Artful: A Novel

by Peter David

  Minutes later, they were hauled into Mutton Hill Station. When Oliver Twist had been brought there, he had been ushered into a cell and kept there to await his confrontation with Mr. Fang, but that was not the case with Dodger and Bram. Instead, they were dragged across a small courtyard and under a narrowly arched door into the police headquarters. Dodger was grateful for this; the prospect of being tossed into a cell had been the one thing he’d worried about. He had not been certain about how much time they would be locked up for; if it extended into hours or even the next day, their deadline would be past, and Drina would be lost to them, presuming she wasn’t already. He had a brief mental image of Drina sinking her fangs into the throat of some helpless victim and shuddered inwardly. “Resist, Drina,” he whispered to no one at all, hoping that the sentiment could somehow cross the fog-covered rooftops of London and reach her ears.

  The police officer ushered the boys past a small desk where a senior officer was seated. “Have a couple of miscreants we want served up right now!” declared Hudgens. “Don’t dare turn your back on them! They’re tricky, these two are!”

  The Artful was by this point managing to walk on his own. “Yes, we’re very tricky,” he said. “You want to bring us before Mr. Fang right now, right this very moment.”

  “He’s not here,” said the police officer.

  The words sent Dodger and Bram into a near panic. It was everything Dodger could do to keep that fear from surging upward. “Where . . . where is he?”

  “None of your business.”

  Bram was clearly not taking that as a response. “Where,” he repeated slowly, “is he.” He did not give the intonation of a question. Rather, he was clearly expecting an answer.

  Somehow to Dodger’s surprise, the older officer hesitated a moment and then replied, “All right, if you must know: He’s off to Buckingham Palace. Our own Mr. Fang has been invited to a late sup with the royal family. How’s that for a magistrate, eh?”

  “It’s wonderful,” said Dodger. “Couldn’t be happier for him.”

  The older officer didn’t seem the slightest bit impressed by Dodger’s nonexistent joy for Mr. Fang’s dinner plans. “Take him through there,” he nodded to Hudgens. “Magistrate Grind will be with them posthaste.”

  The Artful said nothing but merely exchanged worried looks with Bram. Bram didn’t have to respond; he knew the problem. None of this was going according to plan. A slight twitch in the boy’s otherwise impassive face seemed to clearly say, “I told you so” to the Artful in a way Bram’s mouth did not.

  Hudgens hauled the two boys forward into the small magistrate chamber. Magistrate Grind was seated there. The Artful was unfamiliar with him; he was a middle-aged man with a sallow face and a clearly dyspeptic disposition. “And who are these lads?” he said. His voice was clipped and proper.

  “This,” said Hudgens, “is Mr. Jack Dawkins. The courts had already disposed of him to Australia, but he was able to escape imprisonment. But I finally managed to find him . . . and with his hand in me pocket, of all places!”

  “A cutpurse, eh?” scowled Mr. Grind. “Well, I think we know what to do with his sort. And what of this one?”

  “An aide of his,” said Hudgens, indicating Dodger. “He assaulted me!”

  Grind’s scowl deepened even further. “He assaulted you?” His incredulity garnered some amused laughter from the couple of other officers who were in the room. “He looks as if he weighs almost nothing. How in God’s name did he assault you?”

  “He . . . .” Hudgens’s voice trailed off at first, and then he rallied. “He climbed upon me. He’s very sneaky.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” said Mr. Grind sarcastically.

  Bram suddenly produced his cross from beneath his shirt. Without saying a word, he stepped out of the accused box into which they had been shoved and advanced on Mr. Grind. Dim light reflected off the cross.

  Mr. Grind stared at it blankly. “What do you think you’re doing, lad?”

  “Testing you,” said Bram.

  He drew closer, and now Officer Hudgens had come in from behind him and clamped a hand on his shoulder. He stopped Bram several paces shy of Mr. Grind, who continued not to react to the cross, beyond utter puzzlement that it was being waved at him. “And have I passed the test?” asked Mr. Grind, clearly quite curious as to what Bram was up to.

