Mrs. Hughes lifts her chin, and her gaze slides away from my face. “Good morning, Detective Edwards. I assume you’re here in regards to this morning’s incident.”
His voice cuts through her attempt at etiquette. “Where is the client and the concubine?”
“The client, Mr. Willington, has been placed in the room down the hall.” She gestures behind her with a casual flick of her hand. “And the concubine is with Madame Josephine in that room.”
I follow her gaze, but the sight of another room catches my attention. Before the Elite had elected Josephine, the Pleasure House had been run by Madame Del Mar. Beyond the half-open door, the same desk that Madame Del Mar used to sit behind taunts me. Darkness bleeds into my vision as a memory rises from the cavern. I tear my gaze away, not ready yet to relive any encounter with her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.” The detective turns to me, a question in his eyes. “Shall we speak with the client first? That way, you can read his mind to see if someone has tampered with it.”
“Lead the way, Detective.”
Mrs. Hughes directs us down the hallway, the muffled cries of a woman emanating from one of the rooms. The familiar sound, a track played in the background of my childhood, grates on my ears. Gratitude courses through me, knowing I’ll never have to entertain another client. At least in that, Icarus had stayed true to his word. The detective’s back stiffens, and his eyes flick toward the door. But he keeps walking, because what occurs behind the door is within the Elite’s laws, the rules he so judiciously upholds. His gaze wanders away from the room and settles on my face. I stare back and hope he sees the accusation in my eyes.
When we near the end of the hall, Mrs. Hughes pauses in front of a door and retrieves a ring full of keys from her pocket, the jangling metal yet another familiar sound from my life in the Pleasure House. The lock opens with a faint click, and Mrs. Hughes ushers us inside. My gaze lands on the large circular bed situated in the middle of the room, and unwanted memories threaten to take hold of me. Several times, I had lain between those crimson sheets and pretended enthrallment with my clients. The ghost of their hands plagues me, causing my skin to itch beneath my clothes.
I avert my gaze and turn my fury on the man burning a path across the floor. His clothes hang on his short, stocky frame, and his expression mirrors the reddish trail of annoyance hovering over him. His pitiless face alone conveys his guilt. The Phoenix never persuaded him. Mr. Willington’s behaviour has nothing to do with the Phoenix and everything to do with displaced anger—another client who assumes he can use physical strength to overpower and abuse a concubine. He halts and turns to face the detective. I look away in disinterest. He might as well be a cockroach on the ground.
Mr. Willington spits out his words. “What do you want? I told you I’m not paying. The bitch didn’t do as I said, so I taught her a lesson in obedience.”
Blood rushes to my head as my rage beats a rhythmic song of vengeance in my ears. I’d love to teach him a lesson. I imagine lifting my foot and squishing him beneath my shoe, the distinct crunching sound of his body breaking beneath my will.
“Mr. Willington, I’m Detective Edwards–”
“A detective?” Mr. Willington’s face hardens into a wall of resolve, and his gaze drifts in my direction for the first time. “You can’t make me pay.”
“Perhaps not.” The detective’s jaw tightens, and his voice chills the room. “But I can throw you in jail. Do you still have no intention of paying, Mr. Willington?”
I eye the detective through narrowed slits. Mr. Willington isn’t the first client to assert his own rules. Every time an incident like this happened, the constables in charge would either let the client off the hook with a warning or with a discounted fine. But the detective expects the man to pay the full price. Perhaps he’s not so bad, after all. I snip the bud of hope before it can fully bloom within my chest.
Mr. Willington shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest. The detective turns and gestures for Constable Jamieson and Constable Smith to enter. The two constables rush past us to restrain the client, securing his arms behind his back with handcuffs. They usher him out of the room and vanish down the hall. The man’s protestations echo along with a mouthful of expletives.
My lip curls in disgust. “What will happen to him?”
“He’ll buckle within a couple of hours and pay Madame Josephine along with the added fine for harming the concubine. Or it will take him days, maybe even a week, before he relents.”
