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

from Neva, what he’d gained was suddenly as obvious as it was crippling: from her, he’d acquired the power to transform. From her, he’d copied the ability to copy others. Not just by mimicking their voices, but by replicating their bodies. Because she wasn’t merely a bonebender.

She was a skinchanger.

Chapter Thirty-Five

NEVA SAGGED AGAINST Derek. Now he was supporting her instead of the other way around.

All her life, she’d been a skinchanger—the skinchanger. The original talent, realizing only a fraction of her potential. Bending her bones to make minor alterations when she could have changed everything, subconsciously adjusting her flesh to stretch and contract as required.

“You’re not some wax doll,” Augie had said, more than once. “Remember, if you’re not careful, you’ll tear a muscle, or bleed to death ... And what do you think they’ll do to you if you’re caught? Promise me, Neva. Not your skin. And only for emergencies.”

All those references to the trials at Salem; all the times he’d made her worry about branding herself a witch—about being a witch. How he must have laughed at her ignorance, her lack of imagination. How he must have enjoyed his secret knowledge once he’d made her fearful of expanding her own.

But she doubted he’d laugh now. Not if she could take the shape that seemed to haunt him most.

Neva straightened and stepped away from Derek. If it worked the same for her, then she had everything she needed inside her and Augie’s model to work from. That had been his advantage: knowing she could do something and having the experience to guess there might be more. If she’d had the same type of practice identifying a talent’s true limits ...

But she didn’t want that. Not ever. Focus.

She closed her eyes to better picture the form she had in mind, trying to recall every detail, every line of the soft eyes, strong cheekbones, and delicate ears. Attempting the dress was probably too much, but if the face came close ...

A tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Brin giving her a worried look.

“Neva?” the Irishwoman asked.

Neva glanced at her hands; still caramel. Damn. “It’s all right. Just give me a minute.”

She reached into her pocket to clutch the last cowry: her true teacher. Augie should have been the one to instruct her, to show her what was possible. But the shell and its brethren had been the ones to enable her, to help her ooze through a tiny hole, or sharpen her hands into weapons, or impersonate Arthur Johnson—her first true shapeshift. The necklace had done that ... And the insects’ venom; Augie had been responsible for that much.

What a brother she had.

Gritting her teeth, Neva let the shell’s invigorating (yet diminished) warmth spread through and loosen her. Now: should she start with the familiar—bending her bones? Except Augie’s version of the aspect had basically the same build as her, with similar facial structure. She could round her chin a little more, perhaps, and flatten her forehead a touch ... But how to change the tone of her skin and that of her eyes and hair? She didn’t have a catalog of traits inside her like Augie seemed to, no pages of options to rifle through until she found the ones that struck her fancy. If she was right, though—and she knew she was; she felt it keenly—she could do this. This was her skill, not his. She just had to relax.

And Neva could think of no better way to calm herself than dancing.

It had been months—nine, to be precise—since she’d last attempted anything approaching a shimmy, much less a Hagala walk. And she didn’t want to move like that now. This wasn’t about being sensual. She wanted to glide, to let her feet find their way without the weight of cares and conscience, to allow her arms to sway like willows in the wind.

And so, as flames claimed Hagenbeck’s Animal Show and a man stumbled into the Street in Cairo complex with his guts slithering forth from a bayonet wound, Neva blocked it all out and danced.

A step to the right and her hands lightened.

Two paces forward and her hair uncurled.

A spin to the left and her face whitened.

Two paces back and her eyes blurred, blued, and gentled.

Each transition hurt more than Neva had expected. She was used to the pain that came with bending her bones. But massaging her flesh, inverting her pigments—pure agony. Augie hadn’t betrayed the slightest hint of it while he’d flitted from one guise to the next. Maybe long practice had dulled the sensation. Or perhaps he was simply too mad to notice.

Well, he’d notice this. “Augie!” she yelled when she’d changed as much as she dared and stepped into the open. “Augie!” she yelled again, making sure the man on the Ferris Wheel heard her voice coming out of their sister’s lips.

His gaze tracked to her automatically, as anyone’s would when someone shouted, chaotic backdrop or not. But once he saw her, his mouth gaped.

It was Augie, all right.

“That’s him,” Neva said, turning to Brin and Derek, whose amazement confirmed her transformation as much as any mirror.

“Jaysus,” the Irishwoman breathed.

Neva tapped her ears. “Check your muffs.”

Despite his surprise, Derek did so immediately. Brin followed suit a second later. The handkerchief scraps likely weren’t as good as bone plugs, but they were better than nothing.

“I’m going up,” Neva said, jerking her thumb at the Ferris Wheel and then lowering two fingers at her companions. “Stay here.”

Brin shook her head. “Not likely.”

Neva pointed at Derek, who still shivered, despite all the running they’d done. “He’s too weak to climb. Watch him for me—please.”

He removed his arm from around Brin and made a show of standing on his own.

It was too slow.

Neva was sprinting by that point, vaulting the low wall girding the Wheel. After dashing to its base, she hopped atop the outer rim, gripped the ridge with bone-bent strength, and scrambled up.

She only made it ten feet before her arms felt