  Slowly, Bram lowered the cross. “You’re not a vampyre. Or if you are, you’ve certainly got more control than any I’ve ever seen.”

  “Any you’ve ever seen?” Mr. Grind said, and raised an eyebrow. He clearly found this to be an amusing statement. “And who are you to have seen mythical creatures, eh?”

  “My name is Abraham van Helsing. And I’ve seen more than you can possibly believe exist.”

  “I don’t recognize your accent, boy. Where do you come from?”

  “I’m Dutch.”

  “You sound more German than Dutch.”

  “My mother is German. I’m told I got the accent from her. But I am Dutch.”

  “Well, I don’t know how matters transpire in Dutchland,” said Mr. Grind, “but here in England, we don’t have vampyres—mythical, realistic, or any other kind.”

  “That is how much you know,” said Bram. “I know all about them, including how to handle them.”

  “Really. I’d like to see that,” said an amused Mr. Grind.

  By this point, Hudgens had had enough. He pulled Bram by the shoulder and said, “Come, boy. Back in your place.”

  Bram snapped his right arm forward. A stake slid out from his sleeve and into his palm. He whirled, dropped to his knees, and slammed the stake directly into Hudgens’s foot.

  Hudgens let out an ear-piercing screech.

  “Run!” shouted Bram. “Go now!”

  Bram stood, spun, and jabbed the stake at the first police officer that came near. He wasn’t aiming for the officer’s chest; if he had been, the officer would have been dead. As it was, the point sank into the right side of the man’s chest, between his second and third ribs. The officer let out a scream and clutched at his chest as blood seeped out between his fingers.

  Hudgens was jumping up and down, holding the foot and howling a series of profanities. Mr. Grind had slid back in his chair in alarm and was bellowing at the top of his lungs for help.

  Help was quick in coming. From a far door, half a dozen police officers burst in, not having the slightest idea what was happening, but knowing from all that screaming that something certainly was.

  Bram stood in the midst of the room. He still had the stake in his hand; it was tinted red with blood. Hudgens had stopped hopping, choosing instead to fall to the ground and clutch forlornly at his boot. The police officer that Bram had stabbed was leaning against the wall, putting pressure on the bleeding that was already slowing. Meanwhile, Bram was continuing his attack, having extracted a knife from a hidden pocket in his coat. He was waving it threateningly in his left hand. He lunged left, right, left. The officers kept moving forward and then falling back, clearly unsure of how to deal with the berserk young man.

  Finally, they converged upon him together. He might have been formidable for his age in one-to-one battle, but not even a formidable adult would readily be able to deal with six full-grown adults charging as one. They came together then, and although Bram tried to drive them back with his weapons, he was unsuccessful. The stake glanced off the arm of the nearest officer, who then slapped it away out of Bram’s grasp.

  Disarming him of the knife only took another moment, and Bram was borne to the ground by the collective weight of the police officers. Bram went down, all the officers atop him. He tried to crawl out from under them—and nearly made it, but one of them grabbed him by the ankle and held firm. Seconds later, Bram was yanked upward to his feet.

  His face seemed utterly calm. There was nothing about his personality to indicat
e that he had been the center of any sort of battle at all.

  Mr. Grind pointed a quavering finger at the lad. “Take this boy away! Lock him in a cell! Leave him for Mr. Fang to deal with! But I’ll tell you this, lad: Best resign yourself to switching to an Australian accent, because I’ll warrant that that’s where you’re going to find yourself winding up! And as for your associate . . .” His voice trailed off. “Where’s the other lad? Where’s Dawkins?”

  Jack Dawkins, the Artful Dodger, was gone. While Bram had been fighting the officers, his imprecations of “Run!” had not been lost upon the individual toward whom they were aimed. So it was that although Bram was firmly in the hands of the police, Dodger was still free, and Drina still had the chance to avoid her terrible doom.

  It was just not a particularly great chance.

  The Artful Dodger fled into the street. As the evening hour had progressed, the last remnants of buyers had gone home, and the shops had closed up. Now it was relatively deserted passageways that Dodger traversed. While he did so, his heart was beating rapidly, and his mind was racing fiercely.

