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

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