“I have a feeling it will be the latter.”
His face tightens as we follow Mrs. Hughes to the room with the concubine. Madame Josephine greets us upon entering and dismisses Mrs. Hughes with a nod. Her mouth presses into a thin line, the same way it always did when Madame Del Mar used to order her around. But along with her agitation, black tendrils of disgust trail after her as she exits the room. I’m amazed she hasn’t resigned herself. She hates to take orders from others, especially an empath, even one as esteemed as Josephine. After all, a slave is never meant to give orders.
Madame Josephine holds out her hand in welcome. “Moira, so good to see you again.”
“You, as well.”
Through the brief physical contact, her anger trickles into me, a rush of warmth that greets my own hatred. The emotion simmers, held in check by her control and a heartfelt vow. She will do everything in her power to make sure Mr. Willington never returns to the Pleasure House. I draw comfort from her thoughts, convinced more than ever that the concubines are better off without Madame Del Mar. The latter only cared about the house’s revenue, whereas Josephine’s concern for the other empaths is genuine.
The sound of a man’s voice, hushed and clinical, draws my attention to the concubine seated on the sofa. She clutches her housecoat close to her chest and stares at the floor while the man who had spoken assesses her. A swollen mass of purplish black flesh occupies the space of her left eye, and a slit parts the side of her bottom lip. The rest of her features blur and morph, blond hair darkening to brown. Charlotte, minutes after Mr. Anderson leaves her room. Red creeps into my vision until I remember that the woman before me isn’t Charlotte, even if she’s bloodied and broken.
The man finishes attending to her wounds and rises from the place beside her. “She will be fine, Madame Josephine. Nothing ice and rest can’t cure.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Josephine nods and gestures to the door. “Let me escort you out.”
The doctor grabs his bag and follows Josephine out of the room. The detective leaves my side to sit across from the concubine. Instead of trailing after him, I move past the furniture toward the window in the back. On the other side of the glass, the brick wall from the adjacent building blocks my view. I focus on the small cracks splitting the slabs of rock and drown out the sound of the detective’s voice. The image of Charlotte lingers, clawing at my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut as a list of commands runs through my head. Forget about Charlotte and the concubine. Focus on my plan to defeat Icarus. Steel bands of discipline fuse my wild emotions together, forming a pulsing ball of determination. In my landscape, a warm breeze replaces the biting chill of a forceful gale.
The concubine’s voice pierces through my thoughts, drawing my attention away from the window.
“There’s not much to say, Detective. The bastard wanted me to do things he didn’t pay for. And when I refused, he beat me. I would look much worse than I do now if Devin hadn’t stormed in and stopped the brute.”
At the sound of Devin’s name, my heart plummets to the pit of my stomach. A wave of dizziness tilts the room. I reach out to rest my hand on the windowpane and lean on it for support. Guilt, anxiety, and joy all crash in at once. Our last encounter plays in my mind. As usual, he had snuck into my room at the Pleasure House, and I, with my memories of Icarus erased the morning before, had tried to kiss him. When he had refused my advances, I had lashed out at him in anger, not knowing Scott would purchase me the next day. Not knowin
g I’d never see him again to apologize. His sorrowful expression from that night haunts me, a cruel imprint on my mind to remind me of how I had disappointed him. A tight belt of fear constricts my heart, tightening until my pulse is only a murmur in my chest.
Through the panic, awe rises to place a small smile on my face. Of course, he had come to the concubine’s rescue. That was him. Always saving the people around him.
The detective scribbles on his notepad. “Is Devin a male concubine or another client?”
“He’s a concubine.” Her fingers fidget in her lap, squeezing and pulling each other. “Are there any other questions? If not, I’d like to return to my room.”
He flips the notebook closed and shoves it back into the inside pocket of his coat. “No, that’s everything. Thank you for your time, Dahlia. Please inform Madame Josephine that I’d like to speak with Devin.”
