Artful: A Novel

by Peter David

  He let out a high-pitched shriek and there, before the eyes of the stunned youngsters in the coach—although in actuality only two sets of eyes were stunned, whereas the third set knew all too well what it was looking upon—the body began to desiccate as if a thousand years of existence were passing within a few scant seconds. His burning red eyes receded entirely into his head, leaving nothing but blackened sockets; his gums peeled back, and his fangs fell out; the flesh upon his head shriveled and revealed the skull beneath, and then that burned away as if being consumed from the inside out. With a final low, mournful howl, their pursuer fell away from the cab, hitting the ground as nothing more than a sack of clothing with some bones within.

  The youngsters barely had time to adjust to what they had witnessed before the hansom cab jolted to a halt. They were thrown about, Dodger slamming into Drina and apologizing profusely for doing so. They jumped then, startled, crying out as another dark form appeared at the door, but this time it was the driver who was shouting, “What the bloody hell ’ave you lot gotten me drug into!”

  “Here now! There’s a lady present!” the Artful said. “No need for such language!”

  The driver stared at them, stupefied, and then the young man who had stabbed Dodger’s cane into their attacker said with supreme calm, “There shouldn’t be any more attackers. At least, not for now. All will be well. But we’d be advised to gain some distance until we can plan our next move.” He fixed a stare upon his companions. “Are you beginning to believe more in vampyres now?”

  “It would seem problematic not to,” admitted Drina. “But who are you?”

  “Abraham. Abraham Van Helsing. My friends call me Bram. We need to find my father; he’ll know what to do.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” said Bram in obvious frustration. “We were staying in some inn somewhere, but I don’t remember the town name.”

  “How can you not remember?” asked Drina.

  A tad defensive, he said, “They all sound alike to me. Something ending in ‘shire,’ I think.”

  “Well, that narrows it down to a few dozen or a hundred, perhaps,” said the Artful drily.

  The driver was becoming increasingly impatient. “Look, you lot! Either give me a destination so I can be quit of you, or get the hell out of my cab!”

  “We . . . we need to go to the police, or the magistrates, or someone—” began Drina.

  Bram shook his head vigorously. “No. It’s what I said before, what my father said: We can’t trust anyone like that. We’ll find ourselves right back in the hands of the vampyres if we do.”

  “Never did trust coppers,” Dodger muttered. His mind racing, he said, “I know a place. I wound up there once, years ago. The women there took care of me.”

  “The women?” Drina inquired with an arched eyebrow.

  Dodger was confused from the sound of her voice at first, but then he understood and would have laughed were the situation not so serious. “Nuns. It’s an abbey. They’re good women and true. I may not trust chokers farther’n I can toss ’em, but I’d stake my life to those nuns. It’s a distance from here . . .”

  “Distance is exactly what we need,” said Bram.

  “All right then.” He turned to the driver. “We need to go to Purfleet.”

  “Purfleet? In Essex?”

  “Unless they moved it to Liverpool, aye.” The Artful removed his purse and jingled it, the coins within making an impressive noise. “It’ll be worth your while.”

  The driver, embracing the notion to focus on more rational and natural pursuits such as making money, nodded, touched the brim of his hat, and climbed upon the coach to his seat. Moments later the hansom cab was in motion once more, although with far less of a mad headlong rush than before.

  Drina looked as if her head were spinning. “You seem so . . . so calm, Bram,” she said. “I can scarcely conceive of the reality of that which you take as a matter of course.”

  Bram shrugged and then, as if it meant nothing to him, turned to Dodger and said, “Are you sure this place you’re taking us to will be secure?”

  “Absolutely,” said the Artful Dodger as the hansom cab headed toward the outskirts of London. “If there’s one place that will never have nothin’ to do with vampyres or any matter of monsters, it’s Carfax Abbey.”

  EIGHT

  IN WHICH IS PROVIDED AS MUCH BACKGROUND ABOUT FAGIN AS IS REQUIRED TO UNDERSTAND SUBSEQUENT EVENTS

  Let us now shift our attention many decades and at least one century prior to the beginnings of our story, to an orphanage in central London, a place that was then—if it were even possible—a worse place to reside in than it was during the bulk of this narrative . . . and considering the level of wretchedness that we have been discussing thus far, you can certainly appreciate the degree of awfulness that was standard day-to-day existence for the poor, pathetic refugees therein.

  The Black Plague, which had sent so many to a premature death, was itself in its death throes. One of the places that had been sorely decimated by the plague was a particular orphanage in one of the seedier London suburbs, and it is at that orphanage that we focus on two young men who wound up coming of age in that foul place.

  One of them was named Joseph, and the other, Reuben. Joseph was the taller as well as the planner, the schemer, the individual with a sense of destiny that far exceeded his particular station in life. He was a muscular lad, was Joseph, and the other lads tended to steer clear of him after the several occasions when he had had the opportunity to display his considerable physical prowess. Indeed, Joseph had come to acquire the nickname of the Magistrate, for he was often asked to adjudicate over matters of dispute amongst the orphans—mostly because he had the strength of body and mind to enforce his rulings.

