Rise of the Phoenix

by Jamie McLachlan

  His determination slithers toward me, thick threads of mahogany floating in the air.

  He leans forward, his eyes bright and unyielding. “I know you’re hiding something, Moira.”

  Satisfaction tilts the corners of my lips into a sly smile. “It kills you, doesn’t it? The possibility that I might know something that you’re not privy to? If only it were true.”

  A slight twitch of his brow breaks his composure. “Moira—”

  “Well, it’s late and I’m tired.” I stand, cutting off his words. “Goodnight, Detective.”

  When he fails to move, I step over his leg and head for the door. As my feet carry me farther away, his vexation creeps up and presses insistently on my back. Behind me, his chair screeches against the floor and I know he has every intention of following me. A growl rises from my throat, and my hands clench at my sides. The man simply can’t take a hint. My irritation causes me to stomp my way across the hall and into my bedroom. I spin around and grab the doorknob, but a hand smacks against the wood before I can close it.

  The detective’s voice, roughened with his own agitation, soon follows. “What are you doing?”

  “Did you not hear me, Detective?” I glare up at him and press on the door. “I’m going to sleep.”

  “In here?”

  “Yes, this is my bedroom, after all.” I speak my next words slowly, adding force to each syllable. “Goodnight, Detective.”

  His composure crumbles, the loosening of each muscle in his face like the demolition of a brick wall. He straightens his spine as his hand falls away from the door. Confusion, a pale yellow mist, colours the air around him. I’ve made a habit of sleeping in his bed every night, so my current behaviour astounds him. I lift my head as pride strengthens my resolve. For weeks, he has weighed me down. A weakness, preying on my emotions and seducing me with a fantasy. But now, I’ve awoken. From now on, I won’t be distracted. I will protect myself, because no one is my ally.

  A restless voice rebounds in my mind. Stop it! You’re hurting him.

  Pressure builds within my chest, a dam so close to bursting. I ignore the sensation and slam the door to my room closed, as if I could shut out the voice forever. I unwind the towel from my waist, leaving it by the door along with any thoughts of the detective. Crossing the floor, I sit on the edge of my bed. More important thoughts require my attention. For example, how I plan to eliminate the Phoenix. Questions swarm my mind. Do his other pawns know his true identity? Did he order Jonathan to persuade me to kill Scott? Or did Jonathan act alone? And why? Was Scott another one of Icarus’s pawns?

  I scowl and slam my fist into my pillow.

  I’ll have to play nice if I want answers.

  3

  I pry my eyes open and squint. The bright light shining in from the window sends an ice pick through my skull, forcing my eyes closed. Sleep clings to me like a fog on a cold dawn, and a lazy yawn splits my mouth wide open. I roll away from the sunlight and peek at my surroundings. Familiar furniture occupies the room, but it’s not mine. Neither is the masculine scent clinging to the bed sheets. The ghost of Keenan’s hand slides up the length of my leg. I press my thighs together, but the sensation continues up to torment the space inches below my belly. In its wake, my body awakens as tiny sparks of electricity afflict my skin. I jolt into a sitting position, and my head snaps to the other side. The detective rests beside me, with the blanket covering the lower half of his body. His bare chest rises and falls as the soft murmur of breath escapes him.

  Intense heat flares within, replacing the gentle simmer of desire with the harsh flames of outrage. I tear the cotton covers off and scramble to the edge of the bed, bolting upright and turning to face him.

  My voice rumbles in the silence of the morning. “Wake up now!”

  A crack appears in his eyelids as he peers up at me. “Good morning.”

  He reaches across the distance and tugs on my arm, pulling me back onto the bed. Before I can catch my breath, he rolls over and pins me beneath the weight of his body. Hard muscles press into my curves, and the heat of his torso threatens to melt the ice around my heart. The combination of fresh soap and aftershave clears the haze in my mind.

