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

“No.” Brin gave her a fierce look. “Witches seek out dark knowledge; we’re born with a gift. Being what you were made to be isn’t witchcraft.”

“Unless it’s a curse.”

“Stop it. Don’t go believing every bible thumper you hear. We are what we do. Now, setting insects on people and driving them to attack each other—that’s witchcraft.”

“Of course.” Neva could have argued the other side; she’d done it in her head often enough. But she let it pass. “The Pinkertons think it might be the White Chapel Club.”

“That ghouls’ gathering?”

“The same. Something about them using ‘strange chemistry’ to rile up the insects.”

Their waiter came by to take a last call. Brin waved him off and asked for the check—which, Neva was relieved to see, the Irishwoman seemed willing to contribute to. After things were settled, she stood and motioned for Neva to do the same. “Let’s go.

“Where?”

“To the White Chapel Club.”

Neva’s feet ached, her heels remembering the miles they’d already walked that day. “It’s midnight.”

“The perfect time for a colored girl and an Irish lass to meet lads pining for Leather Apron.” Brin gestured again for her to follow. “Were you really going to sleep?”

She imagined lying down and allowing her body to forget everything she’d put it through the past two days: the stiffness in her back after fighting the little man in the Levee, the pain of the rashes as they erupted on the Midway, the heat of the fire on Cold Storage ... And she knew that, no matter how deeply she slept, she’d see all the associated images in her dreams.

He hit the rubble, his spine—

No. There would be no resting tonight.

“All right,” she said to the woman who’d choked her into unconsciousness the evening before. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Fourteen

EVEN AFTER MIDNIGHT, the trains ran steadily, transporting thousands of Fairgoers to and from the grounds. Neva coughed up the fare for a downtown ride, hating the expense but knowing that walking that far—after already making most of the trek earlier in the day—might wreck her. And while the White City was safe enough in the early morning, the Black City’s streets were another story.

No one hassled her and Brin, though. Not during the long train ride, and not when they disembarked and walked to an unlit alley off La Salle, where Brin had heard the White Chapel Club was supposed to be.

“Looks like you were right,” Neva whispered once her eyes adjusted to the moonlight. At the end of the alley stood a heavy oak door decorated with iron scrollwork and a stained-glass pane featuring a skull and crossbones.

Brin snorted as she took in the door. “Subtle lads, these ones.”

No light came through the glass, but Neva put her ear to the door to listen anyway—nothing. She tried the door. “It’s locked.”

Brin placed her hand on the mechanism, closed her eyes ...

And Neva’s rashes started to throb.

Her hands twitched too, one clenching and one clawing. But she fought the fever down, mentally packing her veins with ice again, leaving no room for rage—just cool, and calm, and control ... It worked. Barely, but it worked.

A moment later, the lock clicked.

“It’s open,” Brin confirmed.

“Warn me next time?”

“Right. Sorry.”

The door swung in with a suitably hideous creak, opening on a warren of shapes and shadows.

“Jaysus,” Brin murmured. “It’s like a haunted house.” She lit a match.

“You’re sure that’s wise?”

“I’d rather risk a glow than be stumbling about in this.”

They still couldn’t see much, but after a bit of groping, Neva located a tap for one of the gas jets. She turned it and reached under the lampshade to light the flow—which, once burning, revealed the shade to be a human skull with glass eyes.

“Very subtle,” Brin said.

The rest of the fixtures were also wall-mounted skulls. Lighting a few more provided enough illumination to examine the table, a horseshoe-shaped piece set with pipes and upturned brainpans filled with tobacco.

“Who would come to a place like this to relax?” breathed Neva as they began searching the room.

“Men,” Brin muttered. “Only men. Be quick.”

But there was little of significance to find—just more macabre trinkets, most designed to facilitate relatively innocuous vices: bone dice for gambling, skull cups for drinking, skeletal hands for serving spoons ... The only “strange chemistry” in evidence was the noxious-smelling beer filling the bar’s keg to the brim.

Neva covered her nose and gestured at the ceiling. “Upstairs?”

The room above was smaller and even more fetishized. Skulls served as lampshades again, but the walls were further adorned with a vicious assortment of weapons: knives, nooses, and pistols, all with captions that described whom the implements had been used to kill and how. Blood-stained Indian blankets and before-and-after pictures of beheaded Chinese pirates rounded out the collection. In the center of the room sat a coffin—which, based on the surrounding chairs' position—presumably served as another table. In the corner crouched a life-size, hooded mannequin with arms crossed and a blade jutting from either hand. A small card labeled him “White Chapel President.”

“That must be ole’ Jack,” Brin observed.

“Charming.” Neva tried to open the coffin, failed, and waved her over.

“I heard the club’s members are mostly reporters,” Brin said while unshaping the lock. “Which makes sense, being that we’re in Newsboys’ Alley. They probably stop in for a quick pint during the day.”

Neva nodded but didn’t say anything. She was too busy tamping down the resurgence of fever set off by Brin’s use of her talent.

“I suppose they cover a dark world. Maybe this place helps them make light of it.” She removed her hand from the lock and motioned for help shifting the lid.

Neva threw her weight against it and grunted. The exertion helped. “So you don’t think they’re killers?”

Brin shook her head and heaved. The lid skidded open. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to meet any of them, but ... It’s all a mite blatant. Maybe this will tell us.” She bent to pick up the leatherbound book lying at the bottom of the