Mind of the Phoenix (10 page)

At that moment, the occupants of the room next to us cry out in ecstasy. The detective glances at the wall and raises a brow, and I stifle a laugh. They are sounds that I grew up with and had to get used to. Sometimes the sounds were annoying and sometimes they were amusing, but mostly I’ve just learned how to tune them out. I’d rather hear the breathless grunts of a man close to orgasm than hear the plaintive cries of a woman who’s being beaten.

“And do you recall his visit the night of January seventh?”

“Barely,” she replies, and pulls on the cigarette with her lips.

“Did he seem unusual?”

“No,” she answers. “He seemed like his usual self:
excited
to see me.”

“I see,” says the detective.

“Anything else?”

He shakes his head. “No, thank you for your time, Mia.”

“Thank you for the cigarette,” she says, smiling up at him.

She’s trying to flirt with him in an attempt to acquire another client and to annoy me. I glare at her, because I don’t like the unspoken invitation in her smile. The detective politely curves his lips, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s clearly not impressed or interested, which brings a grin to my face. Apparently I’m not the only woman to have been rejected by him. We leave her room and head downstairs, and I’m glad we haven’t run into anyone else I know. Most of them probably think I’m dead already.

“Well, that was pointless,” I state peevishly. “Why did you even want to question her?”

“Because, Moira, a good detective pursues
every
connection even if it seems pointless,” he responds, and then glances at me.

I don’t like the curious expression he is giving me, so I look away. I’m avoiding his gaze too often now, since last night, and he is aware of it. From now on, I have to make an effort to keep his gaze as if nothing has changed. We leave the pleasure house and drive back to the police station in silence. The pleasure house is situated at the edge of the south district just before the industrial zone, so we first have to drive further north to Churchill Road, which lies at the heart of the city. I imagine he’ll have plenty to say once we enter his office and examine the three lists of transactions.

But when we enter the building, he turns to me and says, “I’ll have two constables escort you back to the hotel.”

“Why?” I look up at him in confusion. “Aren’t we going to go over those lists?”

“I am,” he answers, and I realize then that he had intended to examine the lists on his own.

“I can help,” I say, trying not to sound too desperate. I really don’t want to spend the rest of my evening alone at the hotel with constables who won’t talk to me. Though I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad if one of the constables was Rick.

He deliberates for a moment, and finally sighs. “Alright.”

We enter his office, and I immediately sit in the chair before his desk. He sits down and hands me one of the envelopes. It’s Rachel’s list of transactions from September first of last year to March seventh of this year. I pull the thick pile of paper out of the envelope and stare amazedly at the elegant writing detailing every sexual transaction that she had in those six months. The pages are dissected into columns and rows. The rows list the dates of the transactions, while the columns list the client’s name, time of transaction, duration of sexual service, and money paid. The last one is a column for any special requests the client had made. I begin to speculate what
my
list of transactions would look like and, even more daringly, if the detective had perused its contents.

“I want you to look over the names of the clients and write down on this sheet any names that you recognize,” he instructs. “The Phoenix had used persuasion on her, so I want you to see if any blockers had visited her.”

He hands me the piece of paper and a pen, and I drag my chair closer to his desk. He looks up abruptly and narrows his brows. “What? It’s easier if I have a surface to work on.”

I sit down and squirm to find a comfortable position. I hear him sigh on the other side of the desk.

“Quit moving, Moira.”

“Which list are you looking at?”

He doesn’t glance up from the papers as he says, “Mia’s.”

There’s a moment of silence while we both examine our lists before he suddenly says, “You two seem to have a quarrelsome history.”

“What makes you think that?” I reply sardonically, and he glances up at me. “Well, we definitely weren’t friends. She enjoyed tormenting me.”

“Yes, it would seem so.” His face distorts once more in contemplation and then he looks down at the papers in front of him, so I return to my papers as well.

As I’m examining the names, I notice with growing dismay that the majority of Rachel’s client list was Collin Evans. In fact, as I glance at the last page of the pile from September I see his name in several slots. They had been seeing each other for some time, and I presume his name can be found even earlier. The time duration always varies between one and two hours, and I ponder over how Constable Evans was able to afford such an expense. Granted, a concubine like Rachel wouldn’t have been priced high. I catch sight of Mr. Anderson’s name in February and write the name down on the blank sheet of paper the detective had given me. His time duration was an hour, and I notice that there is an entry in the column for special requests. The words bondage and whip swim in my vision and I feel dizzy as my heart is stirred into a frenetic song.

