by Peter David
“Excellent, my dear! Ever so excellent!” chortled Fagin. As he weighed next to nothing, it took him almost no time at all to slide his body through the opening.
The Artful Dodger stepped back to provide him room, and even as he did so, his mind was racing in confusion. “How are you not dead? They said you was dead!”
“And I was told that you were transported to Australia. Yet here we both are,” Fagin said easily.
“But how did you know I was here?” said Dodger. “After all this time . . . .”
“Ah, but what is time to beings such as you and I?” Fagin said. “We moves through time at our own pace, and let the rest of the world keep up. That’s the way I see it, at any rate. Do you see it that way? Course ya do! Give us a hug, then!” To Dodger’s surprise and considerable lack of comfort, Fagin then threw his arms around him and drew the youth to him. Dodger did not fight the embrace, but some part of him felt he should. “Here now, let me take a look at ye! Bedad, but it’s good to see you, boy! You’ve grown, I swear ye have!”
“Well, it has been a few years, and blokes my age tend to do that,” Dodger said carefully. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was being cautious. Perhaps his common sense was belatedly trying to get through to him. “But what are you doin’ here?”
“Why, I come to see you, of course.”
“And how did ya know I was goin’ to be here?” he asked again.
“Got me sources, I do. Now,” he said, glancing around the room, “where’s the princess?”
“The who?”
“The young woman you’ve been accompanyin’. Don’t’cha know who she is?”
The Artful stared at him uncomprehendingly. “I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”
It was at that particularly ill-timed moment that Bram Van Helsing woke up from his slumber. It is hard to say precisely what awoke him: some random noise, perhaps, or maybe a sense that jeopardy had entered the room and was waiting for him.
Whatever the reason, awake he did. He did not do so gradually, but instead all at once, as if he had been jabbed with a needle. He immediately blinked the vestiges of sleep from his eyes, and his gaze settled upon the newly arrived individual who was standing next to Dodger. Sensing the boy’s sudden wakefulness, Fagin turned and looked straight at him.
Bram took one look at him and let out a startled yelp. Before either Fagin or Dodger could respond, Bram backed up so quickly that he banged into the small bunk upon which he had been lying. Even as he fought to right himself, his hand sought the recesses of his pocket, and seconds later a crucifix was dangling on a chain from his hand.
Dodger gaped at him as if he were out of his mind. “What’s this about, then?” was all he could think to say.
In response, Bram pointed straight at Fagin. “Are you allies with this vampyre? Have I misjudged you?”
“Vampyre? Where?” He actually had to turn and see that Bram was indicating Fagin. “Bram, Fagin may be many things—a Jew, a thief, any number of things that no reasonable person would want any part of—but a vampyre? Why would ya think that?”
“Yes, boy,” said Fagin as he slowly approached Bram, his near toothless mouth spread into a wide smile. “Why in the world would you think such things of me? I admit I may not be much to look at, but a creature of myth and legend?”
“Stay where you are!” Bram was frantically and determinedly searching through his jacket pocket.
“Now, now,” Fagin said soothingly. “Certainly we can come to terms on—”
And then to Dodger’s astonishment, Fagin threw up his arms defensively and let out a roar combined with an infuriated hissing sound, as if someone had just stepped upon a snake. Dodger stepped back in confusion, trying to determine what had elicited so strident a reaction.
With a glance, he saw that a Mogen David, a Jewish star, was now in Bram’s hand. Several other religious icons were there as well, all dangling from the same chain, but it was the star that was foremost. “A cross will have no impact on him,” said Bram, never coming close to displaying any manner of passion. “But the Jewish star that he once worshipped is another matter entirely. Isn’t that right?”
He advanced upon Fagin, and Fagin backed up, still snarling and spitting. Dodger looked on in utter astonishment. For the first few moments, it was too much shock for Dodger to process. It was understandable. He was already having trouble adjusting to the notion that Fagin was alive at all, and now to have his very humanity questioned . . . it was all too much.
And yet the evidence was clear in front of him. Van Helsing advanced on Fagin, and Fagin could do nothing but back up, helpless in the presence of the religious icon.
For a moment, Dodger’s mind went out of his present situation. Instead, for no reason that he could at first discern, his thoughts flew back to a time that seemed an age ago: the death of his mother. Her demise at the hands of that strange creature of a man and the way that all the blood had been drained from her body and, most significantly at that moment, the manner in which Fagin just so happened to be there at the moment of her demise.
He had always simply accepted that as the way things were. Fagin’s presence had been a simple coincidence, nothing more. But if Bram was correct, if Fagin was indeed a creature of the night . . . .
The Artful stepped backward, his legs trembling. Fagin quickly pulled himself together, having backed far enough from the Mogen David to remove the impact it was having on him. “Dodger,” he said, “my lovely boy . . . what is this youngster goin’ on about? A vampyre? Certainly you cannot . . . .”
“Keep back!” Dodger shouted. He continued backward, distancing himself from Fagin until he was standing next to Bram. “It all makes sense! My senseless life finally makes sense! You were involved with me mum’s death!”
