Artful: A Novel

by Peter David

  Drina was gone.

  Seeing what Dodger was seeing, or more correctly not seeing, Quinn hauled back on the reins, bringing the animal to a skidding halt. Dodger, who had been hanging out the door, leaped out and hit the ground. He strode ahead of the horse, trying to get a better view. When he continued to see no sign of Drina, he looked toward the trees and even behind them to see if she had slipped to the rear somehow. There was no point to his doing so. He saw no sign of her. Drina had disappeared into the evening air.

  In frustration, Dodger slammed his fist against the coach. “I don’t believe it! I don’t bloody believe it!”

  “Where did she get to?” said Quinn.

  “I don’t know! If I knew, I would tell you to bring us there straightaway, now wouldn’t I?” He turned and saw that Bram had emerged from the coach. Furious, he pointed a trembling finger at the younger boy. “This is all your fault! You told her we should kill her! How could you expect her t’be stayin’ with us when you say things like that!”

  “It didn’t matter if I said it or not,” said Bram. “She was going to realize it sooner or later.”

  His impassive, calmly logical voice infuriated Dodger. The Artful grabbed Bram by the shirtfront, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him against the coach. The coach rocked from the impact. Bram gasped, his eyes widening—not in fear, but in surprise.

  “Stop that!” shouted Quinn. He had leaped off his seat, and now the man was shoving his way between Dodger and Bram. With a grunt, he wedged his arms in between the boys and pushed Dodger back. Dodger stumbled and fell, hitting the ground hard. When he got back to his feet, he did it slowly and with a low, pained grunt. “We won’t be havin’ none of that!” Quinn said. “Do ye hear me?”

  Dodger didn’t respond. He knew his sleeves were dirty from the ground, but he couldn’t bring himself to dust himself off. It was like admitting some sort of weakness.

  “I said, do ye hear me?” Quinn demanded in a louder voice.

  “I hear ya, all right?” The Artful folded his arms and glared at Bram. “But it’s still your fault that she took off. How are we supposed to kill the vampyre what did ’er? We have no bloody idea who it is!”

  “It was the vampyre in charge,” said Bram.

  “How the hell do ya know that?”

  “Because I know how the hierarchy works. I know who does what. That was the future queen of England.”

  “Her?” said a stunned Quinn.

  Bram ignored him. “She’s way high up on the human food chain. Very high up. When someone makes you into a vampyre, the newly made vampyre winds up having to answer to whoever made him or her. That gives the maker a good deal of control over that vampyre. If you’re making an English princess into a vampyre, that’s going to be the job of whoever’s in charge. All the vampyres would understand that, and no one would dare step in and take her for himself. That could cost him his life. No vampyre would take the risk. So it definitely had to be the head vampyre in London.”

  “And who would that be?” asked Dodger.

  Bram ran his fingers through his hair, frowning. “There was one that my father talked about. Not to me. He rarely spoke to me about such things. But he spoke to some other chaps about this top vampyre. It was a code name.”

  “What was the code name?”

  “Mr. Fang,” said Bram.

  Dodger stared at him. “Are you jesting with me?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Why do you say it was a code name?”

  “Well, it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it? I mean, a vampyre wouldn’t really go by the name of Mr. Fang, would he?”

  “He would if that’s his name.”

  “What?”

  “I know Mr. Fang. I even know where he is.”

  Bram immediately stood straight up. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure. Everyone in my line of work knows Mr. Fang. A magistrate, he is. Rules on the fates of hundreds like me. And he’s a vampyre, eh?”

  “My father seemed pretty sure, and he’s rarely wrong in such instances.”

  “Makes sense,” the Artful said, more to himself than Bram. He looked at the boy and Quinn. “Then we go after him.”

  “How do we find him?”

  The Artful smiled grimly. “I told you: I know where he is. That won’t be a problem at all, gettin’ in t’see ’im. Gettin’ out is what’s gonna be the problem.”

