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

  “Ah, Moira,” he says unperturbed, though his eyes linger on my body before glancing away. “I see you’ve finished bathing. I imagine it was agreeable.”

  “Oh yes, very much so. Though it would have been more enjoyable if you had joined me.” This statement elicits further mumbling from Mrs. Whitmore who considers Keenan uncertainly as he slips on his coat. I’m immediately curious of his destination. “Going somewhere?”

  “We’re going out.” He diverts his attention to the housekeeper and adds, “Mrs. Whitmore would you be so kind as to help Moira dress?”

  “Of course, Mr. Edwards.”

  She dutifully climbs the flight of stairs and avoids staring at me directly. The first day I had met her, I estimated her age to be ten years older than the detective, which would make her twenty years my elder. She had smiled warmly at me that day, but the fact I’m an empath unsettles her. If I weren’t an empath, she would have been ecstatic at the idea of Keenan finding a young woman. But my indecorous behaviour continues to disappoint her. I have no idea what the detective has said to her by way of explanation about my presence, but her mind whirs every time her eyes fall on me.

  I feel it now as she ties my corset tighter than I prefer. She has never been outwardly rude to me, so I don’t provoke her further. Instead, I remain silent and thank her when she has finished. I slip into the rest of my clothing on my own, the white blouse and dark navy skirt fitting me better than the first time I had worn them. Even my boots no longer pinch as much, having grown accustomed to their narrow confines. Afterwards, I brush my hair, which doesn’t take me long. The dark strands that fall unevenly around my neck are still wet, but ever since I cut my hair I find it dries quicker.

  The moment I descend the stairs, the detective glances up at me beneath the rim of his bowler hat and hands me my coat. He doesn’t speak as I slip into the extra layer, and I wonder if he’s angry at me for disregarding his earlier request to properly clothe myself after bathing.

  When we’re seated in his motor vehicle, he finally addresses me. “I thought you agreed not to walk around naked, Moira.”

  I sigh dramatically. “I can’t help it. I grew up in the pleasure house. People walk around naked all the time there, and no one fusses over it.” I give him a wicked grin, hoping to alleviate the tension. “Besides, Mrs. Whitmore and the other maid are getting used to it. They don’t mutter as much as before.”

  Keenan gives me a sceptical look, but doesn’t press the issue. He drives toward the north district—where the more wealthy citizens of Braxton live—and his silence unnerves me. It’s late, and the only times he has ever taken me out in the evening was to a private event held by a member of the Elite. Normally, we dress up for such events, so I assume our destination is elsewhere. When he continues to remain silent as we enter ward twenty-four, my curiosity reaches its limits.

  “Where are we going?”

  He pulls into Duval Avenue, and our destination is a familiar estate. “I received a phone call from the Chief while you were bathing and was informed there has been another murder.” He pauses, watching my reaction carefully, and I bite my tongue so I don’t beg him to continue. “Mr. Anderson was murdered.”

  To be honest, I expected immediate relief—maybe even joy—when hearing those words. Mr. Anderson, an Elite member and instigator of the memory house, was a vile man. He paid several monthly visits to the pleasure house and enjoyed torturing the concubines. I would have had the same fate if Scott hadn’t purchased me. Mr. Anderson always had an eye for me. My defiant nature roused his desire, and the fact I slipped out of his grasp heightened his need to possess me. So, naturally, I should have been pleased to hear of the man’s demise, yet I’m momentarily mystified before the dread finally sets in.

  “The Phoenix?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

  He parks in front of the estate and glances at me. “The Chief seems to think so.”

  “But it’s only the first of the month, not the seventh.” I refuse to acknowledge the implications. “The three previous victims died on the seventh of each month.”

  “Yes,” he says slowly. “Either this isn’t, in fact, the work of the Phoenix, or he is purposely changing the rules of his game.”