  Reuben, by contrast, with red hair and furrowed brow, had no respect from anyone. He tended to think it was because he was a Jew and thus a pariah by definition, but truth to tell, even had he been the most devout of Christians, he still would have acquired the disdain of others in the same way that a pond acquires scum, because religion or race would not have altered his fundamental personality, which was more akin to that of a weasel than a man.

  Yet none harassed him, for although he was not Joseph’s brother by blood, he was nevertheless like unto a brother in every other way. They had arrived in the orphanage the very same day, many years earlier, and Reuben had been a small, scrawny boy that the others were drawn to abuse. Joseph had witnessed this behavior and found himself deeply and morally offended by it, and thus had taken a strong hand in Reuben’s defense. Reuben had wound up returning the favor, for though he may have been pathetic at presenting any sort of physical challenge, he was second to none in his ability to spy upon others and overhear that which would have been better left unknown. Consequently, he had learned of a plot to retaliate against Joseph in his slumber and was thus able to warn his savior, enabling Joseph to thoroughly punish the miscreants and save himself some inconvenience and embarrassment. Thus had a bond been formed between the lads: one the stronger, the other his good right hand—or left hand, if you will, because there was always a touch of the sinister about him.

  Neither of them knew anything of their parentage other than fleeting memories of mothers and fathers that, as they aged, were gradually beaten out of them through the miserable conditions of their personal circumstances. Eventually, they were of an age that they both sickened of the environment and so took it upon themselves to liberate themselves from their place of residence. Their departure aroused no reaction from anyone in any position of authority, save to make note of the fact that there would now be two less mouths to feed. The remaining boys, of whom there were quite a few, breathed a collective sigh of relief over the departure of the local enforcer of justice. Granted, there was some sorrow that their reviled whipping boy had likewise left the premises, because they would dearly ha
ve loved the opportunity to give him what-for had his protector ever had cause to leave him behind. But they settled for finding another youth to beat into submission and were content.

  As Joseph and Reuben grew to manhood, they became adept at various schemes and such contrivances as were necessary for them to survive. Self-taught they were, and learned to be light fingered and quick footed. Thus did they wander the whole of Europe, developing unsavory skills and exploring unsavory lands.

  It was during these wanderings that they also learned to appreciate each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Joseph continued to be the stronger of the two, and Reuben continued to need his protection, so that suited the both of them perfectly.

  And then they arrived in Romania, and matters took a decided turn for the worse.

  By this point, they were both in their twenty-first year and had become—amongst other things—extraordinary thieves. Reuben had a remarkable knack for picking up languages, and during their time in the land of the Romany he had picked up a sufficient bit of their language to converse, albeit haltingly, with various of the villagers. Thus did they learn of a near-legendary castle, high upon a hill, set off by itself, that was reputed to be populated by “nothing save ghosts,” as it was described to Reuben. And the castle was said to be rife with splendid artwork, artifacts, and valuables that had remained untouched all this time by the villagers, who were staggeringly superstitious. Joseph and Reuben, by contrast, were civilized men—or as civilized as homeless thieves could be—who knew better than to be at all concerned about such ridiculous notions as ghosts.

  Consequently, they boldly entered the castle during the light of day, finding the great doors unlocked. They were amazed by the splendor they encountered therein, with such ornate furniture and objects ranging from the grand, such as centerpieces, to the small, such as candlesticks. And there was money in vast amounts, sitting in drawers or cabinets, ripe for the taking; money of various denominations, from countries that they recognized and many that they did not. Naturally they were purely interested in that which was easily transportable, but that did not deter them from taking in the whole of the castle, from top to bottom. Everywhere save for the cellar, the door to which was locked and inaccessible, but they did not care, for there was more than enough to interest them in the upper floors.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon gathering all that they could, stuffing their pockets, the sacks that they had brought with them, even their hats.

  And then, as the sun set, they prepared to take their leave, and they were walking past the door that led downstairs, when suddenly they heard a loud click that echoed violently through the vast cathedral of the main room. They froze in their tracks when they should have by rights scampered, but that was how startled they were, and they remained with their feet anchored much in the same way that prey is prompted to stand stock-still upon hearing the roar of a lion.

  The door that led downstairs swung open, and a cadaverous man emerged from the depths of blackness.

  “You have entered freely and of your own will,” said he, “but you will not depart that way.”

  And then, with a speed and strength that would have seemed more suitable to a wolf than a man, he was across the room and upon Joseph in less time than is required to describe it. Reuben emitted a high-pitched shriek, and Joseph reached out to him, screaming for succor, for aid, but Reuben would have none of it. He dropped everything he had upon him that would have slowed him, and he bolted from the castle, Joseph’s screams resounding in his ears.

  Reuben ran, and kept running, and it seemed to him that he did not cease fleeing until near to the sun’s rising, at which point he collapsed and fell into a stupor of sleep. He slept much of the day and then, once rested, he kept on going, stealing food where he could, snatching rest whenever possible, but in short determined to put as much distance between himself and that Godforsaken castle as humanly possible.