  THIRTEEN

  IN WHICH DRINA BRIEFLY RETURNS TO OLD HAUNTS AND WRESTLES WITH TEMPTATIONS

  Drina had no idea when she ceased running; all she knew was that she had fled the coach that had been transporting her and that she had kept running, and it should be noted that running in this case was an utterly new experience for her because, as the princess, she had never been expected to run anywhere for anything and in fact had been discouraged from doing so on the rare instances that she had felt the need to move with any sort of alacrity, as it was deemed that such a desire for speed was inappropriate for a future ruler.

  She had never fled so far, so fast, and so quickly. Yet her barefooted legs seemed to eat up the distance as if it were nothing. It was so subjective to her that it literally seemed thus: One moment, she was in the midst of the swamp where the hospital was situated; the next moment, the streets of London, miles away from where she had been, had claimed her.

  She did the only thing she could think of: She continued to run. She dashed through the streets, ignoring the puzzled and confused looks of people she sprinted past. She darted left, then right, then left, and then down an alleyway purely at random. Moments later she found herself at a dead end, where a building several stories high stretched upward, defying her forward egress.

  “’Ere now!” It was a voice from the far end of the alleyway. She spun and saw that a puzzled policeman was standing there, staring at her in confusion. He had his black club out and was gently tapping it against his palm. “Young lady! C’mon out here, please!”

  Alexandrina Victoria hadn’t the slightest interest in presenting herself to the police officer. She looked up the side of the building, saw the lacing of uneven brick, and a pipe that could provide additional purchase. It was all the handholds that she required. She took a few steps back and then bolted for the building. She leaped upward, and that spring alone took her ten feet into the air. She heard the police officer cry out in alarm and startlement, and it gave her a brief sensation of triumph. She landed on the drainpipe that ran upward and sank her fingers into it. For half a second, her grip was uncertain, but then she solidified the hold she had and held firm. She started to scramble up the side of the building, ignoring the pleas of the police officer to return to the ground.

  She was aware of the faint, rapid beating of her heart. She wondered how that was possible. Was she not already dead? Obviously not. But she was also far more than human. What was she then?

  What am I?

  The words ran through her head, and once upon a time they would have been terrifying to her. Now, however, there was no fear in her thoughts at all. Instead, she found that she was excited about dwelling upon the prospects of her new state of being. That alone was enough to sound a distant trill of warning deep within her mind, but she did not dwell upon it.

  Her experience with Dodger was rapidly fading from her mind. Bram was already forgotten. All that was mattering to her were the new and endless possibilities that lay before her. The night was calling to her, and she could think of nothing but answering it with a resounding and glorious howl.

  Running, she reached the end of the roof, but that did not begin to deter her. She vaulted from it, sailed a short distance through the night air, and landed on another. She kept going, faster and faster. She had felt slight hesitation at that first leap, but much less on the second and nothing on the third. From then on, she was effortlessly leaping from roof to roof. Never had she felt so al
ive as she was at that moment.

  This continued for an uncertain time, and then she skidded to a halt. She realized that she was in a very familiar neighborhood: the one that Dodger resided in. The one where she’d had the confrontation with . . . .

  Yes. Yes, there she was.

  Standing right there on the corner that Drina had unknowingly been standing upon, the street slut named Sarah was plying her trade. At the moment, she was trying to strike up a conversation with a gentleman. He seemed to have a slightly passing interest in her, but clearly he was going to require some convincing.

  Drina thought about the manner in which the rude woman had treated her. A slow anger began to bubble within her. She had been a newcomer. More, she had been royalty, choosing to take up her valuable time and even likely upset her mother by taking off on her own into the streets of London. And this woman, this slattern, this nothing, had dared to treat her in such an upbraiding, deliberately insulting manner?

