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

by Nick Wisseman

  “Help!” someone cried beyond the smoke. A terrific crash sounded from the same area.

  “Come on,” Neva murmured to Derek, ducking under his arm and sprinting toward the station. He called her back, but she kept running—if someone needed help, she was going to give it to them.

  This time, she was going to be fast enough.

  As she drew closer, it became clear that her eyes had deceived her initially. The station wasn’t on fire, but two overturned railcars on the tracks were, and several Negro men were busy lighting a third car. The smoke from the overturned cars was what she’d seen blowing through the station’s windows, swept in one side and out the other by a gust of wind.

  Neva stopped a few feet short of the platform, watching as some of the men broke off from firing the third car to detach a fourth from the larger train. Several of the arsonists carried ropes.

  “Pullman cars,” Derek said when he caught up to her. “The four they’re targeting; I recognize the models. They’ve left the others untouched.”

  “There don’t seem to be any passengers. I hope they asked everyone to get off first.”

  “Help!” someone called again, from further down the platform.

  Neva spun and saw a white engineer waving his arms in furious protest.

  “Do something!” he said to Derek.

  But her brother just tapped the white ribbon affixed to his chest, the same type of fabric Brin had given Neva to express solidarity with the workers. A few of the Negro men wore ribbons as well.

  “Damn you, then!” the engineer snarled. “That’s private property they’re destroying!”

  Derek shrugged and turned back to observe the men on the tracks. Two of them had secured their ropes to the top of the fourth car, and when one of them whistled, the rest of their companions came running, positioning themselves on either side. Those on the south side took hold of the ropes and pulled; those on the north side leaned against the car and pushed.

  “Damn you all!” the engineer yelled again.

  But the men on the tracks paid him no mind, and they had the car tipping within moments. Once it had toppled, the men streamed back to the third car, now burning merrily, and lit torches, rags, and whatever else was at hand. Then they returned to the fourth car to light it too.

  “There!” the engineer shrieked. His tone was different, inflected with notes of vengeful glee. “On the tracks!” he shouted. “They’re on the tracks!”

  Neva whirled around in time to see a row of boots thrust past the engineer, as if he’d suddenly grown twenty new legs and stepped with them all at once. But the boots belonged to a unit of soldiers, and they marched onto the tracks in near-perfect unison.

  Had there not been four fires roaring next to each other, someone would have heard the troops’ approach. But as it was, they were lowering their rifles before the Negro men could find a scrap of cover.

  So when the soldiers loosed their first volley, the results were devastating.

  “Run!” yelled Derek as more than a third of the Negro men fell to the ground, some screaming, some silent, all bleeding. He tried to pull Neva back to the street, but she bent her way out of his grasp and ran to the near side of the station.

  “Hurry!” she hissed, motioning for him to follow. “We have to help them.”

  To his credit, Derek didn’t hesitate. But his face crinkled with anger as he sprinted behind her and crouched down. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  Neva pointed at the surviving Negro men—some had managed to run off, but the rest were making themselves as small as possible behind the cars they hadn’t tipped. “The soldiers aren’t firing at us. We need to help the protestors escape.”

  Another hail of bullets pocked the yard. One man yelped in pain, then gurgled, then fell quiet.

  Derek winced and glanced back at the street.

  She gripped his shoulder. “Your movement is integrating on its own—whether Pullman Town and the American Railway Union want it to or not. Help those men get away.”

  He refocused on the tracks. Then he cocked his head as if an idea had struck him. Risking a quick stand, he peered through one of the station’s windows. “The soldiers are still on the tracks,” he muttered as he crouched down again. “Give me the cowry shells.”

  Neva bit her lip—that wasn’t what she’d meant.

  “You said they make you stronger,” Derek whispered fiercely. “Well, I need to be stronger. Please, just give them to me. Quickly.”