  My mouth opens as outrage surges forward. “How dare—”

  He cuts me off by pressing his lips to mine. As his tongue slips into my mouth, the memory of Icarus shoving me against the wall and forcing his body on mine burns across my landscape. Instead of Keenan, it’s Icarus who lies on top of me, imposing his dominance like always. Like last night, the urge to defy him swells as revulsion punctures my skin wherever he touches. I rest my palms on his chest and push while crashing into his mind with a persuasion, ready to demand his obedience.

  But before I can plant the command, he rolls off me with ease. When I find green eyes instead of amber staring back at me, the fight winding my muscles tight diminishes a little.

  I swallow my relief and glare at the detective. “How did I get here?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  His eyes narrow as dark green tentacles of suspicion reach out for me. The expression jolts me, lifting the veil of anger. I swallow my confusion and raise my chin. My lack of memory will only fuel his mistrust, evidence that something had happened when I last visited Icarus.

  “Of course I do.”

  I shift to the edge of the bed and rise to my feet. He mimics me and stands on the other side. With five strides of his long legs, he approaches his armoire and grabs a fresh pair of trousers. He slips them on, the precision and patience of his movements conflicting with the red mist clinging to his silhouette. I welcome his silence and turn my attention to the women’s clothing pressed between his clothes. The cheap blouses and skirts contrast with the refined and elaborate suits, despite his effort to make them belong. I know the truth, even if he denies it. I don’t know who the greater fool is. Me for believing Icarus? Or Keenan for thinking we have a future?

  The woman who wears the clothes belongs elsewhere. Not here, with him.

  I cross my arms over my naked chest and stomp toward the armoire. Breezing past him, I grab one of the chemises and the corset. After slipping the chemise over my head, I step into the corset and twist my arms around to tie it myself. As I fumble with the strings, my mind scrambles to remember what had happened last night. I recall returning to my room and falling asleep. Beads of sweat form at the base of my spine as frustration heats my skin, and the cord slips from my clammy fingers.

  Strong hands replace my own, tightening the garment with sharp, rough tugs. “You knocked on my door in the middle of the night and woke me. When I answered, you entered without a word and crawled into my bed. I was in no mood to argue or carry you back to your room, but perhaps I should have.”

  He finishes tying my corset with one final tug that causes me to step back from the force. His words, an unwelcome truth, swirl around me and send a chill down my spine just as triumph swells from deep inside. Despite being locked away, she had managed to gain control over my body as I had slept. I grab one of the blouses, crushing the fabric in my fist. Irritation forces me to draw in a deep breath. I can’t let her ruin everything by falling into the detective’s arms. The scent of fresh soap and aftershave waft up from the clothing in my hand. My nose crinkles as I slip the offending outfit on.

  When I turn around, an empty room greets me. The scowl twisting my face vanishes, and my steps lighten as I descend the stairs and enter the dining room. I’d rather he ignores me than try to kiss me again. My stomach growls as the mouth-watering aroma of eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee fill the air. Without a glance at him, I take my place on the opposite side of the table. Each bite melts on my tongue, and I close my eyes, savouring the taste, grateful for the small benefits I receive from tolerating the man across from me.

  The Braxton newspaper blocks my view of his face. On the front of the paper, a black and white photograph captures a crowd carrying signs. Outrage marks the face of every rioter, some of their mouths frozen
in a shout. The heading of the article reads, “Citizens Demand Lockdown.” I scoff and resume eating. The Elite would never agree to close the three houses. Greed insists they never eliminate a system that provides a large amount of their income, even if a few citizens demand otherwise. Rather the Elite won’t hesitate in closing the rioters’ mouths. And I imagine they’ll do so soon so that the rest of the citizens don’t begin to question their authority.

  After a sip of my coffee, I speak into the silence with calm, soft words. “Don’t expect what happened last night to occur again, Detective.”

  “And which part would that be, Moira?” An undercurrent of irritation drips beneath his control, bright red waves that travel across the table. “The part where you shut me out? Or the part where you crawled into my bed and told me you loved me?”

  I slam my cup onto the table, spilling rich brown liquid over the rim. “I did not!”

