The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) (4 page)

“Alright, Moira,” he says quietly. “Let me hear it.”

“Hear what?” Too bad he wasn’t an empath and could see my thoughts have wandered to something else. But, alas, he’s not.

His eyes open and lazily glance my way. “Whatever it is you wish to say.”

At first, I’m bewildered, having forgotten what had been on my mind a moment ago, but then I quickly remember. “Oh, I was just remarking on how it seems you wish to drown something in that mind of yours.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Well, I can sense a hint of melancholy beneath your placid exterior.” His eyes narrow as I continue. “And I couldn’t help but wonder about its cause. The Hangman case ended four years ago and Anthony Bradford will be executed in a couple of days. So the only thing that should bother you is our current case, yet it seems like more than the Phoenix case is troubling you. What’s on your mind?”

“I assure you my thoughts are solely on all that pertains to the investigation.”

I raise a sceptical brow. “
All
thoughts?”

I cross my right leg over my left, exposing the length of my calf. Keenan’s eyes move away from my face to scan my bare skin. Clearly some thoughts are focused elsewhere.

But rather than simply admit that fact, he denies it. “Yes.”

“Well, if that’s the case then I don’t see why you won’t agree to use every angle. We need to solve the Phoenix case sooner rather than later, and I have certain skills we have yet to utilize.”

“And what
angle
would you be referring to?”

“Seduction.”

I uncross my legs and stand, drawing closer to the fire to investigate the picture frames resting on the mantle. The closest photo is of Keenan in his first years at the police station, along with the Chief and the other constables. He hasn’t physically changed that much in the years that have passed since the photograph was taken. The only difference I notice is the younger man lacks the faint signs of bitterness that now marks the man sitting behind me. Neither has the Chief changed—even if he has less hair than before—and I’m not surprised Constable Jamieson isn’t even in the picture. He would have still been in his late teens at the time.

“I thought we had already discussed this, Moira. And I specifically told you my answer was no.”

“I just don’t understand why you won’t reconsider.” I glance at the other photograph and smile at the elderly couple who I imagine are Keenan’s parents. So when I speak next, the cynicism I originally felt has left me, and the words sound more like an afterthought. “I’m still a
slave
, and it’s not like I’ve never been forced to do worse at the pleasure house.”

His rage seeps toward me, hot and volatile, and it’s the only warning I receive before he bursts out in frustration. “God damn it, Moira!”

Shocked, I turn to face him with wide eyes. His face has reddened and his green eyes are luminous with the intensity of his irritation. It’s rare the detective’s temper flares, and he mostly appears calm and collected despite my attempts to bait him. But I had forgotten he’s not entirely void of emotion and that liquor tends to loosen people’s inhibitions. Keenan slams his glass on the table, the liquor sloshing violently within the walls of glass, and he abruptly stands. In any other man, I’d be afraid he might hit me—something I have experience with in my past. But despite the visible frenzy in his eyes, he won’t hit me.

“What do you
want
from me?” His voice is raised enough for Mrs. Whitmore to hear. “Do you want me to treat you like you are just a slave—my property to be used in any way I so desire? Shall I tell you which men to sleep with so as to attain information?” When I remain speechless, he takes a step closer. “Is that what you want, Moira? So that way I can finally prove to you I’m just like every other person in your life—domineering, abusive, and cruel.”

I’m completely stunned by his outburst that for once I cannot speak. For some horrible reason, our roles have been reversed. He’s now the one goading me while I remain silent. I wonder how he can endure my constant provocations, but before I can respond to his baffling statement, he speaks again.

“Fine, have it your way.”

Something dark flashes deep within his gaze, and he grabs me by the arm, crushing me against his chest. I’m about to protest when he presses his lips against mine, forcing his tongue into my mouth, and I’m absolutely horrified with myself. A large part of me has been anticipating another kiss from him since that day at the hotel, yet he has done nothing but reject my advances. In a way, I’ve been craving his attention, so I quickly find myself no longer resisting him. But his kiss isn’t the only thing he forces on me.

A violent wave of heat ripples over my body and scorches my insides, and I mentally stumble from the impact. My housecoat opens, and the hands caressing the supple curves beneath my chemise are like flames licking my bare skin. I hate that I moan, but what I despise more are the thoughts suddenly pervading my mind. He hates that I have managed to wheedle my way into his life; I’m a distraction that threatens the privacy he has acquired by living alone for many years. He also dislikes that I’m usually always either provoking or tempting him and that he actually reacts to both. But what he despises most is–

I break our contact at that moment, unable to bear anymore, and angrily push him away.

His eyes narrow with the hint of bitter regret. “What’s the matter, Moira? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No!”

I’m furious at both him and myself, and I can barely manage to close my housecoat. My mind is still trying to understand what just happened while my emotions react impulsively. I can’t bring myself to look at him, yet I also can’t seem to leave. My limbs aren’t responding, despite my desperate need to escape.