  Mr. Fang had gone to Buckingham Palace? He was supping with the royal family? The Artful didn’t have the faintest idea how that had happened . . . .

  No, he did. Upon further thought, he knew exactly how it had happened. This had Mr. Fang’s villainy all over it. It was actually brilliant. Now it was more clear to Dodger than ever before: Fang had definitely been the one who had transformed Drina. And his next move was to return her to the home from which she had fled. He would present himself as her savior, and the royal family, having no way of knowing about the actions he had taken against her, would welcome him with open arms.

  And then what?

  And then anything.

  Between the gratitude of the royals and his obvious ability to control Drina, he would be able to accomplish whatever he wished. He could set himself up in some sort of powerful advisory capacity to the royal family. They might even bestow a title upon him. Provide him with property, servants, whatever he desired. It was a remarkable opportunity for him to form a base of power and perhaps extend his control of the government—who knew how far? Plus he had control over Drina, and she would become the queen some day (far more power, we should take the time to note, than he wielded over Fagin, because Fagin was the very first vampyre that he had turned, and he had not been quite as skilled in the art of mental domination during that transition). Still, how much power could one man, or one creature, be permitted to have?

  And now Dodger was alone. Bram had sacrificed himself to provide a distraction so that Dodger could elude the clutches of the police officers. It had been a brilliant move—certainly far more clever than anything that Dodger himself had come up with.

  He should have realized that Mr. Fang might not be there; indeed, would not. His desires had moved on to manipulating his masterful new acquisition, the future queen of all England. Happenings at the police station were no longer of any interest to him. He had far greater things to concern himself about.

  Only Jack Dawkins could stop him.

  He just didn’t have the slightest idea how to do it.

  He only knew he had to get away from the area, and quickly. By now, the police would realize that the Artful Dodger had made his getaway and would likely be spreading out to try to find him before he could vacate the area. Which was precisely what he was trying to do.

  The coach was right ahead, waiting for him as obediently as he could have hoped. Quinn was seated atop it, cloaked in shadow. Dodger ran to it as quickly as he could and scrambled into the interior. “Get out of here, Quinn. Now!”

  “But what about Bram?” Quinn called down.

  “He’s fine,” Dodger lied, and he flopped back into the seat as the coach rolled forward. He lay there, slumped and exhausted and never feeling more defeated than he did right then. He wanted to ask someone’s advice as to what to do, but there was no one.

  No one except . . . .

  “Quinn,” called Dodger, “as soon as we’re away from this area, pull over and come down here! I need to talk with you about something.”

  “What?” Quinn couldn’t hear him over the horse’s hoofbeats.

  The Artful started to repeat himself, and suddenly the carriage swayed wildly off course. It veered left and then right, and Dodger was thrown side to side. “What the bloody hell?” he called out.

  Quinn did not respond. The silence alone should have tipped Dodger off to the fact that something was terribly wrong, but he was too busy dealing with being tossed about to have an interest in anything other than a cessation of being thrown around.

  Quinn must have pulled on the reins, because the horse suddenly skidded to a stop. The Artful was thrown forward this time and bounced off the far end of the carriage. For a second time, he shouted, “What the bloody hell?” because Quinn hadn’t provided him an answer the first time.

  As the carriage had come to a halt, although hardly a smooth one, Dodger threw open the door and jumped out of it. “Quinn!” he shouted.

  Quinn didn’t hear him. Quinn didn’t hear anything because his lifeless body was thrown from the top of the coach. Dodger gasped and leaped back as the body thudded onto the street next to him.

  A man whom Dodger did not know descended from the seat. He was remarkably tall and wore a black greatcoat that swirled around him. He seemed to exude fog, as if he were partly made of it.

  “Who are you?” Dodger managed to whisper.

  The man bowed slightly and mockingly. “They call me Harry—Sanguine Harry—do those who have a feel for the occasional pun. And you are the Artful Dodger, yes?”