  She took a few steps back and then ran once more. This time she gave no thought to the distance she was traversing, even though it was much farther than before. Ultimately, it did not matter; she landed on the rooftop with ease. She gripped tight to the drainpipe and scrambled down it as Sarah continued to try and engage the young gentleman before her.

  The gentleman was facing the building when Drina reached the bottom and landed lightly on the street. He stepped back, startled, his eyes wide and confused. “What in the—?”

  Drina had no patience for him. “Go,” she said and pointed with her right arm. She was so excited to feel the power coursing through her that her arm actually wanted to tremble. It was no small effort for her to keep it steady and pointing. “Now,” she added for emphasis.

  The gentleman needed no further prodding. His interest in Sarah had been lukewarm at best, and this new arrival was all he needed as an excuse to vacate the area.

  Sarah had not yet spotted the intruder, so it was that when she turned and looked behind herself, it was in confusion. And as she saw the barefoot, young girl there, attired in a coat that seemed familiar to her, it took her a few moments to put it together, but she eventually figured it out. “You! Dodger’s girl!”

  “I’m no one’s girl save my own,” said Drina. Slowly, she started walking toward Sarah. It was an exaggerated, provocative walk, one foot carefully placed in front of the other to give her an almost catlike approach.

  “Ye got some nerve! Scaring off a customer, ya did! And this time”—she made an over-dramatized point of looking around—“I see ya don’t have Dodger to step in and save ye from a beating ye so richly deserve!”

  “And you’re the one to give it to me, are you?” Drina smiled, taking care to keep her fangs tucked in, wanting to save them for a surprise, wanting to drag this out. “Here I am then. Let’s see what you’re capable of.”

  Sarah didn’t hesitate. She strode briskly toward Drina, and drawing her arm back, let fly with a vicious slap. It cracked across Drina’s cheek with a resounding noise, and Drina’s face snapped with it. She barely felt it. She remained with her face staring away for a long moment and then slowly shifted her gaze back to Sarah. “That’s it?”

  Enraged, Sarah launched her full attack. Repeatedly she slapped Drina’s face, both sides, as hard and as fast as she could. Her eyes widened in concern as Drina stopped moving her head in time with the slaps. Instead, she simply continued to stare deeply into Sarah’s face, and she was wearing a wide smile that seemed disinclined to acknowledge she was being attacked at all.

  “What the hell?” muttered Sarah, and this time she swung her purse. Drina did not allow it to strike her. Instead, she caught it in mid-swing, yanked it from Sarah’s hand, and tossed it aside. Sarah gasped in confusion and then drove a full punch toward Drina’s mouth.

  Drina snagged her wrist, stopping the punch short. Sarah tried to pull away from her but was unsuccessful. Drina just stood there, allowing Sarah to expend her best efforts to loosen her grip. It did Sarah no good; Drina was holding on far too tightly.

  “Leggo!” shouted Sarah.

  Drina did far more than that. She twisted her hand very quickly, and an audible snap was heard from the area of Sarah’s wrist. Sarah let out an alarmed cry and sank to her knees as pain ripped through her entire right arm.

  All of her arrogance and superiority vanished. “Please!” she cried out, and there was no command in her voice, but instead pleading. “Please, let go! Whatever you want, I swear . . .!”

  “You couldn’t possibly understand what I want,” said Drina. Now she was moving, heading toward a nearby alley as she yanked Sarah off her feet. Sarah fell but her full weight did nothing to slow down Drina. She hauled Sarah as if the woman weighed nothing, dragging her into the alley and then pulling her to her feet once they were out of sight of any passersby.

  She slammed Sarah up against the wall. Sarah looked into her eyes and let out a terrified shriek, for Drina’s eyes were crimson red, and they were focused on the pulsing vein at Sarah’s throat.

  “No . . . no,” Sarah managed to get out and then Drina did not hold back anymore. She drew back her lips, exposing her fangs. Sarah let out a terrified shriek, and then it was too much for her as she fainted dead away. That was fine with Drina, who enjoyed the relative peace and quiet of the now unconscious girl.