“Oh, I forgot.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his sack coat and pulls out his wallet.

“
What
are you doing?”

His voice is as frigid as a winter storm when he throws money at my feet. “You require payment.” When I simply stare at the change on the ground, my eyes wide with horror, he continues. “Or is that not the type of currency you were expecting?”

My eyes immediately dart up to his face. “You’re an asshole.”

His cold expression breaks, and he releases a heavy sigh. “I suppose I am.”

Suddenly, I’m no longer frozen in place. My feet move with a newfound urgency, and I storm out of his study and run up the stairs. Mrs. Whitmore passes by me before I enter my room, and her eyes widen in shock. I guess she didn’t overhear us after all, and my behaviour and dress are more proof I’m not a lady
.
I’m beginning to understand why Keenan is adamant about his privacy, because I suddenly find myself eager to be alone. Furious beyond words, I glare at the housekeeper and slam my bedroom door closed. In the darkness, my breath sounds loud and uneven. I will
not
cry.

In the heat of my rage, darkness spreads around me, thick and heavy, and threatens to consume me. I’m behaving like a child and the detective’s conduct was to be expected.

You’re nothing but a whore to him
.
He’s repulsed by you,
a
nd yet you keep throwing yourself at him. You may be pretty on the outside, but your soul is ugly. He sees that, and he’s disgusted.

I bury my hands into my hair and pull, desperately trying to shut it out. But it’s too late. The words have taken root in my mind, spreading like poison to blacken the rest of my thoughts.

F
or the first
time since I arrived at the detective’s townhouse, I’m not at all bothered by the silence between us. In a way it’s a relief, because I’m not forced to talk to him. Instead, I seethe in silence, hating both him and myself for what occurred last night. Breakfast passed by quickly with me eating as per usual, despite the constant feel of Keenan’s eyes on me. Afterwards, I politely excused myself and left him alone for the rest of the day. And though we haven’t spoken since this morning, I know my silence bothers him.

I’ve kept myself busy upstairs for the past few hours, yet the pungent smell of regret still manages to find me. It’s as if he stands behind me, staring at me with unconcealed guilt. I ignore the emotion, unable to forgive him for his behaviour last night. Of course, it doesn’t mean I succeed in distracting myself. I’ve gone over the scene in my mind several times, and I’m still left baffled. Even when I think I understand where I may have gone wrong, the thoughts I read from Keenan’s mind resurface to taunt me. I’m nothing but an unwanted distraction.

I’m just a tool to be used and discarded once the Phoenix is found. To be honest, I’m not sure what I expected. Even if something happened between me and the detective, where could it have possibly ended? Pain. Loss. Heartbreak. I was a fool, deluded into thinking someone could possibly care for me. I’m reminded of Rachel. The other empath claimed she and Constable Evans had been in love. And where did their love lead them? To both of their deaths.

When evening approaches, I preoccupy myself with preparations for the private event held at Mr. Harrison’s estate. My dress is a deep burgundy, with glittering beads decorating the length of the soft fabric, and the colour complements my olive complexion. The unconventional length of my dark hair has been curled slightly to frame my face, momentarily taming my usually thick mane. Mrs. Whitmore and the other maid silently help me prepare for the evening, while I try to hide my sullen expression beneath powder and lipstick. The detective is waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, and he glances up to greet me when I appear at the top of the staircase. He’s wearing a pristine black suit, with a matching tailcoat, but beneath the rim of his charming top hat is a solemn expression. I avert my gaze, focusing instead on descending the stairs without falling.

“Good evening, Moira.” He holds up my coat so I have no option but to allow him to slip it on. He draws close behind me and adds in a quieter voice, “You look beautiful, as always.”

I ignore both the comment and his proximity. “Shall we? We wouldn’t want to be late.”

He follows closely behind me as we walk toward his motor vehicle and even attempts to help me into my seat. Once, I would have been excited at the prospect of physical contact. But now, I refuse his proffered hand, even if it’s a little difficult to climb into my seat with the evening dress. I’m forced to lift the front of the dress, while the back trails behind me and threatens to get caught. It’s a wonder how the other women of society can bear to parade around in such uncomfortable clothes.

“I’m fully capable of helping myself.”

The scent of remorse emanating from him nearly knocks me off my feet. He gives me the exact look I saw coming down the stairs, informing me he will attempt to ask for forgiveness. Still, I refuse to stay here and let him speak. Nothing he might say could erase the thoughts I had read from him.

“Moira–”

“I suggest you drive rather than speak.” I settle into my seat and quickly look away. “Mr. Harrison is expecting us.”