  She studied him a moment longer, but another shot—and the ensuing cry—convinced her. “Here.” She produced the necklace from her pocket and pressed it into his hand. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Don’t get shot. And don’t let me get shot.” Before she could respond, he donned the necklace and darted around her, out from behind the station and onto the tracks.

  “Derek!” she yelled as he stumbled, sparks starting to spit from his fingers, his elbows, his eyes—oh God, his eyes! The necklace would kill him. It only made her limber, but him, it would fry. Why had she given it to him?

  Yet he knelt gracefully enough, dead-center on the tracks, his shins resting on the wooden ties and his hands gripping the steel rails. Then, before another shot could ring out, he flexed his fingers and sent a bolt of current arcing down each rail.

  Neva couldn’t see the current, of course; not aside from a few blue flickers. But she thought she knew what Derek had done, and leaning out from behind the station’s wall confirmed her guess: several soldiers lay on the ground, twitching uncontrollably. Most of their hats had flown off, and their hair—as well as their beards—stood on end, making the men look like capsized porcupines struggling to right themselves.

  Those soldiers whose feet hadn’t been touching a rail gaped in astonishment at their less fortunate comrades. The remaining protestors took the opportunity to scatter.

  Derek lurched back behind the station and yanked off the necklace. “We should go too. God, that thing hurts.”

  He would have fallen if Neva hadn’t caught him (and the shells). “Thank you. The wounded men on the tracks, though—”

  Derek took a step toward the street. “We’ve done all we can. There are still too many soldiers, and probably more on the way. We have to go.”

  She opened her mouth to disagree, but something thudded against the front of the station and skidded to a rest not two feet from where they stood—a brick. More followed a second later, along with stones and sharp bits of wood; other Negro men had arrived, and they were launching everything they could find at the soldiers. A few shots fired in response, but then the soldiers’ leader yelled, “Fall back! Fall back NOW!”

  “All right,” Neva said. “We can go.”

  “I JUST WANTED YOU TO say something to the soldiers,” she explained as they approached the Fair’s north side on 59th Street two hours later, well into the evening. “Being as you were the only sympathetic white man in the area. I didn’t expect you to shock them.”

  Derek smiled tiredly—he was still feeling the effects of wearing the necklace, and they’d walked all the way from Hatty’s neighborhood rather than risking unrest at another station. The rest of the city seemed quiet, but the soldiers’ presence had everyone on edge. “I’ve always wanted to see what an electrified rail would look like. They’re the wave of the future, you know.”

  Neva disguised her own weariness by rolling her eyes. “Pity the Fair’s not still going. You could have set up an exhibit.”

  “They’ve been around for a while—the Richmond Union Passenger Railway’s had electric trolleys since ‘88. They just haven’t caught on here yet.” He shook his head. “In truth, I didn’t know what else to do. The soldiers wouldn’t have listened to me, and words don’t stop bullets.”

  “It was perfect.”

  Derek shrugged and pointed at a jagged gap in the fence that had once ringed the Fair so completely. “Shall we?”

  Inside, the grounds were quiet, even by the mute
d standards of the last few months. No campfires burned that Neva could see, and no conversations—even hushed ones—drifted on the night air.

  After they’d walked a few minutes, Derek shook his head. “It’s odd to see it without lights.” The Palace of Fine Arts was just ahead, illuminated only by stars and a half moon.

  “I know.” She gestured at the Fair as a whole. “It’s worse during the day. At least the darkness covers up the decay.”

  He grunted at this, then rolled his shoulders back. “I was sorry to hear about your friend—the Boer fellow. He was right about Pullman.”

  “Thank you.” Neva took several more steps before deciding that, since Derek was already thinking about Wiley’s death, now would be a natural time to bring up related matters. “Did you go to Mr. DeBell’s service?”

  Derek winced. “Yes. Sad affair, after everything they said about him in the papers.” He gave her a sidelong look. “It wasn’t true, was it? He wasn’t really behind all the killings?”

  “Mr. DeBell wasn’t responsible.”

