Mind of the Phoenix, page 14
On the one hand, I resent the Phoenix for Rachel’s impending execution and for giving the people of Braxton another reason to fear empaths—as if they needed one more excuse to enslave us. Most of all, I despise him for inadvertently involving me in the case, which has forced me to reveal my gifts to the detective. And then there’s the other part of me—the one who is cruel, bitter, and unforgiving. She wants the Phoenix to succeed; she wants to see people like Mr. Anderson rot in hell. According to her, Madame Del Mar deserved her death for the injustice she executed at the end of a whip, and Mr. Darwitt was indubitably guilty of some crime as well. There is no room for forgiveness or sympathy, and I’m frightened that no one is safe from her blame. Sometimes I hate her, desperate to be free of her darkness, and other times I fear that she may be right. I dread the day when I will become her completely, and there will be nothing but blackness—a sticky tar that will swallow me whole.
Mr. Anderson leads us into the office of his private estate, where every item is a testament to his wealth, and taunts me, who has nothing but the skin on her back. I’m torn between a desire to laugh and cry as I realize that I don’t even own my body; I remain an item on the Elite’s shelf of trinkets. Mr. Anderson sits behind the large ornate desk that is as black as his soul, and his equally black eyes languidly rest on me. My glare amuses him, and the idea of whipping it off my face arouses him greatly. The past seizes me then, and I see a different pair of black eyes leering at me. Instead of wanting to dominate my defiant nature like Mr. Anderson, this man wants to beat any residual obedience out of me. If I show fear, apathy, or any other sign of weakness, he will punish me.
“Get up, Moira,” I hear his husky, laboured voice growl above me.
I shiver in anticipation as if the pain will strike me any moment, and shift restlessly in my seat. Damn, this is definitely not a good time to start hearing his voice in my head. I can’t tell which is worse: hearing Scott’s voice, or having her whisper the darkness into my heart. The urge to shake my head—to jostle those dirty memories away—overwhelms me, but that is something I would only do in private. She’s too close to the surface today, and, whenever that occurs, the bleak memories rush forward in their eagerness to torment me. I need something to ground me, and I instinctively glance at the detective. Somehow, those green eyes always manage to root me to the present, but unfortunately they are currently focused on Mr. Anderson.
“So, to what do I owe this visit?” asks Mr. Anderson, lifting a brow. “You wouldn’t tell me over the phone, only that I should have my blocker Daniel available for interrogation.”
“Yes,” he begins, but then pauses as if he can sense my eyes on him. He glances at me sideways in a silent question, but I quickly look away. “I cannot discuss the particular details of the investigation with you, Mr. Anderson, but I have reason to believe that your blocker may be involved in the murders.”
“Involved?” echoes the other man. His anger trickles into me like acid down my throat, scorching my insides. He’s irate with the detective for suggesting that Daniel is the Phoenix, but he’s even angrier with the idea that his blocker may be the killer. He’s convinced that something like that wouldn’t have evaded his knowledge.
The detective nods. “Like I said, I cannot tell you how or why we’ve come to that conclusion. I can only say that there is evidence to suggest such a connection and that under the laws of the Elite you are required to let me interrogate him in private without your interference.”
Mr. Anderson’s gaze flashes angrily in my direction. “Oh, and I suppose this whore is going to read Daniel’s mind? I don’t even know why Mr. Hayes and Mr. Harrison believe she is valuable to this investigation. All she’s ever been good for is perhaps a decent fuck.”
“And that’s something you’ll never have the chance to experience,” I hiss furiously, leaning forward in my seat. Ever since entering the house, I have been clinging to the edge of a cliff with only my fingertips, and Mr. Anderson has just pried my hands free of the ledge. “You’re just upset because I got away before you could rip open my flesh with your whip!”
His eyes gleam with amusement. “Ah, so you do remember me?” The horrible smile has returned to his face. “I wondered if you had recognized me.”
