Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1)

by Nick Wisseman

  She turned to survey the rest of the open-air café. It was filled with fairgoers dressed—as ever at the Fair—in their best clothes. The quality varied, though: some of the coats and dresses looked immaculate, worn by “gentlemen” and “ladies” obviously accustomed to displaying fine things on their fine persons. Other garments were, upon closer inspection, betrayed by fresh patches and newly hemmed edges, adjustments that told of their owners’ dreams to appear above their station while in the White City.

  Neva understood the sentiment. What wouldn’t she give to be someone else today? To be just an awestruck tourist, with an ordinary, breathing brother ...

  The husband of the family seated nearest them stood to leave. Initially, the motion drew her attention because the man was ludicrously out of fashion: his powdered wig wouldn’t have looked amiss on one of the Founding Fathers. But then she noticed the Chicago Tribune he’d left at his table, and the headline dominating the front page: “MURDER ON THE PIER!”

  As soon as Mr. Wig and his family turned their backs and began walking out to the Midway, Neva leaned over and snatched the paper. Wiley frowned, but she read the opening paragraph anyway:

  .

  COLORED JACK THE RIPPER DIES IN INFERNO!

  BONFIELD INSISTS FAIR NOW SAFE

  All Chicago was horrified yesterday when a Negro porter revealed himself to be a maniacal monster: with grim delight, he dismembered a passenger of his wheeled chair on the White City’s main Pier, wolfing down the flesh of each limb and tossing the bare bones onto the Moving Sidewalk, upon which they rolled out to the Ferry, rattling hideously. After finishing his heinous meal, the porter—who some believe to be Leather Apron himself—leisurely licked the blood from his lips and began hunting for his next victim.

  “You’ll only torture yourself reading that,” Wiley said.

  She scanned the rest of the article. “It doesn’t mention Augie by name.”

  “Nor you—you’re just the ‘wild Negress who pursued the killer up the Cold Storage Building even as it burned.’ No one else has made the connection. Officially, Augie’s simply missing.”

  “He wasn’t in his right mind.” She opened the paper to page two. “He’d been bitten. Those rashes ... It’s a sickness.”

  Wiley sipped his water. “I knew a fellow in Durban,” he said eventually. “Went befok with malaria: memories, predilections, personality—all of it changed or gone entirely. Became a different man. Convulsions took him at least once a week, and ...” He glanced at her hand, which Dr. Gentle had wrapped in bandages after an orderly discarded her soot-smudged gloves. “I’m sure it goes differently with each person.”

  She leafed through the additional coverage, most of it just as sensational and embellished. But some of it was informative: “They printed a few of the victims’ names.”

  “They did what?” Wiley straightened and reached for the paper.

  She held on but shifted so he could see where she was reading. “Here—next to the advert. Not all of them have been identified, but they’re saying a man was found downtown, a girl in the Levee, and three women at the Fair.”

  “Flaming hell. I only had time to read the front page.” He studied the article she’d pointed to. “We knew the Ripper theory leaked, but this ... It’s flagrant. Reporters: villains with pens. Every one of them.”

  Her gaze strayed to a line further down. “‘While the victims were of all manner of description and background,’” she read aloud, “‘they all met a similarly grisly end: dismemberment followed by partial, and, in one case, almost total consumption.’”

  “Flaming hell,” Wiley repeated. “So much for being circumspect. The Commandant is going to nail someone’s tallywags to the wall for this. There’s nothing about the White Chapel Club, is there? Oh ... I’m sorry.”

  Neva squeezed her eyes shut while she collected herself. When she opened them, they returned to the word “consumption”—a euphemism for eating people. Augie had licked that man’s blood. And last night she’d wanted to bite Brin. “It still doesn’t seem real ...”

  “I know.” Wiley cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

  She put the paper down and stared out at the Midway. “When we came in, I thought I saw guards outside the Dahomey Village.”