  “They stopped after he died, though ...”

  “They did, but that doesn’t mean they were his doing.” She headed towards the Fisheries Building so that they might cross its bridge to the Wooded Island. “Was the service open casket?”

  Derek gave her another brief appraisal. “No. Lucretia said Edward wasn’t in a state to be seen.”

  Neva nodded slowly. “When I was at the house in February, Abiah told me the undertaker misplaced the body.”

  “What?”

  “They couldn’t produce it. I thought maybe she was having a go at me like she used to, but if the service really was closed casket ...”

  Derek stopped walking. “They lost his body?”

  “I imagine Lucretia didn’t want that known.”

  “I imagine not.”

  Neva let him think on this as they proceeded into the Court of Honor and made their way to Machinery. Inside, after she’d made sure no one was close enough to see, she led Derek to the outer door of the storage room.

  “This is where you were meeting with Wiley,” Derek noted as she pressed her finger into the lock. “That night after we consulted the Fon woman about the shells. I thought it might be this room; he was standing near it when we found him. I came by here after—to look for you. Almost broke the door down.”

  “It was barred.” The lock clicked open and Neva tugged the door outwards.

  “Why?” Derek began to ask, but the sight of all the insects milling about in the storage room—the slugs, the spiders, the cockroaches; so many cockroaches—stole the rest of his question away.

  “They won’t bite.” She stepped inside and lit a lantern. “Please: just a little farther.”

  He swallowed, giving her a long, dubious look. But he entered and stayed quiet when she shut the door and locked it again.

  “Through here.” Neva walked briskly to the back, the lantern’s light revealing another swarm with each stride.

  Picking his way carefully, Derek trailed at a distance of a few feet, close enough that she was able to obscure his view of the colored woman lying bound at the end of the storage room. But when Neva moved aside, the woman raised her head, her identity unmistakable now.

  It was Hatty.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “HATTY?” ASKED DEREK stupidly as the old woman started to thrash against her bonds. He turned to Neva, bewilderment contorting his face. “What is this? Why is she here? Why is she tied?”

  Neva knelt to slip off Hatty’s gag.

  “Children!” she said in a relieved voice, blinking her eyes against the lantern’s light. “Oh, thank the Lord.” She strained against the ropes again. “Please take these off me. They’re so tight, and I’m so hungry.”

  “We will,” Neva said, holding a hand up to Derek, who’d started to move to Hatty’s side. “In a moment. First, we need to know how you got here.”

  “And so quickly,” Derek added, casting an accusatory look at Neva—no doubt he was wondering how the old woman had beaten them here with the trains down.

  “I wish I knew,” Hatty said. “I’ve been wondering that since I woke up. But I can’t remember; can’t remember anything.” She held up her hands. “Please. They hurt so bad.”

  “How long has it been since you woke?” asked Neva, motioning again for Derek to stay back.

  “I don’t know, child—there are no windows in here. Several hours, I think.” Hatty extended her hands further. “Please? I’m the next thing to starving.”

  “In a moment. Do you remember the last time you spoke with us?”

  “Not as such, child. I expect it’s been months. Longer, in Derek’s case. Why does it matter?”

  “We just need to understand why you’re here. What happened to your dress?”

  “What dress, child?”

  “Your yellow dress. You were wearing it the last time I saw you.” Neva glanced at Derek, who seemed to have finally registered that Hatty was garbed in a tweed jacket and matching trousers.

  “I ... I don’t know. I expect it’s in my closet. Are you going to untie me now?”

  “One more question.” Neva passed the lantern to Derek, whose brow was so furrowed it had taken on the texture of bark. The transfer caused the light in the room to wobble for a moment, to skitter across the (unmarked) backs of hundreds of insects. Hatty’s eyes passed over one of the shiniest patches without blinking.

  “Do you recognize this?” asked Neva, withdrawing the cowry shell necklace from her pocket.

  Hatty’s face didn’t just light up: it was like a firework went off behind her eyes. “What are those?”

