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

by Nick Wisseman

  “And by sons, I mean your bastards. Where are your bastards?”

  Mr. DeBell continued to stall, for which Neva was glad. The more he said about Augie, the more likely it was Copeland would trace him back to the Algerian and Tunisian Village and make the connection to her (if the Pinkerton hadn’t done so already). It shouldn’t matter ... Unless Copeland could place her at Gaffney’s Saloon, brawling with that little man who’d died soon after. Failing that, the Pinkerton would probably bring her in for another round of questioning. It would be uncomfortable but not unmanageable. As long as Mr. DeBell didn’t—

  Whistle.

  Oh God, how could she have forgotten the whistling? It had been Mr. DeBell last night, and he’d been whistling. Had he always been able to do it? Was that why he was such a good salesman? Had he used it to convince Lucretia to take in his bastard children? Or had the ability been brought forth by the insects’ bites, their venom acting as a murderous muse?

  Regardless, she was once more helpless against his somber tune.

  She wasn’t the only one this time—she nearly fell inward as the door opened behind her. But the wiry guard steadied her, pushed her forward, and stepped out. Copeland followed a second later, a jumble of papers in his hands and a bemused look on his face.

  “Leave my family alone,” Mr. DeBell somehow said through his whistling, the words as haunting as they were windy. “Do your justice to me but leave my family alone.”

  Neva tried to cry out that his family stood before him if he’d only look. But she couldn’t do anything other than what his melody bade her. She took four steps forward, swiveled, and took four steps back—the door was still open. Mr. DeBell’s song ordered her to close it.

  Her hand complied by gripping the knob, but her eyes rebelled by seeking his. They held no recognition, only misery. Misery, and self-hate, and bewilderment.

  Neva empathized with it all. She ached to go to him, to unbend her disguise and tell him she understood. But all she could do was slam the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  FEW PEOPLE WERE IN the Court of Honor to witness Neva, the Pinkerton, and the wiry guard march out of the Administration Building. Which was just as well because their movements were sharp and stiff, their feet finding no rhythm in the strange music that compelled them to spasm off in different directions like a disbanded trio of marionettes.

  Mercifully, the whistling faltered once Neva goosestepped within arm’s length of the Terminal Station. As the tune waned in her blood, she sagged against an empty ticketing counter, forcing herself to breathe slowly until she’d calmed enough to consider what had just happened.

  Mr. DeBell was so convinced of his guilt that he’d turned himself in and resisted the temptation to whistle his way free ... If he could even control the whistling. So what were the chances he’d let her rescue him? Poor, most likely. Exceedingly poor. He’d always been hard to sway once set on a course of action. But if she went to him as herself, without the guise of Arthur Johnson—could she convince him? What if she brought Derek? Was there was even time for that?

  Someone called her name. Neva looked in the voice’s direction and saw a Columbian Guard coming toward her, his face partially shadowed—most of the Fair’s electric lights had been shut off for the night. For a moment, she thought it was the wiry guard. But then she realized he didn’t know her true identity, and that she’d unbent her disguise somewhere between the drunk tank and the Terminal Station; her bone structure was her own again.

  “Neva!” the guard called again, his features resolving into Wiley’s reddened face. “I thought it was you. Flaming hell—this is why you ‘needed to be alone?’ To impersonate a guard? And do what? Sneak in to speak to Edward?”

  “I had to see him.”

  Wiley drew up a few paces from her. “And I suppose you did?”

  “More or less. I heard him talking to Copeland.”

  “Flaming hell ... What did he say?”

  “He doesn’t remember much—it was the fever. Just like with Augie.”

  “So he was bit?”

  “It sounds like it. We need to get him out of there.”

  Wiley clasped his hands behind his head. “No.”

  She bit her lip and marshaled her arguments.

  But he cut her off. “What we need to do is get you out of that uniform before someone else takes a close look—God only knows how they didn’t see through it before. Then I’ll escort you back to the Algerian and Tunisian Village so you can sleep, gather your things, and catch the first train out in the morning.”

