Evan shakes his head, regarding me with sympathy. “Everything is fine, Moira. He simply said he doesn’t require my services anymore, and then he asked for you. Are you alright?”
I stifle the urge to bolt up the stairs, and then calmly thank the other empath. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you, Evan.”
I give him a quick kiss on the cheek before the constable who accompanied him escorts him back outside. Once the door has closed behind them, my eagerness escalates as I climb the stairs. Keenan’s bedroom door is slightly ajar, yet I knock anyway. My heart gallops deafeningly in my ears, and I briefly wonder why I’m so nervous before I hear him beckoning me to enter. It’s been days since the last time I heard his pleasant voice, and I didn’t realize how much I missed the soft cadence until now.
When I open the door farther, my eyes immediately dart to the figure sitting on the edge of the bed. His stubble has grown, altering his appearance slightly. If I thought he looked haggard before, I’m tempted to say I was wrong. Keenan looks lost, defeated, and worn. But then his eyes flicker up to greet me, and I see a glint of light in their shadowed depths. He stands, and I freeze at the door.
“Moira.” His voice is soft, like a caress, and more than a little uncertain.
I swallow down my fear and step farther into the room. “Keenan.”
There’s a moment where we simply stare at one another, neither one of us daring to move or speak. I’m about to fill the silence, slightly afraid of the sudden tension in the room, but he approaches me. The closer he gets, the farther I have to crane my neck to maintain eye contact. Soon, there’s not even an inch between us as he pulls me into a tight embrace, his face burrowing into the side of my neck. I swallow the sudden lump in my throat and hug him back. My arms tighten of their own accord, having missed the feel of him, and I breathe in his scent. Unfortunately, the only thing I smell is alcohol and cigarettes.
“Thank you,” he whispers, and I gasp when his grip squeezes me closer.
I debate whether or not to ask him to loosen his grasp, but he releases me before I have a chance to draw another breath. I smile up at him and grab hold of his hand, pulling him out of the bedroom.
His uncertainty trickles through our clasped hands. “Where are we going?”
I enter the bathroom and start running the water to fill the tub before answering him. “Since you refuse to sleep, we’re going to take a bath. No offense, but you need one.” I glance at his growing beard and add, “And you could use a shave.”
His eyebrows shoot upwards, and it’s the first time I’ve seen an emotion other than the misery that has been clinging to him for the past two weeks. “You want to shave my beard?”
A slow smile spreads across my face. “If you’ll let me, of course.”
I approach him—still ever so hesitant—and begin unbuttoning his shirt. He looks down at me, and I try to ignore the swirl of emotions emanating from him. When all the buttons are unfastened, I reach up to push the shirt off his shoulders. He grabs hold of my wrists, halting my progress, and I know exactly why.
I keep my eyes lowered and try to sound light-hearted when I speak. “Silly men—always thinking about sex.”
“Moira–”
My face reddens in a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. “This isn’t about sex, Keenan. I wouldn’t do that, not now. Being naked with one another doesn’t always have to be about that.”
He exhales slowly, and the tension that crept up along his spine recedes. He was afraid I would expect that, and the idea he couldn’t possibly give that to me now had made him anxious. Though I’m desperate for that connection with him, I’m just excited at the prospect of being close to him in any way he’s willing. He releases my wrists, and I continue to undress him.
Once he’s finished helping me out of my own clothes, we step into the tub. I sigh as the warm water envelops me, and I feel Keenan’s tension slowly dissipate as well. He rests against one end of the tub, while I settle on my knees between his legs so I’m facing him. When our eyes meet, I remind myself this is not about sex. Yet the desire to draw closer to him is heightened now that nothing lies between us but water. I quickly avert my gaze and reach for the shaving cream I placed on a chair that also holds a small basin of water and his razor. While I smear the cream over his whiskers, I’m acutely aware of the silence and the fact he’s steadily watching me.
I grab the razor and hold it up in front of him. “Do you trust me?”
