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

by Jamie McLachlan

  For a moment I don’t say anything, and just simply stare at him. I blink, realizing I don’t want to be punished. But then someone else’s words float to the surface of my mind, and I find my voice.

  “Yes, I will kill you and with whatever weapon necessary.”

  His eyes narrow, but before he has a moment to contemplate further on my words, I pierce through his barriers. He growls in outrage and takes a step toward me, but my unrelenting presence in his mind gives him pause. I immediately disable the traps he has set out for me just as I had done so in our practices. I plant a seed of persuasion, burrowing it deep into the forest floor of his landscape.

  “You will stand still as you are, and you won’t move any part of your body.”

  His eyes become dark pools of hate, and his body begins to tremble with the effort of resisting my command. But alas he doesn’t move. Void of everything but the need to kill him, I step in front of him so there is only a few inches between us. My hand lifts, and I feel nothing as I slice the blade across his throat. Blood splatters across my face, but still I feel nothing—even when his body collapses to the floor, a dark pool of crimson spreading beneath him like a pair of wings.

  The will of an outsider vanishes, and I come back to myself to find my master lying before me. As if in a dream, I realize he is dead. But it isn’t until I see the blood on my hands that I know what I’ve done. I’ve killed him; I’ve finally snapped and lost my mind. The knife slips from my grasp, but I don’t scream.

  Instead, I run.

  The memory fades away, and Kathryn pries her hand out of mine. The connection snaps, leaving me alone to relive the pain of both memories. They echo, taunting me, and a cry of anguish escapes me. All this time I had thought I killed Scott—that I had lost both my control and sanity in a moment of blind rage. But I had been wrong. It may have been my hand that held the knife, but Jonathan had been the one pulling the strings. He had used me as a weapon to kill Scott Harrison, and I had been powerless to stop him.

  All this time I’ve been living with this secret guilt that slowly ate away at my soul, and no matter how many times I told myself that Scott deserved to die, I was still overwhelmed with remorse that would creep up on me in nightmares. I felt guilty for my crime. But now I don’t know what to feel. Relief?

  Keenan speaks, his voice surprisingly close. “Thank you, Kathryn. You may leave now.”

  The sound of a chair sliding across the floor disrupts the silence, and I hear the door open and close. Keenan grabs the other chair and brings it right beside mine. He sits and grasps my wrists gently, pulling them away from my face. I look into the depth of his eyes, my vision slightly blurry, and realize I’ve been crying.

  “Speak to me, Moira. What did you see?”

  “She found a door, but it didn’t have the Phoenix’s mark. It was someone else’s—someone who wasn’t skilled in blocking memories. So she was able to open it.”

  I pause and wipe the tears from my eyes, clenching my jaw in an attempt to regain my composure. “You were right, Keenan. Someone did use persuasion on me to kill Scott. It was Jonathan.”

  16

  As we head back onto Churchill Road, my animosity intensifies. The buildings along the street pass by me, but my mind is far away in my past. All I see is Jonathan’s cold eyes as he commands my will to his, and all I can feel is his fingers digging into the sides of my neck. In that moment, my life had been his to control, and I grit my teeth at how easy it had been for him to dominate me, body and mind. I was powerless to stop him, and, as a result, he manipulated me and threatened my survival. With one touch, my future had been his to dictate.

  Of course, reminiscing over that moment automatically conjures up the other memory. I had despised Scott and often thought of ways to escape, but I don’t know if I ever truly wished him dead. If I did, it was only in a fantasy I indulged in when lying on the ground in his cellar after a harsh beating. But the cause of death was always something innocuous like an accident on his part or some twist of fate. I don’t recall if I ever considered killing him outright.

  If I close my eyes, the scene will play itself clearly as if I were standing in his study right now, facing him. The memory of his face, wild with fury and disbelief, threatens to pull me back into that room of molten lava where other memories await, eager to torment me. I wince when one manages to slip through.

  “You’re not even trying,” says Scott, sitting calmly in the chair opposite me.

