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

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.

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.

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.

“Are you incapable of sitting quietly, Moira?” His face is still hidden behind the newspaper, but I imagine he would glare at me with mild irritation.

“No.” I scowl at him, and then add, “Yes.”

“I suggest you immerse yourself in some hobbies such as reading.” Another page is turned, and his hand reaches out to grab his coffee. “I believe you mentioned Scott Harrison taught you to read. Though I wonder how you managed to learn since you just admitted to being incapable of sitting still for even a short period of time.”

“It’s been twenty minutes!” I lean back against the chair, crossing my arms, and soon I’m speaking without realizing my mouth has opened. “Besides, it’s not like I had a choice. His rewards eventually became incentive enough to avoid his punishments.”

“Ah, yes, a few lashings on the hand would be motivation to learn quickly–”

“It wasn’t the only place he left his mark,” I say bitterly. “The point is, I learned fast.”

“And what was your reward?”

I pause and try to think back to those eight months when I had been Scott’s property. The first time he came to me with a book, he had thrown it into my lap and had said in that cruel voice of his that I was going to learn how to read. I had scoffed at him and had thrown the book back. Within a second, his hand had firmly grasped my hair, pulling my head back so that I could see his black eyes glaring through me. It was the first time I learned of my role and the repercussions of disobedience.

He had leaned close to me, his breath brushing against my cheek. “You’re going to learn how to read.”

I had gritted my teeth and spat, “Or else?”

He had released my hair and cupped my chin—one of those rare moments where his touch became gentle. “There is no ‘or else’.”

I scowl at the memory and give Keenan an evasive response. “Food and a warm bed. That was my reward.”

The detective is silent for a moment, and I wonder if he’s returned to reading his paper. But he surprises me by speaking. “Hmmm, I was under the impression you slept with him in his bed every night, or at least on most occasions. You were his concubine, after all. I assumed that’s why he had purchased you.”

A resentful laugh escapes me. “You don’t know how wrong you are. The only time that man ever touched me was to inflict pain and there was never anything sexual about it.”

When I lower my cup and look up at him, the newspaper is forgotten and he’s regarding me with emotions I can’t quite decipher. Probing further than I typically dare with him—but not enough to break the barrier in his mind—I encounter his usual profound curiosity mingled with anger and a hint of smugness. Somehow I have fallen into some sort of trap. By feigning indifference and indirectly probing me, Keenan has managed to provoke me enough to reveal snippets of information concerning my past. It’s more than I have ever said out loud about Scott. The last thing I ever intended to do was to feed the detective’s interest about the dead blocker, and in under two minutes I have done exactly that. His brows pull together slightly, aware I have discovered his ruse, and a trace of disappointment fills the room.

Before either one of us can speak, Mrs. Whitmore enters and offers Keenan a letter. “A message has arrived for you, sir.”

The detective unfolds the paper, and his gaze travels back toward me. “It appears Mrs. Anderson has finally decided to let us speak with her son.”

I abruptly jump out of my chair, eager for another distraction. “Great! I’m finished if you want to leave now.”

“Of course.”

At those words, I don’t wait for him to stand before I rush out of the room. When he finally joins me in the foyer, I’m already wearing my coat and gloves. He lifts a brow, and his mouth twitches with suppressed humor. I suppose he’s right. I try not to growl at the detective as he takes his precious time getting ready.

I’m so close to pushing him outside when he finally opens the door and gestures for me to walk out first. After entering the motor vehicle, he drives into the north district, and I recognize the streets as we pass them. When we reach Duval Avenue, I notice everything appears differently in the light of day. The street is serene, as if a murder had never occurred last night, and even Mr. Anderson’s estate is eerily tranquil when the butler permits our entrance.

The moment I enter the house, I’m bombarded with that overwhelming grief again. It’s as potent—perhaps even more so—than the stench of decay that surrounds a rotting corpse. Instinctively, I lift a hand to cover my nose, like it could possibly dilute the smell. But, of course, it can’t. The detective glances at me warily, and I abruptly lower my hand, feeling a little foolish.

A woman marches toward us, her expression severe. “And who are you?”

