Rise of the Phoenix

by Jamie McLachlan

  A short laugh bursts out of him as he turns to face me. “That would have been nice. And I’m sorry for using my powers on you to alter your mood. Now that’s out of the way, can I ask you what I’m dying to know?”

  I tense, but nod.

  He leans close and speaks just above a whisper. “I thought you were dead. Weren’t you in jail and set for execution for killing your master?”

  “I was.” My voice is hesitant as I tread through his question with caution. “But the Elite pardoned me in exchange for my help.”

  “Does that make you a blocker?”

  “No. I simply help the detective on his cases.”

  I eye him from the corner of my eye, searching for any minute reaction. A twitch in the brow to show his surprise. A black cloud surrounding him to show his disgust. Or even a purple stream slinking toward me as questions run through his mind.

  But his expression remains neutral beneath the thoughtful furrowing of his brows. He doesn’t ask me if I killed my master, and not because he assumes I did. He doesn’t even accuse me of betraying my kind by helping the Elite. The corner of my mouth tilts up as wonder fills me to the brim.

  “I would have expected you to be happy.” He leans back into the sofa, and his gaze sweeps across the room before returning to my face. “You never could stand it here. But you’ve changed. And I don’t mean just your appearance. There’s something different about you. I can see it in your eyes and feel it in your touch. You’ve grown colder and angrier.”

  His statement catches me off guard and hooks into my flesh. The truth I try so desperately to hide, he reads so easily. My hand becomes clammy in his as my body is thrown beneath the current of panic. I used to think he was my one constant, that no matter how jaded I became, no matter how broken my body and mind turned, I could always crawl into his arms with no judgements or expectations. But now, I’m not so sure. How far does love go before it stops and gives up? My darkness would need more than just acceptance. It would require forgiveness.

  “You don’t have to be ashamed, Moira.” He cradles my hand between both of his. “You’re my friend. Always. And nothing can ever change that.”

  His words are a balm on my wounds. Once again, a smile worms its way across my face. Perhaps there are some people worth entrusting with your heart.

  He mirrors my expression. “Even when you make it difficult for me. Just like what you’re doing with the detective.”

  The sliver of happiness inside me vanishes as the walls around me close. “There’s nothing going on between us.”

  “You might think that, but he doesn’t.”

  “I don’t care what he thinks.” I snatch my hand back and rise. “I should go. The detective won’t wait forever. I’ll try to see if I can visit again soon. If you want me to.”

  “Of course I do.”

  He stands and pulls me into another embrace. I rest my head on his chest, and the rhythmic pounding of a drum calls to me from the other side. My eyes close as I allow myself this one comfort.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  His whispered words pierce through my tranquility. Instead of pulling away, I tighten my hold on him. Despite his sincerity, my mind tells me it’s a lie. I could have helped Charlotte by stopping Mr. Anderson from ever hurting her again. The welt on my heart festers. I might as well have tied the noose around her neck. I recall the way his hands had tightened with anger and remorse at the mention of this morning’s incident.

  “Do you tell yourself that, too?”

  “Every day.” He kisses the top of my head and murmurs into my hair. “Trust the people who love you, Moira.”

  Annoyance forces my head up, and I push away from him. His words are well-intentioned, an innocent slip of the tongue. But to me, they’re alcohol poured into my open wound. My trust in Icarus had led to my downfall, and now, I’m paying for that mistake.

  “If only it were that simple.”

  He may not possess the same penetrating gaze as the detective, but his look is just as deadly. He makes you want to expose all of your secrets. I turn away before his pity taints the air.

  Out in the hall, I find the detective leaning against the wall. He straightens the moment he sees me and heads for the door. On our exit, we pass by Madame Josephine’s office. She gives us a small wave goodbye and then returns her attention to the document on her desk.

  Relief quickens my steps as I leave the house and enter the motor vehicle—until I remember my promise to Devin to visit him again. I breathe out my irritation and wait for the detective to sit behind the wheel. Without a word, he takes his place. Our drive back to the police station is just as quiet as our ride to the Pleasure House.