In response, he tilts his head to one side and waits. I press the razor against his skin and slide it up along his jaw. The foam collects, leaving a smooth trail behind. It’s an intimate process, and it’s over far too soon. After he rinses his face, I proceed in washing his hair. As my fingers gently massage his scalp, his voice pierces the silence, his tone hollow with regret.
“I’ve done a horrible thing, Moira.”
“Don’t say that. You did what you could in order to survive.”
“What’s the point in living if you’re dead inside?” I open my mouth to protest, but he quickly cuts me off. “There’s more to living than just survival. I lost everything that had ever meant anything to me. They were taken from me. And what did I do? I made myself forget their existence—as if they had never meant anything to me at all.”
The memories may have been locked, but a part of him knew something was missing. It’s why the constant mention of a wife had bothered him when we first met, and why the sight of Ginny and Rebekah’s bodies had troubled him when the other victims hadn’t. It’s why he talked of love as if he experienced it, and why he submerged himself into his work as a detective.
After he rinses his hair, he leans forward and rests his head on my shoulder, startling me. “How can I forgive myself?”
I wrap my arms around him and pull him into a fierce embrace. “You find a way. Do you hear me?”
For me, I beg in my head. Because I can’t bear the thought of losing you.
He slides his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. His misery seeps into me, crawls up my throat and tightens, and my own darkness rises up to greet it. But instead of pulling away from the suffocating emotion, I welcome it and grip him tighter. Emotions I never imagined having toward someone rush up, piercing through the darkness like a beacon of light. Desperation. Need. Possession. But how can they be made of light when they’re so ugly? Because they are incandescent like a flame—raw and powerful, with the potential to destroy.
I want Keenan. I need him to stay. And I don’t ever want to share him. He may have been someone else’s before, and I respect that. But he’s mine now, and I have no intention of letting him go. Is this what they call love—this selfish need to possess someone? No, that can’t be right. I’ve been wanted and owned, and I would never venture to say any of that was love. So there must be something else involved.
My mind drifts to the memory I had accidentally read from Keenan’s mind earlier this week. It’s obvious he loved Celeste. But can you still love someone when they’re gone—when they’re no longer in your possession? I sigh irritably as my mind tries to sort through my muddled state. I think of the memory I had shared with him in an attempt to distract him from his sorrow. It had worked then, so maybe it will be successful once more. Besides, for the first time I’m actually struck with the desire to tell him about Scott.
We’re still holding onto each other when I finally find my voice. “I was around nineteen when Scott Harrison purchased me.”
When his curiosity outweighs his despair, I know I have succeeded in distracting him. So I continue in divulging a part of my past and hope it doesn’t repel him.
“I thought I was to become his concubine. I hated the idea, but it was something I did at the pleasure house—it was my life. The moment I arrived at his house, I quickly learned I had been wrong. Scott never brought me into his bedroom, and he never entered my bed. In fact, he hardly ever touched me at all.”
Keenan’s grasp loosens, and even though several thoughts flutter i
nto the clock, he remains silent. This is a part of my past he’s been wanting to know since the first day we met, and he’s a little surprised I’m finally telling him. But I suppose it’s only fair. I’ve exposed his past, opening up a fresh wound where one had already healed, so I feel like I owe him. And what better way to repay him than to open one of my own scars?
I inhale deeply and continue. “Instead of demanding sexual services, he forced me to do other things. He taught me how to read and write. At first, I refused and disobeyed. He would then lock me up in the cellar with no light for however long he thought was necessary. He’d beat me with a whip and starve me. If I gave up or submitted, he’d punish me further. But if I showed defiance, I’d be rewarded. He’d lead me out of the cellar into my luxurious room and feed me whatever I wanted.”