“My dear boy . . .”
“Stop calling me that! I’m right! I know I’m right!”
Fagin appeared inclined to continue to defend his innocence, but then something within him seemed to change. It was as if he had suddenly decided that pretending to be human was simply a game that he was no longer interested in playing. He smiled and his fangs appeared, seeming to lengthen. “Your mother,” he said simply, “was killed by me brother. Not an actual brother, ya understand, but one who was as close to me as any true brother of blood could hope to have been. He wanted you as well, ye know. But I stopped him. I did that for you because I saw the possibilities within you. So perhaps you might consider lookin’ at me with something other than revulsion and bein’ aware of just which side your bread is buttered on. Savvy?”
“Are you saying I should be . . . what? Grateful to you?”
“You might want to be considerin’ it, aye.”
“You were ’sponsible for me mum’s death, and I’m supposed to be grateful?”
“Not responsible! Lord God, boy, could ye overstate things in any greater of a nature?” He gave an impatient wave. “Ya know what? I see no reason to keep discussin’ this. I have concerns of a more immediate nature.”
With that abrupt comment, Fagin simply turned away from Dodger, his greatcoat swirling around him, and headed out of the room.
Dodger and Bram exchanged confused looks, and then Bram cried out, “After him!”
Dodger was momentarily paralyzed by the events and revelations that had just been handed him. But Bram was already out the door, so he physically shook it off and sprinted after Fagin.
Fagin was striding down the hallway, his arms swinging back and forth casually as if he were on a stroll down the middle of a London street. From behind him, Dodger shouted, “Stop, you monster!”
“Cannot. Have things to do.”
“I said stop!” The Artful grabbed his arm in a pointless endeavor to try and turn Fagin around to face him.
Fagin raised his arm, hauling the struggling Dodger off his feet. “You are becoming somethin
g of a pain, boy. And I have neither the time nor the patience for it.”
With that comment, he swept his arm with ease, causing the Artful to lose his grip and fly through the air, crashing into a far wall and crumpling to the ground.
Just as that happened, the Mother Abbess stepped into view. She virtually shook with outrage when she saw the manner in which Fagin had just disposed of Dodger. “What is happening here!” she demanded. “How dare you! Leave here at once!”
Fagin paused, seemingly considering it. “There would have been a time,” he said finally, “when I would have traded words with ye. But I’m on a schedule and that time has long passed.”
He took two quick steps forward, grabbed the Mother Abbess by the head, and quickly twisted. Dodger cried out as he heard the snap of her neck from where he was seated. Fagin did not bother to drain her blood, but simply released her, allowing her lifeless body to fall to the ground.
The Artful sat there, stunned at what he had just witnessed. It was as if the world were spinning out of control. Fagin, apparently having forgotten what he had just done, kept on walking. As he disappeared around the far end of the hallway, Bram suddenly appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, at Dodger’s shoulder. “We have to go. Now,” he said firmly.
“No. We have to stop Fagin . . .”
“We can’t. He’s almost to the front door, and there can be only one reason for that.”
“He’s leaving?”
“No. He’s going to invite other vampyres in. And once he does, they’re going to tear through here, and anything living won’t be when they’re done.”
The Artful managed to process this, and then he said, “Drina! We have to find Drina. Where did they put her?”
“We’ll find her. Come along.”
Fagin, meantime, had arrived at the great front door of the abbey. Along the way, he had made a point of pulling down any religious iconography from the walls, breaking those artifacts effortlessly. There was a large but simple lock barring the entrance, but Fagin removed the block of wood from its place with ease, tossing it aside to let it clatter to the floor. He yanked the doors both open, and they swung wide on their hinges. The creaking was like a rifle shot in the stillness.
“Come in,” he called out into the darkness. “All within sound of my voice—I invite you in.”
There were small glowing orbs in the darkness, and then they came forward as one. They were the eyes of the vampyres, glowing yellow or red, depending upon the vampyre’s particular persuasion. There was audible snickering and guffawing from them as they approached, and moments later the front hallway was crowded with undead bodies looking around in curiosity. There was a large cross upon the wall that Fagin had missed, and several of the vampyres flinched back, hissing angrily.
“Ignore ’em,” said Fagin, and reaching up, he grabbed the cross firmly and pulled it from the wall. With an indifferent heave, he tossed it aside. “These aren’t the rays of the sun that burns us whether we like it or not. These are purely the subjects of our heads, is what they are. They hurt you only if you give them the ability to do so. Now”—and his voice dropped to low amusement—“find the girl. If you see the boys, capture or dispose of them. Either way. Do what ye will—it makes no difference to me.”
The Artful and Bram were quickly making their way down the seemingly endless hallway that they had come upon. Several of the sisters were emerging from their cells, wearing their nightclothes. It struck Dodger that at that moment, they didn’t seem like nuns at all. That indeed they were nothing more than scared and confused women. They demanded explanations from the two lads as to what was transpiring, but Bram’s explanation—“We are under attack by vampyres”—hardly did anything to assuage their concerns or even answer their questions. Instead, they did what you would likely do: They expressed immediate disbelief and demanded that the boys stop playing games with them.
