Mind of the Phoenix, page 8
He’s here; I can feel him.
“Are you alright, Moira?”
“Of course,” I say casually, even though my heart has picked up speed.
He lifts up the lantern and looks at me. The golden light dances across his face, casting deeper shadows beneath his eyes, and the low light makes him appear more haunted than in the bright light of day. I wonder if his demons come to haunt him when he’s in the darkness just like me, or if I’m the only one afflicted in such a way. Instead of prying further, he diverts my attention back to our task at hand by mentioning Rachel.
“So, you’re confident she won’t be able to read your mind when I ask you to read hers?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Besides, even if she did, what damage could she do to me or our investigation in the cell?”
He turns, apparently content with my answer, and continues down the long hallway. I rush after him, the feeling of black eyes following my hasty progress, and nearly bump into him. His scent and warmth beckon me, and I find myself eager to close the distance between us so that I can reassure myself that I’m not alone in this hellish prison. God, when did I become so weak and dependent? The detective glances back at me with apparent intrigue in the rising of his brows.
“You’re rather skittish,” he says teasingly. “Are you recalling your time in prison or is it possible that you are afraid of the dark?”
“I’m not afraid,” I declare defensively.
I catch the curving of his lips before he turns around. Rachel is further into the underground prison than I had been, and when we finally reach her cell our lanterns cast a faint glow into her meagre confines. I’ve always wondered how many prisoners resided in the prison, considering that the underground institution runs beneath almost half of the south district. Rachel looks similar to how I had, with matted hair and a dirt-streaked face. There’s only a small, thin shift to cover her body, and already she has lost a lot of weight. She slowly turns her head toward us, and I’m confronted with the blank gaze of someone who has given up. When she focuses on us, she doesn’t plead or fall into hysteria like I had done. Instead, I feel as if death is watching me from behind those lifeless eyes, telling me that I am next.
“Rachel Del Mar, I’m Detective Edwards.” He places a large paper bag on the floor and carefully pushes it through the bars of her cell with his foot, but he keeps the container of water in his hand. “If you answer my questions truthfully, I will give you this container of water.”
The young woman stares blankly at him before she croaks, “And if I don’t?”
“The contents of the bag are still yours to keep,” he answers. “But I suspect you’ll be thirsty after you’ve had a few bites. In fact, I have no doubt that your throat is very raw at the moment.”
Rachel’s eyes narrow fractionally and then, with speed I had not anticipated, she lunges forward and grabs the bag. She stuffs one of the pastries into her mouth and practically swallows the thing whole. I glare at the detective. A person whose execution date is eight days from now won’t bother answering the questions of a detective. But Keenan was clever enough to know that and had purchased several delicacies at a nearby pastry shop, knowing that the prisoner could possibly be bribed to talk. Perhaps it was my own fault. With the way I relished food, especially the pastries that Rick had bought me, the detective had deduced that not only would Rachel be starving, but that she was also a concubine like me and hardly ever ate such food.
“I would suggest that you take your time, Rachel,” he states in that calm tone of his. “Your stomach isn’t used to eating such amounts. You might make yourself vomit.”
The woman glares at the detective, but slows down noticeably. When she finally swallows a mouthful, she asks, “So, what are your questions?”
“I’d like to ask you about what happened on February seventh.”
“I didn’t kill him, you know,” she declares, hugging the bag to her chest. “I mean…” she pauses and glances down at her hands, horrified. “These hands did, but I didn’t.”
“I’d like you to tell me what happened, Rachel,” he continues soothingly, and I wonder if his sardonic tone is only reserved for me. “What do you remember?”
“I was in my boudoir, waiting for him. I knew he would come, because… because–” She abruptly breaks off on a choking cry.
The detective pushes the container of water through one of the slits of the bars. “Have some water, Rachel.”
She takes the container and nearly chokes on the water in her attempt to gulp it down. She even coughs, spitting up water, but continues to drink, ignoring the detective’s advice to slowly consume the liquid and food. When she finally lowers the container, I notice droplets of water streaming down her dirt-streaked chin to the space between her breasts. She then looks at me as if she has suddenly noticed my presence, and my suspicions are proven correct. Rachel is a very weak empath, the kind that makes up the majority of the concubines. If you are suspected of being a weak empath, the Elite places you in the pleasure house rather than the other two houses.
“Who are you?”
“She’s my assistant,” the detective responds before I can answer. “Rachel, you said you were waiting for him. Do you mean Constable Evans?”
“Yes.” She reluctantly turns her attention back to the detective. “I was waiting for him, because…” she pauses, and I can see the tears pooling in her eyes. She doesn’t cry though, and manages to finish. “Because he always stopped by to see me. We were in love.”
The detective and I glance at each other, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing that I am. I can smell his suspicion, but I would need to enter his mind to trace his exact thoughts. My immediate thought is that this woman is delusional, and that she’s one of the many concubines who have managed to convince themselves that one or more of their clients love them. I don’t know which is worse: the idea that the client purposely manipulates the woman into thinking that they love them, or that the woman has managed to deceive herself all on her own. I was never once a fool to be under such an illusion, because true love just doesn’t exist. Everyone is too selfish and judgemental to actually love another human being unconditionally.