“How could I forget when I had to listen to a woman’s cries for nearly an hour?” I say through gritted teeth. “Your lacerations put her out of commission for weeks, and God only knows of the hidden damage you did to her!”
Mr. Anderson laughs. The bastard laughs. The mocking sound stirs something within me and she begins to stretch into her full height. She is not intimidated by this man, and his taunts only fuel her.
“Yes, and the moment I saw you I knew I had to have you,” he declares, his desire for me thickening with each moment that passes. “And believe me, Moira, I would have done a lot worse to you if it hadn’t been for that damn blocker purchasing you.”
“That’s enough, Mr. Anderson,” demands the detective beside me, but his voice is too low for the other man to hear.
“I would have wiped that glare off your face, whore,” he sneers. “I would have relished in your cries, and by the end you would have begged for me to stop.”
“You’re a sick bastard–”
“That’s enough!” the detective snarls in a loud, deep voice. He’s risen from his seat in the heat of his rage, and his fury is evident in the crimson colouring of his face. Those green eyes blaze with a kind of ferocity I had never seen in him before—nor would have expected—and I’m grateful that the full intensity of that stare is directed at Mr. Anderson. “You will lead us to Daniel so that we can conduct our interrogation in private. Do you understand, Mr. Anderson?”
Mr. Anderson is staring at the detective in open-mouthed shock. He is equally flabbergasted that someone has yelled at him and that the person happens to be the detective—a man who hardly ever allows his anger to break through his composed exterior. After a moment, he finally manages to close his mouth into a firm line and his eyes harden with the intent of challenging the detective’s authority.
“Yes, detective,” he says. “I understand, but I hope you understand that you’re speaking to an Elite member.”
The detective notices the threat and retorts, “Do not think to threaten me, Mr. Anderson. You know very well the regard in which Mr. Harrison holds me and my opinion.”
The two men glare at one another, each asserting his dominance over the other, until finally Mr. Anderson stands with the reluctance of the defeated. Even though he silently escorts us to another room, I know that he has no intention of letting this transgression pass without another fight. His back is rigid with suppressed rage and I pity the woman who will become the outlet for his tension. We’re led to a parlour room of equal over-indulgence, where we find Daniel patiently waiting for us. The door slams behind us, and I’m relieved that I’ll no longer have to endure another moment beneath the scrutiny of those black eyes. I can still sense the detective’s fury writhing restlessly beneath his affected equanimity like a caged beast. The red hasn’t entirely vanished from his face, and is more noticeable without the shadow of stubble to subdue the glaring hue. His eyes are still shaded with traces of insomnia, but the residual blaze of his anger has illuminated them so that they appear a vivid green.
“Mr. Anderson,” says the detective, nodding in greeting.
“I’d prefer if you call me Daniel, detective.”
His ginger hair is smoothed back and his eyes are as blue as a clear summer sky. He’s wearing a well-tailored suit, one of the many indications that he enjoys many luxuries at the expense of his master. His station as a blocker has made him a pro at deflecting my careful probing, so that even his emotions are kept from my grasp. When he glances at me, I cannot tell if he recognizes me or recalls that I was a concubine he had paid several times a month to enjoy. Unfortunately, my mind hasn’t kindly blocked the memory of his face or the feel of his hard body against mine.
“Daniel,” says the detective. “Last year in the months of September and October you visited a Rachel and a Mia Del Mar. Do you deny that?”
“No,” replies the blocker without any shame. “I am a man and that’s what they are there for.” His eyes then fall on me. “I was rather disappointed that one of my favourites was no longer available.”
So, he does remember me, much to my annoyance. I now not only have to fight back the memories that his gaze forces me to remember, but I also have to suffer through the detective’s silent curiosity as his gaze flickers between me and Daniel. Asking the blocker to clarify is unnecessary, because it’s obvious by his intent gaze on me that he’s referring to my absence.