  As we walk toward the entrance, I notice several other vehicles parked in front. The butler opens the door when we knock, and I follow Keenan into the foyer that is already occupied with several constables. The melancholy surrounding me presses on my mind, making me feel small and helpless, as if all the men in the room were holding me beneath water, and their sadness lures the darkness I keep locked in the back of my mind. She senses it and rises to the bait. The air tastes of the constables’ despair, but is overwhelmed by the cloying grief coming from somewhere farther in the house. Perhaps it’s Mrs. Anderson?

  My eyes fall on Constable Jamieson who approaches us with a grave expression marring his usually mirthful face. Like the other men surrounding me, Rick wears the boxy uniform of the police: navy slacks, stiff jacket, and matching high, rounded hat. He appears rigid and authoritative in the outfit, which is incongruous with his slightly boyish facial features.

  “Good evening, sir.” Constable Jamieson nods at the detective and offers me a weak smile. “Good evening, Moira.”

  I smirk in return, forcing the other part of myself back into her dark corner. “Rick.”

  “What do we know so far, Jamieson?” asks Keenan.

  “Well, sir, Mr. Anderson was in his study when his son Andrew paid him a visit. The butler has informed us a letter arrived addressed to Andrew, which he gave to the young man while in his father’s study. Shortly after, the butler heard some noise of struggle and entered the room to find Andrew standing before his father’s body. He was weeping, and his hands were covered in blood.”

  “And Andrew?”

  “We’re told he doesn’t remember anything after reading the letter.” He glances uneasily down the hall, and I can sense there’s more to the story. “But Mrs. Anderson refuses to let us speak with him at the moment.”

  The detective frowns in disapproval. “Alright, Jamieson, lead us to the crime scene.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He steers us to Mr. Anderson’s study, which happens to be just off to the right of the foyer. As we approach the room, I force myself not to wrap my arms protectively around my torso. I refuse to appear weak around these men, but I’m uneasy. The Phoenix’s first two victims—Mr. Darwitt, the Dream House Instigator, and Madame Del Mar, the Pleasure House Instigator—were persuaded to commit suicide, while the third victim, Constable Evans, was brutally murdered by a concubine named Rachel who was under the Phoenix’s persuasion. By the time I was involved in the case, Mr. Darwitt had been already buried, under the assumption he had committed suicide. The other two victims I had gotten to inspect at the city’s mortuary. The cold atmosphere of the morgue and the fact the victims were long dead made it easier for me to study them.

  But Mr. Anderson was just killed a couple of hours ago, and I’m about to witness him exactly as he was in his last moments. It’s completely different from seeing a dead body cleaned and lying prone in the mortuary. Mr. Anderson’s body will show violence. His eyes will undoubtedly be open, because for some horrifying reason, they always are. His blood will be splayed around him like paint splattered on a canvas.

  I can smell the decay as I enter the room, and my eyes hesitantly glance at the body sitting behind the ornate desk. I had once said the wood was as black as the man’s soul, and I still believe it, even if he’s dead. Every other detail in his office fades into the distance as the scene behind the desk sharpens into gruesome clarity. The only time I ever saw a body at its crime scene was Ginny Parker who had been raped and killed in an alley last month. But, instead of the Phoenix, her death had been at the hands of Constable Bradford who had managed to kill another victim before I caught him. I would have been his third victim if I hadn’t shot him and then been interrupted by the detective’s entrance.
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br />   And, of course, there is another body—Scott Harrison. With that one, I had been the guilty one with bloody hands, but that still doesn’t mean the experience was less horrifying. To this day, his ghost still haunts me, whether I’m awake or dreaming.

  I push away thoughts of my past and focus instead on my present situation. Mr. Anderson’s chair is turned so it’s parallel to his desk and a letter opener sticks out awkwardly from the side of his neck. As I presumed, blood is splattered everywhere, the dark crimson stains tainting the man’s white shirt, papers scattered on his desk and on the floor beneath his body. And his eyes—those black eyes—are gazing straight at me, the usual glint of consciousness replaced with the glassy look of the dead.

  For a moment, all I can see is Scott’s black eyes staring blankly up at me as his blood pools around him. In that second, where memory clouds my vision, I’m rendered frozen. The same sense of horror that had overwhelmed me the day I murdered Scott seizes me now, and I instinctively back away from the scene. Unfortunately, I hit a solid form and the detective’s hands are suddenly on my shoulders, steadying me.

