The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) (3 page)

Andrew walks into his father’s study to find the man seated behind his black desk, and I cringe at the sight of Mr. Anderson’s cold eyes. I had forgotten how much he could infuriate me with just one look. In this memory, however, there is no trace of lust in his gaze like there was when his eyes would settle on me. Rather, I find pure, unbridled disappointment.

“I see you’ve come back to try to squeeze more money from me.” His father’s words are spoken with venom, and Andrew’s rage escalates through the haze of liquor he’s consumed. “If I would have known you’d be such a failure, I would have left you out on the streets the moment you were born.”

The last comment opens up an old wound in Andrew, and his wrath is quickly accompanied by feelings of guilt and rejection. The only way he can hide his hurt is by stoking his hatred. “Believe me when I say I don’t enjoy being your son any more than you enjoy being my father.”

“Then why are you here, Andrew?” Richard is unperturbed by his son’s animosity. In fact, he almost appears bored and eager to get rid of the young man.

Andrew chuckles, but his confusion is unmistakable. “Really, father, is this some sort of joke?”

“What are–”

The butler appears at the doorway and interrupts Richard. “Sir, my apologies for intruding, but there’s a letter for–”

“I’ll read it later,” dismisses Mr. Anderson.

“It’s for Andrew, sir.”

Andrew accepts the letter and tears it open. His fingers fumble clumsily to unfold the paper, and it takes a moment for his eyes to focus on the written letters. But the moment they do, Andrew’s consciousness blanks and the outline of a bird on fire flashes before me, the flames bright and hot in my mind.

I stumble out of Andrew’s mind, as if the Phoenix’s insignia had physically pushed me out of the memory. When I finally focus on the man beside me, I can see he’s struggling to maintain composure. His jaw is clenched, and his other hand trembles in his lap. He swallows, his eyes blinking rapidly to wipe away the threat of tears.

I squeeze his hand before releasing him. “Thank you, Andrew.”

He inhales deeply and glances at me, his growing curiosity overshadowing his distress. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

I glance at the detective uncertainly, but he simply nods, permitting me to speak the truth. “An empath has been in your mind. Whoever this empath is, they are the one who used persuasion on you to kill your father.”

Andrew’s eyes widen in obvious fear, and he shakily lights another cigarette. He exhales heavily, and then finally speaks. “But wouldn’t I remember having an empath persuade me?”

“Not exactly. The empath was careful to block the memory from you, so you wouldn’t remember being placed under the persuasion or killing your father.”

Keenan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’re doing everything we can to find the empath responsible, Andrew. But it’s imperative you keep this information to yourself. I know this must be a very difficult time for you and you’ve experienced a traumatic event, but can I trust you to keep quiet?”

Andrew nods, his bloodshot eyes holding Keenan’s gaze. “You have my word, Detective. Now keep your word you’ll find the bastard.”

“I promise.”

Keenan stands, and I gratefully follow him out of the room with measured steps. Even though I pity Andrew’s situation, I don’t think I could have spent a moment longer in that room with him. Mrs. Anderson isn’t anywhere to be found, so Keenan and I walk directly into the foyer. My eyes unwittingly flicker to the closed door of Richard’s office, remembering the sight of his limp, dead body behind his desk.

“Moira?” The sound of my name draws my attention away from the memory, and I assume a neutral expression before looking at Keenan.

“Are we heading to the police station?”

He nods. “The Chief will want to hear about our discussion with Andrew.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t take his time donning his coat and hat, and it isn’t long before we’re outside again. I enter the vehicle beside him and don’t mind that we’re silent on the drive to the police station. Even though I’m no longer in the house, my mind is still focused on that door. If someone had died in my home, I don’t think I could live there anymore, especially if the person was close to my heart. The house would only be a cruel reminder of their death, and the room in which they had died would forever be tainted with darkness.

I firmly believe some things are best not remembering if you plan on living another day.

T
hough I had spent
a month beneath Braxton’s police station as a captive in the underground prison, I’ve grown accustomed to visiting the building. Admittedly, I prefer entering the station as the detective’s aiding empath rather than a criminal. Even the constables have adapted to my presence, barely glancing my way if only to acknowledge me. There were a couple of days where they openly glowered at me, even just the scent of their suspicion and disgust more disquieting than their stares could ever be. Some would even utter a profanity whenever I walked by, indirectly voicing their accusations.

