Rise of the Phoenix Read online

  He lifts his gaze, and the look in his eyes causes my heart to seize. Perhaps, I’ve gone too far. Now that I’ve tested my boundaries, I need to bring him back where I want him, a place of hope.

  “I would tread carefully, Moira. I would hate to see us become enemies.”

  “Who said anything about enemies?” I jump away from the wall and feign confidence. “I don’t like you at the moment. So forgive me if I don’t immediately become your lover again.”

  He assesses me, the minutes stretching into a painful pause. As his gaze roams over my body and flickers between my two different-coloured eyes, my poise wavers as a quake starts from the tips of my fingers and spreads up my arms to settle in my core. I stretch my hands out and pull them back into a fist. No one frightens me, least of all him. I let the words sink in and pray they take root. His lips curve into a mocking smile, and the tension in my body eases. I’ve seen that expression on him many times in the past. Frustration mixed with amusement toward something I had done. I only hope he finds me as endearing as before.

  “Alright, Moira. I’ll wait, but my patience only extends so far. I have a few matters to attend to first, and then I will call on you. And when I do, I expect you to carry out your part of our plan.”

  Confusion pulls my brows together. “And what is that?”

  “You’ll soon find out.”

  A chill settles deep within as his grin widens. The tremor from before emerges once more, filling me with an unfamiliar disquiet. Without another word, I leave his presence, turning away from the strange fear arising in me, and enter the foyer. The sooner I leave, the sooner I can tell the detective. With each step, my strength grows. I shove my arms through the sleeves of my jacket and avoid the driver who stands by the front door. Icarus steps into the hall, and his voice causes me to flinch.

  “Oh, and, Moira?” He leans against the doorframe, his amiable expression hiding the frustration stemming from his mind. “Please send the detective my regards and inform him of my willingness to aid in the investigation in any way I can. Oh, and don’t think of telling him what we talked about. Unless you wish to see him suffer.”

  My eyes widen and then narrow. It seems he hasn’t forgotten about the detective, either. His message rings in my head, loud and clear. If I tell Keenan anything, including my past and Icarus’s true identity, then he will kill Keenan. Hopefully, his threat stems from jealousy and not because I’ve left my thoughts scattered on the floor. He might have already planted a persuasion in Keenan’s mind and is only waiting for the right moment to deliver his death.

  The driver stands by the door, his back straight and his expression blank, seemingly unaffected by Icarus’s words. I know he has heard everything, so he’s either working for Icarus or his mind has been persuaded. I’d bet my life on the latter. After a nod to Icarus informing him I understand his threat, I exit the estate with calm, measured steps. His driver follows me and helps me into the motor vehicle. My body stiffens as I take my seat and plant my gaze on the road ahead. I refuse to glance back up at the house to see if Icarus is watching from his window. The vehicle moves away from the house, the pale glow of the streetlamps illuminating our way, and the man drives down the street toward the west district.

  Though winter has passed, giving way to spring, a chill racks my body. I wrap my arms around my chest and concentrate on the air entering and leaving my lungs. In Icarus’s presence, I had successfully distracted him by bombarding him with my anger. Now, outside his home, my emotions run wild. A tight band of fear constricts around my waist. I need to keep Keenan safe, which means the truth must remain hidden. Panic turns to dread as I realize I’ll have to defeat Icarus myself. But I suppose I’m not entirely alone. Perhaps I can get Josephine to help, maybe even Alyssa. The movement of the vehicle breaks my meditation, and a heavy sense of déjà vu overwhelms me. My heart thunders in my chest, and a thick haze clouds my vision.

  I sit in the back of a motor vehicle as the driver moves us past Churchill Road and into the north district. The streets, once unfamiliar, have now been imprinted on the map in my mind, even if darkness shrouds them. I know them as if I had walked them during my childhood, because it’s the same route the driver takes every time Icarus calls on me. But instead of pleasure, my visit is one fuelled by anger. My hands shake in my lap, and I rock back and forth. Everything around me has faded, replaced by the sight of a pale face with wide, unseeing eyes.