“In love?” echoes the detective.
“Yes,” she says, scowling up at him. “I don’t expect you to understand, but we were in love.”
“He was engaged,” I blurt, and both the detective and the prisoner glower at me.
“You don’t think I don’t know that?” says Rachel, her voice rising in anger. “It doesn’t change the fact that we were in love.”
“Oh, it doesn’t?” I counter disdainfully, and then laugh bitterly. “You were a concubine–”
“Moira,” warns the detective in a low growl.
“What?” I snap at him. “This woman is clearly deluded–”
“That’s enough, Moira.”
“You’re right,” says the woman in the cell, and the detective and I both look at her in surprise. “I’m only a whore. Collin knew that and still loved me. And, of course, he was engaged. His parents were pushing for the marriage just like they had pushed him into becoming a constable of the law. What was he supposed to do, marry me? Well, that’s against the Elite’s rules.”
“So, you’re saying that you would have happily become his mistress while he was married to another woman?” I ask peevishly.
“I loved him. I would have done anything for him.”
I scoff and she looks up at me sharply. “Clearly you haven’t been in love.”
“So, what happened next?” requests the detective irritably, in an attempt to steer the conversation back to the events of that night.
“He came and we made love,” she says, and I roll my eyes. “We were relaxing and enjoying the time we had together before he had to leave. I had put on his police coat and was pretending to be a constable.” She smiles sadly as if she’s remembering something pleasant. “He had such a pleasing laugh. It was while I was acting that I noticed an envelope in the inner pocket of his jacket. I pulled it out and asked him what it was. He didn’t seem to know what it was or how it had gotten there. It had my name on it, so I opened it. There was a note, but I can’t read. So, Collin read it for me.” She looks up at the detective, almost beseechingly. “After that my memory is blank. I only remember coming back to myself with blood all over and–”
She’s crying again, and despite my cynicism I actually pity her. Even if I doubt the constable’s feelings toward her, I can see that she was at least in love. She was willing to do anything for the man, and I can’t help but bitterly wonder what he would have done for her. To suddenly come to and find that the person you love is dead and their blood is on your hands would be traumatic for anyone. I suddenly want to wash my hands, for I’m reminded of the time when I had looked down to find someone else’s blood on me. It’s a horrendous experience that has the power to shake anyone to the core.
“Do you remember what the note said?”
She shakes her head and tries to wipe her tears away.
“Rachel, I need to ask something of you,” he says softly. “I need you to let Moira read your mind. I think it has been tampered with.”
“Tampered with?” she echoes, looking up at him. “What do you mean? Will it get me out of here?”
“I can’t promise that, but I will try my best. But I do promise you that it’ll help us find the person responsible for Collin’s death. Can you help us, Rachel?”
The detective is lying. He knows that the Elite will never let Rachel go free unless we find the killer before her execution date. I doubt that, and so does the detective. Either Rachel is as weak of an empath as I presume, or she knows that the detective is lying but doesn’t care. I don’t know whether or not to despise the detective further or commend him on his cunning. The appeal to her love for the constable seems to make up her mind and she nods. I carefully kneel on the ground before the place where she sits and reach my right hand through the opening between the bars. I look up into her eyes and find her staring at me with confusion. She recognizes my face, yet she cannot place where she has seen me before.
“I know you. Where do I know you?”
Instead of answering her, I say, “I need your hand, Rachel.”
She slowly places her hand in mine as if uncertain. The moment we touch, the memory grips me by the shoulders and pulls me through as if it had been waiting for me.
Rachel is waiting in her boudoir, pacing back and forth in anticipation, with only a corset over her chemise. She’s excited, and her nervous energy buzzes around me. A soft knock taps on the door, and she opens it. I recognize the man in the police uniform from the bluish-grey corpse in the mortuary, and the memory confirms my assumption that he was an attractive man. He smiles at her, and I can feel her heart flutter as if it is my own. Even if I don’t know what love is, there is no question that she has strong feelings toward this man.
“Hey, babe,” he says softly, closing the door behind him. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.”
He pulls her into a deep, demanding kiss as she hurriedly undresses him. Once he’s left with just his drawers on, he breaks the kiss and makes her brace her hands on the door as he slowly unties her corset. He lets it fall to the floor and slowly runs his hands up her thighs, exposing her ass, and continues until his hands cup her breasts.
“Oh, Collin,” she whispers softly as he leaves a scattering of kisses along her exposed skin.
He turns her around abruptly and presses his lips to hers. Her chemise comes off, as does his drawers, and they move toward the bed. He teases her with the attentiveness of someone who wishes the other person to enjoy the experience as much as they will, kissing her stomach and the space between her thighs. She moans in pleasure, and I’m embarrassed by my own arousal for I can feel the whole experience through her. It’s unsettling, but also makes my heart squeeze with yearning. Collin then slides into her and kisses her passionately while his hips move with the grace of an experienced lover.