In their eyes, I was the guilty one, whereas their fellow constable, Anthony Bradford, was wholly innocent. They couldn’t—and wouldn’t—believe Constable Bradford was responsible for raping and murdering Ginny Parker and Rebekah Gray. Nor could they imagine the constable had been about to make
me
his third victim before the detective interfered. Instead, they chose to believe Bradford’s tale that I had seduced him with persuasion in an attempt to escape. If it wasn’t for the Chief, the detective, and Constable Jamieson, the other constables would have continued to believe in Anthony’s innocence.

The Chief ushers Keenan and I into his office the moment he sees us and sits behind his desk, the chair creaking slightly beneath his weight. When I had first met the man, I had immediately disliked him. He had radiated authority as he offered the Elite’s pardon in return for my aid in the investigation, and I had assumed he was like every other domineering man I have encountered during my years at the pleasure house. But in the past month, my perception of the Chief has altered. He treats his wife and his constables with respect, and his conduct toward me has been one of an employer, as if I don’t bear the mark on my right cheekbone that signifies me as an empath and slave. So I’ve grown to like the man despite the few instances where he has made a generalized sexist remark. I’m capable of overlooking his slightly chauvinistic mentality, especially since he was one of only three men who believed me against Anthony.

“I hear you’ve spoken with Mr. Anderson’s son.” His eyes fall on me and the red whiskers of his curled mustache twitch when he speaks. “Were you able to read his mind?”

I nod. “He bore the Phoenix’s mark just like the other victims.”

“Which means the Phoenix is no longer predictable,” adds the detective. “The date of the murders has changed along with the phrase in the letter that was sent to the victim. Either the alteration has been made randomly or the Phoenix feels pressed for time. Do you think he’ll target Mr. Harrison next?”

The detective raps his index finger on the chair a few beats before he answers the Chief. “It’s possible. If I interpret the new phrase correctly, then eliminating Mr. Harrison
is
the Phoenix’s ultimate goal.”

The Chief grunts in disapproval. “Then I’ll make a call to Mr. Harrison to inform him of this new development, and I’ll send some constables over to his estate for additional security.”

After we’re dismissed, the detective and I head into his office. He sits behind his desk and immediately lights a cigarette, a cloud of haze momentarily obscuring his face before it slithers upwards. I sit down in the chair opposite him and fidget perceptively, but no matter how I position myself, my restlessness continues. It’s not just my too-tight corset, courtesy of Mrs. Whitmore; it’s an ever-persistent thought that nags at the back of my mind. Keenan notices my agitation, and his eyes settle on me with a hint of humour, the expression reminding me of this morning.

“What is it, Moira?”

“Well, it’s obvious we’re dealing with primarily a group of blockers,” I begin to say, but the detective’s brow lifts, demanding clarification. “Blockers have more autonomy than the other empaths, and Andrew never visited any of the three houses. We already know Daniel is responsible for Constable Evans’s death. He didn’t persuade Mr. Darwitt or Madame Del Mar to commit suicide, but how do we know he’s not responsible for persuading Andrew? He was Mr. Anderson’s blocker and was often in the man’s estate. He could have planted the seed of persuasion any time before we arrested him.”

“My thoughts exactly,” he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “It’s quite possible Daniel persuaded Andrew. But who is the one who sent the letter since Daniel is in prison? And who are the other empaths—assuming there is more than just one involved?”

“It could be a number of them. Like I said, blockers have more freedom to move and they have access to all of the Elite members.” I give Keenan a pointed look and emphasize my next words. “I still think Jonathan Hayes is involved.”

He stops tapping his finger and slowly exhales a cloud of smoke. “It’s certainly a possibility, especially now we know there is more than one empath involved. He could very well be our letter sender.”

“I could try to read his mind again.” Even though I made the offer, I still cringe at the idea.

Keenan’s eyes dart to my face. “I think we should try other avenues before we resort to that.”

“What’s the matter? You don’t think I could do it?”