  The vehicle halts in front, and I jump out and storm toward Icarus’s manor. My anger propels me forward, even as the tears in my eyes blur the path so that I can barely see the entrance. After three hard knocks from me, the butler opens the door and greets me. I ignore him, lowering my head to conceal my grief, and march into Icarus’s study. He rises the moment I enter, a bewildered expression on his usually amiable face.

  I run toward him, searching for his embrace. “She’s dead.”

  The butler’s voice stutters into the room, attempting to ameliorate my indecorous behaviour. “I apologize, sir.”

  “It’s alright, William.” Icarus dismisses the man with a wave of his hand and speaks low into my ear the moment the servant departs. “What happened, Moira? You’re shaking.”

  “She’s dead.” My voice cracks as the image of her lifeless body haunts me. “The bastard killed her.”

  “I don’t understand. Who’s dead?”

  I close my fists, grabbing two handfuls of his jacket. My grief spreads, thickening and coating every inch of my body and mind. But instead of spilling over into a flood of tears, the agony hardens into resolve. I had failed to save her, from the man who had left his mark on her and from herself. No one cares that she’s dead. No one has any intention of serving justice. She has only me, and I refuse to fail again. The man responsible for her death will pay, and I’ll be the one who sees that he does. And Icarus is the answer. His arms tighten around me, but the gesture fails to contain the pain rippling through my bones.

  A hoarse voice replaces my own. “I’ll do it.”

  The memory shatters, the fragments lodging into my chest. I remember it all now. Charlotte’s face crystallizes in my mind, the way her chestnut hair refused to curl and the way her large brown eyes always looked sweet and innocent even when she was angry. The way she, Devin, and I would sneak into each other’s rooms. The way she’d always make me laugh with her remarkable impressions of the people we knew. She had tied the rope and hanged herself, but Mr. Anderson had tortured her as he’d used her body for his depraved sexual acts. Many times, I had stood in the hallway at the Pleasure House, seething and waiting for Mr. Anderson to exit. And when he did, I would memorize his face and would dream about inflicting the same pain upon him.

  I double over, clutching my sides as my stomach rolls and the tightness in my throat intensifies. The world swims, fading in and out.

  The urge to vomit tears a command from my throat. “Stop!”

  The driver squints back at me, his features obscured by shadow. “Pardon me?”

  “Stop the vehicle now!”

  The moment we cease moving, I stumble out and bend at the waist. The wave of dizziness crests, and vomit spews from my mouth and splatters on the road. The surge of vertigo rises again, but nothing comes out. After several large gulps of air, my stomach settles, but the image of Charlotte remains. Instead of alive, her cheeks rosy with blood, her body hanging from one of the rafters in her chamber. All this time, I had recalled that someone had committed suicide in the Pleasure House. I just couldn’t recognize the girl’s identity—couldn’t remember—because Icarus had erased my memories of her by erasing himself from my past. Charlotte, my best friend. My head falls into my hands, and a choked sob bubbles up my throat. But though Icarus had taken the reason behind my hatred for Mr. Anderson, my mind had still recognized the man as an enemy. Some emotions linger, no matter how tightly a memory blocker confines the memories.

  The driver rushes to my side, concern etched into his face.

  He extends a
hand. “Are you feeling ill?”

  “I’ll be fine.” I straighten without his help and inhale a shaky breath. “I need a moment.”

  “Of course.”

  The memory of Charlotte hanging in her room threatens to pull me under. I can see Devin rushing to her side, lifting her up with his strong arms. Rapid blinks erase the vision, and I brace myself before re-entering the vehicle. My body hums with nervous thoughts—questions demanding immediate solutions. What do I tell the detective? How do I explain my physical state? How do I stop Icarus, the Phoenix? When answers fail to rise, panic winds my stomach into a tight ball once more.

  But on the ride home, only one question haunts me.

  What have I done?

  2

  The driver travels along Westspire Avenue and pulls up in front of the detective’s townhouse. Unlike the wealthy district of the north, the west side contains mediocre homes for Braxton’s middle class. Both neighbourhoods exceed the east and south districts, the streets of my childhood. The clean atmosphere of the north and west contrast with the polluted air of the south, where clouds of smoke generated by the work mills along the harbour gather. And the peace differs from the racket surrounding the Pleasure House as the prostitutes from the east encroach on our area and try to steal our clients. I never imagined I’d escape the Pleasure House and end up here.