  “I was hoping you could read his mind, Moira.” His pleasant timbre soothes me, and I instantly begin to relax. “I need you to see if there’s an afterimage so we can confirm the butler’s account.”

  I close my eyes and give him a faint nod. The man before me is not just any man. He is the one responsible for leaving marks on the concubines who were unfortunate enough to be his for an hour. He is the same man who used his authority as an Elite member to subjugate others, and he is the vile man who so casually called me a whore. He doesn’t deserve my pity, nor does he warrant my fear. My eyes flutter open, and my feet confidently stride toward the body. My hand doesn’t waver as it reaches out to touch the man’s temple.

  A young man hovers over me. There is blood splattered on his expressionless face, and his eyes stare vacantly at me. I can hear the faint sounds of a ragged breath being drawn through thick liquid, and I realize it must be Richard breathing. The man before me doesn’t shift in his expression as he says in a deadpan voice, “The Phoenix will rise and conquer us all.”

  My vision returns, and I quickly pull away from Mr. Anderson. “I would have to see Andrew to be positive, but I believe it’s him. He stood right here where I stand now.” I pause and glance back at the detective. “He said something to his father, Keenan.”

  He waits for me to continue, and my eyes flicker back at the dead body before me. A chill settles deep within me as I whisper, “The Phoenix will rise and conquer us all.”

  This time, I allow my arms to cross protectively over my chest. The detective’s hands are once again on my shoulders, and he turns me gently toward the comfort of his chest. Before I can simultaneously find consolation and embarrassment in his arms, Constable Jamieson calls for our attention. I immediately straighten and withdraw from Keenan’s embrace. Why is it he never touches me when I ask him to?

  “Here is the letter we found, Detective.” Rick hands Keenan a piece of paper. “Constable Smith found it on the floor just over here, which means Andrew was standing there when he read the letter.”

  I lean into the detective to read the phrase that is written in an elegant cursive, “one by one the pawns shall move and defeat the king once and for all. And when all the king’s blood has been shed, the Phoenix will rise and liberate us all.” I mumble the words beneath my breath, and then scoff at the letter. “Whoever the Phoenix is, they have too much time on their hands. Maybe we should be looking for bored men or women who have nothing but idle time to waste making up silly phrases.”

  Keenan scans the letter once more before speaking. “Perhaps, but the phrase is apt. The pawns are—we now know to be—empaths working along with the Phoenix such as Daniel, and I suspect the king must be Mr. Harrison, the Chief Elite member.”

  “But we already knew that,” I mutter. “It doesn’t tell us anything we don’t know. For example, we still don’t know who the Phoenix is.”

  “No, not definitively. But we now know for certain the Phoenix wishes to eliminate the Elite with the intention of freeing all empaths. So I imagine the Phoenix is also an empath.” He glances at me, his gaze always managing to make me feel naked. “Are you disappointed to discover Mr. Anderson is not the Phoenix as you previously thought?”

  “Yes,” I answer truthfully. “It would have made our investigation much easier. Besides, are we even certain this is the work of the Phoenix?” When the detective simply stares at me, I continue. “I mean, it’s not even the right date, and the phrase in the letter is different. It could be a copycat.”

  “I suppose we won’t know for certain until we question Andrew.” He turns to Constable Jamieson and adds, “Where is the young Mr. Anderson?”

  Rick shifts uneasily, glancing out the door. “With Mrs. Anderson in another room down the hall. She’s kept him locked up in there ever since we arrived and has prohibited us from questioning him. I’ll go see if she’ll finally permit us to speak with him.”

  “Thank you, Jamieson.”

  With the constable’s absence, my eyes unwittingly flicker to the dead man across the room. A moment ago, it hadn’t bothered me to be in the same room because I had been caught up in the details of the letter. Now, with the silence surrounding me, Mr. Anderson’s glassy black eyes become those of Scott’s. And the voice, when he speaks, whispers vile things into my ear.