“Reading his mind again would require you to do it by force, Moira. And though I don’t underrate your talents, I’d prefer to think of a safer alternative.” His eyes soften despite the fact his tone remains dispassionate. “Consider it, instead, as a precaution rather than a doubt in your capabilities.”

“Whatever you say.”

I don’t voice what I truly feel, but I suspect Keenan knows. The last time I met Jonathan, the detective and I questioned him about the murders. But it wasn’t the
first
time I had met the blocker. Jonathan had been a client of mine when I was a slave at the pleasure house. Each visit had left me feeling like the man raped me body and mind, because he would always force his way into both simultaneously. I had despised the blocker then as I do now. The detective, with that immense inquisitiveness of his, once ventured to inquire about my history with Jonathan, and I had shared a memory with him. So I know, without slipping into his mind, that Keenan has spoken truthfully.

“And just to be safe, I’ll have a blocker read Daniel’s mind to see if he is, indeed, the one responsible for persuading Andrew.”

I should thank the man, but instead, I simply say, “That would be wise.”

It’s not that I’m not grateful, because I truly am. Daniel is another blocker I’d rather stay away from, and the detective is aware of that fact. Having another blocker read Daniel’s mind is an attempt on Keenan’s part to spare me once again from facing an uncomfortable situation. Yet my voice fails to speak of my gratitude. He has witnessed my vulnerability more than anyone, and admitting my appreciation is just another way of appearing weak in front of him.

Distractedly, I wonder if there is a blocker I’ve actually
liked
—granted, I haven’t met all of them to know for certain. But so far, of the ones I’ve met, I’ve disliked all. Scott, Daniel, and Jonathan easily fall into that category. Perhaps it’s because they’re all traitors.

The detective once again interrupts my thoughts. “Don’t forget that tomorrow night we’re expected to attend Mr. Harrison’s private event.”

“That’s tomorrow?” I had, indeed, forgotten. Then, an idea strikes me as my mind wanders to thoughts of Mr. Hayes, the Dream House Instigator. “I could seduce Mr. Hayes and see what he knows. Jonathan is his blocker, after all.”

“Ah, yes, the man who propositioned you for sex the last time you saw him.” He snuffs his cigarette a bit too forcefully, his words punctuated with vehemence. “I think
not
, Moira.”

“What’s the matter, Detective?” My voice is too sweet, buoyed by his obvious jealousy. “Afraid I’ll enjoy myself a little too much?”

He glares at me, and his ire trickles down my spine. “If that is the case, then accept his offer on those terms.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he pauses, his expression smoothing into the epitome of indifference before he continues. “Seduce Mr. Hayes if you so desire, Moira. But do it for your own pleasure and not with the intention of wheedling information for the case.”

I had leaned forward in my puzzlement, and I now abruptly sit back at his statement. “Even if it could help us find the Phoenix?”

“Yes.” When I simply stare at him in disbelief, he adds, “There are other ways of attaining information that don’t involve seduction.”

I recover quickly and give him a charming smile. “That may be, Detective. But you’d be amazed by how much a person lets down their guard in the heat of passion.”

His expression doesn’t change—a mask successfully hiding the emotions that faintly trickle toward me without his awareness. Frustration is the prominent emotion, but without his thoughts, I’m left with no context. Is he just annoyed with my insistence? Or does it stem from jealousy? Maybe it comes from something entirely different. I’m once again wishing he would permit me to enter his mind, yet he hasn’t ever since that kiss we shared.

Finally he speaks, and his voice is chilly with its resolution. “My answer is still no, Moira.”

L
ater in the evening
, I’m once again suffering from another bout of boredom. Shortly after our dinner meal, Keenan excused himself and headed directly to his study. Meanwhile, I’ve been left to wander the house alone. Neither Mrs. Whitmore nor the one other housemaid is an enjoyable companion considering the two women are too intimidated to speak with me. Whenever I approach either one of them, they immediately avert their gaze and answer my questions with as little information as possible. So I’ve stopped trying to speak to them altogether.