I suddenly find myself back at the pleasure house, waiting in the hall for the man to exit the room where the sound of a woman crying out in pain has been echoing down the hall for almost an hour. I want to see his face; I want to
memorize
that face so I don’t forget the bastard. When he exits, I look straight into those black eyes and vow that I will someday make him pay. His eyes had trailed over my body that day with pure desire, and I knew then, like I know now, that he wanted me. He had smiled at me and the sly curve of his lips had said, “You’re next.” That was over a year ago, but I can’t believe I had forgotten his face.

“Moira?”

I glance up at the detective. “Oh, sorry. I just remembered from where I recognized Mr. Anderson’s face.”

The detective knits his brows. “Was… he a client of yours?”

“Oh, God no,” I blurt. “But I remember seeing him at the pleasure house, and his name is on Rachel’s list. The bastard enjoys punishing his women.”

The detective’s frown deepens. “Yes, his name is on Mia’s list as well.” His green eyes look up at me thoughtfully and he begins tapping his index finger on the desk. “Interestingly, his name vanishes from her list just when Mr. Darwitt’s name practically overwhelms it.”

“Do you think that is coincidental?”

“Could be,” he responds quietly. “Or it could have been intentional.”

“What do you mean? Are you suggesting that Mr. Darwitt might have known about Mr. Anderson’s preferences and that he had begun to request Mia to spare her?”

“It’s possible,” he says thoughtfully. “Mr. Darwitt would have known a great deal about Mr. Anderson, since he was a member of the Elite as well.”

“Well, it’s a wonder Mr. Anderson isn’t broke,” I say bitterly. “You have to pay more if you plan on leaving a mark on the concubine.”

“Any other names so far?”

I shake my head and continue perusing the list. My jaw literally falls open at the sight of another name I recognize. Icarus Hayes’s name is neatly printed in the month of December, and in the slot of special requests is the word threesome along with the name Mia. I suppose I really shouldn’t be surprised to find his name there. I had pegged him for a man of vices. I had been in a couple of threesomes and had hated it both times. I involuntarily shudder at the memory.

“What is it
now
?”

“Mr. Hayes visited Rachel in December,” I announce angrily, but my anger is not directed at Mr. Hayes or the detective. I’m angry at the memories that have suddenly decided to run wild, and I’m most especially angry at the men that make up my client list.

“Yes, I noticed his name in Mia’s list as well in the month of December, with the specification threesome in the requests column,” he says, eyeing me intently. “Are you angry because his name is in the lists or because of his special request?”

“I’m not angry.”

“Yes, you are, Moira,” he says calmly, those green eyes again demanding that I reveal myself. Does he not know that he asks too much?

I sigh testily and say, “It has nothing to do with Mr. Hayes.”

“No?” He then sighs and suddenly seems so exhausted. “I knew I should have sent you back to the hotel.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re upset,” he states, and then quickly continues when I open my mouth to speak, “and understandably so. I suspect that looking at these lists is bringing up memories that you don’t want to recollect.”

My anger dissipates. Is that concern or annoyance I see in the furrowing of his brows? I can’t tell, and I’m suddenly not sure I want to know which one it is. At moments like these his emotions are either impossible to read, or confusing because there are conflicting emotions involved. He’s either worried that the lists will upset me or he’s irritated that my emotions are interfering with his investigation. Does he look at these lists with pity, disgust, or intrigue, or with the detached gaze of an examiner?

You’re nothing to him,
says the voice in my head.

“I’m
fine
.” I then mutter beneath my breath, “I don’t need your pity.”

“No, I suppose you don’t, because that would mean you’d have to acknowledge that someone
is
capable of empathy, and it’s much easier to accept that no one cares.”

“Oh, are you saying you
care
, detective?”

Those green eyes stare at me. “Haven’t you already decided that for me, Moira?”

My face distorts into complete confusion. “What kind of answer is that?”

“Do you wish to go back to the hotel or can you manage to examine the rest of Rachel’s list?”

I want to growl at him in frustration, but instead I glare at him and say, “I can manage.”

“Good,” he mutters, and then turns his attention to lighting a cigarette.

I look down at the list in front of me and find a few other familiar names, like Constable Bradford and Constable Smith. I write them down and then turn the page to the month of October. My body thrums with excitement as I spot a name with the word
blocker
printed beside it.

