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

to the Algerian and Tunisian Village and told Wahib she’d be expecting a visitor in the morning, her pillow had beckoned, and she’d been out within seconds of lying down.

“Coming,” she said. When she opened the door, she found that Derek hadn’t been the only one waiting for her to rouse: Wiley stood a step behind him.

Tension crackled between the men like flickers of Derek’s electricity. They must have exchanged words; her brother’s jaw was set, and the Boer’s arms were crossed. But while Derek only looked at her with concern, Wiley’s expression was ... uncertain.

As well it might be—she’d left his meeting in a bit of a state.

“You’re all right, then,” he said tentatively.

“More or less. Better than last night; I’m sorry about going like I did. The fever ... It just came on me so fast.”

“Did you go to the Hospital? I stepped out shortly after you did, but I couldn’t find you.”

Should she tell him about the Leather Apron encounter (in a way that left out the implausible bits)? But what could Wiley do against that whistling? And if he knew she’d been attacked, he might never leave her side again.

Of course, she’d promised to let him stay close. Would that be so bad?

“What happened?” asked Derek.

Perhaps a half-truth would suffice. “The brands,” she said, pointing to her rashes. “They made me ill again. And the Court of Honor was too crowded, so I wandered the Stockyards until I cooled down. Then I came back here to sleep.”

Wiley tugged one end of his mustache. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, but I wish you’d waited for me. Or left word about where you were going.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t well.”

Derek frowned but said only, “Do you still want to go north this morning?”

“Yes. It would be good to speak to Lucretia together.”

“Then we should hurry. Another train will be along momentarily.”

They arrived at the Terminal Station in time to catch an express. Few passengers were aboard this early; the three of them had their pick of seats. Derek sat next to Neva. Wiley chose a bench a few rows back.

“He said he’s been ordered not to let you out of his sight,” Derek noted quietly.

“I know. I’m sorry—I’m sure he’ll be civil.”

Her brother’s exhalation wasn’t loud enough to qualify as a scoff, but it was close. “I’ll settle for him waiting outside when we get to the house.”

“I’m sure he’ll do that as well.”

Derek glanced out the window as the train left the fairgrounds. “The fever—is it getting worse?”

“No.” Neva’s fingers slid over her cheeks, feeling the bug bites: almost healed. But she knew without peeling off her gloves that the rashes remained. No longer raw, but still purple and disfiguring. “The first bout was the worst. Brin said it gets better. Eventually.”

Speaking of the Irish anarchist ... “Wiley?” asked Neva, turning to face him. “How did the rest of the meeting go? I hope I didn’t disrupt things too badly.”

He glanced at Derek, a clear signal that only carefully picked words would be forthcoming. “Your monologue made an impression, but not everyone’s convinced. I’d like to reconvene tonight—if you’re feeling up to it.”

Translation: Quill still wanted to “emancipate” the damn Wheel. She doubted more argument would sway him. On the other hand, it would be good to talk to Brin. To warn her, if nothing else. “All right,” Neva decided. “I’ll come if I can.”

The train slowed for the next stop. A frilly woman started to board, saw Neva, and huffed. “Northern madness,” the woman announced in a Southern drawl. “Sharing railcars with Negroes.” She stepped back onto the platform, and the train pulled away.

Derek looked apologetically at Neva. She just shrugged.

He turned to Wiley. “So you believe there’s another killer out there?”

“Sadly.”

“And you think further involving Neva will help you catch him?”

With conspicuous casualness, Wiley rested his head on his hands and reclined on his bench. “She offered her help, and ja—I happen to think it might be of use. In the process, she’ll be far safer than she would on her own. Or with a Pullman designer, for that matter.”

Neva braced for another round of male stupidity.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, taking the bait. “How many people have died so far?”

Wiley sat up, but he wasn’t angry at Derek—the Boer was glaring at her. “Convince her to leave, then. That’s been the smart play all along: leave the Fair and get out of Chicago.”

She felt her eyes mirroring the heat in his. “And go where?”

“You worked for Barnum & Bailey, didn’t you? Get on with them again. A traveling circus might be the safest place for you right now.”

The idea had crossed her mind, but she wasn’t ready to quit. And she wasn’t sure she could go back there without Augie. “So you’d rather I was away?”

The words were calculated to wound, and they did: Wiley’s flinch was unmistakable. But he kept to his script. Perhaps he’d borrowed a page from Copeland. “Yes, I’d rather you were far from here. The Fair isn’t safe.”

Derek nodded. “You could come to Pullman Town. I have an extra room ... It’s not out of Chicago, but at least it’s away from the Fair.”

“You might as well send her to a plantation,” Wiley said before Neva could decline.

“Do you hear yourself?” asked Derek. “Mr. Pullman is operating at a loss to retain jobs through the downturn. He cares about his workers.”

“But he still cut wages, didn’t he? Without cutting rents? And once the Fair is over, and the orders for new cars to carry tourists dry up—what then?”

“Stop it,” Neva interrupted as Derek searched for a response. “Both of you. That’s not why we’re here.”

Wiley looked like he wanted to ask more about why they were here, but he let it go. So did Derek. After a wordless rest of the ride, they got off at the station closest to the Gold Coast.

The walk to the DeBells’ revitalized them: the neighborhood glistened with sun-sparkled dew, and the air blew briskly without