Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1), Nick Wisseman [best novels for students .TXT] 📗

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?

Or was Derek more than he seemed?

“We’re going down now,” he said again to Wherrit, who emitted a ragged sob as the car finally began to descend.

Derek maintained his pose for the several minutes it took the Wheel to complete its revolution. The other men who’d tried to restrain Wherrit watched him warily, but none of them looked eager to move closer than they needed to—they already had plenty of his blood on their suits. The big man continued crying in relief, even laughing a bit when his female companion came to him and took his hand.

“Fuck me sideways,” the attendant muttered as they hit the Wheel’s nadir, the loading platform stretching out invitingly to either side.

“What is it?” asked Neva in a low tone, still watching Derek.

“I don’t think Kyle understood my signal.”

“Who’s Kyle?”

“The operator. We’re going up again.”

Wherrit noticed immediately. As soon as the Wheel resumed climbing, he knocked Derek’s fingers away and sprang at the door again, only to slip on a shard of glass and cut himself on several more when he fell to the floor.

“Stop the Wheel!” yelled Derek.

The attendant hurried to help re-subdue Wherrit. “I can’t. We always do two full rotations.”

“Then let him jump,” one of the other men suggested—the car had only risen fifteen feet above the platform. He released Wherrit, who used the opportunity to throw off the other hands on him and make for the first window he’d shattered. But glass and his blood were everywhere now, and he slipped twice more as the Wheel continued to turn. By the time he reached the window, they’d ascended at least another ten feet.

Rescuing Wherrit yet again, Derek yanked the big man’s shoulder back just before he would have leapt to the ground. “It’s too far!”

“Hold him!” the attendant hissed at the other men when they approached; Wherrit was somehow more manic than before and twice as bloody.

Derek hooked his foot around a bench leg. “How long?”

“A full rotation takes nine minutes.”

He winced. The other men were just as tired: Wherrit eventually broke loose as the car crested the Wheel’s apex again.

But Neva was ready.

Stepping forth from the back of the car—where the rest of the passengers cowered—she whipped her skirt off and tossed it over the big man’s head as he passed. Blindness calmed him even faster than Derek’s fingers had: Wherrit froze in midstride and fell to the floor. Kneeling next to him, she whispered little nothings into his shrouded ears, heedless of her bare legs and the purple rashes visible upon them.

Chapter Eleven

“HOW DID YOU KNOW IT would work?” asked Derek, looking away as Neva wrapped a blue coat around her waist.

She hid her smile. She’d been half-clothed for more than a quarter of an hour, but suddenly it was awkward to watch her cover herself? “He was scared because he could see how high we were, and how much higher we were going to be. So I made it all go away.”

Derek glanced at her, brow furrowed.

“It’s what they do with the ostriches.”

“At that restaurant on the Midway?”

She nodded. “Veiling their heads calms them. And Wherrit was panicked as a bird ...”

Derek laughed. It wasn’t an easy laugh, but at least laughing was possible now, with the harrowing ride over and Wherrit on his way to the Exposition Hospital.

Those who’d grappled with him looked a mess, though. Wherrit’s blood had ruined much of their clothing. Neva’s dress was soaked, and Derek had been unable to offer her his badly stained jacket in good conscience—which was why she’d accepted a coat from a grateful passenger who’d stayed out of the fray. The improvised skirt hid the rashes on her thighs but left the marks on her shins and calves exposed.

Derek’s gaze strayed to her legs again. “Do they hurt?”

She returned the scrutiny. There didn’t seem to be any recognition in his expression. Sympathy and concern, yes. But no empathy—he didn’t know any more about the rashes than what she’d told him. “Not much since the swelling started to go down. Just a twinge now and again.”

“That’s good.” He turned as one of the men who’d helped them in the carriage said farewell. Everyone was leaving the Wheel—its gates had been closed, shut for the first time since construction finished. But a mostly colored custodial crew was already cleaning the blood and glass from the damaged car, while a mostly white maintenance gang waited impatiently to begin repairs. The cash cow of the Fair wouldn’t stay idle for long.

“When you touched Wherrit’s temples,” Neva said after Derek finished wishing the other man good fortune, “calming him with your fingertips—that was almost magical.”

He winced. “Just pressure points, is all.”

She cocked her head.

“A technique I read about. It’s from the Orient.”

“And what technique would that be?” asked a thin custodian, taking the words from Neva’s mouth. But then, Quill had often been able to anticipate her replies.

“Mr. Cole,” Derek said in surprise as their former teacher stuffed a bloody rag in his pocket and removed his gray cap.

“It’s good to see you again, Derek,” Quill replied. “And to hear you saved a man’s