  Slowly Dodger nodded. All he wanted to do was flee, but he was paralyzed. He was actually sending mental commands to his legs to work, but they remained straight and stuck to the area.

  “You made quite the mistake, Dodger. You went to Mr. Fang’s place of business. Did you think we did not anticipate that you might do such a thing? Did you think we were not watching it and waiting and preparing for it? Now Bram is safely in police hands, and they should attend to him. You, however, are far too free. You need to be taken care of, and I’m afraid that I’ve been designated to do so.”

  Slowly, he advanced on Dodger. His voice was low and seductive. “Here’s a suggestion, Mr. Dawkins. Don’t move. Don’t resist. I will make certain that your death is quick.”

  The Artful did the only thing he could think of to do. He threw his foot forward in a kick, aiming for Sanguine Harry’s crotch, in hopes of doubling him over in pain. The blow landed solidly, but Harry simply stared at him in mild amusement. “I’m dead, boy—down there, perhaps more so. You can’t hurt a dead man.”

  He reached for Dodger, who dropped to the ground and scampered under the coach.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Sanguine Harry said with a snarl. “What do you think you’re doing? Hahhh!” That last shout was aimed at the horse as Harry smacked the animal in its flank to get it to roll forward. The horse, already skittish, readily accommodated and moved forward, hauling the carriage with it.

  Artful was no longer there. Having rolled out the other side of the carriage, he was now sprinting down the closest street as quickly as his legs would carry him.

  Sanguine Harry stood there for a long moment, shaking his head in disappointment and frustration. “You’re dragging this out, boy,” he said and set off after Dodger.

  We would love to tell you that it was a prolonged and daring race through the streets of London. That Dodger used his knowledge of the back streets to give Harry an incredibly difficult time, and even to lose him once or twice in the shadows of the night. Unfortunately, that was most definitely not the case. The Artful managed to get not more than a hundred or so feet, and then something grabbed him by the back of the shirt and pulled him up short. He tried to pull free, but he was utterly unable to do so.

&nb
sp; Harry spun him around to face him. The Artful desperately wished he too were carrying a stake, that he had been even half as well armed as Bram had been. But he had nothing, no weapons, and now there was a hungry vampyre upon him. I’ve lost. I’m so sorry, Drina. I’ve lost.

  Sanguine Harry smiled grimly into Dodger’s face. “You gave it a good run, lad. You truly did. Tell you what: You’d make a worthwhile student. How about if I don’t kill you? How about I turn you into one of me?”

  “One of you? A vampyre, you mean?”

  “O’ course that’s what I mean. Granted, it’d run contrary to orders. But I doubt that Mr. Fang would offer too strenuous an objection once the deed was done. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, I always say.” He nudged Dodger. It was almost a friendly gesture. “Come on, lad. You’ll wind up just like your precious Victoria. You’d probably enjoy it.”

  “I probably would.”

  “All right!” Sanguine Harry for the first time actually seemed cheered by the prospect. “So first, I drain you. And then I open a vein and you drink from me. Ya ready?”

  “Sure,” said Dodger, trying to grin.

  Sanguine Harry brought his face down toward Dodger’s throat, and that was when the Artful Dodger slammed his head forward as hard as he could. It crashed into Harry’s face, and the vampyre let out a loud yell of pain. He staggered, clutching at his face, and he momentarily lost his hold on Dodger. The Artful pulled away from him, his shirt tearing slightly as he did so, and he started to run. Unfortunately, he only managed to get five feet this time and then Sanguine Harry was upon him. Harry was clearly taking no more chances as he bore Dodger to the ground, face down. The Artful slammed into the walkway with such jarring force that it almost knocked a tooth loose.

  From behind him, Harry snarled, “I gave you a chance, boy. I could have made you one of us. Now, though . . . now you die.”

  The Artful braced himself as Sanguine Harry brought his teeth down toward Dodger’s throat. He tossed out a final prayer to a God that he was sure wasn’t bothering to listen to him, that Bram somehow managed to get out of police custody and take over for him in rescuing Drina during the few hours they had left.