“This is no game,” said Dodger. “A monster has already slain the Mother Abbess and I have no doubt the rest of you are—”
At that moment, one of the nuns cried out in alarm. The boys whirled and saw a cluster of vampyres at the far end of the hallway. Their eyes blazed red, and when they drew back their lips, their fangs were quite easy to see.
The nuns let out a collective shriek. The boys were mixed in with the group, and thus the vampyres did not initially see them. So it was that the boys sprinted away from the crowd of women, continuing down the corridor, their arms pumping furiously. Behind them, the terrified screams were transformed into agonies of pain, and the boys could actually hear the flesh being rent from their throats as the vampyres descended upon them en masse.
We’re abandoning them. We’re leaving them to the non-mercies of the vampyres. The truth of this reality hammered through Dodger, and all he could think of was his helplessness in the face of his mother’s death so long ago. He had sworn when he grew up that he would never turn away from a woman being killed again, and yet now he was doing exactly that. Guilt rather than sweat seeped through his pores, but even as it did, he knew he had no choice. There were dozens of vampyres and only one of him (two, counting Bram). If he went back to fight on the nuns’ behalf, he would assuredly die, and Drina would wind up dead as well. He had no choice but to run, and yet the lack of choice choked him.
The boys kept running, shouting Drina’s name. There was no response. She might well have been on a different floor, and so they started up the nearest steps. They sprinted quickly and reached the upper floor.
Two vampyres were waiting for them.
Not “waiting,” per se. It wasn’t as if they were standing there prepared for the boys to show up. They were simply there, with blood-streaked lips, and their red eyes widened when they saw Dodger and Bram.
Bram immediately held up his crucifix and his Mogen David, playing it safe. The vampyres flinched back, but then one of them stubbornly moved forward as if fighting through the power that the cross wielded upon him. With a roar, he grabbed Dodger by the front of his shirt and started pulling the lad toward him.
The Artful fought back desperately. Bram shouted his name, and the vampyre and boy struggled back and forth, each striving for leverage—and the vampyre was winning. Dodger cried out, feeling himself being drawn toward the bloody fangs of the monster before him, and he had all but given up hope when suddenly Bram was there at Dodger’s side. He jammed the crucifix directly into the vampyre’s face, against his skin. There was a loud burning sound and a hissing, and the vampyre let out an agonized shriek. The stench of his breath washed over Dodger, and it was all the lad could do not to pass out. He needn’t have worried about that, though, because the vampyre turned and flung Dodger as hard as he could.
The Artful braced himself, prepared to slam up against a wall. In this he was disappointed. There was no wall; instead, there was a wide window that overlooked nothing. Darkness yawned before him, and he cried out, arms waving frantically, as he plummeted.
He was fully prepared to hit ground and was thus rather astounded when he hit a tree instead. The branches seemed to reach out to him and grab him as if the tree were filled with living thought, which was, of course, just an imagining of his fevered brain. He crashed into the branches that, rather than support him, snapped rapidly at the impact. He continued to fall but was thrown about considerably, which served to lessen his velocity, so that was a help. Moments later he struck the ground, shaking every bone in his body. He lay there, gasping heavily, scarcely able to catch his breath.
It was then that he truly thought he’d pass out.
That was, until he heard afresh screams and shrieks from within the abbey. “Drina,” he whispered, for that was his greatest concern, but he was also worried about the nuns. They had never done anything save support him and give him a place to live, and so naturally he was anxious for their welfare. But he knew in his heart that there was nothing left for him to worry about. There
was no doubt in his mind that they were dead or dying. There were too many vampyres for anyone to deter. They were unleashing their bloodlust upon the helpless women, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He wanted to get up. He wanted to rush into the fray and battle back against them. In his mind’s eye, he was a fully capable warrior, rising to the challenge, throwing himself into the war against them and triumphing over them, even though they outnumbered him at least twenty to one.
Whatever his dream, though, that was all it was.
In the reality in which he was anchored, Dodger allowed terror to wash over him. He drew his legs up, wrapped his arms around them, and lay there at the base of the tree, shaking uncontrollably. He heard every scream and simply lay there, helpless, overwhelmed by what he had learned and the evil that had been part of his life for so long, all without him knowing.
Fagin, the man who had been a substitute father to him—a teacher, a mentor—was part of some evil cadre of mythic characters and was partly responsible for the death of Dodger’s mother. It was almost more than the boy could reasonably process. Not surprising, really. How would you fare, dear reader, after learning and seeing such things? As easy as it is to sit in harsh judgment upon Dodger’s less than heroic actions, it seems fairly safe to say that you yourself would scarcely have done better.
Eventually the incessant screaming dwindled off. The nuns were dead. All of them. It was remotely possible that a few or perhaps only one or two of them might have found somewhere to hide that was beyond the vampyres’ ability to find. The Artful doubted it, however. To his mind, they were all dead. All of them. Even Bram and Drina, for certainly they had been seeking her in order to kill her. Why else?