  Neva conceded with a shrug. She did need to get out of this uniform, at least for now. Best to be prudent until she had a plan.

  Wiley led her back to the Midway at a brisk pace. He avoided the Lagoon, which, despite the hour, was abuzz with activity—Carter and the other guards must still be dragging it for the latest body. Neva shuddered. Could she help Mr. DeBell overcome the venom’s urges? She and Brin were getting better, but he had it worse; he’d lost his memory for two weeks. And the things he’d done ...

  It didn’t help that the anarchists’ own disease of the mind festered unabated.

  As Neva and Wiley approached the Algerian and Tunisian Village, she spied Roland, Pieter, and Quill gazing at the Ferris Wheel and conversing in whispered tones, looking not at all suspicious or crazed. A nearby Fair Custodian seemed unconcerned, focused on his task of picking up the day’s trash. But if one of the guards at the Lagoon came this way, he couldn’t help marking the anarchists as out of place, despite their Fair-worker uniforms.

  “Why are you party to this?” Neva asked Wiley, nodding towards his companions.

  He grimaced, no doubt noting the same conspicuous behavior. “Pieter’s my oldest friend. We grew up together. Fought for independence against the English together. Came to America together. He’s like a brother to me.”

  “All right, but what about the others?”

  “Roland and Quill were with Pieter at Homestead.”

  Neva wracked her brain for the reference. “The steelworker strike in Pennsylvania last year?”

  “More like a pitched battle. Carnegie Steel hired Pinkertons to protect the strikebreakers. Sounds like it turned into a hell of a firefight.”

  “I remember hearing about that. You weren’t there?”

  “I was here.” Wiley pointed at the portions of the city visible beyond the Fair’s fence. “Trying to be a policeman. Didn’t go very well.”

  “I see.” Neva caught Quill’s eye and motioned him over. “And Brin?”

  “Quill knew her from meetings in Chicago.”

  “That fits. Can you get them to give up the Wheel?”

  “I thought so, but ...”

  “Discussing how to make us see the light?” asked Quill as he neared, glancing at her ill-fitting guard’s uniform. His tone was wry, but his eyes glittered with determination.

  “You could write an article or a book,” Neva said, launching into it. “Unionize the Fair workers. Even organize Pullman Town, if you feel as strongly about it as Wiley does. But don’t blow up a marvel of engineering in an empty gesture. You’ll just get people killed for no reason.”

  Quill smiled faintly. “From what Wiley told me, two days ago you were all set to light the fuse.”

  “Two days ago I was mourning my brother.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m still mourning him. But the anger’s faded, and now I see that’s all it was: an act of grief and rage. You’re mourning the workers of this country, except they’re still alive, and you won’t help them by dynamiting the Wheel. You’ll just give the capitalists another reason to tighten the screws.”

  “We lost comrades at Haymarket.”

  “Then avenge them in a way that makes sense! This is madness. Can’t you see that?”

  The darkening of Quill’s face was noticeable even in the sparse light. “You’re planning to sneak in and see Mr. DeBell? Maybe break him out?”

  Neva cu
rsed under her breath—her former teacher had always been fiendishly good at guessing her mind.

  “Then you have your mad scheme,” he said, his tone flat now. “And we have ours.”

  Wiley started to say something, but Brin emerged from behind the low wall that encircled the Wheel and called out: “Quill! Let me speak with her.”

  As the Irishwoman jogged toward them, Neva became aware of the various eyes on her—Roland and Pieter were staring at her now, as was the Fair Custodian. She and Quill had kept their voices low; she didn’t think anyone other than Wiley had heard what they’d said. But the fact that they were arguing must have been obvious.

  “Come with me,” Brin said, tugging gently on Neva’s shoulder and waving at Wiley to stay put.

  Quill glared at them for a moment, then composed his face and walked off toward the Fair Custodian, greeting his coworker with a cheery “Evening, Quentin!” and asking how the grounds looked that night.

