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

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 muted 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.

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