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

by Nick Wisseman

  “I see,” Copeland replied. “I’ll make sure the family is notified.” He pulled his list back and slid it into a stack of other notes. “I may have to call on you again once we identify the other victims ... Unless you’d prefer to leave the Fair altogether?”

  Wiley shot her a sidelong look. Did he want her to go too? On the face of things, it was certainly the wisest course of action. But that had been true for days, and she still didn’t know who—if anyone—had set the insects to injecting their awful venom. “I’ll stay,” Neva said after a short pause.

  Copeland nodded. “Stay close to Wiley this time. It’s in your best interest.” He consulted another sheet of notes. “No sign of your brother?”

  She allowed a tremor into her voice. It didn’t take much acting. None at all, really; she had more than enough emotion to draw from. “Not yet, but I’m still looking. Have you heard anything?”

  “Nothing at all.” He gestured at the exit. “If you please.”

  Wiley leapt up to open the door for her.

  Outside, after they’d walked a sufficient distance from the Administration Building, he cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

  She stopped to allow a crowd of small girls and boys to pass. A teacher had them holding hands in a chain. It was reminiscent of Waif’s Day, when Buffalo Bill, after hearing that the Fair’s directors had denied a request to admit the poor kids of Chicago free of charge for one day, had offered to foot the bill for every child who wanted to come to the Wild West encampment.

  But thinking of Waif’s Day conjured images of Dob. And Neva wasn’t ready to speak of the awful news he was about to receive.

  “Thank you for not mentioning Augie to Copeland,” she murmured after the gaggle of little ones ambled by.

  Wiley tugged at the back of his hat. “It’d be impossible to prove anyway, what with ... Well ...”

  There being no body—that’s what he’d meant to say. But that wasn’t something to dwell on either. “I’ll see you at ten.” She turned in the direction of Manufactures and Liberal Arts, but Wiley put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Not so fast,” he said. “You heard Copeland: no more dodging off on your own. People are still dying.”

  “The last one might have been a coincidence,” she argued, as dispassionately as she could. “He was in the Levee, after all, and Copeland said there was no evidence of ... consumption. Maybe this did end with Augie.”

  “Or maybe Leather Apron—or whoever’s attracting the insects—is still out there, planning his next meal. You’re the only person I know walking around with those rashes.”

  She was tempted to tell him he didn’t know Brin very well. “I’ll be careful,” Neva said instead. “And if someone’s still out there, I’d rather have you looking for him than escorting me around the Fair.”

  Wiley shook his head. “Even if that were acceptable to me, Copeland’s already dressed me down once. I’d like to avoid a repeat. I need to play the good soldier until I sort things out with Quill.”

  “I thought you worked for Commandant Rice, not Copeland.”

  “The Commandant listens to Bonfield, and he pushed hard for Copeland. The Guards have been told to give the Pinkertons everything they need. And that’s beside the point: you can trust me. You should know that by now.”

  Neva cursed inwardly. There was no simple way around this—Wiley’s bushy face had taken on a tenacious look that seemed to have sunk into every line of his skin. He wouldn’t be easy to evade again.

  On the other hand, she was heartily sick of running. “After the meeting tonight,” she conceded. “You can start shadowing me then.”

  “Why not now?”

  “I need to do something. For Augie. Please—just wait until ten. You can chase down leads in the meantime. Help identify the last victims.”

  “That’s almost certain to be wasted effort. People die anonymously all the time in Chicago; the rail crossings get two a day. If the bodies don’t have some sort of paper on them with their name, it’s usually hopeless.”

  “Try anyway. Please.”

  Wiley considered her for a moment, then looked down and scuffed the dirt with his boot. “Ja-nee, why do I feel as if I’ve just been beguiled by one of your dances? All right. I’ll wait until ten.”

  Neva took his hands and squeezed them. “Thank you.”

  He accepted the pressure of her fingertips a little longer before withdrawing. “Be safe,” he called, looking back over his shoulder.

