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

skinchanger was. That her months tending the body in its waxen state and various reconstitutions had imparted a familiar feeling to her. A feeling of helplessness in the face of sick aggression, a feeling she’d only felt so intensely once before—when that man at the circus raped her.

Augie had broken his neck, but if the man was indeed the skinchanger, repairing such an injury wouldn’t have been beyond him. Neither would killing Nora and stealing her form—the trapeze artist had been entrancing, exactly the sort of woman a brute would obsess over. And shortly before the rape, Hatty had visited the circus when it came through Gary, Indiana. If the brute already been on the prowl, perhaps he’d stolen a hair from the old woman in hopes of laying a trap. His presence at the Fair made sense too, if he’d been following them all this time.

Still, it was just a feeling, which ultimately amounted to even slimmer proof than she’d offered Derek so far. Even if it was a strong feeling.

“Whoever that is,” she said, pointing to the back, “it’s a terrible person, deserving of justice. We would better the world by giving it to him.”

Derek shook his head doubtfully, but a frantic knock on the door forestalled his response.

“Miss Neva?” asked Dob, his small, scared voice squeaking from the main hall. “Please, I know you come here sometimes. It’s my aunt. They took my aunt!”

Chapter Thirty

NEVA GAVE THE STORAGE room a quick appraisal. With the insects gone, nothing seemed particularly out of sorts in the front. But to be safe, she gestured for Derek to stand before the crate-lined passageway to the rear. Only once he was in place did she unlock the door.

It was hard to see Dob at first. His clothes—well on their way to becoming rags—had darkened from long use, and he’d turned his head to one side as if a stray sound had compelled his attention. Yet when the door’s hinges squeaked, he faced forward, and his eyes reflected the light of her lantern.

His teary, panicked eyes.

“Kam took my aunt,” the boy whispered as soon as he saw Neva. “My brothers went to get the Hobo King, but I don’t think he’ll help.” Dob took a step into the storage room; she put a hand on his shoulder and gently returned him to the Hall.

“I’ll help,” she soothed, beckoning for her brother to follow. “Dob, this is Derek, a friend of mine. He’ll help too.”

Derek nodded.

Neva mouthed, “Thank you,” to him and squeezed Dob’s shoulder. “We’ll help,” she reiterated. “Just tell us what happened.”

The boy swallowed. “My aunt came home late from cleaning, but it was all right because she had two loaves of bread. Two!” His stomach growled at the memory—or maybe at what came next. “Kam saw them and said he wanted one.”

Frowning, Neva motioned for Dob to continue while she positioned herself in front of the door to the storage room so he couldn’t see how she locked it.

“My aunt didn’t want to give up either loaf. So Kam took the bigger one—yanked it away. After he got a taste, he tossed it to one of his friends and said he wanted to try the other loaf. My aunt said no again, but he took it anyway.” Dob hesitated further.

Neva knelt beside him and took his hands.

“Kam said he wanted a taste of my aunt too,” the boy finished, his voice barely audible now.

Derek muttered something about “Rutting curs,” but the disgust in his voice hardly compared to the anger blistering Neva’s veins. The memory of that brute at the circus—and the possibility that he was responsible for the more-recent atrocities in her life—fired her outrage like kerosene poured over hot coals. But she had to stay calm, had to appear calm, for Dob.

At least for now.

“Where did he take her?” she asked in a measured tone.

“I think they went to the Wooded Island.”

“Then we’ll check there first. But you should go back to Manufactures’ promenade. We’ll bring your aunt there when we can. Get your cousins up there too if you see them.”

Dob’s lip trembled, but he bore up bravely. “Yes, Miss Neva ... Thank you.” He gave Derek another glance, then fled through Machinery’s main entrance.

Neva waited until he was out of sight before jogging after him. “Come on,” she called to her brother.

“You know this Kam?”

“Better than I’d like. Thought he was all talk, though.”

Derek spat to the side. “They are until they aren’t.”

Neva sped up at this, clearing the Machinery Hall at a near sprint and Administration at an actual one. She slowed at the end of Electricity and Mines, though, not wanting to cross the bridge to the Wooded Island without being able to hear what was happening ahead of her.

“I don’t remember saying anything about hostages,” a voice—Wherrit’s—boomed like a foghorn from the remnants of the Rose Garden. “Especially not taken from my flock.”

“Drastic times, I’m afraid,” Quill answered. Oh, Lord, it would be Quill.

“Perhaps,” Wherrit called back, “but drastic or otherwise, no situation requires the sort of measures you’ve taken. Let her go.”

“Not until you promise to join with the Pullman strikers.”

“So that’s what this is about: labor madness.”

Neva was close enough now to see Wherrit crack his knuckles in the moonlight. She’d left the path as she’d drawn near, and the foliage had grown unkempt since the Fair ended. But she could make out two Ignobles flanking the Hobo King: the Destitute Duke and the Princeling Pauper (known less pretentiously as Hal and Thaddeus).

Quill remained out of view. “Madness is standing aside on the eve of the great struggle of our age,” he ranted from wherever he was hiding.

“And what do you know of madness?”

Derek joined Neva in the underbrush in time to see Wherrit tap a scar atop his bald pate.

“The man from the Ferris Wheel,” her brother whispered. “Is that ...?”

“Yes,” Neva whispered back. “Hush. We need to find Mabel—Dob’s aunt.”

The Hobo King tapped his scar again. “What do