Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1) by Nick Wisseman (popular books to read .TXT) š
- Author: Nick Wisseman
Book online Ā«Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1) by Nick Wisseman (popular books to read .TXT) šĀ». Author Nick Wisseman
He had sickle shapes on his right forearm.
The sleeve had torn away during the fight, revealing the dark purple crescentsāheād had them for several days, then. Long enough to poison his blood with violence and rage.
The same rage she had to walk back now. Bit by bit, flicker by flicker. Trading the fire in her veins for ice, one crystal at a time. Calm. She had to be calm. No bone blades. No finishing blows. Just steadinessājust Neva. She had to be Neva. She had to come back to herself ...
When she did, she found that the brawl had burned itself out: the saloon was quiet except for the groans of wounded men and the ownerās repeated question of āWhoās to pay for this?ā Mag and her boys were gone. So was the man sheād thrown through the window. Nevaās combatant lay slumped against the wall heād rammed her into. SomeoneāInk?āmust have knocked him out. His face looked a mess, but his throat remained whole. She hadnāt killed him.
Sheād come close, thoughāand contemplated worse. Yet sheād stopped short, wresting control of her emotions away from the insectsā terrible venom ... Just as Brin had said she could. And while doing so had brought on another round of chills, they werenāt as bad as the arctic cold sheād suffered in the Machinery Hallās storage room. Did that mean she was getting better?
It didnāt feel like it.
Ink put a hand on Nevaās shoulder, and she reached up to lace her fingers through his, her hand normally shaped again. Had anyone noticed its transformations? And where had those blades come from? Sheād never weaponized herself like that beforeāhadnāt realized she could. Not to that degree, and not with so much intent.
The venom ... Was it changing her?
Ink couldnāt tell her, but it was a blessing to have him there, to be able to lean into his solid, reassuring form. But only for a moment. Because while he didnāt have any answers, she knew someone who might.
It was time to have another chat with the Irish anarchist.
āCOLORED GIRL,ā BRIN said by way of greeting when Neva cornered her near an extravagant oil painting in the Palace of Fine Arts. āI thought I told you to leave the Fair.ā
āI need to talk to you.ā
āIām not sure thereās anything more to say.ā
āThere is for me. Iām sorry, for one thingāsorry about attacking you. If I hadnāt been bitten ...ā
āNot your fault. Are we done?ā
Neva shook her head. āI need to ask you some questions. About Kesiah Nelkin.ā
Brin stiffened so visibly she could have doubled as one of the palaceās Greek statues. āNot here,ā she said after a moment. āI need to finish closing up. But our restaurant stays open for another hour. Meet me there at half past.ā
Neva murmured her thanks and went to get a table. Even this lateāit had been almost eleven when she made it back to the Fairāthe restaurant was full. But an older couple vacated their seats just as she started to contemplate sitting on the Palaceās front steps instead. The view there would have been better: the south side of the building bordered the North Pond, and gondolas lit by Chinese lanterns slipped eloquently through the water. Reading the menu made her realize how famished she was, though, and she ordered food enough for three when the waiter came by.
āWhatās this about Kezzie?ā asked Brin a few minutes later. Sheād waited to approach until she caught Nevaās eye, no doubt to avoid surprising her. Upon reaching the table, the Irishwoman stayed standing and rested her arms on the back of the empty chair.
Neva gestured at it. āPleaseāI wonāt attack you. I can control it now. And sitting with a ācolored girlā wonāt hurt you.ā
Brin snorted and considered the bruises Gaffneyās floors had dealt to Nevaās forehead. āI take it Iām not the first person youāve asked about her,ā she said eventually, pulling the chair out.
āI spoke with Ink Jacobs earlier today. In the Levee.ā
āAh.ā Brin glanced around the restaurant, but the other customers seemed engrossed in their food and drink. āAnd did that change your impression of me?ā
Neva shrugged. āItās not my place to care about that. But I do need to know what happened to Kesiah.ā
Brin returned her gaze to the other customers.
āNo!ā shouted Neva. āYou answer me!ā
Along with half the restaurant, Brin looked at Neva.
She lowered her voice, but it still felt like she was yelling. āI nearly killed you last night, and I almost killed someone else today. I watched my brotherāmy brotherādismember a man on the pier, and he may have done the same to five other peopleāā
āNot Kezzie.ā
With an effort, Neva dammed her flood of words. Not easily: she could feel them lapping at the back of her throat, eager to spill out. But sheād come to listen, not rant.
Brin began with a question. āThe porter was your brother?ā
Neva nodded.
āIām sorry. He didnāt kill Kezzie, though.ā Brin fussed with her place setting, rearranging the silverware in various layouts. āTwo weeks ago, I brought Kezzie to the Fair. She was so excited; it was her first visit. Sheād never found the time before, and I was worried she never would.ā Brin started folding her napkin into an intricate pattern. āWe spent the day wandering the grounds. Kezzie loved it all, but the theatorium struck her dumb.ā
āThe orchestra?ā
It was Brinās turn to nod. āPlaying live from New York; that just floored Kezzie. Hearing music a thousand miles away through a box ... Iād never seen her smile so bigānot while being so quiet.ā She flashed a smile of her own. But it was only an echo, small and fleeting. āThe insects found us when we went back to the Midway.ā
Neva winced sympathetically. āThey bit me in the Algerian Theatreāwhile I was dancing.ā
āWe were at the ice railway.
Comments (0)