He sighs and quietly begins to drive. We’re silent as we head into the north district, weaving our way through the streets to ward twenty-eight. Though Keenan’s lips remain pressed tightly closed, I can practically hear the gears turning in his mind. He will once again attempt to express his regret for his behaviour last night. I only hope we reach Mr. Harrison’s estate before that happens, because as much as I want to be angry with him, I know I’ll forgive him.

It will be the first time I’ve stepped foot in the Chief Elite member’s estate. Because Scott had been Chief Blocker, he was permitted to own a home even though Mr. Harrison remained his master. So when I was Scott’s property, I lived at his house, which also happens to be in ward twenty-eight. The house is probably occupied by a new Chief Blocker by now—assuming, of course, Mr. Harrison has found someone to fill the position. I wonder if they sit in their office and realize the last resident was murdered in that room. Probably not. And if so, they most likely aren’t affected by such sentiments.

The moment we reach the estate, the detective unfortunately finds his voice again. “Moira, I owe you an apology for my behaviour last night.”

“Whatever for?” I say coolly. “Are you apologizing for kissing me or for throwing money at me afterward?”

“Both,” he says softly, finally glancing at me. “My behaviour was inexcusable. I was upset and had been drinking, and what you said had provoked me.”

I scowl at him. “So now it’s
my
fault? I thought you were
apologizing
.”

“I was–”

“Well, I may not be acquainted with the etiquette of asking for forgiveness, but it certainly doesn’t sound like it. In fact, it sounds like you are saying it’s entirely my fault for provoking you.”

His expression hardens into stone, but it cannot mask the frustration slithering my way. A part of me is aware I’m only complicating things, yet I’m incapable of stifling my hostility. My darkened mood has only succeeded in loosening my tongue so I speak out impulsively. Keenan is right, which only infuriates me. I laugh when I’m supposed to cry; I become sardonic when I’m fearful; and I challenge and goad anyone who threatens to take a part of me. Such behaviour has helped me survive this long. I never once doubted this method and was, in fact, grateful for it. And now it has saved me from a potentially dangerous threat: love.

I glance at Keenan and, for a moment, I’m not blinded by my outrage. His remorse is still potent enough, despite his frustration, and I feel my own regret surface. As we silently stare at one another, his brows pinch together like he can sense something has shifted within me. I’m still not ready yet to completely forgive him. Drunk or not, he had insulted me by throwing money at me. Yet it’s best if I give him the impression that all is forgiven, for fear he might charm me yet again.

“Alright, apology accepted.”

I climb out of the motor vehicle and begin walking toward Mr. Harrison’s front door. Keenan follows, and when the butler allows our entrance, he gently rests my hand on his arm for the sake of propriety. The estate is much grander than any I’ve seen, and even the other Elite Members’ estates look small in comparison. The foyer is wide, with a majestic staircase leading straight to the upper floor, and there are multiple paintings encased in elaborate frames decorating the walls. If this were my house, I’d be afraid one or more of my guests would attempt to steal one of my valuables. But I suppose Mr. Harrison doesn’t have to worry about such things, which is why he flaunts his wealth rather than conceals it.

Keenan leads me into another ostentatious room, and I silently contemplate on what use it could possibly provide. We weave through the crowd in search of familiar faces, and it doesn’t take us long before we find the Chief with his wife, the latter scrutinizing my dress with obvious disapproval. Her own light blue dress is less revealing, though the thick fabric only adds to the bulky weight surrounding her midsection. When her eyes finally look away from me to fall on the detective, her features light up with delight. She hates that I continue to accompany Keenan to these private events, because, for some time now, she has been secretly attempting to set him up with some young ladies she knows from other respectable families.

“Mr. Edwards, it’s so good to see you again.” Her eyes narrow reproachfully, but her voice remains friendly. “You still haven’t stopped by for a visit.”

He apologizes, even though I know he’s not truly remorseful. “I’ve been rather busy lately, but I will try to make time in the future.” He then gestures to me and adds, “I presume you remember Moira.”

“Yes, yes,” she says dismissively. She gestures to a young woman who has been silently standing beside her. “I would like you to meet Annabelle Ashworth. Annabelle, this is Detective Keenan Edwards.”

Keenan nods politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Annabelle lowers her head, hiding the blush that has risen to her cheeks, and curtsies. She’s the complete opposite of me, with long golden curls framing a dainty face, and her skin is a flawless ivory that is made even more exquisite in contrast with her red dress. When she looks up at Keenan, she offers him a small smile. Her blush has yet to fade, and the sight has me scowling.

“Mrs. Garrett says you’ve been with the police for ten years. My brother is a constable. Perhaps you know him?”

“What is his first name?”

“George.”

When Keenan fails to pull the young man’s face from his memory, the Chief interjects. “You remember him, don’t you? He was the one who accidentally crashed one of the police’s vehicles last year.”

Keenan’s face lights up with remembrance, while Annabelle’s flush deepens.