I suspect from the faint signs of age present in her face and the grey streaking her hair that she’s in her early forties. She is pretty despite the fact society would consider her past her prime. Though she spoke forwardly, her voice had trembled slightly, fearful of challenge and desperate to keep that fear at bay. Her attire informs me she is not the housekeeper, but rather Mrs. Anderson.

“I’m Detective Keenan Edwards and–”

“No,” she says sharply, lifting her head high. “I told you my son needs a few days. He’s in no condition to be harassed.”

“Mrs. Anderson I assure you–”

“I’m sorry Mr. Edwards, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She lifts her head higher to make her point clear.

The detective’s confusion swirls with mine, overwhelming the room with its potency. Obviously the woman wasn’t the one to send us the message.

A young man appears in the hallway behind her, and the resemblance is unmistakable. “Calm down, mother. I’m the one who sent for them.”

Mrs. Anderson’s head snaps back to face the young man. “Andrew–”

He holds up a hand to cease his mother’s protests, and I notice the glass of liquor in his other hand. “Please, mother, I’d rather get it over with now.”

She closes her mouth and steps out of our way. Rather than taking a sip, Andrew tilts his head back and swallows the rest of his alcohol in one gulp. I glance at Keenan uncertainly, wondering if this isn’t the best time to question Andrew considering he’s been drinking.

Andrew’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Are you coming inside, Detective?”

Keenan glances one last time at Mrs. Anderson before heading toward Andrew. He doesn’t notice when she frowns heavily or when her eyes glaze over with the beginnings of tears. The Elite have only briefly informed her there is an empath persuading its victims to kill, so she’s frightened for her son’s safety. For some bizarre reason, I feel compelled to offer this stranger consolation for her loss. But when she glares at me, I recover my sanity and ignore her. She doesn’t want my comfort or my pity.

When I reach the two men, Andrew’s eyes skim over me in mild interest before he walks into the room. Thankfully, he didn’t inherit his father’s black eyes. Instead, they’re a warm brown—almost like the rich colour of the liquor he’s drinking.

As I follow him into the room, a wave of nausea grips me and forces me to reach out to the nearest stable thing. Unfortunately, it happens to be the detective. It takes me a moment to recover, and I slowly release my death grip on his shirt. The anguish I had smelled in the foyer is more concentrated in this room, its source standing near the decanter of liquor. I hate misery. I can tolerate any other emotion, but sorrow—that gut-wrenching despair that eats away at the soul? Well, that sort of emotion is like a vacuous force; it swallows the life around it until there’s nothing left but an empty carcass. And Andrew is drowning in it, the scent potent enough to mask the stench of liquor and cigarettes clinging to his body.

Andrew glances at Keenan, a bottle of liquor in his hand. “Care for a drink, Detective?”

“No, thank you.”

The young man turns those caramel brown eyes on me expectantly, and I quickly shake my head. He shrugs and pours himself another glass. “Please, sit.”

The detective and I each sit in a chair, while Andrew sits on the sofa across from us. He rests his glass on the table between us and proceeds in lighting a cigarette. His sack coat has been long abandoned and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up—even his collar is undone. He looks remarkably like a younger version of Mr. Anderson, but he has his mother’s eyes, even if they are currently bloodshot. His clothes are wrinkled, and I suspect he has slept in them—if he slept at all last night. He exhales slowly, opaque tendrils of smoke slithering out of his nostrils and mouth, and looks at the detective.

“So what do you want to know?”

“Tell us about last night, Andrew. Why did you go see your father?”

“I thought he wanted to speak with me.” The man pauses to pull on the cigarette with his lips before continuing. “I was at the club when I received a message that my father wished to see me. I took my time, of course. I resented him for thinking he could just call on me anytime and expect me to run to him immediately. God, I hated him.”

Andrew falls silent, staring vacantly at his glass. His animosity toward his father becomes tangible like the smoke that permeates the air around him, layering the atmosphere with yet another cloud of discord. I wrap my arms around my torso. There’s too much emotion; I’m beginning to dread the moment when the detective will ask me to enter Andrew’s mind. I’m reminded of Rachel’s and my own despair when I had been lying in the underground prison a month ago. Neither memory is one I wish to reminisce about at the moment, so I hastily shove them into the far corner of my mind. They can stay there forever for all I care.