  “Yes, I am!”

  His black eyes harden, a clear threat that punishment will follow if I fail. “Try harder.”

  For the third time, I press through the barriers in his mind and hope he doesn’t manage to shove me out like the other two times. I stumble into the dark forest, immediately feeling luminescent eyes watching me from the cover of surrounding trees. A tree root emerges from the ground, grabbing my ankle, and wraps around my calf. I quickly conjure up an axe and hack away at the root, but more slither toward me and grasp at my limbs.

  After several moments of frantic cutting, I finally manage to free myself. I rise on unsteady feet and wipe away the sweat from my face. My lips curve in the beginnings of a smirk until I hear something rustle in the vegetation ahead of me. Luminescent eyes peer up at me, followed by a dark silhouette slinking toward me. The creature’s lips curl back, revealing two rows of sharp teeth, and a guttural growl breaks through the silence.

  I bend my knees in preparation and grip the axe tighter. The animal lunges at me, and we fall backwards. I cry out in frustration as its jaw snaps close to my face, and my fingers bury into its fur. The axe is no longer in my reach, so I imagine a small dagger. The moment it materializes in my hand, I shove it into the side of the beast’s neck. Blood splatters across my face, and the animal falls limp, its weight settling heavily on top of me. As I struggle to move the creature off me, Scott’s voice echoes in the darkness.

  “Well done, Moira.”

  I retreat from his mind and slump against the couch in exhaustion. I didn’t realize I’ve closed my eyes until I hear him speak again, and my lids flutter open.

  “Don’t you wish to have your reward?”

  “Of course, what is it this time?”

  The last couple of times, he rewarded me with lavish meals and time to myself. But when he continues to watch me, I have the unpleasant feeling he has something else in mind. He stands to sit beside me, and my body instantly tenses from his proximity. Even though it was his decision to move closer, I can sense the sudden nearness unsettles him as well.

  “I thought we would try something a little different,” he says, grabbing hold of my wrist.

  His mind prods mine, but he’s careful to not break my barriers. I’m suspicious and fearful at the same time, wondering what he has in mind. His touch is surprisingly warm, even if the feel of his skin pressed against mine is unnerving, and his thoughts trickle through that small point of contact. He abhors touching others, and I cringe away from the disgust rolling off him. He resents the Elite for reducing his powers to touch, which is why he spent many years practicing the disabling of people’s mental barriers. But his hate stems from something deeper.

  His face twitches with the urge to pull away and hit me, but his grip merely tightens. A part of me knows I should be afraid, yet my curiosity wins out.

  “Perhaps a memory.” He forces the words out in a rush, his other hand clenching into a fist. “Does that sound agreeable, Moira?”

  My voice comes out in a whisper. “Yes.”

  His barriers crumble, for once letting me enter willingly, and I find myself once again in the dark forest. The moon hovers low on the horizon, bright and full, and illuminates the forest in a soft bluish haze. It’s eerily quiet, and in the distance I can see luminescent eyes staring at me. The creatures watch my progress through the trees, but none of them attack me. The moss-covered ground is soft beneath my bare feet, but there’s a slight chill in the air. I wrap my arms around my chest, imagining shoes on my feet
and a thick coat over my shoulders. They appear easily, almost as if Scott had given them to me.

  I continue walking until I find a door at the base of a tree’s large trunk. My eyes quickly scan my surroundings, nervous of the creatures watching me. I reach for the door, but the moment I touch the knob, I’m struck with apprehension. Do I even want to see a part of Scott’s past? I almost pull away, but Scott’s hand tightens painfully around my wrist. One of the beasts creeps up behind me, and a low growl fills the silence. Carefully, I turn my head and look down at the animal. Its luminescent eyes are watching me, and its lips are pulled back in a snarl. It’s a threat, yet there’s also a challenge in its gaze.

  I turn back to the door, knowing I don’t really have a choice. With a violent tug, the memory finally opens.