  Once in the station, I follow the detective into his office. He lets me in first and closes the door behind him. The heavy click of the door echoes, shutting out the sounds of the constables chatting on the other side. My back tenses as his irritation sneaks up behind me and torments my skin with a thousand needles. The sensation forces my steps to slow. All the silence in the vehicle was an illusion, the calm before a thunderstorm. The air in the room thickens, filling to the brim with his unspoken thoughts. I creep closer to the chair, but his voice stops me before I can sit.

  “Is there something you wish to tell me, Moira?”

  I rest a hand on the back of the chair. “Not at all, Detective.”

  His tone deepens, and the air cracks with each word. “I find that hard to believe, considering your behaviour. You’ve been different ever since you met with Mr. Hayes. Don’t try to deny it.”

  I close my mouth, my denial dying on my tongue.

  “There’s only one explanation.” He approaches, and his shoes patter like the slow beginnings of rain. “Have your feelings changed?”

  The question tugs at my heart, yanking a string I thought I had severed. Images flood to the surface. Keenan, weak and burdened with sorrow, in my arms as I hold him close. Our bodies naked in the tub except for the water surrounding us. The sight of his dimple hovering above the curve of his lips moments before he leans in for a kiss. Lying in his bed, his bare chest pressed against my back as he whispers three little words that undo me. His hold on the cord loosens, so close to unravelling everything I’ve locked deep inside. A deep ache builds in my chest, spreading throughout my body so that the back of my eyes burn and my head throbs. With the pain, a glimmer of hope shines from within the cavern, the light spilling from the crack beneath the door.

  His words from before linger in my mind.

  Please, stay.

  I’d once considered his request, letting my head fill with a hoard of ridiculous fantasies. Not anymore. They’ve withered and died in the wake of regaining my memory. The pain from before transfers to my back where it morphs, hardening and sharpening my spine. Love won’t ever weaken me again. The light inside flickers before vanishing completely, swallowed up by the darkness encompassing my landscape.

  He clears his throat, the sound close behind me. “Are you still involved with Mr. Hayes?”

  Though he speaks softly, the question rings in my ears. Disgust coats my skin with the viscous tar of regret. With my memories gone, Icarus had taken advantage of the situation by seducing me. And I had willingly fallen into his bed. Did he laugh about it with Jonathan? His chuckle fills the room, taunting and unrelenting. Fury breaks the wall of silence within, and I twist around to face the detective.

  Bitterness weighs my voice down as I force the words from between my teeth. “I regret the day I met Mr. Hayes. So no, I’m not having sex with him.”

  “Then why are you pushing me away?”

  Though his expression remains stern and guarded, a pink thread snakes out from his chest and reaches for me. Fear wars with indecision, creating a whirlwind inside my landscape. I cringe away from the emotion and stumble backwards, bumping into the chair. When the strand touches my chest, my breath catches in my throat. My gaze flicks behind him. Through the open blinds, a few constables eye us from the othe
r side of the glass. I turn my attention back on the detective and prey on his aversion to any intrusion upon his privacy.

  I gesture to the men outside his office. “You want to discuss this here, with your coworkers watching us?”

  “Don’t change the subject, Moira. Answer the question.”

  A faint growl escapes me. “Fine. You want to know why I’m pushing you away? I thought you’d take a hint, but clearly, I have to spell it out for you. I don’t want to do this anymore. Us.”

  His brows narrow, and the pink thread slinks back to his chest. “You don’t mean that. I can tell something isn’t right. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

  He grabs my hand and squeezes. One of his thoughts forces its way inside my mind. Let me in. The clarity behind the thought renders me frozen, and I stare up into his green eyes. A strange wave rises inside, threatening to overpower me beneath its crippling weight. I try to stand still, hold my ground, but desire washes up with the tide. My body sways forward, moved by the need to kiss him.

  I shove the compulsion aside and reclaim my hand. “Why should I?”

  “Because that’s what partners do. They trust each other with their dreams, hopes, fears, and doubts. I need you to trust me, Moira. Otherwise, I can’t help you.”