“I found a blocker,” I say excitedly, and the detective looks up at me expectantly. “Daniel Anderson.”

The detective draws on his cigarette and then exhales slowly. “We may have a lead—I’ve just found Daniel Anderson’s name on Mia’s list as well. On several occasions, in fact.” He looks at me intently. “It appears that we’ll be paying a visit to Mr. Anderson’s estate. Was there any other blocker?”

“Let me check.” I quickly scan the rest of the papers for the month of September. Once I’m finished, I look up at him and shake my head. “Nope, but I’ve found Daniel Anderson’s name again, along with Mr. Anderson and Mr. Hayes. You?”

“I’ve found those names as well, along with another blocker.”

“Well, who was it?”

“Jonathan Hayes.”

“Mr. Hayes’s personal blocker?”

He nods. “Seems as if we’ll be paying a visit to Mr. Hayes as well,” he says. “I’ll set up an appointment with them as soon as possible. In the meantime, we visit the dream and memory houses.”

T
his morning
I enjoyed a pleasant breakfast with Rick at the hotel before the detective picked me up. The constable had finally proposed to his fiancée, and she had said yes. Even though I knew I could never have such a life, and maybe had my doubts about their future happiness, I wasn’t resentful toward him. I was actually pleased for the young couple, and Rick’s happiness had rubbed off on me. So, by the time the detective arrives in his motor vehicle, I am beaming at him—all thoughts of his rejection gone. Unfortunately, my sudden elevated mood arouses his suspicion, and he immediately tenses.

“You’re in a rather good mood, Moira,” he says, as I climb into the seat beside him.

“I am. Rick proposed to his lady friend and she said yes.”

He lifts a brow in feigned bewilderment. “I didn’t know you were the optimistic type.”

“I’m not,” I say, and then wave to Rick before we drive off. “His smile is just so contagious, and I wouldn’t want to be the one to remove it from that adorable face of his.”

The detective glances at me sideways and I catch a curious expression before he averts his eyes. He’s forgotten to shave once again, and the stubble makes his face more haggard than usual.

Reaching the west district, we drive by an opium den, and I glance at it curiously. Surprisingly, the use of alcohol and drugs hadn’t declined with the opening of the dream and memory houses. The rich can afford the luxuries of either house to chase away their nightmares or problems, while the poor are left drowning in the bottom of a bottle or floating on a cloud of opium. And, despite their wealth, the rich still enjoy the taste and mind-numbing sensation of both alcohol and drugs.

The dream house sits in the west district in ward seventeen, and once we reach it the detective parks the vehicle in front. Similar to the pleasure house, there are bars on every window, and the brick exterior resembles an institution for the insane rather than a place to find solace. My perception is immediately altered as soon as I enter the building though, and I hear the faint sound of water trickling like a waterfall and the serene musical composition of a song. The scent of burning incense thickens the air, but thankfully isn’t suffocating. A young woman sits at the front desk, and I’m instantly reminded of the hotel. Her eyes immediately travel to the detective, and she smiles warmly.

“Mr. Edwards,” she greets in a soft voice. “Would you like the usual?” She begins flipping through some papers. “I’m sure Clara is available, let me–”

“No, it’s quite alright, Sarah,” he says, interrupting her. “I’m here on police business. I’d like to speak to Mr. Gavin, please.”

“Oh, of course,” she says, blushing slightly.

She stands, walks across the hall, and knocks on one of the closed doors. I hear a muffled voice respond, and she opens the door and informs the person inside of the detective’s presence. She then gestures for us to enter the room, and closes the door behind us. A short, balding man stands up and shakes the detective’s hand, and I recognize him as one of the Elite members that I had been introduced to at Mr. Anderson’s private event. He regards me with evident curiosity but doesn’t offer me his hand. The lack of physical contact doesn’t stop me from sampling his emotions. Though he’s not surprised to see Keenan at the dream house, he
is
confused as to why the detective has requested to see him.

“Mr. Edwards, please sit,” he says, gesturing for us to sit as he takes his own place behind the desk. “Is there a problem?” He glances at me and then laughs nervously. “I hope I’m not in some sort of trouble.”

“No, Mr. Gavin,” says the detective, removing his bowler hat. “I come here on Elite business. I need to know if Madame Del Mar or Mr. Darwitt had been a client at the dream house and, if so, I need their transactions for the past six months.”