She stands and offers him a small nod. Her arms wind tightly around her waist as she ambles toward the door and exits the room.
My voice sounds far away, dulled by the thunderous beating of my heart. “Why do you need to speak with him? Her story sounds true enough.”
“I don’t doubt her. It’s purely for police records. He’s a key witness to the event, and it would be negligent of me to leave without speaking with him.”
I nod, but my thoughts fly far away. The room fades as a dozen worries jab into my flesh. Does Devin know I’m alive? Does he hate me? Will he forgive me? Has he changed at all? I run my hand over my short hair, conscious of the ways I’ve changed. Not just physically, but mentally, as well. I’m not the same Moira he knew. My worries grow, hardy vines with sharp thorns that cut my confidence in a thousand little ways. One of only two people who have ever cared for me, and I had repaid his kindness with callous neglect.
I step forward, but halt, uncertain of whether I should stand or sit.
“Moira?”
The sound of my name, spoken with cautious tenderness, yanks me out of my spiralling descent. I half expect to see Devin standing in the doorway. But deep down, I know the voice that had spoken is too low and melodic to be Devin’s. I lower my gaze to eye the detective and wait for his next words. Opaque yellow lines, streaked with pink, slither toward me. His concern slips out of his control, forcing small lines to crease the corner of his eyes and the space between his brows.
Before he even has a chance to open his mouth, a tall silhouette appears in the doorway.
4
I slide my gaze away from the detective’s face to look at the man entering the room. His messy, dark curls cling closer to his head than the last time I had seen him. My hands twitch at my sides, itching to run my fingers through the soft strands like I had done a hundred times in the past. I squelch the desire and clench my fists. He wears the usual black shirt and trousers reserved for the male concubines. The darkness of his hair and clothes enhances the brightness of his blue eyes, like two stars twinkling in the black of night. Those eyes sweep across the room, lingering only for a moment on the detective as he stands. When they land on me, my heart stutters to a full stop. A wave of panic pulls me deep under, forcing the breath from my lungs.
Devin’s eyes widen, and his brows pull back in surprise. A flurry of colour distorts his features as shock, sorrow, and bliss form a blizzard around him. The storm of emotions subsides, but a few flakes of bright yellow float in the air.
The detective clears his throat. “I’m Detective Edwards, and this is Moira. I’d like to ask you a few questions about this morning’s incident.”
Devin blinks and takes a step forward. “Moira? Is that really you?”
My throat burns, too raw to speak. I manage a small nod, even though my body has frozen in place. The seconds that tick by stretch into infinity before he closes the distance between us and pulls me into a tight embrace. His tall frame envelops my smaller one, and my head falls neatly beneath his chin. I squeeze my eyes shut and press my nose into his shirt, inhaling the simplicity of soap. The absence of another person’s fragrance tells me he has yet to entertain a client today. The stinging of unshed tears builds until fat droplets spill from between my lashes. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I draw him closer, squeezing and gathering him up as if I could hold onto this moment forever.
His whispered voice sends a spear straight through my heart.
“I thought you were dead.” He lifts his head, and a short laugh escapes him as he touches the side of my head. “You cut your hair. I suppose that means I don’t have to comb it anymore.”
My lips turn down in a pout. “You said you didn’t mind.”
His smile widens before he crushes me into his chest. I welcome the pressure, preferring it over the heavy weight of anxiety. And, with it, my doubts slide off and melt into a puddle at my feet. It’s as if time hasn’t passed. We’re just two teenagers sneaking into each other’s rooms, and, any moment now, Charlotte will knock on my door. The bubble of happiness encompassing us pops, and the sound reverberates through my core. Everything would be easier if I could go back in time. But I’ve made too many choices, too many mistakes. Nothing will ever be the same again.
His arms around me tense as my guilt seeps into him.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” The detective’s voice cuts through our reunion. “But I need to ask you a few questions. It’ll only take a minute.”
