shrug. “Care to find out?”

  He shakes his head slowly as he wanders in my mind. “No. Why don’t you come into mine?”

  Without any hesitation, I press into his mind, finding myself once again in the chaotic meadow. Various objects are strewn across the clearing, reminding me of Keenan’s present state of mind. I carefully weave my way past the objects.

  “You know, you should really learn how to organize.” As if to prove my point, I nearly stumble over a pile of books.

  His lips curve mischievously. “I prefer chaos. It’s more spontaneous, don’t you think?”

  I snort and continue browsing. My eyes fall upon a stuffed animal, and I pick it up in wonder. A brief memory flashes in my mind, bringing a sad smile to my face. It’s a gift one of his clients had given him when he was younger, and he still has yet to get rid of it. There was a time when I received gifts from my clients at the pleasure house, but those days seem so long ago. The favours were hardly anything useful most of the times, and there were plenty I discarded the moment the man was out my door. Of course, there had been the odd ones I kept, besides the perfumes, soaps, hair accessories, and other things. But that’s because they had intrigued me, not because they reminded me of the giver. Never that.

  He squeezes my hand softly. “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re not as hungry as the first time we met.” He pauses before he continues, and I catch his growing interest. “He’s been letting you into his mind, hasn’t he?”

  I immediately return the stuffed animal. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  He chuckles. “No, it’s not. You’re right. But it doesn’t stop me from being curious.” He tentatively touches the stone wall in my mind, and I shiver. “You don’t let people see much, do you? Do you have something to hide, or are you afraid others won’t like what they see?”

  “Again, that’s none of your business.” I flick an insect off my arm and add, “You, on the other hand, show people too much.”

  I’m too focused on his mind to tell, but I hear the smile he must be wearing when he speaks next. “Clutter and overstimulation are other techniques to deflect and misguide. I’m surprised you haven’t caught on to that, Moira.”

  I lie on the grass and close my eyes. “That’s because I’m not searching. I’m merely coasting and enjoying your company.”

  His pleasure wraps around me like a blanket, soft and warm. I sigh in content, and a grin spreads across my face as his thoughts flutter in my mind. He’s wishing my landscape was more accommodating for guests, rather than its current cold and dark state. After a moment, he opts for sitting down on one of the staircases for a rest. My tension eases out of me as his presence becomes more familiar, especially since he’s not trying to invade my memories.

  “You’re there, you know, in his mind,” he says conversationally, and my tension snaps back into place. “Slightly buried at the moment, but there nonetheless. His memories of you are entwined with affection, along with other sentiments.”

  A mixture of emotions overwhelm me, and I wonder how it’s possible to feel miserable and joyful at the same time. It’s not like we have a future together, but I can’t seem to bring myself to walk away from him. My befuddlement intrigues Evan, and I reprimand myself for forgetting his presence and revealing too much.

  His next words continue to torment me. “In order to calm him, I had to find something that brought him pleasure and peace. His childhood is inadequate, his work only seems to give him anxiety and a sense of failure, and the memories of his wife are what currently cause him turmoil. The only glimmer of joy I saw was you, so I wove you into his dreams to give his mind a momentary sense of harmony.”

  I immediately sit up, my face warming in an emotion I can’t place. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Why not?” He shifts slightly, and I feel his thumb caress my hand back in the parlour room. “By the way, I believe what you’re feeling is embarrassment. Don’t worry. If it’s a secret, then I won’t tell an
yone about you two.”

  I pull my knees close to my chest, and when I speak, my voice is a whisper. “I don’t belong there.”

  “No, you don’t,” he says, voicing my fears. “But again, it doesn’t stop you from being there. Perhaps it’s a good thing.”

  “How can you say that? It’ll only end badly.”

  “Probably, but nothing ever lasts does it?”

  His sadness drifts toward me, carried by the wind that whispers of the things he’s lost. The sorrowful voice echoes my own feelings, reminding me of things I’d rather forget, and I squeeze his hand. Whether it’s to comfort him or myself, I’m not sure. But the gesture causes us both to relax, and soon the wind subsides.

  He senses my eagerness to change the subject, and I know what he’ll ask me before he speaks. “Still searching for the Phoenix?”

  “Yes. He can’t be allowed to get away with what he’s done.”

  I frown, slightly surprised by my own feelings rising up at the mention of the Phoenix. On the one hand, I’m grateful to him for providing me with an escape out of my execution. But I also resent him because I got inadvertently mixed up in the investigation, which forced me to reveal my gifts to the detective. Hatred isn’t far either and easily appears when I think of what the Phoenix did to Constable Evans and Rachel. Yet these are all emotions I’ve accepted and acknowledge willingly. The one that is new and has caught me by surprise is my sudden desire to see the Phoenix punished for his crimes. Is Keenan’s sense of justice wearing off on me?

  Evan, on the other hand, still wants the Phoenix to succeed.

  His voice interrupts my thoughts, his tone carefully neutral. “Maybe it’s for the best if you don’t find him. If the Elite are destroyed, then maybe we have a chance to escape our servitude. Don’t you want to be free?”