  “Just a precaution. Silly, really. The tribe is all accounted for, and no one with any sense believes they’re cannibals.” He cleared his throat again. “Can I ask you something? About last night? I know you said you were sleepwalking, but that doesn’t explain how you got out of Machinery. Brin found a hole in the storage-room wall: it’s only big enough for a cat, and there was a stack of crates in the way that took all of us to move.”

  “I used to be a contortionist.”

  Wiley sucked some water down the wrong pipe and spent several moments coughing it clear. “When you weren’t doing your highwire act?” he managed at last, voice strained. “That ... must have been some show.”

  Neva nodded, intent on the Midway again now that he’d stopping choking on her half-truth—she hadn’t expected that much of a reaction.

  There were so many people at the Fair already. More than she’d ever seen this early, even on the Fourth of July, when thousands upon thousands had flocked to the lakefront to see the massive fireworks display. If this held, the Exposition would set a new attendance record—the day after murder and fire.

  The day after Augie fell.

  The day after her life crumpled and burned.

  “I heard Quill in the storage room,” she said softly.

  “Pardon?” Wiley tugged his mustache.

  “What he said about the Ferris Wheel.”

  Wiley tugged his mustache again. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Part of me wants to help.”

  He blinked.

  A line from F. L. Barnett’s chapter in The Reason Why the Colored American Is Not in the World's Columbian Exposition flashed through Neva’s mind: “Theoretically open to all Americans, the Exposition practically is, literally and figuratively, a ‘White City,’ in the building of which the Colored American was allowed no helping hand, and in its glorious success he has no share.”

  “We lynched Augie yesterday,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Not truly,” she amended, recalling another section of the pamphlet: Ida B. Wells’ chilling breakdown of how Negroes’ post-slavery advancement had been slowed by white mobs’ penchant for stringing up colored men. “Augie wasn’t innocent—even if what he did wasn’t his fault. But there was no trial.” She jabbed a finger at the people milling about the Midway. “And vultures like them came to see the spectacle. Well, part of me wants to give them something more.”

  Wiley leaned back, his face fissured by confusion and disbelief.

  Neva leaned forward. “Why not give them something grander than the ashes of a dead Negro and the Cold Storage Building?” she continued. “Why not the Ferris Wheel?” She nodded in its direction. “Or the Midway?” She shoved the paper at Wiley. “Or the whole damn Fair?”

  She slumped in her seat again. “Of course, most of me thinks it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Wiley opened and shut his mouth twice without producing any sound. Fortunately for him, two other men changed the subject.

  “Your eggs, sir,” the first man—their waiter—said.

  “Neva?” the second man asked.

  Both men were white. But while the waiter was squat and graying, the second man was dark-haired and well-formed.

  That wasn’t why Neva was so glad to see him, though. “Derek!” she cried, standing to reach past the waiter and hug the second man.

  “Hello,” Derek said, returning the embrace awkwardly; she was the only colored person in the café. “The theatre said you’d be ... What happened to your face?”

  “Insects.” She pulled away and brushed at her sores—they were fading, but not as quickly as she’d like. “That’s the least of it.”

/>   Derek glanced meaningfully at Wiley as the waiter set down two plates and withdrew. “What’s going on?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not that.” But she couldn’t make herself explain.

  Wiley—doing a fair job of hiding his unease—used her hesitation to introduce himself: “Wiley Claasen, Columbian Guard.” He extended his hand.

  Derek took it. “Derek DeBell, Pullman Car designer. I grew up with Neva.”

  Wiley raised his eyebrows.

  “He’s Mr. DeBell’s son,” she said, finding her voice. “The man I asked Sol to contact?”

  “His bastard son,” Derek clarified.

  Neva frowned. She’d never understood why he insisted on bringing that up unprompted. Truthful to a fault. “My father fought in Mr. DeBell’s place during the War,” she added, “and after it was over, he retained my father and mother as servants.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you mind if I have a word with Derek? Alone?”

  Wiley mulled this over.

