The guard approached, breathing easily despite his brisk jog; admission to the Columbian Guard was contingent on meeting strict physical requirements. A small pouch dangled from his right hand. “Neva, please hear me out.”
She tried not to look at the bag as tourists streamed around them.
“I know you’re hurt. I know you’re frightened—”
“She’s fine now,” Augie interrupted, letting go of Neva’s palm so he could put his arm around her shoulder.
The guard glanced at him. “You’re her brother?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should know she’s in terrible danger. Those marks on her hands ...” Despite the surrounding din, the guard lowered his voice. “People are dying with them.”
Neva couldn’t help herself: her eyes went to the pouch.
Augie snorted. “Come off it.”
“Five bodies in eight days. It’s no jest.”
“In the Fair?”
“On the grounds and in Chicago.”
Augie snorted again. “We’d have heard something.”
“Not likely. Director Burnham and Mayor Harrison want it kept as quiet as possible. I’m risking my post by telling you.”
“So we’re supposed to just take your word?”
Neva held her hand out toward the pouch. “May I see?”
The guard blinked. “Are you sure?”
“It’s proof, isn’t it?”
He hesitated, then offered her the pouch. “Just a peek. Don’t take it out.”
Neva nodded and opened the pouch in such a way that only she and Augie could glimpse what lay inside: the thumb, the four-fingered hand, and on the back of the hand, a rash in the form of two adjoined crescents.
Augie pulled back in shock. “Is that ...?”
“Part of the fifth victim,” the guard said flatly. “Or the fourth—neither was intact when we found them.”
“It was on the stage,” Neva whispered as she returned the pouch. “In the rafters.”
“Of course, this could also mean there’s a sixth victim. They’re coming fast.”
Augie blanched. “God in Heaven.”
The guard closed the pouch, then motioned to the Fair’s center. “We’ll have to search the theatre, but first I really must insist that you come to the main guard station in Administration. Commandant Rice is leading the investigation from there, and we can talk to him about what you saw and how to secure your safety.”
Neva opened her mouth to agree, but her stomach started throbbing.
“She’s not going alone,” Augie said as she pressed her hands to her belly. “I’m coming too.”
“Of course,” the guard replied.
“Let me just fetch my things.” He pointed at the Ferris Wheel—his bag of props still lay next to the line.
“Hurry,” Neva whispered, pressing harder against her navel.
Augie gave her a concerned look.
Grimacing, she lowered her hands so he could see the sickle shapes rising on either side of her belly button, the shapes she’d been trying in vain to keep down. “I need to go.”
The guard drew a breath in through his teeth; a passerby raised her eyebrows and hurried on.
Augie stared at the marks a second longer before darting towards the Ferris Wheel. “I’ll be right back,” he called over his shoulder.
Neva watched him until the guard doffed his cap, revealing a matted tangle of brown curls. “I’m Wiley.”
She studied him for a moment. He seemed decent enough, despite his many hours of staring at her. “Thank you, Wiley.”
“It’s nothing. Your English is excellent, by the way.”
“I’m not Algerian.”
“Ja? I thought—”
A scream preempted Wiley’s next question.
Neva turned in time to see a man faint to the ground as a woman—the screamer—tried to pull him away from something. They were near the line for the Ferris Wheel. Was it Augie?
No. As the crowd parted around the pair, it became clear they were reacting to a second swarm of crescent-marked insects, this one already dispersing. In their wake, the bugs left lines of ooze, a drizzle of blood, and a lonely prop bag.
Augie was gone.
Chapter Three
NEVA RUSHED TO THE still-shrieking woman, whose thin frame was draped in a blue dress. “What did you see?”
The woman stopped screaming and started whimpering. Her man lay unresponsive, mere inches from the remaining cluster of insects. The rest were burrowing, flying, or crawling away in all directions, causing the crowd to recoil in fascinated horror and murmur about the “shiny marks” on the pests’ backs, as if they were another exhibit.
“Ma’am, listen to me. Did you see a colored man about my height, dressed in a fashion similar to mine?” Neva looked at the crowd. “Did anyone? He was performing here not five minutes ago.”
No one said anything. The woman continued whimpering. Neva gripped her by the shoulders to give her a gentle shake.
Only then did anyone respond.
“Here, now!” someone called.
“Did that Negress just accost her?” someone else asked.
“Move along please, everyone,” Wiley ordered as he strode to Neva’s side. “The Columbian Guard will handle this.”
No one budged, except for a lanky fellow wearing a stylish hat. “Sergeant?” he asked, stepping forward.
Wiley nodded to him. “Slashing timing, Private Pierce. Can you see to the gawkers?”
Pierce tipped his hat, took out a badge, and started ushering tourists toward the Moorish Palace, recommending its hall of mirrors and “hideously life-like” wax museum.
“Plainclothesman,” Wiley explained to Neva. “Part of the Fair’s Secret Service.” He turned to the white woman. “My apologies for the misunderstanding, but Neva here was bitten by pests such as those.” He motioned at the ground, where a few cockroaches and ants lingered. “She’s worried her brother was similarly beset.”
The woman regarded Wiley, the wildness receding from her eyes. Then she lurched forward and began stomping the last insects. Not until they were all dead or fled did she drawl a response to Neva’s initial question. “I saw no Negro. Just vermin flooding over my Abram.”
Wiley considered the man. “Did they bite him?”
The woman knelt next to her husband and ran her hands over his exposed skin. “It doesn’t appear so ...” She rose and tapped her cheekbones, where the puncture marks on Neva were particularly thick. “They seem to enjoy muddier blood. You’ll deal with her impudence?”
Wiley coughed but said only, “We’re on our way to the central guard station now. I’m sorry about the fright.”
The woman gave him a nod of thanks, shot a searing