  The spilt coffee pools at the base of the porcelain mug and soils the white tablecloth, mimicking the blot on my mind. He shuffles the newspaper to the side and assesses me from beneath his brows. I bite the inside of my cheek, itching to steal the truth from him. But the idea of entering his landscape fills me with dread as the faint ticking of his gears echoes in my head. Unconsciously, I had sneaked into his room, so it’s possible that part of me had whispered those three deadly words. A moment of weakness, one that will never happen again.

  I clear my throat and smooth my expression. “The latter, of course.”

  The newspaper snaps back in front of his face, and we eat the rest of our meal in silence. Once finished, he rises from his seat, and I stand and follow him out into the hallway, knowing we’ll head to the police station. He takes hold of his bowler hat, flips it onto his head, and grabs his sack coat. Without a word, I slip into my coat and keep pace with him as he exits.

  We enter the motor vehicle, and the drive to the station thickens with hostility. I take advantage of his silence and turn my thoughts inward. An image of Charlotte flashes in my mind, and, along with it, the memory of Mr. Anderson’s face. My skin tingles as invisible flames feed on the violent surge of animosity crashing in. His death was mine, but Icarus took that away from me. Instead, someone else persuaded Mr. Anderson’s son, Andrew, to murder him in his office. Was it Jonathan? Or Daniel? My nails dig into my palms as I squeeze my hands into tight fists. With my revenge stolen from me, my rage howls, a gust of wind that threatens to blow my landscape to pieces as it searches for an outlet. I replace the image of Mr. Anderson’s face with Icarus, directing all of my hatred into a new purpose. In my mind, bricks and mortar appear at my side. Blind determination courses through me as I construct a wall similar to the one in Icarus’s mind.

  The detective pulls the vehicle along the curb, and the quiet street contrasts with the commotion from a few days ago when a mob had crowded the entrance of the station. Ever since Andrew had committed suicide, the citizens of Braxton had begun to doubt the integrity of the police. Suspicion plagues them, weaving illusions of lies and hidden facts. Unfortunately, they’re correct. But if the police unveiled the truth, then the citizens would slaughter every empath and overthrow the Elite.

  When we enter the station, Constable Jamieson welcomes us with a grin. He approaches with his fiancée, Christine, trailing behind him. Christine’s smile adds colour to her pale complexion, and her light brown hair, pinned beneath an ornate hat, rests high on top of her head. Her dress, a pale pink with white lacework detailing the front, creeps high up her neck. She grabs my hand, the white silk gloves soft against my palm.

  “How are you feeling?” Her expression softens. “Is your wound healing well?”

  I nod, bristling beneath the sudden attention of those around us. “It wasn’t serious. A little graze on the arm.”

  “Patrick told me all about it and how you saved the detective’s life. That was exceptionally brave of you.”

  Constable Jamieson’s cheeks redden with the mention of his name, and a smile worms its way across my face. I bite my lip before the expression takes hold of me, twisting my affections into steely resolve. He’s not a friend. None of them are. I’ve only ever had two friends. One is dead, and the other might not ever speak to me again. The two people standing before me willingly live in a society that enslaves my kind. They don’t cry in outrage or have any intention of enforcing change, perfectly content to pretend that their hands are clean and not stained with our blood.

  I retrieve my hand, resisting the urge to wipe it on my skirt. “Your fiancé exaggerated a little.”

  “Not at all.” Constable Jamieson looks at me with wide, admiring eyes. “If you hadn’t interfered, the detective would have been shot.”

  The detective remains quiet at my side, watching me from beneath the rim of his bowler hat. His silence presses on me, two hands bearing down on my shoulders. Without entering his mind, I know he’s scrutinizing my behaviour, waiting to see if I act any differently around them. Annoyance creeps up, an unpleasant crawling across my skin, but I shove it aside and chip away at the ice that has frozen my expression into stony detachment.

  Turning my attention back on Constable Jamieson, I force a pleasant smile. “It’s what anyone else would have done.”

  “So very modest.” Christine looks up at the station’s clock. “Well, I should be leaving. There are many things I need to do in preparation for the wedding. You will come, won’t you?”

