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

twice, hovering near the door to this storage room. Asked for you at the Algerian and Tunisian Village too.”

“Tell him I’m fine. You can trust him. He’s like us.”

Brin raised her eyebrows. “Well, then. I’ll seek him out when I have the chance.”

“Can you ask him about Mr. DeBell’s service? I don’t know what Mrs. DeBell’s been told, but she already thought he was dead ...”

“I’ll ask. You: rest.”

“I’ll try.”

Neva found she didn’t have to make much of an effort: once she was alone, exhaustion claimed her and dragged her into dark dreams again.

BUT FOR THE FIRST TIME since she’d been bitten, she saw more than just memories in her sleep—swirls of vivid images filled her mind, dizzying her thoughts with a kaleidoscope of people and places. Some she recognized; some she didn’t:

A dark-haired beauty grimaced at the mirror, brushed the cold sore above her lip, and smoothed the blemish away ...

A grizzled, one-legged man set his crutches on the side of a picturesque creek, pulled his sketchbook out, and drew the scene in perfect detail ...

An adolescent shouted in anger, toppled a tree as if it were nothing more than a broomstick, and broke into tears as the tree buried another boy and the girl he’d been kissing ...

A salesman shrugged at a prospect’s refusal, whistled, and grinned as the prospect changed his mind and reached for his wallet ...

An old woman fed her hair into a loom, teasing gossamer threads out of her head to weave a shimmering tapestry ...

A grubby toddler clapped her hands in delight, and the swirl of ants at her feet rippled like a wave ...

A boy flicked a spark from his finger ...

A second boy echoed a train’s screeching brakes ...

A girl bent her bones.

NEVA DIDN’T WAKE UNTIL the Machinery Hall went quiet.

Its thrums and bangs had helped her sleep after the dreams passed, and the clatter’s absence had called her back to consciousness—it must be late. Unless the surviving anarchists had dynamited the Wheel and caused the Fair to shut down early? But surely she would have heard the explosion. And even without a window to look out, she sensed it was well into the evening, probably eleven; regular closing time.

Had Brin and the rest failed, then? The storage room was empty, and the basket still where the Irishwoman had left it. No one looked to have visited since.

Neva touched her forehead: warm, but not terrible. Her fever seemed of the normal variety. That was concerning enough on its own—was her wound infected?—but she felt in control of herself. A quick peek outside would probably be manageable.

Her leg disagreed: she’d underestimated how much it would throb when she put weight on it.

Neva grimaced as she collapsed back in the blankets. She needed crutches or something similar. But the crates she could see into were filled with gears, bolts, and wires—nothing useful. Maybe she should wait.

Except something had happened; something had gone wrong. It was probably best if the anarchists had failed, but she didn’t want them to have been hurt or imprisoned. If she could just find a broomstick or even a spare board ...

Or her arms. She could use her arms.

The Barnum & Bailey Circus included a menagerie, and Neva had spent more than a few hours watching the chimpanzee walk on its knuckles, using his long arms to provide added support as he negotiated his pen. Could she mimic him? She probably couldn’t stretch her arms that far without tearing skin, but she could extend them a bit and truncate her legs a similar amount ... There.

The result must have looked grotesque: her bending over, putting most of her weight on elongated arms while her good leg steadied her in back and her bad leg dragged on a blanket. The awkward locomotion hurt too—there was no way to avoid a certain amount of agony—but it was feasible. She made it to the front of the storage room without falling

She couldn’t risk anyone seeing her like this in the main hall, though. So after she’d pulled herself up by the handle of the storage room’s door, she restored herself to normal proportions and opened the door, prepared to lean against the wall and limp out to the Court of Honor.

But Neva didn’t take the first step—a man was blocking the main entrance.

He hadn’t seen her yet; he was scanning the rest of the Hall, which was only dimly illuminated now that most of the lights had been shut off. But the Court’s still-blazing lamps backlit his profile, and his form seemed ... familiar.

“Derek?” she called uncertainly. It looked like him, but it was hard to tell from this distance.

“Neva?” the man called back. But not in Derek’s voice; this wasn’t her brother.

This was Wiley.

“You’re alive,” she breathed, finally taking that first step—and promptly stumbling as her leg buckled.

“Neva! Stay there! I’ll come to you!” He did so quickly, sprinting around the various exhibits that blocked the most direct path. When he reached her, he offered his shoulder to lean on. “Are you all right?”

She couldn’t believe how good he looked—and felt. “I’m well enough, but what about you? Your side ... Brin said you were dead.”

He glanced down at himself and shrugged. “That might explain why I woke in a casket.”

“What?” Neva pulled away enough that she could take him in. He seemed ... hale. But oddly dressed. He was out of uniform, clothed in an older style: his tweed jacket smacked of the previous generation’s sensibilities. Maybe they were the only fresh garments the hospital had on hand to bury him in? But how could they have mistaken him for a corpse? “Did you wake during the service?”

“Before it, I think. No one was in the backroom, so I just ... left.”

Gently, she put her hand over his side. Beneath his jacket, she could feel a heavy bandage wrapped around his chest. “How are you walking—running? How are you still here?”

His eyes clouded. “I don’t know.