  His words sneak past my barriers, a venom leeching onto my doubts. I absorb them, twisting them into a poison of my own. My mouth opens with the intention of hurting him permanently, but a loud crash outside his office interrupts me. He twists around and yanks the door open. Shouts echo through the station, drawing on my curiosity. I rush to the detective’s side, but he holds out a halting hand.

  He yells over the uproar. “Stay here.”

  He leaves my side and storms toward the front of the station where the constables rush out the door. I ignore his command and step out of the office. Broken glass crunches beneath my shoes and litters the ground. A piece of brick flies into the broken window and crashes into one of the desks. I flinch at the sound and turn to search for the person responsible. On the other side of the windowpanes, constables and citizens converge, the former trying to subdue the latter. An opaque cloud of rage hovers above, raining scarlet mist on them. I press through my shock and run out into the crowd. The fog obscures my vision, causing me to bump into the people fighting. Elbows jab into my side and back, and someone barrels right into me, knocking me into another body. Strong hands grasp my shoulders, steadying me.

  A familiar voice roars into my ear. “I told you to stay back.”

  Before the detective can utter another word, someone grabs him from behind and tears him away. Through the haze, their silhouettes entwine as they struggle to dominate each other. Frustration builds inside, enhancing the pounding against my skull. My body demands that I distance myself from the crowd’s overwhelming rage, but the voice inside screams for me to help Keenan. My fists clench at my sides as I succumb to her wish. I glower at the two men before me and reach for the stranger’s mind.

  Behind them, another man’s face appears as he creeps forward. His intention weaves through the air, a stream of vicious thoughts that cause me to stumble back. I abandon the other man’s mind and thrust my way into this one’s landscape. The moment I enter, darkness surrounds me as his wrath presses from all sides. Fear courses through my body, a rush of adrenaline that awakens me.

  My persuasion thunders in his mind. Leave here and return home.

  He resists my powers, compelled by the animosity boiling inside him, and my persuasion fades into the darkness. Confusion and desperation spur me forward, even as my headache threatens to split my head apart. I draw closer to the source of his hatred, but encounter no reason for his behaviour. It’s as if he’s acting against his own will, yet his mind is clear of any empath’s mark. Realization dawns on me, and I nearly choke. The emotion possessing the mob is an external power altering their behaviour and fueling their violent impulses.

  He grabs the detective’s shirt and yanks him backwards. I push deeper into his mind, preparing to plant a stronger persuasion, but someone pulls me to the ground and breaks my concentration. My breath leaves me in an agonizing rush as a pair of hands wrap around my neck and squeeze. I gasp and pierce through the man’s mental barriers.

  I add enough force behind my persuasion. Release me!

  His hands leave my neck, and I roll onto my stomach and inhale desperate breaths. Just beyond, the detective’s face hovers in the distance. He kneels on the ground with crimson blood gushing from his nose. Our eyes lock on one another. The man standing beside him kicks him in the stomach. He winces in pain and bows his head. A protest rises within. With a grunt, I push myself to my feet and dive into the man’s mind.

  I said, leave!

  The scarlet letters sear across his landscape as my command reverberates through his body. The external power controlling him dwindles, releasing him from its hold. He stops attacking the detective and turns to vanish down the street.

  I rush to the detective’s side and yell over the clamour. “Someone’s controlling them.”

  “What do you mean?” He presses a handkerchief to his nose, staunching the flow of blood. “Do you mean someone persuaded them?”

  “No, it’s not a command. Someone’s influencing their emotions, heightening their negative ones like rage, fear, and distrust. It’s most likely the work of a dream weaver.”

  He examines the chaos surrounding us. Men and women from different districts crowd in front of the police station, their angry shouts barely heard over fists connecting with flesh. The Chief and the constables struggle to subdue the rioters. Some succeed, whereas some fail. My gaze flicks from the shattered windows to the abandoned building. An image of Jonathan and Daniel forces the former to win. My heartbeat thunders over the raucous of the crowd as panic spurs me forward.

  My words trail after me, loud with urgency. “This isn’t an attack! It’s a distraction!”