  “Whore,” Scott says in my head. “Prove to me you’re not weak and get up.” If I ever refused to obey that simple command, he would add with a condescending sneer, “Then sing, whore. Fill the room with your screams.”

  I’ve been very careful at keeping the memories at bay ever since I was released from prison, and so far I’ve been successful. Yet in times like these, when I’m staring death right in the eyes, the memories try to creep up. It’s also when I begin to hear the voice of my darker side, and she never has anything nice to say. I shiver and quickly glance away from Mr. Anderson’s vacant stare, hoping if I look at something other than those black eyes I won’t hear Scott’s voice taunting me. Unfortunately, I’m met with an equally unsettling gaze despite their vibrant green colour.

  Keenan surveys me with rapt attention, as if he knows what is bothering me. “I assumed you would be glad to hear of Mr. Anderson’s death. In fact, if I remember clearly, you had gloated when I suggested he would be the next victim.”

  “What makes you think I’m not happy?”

  His eyes narrow slightly. “Then, you must see another body because a moment ago you had a look of horror on your face.” The aloofness that has surrounded him recently retreats slightly, and his voice softens. “Is it Scott Harrison?”

  The last thing I want to do is talk about my dead master, so I try to steer the conversation in another direction. “Do we have to stay here? Can we not wait for Constable Jamieson in the foyer like everyone else? Perhaps you’ve grown accustomed to the scent of decay, but I haven’t.”

  I start backing away from Keenan, inching toward the door. I try to pace myself so as not to appear skittish, but before I have a chance to retreat, Rick enters the room. He looks at the detective, and I know the woman has once again refused us to speak with her son. It’s definitely a complication, especially since I need to confirm Andrew was indeed persuaded to kill his father.

  “Sir, Mrs. Anderson insists we not question her son tonight. She claims he is extremely distraught with the evening’s events.”

  “Very well, Jamieson,” answers the detective. “The Chief has ordered Constable Smith and Constable Waters to stay with the family to assure their safety. He says it wouldn’t seem right to arrest Andrew.”

  “I agree, sir. I saw a glimpse of the man myself and he doesn’t look well, nor does he look like he purposely murdered his father.”

  Since there’s no possibility of reading Andrew’s mind tonight, I’m eager to leave this house and all of its suffocating emotions. “Looks like we’ll have to wait for me to read
his mind. Goodnight, Rick. Say hello to your fiancée for me.”

  “Of course, goodnight to you as well.” He turns to the detective, and his expression becomes professional. “Goodnight, sir.”

  “Rest well, Jamieson.”

  I rush past the constables and am outside before Keenan appears. I breathe in the cool evening air, grateful to finally escape the smothering atmosphere inside the house. Even though the detective remains behind me, I can feel his eyes watching me carefully as we approach his motor vehicle. The gears inside his mind are whirring, his thoughts preoccupied with the mystery of my past. I smile, despite myself, and turn around to face him.

  “You know what you need?” His brow lifts up in mild interest, and I continue in a sweet voice. “A distraction.”

  “And why is that, Moira?”

  Instead of answering, I ignore his question. “I’d be more than happy to provide you with one.”

  “And what would that be?”

  I step closer to him, smiling. “Me, of course.”

  His eyes flicker to my lips briefly before he walks past me. “In that case, you’re already proving to be a great distraction.”

  I sigh, deflated from the rejection, and sulkily climb into my seat.

  2

  I take a sip of my coffee, the liquid already beginning to cool, and glance up at the detective. He’s sitting across from me on the opposite end of the table, his legs crossed and the city’s newspaper poised before his face. His breakfast remains half-eaten, cold and forgotten, whereas mine is nicely settled in my stomach. Occasionally, his hand reaches out to bring his coffee cup to his lips, but his face never wavers away from the barrier between us—the damned newspaper. For the past twenty minutes, nothing but the sound of shuffling paper and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall has filled the room. My cup lands on the table a bit too forcefully, and I sigh, my breath mingling with the silence.