As I watch them have sex through Rachel’s perspective, I get an uneasy feeling, as if I’m watching something that I shouldn’t. Even though their rhythm quickly becomes fast and demanding, I can see that it isn’t carried out with the intent to harm the other and that both of them are thoroughly enjoying themselves. They cry out in ecstasy, and then hold onto each other as if the other is their lifeline. I get the distinct impression that she wanted me to see this part to prove that what they had was indeed love, but my cynical heart still has its doubts.
After some time, he whispers, “I love you.”
She smiles and jumps away from him. “I believe you have been rather naughty, Mr. Evans,” she jokes, putting his police coat over her bare chest.
He lies on his side and props his head up on his hand, a wide grin spreading across his face. He laughs as she mocks marching, and I find that his laugh is as pleasing as Rachel had suggested. I can also sense her happiness.
“What’s this?” she asks, pulling an envelope out of the inner pocket of his coat. “It has my name on it.”
He looks at her, mystified. “I honestly don’t know what it is, Rachel.”
She opens it, and then hands him the folded note. “Read it, please.”
Even though he has told her that he doesn’t know what the letter is, she thinks that he is lying and that it’s some sort of love letter from him. He begins to read the words that I had heard Keenan read the first day we met, but before he can finish the entire phrase Rachel’s mind becomes blank.
The fiery outline of a bird flashes in my mind, and I abruptly release Rachel’s hand. Rachel’s crying again, and I swear I hear the anguish in her heaving sobs. I immediately stand and wish that we could leave this place. Her sorrow is too much for me, voicing years of pain, and I want nothing to do with it. I can barely handle my own pain; I don’t need hers to weigh me down further. I can feel the black eyes on me again. He would find Rachel weak, his disgust evident with the sight of his retreating figure.
“Thank you, Rachel,” says the detective.
He’s frowning deeply, and after a moment he turns to me. We leave Rachel and climb the flight of stairs out of the underground prison. I’m grateful to be out in the daylight again, and I look at the detective expectantly.
“Where to now?”
“My office.”
We enter his office and I gratefully fall into a chair as he closes the door behind him. He quietly sits behind his desk and lights a cigarette. He exhales a cloud of smoke and stares at the space before him, idly tapping his left index finger on the arm rest. I know now that it’s a sign that he’s lost in thought, as if the slow rhythmic beat aids in his thinking process. I take advantage of his distraction to openly examine him without the unsettling stare of those green eyes directed on me. He suddenly seems morose, the shadows beneath his eyes darker and the hollow of his cheeks deeper, and I wonder if maybe he had been affected by Rachel’s despair. Perhaps it is just the pressure of the case that is weighing him down.
“Are you alright, detective?” I ask in the same tone he reserves for me.
He blinks and slowly looks at me. In my twenty years, I have met many eyes. There are those few that are alight with awe and happiness, and, even though I despise their innocence, I envy them. There are also those that are perpetually glazed over, as if their minds are awake in some other realm and you’re either lucky or unfortunate to pull their gaze to the world in front of them. Then, there are those who make you believe that evil can truly possess a person’s soul. There’s no depth in their eyes, only darkness. More often, I find the eyes of those who guard themselves. Their gaze is neither revealing nor questioning. Then, there are the eyes of the detective. Even though they are undoubtedly guarded, they don’t focus all their attention on saying, “No one can touch me.” Instead, they divert the attention away from themselves by unsettling their subjects with their intensity and open examination. They demand, “Reveal yourself.”
“I’m quite alright, Moira,” he responds, and then pauses to pull on his cigarette. “Did you see the mark of the Phoenix?”
I nod and say, “Her memory was exactly how she had described, though I could have done without her obvious attempt to persuade me of their love.”
“What do you mean?”
I snort. “She showed me them having sex, and I saw more than I would have liked.”
“Are you embarrassed by what she showed you?”
“Not at all. I’ve seen my fair share of naked bodies, detective.”
“Then, you don’t believe that they truly loved one another,” he states, his green eyes demanding me to open myself up to them.
I give him a guarded look. “No.”
“And why is that?” he asks softly, but I can tell by the look in his eyes that he assumes he has me figured out.
“You seem to think you know the answer, so…” I say, trailing off.
The corners of his lips curve upwards fractionally, and his eyes glimmer with amusement. “You think that because she’s a concubine, she is neither capable nor worthy of love. You think that her perception is jaded, and that she hopelessly deluded herself into thinking that a man could ever love her. Your own perception of people is jaded, especially when it comes to men. So, naturally, you think that Constable Evans was cruelly manipulating both his fiancée and Rachel. Perhaps you think it was purely for his enjoyment, but I think that you assume all men are incapable of fidelity.”
The intolerable man doesn’t stop there, but continues. “Your perception of love is jaded as well. Not having experienced it yourself, you think that it doesn’t exist. Not because the world is lacking in love, but rather because your notion of love is too idealistic. You don’t permit it any flaws, but what you fail to see is that everything is flawed. You think that if he loved her, Constable Evans would have found some way to be with Rachel exclusively, defying both his family and the Elite, and they would have died in the process.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” I declare defensively, hating that his words may have carried some truth in them.