“Six months?” echoes the other man, raising an inquisitive brow. “Alright, Mr. Edwards, I just need to check the records room.”

“Of course.”

Mr. Gavin stands and walks to the door on the right. He pulls out a collection of keys and, choosing one, opens the door. He then disappears into the room, closing the door behind him. The dream house’s transactions probably aren’t as large as the pleasure house’s, but I imagine they still maintain a high income. After all, there are many people who suffer from nightmares or have trouble sleeping and require the assistance of a dream weaver. Instead of using the aid of drugs or alcohol, a client can request an empath gifted with weaving dreams to pull them into a dreamscape. The empath can build the dream off of the client’s pre-existing memories, create their own scene, or simply pull the client’s mind into a deep relaxation. I glance at the detective and grin, remembering our greeting when we had walked in.

“The usual, Mr. Edwards?” I say, mocking the soft voice of the woman at the front. “I’m sure
Clara
is available.” The detective glances at me, clearly not amused, but doesn’t respond. “Just how many times have you been to the dream house, detective?”

“The answer to that, Moira, hardly concerns you.” His lips are drawn into a thin line, and he’s glaring at something in front of him.

“Oh really?” I tease, leaning toward him. He’s running his fingers along the stubble of his jaw while tapping the chair with his other hand. “What’s the
usual
, Mr. Edwards?” I lower my voice and add, “What sort of dreams do you have
Clara
weave for you?”

Those green eyes look at me sharply, but he still remains quiet. He doesn’t like people prying into his personal life, especially when it regards information that he tries to keep secret. The detective is an extremely private man who has grown accustomed to not having anyone else in his life, and my questions feel like an intrusion.

“Oh, come on,” I say, determined to get an answer out of him. “Why do you have trouble sleeping? Is it the case?” I sigh irritably, annoyed with his silence. “Are you
ignoring
me?”

“No, Moira, I’m not ignoring you. I’m simply choosing not to respond to certain questions.”

I snort. “You’re an infuriating man, detective.”

“And you’re an impossible woman, Moira.”

“Good, now that we’ve established that,” I say, changing subjects. “Why six months?”

The corners of his lips twitch and his green eyes glimmer with amusement. “I don’t know. I suppose the Phoenix could have implanted his mark earlier. Six months just seemed like a good time frame to start with.”

“And if Madame Del Mar or Mr. Darwitt was a client here, what do you plan to do?”

“I plan to interrogate the dream weavers that attended them.”

“And what, ask them the same questions I just asked you?” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Yes,” he replies slowly. “And I’m hoping that you will continue to prove that you are useful. Mr. Hayes is under the impression that you have some
skills
that most of your kind don’t possess, and that those skills are valuable to the investigation. In fact, even I think that you are hiding the full extent of what you are capable of, but now would be a good time to reveal those skills, Moira.”

The
skills
that he refers to are what have kept me alive for the past few years
because
no one knew about them. If I tell him the full extent of what I’m capable of, I place my own life at risk. He would have no choice but to inform the Elite of my powers, and then there’s no way that they would let me free. I’ll just be caged again—something I promised myself that I would never allow to happen ever again.

I give him a guarded look. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I have no choice but to put you back in prison and your execution date will follow shortly afterwards.” I scowl at how calmly he said those words. “How did you escape the officials for six months, Moira?” Those green eyes are on me once more, demanding an answer.

“That’s hardly fair, detective,” I say petulantly. “How is it that
you
can ask personal questions but I can’t?”

“Do you
want
to go back to prison and die?” he asks, but it’s not a threat. It’s a genuine question.

“
No
,” I answer, and then glare at him. I definitely have no desire to return to the prison.

Mr. Gavin hasn’t returned, so I reluctantly tell the detective something about me that no one knows. “I never was good at weaving dreams or settling other people’s minds into sleep. Neither was I good at blocking memories, so I was put in the pleasure house. Anyone who is believed to be a weak empath becomes a slave to the pleasure house.” I glance at the detective and find him watching me intently. “What they didn’t know was that my skills with persuasion went beyond the rudimentary skills of illusion that the concubines sometimes perform in their boudoirs, and that I have a knack for unravelling the barriers used by the blockers to keep us out of your minds.”