Memories I’ve kept locked up threaten to rise to the surface, but I quickly shove them back where they belong. I need to tell Keenan what happened, not spiral into a whirlwind of painful memories. I swallow and focus on the present. My gaze falls on a bead of water slowly trailing down Keenan’s back, and I reach out to catch it on my fingertip. The simple movement helps me concentrate on speaking, so I continue where I left off.
“He would then teach me how to read and write again. If I refused, the whole process would start all over. It was utterly confusing, and I didn’t know what he wanted from me. One minute he was demanding my obedience, and in the next minute, he was rewarding my defiance. After a few times of finding myself in the cellar again, I finally decided there was no harm in learning how to read and write. I did what was asked of me.”
I pause as a flurry of memories try to overwhelm me once more. I’ve opened a door in my mind I’ve long kept locked, and images and emotions crash into me. A gasp escapes me, and my hands fly to clutch the side of my head. The present is no longer enough to keep me focused, and I’m suddenly hearing Scott’s voice. He sneers at me, calling me a useless whore, and the sound of his whip snaps through the air. I startle when a pair of strong hands grab my wrists, and I instantly try to break free.
Keenan’s soothing voice pierces through the clutter that has suddenly spilled onto one of the staircases in my mind. “Shh, it’s okay.” He pulls my hands toward him and kisses each palm. “You don’t have to tell me anymore if it’s too painful. I would understand.”
I look into his eyes and shake my head slightly. “No, I want to.”
Besides, I’ve opened the door. Why lock it now?
“Among many things, Scott puzzled me. I couldn’t understand why I felt his desire, yet he would never touch me. It wasn’t that I wanted him to; I just couldn’t comprehend why he suppressed his desire when everyone else would have given into it.
“So one day I did a foolish thing and entered his mind with a discreet touch to his hand. He was absolutely livid with me, and I received one of the most excruciating punishments of my life that night. Then the oddest thing happened. He came to me in the cellar and proposed a game.” I focus my gaze on Keenan. “That was the memory you saw.”
His curiosity rushes into me. “What was the game?”
I take a moment to run my fingers through his wet hair, the slick strands sliding pleasantly beneath my fingertips. “He taught me how to enter his mind without the use of touch. Once I accomplished that, I was to learn how to evade his mental traps and break through the landscape of his mind. If I failed, I was punished. But if I succeeded, he would reward me with a memory of his.”
Understanding dawns on him. “So that’s how you learned how to break through the barriers in our minds. Scott had taught you. Did he ever say why?”
I shake my head. “No. But whenever I entered his mind, I sensed he saw me as his apprentice. He liked rewarding me just as much as he enjoyed punishing me.”
“Have you thought about visiting the memory house yet?”
I pull away from him, suddenly cold. “I have actually.”
“And?”
I stand, water sliding down the curves of my body. “I’ve decided I should, especially if it’ll help with the investigation.”
His eyes light up with the prospect of discovery. “Excellent. Then we’ll go tomorrow.”
“What?” I pause just as I’m about to step out of the tub. “Keenan, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’ve been through a lot the past two weeks. I could go with the Chief or Rick.”
He stands and gives me a severe look. “No. I can’t spend one more day in this house. I need to get out. I need to solve this case.”
After a moment, I nod. Nothing I could say would dissuade him. He’s tired of trying to numb the pain with alcohol and is ashamed of his behaviour the past two weeks. Immersing himself in the investigation will distract him from thoughts of Celeste and give him the sense of purpose he feels he’s lost.
“Alright,” I say. “Tomorrow then.”
I step out of the tub and reach for one of the towels. A tentative finger caresses my back, and I know he’s tracing one of my many scars. His anger rises and rushes into me through his touch, and I try not to jump away. He continues to scan my back, each touch a searing caress, yet I find the sensation oddly comforting.
I sigh and suppress a shiver. “I’m sorry, Keenan.”
His hand abruptly pauses, and his temper is swept beneath a rush of mystification. “For what?”
“I’m the reason you remember.”