“Ah, yes. Now I recall.” His voice is neutral, but I can sense the amusement he keeps hidden. “Very nice young man.”

“Oh, quit embarrassing the girl,” says Mrs. Garrett. Her expression softens as she flutters her fan. “Annabelle is quite the gifted lady, Mr. Edwards. She’s very talented with the piano. Perhaps you would join us for tea sometime, and then you could judge her talent for yourself.”

“Of course.” He turns his gaze on Annabelle. “I’m positive your skills are extraordinary.”

She smiles up at him. “You are too kind.”

The whole exchange makes me want to gag. It’s as if I don’t even exist, and I know Mrs. Garrett has introduced Annabelle with the intention of setting Keenan up with the young woman. It certainly isn’t the first time. I try to slip my arm out from Keenan’s grasp, but his grip tightens, leaving me with no other option but to remain by his side. Annabelle’s gaze drops to our entwined arms, and her smile wavers. When she looks back up, our eyes lock briefly before she averts her gaze.

Mrs. Garrett’s face suddenly brightens as her eyes settle on someone behind me. “Ah, Mr. Jamieson, it’s so good to see you.”

Rick appears beside me, with a woman attached at his elbow, who I presume must be his fiancée. She’s a slight brunette with an extremely pale complexion. My immediate impression is of a timid woman who rarely thinks negatively of anyone. Rick has cleaned up nicely, and I’m happy to see him smiling once more. He greets the Chief and his wife, and then turns to face me and Keenan.

He gestures to the young brunette clinging onto his arm. “I’d like you two to meet my fiancée. Christine, this is Mr. Edwards and Moira.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you two.” Her voice is extremely soft, and she smiles warmly at us both, surprising me. Either she has no negative feelings toward empaths, or Rick has spoken highly of me enough for her to be genuinely pleased to meet me. “Patrick has told me so much about you that I feel like we’ve already met.”

Rick immediately blushes. “All good things, sir.”

“Of course, Jamieson.” Keenan smiles politely at the young woman. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you as well. You have chosen a fine fellow as a husband.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Rick. “I like to think so myself.”

The Chief reappears by the detective’s side. “Sorry to intrude, but Mr. Harrison wishes to speak with you, Keenan.”

Keenan bows courteously to Christine. “I hope we have the pleasure of meeting again this evening.” He turns to me, and there’s both an uncertainty and a warning in his eyes. He nods and adds in a quieter voice, “Moira.”

I nod in response and quickly glance away to lessen the impact of his gaze. When he finally leaves, I sigh in relief. The air around me is now less tense with his absence, alleviating me of the constant weight of his emotions pressing upon me. A server walks by, and I snatch a glass of wine. Unfortunately, the white wine isn’t as appealing to me as the red wine from the other events. It’s fruitier, yet still pleasant enough.

“Patrick has told me you’re Mr. Edwards’s personal blocker, and you sometimes help him with cases.” Christine’s face reddens slightly when my wandering gaze finally rests on her. She looks at my blue eye before turning to my hazel one. “You must be so very brave. I would be too squeamish. I feel a little ill when Patrick even
talks
about a case.”

I look at Rick, and my brow rises in mild amusement. I’m not surprised he lied, yet I
am
a little shocked by his choice of a lie. Because of the delicacy of the case, telling his fiancée about the particulars of my involvement would breech protocol. At these events, I’ve always been introduced as Keenan’s concubine, not his blocker. So I’m a little stunned Rick chose to introduce me as the latter.

I decide to go along with Rick’s lie, bending the truth slightly. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m brave. It’s not like I go with the detective to a crime scene. I just help him by reading the minds of potential suspects.”

“I find that so fascinating.”

She abruptly averts her gaze, and her cheeks redden further. She’s embarrassed and rightly so. If she had expressed such enthusiasm to anyone else, she would have received awkward glances. I can taste her interest and wonder directed at my gifts as an empath, and I now know her polite attitude toward me isn’t entirely owed to Rick. The idea someone could read another person’s thoughts intrigues her almost as much as the notion that I—a woman—could work alongside the detective to solve cases. Maybe she’s not as timid as I had first thought. Nor is she as squeamish as she had suggested. I immediately like the woman more.

“It is,” I say, offering her a welcoming smile. “Rick could bring you to the police station one day, and I could demonstrate my gifts.”

Her confusion overrides her bashfulness. “Rick?”

My gaze falls on a familiar face behind Christine, momentarily distracting me from the conversation. It would be nearly impossible for me not to notice the other woman, for her height towers over the majority of the women present and even some of the men. Her blond curls still barely manage to soften the sharp features of her face and that strong chin of hers. The last time I saw her, Mr. Harrison had introduced her as the new Pleasure House Instigator. Our interaction had been brief and was interrupted by the other men in the room. At present, she stands alone. Our gazes lock, and her eyes tell me my presence would be welcome.