  Though I’ve only lived with Keenan for a few weeks, his home fills me with comfort. Whenever I enter the townhouse, my usual restlessness subsides, and a sense of security envelops me. The man who occupies the rooms inside makes me feel welcomed and loved—emotions I never dreamed of experiencing. But my visit with Icarus has altered my thoughts. When I look up at the red door now, an overwhelming sense of dread washes through me. The thought of staring into Keenan’s green eyes sends a sharp pain in my chest, and my throat constricts. He’ll see everything: my lies, my guilt, and the ugliness inside my mind. None of it will remain hidden for long. The man’s shrewd eyes notice every detail and sometimes see that which is concealed.

  Thankfully, he’s not an empath.

  But that fact doesn’t lessen the trial waiting for me inside. I have to convince him that my visit with Icarus had been nothing, just another attempt to get me back. Persuasion would be easier, but I’d vowed I’d never use it on him again. A few weeks ago, when he had spiralled into darkness after discovering his locked memories of his wife, I had persuaded him to eat. I had acted out of concern. But of course, Keenan hadn’t seen it that way.

  I shut out the newfound memories and emotions that Icarus had unlocked and bury them deep inside my landscape—a precaution in case they threaten to consume me again while in Keenan’s presence. A veil of calm falls over me, straightening my spine and smoothing the lines of apprehension from my face. I quirk my lips, as if amused. If I’m to survive, I must act as though nothing has happened—as though my life is whole, not scattered bits blown across my mind. I slip on the mask of the Moira Keenan knows, even if my past gnaws at my insides and threatens to ruin everything I’ve gained.

  Without a word to the driver, I leave the motor vehicle and drag my feet across the agonizing length between the road and the detective’s townhouse. The brick façade looms over me, no longer a sweet escape. Each step wears the muscles in my legs as I lift the weight of my mistakes from the ground.

  When I finally arrive at the door and manage to knock, Mrs. Whitmore, Keenan’s housemaid, greets me. With one sweep of her gaze, she steps aside and allows me entrance. I slip past her and scan the foyer, noting the lack of someone’s presence. Relief pulls my shoulders down, and I map out a quick escape to my room upstairs. As I remove my coat, the door on the left swings open and Keenan steps in. With his jacket discarded somewhere in his study and the sleeves of his shirt rolled past his elbows, I know he has been indulging in a glass of liquor by the fire. My hands relax, easing up on the fabric clutched in my fists. Perhaps, with a little alcohol, he’ll notice less.

  Earlier that evening, Icarus had sent me a note requesting my presence, insisting he had information on Jonathan. His letter had contained only one rule: that I arrive alone. I had honestly believed Jonathan was the Phoenix, and I had been willing to do anything to prove it, even if that had meant visiting Icarus alone. Within minutes, I had lied to Keenan about my visit, telling him Icarus had requested my presence on a personal note and that I only wished to reject his offer in person. Surprisingly, he had agreed and allowed me to leave unattended—proof of his trust in me. And now, I’m about to break that trust by keeping Icarus’s identity a secret.

  Keenan scrutinizes my face, examining the nuances of my expression. “How was your visit?”

  Mrs. Whitmore vanishes down the hall, leaving us alone, and I fight the urge to rush after her.

  “It went fairly well.” I approach him and fidget with the buttons on his vest. “He tried to convince me to stay, but I assured him my feelings were elsewhere.”

  Keenan lifts a hand and brushes his thumb against the side of my cheek. The gesture travels across my skin and pulls a deep sigh from within, and the affection behind the motion twists my heart. Without words, his touch tells me everything. So much trust. Not even a trace of suspicion aimed at my fidelity or allegiance. I was—and still am—a key figure in the destruction of the Elite. Even if Icarus hadn’t threatened Keenan’s life, I’m not sure I’d have had the strength to tell Keenan the truth. His faith in me morphs into a noose tightening around my throat. The sensation draws my hand up to cover his own, either to stop him from affecting me or to hang onto him one last time. The need to kiss him possesses me, but I clamp down on the desire.