He exhales slowly and continues trailing down my spine. “Yes, you are.” My heart squeezes tightly, anticipating his wrath. But what comes instead is a wave of gratitude, and I feel his lips press against my shoulder in a tender kiss. “And for that, I thank you.”
15
When I was a concubine in the pleasure house, I rarely ventured out of the building. If I did, I never stepped out of the industrial district in the south or the east district of the poor. Yet ever since I was released from the prison, I’ve spent most of my time in the richer districts that make up the north and west parts of Braxton. So I’m not surprised when I’m once again in ward twenty-two, peering up at the memory house. What I do find astonishing is the crowd of citizens loitering at the building’s entrance. The north district is known for its wealth and peaceful streets that are void of the filth that pervades the poorer districts. But the people in front of the memory house are anything but quiet. Some are shouting while others hold up signs, and I catch a few derogatory terms.
My eyes flicker over the sign boards. Death to all empaths. The Elite lie. Close memory house. The police hide the truth.
Keenan pulls up along the curb, and I turn to face him. “Well, this isn’t good.”
“No, it isn’t. I imagine Mrs. Anderson or Mrs. Bradford is responsible.”
“I wonder how long they’ve been doing this.”
He steps out of the motor vehicle and grabs his cane. “I guess we’ll find out.”
As we approach the memory house, the crowd becomes louder and a few citizens glance in our direction. The moment they recognize the detective, they charge toward us. They make demands and ask questions, but I can’t focus on anything beyond their stifling hostility. Keenan’s arm slips around my waist, firmly holding me close, and I gladly lean into him as we walk toward the front entrance.
When the doors close behind us, I release a sigh of relief, even if I can still hear the muffled shouts of the people outside. Keenan frees me and turns to address the woman behind the desk who is currently smiling up at him.
“Good morning, I’m Detective Edwards. I was informed Mr. Johnson would be present today.”
“Of course, Detective.” She stands and steps into the hallway. “This way, please.”
We’re led to one of the offices on the right and are ushered in. When my eyes fall upon the man sitting behind the desk, I pause in the entrance. His skin is dark, blending smoothly with his black suit. There was a time when people from the other continents, such as Naemalia, were slaves, but when knowledge of empaths rose, the face of a new enemy was revealed. Every
one—regardless of colour—combined their efforts to enslave all empaths. Even though the foreigners are no longer slaves, they still remain a minority. They can’t hold high positions in society, and are often excluded from the white population in public.
Yet the fact Mr. Johnson—a black man—is the new Memory House Instigator suggests a shift has occurred. He may not be an empath, but his ancestors weren’t treated kindly by the citizens of Braxton, which means it’s possible he could be sympathetic to the Phoenix’s cause. Or if not sympathetic, then at least persuaded by promises of equality for his family and friends.
I narrow my eyes and follow the detective into the room, wondering if Mr. Johnson is yet another one of Jonathan’s pawns. He stands and shakes Keenan’s hand, but otherwise ignores my presence.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Detective. Mr. Harrison speaks very highly of you, as do the other Elite members.”
If Keenan is surprised by Mr. Johnson, he doesn’t show it. His expression remains as calm as ever, his gaze polite, but serious. I, on the other hand, am less courteous. The desire to read the other man’s mind pulls at me, insistent and eager, but all I can sense is his mild interest. If only there were some visible sign linking him to Jonathan.
“I assure you, the pleasure is mine,” says Keenan. “But unfortunately I come here on police matters. I wish to speak with your best memory blocker.”
“That can be arranged, though we have several gifted empaths.”
“I require one who is skilled with recovering blocked memories.”
Mr. Johnson nods slightly and stands, gesturing for us to follow. “I have one in mind. Come, I’ll escort you to one of the rooms and have someone send for the empath.”
As we’re following the instigator out of the room, Keenan broaches the subject of the rioters outside. “How long have you had protesters outside?”
“For a few days now. At first they didn’t do much, but now they’re pestering the clients.”
“Has the Chief of Police been informed?”
The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) Page 18