  “We can discuss the Ferris Wheel later.”

  This gave him further pause. “Ja-nee,” he eventually conceded, “it’s not like I could keep you from running off—we’ve established that much. Please.” He rose and gestured to his seat and then to Derek. “Best eggs at the Fair.”

  Neva forced a smile. “That’s kind of you, Wiley, but I’d rather walk. I’ll stop by the theatre when I’m done. And I’ll pay you back for my plate.”

  He waved her offer away and sat back down. “It’s fine. I’m hungry enough for two.”

  Derek tipped his hat to Wiley before following Neva out of the café. “Tell me,” he said after they’d taken several silent steps down the Midway.

  She did, but not quickly, and not in full: the story came out in fits and starts and lacked any mention of bending or anarchists. When she’d finished, Derek, who’d stayed quiet while she struggled to put yesterday’s horrors into words, took her hand and squeezed it.

  Neva squeezed back.

  “Come on,” he said after contemplating the Ferris Wheel. “Let me take you above all this.”

  She only hesitated for a second. Chicago Day wasn’t until next week, and Quill and the others had merely talked about fastening Brin’s stick babies to the Wheel. Surely there was no danger yet? Neva nodded at Derek and followed him to the end of the line.

  The wait dragged on, but she didn’t mind. Growing up, Derek had endured almost as much invective from Mrs. DeBell and her natural children, but he’d never taken it out on Augie or her. If anything, he’d been like an older brother—as much as a white boy could be. And he’d always had an even-keeled solidness about him. It helped just to have him nearby.

  When their turn finally came, Arthur Johnson, the lone colored Columbian Guard at the Fair, smiled upon recognizing Neva and ushered them into the lowest car. They took their seats as the car’s attendant raised his arms for quiet.

  “Welcome, fair ladies and gentle gentleman,” he boomed. “Welcome to George Washington Gale Ferris’s Wheel of Wonder, the greatest feat of engineering you’ll ever experience. You’re sitting in one of its thirty-six carriages, each of which is designed to carry forty passengers. To bear this burden, Mr. Ferris designed an axle forty-five feet long and forty-six tons in weight—six times as heavy as the cantilever bridge that spans the Ohio River. The steam-powered force of the axle’s rotation will carry us to an awesome height of two hundred and sixty-four feet. But fear not.” He tapped the glass-paned door they’d passed through to enter the car. “Once I close this door, you will be perfectly enclosed, as safe as if you’d stayed on the ground. Safer, even—there are no crowds to fight in the heavens.”

  One of the passengers in the front tested the car’s iron supports and apparently found them to his satisfaction; he looked less nervous as he sat back.

  “Enjoy the view,” the attendant continued. “And feel free to avail yourself of the concessions.” He pointed at the lunch counter, where its attendant held a bag of Cracker Jacks in one hand and a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the other, two new products growing in popularity at the Fair. “We’ll begin rising shortly.”

  “Augie loved this,” Neva whispered as the attendant secured the door.

  Derek looked about the car again. “I don’t doubt it. It’s comparable to the best Pullman models.” His eyes lingered on one of the many windows, perhaps surmising how it had been designed. Eventually—almost reluctantly—he returned his gaze to Neva. “If anyone else told me that story ...”

  “I know.”

  “Even so.” He studied the wisps of smoke still rising near the Court of Honor. “That was really Augie—Froggy Augie—on the Cold Storage Building ... and the Pier?”

  “It wasn’t his fault. The insects infected his mind.”

  The Ferris Wheel glided into motion, causing the nervous man in front to test the iron supports again. Derek’s eyes widened, but more from thrill than fright. “Extraordinary,” he murmured as they rose at a stately pace.

  Neva nodded. “First time?”

  “First time being at the Fair at all.”

  “I thought there was a direct rail connection from Pullman Town.”

  “There is. I just haven’t had the leisure.”

  The Wheel slowed to a graceful stop, suspending them twenty feet in the air.