  A shaft of light enters the dark room. The sound of the door creaking startles me, and I find myself reclined beneath a thin blanket in Scott’s body. When I open my eyes, I see someone standing in the doorway. It’s the master of the house. His silhouette is outlined by the lantern in his hand, and he closes the door behind him. Scott pulls the blanket tight around his body, his heart thudding as the man approaches. He hates this man, yet he’s forced to obey him. The master of the house rests the lantern on the nightstand and then sits on the edge of the bed, his gaze sweeping across Scott’s face.

  “What is it, master?” wonders Scott.

  “Shh, it’s alright, my boy.” The man reaches for Scott, catching his hand in his. I look down at their hands and realize that Scott’s is small and fragile compared to his master’s. “You don’t mind if I touch you, do you?”

  Scott doesn’t answer, but neither does he pull away. His master takes it as a sign of obedience, but I know what truly lies in Scott’s mind. Terror. The emotion wraps around him, paralyzing his limbs. Even though I can understand his reaction, I’m shocked. Until then, I didn’t even think it was possible for Scott to feel anything other than hate, especially not a crippling emotion such as fear.

  “You’re a good little boy, aren’t you Scott?”

  I cringe, because not only can I hear the desire in his voice, but the emotion rushes into Scott’s mind. Scott senses it as well and tries to pry his hand free, but his master only tightens his grip.

  “Have I done something wrong, sir?”

  His master shakes his head, caressing Scott’s hand in a soothing gesture. “No, of course not.” He leans forward, and his voice sends chills through me. “I have a wonderful game we can play.”

  I stumble away from the bed, closing my eyes on the sight of Scott and his master in the dark room. I have heard those exact words before, spoken by Scott himself. And I hate that I now know that someone had once said them to him. In my haste to leave, I fall out of the memory and into the forest. The door slams shut, and I hear a snarl nearby. The moon has vanished, leaving me in darkness, and the sound of jaws snapping follows me as I abandon Scott’s mind.

  My mind snaps back just in time to see Scott bolt up from the couch and flip the coffee table, sending the contents that were on the surface flying into the air. The table crashes onto the floor, and Scott swivels around to face me. Everything about him—from the murderous look in his eyes to his stiff posture—speaks of violence, and I know he’ll hit me. I don’t know if he intended me to see that memory, but regardless, his rage fills the room and threatens to suffocate me. Instinctively, I lift my arm to cover my face, my muscles tensing with what’s to come. But instead of hitting me, Scott’s voice breaks the silence.

  “That is all for tonight.” He inhales loudly, struggling for control. “You’re permitted to sleep in your room.”

  When I lower my arm, I find myself alone.

  “Moira?” The sound of the detective’s voice pierces through the memory, effectively scattering the lingering image. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

  I blink and focus my attention on Keenan. I wish that memory had stayed buried, and I dread the moment when another will resurface. He should resent me for unlocking his past. I know I would. It amazes me that he can be here with me at all, in this vehicle, with the threat of tormenting memories struggling to take hold of him. If he can deal with it, then I can.

  “I’m fine.”

  He flicks his gaze at me momentarily before turning his concentration back on the road. “You just found out Jonathan persuaded you to kill Scott. I don’t think you’re fine.”

  “Oh, so you can pretend to be normal, but I can’t?”

  His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look at me again. “I’ve had some time to adjust. You haven’t.”

  “You locked yourself in your house, avoiding everyone, and got intoxicated every night. So forgive me if I don’t feel like talking about it.”

  As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. The last thing I want is to push him away, but the behaviour comes so naturally. A part of me wants to confide in him, while the other part wants to lock that door once more and never look back. But I’m stuck, lingering between the two desires, unable to act on either one.

  “You’re right,” he says softly. “You don’t. But I’m here when you do, just as you were for me.”

  I’m about to respond when the sound of people shouting draws my attention away from the detective. In front of the police station is a large crowd, signs bobbing high over their heads as they shout accusations. Keenan sighs heavily beside me before pulling up against the curb, and he’s thinking the same thing as me. This crowd is a lot larger and more aggressive than the one loitering in front of the memory house.