I chance another glance at the detective and find that his gaze has intensified—if that’s even possible. From the first day he met me, he always assumed that my abilities with persuasion went beyond the norm, but he had no idea that I was capable of entering someone’s mind without touching them. The idea that I could enter his mind at this moment frightens him more than the notion that I could persuade him to act in accordance to my will. All his life, he believed that he was safe from an empath’s intrusion by the barrier that a blocker had placed in his mind to recognize the mark on my cheek. Now, neither the symbol burned on my cheek nor the barrier in his mind offers him security.

The door on the right opens and Mr. Gavin enters the office. “Well, I didn’t find any records on Madame Del Mar, but I did find one on Mr. Darwitt.” He hands the detective a single paper detailing a list of transactions for Mr. Darwitt, and it becomes obvious that the previous Dream House Instigator spent more of his money at the pleasure house finding solace between Mia’s thighs than in the dreamscape of a dream weaver. “It isn’t much, but he always requested the dream weaver listed on that paper.”

The detective examines the list and then glances up at the other man. “As the house instigator, was Mr. Darwitt here often? Would he have encountered other dream weavers?”

“Mr. Darwitt was here three or four times in the week,” responds Mr. Gavin. “But he worked mostly in his office.”

“I’d like to speak with the dream weaver.”

“Of course,” says Mr. Gavin, rising from his chair. “I’ll first have to make sure he is not with a client.”

“I understand,” replies the detective, and we both stand and follow the other man out into the lobby.

“Sarah, could you please check to see if Evan is currently with a client.”

She nods and begins flipping through the pages of a book. She pauses on one page and trails her finger down the length. “No, he is not, sir,” she says, glancing up at us.

Mr. Gavin nods and turns to the detective. “I’ll get you settled in one of the dream rooms and then I’ll go get the dream weaver.”

He leads us down the hall, and the sounds of both water and instruments become more distinct, as does the smell of incense. I can understand how the combination is used to relax their clients—I’m feeling drowsy myself. I’ve never been inside the dream house before, but already I can tell that the dream weavers are treated more kindly than the concubines. My life would have been different if I had been gifted with weaving dreams, but then that sort of thinking is pointless. I am who I am, and I am where I am. There’s no point in conjuring what ifs. I just have to do whatever is necessary to keep surviving and hope that I didn’t make a mistake in telling the detective about my gifts.

We’re led into a room with sheer drapes hanging from the ceilings, slightly obscuring the centre of the room where the floor is covered in pillows and what appears to be extremely soft fabric. Mr. Gavin closes the door, and I look at the detective with a raised brow.

“I suppose I can see why you come here,” I say. “Is that where the clients relax while the dream weaver pulls them into a dreamscape?”

He nods and removes his shoes. I hesitate, but then remove my shoes as well. He hangs his coat and hat, leaving his cane against the wall, and then walks toward the sheer drapes. I hastily hang my coat and follow him. When I sit down on the cushions, a blissful sigh escapes me. I lie down on my back and stare up at the ceiling that is painted with serene-looking clouds of blue and white.

“This is rather comfortable,” I say, glancing at the detective who is sitting on a cushion beside me. “I don’t think I’d want to leave if I was a client.”

He’s looking at me with a curious expression. “The rate they charge would be incentive enough.”

“So, why haven’t we seen Mr. Hayes?”

“He presumably only visits the house three or four times a week, much like Mr. Darwitt did,” he answers, and I can feel those green eyes examining me. His curiosity tickles my spine with its urgency. He wants to know more, but isn’t quite sure how to approach the subject again.

“Madame Del Mar was practically
always
at the pleasure house,” I say with a despondent sigh. “So I suppose the dream weavers’ last names have all been changed to Hayes now.”

“Yes,” he says slowly. “Mr. Hayes is their master now.”

It’s so quiet and peaceful here that I find myself closing my eyes, but then the detective’s voice cuts through the silence. I know before he even speaks that he has decided to bring the subject of my powers up again. But instead of questioning me, he has allowed his anger to overshadow his curiosity.

“So you can break through my mental barriers and persuade me without a single touch,” he says, and his voice sounds accusing and bitter. “And you can read the afterimage left on a dead person’s mind. Is there anything else I’m missing, Moira?”

I open my eyes and find him glaring at me. “It’s not like I’ve done either to you, detective,” I reply with a scowl. “And I’m sure plenty of other empaths can see the afterimage thing, but just don’t know about it because the majority of them haven’t encountered a dead person.”

“And you have.” He pauses and then asks, “So why haven’t you?”

“Why haven’t I what?” I echo irritably, my serenity completely vanished.