Witch in the White City
By Nick Wisseman
Cover art by Lorenz Hideyoshi Ruwwe
Typography by Rebecacovers
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
WITCH IN THE WHITE CITY
First edition. April 16, 2021.
Copyright © 2021 Nick Wisseman.
Written by Nick Wisseman.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Witch in the White City
Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Part II
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
The Red Wraith (Excerpt)
For Fable and Indi
While writing this story, I referred to a wonderfully detailed map of the Columbian Exposition. Unfortunately, that detail is too intricate to recreate here. For a digital version, see https://www.nickwisseman.com/worldsfairmap or search online for "Rand McNally & Co.’s New Indexed Miniature Guide Map of the World’s Columbian Exposition at Chicago, 1893."
Part I
Chicago: October 1893
Chapter One
ON THE THIRD BEAT, Neva bent her hip bones.
It was more than a shimmy, although she’d become as adept at the danse du ventre as the other belly dancers in the Algerian Theatre. No, Neva was manipulating her marrow, accentuating her curves by picturing a spring breeze persuading bamboo shoots to suppleness. The alteration hurt. It always hurt. She wasn’t made of rubber, and bones were still bones: they had to fracture before she could form them anew. But she barely noticed the pain. She was twenty-one now—almost twenty-two—and she’d been bending since childhood. It was a simple thing to enhance her movements without distorting them.
Simple and freeing.
“Colored trollop,” a female voice muttered to the left of the stage. The white women who came to the performances often made a show of disapproving. But the white men Neva could see in that morning’s audience were either grinning in anticipation or straining not to do so. And today’s first crowd was large. Not enough to fill the theatre’s 1,500 seats, but close to it. The last weeks of the Columbian Exposition—the World’s Fair to end all World’s Fairs—were drawing huge numbers to every exhibit as people scrambled from across the globe to make sure they didn’t miss the event of the century.
And every day, she dared them to go home disappointed.
“Wiggling whore!” snarled a matron in the fourth row as Neva slipped into a sequence of bouncing hip circles and rolled her head from side to side.
She smiled at the Southern sounding “lady.” Each customer in the theatre—be they man or woman—had come to the Algerian Dancers of Morocco expecting to see naked, jiggling flesh. And while Neva’s clothing was less revealing than the skimpy outfits Little Egypt gyrated beneath at the nearby Street in Cairo display, her jewel-toned skirt and veils weren’t exactly modest. But the matron in the fourth row had bought her ticket knowing full well she’d likely be exposed to “indecency.” Maybe she, like other protestors before her, felt her ten cents entitled her to make a scene out of principle. Neva didn’t mind. It just made her dance harder.
The price of admission didn’t cover whipping pennies at her, however.
“Dark temptress!” the matron hissed, her first coin hitting Neva squarely on her belly button—a surprisingly good shot. “Black beguiler!” The matron stood to launch her next missile, but Neva raised her head in time to see the second penny coming, catch it, and pocket it. She even incorporated the motion into a hip drop.
“Go back to Africa!” shrieked the matron, reaching for another coin. “Go back to the jungle and sully the White City no more!”
This time Neva hid her smile. The rest of the troupe was authentically Algerian, but she’d been born in Chicago. She was probably more American than this old biddy.
“Here, now!” called a bearded Columbian Guard, leaping from his seat to intercept the third penny. “Neva’s done you no harm. Let her finish what you’ve paid for her to do.”
She wasn’t surprised he knew her name. He’d timed his breaks to coincide with her performances for weeks now.
“What she’s doing is little better than prostitution!” the matron protested, scrabbling in her purse for more ammunition.
“And you paid her,” the guard noted again, eliciting chuckles from nearby audience members. Even in his ridiculous uniform—light-blue sackcloth, white gloves, and a yellow-lined black cape—he was handsome. And Neva liked his accent, whatever it was. Dutch, maybe?
But she didn’t give the time of day to men who stared at her.
He didn’t know that, though. “Sit down, madam,” he said to the matron in a low voice, “or I will escort you to an exhibit that better suits your refined sensibilities.”
“No need,” she huffed, turning to the elderly man on her left, who’d sunk several inches in his seat by this point. “Stanley, take me away from here. At once.”
Stanley sank another inch, then collected himself and stood to offer his arm, only a smidge of resignation evident on his face. “My dear.”
Much of the audience watched the pair until they left the theatre. But as soon as the door closed and the guard retook his seat, Neva signaled for Mohammed, her flutist, to blow faster into his bamboo reed pipe, and Islem, her percussionist, to accelerate the tempo he pounded on his goatskin drum. Once everyone’s eyes returned to her, she transitioned into an undulating flamenco shimmy, expanding and contracting her hips a hint with each beat.
“Scandalous,” whispered a middle-aged man to her left, his eyes rapt as he shifted in his seat—no doubt to ease his erection. Neva smirked at him. Which only made him shift again and her stifle a laugh. Later in the day, there would probably be another “proposition” for her to consider. She’d lost track of how many she’d turned down over the past six months.
Leaning back, she lowered her head to the height of her knees and let her arms rise and fall as if they were being buoyed by onrushing waves. More men murmured; another woman left. No matter. There were still plenty