  Her fangs descended toward Sarah’s throat. Within seconds, they would tear into the pulsing jugular vein and drink every drop of blood from her very first victim.

  She froze that way. The fangs were less than half an inch above their target and that was where they remained.

  Stop! Stop! Don’t do it! Don’t!

  It was her own mind screaming at her. She tried to ignore it, tried to set it aside, tried to tell herself that that wasn’t her anymore. And yet she was still in denial and confusion, unsure of what to think and what to do.

  She realized her entire body was trembling. She did everything she could to try and shove her fangs home, but something within her continued to prevent her from doing this. With a frustrated howl, she threw Sarah down. The girl’s body thumped to the floor of the alley and lay there unmoving.

  Drina stared at her trembling hands as if they belonged to someone else. “What is wrong with me?” she said aloud, but inwardly she knew. The Alexandrina she had been was still in force in some small segment of her brain, preventing her from taking the next normal step in her development. She was helpless to do anything to force herself forward. She let out a scream of frustration and looked down at the prostitute’s sprawled body . . . .

  Still, there was no reason she couldn’t derive some benefit from the current situation. A smile formed on Drina’s lips.

  It took only a matter of minutes to strip Sarah’s clothes from her. As she lay there naked, once more Drina felt the desire to drain her of her life’s blood. But she was only able to take a few steps forward before something once again snapped her head back so that she was unable to proceed. She cried out a loud invective then at her helplessness, and that managed to relieve some of her frustration. Not much, but some.

  Sarah’s clothing was a bit too large for Drina. It hung loosely upon her, but at least it enabled her to cover herself. Taking Dodger’s coat, she tossed it on Sarah’s naked body. No reason she couldn’t provide the girl some minimal cover, even if it was more than she would have done for Drina.

  Suddenly, something split her head. It was as if someone were driving a wedge straight into her skull. She staggered, gasping, unable to understand what in the world was happening to her. She looked left and right frantically and then did the only thing she could think of: She leaped straight upward. She didn’t require the drainpipe to scale up this time. The velocity of her jump propelled her vertically, and she landed atop the nearby roof in a crouch. The long dress swirled around her ankles as she staggered, trying to reorient herself.

  Here, said a voice
in her head. As opposed to a few moments before, when the voice speaking to her had been her own, this was someone else. She had no idea how she was hearing it, and was not even sure that she actually was. It was, however, guiding her. That much she knew.

  For a moment, she considered going in the opposite direction from where the voice was calling her. She could do that—that tiny voice that was preventing her from feasting seemed to want to scream at her to do just that. She could simply flee into the abyss of London rather than meekly obey the summons of whoever was calling her. That desire, though, lasted for almost as short a time as it took her to think of it. Then her body continued to move east across the rooftops. It was operating completely on its own. She had no conscious awareness of where she was heading. All she knew was that she had to go in a particular direction because she was being commanded to.

  She vaulted from one roof to the next. She was covering distance so quickly that anyone who happened to look up in her direction would not even see her. At most, they would spot a quick glimpse of something, the details of which they would not be able to discern.

  Finally, ahead of her, she saw an upright form waiting for her. He was standing there, stock still, his coat blowing around him, his hat nestled securely on his head. She leaped the remaining distance and landed in front of him. It took her a few moments to gather herself, and then slowly she stood. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “You know the answer to that,” he said quietly. “I am the one who made you.”

  She wanted to leap upon him. She wanted to bear him to the ground and tear into his throat. She wanted to kill him right then and there and, as a result, gain some peace for herself. Instead, all she was able to do was stand there and wait for him to speak.

  “Bow to me,” he said.

  “No,” she immediately replied. She was royalty. People bowed to her, not the other way around. Yet even as she said she would not, she felt her knees giving way. She dropped to one knee, lowering her head. She wanted to spit at him, but she was unable even to gather saliva to accomplish that.