  “Of course, I wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

  My smile covers the lie.

  “That makes me so happy.” She beams and turns to the detective. “You two have to stop by for tea sometime soon. Our last visit was cut short.”

  He nods once, a polite acknowledgement. “I’d love to, and I’m positive a time can be arranged.”

  Christine’s eyes light up. “Oh, I almost forgot. I plan to go shopping, and I was hoping Moira could come with me.”

  “That can be arranged.” He turns to me. “If Moira wishes to accompany you.”

  I nod, even though indignation rumbles at the base of my throat. A scream threatens to rise as their superiority looms over me, a constant reminder of the invisible chains that bind my wrists. If she truly considered me a friend, she would have had the decency to ask me rather than seek the detective’s permission, as if he were my master. If we were companions, she would allow me the illusion of freedom.

  “Wonderful!” Christine claps her hands together as bright yellow clouds of glee burst around her. “I will call on you tomorrow morning and see when the detective can spare you for a few hours.”

  She breezes past us and exits the station.

  Constable Jamieson’s face heats up with embarrassment. “I hope you don’t mind, Moira. She’s convinced you two will become close friends.”

  “I don’t see any reason why not. She’s a very lovely lady.”

  My smile dies the moment he turns away. Of course, we can never be friends. I’m an empath and she’s not. A friendship between us would never prosper, because a gap would forever taint our relationship, one neither one of us could ever cross. She would never fit in my world. And me? I would never belong in her society of fabric, pretty hats, tea parties, and the glories of house life as a wife and mother.

  The detective heads toward his office, but the Chief of Police emerges.

  “Keenan and Moira, I’d like to speak with you two in my office.”

  I follow the detective into the room and sit down in one of the chairs. The Chief fidgets with the long, reddish curls of his moustache, his expression sombre. Ever since the day he had almost shot Keenan, the Chief had ordered everyone in the police station to avoid using or opening any letters. Everyone must communicate through the telephone or in person—a precaution that should have been instilled a long time ago. A smile tugs at my lips as a thought runs through my mind. With their foolishness, the Phoenix deserves to win.

  If only he wasn’t Icarus.

  The Chief leans back in his chair, the buttons on h
is shirt straining over the girth of his stomach. “I’ve received a call from Madame Josephine at the Pleasure House. One of the clients has brutally beaten a concubine. I want you two to investigate and make sure this isn’t another one of the Phoenix’s acts.”

  The detective nods and stands. “We’ll head there immediately.”

  “Just in case, bring two other constables with you. If the man proves to be guilty, then they can bring him here and lock him up.”

  I rise from my chair and follow the detective out of the Chief’s office. He calls on Constable Jamieson and Constable Smith to accompany us. My stomach twists with nervous energy as we exit the station and enter our respective vehicles. Icarus had promised me I would never have to step foot into the Pleasure House again—another vow he had failed to keep. Despite all his flaws, the idea he would persuade some client to abuse a concubine seems dubious. He would have nothing to gain. But a client who thinks he can assert his authority over a concubine? Well, that is a normal occurrence.

  The detective drives down Churchill Road and into the south district. As we approach the Pleasure House, the industrial buildings loom up ahead, thick grey fumes billowing up from the roof vents. A few factory workers walk in the alleys and, despite the faint roar of the machines deep inside the buildings, an eerie quietude settles over Yellowstone Road. Beyond the workshops lies the harbour, but not even the sight or sound of water reaches past the stretch of brick, metal, and smoke. Though I’ve lived in the south district all my life, I’ve never once stepped onto the harbour. Nor have I ever seen Grey Lake.

  He parks in front of the Pleasure House, and we wait until Constable Jamieson and Constable Smith arrive before we enter the building. Silence spreads between us, a thick smoke that scratches the back of my throat. I push beyond the discomfort and pray he remains this quiet from now on. As soon as the two constables arrive, we exit our vehicles and cross the short path to the house’s front steps. Once inside, Mrs. Hughes, the house’s records keeper, greets us with a curt nod. I had hoped Madame Josephine would have replaced her by now.