Keenan’s pleasant voice pierces the silence, pulling Andrew out of his thoughts. “Was your relationship with your father quarrelsome?”

He exhales bitterly. “Yes, I loathed the man. He was tyrannical and cold-hearted, and he despised me just as much. You see, I was a disappointment and a burden—a waste of good breeding and wealth.”

“Was your animosity toward one another well-known?”

His breath cuts the air in a short, vicious laugh. “Yes, you could say that, Detective. When I wasn’t wishing I had someone else as a father, I was wishing him dead. I
wanted
him dead, and there were times when I thought I would kill him myself.” He breaks off as his words settle heavily around us, his eyes wide with horror. “Fuck.”

His head falls into his hands helplessly, and I hear a choked sob before he vigorously wipes his eyes with the heels of his hands. Andrew takes a long inhale of his cigarette, his hand shaking slightly as the end of the stick between his fingers glows a bright red.

He avoids looking at us, and mumbles under his breath. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, Andrew,” Keenan assures him in that soothing voice of his. “Take your time.”

Andrew snuffs out his cigarette in the ashtray and takes a desperate gulp of his liquor. “Right, as I was saying. I thought he wished to speak with me, so I came home. But when I spoke to him, he acted like he never called for me. Then, the letter arrived and at that point my memory blanks out. The next thing I knew I was standing over my father’s dead body with his blood on my hands.”

“Have you ever visited the dream, memory, or pleasure house? Or spoken with any blocker recently?”

Andrew’s eyes flicker to me, and he quickly glances away. “As for being a client at any of the three houses, I can honestly say I have not.” He pauses, and here his eyes dart to my face again. “I don’t exactly find the idea of someone else in my mind appealing. And, as for blockers, I encounter several on a daily basis. Do you think one of them messed with my mind and made me kill my father?”

“Yes,” answers the detective truthfully. “Unfortunately, you’re not the first one and I doubt you will be the last. I hope you will permit Moira here to access the memory to verify your account, not that we doubt you. You have my word she will only read anything that pertains to last night’s incident and nothing more. Do you consent?”

“I doubt I have a choice, do I?”

The detective’s gaze softens in sympathy for the young man. “No, but it’ll be easier for all of us if you give her permission.”

“Alright.”

He swallows the rest of his liquor and looks at me expectantly. I’ve been dreading this moment for the past half-hour, so I reluctantly rise from my seat. Andrew’s bloodshot eyes meet mine and his face pales. He wasn’t lying when he said the idea of an empath in his mind is unappealing, but what he failed to mention was the fact the idea
terrifies
him. I can’t blame him, especially now the Phoenix has somehow managed to get inside his head. But not all empaths are horrible—though I may not be the best example. When I sit down beside him, I notice he’s perspiring slightly around his hairline.

I place my hand in the space between us and speak as gently as possible. “Your hand, please.”

Of course, Andrew doesn’t realize that I don’t need physical contact to enter his mind, but I hope the gesture gives him some comfort. He swallows and takes my proffered hand. When he tries to avert his gaze, I softly guide his eyes back to mine by turning his chin. Despite his nervousness, he’s shocked by my forwardness. I smile invitingly and ease my way into his grief-stricken mind. It’s easier to maintain eye contact, especially if the person is anxious. They’re less likely to resist if they see and feel you before them.

When I finally plunge into his mind, I’m not surprised by the lack of effort it took on my part. Nor am I shocked to discover his layout is rather simple like most minds I’ve encountered. His hand tenses, but I don’t dare touch him mentally like I had done with Keenan. For one, a mental touch is inherently intimate; secondly, it would only disturb the man further. I find the memory of last night wrapped in a dark cloud of melancholy and regret, and I carefully disengage the insubstantial threads of darkness to expose the memory. It comes to me sluggishly, like a drunk who has long fallen off the edge of sobriety.