I push away from Devin, and my face heats with embarrassment. A purple haze lights up the room, along with the faint ticking of the detective’s mind. The gears inside his landscape whir as his curiosity consumes him. I turn toward him, expecting to find his green eyes bright with unspoken questions. He glances down at the floor, hiding the intensity of his gaze, and sits back in the chair. Relief loosens the muscles in my back, but my chin lifts in revolt. I refuse to let him intimidate me.
Devin and I move toward the sofa at the same time and sit beside each other.
The detective finally lifts his gaze from the floor to examine Devin. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Of course. I was walking back to my room after eating breakfast, and I heard screaming coming from one of the rooms. I know I’m not supposed to interfere. But when I heard something crash inside, I couldn’t stop myself.” His hands squeeze into tight balls in his lap. “I’m glad I did.”
Reddish-orange waves billow out from his chest as his anger slips beneath his control. The truth barrels into me, and my mouth slackens with surprise. I’m not the only one riddled with guilt over Charlotte’s death. The knowledge lightens the burden on my shoulders, and the chains of self-loathing give a little. After a quick glance in my direction, he loosens his fists, and the cloud in front of him dissipates.
The detective narrows in on Devin’s hands. “What did you find when you opened the door?”
“He was beating Dahlia. The client, that is. He nearly had his hands around her throat, so I pulled him off her. It wasn’t difficult considering my size.” His brows narrow, and his gaze flicks back to my face. “Am I in trouble?”
Indignation rises within, forcing the words out. “Of course not.”
“Moira is correct. I only needed your account for police records, and you’ve given me everything I needed.” The detective rises and nods at Devin. “Thank you for your time. Moira, I’ll be waiting for you in the front.”
He steps around the furniture and exits the room, dark purple threads trailing after him. In his absence, his curiosity lingers, a reminder that he won’t hold his questions at bay forever.
Devin slips his hand into mine, and a familiar warmth spreads from his touch. As the sensation travels throughout my body, each muscle loosens, and the racing of my heart settles into a gentle rhythm. I try to summon my outrage, but not even a sliver of annoyance creeps up. Only a peaceful calm. A heavy sigh leaves me, carrying with it all my troubles as my will bends beneath his soothing hand. The storm inside stills, and a clear blue sky hangs above my landscape.
Like weaving threads of emotions into a clothing of
my choosing, he’d once said. I can make them wear whatever I want.
A smile comes unbidden to my lips. “You’re supposed to only use your powers of seduction on your clients, not your friends.”
“There’s more to my powers than seduction.”
I cock my head to the side and lift a brow. “You know what I mean.”
His eyes tighten with a hint of guilt, and the tranquility inside me fades until only a ghost of such bliss remains. In my mind, shadows creep forward as the sky darkens to a stormy grey. Animosity simmers beneath the surface, not yet the rolling boil of its previous intensity, and the burden of my past returns, pressing down on my shoulders. The weight is familiar and mine alone. I gather it, letting it fill me with purpose. Without it, I’d have nothing.
He squeezes my hand. “I can’t help myself when I see my friends drowning in negative emotions.”
“I’m not drowning.” I slip my hand out from under his and lower my voice. “And even if I were, you just can’t assume I’d need your help.”
My words travel the short distance where they embed upon his skin, and his cheeks redden, as if I had slapped him. Regret surges forward and claws at the air as I try to force the words back into my mouth. But it’s too late. I’ve already spoken. He turns away and feigns interest in the chair across from him. Voices echo from the hall, making the silence between us deafening. I should be grateful he even cares—still cares.
An irritated voice rises from the cavern inside my mind. He’s not the only one. Keenan loves you, but you won’t let him.
Ignoring the voice, I pretend as if I never heard it. She’s wrong, and I’ll prove it eventually.
“I’m sorry.” I rest my hand on Devin’s, and my voice lowers with guilt. “I shouldn’t have said that, and I should have come sooner to visit you.”
Rise of the Phoenix Page 6