“Did you miss me?” he asks, his lips twisting into an impish smirk. “I was quite annoyed with Scott for purchasing you and then keeping you locked up. Was he that horrible to you that you had to kill him though?”
I despise his casual reference to Scott’s treatment toward me, and I’m tempted to rip through the man’s mental barriers before the detective has given me permission. He won’t be smiling for long because I have no intention of being gentle about it, just like he had never once been tender with me. I clench my teeth and nearly bite on my tongue as the memory of his sweaty body grinding over me clouds my vision, and his grin widens as if he knows where my thoughts have gone. He can taste my discomfort, and he enjoys it.
“We’re not here to talk about Scott, Daniel,” states the detective. “And you will address me, not Moira.”
“Oh,” says Daniel, raising a coppery brow. “Am I to assume that she’s yours now? Aren’t you afraid that she’ll kill you?”
“Moira is property of the Elite for now–”
“So then she’s up for sale again?” he inquires, glancing at me. “Perhaps I’ll purchase you for myself and–”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I exclaim in irritation and then glance at the detective impatiently. “Can I read his mind already?”
The detective is annoyed by my interruption, but then both of our attentions are drawn to the sound of laughter.
“She’s going to read my mind?” questions Daniel, evidently amused by the idea. “You can’t be serious. I’m a blocker. She’s just a whore.”
At those words, I don’t wait for the detective’s permission. I decide that I don’t need it, and force my way into Daniel’s mind. His eyes widen in surprise as he undeniably feels my presence pushing against him like a forceful gale, and he immediately begins to resist. But his attempt is futile.
“Get out of my mind, whore,” he growls. I ignore him and take a war hammer to the wall he has erected in his mind. “How are you doing this?”
Perspiration beads at his forehead and slides down the side of his face. He’s extremely strong and is exceptionally skilled at blocking other empaths from his mind. But I decide I’m stronger and a crack forms, causing the whole wall to shatter. I faintly hear a noise that sounds like a mixture of a cry and a snarl as I step into what can only be described as an abandoned city. The wind howls aggressively as if it resents my presence and I feel cold eyes watching me from broken windows.
“Moira,” says the detective uncertainly, but he doesn’t try to stop me.
“You shouldn’t be able to do that!” shouts Daniel, glaring at me in rage.
He’s risen from his chair with the intention of throttling me evident in the blaze of his icy stare. If I don’t act quickly, I will be at his mercy within a second. I’ll have to use heavy persuasion and hope that it works.
“Sit down,” I command, my mind struggling to dominate his. He glares and clenches his jaw, the sweat sliding down his face. He’s trying to resist, but the fact that he doesn’t step forward means that I have him. “Sit. Down.”
He immediately falls into the chair as if I had pushed him, yet he still refuses to surrender completely. Normally, I might fear that someone as powerful as him would try to enter my mind, but his focus is solely intent on resisting the persuasion I’ve implanted in his. I wander down the street, peering into the dark windowpanes of empty shops and houses in search of anything that might connect him to the Phoenix. During my hunt, I feel his hatred toward Mr. Anderson and discover that although Daniel has a lot more freedom and luxuries than I had, he’s no stranger to the whip. Apparently, Mr. Anderson relishes in punishing men just as much as he enjoys exerting his dominance over women—though the former isn’t done with sex in mind. I glance into another window and immediately cringe. It is a store brimming with memories of me, and I realize that he wasn’t lying when he said I was his favourite. While taking his pleasure from my body, he also loved tasting the darkness of my mind. He saw my animosity and defiance, similar to his own, and thought that we were much alike.
“I’m nothing like you,” I spit venomously.
He chuckles, and it dawns on me then that he’s no longer resisting me. He has surrendered and actually likes my presence in his mind. “Yes, you are,” he replies softly. “I underestimated you, Moira. And you’re so hungry. I may have played a bit rough, but I was never cruel to you.”
I scoff bitterly with every intention of replying, but then I notice the shop door next to mine. There’s an outline of a bird carved into the door, heightening my resolve to find out what lies behind the barrier, and I instinctively reach to touch it. The Phoenix.