  I storm into the station, pieces of glass cracking beneath my weight. An anxious flutter stirs in my stomach as I head toward the underground prison and descend the steep steps. Darkness clings to the air, so I grab one of the lanterns hanging from a hook. The metal cage swings in my hand, sending a soft glow to dance along the walls and floor. The detective follows, his steps quick behind me.

  When we reach one of the cells, I sweep my gaze over the small space. The abused cot in the corner remains untouched, as if no one had ever slept on its surface. I clench my fists as an image of Jonathan somewhere out there on the streets flashes in my mind. He wanted me to suffer here in prison, to be executed in front of the Legislature building where the citizens of Braxton could watch me die. Was that all part of Icarus’s plan? I know without looking that Daniel’s cell will also be empty.

  Now Jonathan and Daniel run freely, two additional threats on my life. My breath rushes out from my nose as I seethe. Any one of them could attack me at any moment, regardless of how Icarus feels about me. If they’d acted against his orders before, then they won’t hesitate to do so now.

  The detective leans against the wall, his voice muffled by the fabric covering his nose. “Someone must have entered the station during the commotion.”

  I reach for one of my own handkerchiefs and offer it to him. “Here. You’re bleeding straight through that one.”

  His fingers brush mine as he accepts my offering. The faint touch sends a shiver up the length of my arm, and our previous conversation runs through my head. The words form on the tip of my tongue, yet my mouth refuses to open and voice the end of our relationship. Our eyes meet and, even in the faint light, his gaze sees more than what I’m willing to share. I take a step back and turn away as my mood darkens.

  “Come on.” He steps around me. “We better get back upstairs and inform the Chief.”

  The sense of danger clings to me as I follow him through the darkness and back up into the station. Once upstairs, the diminished noise astounds me. Only a few moments ago, the place had abounded with excessive emotions and
boisterous voices. Now, hushed tones fill the room. Papers that once rested in a neat pile on the desks litter the floor, as if a violent wind had swept them up. In the front, a patchwork of broken glass clings to the windows. The constables, now dishevelled and sporting various marks of abuse, attempt to clean up the mess. The Chief stands by his office, his face red with exertion and anger. He removes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the sweat collecting on his forehead.

  He directs his attention on the detective. “Ah, there you two are.”

  The detective peers beyond the constables to the street outside. “What happened to the rioters?”

  “We have a few detained here.” His gaze darts to the rooms behind us. “But the rest just stopped fighting and bolted before we could catch them.”

  Resentment colours my voice. “It’s because they had served their purpose and were no longer needed.”

  The Chief cuts his gaze back to the detective, his eyes narrowing into two slits. “What does she mean?”

  “Jonathan and Daniel have escaped.”

  “You can’t be serious.” The Chief glances at the prison entrance and then outside. “So the rioters helped them flee? I don’t understand.”

  I sidle up beside the detective and look the Chief in the eyes. “No, the rioters were under an empath’s influence, meant to distract us while one of them, most likely under persuasion, freed Jonathan and Daniel.”

  “Which means two things.” The detective pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Either another pawn helped them escape, or Jonathan was never the Phoenix.”

  My gaze drops to the floor, knowing the truth. They fall silent as the reality sinks in, but a different one haunts me. Questions burn across my landscape, demanding answers. One in particular flares bright, fueling my need to know. Who’s the dream weaver working for the Phoenix?

  5

  Safety is a luxury never permitted to people like me. At any moment, my life could have ended as quickly as one blows out a candle. I could have died many years ago when a fatal illness had swept through all of Fortland. The Hangman, a notorious murderer whose capture had resulted in the detective’s promotion, could have slaughtered me and left me on the streets for the police to discover. Madame Del Mar could have assigned Mr. Anderson to me, instead of choosing Charlotte. Along with the scars of disobedience, my back would have borne the mark of Mr. Anderson’s depravity. It could have been me hanging from the ceiling rafter. Despite avoiding those tragic outcomes, my life teeters on the edge. I’m not safe, and have never been protected from death’s clutch.