  It was on the third day of his travels, late one night, that Joseph overtook him.

  Reuben was moving through a thick forest, and suddenly there was a cracking of branches from overhead, and he thought at first that a great beast was descending upon him. As it so happened, he was right, but he had not expected it to be of the two-legged variety.

  He gasped in shock as a dark form landed squarely in front of him and then slowly stood, uncoiling like a serpent. He saw red eyes glowering in the darkness and could scarcely conceive that they belonged to his erstwhile companion. “Joseph?” he whispered.

  “Did you regret, even for a moment, abandoning me?” asked Joseph.

  “A-a-abandoning you? Nay, you do me ill, my brother! I was . . . I was seeking help, yes, I was. Seeking help with which I would return so as to—”

  Joseph grabbed him by the front of his coat and snarled in his face, “You dare lie to me? To me? Ingrate! Traitor! I should tear your miserable life from your throat!”

  “Please, Joseph, no! You know that I have wanted nothing in my life save to be just like you! To emulate you in every way! If I had a moment of weakness, attribute it only to my human frailty, and condemn me not!”

  “You wish to be like me, do you?” There was an awful smile upon Joseph’s face when he said that, which, if Reuben had had more presence of mind, he would have noticed. “Just like me?”

  “Yes! Just like you!”

  And if, with his actions, Reuben had doomed himself, it was with his words that he provided his final condemnation. For Joseph sank his newly grown fangs deep into Reuben’s throat, and Reuben let out a scream.

  Thus did he join his brother in death and in the eternal life that followed it.

  Now . . .

  Here is what you must understand about vampyres.

  It is believed by some that they are immortal, and by human standards, that is so. But they also continue to age, for nothing is forever, and the human body certainly no more exempt from that rule than anything else.

  So it was that Joseph and Reuben did not remain perpetually men in their early twenties.

  As the years passed, they aged. They did so far more slowly than if they had remained mortal, but older they did become. And over time, they aged into the individuals that we have come to know them as in this narrative, and we shall proceed to spell matters out in further detail.

  NINE

  IN WHICH IS CONTINUED A RELUCTANT BUT NECESSARY FOCUS ON FAGIN

  Having presented Fagin’s sullied distant past, we now turn to a more recent past, and in short order his present, so that his future will become clear, and so we turn our attentions to Fagin’s having been summarily shunted away from London at the behest of Mr. Fang, and to his current activities, as they will be extremely germane to the history that is being recounted in the pages of this volume.

  Upon his departure, Fagin endeavored to convince himself that he was enthused about the prospects that were before him. That excitement dwindled in short order, however, for all that Fagin could dwell upon was the life that he was leaving behind, rather than anything that he might be accomplishing in the future. What will become of my beauties? he asked himself, for he was more of a father to the boys who thieved for him than any of their actual fathers had ever been, and thus felt righteous in his concern for them. He had not yet fully learned of the dismantling of his old gang, or perhaps learned and simply refused to believe it, which amounted to much the same thing.

  Taking Mr. Fang’s advice, which had been less advice than it was a direct order, Fagin had left London behind and sought his fortune in the outlying regions and later up into the wilds of Scotland. Ultimately, he had decided that the horse and carriage were too much trouble to maintain, plus they had a tendency to attract notice wherever he went, and Fagin was not one for attracting notice if it could be helped. So he sold both horse and carriage for a tidy sum and made his way on foot. He traveled exclusively at night, which was natural enough, conside
ring his vampyric status, and was quite adept at finding somewhere to take refuge during the daylight hours.

  Wherever he went, however, he found it difficult to set down roots, for every place that he encountered seemed nothing more than a pale reflection of London. Never did he feel comfortable, nor did the suspicion with which he was regarded help significantly.

  He had known a life of thievery for so long that he actually endeavored to try more legitimate endeavors for a time. He had a knack for tailoring and stitching, born from so many years of meticulously removing monograms from snatched handkerchiefs. He would set up a makeshift shop in the midst of busy markets and attempt to garner business, but people would steer clear of him. It was difficult to blame them, really. The fact that he was a Jew was off-putting to some of the less enlightened, but it did not help that he was only open for business during daylight hours when the sky was overcast and forbidding, and even then he would tend to stick to the shadows. Dressed in black, with a broad-brimmed hat, and hunched over like a great vulture, his was not a figure that encouraged a great deal of patronage. Yet though we can see him from the outside looking in, Fagin did not discern the same viewpoint from the inside looking out, and so it was that as more time passed, the more foul and darksome his mood became. He did not attribute his poor business to logical reasons, but instead to such motives as unreasoning hatred for the circumstances of his birth.

  For much of the time, it was directed toward the rest of the world, but that only aggravated his inability to earn a living. It really didn’t matter what part of England he was in, or Scotland, because geography and topography and accents might vary from place to place, but no matter where he went, no one who was not a criminal desired to do business with a glowering, black-clad man in the shadows.