  “I will.”

  She watched him go, then took the necklace out of her jacket pocket.

  The cowry shells had been on her mind throughout the interview with Copeland, even during the worst parts—especially during the worst parts; handling the necklace again had been all she wanted to do. And now that she was satisfying that desire, a heady excitement burbled up, a wave of purification that promised to wash away her grief.

  And her guilt.

  And her rage.

  Her anticipation grew stronger still as she put the necklace over her head and the shells settled against the skin of her neck.

  The sensation was glorious—pure, unadulterated brilliance. And energy ... So much energy. She didn’t feel heavy anymore; she felt like she could take a leap and launch into flight, spread her arms and soar. Or just run where she wanted to go, start sprinting and never stop. Because how could she tire with so much vitality flooding through her? She was free, completely free. Unfettered from regrets, worries, and pain. Loose—that was the word for it. She was as loose as she’d even been. Loose in her soul, loose in her limbs ...

  And loose in her joints—too loose.

  She’d started to collapse.

  Someone next to her asked if she was all right. She’d been spinning in a blissful daze—an odd enough motion to draw comments on its own—but now she was corkscrewing down, losing her balance as her bones lost their rigidity. As she fell, the shells swung away from her neck and she caught the cord with her hand, which puddled around the leather thong for a moment before solidifying. The rest of her body regained its structure soon after. If she was lucky, it had merely looked like she’d had a fainting spell rather than coming within seconds of unmaking herself.

  Waving away two men who tried to help her up, she took the necklace off, careful not to let it touch her skin, and eased the cowries back in her pocket. Then she began walking hastily toward Manufactures and Liberal Arts, one thought on her mind:

  What in God’s name had just happened?

  Chapter Eighteen

  WALKING TO THE FAR end of the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building didn’t clarify anything, even though the trek took several minutes. This was the one exhibit Neva hadn’t seen all of yet. She doubted anyone had. Sol may have been exaggerating when he advertised that Russia's entire standing army could fit inside; he certainly hadn’t done any calculations. But when you glanced up and saw the five enormous electric chandeliers—each seventy-five feet in diameter—hanging from the two-hundred-fifty-foot-tall ceiling ... Well, the structure certainly seemed large enough to house a horde or two.

  At ground level, Manufactures and Liberal Arts looked like an indoor city filled with gilded domes and glittering minarets. A fifty-foot-wide avenue ran down the center, with (slightly) smaller paths branching off at regular intervals to thousands of displays chronicling “the progress of mankind” in terms of science, art, industry, and intellectual development. Twelve elevators carried visitors to upper galleries that added eight acres of exhibit space, as well as an interior bridge that spanned the width of the main floor and led to an exterior promenade offering gorgeous views of the Fair and Lake Michigan.

  Taken all together, it was one of the most amazing things Neva had ever seen—and the most overwhelming. She never knew where to start.

  Derek looked similarly affected. He’d succeeded in getting a table at the French restaurant, one of twelve dining options in the building, but he had a dazed air about him. “They say that spy
glass is sixty-five feet long,” he said by way of greeting when Neva approached.

  “You mean the Yerkes telescope?” Its jet-black tube was mounted on a stand that would have felt immense in any other setting.

  “Apparently it weighs seventy tons. And that clock tower in the center? One-hundred-and-twenty feet tall, yet self-winding. Incredible. I also heard someone say the frame for the building consumed enough steel to make two Brooklyn Bridges ... Two.”

  Neva took a seat and eyed the food Derek had ordered—cheese, croissants, and some sort of stew.

  “Help yourself,” he said graciously.

  “Thanks.” She picked up a croissant, took a nibble, and put it back.

  He sobered. “So what did the Pinkerton want?”

  “The man I fought in the Levee—he died.”

  “Oh.” Derek blinked, blinked again, and shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault. You said so yourself: it’s those rashes. I’m sure Augie didn’t want to do what he did either.”

  “I know, but ... I should have controlled it.”