  First, I must cleanse myself. Of my past. Of Icarus’s lingering touch. And of the darkness clinging to my mind.

  “Enough about him.” I lift myself onto my toes and whisper into his ear. “I’m going to bathe, and I want you to meet me upstairs in your bedroom.”

  I lower onto the balls of my feet and look up at him through my lashes, hoping my eyes convey my message. In the midst of passion, Keenan always permits me to enter his mind. If I can get him into bed, then I can search his mind for any marks of persuasion. I’ll check his mind every day if I have to, just to keep him safe.

  When his eyes narrow, I know I’ve failed to persuade him. Any other man would have leapt at the opportunity, blinded by their lust. But my seductive charms have always fallen useless at my feet in regards to Keenan, the calm, patient man never affected by the storm of emotions. His gaze pierces through my mask of seduction, and my attention falls to examine a single button on his vest. My mouth parts while my throat constricts—two opposing forces determined to win. I need to tell him, but I can’t. A shaky breath punctuates the silence, and heat rises to my face as I realize it had been mine. If I stay any longer, the truth will force its way out.

  “Is everything alright, Moira?”

  I spin away from the intensity of his stare, but he grasps my wrist and forces me to remain still.

  “Of course, everything is fine.” My lips widen into a sweet smile, one that deflects the questions burning in his eyes. “It’s been a long day, and I’m eager to be with you. That’s all. Are you truly going to deny me your company?”

  Though the tension lingers between his brows, he loosens his fingers from around my wrist. The moment his touch vanishes, my hand falls limp at my side. I’ve succeeded. For now. I sneak a quick peck on his cheek and dash up the stairs. I can feel his eyes watching my ascent, and his curiosity slithers down my spine, a subtle prickling that begins at the nape of my neck. Suspicion soon follows, weaving into the air. But this time, he assumes Icarus is at fault, that he had hurt me somehow. If only he knew the truth.

  As soon as I enter the bathroom, I turn the taps on. The cascading fall of warm water reverberates in my head, forcing unwanted images to flash before me. A ghost of Icarus’s lips devour mine as his body crushes my own. And every whispered word he had ever said to me during our limited time together roars in my ears. He had
vowed to keep me safe, yet he had hurt me and protected himself. An image of Rachel, the concubine Daniel had persuaded to kill Constable Evans, flickers in my mind, her body broken and helpless as she professed her love for the constable. At the time, I had failed to realize the similarities between us. Now, I know better. Unlike my relationship with Icarus, I honestly believe Colin loved Rachel in return.

  I rise from the edge of the tub and grab the brush from the vanity table. With each stroke, the bristles yank on my hair and scrape my scalp. The pain draws my attention away from Icarus, allowing me to focus on something other than the volatile rush of blood in my ears. If only I had met Keenan sooner. Of course, at the time, he’d had a wife whom he loved with all his heart. And the only way we would have met was if he had visited the Pleasure House, which is something he claims he never did. But perhaps in a different life, he could have saved me from making a grave mistake.

  Reality crashes in, a blow to my chest that knocks the air from my lungs. The brush drops from my grasp as I stumble backwards. I’m one of the Phoenix’s pawns. The words sink in, yet the full implications fail to register. My head spins, trying to grasp the answers. I turn away from the mirror, unable to bear the sight of my reflection. As I remove my clothing, piece by piece, I examine the facts in a detached way, as if I were looking with the detective’s eyes. The moment I let go of myself, the tension in my muscles dissipates. My chest expands as the air travels through my lungs with an easiness I haven’t felt since before I discovered my past.

  I undress and let my thoughts travel over each victim, their faces appearing before me in a row. Charles Darwitt, the first casualty, had shot himself in his home. I sift through my memories as if I were an outsider and find no memory of Mr. Darwitt. He had been the Dream House Instigator, and I had never had an occasion to encounter him, even though he had visited the Pleasure House. I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing his death is not on my hands. Constable Evans’s face appears next. Daniel had orchestrated his murder, persuading Rachel to kill him. Knowing Daniel and Icarus, I assume the former had acted on his own.