“Oh, what is this?” I say sweetly, tracing the outline of the bird with my index finger. He shivers noticeably at my mental touch, and his arousal hits me unexpectedly.
“I’ve never seen that in my life,” he responds quietly.
He’s suddenly angry again, but the acrid emotion is not directed at me. His ignorance of the door isn’t a lie, and its presence infuriates him, along with the realization that someone else has been in his mind. I examine the lock and try not to bite my tongue in aggravation. There’s no key, and I have a feeling that only the person who put it here would have the power to unlock the door. I study the strength of the wood, searching for cracks and contemplating whether I could break it open.
“Don’t you dare,” he hisses. “You could end up damaging me.”
I laugh at the sound of his outrage. “You never once considered my feelings,” I say acrimoniously. “Why should I do the same for you?”
“God damn it, Moira!” he exclaims in a mixture of fury and panic. “It’s not like I ever hit you!”
He’s right. He never once raised so much as a fist against me. But there are other ways to hurt someone. He’s convinced himself that he was never cruel to me, and in many ways he was one of the nicer clients of mine. But Daniel took advantage of the system; he took advantage of me. He never once asked me if I wanted to have sex with him or participate in any of his other sexual activities. No, I was just a toy that he paid to use for his pleasure.
He’s panicking now because he has glimpsed my thoughts. “Moira–” he begins, but I start pounding my shoulder against the door. He cringes and tries to push against me.
“Don’t resist me, Daniel,” I say gently. “It’ll hurt less if you stop.”
“If you break open that door, you’re no better than I am!” he snarls.
“Moira,” says another voice somewhere beside me. It’s the detective, and I realize that I had momentarily forgotten where I was in my attempt to break down the door. “Moira,” he says again. His voice is tender and reminds me of the times he spoke to Sophia or Rachel.
I feel the pleasant sensation of someone else’s skin sliding against my fingers and realize that the detective has grabbed hold of my hand. My grasp on Daniel’s mind slips, the Phoenix’s door retreating in the distance along with the abandoned city, and I hear Daniel sigh.
“If what he says is true about this… door, that you could potentially damage his mind in your attempt to open it, I think you should stop,” Keenan suggests carefully, and I notice that he has strategically phrased his words as a recommendation rather than a demand.
I release Daniel’s mind completely, and the sensation is rather like cutting a taut string and watching the two ends snap back in opposite directions. Somewhere during my perusing of Daniel’s mind, I had stood. The detective continues to hold my hand, and I stare into those green eyes and feel as if I’m swimming in a sea of green. He’s frightened that I will read his mind, not necessarily because he’s hiding some secret. Having someone else in your mind opens you up to a vulnerability that is in many ways a form of submission. He’s terrified of that vulnerability—that loss of control—especially since he doesn’t have the power of an empath. His eyes narrow fractionally, an indication that he has sensed my presence. It is a demand, but also a silent plea. I respect it and relinquish my control, because there are some things in life that you want given.
A caustic laugh echoes in the room. “Fuck,” mutters Daniel, sounding breathless.
The sound of the other man’s voice reminds the detective that we’re not alone, and he moves away from me quickly. My hand suddenly aches for the warmth of his touch, which surprises me.
“I don’t know who to hate more right now,” continues the blocker, glancing up at me with a glare. “You or the bastard who put that door in my mind.”
“What’s the door?”
“I found a door that was locked,” I explain, giving the detective a pointed look. “It had an outline of a bird carved on it.”
I know that he is thinking of the Phoenix by the way his eyes narrow.
“I swear I have no idea how that got there,” states Daniel, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
“What will happen now that you know it’s there?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer, before Daniel speaks. “It’s not like the tombs that the memory blockers use, so I don’t think his mind will unravel now that he knows of its existence.” I give Daniel a sly smile. “I presume he’ll just drive himself mad trying to figure out how to open it.”