  “The man in the Levee didn’t.”

  “That’s not the point.” She looked away to brush the tears from her eyes. “Dob’s mother is dead too.”

  “What? Oh, Neva, I’m—”

  “There’s something else,” she said, turning back to find Derek in the middle of standing; had he been coming to hug her? She waved him down. “The necklace from the Anthropology Building is stranger than I thought.” She explained what had happened—and nearly happened—when she’d donned the cowry shells.

  He mulled his reply for a moment. “Do you want me to look at it?”

  “Later, perhaps, but not here. If it augments your abilities as it did mine ... Better we find that out in a more private place.”

  Derek nodded.

  “While we’re on the subject ...”

  He winced but nodded again.

  “Sorry, I’m not used to speaking about it either.” All very true, but she still felt intrusive. “I can’t help being curious, though: what exactly did you do to Wherrit on the Wheel? The way you held his head in your hands ... It was more than just ‘pressure points,’ wasn’t it?”

  Derek stared at the Yerkes telescope awhile longer, then glanced up at the nearest chandelier. “I’m not Zeus. I can’t hurl lightning bolts; I’ve never cast more than a few sparks. But you’d be surprised how much electricity there is around us. And in us. More than even the leading electrophysiologists know ... Especially in the head—there are always little flares firing there. Thousands of them at once.”

  “You can see them?”

  He tapped his temples. “Sense them. Not always well. And I don’t like to tamper with them—it’s a crude process. But sometimes it’s the only way ... Or at least it seems like it.”

  Neva couldn’t stop herself from whistling. “So you can change someone’s mind?”

  He shook his head. “Usually just their mood.”

  “And that’s what you were doing to Wherrit? Calming him?”

  “Trying to. It’s not always a sure thing. Your dress worked far better.”

  “Still ... Can you read thoughts?”

  “No, thankfully. Just emotions. That’s more than enough.”

  “Do you need to touch someone for it to work?”

  “It makes things easier, but it’s not necessary. Being close is sufficient.”

  Neva could see how uncomfortable Derek was becoming, so she held back her other questions. (Does it make you feel like a warlock, blasphemous and damned? Does it hurt? Have you ever changed my mood?) There’d be time for them later. Especially if she was as open as he’d just been. “That must be strange—to be able to affect someone else. I can’t alter other people’s bones, but it’s hard to remember a time I couldn’t reshape my own ... I suppose my real muscles must be pliable as well, and my skin to a degree, but I can’t manipulate them the same way.”

  “And Augie?”

  “Mimicry.” She described his talent for imitating and projecting voices.

  Derek considered this, then smiled ruefully. “That explains a few odd incidents from our childhood.”

  “Oh, you got the least of it. He liked using Mrs. DeBell’s voice to yell through the windows at Jasper and Abiah and make them forfeit their allowance to Hatty or donate their sweets to Caleb—the other servants never knew how well they did by Augie.”

  Derek chuckled. “It’s good to know someone was setting Jasper and Abiah straight.”

  Neva remembered a morning when Abiah had shoved her down so Jasper could splash her with a cup of black paint and a handful of pillow feathers. And how that same afternoon, Augie had used Mrs. DeBell’s voice to compel Jasper to cut a switch and discipline Abiah for looking frightfully ugly, after which she was instructed to lash him in turn for slouching like a gin-soaked gibbon. “He did what he could. Always a prankster—more than anyone suspected.”

  “Except you ... I wish we’d known about all this sooner.”

  “Me too. And I wish Augie were here to help sort this all out. He was always better at puzzles.”

  Neither of them said anything until the waiter came by to leave the check. After the man moved on, Derek pointed at Neva’s gloved hands. “What do you want to do about those?”

  “The rashes?”

  “Yes.”

  She laced her cotton-covered fingers together. “Wiley’s checking up on the other victims, but other than that ... I’m not sure there’s anything to do but wait.”

  “For the killer to strike again?”

  “If there even is one. Maybe it’s just the insects.”