After a pleasant bath, I creep toward the detective’s bedroom, my toes skimming over the hardwood floor. When I try to turn the knob, I find the door locked—
again
. I’m not surprised, because Keenan has been very diligent with securing the room. Disappointed, I walk naked to my own bedroom in search of clothing. Instead of calling for Mrs. Whitmore to tie my corset, I simply put on a housecoat over my chemise and trot down the stairs. To this day, I’m still unsettled by the lack of photographs lining the walls. Even the pleasure house has paintings hanging in the hallways, even if they’re arbitrary and poor works of art. Yet Keenan’s walls are curiously blank, despite the garish wallpaper. So far the only place I’ve seen personalized is his study, and I pause at the closed door before decidedly knocking twice.

Silence greets me at first, but then I hear his voice. “Come in, Moira.”

I open the door and am struck with the unexpected scene. Instead of sitting at his desk as per usual, Keenan is lounging in one of the chairs by the fire. His sack coat rests over the back of his chair, and the sleeves of his shirt have been unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows. My gaze flickers to the glass in his hand, the amber liquid darkening the bottom, and I’m instantly reminded of Andrew. He glances away from the fire crackling in the hearth, his gaze traveling down the length of me to settle on my bare feet, and his expression shifts into a slight frown.

“I hope Mrs. Whitmore didn’t see you come in here dressed like that.”

I shrug and give him a lazy grin. “Are you afraid she might think I’m your concubine?”

He brings the glass to his lips and takes a sip of the amber liquid. “I’m more concerned with what she might
say
to others rather than what she
thinks
.”

“Because you don’t want anyone to think I’m your concubine?”

“No, Moira,” he says softly, giving me a slightly exasperated look. “Because I prefer my privacy.”

“Yes, I can see that,” I mutter, thinking about the locked door upstairs.

I nestle into the chair across from him, bringing my legs up to curl to one side. Keenan watches me, but his expression lacks the usual intensity. His eyes slide up to my face in the sort of lazy alertness that is often found between two people who are comfortable with one another. It’s a relief to have someone look at you, rather than analyze your every move. But if I’m honest, I also find it a little unsettling. I can’t recall a time when I simply lounged with a man, other than Devin.

Keenan gestures toward the decanter on the table between us. “Would you like a glass?”

I lean forward and inhale the liquor’s aroma. It smells extremely unpleasant—more like a chemical found in the mortuary rather than a drink consumed for pleasure. I immediately cringe away from the scent and shake my head, bewildered anyone could find that liquor appealing. Suddenly, the taste of whiskey is on my tongue and the memory of the time I stole the liquor from Madame Del Mar flashes in my mind. My stomach rolls disagreeably, and I shove the unwanted memory away.

“No, thanks.”

“Ah, that’s right,” he says, his dimple showing in a small smile. “You prefer wine. I have that as well, if you would like a glass.”

My stomach flips in an entirely different way at the sight of his dimple. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Not at all.” He arches a brow in innocence. “I’m merely being hospitable.”

“Then I kindly decline.”

I inspect him, cautiously reaching out to sense his emotions. Though they’re a bit muddled from the alcohol, I can detect mild content at the surface. If I wasn’t an empath, I’d pass his demeanor as someone who is delightfully intoxicated. But unfortunately for him, I am an empath and can see the darkness that lurks beneath the haze of bliss. His eyes narrow, sensing my keen examination of him as a sign of my intrusion on his emotions. He sighs heavily and takes another sip of his liquor.

“Am I going to regret letting you in?”

“Why would you say that?” I add an innocent smile to support my words. “I’m behaving, aren’t I?”

The look he gives me says he doubts my virtuousness and silence stretches between us. I anxiously fidget with the hem of my housecoat, and he immediately fixates on my hands. He leans his head against the chair and closes his eyes, as if he is resigning himself to some unpleasant truth. Meanwhile, I’m engrossed with examining his profile without that inquisitive gaze of his directed on me. For some odd reason, there is something enticing about seeing his bare forearms. I wonder if it’s because I rarely see them. Or maybe it’s because, unlike mine, they’re corded with lean muscle. My gaze travels up to the exposed skin at his neck, eyeing the dip in the centre of his collarbone. I’m itching to caress the curve of his Adam’s apple. In my mind, I unbutton his shirt to explore the rest of his body.