Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1) by Nick Wisseman (popular books to read .TXT) 📗

The anxiety came in waves. Why did the cowry shells keep calling to her? Had the necklace truly been made by a “twisted” Fon clan? Was it wrong to use them? Distracting herself by dreading the coming meeting with the anarchists was almost a relief. But there was little she could do to avoid remembering that somewhere out in the Fair was a man who could bend her to his will simply by pursing his lips.

Thank God Wiley stayed close.

He couldn’t protect her, of course. No one could. But he gave her space when she needed it, trailing at enough distance to preserve her privacy. And when the crowds became especially dense, he took her arm and cut a path, like an icebreaker in the Arctic. It wasn’t an altogether bad feeling to have his fingers tight on her—had it really been a few days since she’d last noticed how handsome he was?

Neva noticed again when Wiley finally brought her to the Machinery Hall and Brin let them inside the storage room.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said, his finely wrought features adorably stern. “Need to check in at the Administration Building. Stay here, please.”

“And where else would I go?” She smiled to distinguish her teasing from sarcasm.

“I’m afraid to speculate.” He smiled back, no doubt happy to see her mood lightening.

But it was only a mask, one she let fall as soon as Wiley shut the door behind him. “I saw the killer,” she said to Brin. “Or at least, someone who’s been primed to kill.” Neva quickly related her encounter with the Leather Apron lookalike, hurrying to get the tale out before the other anarchists arrived.

“Was he controlling the insects?”

“Not in a way I could see, but they came when he was close and followed when he went.”

Brin leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. She appeared to have recovered from whatever had ailed her earlier (the fever?). “Think we could trap him?”

“You weren’t listening. I was all but helpless against his whistling. I told you this as a warning, not a challenge.”

“But if there were two of us, and one of us stayed out of sight with muffs on her ears ...”

“Dynamiting the Ferris Wheel isn’t enough excitement for you?”

“Ah, but that’s not happening until Monday. I’d like something to tide me over through tomorrow’s tedium.”

Someone rapped the night’s code on the other side of the door, and Brin stood to let them in—Roland, Pieter, and Quill. So much for speaking privately.

“You’re feeling better, I trust?” asked Pieter as he entered. He looked first at Neva, who nodded, and then at Brin. “I heard you called off sick today. They gave you leave for that?”

She nodded too. “Just this once. It felt like the mother of all hangovers, but I didn’t have a drop yesterday. I’m able enough now.”

Neva frowned and ran her right forefinger over her left glove, lightly pressuring the rash beneath.

Brin shrugged—she didn’t think it was the fever, then, but she hadn’t ruled it out.

“She here to speechify some more?” asked Roland, gesturing at Neva.

“She is,” Neva answered, pointing back at him. “If he’s here to listen.”

“He ain’t, so he might as well leave.”

“Sit down,” Quill called out.

“And stop being a bran-faced bastard,” Pieter added.

Roland turned and snorted. “Just ‘cause Wiley thinks he’s found another Zulu jampot don’t mean we can trust her. She may not have been a plant for the Pinkertons before, but what’s stoppin’ her from going to them now?”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Brin said.

Roland’s meaty fingers started twitching as if they wanted to ball into fists. “You willing to take the chance?”

“You have to,” Neva cut in, thinking fast. “I left an envelope with a friend. He’ll see it’s delivered if I don’t check in regularly.”

This gave the others pause.

“You see that?” asked Roland after a moment. “Blackmail, from a black bitch.”

She grit her teeth but made no other visible reaction. “I’d just like to take a step back and talk about the larger goals here,” she began, only to be interrupted by an urgent rapping on the door.

Brin let Wiley in and closed the door again, shutting off the worst of the Machinery Hall’s pounding and clanking.

“Neva,” he said. “You need to come with me.” He seemed completely oblivious to the tension in the room ... and alarmingly sympathetic.

“Why? What’s happened?”

He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Neva ...”

She was the opposite of reassured. “Just tell me.”

“Edward’s alive.”

She reached up to clasp Wiley’s hand, but as she made contact, he pulled away—why wasn’t this good news?

“He turned himself in at the Guard Station an hour ago.”

“What?”

Wiley cast around the room as if seeking help, but Pieter, Quill, and Roland looked befuddled, and Brin merely nodded for him to get on with it. “He confessed,” Wiley said at last.

Why was he dragging this out? “To what, Wiley? What did he confess to?”

The Boer threw his arms up helplessly. “I’m sorry, Neva. Edward confessed to being Leather Apron.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

IN A LESS TERRIBLE context, the Administration Building might have looked like a parody of a dance hall. Uniformed men—Columbian Guards, Pinkertons, and a few Chicago Police—were shuffling and sidestepping around each other in their haste to get in and out of every door. But nothing about the scene struck Neva as particularly funny, even when a policeman and a Pinkerton collided, lost their balance, and collapsed in a heap.

“I need to speak to Mr. DeBell,” she insisted again as Wiley returned to her. He’d gone back inside to obtain further updates; she’d waited impatiently with Brin by the Columbian Fountain.

Wiley shook his head. “Copeland’s questioning him, and then Bonfield and Commandant Rice want their turns. After that, he’s likely to be transferred to a proper jail—although it sounds like the police are in a bit of a pissing match with Bonfield over when and where that’s to happen.”

“Can you get a message to him at least? Tell him