  He steps out of the vehicle and turns to me. “Stay close to my side, and don’t say anything.”

  I nod and slip close to his side, welcoming the feel of his arm around my waist. The moment the crowd notices us, they charge toward us. But unlike the people at the memory house, this group has no intention of letting us escape unscathed. They swarm around the detective and I, some shouting derogatory terms and others accusing us of lies. They’re angry, but more importantly, they want blood.

  Someone needs to pay for all these deaths, but they’re blaming all the wrong people. They think Constable Bradford was innocent and that the police are lying. One thing they do have right is they think an empath is responsible, but to them, the actions of one speaks for the whole. They cry for justice, demanding the houses be shut down and all empaths imprisoned. In the heat of their rage, I’m wrenched away from Keenan’s side, the crowd quickly surrounding me. They shout and press into me, their emotions swirling threateningly, and then their hands are tugging on my clothes, shoving me in different directions.

  “Murderer!”

  “Moira!” I hear Keenan shout from somewhere close by.

  “Liar!”

  I smack at someone’s hand, pushing them back. “Get away from me!”

  “Kill her!”

  A man grabs my upper arm, his fingers digging into my flesh, and the murderous hate in his eyes renders me frozen. I automatically start to push through his barriers, but he’s suddenly yanked away from me. Within a second, Keenan raises his right fist and the man falls back against the crowd, blood trickling down his face. The others hurriedly scamper away from the man, and he stumbles backwards onto the ground.

  The detective grabs my arm and ushers me toward the police station’s front door. By this time several constables have mingled with the crowd, subduing the more aggressive members and quieting the others. I gratefully follow Keenan into the police station, my heart pumping with contained adrenaline. I can still feel the other man’s hand on my arm, but the rage from the crowd is quickly replaced by the frustration of the constables. Even though they try to ignore the crowd outside, the muffled shouts pierce through their concentration. They’ve had to deal with this for a week now.

  I turn to the detective, my heart still racing. “Thanks for interfering. A moment later and I’m not sure I would have escaped alive.”

  “I imagine not.” He carefully releases me, but remains close. “The
y’re out for blood. If we don’t settle this now, then it will only get worse.”

  “Detective Edwards!” We both turn to see Constable Jamieson approaching us. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

  Keenan nods, his face falling into a mask of professionalism. “Yes, well, it’s about time I returned to work.”

  “Of course, sir.” He swallows noticeably, immediately regretting his previous statement.

  Keenan ignores the other man’s discomfort. “Is the Chief in?”

  “He’s in his office.”

  The detective nods to the constable and heads toward the Chief’s office, and I smile at Rick before following Keenan. The Chief stifles his surprise and greets us, ushering us into his office. When he sits behind his desk, the chair creaks beneath his weight. He looks frazzled, his face red and weary, and I wonder if it’s more than the crowd outside bothering him.

  “It’s good to see you back, Keenan. As I’m sure you’ve already seen, we’ve had our hands full these past two weeks.”

  “How long have they been protesting?”

  “For a week now. The Elite are thinking of shutting down the houses until things are resolved. I don’t like the idea, but people are blaming the empaths.”

  “They attacked Moira just as we arrived.”

  The Chief’s gaze turns to me, surprising me with his clear concern. “Are you alright?”

  I nod, and my lips curve upwards as I glance at Keenan. “Someone was quick to rescue me.”

  “And I suppose you found that amusing.” The detective glances at me casually while tapping the side of his chair. “I’m glad I continue to entertain you.”

  I widen my grin, enjoying the brief flirtation. “Wouldn’t want things to get boring.”

  “Of course, that would be terrible.”

  “Dreadful.”

  The Chief clears his throat, drawing our attention back to the burly man. “I see you two have managed to get along just fine, despite the events of these past two weeks. Good, I’m glad to see it.”