  Neva followed Brin to the Wheel.

  “So you saw Mr. DeBell?” the Irishwoman asked when they were out of sight.

  Neva related what had happened. “I’m going to get him out, and then I’m going to leave the Fair.”

  Brin studied her face. “Best of luck to you. I don’t like that whistling of his, though. Can I help?”

  “Thank you. I’m sure you could, but I’d rather you helped yourself and called off this business with the Wheel.”

  “Now I know why Quill looked so angry.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have led you on like I did ... But can’t you find another way? Something that won’t get anyone killed?”

  Brin leaned against one of the massive towers that supported the Wheel’s axle and looked up, eyes fixed on the topmost carriage. Neva wondered if it was the same car she and Derek had ridden two days earlier. None of the windows looked broken, but they would have been repaired by now.

  Brin lowered her gaze back to Neva. “And if we don’t?”

  At first, it felt like a choice: threaten to expose the anarchists’ plans—and risk them doing the same to her—or keep quiet. But Neva only needed a short pause to realize she’d already made up her mind. Family came first. “I won’t say anything unless someone gets hurt.”

  “Fair enough. We’re not looking to make martyrs. Here: maybe this will soothe your conscience.” Brin ran her hand over the support she’d been resting against and opened a small pocket in the metal, as effortlessly as if she were parting a pillowcase.

  Neva’s rashes grew warm and angry in response, but she suppressed their aggression without much difficulty. The pocket was far more interesting: one of Brin’s stick babies was nestled inside.

  “They’re laced all through this leg,” she explained. “And on the other side as well. Strung on a fuse I threaded through the plate beneath the ticketing counter, so that the wick comes out the other side of the wall—wonderfully kind of the engineers to design me a long run of metal like that. All I had to do was create a wee tunnel and pock it with air holes so the spark can breathe. Only took me a half hour last night.”

  Neva scrutinized the rest of the support, trying to find signs of the air holes or the other embedded sticks of dynamite. But the holes must have been infinitesimal, and there were no bulges or deformations to suggest the Wheel had been altered in any way. Brin had done her work well. “This is supposed to set me at ease?”

  “The boys don’t know about it—couldn’t very well explain it, now could I? But the charges I’ll give them won’t do much; this is the real thing. I won’t light it unless Quill’s plan to empty the Wheel comes off, and we’re able to keep the crowd back.”

  “And how will you manage that?”

  Brin raised an eyebrow. “Not sure you get to know that anymore.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The Irishwoman reached in to pat the dynamite. “Would you like one?”

  “No. I don’t want anyone hurt in my escapade either.”

  “Suit yourself.” Brin withdrew her hand and closed the dynamite back over. “Go see to your father, then. I’ll speak to the boys.”

  “Tell Wiley I’m sorry.”

  “It’d be better coming from yourself ...”

  “But then he’ll just want to follow me.”

  “Ah. Well, I’ll say what I can. Good luck.”

  “You too.”

  Hurrying off, Neva crossed to the other side of the wall, slipped over, and headed toward the Algerian and Tunisian Village—as if she were turning in for the night. But she bypassed her quarters entirely and went straight to the back alley. Sleeping would have to wait for another night.

  She kept to the shadows as best she could, scurrying and darting her way down the Midway and then through the Fair to the Court of Honor. She needn’t have bothered: no one was about. And while the Administration Building still had a light on, not a single soul came in or out during the five minutes she watched from behind the nearby Chocolate Menier stand.

  Yet there had to be at least one guard on duty. Surely they wouldn’t leave Mr. DeBell alone while they debated what to do with him? Unless he’d cast everyone out with his whistling ...

  She still wore the Columbian Guard uniform—should she just walk in? Of course, instead of one guard, there might be three or four now. And they were unlikely to let her see Mr. DeBell, no matter how much she made herself look like Arthur Johnson.

  Perhaps it would be best to revisit her original plan.

