Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1) Nick Wisseman (best management books of all time txt) 📖

of her right hand together and formed their tips into a pointed cone that would bore through her attacker’s throat like a wasp’s stinger so she could drink his—

He had sickle shapes on his right forearm.

The sleeve had torn away during the fight, revealing the dark purple crescents—he’d 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 steadiness—just 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 owner’s repeated question of “Who’s to pay for this?” Mag and her boys were gone. So was the man she’d thrown through the window. Neva’s combatant lay slumped against the wall he’d rammed her into. Someone—Ink?—must have knocked him out. His face looked a mess, but his throat remained whole. She hadn’t killed him.

She’d come close, though—and contemplated worse. Yet she’d stopped short, wresting control of her emotions away from the insects’ terrible venom ... Just as Brin had said she could. And while doing so had brought on another round of chills, they weren’t as bad as the arctic cold she’d suffered in the Machinery Hall’s storage room. Did that mean she was getting better?

It didn’t feel like it.

Ink put a hand on Neva’s 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? She’d never weaponized herself like that before—hadn’t realized she could. Not to that degree, and not with so much intent.

The venom ... Was it changing her?

Ink couldn’t 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 didn’t have any answers, she knew someone who might.

It was time to have another chat with the Irish anarchist.

“COLORED GIRL,” BRIN said by way of greeting when Neva cornered her near an extravagant oil painting in the Palace of Fine Arts. “I thought I told you to leave the Fair.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything more to say.”

“There is for me. I’m sorry, for one thing—sorry about attacking you. If I hadn’t been bitten ...”

“Not your fault. Are we done?”

Neva shook her head. “I need to ask you some questions. About Kesiah Nelkin.”

Brin stiffened so visibly she could have doubled as one of the palace’s Greek statues. “Not here,” she said after a moment. “I need to finish closing up. But our restaurant stays open for another hour. Meet me there at half past.”

Neva murmured her thanks and went to get a table. Even this late—it had been almost eleven when she made it back to the Fair—the restaurant was full. But an older couple vacated their seats just as she started to contemplate sitting on the Palace’s 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.

“What’s this about Kezzie?” asked Brin a few minutes later. She’d waited to approach until she caught Neva’s 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. “Please—I won’t attack you. I can control it now. And sitting with a ‘colored girl’ won’t hurt you.”

Brin snorted and considered the bruises Gaffney’s floors had dealt to Neva’s forehead. “I take it I’m not the first person you’ve asked about her,” she said eventually, pulling the chair out.

“I spoke with Ink Jacobs earlier today. In the Levee.”

“Ah.” Brin glanced around the restaurant, but the other customers seemed engrossed in their food and drink. “And did that change your impression of me?”

Neva shrugged. “It’s not my place to care about that. But I do need to know what happened to Kesiah.”

Brin returned her gaze to the other customers.

“No!” shouted Neva. “You answer me!”

Along with half the restaurant, Brin looked at Neva.

She lowered her voice, but it still felt like she was yelling. “I nearly killed you last night, and I almost killed someone else today. I watched my brother—my brother—dismember a man on the pier, and he may have done the same to five other people—”

“Not Kezzie.”

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 she’d come to listen, not rant.

Brin began with a question. “The porter was your brother?”

Neva nodded.

“I’m sorry. He didn’t kill Kezzie, though.” Brin fussed with her place setting, rearranging the silverware in various layouts. “Two weeks ago, I brought Kezzie to the Fair. She was so excited; it was her first visit. She’d never found the time before, and I was worried she never would.” Brin started folding her napkin into an intricate pattern. “We spent the day wandering the grounds. Kezzie loved it all, but the theatorium struck her dumb.”

“The orchestra?”

It was Brin’s turn to nod. “Playing live from New York; that just floored Kezzie. Hearing music a thousand miles away through a box ... I’d never seen her smile so big—not while being so quiet.” She flashed a smile of her own. But it was only an echo, small and fleeting. “The insects found us when we went back to the Midway.”

Neva winced sympathetically. “They bit me in the Algerian Theatre—while I was dancing.”

“We were at the ice railway.