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

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, matching the formal cordiality of Derek’s tone.

Lecta didn’t bother. “Bring her here to ‘swell your ranks,’ did you?”

Whitby glanced at the woman, his eyebrows crinkling. “What does that mean?” he asked in what seemed to be an attempt at a whisper, but—possibly due to drink; he looked a bit sodden—was almost a shout.

“It means,” Lecta said indignantly, “that our Derek here, he of the weekly ‘let in the coloreds’ rants, is thinking with a head other than the scruffy thing atop his neck.”

Whitby gave her another glance. “You mean his peter?”

She glared at him. Neva stifled a laugh.

Derek sighed. “You’re wrong in more ways than you know. But unless you have something of substance to discuss, we’ll leave you to whatever you came in here to do—without your spouses.”

The tired woman stiffened at this, but Whitby grinned. He seemed more than just a bit drunk now.

“Enjoy the day,” Derek said, tipping his hat as he strode past the pair.

Neva pantomimed a curtsy before following. “Well, that was pleasant,” she said once they were outside.

“Hardship brings out the worst in us all. Come on—let’s go visit the White City again.”

THEY MADE A DETOUR first.

Brin had insisted on staying in Pullman Town, but she’d offered to cover Derek’s rail fare (he’d said “lend”; she’d said “Just have it,” and given him extra). Then he and Neva had overshot the Fair at her direction, traveling up to 25th and State. The neighborhood was home primarily to Negro residents.

“This won’t take long,” Neva explained as she led Derek to one of the smallest houses on the block and knocked on the door. “But you need to see it first.”

Hatty answered a moment later, wearing a faded yellow dress that had been mended too many times to count. “Neva—and Derek! Come in, come in.” She embraced Neva, and after Derek tried to shake hands, embraced him too.

Inside, Hatty indicated they should sit on the two available surfaces: a rickety-looking chair and an even ricketier-looking bed. Yet despite the room’s closeness, everything was well-kept. The bed was trimly made, and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen. Neva would have been shocked to find Hatty’s house in any other condition.

“Please,” Derek said, gesturing for the old woman to take the chair.

She refused at first, but eventually compromised by sitting on the bed next to Neva while he took the chair. “So what brings you here, children?”

“To see you,” Neva said. “And to ask you about this again.” She withdrew the cowry shell necklace from her pocket.

Derek sat up straighter. “You still have it.”

“I do. And Hatty’s seen one like it.”

“Before the War,” she agreed. “A woman in the fields used to wear one. I don’t know anything more about it now, though, child.”

“That’s fine. I was hoping you could tell Derek what you told me. You’ll say it better than I can.”

Hatty shrugged. “If you’d like.” She leaned in to get a better look at the necklace. “Yes,” she said, as if speaking to herself for a moment. “It’s the same kind the woman wore. She was a saltwater girl. Couldn’t speak much English at first, so instead of talking, she just fiddled with her shells.”

Derek cocked his head. “Saltwater girl?”

“It means she was brought over the Atlantic after importing slaves was supposed to be illegal,” Neva supplied. “After Congress outlawed it in 1808.”

“Ah.”

“Other slaves looked down on her for it,” Hatty added. “Those of us whose families had been here longer. It wasn’t right—didn’t make any sense—but that’s the way it was. Mostly she turned the other cheek. But I heard her snap once, after Tobias, a nasty brute of a man, knocked her down. She said ...”

Neva put her hand on Hatty’s arm. “What did she say?”

“Something that sounded like a curse. Said it calmly. Held up her shells and pressed them together, two on either side, and told Tobias—and these are my words, you understand; I don’t recollect quite how she put it, and she was quite eloquent by then—she told him the shells were fashioned after a charm so powerful the family that made it killed each other trying to possess it. And that even her sad little imitation could cause a man to lose his teeth, his hair, his sight ... and his balls.” Hatty chuckled. “Nonsense, of course. But Tobias never bothered her again.”

“Where was she from?” asked Derek. “Before, I mean—in Africa.”

“Dahomey, I think.”

“And my mother?” asked Neva. “You said she was Fon too?”

“Her family was. That I know for sure. Nat’s was from Togo.”

Neva let this last bit go—now wasn’t the time to bring up the subject of her true father. “Thank you.” She turned to Derek, raising one eyebrow significantly.

“I see,” he said eventually.

She nodded. Hatty’s anecdote was as close to a confirmation as they were likely to get: that the cowry shells had a connection to Dahomey and “magic”—and maybe to their family. “I wish we could stay longer. But we need to be going.”

Hatty’s face fell. “So soon?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll come by again when I can. Maybe next week?”

“Any time, child, any time. I’ve lots of it these days.”

Derek winced. “You’re not at the DeBell’s?”

“No, child,” the old woman said sorrowfully as she stood to distribute another round of hugs. “Been laid off these past three months.”

DEREK INSISTED ON GIVING Hatty everything he could spare from the money Brin had insisted on giving him—he held back only enough to pay for rail fare to the Fair and then Pullman Town. Neva didn’t try to dissuade him. She remembered how kind Hatty had been to him when they were children, while all the DeBells (except their father) treated him like a mangy dog.

But that wasn’t the family history Neva wanted to discuss on the way back to the rail station. Her focus remained on the cowries.

“I’m still not sure what to think about that Fon woman’s claims