  After circling to the other side of Administration, Neva estimated where the drunk tank stood, hardened her first into a cone, and punched a hole through the wall. Luck was with her: she’d struck between two wooden laths, and the staff overlaying them gave easily. The impact still made more noise than she would have liked. But no cries of alarm went up, and Neva bent through the small opening within seconds.

  Once inside the wall, she realized her miscalculation. She’d chosen the right spot—the drunk tank looked to be directly in front of her—but it had been built more securely than the rest of the Administration Building, with iron plates in addition to wood and staff (no doubt the work of a contractor who’d billed the Fair for everything he could imagine). She should have brought Brin after all.

  Neva felt along the iron, slithering back and forth between the furring strips that constrained her to either side. Just as she was about to give up, she found a gap: an uneven join that must have been deemed inconsequential. To fit her body through the narrow seam, she’d have to contort herself more than she ever had—more even than that night she’d escaped the anarchist’s lair in the Machinery Hall. To pull this off, she’d have to damn near liquefy.

  As if it could read Neva’s thoughts, the cowry shell necklace chose that moment to reassert its pull.

  The shells would certainly loosen her enough—she’d almost become a puddle when she’d worn them the previous day. They must have magnified her ability; they would no doubt do so again if she let them. Was that wise? Would she be able to take them off in time? And what about her promise to Derek?

  Neva decided she didn’t care. This was the way forward, and she’d already come too far to turn back. It took a moment to wriggle out of the Columbian Guard uniform; there was no point keeping it on when the fabric would just snag. The next step was to reach a sharpened finger through the gap and cut away the staff on the other side.

  But first it would be prudent to warn her father.

  “Mr. DeBell?” she whispered. “Are you there?”

  “Neva?” he replied after a moment, his voice equally hushed but much more confused. “Where are you?”

  “In the wall—I’ll explain in a moment. I’m coming in. Just ... don’t be alarmed.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Please: just wait a moment.”

  “... All right.”

  After clearing out the rest of the gap, she took another deep breath and donned the necklace.

  Instantly, the same giddy energy filled her, a cocktail of e
ffervescence and adrenaline and life. But she was ready for it this time. Ready for how pliable it made her feel, how easily she could bend, fold, and squeeze through the slender opening that should have been impossible even for her. Flowing like molten bronze, she poured out from the wall in a rush so exhilarating she almost couldn’t bring herself to take the necklace off.

  She managed, though. More easily than before—stability returned to her body as she stood to face her slack-jawed father, the cowry shells dangling from her hand.

  “Neva?” he mumbled after a moment.

  “It’s like your whistling,” she said, suddenly conscious that he was viewing her in her smallclothes. Well, he’d come to watch her belly dance once. This wasn’t that much more revealing. “Something I’ve always been able to do.”

  He blinked, still disbelieving. “You have?”

  “Yes.” Unsure how to proceed, Neva regarded the man who’d conceived her but raised her otherwise. She could see Derek in him: dark hair, good looks, trim build. But Mr. DeBell looked nothing like Augie. Or her.

  Yet he’d drawn them all in perfect detail.

  Neva gasped when she noticed what he’d created on the sheet of paper dangling from his fingers: a picture of her, Augie, and Derek on one side, Jasper and Abiah on the other, and himself in the middle. Between him and his natural children stood Mrs. DeBell. But between him and his bastard children was a colored woman Neva had never seen before. “Is that my mother?”

  Mr. DeBell glanced down at the beautiful, tenderly rendered image. “Yes,” he answered, a dusting of wonder in his voice. “That’s Betty.”

  Neva reached her hand out slowly; he let her take the paper.

  Her mother bore the resemblance Mr. DeBell lacked—Neva could see the same determined nose, aggressive cheekbones, and curious eyes in the depiction of herself. And that of Augie.

  Dear God, it was painful to look at.

  “I never knew you could draw so well,” she murmured. “It’s ... lifelike.”

  Mr. DeBell shrugged. “The Pinkerton wanted me to sign a confession. I meant to, but I ... started sketching.”