  “But if it’s not, and the original killer is still lurking ... You really want to wait him out?”

  “No.” Neva gripped her hands tighter. “Not if there’s a better way.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I don’t know, but the way the necklace called to me ... I think it’s important.” Even through her jacket pocket, she could feel the shells’ proximity to her skin, as if she carried a string of hot coals. “Come on.” She stood and set the last of her money by the check.

  Derek handed her coins back to her and replaced them with his own. “My treat. Where are we going?”

  She smiled her thanks. “Back to the Anthropology Building. I have an idea.”

  THE REGISTRAR’S “OFFICE” was more of a closet. A big closet, wide enough to fit a desk and tall enough to accommodate massive shelves. But still a closet: no windows, no interior lighting, and a general feeling that things were stuffed inside and never retrieved.

  Which was all to the good, because if the Anthropology Building’s records had resided in one of its more frequented rooms, someone might have been around to see Neva break in.

  To pick the lock, she repeated the same trick that had allowed her to open the cowry necklace’s case. Derek winced when she removed her bloody finger from the keyhole, but she just sucked the red off and opened the door.

  Then it was his turn to impress.

  She’d neglected to bring a lamp, so to her thinking, there was only one course of action: risk leaving the door open a crack. But when she didn’t close them in completely, Derek shook his head, shut the door, and crowned himself with a ring of sparks. It would have looked absolutely noble if his hair hadn’t risen with the charge—the sight made Neva laugh louder than she’d meant to.

  Shrugging playfully, he gestured around the room. “So what are we questing for?”

  “The accession ledgers. Assuming you won’t set them on fire with that.”

  He flicked a spark at Neva. “They’re not hot enough.”

  She bent away from it. “Says you. Anyway, Sol said Professor Putnam was a stickler for inventorying every artifact approved for display in the Anthropology Building; he wanted to model registration on the practices of the Smithsonian. Each item has an acquisition entry somewhere, with a name, description, and place of origin.”

  “And you’re hoping to
find this information for the cowry necklace?”

  “If possible.”

  At first glance, it didn’t seem likely. The shelves were bursting with records, some bound, but many loose. Heaps of more books and papers dotted the floor like scholarly stalagmites, and the desk had been buried beneath at least two separate avalanches.

  “You can’t read the ledgers’ thoughts, can you?” Neva was only half-joking.

  “Sadly, no.”

  But once they dug in, it didn’t take long to locate the stack of official ledgers. And about halfway down the pile, Neva landed on the record book for “Oceanic Artifacts.” She grinned ... until she found no entry for a cowry shell necklace.

  “Can you scan through it again?” she asked Derek as she handed him the ledger. “I’m going to check the others. Perhaps it was misfiled.”

  Another hour of sifting proved her right—after a fashion. The necklace hadn’t been misfiled so much as it had been mis-displayed: she found an entry for it in the “African Artifacts” ledger.

  “‘Four golden cowry shells threaded with leather cord,’” Neva read triumphantly. “‘Each shell lightly scored on one end, but no adornment. Origin: Dahomey, Africa, but likely acquired via trade. Employed as currency and perhaps a focus of divination rituals. Could also be included in the Oceanic display, as the shells are used there for similar purposes and as badges of rank.’”

  “Sounds probable,” Derek said with relief. “And makes you wonder how many of the displays have been mixed and matched for effect.”

  She shrugged, interested only in the implications of the necklace’s true provenance. “Divination,” she repeated. “That’s certainly not what wearing it made me feel like I was doing ... Hmm.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Do you have a pocket watch?”

  “I do. One moment ... It’s a little after 8:30.”

  “Then I’m thinking we have time to make another stop before I’m due to meet Wiley.” Neva snapped the “African Artifacts” ledger shut and returned it to its original position in the stack of records. Derek helped her restore the rest of the clutter. When the closet looked more or less as it had before, he snuffed his electric halo, listened for a moment at the door, and opened it once he seemed satisfied they could escape unobserved.