  “One more carriage to load,” the attendant announced. “And then we’ll begin a full rotation.”

  Derek glanced at Neva. “Will you hold a service?”

  This jerked a sob out of her, but she waved him off when he put his hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she said, mastering herself. “I just hadn’t thought about it. There’s no body.”

  “Oh.” He stared back out over the Midway. “What will you do, then?”

  “I suppose I’ll stay through the end of the Fair.”

  Derek winced. “Do the Pinkertons think it’s safe?”

  “They should: their ‘colored Leather Apron’ is dead. Now it’s just some strange bugs lurking about. And they’ve already bitten me.”

  “Even if that’s the case, what if their venom does to you what it did to Augie?”

  “I resisted it.” Only with help, true—rough help—but the urge to assault Brin had vanished sometime during last night’s enforced sleep.

  “So you’ll continue dancing?”

  “Not until the rashes fade. But maybe I can find where the insects are coming from and stop them maddening anyone else.” And if it turned out that someone was directing the insects—that there was, in fact, a Leather Apron of sorts—then ...

  Then she’d find out if she could be strong for Augie, as he had once been for her.

  Derek looked skeptical, even for him. But all he said was, “Ah.”

  They fell silent while the last car finished loading and the Wheel began rotating in full. About a quarter of the way up, a young white man bent his knee and proposed to his beloved. She accepted. The car’s other occupants applauded.

  Neva felt sick.

  The proposal was a common enough occurrence: the Wheel had been a romantic destination since its second week in operation. But to see people celebrating while the ruins of the Cold Storage Building became more visible with each inch the car rose ... It was enough to make her wish she had one of Brin’s stick babies to light.

  “Sir!” the attendant said sharply to the nervous man at the front of the car. “Please! I need you to calm down. I’ve no way to signal the operator—we must continue.”

  The warning only further unnerved the nervous man, an enormous balding fellow who stood and rushed to the closest side of the car. With frenzied force, he tried to open a window, but it remained shut.

  “Sir!” the attendant shouted again. “You must calm down! That’s iron construction: you’ll just injure yourself.”

  “Wherrit!” a woman—the nervous man’s wife?—called. “Stop being a fool!”

  He threw her a wild
look and rushed to the opposite side of the car, driving other passengers before him like sheep. The big man didn’t try to pull up another window, however: he simply slammed into one, shattering its glass and denting the surrounding iron.

  Derek caught him as he was about to leap.

  The attendant and a few other men helped wrestle Wherrit to the floor and hold him fast. Yet only for a moment. He was streaming with blood from several cuts, including an ugly gash on his forehead, and the injuries quickly made him too slippery to restrain. After thrashing his way free, he charged the other side of the car and broke a second window. As before, his aim was off, and he hit iron as well as glass. The impact staggered him. But not enough to keep him from dodging Derek’s second attempt to put him in a headlock.

  Now a bloody nightmare, the big man lunged at the door and tried to wrench it open. The lock held, even after he smashed both fists against its keyhole. He drew back to assault the door’s glass, but Derek reached him before the blow fell. Except there was no wrestling this time: instead of trying to pin Wherrit, Derek pressed his index fingers against the big man’s temples.

  Somehow, it was enough.

  Wherrit calmed almost instantly, slumping next to the door while Derek maintained contact and the car arrived at the Wheel’s apex.

  “We’re going down now,” he whispered. “It’s all right. We’re going down now.”

  Neva took an involuntary step forward—she probably looked as astounded as the rest of the passengers. One of her few childhood friends was soothing a madman with nothing more than quiet words and a light touch. It shouldn’t have been possible, and yet ...

  Her rashes throbbed.

  Beneath her clothing and bandages, each mark had started to ache—just as they had when she’d stood near the Civil War veteran. She stared hard at Derek. He didn’t have any visible rashes, but maybe they didn’t always begin on the hands? No one else in the crowd appeared to have the purple brands either. What was this? Were her rashes throbbing on their own?