  “So you haven’t seen them before?”

  “Never—I’d remember that. May I hold them?”

  “Of course.” Neva let the cowry shells fall into the old woman’s hands. Then, while she marveled over the necklace, Neva circled behind her and caught Derek’s eyes. “Trust me?”

  He glanced down at Hatty, who was spreading the necklace’s cord above her head and murmuring happily. Wincing, he returned his gaze to Neva and nodded.

  She nodded too. And when Hatty donned the shells, and her skin curdled and discolored, Neva whipped out the knife she always carried on her belt now and slit the old woman’s throat.

  “Neva!” cried Derek. “Shit! I didn’t mean for you to—”

  “Wait!” She pulled a heavily stained rag off a hook and wiped the blood from her blade. “Just wait.”

  Derek looked set to say more, but Hatty’s skin calmed as suddenly as it had boiled.

  Then it flickered again.

  Then it grayed.

  Not all at once. It was as if she was a pool of dark ink, and someone was adding drop after drop of white, each one causing a ripple, a swirl, and—eventually—a lightening. When the transformation was over, Hatty had the look of a dull cloud, her features blurred to the point that she was barely recognizable.

  Derek’s grip on the lantern had grown so light, Neva was afraid he would drop it and set the room ablaze. “What is this?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “This,” she replied softly, sheathing her knife, “is a skinchanger.”

  “IT’S THE SAME PATTERN every time,” Neva explained once she’d reclaimed the necklace and coaxed Derek into the front of the storage room. “The body essentially goes to wax. At first, it feels cool to the touch. But after a week or so—faster, if I leave the shells on it—warmth returns, and a fresh guise takes hold. A few days later, the guise solidifies, the eyes open ... and I’m talking to a new person. They don’t remember who I am, how they got here, or much of anything else. Sometimes not even their name. But if you saw them on the street, you wouldn’t blink an eye. They’d look absolutely, unremarkably normal.”

  Derek watched as a herd of beetles disappeared into a hole in the wall.

  “That happens too,” she added. “The insects disperse—for a while at least. Until the next person is about to wake up. It’s handy, actually;
like a signal flare. When the bugs return, I know another guise is about to wake.”

  Derek considered a chair several centipedes had just vacated. He stayed standing. “How long?”

  Neva looked down at her hands. “Nine months. Since October.”

  “The day you disappeared?”

  “Yes.”

  Derek gestured toward the back area. “How many?”

  Neva pointed at the front wall, the center of which was marred by a set of tally marks scratched into its staff coating. “Sixteen now—seventeen, if you count Wiley.”

  Her brother digested this for a moment, obviously not wanting to ask the logical question ... and obviously being unable to hold it in. “And why would you count Wiley?” he said eventually.

  She told him (most of it).

  His face stiffened.

  She cried.

  “That seems a bit of a delayed reaction,” Derek noted, offering her his handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry.” Neva dabbed her eyes and passed the cloth back. “I’ve been sick, and this hasn’t been easy.”

  “And yet, you’ve managed to slit sixteen throats ... Seventeen, if you count Wiley.”

  “He was an accident, and so was the one after him; I hadn’t started binding the body yet when that guise woke. It was confused. Understandably, I suppose. She came at me so fast—I didn’t have a choice.”

  “But after that?”

  Neva sank into the chair her brother had been contemplating. “Yes, Derek, I had a choice every time after. Why do you think I chose as I did?”

  He turned his hands over, as if inviting her to deposit the answer in them.

  She needed to soften him first. “Why do you think I barricaded this room so no one would come in while the Fair was being dismantled? Why do you think I started binding the body as it regenerated? Regenerated, mind you, like some horrible lizard. Why do you think I watched over this thing for most of a year, alone in the shell of the White City, enduring hunger and cold, while taking a knife to each new guise to continue the cycle? Why, Derek? Because I enjoyed it? Do you really think me such a witch?”